After 14 years, Hajrudin Hodzic has stopped fighting.
The battle started when he came to America, where he compared his life as a busboy with that of his native Bosnia, where he was a reporter.
"Do I belong here or there?" the 53-year-old asked himself after he settled in San Jose with his wife, Margareta, and their two young children.
He's one of many immigrants who left behind lucrative careers as attorneys, doctors and teachers in their homeland only to labor in lower-paying service jobs in this country.
According to Julian Chun-Chung Chow, a professor of social welfare at University of California-Berkeley, it can take immigrants up to four generations to adapt to a new society.
"Once they move from their home countries to the United States they have to (change jobs)," says Chow. "It doesn't mean that they don't have the skill. It's just a different educational background and skills."
Hodzic is a prime example.
The man known as "Hajro" was forced to leave his homeland in 1992 after Bosnia and Herzegovina declared independence from the former Yugoslavia.
Hodzic didn't know anything but life in Bosnia, where he practiced law for five years before becoming a journalist.
"It was a dream story: turning hobby into profession," says Hodzic who has spent 12 years at the Santa Clara Social Service Department. "In that dream life the war happened – and poof."
No matter how many years have passed, the mere mention of his homeland brings back a rush of memories – both good and bad.
On this recent Wednesday, Hodzic sat in a San Jose park, plucking blades of grass from the ground, twisting the strands between his leathery fingers as the thoughts of his past overwhelm him.
He remembers spending his youth playing with friends and family outdoors and vacationing near the Adriatic Sea.
Amid the panic and confusion of war, Hodzic and his wife decided to leave to protect their young children, Zlatan, now 19, and Jasna, now 16.
In their haste, Hodzic remembers leaving behind all of his mother's gold jewelry, but "then you realize that your world disappeared and you're forced to prioritize … you don't have time to think."
Hodzic and his family came to San Jose in August 1993 as refugees with no money, no belongings and no relations. They spoke little English.
"You question yourself. What am I going to do? How am I going to make it? Who cares if you're a journalist if you don't speak the language? A lawyer is useless, the laws are different," says Hodzic, who was 39 when he immigrated.
He started over, learned English, went to school, and picked up any job that was available – busboy, assembly line worker, cleaner – to support his family.
"Without motivation – without kids – I think I would have given up," says Hodzic, remembering his emotional fatigue and desperation. "With kids, you find strength."
His office job as an eligibility worker is a sharp contrast to his previous career that relied solely on creativity.
Bleak lights beam down on long aisles of gray walls and monochrome blue carpet. His desk is piled with stacks of papers and yellow Post-its stick around his computer monitor.
Photos of his family and dog are taped to the right of the screen. Next to it, a photo of earth from the moon peeps out above a wall full of documents.
A black and white photo of the type of car he owned in Bosnia – a Giulia Super – is tacked to his wall. Even here you see evidence of his love for the outdoors and memories of the past.
Yet losing everything has taught Hodzic that happiness lies neither in a job nor in the country one calls home.
Today he finds happiness in his garden, in photography, and in his love for puzzles and anagrams.
At the sound of puzzles he spontaneously tells how, while driving the other day, he noticed that the sign "public storage" was made up of 13 different letters.
He asks a reporter if she knows what "real fun" can be rearranged as and then quickly says with a chuckle: "funeral."
"I belong here. I'm okay here," says Hodzic. "I stopped fighting 'Where am I going.' "
Hodzic has gone from being a client of Social Services to working side-by-side with the very people who helped him gain his footing in this country.
Today he helps those who are in the position he used to be.
"When people tell me 'you don't know what I'm going through' I can say 'yes, I do,' " Hodzic says.
He still remembers the gratitude at receiving his job at the Social Services despite having a thick Bosnian accent.
"That," Hodzic said, "is the best part of this society: they give you a chance. They look at what you can be tomorrow, not today."
The battle to survive has been long and "I had to leave my home," says Hodzic, "But I'm in a good place that is becoming more and more my home."
Trinh Thi Tran is another example.
She always has a quiet smile on her face, but beneath the petite, gentle woman lays the strength to give up her life for her children.
The 50-year-old left her life as a doctor in Vietnam to secure a future for her young daughters. Unlike Hodzic, war did not force her to leave, but rather the communist government and its society.
"I didn't agree with their morality," she says in Vietnamese. "Children weren't like before. The life they taught children was more materialistic, selfish."
In order to give her children opportunities and a worthy education she immigrated in 1995 with her husband Duc and two young daughters, Marie and Theresa. She was the last of her extended family to arrive in America, where she and her husband faced a difficult time finding work to support their family.
She first worked at Mervyns, picking up after others and working at the cashier, then at the Santa Clara County Court answering citations and the phone – a far cry from her career as a pediatrician.
"What I miss the most is I miss being a doctor," says Tran, who now works in accounting at the Palo Alto courthouse. "If I stayed, I would have made a lot of money … but I didn't agree with the communists."
Instead of attempting to study to become a doctor in this country, Tran decided to sacrifice her career to care for her children.
"The period of teenage years is critical. If I go back to school, who will take care of my children? They're like trees, they need guidance," says Tran.
"I can't give my children luxury but I can give them tinh, thuong – love, values."