MORA
What are you doing son?
I'm dreaming, mother. I dream, mother, how I sing, and you ask me, in my dream: what are you doing, son?
What are you singing about in your sleep, son?
I sing, mother, how I had a house. And now I don't have a house. That's what I'm singing about, mother.
How, mother, I had a voice, and I had my own language. And now I have no voice or language.
With a voice that I don't have, in a language that I don't have, about a house that I don't have, I sing a song, mother.
(Abdullah Sidran)
Like most Balkans, when we were young, we spent a good part of our lives thinking about how to go to the West. With the breakup of Yugoslavia, in one way or another, a good part of us was forced to leave our homeland in order to survive.
It's been 25 years since I've lived in America, but as we get older, I often wake up, agitated and momentarily unaware of where I woke up, whether I'm home there, in my native Ulcinj, or here, in Los Angeles. Then, lying in bed like that, "between waking and sleeping", I fix my eyes on ultimate bliss, on the street from my childhood, watching it twist and bend from Kružnoj tok to Bijela Gora and Maslinada. Now, some of my neighbors tell me, they called it: Harvard Street.
My lifelong journey to emigration began on that street. The countries also changed: Albania, Germany and finally America. At first we didn't even have passports, then we took them one by one, we learned languages and cultures. Foreign languages became more and more like the mother tongue, and the mother tongue more and more like the foreign language. A lot of new things were learned, changed, clothes, way of life, manners, food and accent.
Pre-war schooling helped, especially what we learned on the street, growing up playing. That street helped us to understand cultural nuances, but also principles that are unchanging and universal: sometimes belonging to the city is more important than the nation!
The street of childhood led us to the village, to a small and big paradise. There we learned to tie shoes, ride a scooter and a bicycle, play marbles and "shkope e kite". They lined up "alapingo" nuts, and for Easter and Easter, they exchanged colored eggs and competed to see whose was the strongest. In the nearby amusement park, we learned to kick a ball and that life revolves around a merry-go-round. Television would bring us all together, especially Bonanco and Lassie. We loved cartoons, Charlie Chaplin, read Wyatt Earp and hummed Elvis. We envied James Dean and the Beatles, we danced to Bijelo Dugma and the occasional accordionist. Coca-Cola. And Kokta.
However, Mahala has always been the one that balances everything, both sadness and joy. With the big paradise we sang, in klapa, and danced, and with the little paradise we shared everything. And mulberries, and pomegranates, and cherries, and grapes, and figs, all from the yard.
And then some strange things started happening. One morning, the Astafović brothers with whom I grew up, went to breakfast, "pshesh", were no longer there. Qovi taught me to gallop and convinced me that the newspapers were lying. They emigrated. First to Italy and then to America. Redžep Kordić's children are leaving for Canada soon: Meto, Skendo, Rebeka. Later they will be joined by Indira and Vernesa. And Silver, from whom I never separated when I was little, is going to Switzerland. Hadzimole are in Australia. The daughter of Junuz Pelinković and Šaban Ramović, Ljema, gets married and goes to America. Dudo Veliaga goes to Germany. Brahim Zenka to America. Ramadan Vučić is moving to Zagreb, Mustafa Tafić to Busovač, and Džemo Abazović to Belgrade. Mećiko and Mirsad Muharemović leave for America. Suljo Mila to Germany. He is joined by Džemo Elezaga. The daughter of Gezim Bajraktari, Blerta, is married and lives in California.
When I line up all the dear characters from my childhood like this, and those who left, and those who stayed, and those who moved to a better world, when I finish that last bend, hook, I look back and wish I could ride the bike just one more time ride, one lap, before we leave this amusement park, this life, but I know that's out of the question because, well… our ride is over, the street remains, new asphalt is spilled for some new kids. Some secret connections, memories remained. Fun awaits. Once again, he longs for our laughter. But there are no cheerful emigrants.
Whispers and silent keyboards covered our courtyards. Children's laughter is rarely heard. The door in this courtyard, on a small screen, introduces us to virtual worlds, in which we enter and exit, making ourselves visible, "cookies", those that leave a mark, and for which we are appreciated. Bosses of the new order.
But emigrants are silhouettes of wanderers without numbers or letters. And without the right to vote. With the exception of numerous associations of the diaspora, which are famous on paper, and which flow before the elections like a torrent that erupts, pronouncing the name of the hometown with such enthusiasm and so devoutly that sometimes it seems to them: now the hand of God will appear and everything will be restored. Via Dolorosa!
Bonus video:
