A Tourist In My Own Country

In 1991 a civil war had broken out in Yugoslavia. My parents fearing the worst decided it was best for us (me and my younger brothers) to leave there. We came to America when I was five and we lived with our uncle for about three years; until my parents were able to afford and purchase a house of their own. That war ended shortly after splitting Yugoslavia into smaller countries, and we have been back three times since, but not to Yugoslavia; Montenegro.
In 1999 I went back for the first time with my mother. I was in 8th grade. I remember being very nervous and excited to see my native homeland again. We had home videos and pictures with us so it was very cool experience to be back. We had gone back to visit my mothers parents as it was that my fathers parents lived here, in America, with us. Unfortunately, however, the war between Serbia and Kosovo was escalating at that time. I distinctly remember walking out of the airport and seeing all of the army assembled around us, in the moment, being 12, I thought it was cool. That changed very quickly. When we were on our way to my grandparents house I remember being distinctly frightened because there were men in indistinguishable uniforms walking around with machine guns. Although I was 12 I was still aware of what was going on in the world. For the majority of our trip we stayed around the home while occasionally going to meet with family. I felt so scared and out of place. This wasn't the same place that I had seen in pictures and in home videos.
In 2001 when our whole family went it was a much more pleasant experience because all the tensions for the most part were died down. It was a fairly boring trip because still being only 15 my parents had us under raps. I think this feeling of displacement was largely due to my parents and their somewhat overprotective nature. They made us feel like we need to watch out who we talk to and where we go. It was very strange like "your Yugoslavian, but..."
In 2004 we back once more. This time, at 17, I was much more cognizant about what was going on. This time I really got that "displacement" feeling. I remember that everyone I met, or mostly everyone, was more concerned with me being "American." I couldn't understand it. I mean I was BORN there, I lived there for the first five years of my life, I spoke the language why was I so different? Well, I got it very soon and even though all those things were true I also predominantly spoke English with my brothers, I dressed differently, my mannerisms were different, and quite frankly my ideologies were different, and I would argue to an extent better, because I had a more balanced and diverse view on things. So they may have called me changed and an "American" (whatever that meant), and I haven't been back as of now in four years I will be curious when I do return how much if at all they have changed.