My name is Suada. I’m the youngest child in my family and the only girl. I had three older brothers, called Hajrudin, Senad, and Suad, who were 14, 12, and nine years older than me. My father named me after the youngest brother, Suad. It is the custom in our country that brothers and sisters have similar names, and younger siblings are often named after older ones. Like all younger children, I adored my brothers, who were tall and handsome, and I was ready to do anything to get their attention. Because I was a small girl, they almost never had time to play or to talk with me, and for a long time I thought that they didn’t love me. As a grown up person, I understand that they loved me, but because of the gap in years, they didn’t want to spend too much time with me because I probably bored them.

From time to time, my brothers, especially Suad, teased me. I used to cry a lot and very often asked why I couldn’t be named after Hajrudin or Senad, who didn’t tease me all the time. For a long time, I felt like a less valued person because I didn’t have my own name. When I realized that my father didn’t have to name me after any of my brothers, I started to hate that custom and my name.

I was around 12 years old, when an older man was visiting us, and my parents invited him to stay for lunch. During lunch, he asked me my name. I told him that my name was Suada, but I didn’t like my name. He told me that my name is of Arabic origin and means “happy and lucky.” He told me that I would bring luck to other people. Naturally, I asked if I would be happy, and I remember he paused and told me he must be honest—that I would hardly be happy, but maybe when I got older.

I was a young girl, too young to hear and understand these harsh words, but I’ve never forgotten them. No one, including me, took those words seriously for a long time, but with time, the words were revealed to be true. My misfortunes started when I was 17. For the next 25 years, I became a refugee in Germany and lost my brother Senad in war-torn Bosnia. I lost both my parents to cancer, had a broken heart, and almost developed cancer. But the old man had one thing right: I brought happiness into many people’s lives.

I’m now 44, have a husband who adores me, and we live in New York. Most of my dreams did not come true, except one. I think destiny brought me here to give me the chance to fulfill my dream of writing a book. Now that I’m here, the story is again in my head, and I just need the English words to bring it out on paper. Maybe I will be able to write my book, and maybe I’ll be happy. Who knows?

What about my name? Well, I never liked it, and I still don’t. To respect my beloved father, I’ll never change my name. I found a way to live with it. I chose my nickname, Su. So, please call me Su or Lucky, just not Suada.

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Su Lagumdzija writes, “I’m from Sarajevo, in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I came to New York in June 2019, with my husband, to start a new life. As soon as I started taking English classes at the Queens Public Library in Sunnyside, I remembered my dream of writing a book. My English teacher, Fran Schnall, led me to write my first story in English, and I’ll always be grateful. Even if I don’t fulfill my dream of writing a book, with this story, my dream is fulfilled. Thank you, teacher Fran.”