Petrovaradin

This is a slightly longer version of my part of the Serbia group update. I had to cut it down for the group update, which you can check out here: http://www.princeton.edu/bridgeyear/updates/archives/index.xml?id=6155  Definitely worth reading.


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              Before there was Novi Sad, there was Petrovaradin. While now just one part of the second largest city in Serbia, it began as a small town on the east bank of the Danube, with a history highly defined by its relationships with the fortresses it had grown around through the years. The first was built as a border post for the vast Roman Empire; the last and current was built by Austrians in the 18th century. Sometimes called “Gibraltar on the Danube” for its domination of both the skyline and the river below, Petrovaradin Fortress was once a powerful symbol of the might of Austria, in a time when the Ottoman Empire was pushing against the borders of southern Europe. Today it is in some ways a relic, but it is a beautiful one, home to restaurants, cafes, art studios, a music school, and one of Europe’s largest music festivals, Exit. It is one of the biggest tourist attractions Novi Sad offers.

For me, though, it is more than just those things. While the fortress no longer stands guard against invading Turks, it still seems to watch over the city. From within Novi Sad, the fortress is almost never visible, but from its ramparts all can be seen. The city proper stretches out across the river, Petrovaradin reaches behind it, and Sremska Kamenica curls along the right bank of the Danube. It is the highest point for miles around, and only the spire of the catholic cathedral in Trg Slobode (Liberty Square) compares to the height of its walls. Solely from this unique vantage point can the city in its entirety be taken in: the sparkling of the Danube in the sun, the hustle of the streets of Novi Sad, the quiet of Petrovaradin, the lights of Sremska Kamenica that flicker on as daylight fades, and of course the sunset, always bold and always beautiful. From this vantage point, things can be put into perspective.

Perspective, I think, is essential in taking the most from every lesson that Serbia offers. It is easy in daily life to become distracted with individual experiences: working with the children at Svratište, studying Serbian at the faculty, or drinking coffee with friends. While these are certainly fulfilling in their own ways, packing my schedule with things to do comes at the cost of having less time alone to think, and a novel experience without reflection is one partially lost. Fun is wonderful, but so is assessing that fun, considering what it can teach me about myself, Serbia, and the world at large. That’s what the fortress is for me. It’s a place for such reflection, where the entire picture can come into focus, where I can make sense of it all.

The image I get from the view on its walls is a meaningful and colored one. Firstly there is a great beauty in this place, both physically and in the abstract. The people are kind and forgiving of mistakes, even if Serbian grammar is not. The city’s buildings are quaintly European, though many of them do suffer from too much graffiti. The river is a cool refresher during summer heat, and Vojvodina in general is a wonderfully slow moving place. Enjoyment of life is a cardinal principal. But beneath the exterior, there are certainly some problems, too. The impoverished Roma community is largely ignored, nationalist tension runs high among many disenfranchised youth, and homophobia threatens the rights of ordinary citizens. These problems aren’t hopeless, though. At Svratište za Decu Ulice (Drop in Center for Street Children), I work daily with people who recognize and hope to positively affect the nation in these areas and in other ways. They give me hope. They are the quiet effectors of change, the steadfast gears helping to alter the way the greater machine works. They do not want for lack of power, but embrace and utilize the power they do have.

Watching their example has been inspiring. I originally came to Serbia with doubts about my ability to be effective in my service. I was told and I can see for myself that what the country needs most is social change, not simple charity that tries to heal an internally based problem with a band-aid. Like the fortress that I would come to love, I believed that I might end up a relic---that I would have neither the skills nor the chance to make any sort of social difference. That I would be offering something that could have been used sometime in the past, but that wasn’t really important now. I couldn’t see how I could possibly change any lives here because I couldn’t imagine how I could go beyond the basic model of service as something physical. But the reality is not nearly so grim.

Like the volunteers I admire, I can offer my time, my energy, and my love to the people I meet. I have the distinct pleasure of working with children, and when I set aside the lofty goal of “make a difference”, I realized that they give me a unique opportunity to do just that. When I talk to them in my broken Serbian, or play basketball with them, or give them a big hug, I’m actively participating in that needed social change. I’ve begun to recognize that I can personally add a thin layer of texture to their lives, partly because I’m American and exotic, and partly because I’m just one more person who cares about them as individuals. I cherish that reality. Making a difference is simply choosing to care. It’s something so simple, and yet so beautiful. So now when I sit on the fortress and ask myself the inevitable question: “Am I making a difference?” I answer that I am. I’ve spent a lot of hours playing games, and I’ve made a lot of little friends, and I’ve made a lot of children smile. Those things are small, yes, but they count. It’s social change, one smile at a time.

Eating for None

They say language is the cornerstone of culture. They say that it is the basis for the way people think, feel, and perceive the world. And they say that it is best experienced over a plate of food---that the conversations held round the table with family are the most meaningful. That it is not the conversation with a friend on the phone that matters most, but the one face to face at the local cafe. If language is the hammer used to forge our understandering of other cultures, food may very well be the anvil. This is something we realize without ever speaking. It is evident in the way we talk about Italians and their cooking, or Russian mothers and the way they feed to show affection; in the way we speak of food as something to be experienced, not merely as something that is functional at best and an annoying part of our day at worst. Food is clearly integral to the way in which people live life.

But...let me ask a question. What happens when you are unable to participate in the beauty of a good meal? What happens when food is not something that can be enjoyed? What happens when your taste buds have betrayed you since birth, sucking out your ability to simply eat, without trouble or inconvenience? But most importantly, how does that inability affect one's opportunities to experience culture?

These are questions I have had to deal with my entire life. In the States, it is a problem easily avoided most days. We come from a culture that believes in choices, and this is reflected in the shear number of options we have each and every day. So over the years, I have slowly but surely cherry picked a few preferred dishes from the multitude. These days, it's easy to go to lunch and find one of those few good meals. And at home, I am simply able to choose what I eat. If only I never wanted to travel!

But I do. And travelling to Russia was hard because of that. I liked very few foods I found there, and almost none of the genuine Russian dishes. Thankfully, my host family was amazing, and they catered to me out of concern for my health and because that was simply what they wanted to do for me, their American son. They went above and beyond what I could have ever expected or asked for them to do realistically. Because of their willingness to serve me spaghetti and chicken, I was even able to experience the eat-until-you-can't-move culture of Russia. And I loved it. But I still came home a few pounds lighter and wondering why I couldn't just enjoy food like everyone else.

Now, two days into my Serbian year, I've already experienced trouble finding food I like. I've found meals that I can eat, but I still feel like I'm missing something. When I look at a plate of Serbian food, I want to like. I want to like it so much. But then I don't, just like I didn't like the plate before that, or the Russian food a year before that, or the food in the States before that. And it makes me feel like I'm in the wrong somehow. It makes me feel like I'll never be able to participate 100% in the language-over-food exchange that is so important to so many cultures. So sometimes I get sad.

On those occasions in the past, I've just sucked it up and move on. I'll do that here too. What I'm missing is just one puzzle piece, and though it's a piece I don't need to complete the entire picture, it's a piece I'd like to have. Maybe one day I will. But until then I'll just keep trying new things, and scraping along with the few foods I like.

I didn't choose this for myself. No one ever would. Yet to let it defeat me would be to let what I am unable to do define my life. I am able to do so much, and that is what one ought to focus on. There are just times that I wish everyone else could see the picture from my perspective. That at least once in everyone's life they would take a bite of something and hate it, and then imagine having that feeling every time.

Saying Goodbye

I've always felt that the goodbyes that hurt the most are the ones that could be forever. With close friends and family, goodbye possesses a purely ephemeral sadness---the feeling that it will be some time again before you can be hugged, or kissed, or tell inside jokes in the ways that only those closest to you ever can. But the sadness that accompanies an unknown parting---a maybe i'll see you again, is far harsher. Perhaps it's silly to think of that, when in just a year the entirety of BYP will enter together as freshmen in the class of 2016, but that reality is so different from the one we are entering right now. When we say goodbye tomorrow and travel to our respective sites, it is both the beginning of a close friendship with four other individuals and the possible closure of one with fifteen others. A year from now, the people whom we met two days ago will no longer exist. We will all have been transformed into wholly different individuals. And though I realize this may be too pessimistic, and that there will be opportunities to renew friendships first formed over the past four days, the thought that some may be lost still saddens me. With BYP in front of us we all have something uniting us despite our differences; only time will tell if it will serve as the same strong glue once it is in the rearview mirror.

But nonetheless, tomorrow still holds more excitement than melancholy, and I know adventures await in Serbia. My bags are packed, and my luggage scale says I've got .6 pounds of extra weight, so I'm ready to board that Swiss Air plane and GO!!!! I can't say for sure how I'll do with the language, or the stress of a new culture, but that's the fun of it all. It's all in the challenge, without which there could be could be no metaphorical victory and thusly no personal growth. And personal growth is one of my biggest reasons for taking this trip. I want to return a year from now having a better idea about who I am, what I believe, and how precisely I want to live my life. Which, unfortunately, requires me to say goodbye to do. And there's the lesson, the ironic truth: in every lost opportunity, another is gained.