Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions”-(Austro-German lyric poet, author of Duino Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus, 1875-1926)

Things have been rather intense lately, and troubling times have reminded me of parts of myself I thought I left at home. My stress partly arises from the dilemmas I have encountered in my research. I traveled to Novi Sad in northern Serbia on Saturday to have all three of my interviewees canceled on me, and this was only the beginning of a trail of research disaster I would rather not spend more time reflecting on. I am not the only one who things that writing a 50 page paper in the next 10 days is a stretch. Also, I have forgotten what it feels like to hear my own voice. Living in the tiniest room with three other people for a month begins to wear on one. Perhaps it is the result of my stress but in addition to all of this I have become a little bit hypochondriac, thinking that surely there is something wrong with me. I should be optimistic and say, hey at least I didn’t freak out till the end, but I cannot deny that I am really starting to miss home. The days are too short here, you cannot go anywhere without encountering cigarette smoke and….oh my listen to me, haha. I make it sound as if nothing good is coming of any of this, and that is far from the truth. I have interviewed many intriguing activists who have actually provided me with a lot of direction…

I came to Serbia intending to make a huge difference in the lives of everyone I met here, but frankly the most substantial thing I am taking away from this experience is a new sense of humility. I have spoken with individual after individual who has told me that while they deeply contemplated leaving Serbia when times were harsh, they feel accountable to the people here and their needs. I am taken aback by this. I look at myself dancing all over the world, calling myself an activist, but the reality is I will never know the needs of people and about their experiences as well as their own people. I guess what I am trying to say is that I am going to put touristic activism to the side for a bit and explore the ways I can be more effective at home. I have a passion for serving people, and many of the tools to do so, however, I think I have been denying the obvious, that I am hindered by the inevitable limitations I will face each time I try to assist individuals in a culture I am unfamiliar with.

I have been working on a Truman grant proposal the last couple days. If I am selected as a scholar, I will receive money for the graduate school of my choice, or I should say of the choice of the director of my University’s honors departments. The questions are absolutely terrifying like, what do you see yourself doing in five, ten years, what problems do you want to commit your life to combating etc. I think I lost touch with reality by the end of the application because I starting writing about how much I love my family and how I want to get my yoga and massage licenses. Dr. Manyard, the director of the honors department, said that I need to give slightly more convincing reasons about why I should attend Harvard’s Kennedy school of Government. I responded that I really do want to get my yoga license in 10 years. He then said that perhaps there would be a different way to express this. Somehow, my original idea of obtaining my yoga license has transformed into starting a 501c3 that facilitates dialogue among NGOs working on common causes….go figure.

Ok, back to research. I am actually interviewing two women this evening. One works with Roma survivors of trafficking through jewelry making workshops, and the other works with these same women through psycho-drama workshops. At this point in my day, I actually feel like I need to be attending these workshops rather than interviewing the directors about them, haha. Just kidding. Ciao for now.

"Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story." – Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things.

I was thinking of my story today, the story each of has, the one we often discredit, ignore, and minimize. I would like to think I live each day as a beautiful story, inserting passion into every step and intention into every interaction, but I know this only wishful thinking. When I woke this morning I resolved to play with living my day as a story. I felt the cold floor beneath my feel when I leapt from my bunk, and deeply smelled my coffee as I savored each sip. I observed the faces of all those I passed on my way to yoga and contemplated my location as I meditated after the stretches. Following yoga I went to the market, where I found a ripe mango of all things! I embraced it like a little child and scampered home where I let its ripe nectar and scent seep. I soon, however, grew detached from my initial plan and my day become a little less romantic when I discovered I would be taking a cold shower, and my two interviews were canceled. At this point I started moping around and feeling sorry for myself…Perhaps each of our days reflect the story of our lives, the little frustrations parallel the larger obstacles, intertwined with victories and revelations. It is amazing, how one set back can impair a day, or a life. Just by closely participating in my day, I notice how the ordinary actions we make, steps we take, and decisions we execute determine our feelings, which often can spin out of proportion. We place meaning where it is not due, such as that we are victims, or our life isn’t fair, because of the way we are able to transform the little things…

As what I have written above might suggest, today is slow. My agenda is slightly thrown off. I did however meet with my advisor who excitedly relayed to me that I am doing beautiful work. I am just not convinced. Initially I intend to compare the experiences of Roma and non Roma activists working to empower Roma, but this idea is changing. I have interviewed several activists who described their identities first and foremost as artists, feminists, social workers etc…and here I am with an already disproved thesis. It is not too late to change my approach, but I feel kind of silly for initially hypothesizing that the color of someone’s skin would be the primary factor effecting there experience as an activist. This project has many more layers than I had intended…and I am learning that the identity is never either/or, but rather constituted of countless combinations of varieties and versions of feelings, loyalties, traits and experiences.

I am also working on a photo project, which is not so complimentary to my natural abilities, but I am confident in my idea. It will be called “Akava Sem Amen” which is Roma for “This is who we are.” It will be a collection of photographs of Roma activists in Belgrade, who are all engaging with the Roma through unique approaches: theater, jewelry making, policy, social work etc. These are men, women, youth…some are Roma and some Serbian. Ultimately I aim to emphasize the multiplicity of activist identity, reflecting an important lesson I have learned thus far.

(my street before the snow began to fall)

I cannot tell you how nice it is to be living somewhat on my own again. Although I share a room with Erica and Marissa, I can finally breath. My host family in Zagreb was in many ways a blessing, but at the end of the day, I need permission be an adult, and living with a family was like regressing to highschool. I can only handle so many “where are you goings,” “when will you be homes,” and “you need to eat mores.”

I am fortunate to have a nook in our cave of a room crammed in the corner behind my bed and right below the black light (which the hostel owner said is not for “sexy time” but to illuminate the room without waking everyone up). My nook consists of a tiny table with a tiny chair and a tiny window through which I am watching HUGE SNOWFLAKES fall! The snow in Serbia is more accurately categorized as snowballs, since they are so large one feels they must dodge them when walking outside. I am beginning to understand why everyone here uses umbrellas in the snow. This however, is apparently an exciting winter to be in Serbia. The other day, we went to visit the friend of one of my roommates, who while from Colorado is teaching English here. Over tea she relayed to us that this is the first winter that there is an availability of fruits and vegetables other than cabbage. What she failed to mention is that the all other fruits and vegetables are unaffordable…needless to be said, I have been eating a lot of cabbage

My creative juices are drained right now. While I want to blog, I feel like I am in a million places and I am just producing word vomit. I was so stressed yesterday I had to call home to get reassurance from Dad. I have been selected by Denison to apply for the Truman scholarship but this is in addition to the Davidson Peace Projects and the position of senior interviewer. Ultimately, this means that on top of my 40-50 page research project I am working on three extensive applications and trying to maintain my sanity. I know I should not be complaining because I am stressed by an abundance of wonderful opportunities, but at the end of the day, stress is stress. Good stress or bad, it makes it hard to sleep, focus, and feel confident in the work I am producing.

On a lighter note, a new girl is working at our hostel today, and I must say she is something else. She told us to avoid Serbian men because they are all like “Tarzan.” They will walk up to a woman and say “you are now mine.” Haha…We then began to speak of politics and the conversation came to Hillary Clinton, who the hostel keeper also compared to Tarzan, so now I am a little confused about her conception of this word.

Tomorrow the real work begins. I have declared the last several days to be the transition period, but tomorrow I conduct interviews with three activists and begin to construct the outline of my paper. I pray for the strength to do all of this, because I am very tired. I think that this semester need not be as intense as I am making it, but I have issues with allowing myself permission to produce mediocre work. Someday I would like to think I will learn to give myself a break.

It’s funny how the idea of living in a hostel sounds far more romantic before actually living in a hostel…Let me describe to you my new home. We are on the fifth floor of an ancient building a block off the Times Square of Belgrade. In our new cozy residence (and by cozy I mean lacking breathing space) the facets turn the opposite direction, there is one bathroom, and the kitchen consist of a dorm sized fridge, a hot plate and a microwave which manages to nearly set the container on fire before bringing your food to room temperature. Now on the bright side, the hostel keeper, who resembles a Viking lord, met us at the door with shots of Rakija (Serbian liquor) that made my hair stand on end, casually told us to pay whenever we felt like it, and if anyone was too loud, don’t bother to tell them to shut the f*** up. One of my friends is in her element, the other a little concerned about the lack of personal space, and meanwhile I am trying to avoid any potential wrath that might come my way because…this place was my idea. One might suggest that I should not have expected the Ritz at only 9 USD a night, but this is more like a twisted hybrid of motel 6 meets Woodstock and Yugoslavia…Apparently however, this place is some sort of haven for international backpackers, a place for insiders only. We share the Three Black Catz with two girls from Australia, a French Journalist, a British Journalist, a new yet to be identified couple, and a man who doesn’t speak a lick of English and spends all his time reading the paper and grunting in the corner. But for some reason, I am excited, and furthermore extremely optimistic!

Tomorrow, I am heading to seek out Roma activists and a Yoga studio. My two priorities are my sanity and my research. Suddenly 4 weeks seems like a very short period of time to conduct the quality of research I expect of myself. Additionally, I am grappling with what exactly I am hoping to get out of all of this. My formal research topic is “The Politics of Engagement: The motivations, transformations and limitations experienced by activists involved with the Roma community in Serbia.” It sounds so academic and blah. I honestly think that sometimes a formal academic environment like the one which I formulated this proposal in can dull something down. I spend so much time contemplating the ambiguity of terms like “help” and “activism” that it is easy to forget what is at the heart of this project. While yes, I am interested in theorizing and analyzing, I am ultimately committed to helping in some way. My academic instructor told me yesterday that I am not on a mission trip and that I need to be realistic. Well I hate to tell her this, but I am not a realistic person. I would rather shoot for the stars and land on the moon, than shoot for the moon and end up in that awkward orbit where all the space junk gets stuck.

(current picture on Denison's homepage...creatively encouraging tolerance?)

The days are escaping me. I was in disbelief when I looked at my alarm clock this morning to see November 10th staring back at me! Mixed feelings accompany this point in the semester. As of today, I am extremely relieved because yesterday I took my Croatian final by storm and celebrated by doing absolutely nothing productive the rest of the day. Along with these feelings of relief, however, comes panic. I have approximately two days to solidify my independent study project before I move to Belgrade. This means I must find an advisor, individuals I need to interview, and complete a review of the current literature on the subject (and the list goes on) by Monday! I am also slightly skeptical about living in a hostel for a month, in which my room is the size of my current closet and I will be sharing it with two other people. The program puts us on an extremely tight budget, $25 a day for food, transportation, and housing. This should be an adventure to say the least.

This unease I experience which stems my experiences here, however, is miniscule compared to my fear of returning to Denison. And do not get me wrong, I miss my family and friends to the point of tears, but I must admit, this semester has brought with it a generous dose of escapism. There has been a sequence of terrible hate crimes going on at Denison. An email from a close friend of mine reads as follows:

(Describing what is happening on campus) people being beat up behind Swasey, people being called nigger as they walk through campus or Granville, bottles being thrown, girls getting raped and faggot being graffitied on people's doors… Today a swastika was put under black RA’a door. Under it saying "stop causing trouble". I just, didn’t believe it at first. That something like this is going on at Denison, on this campus. This hate being perpetuated. Can you imagine waking up to that? So many people , black white whatever feel unsafe and threatened on campus. Like a swastika...really? I mean the noose poster could and very well was an ignorant mistake but a deliberate printing out and distributing of hate toward another person just baffles my mind… So I don’t know what's going to happen now. I mean I just don’t know. no one knows who did it and so I don’t know.

And an excerpt from a letter from the president:

Over the last several weeks, a number of Denison students have reported experiences both recent and recurring over a longer period that interfere with their ability to get the most out of their Denison education and that offend our community values which respect the worth and dignity of all persons. In some cases, these were affronts that had the effect of diminishing men and women on account of their race. In other cases, they were affronts that had the effect of diminishing persons on account of their sexual orientation. Still other students have shared their discomfiture with continuing acts of vandalism that show disrespect for the learning and living environments that all women and men on campus should be able to enjoy.

Denison even got a shout out on the O’Reilly factor because of these events, and is being discussed in regional publications. As a school of a little more than 2,000 students, I am ashamed that this is what brings us into the national spotlight.

At Denison I am the chair of the sexual harassment and rape program, an active member of Women’s Emphasis, and the Student director of the Women’s resource center (although I have a proxy currently serving). Additionally I am the fellow of the Women’s studies and Sociology departments, the two directing the most focus and energy toward these events. Last semester I had been holding meetings attended by Denison student’s in leadership positions, faculty, and staff, during which we addressed issues related to harassment, rape, and sexual violence. It seemed that we were actually making progress through our dialogue. I cannot help but feeling like I am jumping into boiling water when I return to Denison. It is inevitable that many students and staff will expect me to directly address these issues in a significant way. While I am in love with Eastern Europe and the communities I am researching and partnering with, maybe, just maybe, I am meant to return home because of the very issues I dread confronting.

I have become so caught up in watching the Kosova/Serbia question, that I have easily been distracted from the issues impacting my own home, which despite being on a smaller scale, are still a demonstration of the dark side of power. I promise my next blog will talk more of my balkonesque adventures, but I think that Denison’s current climate of hate is deserving of space. Please keep my campus in your thoughts and prayers.

For more information regarding these incidences at Denison, as well as the campus response:

http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/local_news/stories/2007/11/08/denison.ART_ART_11-08-07_A1_0Q8DK59.html?sid=101
http://www.dispatch.com/live/content/local_news/stories/2007/11/08/denison.html

http://www.columbusdispatch.com/live/content/local_news/stories/2007/11/09/Denison2..ART_ART_11-09-07_B1_378DU4E.html?sid=101

http://invinciblearmor.blogspot.com/2007/11/big-stink-at-denison-university-aint.html

If New York City is a melting pot of cultures, religions and identities, then Sarajevo is vegetable stew. This vibrant city, has always been at the crossroads of Balkan culture, however, its unique diversity was not a source of severe conflict until the early nineties when this lovely mosaic shattered. As you walk down Sarajevo’s main streets, one cannot help but notice the mosques, temples, cathedrals, and orthodox churches that hug the main pedestrian walkway. Not only religion, but the visible diversity in architecture reveals who has controlled this city at different times throughout history. The city seems confused as to where it is located on the map. The old town compares to Jerusalem or Turkey, with hand-woven oriental rugs and pasminas hanging from the beams of Turkish Cafes. But within the blink of an eye, the buildings transform into Austro-Hungarian style, and shortly these are followed by an even more modern façade.

The cafes are flooded with groups of Muslims, Jews, and Christians, but they do not intermingle. It wasn’t until I arrived here that I realized that their reasons for identifying as a particular nationality (Serb, Croat, Bosniak) is not because that country is their origin but rather that country practices a similar religion to that which they identify with. Additionally perplexing, is the absence of a “Bosnian” identity. This lack, I suspect has positioned Bosnia in an extremely vulnerable place. In America the majority of us would introduce ourselves firstly as Americans, not as Irish, Greek, or English because of our heritage. We are able to find some common ground through this often trivial, but nevertheless unifying identity. Bosnia, however, is rather composed of three dominant groups of individuals related only in that they live in a common space marked off by invisible and often ignored boundaries.

It does not take an expert to recognize that something terrible happened to the people in this city. I did not find a single spot in Sarajevo where I could stand where there was not a bombed building in clear view. Also the city is saturated with graveyards, and a closer look will reveal that nearly every gravestones date of death is 93’, 94’ or 95’, irregardless of whether the individual was born in 1920 or 1990.

How are the people here able to fully live now? I could not get this question out of my mind, yet the individuals in Sarajevo were so warm, generous and inviting. There was not however any visible public discussion about the past. It appeared as though it was easier not to acknowledge what had happened than to let it constantly haunt their lives. This, however, seems like a unpromising goal since the city is painted with unrelenting reminders of what took place here a little over a decade ago.

On a lighter note, I rang in my 21st with a group of NATO soldiers that happened to be at the venue we chose. This was preceded by a day of workshops on war rapes, human trafficking, Gay and Lesbian movements, and then a “surprise” which turned out to be drumming workshop where I had to march around a school gym for two hours playing a cowbell. Not exactly how I planned to spend the evening of my 21st, but it was surprisingly fun. The next day we left for Mostar which might sound familiar because of the bridge which was bombed there. I decided, as a gift to myself, to get a massage there (in Mostar, Bosnia of all places). I was undressed and lying on the massage table, when I heard unusually large footsteps entering the room. I lifted my head to get a quick glace of my masseuse, who looked like a member of the Bosnian mafia. He was about 6 5’, 250lbs, with a full beard and hands as big as my back. I shouldn’t have expected anything different considering how my birthday extravaganza had gone thus far haha.

The next and final day we spend in Dubrovnik along with two mega-cruise ships full of senior citizens. I have not doubt we were the youngest people in the entire city. The crowds however departed mid-afternoon and from the old stone walls surrounding the city, I witnessed one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. I was able to reflect of the week, I process I am still engaging in. This week was a whirlwind, and I apologize for my inability to effectively encapsulate all that I would like to, but my attempt to consolidate this overwhelming week is proving to be more challenging than I suspected. I will get back to you. Ciao!

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.