Blackbirds rising

A cloud of blackbirds obscured the fading light as I walked back to my apartment this evening around sunset. Every night as darkness falls, huge flocks of these birds settle in tall trees and in the skeletons of buildings, often receiving some unknown cue to rise again in a huge mass and circle around in the moonlit sky. Their deafening cackles and squawks continue throughout the night, rising in a crescendo together with the whirring of wings as the flocks redeploy from one towering structure to another.

Then, early in the morning when I’m out for a run, the blackbirds’ racket punctures the gentle silence of the sleeping city. But they’re gone by the time I leave for work. As if receiving an order, the flocks rise together every morning and fly elsewhere, only returning to roost above the city again at sunset.

Woven into Serbian folklore and legends, the Kosovo blackbird has served as a sort of emblematic symbol of Serbia’s struggle to maintain control of the region. The name Kosovo evidently comes from the word “kos,” which means blackbird in Serbian. In addition, one of the most commemorated moments in Serbian history, the First Battle of Kosovo in 1389, took place northwest of Prishtina on Kosovo Polje, or the Field of Blackbirds. Serbian troops lost the battle to the Turkish army, their venerated Prince Lazar was slain, and over the course of the next few decades, the Serbian Empire fell to Ottoman occupation.

I’ve been told that the flocks of hundreds of blackbirds that I see every morning and evening are the souls of the dead from that battle on Kosovo Polje in 1389. So initially, I viewed them as a sort of ominous reminder and representation of the lingering influence of Serbian nationalism and people’s memories from the war. Recently however, when I watched a flock of blackbirds rising, I was reminded of that wave of dark emotions that motivates violent conflict, as it rises, spreads and hovers over a group of people.

At the celebration marking the 600th Anniversary of the Battle of Kosovo in June of 1989, Slobodon Milosevic gave a historic speech on the Field of Blackbirds. Milosevic proclaimed that the defeat of the Serbian army by the Ottoman Turks took place due to a “lack of unity and betrayal.” Therefore, he said, “words devoted to unity, solidarity and cooperation among people have no greater significance anywhere … than they have here in the field of Kosovo, which is a symbol of disunity and treason.” Milosevic went on to emphasize the need for unity, in the face of the modern challenges to such unity within Kosovo, in order to protect all Serbs from “defeats, failures and stagnation in the future.” (an English translation of the speech was found on the website, http://www.ocf.berkeley.edu/~bip/docs/kosovo_polje/kosovo_polje.html)

Journalists and political analysts argued later that the speech fueled a Serbian nationalist frenzy and the brutal wars and ethnic cleansings that followed. The speech was given, however, during a period in which economic conditions throughout Yugoslavia had deteriorated. Since the early 1980s, rising inequalities in Kosovo had sparked waves of rioting, ethnic violence and demands for greater autonomy by the Albanian community. Throughout the Balkans, the blackbirds had risen, and they began hover over a dark time in the region’s history, marked by Milosevic’s speech at Kosovo Polje.

On a lighter note, it’s becoming evident that spring is here in Mitrovica. The days are becoming longer, and the sun is becoming stronger. And, from what I hear, the flocks of blackbirds soon will disseminate throughout the countryside, remaining there around the clock during the summertime. I think that we might get some snow on Thursday, but it seems to me that warmer times are coming. Let’s hope that the summer is a long one.

 

Walking backward

So lately I’ve slowed down a bit, trying to ground myself in the realities of Kosovo’s past and present. One of the most significant insights I have gained over the past month or so concerns the cultural differences in perceptions of time.

I’ve been working with a cool Kosovar Albanian guy, Gezim, to implement a joint project between CRS and Caritas Kosovo involving a youth training center. Gezim is a program manager with Caritas, which has a policy that employed staff must be evenly balanced between Serbs and Albanians. Gezim, who’s pretty tolerant and open-minded (though he would never admit to it) likes to get me riled up on occasion by declaring his opposition to positive discrimination and “multiethnic” policies, for various reasons.

One day, in the midst of a heated discussion, Gezim told me that he would never be able to trust a Serbian male colleague, with whom he has worked for many years. When I expressed my doubts regarding his mistrust of the colleague, Gezim paused, then his expression hardened. He replied, saying something to this effect: “Before the war I lived in an apartment building with both Serbs and Albanians. We were not close friends, but we got along fine with each other. In 1998, a Serb in our building killed 14 of my Albanian neighbors. Now you tell me. After such events, how do you internationals expect us to trust Serbs again, no matter who they may be?”

I didn’t really know how to respond, and I still don’t. On the one hand, I have lived an extremely sheltered life and have no idea how I would feel if I was in Gezim’s shoes. Who am I to judge such feelings that arise from traumatic violence and death? Yet at the time, it seemed to me that similar attitudes, particularly those more radical, have been a major contributing factor to the cycles of violence that have shaped the history of Kosovo. I still don’t quite understand how individuals of different backgrounds can live next to each other for hundreds of years and not find some way of reconciling their differences. Yet reconciliation depends on whether or not the different groups possess the will to accept each other as neighbors and leave past grievances behind.  In the Balkans, where past events and relationships so strongly influence people’s understandings of the present, such a process is much easier said than done.

In the United States and Western Europe, we possess what Lederach (2005) describes as a linear sense of time. We feel that somehow, by just making the right decisions in the present, we will be able to control the future. We surround ourselves day to day with what we believe will help us to reach our future goals; meanwhile, we are told to “never look back.”Although we often find ourselves assessing “lessons learned,” we tend to “let go” of the past, leaving it for display in museums, photo albums and history books, which gather dust over time. While making plans for the future, our decisions rarely are based upon relationships and events that extend back before our parents’ generation. Particularly in the United States, what happened to our ancestors in say, 600 AD, has little contemporary resonance.

In contrast, as Lederach points out, for other cultures around the world, the past breathes and survives within ongoing events, the surrounding environment, and individuals alive in the present time. The future, on the other hand, is completely unknown and mostly out of one’s control.

Jebuwot Sumberiywo was a participant in a series of lectures given by Lederach in Nairobi, Kenya. Lederach describes how Jebuwot renegotiated her views of time, based upon both her adult experiences in Western European countries and her experiences as a child, raised by her African grandparents. While growing up in Kenya, her grandparents taught her, “it’s the past that lies before me and the future that lies behind me” (p. 135). Jebuwot, who developed a European understanding of time while attending English-language schools in Kenya, never quite understood what they meant.However, one day in Lederach’s classroom, she revealed a new insight into the meaning of her grandparents’ teachings on time. “This morning I understand that what we know, what we have seen, is the past. So it lies before us. What we cannot see, what we cannot know is the future.” She then stood up and began to walk backward. “So the past we see before us. But we walk backward into the future. Maybe my grandparents’ way of saying it is more accurate” (pp. 135-6).

Jebuwot’s demonstration illustrates an understanding of time similar to that which is held by so many populations around the world, those that do not assume the mindsets of U.S./European mainstream culture. “Backward” in this sense does not at all connotate underdevelopment, weaknesses or inefficiencies. Rather, the term describes a view of the world that prioritizes family connections, shared histories, and wisdom from experience. Such a mentality clearly recognizes that despite proven theories, scientific discoveries, and increasing technological capacities, we are limited as human beings and cannot control the future.

Particularly for people and institutions from the United States, I believe that the incongruity of our perceptions of time with those of other cultures prevails as one our biggest challenges when attempting to assist communities around the world. The work of governments and international development organizations is shaped by the pressures imposed by donors to demonstrate progress and plans for achieving immediate results. How can we expect the individuals with whom we are working to accept and conform to such plans, to imagine a future that is completely different from what is familiar in the past and present? How can I convince an Albanian that it is in their best interests to trust and become reconciled with their Serbian neighbor (and be sure of the argument that I am making)? In so many areas around the world, particularly in Latin America and the Middle East, it seems that a primary reason why our efforts have backfired lies in our halfhearted consideration of cultural and historical factors and our limited understanding of how such factors influence the relationships and structures within a community.

Furthermore, I believe that our perceptions of time, our blind concentration on the future and sense of urgency to achieve immediate results, will increasingly backfire on us at home in the United States. We need to learn and to assume the discipline of stillness. Before reacting and making influential decisions, we need to gain a broader understanding of how our past mistakes and successes continue to influence our present realities. Unfortunately, however, mainly due to the way our political processes are structured in the U.S., the fostering of such disciplines at an influential level would be somewhat of a formidable task.

 

The fragility of peace

Every day, shots are fired by teenage gang members in urban slums throughout the United States. Marginalized individuals in Mexico City, Paris, Dubai and cities around the world engage in violent protest, setting buildings and vehicles on fire to express their anger. In response, the local police and/or government officials of the relatively stable countries take action to address the problems that incite such violence. The daily routine of a community or a nation eventually returns to normal, and citizens are able to resume their efforts towards meeting goals and sharing dreams.

In North Mitrovica, less than a block from the bridge depicted in this photo, an Albanian teenager throws an explosive at the Serbs in a popular café, wounding nine people. Within moments, the Mitrovica bridge, a structure often viewed as the symbolic pathway towards a unified Kosovo, becomes the channel for continued violence and a threat for national peace. In response, international officials and peacekeepers rush to the scene, close off the bridge between the Serbian North and Albanian South, and pacify the crowds gathered on either side.

Everyone here assumes that Kosovo will become an independent country within a year’s time, yet such independence is expected to yield increased instability and outbreaks of ethnic conflict. With the occurrence of significant acts of violence such as that in North Mitrovica, the existing peace becomes ever more fragile. As an Albanian woman, the director of a community-building organization, described to me today, civic leaders should not let the angry aggression of a single teenage boy stop the momentum of their peacebuilding and reconstruction efforts. Yet any outbreak of violence poses significant risks for the security of the entire province and thus is impossible to ignore. In March of 2004, for example, a relatively minor uprising in South Mitrovica was not immediately addressed, and within a few hours, violence had erupted in numerous towns throughout Kosovo.

I am only beginning to understand the degree to which the abilities of Kosovars to dream and plan for the future are limited by socio-political instability, weariness from years of conflict, and fears of impending violence. By trusting international organizations as the primary authorities in addressing local problems, residents of Kosovo (and other regions around the world) surrender a significant level of power and autonomy in the shaping of their future as a country. Furthermore, many consider the Kosovars that do hold governing positions to be serving as the puppets of UNMIK and other foreign officials. Without being able to build trust in the capaciy of national leaders to address the needs of all ethnic groups in the region, the future peace and stability of Kosovo will remain fragile in the minds of local residents, particularly in Mitrovica.

Whew! There’s my soapbox for the month. No more preaching for awhile, I promise.

 

Some initial Deep Thoughts

As I sit in the CRS office on my first Sunday in Mitrovica, I have to smile at the bellowing chorus of car horns outside. They are sounds of celebration, mostly proclaiming birthdays or the weddings of the Albanian young-adult diaspora, returned refugees having the freedom to honor traditional ceremonies.

Across the bridge, just a few blocks to the North, members of the Serbian community have few reasons to celebrate. The tables abruptly have been turned for them in little more than a decade. With Kosovo’s independence expected to be agreed upon or imposed by next summer, the Serb minority are now the ones possibly needing to assume refugee status elsewhere, for soon they will face the official reversal of the socio-economic and political dominance they possessed under Milosevic.

I struggle to understand the complexities of this conflict, its hereditary nature and deeply historical roots. The human element of the conflict is different from most conflicts experienced in the Americas… for example, I find it hard to distinguish, at first glance, a Serb from an Albanian. Neither of the groups are very religious, they have similar culinary and other cultural traditions, and any economic imbalance between the two groups that may exist is not visually perceivable. Plus it’s almost impossible to take sides, to easily shake a finger at the group that clearly are “the bad guys.”

But enough deep thoughts for now… things are going really well so far, besides being confined to only exploring within the area that’s easily accessible on crutches! Next post, I’ll go into more detail about my work here. As well as post some pictures.