In Spite of Ourselves

Tonight is one of those nights in which my love for life fills my heart in wave upon wave of gratitude. It is nights such as this one that in pausing to reflect upon the craziness of the everyday grind, I can revel in the simple grace of putting aside pursuits of the future to enjoy the present moment. This moment.  Right now. To just "be." To breathe, smile and reconnect and reflect upon our journeys with ourselves and each other.

A year ago I spent Thanksgiving in Amman, Jordan. I had stayed home from classes that day because I was incredibly ill, toting a 101 degree fever and muscle aches. My host family didn't even come in to check on me. Because of this, my mood fluctuated radically between anger driven mostly by my helplessness, and sadness spurred by a desire for my mother to bustle in and start fussing over me. I felt absolutely alone, and absolutely miserable. Everytime I'd be awake long enough for these feelings to begin seeping in, I'd quickly roll over and smush a pillow over my head to bury such feelings in distant fever-ridden dreams. Of course, the harder I pressed the soft pillow against my ears, it seemed the more they would ring...

...Except the ringing in my head turned out to be insistent ringing of my cell phone. My neighborhood girls, calling me during the late afternoon Amman traffic jam, while piled into the backseat of a taxi, gave happy shrieks into the phone that made me wince. "Don't forget Karina, you promised to bring that ancient five month old bag of instant Idaho spuds for us to whip up!" Claire begged playfully. "Rachael is scrounging around Carrefour for sliced turkey, and Laura even found some canned cranberry sauce! This is going to be a perfect Thanksgiving dinner!"

"That's great." I mumbled. "Freakin' mumtaaz."

"Seriously dude, it's going to be awesome!" Becca took her turn yelling into the phone.  I could imagine Rachael, Laura, and Erin grinning and nodding their heads excitedly in solidarity. Their Arab taxi driver must think of his four American passengers were shwei crazy.

"Look girls, I'm really sick," I admitted. "No promises I'll be able to make it tonight." This news was met with cold rejection.

"No, Karina you're coming even if we have to drag you out of bed. We'll see you at 6pm, my place," Clair retorted. Then as if to soften the toughness of her stance, they all screamed, "We love you khteerrrrr, bye!!!" and hung up. A small smile had replaced the scowl on my face. Maybe this is what I needed after all.

I wobbled into Claire's host-family's house a few hours later. A small table piled high with goodies met my eyes. Sliced turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, yams with kosher marshmellows...even some stuffing. The highlight of the night though may have been Claire's freshly baked pecan pie, my favorite.

Of course, what made Thanksgiving in Amman a Thanksgiving that I'll remember for a long time wasn't so much about the food (although it did help to relieve some of the nostalgia). It was about the amazing women I got to share it with. We were all thousands of miles away from our families in the USA, but we had made a family of each other.

And so this Thanksgiving, as I find myself back in the States, but again surrounded by people that I love, I just feel so incredibly lucky. From being happily welcomed into Peter's family gathering in Tacoma (which included poker, wine, touch football games, and lots of hugs), to reuniting with my Mom and Pop and my various sets of adopted "relatives," I see how families, in whatever form they may come, learn to love each other in spite of themselves. In spite of our struggles. In spite of our flaws. In spite of any stubbornness to prove one's independence and individuality. If anything, coming home from my time abroad has taught me to be more grateful for these unquestioned, nonnegotiable networks of support. We know that the people we try the hardest to push away, will always take us back.

And thus, there's so much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, in spite of ourselves.

A Woman Alone

It never ceases to amaze me how surprised people are when they discover that I am traveling alone, whether internationally or even within the United States.

Fortunately though, I often find that my seeming "loneliness" opens many special doors throughout the world. In Jordan or Lebanon, it means getting invited into the sacred space of someone's home to meet their family, and sip on delicate cups of "shai wa nana" while nibbling on mamoul (or if you're reallyyyy lucky baklava or knafa!). In Croatia, it can even get you a drink or two on the house from a pitying bartender.

On the otherhand, announcing your "aloneness" (I do not use the word "loneliness" on purpose) aloud and without timidity can also cause flickers of confusion to dart across the faces of curious inquirers. "You mean you chose to travel by yourself?" their eyes challenge. But why???

"I'm having a great time... ALL BY MYSELF"  -- acquired at the Museum of Broken Relationships, Zagreb, Croatia

To help explain this, I return to one of my favorite YouTube videos titled, "How to Be Alone" (as shown below). As the short expose illuminates, learning how to be alone can be one of the most difficult but important life skills that one can achieve, especially in an increasingly connected world where two to three degrees of separation is all that exists between you and members of your local community. 

But like any skill, being alone takes practice. You have to work on it in order to feel more comfortable with it. 

I travel alone for the freedom of letting my feet wander: of choosing my own destinations, allowing myself to get "lost" along the way, and understanding how to best keep myself company. "Lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless," the narrator mentions, highlighting its ability to unburden oneself from the boredom of routine or the pressure of public image and social cues. For example, what's the longest amount of time that you've refrained from speaking? Five minutes? An hour? Try going a whole day. When you're alone, you allow yourself to get inside your head more than usual. You give yourself the time for self-reflection. Once you get accustomed to the immediate differences that occur when leaving friends and social obligations behind, flyin' solo (as I fondly refer to it) is something that one adjusts to naturally. 

Besides, even if you feel like you're traveling alone, you are of course never completely alone. Just turn to the nearest human-being next to you and invite them out for a coffee. :)

"Remember who you are..."

Its raining again.

I´m enjoying the sound of it whoosh outside my open window. Its muggy here. Hot. Even sprawled out on my bed, I´ve used up all the cool spots and am compelled to migrate to the window to look out and watch the sheets of water pound the gravely road outside Valentina´s house into muddy puddles. Of course, my sleeplessness may also have something to do with the quantity of rakia (the unofficial national drink that everyone brews in their basements...) I´ve been consuming lately, or perhaps the many thoughts churning in my mind...probably both. 

Today was an incredibly intense experience: physically, intellectually, maybe even spiritually. We ventured to Srebrenica and Kravica - testaments to Bosnia´s brutal war that began nearly 20 years ago.

I rode shotgun this morning on our drive out of Bijeljina, with Valentina behind the wheel. It was a cloudy morning with watery sunshine that broke through intermittently and illuminated the bright green of surrounding farmland. I especially love such roadtrips for their ability to promote deeper conversations - they allow you to think outloud and discuss difficult subjects without the pressure of eye contact or the possibility of escape. Instead, your thoughts free to twist and wind around in your mind like the road before you. 

We talked about many things...mostly of course the feasibility of developing a unified Bosnia in the face of continued nationalism of the Bosnian Serbs, Croats, and Bosniacks. We talked about genocide, and the disparities between the truth and ´propaganda´ that construct men such as Ratko Mladic - who ordered the execution of 8,000 Muslim men and boys in Srebrenica - as ´heroes.´

The reminders of war and historic rivalries are everywhere in BiH...plazas with glorified monuments, and rows and rows of sun-bleached, rain-hardened headstones at the entrances of each town. Peace feels tenuous here. Fragile. It feels like war could happen again. That fear keeps people suspicious, and glancing every-so-often back to the local hills that filed to protect all three groups from unimaginable acts of violence.

Srebrenica is surrounded by such hills, beautiful and green and rolling down into the valley.  The five of us mingled sombrely through the thousands of headstones. Faceless people, with stories I don't know...such a reality threatens to make this massacre only another paragraph in the history of humankind. But frankly, it was impossible for me to remain detached. I took time reading name after name of the men, many who had been my age when they were executed. It only took a little imagination drawn from studied historical events to visualize myself here, gazing at these same hills, and realizing that I would die so undignified. I imagined families being separated on the first day, and fathers and sons dying next to each other on the last.

We left Srebrenica with heavy hearts. The car was largely quiet, a rare occurrence for our loud and opinionated group. Right before we had gotten into the car, the old woman Valentina had chatted up for us told us the story of her family's suffering. The woman looked weathered. Her dark, leathery skin crinkled into a quick smile, an incredibly surprising phenomenon. When I wasn't watching her face, I couldn't take my eyes off of her hands: smooth almost, like polished wood worn down by frequent use. It made me suddenly unsure about her age. She became timeless.

The woman eventually grasped my hand and led me over to the museum, a part of the memorial area I had overlooked. Inside my eyes were met with horrible images: a doll with its mouth slit, left on a shallow grave as a warning to all, barbed wire handcuffs removed from exhumed bodies in mass graves, and rows upon rows of evidence boxes.

As we sat quietly, watching the churches and mosques of other villages pass by our car windows, I couldn't help but think back to something a student said to Valentina the night before: ˝Fine, go to Srebrenica,˝ he said. ˝But remember who you are.˝

Remember who you are.

In other words, do what you feel you must do, but do not betray the memory of Serbian heroism. Witness but do not necessarily accept Bosniack propaganda. They claimed to have suffered more under ¨Serbian aggression,¨ but wait! Look at what Serbs have suffered! We have suffered too! Bring them to Kravica as well, and they will better understand our story.

Thus, remember who you are is an incredibly loaded statement, especially coming from an incredibly clever seventeen-year-old Bosnian Serb.

It is impossible to designate events on an empirical scale of suffering. It makes mediating such comments increasingly difficult to redirect. I thought I would have more answers by now about how to help Bosnia move forward, but if anything I am becoming more paralysed by the incredible power cultural memory has on exacerbating and perpetuating existing divisions.

Tonight is our last night here in Bijeljina. Perhaps Orasje will reveal another side to the questions surrounding Bosnian identity...

The World is my Soapbox

“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” -- Miriam Beard (from, The 50 Most Inspiring Travel Quotes of All Time)

It never gets old for me, challenging everyday conceptions of space and time. 30-something hours ago I was home, and now I am halfway across the world. Its a thrill that settles in my stomach, like the butterflies that accompany a first date, every single time I head for the airport. Airports symbolize more than annoying 3-ounce bottle rules, body scanners, and strange sweaty seat buddies (you know who I'm referring to). For me, airports represent adventure, freedom, and the potential of going literally anywhere in the world. It presents infinite realms of possibility.

As I find myself in Belgrade, Serbia, attempting to read street signs in the Cryllic alphabet and witnessing the many echoes of old Yugoslavia, I am slowly realizing that this part of the world is truly different from everything that I've ever experienced. What does it mean to travel the Balkans? What defines its people, languages, culture, and music? I wonder what I will come away with when I leave this seeming region of exceptionally visible national pride...

I have a feeling that the next few weeks hold the potential to transform, and continue to build upon the experiences that have changed my views of the world. It began in Zimbabwe and Jordan, and continues again this summer. I am travelling to Bosnia-Herzegovina (BiH) with three colleagues, spending the next three weeks with BiH highschoolers that we mentored and facilitated discussions on democracy during their exchange-leadership program at Willamette this past spring. These 'kids' (aka, soon-to-be-functioning-adults) are literally the product of civil war. Thus, the future of Bosnia and any prospects for justice or long-term reconciliation rests on their shoulders. Hopes for peace could again crumble with the aftershocks of genocide: nationalism, ethnic hatred, distrust of ones neighbors lack of forgiveness, and religious intolerance are only a few challenges they face.

But! As always, there is hope! (As the die-hard optimist, you couldn't expect any less from me of course haha). These young Bosnians are intelligent, genuine, candid, and so incredibly motivated to change their own communities and hence create a new BiH - a nation that supports democratic ideals of liberty tempered by social responsibility - a nation that can heal ancient wounds not through the suppression of identity but rather through the embrace of differences.

Obviously, I've turned the world into my soapbox. What can I say? I'm not one to censor myself.

because the future comes a day at a time.

TGITh (because Thursdays = Fridays in my world)!

I'm sitting in the lounge of the PSU gym watching the Nigeria-Germany game of the FIFA Women's World Cup. I'm very excited! Soccer is something that I will always love, and can find camaraderie with any fan around the world as futbol is indeed the world's game.  It's weird to think that last summer I was watching the Men's World Cup from ex-pat bars in Zimbabwe sipping on SoCo and lemonade. How times change :)

I'm fully settled into my life in Portland. Jake and I have resolved our differences, and he's even become quite affectionate! I think, as with most human beings, change can be a scary, unpredictable, stressful thing that can bring out the weaknesses in ones character; even stoic felines. 

The thing is, change in its rawest form doesn't tend to last very long. It's a marked period of fluctuation followed by the establishment of a new routine.  Now that I'm living in Portland, it means waking up, going rowing or studying for a few hours, catching the bus, people watching for about 15-20 minutes, attending Arabic class for the next three hours racking my brain for vocabulary and conjugations, spending a good hour or two at the massive PSU gym and then getting home to throw dinner together before collapsing into bed and doing it all again.

Exciting?

Actually, it kind of is! I even have the weekend Farmer's markets and socializing with friends to spice things up!

Instead of spending another month with my family, I decided to carve our a new space, create a new thread in my life quilt of new adventures. I fill each day to the max because, well, why not?? I have a focus to my efforts here that I didn't when I was home...probably because in all honesty I was too comfortable there. Sleeping in until 11am everyday, watching marathons of NCIS, and having meals become the highlight of my day doesn't make for a productive or happy self. What's more, I lacked the self-discipline to break out of a cyclic blah-ville .

So, I forced a change, and Portland became my outlet.

Portland is a wonderful city, and I've taken a lot of joy in exploring the various neighborhood vibes near my apartment and PSU's campus. I have started a list of restaurants, cafes, and shops, splitting them between my favorites and ones I want to try in the future. I know how to get around the city better than ever. 

Yet even now I'm looking to the next change: Bosnia.  My departure date is only three weeks away...it's totally snuck up on me! Time to crack that guide book that's been sitting on my bookshelf for way too long :)

Growing Pains.

You know it's going to get interesting when by day three, mental notes-to-self are too numerous to account for: unplug the microwave, don't overfill the tea kettle or risk boiling overflows, open the bathroom door when you shower, push the toilet handle down all the way and HOLD it or else it will feign plugged-ness like a kid who plays sick to try and stay home from school.  NICE TRY toilet. No, I did not miss my bus this morning despite your best attempts to fool my newfound talent for early arrival. Take that you and your sniffly little toilet complaints elsewhere. In this little studio apartment I reign QUEEN.

Well, sort of. Like any obnoxiously bold statement (you know what they say about men in super-sized pickup trucks...) I am obviously trying to make up for some faulty, crippling insecurity in my life. 

To be honest, it's not even an arch rival human being. It's a cat by the name of Jake.

This little man-cat thinks he's the coolest cat around. And he probably is, but that's not really saying much because as far as I know, he may be the only cat in the building, aside from the little yapping creature next door that really should qualify as anything other than a dog. But I digress.

Jake is a beautiful tabby with attitude to boot. When I was in the process of moving in, he was on his best behavior for his momma, playing cute, purring, letting me pet him...now all I get is clawed swats at my ankles from under the table; stealthy ambushes that leave me licking my wounds. 

I thought I was the human here?!

Apparently, Jake has other ideas. In an attempt to play the bigger person (cat?) by not reacting to such behavior, I seem to be encouraging more of the same, not less, from Jake. The boredom that I had hoped would plague Jake and then cause the abandonment of his evil plans after he realized he wouldn't get a rile out of me has faded along with the hope of reciprocative interest. All I can say is that I'm in this studio apartment for three weeks and we both better make it out better than where we're starting. It can only go up from here.

Indoor Tornado Warnings.

It's almost midnight, and I've just started to pack for my move to Portland. It may be just a hop skip and a jump from my little town in Washington, but its far enough that it takes some planning...and I'm discovering that since my last travels I've made little progress in streamlining my preparation process. There's crap all over the floor, stacks of books, piles of (clean/dirty?) clothes, and electronic cords...did a tornado swipe through my room in a mere 20 seconds???? I don't know how this happens sometimes!

I should say though, that I do best under pressure. I just need the extra incentive of a countdown to get my butt moving and into packing mode! T minus 8 hours til departure...

I'll be attending PSU and taking Arabic courses. I'm subletting a cute little studio in NW Portland and commuting to class. I'm a bit nervous as I'm enrolled in an intermediate colloquial class because that's all that was available for the summer session. It's inevitably going to be quite above my comfort zone...but if all I did was stay with what I knew, then I would never grow.  So, I will accept the the mistakes, embarrassment, and struggles, along with the development I know I'll be pushed to make along the way.

Here's to a new adventure not so far from home, but challenging enough to warrant some worries. I CAN'T WAIT!