heredity

1 : the sum of the qualities and potentialities genetically derived from one's ancestors

2 : the transmission of traits from ancestor to descendant through the molecular mechanism lying primarily in the DNA or RNA of the genes

It's been steamy hot, high temperatures and high per cent humidity. I dressed to go out to work one morning in the garden. In a short while of pulling weeds and turning earth I was sticky sweaty and irritable with the flies that left the horse barn to come and fly about my face. I returned to the house to dig up the shorts I found in the "throw away pile" (when people throw away good useful clothes because they can't jam them into their suitcases).

Marching out of the house to do weed battle once again, I had an amusing realization. I have turned into my mother.

Not so much physically -- the Busenius side (my father's) is by far dominant in that regard -- though when we are together there would be no doubt we are mother and daughter. For the likeness I am referring to, a "transmission of trait", seems quite nebulous.

I'll explain.

As I was walking towards the flower beds, I laughed aloud as if someone placed a mirror before me. I could see my mother in the garden working: Running shoes (you can't heft a spade properly with sandals), socks, shorts, tank top. Muscular legs, bug-bitten (with a slight allergic reaction to each bite), broad straight shoulders with a slight hunch at the back of the neck (this goes back to my grandmother). Dirty hands (I can't recall her working with gloves) and a deep, almost effortless summer tan. Strong of back, strong of will. She is a workhorse, and there's no insult in saying that because I am, too. She keeps a beautiful garden and neglects the houseplants. (My houseplants are often brown at the edges, although I can't claim the years of hard work she's put into her garden.)

Martin said recently that I had a "farmer tan", a working tan, I guess, that leaves various tank-top lines, belly and upper thighs pale, white, or at least shades lighter than the shoulders, forearms, face and knees. I am ashamed to admit, when I was young, I was a bit embarrassed about my mom's working tan. We lived in the "California of Canada" (I say this oozing sarcasm and irony) where it was body beautiful all summer. I didn't realize as a child that real people didn't have perfect bikini tans, because real people have to work and raise children and do things besides lay in the sand or drive around in a speedboat. I just remember being slightly embarrassed that my mom's tan ended where her gardening shorts did. Now I look back with admiration that she didn't bow to the preening facade of others, and was simply her natural self. This I guess I take after, too. I haven't worn much makeup, or any, really, in years.

Now I guess I start to sound full of that opposite kind of vanity--looking down on the vain. I am describing what went through my mind as I was walking down to resume weeding.

I began to think of other things of heredity or family culture. My brother and I use the word "interesting" as a variable tool of conversation. "Interesting" (you are stupid) "interesting" (that's really interesting) "interesting" (I am actually not listening to you) "interesting" (I am bored)... the list goes on. As a family we have violent tendencies, not cruel but sometimes brutal. We laugh in the same explosive raucousness, doubling over if we really get going. We are strong, able, athletic, with that thick softening that can belie toughness. My brother, sister, and I are throwbacks to our Slavic roots -- born blond, dark-eyed, darker-skinned.

Now this probably quite boring, I realize. But having spent a year apart from blood family these things come up clearer and with more importance -- more draw, maybe the desire for connection. My trip to Bosnia in the spring made me think of these things, too, being surrounded by people that looked like my brothers. I guess it's always easier to see who you are like when you aren't with them.

a good, good end

It's morning and I debated staying in bed to avoid the inevitable: an empty house. Not that I don't enjoy being alone, but today, the first day my brother wasn't around after a month, seemed so painfully quiet and sad. I did get up, and push aside thoughts with laundry and cleaning, but... I seem to get headaches when I stuff emotions or stress. Quite severe headaches, which I find interesting. A physical rebellion against an unhealthy practice of emotion-stuffing... It seems today even Sweden is mourning his departure -- after over a week of solid 20-30 degree days and sunshine, the clouds cover and the insects come out to feast.

I suppose most siblings love one another, more or less, in that inexplicable relationship of siblinghood. Jordan and I must be on the more side, because even after a month of hanging about one another almost every waking minute, I wasn't ready to say goodbye. (It's possible he was but I didn't ask.) As we've worked together on the deck, relaxed, conversed, cooked and laughed often, I have felt the burden of time, marching continually towards the goodbye at the Nassjö train station. This goodbye -- moreso than the last, when we were heading off to Sweden with the future before us -- felt so... permanent. A spoonful of the medicine I chose to drink, inevitable goodbyes. I thought about culture shock, I thought about homesickness and missing family and friends, I thought about long distances and expensive travel, but I never thought of how it will be to say goodbye again and again, with a finality of not knowing when we will see one another, that life will continue on different parts of the world separately.

But how grateful am I to share life together for a month. To see my familial ties and shared characteristics in a new way. Even to simply physically look like someone! Having him here was some moments like having a host of others here as well. His strong Slavic features so like mine, his stand-up hair like Uncle Tim's, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, so like our mother. How he spoke and gave instructions so like our father. And in all of that he is completely his own, which is wonderful and fascinating. How we carry the traits of our parents and grandparents and remain completely individual is really quite remarkable.

I have thought of my mother in the past weeks, how grieved she was to say goodbye the last, in the sterile airport hallway, as we wept before the voyeurism of other travelers queuing for security. I had the youthful naivete of adventure and future to buoy me. She knew something deeper, more significant was taking place than I had yet to understand and am just now realizing...

Things can't simply be undone or redone as we fancy. And we know this, but live subconsciously as it's possible, that if I should need to reverse my decision to move and return to the good of things as they once were, I could. (But not sacrificing the good of things as they are now, or lessons learned, or treasures appreciated.)

In the last weeks I came to a moment of clarity. All the change and uncertainty we experience, not just beginning uncertainty, getting all you thought you dreamt of, but end uncertainty; the hopelessness of the weakness, limitation, and shortness of human life, getting old, getting poor, getting lonely, disappointed or heartbroken. In that, the only consistent goodness, the only unchangingness is God. Always the same in character and in relationship. Not impeded by time or distance. Always the I am. I am past, I am future, I am present. This is hope and solace.

midsummer, mullets and midges

It's 10 p.m. and the evening has cooled and paled, the sky the gray-blue color it stays all night. Midsummer in Sweden is close to magical -- for me, anyways. Short, never-dark nights. Four a.m. sunrises. A racket of birds, smaller ones shrieking and dive-bombing a crow skulking about their nest. Wild lupine everywhere, purple and pink mostly. Green -- rich, bright, bold or dark -- so much lush growth the air is thick and fragrant with it in the morning.

Not everything is perfect mid-summer. The biting midges are horrible little things, near-invisible as they saw into you and leave red welts. My brother has 60 such welts on one leg. I watched him count them. You can feel them on you but are helpless to fight them off, as they are so small they sneak under clothing and under hair lines. Jordan said: "For such small things they are heavy walkers." I laughed.

We spent the eve of midsummer in traditional fashion. With family, attended the midsummer celebration and dancing around a pole and wreaths of wild flowers and forest greens. Ate delicious "classic midsummer" torte of cake, custard, cream and whole strawberries, an offering of my mother-in-law Lisbeth.

The evening of mid-summer I won't quickly forget. A rain storm passed, Martin, Jordan, two German friends and I arrived at the edge of a lake -- fog at its edges, still and silent until we arrive. We build a good, hot fire, drank hot chocolate and sent off a considerable amount of fireworks. (Jordan had a near miss with a rather large firework, unstable and ill-fired, turned 180 and torpedoed him directly in the leg. He jumped and ran as we shouted in fear; all's well that ends well. His leg is still attached.)

Past midnight we psyched each other up to go for a swim. Admittedly I didn't swim much, the cold was shocking but moreso in the dimness and calmness I could only think of swimming with the 10+ kilo pike we were fishing for the week before. Those double rows of teeth and I thought of them paddling for the ladder on the dock.

After midsummer I gave Martin his first haircut. My first time cutting someone's hair. Our marriage withstood the pressure, thank goodness. I gave him a bit of a mullet, I think. And I like it. Maybe its my red-neck roots showing through.

a knot of cool damp hair

Overlooking a twilight garden on the eve of Swedish midsummer. Listening to my brother sing and play Ben Harper's waiting on angels, wondering how he got so darn good in just a year. The bun of wet hair, fresh from the shower, soaks the back of my t-shirt and I think of my father saying "my back is cold -- it's damp". I hate a cold back. I mowed the lawn tonight and the smell of fresh-cut grass was too appealing. I threw the bathroom window open and showered with the coolness of evening air, overlooking my handiwork. Grateful and amazed with this place; here I can shower with a wide open window and not a soul about. It's the same feeling as when I am hanging our laundry to dry, bras and panties and boxers, looking over to see my neighbors' skivvies blowing in the breeze and I love this place.

burst forth

It's becoming humorous -- almost -- how sporadically I post. My conclusion is that although I enjoy writing I have never, ever been diligent with writing in journals. If I ever have written in a journal, when I go back to read the few entries I managed, I am mildly embarrassed. 

It's a Friday on a week of rain, rain, rain, following a previous week of rain. In the not-raining moments, my brother and I, (Jordan is here for the month of June) have managed to dig and pour concrete pilings for a deck we are planning to build. We have the wood purchased and a plan in place, so as the rain stops we are ready to rock. It's going to be a beaut of a deck once finished.

Jordan has been here for just about two weeks now, and at times I feel like a kid on summer holidays, kicking back with "nothing to do". The first day he was here was unseasonably hot, and we walked through the forest to a nearby lake to scope fishing spots, then to the river in our village, where we sat on the little dock with our feet in the water. We watched for surfacing trout and my joy was unspeakable... He is sleeping in our "new" little guesthouse -- a one-room cedar-lined cottage in our back garden. We bought it and had it craned from it's former location to our place (quite the drama in our quiet little village), and worked like the Dickens to get it painted and spruced up for habitation. It's simple -- it will have electricity, but no running water -- but it's an extra room and a cute, fun little place to use in the summer. All are welcome, and we will gladly give you our bedroom and move out to the guesthouse if you prefer to sleep nearer the toilet. Although if you are a dude feel free to tinkle out back by the barn. We are country folk now, after all. 

With the passing of spring to early summer school ended. It was difficult to say goodbye to friends and good to start a new chapter. The school environment was too closed for me, too cloistered. It's difficult to explain in a short way. It was a good and helpful thing to do my first year in Sweden, and was a safe cushion on which to bounce when struggling with language and loneliness and other things. Looking back I can also see God's intention to drive me to a place where I would see him and myself in a eye-opening way. I also did meet some wonderful people. Many have returned to their homes now. Although few will live close to me, some will only be as far as a short plane ride to Germany, and that gives me comfort.

These days, I am enjoying spending time with my brother, then in July my parents and grandma will visit for two weeks. We will be going for a few days to Kracow, Poland. (My great-grandmother was born in Poland, and my Dad is our in-house WWII expert, so visiting Auschwitz will be gripping.) We are staying in a hostel which I hope will be an interesting, fun adventure. (I don't know how many people cart their visiting grandmothers off to unknown hostels, but hey!)

After my parents leave, which I can't bear to think of, Martin and I are going to go to Prague for a short getaway together. It's one of my "dream" cities meaning there are only a couple of cities in the world I actually desire to go to. Prague being one. St. Petersburg being the other. (And if I was lucky enough to visit some dear friends -- Seoul, Korea. Hyon Joo and Jihae; it's been too long.) 

The rain has stopped and the trees are drip-dripping. Possible we can get some work done today. Although it's good be sitting inside with my brother, drinking tea, reading and discussing the six months of National Geographics my mom packed in his suitcase.

And the forest smells unbelievably delicious after rain.

He is good, all the time.

(zdravo) hello

*Please be aware that this post contains some writing of a graphic nature.

With my Western mindset, grown in an age of multiculturalism and professed tolerance of all religions and ethnicities, it was a new experience to be in a European community of only one ethnicity and religion.

Gorazde, a small city in eastern Bosnia, is almost completely Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim). A five minute drive up the highway, you pass a Serbian Orthodox graveyard, and you are in "new Gorazde", a Serbian Orthodox community. Sometimes (but not always) you could determine what kind of community you were in by the graveyards -- elaborate, flower-and-candle festooned black marble Orthodox graveyards, and simple, white pointed spires in a Muslim graveyard. It is a tragedy that in some way graveyards are a visible definition of Bosnian cultural boundaries. 

There was little I could find to read about Gorazde before visiting the area, but once there I learned that the region and community has a past written in war and hatred, and that it's past irreparably shapes what Gorazde is to this moment. The following explanations are over simple, and probably stupid to someone who really knows Bosnian history, but as it's impossible to explain Bosnia today without explaining Bosnia of 15 years ago, I will do my best.

Before the war of the 1990s, eastern Bosnia was religious and ethnically mixed. Farmers and city dwellers, Serb and Bosniak, lived beside each other in the religious no-man's-land of Communist Yugoslavia. Upon the collapse of that system, and the beginnings of war (I won't even try to explain all the evil politics behind it) Serbian forces began a systematic "cleansing" of eastern Bosnia, forcing Bosniaks out of their homes and either killing them or pushing them towards central Bosnia, where they attempted to reach UN-designated "safe" zones. Gorazde was one of these "safe zones", the only zone that did not fall to Serbian forces during the war. 

The result is that Gorazde literally became an island of refuge, filled with Bosniak refugees. Today, in a sense, those lines are still drawn -- Gorazde is almost purely Bosniak and the surrounding area almost purely Serbian. (A strange paradox is that foreign Islamic nations like Saudi Arabia and Iran are putting money into Bosnia and building large new mosques, the spires of which can been seeing shining even in Serbian towns.)

Passing from one town to the other, you don't have to imagine the drawn lines of war. On one side of the line men who were part of the Serbian army are called death-deserving murderers, on the other honoured war heroes. In between is a space of a few kilometres. 

Better than my editorializing on this difference is a chilling illustration of two infamous bridges. One bridge is an ancient UNESCO world heritage bridge in the town of Visegrad, about 35 kilometres down river from Gorazde. The other is the concrete and steel walking bridge joining the two sides of Gorazde, which sits in a mountain valley.

One, beautiful and ancient, with a chilling, bloody history. The other, chipped and graffiti-covered, a tragic necessity and refuge.

Gorazde Bridge

The bridge spans the heart of Gorazde, linking two sides of the community over the broad Drina river. On one side many essential services; the only public hospital, schools, grocery stores. On the other, stores and many homes. During the war Serbian forces beseized Gorazde on the surrounding mountain tops. They laid landmines in the hills, set up outposts and gun turrets, made forays into the city, they cut off food supplies and roads in or out, but never fully occupied the city. They did, however, control the city in a way that made the UN safe zone far from safe. From the surrounding hills and outposts, soldiers and snipers would shoot at homes and people, at random and seemingly for sport. You could be shot and killed walking to the grocery store or school, and no age or sex exempted you. People were shot and killed collecting water or trying to eke food from their gardens, walking to school or scurrying from house to house. The results was people who lived buried in their houses, gardening at night, venturing out only as neccessary.

A favoured target area was the bridge over the Drina, where people were completely exposed. So constructed under the steel belly of the bridge was a small cable and wood suspension bridge, tucked up underneath so far that an adult must duck his or her head at each steel girder. On this bridge our host family mother, Amila, and her husband, Fikret, made their way to school and work, huddled over, racing across, fearing the crack of a sniper shot at any moment.

The walking bridge still hangs there today, limp and unused, the wooden slats unsafe to cross. Amila and Fikret tell their 10-year-old son Almin about the war, the bridge, and it's terrors. But I can see that the bridge holds some kind of mystery for Almin, a young boy raised on Grand Theft Auto and military computer games. Thankfully he never experienced the horror of the war just a few short years before he was born.

Visegrad Bridge

About thirty-five kilometres upriver stands another bridge, spanning another valley in the town of Visegrad. This one is stone construction, built long ago by the occupying Ottoman Empire. It is a thing of ancient man-made beauty; it's stone arches spanning the emerald green Drina. It is also the site of the murder of thousands of Bosniaks. Ethnic cleansing took place here on a scale unbelievable. Serbian soldiers and local militia men would come to a Bosniak home and tell them they had 10 minutes to leave or they would be killed. The stories are unimaginable, as one dear elderly grandmother shared with me and our leader Michal over sweet coffee and cake.

Many women and children were sent fleeing through the formidable mountains back towards Gorazde. Hundreds of people were locked up in homes and the houses set on fire. Others shot point-blank on their doorsteps. Thousands of men and boys were separated from their families and murdered. This grandmother told us how men were taken to the centre of the bridge, forced to stand or kneel on the parapet, while the murderer crossed himself in the name of the *father, son, and holy spirit* and slit the persons throat, then throwing them from the bridge.

Above the Visegrad bridge, set back little way up on a hill, sits an Orthodox church, it's black cross on the steeple clearly visible from the bridge, it's windows providing a clear view of the horror and tragedy done here by people in the name of religion and/or ethnicity.

These are the lines drawn. The bridges that represent not union but suffering. Evil, clothed in religion, ruining lives and dividing communities. The war remains fresh, the wounds seeping. The next generation (younger than myself, even) are more objective, searching for better answers, less fundamental in their faith, but still the lines remain. 

hvala

"Hvala" is Bosnian for "thank you". This word I used most frequently in this coffee-drinking, hospitality-based social culture. for some reason when the Bosnian words I did know escaped me, I reverted to Swedish. I received some odd looks when I spoke a bit of Swedish before realizing what I was doing.

There are many questions to answer. And what is the simplest way, I do not know. But as a wise team-mate of mine said, it's best to start at the beginning.  So I will post some of the basics about the city of Gorazde, (pictured) and then maybe some more personal stuff later on. 

Bosnia is being effected by the economic crisis, much like the rest of the world, but with greater severity. Roughly half of the country is employed, leaving the other half to find other means of income. The majority of those unemployed receive a small amount of pension from the government, whether it be from a past job or reconciliation for losses in the war. However, even the pension system within Bosnia is failing, as the government is fighting corruption and bankruptcy. But the people try as best as they can to live with what they get.

The city of Gorazde faces about 75 per cent unemployment and almost every family we met had at least one member of the family receiving a small pension. 

Most, if not all, people blame the hard times they are now facing on the war in the 1990’s. The former Yugoslavia was a prosperous nation for its people -- they lived a good life with job security, "peace", food, nice homes, maybe as most Europeans. Now they live in a world trapped between the high living costs of Europe and the desolation and poverty brought on by war -- the evidence of which is still everywhere you look.

Many of the families we met said it was difficult cope with the enormous atrocities of war and how it was a daily struggle just to hope for something better. Often, hope is placed in their children’s lives, with hope for a better future.

As things are, in Bosnia religion and ethnicity go hand in hand. If you are Croatian, by default, you are Roman Catholic. Serbian: Eastern Orthodox. Bosnian: Muslim. Gorazde is almost completely Bosniak (the term for a Bosnian Muslim).

We worked with one of the only non-governmental organizations left in the city, a place called the Hope Center. They run food distributions, English and adventure camps for kids, education programs and agriculture programs -- pretty much anything they can manage to meet a need. It was through this center that we purchased food to do distributions of food -- flour, sugar, salt, pasta, rice, oil -- to people who were in need.

There is so much more to say. But for now, this is a little picture of where we were... Will post more later.