ljubavi

"In today's world, no one is innocent, no one is neutral. A person is either on the side of the oppressed or on the side of the oppressors. A person who is not interested in politics approves of the dominant order of the ruling classes and exploitative forces."

In both field and mountain  The white lilies have bloomed So in field and mountain the lily seems to speak  In mount and dale every lily  Seems to blaze And when so pensive among the blooming flowers  You silently  Pass Maybe like me you think of those  Who passed silently by here  Before you Among the blooming white flowers Wondering just as you do  What are these white  Lilies Are they someone’s rejoicings  Or  Wailings The signs of those who once passed  In these pathless regions and  Hopelessly  Trod  In search of white flowers   

“Ya Allah, give me eyes that see the best in people, a heart that forgives the worst, a mind that forgets the bad, and a soul that never loses faith.”

“The lake was artificial, and so was the parking lot, and so was the grass, and so were the waitress’s nails when she brought our coffee and kindly asked Lejla to get her feet off the chair. It seemed like someone had stretched foil across the surface of the water, as if an unexpected stone would rip the whole view like a photograph. Each grass stalk looked the same size, like a hair-removal salon had taken care of the lawn, not a gardener. And the green was so different from our green—it had the same uniform hue whenever I looked: at the trees, the hedges, the grass… It reminded me of that little Microsoft bucket you click on to fill up a shape with one even color. Birds sounded the same in their synchronized harmony, delivering as if on cue perfect thirds and fifths, so I thought we must have been listening to a CD instead of real beaks. I remember how I used to appreciate such things: streets without litter, evenly cut hedges, clean benches, and the overall orderliness of the world abroad. I couldn’t stand it now. Not because Bosnia and its carelessness were any better. I have never been one of those people who are proud of signs of their own failure as if these are proof that us locals are more heartwarming then them foreigners. But in that moment, with the disappointed Lejla looking at the perfect square lake and shouting, ‘Oh, fuck me!’ when she read the price of two coffees, Austria irritated me. I felt wrong compared to its immaculate grass—my edges were rough, my skin uneven, my thoughts colored over the lines.” 

Vengeful, I hope. Every year has been the same: I drown deep within myself, tumbling over waves I have created and find myself dragged by the current, into the hopeless depths of my mind. Every year I crawl back out, coaxed by the smell of the Earth after rain falls and the promise it all holds. Like some sort of rebirth, a chance to start anew. But instead I dig my heels into the sand and let the current wash over me, as forgiving as it was last year. Maybe next year I will learn to bare my claws. Fight. How does the poem go? Do not go gentle into the good night? Yes, maybe I will carve a place for my rage instead, sink my teeth into its flesh and become someone to fear. All of the gentleness has been ripped away from me, swept away by the wrath of the ocean simmering inside my ribcage. There is no room for your rage, I have been told, over and over again. I will make room, pour my ocean of rage into all the crevices and spaces it was not allowed. Next year will be different. I need it to be different. How tiring it is to bury my anger, to drown in the same ocean every year and be spit back out when it grows weary of me. Come back when you are worthy. How tiring to be reborn into a body that never changes. I long to rage, to fight the current I dream up every year and to re-learn what it means to be gentle. I long to be worthy, but I already know what next year holds in store for me: I will crawl my way out of the ocean, dragging my feet through sand and weary to the bone. I'll wait for the first fall of rain, feel the way it slides against my skin. I'll find the first signs of rebirth in the wildflowers and watch them from afar, too angry to touch and too sorrowful to change anything. One way or another, I'll go back. I will unlearn my rage and give in to the current, and spend another year drowning, quietly and miserably. I will forget what vengeance tastes like. It will be stolen from me, like many things.