A 1926 Commercial From the Kingdom of YU

Although seemingly very theatrical, the message is the same as that of today's commercials.

An Old Nation

As Serbian scholars and experts of all sorts exert themselves to explain how it turns out that Serbs are the oldest nation in the Balkans and how every other neighboring nation is not really a nation but a self proclaimed group derived from Serbs, we, the citizens of Serbia, have rapidly been enduring additional wrinkles and gray hairs. I mean this literally - not only are we lagging behind our modern counterparts with our mentality and habits, but we are an aging population. With a negative population growth rate (estimated at -3.5% in 2004), low birthrates and high brain drain, Serbia is becoming rusty in every sense - mentally, financially and demographically. Many people are afraid to have children - afraid that they will not be able to support them financially, that the state will not provide them with basic rights to education, health care, peace and safety and that their children will become like those of my generation. Those who do have children, aspire for them to live abroad. Those oblivious to Serbia's problems, also have children, and spend their time talking about some trivial topic, such as which nation really settled the Balkans first. I would by no means want to discourage any theorizing, however I do think that - in our case - this specific argument is detrimental. Yes, we are old, but we are old in so many ways much more relevant to our lives than the origin dates of our nation. We are an aging population demographically and an aging group of individuals mentally. Our streets are aged, our schools and hospitals obsolete. Why would we want to be old in any additional way?

Why would we want to tag along yet another theory that will turn our heads from the future?

Fail Mail

Feeling tired and particularly imaginative after a late-night walk, I am waiting for the elevator. In 2 AM silence, my 70's building resembles one of ghosts. I hear nothing but elevator wires and cars rushing in a boulevard close by. As dense mystery fills the hallways my gaze travels from the stairway, the dirty floor, the high ceiling… The mailbox. Have I gotten any mail? I reach for the mailbox key in my pocket. I don’t have it with me… But, by this time, curiosity has conquered me, invading and almost itching my brain. Many buildings have broken mailboxes in my neighborhood. Is this how they get attacked? Some are even burnt.

Hm. Just a peek, please. I slide a finger through the mail slot but it bites me. The slot is not wide enough for my finger and to leave room for me to see what’s going on inside. As I pull my finger out I spot a fast food flier on the floor. I reach down for the flier and open the evil mail slot with it. I use the thin flier to keep the slot open, giving me enough eye space to peek inside. Hah, we've tricked the system.

The mission's final step - the actual peeking in through the opening - all of a sudden makes me nervous. But, I can do it. I slowly, cautiously, lean my face towards the mailbox. If only someone saw me… My eyes anxiously look for the opening. Aha, there it is... With my right eye targeting the opening, I close my left eye and make the deciding leap towards my goal.

What?! Another wide-open eye is staring back at me!! I gasp and jump away, manically grab the door of the elevator that had arrived so long ago, run inside and hit the 3 button, anticipating safety on my floor. With an obnoxious heartbeat and weak shaky footsteps, I make it to the door. I use two wrong keys before unlocking the door, get in, slam, lock well. I take my shoes off and crawl into bed. Fall asleep, fall asleep. What was that?? Fall asleep, please... If only I knew whose eye that was.

Alas, I did fall asleep and wake up rather late, completely numbed. I had forgotten all about the mail slot, my bizarre thoughts, and the even more bizarre eye. I was eating my breakfast eggs, sipping on freshly squeezed orange juice, when my mom came in from the market and dropped the mail on the dining table. There it was! That creepy stubborn unblinking eye was looking at me again! It was the eye of a pretty woman whose face was used for a flier marketing a newly opened hair salon down the street. Trashy little salon flier, you’ve scared me and questioned my sanity.

I used to play this game every day. It made sense to play the game. I’d peak through the slot and discover letters and postcards, all sorts of hellos from real people. Family, friends, crushes, encounters, travel companions. It seems not that long ago even... Yes, my finger was small enough to open the slot and still leave some space to see what was inside, but apart from that, little has changed. The elevator is the same; its rusty wires remain unchanged. Even the wall paint is still the same. In a city like Belgrade, still largely guarded from globalization and development, the past haunts you. On awkward nights like these you may very well loose yourself. You forget that the only greetings awaiting in your mailbox nowadays are those from corporations and government institutions. Fliers; bills; and a notice or citation here and there.

Beyond Untraditional

I wanna be a street artist when I grow up!! But use used up torn bags instead of new ones.

Has anybody seen my pride?

It has been two days since the first "successful" Pride Parade in Belgrade and I am finally able to sit down and write about what has happened. Belgrade is still somewhat demolished, but this is nothing we are not used to. The anger in me has faded for now although, so far, my emotions have been rather difficult.

The citizen in me has been afraid. Not only afraid to walk out of the house but, more importantly, afraid that, one day, my right to walk the city and make a statement will offend someone and cause similar onset. The child in me has been looking for someone to blame. The traveler in me has been humiliated. The liberal in me f-ing pissed at the right-wing hooligans who were so set on hate that they put the entire city at risk and fought with the police all day long. Belgrade resembled a war zone with fronts set at the approaches to the pride's meeting point. Today however, the sociologist in me awoke. Perhaps more than anything, I now feel sorry for these tough, yet very confused guys. I cannot fully understand them, but I can try.

Who are these young people? Why are they angry and who precisely do they hate so much? Most of them seemed like they were in their mid-teens. They looked just like the boys who burn the city every time change knocks on the door. They are 15-year-olds cloned in sweats and hoodies, with scarfs covering their faces and Nike airmax shoes fancying up their outfits (westernizing them, almost).

Yes, they are homophobes. But this does not surprise me as much because so many factors in Serbia expedite homophobia: isolation and lack of exposure to diversity of any sort; economic insecurity questioning our fathers' masculinity and developing macho egos; the Serbian Orthodox Church; the right wing movement; years of conflict with the US and the EU generating resistance to anything that seems to be coming from the west; general loss of a sense for love as companionship - the vast decline in happy marriages is resulting in the idea of love gaining a practical "get married and have kids" meaning; and we could go on and on.

However, I do not feel sorry for the kids who spent the beautiful sunny Sunday morning and afternoon wrecking Belgrade merely because they are homophobic, although I do believe that they would be much happier individuals if they spent less time on hate. I feel sorry for them because they are hopeless.

Someone risking to get arrested or seriously injured, exposing himself to scrutiny and judgement by national and international media, in order to make a statement of hate (while by doing so gaining no rights or benefits) has clearly been demoralized, to say the least. This is someone who has little or nothing to loose. He is insecure and lost. He explains himself with "I don't want my son to be gay!", a statement that gives him a problem to solve and an excuse to let out the beast in him - "Hide them, scare them, kill them all!" The poor fellow really is convinced that exposure makes children gay. He yells out to the cops a clever parole thought up by his politically motivated, rather intelligent leaders: "You're defending Kosovo diplomatically but protecting the gays with force!" All of a sudden he is an informed activist. He has a purpose. He has something to hope for. These are all things he cannot get elsewhere. On his way home, he will break a couple of shop windows and steal an additional pair of Nike's. This heroic day provided the unaffordable 200 euro pair of shoes he has been eying for weeks! Aha, happiness, for several minutes at least...

Maybe I am utterly foolish, but I feel sad for him. And I am awakened and heartbroken to know that there are thousands of boys like him in Serbia today. I am clueless as to what the next step is. What do we do with them? They need help. But can we find it in our hearts to see them as the victim after all? Extremely challenging, but direly needed.

BBC's picture story

Two dots, joined by a line, detached by a crime.

Long time no see, summer time has been keeping me busy. Enjoy this tune!

Feeling Without Touching

Glass Candy - 'Feeling Without Touching' from Travis Peterson on Vimeo.