As we crossed over the bridge where the Danube meets the Sava, a slum appeared before me, which reminded me of something one might see in a documentary of a developing country such as India or Kenya. I woke my academic director to ask her about this cardboard city, and she informed me that it was the Roma (Gypsy) settlement. This is where the people live that I will be working with in less than three weeks. Harsh ironies unfolded before my eyes. Through my frosty window I could see barefoot, and raggedly dressed children darting through the trash. The Hyatt overlooked this hopeless shanty town, where it seemed that Belgrade had forced all its brown skinned inhabitants.

I was nauseous for the duration of our first day in Belgrade. In general, I hate the word “victim” because it speaks only of persecution and not of hope, but this community (Roma) is not yet a community of survivors. They are struggling to make it through each day since they lack support for the fundamental functions of a human life. They are ignored, secretive, persecuted and unknown, plagued by rootlessness and by the game of Us versus Them, which is still conducted in the language of the conquerors—or of the “host” society. When all the beggars in a city are from the same minority group (the largest in Europe), and among these beggars are 12 and 13 year old girls nursing their first child, the word victim must be used, so that the severity of the situation is not underestimated.

My aim is not to bash Belgrade, for my week there was among the most fulfilling in my life. I recognize that this is a bold statement, but there have been few weeks in which I have felt so much. Not all of these feelings were blissful, sometimes they were pangs of unrelenting sadness or frustration, but the point is that I felt. And to feel is to be alive, so perhaps, this past week is best described as one during which I truly lived, was present in every moment, and open to every possibility. Each day we visited at least two NGOs where young activists shared their experiences. This past week I met the most passionate group of young adults in the world. Their energy and enthusiasm made me question if I have been asleep the last several years. Among the dozen or so young adults I met, are several potential roommates for next month, and I eagerly anticipate reengaging with them.

After each conversation with a young activist, I questioned why they had such fire, and while my intention is not to stereotype their experiences, I do have some hypothesis which I consider well-founded. Their image has been determined for them. The world community views “Serbians” as Chetnik-hat-wearing, ignorant, persecutors. They are remembered for what they did in Kosovo and Serbenica. Essentially, they remain the 90s equivalent of faceless Middle-Eastern terrorists, but these young activists are not willing to accept the joke of civil society left by Milosovic and they refuse to be defined by events they protested against. As result, their voices are louder, they view their agendas as more urgent, and they refuse to be complacent….I interviewed a young man name Boban, who ended up asking me just as many questions as I had prepared for him. After our interview which took place in a traditional Serbian hole-in-the-wall kafana, he told me that he felt sorry for my generation of Americans. I initially laughed. This young man, limited by his passport and constrained by a chaotic and corrupt government felt sorry for me?? But when I asked him why, he told me that it seems that Americans no longer care. Life has become too easy we have nothing we consider worth fighting for, and thus we have forgotten how to actually embrace our lives. He told me that traveling beyond Eastern Europe was among his wildest dreams, yet Americans can travel anywhere, and we don’t. I am still reflecting on his words.

While I miss Belgrade, I am glad to be back in Zagreb, and I rest with the assurance that I will soon return. Ksenja, my host mother informed me that she and Katarina (my host sister) plan to visit me in Serbia during my independent study. I cannot tell you how significant and shocking this is for me. The cost of this trip for them is unimaginable, and the fact they would enter Serbia, a country they still fear and discriminate against demonstrates a love that I do not feel I deserve. Ksenja has not entered Serbia since the war, but she desires to learn about the research I am doing there, and does not like the idea of my being gone so long. I don’t think any of us have really processed that I will be leaving at Christmas, but we will continue to pretend that this is not so as long as possible.