Bosnian Melancholy {Bosanska melankolija}

What is easier to speak: Bosnian or English?  First you have to define the word "easier."  English is good at defining and somehow making everything logical.  Bosnian is poetic and mysterious.  And so you are stopped immediately.  Stuck between philosophy and art. 

Is delving into the metaphysics of language easier than defining the language?  If you delve into the metaphysics of Bosnian language, you're not only entering into the maze of words, but of history and memory, both collective and individual.

And what happens when it's easier to speak English because the words in Bosnian have been lost, or what's more likely, they are laying dormant somewhere, in some old house, in some village, in some room, in some cellar, but the path toward it is so vague that you have no idea how to get to it?  Has the landscape changed?  Has the war ruined the mountains?  No, it has not.  But it has made ruins but even ruins have voices.  Particularly. 

Maybe if I go back to a time before the war, it'll be easier.  But it's not, you know it's not, you just pretend that it is.  Because there is always an anticipation of war. 

"Hey, look at me!" you exclaim.  There's me, that me that was very young and very childish, and I had to leave the childish things, and I am angry that they made me leave my childish things.  Who are you, you cowards, sitting on top of the hills, aiming your cowardly snipers at me?  Do you even care?  Do I care?  Is my anger so big that I will never forgive?

"Hey, look at me!" you exclaim.  So worn out, not a child anymore, but a being aware of evil. 

Yes, it's easier to speak English because you can't bleed all the time.  But what if I lived in Bosnia, I would have no choice but to speak and think in Bosnian.  So, there must be a way to speak Bosnian without bleeding, right? 

So, I ask you: what's easier? 

{Šta je lakše? Možda život nije lak ili lagan ili se ne može živjeti lako ili lahko. Živjeti izmedju jezika je živjeti izmedju različitih geografija, i pošto su geografije takodje metafizičke, onda naravno slijedi da je tvoje biće velika mapa različitih geografija. Pa se onda pitaš ko si i šta si. Zar ne bi bilo lakše da sam jedno i da nema nikakvih komplikacija i da biće, koje sam ja ne pita pitanja?

Ne, ustvari ne bi bilo lakše, jer ovo dijete je vidjelo zlo. A kada se vidi zlo, onda se moraju pitati pitanja o ljudskoj dobroti. Ne bi bilo lakše, jer to bi onda značilo da ovo dijete i ova žena i ovo biće je budala. A budala ne pita, ne razmišlja, ne uživa, nego samo ide u krug a misli da je krug put.}

“Translation”:

What is easier? Maybe life is not easier or easier or you can't live it easier or easier. To live in between two languages is to live in between different geographies, and since geographies are also metaphysical, of course it follows that your being is a big map of different geographies. And then you ask who am I and what am I? Wouldn't it be easier if I were only one thing and that there are no complications and that the being which I am asks no questions?

No, actually, it would not be easier, because this child has seen evil. And when you see evil, then you have to ask questions about the good. It wouldn't be easier, because that would mean that this child and this woman and this being is a fool. And she's not a fool, because a fool doesn't ask, doesn't think, doesn't enjoy. A fool runs in a circle thinking that a circle is a path.

Immigrants, Citizens, and Cultural Assimilation

Criticizing America is easy. Let’s face it: there is plenty to criticize. When I first came to the United States in 1996, I was a bit disappointed. I could not see that unique American ambition and passion that I thought existed. People seemed dejected and lazy. And I have never in my life seen so many fat people! Ok, so, maybe I saw too many 80s movies when I was a kid and I was naive in my expectations! :) Despite the naivete, which I am sure every immigrant has felt to a certain extent, I still have to say that my immediate experience felt hollow.

First few years were brutal. We were poor, barely making it. To buy a t-shirt at the Gap was equivalent to buying a Chanel or Yves Saint Laurent! (Just for clarification purposes: now I can afford the Gap t-shirt, but alas, I’m still far from haute couture. :)). I was seventeen and enrolled in public high school, 11th grade. Students being students when faced with otherness would say silly and mean words to me, convinced I could not understand them. But I already spoke English so they stopped quickly. Some people thought that I needed an “explanation” on how to flush a toilet, which was an “interesting” experience. The beginnings are always tough and alienation was inevitable. So, I turned to what I know best: studying.

There is so much more to my story, but I begin this short essay with a brief bio because I want to say a few words about cultural assimilation. America was a “culture shock” - but then again, any new environment is. And yet, it is easy to adapt to the new ways of daily life. One simply has to in order to survive. It seems completely obvious to say this but I did not expect Bosnia in America. At first, I considered myself a guest. Then, I was a Green Card holder. And after that, I became a naturalized citizen. I observed and evaluated immediately what I had to do to adapt in order to succeed. I think that most Bosnian immigrants have done the same.

How much should an immigrant assimilate? What does that even mean? Preserving one’s cultural heritage in the United States is not difficult. We see this everywhere: from cultural organizations to restaurants. The point is that one has the freedom to honor one’s past because it cannot be erased. It should not be erased. Part of my soul is still in Bosnia and it will always be there - this is a fact of every immigrant as they relate to their country of origin.

Another important point is that everyone has the freedom to worship God in their particular tradition, as well as to not believe in God. And at the same time, thank goodness that we do not live in theocracy.

An assimilation is a strange word. It has a connotation of disappearance, of complete change, of getting rid of anything, which reminds one of where they came from, and some choose to do exactly that. But one does not have to disappear. At the same time, one can become and remain an American. 

The way I view “assimilation” is the understanding of and belief in the US Constitution, and it is the only necessary assimilation. This was not hard for me because I already believed in those principles of humanism. Any other “assimilation” had to do with practical matters, and those, I assure you, did not threaten my existence or were catalysts for an extinction of my Bosnian soul.

In a letter to James Madison dated January 30th, 1787, Thomas Jefferson wrote: “I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.” The American experiment is certainly not free of its paradoxes and weaknesses. However, when a citizen begins to pervert the Constitution, we are surely looking at the dismantling and a destruction of the American essence. The country will cease to be what it was meant to be: a refuge for those who need protection and freedom to be. Such notions have to be protected (while being mindful of the dignity of human life) and I deem that to be a duty of every American citizen.

The Question of Bruno the Teddy Bear

This past Sunday, 60 Minutes aired a story about Syria.  One of the segments involved children caught in war, and how they reacted to it.  One of the children, a small boy, began to describe the ways in how to avoid a sniper.  He explained which streets he takes in order to avoid the sniper.  The war is normal.

Of course, what appeared on the television screen (which included murdered children) reminded me of my own childhood spent in war and refugee camps.  I averted the gaze from the screen.  I didn’t want to look at it.  I kept making a list in my planner of all the things I had to do the next morning.  My eyes began to fill with tears but I quickly rubbed my face and continued making my list.  The next morning, I reflected on my avoidance of emotion.  I should have cried.  I have cried in the past, but I have never wept or grieved. 

When will be the time to speak about the war?  And why am I putting it off?  Yesterday, I had one of those “you’re an American with first world problems, and I’m a Bosnian-American with difficult past” moments.  Listening to your dental hygienist go on and on about how she wants a piece of jewelry for Christmas from her husband, and the woes of Christmas gifts and parties, is not the way I want to spend part of my day.  Particularly in a dentist chair. 

“And do you exchange gifts with your husband?” she says.

“No.”

“Oh. Don’t you want something for Christmas?”

“Not really.  That kind of stuff does not matter to me.”

“Didn’t you bring some Christmas things?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re from Bosnia.  Didn’t you bring some things, like, you know how Ukrainians have…”

Ukrainians?  What?  Yes, of course, how could I be so silly!  Everyone who leaves a war torn country, and in the middle of the siege, in a convoy of women and children, thinks “I better bring those Christmas decorations with me!”  But I did not say that.

“This was not a part of growing up for me.  As a Muslim, I did not celebrate Christmas,” I said.

“Oh, you’re a Muslim,” she says with that tone in her voice which is composed of judgment (“What if she’s a terrorist?”) and a complete lack of knowledge of what a Bosnian Muslim is (“shouldn’t she be wearing one of those scarf whatchamacallits?”).

Well, I was happy to be done.  I didn’t blame her for saying what she said.  But at the same time, I was irritated.  You get so sick of these questions and lines people throw at you.  I was recounting the story to my husband.  We were laughing together, and he said, “These people would be weepy if you told them that you left your favorite teddy bear in the war, but would not flinch if you told them that you left your father behind.”

He was right.  So, why?  Is it easier to deal with teddy bears and Christmas decorations than with mass murder?  I understand: even teddy bears are part of the orderly, normal life any child has and even teddy bears perish in the war.  I suppose, as children of war, we must grieve our teddy bears too.  Teddy bears are our symbols of innocence lost.  The normalcy of playing and carrying a teddy bear is gone and evading a sniper becomes the new normal. 

Mine was black.  I don’t believe I ever gave him a name.  For whatever reason, I want to say “Bruno,” but maybe I am just making stuff up.  Maybe I am just thinking about our neighbor in Sarajevo who had the same name, or about Aleksandar Hemon’s book The Question of Bruno.  I bought him brand-new in 1984, right after the Olympic Games and at the time, my parents and I were moving into our brand-new condo.  It was a rainy day, I remember, and I held Bruno (let’s just call him that) very tightly.  I was afraid he might slip away because he was as big as I was.  Or maybe as a five-year-old I thought that, since everything is bigger and longer when you are a child.

I don’t think I ever fell asleep with him next to me.  He was always sitting on the chair which was next to my bed, and his role was primarily that of an audience when I would give lectures about whatever subject came to my mind.  (You can guess: I was an only child!). 

I do not know where Bruno is, or what happened to him.  Another unresolved memory.  Another image floating in my mind that has lost meaning.  Another question. 

I sigh as a write this.  I get irritated with an overabundance of American sentimentality.  I’ve lived a tough life, I want to scream.  Yes, that is true.  But I too had a teddy bear before the war.  I may not have been sentimental about it, nor am I sentimental about it now.  But I am a child of war, who was thrown into the darkness. 

Beyond Basic Instinct

Mak Dizdar (1917-1971)

Months go by, and then years go by, and you still feel disconnected from the place that gave birth to you, that made you.  Bosnia is a place for me, whose temporality and physicality I see, but it is always out of reach.  Reasons are firstly practical.  It takes time and money to fly from America to Bosnia.  And it takes time to save up that money, which you need in the first place.

Another reason is a lack of purposeful connection.  What I mean is something more than visiting family, which is naturally important.  But every time you visit, you feel like an outsider, a stranger in your own country.  And you experience another displacement.  The grounding which you thought you had is not there.

But language of the country – whether literally a language, or language of the landscape, war, peace, childhood – taps at your shoulder.  Do not forget.  Remember me every day.  And every day you wake up with the remembrance and it makes you feel like someone has placed an entire burden of being and humanity into your stomach and you are meant to carry it. 

During the day, you busy yourself with tasks, and jobs, and paying bills, and watching awful news, and television.  You know exactly which show is on which night and you look forward to it even though you are convinced that the cast is ok and that the writing is worse than mediocre.  But you settle for it.

But the yearning for the country is still there.  You want to feel some semblance of being whole, or at least having certainty that those parts from the past are still in you.  You look for news and cultural and artistic aspects of Bosnia which you want to connect to, and you settle for whatever is offered.  I usually watch recent films that find their way into the American market.  And I’ve settled for it, but I don’t think I can do it anymore. 

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of good films out there but they always remain on the surface of human condition.  Most new Bosnian films in some way deal with the war, which is perfectly fine.  War is on my mind all the time.  But almost always (as if with inevitability) it takes a form of some kind of crudeness. 

I began watching one of the films, and 10 minutes into it, I thought, I am turning this off.  It was taking place in a small town somewhere in Bosnia.  The narrator begins by talking about a friend of his, with whom is sharing a house, reason being that his friend lost both arms when he tried to de-mine his own house after the war was over.

These are unfortunate realities even after the war officially ended (whatever that means).  Men, like our narrator, are quite depressed and have devolved into a life of drinking and fucking.  It has become a reflex for them. 

As he and his armless friend sit at the table, recovering from a drunken stupor the night before and are forcing themselves to have breakfast, another man comes in.  He is familiar with them, and he makes himself at home, despite the fact that he does not live there.  “What’s up, faggots?  Did you get any pussy last night?”

I sighed.  I was not angry, and I have recognized a reality of such human beings, who do exist.  I have even recognized the humanity and suffering, which perhaps goes on in their minds and hearts.  But I chose not to continue to watch it.  Maybe that was unfair of me.  Maybe the film changed its tone, who knows.  Maybe I should have given it another chance.  But I couldn’t.  By that point, I was tired of hearing one more comment about “tits,” and “ass,” and “pussy.”  And you understand, not for feminist reasons.  I was not offended as a woman.  Actually, I was not offended at all.  And not for moral reasons either.  I can’t stand moralists.  I was just fatigued by the emphasis on the most basic of instincts, which of course, all of us have.  Bosnians have never had problems with body and sex, and I am very happy about that.  But the lack of any philosophical perspective in art is making me depressed.

Mesa Selimovic (1910-1982)

Could it be that the existentialism of Meša Selimović, or the poetic theology of Mak Dizdar, or the Sephardic musings on the peasants of Isak Samokovlija are part of the past never to be renewed?  These are the markings of my culture, which I admire so much and which bring me closer to the embodiment of my very self. 

Isak Samokovlija (1889-1955)

Well, I’m not going to sit idly and lament.  I have a voice, I have a sensitivity for reality of what human beings are, whether they are peasants, intellectuals, children, men, women, and yes, even those obsessed with a great pair of “tits.”  We need to move beyond basic instinct and into the interiority and complexity of a suffering soul.  We need to see the other’s face.  Perhaps this is true of the entire world, not just in relation to Bosnian art forms currently created. 

My eyes hurt.  My body is tired and it needs something, which moves in the in-between-ness of the sacred and profane.  I suppose, the simplest way to say it is: I am desiring beauty.  I must find a way to create it because I will grow more and more tired and the possibility of creation will become smaller and smaller.  But as long as there is life, there is a possibility too.

{Below are links for books by the writers I mention that are in translation} 

Selimovic - Death and the Dervish (1966)
Dizdar - Stone Sleeper (1966-71)
Samokovlija - Tales of Old Sarajevo (1949)