I spent this past weekend in Sarajevo visiting with my region representatives and another service worker in the region. We went on a hike through the mountains near Sarajevo and went to this waterfall, which was one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. I don't think I even realized how sad I have been until I was standing on this bridge, feeling the spray of the waterfall on my face... it sounds stupid, I'm sure, but there was something healing about it.






"...let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everflowing stream." Amos 5:24

Ne razumem...

I haven't written anything for a while, and I apologize to those of you who have been waiting on the edge of your seats. I would love to tell you that I have been too busy learning Serbian to write anything, but then you might ask me to say something, and I would have to admit that I still know next to nothing.

In theory I work at the kindergarten from 8 until 1, and then have Serbian lessons from 4- 5:30 during the week. I also have about an hour and a half of homework every day. So, that means I am spending about five hours a day working, and three hours a day learning the language. In truth, however, I learn much more Serbian at the kindergarten than I do in my lessons. At work learn things like "Don't put that in your mouth!" "Sit down!" "Eat your cabbage!" and "Don't open the bunny cage!". In my lessons I learn things like "There is a shift and change of stress in many Class I disyllabic masculine nouns with the short-rising accent on the first, and the length on the second syllable. The accent shifts to the middle syllable and changes into the long rising one in all cases except the vocative singular." Incidentally, I always thought I was good at learning languages before I tried to learn Serbian. It turns out I happen to have studded easy languages.

People in Belgrade tend to speak very good English. In fact, the only people I have met who ACTUALLY don't speak English are either elderly or under 10. Many people between those two groups will claim they don't speak English, but they usually do and are just being modest (or don't want to talk to me). There seems to be an attitude here that everyone *should* know English, and when people think their English isn't very good, they're embarrassed. I have even been asked by more than one person why I am trying to learn Serbian, because it is "such a small language", and "only relevant here." I hardly know what to say to those people. I am learning Serbian because I LIVE here, because I look like an idiot in the grocery store, because I can't talk to my students, because I respect you enough to try to address you in your native tongue... the list for THAT goes on and on.

Despite my genuine efforts to progress, I still fail at most things most days with this language. Some fun examples:

(At work):
Kindergartner: Maggie, you are American?
Maggie: Yes I am.
Kindergartner: Do you LIVE in America??
Maggie: (confusing the verb "to live" with the verb "to come from") Yes, I do!
Kindergartner: WHOAAAAA!!!!!!
(Several hours later)
Maggie: (to self) Why was she so shocked that I am from the US?? OH CRAP she asked if I lived there NOW... she thinks I am commuting every day to Belgrade from DC... oh dear.


(With friends)
Friend: (sneezes)
Maggie: (literal translation) Shhh, kitty!
Friends: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Maggie: What!? Isn't that what you say when someone sneezes??
Friend: That is what you say when you are 6 and someone sneezes.
(guess where I learned it?)

(At the grocery store)
Maggie: (struggles to figure out how to get the little scale to print the sticker so she can buy her lemons. Motions to the clerk for help).
Clerk: (points at lemons) Lemons?
Maggie: (conditioned response) I don't speak Serbian.

(At home)
Doorbell rings. Maggie is home alone and answers it. A large, very scary looking man is standing there.
Man: Hello.
Maggie: Hello.
Man: Is your TV working?
Maggie: (WTF? Did Milana call someone to fix the TV? Shouldn't he have some kind of uniform on if he works for the TV company? Maybe they don't have uniforms for TV guys in Serbia. If I let him in, he will probably kill me, but it might be culturally insensitive to not let him in. It's raining, maybe he wants coffee. Maybe if I make him coffee he won't kill me...)
Man: IS... YOUR... TV.... WORKING?
Maggie: (what the hell) No, it is not working.
Man: OK. (enters house. Messes with TV.) (bunch of stuff in Serbian)
Maggie: (nods)
Man: (bunch of stuff in Serbian), understand?
Maggie: yes.
Man: (bunch of stuff in Serbian) TV not works (something in Serbian) understand?
Maggie: Yes.
Man: (Bunch of stuff in Serbian) understand? (Messes with TV. Bunch of stuff in Serbian that sounds like a question.)
Maggie: Yes?
Man: Yes??
Maggie: No?
Man: Good. (bunch of stuff in Serbian. TV starts working. Bunch more stuff in Serbian.) You speak Serbian well.
Maggie: Thank you. I am learning the language.

So it goes.

Another MCC worker in the region had some really interesting things to say about learning the language. He will be serving in Sanski Most, Bosnia and Herzegovina, but is living in Sarajevo for a few months to study language. You can read his thoughts here: http://matthewharms.wordpress.com/2009/10/25/what-exactly-am-i-speaking/ (it isn't letting me put it in as a link and my computer skills are as limited as my language skills, so you can cut and paste. I trust you).

If you can't tell from that post, he knows a LOT more of the language than I do. I bet if asked if he was buying lemons, he would say, yes, I am buying lemons. The he would probably proceed to have a conversation in the local language about Yugoslavian literature. Not that I am bitter. I am learning the language, too... polako, i malo po malo.

Cute fuzzy kittens

Yesterday night as I was coming home from a cafe I saw a kitten on the corner of my street. He looked like he was about 6 weeks old and was black and white. It was a very cold night, and he looked so cute, and I have really wanted a cat lately, so I seriously considered picking him up and taking him home. I wasn't sure how my roommate feels about cats, though, and I don't really have enough money to buy cat food, so I left him there.

Today on my way home from work I saw him again a little further up the street. This time he was lying dead on the sidewalk with his throat ripped open. It looked like one of the stray dogs got him.

Some days are harder than others. I guess that's true no matter who and where you are, though.

Concrete Phoenix

The careful observers among you may have noticed the title change to this blog. "like a concrete phoenix" is a reference to Belgrade in the Bradt guidebook to Belgrade by Laurence Mitchell that the previous SALTer gave me. The full description is this:

Belgrade has the dubious distinction of the only European city to have been bombed on five separate occasions in the same century: during WWI (twice), followed by Nazi bombers in 1941, Allied bombers in 1944 and NATO bombers in 1999. Somehow, Belgrade always manages to rebuild and resurface like a concrete phoenix, only too aware that, lying as it does on a geopolitical, religious and cultural fault line, 'inconveniences' such as war, invasions and air raids inevitably go with the territory.

If it is not clear from this paragraph, the description- and the entire book- is clearly written with love by someone who deeply admires the beauty and strength and limitless character of this city. And I don't just say that to make up for loving on Sarajevo in the last post.

Anyway, that description always interested me, and now it has taken on special meaning. I am going to take a cue from beautiful Beograd and bear my own burdens with grace and strength. If Belgrade can survive- and, dare I say, thrive- through and despite all that it has, I can certainly spend this year (or years) in this place growing and learning through and despite my own circumstance of loss and pain and sorrow. I don't dare claim to be a concrete phoenix myself, but I aim to be at least worthy to live in one.

Further encouragement to stick it out came today in two wonderful letters, one from my grandmother and one from a dear childhood friend. They were both written before my father died, but could not have come at a better time or with more appropriate words. My grandmother writes "...think only of what is being added to your life, not what you miss," and my friend writes, "dig your toes in deep, love, do not let go."

I can't promise either of those things, but I will do my best... like a concrete phoenix.

Home again, home again.

Ask me how my trip back to Serbia was. I dare you.

I knew it would be a long day of travel. We decided it would be best for me to spend a few days with other MCC people in Sarajevo, Bosnia before returning to Belgrade, so I was supposed to fly from Washington DC to London, London to Belgrade, and then Belgrade to Sarajevo (it was cheaper to fly into Belgrade and then to Sarajevo than it was to change my destination from Belgrade to Sarajevo). That is a lot of flying, and with connections on top of it, I knew to expect a lot of movement and perhaps some stress. I did not know to expect the Spanish Inquisition.

My flight from DC into London was a bit late, and I missed my connecting flight by about 45 seconds. The plane wasn't at the gate, the passengers had to take a little bus out to the plane on the runway, and I literally saw it pull away. The people at the desk said it couldn't come back for me, and that I should go to the information desk to sort out how to get to Belgrade. That seemed reasonable enough, so I went to the desk and explained the situation. I asked when the next flight to Belgrade was, and the woman said, "same time tomorrow." This was about 7:30 AM in London, 2:30 AM body time, and I hadn't slept at all on the plane. I was tired and confused and did NOT want to stay overnight in London, so I did something I'm not super proud of. My voice wavered a little bit and my eyes (conveniently!) filled with tears as I explained, "I'm not sure if tomorrow will work... I'm actually traveling for a funeral." Please notice that I didn't lie, per se. I didn't say I was GOING to a funeral, I said I was TRAVELING for one, which I was. The funeral is why I was traveling right then... I just happened to be traveling HOME from it... four weeks later. The woman's face changed, and she said she would "see what she could do." I said thank you, and fought back tears, which were about 50% genuine and 50% to get me on a quicker flight. She was able to get me on a 2:30 PM flight to Belgrade with JAT airlines. She got very serious and said I needed to be quite quick, as I would need to go to another terminal to catch that flight. I said that was fine, and the plan was set.

In Washington or Chicago or New York or ANY OTHER AIRPORT I have EVER been in, going to another terminal involves walking a bit, maybe getting on a little tram or bus, and walking a bit more. At Hethrow, however, going to another terminal involves 4 times zones and requires a sherpa. First, I had to be escorted out of the current terminal BY SECURITY. So that was fun. Then I had to go through immigration, fill out the little card thing, and even got a UK stamp on my passport (which was actually pretty exciting, I'll take all the stamps I can get!). Then I had to go collect my luggage. I should point out now that I had a LOT of luggage. I kept thinking of more and more things at my mom's house that I could use in Serbia, and I was bringing gifts for the other service workers and a few Serbian friends, and I had bought a lot of clothes in the US because I had done such a terrible job packing. As a result, I had two giant 50 pound suitcases, one of which was mostly full of maple syrup. Thankfully my luggage hadn't made it onto the flight either, so I was able to collect it, go through customs (thankfully they didn't ask why I had 4 bottles of vanilla extract...)and was off to find terminal 2!

Terminal 2 is, apparently, in northern Africa. After officially entering the UK, I have to get on a subway system- WITH my 100 pounds of syrup and 30 pounds of carry-on luggage- and ride to the next train stop. I finally lugged all the bags onto the train and found a seat. Then I watched the informational video of the TV in front of me about the on board showers, wireless internet, sleeping cars, and- hold up. SHOWERS? Where the hell was this TAKING me?

The train ride really wasn't that long, maybe 10 minutes. True to their word, the Brits had put helpful signs directing me from the train platform to terminal 2. What the neglected to put on the signs was that it is about 400 miles, uphill, while- again- carrying about 130 pounds of things that I suddenly could not remember why I ever wanted after not having slept for a day. I finally found terminal 2 and no one was at the JAT counter because it was more than 3 hours before the flight.

I should point out that, at this point, I didn't even care if I got on a flight to Belgrade. I would have happily gotten on a plane to Sarajevo, or Sofia or Istanbul, for that matter. I would have gotten on a school bus if they told me it would take me to the Balkans. But there was no school bus, and no one offered Sofia, so I waited for the JAT airline people, checked in, re-checked my bags, and went to wait in the airport.

I supposed the rest of the trip was uneventful. Once in Belgrade I had to go through customs again, collect my bags again, then re-check them to Sarajevo, and go through security again (twice! I was very secure). When I landed in Sarajevo it was about 10:00 pm and I hadn't slept since Sunday night in the US. There was also snow on the ground, and I was in a dress... note to self: when in Sarajevo in October, wear pants. Maybe 2 pairs.

The time in Sarajevo was wonderful, though. I hope Belgrade won't feel like I am cheating on it when I say that Sarajevo is a beautiful, beautiful city. It has such great intensity of passion and depth of character. It has been though some pretty deep shit but wears even the wounds of war with dignity. It is a place where a foreigner can feel safe and welcome, but it also doesn't reveal all that it is and has seen and survived all at once and, thus, remains endlessly interesting. If that city were a man, I would marry him, no questions asked.

And so it goes.

Well.

When all of this first happened, there was no doubt in my mind that I would go back to Serbia. For one, what would I DO in the US? I doubt I could find a job, and if I could, there is no way I would love it as much as I love my job in Belgrade. I don't like leaving things undone. I signed up to live in Belgrade for at least a year, and wasn't ready to let go of it.

Then I started thinking about what going back would actually look like. I adore Belgrade, I love my job, and have met some really lovely people. The fact of the matter, however, is that I still don't have any close friends there, and certainly no network of friends and family who know me intimately and love me no matter what I do. Living alone in a country where I know no one and can't speak the language was difficult and lonely at times. Losing my father has been incredibly painful. I started to wonder... do I want to combine something very lonely with something very painful? That seems like a bad combination.

There was a day or two where I thought I couldn't go back. I was too sad, too tired, too scared to do anything. I talked to my region directors about how to get my belongings back to the US. I talked to my family about living here. And I talked to a pastor who knows me well from college. He didn't tell me what to do, didn't even really offer advice, but he asked the kind of leading questions I needed to be asked. A specific Bible verse came to mind while speaking to him (perhaps in part because it was the first Bible verse I learned in Spanish while in Nicaragua with this pastor). The verse is 1st John 4:18, "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out all fear..." If I stayed in the US it would be because I am scared. I am scared to be alone, scared to fail, scared that if I leave again something else terrible will happen to my family. But fear has nothing to do with love, perfect love casts out all fear. Because God is love, I know that this fear is not from God, and therefore I can be free from its influence. So, yesterday I emailed my region representatives and committed to going back to Serbia. I have my ticket and everything. I am still scared, of course, but I also have the strength and confidence to face the fear.

Like many things I say, this is an idea that has been expressed often (and often more eloquently!) by people before me. So, I will borrow John Newton's words to sum it up:

Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come
It was grace that lead me safe this far, and grace will lead me home.

I have often wondered what makes a person an adult. I certainly didn't feel like an adult at 18 (or 19, 20, 21, or 22), didn't feel particularly grown up when I graduated from college, and until now, have sort of been wondering when that transition would happen. I know it doesn't have to be an all-at-once transformation, but I also anticipated things like marriage or childbirth being strong indicators of adulthood. I did not think the death of a parent would be my first major growing up moment, and find it almost funny that it has had such an effect on my self perception. Not "haha", funny, of course, but funny because I feel like an adult for the first time at a point when more than ever I want to curl up in someone's lap, cry, be held, have my hair stroked, and all my decisions made for me.

One of the (many) challenges I am seeing in the aftermath of my father's death is that it feels like I am living two incomplete lives. I am here in the states with my family until the 12th of October, but don't really have anything to do. While my sisters and mother return to their homes and slowly begin their daily activities, I wait... feel sad... find things in the house to clean... but as much as it feels like there is nothing for me here, there is, perhaps, almost less for me in Belgrade. Here I have so many dear friends, and of course my family... in Belgrade I have an apartment and a job (and all of my physical possessions) but little in the way of a support network. Where does that leave me, then? In limbo, in neutral, in the in-between, stalled, frozen, STUCK. Between where I grew up and where I want to be, between my responsibilities to my family and my aspirations for my career, between childhood and an adult life for which I might not be ready.

Of course, no one asked if I was ready. I keep thinking about the last time I talked to my dad on the phone, and the chances I had to call home that I turned down. The fact of the matter is, however, no matter when the last time I spoke to him was or could have been, I wouldn't have known it would be the last time, so I wouldn't have known to make it special. That paradox hurts. I am living day by day, moment to moment, taking the fears and sorrow and hope in bite size amounts, because that is all I can do right now (and, in the larger sense, all any of us can ever do).

The following might seem like a strange thing to put on a blog. This is an incredibly public place, and every day it seems I find out another person I know is reading it. Even some people I DON'T know read it, and to them, this might seem particularly odd. Still, I feel compelled to write it, because if this is supposed to document my year in Serbia, it would be painfully inaccurate if I didn't talk about it. I also hope that in some small way, sharing this with however many people will see it will make it an easier load to bear.

My father died last Tuesday. It was his 60th birthday. In fact, my first whole Serbian sentence that I made up myself, not from a book or for homework, was "Danas je moj onacov rođendan! Srećan rođendan, tata" which (I think) means, "Today is my father's birthday. Happy birthday, dad." (I wasn't 100% sure on the possessive). Anyway, as I was writing that sentence (and feeling proud of myself for being able to), my father had a heart attack while taking a nap and died in his sleep. I found out at about 10:00 pm Belgrade time, and was home in DC by Wednesday evening.

It hurts. I don't recognize my life or my family or myself. I have never felt anything like this before, and I am not a big fan. The neighbors bring food, so we eat it. We put it in our mouths, chew, swallow, and agree that it is good. We are sure it is, but we don't know, because we can't taste yet.

It is exactly like playing in the snow too long. There isn't any pain when your hands and feet are red and raw and numb. The pain comes when you go inside, and the numbness starts to leave. I remind myself that, just like hands numb from the cold, this pain is a good thing. The pain means that the blood is starting to flow to that part of you again, that your heart is beating, that feeling is coming back. Knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less, though. I hear that at some point it will hurt less, but I don't know when that is yet.

I feel like I have gotten to know my father more through the open house and funeral and reception than I did when he was alive. I keep thinking about how much he would have enjoyed the reception after the service, or how pleased he would be to know that they talked about him on NPR. Mostly I keep thinking about the things I want to say to him, the things I didn't think to say when I still living my old life, the life of a child, so I will say them now. Dad, if you're still reading this blog, I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that I am proud of you, and that I miss you, and that I think I am starting to understand how much you loved me, and that you were proud of me, too. I want you to know you were on NPR, and in the Washington Post, and on the home page of the Newseum website. Mostly I want you to know that I love you.

Tears come in waves, and cards and flowers and emails come by the truck load. So many times I have remained silent when someone I know has lost someone, because I never knew what to say. Now I know that the important thing is just to say SOMETHING, because every text message, facebook post, email, card, and phone call mean something... mean a lot, actually. Each one brings a little hope, a little peace.

I will be going back to Serbia. I don't know when yet, but I know I will go back. I love my life there, and my dad would want me to go back. I know that, because he loved me, and he was proud of me.

Doviđenja, tata. Volim te.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/09/21/AR2009092103716.html

http://www.newseum.org/news/news.aspx?item=nn_PAGE090917&style=f

http://www.kansas.com/news/obituaries/story/975616.html