The closed door

It was an early autumn morning when she headed to join the military convoy. An hour later she was climbing the stairs up to the fourth floor in one of the residential buildings. She finally reached the familiar door panting. It had been months since she last climbed them. Her hand hovered over the doorbell for a couple of long minutes. Was that the sound of footsteps on the other side? And then the sweat, an old traitor, started breaking through. That was it. She gave up and went back down the stairs to the second floor. She stopped before another familiar door and this time it was a little easier to make a buzz. The woman who opened it couldn’t hide the surprise. It was all over her round moon-shaped face. She muttered a few how, when, whats but overall was glad to see her. That was a relief. They sat down together for a brief chat but there was not much time to lose. She kindly asked the woman to phone the fourth floor neighbours to check  if they would mind if she dropped by shortly. That seemed like a better idea to her. Not to catch them by surprise. If they refused, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Anyway, the woman reported that they didn’t mind at all. And up she went again.

Two people let her in - a man and a woman approximately her age. They were both very nice. They invited her to sit down and have another coffee with them. She could hardly swallow but didn’t want to be rude. She sat down stiff on a sofa she had picked herself a few years earlier. She fought hard to win over another living room set her husband liked better. They quarreled a lot about it and drove each other mad, as well as the delivery men who carried first one and then the other heavy bunch of furniture up and down that same staircase. The two of them waged a little war about it and in the end she won. However, that day she didn't feel exactly like a winner should.

She had a quick glance at her watch and again explained that she had only a little time left before going back to the convoy. She asked if she could pick up a few pieces of clothes from her and her children’s wardrobe. The winter was coming. There were also a couple of diplomas, birth certificates and a few childish things her daughter missed very much. The people encouraged her to take whatever she wanted and so she went to the bedrooms to see what would be most necessary to pack. The woman followed her like a shadow. It made her feel wired, a little bit like a thief or a beggar. The familiar wardrobes had some unfamiliar clothes in it and the woman probably wanted to make sure that she didn’t take what was not hers. Everything was in together. What was it that she wanted to take? It was hard to concentrate.

She finished quickly and just before leaving they invited her to have lunch with them. The very thought of it made her stomach  turn. She tried to refuse politely but they insisted. And one by one, the table was covered with familiar pots, plates, knives and forks. No, it wasn’t a twilight zone, yet the objects kept staring back at her. She was kindly told to help herself.  She tried to force a few bites down the throat but they just kept coming back. Even the tranquillizers she drank that morning couldn’t help much in finishing it. She suddenly found it unbearable to stay any minute longer. She thanked them a lot for a nice meal, picked up her plastic bags and headed towards the door. And again it closed behind her. A new name plate was on it.

Check your expiry date on blaming!

Upon meeting a quiet, reserved, shy guy the last thing one would expect to hear, especially not from the guy himself, is that he is easily provoked into fight charging at his enemies like a bull while his friends try to pull him back by the sleeve. In my case the astonishment was even greater as only a few minutes earlier he had complained about having problems with girls for a reason he didn’t know. He wondered why they never stay with him for a long time.

If I hadn’t been so taken aback with this disconnected thinking I would have probably taken some time to predigest in my mind what I wanted to say instead of just blurting out  “Oh, no wonder girls dump you!”. Again surprisingly, my reaction was completely unexpected to him. It looked as if he bit his tongue for saying any of it thinking “Damn, that’s not the impression I’d wanted to make. Her mind went into wrong direction. “ I made him bite his tongue even harder by elaborating on the subject. I actually wanted to help giving him an, obviously very much needed, insight into fear his ex-es might have felt upon realising that they are with somebody who seriously lacks self-control and might lose his temper easily and, who knows, might even raise his hand on his girlfriend. His reassurance that any such thing would never ever happen simply wasn’t convincing enough so he, looking very troubled by then of trying to reverse this unflattering image, mumbled something about his traumatic childhood that taught him to fight for himself, in the real meaning of the word. This was supposed to justify his aggressive behaviour and short temper.

By the same logic I guess, upon hearing of my experience of a refugee, people often feel free to express their annoyance with somebody belonging to any of a number of  “not so popular nationalities” and especially the one that didn’t show much understanding for mine even if the person in question has nothing to do with it. The experience sort of entitles me to be rightfully angry and hostile to these people. I was supposed to learn to act aggressively in my future life as a measure of prevention or in self-defence when facing any different nationality. I am supposed to revenge for my bad fortune and make other people suffer some more, and oh yes, I should call it “fighting for myself”.  

With all these expectations of a person confiding in me, you can imagine their shock when all they get is one big frown on my face followed by a sharp “So what if he or she is (xy)-ian? Do you have a problem with that?”. I get all worked up, with a lot of steam coming out of my ears, but even then I don’t charge at anyone physically, only verbally perhaps, which is again not a good response as on several occasions I overreacted when somebody just wanted to know somebody else’s nationality not meaning any harm (or so they claimed as I am still not completely convinced). People usually don’t realise that it was exactly the same pattern of thinking on the opposite side that contributed to my refugeedom. Any such accusation of an individual on behalf of the nation’s bad reputation actually reminds me of the treatment I used to get in the past. Even though I’ve witnessed how much collective can influence the shaping of the frame of mind of an individual, I still feel it unacceptable not to give somebody a chance to prove you the opposite, that he or she is an independent thinker, and after all just a human being or even a potential friend. Why not? Most of my friends are a result of a wonderful combo of different origins. It makes them, and me as well, only richer.

On the other hand, accepting the same pattern of behaviour to protect yourself from whatever struck upon you in life is the easiest but at the same time a degrading choice. By doing so you perhaps involuntarily, yet inevitably, become exactly what you are fighting against. There is an array of reasons one can easily pull out of sleeve to account for any such irresponsible behaviour or thinking. You can always write it off to your parents, upbringing, war and life circumstances in general. Yet, aren’t these actually the lessons you should pick up some valuable experience from and use it to upgrade yourself?

People are amazing in that they have fought for centuries for freedom of act and speech, but when it comes to making important decisions in life they back up and rather let others make them for them. So even if there aren’t any past or present circumstances to put the blame on, they’ll go and ask somebody else to do the thinking for them. Instead of asking for advice, they often look for somebody to take all the responsibility off their shoulders. Isn’t it very convenient to have somebody else to blame if anything goes wrong? It was funny to hear this from a priest who complained of this twisted logic of the people who turn to him to solve their problems.

I believe George Bernard Show had some of the above on his mind when he wrote:

People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can't find them, make them.

An oracle called history

In the village where my father, grandfather and their forefathers were born, there was a hundred year old book written by a monk who came to do his service for the local church. This funny fellow was in the habit of shocking people with his strange visions of future often provoked by people and situations, but sometimes he would simply spell it out, in a manner of a local Nostradamus. These disturbing and often enigmatic windows to the future were said to be written down in that ancient book. I have never seen the written proof itself but I’ve been hearing some of his words circling around from mouth to mouth among the locals ever since I was a kid. Some whispered them with awe, or better say fear, others repeated them mockingly, yet nobody believed that some of his most alarming prophecies would come true, at least not in their life time. How on earth could one vast area of the country become deserted over night, as he used to say? And what did he mean by saying that “the ones who leave the first will eat with a golden spoon, whereas those who leave the last will have nothing but a wooden one”?

With the onset of war, these perplexing words started to make more sense and when the day came when deserted soldiers, runaway husbands and fathers rushed from battlefields to their villages spreading the word that the enemy was approaching fast and that there was no time for packing, people jumped in the cars and tractor trailers knowing that their wooden spoons were waiting for them.

Some time ago I was reading a non-fiction book written by a renowned local historian describing my homeland less than a hundred years ago when I came to a passage that gave a very vivid account of a situation shockingly similar to the one my family and I went through in recent history. There was an ethnic clash in which one side was breaking the shop windows of another with the same hatred and even identical  threatening words shouted out loud. I marched into the kitchen with a book and demanded an explanation from my father. I wanted to know if he knew anything about it. Actually it was not a question, it sounded more like an accusation and I didn’t quite believe him when he said he hadn’t heard about that very episode. Yet, even so, he knew about the animosity, and the hatred, and how unwelcome we were and he still let us go through that same hell our forefathers had gone through, obviously in vain. I held him responsible. I found him guilty of being naive for believing that people are too good to let horrors happen or, even worse, repeat. He trusted them too much, he didn’t take the warning signs seriously and completely ignored history that made a fool of us again. I could almost hear it laughing.

My anger waned quickly as I knew I loved my father for what he was, sometimes too naive but more often as openhearted and giving as one can be. However my issue with the history remained unresolved. How are we to handle it? Ignore it, scorn it and each and every time learn all over again, or acknowledge it and approach life and the world more carefully? If we could only know who wrote it and whose version of a story we are presented with. And which version is the right one, if there is the right one? We are living in an age of doubt acutely aware of what a little propaganda and marketing can do. Words have become the most powerful weapons.

Another issue is how to approach people then? Seeing the worst of them made me perhaps too careful. In an attempt not to be naive, at one point I became too reserved and sceptical. And when it comes to people, it is not hard to guess what happens if you keep yourself at a safe distance from the potential danger. Yes, you are bound to end up feeling lonely.

Perhaps father was right after all. Even if you do know historical facts and learn its lessons, living by them turns out be too hard. I may still be confused about the best approach to history, but I am nevertheless more than thankful to both my parents for being raised as a human being, neither superior nor inferior, but equal to anybody on this planet no matter what any propaganda may try to convince me into believing.

Christmas fever

I returned to my grandparents home in the middle of the night and tiptoed into the empty side of the bed, next to my aunt. The floor complained squeaking with every careful step I made but nobody seemed to be disturbed by it. A tune from the radio in the car was still playing in my ears. Soft, mellow voices were singing about love, peace, faith and hope, appropriately soothing for the important religious holiday. Only the circumstances in the world outside the car weren’t exactly tuned in neither with the melody nor with the holiday. 

After a week or so of staying with my friends for Christmas holidays, everything changed over night. Fear, panic and confusion took hold of everyone because the other side changed their mind about the peace treaty and struck with all the force. I was quite safe staying with the good old family friends but still inside I felt eaten up with worry and suspension. No news from my family. They were close to the line of defence. Only 30 miles away from it. Were they still there or evacuated? When would I see them again? What if all of us had to go? How was I going to find them?

Days and nights passed with gnawing fear and anxiety growing larger until one evening I saw Dad stepping into a room, wearing a uniform. A heavy stone fell from my heart upon seeing him and the air suddenly became more breathable. There was no time for warm greetings however, as the car was waiting for us outside. A quick goodbye with the friends and I was on my way to join the rest of the family, still at my grandparents place, thirty miles away from the guns and fire. The nearness of guns didn’t really matter. It was easier to bear anything as long as we were together.

The next morning I got up a little later than the others and slowly descended the stairs that were stuck on the outside wall of the house, leading to the bedrooms upstairs. As usual, half way down, I peeped through the steamy window curious to see what was going on in the kitchen. I was struck with the sight, almost rubbing my eyes to see if I was in the right house.  An army of unfamiliar faces sitting by the long table was eating the familiar polenta with yoghurt. I sneaked in shyly and waited for an empty chair. The mystery was soon resolved. The unfamiliar faces were "never seen before" distant relatives and family friends who had to leave their homes and had nowhere else to go. The house and the yard soon turned into a refugee camp and so Christmas seemed more like a Refugeemas. It was the biggest family and friends reunion ever indeed.

Interestingly, at the time when people were supposed to bury their axes and remember of brotherhood and humanity the worst would come out of them. “Their” Christmas was the most hated days of all, because what is dearest to your enemy is of course the object of the greatest hatred to you. That reminds me of a kid breaking the dearest toy of another kid out of spite, in the middle of a quarrel. And if two Christan fractions are not able to show understanding and respect for each other, how can it be expected from others. Thus, an occasional bomb or the whole rain of them would follow as a very special Christmas treat. The whole scenario would repeat reciprocally 14 days later when the other side was celebrating the other but essentially the same Christmas.

The only person who openly ignored this battle cry was my Grandfather. Even though his birthday happened to be on, alas, “the most detested day of all days in the year” it gave me a lot of fun to watch him argue with the rest of the family about throwing his birthday party. While the others worried about what neighbours might say and in general ridiculed his idea to celebrate birthday at that age and in those depressing circumstances, he would remain as relentless and stubborn as a little kid. First he would raise his voice in an outburst of fury and then sulk for a while like an old Indian chief, lips tight together, arms folded, legs crossed and then again he would wave his big hands around until everybody else got tired and gave in.

As I think of it now, there was much satisfaction in seeing individual overpowering collective, in heart instead of rule following and in universal madness being defeated by a small, personal, childish whim. 

Couple of years later:  How to survive escaping a bullet? 
                                A survivor

Have you helped someone today?

Once again it was morning, in another city, in another country, sunny, fresh and full of surprises. The bus stopped after a half an hour of rhythmical clink-clanking and I stepped off a little drowsy into an early morning hustle and bustle of the city market. Rivers of people hurrying to work were intersected with sellers dragging huge bundles of this and that, honking, grumbling, bellowing.  So even I, who normally wouldn’t notice if an elephant walked by at that time of the morning, spotted an old lady ahead of me stooping to pick up some dropped oranges. I quickened my step to give her a hand but, just before I reached her, she had dunked the last one into her bag and was already marching in front of me. A minute later an orange missile whizzed past my ear straight into the old lady’s back and was soon followed by another one. The granny surprisingly didn’t look back. She just kept on marching, even if not a little faster. A shout that accompanied the second flying orange made me drop my jaw, “Shame on you! Stealing in those years! Here, take some more with you!”.

A little further, if you turn left around the corner, a long street will get you right to the city center. However, after only a couple of days of walking up and down the local main street, you might  start approaching it as if it were a ski path and adopt a zigzagging technique trying to evade “the money collectors” bumping into people, getting into their way or dragging them by the sleeve to sell some cards or badges to help the abandoned kids, animals or refugees. Always the same plastic smiles on the same faces, never early in the morning though. If they hadn’t been smiling so much they might have persuaded me that all the money was really going to end up in the right hands and not just some symbolic percentage of it.  

Obviously, so many phonies in the streets account for some of human disregard for those who really need help, yet not for all of it. Many studies have confirmed that a person could easily die in the middle of the street full of people if they suddenly collapsed. The scientists explain this social and psychological phenomenon as the Bystander Effect. I witnessed one such unfortunate event and was horrified feeling all the cruelness of the humanity in those very long minutes of trying to call for help as I realised that I couldn’t move a collapsed man on my own. He was lying in the middle of the street and the cars just kept circling around us. The man was unconscious and in some sort of physical agony his body shaking and twitching, whereas I trembled for quite a while later from the emotional agony of this shameful incident.  

Anyhow, such human reaction, or rather lack of it, in a situation in which somebody is spread on the street and another person cries out loud for help gives you a clue of what happens to those who are not as loud.

@ UNHCR/Florian/Transparency/Photovoice

However, being ignored is not the worst that can happen to a person. In a clash of two ethnic groups, at the time of madness, when my family had to leave home, not only were we ignored, we were kicked out of a temporary shelter we managed to find in the exile. We were kicked out into the street again, only this time by the people of the same nationality, the locals. The motive was as ancient as the human race - pure, old-fashioned, insatiable greed. Somebody needed more space for themselves. So it happened that our lives were threatened again. An important lesson was learnt however on realising that one is not to fear any ethnicity or religion but some ever present human flaws.

The society is indeed full of controversies. On the one hand you have a whole new spectrum of volunteering agencies making money on the increasing number of people who want to cross oceans to help and, on the other, you have people dying before the eyes of passers-by. Sometimes people don’t realise that you don’t have to go far away if you want to help somebody. Why not start with your closest members of the family, friends and neighbours, fellow citizens? Perhaps volunteering agencies would then go bankrupt.
                                                                                                 
An interesting idea has been launched through a book called Pay It Forward by Catherine Ryan Hyde and later a film made by it in which a little boy Trevor does a favor for three people, asking each of them to "pay the favor forward" by doing favors for three other people, and so on. It sounds much like a fiction so I was surprised to find out that The Pay It Forward Movement does actually exist as well as its Foundation.

If you ask the professionals, they will tell you that helping people works in two ways - by helping others, you help yourself. When a renowned psychiatrist Dr Karl Menninger was asked what a person should do if he or she felt a “nervous breakdown” coming on, he said “Lock up your house, go across the railroad tracks, find someone in need, and do something for them.”

I would just like to add another aspect to it by returning to the unconscious man in the road. After a while, one of the cars that were circling around us finally stopped and a guy jumped out of it to help. He quickly moved the man to the pavement, put him in the right position, rubbed his temples with some water and continued stroking his head even after the man had regained consciousness. I think the guy wasn’t aware of it, but his stroking silenced more than the man’s pain and fear. I could as well feel my shivers subside with every gentle move of his hand and the world suddenly appeared to be a friendlier place to live.

Too familiar to hate

A refugee girl was telling her life story on TV when the interviewer asked her:

“How do you feel about the people who belong to the nationality that caused you and your family so much pain?”

and the girl answered:

“I know that people who belong to the same nationality are not all good or bad, but I still feel very uncomfortable with the issue. I cannot forgive or forget what happened…”.

If couple of years ago somebody had asked me the same question, my answer would have been similar. And, oh wonder, in her case I was one of those people she was referring to! My nationality gives her creeps and nightmares! She would be uncomfortable in my company! Somebody sees me as a threat!

To make it even more absurd, in the first part of the interview the girl talked about the lack of understanding people belonging to her nationality showed for refugees such as herself.  And yet, there I was, her much feared and anxiety giving fellow human, sitting and thinking how familiar it all was to me. I would have known much of what she’d been through even if she hadn’t said anything further from the word refugee.

It left me wondering about what really connects people. Is it nationality or experience and hardship that you go through?
And what is a nationality after all? Something devised to divide people and make them fight? Would this world be simpler and more peaceful without it?

Perhaps in a fairytale if you ask me. As long as there are greedy minds there will be wars. People are not evil but are easy to manipulate and anything can serve the purpose: nationality, religion, colour of skin, shape of eyes, nose, toes, you name it. I see people as kids with beards, mustaches, breasts and grown-up voices. They've learnt a lot but are still quite naive. You can easily trick them into believing anything you want and then also doing anything you want, even if it is hating, fighting, killing...

However, connecting opposite sides, listening to the life stories of the "supposed-to-be-enemies" can help you realise that both you and your neighbours had been manipulated into hating each other because the stage was perfectly set by a group of manipulation experts, and then sure you can refuse to be a part of it! Killings cannot be easily written off as childish behaviour and the ravaging mass of deluded people is much to be feared of. Yet, no matter how fanatically deviant the world may seem at the time, you should always keep in mind that some human goodness lies hidden back and works silently and anonymously.

After all, is it possible to be enemies with somebody who speaks your feelings and thoughts even better than perhaps you would yourself?