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.

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.

This week has been a very humbling experience, but I knew all my bragging of remaining the only one of the group not to have gotten sick would eventually bite me in the arse. I started this week out with by passing a kidney stone, which I assume is the result of the combination of my calcium supplements, the ridiculous amount of dairy my family force feeds me, and the high calcium concentration in the water. The kidney stone was followed by the onset of Roseola, which apparently affects adults on vary rare occasions. As I sit her with aching joints and what look like chicken pocks all over my entire body, I must say I would have preferred to have had a cold like the other students. I am trying to remain optimistic, but we leave for Serbia tomorrow where I have been warned is not a very friendly place for asthmatics (since they still use coal for heating). I cannot rid myself of the image of my lying in a hostel bunk, wheezing, itching, and unable to pee. After packing all my medications, there was just enough room left in my backpack for a clean pair of underwear and a toothbrush, thank goodness.

Oh, this week has not been all so bleak, actually it has been rather humorous and exciting. What stands out among all these events however, is declaring my independent research project. I will be in northern Serbia, working with Roma (Gypsy) women and children, and attempting to understand why they are disproportionately affected by sexual violence, as well as victimized by trafficking. Honestly, I am terrified, but not for reasons you might expect. I have already been able to look past images of “Behind Enemy Lines” and Milosević’s destructive reign. It is not fear of my own safety, but rather my fear of the guilt I will experience when having to say farewell to this marginalized group. As I grapple with the month I will spend with these young women and children, I wonder how I will be able to leave them and come home to so much comfort and surplus. How will I say farewell, when I still have unanswered questions, and an unsatisfied desire to see this group empowered?

On a lighter note, Friday was a considerably strange night. After an intense week of studying we decided to go dancing. We arrived at a discotheque recommended as the best place to go dancing in Zagreb, only to be met by two men dressed in black suites who needless to say, looked disapprovingly at my converse sneakers, messy hair, and paper boy hat (ok, so my image has begun to lean a little toward the shabby side haha). Thank goodness I understood Croatian! They explained that that evening was a private party for the premier of a Croatian movie about windsurfing, so the crowd was mostly Croatian celebrities and athletes. Just as I sighed and turned to leave he asked me to hold on a minute. He explained to someone on the other side of his walkie-talkie that he had a special group of American guests here for the premier, and asked that someone be sent down to escort us. He winked at us, and told us to get him if we had any problems. Several moments later, after we checked our hoodies and sweatshirt at the coat-check, we entered a room full of modelesque women and men… we stood out haha, but it turned out to be one of the most amazing evenings we had had thus far. In retrospect, I think there had been a misunderstanding due to the language barrier, and everyone seemed to think we were important since we got VIP treatment, and were introduced to everyone there… Oh Croatia. Haha

All in all, this semester is passing far too quickly. I keep telling my parents that they should come here instead of me coming home, and while they laugh, I’m serious. I think that there is so much to be learned from the people here. I was interviewing a young activist the other day and she relayed to me how confused she was during her visit to New York City. She could not understand why sales persons were so kind to here but then turned to the next customer before she had a chance to respond how she was. “Why do American’s pretend to care about others if they do not?” she asked. I did not know how to respond. Also she was shocked by how selfish many individuals were that she encountered. She explained in horror how people would not let elders have the seats on the subways and individuals would not smile and say “hello” on elevators. “The thing is,” she said, “it only took me several days to also become cold, so I don’t think Americans should be blamed. It was much harder to learn to become warm again when I came home.” I told her that the south is probably a little different but not completely. It’s ironic how I had a preconceived notion of Eastern Europe as dark, bleak, and desolate, but it is here that it has taken me time to such overwhelming warmth. Strangers will take twenty minutes to walk you to the location you cannot find on your map, if you lack the amount to pay a bill, you will be told not to worry about it with a smile, and if you are walking in the rain, a stranger will often run up to you to share their umbrella. I am still struggling to accept this intense warmth without discomfort, but trying even harder to naturally participate in distributing it.

I have been journaling a bit on my own this morning…as well as looking over some of my personal entries from this past week, and it is apparent how certain environments deny one the ability to live in a way that they would typically chose. I just returned last night from backpacking, during which it became official that have-been necessities like make-up, shaving, mirrors, convenience, and predictability have transformed into frivolity. At home, the lack of all of these would be enough to drive me mad, but I am falling in love with the comfort of simplicity, and becoming a master at the art of making a pair of clothes and a shower last at least three to four days…

While in Istria we stayed at a vineyard right off the coast of the Adriatic. It was one of those places I wished I could have experienced with my mom. It was divinely simple: clean starched sheets, wood-floors, countless little nooks to curl up in with a novel . We spent our evenings sipping local wine and eating homemade hot walnut bread with olive oil. Our conversations ranged from Foucaultian theory to joking about how a cruise ship passed me while I was skinny dipping in the Adriatic (a private experience, until captured by a group of Asian tourists on their camcorders.)

We then traveled to Slovenia by bus…which would have been pleasant if only our driver had not had a fetish for Britney spears, which he insisted on playing the entire five hour ride. But the hostel that awaited us in Ljubljana was by far worth the wait. Once an old military prison, it has been transformed into a hostel by a group of artists who have decorated it in modern batik. The rooms have bars on the doors and windows, which I must say makes one feel very safe at night…Ljubljana resembled a hybrid of Disney world, Venice and New England. Everything was entirely too charming and made Zagreb seem something along the lines of a Charles Dickens novel in comparison…however, I think the very strangest part of the whole trip was when coming back to Zagreb, I felt like I was coming home. We headed to our local spot for a beer and popcorn before I returned to my home family who awaited me with hugs and kisses. It is nice hear, but by no means central Europe. The streets are filed with gypsy children, the city is disorganized, and the “nice” spots are little hole in the wall bars and restaurants. My comfort here startles me, but I cannot think of any time I have been so content with my surroundings.

While in Ljubljana we met with individuals working at the peace institute who spoke on a variety of issues, however, none have drawn me in so much as that of the situation of gypsy women and children. This group is disproportionately vulnerable to sexual violence and trafficking because they are severely discriminated against, and lack a recognized nationality beyond nomad. As I continue to ponder what I will research, I keep in mind that I intend not only to research, but also give back to community I will work with. I fear that at the end of the day I might not discover how might their condition can be changed, or how they might they be empowered. Am I being to idealistic? Is it actually possible to shift a long cemented paradigm? I am still not certain the angle I will take, but I am beginning to identify a need, that while I realize I am inadequate to fill, I will try anyways. The other day someone told be that according to the laws of aero-dynamics, a bumble-bee should not be able to fly…but it does not know that. I want to forget my limitations; because I yearn to do what I know is greater than myself.

oh, how critical it is to maintain a sense of humor along the way...

(Istria)

(Slovenia)

Today the most amazing thing happened…I had time for a nap! I found my way home despite my zombie-esque state, to collapse in my little twin bed for three lovely hours of splendid slumber. I cannot imagine any other way I would rather have celebrated the freedom Friday afternoon. I fully intend on remaining in my pajamas from now until tomorrow afternoon. Erica, a fellow SIT student who has quickly become a dear friend, is coming over tonight for an evening of chocolate, vino (wine), and movies…

Monday we leave for an excursion to Istria and Slovenia where a women’s rights festival will be taking place! I have been counting down the days until this week since I arrived in the Balkans. Do not get me wrong, the last several weeks have been wonderful; but to be quite frank, the material we have studied has been heavy and drab, particularly since I am not the biggest fan of history. I tend to soak it up more like a rock than a sponge. While I recognize it is critical to consider the history of the region before we delve into human rights movements (which is largely why I came), this is a painful undertaking. Just to give you a glimpse into my relationship with our history seminar, I will have you know I have been donned with nickname “Dori,” the fish from Finding Nemo who cannot focus on anything for more than 3 seconds before she gets distracted and forgets everything she knows. I sigh with relief at the opportunity to close my 700 page book on the “Balkans” which will forever remind me of the time I spent in Croatian purgatory.

Today Zagreb was in a huff over the verdicts pronounced by UN war crimes tribunal in The Hague for three men convicted of war crimes in 1991. This was concerning their actions in Vukovar, the city in which I will likely be conducting my research (BBC link > http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7017758.stm). I bring this story up because I think it is interesting how the information presented by the media is often skewed when their commitment to remaining PC takes president over the truth. The BBC minimized the crimes of these men, and did not even mention their ethnicity. There was a much different story circulating in Zagreb this morning…The Croatian headlines read “SHAME!” Apparently the three men were Serbian, and collectively received less time than any one Croat brought before the Hague. Additionally these men did not kill only one or two individuals, they forced hundreds of innocent civilians into a hospital in Vukovar, where they proceeded to torture and kill them. I feel that I must believe this story because it comes from the months of individuals who lost family members in this massacre. I say all of this only to express the caution I recognize one must approach the media with. This is my first experience personally witnessing an international source telling a story about a people who will straight up tell you that it is wrong.

This week we also visited the Croatian parliament (Sabor) where we met with the youngest member, and on Thursday we visited the HDZ (the leading party) head-quarters. It is amazing how I am able to have experiences here which would likely be inaccessible at home. I had to laugh at our visit to HDZ where we were all given goody-bags with HDZ hats, shirts, lighters, and fanny-packs. A photographer was taking countless pictures of the HDZ party with “America’s youth.” The whole situation was so ridiculous. I had about as much business visiting HDZ as I would have working on Bush’s campaign. They are the party who has ventured past the conservative right, so far right that I am certain they fell off the end and hit their heads…At least they gave me cookies and milk.

Tomorrow is yoga and hiking, then going to the lake with some friends, and Sunday packing for our excursion…expect an update soon. Dovidenja!

I reflect on the last three weeks in disbelief, particularly because I have not fallen ill, or even worried that I was dying of some strange illness (I tend to be somewhat of a hypochondriac). I have the immune system similar to that of the bubble-boy, yet I am the only member of our entire group that has not experienced some version of the plague. What a blessing. The only thing I risk falling victim to is cardiac arrest. I don’t think I have ever consumed so much dairy and meat in my entire life.
On this lovely Sunday, I look out my window and past the apple and plum trees that fill our yard are the mountains, and on one of these majestic hills resides the castle (Medvegrad) that I will be hiking to with my host family for lunch today. My host mother insists that we all need fresh air, or we will surely get meningitis. We are, however, embarking on our adventure a little earlier than typical, because I plan on taking the afternoon bus to Trg Bana Josipa Jelacica (the main city square) for yoga (joga). After that I will most likely meet my friend Jan for kava at one of the hundreds of cafés which flood the streets of the Zagreb. He is a film producer who although Croatian, grew up in London, and has quickly become someone I consider a friend, and because of his English fluency, a comfort.
I suppose this is all for now, I just felt that I would give you an idea of a typical Sunday. This week should be a little less stressful than last. We visit parliament tomorrow, but the rest of the week is very normal: Croatian in the morning and thematic seminar in the afternoon. I am debating spending the weekend in Budapest, however, Monday morning we leave for Slovenia and Istria, so this might be a stretch. We shall see. Bok!

Goodnesss gracious…Rumor has it that third times a charm, so hopefully this attempt to portray a glimpse into my challenging, humorous, stressful and providential adventure in the Balkans will satisfy those of you to who had expected such an anecdote much sooner…My first attempt at blogging was on one of those days filled with so many frustrations that my blog appeared more like a list of grievances. Now, however, I have accepted that my time here will generously provide me with four months of culture shock, thus the day to day challenges of functioning are humorous, and if nothing else, predictable. Maybe placing “shock” and “predictable” together sounds like an “oxymoron,” but this word is actually not too far from an accurate description of my day to day experiences. I am sure I will be unsure about most things, I predict the unpredictable, and I suspect the unexpected. I am, however, functioning much more effectively, now that I have realized that all doors here open the opposite direction, and the first floor in every building is actually the second.

My second attempt to blog was almost completed when I lost electricity and with it my blog during a storm. So here I sit, with nearly three weeks of craziness on my mind, hoping to consolidate it in some coherent form for you. I believe that this attempt was meant to me. I just finished to exams today, one on the breakup of the former Yugoslavia and one in Croatian. I believe I dominated them both, and I attribute my success to the clarity I have derived from my new Yoga class as well as my fervent efforts to learn Croatian to that I can understand what terrible and immature things my host brothers are saying behind my back.

I can’t say I expected to begin regularly practicing Yoga in Croatia haha, but it is one of the essential element of my day, and rather funny when I take a step back and think about it. I am the only non-Croatian in the class, so my instructor insists on speaking in broken English so that I can “understand.” I don’t know how the other 20 members of the class feel about this. I had to find some sort of physical activity to counter act the effects of this culture of eating….My families favorite part of the day is feeding me. They have this game called “feed Becca every single one of her favorite foods at every meal and make sure she eats all of it.” At first it was nice to have caprese salad, omelets, yogurt with granola, brochette, cake, cookies, and coffee at every meal, but after three weeks it becomes a little overwhelming. I have begun to feel a little bit like an overfed exotic pet.

I say “pet,” because last night I learned that the reason that my host family “adopted” me this semester, is because Bepo, 12, my youngest host brother, wanted his own American, hahahaha. Bepo was so proud last night as he showed me his English test where he was asked to write about himself, it read as follows:

Hello, my name is Bepo. I live in Zagreb, Croatia. I have a mom, a dad, a
brother, a sister, three turtles, a fish, and an American. She does too much homework and does not play with me enough.

I laughed so hard I almost fell out of my seat….

Academics? How could I forget to mention them. Are my classes hard? In short, yes, but for a very different reason than at home. The challenge of functioning out of my comfort zone makes everything more challenging. I am not used to commuting an hour to class, being in class most of the day, and going home to a family I then spend time with. I had not realized how overly comfortable I had become in my independent and selfish life. Coming here has been a reality check, but for the better.

Oh, Croatia. I already see a love-hate relationship developing between us. Zagreb is a lovely city, but with an element of sadness about it, which never seems to completely subside…the city leaves me with a feeling similar to that which I experience when viewing a masterpiece I cannot step away from, but which simultaneously provokes uncomfortable feelings and sadness. They say that ignorance is bliss, but I don’t see how I can be happy without understanding the sources of pain of many women in this region. I had expected to hop across the ocean, understand everything around me, know the answers to all the questions….I was wrong. I must admit to the great challenge ahead of me, but I also feel a drive that gives me strength which I know it not my own.

I know this is a lot of babbling, but I am all over the place right now trying to learn, playing with my little host brothers, writing an essay on ethnic tensions, commuting to class from my little mountain village, and trying to find some time for rest. It is hard to believe that I am on the other side of the world, that here live millions of people I had no idea existed. New places and experiences sometimes remind me of one of those three dimensional pictures that you must look at very closely before slowly pulling away from for the image to appear, but without doing so, all you can see is a crazy splash of colors. I am trying to look closely and personally at this city and its people so that I am not overwhelmed by my lack of knowledge and the newness of it all, and ultimately, that slowly but surely a picture might emerge, one which I am meant to see and understand.

Dubrovnik, Croatia

I honestly can't believe this summer has escaped me...I swear there was no July. Where was I? Not that this summer wasn't incredible because it was, and when I think of how many adventures I have embarked on, these several months don't actually seem long enough to have done it all. I will miss Polaris, and my team, but I think that I am ready to move on to something new....perhaps Eastern Europe? :o)