Writing this entry has presented so many challenges that I have surrendered my hope of transforming it into what I had idealistically intended. You might ask “What purpose would I have it serve if I could effectively execute my intentions?” And to your inquiry I would respond that I would desire for my simple descriptions to transport you here, so that you might be able to experience all of this with me. With seeing that that is impossible, I will do my best to provide you with several glimpses into the experiences which have been very powerful for me this week.

In the process of solidifying my independent study proposal I have grown to know myself a little more. This has been through my recognition of patterns in my experiences, which while frustrating, I am trying to accept. Let me elaborate. Last summer, when I interned at Polaris Project, I initially intended to work directly with the victims/survivors, an experience which proved to be far too emotionally disturbing for me to actually be of any use to this group. At the end of the day, I appeared to be in the same state as these women, and just as needy of a therapist as they. I felt defeated, weak, and ashamed that I was unable to live up to the image of what I considered an activist, and instead I found myself on the development team working with the larger community and potential donors. But it was in this new and unexpected environment that I thrived, and was of the greatest use to the women. I would not choose to put a space between myself and them, but it seems to be here, that presently I should reside. I think of it as the difference between practicing as a physician versus as a scientist in a lab who is inventing the medicine for the physical to administer. While I would much rather play doctor, I never fail to pass out at the sight of blood, shamefully returning to what feels like a distant lab. Up until this week, I had intended to work directly with the Roma women, but I have encountered a great challenge in approaching them in the academic manner my instructors envision. When I am in the presence of rape survivors, starving children, and homeless elderly, all prior knowledge of political, social and feminist theory flies out the window, and all I can imagine doing is morning with the people I am expected to write a fifty page paper about. I’ll be honest, It just wouldn’t happen.

And this recognition is how I have found myself in a position which I suspect is relieving to my parents since I will not be frolicking around refugee settlements or trying to smuggle orphans home. Instead of working directly with the women and children, I will engage with the activists who work with the Roma. My study will tentatively be entitled, The Politics of Engagement: The challenges, transformations and limitations experienced by Roma activists in Serbia. My hope is to gain insight into the most appropriate way to approach a community who considers an activist to be a absolute outsider, while also developing my knowledge of the Roma community in hopes of someday engaging with them through more direct activism. This feels much less like a mission project, yet I still believe it will benefit both the activist and Roma community, while not jeopardizing my emotional stability and ability to produce the academic work expected of me.

Monday morning we leave for Bosnia, a place I have extremely mixed emotions about. I have been told that I will not speak to a single individual there who has not bee impacted by the war. Also, this is the place I will celebrate my 21st birthday by visiting an organization that works with women raped and tortured in the war and another that shelters women who have been trafficked and forced into prostitution. When my academic director first handed me the schedule I was in shock, did they really expect me to not have a problem with this cruel birthday iternerary??? Orli informed me that the staff thought I would be excited to talk about the two issues I am most interested in on my special day. I suppose this is one way of looking at it, but I still find it a rather disturbing. I am excited however, because that evening we will have dinner at a restaurant two refugee women started on a micro-loan. Now seriously, how many people can say they rang in their 21st in Bosnia at a micro-loan supported venue! (You may laugh, but I am trying to cope with this, and am in somewhat denial of the strange nature of what most Americans consider their most eagerly anticipated birthday celebration, haha)

A final story I would like to share with you concerns a conversation exchanged between me and Roma woman in the market the other day (in Serb-Croatian!!). I was buying bananas from her and we started to talk about where I was from, what I studied, etc. She said that she always dreamed of traveling but doing so is impossible when you make a living selling fruit. She asked if I have family here, and I told her no. She then informed me she was also alone. After that arose an awkward silence between us. I tried to peer deeply into her dark eyes in earnest hopes that I might discover her story which my vocabulary was too elementary to fully comprehend. There were two things that I walked away with. One I began to consider how fortunate I am to be in a position to be an activist. I never before recognized how my mere ability to engage in international activism suggests distance between myself and those who are economically unable to turn their intentions beyond survival, or in other words, the community who is the object of my attention. Because I am able to work with them, our differences are further emphasized. My other thought, was that community and commonality need not only be established on the basis of similar ethnic origin, country, and even language. Small community and solidarity may be established by finding common ground in the smallest ways with those the world might say you are entirely dissimilar from. The Roma woman and I both shared a moment of compassion and connection by making ourselves vulnerable to one another through our admitting that in some shape or form we were both alone.