Yesterday, when I rammed my knee into a metal pole sticking out from the ground for no good reason, wasn't the first time that having a lot on my mind had caused some sort of physical 'wake-up call' (read: accident). In my short two-year graduate program I managed to have three minor concussions. A few years before, (and a few days before I was to don a bridesmaid's gown for a friend's wedding) I flew over the handlebars of my own bike. My high school friends can probably each recount at least one time when I fell down the stairs while on the phone with them, and then there was the proud time my senior year of college when while taking a nap, I fell out of the bed and needed ten stitches under my chin.
Melissa, the Fulbright Scholar and Professor of Art who arrived in Sarajevo last week to begin teaching and giving workshops, had encouraged me and Katie (the Fulbright Researcher here) to attend a march for International Women's Day. I was a bit skeptical due to the 'negative' (as in, absence) activism in the public space. In the fall I had been become really disenchanted with the endless stream of human rights/social justice/tolerance/dialogue/fill in blank nice word here film festivals, which, despite their grandiose themes were devoid of real dialogue, conversations, and momentum regarding how to address the glaring issues of unemployment, corruption, poverty, nationalism, pollution, and public health just outside the doors of the theater. True, I'm a tough critic, since sitting in dark movie theater has never been my preferred activity, the experience, often wrought with emotional exhaustion and coupled with physical atrophy. Another confession, the women's and LGBT groups here, are probably the ones I'm least familiar with, so I headed out the door to the march with a bit of optimism in my step.
I was walking at a brisk pace. The sun was peeking out from behind the clouds. Things were going well although I was a tad nervous about being late (the tram had not come and I was betting I would beat it on foot). I had not been out of the house yet that day and the few sips of coffee I had before dashing out the door had done little to dent the foggy Sunday morning haze I was clearly in. I noticed a group of women gathering outside of The Jewish Museum. There were security guards and several people with reflective vests. Several were milling about with signs that it looked like said, 'CURE' the name of the organization I thought might be organizing the event. Suddenly I was confused. Didn't Melissa say BBI Centar? Did she mean The Jewish Museum? Was this a different group? Were these people part of the same event, or maybe a different organiz...WHAM!
The pain was slow at first but then unrelenting. You know, the kind of pain that causes long drawn out sentences in your mind as if doing so might somehow give you time to actually reverse what idiotic thing you just did? It was a familiar internal monologue. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shiiiiiiittttttttttttttt...
My mind and my body have always had a unique relationship, at times so in-sync that my Alexander teacher told me he had never seen a student's body respond 'so quickly' In other moments, so disconnected, that it physically feels like there is a hole, or open space, where I thankfully do indeed have an abdomen. Akin to the famous image of the Wizard, a giant hovering smoky green head. The experience has been echoed in tango dance trainings, where I've been told I lack core strength. But I know I have deep capacity for connection, it's just a matter of finding my remote control.
As I was doing dishes this morning, attempting to reduce swelling with my leg awkwardly propped up next to me on the counter as if it were a ballet bar, I thought more about this strange and difficult six-month state. I've tasted a drop of anticipation, that the end of 'the year' is not so far away. What will it be like to not hear the dogs at night anymore? To not see the hills and the mountains of Trebevic, Bjelasnica, and Igman? What will it be like not to see the crinkled faces, the lines of worry, the weary smiles puffing on cigarettes? The men drinking coffee and the women donned in fur? The soft clicking of heels on the cobblestone, the hijab-wearing girls linked arm and arm. The call to prayer. What will it be like not to live alone in this bittersweet apartment, in the neighborhood where my friend grew up but now can't afford, in a city more pulled apart by the haves and have nots, the religious and the secular everyday, endlessly bruised by politics and and disinvestment and forced to whore out memories of war...
This morning I was supposed to meet Mirjem but had to call and cancel due to my current pain while ambulating. 'Ljubim te' ('love you,') she said casually before hanging up. I was speechless, allowing the words to hang in the air, as I contemplated that after six months there are a few people who really cared about me. What will it be like when I can't easily meet for coffee with Alma, or Safet, or see Mirjem and Eli at the synagogue? Will these people and their lives slowly dwindle from my consciousness after I leave?
I feel more split than ever. Orbiting thoughts of my world back home that exist in my mind, that I watch through my screen, and yet more fully existing in my, still lonely, still uncomfortable, physical world here, which can now safely be called routine. I didn't know this would be. That it would be hard now. Caught between the state of more fully being here and with one eye open, cognizant of my departure inching closer, with every sunrise and sunset. On some days it feels like I'm caught inside a snowglobe, waiting to be awoken from a very long dream.