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.

Writing and Terrorism

You know what happened this morning?  The usual routine, of course: you get up, have coffee, breakfast, and grab that awful "ball and chain" known as mobile phone.  What do you do?  You check Facebook and Twitter because you want to keep up with the news.

The news, for the most part, is so goddamn depressing.  Scratch that - not for the most part, it always is.  I was ready to get a good rant out, namely about the fact that the world is a fucked up disaster, and that it isn't easy being a Muslim in America, and that people see what they want to see, and that no matter how hard you try to explain to the rest of the world that you are a normal Muslim, those who made up their minds, will not listen.  Can you blame me for wanting to go crazy?  Grrrr....

But then, on Twitter, I saw a trailer for Masterclass with writer James Patterson.  A quick little video about some advice from one writer to the other. 

Writing...haven't done much of it lately.  I mean, real, honest writing, where you are imaginative and open minded and open hearted and aggressive and crazy and scared.  None of this latest opinion writing, where everyone is an expert on everything.  I'm talking about writing that has the potential to endure and challenge and ask some important questions about our nature.

Somehow (and this is where internetado approach really works in your favor), I ended up finding two videos: two conversations between two writers.  Stephen King and Lee Child, and Stephen King and John Grisham.  As I listened to their stories about stories, I kid you not, my need for rant slowly began to melt away. The reality of terrorism is still there - no shit! - but suddenly, I felt like I should contribute something else to the day and to the grand and big reality of world wide web.  Something else, other than anger (however rightful it may be).

The writerly conversations are funny and genuine and deeply honest.  To see a writer speak honestly about his craft and difficulties in executing it, calling out good ideas and bad ideas, without a hint of self-importance is an inspiration. (For the record, I can't stand when writers talk about writing as if it's magical and they are on this mythical mountain surrounded by gods and whatnot and Greek choruses, and it is a secret world and place, and none of us mortals will ever know the beauty of talking to a muse.  Please!).

I know, word inspiration sounds very touchy feely, but wait - to be inspired means to make a move toward the creation rather than destruction.  How is writing then not a remedy against terrorism?  It is, because we are saying implicitly that we as humans are better than a self-loathing, insecure terrorist.  We are better because we tell stories and look deeply into the heart of darkness and heart of light and because we know that we have the potential to be better human beings.

If you wish to watch them, I include the videos here.  Start watching the John Grisham conversation 12 minutes or so later, because those first 12 minutes are filled with people introducing people who introduce people who introduce John Grisham and Stephen King. 

Metaphysics of Writing

I highly doubt that I am a writer. Words are difficult to conjure, and I am most certainly not a magician. I agonize and I ponder and get angry and make a declaration: “Well, that does it! I refuse to write another sentence!” This seemingly strong declarative statement and vocal resolution lasts about a day, maximum three. I go back to writing, but most of it disjointed, confused, senseless, and I suspect, just plain crappy.

 

My concrete and real mind is stronger than the doubting and self-denying mind, and despite the psychosomatic pain I experience in my relationship with writing, I imagine books and books, stories upon stories written by me. The fantastical nature of images moves from absolute and unyielding perception that everything I write is worthy of comparison to Dostoyevsky to absolute and unyielding perception that everything I write is a cliche. And cliches can create such a thick and muggy air that you could cut it with a knife. But we shouldn’t be afraid to write in cliched phrases. I guess that is what editing is for.

 

Maybe I am deluding myself into thinking that writing is enjoyable. Why then should I choose to be miserable by willingly participating in this weird endeavor? There is a release of anxieties (at least, those present for the moment) once a short piece is completed. I am not much for flowery and endless descriptions - get to the point! - and writing a short piece gives me a sense of satisfaction.

 

Then there is time. Facing the hours of the day. Does time work against us? Can time ever work for us? Existential anxiety emerges no matter what and for me, writing seems to be a good way to come face to face with disorders of the mind. Except sometimes, the unruliness and illogic have no face. It is then that we are left in a blank space of time, a gap of non-existence that denies reality and collapses the columns of our metaphysical structures. But if the illogic has no face, then it stands to reason that it has no being, and what good is it to try to have a conversation with a non-entity? You must move on then.

 

Paradoxically, the experience of writing is a tension precisely between this blank space, this scary monster under the bed, and the fullness of human condition, which includes both sorrow and happiness. There’s no going around it or taking any short cuts. It is a habit, which (if you feel compelled) must be cultivated. And to use a kind of cliche, you have to roll up your sleeves and get dirty.

The Displaced Person: thoughts on war, exile, and life in America

         In The Drowned and the Saved, Primo Levi wrote this: “Almost all the survivors, orally or in their written memoirs, remember a dream which frequently recurred during the nights of imprisonment, varied in its detail but uniform in its substance: they had returned home and with passion and relief were describing their past sufferings, addressing themselves to a loved one, and were not believed, indeed were not even listened to.  In the most typical (and cruelest) form, the interlocutor turned and left in silence.” 

          Every morning I wake up with the same anxiety and desire: to write.  For the most part, during the day, I don’t write.  Why is it so difficult to take one’s life seriously and to take a responsibility to say something about a past, which is not just mine but others’ too? 

          We have an obligation, I think, to leave a mark on the world, during our life time.  This mark should be that of the good – simply put, to make the world a better place.  Sounds trite and it is a phrase overused but isn’t it true? 

         

          This fear, which was so perfectly articulated by Primo Levi, is a fear that has become part of my being.  Why is it there?  It’s vulnerability.  Any human being is afraid of being vulnerable, whether you have survived a war or not.  I feel alienated as it is, and so opening those wounds again, makes you feel alone even more.  But does one have to bleed every time one speaks of war?  I don’t think so.  This is where prudence and wisdom come into it, and more than anything, discipline.

          I wonder about my fellow Bosnian-Americans.  Do they go about their lives, working and playing, being more American than Bosnian?  And what does that distinction even mean?  Do they ever stop and examine what they have gone through, does it hurt, where and when does it hurt, do they cry and when and where do they cry, are they angry, or do they forget?  Or do they not know how to express the past screams of war or are they just so sick and bored of it that it is easier to “be” an American?  And what is wrong with living an American life? 

          I don’t know who I am anymore.  I have lived in this country since 1996.  America does not have the same feeling of “otherness” that it used to have, which in many ways, is a good thing – a settled way of life despite the uneasy peace.  I realized this about a year ago when I was grocery shopping.  I began to look at the signs indicating which produce you can buy, whether it’s organic or not, variety of cheeses, and the aisles and aisles of different foods and items you can buy.  Shopping at Wegmans is quite an experience!  And the people working there are pleasant and nice, and they say “hello” and “how are you today” and “this cash register is open.”  Americans are friendly people.  They may not want to know exactly how you are but they smile and they create a general atmosphere of pleasantness and fluid movement of society.  I like this about America.

          Sometimes, though, you begin to lose yourself in this pleasantness.  And you do this through not rolling the rrrrs and you start to use your jaw more to say the word “sure,” and you start to sound like an American and you end up sounding like some New Yorker with a British and Slavic accent – God, who am I in all of this linguistic set up?  And people ask you: “are you from Paris?” or they say: “Ah, you must be from Westchester County.” 

          Neither.  Not Paris, not New York.  I am from a place, for which my soul aches.  I am from a place that is complex and yet perfectly straightforward; I am from the place where Muslims, Christians, and Jews live together, where bells of the church and call to prayer from the mosque sometimes sound out at the same time and yet you can hear the singularity of both; I am from the place that is the cross roads of many people and cultures; I am from the place that has endured a war and genocide and yet people are trying to move forward.  This place is a mixture of good and evil, of imperfection and beauty, of tension and peace.  It is, in many ways, a place of temporary in-between-ness, of veiled and unveiled existence, of barriers and open doors, of commonality and alterity. 

          I want answers as to why people died.  But there are no answers.  The silence of which Primo Levi speaks is also my own fear.  But, on second thought, it is not the silence I am afraid of.  It is the agitation at the thought that not one human being can give me an answer as to why chaos occurred. 

          I rest myself in God.  It seems to be the only thing I can do.  I rest in his peace and compassion even in the midst of extreme tension and dread. I repeat the prayers I was taught by my great grandmother and grandmother and mother when I was a child.  Consolation and desolation – both are part of our lives.  We are capable of good and evil, we are capable of mass murder and ethnic cleansing but I have to keep reminding myself that we are most definitely capable of beauty and love.   

Yey for Hermeneutics! (Some Reflections on my Intellectual History)

A page from Sarajevo Haggadah.

A few years ago, when I was still taking classes at the Seminary, I registered for a course in Synoptic Gospels.  It was part of the requirement for the MA in Theology.  At that point in my academic career, and specifically in relation to theology, I was more intrigued by Systematic theology, as well as Christian spirituality. 

In any case, I registered for the course, and I was talking to my husband about it.  I proclaimed in a voice, which may have been slightly nerdy: “I get to write an exegetical paper in Synoptics!”  I was very excited.  My husband lovingly poked fun at me, quoting me on it, slightly exaggerating my nerdy voice, and pushing the imaginary glasses up his nose.  It’s one of those things, which has remained a constant joke in our household every time I get excited about some intellectual work, particularly textual analysis.

Here I am, working on my PhD in Comparative Literature, and God willing, if it all goes well, this will be my fifth degree.  I’m not going to go through the list of my degrees – see the bio to the right. 

I had wondered over the years whether I have made the right moves by getting all these degrees.  Have I steered in the wrong direction?  Why in the world have I been working on so many degrees?  Shouldn’t I have just quite after the first MA?  And all these disciplines – are they even interlinked? 

It does not help either that one has moments of absolute self-loathing.  Given this, you end up dismissing work which you have done.  “Oh, it was easy!  There’s nothing to it.  And now, it’s all useless!  What can someone possibly do with this in real life with all this accumulated knowledge?”  And on and on and on…

Lately, however, I have been taking a more loving approach to myself and my studies.  My husband has repeatedly told me that self-loathing will get you nowhere, particularly when you have so many intellectual and personal gifts.  He has been my supporter all these years.  But you also have to get to that point where you, yourself, begin to see who you are, what is emerging, what kind of person is being formed, and more than anything – that the person you are is really not a bad person!

Yesterday, I found myself at the Seminary library, working on my thesis, getting closer to finishing it.  I was looking for primary sources of Biblical commentaries and letters by Anselm and Bernard of Clairvaux.  There they were – Opera omnia (doesn’t that just sound so good and exciting?!), and I began sifting through them to find paragraphs in Latin, which corresponded to the English translations.  It certainly helped to know enough Latin!

It was like being part of some dig – unearthing history, which will always be part of us, no matter how much time passes.  Now, I know that probably for most people, these linguistic comparisons don’t mean much.  But being part of history in such a way, as I touched volumes and volumes of commentaries, I felt happiness.  Real happiness that I am engaging myself with these sources and trying to make sense of it and trying to make a small contribution to the interpretation of these wondrous texts.

I have always loved languages and learning new languages always came easy to me.  For my doctorate, I will be working on the Song of Songs, and soon, I will be learning Hebrew.  In plans also is to learn Arabic and expand my knowledge of Qur’anic exegesis.  At some point, I looked at copy of a medieval Jewish commentary on the Song of Songs.  The book itself also had a list of commentaries that were written over the ages.  I always knew that the Song is sacred but something more happened when I looked at the list.  I thought, I am in the presence of something far bigger than me – this Song of Songs is as elusive and ineffable as God himself, and the text cannot be violated (not that I ever intended that, but you get my point). 

Just when I thought that things are falling apart and that I have made huge mistakes in obtaining all these degrees, something happened, something clicked in your mind and heart and you know, without having an ability to explain it properly, that what you are doing is right.  Look at all these strands connecting, you think to yourself.  All of my academic career, I have been concerned with dialogism in texts, and by association, dialogism among peoples. 

For me, this is not just about quiet scholarly work, however important that is.  This is about a creation of a far more important dialogue – one, which acknowledges our differences and yet brings us closer to one another.  It is a creation of dialogue through language and through the metaphysics of text. 

And so, I realize that is not just about academic “career.”  This is about life itself.  It’s not about “usefulness” or “uselessness” of intellectual efforts.  The efforts have to be grounded in the reality of human relations, always!  Books are ways for us to discuss, agree, or disagree but most of all, to be on the path of an encounter. The reason hours I spent at the library brought me happiness was not because I was just trying to solve some textual mystery but that I am connecting and synthesizing texts that come from many different traditions – and let us not forget, traditions are not simply concepts.  They are visible in the human face.