Chukaluk holiday!

Gezim--one of the two people in charge of the American Corner in Tetovo--always calls the kids 'chukaluks' and somehow the name has kind of stuck. and yesterday was our "holiday show." In the days/week preceding the show, honestly, I was feeling just a bit anxious--there were so many unknowns. so many things that hadn't come together just yet. and so many things we couldn't predict (like who was actually going to show up on Saturday)--but the kids never ceased to amaze me.
they organized extra practices, stayed at least for two hours each class (which are usually an hour long),  wanted to learn more songs ("but teacher," they'd say, "what about Rudolph the red-nosed..." and then they'd pause, looking at the word reindeer, puzzling.) and when I told them to go home and practice Deck the Halls--they did! they figured out the difference between the fa-la-la-las. I think I didn't expect them to be so dedicated, so invested in the show. but they kept surprising me.

Malvina--my fellow fulbrighter in Tetovo (she's here doing research)--and I decided just about a month ago that we wanted to do something for the holidays--and then dove in. I turned "learn English through games" into "chukaluk choir practice," and Malvina organized an adaptation of "how the grinch stole christmas." one girl and her cousin choreographed a dance, we made decorations. practiced standing as a choir. practiced our cutoffs. counting off the songs. practiced being sleeping citizens of Whoville (trying not to snore too loudly, or wake the others with our giggles). practiced holding up our signs for the 12 days of christmas. and then, like any good holiday show, it ended with a group boogie while Rina danced.

adorable. just adorable.

but more than being adorable, I was really proud of the kids. of standing up there in front of a bunch of mothers in headscarves and conducting a program entirely in English--and all the kids were right there, following right along. reading the lyrics, singing, reading their scripts with emotion and feeling.

Last week--in the heat of our rehearsal, it became evident that one of the boys was crying, or had been.
and this was my first real "oh my god what do I do" moment as a teacher. because with 30 kids--I didn't want to turn their attention just to this one kid (I had a feeling that probably wasn't ideal, especially as guys don't really cry here, or at least I get the sense they don't), and couldn't totally abandon the 30 other kids to spend the time with the one kid. After realizing that the issue was bullying--I pulled the two kids aside (bullier and bullied)--basically saying that this wasn't acceptable etc.
and then one of the other kids took over. I asked the kid who had been bullied if he wanted to come stand up towards the front, even though he's one of the taller kids--and then Kadir (who's one of the two kids who usually acts as my translator, and keeps everyone on task. seriously) took it upon himself to make sure this kid was doing ok--they'd disappear into the next room for just a minute, and I could just see that the kid who had been bullied really appreciated having someone support him/defend him/hear him. Kadir acted as his advocate, talking to Me, Gezim and Malvina about what had happened. it was really beautiful for me to see someone who I think of as a "kid" taking that kind of responsibility--of being so empathetic, so caring.
and then a second kid started to cry because he was worried that the kid who had been bullied would be upset with him for not standing up for him.

and on the one hand, I was mortified to have two crying boys in my class. all in one day!

and on the other hand, I was, and am, so inspired by them--because I saw them taking care of each other, and expressing this caring. so, if I didn't love them before, I certainly love the kids now.

we're already dreaming up a spring show.

I can't wait!

and for all you who missed it: how the grinch stole christmas, Chukaluk style and my debut as a conductor!

It also smelled like spring today--dirt-y and muddy, with bits of green poking out from behind the snow (some beautiful days did a number on the snow). although I can't wait for spring--I can't help but think "already? no. please. not quite yet." because I know after spring comes summer. and I want to savor each and every one of these Tetovo days/Tetovo dena/dite Tetova.

in gratitude/Neruda speaks!

I love the holidays (in part) because they're usually such an overload of people-time (family, friends, the hustle and bustle of doing all your christmas shopping on christmas eve), I'm always careful to find time for myself--to think, watch, listen, reflect. and I think being here, in Tetovo, for the holidays made me even more sensitive to myself, if that makes sense. But these past two days, I had both the opportunity and time/space to be patient with myself--take time to read, write, reflect. and I know this is totally cliche--but so much of my yuletide reflections ties back to gratitude. for having another holiday with my grandmother--even just through skype, for connection, community, family, good food. for coming home with homemade ajvar to homemade raw-milk yogurt.  for being here. for having gotten here (and perhaps more importantly, how we got here).
 
Gratitude isn't really a feeling I've figured out how to write about and not feel like I'm just preparing for my future career as a Halmark card composer. which, honestly, I don't think I'd enjoy all that much.
so rather than writing more, I'm giving the floor to Neruda

Your Feet


When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts
the double purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.
 --Pablo Neruda (1959)

Here's to our feet

being present/presente*

It's been quite the week--news of Nick's death [Grinnell class of 2013] really shocked me, and left me speechless. and really wanting just to be able to sit at one of the tables in Saints Rest and be with Grinnellians. talk. listen. watch each other. be with each other. hug. cry if we need to. be present with each other. 
it's the social part of mourning that I both need, and is oh so place/community specific.
and not quite possible via skype (although it was wonderful talk talk with you Heather!)

and then friday, getting word about the school shooting in CT.

 
it hits me on the emotional level--of being a human being, mourning the senseless death of other humans; of being a teacher, being the child of teachers. as someone who profoundly believes in education. School, for me, has always been a sanctuary (not that I have a lot to escape from) but schools are sacred spaces for me, the school in West West was literally the heart of the community, and classmates, colleagues, teachers, friends, parents--these are the people who define my life. and events like this both remind me how lucky I am to have school as such a positive place in my life. and how easily violated that sacredness is.

 One of the things that I kept coming back to in my research in Bosnia was schools being spaces of violence, literally. Several of my interviewees talked about being detained in schools, and other research/narratives from the war talk about schools as actual sites of violence. and I can't wonder if the symbolic desecration of schools was intentional.

[you could also argue that they are currently sites of violence --structural, gender, and complicit in state-sactioned violence (they're certainly places where power dynamics are played out--which, some peace educators would also term violence).]

it's something I still don't quite know how to wrap my head around. but in these moments--something about our educational system (let alone society) feels broken--be it issues of gun control, violence (individual, structural, state-sanctioned), gender/gender norms, conversations about mental illness (not to add to the stigmas already surrounding mental illness--and not to imply that people with mental illness are dangerous (in fact quite the contrary), but I feel like it's a conversation we need to start having more/more frequently about how our society supports all its members). and then of the media coverage of such events.

One of the issues this brings up is how do we break cycles of violence/norms around violence--and what is my responsibility as an educator to tackle these issues with my students. much of the response that I've heard has been to pressure politicians to change gun control laws. yes. ok. great! let's do it. but I also feel that there's a deeper issue at stake--and one which I'm not quite sure my society is really ready to address--and that's violence in general. Although so much of my gut-reaction to these shootings is "'that' can't be normal"(although as Vahido pointed out--"my story is your story because we are both human. we all have the capacity to be as kind as angels or worse than devils.")--there's so much "legitimate" violence in American society-whether you look at american pop culture or political culture. and a lot of places in between. Gun control is one place to begin combating violence in American society, but it's going to take something deeper and more radical than that to really uproot the many ways in which violence has permeated American society.

and oh man is that going to be more difficult than the debate over the second amendment. 

I found out about the shooting over breakfast of the first morning of a non-violent training run by the NGO Loja (someday I'll have to dedicate some serious blog-time to writing about them.) the training was difficult for a number of reasons--and I think, for me, having these two events "set the tone," as it were, only made it harder.

I arrived for the final weekend (phase III) of a three-part training for university students, many of whom are studying to be teachers. Phases I and II consist of a series of workshops around different identity/dialogue/mediation skills, and part three is forming working-groups and designing projects to be implemented in local primary schools--which should be right up my alley.

I think part of my difficulty stemmed from some unclear communication as to what the training was--so it was only a day into the training that I understood what we were about to do. One of the big pieces of culture shock that I remember talking about before going abroad was the role of different/differing/unmet expectations--and how startling (and emotion provoking) that can be. and yes. if I didn't believe it then, I certainly believe it now.

another huge complication was the issue of language--the training was conducted in Albanian/Macedonian (it was a mixed group, with mixed trainers), and I felt really uncomfortable asking for translation in English--in part because I could watch the two main translators getting more and more tired as each day progressed because as translator/trainer--they never had a minute's rest, in part because of my own complex of not wanting to bother or impose on other people, in part because I didn't want another member of the group to remove themselves from the group/discussion to be my translator,  in part because I didn't really see my role as a "participant" but more as an observer--and there's a lot to observe without following the dialogue. and thus there were some unaligned expectations. and for some tasks, language really wasn't a problem--there was certainly a language barrier, but not (at least for me) a communication gap-- or at least not significant enough to pose a real problem. but discussing what informal education is, and designing a project are really hard things to do without shared language. let alone shared cultural knowledge (what does the Macedonian school system look like? what sounds crazy? what sounds reasonable? what is "realistic" mean in this context?). and then I also realized that my pedagogical training is different than that of my colleagues in the training--and that also became a source of tension for me because I felt like, on a philosophical level, we were just in different places around issues of power and control in the classroom. and then throw a language barrier on top of that.
and then this feeling of being responsible for what the outcome is--and how to resolve that tension within myself.

in short, I think identity (and the power/ability to define yourself) is at the crux of the matter (at least from my perspective). and I want to preface this by saying that I also understand how much more sensitive identity is (and differently organized--if that's the right term) here because I think that there's a lot of fear around identity being threatened, and I'm not quite attuned to what or how identity will be sensitive, in part because the ways in which I think about my own identity follow a different logic. For example, one of the activities we did was to pick the three most important items on a list (for example, having the right to choose, time for myself, keeping traditions, being on time...) and the overwhelming majority of the participants chose family relations as being one of their three top priorities. In general, I think individualism is valued (and expected) a lot more in the US, and so I don't quite fully comprehend or understand the importance of family here as a significant component and source of identity.

Additionally, during one of the breaks, when we were walking around Struga (which, like many former-Yugoslav cities (and I don't actually know if this is a result of Yugoslav city planning or something older) has a large pedestrian street (similar to Belgrade, Banja Luka, Sarajevo, Prilep, Bitola, Ohrid, Skopje...), I asked one of my fellow participants how they thought Tetovo would be different if it had such a public space, because for me, I experience Tetovo as a city with a lot of people, and not a lot of places for them to go. There--in my eyes--isn't a lot of public space set aside for pedestrians (most of it we have to share with cars (or in this time of year, snowpiles)). and she (the group was overwhelmingly female) responded, "well, Tetovo is a divided city. if we had such a pedestrian walk, there's be more inter-ethnic violence. who would want to walk down that street?" and this fear, I think, is part of the logic behind, part of the rational of living in a divided society--divided schools, divided public spaces (that's a Macedonian bar, that an Albanian), and as perceiving your context as so unique, so tense, so whatever, that whatever works someplace else couldn't work there. for example, Tetovo doesn't really have a dancing scene, a dancing culture. There aren't many places where you can go out and dance. it's in part, (I think), because Tetovo is a bit more conservative than other places, I think that conservatism is coupled with fear of what could happen if people got together and danced (and yes. it is important to acknowledge that violence does happen here. it is a legitimate concern--but I don't believe it's a healthy status quo to maintain. and, at least to me, the danger of dancing is a far cry from the problems posed by corruption, the mafia...). and yet, when we go out in Struga everyone's up dancing, and having fun. You could watch the Albanian and Macedonian students becoming more integrated through dancing together--in part because you literally couldn't talk (or at least you couldn't be heard) so we had to resort to body language, signing, smiling, the occasional wink. and yeah--the band was clearly Albanian (although their range covered Oh Suzannah, to We will we will rock you, to another song about balkava, to Xhamadani (Xh makes a hard j/g sound) vija vija (proud to be an Albanian)) and in the middle of a long Albanian set, you could see some of the Macedonian students feeling a little uncomfortable. but then the music would change and the dancing would begin anew. I know that participants in a non-violent conflict transformation training are probably not the members of society I need to worry about picking fights. but. how are we going to actually transform the conflict if we're afraid of even dancing together?
  People talk about the Čaršija in Skopje as being one of the last multi-ethnic spaces in Skopje and (not to sound like a broken record, I feel like this is all I write about these days) god, I think that's important for this society. because there's a lot of territory marking going on.

but I know that I also need to be vigilantly mindful that violence--especially inter-ethnic violence, or violence between ethnic groups spurred by any number of issues--is a reality. here and all over the place. including the United States. and it's going to be really difficult to transform the conflict here until there's a meaningful way to express/acknowledge/assuage this fear.


I was really happy that the issue my group chose to tackle was bringing students together from different schools (MK/AL) because we all agreed that this kind of division lead to stereotyping, fear etc. and I think my whole bend as an educator is trying to facilitate meaningful experiences for students (and again, let me introduce Brene Brown, she's got a great article on I-thou-it and cell phones)--and part of that process is letting students define what is meaningful for them. As one of my colleagues said today in a staff meeting for the Language Center--"well, by giving students those choices, we lose some of our autonomy as teachers." Yep--but I'm not sure that's such a bad thing (but, I can also see how loosing (or if we want to put more of a positive spin on it--transferring) that authority feels threatening to teachers). and I keep thinking about what it takes to "know" someone else--and how does education/educators help facilitate that process. of course it has to start somewhere--be it conversations about how we celebrate holidays, or how we cook or dinner. but I guess, my fear is that these getting to know about you activities also help shape and define who "we" are, who "you" are--and makes a lot of assumptions about similarities and differences between students, and already lays out the "identity vocabulary" available in this context, the lens through which we should see ourselves and "others."

how do we give students the power and opportunity to do this themselves--to pick who they are? what they are? and what do we have to do as educators to be ready to hear students?

 Obviously, this also raises the question (for me) of what do people here actually learn in school, and, perhaps more to the point, what do they learn about each other in school? but I got physically uncomfortable choosing the topic of "traditional identity" as the mechanism for "getting to know the other." in part because, for me, I'm much more interested in the skills--not the knowledge--that gets transferred (between trainers and students, students and students, students and trainers). and in part because I worry about conflating identities--between the individual and the collective, between religious and ethnic. I feel like tackling the issue of traditional identity will take a lot of skill as trainers/leaders, and honestly, I'm not sure I'm able/trained/ready to facilitate that kind of interaction.

in the face of all of this discomfort--on top of processing these emotional events, on top of linguistic isolation (being "lost in translation" literally, figuratively) on top of being dead tired--I felt myself pulling back, retreating.

and I hate that feeling in myself. I think for me it really gets back to this idea of being present with each other--and my own frustration when I feel that I'm not being adequately present/present enough with those around me, as well as challenging myself to constantly work on being more here.  


* at the School of the America's Watch protest I went to last fall, the event culminated in all of us carrying white crosses with names of the dead--and someone(s) reading the names of the deceased. after each name we chanted "presente," and walked in a processional, laying the crosses at the gate of the school. most of us were crying by the end of it.

No Country for old (or young) Citizens

In Spring 2011, one of the women I interviewed for my research in Bosnia commented, "a country without citizens, it’s not a country"--and her words have stuck with me. She was speaking specifically about citizenship policies in BiH--and how belonging to one of the three constituent peoples (Bosniak, Croat or Serb) is considered both necessary and simultaneously detrimental to the idea of Bosnia as a state--rather than Bosnia as a home of three nations, doing their own thing, pursuing their own objectives. At least for Bosnia--this three-nations under one state deal has created ample opportunities for nation-building, and not a whole heck of a lot of state-building. Although, of course, things have gotten better since '95 when Dayton was signed--there's now a united police force, common currency, a single flag, there are movements towards some common curriculum (although at least in 2010 that had stalled at covering math and science because they were the least controversial subjects, and therefore least likely to have an impact on national-identity development in schools/in youngsters. Virtually everything else is considered a "national subject" and the content varies considerably between schools/communities. which not only impacts what students learn but decreases mobility considerably (complicating processes of return) because schools are not comparable (for example: which year do you start studying English? how do you integrate a student who is one year, two years ahead or behind his/her peers?). In my research, I came across an amazing article called "Smoking Doesn't Kill, it Unites!" (what a way to kill those years of PSAs we all were subjected to in the States?) by Azra Hromadzic about inter-ethnic mixing in a two-schools-under-one-roof in Mostar over cigarettes smoked between classes (illegally) in the bathrooms (oh coffee and cigarettes. coffee and cigarettes). This isn't the exact article--but looks to be based off of that same fieldwork. and it's another fantastic read--she's doing some really great ethnographic research in BiH. who thought peace-building in Mostar begins in bathrooms? and let it begin with me? the image of hanging out in bathrooms over smokes... sign me up!(?)) 

I didn't expect Selma's (a pseudonym) words to stick with me, or to find parallel relevance here--but tonight I found myself re-reading the transcript of our interview. but one of the things that concerns me is that there's some vibrant nation-building going on, but not a whole heck of a lot of state-building. especially with politics so corrupt (I feel like I can say that pretty safely--but these are my own thoughts--not those of employers, state department etc.) there doesn't seem to be a lot of interest on the part of politicians to really invest in Macedonia the state (Macedonia, or X the nation is so much more sexy. or perhaps more importantly, emotional. there are are a whole heck of a lot more heartstrings attached, that's for sure) and money that should hypothetically be invested in the state--well, a lot of it ends up other places. which makes it even harder for citizens to feel like they belong to something called "the State"--and I mean that not in the socialist sense--when the state doesn't do much in return. 

dialogue with me/the invisible knapsack

I hope this is the only time in my life where I will promote past blogging through more blogging.

but, if you're already here, reading this--you might be interested in my only other foray into the blogosphere: in the spring of 2011, I kept a blog while participating in a peace and conflict studies program based in Belgrade/Bosnia/Kosovo and run by the School for International Training. re-reading it, I can totally see how I ended up here--back in the Balkans, rehashing questions of identity, place, space, power. if you're interested, it's here, and I don't think it's going anywhere fast anytime soon.

and I would be interested in hearing your thoughts/ideas/feelings/reflections. and reactions. I'm not much for the monologue.

I've had some interesting conversations in the last few days about the Albanian perspective on things--especially the view from Tetovo looking outward. And I do want to just acknowledge that  discrimination/prejudice exists--not like that is unique to Macedonia--and there is some justification to a lot of the victimization narratives which have been shared with me (for example people being denied service in restaurants for speaking the "wrong" language.) But I also hear a lot of "us"-"them"-ing in these narratives (for example, we're not the ones who have a problem with them...) and I'm not sure how to move beyond this--but I listen to these framings of the conflict/tension, and I don't know how sustainable, how long-term these narratives are--when there tipping point is, when things will snap.

One of the most important things I learned from Vahidin was that victim narratives are, of course, compelling. But it's also easy to get lost in them, to get consumed by them, to get stuck behind that frame, those lenses, and how damning that gaze can be--and it takes a lot of cottonballs not to hear the song of those sirens. When really, victim narratives (perhaps more accurately suffering-narratives)--especially in a post-conflict/war community--can actually bridge, rather than reify, exclusive ethnic/linguistic/identity boundaries. For example, Vahido talked about wanting to do an oral history project with the families of Serbs in his village in north-west Bosnia who had been killed during the initial invasion/occupation of his village for harboring/sheltering/helping Bosniaks and Croats from the village--in essence for defending an identity rooted in place, in their community, rather than ethnicity. politics.  Or another woman who arrived at one of their dialogue/trauma workshops for women impacted by the war (the war in Bosnia). Like many of the other woman there, she also lost a son and husband during the war--also killed by the Serb forces--but she was a Serb, not a Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim). These narratives aren't popular purely because they confound those neat, clean victim/aggressor narratives. and that's exactly why we need to also make space for them in remembering/recovering/reviving communities devastated by war/violence. 

But there's also a huge imbalance of power here in Macedonia--and that shapes so much of the inter-ethnic/inter-linguistic relationships here. and it's difficult to see how the situation will change without some fundamental shift in the distribution of power in society.
However, speaking to a Macedonian Turkish colleague, she mentioned how even within the minority communities, there is still a hierarchy, a pecking order--so questions of power extend not only to the level of Macedonian-Albanian, but all the way through the diversity chain. And like Peggy MacIntosh's essay "White Privilege--Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack" says about American society (or more accurately being of a certain race, a certain class... in American society), I presume there is some privilege-blindness all the way through the power hierarchy here. and privilege is hard to see, hard to pin down--especially being here, it's something I try to be constantly mindful of. But it reminds me of my conversations with Colman McCarthy--and how he asks his students to write about the first time they were catcalled at--and all the women immediately start writing, and all the men look at each other. and in that moment, there's a glimmer of the/an imbalance within society. and how it's in those moments where privilege become externalized--rather than this thing within us which shapes the way we see/interpret/understand the world. (We can start talking about male privilege here, but that's a whole other topic. I will only add that there are not (and hasn't really been a history of) waitresses in Tetovo. I've heard of one in the last decade--at least.) I imagine those few silent moments in the classroom can be uncomfortable--but maybe that discomfort is necessary?

variations on the theme of grey/place matters!

 pre-snowfall Tetovo

I can see how Tetovo in winter is one testament to the color grey. and the many faces it can take. the first snow fell today--not exactly picturesque white flakes (more like icy pellets), but it left everything cold, crunchy and white. especially in the twilight (which settles in about 4 pm), everything, even the bright new buildings (yellows, oranges) become muted, slowly giving into the monochrome. however--on saturday Culi, Julie and I took a little excursion to Skopje to visit the German embassy which was having a christmas bazaar (although finding the embassy was half the fun). but getting out of Tetovo, out from under the shadow of the mountains, they're breathtaking. I think I could commute to Skopje just to look at the mountains every day. and watch them change.

but I guess that's what winter's all about everywhere. and considering I was walking in a tanktop on saturday, I can't complain too much. oddly, the greens in the grass and hardy vines, looked like spring greens. but today's snow proved that we have not gotten so globally hot that we can skip winter altogether.

Today a woman from the US embassy in Latvia came and spoke at the University about education and diversity in Latvia. one of the points she made was that non-native speakers of Latvian have to take a test in Latvian in order to become full citizens, to receive the right to vote. and that this policy virtually excludes upwards of 15% of society from voting. I'm not sure this is totally sustainable--but she continued that thusfar this hasn't created a lot of tension--or at least anger (as perceived by an American/outsider. perhaps Anger isn't quite as cross-culturally readable as I/we assume). and that many people have accepted being, in essence, outside the system altogether.

which is interesting because here, I get the sense that many citizens also feel completely isolated from the system because politics are so corrupt (does having the right to vote matter all that much when politics are influenced/impacted by outside variables? yes, this is probably a little bit of a pessimistic reading of the situation. just for fairness' sake, you could also say the same kind of thing about the American electoral system--either just about the Electoral College, or about politics in general. I'm not sure I want to go down this road much further, but we can if it's interesting). but I wonder how having a fake, or at least not totally realized, right (such as the right to vote in a not totally transparent political system (how's that for diplomatic speak?))  impacts political engagement--as opposed to those who have accepted that they don't have a place within the system. because I think it's fair to say that apathy is a problem--here and back home, and especially among young people. and I wonder what kind of apathy is manifested in Latvia (other than the apathy bred by economic woes, high unemployment and the likes)--and if we should actually be speaking about apathies--not just a singular apathy. are all apathies equal?

I don't want to paint the picture that everyone is apathetic--because I know otherwise. One of my on-line students a few weeks ago posted about how on-line learning has made her into an independent learner (music to my ears!). there's the Loja family--and oh so many others like them actually out there. doing things. there are colleagues here at the university, our students. but what is interesting to me is what appears to be outside the realm of change (to me, the source of apathy, in this case namely politics)--and what do people feel they have some agency over/with. Education (not surprisingly) seems to be one area where people feel they an actually have an impact, where change can actually happen. and it's been really inspirational to work (again) with my on-line, part-time students, all of whom (or many of whom) intend to become teachers. for each of them, there was someone or someones who left a large enough impression on them that they were inspired to become teachers--even within a system which still clings to old methods of teaching, and is mired with other problems (pay of teachers, or infrastructure, for example. let alone some of the honking-huge issues of schools as places where broader societal tensions get played out (or at least that's how I see, or can see, it)). it's really heartening to then also feel a part of their process of growth and development. like one of my students wanted to know more about Nel Noddings' 'an ethic of care' and another (and this just makes me delighted) used his educational biography for our class to make a case for place-based education--although I'm not sure he know's theres a word for it, let alone a whole branch of pedagogy. little does he know what can of worms, what Pandora's box, he's getting into.
especially with this lady.

a case for space

27 November:

a case for space

I know I should study more geography when I start coming up with (and then sharing publicly to top it off) titles for blogposts like ‘a case for space.’ if only because further study might lead to somewhat more nuanced plays on words (kind of puts a whole new spin on “space-case.” maybe? maybe?)
anyhow.

I’ve been thinking about those flags.

firstly, however, a couple disclaimers: yes. the Albanians haven’t invented nationalism—let alone the mass-production of flags. it’s not so much the Albanian part of the flags as the flag part of the flags which I keep coming back to. it reminds me of the opening essay in Slavenka Drakulic’s book “Cafe Europa, Life After Communism” where she talks about being raised on the pronoun “we” (read Socialism), and how such an all-encompassing identifier eliminates or seeks to eliminate so much of the diversity, the individualism (and individuals) we actually encounter in the world. For me, this whole notion of space takes the argument one step further—because using “we” implies that “we” know who “we” are (and perhaps more importantly, who “we” are not). combined with space (shift to the pronoun “ours”) so much of that beautiful space where meaning, identity, self get explored, expressed and re-explored, re-expressed, depends upon these pronouns—those we’s and ours’—as being flexible, mailable. as not being monolithic or static. But, it also begs for space (physical, metaphorical) where these identities can be teased out, some safe space were it’s alright to be unsure (and my mind’s eye cuts to Shana’s second-grade-self-face saying “sometimes girls just want to be a boy for a day”—ask me for a copy of the Claire [Oglesby] movie). because (thank you Brene—I knew it’d come back to you [http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html]) vulnerability, well, it’s key.

the flags, to me, feel like big honking pronouns, tacked up all over town—except that they’re either “we/ours” or "they/theirs" depending on how you hold your head, squint your eyes and read the text. but it’s slightly more complicated than that—they’re anonymous pronouns, they’re public pronouns. I don’t know how to dialogue with these pronouns—these flags (but it could be graffiti, symbols) purely because they are static (of course the meaning I ascribe to them is not but…). Furthermore, to me, having them placed strategically in public spaces forces the question of pronouns into the public—except that it feels like it’s in the form of a yes/no question. there isn’t a lot of room for “maybe.”

and one hundred years later

25 November:

and one hundred years later…

(thank you Ardit for the clarification!)
I’m not sure it’s totally clear—but that big red thing at the end of the street is actually an Albanian flag covering the House of Culture in celebration of the Albania’s 100th birthday (Nov 28), the 104th of the adoption of the Latin script for the Albanian language (Nov 22), and the 569th anniversary of the adoption of the two-headed eagle (symbol of Skenderbeg family) as the official seal/symbol (Nov 28). So November is a big month. Tetovo has been totally decked out in the red and black two headed eagle. A few days ago, maybe Wednesday, I passed a tailor shop and there were these three young guys slaving away over these mounds of red fabric—and I gave them  a pitying look—and only today realized that they were actually making flags upon flags upon flags. They’re everywhere. but they’re hand-made (and locally at that!), so it’s ok. 

I think the best we saw was a beach umbrella made out of Albanian flags—but they’re on cars, in windows, on buildings, I even saw a guy a few weeks back wearing the flag like a cape (although I’ve also seen quite a few young guys wearing hooded sweatshirts with American flag pockets—so, take that as you will). 

it’s exciting: one hundred years is a nice round number, and I’m all for a good cultural celebration, but it’s a little overwhelming—in the way the 4th of July is overwhelming when people start getting their stars and stripes whirligigs out and Uncle Sam garden gnomes. it’s the way I feel about the Alexander craze in Skopje currently—‘can’t you go anywhere without him lurking about?’—redefining, dare I say intruding on, public spaces. and now there’s a big portrait of a local political big-wig in the city square (which is also carpeted in a nice layer of the pamphlet they must have been passing out at the event or rally last night)—watching over the comings and goings. 

One of the stories Culi told on the road trip was about how right down town (where the McDonalds now is—so Tetovo prime real estate—except that it’s been a construction zone for the past month [election season anyone?]) used to be the cafe where on religious holidays (typically you go visiting from one relative to the next to the next (or, if you’re a woman: hosting relative after relative after relative—somethings never change, eh?)….) all the hard-core socialists used to sit and judge their weaker, less devout comrades who would still partake in the religious customary visiting. we’ve now entered the high-tech era, so rather than having real, live people sitting, watching, judging, we’ve just stuck a portrait (or a statue-as the case may be) up, so he can gaze down on us mortals. 

I know I don’t exactly have my finger on the heartbeat of Tetovo (speaking neither of the local languages) but I was also surprised by the lack of activities happening around the centennial (or surprised by how hidden they were from me): as far as I can tell there were two art exhibits (one that was taken down three days after it went up), this rally last night where the portrait was unveiled, and a volleyball tournament (I’m sure there’s a link to the Albanian language somewhere in there), and then the flagging of the town. To me, the flags are oddly aggressive—and yet not very descriptive as to what is actually being celebrated (other than the generic Albanianess). What do they (the flags) tell me about what it means to be Albanian, what aspects of their heritage people are so proud of—some of the most obvious—poetry, literature, text-based-arts in general were markedly absent (there was a conference at SEEU on Albanian language, although I’m not sure how widely publicized it was, or how wide it’s reach was other than the SEEU community), or folk arts, history.. But this text-sword cuts both ways, I know. I very may well have been just been totally oblivious to these events—especially as text-based celebrations are, well, text-based, and therefore somewhat hidden from the view of non-Albanian speakers, and thus, not really accessible. where as the flags, well, they’re certainly not subtle, and rather hard to miss.

пријатно!

25 November: 

пријатно!

Probably the more realistic way to think about things, is to see “epiphany” as a process—so I guess I’m epiphanizing. I’m not sure I’m totally there yet, but, honestly, when will we ever be?
A few nights ago, after a rough day of shooting, Culi, who also works as a cameraman for the local TV station, said “in two minutes, they [politicians] could completely destroy everything that I work for.” and then he smiled his wry Culi smile and continued, “and yet. we keep going.” What other options are there?

what else can we do, other than keep pursuing what we believe in?

sometimes that sounds super corny. sometimes it sounds like revelation.

but we’ll see how things go tomorrow—as my mother kindly reminded me—I don’t actually know that things will go horribly, so why not give them the benefit of the doubt. Already one student wrote asking if the university has equipment for simultaneous translation, and suggesting that students could be hired to work as translators for the Parliament—encouraging on both counts. mind you, he was one of the students who would benefit from translation being provided, and even with translation, if the other people participating in the discussion aren’t mindful of the translators/translation, inclusivity gets a lot harder.

enough politics.

I’m still basking in the post-thanksgiving glow of a day spent utterly thankful for good friends, good food, good wine and good laughs. I brought ‘bite the bag’ to Macedonia, and spread the telephone-pictionary gospel. Jake drew a mean Shmizla mafia man in the Balkans, and Culi drew Darko falling on his head to the T. thank you to everyone who came and made the evening delightful, and to the neighbors for not minding our ruckus (too much). пријатно indeed!
I’m just waiting for the christmas music to start.

waiting for an epiphany

21 November:

waiting for an epiphany

that’s not entirely true: although I wouldn’t really call this an epiphany because just about anyone could see this—but Culi and Julie are really wonderful people.

when I arrived at Loja today on the verge of tears (I’ll get there) they didn’t do the whole “oh but what’s wrong? don’t cry!” shpeel which usually just makes me feel worse, but just kind of let me do my thing, and then tried to cheer me up.  they offered to be my back-up (I was unfortunately on my way to a conversation class followed by a thanksgiving)—and come as clowns if I needed a few laughs. although the image of them as clowns kind of terrifies me
.
so how did I find myself crying at Loja? to be honest, I’m not quite sure. I knew that the holidays would be difficult being away from home—but it’s not even thanksgiving proper (and I’ve spent plenty of thanksgivings away from home), but I think I’ve been getting a lot of “cultural grit” (the residual effects of culture shock) under my nails—and it wears on me.

but in addition to grappling with the more mundane people honking while you walk home alone late at night (as if I’m not already aware of the fact that I’m alone and I’m a woman and it’s nighttime), today I had the realization that there are a lot of things I can’t change, I’m not in control of. And I really hate that—because for me that’s the first step in killing creativity is accepting powerlessness, of just taking things as they are. and it all comes back to the student parliament. and politics. and the unfortunate realization that however much we try to hold free and fair elections—that doesn’t ensure that free and fair governance will follow.

no siree bobba.

because student politics—even things like chairing the coordinator of the student clubs—is inherently a political position. and where there is political power, and politics (and money!) more generally speaking, dirty things follow. And I feel like we’re getting to that part of the student parliament’s life-cycle: we’ve done the elections, and now things are only going to get uglier as money gets fought over, territories get staked out and marked and people get marginalized. and I really don’t know what we—the commission, staff, the administration— can do about that. or, perhaps more poignantly, what will there is to do anything about that.

let me remind you all that the views expressed here are mine and mine alone and do not reflect the university or Fulbright or the state dept or anyone else.

I keep coming back to a lecture I attended while in Belgrade where the professor was talking about the difference between guilt and responsibility (in relation to Hannah Arendt, but that’s another story). She said that guilt is purely individual—but responsibility, that can be both individual and collective. she then shared that a colleague of hers after the war calculated the number of bullets the Serbian government could have bought using just her tax dollars (which she paid during the time of war). is she responsible for those bullets? [I think she might have even gone further with her calculations—along the lines of number of bullets spent/civilian killed—so how many people did my bullets kill during the war? but I don’t really want to go there intellectually, it’s a little to much for midnight].

I know I can’t feel guilty for what the student parliament chooses to do—but can I feel responsible?
it’s a heavy thing to carry. even to eye before picking it up for the long haul. because I’m not sure I trust this thing we have created and I don’t know how to say “well, that’s no longer my problem because I am not the student parliament. I am not guilty of those crimes (figuratively speaking—I hope it’s not going to be engaged in illegal activity).” but I still feel responsible in-advance for all the trouble that might yet come. this too is my beast, my Frankenstein. (or at least it could be, I’m in a bit of a pessimistic mood (if you couldn’t tell) right now and don’t have all that much faith in them turning into altruistic do-gooders).

further complicating things—we’re supposed to train the newly elected parliamentarians—but it’s really really really unclear how much authority we (the trainers) have and how easily the parlimentarians will be able to access people who can say “yes” or at least half a yes while we are saying “no.’ (for example: no you can’t have your budget until you finish this training (sounds reasonable, eh?). This is what the board said (so what we are doing), but we’re going to need some serious back up on that one to convince the students who want to go to Albania next week (which, oddly, I learned from a student at the neighboring university—which means it’s already been decided among those who will make the decisions). and thirty against three foreign women—well, it’s probably not going to be pretty). this meeting is monday and I’m already really nervous. because if we (three staff members, non-citizens, non-political) can be intimidated by these guys, how can we expect students to stand up to them?

but seriously. how?

today it frustrated me to the point of tears—and I became upset not only by feeling totally stuck, powerless to change things, but terrified that I’ve given in to this way of thinking-a way of being totally foreign to me. powerless? how can I feel that? write it? speak it? believe it? and yet where do I find empowerment?

and so, I’m waiting for an epiphany.

Budapest: an election sandwich

18 November:

Budapest: an election sandwich

The approaching of Thanksgiving is doing nothing good for my food-blog reading habits. This is my first time hosting a thanksgiving, even though my kitchenette isn’t exactly designed for dinner parties. but I can’t wait. The guests, thus far: two other fulbrighters (Malvina—living here in Tetovo, and Jake—doing research in Skopje), Julie (aka Foto), Culi and Darko (another Loja volunteer, good friend of Culi’s). I’m also going to invite Rezehana—my roommate, but I haven’t seen her in over a week (I was in Budapest, she, I presume, is overwhelmed with the Board Meeting—going on this weekend, and “University Day” celebrations on Monday). Sometimes I feel like we’re ships passing in the night. But there are little details which make me nervous (alcohol—will that be a problem in mixed company? Culi and Darko are the most easy going anti-nationalist Macedonians (other when they jokingly rag on the neighboring town (sorry Village) of Gostivar*)), so I can’t see that being an issue—but I just want everyone to be comfortable.
*Gostivar is the neighboring town, and we (Malvina, Julie, Culi, visiting German artist Oliver and I) went to on Friday for an opening of an art exhibit. Gostivar is known for it’s baklava and for (in the eyes of Tetovo) being the biggest village in Macedonia. There’s a bit of a running rivalry going, if you cant’ tell. but it also has real night-life—something that only makes the Tetovarski (if that’s what they’re actually called) a little jealous.
So Budapest.
All of us ETAs from the Balkans met there for a Fulbright training/check in session—and, in addition to hanging out with a bunch of great people who love the Balkans (we’re a quirky bunch), it was so wonderful to hear about the experiences of other ETAs. Sometimes, especially earlier in the semester, I was a little uncomfortable with how little teaching I was doing, and much administrative work  (or what felt like administrative work) I was involved in. Although I think I always knew in the back of my mind that I was involved in really exciting projects—sometimes I found myself asking “is this what a ETA is supposed to look like?” Seeing the diversity of projects my colleagues (is this a commonly used word back home? I feel like I hear it everywhere here), I felt a lot more comfortable owning the diversity of projects I’m involved in. and got so much needed inspiration from being with them. We spent three days together in trainings—but what was most helpful/important were all the conversations over breakfast and lunch and dinner (and in between) with the other ETAs about their contexts—projects, struggles, ideas, ambitions. Some friends in Montenegro want to stage the first ever Vagina Monologues in Montenegro this year—and we were all trying to brainstorm how to get the Embassy to get behind it. Being with them I also felt so much more a part of a community here in the Balkans—not some rogue english teacher.
On a side note: THE ELECTIONS ARE OVER! Both in the States—thank you to all who voted! I woke up at 6:30 in Budapest and watched Obama’s acceptance speech in the kitchen of the hostel (we arrived on the night of the 6th (here)—and polls were just starting to close) with the hostel attendant. I almost started crying.
but—the elections for student government are also over here at SEEU (thus the election sandwich)! It’s been quite a journey, to say the least and has given me a nice picture-window into local politics, and the position of the University within the community in general. But first I’ll start with the positives. One of the huge issues we struggled (and struggled and struggled) with in our hours of Friday afternoon meetings (maybe not the most productive time of the week) was how to ensure that the Parliament represent a diverse base of students. The University—I think I can safely say—is majority Albanian (defined by ethnicity—ugh! or language use—a little safer), and while women do make up just about 50 percent (or just a little less) of the student body, this is a markedly patriarchal society/community. Thus, we were both worried about ensuring that Macedonians (or other non-Albanians, Macedonia has considerable Turkish, Vlach, Roma, Serbian… communities) got elected (probably not possible if we just took the 30 people who received the highest number of votes) and women were represented in the Parliament. I won’t get into the particulars—and bore all of you non-Political Science geeks—but basically we (this feels strange to say) wrote into the Rule (governing elections/the Parliament in general) that additional seats could be made to ensure that 1/3 of the Parliament was made up of women and 1/6 of national minorities.

We had four days of elections to accommodate Masters’ Students, Undergraduate students, and the fact that the University has two campuses—Tetovo and Skopje, and Masters’ students only meet every other week (what a scheduling nightmare). The last of the elections was yesterday—which meant that Heather (chair of the committee, lovely Brit) and I spent 12 hours together in one room on campus, first conducting the elections and then counting the votes. it was a long day.

Amazingly it all went smoothly. There was a little concern that members of the previous student union would make a stink—we had to invalidate one person who applied to be a member of parliament because HE WAS NOT ENROLLED IN THE SCHOOL AT THE TIME HE SUBMITTED HIS APPLICATION (seriously dude?) but tried to fight (verbally) about it earlier. We were worried about voter fraud (and I find myself thinking “Voter fraud in student elections? really? would it really be worth the trouble?)—ballot box stuffing—but thankfully, none of that. although that doesn’t really mean that pressure was applied on students in other ways.

But we had more than 10 women elected on their own merit in the elections—really exciting. Minorities are a little bit of a more complicated issue as students didn’t declare their ethnicity/mother tongue on the application form—so we’re still working things out on that front.

Now we just have to get everyone trained (can I say herding cats?) and have them elect a president/officers, figure out how they will be paid/if they will be paid, and get things moving. I proposed to Heather that as a first action—to see how the Parliament could work, and experience “getting things done”—the Parliament could figure out how to ensure that all the bathrooms on campus have toilet paper and soap—because most (even staff bathrooms) have neither, or, if you’re lucky, one. It’d be an easy fix, students would be happy (probably it’s a rather uncontroversial move), and parliamentarians would get some instant gratification—literally and politically. Parliamentarians (might) learn that parliament actually is about the need of the student body, not political interest. and students might also get a taste of the parliament responding to student needs, and that they can both expect and demand that the parliament actually do things to improve the quality of student life. I’ll keep you posted on how it develops.

I might propose that this be my contribution to the PM training. I’d love to just see their faces.
But the darker side of the elections. I think it’s kind of safe to say that political processes aren’t the most well respected. A lot of things happen as a result of connections—and the local opposition political party has a lot of connections, and that the previous government used their connections to get things done (although what they actually got done is somewhat in debate). The son of the president/head of the local opposition party was the previous president of the student union. And let’s just put this in perspective here about what kind of politics we’re talking about (and this is not specific to this political party, I wouldn’t characterize Macedonian political parties as totally kosher): the head of the party can’t leave Macedonia, lest he want to be arrested for crimes abroad. His brother ([Mom please just skip this sentence! and more importantly—PLEASE DON’T TELL GRANDMA]—a prominent mafia don—was gunned down in a cafe in Tetovo two years ago (Yes, I still feel safe here). Not only are politics kinda dirty—but people also play dirty.

So—it’s still really unclear if/how the new parliamentarians will use their positions of power in the university to promote/play political games.

That was quite a honking-big side note.

Budapest.
Budapest probably has, hands down, the most beautiful McDonalds in the world. Walking through the city I came upon this beautiful brick, yellow, blue building with these amazing towers and all this glass and thought ‘hmm. I wonder if I could get married in this building.’ And then I noticed the golden arches. Perhaps I’ll reconsider.

Turns out it’s the train station (hence the McDonalds)—also perhaps not the best place to stage a wedding (no worries Mom, no plans up my sleeves). but it’s gorgeous. and the trains. This might be incentive enough to come back to Budapest by train—just to arrive in this station.



.


(just think—we can also take our bikes in it. could it get better?)
And that was the bulk of my reactions to Budapest—total awe of the architecture. It’s a stunning city—with history to boot.

and delight with the indian food. such happy happy tastebuds. the only things I brought home with me were cayenne (no surprises there folks), red curry paste (! I was salivating in the store looking at the siracha but didn’t want it to explode in my bag on the flight home), and a pair of shoes (imagine shoes Ines would wear). They’re beautiful and totally funky.

We also spent a day taking the bus out to Monument Park—where, after the fall of communism, they uprooted and replanted all the communist statues. It’s almost like visiting a Communist art zoo—all of these pieces that you wouldn’t expect to see together, but create this whole experience when juxtaposed. I was amazed by the range and dept of motion the statues conveyed, and perhaps this was amplified by seeing them all together, because I usually don’t feel that when looking at Socialst-realist sculptures. My favorite was a collection of people made out of shiny metal, with these soldiers charging forward.


What characters.

After that, Tiffany—the other ETA in Macedonia—and I stumbled upon a St. Martin’s Day celebration (all the restaurants had goose-themed menus in honor of the day)—a crowd of kids with hand-made lanterns following a woman with a cape on a white horse, with a community band trailing behind. Oddly everyone was speaking German—and if anyone has insight I’d love to hear it.
I also visited the Terror Museum. and I wouldn’t recommend going alone. It focuses on the victims of the fascist and then communist secret police in Budapest—and is housed in the actual building where the Fascist Red Arrows and Secret Police had their headquarters (talk about continuity through space—actually the same guy headed both organizations, which really begs some serious questions about the re-branding of repressive regimes). It was a really well designed museum—you start at the top floor and work down to the basement—where they have recreated some of the cells prisoners were held in. I only needed about four minutes down there before I got totally claustrophobic and needed to get back above ground, back into the light.

I don’t want to analyze the exhibition too much—or downplay the repression of religious figures by these regimes—but I found it interesting how prominently religious figures (particularly Catholic) featured in the remembrance—granted, not much of the exhibit was in English—so my information is limited other than my impressions (like the big lit-up cross in the floor of one of the exhibition halls. a subtle signal I know). I don’t really know enough about the WWII history, but Budapest also had a significant Jewish community—and I don’t know if they aren’t considered “victims” of this branch of terror, but it’s certainly something I would love to examine further. except that I’m not sure I’m quite ready to jump back into the Terror Museum. it was a bit of a heavy space.
Well. I had all these plans to do pre-Thanksgiving cooking today (the test kitchen) so I should boogie.
thanks for reading,
lovingly,
claire

Tetovo Vignettes

3 November:

Tetovo vignettes

‘That’s quaint” I thought, ‘that guy’s got a bike light. That must be the first one I’ve seen in Tetovo.’ But it was only his cigarette. oh my beloved Tetovo. oh sheltered Amerika.

[a few weeks ago Julie (Canadian, volunteer at Loja, fellow-roadtripper, great person in general) hiked up to the ruins/Kale (meaning Fortress) above Tetovo and were followed the entire way (a good 45 minute hike) by these three giggling (giggling giggling just to emphasize) boys (maybe 10, 11). Every time we stopped (Julie had just twisted her ankle and this was the first major hike post-hospital visit) the boys would find a patch of shade and wait for us. After a while they asked if we were speaking Albanian (ummm… not sure what kinds of conclusions to draw from this, but not exactly heartening), and when I replied no, English—I’m from America (giggle giggle), we were christened as ‘Amerika’ and ‘Foto’ (Julie has a nice camera—and takes nice pictures with it. check out especially the one of Culi and I sparring with paper swords in an ancient ruined amphitheater. we’re certainly good tourists, eh?)  and the entire hike was peppered with “hey Foto (giggle giggle)” “oh Amerika… (giggle giggle).” They were our unofficial guides—taking us into and then around this new building that’s being built at Kale which has virtually no windows and some serious electrical cables. I’m not quite sure what the plan is for that. and then they tried to convince us to take the (really) long way back to Tetovo—through some villages and then twisting and winding back down into the valley. but we just cut back through a field and headed home sans gigglers.]

There are so many beautiful old Peugeot bikes here—with a lot of cute (if cute is the right word) old men with their taqiuahs (white cap worn by observant Muslim men—I think that’s what it’s called here) somehow stuck to their heads. and it’s gotta take some seriously strong faith to bike on these roads. Thus far this week I’ve seen a car going the wrong way through a traffic circle, someone else back up into the traffic circle (to pull a U-ie), cars park two deep along the street (reducing the flow of traffic to one lane), guys in their flashy cars speed and screech their wheels late at night. As much as I would love to have a bike here—just the thought of sharing the roads with all that (from horse-pulled cart to tractor pulling a wagon piled high with cabbages, to BMWs or Ladas or old Yugos that look like they are going to keel over and die at any minute, to tractor-trailers, it’s all here) puts a few more grey hairs on my head. so don’t worry Ma. but man, those bikes are beautiful.

now that autumn is really upon us—first snow in the mountains, changing leaves, crisp air—parts of town look like there getting decked out for the best party in the world. Families are putting away peppers—stringing them on long threads, and drying them from eaves and balconies. They look like streamers or decorations and they’re gorgeous, and edible—so doubly wonderful. Like beautiful enough that I’d almost consider decorating my room with them.

Since Evan and Tasha left, I think I’ve been grappling with what it really means to “own” living in Tetovo—and being both of here and acutely aware of not being ‘of here.’ Last week I did an identity workshop/activity with ‘my boys’ (the boys club at the American Corner) and while what they talked about was fascinating (one guy, for example put down both Albanian and Muslim—and when asked to pick one, changed Muslim to ‘I’m a good guy,’ which he promptly crossed off. it was also a mixed gender group—and I seriously wonder how that impacted things—I got a strange vibe from that group. in another unconnected incident, one guy said “I’m Macedonina, but I’m Albanian too”—and another woman (also Albanian) almost yelled ‘You’re not Macedonian. you can’t be both!” what a conversation to have. but probably not for a Friday night. oh constructed identity—how I love you). but for me—I found myself putting down all these words associated with ‘otherness’—either ‘otherness’ within myself (identity ascribed by others, like “teacher” which I still don’t really feel like I am), to ‘listener’—which I would say is a large part of myself wherever I am. but here, there’s always the tension of listening because you can’t speak—or don’t feel comfortable speaking. And yet—this is also my city, something I realized showing it to them [Ev and Tash] and feeling some odd sense of belonging. in many ways it still feels like a superficial ‘belonging’ (the man who sells me vegetables and I don’t exactly have a deep relationship).

people here are always surprised when I say that I like it here—and of course some of that is making a simple answer to a complex question, because of course there are things that drive me crazy about here—like the pollution which I’ll save for another discussion. but there’s also a lot of beauty. but it’s a subtle beauty—and I can see how it would be easy to overlook it—or to never find it in the first place because it’s tucked down cobbled streets (or, perhaps more pertinently in the ‘wrong’ (in the ethnic sense) neighborhood) or early in the morning, when not many people are awake, or so common-place, so every-day that it passes unnoticed (like the overlapping calls to prayer heard across the city). for example, last night (like 7pm, but it gets dark at 5, so anything feels like night) I went exploring a neighborhood up towards the hills. It’s only about ten minutes from the center, but everything about it feels different there—the streets are narrower, usually only a car and a bit wide, cobbled streets, people have grape trees (not vines! I kid you not, they’re a good inch or two in diameter) growing by their front stoops, roads end and begin and end in these crooked, winding paths. houses are old—generally—with flickering TV lights, and every so often a voice, a conversation. or an old man, smoking. there’s a quiet, a stillness, that I haven’t been able to find in the area where I live—straight wide roads perfect for fast cars. The strip (2.5 km) between SEEU and the center isn’t really residential—you find that a few streets to either side.

I can’t tell if I also feel—in general—more comfortable in neighborhoods with significant Macedonian language presence. I haven’t been able to figure out how strong the correlation is between language/signage and ethnicity. or how integrated neighborhoods really are. although I get the sense that they are rather diverse, although it’s hard for me to really read that diversity other than eavesdropping. and I’m sure that’s not the most effective way to read a community or a neighborhood—because language use is so fluid. but it’s interesting to watch how things like the styles in clothing stores changes depending on what neighborhood you’re in—and of course there can be some store selling skimpy clothes next to the head-scarf store, but I feel like I can see the clothing styles getting more conservative the further from the center I walk. not that the way people dress follows the store fashions. so there you have it.

of course there are also problems in these quaint neighborhoods—much of the city doesn’t have 24-hour running water, and electricity comes and goes. the University is, I’m realizing, rather unique in that it has running water (and hot water too!) 24/7.
small gratitude. small gratitude.
big love

Caps for Claire

30 October:

Caps for Claire

It’s been so long that I’m not quite sure which adventure to start with—so instead I’ll start with two small confessions. One: I’ve become one of those people who reads food blogs—specifically cooking blogs with really good food photography. Two: I started a Raverly account, which, for those of you who aren’t quite so thrilled about knitting as I am right now, is an on-line forum for sharing knitting projects. I don’t think either of these new-fangled habits are in any way related to neglect of my blog, but I’m starting to see them as logical outgrowths of my life here: the day to day adventures of living in a vibrant farmers market (romanticizing just a little here) but only having two and a half pots to my name (the half is a metal bowl which functions as a no-handled pot in a pinch), and thus limited cooking opportunities. The other—knitting envy—I think is a reflection of my rocky adjustment to having a desk job, or at least a job where I am rather firmly pegged to my e-mail. I feel busy most of the time (just about all of the time really) but don’t really feel like being busy always amounts to something tangible—like for instance, a pair of mittens (something I’m going to need shortly).

But (and there is always a but!) I think I just found my adopted grandmother (hopefully the sentiments are mutual) and she puts the handy in handywork (or the work in handywork—either fits pretty gosh darn well). Her name is Baba Sava (Grandma Sava), and oh man is she’s prolific—embroidery, weaving, crocheting…and just about everything she’s made has a little label pinned to it—indicating to whom (and on what occasion) each piece should be given (eg. for my grand niece upon her graduation from secondary school, for my grandson’s future wife). She’s got it all planned out. She also informed us that she’s signed a pact with God and will live until 101—so no worries. Shes got another 14 years of smooth sailing ahead. and I can’t wait to hang out with Baba Sava some more. Last night, as Culi (her grandson) was driving us home from their Slava (family saint’s day party—I’ll get back to that) he said “but seriously, come spend as much time with my family as you like.” And Culi is one of those earnest people, so I have a feeling he meant it—at least within reason. Luckily I don’t have a sleeping bag, so I can’t just show up at their gate one day and move in (although a Peace Corps Volunteer [PCV, not to be mixed-up with PVC] is selling one before returning states-side, so there is time yet to just camp out at Baba Sava’s).

But I think before jumping into all that (not to mention the first snowfall on the mountains above Tetovo. beautiful. just beautiful), let me get some of this descriptive stuff out of the way.

I get this question  “so what are you doing here?” (which usually is followed or follows (depending on the questioner) by “so why are you here?” (with all sorts of accents or emphasis on theherepart of the question) quite frequently. And it’s a terribly difficult question to answer neatly, briefly and without totally confusing the listener. So technically I’m here as an English Teaching Assistant—although teaching, I’d say, is the smallest of the hats I wear these days (although that’s going to change soon). The semester—at least school-wise—got off to a really slow start, which, it seems like, is a product of the students, the crazy bureaucracy (different logic, excuse me), and bout of holidays.

For the first few weeks I felt a little stir-crazy because classes were still being opened and sections closed, students moved. My class that I was co-teaching became an on-line course—which then again slowed down the process of really jumping in because now we had new students, had to revise the syllabus, try to meet with the students, wade through the complicated mess that is the university web-portal-thingy…..thankfully the class is alive and kicking right now. We’re actually not just kicking but blogging. It still feels a little too high-tech for me sometimes. but students are actually starting to have on-line discussions! they’re reading what the others write. Small miracles, I know, but they still feel like miracles nonetheless. So that is ‘Education and Society,’ which I’m co-teaching with another professor in the Faculty of Languages, Cultures and Communication. although I still wish it was an in-person class because I’d really like to actually get to know my students a little more. It’s a lot easier to be silent on line than in a classroom—and it’s a lot easier to see silence in person, than virtually.

I spent much of today going around to classes giving a five-minute shpeel about two/three of my other hats at SEEU (South East European University): encouraging students to run for the new Student Parliament, promoting a Writing Center, and getting a little buzz about a reading club.
So Parliament. Whenever I tell people that I studied Political Science before coming here to teach English, I usually get a little bit of a puzzled look. But, and this is really for anyone out there considering a liberal arts degree, you never know what’s going to be useful. From my first few weeks here, I’ve been part of the four-person commission charged with totally revamping the old student government and creating a completely new Student Parliament (writing the election rule, figuring out how diversity is going to be handled, getting people to run for office, creating the offices, writing an interim working rule for the Parliament to adopt, holding elections, overseeing elections, mopping up after elections, helping train the parliamentarians, and hopefully no riot-control). It’s been a hell of a project and really really amazing to be a part of.

In addition to some of the more mundane aspects of forming a new (NEW! can I just say that once more? NEW!) government (how long will the president be elected for? who is an eligible voter? who is eligible to stand for office?…I can keep going) we also spent hours approaching (and then usually backing away from) the issue of how to both have a democratically elected government which will still ensure that minorities will have a voice/place in the parliament. And there are so many different kinds of minorities: making sure all years of study are represented, all faculties of study, both campuses (SEEU has a Tetovo and a Skopje campus. The Tetovo campus is significantly larger than the Skopje (like a factor of 10 maybe)) have representation, Masters’ students and PhD candidates, gender-equality, ethnicity, linguistic…Some kinds of diversity are easier to manage—or at least write rules about—than others: for example, one seat for each year of study in each of the five faculties. But that doesn’t really mean that a diverse student parliament will be elected—and it was really difficult to figure out how to proceed from there. I think it took me a little while to catch on to why this was such an issue worth worrying about so much: issues of ethnicity (specifically majority/minority relations—at the scale of University/City/Country) are incredibly hot. and I don’t mean sexy. and it’s always good to have (strong) women in politics.

I think we’ve finally reached our agreement-adding seats to get to pre-determined percentages of gender/ethnic/linguistic minorities (we had a hell of a day trying to figure out how we wanted to define minority—was it ethnicity or language? language or ethnicity? and do we even want to use the term minority because that’s got some bad connotations in this context) -and now we’re just hoping that enough people will run for parliament, so that we can enact policies. But it’s been a fascinating process to be involved in—and I feel incredibly grateful to be treated as an equal on the committee. but am looking forward to having a few fewer meetings once the elections are behind us.

Hat number two: writing center. A colleague and I have been working on creating a writing center (writing lab-esque) for students to bring their writing (assignments, outlines, drafts) and to get extracurricular help with their writing. This also is new territory for SEEU—and it’s been interesting to say the least the number of meetings it’s taken to get this thing off the ground. Jeta and I are spending this week visiting English for Specific Purposes (the highest level of English class for non-English lang/lit majors) available, to promote the center. Our doors open (meaning the doors to my office open) on Thursday. We’ll see who comes in. But it’s again something that I believe in—I know from my own experience that these kinds of resources are invaluable to a student (or can be, if the student takes advantage of them), and especially, it seems like writing is a skill a lot of people are intimidated by or struggle with. But I also do feel a bit like a spectacle (“Step right up! Step right up! Come see Claire the Native [English Speaker]! right here in our very own LaRC!”—and that part of the allure is having a Native—although I’m probably not quite as exciting as they think).

Hat three: and this is still being developed but another colleague wants to start a reading center—which right now  (other than not existing yet) is a cross between another class and a bookclub. This one has been harder for me to wrap my head around—in part because reading—let alone love of reading— isn’t something I know how to teach. Other than reading aloud—which is how I think I fell inlove with literature—and I don’t really want to be reading aloud to university students. if anyone has suggestions, send em my way. I think this project could use a new set of eyes.
the other miscellaneous hats I wear at SEEU are

• proofreader
• substitute teacher
• American studies guest lecturer
• general entertainment

and starting in a few weeks, I’m going to teach each of the ESP classes (so Law, Business Administration, Public Administration, Political Science, Computer Science (that’s going to be a riot, I just know) Business Informatics and maybe more) for 50 minutes, as their Clinical Teaching (ie teaching with a native speaker). Until yesterday, I thought that I was going to have to teach every section (Levels 1-5, plus ESP) for 50 minutes—and there just weren’t enough weeks in the semester to accomplish that—so this seems like a more chewable hunk of project. But it should be fun—to have the flexibility to do anything (just do a speaking activity, my colleagues urged me) and work with students who are advanced English speakers.

I’m also starting a new class this week (mind you this is week 7 of a 15 week semester) for 4th year students (this is a three-year degree program) who need a fourth year for recognition of their degree in their home country. This class was so slow to start that I thought it wasn’t happening, and then three guys showed up in my office on Monday and here we go.

If going around visiting classes (to promote these projects) is my “spectacle” hat—my “dancing bear hat” is most certainly donned every Wednesday evening for “Learn English through Games” at the American Corner (cultural/educational outpost of the Embassy here in Tetovo, and around MK). Don’t get me wrong—I love it. but keeping 40+ kids engaged (especially when the word Games is in the title of the class) requires just a little song and dance some times. there’s a lot of full-bellied laughing that happens from 5-6 on Wednesdays (I feel like most of it by me)—and tomorrow we celebrate Halloween (I’m going as a tourist. I’m getting pretty excited about getting into character).
My other hat at the American Corner (Caps for Sale anyone?) is leading a youth club for highschool-aged boys—just my demographic. Thus far it’s been interesting—I really like the kids, and there’s one guy who’s really assumed a leadership role and man is he great! but high school is kind of an awkward stage—no matter where you are. we’re struggling to get some focus and direction—in part because I don’t want to be ramming my agenda down their throats, and in part because I’m not sure they quite know where they want this to go themselves—other than playing sports. But, especially in a town without a lot of organized activities for youth, I’m happy to spend an hour or two every Saturday afternoon with the boys. I’m hoping we’ll do a short film festival—getting people to submit short films (maybe less than a minute) about something like “our Tetovo”—something addressing inter-ethnic relations here (something the kids are concerned about and talk about, but I’m not quite sure know what do to with). and also translating the film ‘the story of stuff’—and hopefully doing a little critical thinking along the way. check out the film if you haven’t heard of it.

my final hat—more of a cap really—is as a volunteer at a local NGO—Loja. My fellow Fulbrighter in Tetovo, her roommate is a volunteer (for reals) at Loja—and through her I got tapped into this amazing network of people/thinkers/act-ers. I find myself describing it as part Sandglass Theater, part Centar za Izgradnju Mira—a blending of cultural work (for example putting on a poetry reading or a knock-your-socks-off good concert (trio: clarinet, oboe and flute, followed by classical guitar)) and peacebuilding/conflict resolution work really aimed at the educational system. being with people from the organization, attending their events, helping out, I started to feel at home here in Tetovo in ways I hadn’t quite found before. I’ll write more about them/it later on. But Culi is one of the employees at Loja who went on a road trip with Julie (volunteer at Loja from Canada/Quebec), and Ev and Tasha when they visited, and who is super. He invited us to day three of his family’s Slava celebrations (the kid’s day—when they invite their friends over for food and rakija and some passionate shouting and good table thwacking). Baba Sava is also Culi’s grandmother. There we are, full circle. I’ll get to some of the juicier details (going to Ohrid, going to the hospital (twice!), the adventures of Foto and Amerika, first snowfall in the mountains, Bajram and the time of Balkava, and the road trip to end all road trips at some other point. Thanks for sticking through this long one—I’ll try to par it down in the future.

you know you're an american when...

23 September

you know you’re an american when…

[or I guess I should say, I know I’m an American when…forgive the generalization.] But I know that is this is just the first of these aha moments. but shock me nonetheless it did. I was walking down the street in Skopje, just having crossed the bridge from the main central square (with a towering statue of Alexander the Great [the man on the horse], complete with colored lights, fountains (timed to the) classical music, which is oddly interspersed with the Star Wars theme, the Indiana Jones Theme and one other which escapes my mind right now. The statues—part of the Skopje 2014 project are also positioned in relation to each other. For example, Alexander is facing his father, who stands on the other side of the bridge, who in turn, has his back to someone else), into the older Albanian/Ottoman side of town. At night, when Jake (fellow Fulbrighter, kind and gracious host) and I walked around there, it felt like an integrated part of the city—people who actually live in Skopje spending a friday night out drinking (tea or beer depending on the establishment, probably with not a lot of cross-over). But by the light of day, complete with tour-groups of western europeans, people pedaling their wares on fold-out tables along the sides of the bridge, it felt much more like a tourist attraction. and thus, I felt much more like a tourist. One of the gentlemen I passed was a guy shining shoes who literally followed me four or five paces down the path to insist that I get my shoes shined because they were, in his eyes, embarrassingly scuffed up. After he shined the first shoe, he kept saying “see. like new.”

(symbolic salute?)
So while I’m standing there, in that awkward pose with one foot up on the little shoe-shining stand, I was reminded of my first night with my host family in Belgrade. When I woke up in the morning, Marica (my host mother) had polished my boots. And how the status of my boots was the last thing on my mind—and yet, was the first thing where I experienced Marica’s motherly instinct kicking in.
The status of my shoes aren’t really the first thing on my mind—and I feel like I can speak for many Americans in my age cohort. When I think of embarrassing myself in public, let’s just say, not shining my shoes isn’t high up on my list.  but now, I know it’s just a matter of time before I take his advice and by my own polish, and stop making a spectacle of myself.

Tetovo, Tetova

18 September:

Tetovo, Tetova

My first evening, already a week ago, I fell asleep with the evening call to prayer. From my window in the dormitory (which are called convicts here—always throws me for a loop) I can see three minarets, poking over the apple trees and never-ceasing construction projects, although many others can be heard. STUL/SEEU (South East European University) is one of the few private universities in Macedonia, and aside from that, was one of the first accredited institutions of higher education to offer courses in the Albanian language. For many residents of Tetovo, as one of the hearts of Macedonia’s sizable Albanian community, this was (and is) a significant issue during the 2001 conflict, and is now a source of pride, or so it seems. As a non-Albanian speaker (and perhaps more importantly, non-Albanian reader, as many of the signs are also in Albanian) arriving in Tetovo was a bit of a linguistic shock. It’s been a while since I’ve traveled some place and felt totally adrift linguistically.

But, as I’m getting to know Tetovo better, my picture of what Tetovo means is also shifting—however slowly. One of the peace corps volunteers described my side of town as “the dry side.” And I think this can be interpreted in a number of ways—yeah, alcohol isn’t widely available around the university—but honestly, I haven’t been looking for it, so I can’t really vouch for this, but I think this section of Tetovo is more Albanian; signs are pretty predictably in Albanian, people don’t speak Macedonian on the street, and thus far, I haven’t found a church in the near vicinity. However, up into the hills from the city center, the landscape (linguistic, topographic, religious) shifts, cafes have awnings sporting Skopso beer, rather than coke. Linguistically, things really range from only Albanian signage, to Albanian followed by Macedonia, to Macedonian followed by Albanian to only Macedonian. There is so much I have to learn.

The person in the next dorm room over is playing “somebody that I used to know.” Oh college. (oh the convict). Having all the new students here makes me feel suddenly old.

Tetovo is somewhat nestled between two shoulders of mountains—the Sar mountains whose foothills I see outside my bedroom window, and some un-named (to me thus far) mountains across the plain from Tetovo, but clearly visible on a day like today, sunny and warm. The Sar mountains separate Macedonia from Kosovo—although from this vantage point, literally the base of the mountains, I can’t tell if there are mountains beyond these mountains, or just Kosovo. The University is located about 2.5 km from the city center, along a main road, at the end of the development. Just beyond the university is the highway, going from Skopje to Gostivar to points beyond. Eventually the road bends around to Lake Orhid, but I haven’t made it that far yet. You can tell that this stretch of road has only recently been developed because it’s only one building deep. Across the road from the university, there’s a building (maybe five stories) being built, and behind that, someone’s corn crop. In the middle of the university campus is an apple orchard—although I’m not sure how productive it is, in part because it looks like it could use a good prune, and in part because it’s been a really dry summer, and everything’s suffered from it. Although the birds are having a ball out there. There’s also a pear orchard on the walk in from the university to the center—although whose, I have no idea. Although the pears look mighty fine.
(here’s the apple orchard. This is also the view out from my window, with the Sar planine (mountains) in the background).

I’m still figuring out what it means to be in Tetovo—in many ways it has the feel of a small town, while still taking up quite a bit of geographic space. I’ve already run into one colleague from the university twice, a student from the American corner, peace corps volunteers. For not actually knowing that many people, I feel like I see a remarkable number of them out and about. but there’s also a lot that’s almost overwhelmingly new, most of which hinges upon language. Even the most basic things—ordering a cup of coffee—all of a sudden take concentration and time. I’m sure if I needed to I could fall back on English and and good old pantomime—but I want to make myself understood—I just don’t speak Albanian.