A Rainy Day in Prague

i)

Most people hate rain. Most people love sunshine. I enjoy the warm touches of the sun but I must admit, I am a fan of any type of inclement weather. Perhaps rain is not considered to be “inclement” but it does disrupt people’s plans. Not with me. Some of my earliest memories in Sarajevo were of rain and autumn. And the memories were pleasant. Perhaps this is the reason why I respond to rain the way I do. I should say that I am also a melancholic person by nature. Rain and melancholy are a perfect recipe for continuous reflection.

That particular day was rainy. I was in Prague. Even the most unimaginative person can imagine a rainy day in Prague and can’t resist fantasizing about it. Well, I would hope so anyway. Rain in Prague is a welcomed occurrence simply because it reveals the city almost completely. The untouched architecture, the post-communism people, the meandering streets, and oh yes, Vltava—all of this and more is revealed by the rain. The mask of the city is taken off. People are authentic, Slavic, generous and they are participating in the grand human drama that is continuously happening before our eyes. And the city, this beautiful city of Prague, is also a character in the destiny of those who set their feet on the ground, the hard and gloriously carved pavement of the city. The city and the people are in a dialogue and they become one. I would hope that this is true of any city, of any region, of any country. As long as the people and the land remain truthful and authentic. I suppose the only literary comparison that comes to mind is to be found in Willa Cather’s novels, where the Prairie and the harshness of this land we live in is indeed a character in the novel all by itself. Looking back now, Prague was the same way for me.

My mother, cousin and myself have accepted the invitation (truth to be told, my memory does not remember who initiated the invitation: an individual human being feeling charitable? Czech government? Czech non-profit charitable organizations?) to go to Prague’s National Theatre to see Smetana’s Bartered Bride. This was the sole purpose of the trip and it would give us a reprieve from the life in the refugee camp.

I have to credit my mother completely for choosing to go on this particular trip. I was but a mere teenager more interested in a continuous love affair with NKOTB and other pop music and would not have gone to the opera of my own volition (although I did secretly listen to Beethoven and Bach). My mother cared for a cultured life: despite being poor for most of our life together, she would scrap some money together and see a concert or go to the gallery. She didn’t talk about being interested in a cultured life; she simply wanted to be exposed to beauty and as a result, she wished the same for my cousin and myself. Well, now at thirty-one, I am quite happy that I did go the opera.

Before the beginning of the opera, we were meeting our friend David in one of the cafés near the National Theatre. Life brings metaphor and destiny and aesthetics in the most interesting way. Why is this memory sticking out for me? My mother, David, my little cousin and I sat quietly, slightly wet from the rain (we didn’t have an umbrella), sipping on Czech tea that was poured into long, thin glasses (not mugs). David communicated in English and I translated. I spoke in broken English and David understood. When David felt that my mother could have been left out of the conversation, he said a few words in his own broken Czech. The dialogue was dynamic. We were giving love and receiving love to each other.

Here was David, an American in Prague (sound like a title of a book or a film!), perhaps slightly displaced in his own way. And here we were, refugees: stateless, living in fear, wondering whether we will ever go back to Bosnia, whether the war will ever end. Four people sitting at the table, in a Czech café, watching the rain hit the pavement and facades of the long-standing buildings, speaking minimally yet understanding the movements of our hands, our eyes, our interior struggle and questioning. Each struggle and wonder at the future was uniquely that of each person and in whatever capacity the questioning was manifested.

ii)

The argument of what is beauty is a long one and there have been many battles over it. I will try not to go too much into the details over the arguments, which have become more visible in the 20th century. I do not claim to be an expert on art and beauty but from my own experience, it would seem that beauty is truth, that beauty has a sense of order. Or I might even go as far to say that beauty is order. There is such thing as the order of things, despite how much others will tell us the opposite. This is true especially of this strange, androgynous, relativistic world. The world is lacking definition. I saw definition that day in the National Theatre in Prague, and the memory of the definition is with me, and it carries me through the dark times the understanding of beauty and art is facing at this point.

I really didn’t know what to think about the opera itself: will I like it? Will I respond to it at all? Should I have stayed at “home”? Notice how I started to call that one room in the refugee camp a home—mind starts to adapt pretty quickly in order to survive, in order to stay sane. I am utterly embarrassed to say that the thoughts of my father in Sarajevo didn’t come up at all. In fact, I was more than embarrassed—I was ashamed. But, as a child, I wanted to so hard to be away from the darkness and step into the light.

So, I go back to the question: what makes this memory stick out? Why is it so significant that I feel compelled to write about it? Was it the opera? Was it the rain? Can beauty be only seen in works of art? Or is there something more to it? I think that there is. Since beauty is order and it has definition, it would only be logical that it is manifested in the relationships between people and one’s relation to God. Aesthetics are not whole unless we add human drama to the mix. Aesthetics are in a way in many pieces like our existence—full of strife and anxiety and worry of the unknown. When we add the human drama, beauty and ourselves become whole. It isn’t just enough to simply interact with another human being; we must recognize them, we must dialogue with them. This is the reason why beauty is not just in a painting or an opera: it is also in my seeing the other, truly seeing them. Beauty and art are not meant to be determined by a few art connoisseurs who live in New York and somehow that qualifies them for the art jury.

So, what makes this memory stick out? Certainly, every aspect of human expression contributes to our recognition of particular moments in life. But for me, it was the fact that we met with David; that we sipped the tea. And that in the midst of extreme darkness, there was light. David, whether he knew it consciously or not, recognized our humanity and dignity. We were more than just refugees. We were more than a pile of bad war memories in the process of creating more dark remembrances. And for that recognition, I will be forever grateful.