I’ve always been interested in immigration issues, especially as they pertain to human rights. In fact, my first internship was at an immigration law firm. While I’m definitely not lawyer and/or paper pusher material, it provided an interesting insight into very personal stories of what it takes to go to America. Recently, I read Luis Alberto Urrea’s shocking The Devil’s Highway, a book which details a harrowing cross-border trip taken by twenty-six Mexicans to the US through southern Arizona. Only fourteen survived the scorching temperatures as Urrea graphically details what happens to a person who dies of hyperthermia.
I find the growing American xenophobia, fear-mongering and right wing extremism disheartening, and on occasion, terrifying. People have forgotten in the wake of 9/11 panic that we are a country of immigrants and that one of the things that makes America unique is this diversity. Albania is 98% ethnically homogenous; Germany is 88%. The largest ethnic group in the US comes in at 66% of the population.
Maybe I cannot fully understand the situation in the Southwestern United States, but I do understand illegal immigration and the push/pull factors that drive the system: Albania is a perfect example. I asked my host sister how many Albanians she knew that had “illegally left Albania for work in Greece or Italy,” and she told me: “A zillion.” Like Mexican immigrants, Albanians leave to do the grunt work their European Union counterparts refuse to do. Like Mexicans, Albanians have a less elaborate system of “coyotes,” professional guides that escort would-be illegal immigrants over the border for hefty sums. Like Mexicans, Albanians leave mostly for financial reasons. Any complete immigration policy must address these human and economic factors. Living here has allowed me to see how people deal with poverty, broken and corrupt public systems, and an overall lack of hope. Most Americans have no idea what any of these things mean.
I agree with President Obama when he says that our immigration system is “broken.” Firstly, the system is infinitely more complicated than most people are aware of. I feel that the media does not adequately inform the public when it comes to the complexity of the issue.
Probably the largest complaint against illegal immigration is that undocumented workers enter the United States, take American jobs, don’t pay taxes and use social services that they don’t pay for. It’s hard for me to explain how wrong those statements are. In a nutshell: most workers take jobs Americans would refuse to do, they frequently pay taxes in some form, and are less likely to use social services due to fears of deportation. For those claiming they are a burden on the system, consider the costs of rounding up an estimated 11 million undocumented immigrants and then deporting them. Wouldn’t it be better to give them amnesty and turn them into taxpayers, since an appeal to human rights isn’t enough by itself? Economically speaking, illegal immigrants contribute to the economy by buying goods and services in their communities. Even if they send money home they still pay bank fees. I think anti-illegal immigrant groups conveniently pick and choose statistics. If Americans want to pick fruit in the sun, let them. If you want to deport illegal immigrants, consider how many people would want to pay $20 for a couple oranges picked by Americans. Illegal immigrants fill an important need in the American economy and should be appreciated for the back breaking and often unpleasant work that they do. It is simply reality: the US benefits greatly from this arrangement and anti-illegal immigrant groups need to stop acting like this is just a taker in this Mexico/US relationship.
What would a new solution to immigration look like? First and foremost, it’s a human rights issue. We are talking about human beings whose only crime is trying to improve their lives by any means possible. They are without any legal standing, meaning that crimes against them often go unreported. Think about how this effects people brought to the US against their will: trafficking victims. Are they supposed to be punished? People, illegal and legal, deserve protection in the eyes of the law. Status shouldn’t be a prerequisite for having rights. We can agree that illegal immigrants have broken a law by entering without the proper papers, but there needs to be a solution based on amnesty. Why should people who have spent ten years here as otherwise model citizens be punished? Some people think that amnesty will increase the number of border crossings, but I think it’s just more fear tactics. A person who can’t feed their family isn’t going to be more likely to chance it just because they may get amnesty. We are talking about people who live day-to-day, something that it’s taken me a long time to understand living in a developing country. People in poverty aren’t thinking about the future, they aren’t thinking about school or the newest shiny gadget like most of us in developed countries do. They are thinking about survival and usually no more than a week in advance. They aren’t going to be reading up on amnesty status before packing a backpack and going into the desert.
A finally, no political discussion can be complete without somehow coming to the topic of terrorism. Given that most of the debate centers around the US/Mexico border, it’s very unlikely that the type of terrorists we are told to be afraid of are crossing this border. I know this is probably scary and amazing, but no border is safe. Ever. The way I see it, we have two options: to be paralyzed with the fear of an imminent attack from people who aren’t white just like us and to regard anyone of foreign extract with suspicion, or to accept the realities of life in 2010, doing what we can to avoid and prevent attacks but otherwise having the courage to live our lives and still feel more love than fear for our fellow inhabitants of earth. I overwhelmingly chose the latter.
“There should be no such thing as an illegal person on this planet.” – Raquel Rubio Goldsmith, advocate for border reforms and more human treatment of the undocumented.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
In Praise of “Kos”
“Kos” is “yogurt” in Albanian. Like other countries in this part of the world, yogurt isn’t necessarily something fruity. In the Albanian kitchen, it’s usually served to complement rice or in combination with a lighter dinner, perhaps composed of bread, cheese and tomato. Americans use it as a substitute for sour cream or as a catch-all for any dairy product we may be missing. Really, its uses are limitless. I’ve discovered a previously unknown capacity to eat it whenever, wherever and for any reason, especially since it’s always around.
My host mom makes our yogurt, which was something that used to surprise and amaze all PCVs when we first moved here. Kate had a discussion with my counterpart about making yogurt during counterpart conference last year. As my counterpart was describing the process (heat the milk, add some old yogurt), we jokingly and continuously kept asking her, “Yes, but how do you get the first kos? Where does the first yogurt come from?” The real answer is “buy some from the store,” but Kate and I were trying to imagine the very first yogurt. How did they make it if there was no previous yogurt to add to the mix?
My host mom uses “farmer milk,” which I’ve addressed in previous posts. It’s strained to get out any pieces of anything and then boiled. Afterwards, about 2 tablespoons of previous yogurt are added and the yogurt container is covered with a bunch of plastic bags and paper towels to keep the heat in while the cultures grow. It’s really very simple.
Albanians will tell you to eat yogurt because it’s good for you and it will make you skinny. I don’t know about that, but it’s definitely delicious. What’s even better than regular dairy is sheep’s milk, which also comes from the village farmers. It’s incredibly rich and has a more solid consistency… and definitely an acquired taste.
Having laughed about the differences in animal sounds before (Albanian roosters have the European “kikerik,” and dogs “hahm,”) we had another laugh about kos dele, or sheep’s yogurt. My host dad pushed the yogurt container towards me and said, “Eat some, it’s kos beh beh behhh.” I replied, “Oh, it’s kos lope (dairy yogurt)?” He just shook his head.
My host mom makes our yogurt, which was something that used to surprise and amaze all PCVs when we first moved here. Kate had a discussion with my counterpart about making yogurt during counterpart conference last year. As my counterpart was describing the process (heat the milk, add some old yogurt), we jokingly and continuously kept asking her, “Yes, but how do you get the first kos? Where does the first yogurt come from?” The real answer is “buy some from the store,” but Kate and I were trying to imagine the very first yogurt. How did they make it if there was no previous yogurt to add to the mix?
My host mom uses “farmer milk,” which I’ve addressed in previous posts. It’s strained to get out any pieces of anything and then boiled. Afterwards, about 2 tablespoons of previous yogurt are added and the yogurt container is covered with a bunch of plastic bags and paper towels to keep the heat in while the cultures grow. It’s really very simple.
Albanians will tell you to eat yogurt because it’s good for you and it will make you skinny. I don’t know about that, but it’s definitely delicious. What’s even better than regular dairy is sheep’s milk, which also comes from the village farmers. It’s incredibly rich and has a more solid consistency… and definitely an acquired taste.
Having laughed about the differences in animal sounds before (Albanian roosters have the European “kikerik,” and dogs “hahm,”) we had another laugh about kos dele, or sheep’s yogurt. My host dad pushed the yogurt container towards me and said, “Eat some, it’s kos beh beh behhh.” I replied, “Oh, it’s kos lope (dairy yogurt)?” He just shook his head.
“Hajde, pijme një Kafe”
Thankfully, Albania is a country with a coffee culture. Being invited to drink a coffee is usually a way of opening up communication lines. Coffee is usually informal, meaning that Albanians haven’t grasped the concept of doing business over a cup of coffee. I’m fairly certain “business lunch” isn’t in the Albanian vocabulary either. Instead, coffee can be a one to two hour opportunity to just sit around, talk, and relationship build. It’s another hangover from the Ottoman Empire.
For the most part, Albanians drink “express.” These are powerful little cups of coffee tasting burnt to varying degrees. When you go to a café in Tirana, you’ll be disappointed with the selection. No lattes or cappuccinos really, just express and macchiato.
Coffee is usually brewed in the espresso manner (high pressure), but there’s also kafe turke and kafe filter. Kafe turke (Turkish coffee) is made in a small steel pot and the coffee and sugar are poured in along with the water and heated until it inevitably boils out all over your stove. I like this every once in a while, but a lot of people complain that it’s too gritty since the fine grounds are in the bottom of your cup. Kafe filter, or filtered coffee, is uncommon. I’ve only ever seen it in the one American restaurant, which is a testimony that tall, filtered coffee is mostly a foreign concept.
The only problem with the coffee culture that preaches, “Go strong or go home,” is the number it’s done on our taste buds. I’ve had this discussion recently with other PCVs, and we’ve all reached the same conclusion: drinking “kafe filter,” when available, tastes like drinking nothing. This is a problem when it comes to thinking about going home, since I complained to my parents years ago about their weak coffee. I made a beautiful cup of Jacobs Kronung from a big pack of coffee that cost more than I spend on groceries in a week… and it tasted like nothing. I thought maybe I made it wrong. But in the end, it was my taste buds that were wrong.
Some people hold out when it comes to high-powered espresso by splurging for French presses. Others buy Nescafe instant coffee, the gold standard in countries where drip coffee isn’t popular. I’ve seen a particularly wonderful rigged creation in Pogradec: the bottom of a French press combined with a coffee filter that rides in the top and into which hot water is poured. One thing is for certain: our close of service conference in February should have a standalone session entitled, “Reverse culture shock: American coffee.”
For the most part, Albanians drink “express.” These are powerful little cups of coffee tasting burnt to varying degrees. When you go to a café in Tirana, you’ll be disappointed with the selection. No lattes or cappuccinos really, just express and macchiato.
Coffee is usually brewed in the espresso manner (high pressure), but there’s also kafe turke and kafe filter. Kafe turke (Turkish coffee) is made in a small steel pot and the coffee and sugar are poured in along with the water and heated until it inevitably boils out all over your stove. I like this every once in a while, but a lot of people complain that it’s too gritty since the fine grounds are in the bottom of your cup. Kafe filter, or filtered coffee, is uncommon. I’ve only ever seen it in the one American restaurant, which is a testimony that tall, filtered coffee is mostly a foreign concept.
The only problem with the coffee culture that preaches, “Go strong or go home,” is the number it’s done on our taste buds. I’ve had this discussion recently with other PCVs, and we’ve all reached the same conclusion: drinking “kafe filter,” when available, tastes like drinking nothing. This is a problem when it comes to thinking about going home, since I complained to my parents years ago about their weak coffee. I made a beautiful cup of Jacobs Kronung from a big pack of coffee that cost more than I spend on groceries in a week… and it tasted like nothing. I thought maybe I made it wrong. But in the end, it was my taste buds that were wrong.
Some people hold out when it comes to high-powered espresso by splurging for French presses. Others buy Nescafe instant coffee, the gold standard in countries where drip coffee isn’t popular. I’ve seen a particularly wonderful rigged creation in Pogradec: the bottom of a French press combined with a coffee filter that rides in the top and into which hot water is poured. One thing is for certain: our close of service conference in February should have a standalone session entitled, “Reverse culture shock: American coffee.”
Shumë urime për mua
August has been busy. In the beginning of the month, the editorial group of Hajde Hajde, the Peace Corps Albania newsletter, met to put the Summer 2010 issue together. I’m very proud with what we’ve created. After the weekend-long meeting, it was off to Tirana for the conference I’ve spent the last two months planning. It was nice to see people getting something out of it as well as to be recognized for the work it took. Now that all these things are over, I can actually breathe a little bit and enjoy the rest of the summer. And then there’s the birthday celebration in Berat again this year.
Birthdays normally aren’t a huge deal for me. Yeah it’s nice to get together and have a party, is it that important that another year has gone by? I look at my birthday like I look at New Year’s: it’s a time to reflect on the past year and think about the changes that need to be made for the next. Well over the halfway point, I’ve made a list of things I’ve learned this year and what I want for my “new year.”
1. The best decision I’ve made all year was living in a host family. They have been good to me, they’ve taught me so much, and they’ve been my light in the dark.
2. What constitutes a good relationship and how to maintain them. This year has been full of interpersonal inconsistencies, ups-and-downs, distrust and irresponsible or unreliable people. Some of this is situational due to the stress and inconsistencies of life here. It has lead me to reassess my life here and the people in it, hopefully learn from my own mistakes, and make sure that my second year here is a bit more positive on the interpersonal front.
3. Responsibility. Peace Corps doesn’t hold your hand. For the most part, you’re by yourself. No real performance reviews and limited visits from Peace Corps employees to my site. It is up to you to make the most of your service since a lot of it is just on an honor system. This leads to lots of volunteers milking the lack of any oversight for all it’s worth.
4. Emotionally complicated people and poor communicators. I’ve learned a lot about dealing with these types of people, enough to know that maybe I shouldn’t take any of these things personally. People handle their emotions and how to express them very differently. I need to be more patient with people that are different from me and definitely more empathetic.
5. Rediscovering the magic of reading (and reconfirming what my professors always told me: “Sofie, you need to be with an intellectual.”) Physically, I’ve been in Albania, Bulgaria, Macedonia and Egypt. Mentally and emotionally, I’ve been to: Africa; India; Barcelona; the Libyan Desert with Saint-Exupery; Uzbekistan; Chicago’s Wrigley Field; Italy; the Devil’s Highway; 1950s Iowa; and the former Yugoslavia. Not bad considering the flight to Egypt was $650 but all the other “travel” I’ve done was free.
6. Exercise. For the last couple months, I’ve done 30+ minutes of cardio and other exercise 5+ times a week. It’s especially helpful in dealing with stress, but sometimes it’s just a nice way to clear my head. I’ll probably end up with a gym membership (gasp!) starting in the fall to help with winter doldrums.
7. Simplifying my life. I think we’re all guilty of overcomplicating things, especially when it’s really unnecessary. Reassessing my life and relationships here combined with removing myself from negative, unnecessary situations has already gone a long way.
8. Not giving into the temptation of comparison. Everyone’s situation is unique. We aren’t in a competition to see who can do the most. We aren’t here to critique others who don’t do as much. We are just here and we’re responsible for our actions, and that’s enough to keep us busy for a while.
9. Looking at an international future. It’s time to start that job search again, and it seems like every article I read in The Economist is telling me more bad news about the American labor market. As much as I wish I could find a good job in the US, I’m not so sure it’s possible. In many ways I think the US is just done. Not that anywhere is perfect, but looking at numbers, cost of living, educational opportunities, etc., Germany still looks like a pretty great place. On paper it looks better than the US, without a doubt.
10. Not being able to please everyone. This is something I’ve always known, but never really had to learn like I’ve learned it here, especially in dealing with difficult people. Sometimes you just need to take a step back.
Birthdays normally aren’t a huge deal for me. Yeah it’s nice to get together and have a party, is it that important that another year has gone by? I look at my birthday like I look at New Year’s: it’s a time to reflect on the past year and think about the changes that need to be made for the next. Well over the halfway point, I’ve made a list of things I’ve learned this year and what I want for my “new year.”
1. The best decision I’ve made all year was living in a host family. They have been good to me, they’ve taught me so much, and they’ve been my light in the dark.
2. What constitutes a good relationship and how to maintain them. This year has been full of interpersonal inconsistencies, ups-and-downs, distrust and irresponsible or unreliable people. Some of this is situational due to the stress and inconsistencies of life here. It has lead me to reassess my life here and the people in it, hopefully learn from my own mistakes, and make sure that my second year here is a bit more positive on the interpersonal front.
3. Responsibility. Peace Corps doesn’t hold your hand. For the most part, you’re by yourself. No real performance reviews and limited visits from Peace Corps employees to my site. It is up to you to make the most of your service since a lot of it is just on an honor system. This leads to lots of volunteers milking the lack of any oversight for all it’s worth.
4. Emotionally complicated people and poor communicators. I’ve learned a lot about dealing with these types of people, enough to know that maybe I shouldn’t take any of these things personally. People handle their emotions and how to express them very differently. I need to be more patient with people that are different from me and definitely more empathetic.
5. Rediscovering the magic of reading (and reconfirming what my professors always told me: “Sofie, you need to be with an intellectual.”) Physically, I’ve been in Albania, Bulgaria, Macedonia and Egypt. Mentally and emotionally, I’ve been to: Africa; India; Barcelona; the Libyan Desert with Saint-Exupery; Uzbekistan; Chicago’s Wrigley Field; Italy; the Devil’s Highway; 1950s Iowa; and the former Yugoslavia. Not bad considering the flight to Egypt was $650 but all the other “travel” I’ve done was free.
6. Exercise. For the last couple months, I’ve done 30+ minutes of cardio and other exercise 5+ times a week. It’s especially helpful in dealing with stress, but sometimes it’s just a nice way to clear my head. I’ll probably end up with a gym membership (gasp!) starting in the fall to help with winter doldrums.
7. Simplifying my life. I think we’re all guilty of overcomplicating things, especially when it’s really unnecessary. Reassessing my life and relationships here combined with removing myself from negative, unnecessary situations has already gone a long way.
8. Not giving into the temptation of comparison. Everyone’s situation is unique. We aren’t in a competition to see who can do the most. We aren’t here to critique others who don’t do as much. We are just here and we’re responsible for our actions, and that’s enough to keep us busy for a while.
9. Looking at an international future. It’s time to start that job search again, and it seems like every article I read in The Economist is telling me more bad news about the American labor market. As much as I wish I could find a good job in the US, I’m not so sure it’s possible. In many ways I think the US is just done. Not that anywhere is perfect, but looking at numbers, cost of living, educational opportunities, etc., Germany still looks like a pretty great place. On paper it looks better than the US, without a doubt.
10. Not being able to please everyone. This is something I’ve always known, but never really had to learn like I’ve learned it here, especially in dealing with difficult people. Sometimes you just need to take a step back.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Qeni po ben shumë zhurmë
Repeat after me: “chain-i poe behn shoom zhorm.” They are your Albanian words of the day. And they’re exactly what I told my neighbor when her dog spent the last day torturing me mentally. As patiently and considerately as I could, I stood in front of her in her store and told her ”The dog is making a lot of noise.”
First off, although Golem is a small village with an inflated population, it’s the noisiest place I’ve ever lived. This includes Center City, Philadelphia and its occasional drunk people outside my window or sirens signaling the latest person to get shot. Peace Corps has it listed at 12,000 which is nowhere near accurate for the hillside village, but probably is the figure counting the municipal territory that stretches for several miles. There are the peripheral sounds running constantly in the background: loud vehicles, prayer calls five times a day from the mosque on top of the hill, yelling people, my host family’s gate being slammed several times because people don’t know how to close it, roosters at all hours of the day, etc. Eventually they don’t stand out so much. But then there are our neighbors across the street.
The building across the street from me is probably one of the tallest in Golem. It’s five stories high and very new. On the bottom floor, a couple in their 50s runs a grocery store that’s the best one here in terms of selection but not in price. Basically since I’ve moved here, they have been building another building just like it on the other side, leading us to call them “The Twin Towers of Golem.” They’ve made a huge mess making them, spilling concrete on the road, digging a giant pool in a field to mix concrete and sprawling countless boards all over the place. I jokingly refer to the 8’X12’ hole for cement mixing as “The Community Pool of Golem.” It’s a way of dealing with the displeasure of the whole thing. The noise is unbearable. The trucks come every morning and for much of the last year, all you could hear were power tools, hammering, etc. I didn’t think it would ever end. Then we entered the “iron age” and it got even worse: every morning, the trucks would show up at 6 or so and drop large iron construction poles. They would literally drop them off of a truck. You can’t imagine the sound of it, iron pole on top of iron pole scaring you awake. It makes an MRI machine look like a good napping locale. The daily iron ritual was a favorite for all the visitors I’ve had this summer.
All of this we’ve taken in stride, at least until the dog. I first heard it yesterday in the fields but couldn’t see it. When I kept hearing it from the same place, I knew it was tied. It wasn’t until much later in the day, and literally several hours of non-stop, high-pitched barking, that I realized it was coming from in front of the grocery store. I asked the woman who owns the store if it was her dog and she customarily shook her head. “My son bought it for his children,” she said. That would have been sweet if the dog weren’t so annoying. To be fair, I sympathize with the dog. The leash was about a meter long, and all day it had to sit and watch its people from 30 feet away while they never went over to interact with it or acknowledge it. That would make anyone go crazy. But I feel like I’ve already put up long enough with all the noise from them and letting the dog thing go wouldn’t be right.
I told my host mom how noisy it had been, and she told me to go say something. We spent a few minutes last night concocting schemes. My host brother was a little too adamant that we poison it. I suggested just letting it go in the middle of the night, my brain clearly wracked from the passive torture it received. Alkys came up with the best idea: take it for ransom. All of these seemed like good ideas.
And here’s where I get the cultural upperhand: it comes from the concept of “turp,” or “shame.” I’ve written before how “shame” is present in Albanian in a number of sayings and expressions. It plays a big part of the culture here, i.e. doing things that are shameful. It’s not much better when people accuse each other of having “no shame.” Shame is a big motivator. Unfortunately, it’s also why any Albanian pleas of decency about the noise pollution would fall on deaf ears: it would be shameful for an Albanian to complain to another Albanian about it, really. Or rather, the Albanian receiving the request to tone it down would look at the other shamefully for making such a request. It’s different for me for a lot of things, and this is one of them. The tables turn. I’m allowed to say it specifically because I’m an outsider. Yes, maybe the store owner won’t be pleased with me and will be annoyed, but my request is at least something the culture binds them to consider. We ended last night’s conversation by me saying if they didn’t fix it by tomorrow, I’d go talk to them.
After a terrible night of sleep because of a wedding and its loud music, I was woken up at 7 by piercing dog barks. That was enough. I put my clothes on, went across the street, reciting the speech I had in mind (which would have been a doozy). Serg told me to calm down when she saw me out of my room and a crazy look in my eye. I went across the street, said good morning, and then asked if I could “make a question.” The store owner said yes, and I said, “Can you make something with the dog? All day it makes like this. Hahm, hahm, hahm (Albanian dogs don’t bark, they “hahm.”) I can’t endure it anymore. Just now, I woke up because of dog. Please, please make something. Put it downstairs or upstairs, but please make something.” Sure enough, twenty minutes later and there was no more hahm, hahm, hahm. My sister came into my room to thank me by saying, “I was just wondering… did the dog stop, or did I go deaf?”
First off, although Golem is a small village with an inflated population, it’s the noisiest place I’ve ever lived. This includes Center City, Philadelphia and its occasional drunk people outside my window or sirens signaling the latest person to get shot. Peace Corps has it listed at 12,000 which is nowhere near accurate for the hillside village, but probably is the figure counting the municipal territory that stretches for several miles. There are the peripheral sounds running constantly in the background: loud vehicles, prayer calls five times a day from the mosque on top of the hill, yelling people, my host family’s gate being slammed several times because people don’t know how to close it, roosters at all hours of the day, etc. Eventually they don’t stand out so much. But then there are our neighbors across the street.
The building across the street from me is probably one of the tallest in Golem. It’s five stories high and very new. On the bottom floor, a couple in their 50s runs a grocery store that’s the best one here in terms of selection but not in price. Basically since I’ve moved here, they have been building another building just like it on the other side, leading us to call them “The Twin Towers of Golem.” They’ve made a huge mess making them, spilling concrete on the road, digging a giant pool in a field to mix concrete and sprawling countless boards all over the place. I jokingly refer to the 8’X12’ hole for cement mixing as “The Community Pool of Golem.” It’s a way of dealing with the displeasure of the whole thing. The noise is unbearable. The trucks come every morning and for much of the last year, all you could hear were power tools, hammering, etc. I didn’t think it would ever end. Then we entered the “iron age” and it got even worse: every morning, the trucks would show up at 6 or so and drop large iron construction poles. They would literally drop them off of a truck. You can’t imagine the sound of it, iron pole on top of iron pole scaring you awake. It makes an MRI machine look like a good napping locale. The daily iron ritual was a favorite for all the visitors I’ve had this summer.
All of this we’ve taken in stride, at least until the dog. I first heard it yesterday in the fields but couldn’t see it. When I kept hearing it from the same place, I knew it was tied. It wasn’t until much later in the day, and literally several hours of non-stop, high-pitched barking, that I realized it was coming from in front of the grocery store. I asked the woman who owns the store if it was her dog and she customarily shook her head. “My son bought it for his children,” she said. That would have been sweet if the dog weren’t so annoying. To be fair, I sympathize with the dog. The leash was about a meter long, and all day it had to sit and watch its people from 30 feet away while they never went over to interact with it or acknowledge it. That would make anyone go crazy. But I feel like I’ve already put up long enough with all the noise from them and letting the dog thing go wouldn’t be right.
I told my host mom how noisy it had been, and she told me to go say something. We spent a few minutes last night concocting schemes. My host brother was a little too adamant that we poison it. I suggested just letting it go in the middle of the night, my brain clearly wracked from the passive torture it received. Alkys came up with the best idea: take it for ransom. All of these seemed like good ideas.
And here’s where I get the cultural upperhand: it comes from the concept of “turp,” or “shame.” I’ve written before how “shame” is present in Albanian in a number of sayings and expressions. It plays a big part of the culture here, i.e. doing things that are shameful. It’s not much better when people accuse each other of having “no shame.” Shame is a big motivator. Unfortunately, it’s also why any Albanian pleas of decency about the noise pollution would fall on deaf ears: it would be shameful for an Albanian to complain to another Albanian about it, really. Or rather, the Albanian receiving the request to tone it down would look at the other shamefully for making such a request. It’s different for me for a lot of things, and this is one of them. The tables turn. I’m allowed to say it specifically because I’m an outsider. Yes, maybe the store owner won’t be pleased with me and will be annoyed, but my request is at least something the culture binds them to consider. We ended last night’s conversation by me saying if they didn’t fix it by tomorrow, I’d go talk to them.
After a terrible night of sleep because of a wedding and its loud music, I was woken up at 7 by piercing dog barks. That was enough. I put my clothes on, went across the street, reciting the speech I had in mind (which would have been a doozy). Serg told me to calm down when she saw me out of my room and a crazy look in my eye. I went across the street, said good morning, and then asked if I could “make a question.” The store owner said yes, and I said, “Can you make something with the dog? All day it makes like this. Hahm, hahm, hahm (Albanian dogs don’t bark, they “hahm.”) I can’t endure it anymore. Just now, I woke up because of dog. Please, please make something. Put it downstairs or upstairs, but please make something.” Sure enough, twenty minutes later and there was no more hahm, hahm, hahm. My sister came into my room to thank me by saying, “I was just wondering… did the dog stop, or did I go deaf?”
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
It’s a Mental Game
This past week I read The Ponds of Kalambayi. It’s the memoir of Peace Corps volunteer Mike Tidwell, who served in a village in Zaire (now called the Democratic Republic of Congo) in the late 80s. It seems that so many Peace Corps volunteers are either writers or readers; many are both. I enjoy reading stories from other volunteers and comparing and contrasting experiences.
Tidwell worked as a fishing extension agent. During his two year service, he taught Zairians fishing culture. After a rigorous training in the US, he moved to a village close to Mbuji-Mayi in the country’s south central region. Tidwell’s main work involves visiting the men of nearby villages on his motorcycle, scouting out potential areas to dig ponds, instructing them on the digging (often taking 50,000 shovelfuls to get the right size), teaching them how to add the proper compost to the pond and also how to feed the fish. Along the way, he learns about generosity in the form of selfless, community-centric villagers; and the greed of Westerners who exploit the village farmers by forcing them to grow cotton, only for them to buy at low prices, and the exploitative diamond trade in Mbuji-Mayi. While Tidwell was there, a normal Zairian made $170 a year – or the amount of 2 ½ months of Tidwell’s living allowance.
It takes Tidwell along time to convince people. Many villagers think that he will take the harvest of fish. He is, after all, a white foreigner in an Africa that’s always been pillaged by his kind. But he gains the farmers’ trust and eventually ends up running a successful project, no thanks to the corrupt government officials that want a piece of the action. The main point of the project is to give malnourished people a chance at daily protein. Tidwell preaches an ideology of limiting family size as well – something villagers can’t understand. Many village men would rather take the trouble of digging two ponds, if only because that means they can have more children. What Tidwell understands in time after many frustrating discussions is that intentionally limiting family size is of little use when nature does it by itself. He attended over 200 funerals in two years, many of them caused by accidents or otherwise curable diseases.
The part that resonated with me the most comes in the later chapters of the book. In a tiff with the US government, the Zairian government refused to grant any additional visas for new volunteers. Tidwell’s Peace Corps director writes him a letter, begging him to extend for a third year so that a volunteer may remain in the valley and continue the work. Otherwise, it may be years until someone else came to take his space. Tidwell considers it briefly – until he acknowledges his own limits.
Alcoholism is a dark cloud amongst volunteers. The reasons that cause it are almost limitless. If stress is situational, part of me thinks alcoholism could be situational at times, too. Firstly, gender roles and societal expectations come into play in many of the countries volunteers are sent to. In most cases, it’s rude for a male volunteer to refuse a drink. In other cases, drinking is a social event that builds friendships, connects people, and paves the way for future working relationships. “In the beginning I drank to be sociable. I drank for entertainment – to relieve the monotony of village life. But now I was drinking seven days a week… Not by any stretch of the imagination could this be called normal consumption, (p. 254)” Tidwell said.
Alcoholism is also a side effect of depression, or at least serves as a coping mechanism when volunteers feel alone, homesick or frustrated with their work. Tidwell described workless days as such: “These weren’t good days for me. With no work to do, nothing on which to train my mind, I grew restless and depressed. Time seemed to slow down, then stop altogether… By one o’clock, a book tossed aside, I’d feel that tug, that need to do something… (p. 251)” The same reasons caused Tidwell to start drinking far more than he should have, and it was with the knowledge that he was slowly becoming an alcoholic that he decided to decline a third year. All of this supports the often underestimated mental and emotional toll that Peace Corps service takes.
Tidwell worked as a fishing extension agent. During his two year service, he taught Zairians fishing culture. After a rigorous training in the US, he moved to a village close to Mbuji-Mayi in the country’s south central region. Tidwell’s main work involves visiting the men of nearby villages on his motorcycle, scouting out potential areas to dig ponds, instructing them on the digging (often taking 50,000 shovelfuls to get the right size), teaching them how to add the proper compost to the pond and also how to feed the fish. Along the way, he learns about generosity in the form of selfless, community-centric villagers; and the greed of Westerners who exploit the village farmers by forcing them to grow cotton, only for them to buy at low prices, and the exploitative diamond trade in Mbuji-Mayi. While Tidwell was there, a normal Zairian made $170 a year – or the amount of 2 ½ months of Tidwell’s living allowance.
It takes Tidwell along time to convince people. Many villagers think that he will take the harvest of fish. He is, after all, a white foreigner in an Africa that’s always been pillaged by his kind. But he gains the farmers’ trust and eventually ends up running a successful project, no thanks to the corrupt government officials that want a piece of the action. The main point of the project is to give malnourished people a chance at daily protein. Tidwell preaches an ideology of limiting family size as well – something villagers can’t understand. Many village men would rather take the trouble of digging two ponds, if only because that means they can have more children. What Tidwell understands in time after many frustrating discussions is that intentionally limiting family size is of little use when nature does it by itself. He attended over 200 funerals in two years, many of them caused by accidents or otherwise curable diseases.
The part that resonated with me the most comes in the later chapters of the book. In a tiff with the US government, the Zairian government refused to grant any additional visas for new volunteers. Tidwell’s Peace Corps director writes him a letter, begging him to extend for a third year so that a volunteer may remain in the valley and continue the work. Otherwise, it may be years until someone else came to take his space. Tidwell considers it briefly – until he acknowledges his own limits.
Alcoholism is a dark cloud amongst volunteers. The reasons that cause it are almost limitless. If stress is situational, part of me thinks alcoholism could be situational at times, too. Firstly, gender roles and societal expectations come into play in many of the countries volunteers are sent to. In most cases, it’s rude for a male volunteer to refuse a drink. In other cases, drinking is a social event that builds friendships, connects people, and paves the way for future working relationships. “In the beginning I drank to be sociable. I drank for entertainment – to relieve the monotony of village life. But now I was drinking seven days a week… Not by any stretch of the imagination could this be called normal consumption, (p. 254)” Tidwell said.
Alcoholism is also a side effect of depression, or at least serves as a coping mechanism when volunteers feel alone, homesick or frustrated with their work. Tidwell described workless days as such: “These weren’t good days for me. With no work to do, nothing on which to train my mind, I grew restless and depressed. Time seemed to slow down, then stop altogether… By one o’clock, a book tossed aside, I’d feel that tug, that need to do something… (p. 251)” The same reasons caused Tidwell to start drinking far more than he should have, and it was with the knowledge that he was slowly becoming an alcoholic that he decided to decline a third year. All of this supports the often underestimated mental and emotional toll that Peace Corps service takes.
S’keni interes fare!
One thing that I’ve learned is the relationship between students, teachers and parents. I noticed this mostly when I worked at the K-5 program before I came here, but I can confidently and without a doubt say that good parents are active in their children’s education. Unfortunately in Albania, the only time we see parents at the school is if they are begging the director not to expel their children. One of the English teachers told me that one of the parents of a flagrantly poor student told our director: “Keep him here in school; otherwise I don’t know what to do with him.” It seems like every day here I observe or hear something more unbelievable than the previous day’s events, although I’m sure many American parents have found themselves in the same position. But why and how does it get that far?
My host mom and I had a big discussion over coffee yesterday morning. What I really wanted to do was sneak into the kitchen, make some toast, and go upstairs to do some work before my lesson. What really happened is the usual: my host mom asked if I was going to drink coffee, and I said yes. That indirectly implies that she would like some too and that we’d drink it together. In fact, the very question of whether I’m making coffee implies that she would gladly drink some with me. It’s one of the things I love about Albania. I’ve had great conversations with my host mom over grainy kafe turke grounds. After a discussion about some of my volunteer friends, it turned to education in general and our school in particular.
My host mom began with her usual complaint: “Alkys (my 15-year-old host brother) is in the house all day long and doesn’t learn English, even though he has you and Sergi (my host sister). What can I do?” I shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to say what I thought. “How about you deny him internet and television until he improves his grades?,” I thought. Recently, Alkys brought home a four in English that was kind of a joke in my house. A four in the Albanian system translates to an “F” in America. Sometimes being in another family and seeing how another culture raises children, I’m reminded of my own upbringing. I told my host mom that I never brought home such a low grade because it wasn’t possible. My parents didn’t leave any guesswork when it came to the consequences of unjustifiably poor performances. The closest I got was a D interim notice in 10th grade math; that alone cost me the ability to go out and work at an age where all my peers were getting jobs.
It’s a small part of my common lament: this is a largely consequence free society. Bring home an F? No problem! Speed on the highway? No problem! Didn’t get into the university you wanted? No problem! Most things are just brushed aside or paid for, and everything continues in this way. Maybe part of Alkys English deficiency comes from hours online or in front of the TV and a staggering lack of even the slightest reprimand when it comes to grades and behavior. I watch this, and I can kind of understand it, but I certainly can’t justify any of it.
My host mom’s defense was that he isn’t interested in learning. It’s something you hear frequently from teachers as well. And why should any student learn, if they can copy off their brightest peers and not face a reprimand from the director or their teachers? Where is there any incentive? In a country where people buy university enrollments and even degrees, where is the incentive? Where are the consequences? My host mom can certainly argue that she can’t do anything if my host brother doesn’t want to learn, but she has no one to blame if he’s not encouraged to do so. And as for the lack of interest, what can I as a teacher do to you if your own parents don’t care? How can I inspire you if they don’t? What good is my interest in you as a person and as a student if your own parents don’t even have it? Obviously I’m not trying to replace anyone’s parents, but teachers would probably function best if there were support and interest in their students’ home lives, which they sorely lack. One of my counterpart’s trademark lines when yelling at students is “s’keni interes fare,” meaning “you have no interest at all.” Granted, Albanian teachers often don’t do much to encourage interest. Rote learning still reigns supreme, and it leaves little room for conversation or other stimulation aside from the teacher lecturing over the students for 45 minutes. But it’s hard even when I’ve taught general lessons and tried to stimulate them, so it’s not the teachers’ fault entirely. I don’t think the answers will come any easier in year two.
The topic of funding for the school came up. It’s a bit of a sore spot for me right now after seeing how things went with the Austrians. I was going to make technology the focal point of my second year, but after spending 2 weeks in the computer lab and seeing how the students have destroyed the computers, I’m lost. I don’t understand how we have materials we don’t use and yet the desire for more things continues. Sometimes I feel like it’s all for show. I asked my director what the school needed, and he said a sound/PA system. But what purpose would that really serve? My host mom rattles off lists of materials and things we could use, but I lack the Albanian to make it clear that most grants won’t just give you “stuff.” You have to come up with a plan, a budget, a person who will maintain it, etc. And you have to hope that your students won’t ruin it in the process, which seems to be a big if. On top of that, grant writing is a huge undertaking that I refuse to do by myself. So even if I could think of something that would really be useful for the school, I’m not sure about my chances of having a consistent grant writing partner. Maybe this answer will come to me in the second year. In the meantime, there’s just this general feeling of hopelessness and the feeling that things won’t change that nags at me. Or the Albanian belief, which I know to be incorrect, that money can fix everything.
My host mom and I had a big discussion over coffee yesterday morning. What I really wanted to do was sneak into the kitchen, make some toast, and go upstairs to do some work before my lesson. What really happened is the usual: my host mom asked if I was going to drink coffee, and I said yes. That indirectly implies that she would like some too and that we’d drink it together. In fact, the very question of whether I’m making coffee implies that she would gladly drink some with me. It’s one of the things I love about Albania. I’ve had great conversations with my host mom over grainy kafe turke grounds. After a discussion about some of my volunteer friends, it turned to education in general and our school in particular.
My host mom began with her usual complaint: “Alkys (my 15-year-old host brother) is in the house all day long and doesn’t learn English, even though he has you and Sergi (my host sister). What can I do?” I shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to say what I thought. “How about you deny him internet and television until he improves his grades?,” I thought. Recently, Alkys brought home a four in English that was kind of a joke in my house. A four in the Albanian system translates to an “F” in America. Sometimes being in another family and seeing how another culture raises children, I’m reminded of my own upbringing. I told my host mom that I never brought home such a low grade because it wasn’t possible. My parents didn’t leave any guesswork when it came to the consequences of unjustifiably poor performances. The closest I got was a D interim notice in 10th grade math; that alone cost me the ability to go out and work at an age where all my peers were getting jobs.
It’s a small part of my common lament: this is a largely consequence free society. Bring home an F? No problem! Speed on the highway? No problem! Didn’t get into the university you wanted? No problem! Most things are just brushed aside or paid for, and everything continues in this way. Maybe part of Alkys English deficiency comes from hours online or in front of the TV and a staggering lack of even the slightest reprimand when it comes to grades and behavior. I watch this, and I can kind of understand it, but I certainly can’t justify any of it.
My host mom’s defense was that he isn’t interested in learning. It’s something you hear frequently from teachers as well. And why should any student learn, if they can copy off their brightest peers and not face a reprimand from the director or their teachers? Where is there any incentive? In a country where people buy university enrollments and even degrees, where is the incentive? Where are the consequences? My host mom can certainly argue that she can’t do anything if my host brother doesn’t want to learn, but she has no one to blame if he’s not encouraged to do so. And as for the lack of interest, what can I as a teacher do to you if your own parents don’t care? How can I inspire you if they don’t? What good is my interest in you as a person and as a student if your own parents don’t even have it? Obviously I’m not trying to replace anyone’s parents, but teachers would probably function best if there were support and interest in their students’ home lives, which they sorely lack. One of my counterpart’s trademark lines when yelling at students is “s’keni interes fare,” meaning “you have no interest at all.” Granted, Albanian teachers often don’t do much to encourage interest. Rote learning still reigns supreme, and it leaves little room for conversation or other stimulation aside from the teacher lecturing over the students for 45 minutes. But it’s hard even when I’ve taught general lessons and tried to stimulate them, so it’s not the teachers’ fault entirely. I don’t think the answers will come any easier in year two.
The topic of funding for the school came up. It’s a bit of a sore spot for me right now after seeing how things went with the Austrians. I was going to make technology the focal point of my second year, but after spending 2 weeks in the computer lab and seeing how the students have destroyed the computers, I’m lost. I don’t understand how we have materials we don’t use and yet the desire for more things continues. Sometimes I feel like it’s all for show. I asked my director what the school needed, and he said a sound/PA system. But what purpose would that really serve? My host mom rattles off lists of materials and things we could use, but I lack the Albanian to make it clear that most grants won’t just give you “stuff.” You have to come up with a plan, a budget, a person who will maintain it, etc. And you have to hope that your students won’t ruin it in the process, which seems to be a big if. On top of that, grant writing is a huge undertaking that I refuse to do by myself. So even if I could think of something that would really be useful for the school, I’m not sure about my chances of having a consistent grant writing partner. Maybe this answer will come to me in the second year. In the meantime, there’s just this general feeling of hopelessness and the feeling that things won’t change that nags at me. Or the Albanian belief, which I know to be incorrect, that money can fix everything.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The End of Yugoslavia
Kosovo’s been in the news lately because the UN’s International Court of Justice (ICJ) upheld the legality of Kosovo’s 2008 secession. The last nail in the Yugoslav coffin and far too intricate to explain in detail here, the Kosovo Wars of the late 1990s ended with NATO air strikes in Serbia and Serbian President Milosevic’s indictment as a war criminal. The Kosovo province is regarded as the historical home of Serbs, even though the population after the mid-1900s was around 80% Albanian. Kosovar Albanians wanted independence based on nationality whereas the Serbs couldn’t stand to lose their historical center. The Kosovo conflict is just another bloody chapter in a Balkan history filled with them. The Serbian side going into the ICJ’s announcement was that if the court upheld the independence, “no border in the world would be safe.”
A brief look into their own history would be enough to prove that no border at any time or place is ever safe.
Over the past week, I’ve spent several hours reading Mischa Glenny’s The Balkans. The main thesis of Glenny’s book is that the Balkans isn’t some backward place doomed to tear itself apart repeatedly; but that the great powers have done a lot to contribute to the tension over the last century. It’s a convincing argument. I’ve also watched the BBC documentary entitled “The Death of Yugoslavia,” a six-hour series chronicling Yugoslavia from the late 1980s up to the Dayton Peace Accord in 1995. In the process, I basically needed a flow chart, several maps and a few timelines to keep everything straight. Any discussion of the former Yugoslavia requires a solid knowledge of at least: the previous history of the area; borders and historical borders; and ethnicities and nationalities. We’re talking about Croats, Serbs, Bosnian Serbs, Bosnian Croats, Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims) and Albanians, and that’s not even figuring with Montenegrins and Macedonians. I wasn’t lying about the flowchart. The study of this area soaked in blood is both fascinating, heartbreaking, aggravating and at times, surreal. Although I’m definitely a novice on the subject, a few things have jumped out over the past couple days.
First, the amount of ethnicities, religions and nationalities that once lived together in relative peace was pretty impressive. Hundreds of year old Muslim, Croat and Serb histories were written in places like Sarajevo, Vukovar and Knin, respectively. More impressive is just how quickly everything went. Slovenia left Yugoslavia relatively easily and early on. But all the other secessions would prove to be bloody and with extreme amounts of civilian casualties.
In the book and the documentary, what is most apparent is Serbia’s astounding sense of entitlement and inability to play by any set of rules. Serbian domination of Yugoslavia began when Milosevic came to power and undoubtedly caused the end of the very Yugoslavia that it wanted to maintain. Serbian atrocities in the war were by far the worst, highlighted by the 1995 Srebrenica massacre in eastern Bosnia. Bosnian Serb forces slaughtered 8,000 Bosniak males killed in an act of genocide that was the worst mass-killing since World War Two. That Serbia couldn’t control the Bosnian Serb forces is also shameful, as is the unwillingness of both of them to accept ceasefires. It took years in Serbia after the war to round up their war criminals that were to be put on trial by the UN International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY). In retrospect, it’s very easy to single out the Serbs both for the number and flagrancy of their crimes. But they found willing co-conspirators in Croatia and relative ineptitude with the UN and western powers, considering that Srebrenica was supposed to be a “safe haven” under UN protection. In a rare moment when discussing US foreign policy, I felt proud when the US encouraged bombing missions to force Bosnian Serbs to uphold agreements as well as forming plans for attacks if more safe zones were attacked. It’s shameful that the UN and the West ignored two decimations of declared safe zones before it reached this point.
I was far too young to understand any of this when it was happening. I remembered seeing reports on television and hearing about some country called Yugoslavia, but I didn’t really know anything else about it. At the ages of 7-11, I was lucky to not have to experience terms like “ethnic cleansing” first hand. I didn’t have to live in constant fear, even while in a “safe zone.” The city museum of Sarajevo has an entire exhibit on life in the city during the war. I remember it perfectly: one room has a mock apartment, complete with blue UN plastic over the windows since most of them had been blown out. People had lived without electricity, without gas and without regular food and water supplies for so long that they had to get creative. The museum details how people ate pigeons, attempted to avoid snipers while going out for supplies, and features a number of heaters fashioned from coffee cans. Sarajevo today is very much a city on the mend. One look at the tattered and stripped trees over the city’s hillside, and it doesn’t take much to imagine the artillery flying down from those heights.
In my reading, I kept wondering what all if it was for and how something like this could happen. Wasn’t World War Two enough of an example of what genocide is to assure that it would never be allowed to happen again? Indeed, the world wars showed us a new generation of warfare where civilians were “collateral damages,” arguably one of the most disgusting terms to enter English vocabulary in the 20th century? According to Merriam Webster, collateral damage is “injury inflicted on something other than an intended target.” The conflicts in the former Yugoslavia, however, featured direct and intentional attacks and murder of civilians. In this sense, collateral damage doesn’t do these actions justice. It’s murder, plain and simple, with the intent of exterminating entire populations. And for the second time in the 20th century, it happened again while we all watched. The largest irony in all of this is Serbian complaints that their populations would be extinguished, thereby justifying their assaults and attacks. No one murdered more than the Serbs.
With the heat turned up around the Kosovo issue, one can only hope that the peace will be able to hold. It seems strange to think that as late as the 1940s, Albania could almost have been a part of Yugoslavia. The two counties cooperated in the postwar years with Albania acting as a Yugoslavian satellite until Yugoslavia’s 1948 expulsion from Cominform. Before World War Two, the Communist Party of Yugoslavia had even supported giving Kosovo to the Albanians, although that was later overturned by Yugoslavia’s postwar communists, according to Albania: A Country Study. I shudder to think what kind of bloodshed would have happened during the Yugoslav wars of secession if Albania would have figured into the mix in addition to everything else. At this point, the Serbs must accept that Kosovo is lost and any attempt to change that would produce violence so great that even Bosnia would seem miniscule by comparison. The dream of a Greater Serbia and a home for all Serbs has twice been proven to be impossible. Trying for a third time would be a huge mistake.
EDIT: For more information about the trials of war criminals at The Hague, please see the ICTY website. Two of the big criminals are still at large, including Bosnian Serb commander Ratko Mladic.
A brief look into their own history would be enough to prove that no border at any time or place is ever safe.
Over the past week, I’ve spent several hours reading Mischa Glenny’s The Balkans. The main thesis of Glenny’s book is that the Balkans isn’t some backward place doomed to tear itself apart repeatedly; but that the great powers have done a lot to contribute to the tension over the last century. It’s a convincing argument. I’ve also watched the BBC documentary entitled “The Death of Yugoslavia,” a six-hour series chronicling Yugoslavia from the late 1980s up to the Dayton Peace Accord in 1995. In the process, I basically needed a flow chart, several maps and a few timelines to keep everything straight. Any discussion of the former Yugoslavia requires a solid knowledge of at least: the previous history of the area; borders and historical borders; and ethnicities and nationalities. We’re talking about Croats, Serbs, Bosnian Serbs, Bosnian Croats, Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims) and Albanians, and that’s not even figuring with Montenegrins and Macedonians. I wasn’t lying about the flowchart. The study of this area soaked in blood is both fascinating, heartbreaking, aggravating and at times, surreal. Although I’m definitely a novice on the subject, a few things have jumped out over the past couple days.
First, the amount of ethnicities, religions and nationalities that once lived together in relative peace was pretty impressive. Hundreds of year old Muslim, Croat and Serb histories were written in places like Sarajevo, Vukovar and Knin, respectively. More impressive is just how quickly everything went. Slovenia left Yugoslavia relatively easily and early on. But all the other secessions would prove to be bloody and with extreme amounts of civilian casualties.
In the book and the documentary, what is most apparent is Serbia’s astounding sense of entitlement and inability to play by any set of rules. Serbian domination of Yugoslavia began when Milosevic came to power and undoubtedly caused the end of the very Yugoslavia that it wanted to maintain. Serbian atrocities in the war were by far the worst, highlighted by the 1995 Srebrenica massacre in eastern Bosnia. Bosnian Serb forces slaughtered 8,000 Bosniak males killed in an act of genocide that was the worst mass-killing since World War Two. That Serbia couldn’t control the Bosnian Serb forces is also shameful, as is the unwillingness of both of them to accept ceasefires. It took years in Serbia after the war to round up their war criminals that were to be put on trial by the UN International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY). In retrospect, it’s very easy to single out the Serbs both for the number and flagrancy of their crimes. But they found willing co-conspirators in Croatia and relative ineptitude with the UN and western powers, considering that Srebrenica was supposed to be a “safe haven” under UN protection. In a rare moment when discussing US foreign policy, I felt proud when the US encouraged bombing missions to force Bosnian Serbs to uphold agreements as well as forming plans for attacks if more safe zones were attacked. It’s shameful that the UN and the West ignored two decimations of declared safe zones before it reached this point.
I was far too young to understand any of this when it was happening. I remembered seeing reports on television and hearing about some country called Yugoslavia, but I didn’t really know anything else about it. At the ages of 7-11, I was lucky to not have to experience terms like “ethnic cleansing” first hand. I didn’t have to live in constant fear, even while in a “safe zone.” The city museum of Sarajevo has an entire exhibit on life in the city during the war. I remember it perfectly: one room has a mock apartment, complete with blue UN plastic over the windows since most of them had been blown out. People had lived without electricity, without gas and without regular food and water supplies for so long that they had to get creative. The museum details how people ate pigeons, attempted to avoid snipers while going out for supplies, and features a number of heaters fashioned from coffee cans. Sarajevo today is very much a city on the mend. One look at the tattered and stripped trees over the city’s hillside, and it doesn’t take much to imagine the artillery flying down from those heights.
In my reading, I kept wondering what all if it was for and how something like this could happen. Wasn’t World War Two enough of an example of what genocide is to assure that it would never be allowed to happen again? Indeed, the world wars showed us a new generation of warfare where civilians were “collateral damages,” arguably one of the most disgusting terms to enter English vocabulary in the 20th century? According to Merriam Webster, collateral damage is “injury inflicted on something other than an intended target.” The conflicts in the former Yugoslavia, however, featured direct and intentional attacks and murder of civilians. In this sense, collateral damage doesn’t do these actions justice. It’s murder, plain and simple, with the intent of exterminating entire populations. And for the second time in the 20th century, it happened again while we all watched. The largest irony in all of this is Serbian complaints that their populations would be extinguished, thereby justifying their assaults and attacks. No one murdered more than the Serbs.
With the heat turned up around the Kosovo issue, one can only hope that the peace will be able to hold. It seems strange to think that as late as the 1940s, Albania could almost have been a part of Yugoslavia. The two counties cooperated in the postwar years with Albania acting as a Yugoslavian satellite until Yugoslavia’s 1948 expulsion from Cominform. Before World War Two, the Communist Party of Yugoslavia had even supported giving Kosovo to the Albanians, although that was later overturned by Yugoslavia’s postwar communists, according to Albania: A Country Study. I shudder to think what kind of bloodshed would have happened during the Yugoslav wars of secession if Albania would have figured into the mix in addition to everything else. At this point, the Serbs must accept that Kosovo is lost and any attempt to change that would produce violence so great that even Bosnia would seem miniscule by comparison. The dream of a Greater Serbia and a home for all Serbs has twice been proven to be impossible. Trying for a third time would be a huge mistake.
EDIT: For more information about the trials of war criminals at The Hague, please see the ICTY website. Two of the big criminals are still at large, including Bosnian Serb commander Ratko Mladic.
New Eyes
The amount of adults that lose their sense of mystery and wonder when looking at the world is tragically common. We grow up and get “real jobs” with real lives and real responsibilities. Our day to day becomes a routine of necessary tasks, often with little room for creativity or variation. I’m guilty of this as much as everyone else is. But strangely, something relatively insignificant has allowed me to see my life here with a differently: bike rides.
I was lucky enough to get a bike from Peace Corps, which makes my life a lot easier. It’s also a great form of exercise, especially considering the bike only has one gear and Golem has quite a few hills of varying degrees. Having a bike has made me into an explorer of my site, a place that I’ve lived in for over a year but have seen relatively little of.
Riding a couple miles behind town, I ran into a group of boys when I was taking a water break. One of them had tried to race me a few nights before. Ever Albanian, their first questions to me were about my bike. Specifically, how much it costs. I responded by asking a kid on a bike so beat up it was amazing it had rotating wheels how much he bought his for, and we all laughed. I always have to laugh about the price questions, because money and size and numbers are topics of fair game right off the bat. Then they asked me if I was a cyclist and I had to stifle my laughter. A few nights before on that same road, I was standing there with my bike trying to decide where to go. In a very Albanian way, a man walking by did a shoulder shrug with open hands, palms up, which is a questioning gesture that asks: “What are you doing?” I explained that I was just riding around and wasn’t sure where to go. Although he tried to steer me back into the direction of the town, I took another road that plunged deeper into the valley. He smiled at me when I met him on my way back into town when I had gone the length of the other road and turned back around.
Sometimes we need to see things from another side. See them with child eyes. After spending a year here and barely going past the trash can on my way to school, I’ve been exploring Golem with my bike. It’s allowed me to experience my site in a completely different way. In the late afternoons I explore and I see things I never noticed. I take some time to clear my head. Just breathe in the cool air and watch farmers gathering grass for their animals or neighbors lost in conversation. I like looking at the houses on the sides of rolling hills. Being amazed at “grapevine house” every time I go past it (its front yard is literally covered in grape vines and so is the roof, it’s impressive). In a weird way, riding my bike behind the town reminds me of being home and being in Germany the first time. It’s funny to think that my current Albanian village dwarfs my German one by several thousand people. Fortunately, both smell like cows. I don’t know why, but I like the way animals smell. Luckily there are plenty of them on my nightly route as well. How strange it is that I’ve lived here for a year and hadn’t seen any of the hidden beauty that had been right under my nose all along. How sad it is that people waste their lives not seeing any of it at all… because they don’t look for it.
I was lucky enough to get a bike from Peace Corps, which makes my life a lot easier. It’s also a great form of exercise, especially considering the bike only has one gear and Golem has quite a few hills of varying degrees. Having a bike has made me into an explorer of my site, a place that I’ve lived in for over a year but have seen relatively little of.
Riding a couple miles behind town, I ran into a group of boys when I was taking a water break. One of them had tried to race me a few nights before. Ever Albanian, their first questions to me were about my bike. Specifically, how much it costs. I responded by asking a kid on a bike so beat up it was amazing it had rotating wheels how much he bought his for, and we all laughed. I always have to laugh about the price questions, because money and size and numbers are topics of fair game right off the bat. Then they asked me if I was a cyclist and I had to stifle my laughter. A few nights before on that same road, I was standing there with my bike trying to decide where to go. In a very Albanian way, a man walking by did a shoulder shrug with open hands, palms up, which is a questioning gesture that asks: “What are you doing?” I explained that I was just riding around and wasn’t sure where to go. Although he tried to steer me back into the direction of the town, I took another road that plunged deeper into the valley. He smiled at me when I met him on my way back into town when I had gone the length of the other road and turned back around.
Sometimes we need to see things from another side. See them with child eyes. After spending a year here and barely going past the trash can on my way to school, I’ve been exploring Golem with my bike. It’s allowed me to experience my site in a completely different way. In the late afternoons I explore and I see things I never noticed. I take some time to clear my head. Just breathe in the cool air and watch farmers gathering grass for their animals or neighbors lost in conversation. I like looking at the houses on the sides of rolling hills. Being amazed at “grapevine house” every time I go past it (its front yard is literally covered in grape vines and so is the roof, it’s impressive). In a weird way, riding my bike behind the town reminds me of being home and being in Germany the first time. It’s funny to think that my current Albanian village dwarfs my German one by several thousand people. Fortunately, both smell like cows. I don’t know why, but I like the way animals smell. Luckily there are plenty of them on my nightly route as well. How strange it is that I’ve lived here for a year and hadn’t seen any of the hidden beauty that had been right under my nose all along. How sad it is that people waste their lives not seeing any of it at all… because they don’t look for it.
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