I was looking through some old files on my computer, and I came across this little piece I wrote when I was CouchSurfing through Eastern Europe in 2012. At the time, I wrote it for myself to try and capture how I felt at the time, and didn't feel comfortable posting it. Looking back I remember how grateful I was for everything in my life back home, something I'm guilty of forgetting.
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In a barely quarter full cinema in Sofia, Bulgaria, a movie is showing. A film memoir of Roman Polanski, it is fitting that a tale about a man with a life full of wonderful highs and horrible lows is the feature film of the night at the Sofia Film Festival. It comes to show how much the nation has changed in the last 20 or so years that such a festival is even able to take place – not much more than two decades ago, every form of mass-media in the government was heavily censored under the communist regime.
I'm sitting and watching the film as a guest of Mariana Melnishka, an esteemed Bulgarian writer, translator, journalist, professor and history buff, all of which have shaped her as a person today. But perhaps, more importantly at least in terms of her growth as a person, she lived in, suffered under and survived the aforementioned regime; one of which she is now an understandably incredibly outspoken critic.
But back to the movie.
Nearing its conclusion, Polanski, when probed about the turmoils, scandals, heartbreak he endured, talks about how his life has been a series of ups and downs. He puts forth the notion that in experiencing the lows, it makes him further appreciate the upswing and the highs. Out of the corner of my eye I spot Mariana rock back and silently clap to herself - it is quite clearly a notion she, and many of those around her, agree with. And understandably so.
I discuss this with her later, in the context of my trip across Europe – a journey from London to Istanbul and back, passing through much of Europe along the way. Two inquisitive people, two writers, two journalists (though, that journalism degree of mine has not been put to too much use of late) in a discussion about something they are passionate about – it's hard to decipher who is interviewing who and who is taking mental notes for something to draft later that evening. Mariana talks in more depth about her struggles under communism, and there were many; the loss of her family's property to the state, the passing of her husband due to his inability to leave the country for medical treatment, the lack of free speech or freedom to do many things are but a few examples.
But it is these struggles, like those of Polanski, which have galvanised her as a person and made her appreciate many aspects of life in 2012 that much more. Having food on the table is one – in her younger years food was sparse and when it was available for purchase, everything was bought in bulk as no-one had a clear idea of when it would next be available. Owning a house in a rural village is another – something that her and her late husband were simply not allowed to do, Mariana explains, as we sit on the deck of the home that her family and friends made with their own bare hands.
The fresh air, the glow of the sun reflecting off the mountains in the distance, these are all things Marina continues to notice, point out and smile about. Things that I, with my comparatively blessed and well-traveled view, am less inclined to notice. Make no mistake, I wholeheartedly enjoy a beautiful landscape, but to appreciate the smaller things in our own backyard (literally and metaphorically) is arguably forgotten in the Generation Y's of the Western World.
As I'd made my way across the Former Yugogslavia, through Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina and Macedonia, I'd encountered many people of similar volition. In Croatia, I stayed with a young couple, Helena and Davor. Davor grew up in a village called Vukovar, which was destroyed in conflict when Davor was all of 14 years old. Suddenly, he was a refugee in his own country – moving to Zagreb to continue his life.
Davor speaks candidly about days spent hiding in a shelter underneath his home before seemlessly transitioning into conversation about more menial topics - his newfound enjoyment of the 'A Song of Fire and Ice' novels which he is burning through at a rapid pace, and Croatian players in the Premier League. It's not a deliberate change of topic, more of a open acceptance of the past – the ability to talk about it, acknowledge the horrors, and continue to move forward in life. To be successful, to laugh, to smile, to enjoy what you have – all of which of Davor has done. He has an important role with an internationl telecommunications provider, he enjoys cooking, and his positivity and enthusiasm for life is infectious – one needs only to glance over at him as he shows us his wedding video to see him smile fondly, tapping along to the background music.
The most confronting side of Eastern Europe was still to come, in Bosnia - specifically Sarajevo. Bullet, mortar and grenade riddled buildings line the streets. The scars of the conflict are still ever-present, reminding tourists and locals alike of the atrocities that took place almost two decades ago.
We're staying with a young man, called Dzemal, and I speak to him about his life in Sarajevo. He couldn't be much older than me - mid 20's or so - and when I ask him if he's lived in Sarajevo his whole life, he simply replies with 'unfortunately', the tone in his voice conveying a true sense of anguish.
Leading on from this, with no prodding, Dzemal brings up the Siege of Sarajevo. Like 40 percent of Bosnian children Dzemal was shot at.
"A bullet wizzed past my ear, I hid under a car,” he explains, before the conversation steers towards life in general.
“I'm not a negative person", Dzemal explains.
"But I'm not really positive either.... I am...”
I can see from the motions he's making with his hands and expressions he's searching for a phrase.
“A realist?” I ask.
“Yes! Yes. A realist. In the middle.”
He then elaborates to explain that this viewpoint is heavily ingrained into his business and life – a desire to keep his hopes in check, perhaps a cautious approach that tends to lend itself more to a personalty trait than a cultural leaning. After all, Dzemal is, much like others I encountered in his city, generally upbeat, smiling, friendly, and also appreciative of the smaller things in life.
Later, whilst offering recommendations of snippets of the city to explore and - having noted I have an interest in photography - panaromic views - he directs me to a hill, around the corner from his house.
Upon my return, when asked for my thoughts, I sheepishly speak of how confronting, even chilling, of an experience it was, as just beneath me were the graves of hundreds of people killed in the siege.
“Yes... but the view was beautiful, no?” he responds.
With the hills in the background and view across the city, he has a very valid point, however his ability to see the beauty in the midst of the tragedy, or to block out the overwhelming sadness, if you look at it another way, brings mixed emotions.
It seems to be human nature, regardless of where one is brought up that adversity motivates, that tragedy brings reflection and appreciation. Perhaps, again, it is less a cultural trait and more a condition of circumstance. It's hard to differentiate in some cases. Is smoking as a national pastime, and seat belts appearing to be an optional accessory a result of policing and lessened health education, or is it simply a result of people that have been raised in an environment with greater things to worry about are throwing caution to the wind, not sweating the small things?
I've had people ask why I'd travel to countries that are hardly the most aesthetically pleasing, countries that are connected with adjectives such as ugly, dirty, or unsafe - often suffering from post-conflict damage or oppressive political regimes.
I guess my response is, and has been, that I feel there's much more to be gained and more to be learnt, from people who have experienced a life far different to mine, a life with hurdle after hurdle. If someone who, as a child was shot at, or lost family members in a horrible conflict, is able to get up every morning and go to work with a smile on their face, anyone can.
I've often heard Australia referred to as the lucky country and shrugged it off, the words washing over me. Talking about my upbringing and life back in Australia over the last few weeks, I've referred to myself as 'lucky' or 'blessed' more times than I can count. If I was blessed in my upbringing, I'm only more blessed to meet the people I have in recent weeks.
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