
O čemu je razmišljala boraveći u zimskom, adventskom Zagrebu, a s Ukrajinom u srcu, naša posljednja prošlogodišnja rezidentica Tetiana Starostenko...
In the Balkans
Under the Christmas lights, the darkened Zagreb streets seem to hold mystery – the one familiar exclusively in childhood. The city changes its face seasonally like a decorated shop – to give the customers a more pleasant visit. After all, our life is all about trade.
In the Balkans, it gets dark much later than in Ukraine. The plane landing in Krakow gets engulfed by the deep darkness of the evening, which, after some hours by bus to Lviv and a night in a train to Kharkiv, eventually transforms into the darkness of the war, the hollowness of the cities during the long hours of the imposed blackouts. The greyness of Kharkiv, shrouded in the cloud of pulverized concrete lifted into the air by the scheduled missiles, rises above the dust of the ruined architecture once considered our cultural heritage. However, if we happen to deny our history, maybe it’s the right thing to get its traces erased…

In the Balkans, it rains a lot. This gives the place its renowned greenery. The East of Ukraine is now dry and dusty, exhausted by the constant fire of the unnecessary war. As artificial as some new viruses. All is about trade, even human lives.
A year ago, walking along the intricate streets of Novi Sad, I was trying to picture what the post-war period would look like. The shattered houses with the peeling paint on them, the smell of urine between the buildings, and the traces of urine on the pavement under the gypsies’ children, who seemingly have merged with the premises of Serbian churches, blended with the historical core of the city and the ease of the dancing couples showcasing elements of rumba, jive, and cha-cha-cha to live music in front of Corso restaurant in the downtown. The herds of Chinese people explore the sights under the shield of umbrellas. The city is turned into a big exhibit for the aliens. Exhibitions bring money. And what is the line when the exhibit gets sold?
In half an hour, the fast train takes me to Belgrade. I like watching Europe through the train window. In China, the earth between the cities feels exhausted, like the one in the mine area. During thirteen hours of journey from Beijing to Xi’an, housing terracotta warriors, one can never experience the site of grass or trees, and if the last ones scarcely pop up, the leaves are thickly covered with dust as the grime of an old kitchen. Before the war, the Chinese students in Kharkiv loved the open windows despite the low temperatures – fresh air is a rare resource for some.
Belgrade has never fully recovered. On the central street, the glassy windows of trendy shops, like Zara, H&M, or Michael Kors, contrast with the upper floors of the hollow apartments abandoned long ago. I get served a juice in a café opposite the bus station, where I drop in my search for Wi-Fi. The waiter has to uncork the bottle in front of me, instead, having examined my suitcase, he brings me a bottle without a cap. I take a small sip and, distracted by a call, put it aside. By the end of the call, my heart beats like a mad engine, and everything around gets dizzy. I leave the bottle almost full and rash to the nearest supermarket to grab a liter of Cola and drink it to the bottom – I have already lost two former classmates who were drugged with clonidine in Moscow many years before the war. Such things happen in megacities. A travel tip: never eat in a café when you travel alone; your bags reveal you as a wanderer.

A bus without a toilet heading to Thessaloniki and then a train to Athens – I am invited by a famous Greek writer for children, whom I met in Shanghai in 2018, to spend a week on the coast of the Ionic Sea. On the yellow highway of Serbia, towards the hills of Macedonia and further, one of the drivers tries flirting with me, pulling my cap to the eyes. He suggests candies, but I refuse. A German diver sitting next to me is indignant about his behavior. So am I, but I know, in Slavic countries, it is vital not to spoil relations with the driver until you have reached your destination. We make friends with the German frau and spend a day together in Thessaloniki. She is an engineering student, wearing her grandma’s ring. She never spends money in restaurants, cooking alone, and sleeping in hostels. She is surprised that I had pre-booked the Alexandria Hotel near Aristotle Square. She doesn’t guess I am much older and can’t share rooms with the aliens like in my student years. She thinks we are peers.
On the train to Athens, I meet a theatre student. “Are you Turkish?” she asks. “No, Ukrainian”, I reply. “You don’t look Ukrainian”, she insists, “Believe me, it’s a compliment”. I laugh. She hasn’t probably met East-Ukrainians yet.
The customs officers are handsome and polite until a year later, in spring, when I go from Serbia to Zagreb. They force me off the bus, tear apart my backpack, and conduct an interrogation. “What were you doing in Serbia?” “Why Croatia?” “For how long?” They don’t put a stamp on my passport. They still don’t see Croatia as a separate state. On the Croatian side, everything goes smoothly.
Zagreb. I’ve seen its various faces: tender and blooming, hot and sunny, yellowish and then Christmassy. Kuhano vino mixed with the images of lit up furry trees, peaceful life blended with the feeling of safety, so unusual for a resident of a front-line city. I feel awkward when I squat on seeing a plane or when I guard my ears with my hands during the advent of fireworks. This fly-or-fight behavior is hard to get rid of quickly. Older citizens remember the time when hedgehogs separated Novi Zagreb from the downtown. My city is a prickly hedgehog, wounding the hearts of its dwellers. Everybody has to keep documents with them when walking around.

“Are you Polish or Czech?” they ask me at Dolac market, guessing that I understand a bit of the language.
“Polish,” I reply. I speak a bit of it. I refuse to call myself a refugee. I deny financial help from Germany or any other European country, unlike my colleagues do. I want to pretend to be a tourist in this beautiful ancient city. In the city of Turkish coffee. In the city where women make fantastic leather shoes. Women! Not Armenian men like it is in my country. In the city, where one can get on Sljeme and have the world under their feet. Treat themselves with svinjetina and krumpir on Medvednica, or beer in Tolkien bar near the Cathedral, which is eternally embraced by the renovation skeleton. Walk through the underground corridor searching for the mystery and the dark secrets of the past. Come to the Museum of Broken Relationships, as sometimes my relationships with this world seem broken.
“Are you Italian?” they ask me in the linen shop.
Occasionally, at the market, I reply honestly to the questions about my background, and then the sellers give me lemons, apricots, or grapes for free. I think we have lost that sincerity, which is still preserved in the Balkans, preserved in Zagreb.

A Zagreb girl once told me that the city is dying and not the same as it used to be twenty years ago. Everybody goes to Germany in search of a bigger salary. I disagree. I can notice the crowds of children on the playgrounds, like the flocks of sparrows. I watch the blackbirds hunting daily in the grass of the gardens. People on Sljeme tell you “Bok!” and smile. Jarun is full of bicycles at the weekend. The bookshops house both cats and readers. The colorful cats are on the pavement near Zagreb Café with the best city latte. We have lost these images. Zagreb is an alive city, and the life on this planet is such a fragile thing.
In the Balkans, it is light until ten in the evening.
In the Balkans, the fog comes from the cold air and the water vapor, enshrouding the city and hiding its private lives from the prying eyes of a foreigner.
In the Balkans, there is a mixed history of many nations.
In the Balkans, walking along the lit streets of the ancient city, I am hiding my revived soul, shielded by the kilometers against the dreadfulness of the war left behind like a rare nightmare.
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