NOISE IN FASHION~BOJANA STOJCIC

Exhausted by the war, sanctions, and criminality seeping into every pore of society, Serbia was unstoppably sinking into deeper crisis. Furthermore, every attempt to criticize communism and authoritarian national leaders was choked off, which would leave deep scars in public opinion visible to date.

In Nov 1996, demonstrations began in the third largest city in Serbia where I studied in response to electoral fraud attempted by the Socialist Party of Serbia (SPS) of President Milošević after the local elections. Although the majority of the seats in the Parliament were initially given to the pro-European opposition coalition, a revised count gave the control of the city once again to SPS. The underdeveloped south, traditionally supportive of the Socialists, voted for a change, which expressed widespread public dissatisfaction with incumbent politicians and the government’s economic and social policy. Upon witnessing Milošević’s attempt to outflank the opposition, university students and opposition parties organized a separate series of peaceful protests. An opposition leader’s statement: ‘This (Belgrade) is our city. It is a beautiful city. Let’s walk a little through it, showed no undertone of aggression or revenge, but rather of possession and self-confidence.’ Serbia didn’t need to be conquered because it already belonged to its citizens, but rather reclaimed since it was invaded and controlled by the Milošević’s regime. The protest was therefore perceived as an action of ‘reappropriating the city.’ Serbia finally realized that ‘life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change’ and if you had lived in a system which didn’t embrace differing opinions, encourage debate, and would do whatever it took to stay in power, you’d know we had a long way to go before claiming what was ours all along.

Winter was knocking on the door, the mercury was dropping, and the nights seemed endless. We had a small electric heater in the room, my sister and I, as well as a wood burner in the kitchen but the fire would go out when we were out or at night, the house would turn chilly and we were all frozen again. Needless to say, we took a bath only when there was fire, which wasn’t every day. One of the ways of shaking off the winter blues, besides snuggling up with your significant other, was putting on 3-4 extreme cold weather clothing, fur gloves, a warm hat and a scarf and joining protesters.

The inability to bring the regime down in a civilized way as a rule led to rallies in Serbia. A politically pregnant time: ‘the politicized insertion of human bodies into public space,’ tens of thousands of people attending protests daily, an outpouring of energy, an adrenaline rush, excitement in the streets, enthusiasm spreading like wild fire, a country craving change, people being outspoken in their opposition of injustice, uncompromisingly forthright with their opinions, and blunt in their criticism. Expressing dissatisfaction with the regime by means of noise. A must-have fashion accessory for fall/winter 1996/1997: wearing a subversive badge and a whistle (the most common noisemaker) AT ALL TIMES. The piercing sound of whistles and horns day in day out, whistles on posters, stickers, postcards and around our necks as a sign of identification, blowing a whistle and ‘filling the air with noise,’ streets and houses fraught with afternoon and evening noise, ‘a noise invasion into regime-controlled space’, making meaningful noise, noise with a difference, noise culminating between 7.30 and 8 PM during evening news on state TV, an enormous outburst of noise made by hundreds of thousands of citizens intended to muffle the sound of lies and misinformation spread by the regime-controlled media, protecting oneself from toxic energy bullshit, coming up with healthy ways to vent and express disapproval, showing signs of rather peculiar behavior: noise produced by unlikely instruments such as pots, pans, cutlery, and bells, banging garbage containers, cars honking horns, freedom to express yourself insistently, speaking your mind by means of noise. Awards given to the noisiest streets. Protesters waved at by old people from their windows, flashlights blinked from balconies, houselights blinked from people’s homes, the sound of trumpets, protests led by noisy drummers, and accompanied by shouting, singing, and dancing, chanting slogans and waving banners, marchers showered with confetti and balloons by supporters, hundreds of Serbian banknotes from the days of hyperinflation rained down on protesters, music systems on squares and in protest marches aimed at ‘reclaiming control over cities,’ ‘redefining space through noise.’ ‘People carry all kinds of flags, the main idea being to have any kind of a flag: the Serbian national flag, political party flags, car racing flags, flags from other countries, the gay pride rainbow flag, the American Civil War flag, the pirate (skull and crossbones) flag, and scarves tied to sticks.’ Waving flags from the windows and balconies as the march passes by. Smiles, chats and laughter. A friendly atmosphere. The determination to alter and control the situation, seizing the initiative, walking the streets as ‘a political act,’ bold civil disobedience. SPS strongholds collapsing like a house of cards, a country undergoing change.

The regime refused to change the tune, and continued to ignore demonstrations in its media, portraying the participants as ‘outlaws and provocateurs by the state.’ An attempt of protest organizers to keep the citizens on the sidewalks to avoid violence turned futile, the act of defiantly walking the streets being crucial to rallies. The further course of action: traffic disturbance, blocking main streets, hour-long congestion, cities brought to a standstill for hours on end. ‘A protest on wheels:’ parking your car in the middle of busy streets, pretending it broke down, thus allowing marchers to walk the streets without being accused of disrupting the traffic. Controlling the movement of the city. Territorialisation: ‘changing the urban landscape by inscribing deviant political meanings into it, testing the limits of the regime, city maps acquiring a whole set of modified meanings by displacing or transcending the existing ones.’ Banners and slogans dominating protests, graffiti with reference to pop culture, music, film, philosophy, and sports. Surreal humor (Our Leaders Are Deaf, Our Leaders Are Blind, But We Care, Snoopy Against the Red Baron, We’ll Walk Till You Walk Away, Time to Wake Up From the Winter Sleep, Did You Come Here to Protest or Stare at the Banner?). Parents marching with their kids. Babies ‘marching ‘(the ‘I’m Being Manipulated by my Fascist Parents’ sign on a stroller). Postcards of mass demonstrations with the slogan ‘Greetings from Belgrade/Serbia.’ Creative time.

At one point student protesters asserted their claim over university buildings. We locked ourselves in, staying there for days (who mentioned sleeping?!), befriending those that resonated with us, passing the time with awful sandwiches, good coffee and terrific people, missing exams (the future of the country was at stake), learning an important life lesson, among others that Serbia always had a soft spot for a mediocrity of successful careerists and yes-men. Kissasses who namely went on taking their exams as if nothing was going on were ‘rewarded’ in the end, some of them getting a job as assistant professors. ‘O brave new world, that has such people in’t!’

Protests were the strongest in the capital, assembling up to 200,000 people daily and very quickly spread over most big cities in Serbia. On Orthodox New Year’s Eve (Jan 13), over half a million people gathered on the central square (almost half of its population), with several bands playing and video messages of support from Vanessa Redgrave, Emir Kusturica and The Prodigy. Jamming phone lines: making telephone calls to state institutions to make government’s work impossible. Throwing rotten eggs on the building of the Supreme Court, and wearing cardboard glasses resembling eggs. Marches normally followed a regular route, passing by key buildings symbolizing the state, but would alter it every now and then so that the protest message could reach more people. At first, only traffic police were present during protest marches, being for the most part pretty approachable, willing to speak to protesters and have their pictures taken. With time, it became much tenser in Belgrade which witnessed a series of aggressive police interventions. By the end of ‘96, the downtown pedestrian zone would be surrounded by thousands of members of riot police, organized, trained and more than well equipped to confront crowds. Riot police were to become a tool of political repression, using traffic disturbance as a pretext for not only violent suppression of civil disobedience but also prevention of bringing down the regime.

On Dec 24, the government coalition organized a large counter-protest in downtown Belgrade. Milošević addressed the crowd. They chanted: ‘We love you,’ to which he replied: ‘I love you too.’ Schizophrenic time. The opposition protest (300,000 people) and counter-protest (40,000) face to face, both scheduled in the same place at the same time (how very thoughtful of you, Mr. President). The latter consisted mostly of peasants and workers from rural areas who were provided with free transportation and instructed to carry SPS banners. How voluntary their participation was is unclear; there were reports that workers were put on buses after their night shifts, without knowing that daily protest marches against Milošević were taking place. 20,000 police militia in the streets. The result: massive riots during which a young opposition protester was beaten to death by a group of SPS supporters, while another one was shot in the head (survived), after which the government banned all street protests in Belgrade. A silent funeral march in honor of the murdered teacher. On Feb 2–3, 1997 riot police clashed with protesters on a bridge, firing water cannons at them even though the outside temperature was almost 14°F (-10 °C). Dozens ended up in the ER.

protest, counterprotest.PNG

Perseverance. Coming up with new nonviolent protest methods: staging a sit-down protest when pressed harder by police cordons. An all-night student vigil joined by an Orthodox priest. Finding ways to outsmart the police, playing the ‘traffic light’ game: waiting for the signal to turn green and ‘occupying’ the crosswalk. Marching in circles in pedestrian zones or in front of police cordons. The collective dog walking day: bringing dogs to the protest, in response to the state-controlled media claim that protesters were mere passers-by walking their dogs. Posing in front of police cordons (the more theatrical, the better). Entertaining the police: reading them the most beautiful love poetry and Dostoevsky out loud, chatting with them, giving them flowers and candy, kissing them on the cheek, and drawing lipstick hearts on their shields. Painters standing in front of police cordons with mirrors turned towards them. Wearing your own work uniform: white medical coats, stethoscopes, surgical masks, fire-fighters’ outfits, chimney sweepers in black. Wearing graduation gowns to match the police riot gear. The daily Miss Protest, and the most handsome policeman of the day contest. Converting rage to laughter; ‘channeling angst, anguish and anger at the state into humor and celebration, creating a culture of resistance that the police and government could not break.’ A carnival atmosphere in the streets on a daily basis.

The aesthetics of the protests included not only visual and textual elements such as images, symbols, graffiti, clothes, art, humor and slogans, but also performative ones. In one of them, Belgrade students, restricted to pedestrian areas and surrounded by the police, walked in a circle with their hands on their heads, which simulated a prison yard walk and symbolically denoted being imprisoned in their own city. After they had been accused of being destructive, they built a brick wall in front of the Parliament Building, showing they could be very constructive. On one occasion, they covered the headquarters of the national broadcasting company with toilet paper. On another, a ‘parade of the blind’ walked around its building with their hands covering their eyes. In addition, two large satirical puppets were created to march the streets of Belgrade. One depicted Milošević’s wife in feudal armor, the other Milošević in a prison uniform. As mascots, they personifying everything students were fighting against. They ‘became the only embodied antagonists, thus concretizing the strategy of the struggle,’ though the main goal was ‘an abstract idea of democracy and an individual understanding of freedom.’ Its creator, an art student, was badly beaten by the police. Students also organized a decontamination action: showing up with detergent and cleaning the location where the Milošević regime organized the counter-protest, along with the building where the state committee met and turned down their demand to oust the dean, reconfirming his appointment instead.

It is said that winners are not afraid of losing. But losers are. Milošević behaved like a communist dictator and the influence of his wife Mirjana Marković (eye roll), who headed her own party, was enormous. She was radicalizing his ideology and was, according to the opposition, an echo of Ceaușescu’s wife Elena. They lost touch with reality, both of them. They believed they were invincible and that it was all ‘a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.’ Luckily, opposition and students were rather persistent. This development was important because it was certain to endanger favorable results for the Socialists in the Republican elections the following year.

Richard Holbrooke commented on the issue in his memoirs, recalling that the Americans were not able to support the protests due to the transitional period to the Clinton II Administration: A remarkable challenge to Milošević unfolded in the street of Belgrade, led by three politicians who banded together in a movement called Zajedno, or the Together Movement. For weeks, hundreds of thousands of (Belgrade) citizens braved subfreezing weather to call for democracy. But Washington missed a chance to affect events.’

The civil protest lasted a total of 88 days, with hundreds of thousands of citizens in 50 cities in Serbia seeking respect for the electoral will of the people. The demonstrators eventually succeed in redressing the election fraud. Forced by the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE), Milošević’s government finally accepted the results of the local elections. He signed the ‘lex specialis’ which accepted the opposition victory and instated local government in several cities, interestingly without acknowledging any wrongdoing. Student demand for replacing the University management was also met, with the pro-Milošević dean resigning. The daily police presence in Belgrade is reported to have cost a million Deutschmarks a day. The Serbian economy continued to sink despite the lifting of sanctions in Oct ‘96 . The long period of protests and unrest further deepened the crisis. According to a survey, only 20% of the population was employed at the time. The majority was either unemployed, forced onto unpaid furloughs or working in the black market.

The organizers of the student protest maintained independence from the opposition coalition until the end. Without cell phones and social networks, students organized themselves, raising their voice against injustice and fraud. Besides protest actions, they were often engaged in seminars and forums on political topics related to democracy and social change. The 1996-1997 student protest in Serbia was a victory of the youth over the forces of darkness for ‘in a dark time, the eye begins to see.’ It lasted 117 days, which makes it the longest and most massive student revolt in the history of Europe to date. And I was a part of it.

 

https://bloggingwithbojana.com/

Advertisements

The Leaving – The Stories in Between

My little girl pleaded for me not to go. That was the hardest moment of my life, looking down at those big blue teary eyes, ripping me apart with every sob. I was shook by the memory of the words I had told her when this all began. All the nights I held her close, promising I would never leave her, that I would always be there to keep her safe. She’s too young to understand but this is the only thing left for me to do for her. If I go now, her and her mother will have their names moved to the bottom of the list. So this is my love for her, my final gift. A little more time.

I stand in line with over six hundred others on this morning. The way it has been since the onset of the event. Hundreds, thousands of people, day after day, herded like cattle across the platform and on board the waiting vessels. From the beginning they had made their intentions clear. They would take those willing to go first and then the rest would be taken systematically by force. Everyone who has been part of the leaving, so far, has gone voluntarily. This willingness to sacrifice themselves so others could remain has given me a renewed faith in humanity. Never in the span of human history had all the people of the world come together like this, with a common goal, a common sacrifice. And through this faith I recognize the hope I had thought lost.

As we near the entrance to the vessel, I look to the man at my right, then the woman to my left. We each instinctively reach for the others hand. With fingers locked, hand in hand, as brother and sister, we step aboard and leave this world behind.

My last breath is a breath sweet with the belief that those who remain will come together and find a way. All they need is a little more time.

clock 2


This will be my final post at Morality Park.  I would like to thank everyone who has supported my work at the park, there are a lot of great writers and readers here and you are all appreciated.  The Stories in Between

THE MARRIAGE OF HEAVEN AND HELL

Part 1 of 4 in a series of prequels for The Sound and The Fury

Some time ago, a fellow blogger, a remarkable person and an intellectual par excellence (hi Paul) responded to my challenge to unravel a piece of his history through the portrayal of his rebellions youth, fight against the authority and ways of expressing his civil disobedience, which he did marvelously. In the comment section, both he and equally striking Wulf asked me to share my story of ‘good old times’ in Yugoslavia/Serbia, as well as what prompted hubby’s and my decision to permanently leave the country. We have a long journey ahead, so bear with me.

All set?

(head nodding)

Bojana, how about you? You think you can pull this through?

(head nodding) I’ll try. I’ll try my best.

I want you to focus and try to remember everything. Focus your attention on your body parts. Your limbs are getting numb and heavy. They feel like logs…You are drifting down now. I’ll start counting backwards from 10 to 1 so that you can go on drifting even deeper…You are not thinking of anything now. 10…deeper…9….deeper with each breath…8…7…6. Too relaxed to think. 5…4… This heavy relaxation in your mind is flowing into your eyes and face. 3…You feel it in your chest, your back, it goes down your spine, it’s in your legs, your toes. You feel it in your arms and hands, your fingertips…2…deep and dreamy, heavy and relaxed…1.

Let us start with the late 70s and early 80s. What’s it like?

It’s nice and cozy. It feels right. Life is uncomplicated. Nothing is missing. People are smiling. They are relaxed and unburdened. Their fridges and tummies are full. Prosperous time. Everybody has enough, some more than enough. Not a single person I know has nothing or not enough. I am not sure what homelessness is. I saw it in a movie once.

We are in southeastern Europe, in the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRY), made up of 6 socialist republics: Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro, Serbia and Macedonia, each with its own parliament and president. I live in southern Serbia where I was born. Yugoslavia is not part of the Eastern Bloc. It has pursued a policy of neutrality since the Tito-Stalin split in 1948 and is a founding member of the Non-Aligned Movement. It is way more open to Western popular culture, unlike other communist states. There is an easy access to commodities from the West that people can afford. They have money. They buy. SFRY is a relatively small country with an international reputation that far exceeds its size. It’s a role model, a dream come true for countries under the Soviet influence, where things like Western magazines, books, records, cassette tapes, chocolate, chewing gums or Levi’s jeans are only a pipe dream. Yugoslavia is ‘something in between’—neither East nor West. President Tito ingeniously balances between Washington and Moscow, refusing to ally with either, and ‘saying to both: If you don’t pay me off, I’ll let the other guy build a base here. Everyone pays up.’

YU.PNG

Time of a great ethnic diversity. Time of equality. Civil rights are respected. Freedom of religion. Orthodox Christians, Catholics and Muslims live harmoniously under the same roof. Mixed marriages. Nobody cares. Nobody questions. An average of two children per family. Certain future.

We live in a social state. Free education for all. Time of literacy. There’s overall state ownership. Small and big businesses are flourishing. We are producing loads of food. The land of abundance. Investments in infrastructure. Urbanization, and industrialization. Import. Export. Faster productivity growth leads to an increasingly better standard of living. The employment rate is very high. The middle class is thriving. The whole country is working. Jobs after graduation. Agricultural subsidies to thousands of farmers and landowners. Yugoslavia’s socialism is based on worker self-management, enabling the worker to become the dominant figure in the economy and society in general. It ‘provides job security and workplace participation unknown anywhere else in the world, giving them a much better social and working position than workers in the East or the West. Workers’ councils decide on wages.’ The working class is thriving. Workers are respected. They go on collective holidays. Freedom of travel. We go shopping in neighboring Italy and Greece. Life is simple here, says an American woman in the movie ‘Something in Between’ upon coming to Serbia in the early 80s; when Serbs want fresh fish, they board a plane to the Croatian coast. ‘Yugoslavs travel hassle-free in both East and West; their red passports are worth even more on the black market than American ones.’ Regular salaries. People earn, spend and save money in banks. Free health care for all.

Everybody owns a house or an apartment which rarely anybody locks. Assaults and armed robberies are extremely rare. A negligible crime rate. Apartments are given by the state, NOT to be paid for, simply given, as a gift. A token of appreciation. You don’t believe me? I’m in elementary school. I’m 12, I think. We spend more time in the neighboring town at our grandparents’ than at home, my sister and I. Carefree weekends and holidays. Happy time. My parents come to pick us up and take us home. We’ve lived in a huge downtown apartment given to us by the state for as long as I can remember. However, dad doesn’t drive us there but to a newly built, ready-to-move-in house. SURPRISE!!! Lots of rooms. Spacious and fully furnished. Closets big enough for all our stuff. A piano in a corner of the living room and a table-tennis table under a large balcony. There’s a big front yard and a vegetable garden behind. Different-colored roses have already been planted. Mom thought of everything. We see a puppy barking already. So, we stay there, leaving our 3-bedroom apartment with 2 balconies on the 4th floor for good. We don’t sell it, though we have every right to. It’s ours. We own it. Mom thinks we have enough so we pass it like a saltshaker during dinner to needy ones. Time of solidarity and social responsibility. Mom mends our socks and pants when she sees a hole before buying new ones. My friends and I wear our cousins’ or older sibling’s clothes. There is nothing to be ashamed of. We are taught modesty and responsibility towards resources, despite the riches we enjoy. Old school. Better time. I don’t mend my son’s socks. I buy him a new pair instead. Lesson learned, lesson forgotten. Different time.

It’s getting chilly.

Would you like me to get you a blanket? We don’t need to do this if you don’t want to.

No, it’s alright. A blanket, yes.

Tell me, what else do you see?

Time of enormous creativity. Investments in culture and science. Art is flourishing. The best movies in the history of our cinematography are shot, even subversive ones. Rich pop and rock music scene, punk rock and the new wave. Yugoslavia has, according to a historian, two faces. Politically, it is both in the East and in the West. In terms of everyday life and freedom, it’s not only a land of Hollywood and Cold War films, but also a land which prohibits the movies of the so-called Black Wave, with their dark humor and critical examination of the Yugoslav society at the time. On the one hand, it’s a land of the avant-garde theater, on the other, a land banning subversive theatrical plays. President Tito loves movies, being a frequent guest at movie theaters and festivals. He has a reputation of a great hedonist with a soft spot for beautiful women, tobacco, Chivas Regal whisky, wine, celebrations, hunting, horses, luxury cars, yachts, travel, navy blue uniforms, antique weapons, medals, jewelry, white suits, gloves and hats. A charismatic leader with a style. A ‘magician of self-promotion.’ A joker whose lousy jokes everyone laughs at. A demagogue whose silly speeches everyone nods at. A ‘soft dictator.’ A world-class manipulator.

The whole nation knows his birthday. The whole nation celebrates it. A relay race, known as the Relay of Youth, is held every year. A baton is carried through the whole country with a birthday pledge to El Presidente ostensibly from all youths of Yugoslavia. I’ll be among the kids running the relay, but I drop the stupid thing, cameras are shooting, I panic and forget my lines. It’s embarrassing. I’m disappointed. The race ends with a huge celebration in the capital of Belgrade on May 25, Tito’s birthday and Day of Youth. It’s a national holiday. The school is closed. Nobody’s working. Festive atmosphere. Lots of holidays and time off throughout the year. The government-driven cult of personality created around Tito equals divinization. The pictures of president for life hang on the walls. There is no opposition. One party to rule them all. A mild autocrat.

We are taught to believe in Tito’s motto of ‘brotherhood and unity’ years after his death. We sing the National Anthem and wave national flags on every occasion. I belong to the Pioneer Alliance of SFRY, ‘honoring the children and youth who fought as part of the Yugoslav Partisans of the World War II.’ It consists of kids aged 7 and older, attending numerous educational, cultural and leisure activities. A few times a year, on state holidays, and anniversaries, we wear our pioneer uniforms: white shirts and dark blue pants/ skirts. We have red scarves around our necks and navy blue hats with a red star on them (★), associated with communist ideology and commonly used in flags and state emblems often in combination with the hammer and sickle. I still remember the text of a Yugoslav Pioneer pledge at the induction ceremony:

‘Today, as I become a Pioneer, I give my Pioneer’s word of honor that I shall study and work diligently, respect my parents and seniors, and be a loyal and honest comrade/friend, that I shall love our homeland, self-managed Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, that I shall spread brotherhood and unity and the principles for which comrade Tito fought, and that I shall value all peoples of the world who respect freedom and peace.’ A time to remember.

tito.PNG

We are leading carefree lives, we who do not stir up, we who play by the rules. The strategies for dealing with political opponents have become much more subtle than in the Eastern Bloc, dissidents and critics of the regime being rarely stalked by the secret police, or suffering intimidation, and terror, which was previously the case. The once hard-labor detention camp for political prisoners and anticommunists, serving as a punitive measure against the unloyal in the past, has become a regular jail for criminals. Dissident lecturers rarely face stern measures like serving long prison sentences; however, they may suffer social isolation or relocation. You’re not obliged to become a member of the Party but those who do are privileged. Besides, if you want to move ahead in the political hierarchy, you have to be a member of the League of Communists.

Brave New World: a benevolent dictatorship, an efficient soft-repressive welfare state with no war, poverty and crime. History has not been abolished altogether; it’s just been slightly rewritten because it is always written by the winners. Its inhabitants find a new god to worship, this time a real one.

I think we’ve had enough for one day. You need to relax. I will start to awaken you in a few seconds. Next time we meet, you will begin to relax much quicker. Every time quicker than the previous one. Every time deeper and deeper…You will feel alert and alive when you wake up…Relaxed. Full of energy…I am going to count from 5 to 1. At the count of 1, you’ll wake up, feeling relaxed and wonderful. 5, 4…coming up slowly…3…relaxed and lively…2…(finger snapping) 1.

INTRODUCING BOJANA STOJCIC: THE SOUND AND THE FURY

Anyone who had a chance to first live blissfully in abundance and then touch bottom, experiencing at least some of the shit we went through, will surely remember it for the rest of their life because the formidable hurdles we were facing daily in 90s Serbia bordered surreal. Those who managed to keep their head above water were like skydivers who survived a 12,000ft (3660m) fall without their parachutes.

In order to explain the political climate in Serbia in the mid 90s, I need to go back in time. The late 80s witnessed squabbles between the Serb minority and the ethnic-Albanian majority in Serbia’s (ex-) southern province of Kosovo, considered ‘the Mecca and Medina of the Serb people.’ Many Serbs left never to return, while the remaining ones felt oppressed and abused by the Albanian leadership. The Kosovo issue dominated Serbian politics. Slobodan Milošević, a rising Socialist Party boss (SPS), became an overnight sensation, being ‘the first politician to break official party taboos about embracing nationalism. Jumping on the nationalist bandwagon and making himself the public champion of the beleaguered Serbs of Kosovo’ proved to be his ticket to absolute power. He said: ‘I will defend your rights.’ They cheered and nodded. He said: ‘I will restore prosperity.’ They cheered and nodded. He said: ‘I will protect you and defend Serbdom.’ They cheered and nodded. He said: ‘No one has the right to beat you.’ They cheered and nodded. Soon he was to become a hero of angry Serbs everywhere. Erratic time.

In 1990, Yugoslavia started following the model of political transition from a one-party system to a multi-party democratic one. The opposition openly rejected the communist and socialist regime and was strongly in favor of human rights, democracy and market economy. In June, it called for a street protest against SPS control over national media which ignored opposition altogether while glorifying Milošević’s ‘peace-loving’ initiatives. Over 70,000 peaceful protesters were dispersed. In the fall, mass protests were again organized in Belgrade, demanding a free and fair electoral campaign, the media coverage of opposition activities and the round table. Despite the charismatic leaders who were getting more and more popular and rallies across Serbia, the democratic opposition lost the battle (but not the war). Minimized time for opponents of the regime on TV (being denounced as Western stooges) and the absence of united opposition forces also contributed to the overwhelming victory of SPS in both Parliamentary and presidential elections.

In March ‘91, another street protest against President Milošević and his total control of the national media was organized in downtown Belgrade. Fury followed, the rally turning into a riot featuring vicious clashes between the protesters and the police and military, deployed in the streets to restore order. 100,000 citizens against tanks. Two people died and a few hundred were injured. Several prominent opposition officials were badly beaten and detained by the police and two media outlets considered unfriendly to the government banned. Civil fury grew high and the following day more people were in the streets. The government supporters responded by organizing a counter-protest. The rallies ended a few days later, after the opposition leaders had been released from police custody. Both the state TV director and the Minister of the Interior resigned. One victory at a time. Thanks to his fiery nationalist rhetoric, and total control of the national media, along with the JNA operations in Croatia (Yugoslav People’s Army), the popularity of President Milošević continued to grow. So did the fury of the conscious ‘few.’

march protests.PNG

Fast forward to mid 90s. Upon enrolling in the university and spending a wonderful summer with my longtime boyfriend and friends, partying, loitering and dreaming (4 months without school), I moved away from my parents in the fall of ‘95. The war just finished (crime didn’t, though). The sanctions weren’t lifted until the next year, which meant more power outages accompanied by the calming effects of candlelight. The post-war period was no less challenging. It was a time of scarcity and supporting two students financially was not easy. Students who pay for college fees themselves are extremely rare in Serbia. It is your job to study, pass exams and have fun, whereas it’s your parents’ duty to pay your bills. Things get tougher if you’re a big art lover who didn’t want to miss a single movie, festival, exhibition, concert or theater performance. Unfortunately, my sister and I were not among the lucky bastards whose tuition was covered by the state, but were fee-paying ones. Even though the fees were not that high (no loans, no debts), the price of printouts most definitely was. We didn’t have the convenience of the Internet back then, which would surely make things cheaper and our life easier. Books and textbooks, on the other hand, were either way too costly or hard to obtain so we’d spend hours in the library reading dozens of them so as to copy/paste a few useful pages, which required hard manual labor. Once the work was done, we wouldn’t stay there to study as we preferred the comfort of our home. The library atmosphere never grew on us. There’s nothing cozy, agreeable and intimate about it. Watching other people staring at their books, while you can’t concentrate yourself since you’re too busy checking out their backpacks, glasses, their hair and clothes, and being distracted by a fly buzz, is utterly depressing and unproductive in the long run. Our bodies are so not made to be sedentary. Besides, deafening silence for studying was never my thing. I needed noise, I needed the fridge, the kettle, the sounds of the street, our room overlooking a most peculiar neighbor. I needed our saggy cushions and old ugly sofa where I’d assume most unusual positions for studying you can think of (back down, legs up the wall, headphones on). I missed the radio, shared laughter and friends stopping by for a chat, a cup of coffee or our aunt’s hot tomato soup. I craved my common workplace distractions.

Oh, the bliss of student life! Socializing, partying, and having fun day in day out, meeting new people all the time, pairing up with the best and the worst, the most generous and the most envious people you will ever meet, the best of the best sharing the same premises with the scum of the earth, daring to be different, finding your tribe, befriending a withdrawn Bosnian girl in the last row who lost her dad in war and had no idea where her mom and brother were, sharing food, dreams, books, passions, ideas, thoughts, showers and beds, dropping the mime, learning to ‘be yourself (everyone else was already taken’), living in a tight-knit community buzzing with life, sleepovers, inducing euphoria with all things available, Bowie’s Earthling 24/7, resetting perspectives, learning from and exchanging views with brilliant professors and assistant professors, putting up with mediocrity and an inferiority complex impossible to treat, student discounts, fare evasion, mom’s parcels with sour cabbage rolls, stuffed red peppers, money, and crepes with honey and walnuts sent regularly by bus, resorting to scratchcards when broke, winning (big enough to cover the costs), losing, taking part in every single radio game show in the city (answering questions about literature and film, being rewarded with the best prize ever: a book or a concert/theater ticket otherwise impossible to afford), mastering negotiation skills and sweet talk: talking our (read: my) way past bouncers every fricking time, cramped trains back home: using bribery, students and railroad officials in the same sentence, early English literature, an introduction into Canadian-Australian studies, Romanticism, American writers, contemporary literature, the (almost) Complete Works of Shakespeare, cooking your own food, having others cook for you, leading a life without a washing machine, giving up on the idea to kill the black mold, continuing to hope it won’t kill you (too soon), placing mouse traps around the house, thinking of the ways to outsmart a smart mouse, being outsmarted, enthusiasm, attending lectures worth attending, missing those worth missing, catching up, lacking motivation, a recommended daily intake of lecithin for focus, attention and concentration improvement, resorting to cleaning the house from top to bottom to let off steam, scrubbing the grout lines in the bathroom with a toothbrush because every nook and cranny needed to be clean (read: finding yet another excuse not to study for exams), workload, duties and obligations, procrastinating, locking ourselves in before exams without leaving the house for days (it was about time!), stress before a midterm, learning to cope with anxiety, meditation: relieving pain by changing your mind, making room for more happiness, reading and writing, listening and turning a deaf ear, passing and failing, facts to remember, facts to learn and forget, making your own decisions, flunking semesters on purpose to have more time for having a good time (infuriating teachers and pleasing yourself), standing by your choices, prioritizing, living your life, temptations, learning the hard way, dealing with emotional memories, being taught not to bottle up emotions (then forgetting), finding people keen for a talk anytime, joining a hiking club, going hiking, going swimming, first job, first salary spent on a ski trip and a bike, biking in and around the city with sis on a daily basis, getting in shape, sharing super sweet dessert combos afterwards to boost our energy levels (fuck getting in shape!), stage diving, lighters held up at concerts like fireflies in the dark (his hand around my sweaty waist), the addictive darkness of freezing movie theaters (a weekly/daily hotshot), a peaceful sense of intimacy, legs touching under the table, pulling the blanket over our heads, enjoying the silence interrupted by grunts, sighs, and groans, the noise of impetuous passion, climaxing, being present and fading to black, sinking into speechless oblivion, sharing an enthusiastic neighbor’s choice of music and boyfriends, investing in good earplugs, regular coffees under a linden tree, staying up all night, sleeping in the following day, a regular knock on our window, pressing the social ‘refresh’ button. Lifelong friends and memories. Feeling adult, feeling appreciated, feeling worthless, feeling like a piece of shit. Rebuilding self-esteem. Morning chats over coffee, late night dinners by the old wood burner, cigarette smoke filling the kitchen, and crackling fire on a cold damp evening. Don’t fall asleep. We need to keep the fire burning.

fire.PNG

It’s the fall of 1996. Days are noticeably shorter, while nights are getting colder and colder. Serbian local elections held in November are followed by allegations of widespread voter fraud. It seems very likely President Milošević will reject the accusations as preposterous. Again. However, students have something important to say this time.

Fury and frustration have been piling up for quite some time, seeking ways of breaking free. The long sound of silence gives the impression of ripeness. We are ready, willing and able to speak up. ‘The sound is the fury’; the fury is a change. ‘The grave hopeless sound of all voiceless misery under the sun’ is about to break away.

https://bloggingwithbojana.com/

 

 

Different Shores – Chris Nelson

We set sail for different shores

A chance to greet new horizons

And carve a name where once was none

To plant our feet on holy ground,

We threw our maps into the sea

To trust to luck and winking stars

And casting dreams upon the winds

Our faith forever in the brine,

We sought the land birds on the wing

Strained our ears to hear their song

And when the call came from the crow

We took to task with hungry hands,

We welcomed in the virgin green

As if we’d never loved before

And set our rootless feet upon the shore

But never felt the tendrils grow,

We let our restless eyes look back

To all the things we’d left behind

And heard our past love’s whispered words:

“Come back, come back, come home to me.”

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

 

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

HOLLYWOOD HIGH – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

tumblr_lyql7h1h3y1qfryqfo1_500

Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
leather
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
parchment
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
hair
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
sense,
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west coast skinned knees
elastic mouths and bodies
oily eyes in topaz and
gold canines in the skyline.

Ghosting their covenant of wisdom
Parked at the intersection of
dusk & dawn
Up on Mulholland Drive
We succumb to its lecherous stratosphere
with Hotel California on the radio
lighting smokes out of a trophy of ashes and tossing it into a hedonist zephyr
as L.A.P.D sirens start to sing in the background
Our fingerprints dusted by
the Chinese Theatre…
Hollywood as our alibi

you can see the wit of vanishment in a
wag of night
spirit and vein and wet, the pacific
rehearsing
my longtime name in the paunch of a
sand dollar where
a lover’s walk will stall with age and
wilt.
with the creek of it to your auricle, it’ll
sail in your ear.
but we are bionic serfs in an electric
city,
cordoned by chapters and eyes
sallower in the dark
dark, dark. can we pry open the
stillborn to find landmarks.
how deathlike are the lights.

Pop culture studies us
The media pine for answers
Clogged with a 60 minute survey
– Did their parents love them?
– Do they have a mental illness?
We side-step their clichés
and break the fourth wall;
Gravitating to the camera with verve
’cause we had a cause to be caustic
when faced with their plastic personas
stalking Beverly Hills fat cats
like taxidermists
And we won’t depart until our followers up stage Manson
Charles or Marilyn, it’s all the same in Tinseltown
where we carve out billboards
with a paramount question…
Why do you fear the children you’ve raised?

to be continued…


 

A.G. Diedericks: “write what you know” are the four most soporific words I’ve ever heard. I am a divergent writer who couldn’t give 2 fucks about striving to be the best. To write only what you know, is to play it safe. Art is imaginative rebellion. I am engaged with the versatile risk takers, the ones who are not afraid to take their shoes off & get dirty.  I write here. ]

&&

[Samantha Lucero writes books and poetry, short stories, is a historian, heathen and philosophically speaking, an absurdist. Sisyphus being the ultimate example of the absurdity of human existence. She occasionally writes things at sixredseeds.]

The sojourner’s haibun – Nitin Lalit Murali

I’m trapped in my old sedan like the Sicilian Bull, the fires of trauma roasting me, and in agony I pound the steering wheel and incessantly press the horn, though the hairpin  bends as sharp as glinting scythes stay deserted, except for the hard rain, the water like blood sluicing, the wipers like metal claws scraping the glass in desperation. On either side tea plantations like incisions on a masochist’s wrist haunt. The mist envelopes like white pus, and I can’t see the dying light circumscribed by the mutinous night with her soldiers with onyx spears and her crescent moon—her war horn with pitted symbols of anarchy. A solitary hooded man passes like the reaper in flesh. My shrieks echo, and the car burns the wet asphalt leaving tire marks like another layer of infection on a gangrenous wound. The rage from my headlights clamp the air like crocodile shears, tearing its appendages of oxygen and nitrogen. The fume from my exhaust pipe settles on crushed empty paper cups, like acid poured on a battered, torture victim’s face. I ascend, yanked by some invisible force, like a mongrel tied to the back of motorcycle and then dragged across winding curve after winding curve because it bit the driver, sunk its teeth into his flesh. I’m the dog and Fate is the driver. I should have never rebelled. I should have never played with his dice, tossed it like a chewed off mutton bone. The car has a few dents like keloids that eventually form if one keeps itching scabs. It’s running low on fuel like a terminally ill patient in the ICU slowly losing his life-force. The tires pass over a thin trunk with spindly branches – stripped away by the howling wind like a demoniac’s scream – like a spine yanked out with thoracic nerves attached. I don’t see it and it pierces one like a rusty nail impales a big toe. The air fizzles out like the entrails of a sacrificed goat. A loud pop like a gunshot to the head. I lose control and spin like vertigo before a faint. The car careens like bloody vomit and smashes a signboard saying, ‘12/24.’ Glass shatters like foot bones cracking when stepped on by football studs. My head hits the dashboard like a plate thrown, smashing a wall. I gradually drift in and out of consciousness like a man after a snake bite…

You’ll never reach the end of this long walk –
Because fate to man is no two-edged coin –
So, rush to meet life, the gods they enjoin –
you – fight, attend with silent, muted talk –

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

You can find more of Nitin’s work at Fighting the dying light

An Uncivil Discourse – The Stories in Between

I would give everything to you if I thought it would make any difference. You can have it all, I’ve held on to it long enough. But what would you do with it? Would you piss it away, day after day in self pity through self loathing? Would you continue to walk around with that mirror, facing everyone but yourself? Imposing your self righteous judgment, showing them all their imperfections while hiding behind, unexposed, weak, afraid. Afraid of what you have to offer. Afraid of taking responsibility for your part in all this. Your false narrative is one I have heard before, even taken part in. Your judgment and moral superiority are as hollow as the eyes of the mob you follow. Your own hypocrisy will turn on you one day. Your divisiveness, anger, hate will silence you. Your self imposed group identity will destroy you- the individual. But that is all OK because you will always find someone else to blame.

I admit now I was wrong, there is understanding in me, but I hold true to the fact I have little sympathy for your uncivil discourse.

Stay then, with the others, if that’s what it takes to get you through your day. If not, then you are welcome to put it all down and walk with me. I will love you but nothing will be spared.

Kicking and screaming, we strip away the dependence to label and categorize. When everything is no longer anything, it just is, as it will be. Neither for or against you. You will breathe a sigh of relief at the unrecognizable. Differences erode and with enough time, finally, there will be nothing left to set aside.

Then what will you do with all your time?

protest 1

 

 

 

protest 3

 

protest 4

 

protest 2

 

police

 


More can be found at The Stories in Between