Polyparty-ism - Search for Common Ground

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about difficult school lessons we had. On the other hand,
Uncle Mirko and my father kept trying to drink a cup of tea
together, but they had rather a bitter feeling between them.
By the mid 1990s, those days when the massacres carried
out by Serbs were the topic of the day in Bosnia, Igor's
father was married to a Serbian woman. At the same time
Kosovo's days seemed numbered. Our parents kept pretending
they were friends, and it was obvious that they
were putting up an act. Nevertheless, let us return to Igor
and me.
He was a fan of the football team Vardar, while I was a
fan of Sloga. We would both go to the stadium, but along
different paths. He was with Komitas on the western seats
and I was with Smugglers. They were making rude
remarks and we did not fall short. The rude remarks were
considered normal, although it should not be that way.
There were other things which were difficult to swallow. I
felt bad when they would swear at our God and when they
would say to us "Gas chambers for the Albanians!" because
I knew that even my Igor was uttering those words.
Immediately after the match we would run headlong away,
to save our necks from Igor's Komitas. Then in the evening
we would run into each other, and through clenched teeth
we would say, "Hi there" in Macedonia.
Then protests started along against the Pedagogical
Faculty. My Igor was standing in the first row. Again in the
evening there would be "Hi there" in Macedonian. We
could only close the doors behind us and burst out of anger.
Whatever happened to us?! We forgot Ramadan, Bayram,
Christmas, and Easter. Igor and I had now become totally
different people. This was the end of the 1990s. During the
Kosovo events, he was almost dancing with joy because
his uncles were murdering my cousins. Later, when the
conflict started in Macedonia, Igor voluntarily enrolled in
the police ranks. And who knows how many Albanians my
Igor has bashed by now!
Although these are difficult times, I still try to understand
him. However, there is one thing that I cannot understand.
Why does he want to deprive me from feeling that
Macedonia is my motherland?
It may seem put on, but even earlier I sincerely wanted
to be where the Albanian language was not spoken. I have
even run into Igor during some plays and concerts performed
by Macedonians. Igor is fully aware of this. The
last times we met were at Dragan Dautovski's and
Synthesis concerts. However, I never meet Igor at any
Albanian cultural evenings or at any Albanian dramas.
I recall the soccer match between Macedonia and
Croatia, when I was not allowed to join the Macedonian
fans, since Igor and his Komitas would swear "Damn shiptari."
If they were to find out that I was Albanian, I could
have gotten the long end of the stick. I remained watching
the match from the north wing, scared to death when
Macedonia was attacking. Because of this, some Albanians
looked at me with gloom in their eyes-why was I cheering
people who were swearing at my mother?
That very same evening Igor and I greeted each other
with another icy, "Hi there" in Macedonian By now, Igor
had forgotten how to say tungjatjeta the Albanian word for
"hi there!"
(The author is a postgraduate student at the
Philology Faculty)
Irena Shehtanska
Nowhere
is the sun
so bright
2 August (Ilinden 198..and some), a
Macedonian national holiday.
Picnic sites were crowded. You could hear
music and drums from the old St. Ilija monastery
where people were dancing Macedonian folk
dances. The earth trembled under the feet of an old
man called Iljo, who, standing on the drum, defied
his age. He staggered a little, but stood up again,
with the flag in his hand. Pleasant smells of grilled
lamb were everywhere. Everyone rejoiced in their
own way. Everyone had a reason to be happy. Old
people, like Grandpa Iljo, because they could finally
dance Macedonian folk dances and cross themselves
for the health and happiness of their family
without fear. Our parents drank to a successful
year, to health and to the victory of their favourite
football club. And the children, who knew what we
were thinking about? I can't remember our desires.
Ilinden 2001.
Streets and old picnic sites are empty. You can
still hear music from St. Ilija monastery, but things
don't seem the same. Voices sound unnatural and
strained. Drumbeats are slower and quieter. And
Grandpa Iljo is not here to dance. I enter the old St.
Panteleimon monastery, and then I go only about
hundred meters further, to pray for health and light a
candle. There are more people in the monastery than
outside, dancing. Their eyes are empty, pensive and
directed toward the icon of the Holy Mother. I open
the memory book to write something-to leave a
trace of me behind. Just two lines higher on the
same page, a child wrote in awkward handwriting,
"Dear God, please watch over my daddy, bring him
back alive, and please make them let him come to
my birthday." I put the pen back.
My name is Irena. I am Macedonian, married,
a mother of a three-year-old son, an unemployed
pedagogue and a member of a lost generation. Lost
because of the curse of having to live in two totally
opposite times. Cursed to grow up and be
brought up in a time of happiness, respect and love,
only to develop into a person who must raise her
own child at a time of general crisis (economic,
political and, most terrible, spiritual). I was raised
to love this country and this people. And I did. I
Youth and crisis, October 2001