Balkan Dispatches: Belgrade

I’m torn about how to feel that we had so little time in Belgrade… On the one hand, it’s an incredible place and I really enjoyed the 24 hours I spent there. On the other, I also felt a bit uncomfortable at times, having read about the government’s treatment of journalists and free press and – I guess this is a big factor – because we stumbled onto an ultranationalist rally welcoming the return of a soon-to-be-convicted war criminal to the capital.

If I had to describe Belgrade in one word, it would be gritty. Compared to tiny Sarajevo, Belgrade is huge, with a population of about 2 million. We took the advice of a pair of Aussies we met in the hostel in Sarajevo and took a walking tour of Belgrade. Our guide, Tea (short for Teadora, pronounced “Tay-uh”), was fantastic – she spoke perfect English and had so many fantastic stories about the city. She shared homemade rakija and pepper spread, too, which didn’t hurt. Our walk took us through Skadarlija, the bohemian quarter of town, “Silicon Valley,” where young men and women went to show off flashy cars and plastic surgery successes in the years following the wars and hyperinflation of the 1990s, and the Fortress, which was really a smattering of different styles of fortification and protection that had been added to and rebuilt many times over the many centuries since Belgrade was founded. Mom and I ended the afternoon at the Nikola Tesla museum, where we got to touch 100,000 (watts? volts? units.) of electricity and see Tesla’s final resting place. Fun fact: Tesla only spent one day of his life in Belgrade, but he loved the city very much and requested that his remains be moved there after his death. Also, Tesla apparently was a great fan of pigeons. Who knew?

Obviously it was great to have Tea as a guide to the city, and I doubt we would have seen as much if we had tried to walk it on our own. The most valuable takeaway, though, was to get another perspective about the wars of the 1990s. Tea was just a kid when NATO countries bombed Belgrade in 1999, following Serbia’s actions in Kosovo. She recalled that at first, the bombings targeted strategic areas (like bridges and government buildings) and took place only at night – but with time, NATO realized this was not effective, and so started bombing civilian targets during the day and without warning. This had the intended effect of getting the Serbian government to cave, but also resulted in civilian deaths and destruction. Having spent several days in Bosnia, where we only heard of the horrors committed by Serbian paramilitary groups, it was an important alternate perspective to hear from a Serbian who was just a child at the time of the wars.

Whereas Zagreb had a very European vibe, Belgrade didn’t so much – this was not really a function of architecture (though the communist architecture from Tito’s time was much different than the decadent Austro-Hungarian style of Zagreb), but more because of graffiti and political posters. Much of the street art in Belgrade shared anti-EU and anti-NATO messages, and a lot of the posters at the nationalist rally had sprawled something about Russia or Putin on them. Although Serbia is a candidate country for EU membership, it continues to straddle East and West by maintaining close ties with Russia. It will be interesting as far-right parties continue to rise in the country whether Serbia will continue on a path to the EU, and if it does, what impact this will have on the European project.

Balkan Dispatches: Sarajevo

Sarajevo was a wonderful time. We came from Mostar, a short trip, and arrived in the early afternoon. Mom and I wandered a bit, looking for lunch (3 bus rides in, and we still hadn’t figured out the need to buy more snacks than we thought we’d need) – we stopped at a little place marked by a giant Galatasaray flag. Inside there were Turkish flags and more Istanbul football paraphernalia; it felt like home, except the cevabi, kebabs, tasted a bit different (less obviously meaty; I prefer Adana kebab. ).

I spent the evening, a Wednesday, wandering through Sarajevan nightlife with a fellow American. We exchanged ridiculous travel stories, smoked nargile, and made a quick visit to a Bosnian casino. There, we were greeted with Kanye West’s most recent album and an offer for tea; after one game, we left, though the streets had emptied in the short time we were inside.

In the morning, we met Muki, who would be our tour guide around the city. Muki took us to the tunnels where Bosnians carried supplies during the four-year Siege of Sarajevo in the 1990s; to an abandoned bobsled track from the 1984 Olympics; and to old Serbian sniper positions in the mountains. While hardcore-parkouring down the bobsled track, Muki oh-so-casually revealed that he once competed on the Yugoslav Olympic bobsled team. A man of many mysteries, that Muki.

Muki invited us to a wine tasting party later in the evening. We took a chance and agreed to go – at this party, we met the most bizarre set of characters imaginable. There was the wine connoisseur, leading the party and explaining the characteristics of the wines in impeccable English; Emer, a co-founder of the tourism company that ran our hostel, and who ate half of the cheese and meat plate at our table; Fuat, who was introduced as a gigolo and offered his services to the ladies of the room (me and mom) and promised me I could have his car in exchange for my love; a surgeon and a professor of metaphysics; the Godfather of Sarajevo; and a guy who loved the phrase, “Is this like a joke, man?” Quite a group, quite a group. After we downed six bottles of wine, it was time to move on to part II of the evening: even more wine and a glass of rakija (Balkan-made brandy) at a small underground tavern, where a large band played traditional music. We laughed and laughed; mom stayed out past her bed time; much fun was had by all.

The next day, we had most of the afternoon to kill before our shuttle took us to Belgrade. We spent it wandering the streets of Sarajevo, sticking mostly by the river – crossing the bridge where Franz Ferdinand was assassinated in 1914 and looking at the bullet holes and shrapnel marks still left from the war in the 1990s. I really loved Sarajevo, and I would love to go back (especially in the summertime) to learn more about the city’s history.

Muki’s on the far right, the gigolo in the middle, and Emer on the left. Miss you, Muki.

Balkan Dispatches: Split

A trip to Split wasn’t originally in the plans, but due to bus connectivity issues, we made our way down the Dalmatian coast to this ancient city with a very multicultural history. Mom and I walked a great deal in the evening, looking for a pizza place recommended to us by our host. Unfortunately the place was closed for the season, but we managed to find a place that cooked delicious pašticada, a sort of beef stew that is apparently best served in Split.

In the morning we wandered through the Diocletian’s Palace. After a few turns around the labyrinthine paths, I learned the landmarks and was able to get around without a map or getting too lost. We ate a huge breakfast at an outdoor café, where we people watched before it was time to set out for the bus station. Again….I would love to return to Split, if only in the summer time to see the town at its peak. I’ve read several articles comparing Split to Alanya, and based on my impressions of both cities in November, it seems Split has done a better job at maintaining a certain level of authenticity that Alanya just lacks. I wonder whether this is the case in summer months, though.

Balkan Dispatches: Plitvice Lakes

I originally included Plitvice (pronounced PLIT-veech-yeh) on the itinerary to give mom her fix of nature and rocks. It ended up causing more logistical troubles than it was worth, I think, especially given the season. Our bus got in a bit late; the bus “station” was really just a wooden shack on a road in the middle of the woods; our original hostel booking ended up falling through; we had to walk nearly 2 miles to find the next closest hotel; the only bus out of the park was pretty early in the morning, meaning we couldn’t tour the actual lakes. The hotel we ended up staying in was this really bizarre place; a giant, giant hotel in the middle of a state park.

Even so, the short time we did spend walking around (that 2 mile walk counts!) by the lake made the trip to Plitvice worth the trouble. There were beautiful waterfalls, the trees were at peak color, and the weather was that perfect fall mix of warm and cool wind.

Balkan Dispatches: Zagreb

Zagreb, Croatia’s capital city, was the first stop on our Balkan adventure. I got in several hours before mom and used the time to wander through the Museum of Broken Relationships (more on this museum later). Mom arrived later in the afternoon, just in time for a giant pizza dinner.

We spent the next day wandering through the city, stopping at several museums – the Ethnography Museum was interesting (its exhibit on the connection between Slavic and Vedic conceptions of femininity was visually beautiful, if not the most informative), though the privately owned Mimara Museum was a bit lacking, I thought. Zagreb is very European-looking, much more so than the other Balkans capitals. I think this follows from Croatia’s having been part of the Austro-Hungarian empire for a longer, more continuous period of time, whereas other parts of the Balkans were under eastern influence, if not outright control by the Ottoman Empire. Visually, this plays out in the architecture of the city – Zagreb’s theatre is an almost-exact replica of the theatre in Vienna, for example.

Two things I really enjoyed about Zagreb: large dogs and the City Museum. Seriously, it seemed like every dog – and here, the dogs were pets, not street dogs – was a massive breed. Even tiny women dragged giant dogs around on leashes. Zagreb’s City Museum far surpassed my expectations. It was a really well put-together museum, with tons of artifacts and descriptions in both English and Croatian. I did find it interesting how much time/space was devoted to big topics throughout Croatia’s/Zagreb’s histories…. For instance, there were multiple rooms that had giant models of the city’s layout from the Middle Ages, but only one corner of a room was dedicated to World War II. World War I went unmentioned, which is fascinating for a city that was so close to the beginning of the war and that was so affected by the war’s outcome and the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. More on museums and national/city identity formation in a later post, though.

Street Art in the Balkans

My mom was pretty shocked by the abundance of graffiti in the Balkans. Granted, there was a lot – and while many walls were covered in nothing more than teenagers’ signatures, I was fascinated by the content of a lot of the other street art. While walking the streets of Zagreb, Sarajevo, and Serbia, especially, I was reminded of an interview I did with Alexis Zimberg in October. Zimberg completed her Masters degree at Georgetown and wrote her thesis about street art in former Soviet countries; in the interview, she and I talked about the politics of street art in eastern Europe. I thought of something she said:

“Everybody has access to a marker or paint or a spray can, and they can write something on the walls. This makes it a very democratic art form and way of speaking. This means that people can say whatever they want – even if that person is racist or anti-Semitic or dislikes Putin or hates war. These people don’t always have a voice in mainstream media. Anytime there’s a power struggle that’s not getting an outlet, I think it come out in the streets.”

Below I’ve added photos of some of my favorite graffiti, though I have many more examples – photographs of graffiti with messages that are political or incoherent or violent; beautiful drawings; messages in all kinds of languages and different alphabets; and examples of graffiti that has been drawn over, either by the state or by those who disapprove of the message.

In the United States, especially in a suburban context, graffiti gets a bad rap. Only thugs or hooligans take a can of spraypaint to the walls of a public space, people think. But it is much different in eastern Europe than in the United States; in eastern Europe, because of the different relationship between the people and the media, the push to reclaim public space and use street art as a form of political speech is often stronger.

(By the end of the trip, my mom acknowledged that there was a lot of street art – but she didn’t sound so upset to say so. This is great progress.)

“Death to NATO, Fascism! Revolution!” Seen in Belgrade

Take Me Out to the Balkans

We came… We saw…. (We did not conquer, at least not in the traditional sense.)

I got back to Alanya late last night, happy to see all the students and to be back in my apartment. I had an absolute BLAST adventuring in Croatia, Bosnia, and Serbia with my mom – though, we only had a week to cram in three countries. We saw a lot, but I definitely have to go back for more.

• Friday: We both arrived in Zagreb, the capital of Croatia. Our host, Dinko, picked us up from the airport and gave us advice about where to wander and what to eat. I had not slept in about 36 hours, and so was not ashamed by my 7:00pm bedtime.
• Saturday: Another day in Zagreb, mostly exploring museums.
• Sunday: We were off to the famous Plitvice Lakes. In spite of running into some logistical difficulties and having to find a new place to stay, we made friends with some ducks and walked around the lakes.
• Monday: With no buses from the lakes to Bosnia, we took a detour from our planned itinerary and took a bus to Split. Split is on the Adriatic coast – a good sign for seafood and temperature.
• Tuesday: We crossed the border from Croatia to Bosnia on our trip from Split to Mostar. Too bad we don’t speak Serbian-Bosnian-Croatian and failed to understand the bus transfer at the border – we ended up in a random town for an hour before finally reaching Mostar.
• Wednesday: Mostar is a small town, so it didn’t take much time to see the sights. After a few hours of wandering, we set out for Sarajevo. It was a short ride, and after arriving, we found the closest restaurant and devoured a giant lunch.
• Thursday: A tour guide came by the hostel in the morning, and we set out on an amazing tour of Sarajevo and the surrounding area. Not my usual mode of travel and tourism, but I’m really glad we opted in on the tour.
• Friday: Our bus didn’t leave until the late afternoon, so we took it slow – a little street wandering here, a little cafe sitting there. Finally it was time to head out for Belgrade, Serbia’s capital city.
• Saturday: We walked and walked and walked all day (only a slight exaggeration) in Belgrade before packing up and prepping for a full day of travel.
• Sunday: The four a.m. wakeup call was not pleasant, and sitting in an airport for five hours was boring at best, but finally we were both homeward bound.

Anyway, stay tuned for more photos and stories from the trip (highlights include attending a wine tasting with the Godfather of Sarajevo; romping on an abandoned bobsled track; gendered reactions to public nudity on statues), as well as thoughts on language, identity, graffiti, and collective memory.

The yabanci life

While kicking it at Blackboard, a hip bar we found downtown, Rebecca and I talked at length about the idea of being a yabancı, a foreigner, in Turkey.

It is strange to live in a place like Alanya, then, which some Turks say is overrun with tourists and foreigners, and so is devoid of Turkish culture. Turks tend to address me first in English, and only after I stubbornly stick to Turkish for the first few minutes of a conversation do they also revert to their mother tongue. But Turks here are used to tourists, and so when I walk down the street, I fit in; I am a normal part of the landscape.

It was not so in Adana. I had forgotten that feeling of being stared at; not maliciously, just out of curiosity. But it was still bizarre. Rebecca and I stick out like a sore thumb – above-average height for Americans, we tower over most Turkish women. Our bright red and blonde hair get double-takes from black and dark brown-haired passerby. Glances on the bus and on the street reminded me of my yabancı status. But I also caught myself staring at others who didn’t fit the stereotypical Turkish mold – when two blonde people passed us in the market, clad in clothes only a tourist would pack, Rebecca and I exchanged a look, as if to say, “What are they doing here?”

Okay, so maybe we don’t pass the first test – there’s only so much we can do to blend in visually in this place. But surely we deserve some sort of a “get out of yabancı land free” card for our ability to speak the language and respect local traditions? Rebecca has lived in Turkey for nearly two years of her life now, and I will have been here for 8 months by the time I leave in December. We have both sacrificed blood, sweat, and tears (literally all three) to learn the ins and outs of Turkish culture and study the language.

People are often impressed with my ability to volley phrases back and forth in conversation. “Inşallah,” I say, “God willing.” My conversation partner laughs, surprised at my use of the word. “Türk olmuşsun!” I’ve heard. But, really, not at all, and not ever. I can learn the correct response to the Turkish equivalent of “bless you” or the different ways to greet female and male hosts, but saying and doing these things is like a layer of makeup – it’s not something I’ve really internalized, and so can be washed off once I return to the U.S. In Turkey I’m in this strange limbo, where I feel like I’m trapped in a performance between countries, between cultures – though it’s not a very convincing performance, the audience claps, perhaps out of pity or maybe out of gladness that someone is just making the effort.

Don’t get me wrong – I adore Turkey, I find studying Turkish to be rewarding (though slow and a bit painful at times), and I am loving my time here right now. It just poses a bit of an identity crisis, in terms of assessing my personal and professional goals against the possible gains of further language study and time in this country.

Cooking adventure

A few weeks ago, Necmiye Hanım – my Turkish teacher – invited me and Danny, the other student in my class, to her house. I initially thought we were coming just for tea and desserts, but we ended up staying for almost eight hours, not leaving until after 11:00pm.

In the afternoon, Danny and I helped Necmiye Hanım to cook karnıyarık, stuffed eggplant, and sütlaç, rice pudding. We volleyed vocab words and complex grammatical structures while stirring and chopping (though Necmiye admittedly did most of the work). Necmiye’s niece, Beren, hung out with us in the kitchen and tested us on our Turkish by asking “Peki bu ne?” (“And what’s this?”) to random objects around the apartment. Another niece of Necmiye’s, Merve, came a bit later – she’s in university in Alanya studying gastronomy – and chatted more casually with me and Danny. One of Necmiye’s students came as well; her English was fantastic, so we asked her for a few key words to fill out previous conversation points. We didn’t let chatting get in the way of finishing the food, of course.

Finally, it was time to eat. There were a few cultural tidbits to sort through, first. For example, remembering to pray after, not before the meal. Everyone must say afiyet olsun, basically bon appetite, and tell the cook “Ellerinize sağlık!” or “Health to your hands!” (I go back and forth about how to interpret this… Either: wow your hands are amazing for cooking this! Wonderful! Or, keep your hands strong and healthy so you can make me food in the future.) Also, the guests, not the host, must eat first. For me and Danny, this was a bit awkward, and we delayed taking the first bite, as Necmiye hadn’t come back in the room yet.

The meal was delicious. After finishing our food, we sat in the living room and chatted some more. Someone brought out a guitar; Danny was asked to play samba music and dance Brazilian-style; more family members popped in to meet the guests. It was a hoot.

Necmiye Hanım is so kind to have invited us to her house for a meal. I greatly appreciate her patience as our teacher, and I have learned so much in just two months. When we took the picture below, she couldn’t believe that Danny and I were so much taller than her – in class, we are always sitting, so she never noticed. Teşekkür ederim, Necmiye Hocam!!

Dangers of driving east?

When I told the students I was taking the weekend off to go to Adana, they first asked me whether it was safe to go east. When you look at a map, Alanya itself appears a bit close for comfort to the Syrian border – Adana is even further east, a mere four hours by car to Kobane, a Kurdish city on the Syrian side of the border with Turkey that has suffered attacks by the Islamic State for two months.

As a result of Syria’s civil war and the Islamic State’s violence, Turkey has taken over one million refugees under it’s wing (and that’s only the official number; many more hundreds of thousands have probably crossed the border and now live in Turkey undocumented). Adana, due to its proximity to the Syrian border, has been supporting a large number of refugees, both in designated refugee camps and large neighborhoods in the city.

I didn’t know what to expect upon arriving in Adana. Would the city’s refugee situation be visually obvious? Would I feel unsafe walking on the streets? Would I feel that war was only four hours away?

I was a little surprised then to find Adana a bright, clean city with a good vibe – it has this feeling of genuineness and authenticity that Alanya lacks. At the market, people were crowded as per usual – haggling over the price of pajama pants and spices. Old men sat in çayhanes, drinking tea and playing backgammon. Families walked through big green parks. Perhaps this is because we stuck to the “good part of town,” after warnings not to venture into Adana’s Old Town.

We were told not to go there by Yasemin, Rebecca’s host mother. Yasemin told a story about a friend from work being attacked and robbed in broad daylight by a group of Syrian children. She added general commentary about the rise in crime and kötülük, a term meaning “badness,” following the influx of Syrians. “The streets are no longer safe,” she said.

There are two sides to every coin, however.

Turks might say that the streets are unsafe, but there has also been violence aimed against refugees. For instance, in July, a masked group attacked a Syrian-run shop in Adana.

It’s weird, living in a country that, from the outside, appears embroiled in conflict. “No, it’s totally peaceful here; I hear fireworks at night, not bombs. We see none of the conflict,” I tell friends and family who ask about my safety. But even from Alanya, I catch myself shaping an opinion about cities and places based on what I read on the news. So it was eye-opening to visit Adana, a city that I expected to be marked by conflict and war and refugees, and to have had such a normal, peaceful time.

A map of Turkey, showing Alanya, Adana, and Kobane (from east to west, respectively). Made with Mapbox.