Eyes of hope

These two pictures show myself with two Serb teenagers who just graduated high school and one Albanian who also just graduated. Of course, they went to separate high schools, but they do know each other through the Summer English School that the missionaries here run at the community center. Through this summer program, these teenagers have broken down some walls, become friendly with each other, and will even greet each other on the street.

Roza, the Albanian, related an incident that happened a few months ago. She was walking down the street when she saw Elena, the Serbian, across the street. Roza greeted her and Elena returned the greeting. The group of Serb teenagers that were standing next to Elena said: "Don't talk to her...she's Albanian!" Elena replied: "She's my friend!" Although their friendship does not extend beyond greeting, I believe this is a significantly hopeful story.

The Serbian teenagers were extremely guarded about what they said to me regarding the situation and expressed little hope that anything would change. In fact, "uncertainty" would be a word to describe the state of the Serbians here.. . many are half-expecting to have to move to Serbia. Ironically, although Serbia is vying for Kosovo, Kosovite Serbs are not exactly welcomed to Serbia, being seen as "country cousins".

Roza, on the other hand, was full of optimism and hope about the future, wanting to build relationships and leave the past in the past even though her family had endured many hardships at the hands of the Serb soldiers. Even those that express this hope for the future, however, cannot practically relate how these relationships could be formed between the two groups.

I myself felt tremendous hope as I looked in the eyes of these young woman who were setting off to university. Despite difficult situations, there is an expectancy and enthusiasm that spills out of them, and in their eyes I saw the secret dreams and hopes that are so wonderfully bound up in youth. Hope, I believe, is a grace from God because it allows people to move through the rubble of broken lives towards the kingdom.

Albanian Hospitality: A night of tea(copious amounts) and talking

Amhad and Habbibba live with their 3 children in two small rooms in the small town of Lipje, where I am staying for several nights. I accompanied a young missionary couple on their visit to this family as my first experience interacting with some Albanians. I was met with warmth and friendliness, and I was amused to see their young son greet me in a miniature U.S. army uniform. Albanian Kosovites love Americans because of the NATO bombing, seeing us as their liberators. They celebrate July 4th and jokingly state the adage: God first, America second. Kosovite Serbs, on the other hand, have exactly the opposite feelings towards Americans for exactly the opposite reasons.

With one eye on the conversation and the other eye on my Turkish-style tea glass to ensure that I was drinking at a similar pace as everyone else, I found myself drawn into Amhad’s passionate views on Kosovo. “Nobody wants to speak the truth here, “ he claims. People shut their eyes to the truth of all the corruption, the mafia, the humanitarian aid that is being exploited for the rich….people are too afraid to speak the truth because you might compromise your relationships with people. And besides, most people play along with the corruption. They may not get even half of the aid they are supposed to get, but at least they get some if they keep their mouths shut.” He proceeded to tell me about last winter, when there was no wood for the stoves at his kids' school. Since the winter before had been mild, the municipality had pocketed the money designated for school fuel. Consequently, the kids were suffering through below 0 temperatures at school. Amhad tried to rally the parents to demand fuel, but no one wanted to raise any trouble. Eventually, Amhad went down to the president of the munincipality and demanded that either he take action or Amhad would go to the media. The next day, a truckload of wood appeared at the school.

By this point in the conversation, I had already drank 5 cups of the tea, and there was no end in sight. I asked Amhad if he believed peace could exist between the Kosovite Serbs and the Kosovite Albanians, since most towns were completely segregated(even the schools) and mistrust and hatred for the other are rampant. Amhad declared that people needed to decide to see the other as a person and not disregard them for their ethnicity. He said there needed to be an increase in morality. He said that if justice came to deal with the corruption, the economic situation improved, if people had jobs, then it would be easier to live in peace once more. Amhad himself has not worked since the war: 12+ years ago. In fact, he turned down a job as a border guard because he would have had to participate in corruption. "I may not have money, " he said, "but I am clean. Someday they will have to answer for every penny they take."

After 2.5 hours of conversation and swimming in a stomach-full of tea, we took our leave amidst warm handshakes and their promises to make me Amhad's famous Swiss coffee were I to visit again before I left the country.

Albanian hospitality is equivalent to the Serbian hospitality I experienced. However, they are divided by language, religion, and a bloody past. Both sides have committed ethnic cleansings, although history is viewed through only one lens in each respective group. If the children remain segregated, learning about the other in terms of mistrust and hatred, I fear for this new country. I would guess most ordinary people, like many others I have met in the Balkans, only want to live their lives in peace, being able to provide for their families. However, it seems that the way to peace is impassable by the fierce rivers of an unresolved past.

P.S. For those concerned with my previous dire post, the next day in Belgrade was much better. That lady made some more time for me and I got to ride on a green scooter next to the river. Who can ask for more?

Wilting in Beograd

Yesterday I hit a wall; in fact, if it hadn't been for the kind painter, the cafe waiter, and Ratko, I think I might have had a complete meltdown. It's been very hot here in Beograd, Serbia--close to a 100 with humidity. Yesterday I had two appointments scheduled, and the first lady was supposed to drop me off at my next appointment. We were supposed to meet each other in front of a massive hotel; so, I walked around this hotel about three times looking for her.

I was baking in the heat, drenched in sweat, and feeling extremely miserable because there was no pay phone around and I was in a completely different part of Belgrade than I was used to. I had a map, but having a map is not exactly helpful in Belgrade. Why? Because even though Serbian is almost the same as Croatian and Bosnian, they write it with the Cyrillic alphabet. In other words, when you look at the map, you might see a street that looks like this: Lbjinka. When you look up at a street sign, you might see something like this: #@%#L*$. Well, not exactly, but the characters are about as foreign as that.

I finally tried to communicate with some painters that I needed a phone. After much wild hand gesticulating, a painter took me around the hotel again and took me down to a little cafe on the river. Talking animatedly, he seemed convinced that I would begin to understand him. I tried to smile and nod a lot, hoping I was agreeing at the right places in the conversation. He took me up above the cafe to the manager's office and the manager let me use his cell phone. When I found out that the lady had left the hotel at 12:15 after waiting for 15 minutes(because it was so hot). I felt the weight of a whole lot of factors pressing down on me: I did not have much sleep the night before because certain people in my hostel were not practicing good hostel etiquette, I didn't know where I was, this was a very important appointment, I lost my hostel bed for the night and had no place to stay, I was hungry, and the intensity of the heat..all these factors contributed to my incoming meltdown. I was so discouraged that I wanted to sit down and cry. I think the painter saw the look on my face and took me back down to the cafe where he told the cafe waiter to bring me a cold sprite. They wouldn't let me pay for it, and the painter left after shaking my hand.

After riding on a random bus for an hour, I finally was able to figure out how to get back to the main part of Beograd. Dirty, sweaty, hungry, thirsty, I stumbled into my next destination: a small humanitarian organization. I think I might have had a touch of heat exhaustion, so my head was spinning as I sank into the warm hospitality that Bread of Life offered me. I met Ratko, one of the Christians who worked there, and my day got a whole lot better. I related the story of my day to him, and he began giggling so hard that I also began to laugh.

When the sun went down, he gave me a little tour of different sites. He helped me take my luggage to the new hostel, and then took me out for a drink. We walked all over the city and enjoyed the nightlife and I tumbled into bed at 2 a.m. What a day!

My pilgrimage to the pilgrims of Medjugorje

I took a small side trip in Bosnia because Medjugorje has an interesting connection to not only Bosnia's war, but to Catholic pilgrims worldwide. And of course, I was just curious.

In 1981, Mary, mother of Jesus, allegedly began showing herself to six children on a hill above Medjugorje. On the third day of the apparitions, Mary gave the children a message of peace for the world: "Peace, peace, peace--and only peace! Peace must reign between God and man and between men!" Ten years later on the exact day of this message, the war broke out in Bosnia.

In the decades that followed, literally millions of people have come through to pray, talk to the visionaries, and perhaps to be a part of a supernatural experience. Now the village is overrun with people capitalizing on the history: stores and boothes abound selling statues, trinkets, and rosaries.

My particular experience took place on an extremely hot day. I trudged up to a Catholic community center where the Fransicians run AA programs. I was overrun by a large Irish group. "We've come to check out the site because someone is going to get a vision on Tuesday and we want to be here," they told me.

Later, I sat on "Apparition Hill" where Mary first appeared to the children. I was soon engulfed by a wave of Italians. They each took turns embracing Mary's statue and then began to pray through the entire rosary together. I listened to the hum of their murmured prayers for awhile before I started back to the village.

On my way back, I walked with two Scottish ladies with brogue so thick I could scarcely understand them. They were excited and glowing about their experience in Medjugorje, having been there multiple times. Christina told me of the special handkerchief she had dipped into the water flowing from a bronze statue of Jesus that is supposed to have healing qualities. "My friend has terminal cancer and I am bringing it back to her," she told me. They were lovely ladies, and as we were walking and chatting, Christina's phone rang. Betty and I continued talking as we waited for Christina. Suddenly, we saw her walking along the sidewalk, weeping. Her friend that she had just told me about had passed away. It was an immensely tragic moment, watching her move from hope and excitement to terrible grief. I offered my condolences and was quietly moving away when Betty slipped me 5 Euros and some Mary medallions. "I have a feeling you'll be back, " she whispered as she embraced and kissed me.

Waiting at the bus stop to go back, I met two young Germans who had come to Medjugorje for their honeymoon. Their eyes were sparkling and they were brimming with stories about the peace and hope they find when they come. "Why do you think Jesus Himself does not appear?" I asked them. "Well, perhaps because a man is more stern, and Mary is like a mother full of compassion and easier to know because she is a woman, " the man answered. "But isn't the New Testament full of stories about the tenderness and compassion of Jesus? I can think of no one that surpasses Him," I countered. A doubtful look crossed his face. "Well, maybe, but....anyway...." . Just then their bus pulled up and they shook my hand. "Go up to the mountain!" he said to me. "I will pray for you"!

It was truly a fascinating day, and I think what most poignantly stood out to me is this: People are hungry for God and want to be close to Him.