Bon Appetite!

couldn't resist: the neighbor's cow in Sanski Most

Back in 2011, when our study abroad group spent a week in Kosovo, I remember before we left Belgrade, one of the host-moms packed an obscene number of sandwiches for E. to eat on the road. and we all laughed a little--can't find Buba's cooking in Prishtine--and then this memory got packed up and stored away. Fukushima happened, we became caught up in the intricacies of Kosovar history, politics, symbolism. Taking it all in. I'm sure somewhere on the road, the sandwiches got eaten.

and then a few weeks ago there was a milk scare here--not because of crazy bacteria (or the evil eye, as the case may have it), but problems with the nutrition (and toxins) regional cows were/are exposed to, (some fungus in their feed) and traces of them in their milk. although there is no open discussion of the impact of the war on nutrition, soil fertility, I can't help but think about this latest food scare through a (the/ my?) post-conflict lens (Skopje also won't release data on air quality--so I get the sense that issues/data around health are somewhat sensitive.)
 It's a terribly uncomfortable truth (for myself included--as an avid vegetable consumer)--but I think, decades later,  we're still eating war.

still eating what happened on this land, what our landscape has endured, has internalized. living with the consequences of the violence we have inflicted on it. literally* figuratively. afterall--everything goes somewhere. (and I hear Patti's voice in 2008, laced with alarm and shock--'they're finding traces of human DNA in the Miljacka River in Sarajevo' presumably from the dead still in the hills).

On the most immediate level, it totally confounds the 'eat local' paradigm I adopted working on an organic farm (and living next to Monsanto--not exactly a beloved neighbor and shame for signing the Monsanto Protection Act),  or at least raises a strong critical magnifying glass up to it to examine all of its contours and complexities, and begs the question 'what are we eating when we eat local? and what are the limitations or implications?' it makes spring--these first spinach crops, first carrots, bevy of tractors out tilling, sowing seeds--so sweet and sad. (not to say that there aren't plenty of toxins in the soils/environment back home--just to be clear, or that there aren't plenty of other sources of poisons trickling into the soils). But, I think being so preoccupied with the social/relational/spatial implications of violence (to use/modify Basso's terms 'the way the war eats us,' the way wars/experiences/trauma works on us the way stories worked or 'hunted' individuals in the Apache community),  I hadn't stopped long enough to to approach the issue from a totally different, perhaps more 'grounded' perspective--the ways in which we eat war.

But. what is more troubling for me is that this yet another way in which wars/violence lives in/inhabits places long after the peace agreement, after the armistice, after we all agree to stop killing each other, rebuild the family house and be neighbors again (an oversimplification, indeed. yet--I'm realizing that reconstruction of community (my passion and if you really want it, more thoughts on return than you can shake a stick at, or better yet Vahido's thesis (what an inspirational person (his thesis really is worth a read!) on a total tangent--they're organizing at CIM [Centar za Izgradnju Mira] a project collecting oral histories in Sanski Most about individuals who confound these nationalist/ethno-centric metanarratives. talk about the power of place/the potential of place-based study in post-conflict settings. I'm in love)) is but one part of the process--holistically speaking. after all, communities are built on something, they stand on something--not just someones). and so how we live with the war, how the war continues to impact post-war life (let alone quality of life) is one of those issues lurking beneath the surface (trying so hard to not make some soil puns right now). one of those inconvenient truths, that sometimes feels easier not to talk about. because it is so close to home. and kind of hits you right in the gut.

it's another time when I hear Vahido's voice, "it's just war by other means."

and war at the most personal level, at that--we all need to eat.

Even those (especially those!) born after conflict--they're ingesting the war too. And granted--the war, or remnants of war, aren't the only health risks here (broadly speaking), but it's one of the ways wars endure.

*and let me just reiterate--I'm not a scientist. I don't have the data. I'm not sure the data is even out there (really--who would want to find that out? or fund that study? and then would it be possible to publish freely?)--but if it is, please let me know. Ben--I feel like you would know where to find it.

a few images

 the afternoon light these past few days has just been to die for--accentuating new greens, fresh snow on the mountains, turning clouds pink and orange.

the magical place where we got our bicycles

looking back towards SEEU

the birds at the hamam

Gostivar: Where all the old folks have great wrinkles around their eyes, bananas are pricey and the baklava is above average

Vucko returns?

Yes I'm going to wax poetic about Gostivar for a little--so anyone from Tetovo, kindly plug your ears and sing loudly to yourself, if you'd rather not hear it. Because I took a little (long really, but we'll get to that) trip to Gostivar today and was pleasantly surprised.

The running joke around here (meaning in Tetovo) about Gostivar is that it is the largest village in Tetovo, and that when the Olympics are held in Tetovo (only one winter-olympic cycle away, I'm positive--maybe we can have Vucko II?), Gostivar will be our (our? look at me!) Olympic Village. And yes, Gostivar does have a really different feel than Tetovo--the buildings are shorter, the sun is brighter, it's definitely got a different sense of City planning--with roads weaving around. There's also a sizable Turkish (which has maintained a sense of identity since the Ottoman times. In my other studies of the Balkans, I don't remember hearing a lot about other self-identified Turkish communities (it certainly was used as a derogatory term in BiH during the war) but does anyone have an explanation for why Turkish communities assimilated or didn't assimilate in various regions in the Balkans?)  community in Gostivar, so all official signs are in three languages, and many shops are at least Albanian-Turkish. And while they've got their fair share of ugly new (or new in the 70's as the case may have it) buildings (my favorites are the ones with tons of reflective mirror-windows which are tinted slightly blue or yellow), there were also a lot of really beautiful old doors, facades, plaster, and some really beautiful old faces (I'm thinking of one of the most beautifully wrinkled old women, selling eggs at one of the main intersections. I was to shy to ask if I could take her photo.) And after biking to Gostivar from Tetovo (30 km one way google maps tells me), well Gostivar looked like paradise.

"our" mountain (the one just above Tetovo) is the pointy one to the left of the tree

After a few snow-flakings yesterday, today was unbearably beautiful (smog and all) and there's a road out of Tetovo which I've been hoping to explore. One of the things I realized once I hoped on the bike is that, until the bicycle, my "Tetovo" had been as big as I could walk comfortably--or had need to walk. and really no bigger. It had several main arteries (Ilindenska and Iliria--which meet at this awkward oblong traffic-circle between the city square and the House of Culture--another delightful (and frigid) relic from the 1970s), and numerous side streets, but I rarely passed out of the city limits. And with a bike--my sense of scale has completely shifted.

Although perhaps today it shifted just a little too rapidly.


Anyhow, so there's a road leading over the highway (actually right at the end of campus) which leads "away"--and from where I've seen some of the most dramatic clouds since coming here. I knew vaguely that this road ended in Gostivar (the next biggest town between here and Struga--so a little further west of Tetovo), and headed off. and just kept going. and after a while it just seemed crazy to turn around--having a destination helped motivate me. And most of the time it was totally lovely--pleasantly crisp air, a lot of men out in their fields spreading manure or just moving things. flocks of sheep, the first green on some of the willows by the various streams that cross the plain/valley (this road took me over to the other hills, across the valley from Tetovo, so I got to see the entire range in it's new-snow glory. stunning). It was interesting, however, to note which language was crossed off of the signposts announcing the village's name--and then in which villages that hadn't happened (I wonder why: not enough hooligans? actual acknowledged/accepted diversity? and what kinds of insecurities prompted the crossings off in the first place) But man, I think a woman on a bike (riding alone at that) is really rare in these parts--about 25 k in, one guy actually stopped me and said (I think--we had some serious language barrier issues) "your face is really red." I'm hoping it was out of concern, otherwise, I think that's not exactly a winning pickup line--but probably not one he'll have many opportunities to use again, so perhaps not worth complaining too much about.



but I'm seeing just how concerned people are about what others think of them--in part because if/when you stand out, people let you know--they honk, call out to you, or perhaps the worst, just stare. Which is so interesting to me, because young people especially complain about not having enough private space--generally people live with their parents until they get married, and then the wife will move in with her husband's family. "public space"--the cafes, streets, squares and parks often times operate as "private space"--where else are teenaged romances going to happen--and that people would all for (to a degree) some privacy. except that everyone watches and presumably everyone also gossips. So it's hard to be--or feel--alone here. Which is what I loved about getting out on the road today--peacefully pleasantly alone. until I passed by a cafe--full of menfolk basking in the sun--and then I felt very much not alone (and very much alone, lone biker, lone woman).

Gostivar--what to say. The first thing I saw on the road in from Cajle was a totally abandoned factory--which makes me wonder what Gostivar was like a few decades ago (I also noticed, passing through all these villages, the remarkable number of empty storefronts along the main road--which makes me wonder how these communities may be hit by the economic crisis two-fold, through impacts on local economies, and impacts on the diaspora who send remittances home. I really want to map the openings and closings of stores in Tetovo--because I feel like there's a lot of turnover, and much of it feels totally unexpected, although perhaps that's because I don't know how to read the signs foreshadowing liquidation.) Gostivar also  has a beautiful (clean!?) walkway along both sides of the Vardar river--which just gushes. Like I can just imagine white-water rafting on it in a few months (although the high volume of water may also be due to the snow-melt).  there are is a surprising lack of supermarkets--or they're just a lot better disguised than in Tetovo--or perhaps I was hungry enough that I just couldn't see them for the life of me. The baklava (what Gostivar is also known for) is good--although baklava and biking are not my favorite combination (I think I asked for about five glasses of water--and should have asked for about 15). Honestly, the hardest part about Gostivar was convincing myself to get back up on the bike, but those two km from Tetovo's city limit to home were probably the longest of the day. but the best part of reaching Tetovo was being home.

We'll see how my body appreciates this excursion tomorrow.

what's in a number?

my google stats tells me that one of you, shortly, will be my 900th blog-viewer.

and more than anything I'm touched that you have taken time out of your day to read about me and mine, to chronicle these past months with me. it means more than I can say to be able to share, to process, to give voice(/or at least word) to the turbulentdelightfulfrustratingbeautifulfastslow Tetovo Days/Dite Tetove/ Tetovo Dena with you all.

Like international womens' day (can't we just call it 'peoples' day--and celebrate everyone? or even better, 'living day' and celebrate life?)--I'm not just saying this because there's a nice round number ahead, but because having a nice even number is a good excuse to say things that often feel awkward or out of place at other times.
So.

Faleminderit/fala/blagodaram/thanks for being part of this expedition with me

'A do ti dua ti dua ti dua' and other misheard lyrics

why are these building so ugly and so beautiful?

One of the first questions my students always ask me is "don't you get bored here? What do you do for fun?"

And now I can reply 'I ride my bicycle' (I'm still taking suggestions for stock Balkan names--maybe Skenderbeg? Golce Delcev? Man on the Horse?...). But seriously--I've fallen in love (perhaps not head-over-heels, but a gradual 'it's growing on me' and then it just keeps growing on me) with being here, with my life here, with living here. I even asked Fulbright if I could extend my contract for another year, because I feel like I'm just getting into the swing of things, and am loathe to up and move (granted I still have over four months here--so no need to start my goodbyes yet). Sadly, that won't be possible.
Although as another Fulbrigher in Kosovo joked, we can always get married here. and with this bicycle now... no but seriously. I think being a woman here--especially a woman raised in different cultural norms, and from a line of feisty women, nonetheless--would be challenging. I see a lot of my colleagues, especially the younger women, really pressed between cultural gendered norms and their own ambitions to be a professional academic. But, as a colleague joked, my parents are (!) coming in late June, so might as well kill two birds with one stone.
(I jest I jest. I'm not demija shopping just yet (Demija are these elaborately embroidered wedding clothes that are specific to Albanians in Tetovo--and I have a budding love-affair with them, although I'm going to my first wedding (and a demija will be worn (perhaps not by me) so well see how it looks in the flesh and blood)).

But one of the things which I'm coming to realize is that I love the thrill of being immersed in a new landscape: linguistic, topographic, cultural (hence my oodles of pictures of hills and trees and sky.) Let alone two linguistic landscapes (or three, or four--although I don't hear Turkish or Roma spoken all that much). and I always try to explain this to my students--that it's nearly impossible to be bored when there's language to be learned. And there is always language to be learned. (Especially when you sleep with a dictionary next to your bed).

           







I remember back in September attending a
poetry reading in Macedonian and Albanian, and it being the first time that I really just relaxed into Albanian--I didn't worry about understanding, or being intimidated by not being able to speak, to communicate, or not being able to engage with people in their first language, but just sat in the dark and let the words wash me. and I found that while Macedonian feels like a language with a lot of right angles (sounds like Cyrillic looks ш, ц, ж, џ, х, ч --beautiful in its own right!), Albanian is a round language, with all sorts of vowels that kind of roll around in the mouth, before landing on the ear. When walking through the streets (yeah) [Jethro Tull anyone?] I think I had been so preoccupied on not understanding, on that 'deer in the headlights' look when people would ask me something in Albanian and I had no idea what was going on, that I couldn't step back and see the language.

Being a person constantly lost in thought, I was, and still am, terribly conscious of mother-tongue pride--not to mean or to imply that one should not be proud of or attached to their mother tongue--and I love the appreciation I see on peoples faces when I try to speak their mother-tongue (even if I completely butcher it), but, especially as an outsider--it can be challenging to know which language to use with whom. Or, hear stories of the daily 'injustices' (and I use that word oh oh oh so carefully--but sometimes that is the way it has been described to me) of not getting to use one's mother tongue, instead opting for the wider lingua franca (I see this even at the Language Center where I work--where 99% of business is conducted in English, and yet a miremengjes or a dobro ytro brings a little glint to my colleagues' eyes, a sweet smile). Another place where I experience this tension is walking up Kale--and as I approach each fellow-walker, I never know what language to use to say hello--not that it's a big deal. But I like to know.

 So--while speaking Serbo-Croatian gave me a huge leg up communicating here (most everyone speaks Macedonian, another language on the South-Slavic spectrum), I didn't feel totally comfortable only speaking one language here. And yet--was unable to speak any other language. And, being in a predominantly Albanian-speaking town--it's hard to eavesdrop (one of my primary language-learning strategies) when I can't distinguish up from down--figuratively speaking.

 And it was in those moments, back in September, listening to local poets, when I realized that somehow I had been afraid of Albanian, or carried some anxiety about it as I walked through the streets, as I got to know my Tetovo. And that that anxiety prevented me from just seeing it, from accepting it as this unbelievably rich, beautiful collection of sounds, symbols, a new system for meaning-making (be it a grammatically complex one).  and seeing that I was afraid--that there was something, lurking, subconsciously which was inhibiting me--well a lot has changed since then. but I guess that's the lovely chart of culture shock.

Kale and beyond

while my Albanian hasn't totally taken off--I think I mistakenly told a colleague that his son should come live with me in America (not what I was trying to say!)--it's a delight. Mujo--who works in the Language Center at the university, and whose job, it seems, is mostly dealing with student complaints/requests--always has a minute to explain something to me, Suzana--my officemate--is teaching me Albanian one recipe at a time (now I just have to cook them!), even the three women who clean the offices always wait patiently as I search for the right word (or, as the case usually is, a word, the right one or not--usually by the end of the day my language skills aren't at their best). The guy who I bought oranges from a few days ago, or the women in the bakery across the street from my house who have been my ever-patient teachers of how to say the number 2 (dy--an u with rounded lips, kind of outside of the mouth? I'm still working on it. it also means that I just try to buy lots of things in twos--just to practice a little more). Malvina--who gracefully bridges both Albanian and English--reads me Albanian poetry and then translates it (my favorite was  'all the men are sitting out under the trees, making the rules, even while they know that the women do all the work [make the community run]'), or will yell out translations of song lyrics when we're listening to music.

However--I still have my language mishaps: for at least a week I though that the song 'Faleminderit" by Elita 5 (a Albanian rock band which made their mark in the 80s but are still beloved) was "faleminderit (thank you) Chamberland (as in Neville Chamberland? 'an interesting figure from history to thank, but...') when really it is "Faleminderit qe me le (Thank you for leaving me--a bit of a different message). I've also convinced myself that 'A do ti dua pergjithmone' (will I love you forever?) are the correct lyrics when really it's 'se do ti dua pergjithmone' (I will love you forever), which again, changes things just a bit.

Last Wednesday, with my kids class at the American Corner, we've now got both Albanian speaking and Macedonian speaking kids--which means that a lot of translation happens (which I actually think is really cool, watching these kids jump from language to language--we're also going to work on learning 'we are the world' and then translate it into as many of the local languages as possible, for Earth Day. if anyone knows ASL for We are the World and wants to make a fool-proof video of it and then send it to me, I really want to teach them a little ASL (also--does anyone know how _SLs operate in other countries/other languages? do people sign Albanian SL, or Macedonian SL? (they must!?)), but they asked me to tell a joke, first in English, and then attempt in Macedonian and Albanian. Probably my speaking was more amusing than the joke itself--language/culture-based humor doesn't translate well.


My Macedonian--sadly--isn't too active, just because I don't have a lot of opportunities to use it, and don't hear it spoken as much (although I do have one-on-one classes each week with a professor at the university, which is wonderful), and there are plenty of soap-operas subtitles in Macedonian (which means that I have to watch the soap opera). Whenever possible, I try to write, read, speak, listen but it's hard because language circles don't always overlap very much. Not because there are distinct spheres where one uses one language, and not the other (except perhaps for government institutions, but even the Ohrid Framework Agreement I think stipulates that Albanian can be used as a language of state affairs in communities like Tetovo) but because we are social beings--and people go to places where they will find their friends. And at least right now, especially because schools are separated by language of instruction, I'm not sure how prevalent cross-linguistic social groups are--but I'm sure they exist.
 I think if I were here for longer, I'd really like to devote some more time to serious study of Macedonian, maybe spending more time in Macedonian speaking communities/circles, just to develop a feel for it (there are all sorts of surprises, like slight stress differences between Macedonian and BCS, which I can't seem to grasp or remember).

Anyhow--should run to work. even just for the last hour.
enjoy the photos of Tetovo's cloud-drama

Zen and the art of Teaching/why I bought a bicycle

After my last post in the height of culture shock, Todd wrote to suggest I adopt the "zen approach"--which honestly I think deserves its own chapter in Larsen-Freeman's 'Techniques and Principles in Language Teaching.'

Zen.

how beautiful. and how true--what other options are there? I can't build or break the academic reputation of a university, I can't make my students do things which they aren't prepared for. in nine weeks, of course I can do something--even somethings--but I can't do it all. I can only do what I can do. the trick is figuring out what I can do--and what I can enable or encourage others to do. because for me zen is also about pushing things forward, about growth.

In so many ways, striving for zen I think describes my approach to culture shock in general here--working to not let things 'get to me'--and when they do, having lots of conversations in public places where I just make loud hand motions-- and, by the same token, doing what feels right to me without caving into fear. I often hear people speaking about, or from, a place of fear--and not of huge things, but fear of the mundane, fear of the day to day; fear of walking alone (let alone at night! gasp!), fear of stray dogs, fear of becoming infertile from sitting on pavement, or having my kidneys freeze because my shirt isn't tucked into my pants, fear of the omniscient/omnipresent all-judging eye (of the neighbors, people on the streets, colleagues and strangers alike).

And so, yesterday, Malvina and I bought bicycles. Even as I reject materialism--pedaling away, I felt like I had just bought freedom.

However, most of the other people on bikes are
1. men, and
2. elderly

so Malvina and I stand out just a bit. and I realized that we basically have two options:
1. let standing out bother us--and not ride, or
2. smile and bike on

even in the rain.

Wowie Zowie: Academic Culture Shock

And yet again--a big wet slap in the face of academic culture shock. Every so often I get walloped with one. and every time I am surprised. and taken totally unawares.

 I like to think that I'm finding my 'Tetovo legs' as it were, that I'm figuring out the steps to the dance here, when to pause, shift weight, lift the ankle, smile to myself and then charge on, . And just like dancing the oro/valle (I'm sure someone can tease apart the differences but I can't), I find myself wrapped up in the rhythm, finding what feels like my own kind of grace.

And then suddenly Dischord (for any of you who haven't read the Phantom Tollbooth; (h)ajde!) taps me on the shoulder, startling me, and sometimes I trip, regain my poise and carry on. and sometimes I take a nose-dive.

Today brought one of those 'total disbelief' culture shocks--my students (now in their 4th year of study) have never done independent research.

Asked to teach them academic English--I put together a syllabus to work on writing literature reviews because, after reading a lot of papers from colleagues and students (and my own work!), I think it's a skill that could use some particular attention. I asked my students to log onto EbscoHost--which the university subscribes to (much to my delight)--poke around and find 10 related articles (pick something that interests you!), pick 5, read, analyze and then synthesize (over the course of the semester, mind you).
and my students came to my office today saying they had never been asked to do independent research before.

'Can you teach us?' they asked. 'I can show you,' I replied, 'but I don't know that I can teach you.'

I know part of what is coursing through my veins right now is the mismatch between my expectations (and my feelings of being in just a little over my head sometimes) and what reality presents me with. But (what a dangerous word) part of me isn't quite ready to let go of my expectations--or at least let go of them all the way.

other than just being shocked--I find myself thrown back to square one 'how how how do you teach people to be independent learners? to be curious learners? to throw obsession with grades out the window and fall in love with ideas, thinking, reading, questioning?' and I guess research can be driven by the paper, the assessment, just getting it done because it needs to get done (goodness knows we've all done it). but that isn't the kind of research I want to teach.

so if anyone's got suggestions: I'm all ears.

Yeah Women!

Happy 8th of March--Urime tete Mars--Srecen osmi Marta!


Yes. Of course I'm pro-mother/women's day (I'm also pro-roses that the student parliament was handing out). But I can't help but wonder--what about the other 364 (and a quarter!) days? Are those, by default, "let's celebrate men days?"(please don't answer that question--although I guess it begs the question "what does 'celebrate' mean in this context?").

I know that the point is not 'let's not acknowledge all the wonderful things Women do other days of the year and save it for the 8th', but the 8th makes a little space for things to be said.

But why should they go unsaid the rest of the year?

So beloved women: mom, grandma, Patti, Kathy, Jill, Nancy, Dotty,  Suzana, Marica, Timka (and many more than I can name right now), I celebrate you today, on this 8th of March--just as I celebrate you, and find inspiration in your strength, courage, love and affection every other day of the year.

The power of praxis/I believe in nonviolence

'I object to violence because when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent'
thankyou Gandhiji

These past few days, facebook (yes folks--I'm writing about facebook. what has the world come to?) has been awash with news--mostly in Albanian--about the violence in Skopje (Mom, Dad. Don't worry--I'm fine. it's the same old same old sleepy Tetovo-town). and I just want to walk around and sigh all day. firstly because this is my home--and there's little worse than getting security warnings from folks at the Embassy (especially via text--how decontextualized), seeing the photos, the sadness in the voices of my colleagues. Maybe it's that I'm not a particularly violent person--but violence, especially senseless violence (come now Claire, what violence isn't senseless?)--beating children in the streets, well it doesn't make sense to me. I can't comprehend how people believe or see violence as "working." And these past few days of protesting, rock throwing, smashing windows--tell me: How does this help? who does this help (other than politicians--who no one seems to really like, but tolerate because "thats how it works here")? What good comes of this?

Violence--as these past few days have shown--always begets more violence.

I'm honestly not sure how it all started--but a controversial former UCK leader was given a prominent position in the department of defense (he's now a politician. oh some things never change) and there were protests  (the UCK is taking over the army, and that kind of nonsense). and then there were some mysterious beatings of school children by uber-nationalist Macedonians--and then counterprotests by probably nationalist Albanians which got heated (a bus got burned, some arrests, some injured).
and Mom--because I'm sure you're reading this and starting to fret--I really don't think there's serious danger of something erupting (I'm also remembering a similar e-mail I sent you from Georgia just about five years ago. and no--I still am not interested in being a war correspondent. so don't worry. a colleague, for example lives smack dab in the middle of where everything was happening and said it wasn't that big a deal (and, duh. I'm not going to go around the Carsija singing Xhamadani Vija Vija (a popular Albanian song--which could probably be seen as provocative in someone's eyes) or anything). Things here in Tetovo are quiet--the smog is probably more of a threat to my health than anything.

So on a philosophical/life-being way I can't comprehend what is happening around me. but, what's even more frustrating and saddening is that the response I hear from so many--especially young people--is "oh. this happens every year, or around election time. it's no big deal [read: why are you concerned about this? you silly American]. it's just the way things work here. Macedonians and Albanians--well, we always fight." like it's programmed into the DNA here or something.

and my knee-jerk reaction is "I can't believe that--violence isn't genetic" but when I stop and think for a moment--the weight of that kind of statement really hits me.  violence is so normalized that people just pass it off as pre-election tension, or hooligans or just the way things work. (It's especially aggravating when people start with the sentence "What do you expect, this is the Balkans?). If it's become so normalized, so internalized--how do we raise enough critical consciousness to question, to reject, to change this kind of behavior? and without that fundamental rejection of violence as the solution (or even as a solution) how, tell me how, can there be living breathing peace? here or anywhere.

So yes "I believe in non-violence and I believe in praxis"

I'm just not quite sure how to get there.

Last week for one of my classes we "read" (we is perhaps a too inclusive pronoun--some of us read, some only downloaded) Keith Basso's "Stalking with Stories"--which develops a hunting metaphore for using stories/stories rooted in place and place names to teach/impart the moral/social values of the Western Apache (within the community as a way of reifying what it means to "be," to practice Apache). it's a beautiful piece and I highly recommend it to any and all--and will gladly hook you up with a copy if you like. when a person has transgressed, someone, usually an elder in the community will "shoot them with a story"--a narrative of an event, somehow parallel to this particular event or action, set in a specific locale in the community. linking the place with the story (and more importantly the moral message contained within the story) serves as a way for the individual to think of that story (and their misdeeds) every time they see that place, or hear it's name (god it's beautiful. embodied/embedded reflective practice). these arrows, these stories "work on you," helping you see your own errors, and change your (evil) ways through this link between self, place, community. 

But I also see how in order for these stories to effectively stalk you--in order for you to "meet" the other, to use Vahido's language--you have to hear them.

Hear as an active not a passive verb--to let the words in, to let them work their magic on you.

to be able to hear something that may challenge you--what you believe, or see, think or do. it takes a certain kind of willingness to hear criticism or challenges in a productive manner--it's far too easy to ignore them all together, or to get defensive. and it's a totally self-directed process, I can't force someone else to hear me, to reflect, take ownership of their past mistakes--or to try to change themselves. it comes from within. you have to, in a way, let yourself be hit by the arrow. agree to be hunted.

and people who have that strength, that courage, that love to truly transform themselves--

I am in awe of you.

The thing that Basso doesn't discuss is how places--especially when linked to what has happened there (either real, imagined or semitrue, constructed) also inform how we interpret/interact with places--how other stories of our community stalk us--with or without a storyteller/hunter to direct them. the still destroyed houses along the Sana in Sanski Most--they certainly stalked me. and still do. and I'm sure the conflict in 2001 here in Tetovo is still stalking this community.

the question is what we will learn from it.