World in between Based on a true refugee story

Kenan Trebinčević, 1980-

Book - 2021

"Kenan loves drawing and playing soccer with his friends. He wants to be a famous athlete, hates it when his classmates trash his buck teeth by calling him 'Bugs Bunny,' and fights with his big brother, who's too busy and cool for him lately. Sometimes his parents drive him crazy, but he feels loved and protected--until the war ruins everything. Soon, Kenan's family is trapped in their home with little food or water, surrounded by enemies. Ten long months will pass before they finally make it out of the country alive, with help from friends and strangers. And that's only the beginning of their journey. A riveting story of a Muslim boy's exile from war-torn Bosnia to the United States, World in Between cel...ebrates the power of community and resilience, hope and kindness"--Dust jacket.

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  • Part one : losing home - Brčko, Bosnia
  • Part two : stuck in limbo - Vienna, Austria
  • Part three : searching for home - United States of America.
Review by Booklist Review

Chronicling his memories of a childhood marked by war and instabilities, Trebinčević's fictionalized account of his youth in Bosnia is, in some ways, the story of any young teen. He (Kenan, in the narrative) loves fudbal (soccer) and wants to show off his best moves to his friends. He enjoys drawing, is teased for his buckteeth, puts up with the class bully, and is sweet on a certain girl. But soon his homeland is ripped apart by war. Trapped for months with his family in their home within a battle zone, losing their possessions and community status because they are Muslim, Kenan and his family are finally able to escape to relatives in Austria before enduring the process of coming to America. Their refugee experience has ups and downs and is slow-going as they strive to build a new life. Sharing a time and experience that has little exposure for most younger readers, Kenan's emotions and actions bring to life the common threads of growing up and discovering new favorite things. A photo of Trebinčević as a youth and his afterword add context to this balanced, fictionalized memoir. Highly recommended for its emotional and historical perspectives, this is an insightful starting point for understanding one family's refugee experience, as well as the complexities of the Bosnian War.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 4--6--In this moving autobiographical novel, author Trebincevic recalls his family's harrowing emigration from Yugoslavia's Bosnia province to the United States when he was 11 years old. A typical tween, Kenan loves playing fudbol (soccer), hanging out with best friend Vik, and impressing pretty classmate Lena. Political unrest in neighboring provinces quickly spreads to Kenan's peaceful hometown, bringing war to the streets and turning friends into deadly enemies. Kenan, his older brother, and their parents flee with nothing but what fits in their suitcases. For the next two years, Kenan and his family endure a grueling, dangerous relocation through several countries, ending in the United States, specifically Connecticut. At each step Kenan and his family are met with alternating cruelty and kindness, making it difficult for the new immigrants to know whom to trust as they adjust to their new life. Trebincevic provides backstory to help readers understand the political forces that tore his home country apart, balancing that information with his own youthful bewilderment and anger, with which readers will readily empathize. The details of the family's multiple near-death experiences are gripping, although the novel's pace drags a bit midway through. The author's note provides fascinating details about the book's evolution and Kenan's collaboration with his coauthor. VERDICT An essential purchase for all middle grade collections, as well as school curricula on contemporary world history and immigration.--Marybeth Kozikowski, Sachem P.L., Holbrook, NY

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Horn Book Review

Eleven-year-old Kenan Trebinevi is growing up in Brko, Bosnia, in 1992. He enjoys his life -- home, friends at school, soccer -- but as Muslims living in a divided Yugoslavia, he and his family are in danger. Serbs control the military and see Bosnian Muslims as rebels and traitors. Kenan's friends begin to taunt him at school. Then there is violence in the streets (including a horrifying scene in which his teacher holds a gun to Kenan's head); homes are burned; entire families are shot. With Serbs having wiped out the family's bank account, the Trebinevis are penniless; they have no running water; and food is scarce. Kenan doesn't understand: "But we're all Yugoslavians. How could our own people be hunting us like animals?" Kenan's family decides to escape from Bosnia, and a nerve-wracking odyssey ensues through dangerous checkpoints to Vienna and on to America. Scenes come alive through the first-person voice and abundant dialogue. This "Muslim-Jewish collaboration" between authors Trebinevi and Shapiro follows after their joint effort on The Bosnia List (2014), an adult memoir. This is a long, intricately detailed narrative that effectively weaves in enough historical background to make events understandable for young readers. (Per an appended author's note: "All the historical events are true. Some names, dates, and details have been condensed or changed to protect privacy, and for literary reasons.") Dean Schneider September/October 2021 p.127(c) Copyright 2021. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

The 1992 Serbian invasion and subsequent massacre of Muslims and Catholics in Bosnia comes out of the blue for 11-year-old Kenan. One day he's playing soccer with his friends, and the next, they're treating him like an outsider. His teacher, Mr. Miran, threatens to shoot him in the street. Why? Because Kenan is Muslim. And so begins his story of survival. Escaping Bosnia with his family, after passing through checkpoints with the constant fear of being thrown into internment camps, they land in Vienna as refugees, stripped of all their belongings. Once financially and socially thriving, now they survive on the generosity of strangers, shepherded from home to home. Just as Kenan is adapting to Vienna, learning German and memorizing the trolley routes, his family is brought to small-town Connecticut. While his parents begin minimum-wage jobs, Kenan starts school and learns to deal with language barriers and bullying, all the while keeping up with the progression of the war in Bosnia. The question of whether they can ever return home never once leaves his mind. Based on true events in Trebinčević's life, this account reflects aspects of the stories of millions of refugees fleeing war. At times, the level of detail feels excessive and the story too drawn out, but this title shows how, despite cultural and geographic differences, people everywhere are sometimes drawn to malice but more often to generosity and good. Shows how, for refugees, the struggle for survival doesn't end when you leave home. (author's note) (Fiction. 8-12) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

One March 1992 I've seen army helicopters before, but only in war movies.       Today is the first time I see one for real.       It happens during recess, when Mr. Miran is lining us up to pick teams for our fudbal game and the copter streaks across the sky above us. I'm excited to be so close--but it's much louder than I thought it would be. The engine sounds like it's inside me, rattling my brain. I put my hands over my ears. It doesn't help. The crazy wind makes my hair stand on end. Even the blades of grass are shaking.       I run down the field with the other kids, my arms stretched out like wings, as if I'm flying.       "Who do you think is in there?" I ask my best friend, Vik.       "Important army generals," he guesses. "I bet they're gonna get all the bad guys."       I wonder who the bad guys are. They must be in big trouble if generals are coming to arrest them from the sky.       "Where are you going?" Mr. Miran yells at us as the chopper flies out of view. "Get back here!"       I'm curious where it's landing, but I don't want to make Mr. Miran mad and lose my chance at a good position on the team. Fudbal is my life. I push to the front of the pack of fifth- and sixth-grade boys and start showing off some of my footwork.       "Choose me!" I wave, trying to get Mr. Miran's attention.       "Kenan, you play right wing today," he decides.        Yes! I squeeze my fists hard, totally pumped. The entire school will be watching our Friday pickup match, I bet--including Lena, the coolest girl in my class. I'll impress her--and Mr. Miran, who never praises anyone. He's reffing our game on the sidelines in his suit and leather loafers, smoking a cigarette as usual. When I've been standing too close to him at school, Mom tells me, "You reek like an ashtray."       "Smoking's bad for you," my dad always says. He's one of the few men I know who doesn't smoke. He's a sports coach, so we're always talking fudbal, which he says people in the U.S. call soccer . So weird. On satellite TV, my older brother, Eldin, has shown me what the Americans call football : huge guys carrying what looks like a brown dinosaur egg. They run away from even bigger guys to avoid getting squashed. If a giant American player jumped me, I'd break like a toothpick.       I rush to the broken fence to throw my blue sweatshirt on a spike, and I peek over the top, where I can see the military base behind the school grounds. There are soldiers everywhere. Two sit on a bench, taking their guns apart to clean them. The barracks have always been here, but there's more army men than usual. I want to tell Lena about the close helicopter and the troops, but Vik's older brother, Marko, starts shouting, "Come on, Bugs! Chomp, chomp."       Not this again. My stomach sinks as Marko points to my three huge, horrible front teeth. They hang over my bottom lip and make me look like a rabbit. He's been calling me Bugs Bunny, from the American cartoon, because he knows I hate it. Mom makes me wear a retainer so my teeth will move into the right place, but I refuse to wear it at school and only put it on at night. What if it fell out of my mouth when I coughed or Lena saw me drool and the guys teased me even worse? No way. I try not to smile much and put my hand in front of my face so nobody notices.       I'll show Marko. Today I'll prove I'm a great athlete, small but speedy, so he'll shut up about my screwy mouth. But he keeps making that stupid chomping noise, and everyone cracks up. I feel hot all over.       "Just ignore him, Kenan," Vik says, joining me on the field. "I'm in, too."       Of course Mr. Miran wants Vik, the best dribbler.       "Notice more soldiers around today?" I ask as we wait for the whistle.       "Yeah. I saw a sergeant with a stopwatch timing how fast they oiled their rifles," Vik tells me.        Why do they need so many guns ready? I wonder. How many bad guys are there?       After kickoff, Vik gets the ball. He keeps it glued to his feet. Like me, he's eleven and small. His two front teeth are twisted, so he has a lisp. If you stand close when he talks, he spits on you. The other kids sometimes make fun of him too, but I don't. I never will. I know how terrible it feels to get picked on. Vik and I have been best buddies since first grade, when nobody would play with me at recess. Then Vik asked me to join his team, saving my whole school career. So I'll always be loyal.       A few days ago, Vik, Marko, and I were at the store to get new numbers stenciled on our T-shirts. Marko snagged 10, the number I wanted--like my favorite players, Pelé and Maradona. Marko's older and taller than me, so I sucked it up and took number 9. Later, I asked my parents for the same red Adidas shorts the other guys had. Dad insisted I stick with blue. When I asked him why, he said, "The Serbian Red Stars wear red. That's Milosević's team. He's a sociopath."       I don't know exactly what a "social path" means, but I can tell it's bad.       We live in Bosnia, and Milosević is the president of Serbia, the republic next door, just an hour and a half away. My family is Muslim, but we don't pray five times a day like my grandmother, Majka Emina. She gets mad when I spend the money she gives me on sports. "Too much fudbal. You should go pray!" she shouts all the time. When I ask my parents why she's been praying so much lately, Mom says, "We all go someplace to feel strong."       I totally get that, 'cause I feel strong here and now all right, rocketing down the field with the ball. I kind of think this is the way I pray, like it's what I'm put on earth to do. I fall, but get up fast, not even winded. I imagine breaking the tie in our game and being the star player. Mr. Miran will tell my father I'm important to the team, and for once, Dad will be prouder of me than Eldin. I'll get tons of fans, and Lena will like me best.       I sprint up and down the rocky ground, focusing on the ball. I can't stop the other team from sinking a goal, but we do get one back, tying the score again. I need to get a shot in.       "Three more minutes," Mr. Miran calls.        Oh no. My time is running out. I'm desperate to show off the new killer kick I've been practicing. Bugs has a few surprises up his sleeve. Luckily, Vik's surrounded, so he passes to me. I hurry up the field. The ball bounces off my shin and hits the huge scab on my knee. I don't even look down, nervous I'll screw up. Everyone crowds around the field, staring at me. The girls quit hopscotching. Even the lunch truck lady leans out of her window to catch the end of the game.        There's Lena! I can see her from the corner of my eye. She's wearing a pink shirt, her shiny brown hair in a ponytail. I dribble the ball down the field fast, knowing she's watching. My teammates chant, "Kenan! Kenan!" The goalie glares, trying to psych me out, but he can't. I wind my leg far back, revving up all the power in my right foot.        Bang . I blast the ball directly at the back corner of the net, so hard the goalie can't block it.       "Goooallll!" I scream, pumping my arms in the air. Vik and my teammates run over, slap my back, and give me high-fives.       "Great work. Keep it up, and you'll play for the national team someday, Kenan," Mr. Miran says.       My heart is pounding against my rib cage. It's the best day ever! As I grab my sweatshirt from the broken fence, my mind flashes to the impressive cleats one of my brother's friends wears to train for his team, the Croatian Outlaws. When I'm older, I'll represent my country wearing official spikes too. I'll be the star player of the Yugoslavia national fudbal team, much more popular and famous than Eldin. I wish my brother and Dad had seen me score. At least Lena did.       As I run off the field with my friends, I see her standing with our classmates on the playground. "Good shot, Kenan," she says.       See, one of the things that makes Lena so awesome is that she isn't shy or stuck-up like some of the other girls in fifth grade. In art class, when I asked her how she made her collage, she moved closer to show me her special glue.       I stop next to the yellow lines she's drawn in chalk on the pavement. She looks right at me. Her brown eyes have long lashes, and when she smiles, all her freckles scrunch up around her nose. She smells like bubblegum.       "Thanks, Lena," I say. I can feel my cheeks turn red.       As I'm rushing back toward school, I hear her tell her friends, "He's good at drawing too."       For years, Vik and I have been trying to get Lena to notice us. We all live about a block away from each other. Last weekend, Vik balanced me on his bike's handlebars and we rode by Lena's house five times. Then we ran over a nail, and his tire blew. I hid in the bushes as she came to her window and peeked out from behind the curtain to see what the noise was. She's the only girl we've ever both liked. We have an oath not to get upset if she chooses one of us. But I hope it's me.       "Did you see Lena watching us?" I ask Vik as the school bell rings.       "She already likes me," he mutters. I hope he's not going to break our Lena pact.       In class, I don't hear the history lesson. I'm too busy reliving the goal, carving Lena's initials into the wooden desk with the needle of my geometry compass. I make sure to hide what I'm doing from Mr. Miran. Goal or no goal, he'll be mad if he catches me. After school, I bump into my friend Huso at the entrance to our building. He's so strong, he's carrying his new BMX bicycle on his shoulder. Huso's two years older than me and really smart. He's kind of one of my heroes.       "Scored the winning goal in the fudbal game at recess," I tell him.       "Nice." He high-fives me. He has a blond crewcut, and he wears a blue shirt tucked into his jeans and clean white sneakers. Of all the boys in our apartment complex, he's the neatest dresser. His dad is a good friend of my dad's. He's a professor. That's why Huso is the only one of my friends who speaks proper Bosnian and English. His dad is tutoring me once a week so I can learn a little English too, like my father, who says, "You'll be better respected if you know more than one language."       "Let's get a game going later?" I ask Huso. He nods. He goes to a different school, and lately, he's been busy studying. But I always want Huso on my team; he has a kick like a rocket.       When I race up the three flights of stairs and barge into my apartment, I smell peppers roasting. My father and brother are in the living room. "Dad, Dad! I got the winning goal!" I tell him, dribbling an imaginary ball in the air to show him my fast footwork.       "That's super, Kenji." He grabs me close and ruffles my hair.       "It was only a recess game," Eldin says, rolling his eyes. "Calm down."       "Mr. Miran said if I keep at it, I might play for the national team."       My brother snickers. "Yeah, like that will ever happen."       "Take off your shoes and sweaty socks," my mom calls from the dining room. She's ironing shirts, and she has the door open to the balcony, which is filled with her cactus and ferns. She has a green thumb. And she's such a neat freak, it drives us all crazy. The dining room is for eating only. We leave our shoes outside the front door. If my pants get wet from the rain, they have to come off at the door too, so I won't ruin her black and white rug.       "The last thing I want when I get home from work is to spend hours bleaching," she says. Mom's the office manager at Velma Clothing Company. Vik's and Huso's mothers work there too.       As she irons, Mom sings along to Madonna on the radio. "Rescue me . . . Baby throw out your rope . . ." She claims her plants like the music.       "More crazy girl crooning?" Dad teases her.       "Better than your old-man music," she fires back with a smile.       My dad is sixteen years older than my mom. He listens to worn-out albums from his jazz band days, which he keeps in a wooden case. It's hard for me to imagine Mom meeting him when she was just eighteen. That's the same age Eldin is now. My Uncle Ahmet says Dad "robbed her cradle."       Everyone says she still looks young, even though she's about to be thirty-seven. Maybe it's because she's short. The last time Dad measured me, I was five foot two, as tall as she is.       "Old-man music?" Dad says, raising his eyebrows. "One day when I take you to hear the greats on the other side of the pond, you'll understand."       Now my mother rolls her eyes. "America? Yeah, what a dream." She laughs as she keeps ironing. "When we're rich and connected enough to get visas."       When we were studying geography, Mr. Miran told us that America is 5,500 miles from Brčko and has fifty separate states. It's gigantic compared to Yugoslavia. We only have six republics: Slovenia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Bosnia, Serbia, and Croatia. They add up to the size of a yellow square on the U.S. map called "Oregon." Bosnians are situated right in between Serbia and Croatia. We're smushed in the middle, like the jelly inside a doughnut.       I go to our bedroom, bummed but not surprised that Eldin's still avoiding me. We used to hang out all the time. He was the one who taught me how to play ball. He's six and half years older than me and eight inches taller, but I'm catching up. Eldin can lift way more weights, though I already run faster. But now that he's a senior, he doesn't talk to me. He's always on the phone with his friends. Since he's eighteen and almost done with high school, he's too busy hanging out with kids his age and dating girls.       Last weekend, after he complained, "I'm not missing a party to babysit Chicken Arms," I got really upset. If there's anything that annoys me more than getting teased for my teeth, it's being teased for my skinny arms. I tried to kick his leg but accidentally hit him in the crotch. He fell to his knees, yelling, "I'll kill you!" I ran to our room in a panic, but he caught me and shoved me to the floor and kicked me in the back with his huge foot. Then, when I cried, he called me a baby. He took down our bunk beds and put my frame and mattress on the floor, across the room from his. He shoved my car collections aside and taped a poster of the Croatian Outlaws fudbal team over his bed. Now we barely speak, except when he's insulting me.       "Dinner's ready," Mom calls after a while. "Wash your hands."       We all hurry to the table. I forget to dry my hands and wipe them on the back of my pants, hoping she won't see and make me go back and wash again. Mom serves chicken soup, fried okra, and my favorite, moussaka with beef. After my fudbal triumph, I'm starving.       "Guess what I saw today? A giant helicopter, like the one in Airwolf, " I say between forkfuls. "It landed at the army base. And Vik saw a sergeant timing the soldiers to clean their guns faster."       Mom flashes my father a worried look, like I've said something wrong.       "Stay away from them," Dad snaps. "They're not good guys."       What does that mean? I'm confused. He always says the army's there to protect us. He spent twelve months in the military when he was eighteen. So did mom's brother, Uncle Ahmet. Now that Eldin's eighteen, he'll be doing it soon too. It's a requirement.       "When do you go back to the reserves?" I ask.       "Never," Dad says.        What changed? I'm about to ask when Eldin interrupts. "Can I take the train to Croatia with Tomo to see the championship game tomorrow?"       "No," Mom answers. "That's seven hours away."       "We can stay overnight with Tomo's cousin," Eldin pushes. "Please? I'll get the early train back Sunday morning."       "He is eighteen now," Dad jumps in, which means he's going .       "Can I come?" I beg, though Eldin's still mad at me.       "No extra ticket." He shuts me down.       I know he could sneak me in if he wanted to. He's such a liar.       "Too far," Mom repeats, shaking her head. "It's dangerous."       "Eldin's old enough to take the train to see a game with a friend," counters my father.       "Keka, stop," she says.       That's Dad's nickname. He's the owner of Fitness Keka, the best gym in town. To him, sports are serious business. He's in great shape. Whenever we're out walking around, guys stop to talk to him and ask advice. People call him "the unofficial mayor of Brčko." It makes my chest swell with pride.       Sometimes, during volleyball games at his gym, I help out the players with him, holding the cold spray to numb their pulled muscles and other injuries. After the game, I wait for my dad in the locker room. Once, the guys were goofing around, hoisting me up on their shoulders. My head felt so dizzy I was sure it would fall off, but I didn't want to scream put me down 'cause they'd think I was a wimp.       Mom raises her voice. "This is not the time for Eldin to travel so far."       "Your mother's a worrywart," Dad tells us, smiling.       Eldin nods, happy to have Dad on his side, as usual.       "Keka, the climate's changing," she replies. There's a line between her eyebrows, like she's frowning with her whole face.       I look out the window. It's sunny, so I'm not sure what the weather has to do with anything.       "He'll be fine. Stop being a nervous Nellie." Dad has the final word.       "You leave me the phone number of Tomo's parents and his cousin," Mom tells Eldin, looking annoyed.       Eldin grins in victory. My mouth droops. I'm so jealous. He always gets to go everywhere and do everything with his buddies, just 'cause he's older.       After three helpings of rice pudding for dessert, I go to my room to try to forget my brother, the big-shot showoff. I draw a picture of Lena, the sun and birds floating above her long hair. I'll give it to her for her birthday on Monday and ask if I can walk her home from school.       As I'm getting ready for bed, I hear Mom and Dad arguing. My parents hardly ever fight. I put my ear to the door, hoping to figure out what's going on.       "It won't affect us, Adisa. This is our home, everyone here likes us," Dad is saying.       "When trouble is walking by, don't offer it a seat," Mom says loudly. "We have to get out of here fast."        Get out of here? But why? Where would we go? Who would I play with at recess? I wouldn't be any good on another fudbal team without Vik. And what about Lena?       "You're in denial, " Mom tells Dad. I'm not sure where Denial is, but it sounds scary. Especially the way she says it, stretching out the last sound so it hums, giving me the shivers. Excerpted from Losing Home: Based on a True Story by Kenan Trebincevic, Susan Shapiro All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.