Content warning: This story contains descriptions of war that may be distressing for some readers.
Miloš Degenek can still hear the sirens.
Some days, he only had a few minutes to gather his things and run as the the air-raid speakers wailed around him, each cycle counting down like a warped, ghostly clock.
He can still feel the cold rush of air from the underground bunkers where he and his family would flee, clattering down the steps and spilling into dark, windowless rooms.
He can taste the metallic canned food they survived on for days at a time and the low whispers of other families comforting each other in the shadows.
He can hear those haunting sirens pierced through by whistling warheads and the deep rumble of distant bombs as they brought down bridges and buildings.
He can still see the bodies, the rubble, the fire, the smoke.
And he can still feel Đorđe, his older brother, quiet and shivering by his side.
It's 1999 in Aranđelovac, a small town just south of Belgrade, and Degenek is six years old. He is learning much more about the world than any little boy should have to.
"Those things are quite difficult to explain to people who haven't lived through it," Degenek told ABC.
"It's those things where you don't know whether your building's gonna get hit, whether you're going to come out or you're not going to come out.
"I don't wish that upon anyone. I wish that the world could generally live in a nice, safe environment for everyone and that we could all respect our own people, countries, cultures, religious views, beliefs.
"There's always going to be people that disagree. But we don't have to disagree to the [extent] that we're going to start a war. We can disagree on things, but let's disagree in a way that afterwards, we can shake hands and walk away.
"Those things shape you into the person that you are today. They make you understand the world in a different way.
"I've lived through quite a bit."
Degenek's story is like that of many generations of Australians in that it did not start in Australia at all.
Born in modern-day Croatia to Serbian parents, Degenek was one of over 300,000 people who fled their homes during the Kosovo War in the late 1990s.
They evacuated Knin during 'Operation Storm' when he was still a baby, leaving everything they owned behind them.
It was a "very long, very unpleasant journey" led by his father, Dušan, and his mother, Nada. They spent over a week riding a tractor into neighbouring Serbia with nothing but milk, bread, and two suitcases full of treasured things.
Degenek sees a lot of himself in his father. Dušan was a famous runner back in Yugoslavia, a national champion in the 800 metres.
He is a stoic man, an immovable pillar, and taught his sons a lot about drive and determination and commitment to something bigger than yourself. He doesn't like to talk about the war, and neither does Miloš.
Dušan met Nada when he worked as an electrician in the factory where she was a seamstress. After their first interaction, he was so shy he didn't speak to her again for six months. His first question to her during their next conversation was, "so, are we going out or not?"
After Miloš was born in 1994, they tried to shield their two young sons from the violence erupting around Yugoslavia.
Miloš remembers just being a kid in Knin, kicking a football around with Đorđe and his friends, using two trees they had in the front yard as goal posts.
They played marbles and tag and hide-and-go-seek, spending afternoons running and wrestling and climbing and laughing, unaware of the horrors unfolding just over the mountains.
They thought they'd be safe in Serbia after leaving Croatia, but the war followed them like a long shadow. They lived in limbo near Belgrade for several months before fleeing again after NATO forces bombed the city.
This time, they wanted to move as far away from it all as possible.
"That was the sacrifice my parents took – to leave their comfort zone, which was Serbia, where they knew everything and everyone – to leave that and go to Australia and risking everything for me and my brother, so we could have a better life," Degenek said.
"I'm very grateful to Australia for allowing us to actually come into the country, which then allowed my parents to start work, which allows us to learn the language, to get schooling, to meet people. It allowed my brother to have a university degree and allowed me to become a footballer.
"I'm 28 years old now. I've got a wife, I've got a baby, I've got a second baby on the way. My brother's got a wife and a kid, my parents are healthy; they're grandparents now.
"When you go through hard things, life kind of comes back at you and gives you other beautiful things."
As it was for many European migrants arriving in Australia throughout the 20th century, football was a way of reconnecting with their scattered community, and developing a sense of belonging and identity in a new, alien country.
While his parents worked achingly-long hours — Nada as a dishwasher and cleaner, Dušan as a carpenter — they always made time for Degenek's football.
He recalls standing on the street outside their Campsie home, in Sydney's western suburbs, his football gear packed into one bag and lunch for his dad in another.
Dušan would swing by, Miloš would jump in, and his dad would eat with one hand and drive with the other as he took his son to training at Blacktown City and Bonnyrigg White Eagles.
They would wake up on Sunday mornings and watch Serie A or the Champions League together on SBS television. Degenek was mesmerised at how far the players could kick the ball and the fact that 50,000 people regularly crammed into stadiums to watch 22 people run around for 90 minutes.
But it wasn't until he attended his first football match in person that he had his light-bulb moment. His dad was there for that, too: they visited Serbia when Degenek was older and bought tickets to watch Red Star Belgrade, the club they grew up supporting.
Until then, football had just been a hobby, something to do on weekends. But standing in the Rajko Mitić Stadium with 30,000 other people, watching the team that meant so much to so many, he decided then and there that he wanted to play football professionally.
“It was like back in the day with the Colosseum,” he said.
“The guys would fight, people would be around, and they’re there for the entertainment.
“I sit there in awe and sometimes I just think about how much I respect the people that go and watch those games.
"You go to a football game in Europe or South America or whatever […] there’s 50,000 people just sitting there and watching that game. And that game has to be special. If it’s week-in, week-out, 50,000 people doing that … that has to be special. It can’t be just a game. It’s more than a game.
“As I learned during COVID, football was the second most important thing in the world – after health and family. It’s football. Even in times of war, in times of depression, in times of crisis, people played football.
"I think there’s stories from World War II where different armies would play because they were tired of shooting at each other. It’s the thing that unites everyone. It’s a game that’s played in every country in the world; there’s not a place in the world you can go to that there’s not a football pitch, a ball, a goal – anywhere.
“Those moments, when I went with my father to watch Red Star Belgrade, 15 years later to be able to play for the club is an even bigger ‘wow’. It was my dream come true, my family’s dream come true, all our relatives’ dreams come true.”
That moment took him around the world as a footballer: to Germany and Japan, Serbia and Saudi Arabia, and now the United States where he plays with Major League Soccer side, Columbus Crew.
But while his club life has varied, Degenek has never wavered in his ultimate goal — finding a way to give back to the nation that gave him and his family their futures.
"I was eligible to play for Serbia, but I only had ideas to play for Australia because this country gave my family a chance," he said.
"I probably won't be able to repay Australia back for giving my family a chance to move in, to start work, to buy a house. I can't pay Australia back in any formal way. The best I can do is when I play, to play to the best of my abilities, to try and win, and to keep the people who are watching happy.
"Eastern European people are generally known to be very hard, [but] all of us have huge hearts and are very emotional. We're very stubborn and very naive, but we never give up and never give in. We protect the things that we love with our life.
"If it wasn't for this country, I wouldn't be who I am. My parents wouldn't be the people they are. And I think my life would have spiralled on to be whatever else apart from being a sportsperson.
"That's why I'm very thankful for it; it's why, for me, it's one of the best countries in the world, because it's given so many people of vast backgrounds the chance to thrive."
Playing for the Socceroos has been the pinnacle of that, and Degenek is proud of carrying on the legacy created by fellow European migrants who have represented Australia before him like Mark Viduka, Rale Rasic, and Mile Jedinak, who was a particular anchor for Miloš when he debuted in 2016.
“There’s so many people of Croatian, Serbian, Macedonian backgrounds who were part of the Socceroos," he said.
"It’s something I think every generation of Socceroos has had - one person from the Eastern European region – so it’s always been a foundation part of the Socceroos.
“It shows that Australia is a multicultural country and a country that’s opened its arms to a lot of people from a war-affected region.
A lot of those guys, whether they left when I left or whether they left during the second World War, a lot of them and their [families] left the country in search of a better life, which is a credit to them and a testament to all the guys that played for the Socceroos.
"That’s why the Socceroos are so special. Because it’s such a multicultural environment and so many of the guys [have] come from different countries outside of Australia, yet Australia has kind of adopted us and we’ve adopted Australia."
He may not be able to give back to Australia 'formally', but he does what he can in his own small ways.
Before the Socceroos played New Zealand in a friendly last month, for example, Degenek noticed one of the mascots lining up in the tunnel, an 11-year-old named William, had a disability that made it difficult to walk.
Degenek chose to walk out with William onto Lang Park for the anthems, holding him tight as they sang together. He wants the family to know they can reach out to him for any reason, and that he'd like to cover the costs to fly them to wherever in Australia the Socceroos play next.
These are his small 'thank yous' to a country that has given him so much.
"It's me being a human, you know?" he said.
"You want to help each other. For me, that was a really nice moment. I hope I made them happy in a way, if I could, just a little bit.
"I'm a person that, if I was a billionaire, I would probably not be one [for long] because I would very easily give everything to people so they could live comfortably.
"If I have a roof and a car, food and water, I want everyone else to have the same. Everyone deserves to have the same; no life is less or more valuable than any other.
"We're all humans. Just our roads took a different path. I wasn't fortunate enough to be born into a royal family, but I was fortunate enough to be born as a normal person who's very hard-headed and has got a dream and a vision and wants to succeed. And that's what I've done."
This story is part of ABC Sport's "Socceroos In The Spotlight" series in the build-up to the 2022 men's World Cup. You can read part one on Mitch Duke here, part two on Ajdin Hrustic here, and part three on Aziz Behich here.
