officer for the maternity hospital where I was born. He
showed us the room I was delivered in and said I should meet
an English-speaking nurse who’d been working there at the
time and who may know something about Safa.
The nurse’s reaction when we met was amazing. He was
so happy; he kept staring at me. ‘You are the one who got
away,’ he said. ‘Your parents are the most incredible people.’
I felt so proud. I didn’t find Safa on that trip, which was
disappointing, but back home I received a letter from the
Bosnian Embassy in London. I had written to them asking
if they had any records of my birth mum or details of my
birth. Deep down, I wasn’t expecting her to be alive, so
I refused to get my hopes up and was shocked when I was
sent her address and phone number.
Of course, I knew it wouldn’t be right to phone Safa out
of the blue, so I decided to write and tell her about my life.
Six weeks later, a letter arrived and I was almost too scared
to open it. It was handwritten and three-quarters of a page
long. Safa said she was so glad I had contacted her,
that I was doing well, and that she loved me. We carried on
writing for nearly three years. Sometimes months passed
between letters, but eventually I asked if we could meet up.and,after speaking to Bosnian authorities and getting my
birth mother’s approval, on 3 January 1993, they picked me
up and named me after one of their Bosnian friends
who had returned to Sarajevo to help distribute aid.
Thrilled, but also scared by their life-changing
decision, my new parents smuggled me out of
Bosnia in an armoured car through multiple armed
checkpoints manned by aggressive guards with
Kalashnikovs. Although they weren’t doing
anything wrong – they had all the correct paperwork- they were petrified a brutish or drunk soldier
would make the situation difficult. Mum cuddled
me in the back of the car, hidden under her coat,
making excuses why she couldn’t get out of the
vehicle during stops at checkpoints. Amazingly,
I slept soundlessly through the journey until we reached
the safety of Slovenia.
Years later, as we talked in the comfort of our home in
Monmouth, Wales, they gave me a big file with all my papers
inside. I’d already started researching the war and knew about
the rape camps, but nothing prepared me for discovering I was
the product of such a notorious place. I don’t recall becoming
emotional when I heard this. Part of me couldn’t take it all in,
and it’s taken me a long time to process my thoughts.
I finally knew my true identity and, although the truth was
horrendous, it was an answer, even if it wasn’t the one I was
hoping for. It felt less of a shock when I learned just how many
women were raped. I later discovered that many children born
in Bosnia between 1992 and 1995 probably had a similar story.
In 2011, a year after learning my birth story, I began
studying at art school and befriended Hannah, a student
filmmaker. We decided to make a documentary about
my search for my birth mother Safa because I couldn’t stop
wondering what had become of her. I’ve always felt loved
and have never felt anger towards her. How could I? I only
wanted to find her and make some kind of contact, to tell
her I was alive and that I was OK. Hannah and I flew out to
Bosnia and managed to find an English-speaking press
Clockwisefrom right: Lejla
as a three-year-old with her
adoptive father, Dan; she now
campaigns to raise awareness
about sexual violence during
conflict; with her half-sister,
Dzejlana, in Sarajevo this year;
as a baby in the arms of her
adoptive mother, S”an