Language tests: testing skills or advocating ‘culture’?

We had our Swedish final exams yesterday. It was a strictly formal exam that held in the university’s examination hall – a separate building that was meant ‘only’ for exams, with test administrators and no teachers. It wasn’t very challenging as I had expected. I was hoping there would be an essay, at least a short one. But, no. There were some ‘fill in the blanks’, ‘choose the correct answer’, ‘organize the jumbled words into a sentence’, ‘read a passage and answer the questions’. It was disappointing, but maybe they didn’t want anyone to fail. The exam hall was filled with international students, mostly Europeans and a considerable number of North Americans, perhaps. And there were quite a few people who don’t fit into the category of ‘international/exchange students’, a little older, probably immigrants. Competency in Swedish language is a requirement to find better opportunities in the workforce, also to survive in the country since I’m not sure if the public services are offered in any other language.

As Min and I were walking back to the bus stop after the exams, Min told me that she was surprised about the context of the reading passage. The reading was a page-long story of a couple – the girl from Chile and the guy from Sweden, they met each other at a student party, fell in love, then decided to live together because they couldn’t live apart– first at the girl’s apartment, then with the girl’s dad in Chile and then with the guy’s parents back in Sweden. They eventually moved out to live on their own, and at some point decided to marry ‘officially’, not because they wanted to make their relationship official/legal but since they found it symbolic, and also because they wanted to have a party with their families and friends. At least, this is what I understood!! I mean, this whole story was in Swedish, and believe me, I’ve been learning Swedish only for 3 months. Min exclaimed that she’s surprised to see how simply, and how normally ‘the living together without marriage’ appears in the test paper. Like, this is how we do.., how else could it be. Something which is not so acceptable in South Korea, which I think would be frowned upon in Sri Lanka as well.

But that’s not what concerned me.. the question that struck me was, why was it there on the test paper? What disturbed me more was the last paragraph, which explained why the couple wanted to marry. Which also appeared as a question on the next page: why the couple wanted to marry? We were supposed to answer, I guess, they wanted to marry not because ... but that ... The preconceived notions about marriage, or how people ‘normally’ view marriage in Swedish society, I think, did not appear there unintentionally.

Few weeks ago, at a colloquium we had at the ‘Peoples of the Baltic’ course, few of my classmates presented papers analyzing the issues concerning the language tests in European countries, and how problematic/discriminatory they can become. For immigrants these language tests are very important, since they’re expected to pass the tests in order to acquire legal status/citizenship in the country, and to find jobs. As the papers described in detail, the goal of the language tests is not merely testing the language skills, rather they advocate standardized sets of values/phenomenon that are considered/understood/advertised as the European way of doing things, or ‘our culture’. The written tests and the interviews does not only test the respondents’ competency in the language, but interrogate their opinion about gays, women’s rights, or if they would accept ‘european liberalism’, ‘democracy’, ‘religion’. Like, everyone else living in the country has concrete, unanimous ideas about these concepts.

With this backdrop, I became quite skeptical about the passage in our Swedish final paper, was it included there purposefully to address a certain group/community? Or was it not?  

Where would I be without her?

I’ve been feeling dizzy and nauseous for the past two days, but today it kinda got worse. When I was walking to the bus stop from Engelska Parken Campus I felt like my body was moving to the side, when my legs were actually moving forward. For a moment, I thought, I’m gonna faint right there. There was a spark in my head that went down the throat, right to the stomach where I felt a sharp pain. I know there’s nothing wrong with my body, I kept repeating to myself there’s nothing wrong with my body, even though the pain became inevitable. I paused for a while, took a deep breath and continued walking to the bus stop. I continued with my daily life. She taught me that technic, that magic (to heal oneself instantly), though unintentionally. She taught me how to ignore the forces/barriers, internal and external, that stop you from getting what you want, or going where you want. She taught me how to survive, in any place, at any time, when/where you desperately feel that you can’t take it anymore. She taught me my home is nowhere, as much as it is everywhere. I often wonder where would I be without her..
(From my journal, November 16, 2011)

It’s 3 months already, since I arrived in Uppsala. Again and again, I can’t help feeling amazed at how easily our mind adapts itself to new places. Every time I travel somewhere and return back to Uppsala, I feel so connected to the town when I get off the train and walk out of the station. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe not everyone. I’ve known people who have been living in Toronto for years, for some 20 or 30 years (longer than the years they had spent in Sri Lanka), and still do not feel comfortable, still overwhelmed with the temporariness of their being in that place/space. But I was indeed different. It was in Toronto that I realized I can quite easily adapt to new environments, with fewer traumas/struggles. I arrived alone at Toronto Pearson Airport on July 2008, with only a luggage and some 50 Canadian dollars in hand. At the age of 19, it was my first journey too far away from home.., and I wasn’t quite sure if I would ever return in the near future. Even though I was alone, afraid, and anxiety took over me, I survived, of course, with the help of some kind-hearted people.

Adapting is, I think, way more personal. It was a different experience when I came to Sweden. This time, I had enough money (I later realized how powerful money can be when we’re travelling, it can get us into trouble, at the same time, can also get us out of trouble) and credit card (!?), but the bad side was – I didn’t know Swedish so I couldn’t read any signs or any instructions on bus stops, ticket machines, or pay phones. This time, I was very organized and planned out things way ahead (which is sooo out of my nature). I applied for housing as early as possible, figured out how to set up internet with my contact person, bought a second-hand unlocked phone, made a list of the things I have to do during the very first days, and the things I need to buy. I also read tons of information about shopping for groceries, bus passes, banking and other practical issues on the student union’s web page. However, things don’t usually happen according to our plans. Life doesn’t follow our schedule. It has its own plans. I had no one to receive me at the airport in Stockholm, and had to drag two heavy suitcases at late night to find a taxi and to get to my room. There was a nice friend (actually she was my friend’s, friend’s, friend) who picked up the room keys for me and handed them over that late night. I would always be grateful to her. In my room that night, I had nothing to eat. I haven’t eaten anything after the lunch I had at Keflavik airport. I went to bed with an empty stomach. This, wasn’t in my plan!

In the morning, I totally forgot about the breakfast, but rushed to meet my contact person at the international office. I dressed and came out of my room, but had no idea where to go. There was a slope behind our building and I remembered the friend who dropped the keys mentioning about some bus stop down the slope. I walked down, found the bus stop, asked people around if they know how to get to the international office. And there was a girl who was also going there. I stayed close to her and asked her about how to get the bus tickets, but she didn’t know much since she was also an international student. Then there was another girl who told me that I could buy bus passes at the convenience store nearby. And I rushed to the store to buy a monthly pass. I stick with the girl who’s going to the international office and finally met my contact person. She was a wonderful lady, thoughtful and supportive like many other staffs I found at the university. She handed me the welcome package with a mobile SIM and password to connect internet from my room. I walked around the town the whole day with a map, familiarizing myself with the place. I should say, (I’m quite proud of this myself), that I can read/follow maps very well, and I have extraordinary memory when it comes to identifying, or getting used to new places. I just need to get around once, the next day, I could easily track the streets, identify the bus stops, and walk around as if I had been there forever. But I should also admit that Min is so much better than me in following maps and finding places (I thought I was good:-().

The same day, before returning to my room, out of the 13 nations, I randomly picked a nation that was closer to where I was walking, and applied for membership (which I knew I must do sometime sooner.. doing prior research about the place do come in handy at times). Then I had to return home, to Flogsta, but I didn’t know how to get back. I asked the staff at the nation, and while he was explaining to me, two students who overheard our conversation offered to help me since they were also going back to Flogsta. Again, I stayed closer to them and safely arrived back. It was then I realized that I haven’t eaten anything the whole day. The energy I gained from the lunch I had the previous day was already gone, but my mind was too busy that I didn’t pay attention to my body. Fortunately, there’s a supermarket right there in the Flogsta centrum, where I bought some fruits, bread, and butter and returned to my room. Oh, and I also added some money to the Swedish pre-paid SIM card that I got for free from the university. Figuring out the internet connection and phone was the first and foremost thing I wanted to do when I arrived here. Yep, I can survive without food but not without internet/phone. So.., that’s pretty much how I spent my first day in Uppsala, exactly 3 months ago.

Anyways, about adapting to new places.. I think it was the way I was brought up. Our family is quite strange. The relationship we have with each other is stranger. It’s never too sentimental. We are not too attached to each other. We are well aware of our individuality within the unit that’s called a family. We have our own things, own preferences. It doesn’t mean that I don’t miss my parents or miss the fights and fun I had with my brother or sister. It doesn’t mean that I don’t feel sad, or cry when departing them. I still remember the sickening feeling I had when leaving London and akka, few months ago. I missed her the most, when I was trying to adjust to the new life in Toronto. I wanted her to stand by me and say that I’m doing the right thing. Because I wasn’t so sure myself. She never takes decisions for me, but she has always been there, even when I did stupid things and had to face the consequences.. She was always there. And there’s also another woman who I remember every time I get distressed. The extraordinarily strong, courageous woman I call 'amma'. Since my early teenages, I so wished I could be like her, so daring and so bold. She taught me how to be strong, independent, how to ignore the barriers and always do whatever I want. She never taught me how to cook, clean, or to be a nice obedient girl. Preparing me to be a good, responsible ‘wife’ was never in her agenda, that I’m definitely sure. I remember her mentioning once, when I was growing up, that she does not want us to be like her, that she does not want us to get trapped in family life and responsibilities.

All I could say is that she’s not a typical mother one would see in movies, dramas or read in poems, stories. She’s not the kind who would dedicate her whole life for her kids or husband. She’s very conscious about her own life, her own friends, and her own time. The amma I know loves international movies, the Ingmar Bergman kind of movies! We go to the international film festivals together in Colombo. It kinda feels strange to think back now that I did hang out with my mom at many movies, but it was indeed very fun. We did discuss the issues and things on our way back home. Once, there was a Russian film festival organized by the Russian Cultural Centre, and she wanted me to accompany her even though I had my math final exams the next day. The Russian cultural centre is situated in the high security zone of Colombo, with checkpoints and armies everywhere along the roads. Since she cannot speak Sinhala fluently to communicate with the armies, and since the show ends at late night, she preferred to take me with her. When I had an exam! I went anyway. What’s there to study for a math exam? And I’m not a person who studies at the last minute. Even in Toronto, I’m used to watching movies or hanging out the day before the exam. It reduces the tension (a psychological excuse!). And there was also this film screening and discussion organized by ‘Nihari’ on every Full moon poya day (Full moon day is a public holiday in Sri Lanka, yeah every month). We never missed it. If it’s a full moon day, we all know that amma won’t cook, the dinner’s gonna be a take-out, since she’ll be (me too) at the movie screening.

The amma I know is a traveler. I think I inherited the passion to travel from her genes. During the school breaks, 3-times a year, we travel somewhere within Sri Lanka together. Appa is not much into travelling. He is kind of a person who wants firm roots under his feet. He doesn’t like to move to new places, new houses, or travel. But we try to drag him along with us because he is our treasury :-) Well, somebody has to pay for the tours! When amma started to work and receive income, we sometimes traveled without him, he voluntarily stays behind. Amma is interested in Hindu and Buddhist temples and their architecture. I think she was learning some archaeology during her teacher’s training and was excited to visit the places she studied. We once visited the 7 (or is it 9?) prominent Buddhist monasteries surrounding the town of Anuradhapura, climbed a hill covered with thick forest in Kandy to get to a nearly-abandoned Murugan temple (I have no idea from where she heard about it, but it was rather a very small, old temple), got lost in some remote village in Jaffna and stayed in the small huts with a family of estate workers in some rubber estate in South Eastern Sri Lanka. We also visited one of amma’s childhood friends who has been teaching in Nawalapitiya (a beautiful town surrounded by rich, green hills), well again, got lost and had a hard time finding our way to the town. It’s still amazing to think that she traveled everywhere, dragging 3 kids along with her.

Maybe it’s not so surprising, since she’s the same woman who wanted to continue her higher education after having 3 kids (which is not very common as far as I know, among the women of her age). I was 8 or 9 then, and my younger brother was only 4 years old. She finished the training school and soon became a teacher in an underprivileged school in Colombo (This year, she received the ‘best teacher’ award, because for the first time in their school history five of her students have passed the Grade 5 scholarship exam. At least now they recognized the extra time and energy she dedicates to her school and students, which took her away from us). It was not as easy as it sounds. In Colombo, she had no support from the extended family for babysitting or for other practical things, there was nobody, not even our dad, who was never home. He was too busy with developing his career and involving in additional social services (as my mom puts it). And as far as I can remember, there were no proper day care centres in Colombo at that time, even if there were any, probably they were too expensive and unaffordable. She managed everything on her own. I don’t remember how she did it or what she went through, but in the end, I think we all turned out to be alright. We learned to be alone and manage our own things from a very early age.

There’s this one day that I still clearly remember. I was probably 4 or 5 then. I’m not sure how old I was but definitely before I was 6, because we moved to a new house when I was 6. I don’t know where akka and appa was that day. Maybe they were in school. I was asleep that afternoon. So when amma had to go for shopping, she took my baby brother and left me alone at home and locked the door outside. Maybe she thought she would come back soon. And maybe she knew that I’m heck of a sleepyhead (I didn’t change much, even after some 17 years). But strangely, somehow, I woke up in the middle, and was really terrified to find myself alone in the house. The house was dark, it was an early evening, and I couldn’t reach the switch to turn on the lights. I was afraid of the dark but what scared me most was when I found out the door was locked outside. I stood by the window, climbed on a chair to get closer to the window, and cried myself out. I don’t know for how long I stood there crying, but it took a while before amma returned home. I don’t remember what happened after she got home but I’m pretty sure she felt very bad. She never left me alone at home since then. Things didn’t get much better even when she took me with her for shopping. Since she is very health-conscious, she always buys fresh meat/fish, never frozen. For some reason, she never wanted me to come inside the fish/meat market, where they slaughter chickens and all kinds of animals. So she usually asks me to stay at the entrance, watch out for the bags of groceries, and goes inside alone. I hated waiting at the entrance of a super busy meat market alone with grocery bags. I was just a kid, only 8 or 9 years old and it takes her forever to come back.

Anyways, the outcome of all this is that we learned to be on our own, not depending on someone for the very basic things. I think my brother started learning things at a very early age compared to me. He could make perfectly awesome rottis and omelet when he was just 9 or 10. If he was in a good mood, and making rottis, my sister and I would line up in the kitchen to taste them hot from the stove. They were so DELICIOUS, that you can eat them without any side dishes! I’m not exaggerating.., not a bit. He is very close to mom than me or my sister, and picked up many of her techniques. Our mom used to say that the older girls are good for nothing because we don’t usually help her out in the kitchen, but our brother does and keeps her company. Well, not that I was bad. I started hand-washing (we didn’t have a washing machine) my clothes when I was 9 or 10, I guess. Sometimes, akka sneaks her clothes in my bucket, and there were times when I accidentally washed hers too. But then I found out and started carefully inspecting the clothes before washing them:-)

I don’t know why I recollect all these memories now.., maybe I was feeling very melancholic and nostalgic. Maybe there’s something in me that wants to say “I’m sorry”, for the things I’ve done/haven’t done.. Maybe I just want her to know that I can now understand her more than I ever did. I do wish that someday I could take her to the places she wanted to visit, the architectural excellences, the beaches, hills, valleys and waterfalls.. I wish there would come a day when she need not count the prices three times in her head before buying groceries. I also wish that someday, someday in the near future, she would call me once, just once, and realize that I’m not as strong as she thinks I am.

Where would I be without you, amma?

In Search of the Lighthouse Keeper’s Residence

Part 2

Well, I think everything depends on where, how and with what one grows up.. I grew up in a not-so-safe neighbourhood (at least it was considered so by parents who have young daughters) in Colombo, where I spent all my teenage years, up until I was 19. I remember, some of my friends were not allowed to visit my place, and even if they did so, they were strongly advised by their parents to take an auto (three-wheel taxi), not bus and NEVER walking. Though I personally never felt unsafe, there were reasons for some to fear. There were slums along the railroad right next to the street where I lived, and these slums were full of drug dealers (the term used by our mom to refer these guys, ‘kudukaaran’ always amused us, since ‘kudu’ is a Sinhala word for some kind of narcotic, and ‘kaaran’ is a Tamil preposition which means anyone/the actor doing or using) and all sorts of people. Since the age of 13, I travelled within the city on my own (without anyone accompanying me, and that’s in a sense, an unimaginable thing for some families, even today) and of course I had to pass these slums every time I walk out of the door.

Unlike others, my parents never worried too much about the neighbourhood, but whenever I had to return home late in the evening they always ask me to take the bus, and not to walk through the deserted roads. But I hated the bus. Bus number 155 is the only bus that goes through our neighbourhood, well, there was also 167 but for some reason it doesn’t run so often, and it completely stopped some years back. One of the main reasons why I hate 155 is that, it’s always highly crowded (especially during peak times), crowded in a sense that sometimes, you won’t have enough space to land both your feet, and there were times when I had to stand on my toes. The crowd will push you, crush you, squeeze you, and that’s also a good opportunity for many to physically abuse girls. One could never tell the difference, if a guy crushing you is doing that intentionally or if he’s really helpless. There were times when I got really mad, I was trying to resist, to yell back, but things always flipped back at me. People point their fingers at you, you you’re a girl, you’re not supposed to be here, at this time, at this place, it’s YOUR fault! Like the guys are all innocent babies, and like I’m the one trying to provoke them.

But then, there are nice people too, most often grannies who come to your rescue, who sometimes offer their seats even if they can’t stand for too long. But I hated the bus because I have always been very conscious of my physical space, I hate anybody who violates that space. So instead, I choose to walk home, even though it’s quite late. The roads will be deserted except for some guys drinking, or doing whatever in the corners, and not all the streets have adequate lights. But still I preferred to walk. I used to lie to my parents that I did take the bus, when I was actually walking home. And I buy wild berries and acharu from roadside sellers with the money amma gave for bus tickets, and enjoy my walk back home. Of course, I do encounter ‘kudukaarankal’ and drunken men along the road, but they usually mind their own businesses and I mind mine. It was during one of these walks back home at late night, I wrote the poem “இரவின் தடங்கள்” (I was 15 or 16 back then), which depicts a girl walking alone in the dark, the footsteps she hear in the distance, and the confusing feelings the darkness arouse in her. (The link for that poem: http://rekupthi.blogspot.com/2006/10/blog-post_16.html)

Thus, I grew up with all these paranoia towards strangers, slums, the darkness, the deserted streets, and men, especially MEN. We grew up with stories, stories of girls being abused in the hands of strange, poor, alcoholics and drug addicts. But through my experiences, I kinda hated the professionally well-dressed, decent-looking, middle-aged men travelling in the bus more than the others. But then, in one way or the other, all these are highly stereotyped prejudices with which I, as a girl, grew up. Though I am too far away from Colombo right now, I still can’t ignore these feelings, the fears, and the anxiety which keep shadowing me, no matter if I was travelling in some remote village in Denmark, or a populated city in Estonia. They follow me everywhere.

It’s with this background one should understand the things we’ve been through in Denmark. Done with flashbacks, let me go back to the Skåne (Oh, I learned from Min that the southern part of Sweden is called Skåne region because it was under the Danish kingdom for a long time) and Denmark Trip. So we made a mistake when booking the hostel in Copenhagen. Well, it was not actually our fault since the hostel we booked was listed under Copenhagen, while it was actually an hour and half away (by train) from the city. We found out the night before and it was too late to cancel the booking. I kinda liked that place and really wanted to go there even though it was quite far, mainly because the hostel is in the suburbs of a coastal town lying in the northernmost shores of Denmark. And the hostel is actually a renovated building from 17th century, and formerly was the residence of lighthouse keepers. There’s a lighthouse right next to it. The town is called Gilleleje but this lighthouse keeper’s residence is actually situated in the suburbs of the town, near Staeremosen, which is quite a remote area.

It was a late autumn evening.. In Northern Europe even as early as October the sun will set around 4 or 5pm. We left Copenhagen central station at about 4.30pm, headed towards Gilleleje, since we did not want to arrive at the town too late. We had to make a transfer at another station, and we had a hard time finding the right train. The details we had in our hand (the name of the town/train) didn’t match with the names on the screen. It was not a big station; there were only 3 or 4 platforms, but even the people we asked were not very sure and confused us even more. A lady finally pointed out a platform. There was a young guy, in his late teenages or maybe early 20’s, standing next to her and was listening to our conversation. And after a while, when the train arrived at the platform and we were ready to get into it, he came rushing towards us and told us that this is not the right train but the one on the opposite platform. And he ran away! We were really confused. The train will depart in few minutes. We rushed to the next platform, got into the train, and asked an old guy if this train will go to Staeremosen. But he pointed out to the other train. So we ran back again to the previous platform. It was heck of a day, with lots of running. Some hours back, on the same day in Malmo, we ran through the main streets of the city to get to the central station because we were late for our train, then we rushed up and down the stairs at Copenhagen station to catch the other train. And here again. All with 7kg heavy backpacks.

So we finally got into the train, and the train went on and on, through the woods, through remote landscapes, far away from the cities. It wasn’t even 6pm but the sky was already dark and felt like 9 or 10 at night. Then our train finally stopped at Staeremosen station. Well, I wouldn’t call it a station. It was just a platform. And there was also a bench with a roof and that’s it. Nothing else. Only 6 people got off at that station including the two of us. Though it was pitch dark we were a little confident since we had directions in our hand. But all our confidence gave up on us when we got off the train. The direction started off like this: “walk towards southeast and continue on … street”. Okej, but we didn’t even know where the south or where the east is, and how the heck we’re supposed to find the southeast? There were no streets as far as our eyes could see in that dark. We had a clever idea. We decided to follow the people who got off the train with us. There was a young guy, who disappeared somewhere soon after we got off. And there were another three people, walking together in front of us, two men and a girl. We followed them for a while, with the hope that they would lead us to some street, so we could continue on our own.

But no, they were walking on a narrow path, which we couldn’t consider a street, because it was going through the fields. There were bushes and trees on either side, and it was not even a tar road. We decided it’s better to ask them. We ran towards them, explained our situation, only to learn that they don’t understand a single word in English. And we didn’t know a single word in Danish. Though both Swedish and Danish languages are so much similar, our basic Swedish didn’t help us there. We employed all forms of communication, actions, gestures, but no help. They didn’t know the street we were looking for, maybe they just didn’t understand our accent, or the way we pronounced the name of the street. I even showed them the printed address of our hostel, but they didn’t know it either. They were feeling terribly bad for not being able to help us. Though we didn’t understand a single word, it was apparent on their face. Feeling bad to trouble them, Min and I decided to search the street on our own. We departed, and walked in the opposite direction.

Fortunately, after sometime, we were able to find a big street (not that it was really big, but comparatively, since at least it’s big enough for vehicles). It was easy to follow the directions once we found the first street. Actually, the directions were meant for cars, which we found out later, since they took us right to a highway with no pedestrian walk. It was a strange experience walking on the highway for approximately 3 kilometres. Well, not walking, more precisely, running.. It scared the hell out of me, because it’s a perfect and typical setting we see in any horror movie. A two-lane highway with no single street light, with woods on both sides, and a heavy fog veiling the sight. The woods looked so creepy with the mist. Poor visibility, no street lights and no pedestrian walk mean the vehicles can’t see us and can easily hit and run. But I wasn’t afraid of death, no, not a bit. And I cared the least about the thieves, we had nothing precious with us. Rather, it was the fear of a lonely girl on the road. Technically, I wasn’t alone, Min was there, we had each other. Yet, I couldn’t help that inert fear.

We ran on that fog covered highway, with the help of our phone lights, and ONLY phone lights. There were vehicles passing once in a while, so whenever we saw a vehicle in the distance, we jumped to the side, on to the bush or woods.. The fog that evening was very thick that even if I walked a few steps away from Min, I feared I might not be able to see her. And Min took her hood off even though it was damn cold, because she said she might not hear me with the hood covering her head. The highway, and woods covered with heavy mist reminded me all the horror/ghost movies I’ve watched so far (Count in ‘I know what you did last summer’, ‘The motel’, ‘Gothika’, and many more). On a normal day, I’m not usually a very chatty person, but I was jabbering non-stop that night, all along the highway, to hide my fear.

Finally, we found the road – Fyrvejen, we’ve been looking for the whole evening. The lighthouse was situated in the shore, at the very end of that road, almost 500m away from the highway. Not to mention that the road was also very creepy, with mist covered fields on both sides. We noticed the light of the lighthouse and kept following it. After 200 or so metres, we came across a building, that somewhat looked like a hostel, and we tried to go in just to make sure we’re on the right road. But then, there came a dog barking at us, and it was not chained. That’s it. We turned back and started running again; we didn’t stop until we were sure that the dog is not following us. Heck of a day! Anyways, at the far end of the road, we finally found our hostel. We were so relieved to arrive there alas! What strange experiences or feelings journeys can bring to us? The day before, we were so happy and proud that we saw many places in a single day. But today, we are simply excited that we finally found the lighthouse keeper’s residence.

Well, the story didn’t end there. But I don’t want to drag it anymore. I’ll just sum it up in a few sentences. Upon our arrival, we found out that the hostel is rather a private house, and we were the only guests on that night. The only other person who lives there is our host – the housekeeper, a ‘middle-aged’ guy! And to make things worse, our room did not have a lock!! I think he understood our paranoia. It was so apparent on our face, we were terrified.. How can he not understand that? He left us alone that night.

However, our room was rather nice and cozy. It was worth all the trouble. Sitting in the room next to us, Min and I had some coffee and tea with bread and cookies. The warm drink down our throat was soothing our body and mind. We sat there talking and talking for hours. We laughed until our stomach hurts, until we had tears. We laughed for no specific reason but it helped to clear the tension. In a way, we were proud of ourselves for we didn’t freak out; we found the hostel at last, even though we were dead scared, and had to run along the highway without any proper lights. It was then I realized how strange life is. There we were, Min and I – who grew up in different parts of the world, meeting each other in some other corner (well, in Uppsala), travelling together just to get lost in a remote Danish coastal town. On that day, on that evening, in the remote suburbs of Gilleleje, I grew so fond of her. I wondered how different every single day can be, what strange things it can bring to us, and how our moods and feelings differ from day to day. I wondered what tomorrow will bring us..

And that’s how we celebrated our Halloween 2011!!

In search of the lighthouse keeper’s residence

Part 1

It all started when Min had to see a naked guy in the corridor of the youth hostel we stayed in Göteborg. You know how they say, what you see in the early morning when you wake up, determines how the rest of your day gonna be.. Alas, this superstition turned out to be true, in our case. Weird things happened to us along our journey, the whole day! There were these two country men, one man with crooked front teeth and his companion, a short man carrying a lantern in one hand and charcoal in the other. They were actually really nice country folks who tried to help two poor young girls who got lost.. But the funny thing was, how we communicated with each other, they didn’t know a single word in English, and we, with zero knowledge of Danish. Oh, and the guys with white jumpsuits (is it how you call the full-body suits, similar to what the fire fighters wear?).. Since we got off the train in Copenhagen, we saw so many young guys in white n white.. Something was going on, we didn’t know what, but it was indeed a funny sight! Also, there was this guy at the station who confused us and asked us to get on the wrong train, and then suddenly ran away. Thank goodness, we didn’t listen to him, we rechecked with another man and finally got into the right train. It was rather a wicked day, Min and I celebrated Halloween in a strange way that no one would’ve ever imagined. Well, not that we expected it either 

Okej, maybe I should start from the beginning. Min (an exchange student from Seoul University, Korea) and I planned to travel to two of the southern cities in Sweden, Göteborg and Malmö, and along the way, decided to cross the Öresund Bridge that connects Southern Sweden and Denmark, and to spend a day or two in Copenhagen as well. It’s not the first time we backpack together. We’ve been to central, or more precisely, north central region of Sweden the previous week. The region Dalarna, and the towns (or rather village) we visited, Mora and Nusnäs were famous for the handcrafted wooden horses that are referred to as the ‘symbol of Sweden’. Nothing adventurous happened on that journey except that one time when we missed the last bus from Nusnäs to Mora and had to hitchhike to get to the nearest town.

But this time, it was different. I should say I was never scared this much in my whole life.. So, let me start from the beginning.. On last Friday, 28th of October, Min and I started our 3-day backpacking tour passing through 3 main cities in Southern Sweden and Denmark. Well, also this coastal town in the northern-most point of Denmark, but I’ll come to that a little later. We took an early morning train from Uppsala to Stockholm central station and transferred to another train that goes to Göteborg. The whole journey took around 4 to 5 hours. Göteborg is indeed a beautiful city. It lies in the western coast of Sweden, and also has a popular port. We visited some museums in the city. The best one was the Maritiman – some docked warships turned into a museum, where we were allowed to get into a submarine that is still floating in the water! We also walked along the main streets, had fika (that is, a coffee break) at a small café in the seventeenth century town called ‘Haga’, and climbed on a hill to see the night view from a medieval tower/fortress called ‘Skansen Kronan’.

We are two poor backpackers, so we brought our own food (bread, cheese, butter, nutella, apples and bananas) and stayed in very cheap youth hostels, sharing bunk beds. I was glad that Min preferred to sleep on the upper part of the bunk bed, since I am terrified about sleeping so high above the ground. During the whole tour that lasted for more than 3 whole days, we ate bread with cheese/nutella for all 3 meals, except for that one lunch we had at a restaurant in Nyhavn, Copenhagen.

Everything was perfectly fine the first day in Göteborg. Though we were heck tired walking in and around, back and forth through the whole city, carrying heavy backpacks, we were still so happy and proud that we got to see many places in a single day. The youth hostel we stayed in was warm and cozy. We had our own private room, even though we had to share washrooms and showers with all the other guests. The next morning, on Saturday, we had to take an early train from Göteborg to Malmö, so we set up our alarms and decided to wake up around 5.30 in the morning. Well, I have to stress that I sacrifice my sleep, and wake up early in the morning, only for the sake of travelling, and NOT for anything else.

That morning, as always, I was too lazy to get up from the warm, cozy bed. Though awake, I was still lying in the bed and watching Min take her things and go to the bathroom. She took a step out of the door, and rushed back in with a gasp, “Oh, my god!” I was alarmed, and asked her what’s wrong.. “There’s a naked man in the corridor” – Gosh, I didn’t know how to response, to be surprised or to laugh.. Well, the only thing I know was that it’s gonna be a weird day.. I suppose, he was a guest staying in a room next to the showers and washroom, and I’m sure he didn’t expect anyone to see him that early in the morning. But anyways, our day started off like this.. And it was an early sign of what was awaiting for us the rest of the day! Well now, it doesn’t mean that we continued to see naked people along the way, it’s just the weird and unexpected things happened to us the whole day.

The weather was quite bad on Saturday. Yeah, let’s blame it on the weather. It was so misty that the train we took from Göteborg to Malmö had to stop because of poor visibility. The train stopped in a town somewhere in between Göteborg and Malmö, and we had to catch a bus from there to get to Malmö. The thing about travelling in Sweden is, all the announcements in the trains, all the signs, and names, and everything else will always be in Swedish. The only sentence they will announce in English in any intercity train is, even in any utter serious circumstance, “if you need information in English please contact our staff”. And that’s it. It’s how we missed our connecting train and had to take a bus when we were travelling in the central Sweden a week ago. But this time we were alert and asked a Swedish couple to explain what’s going on. The girl was very nice. She was translating every announcement, and helped us get into the right bus that goes directly to Malmö. The whole journey took more time than we had expected, and we were starting to worry since we had a pre-booked train that departs from Copenhagen to Stæremosen at 4.30pm (where our other youth hostel is). In order to catch that train, we should leave from Malmö to Copenhagen on time. It was rather a hectic schedule.

Though we didn’t get to spend much time in Malmö, we went to the Malmöhuset – the castle and the museum inside, and walked along the streets. I think Min liked Malmö better than Göteborg, since it was smaller than the other, and the architecture was quite old and nice. The great thing about travelling with Min is, we both share the same interests (we are after all anthropology students!!) and we always want to go to the same place. So far, the journey was wonderful and the people we met were usually very nice. Many of them offered to help us even before we asked, especially with the directions, and sometimes with buying bus tickets. Bus tickets are always complicated, the rules differ greatly from city to city: some buses don’t accept cash, some only accepts coins, and others will require you to buy tickets at some machine or a convenience store. Anyways, there are definitely some advantages for girls travelling alone. People take pity on you, and always want to help you. Min and I really enjoyed passing as poor helpless young backpackers. It usually works quite well.. We can easily get rides back to the town, we can be sure that people will definitely help us with the directions. But then there are times when being a girl on the road is not so advantageous. It was when our ‘happy journey’ turned into a ‘scary journey’.

I know, I understand, because I was there..

Yes, yes, but then, what about the people? This is a question that often gets ignored in the metanarratives of war and violence but meanwhile, of great interest to anthropologists who always tend to discover the overlooked, long-forgotten, minor details. Let’s set aside the logistics, the ideologies, the processes, the stimulators, the causes, effects, statistics, reports and even the incomprehensible (maybe not so much) web of complex political relations.., on a very basic ground level, for the people who breathe, survive, and sustain the terrors of violence, war is never a simplified attractive ideological pursuit. It’s not to say that strong patriotic, nationalist sentiments cease to exist amidst violence; rather the ways through which people perceive, understand, and adapt to violence, and the ways through which the violence shapes their ideologies and inclination is conveniently ignored in the discourses of the nationalist/patriotic metanarratives. Accusing the political climate for infusing violence is one way of looking at things, but the possibility of vice versa, that the violence influencing the political inclination (the violence of the state influencing people to lean towards the rebellions, and the violence of the rebellions influencing them to lean towards the state, or another alternative) is another perspective that begs attention.

No matter in which part of the world it occurs, war is always a highly contested space. Perhaps since the experiences are most often rooted in the local context, in the local attitudes and temperaments where it’s almost impossible to fabricate universal arguments to or against them. Or perhaps, with all the conflicting narratives, testimonies and perspectives, there’s no such absolute truth about the war. When the individual or collective memory of war is constructed with fragments of truth, fragments of dismay, fear and frustration, nothing can be false either. Disregarding the contexts, logics, and political performances, on the very ground level, the most dangerous and scariest aspect of violence is its ability to metamorphose people completely, in a matter of a day or two. Whether in Bosnia, Rwanda, or Sri Lanka, the most dreadful result of violence is not the sufferings/terrors that people fear they can’t sustain, they can’t stand for, but, the most distressing thing is what we get accustomed to, what we tend to accept, what we normalize.. The frightening side of violence is not the things we can’t bear, but the things we do bear, how quickly we become anaesthetic to the pain and suffering of others, and how easily we can inflict pain upon the others while justifying our actions by means of nationalism and/or patriotism.

I’ve been thinking way too much. It all started last Thursday, during the lecture on Bosnian conflict by anthropologist Ivana Macek, author of war-time ethnography ‘Sarajevo Under Siege’. As I was listening to her, the attitude I had of general public - that is you, I and everyone – as mere tools in a massive global political game changed dramatically. After all, we are no passive bystanders, I thought, we are rather actors in this very game, we are also the perpetrators. It might be silly, it might sound naïve, but blame it on the anthropological documentary ‘We are all neighbours’, which I already watched a couple of times at York University. It is an anthropological documentary, not simply because it was made by an anthropologist (Tone Bringa), but since the production involves anthropological field methods (participation observation, long-term presence in the field), and the outcome itself is culturally sensitive and ethically responsible. It depicts the tense situation prevailing in a village not far from Sarajevo, during the times of Bosnian conflict. The story unfolds in this particular village where Bosnians and Croatians were living along side each other for quite a long time. In the beginning of the war, Bosnians and Croatians created alliance against the Serbs, but the treaty did not work as expected. Refugees from Sarajevo and the neighbouring towns brought terror-filled stories that escalated the tense situation among the two groups in the village. The neighbours started to fear their own neighbours with whom they got along pretty well for the past 50 years. Then the Croatian army attacked the village, only targeting the Bosnian people and houses, when the Croatian properties were still intact. Many died, and with almost all their houses completely burnt down and ransacked, Bosnians flew away as refugees.

The anthropologist who directed the film 'We are all neighbours' had close interactions with the villagers even before the conflict, and the film was shot in a sequence that narrates people’s lives before, during and after the violent events. The film is a masterpiece in its depiction of violence, considering that it never shows blood, disfigured bodies or the violence itself, but still does a great job in portraying the pain, the cruelty, and the terror. It’s not my first time watching the film but yet I couldn’t control the tears, just like many others who were in the auditorium. I heard a voice cry inside, ‘I was there’.

The claim ‘I was there’, is by no means a simplified, emotional statement, it’s rather a political, existential assertion. It’s a fragment that completes a larger picture. Then again, ‘there’ could mean anywhere, the frontline, the borderline, a very distant landscape, or even the diaspora.., and the experiences could also differ accordingly. I was never on the site of violence. I wasn’t living in ground zero. However, residing in Colombo, I believe I was close enough to feel the ‘culture of fear’, I was close enough to see how violence change people and their perceptions.

Nevertheless, the image of war that still occupies my mind is the disfigured image of my distant cousin who was paralyzed for life by a shell attack. It’s an image that shatters all my pretension as a strong, politically neutral, ethically conscientious individual - a story that I never wanted to talk about, which I never did. I knew, when I do talk about it someday, I wouldn’t be able to stop the tears or hide my trembling voice. After all, he was only 8 or 9 when it happened. I was fifteen then. I remember him lying in the children’s ward of the Colombo General Hospital. He and his mom were brought there the previous night by the Red Cross, since the Jaffna hospital was not equipped well to provide necessary treatments. The poor boy, I was told, was caught in the attack on his way back from school. I remember the sickening smell of the hospital, the cries and screams of the other kids in the ward, and him, quietly lying in the bed, his sobbing mom.. I did not dare look them in the face. I was biting my lips, and blinking my eyelids so fast so the tears would dry soon. I was hoping no one would notice my trembling body. I tried to hide my panicked face because I didn’t want him to think that I freaked over his disfigured body. When the silence in the room became too unbearable, his mom tried to cheer him up by making me talk to him. She picked the wrong person. I was weak. I have always been weak. I wasn’t ready to talk to anybody. I remember him trying to raise a finger and tell me something, but I ran away, I ran away like a coward, far away from his bed, far away from the corridor. I stopped at the elevator, and cried my heart out. I hated amma for taking me along with her to visit him. I hated myself for being so weak, for being a coward. I could’ve told him a few words, to cheer him up, to make him feel confident. I hated myself because now I have made him feel extra bad. Poor little kid, he had to see his cousin run away when he tried to talk to her. I know I can never overcome this guilt, even after years. It is this image, this guilt that overshadows me whenever I think of war. And I often hear a voice cry inside me, “How could they? He is just a kid!!” Maybe in the papers, in the news, in the reports, he’ll turn into a mere casualty. But he is MY cousin. How could one see just numbers, when they all are people, someone’s parents, siblings, sons, daughters, partners, and neighbours..

In Colombo, in the lane where we lived, there were only two Tamil families, and rest of them were Sinhalese. It was a perfect setting just like the film. You have people from different ethnicities or nationalities living next to each other, for quite a long time. In the film, it was Bosnians and Croatians living together for at least 50 years, and in Walls Lane, it was Tamils and Sinhalese, for approximately 15 years. The processes of violence, the preceding events transform the concepts of friendship, trust, neighbourhood, then at one point, turns your friends into enemies, and you start fearing your own neighbours with whom you shared meals, exchanged groceries, and celebrated festivals. No one knows how it happened, no one understands how it happened. It just happened, from nowhere.

Then again, the most disturbing thing about violence is its ability to metamorphose people, to fabricate nationalist and patriotic discourses (of both sides) through which increasing the tendency to inflict pain upon the others (no matter which side you are), all the while, justifying the outcomes by means of the same discourses.

This is not exactly what I intended to write, I started off with something and ended up with a completely different thing. But war is such a sensitive topic. It’s always a taboo. One is constantly afraid of the threats, the accusations of being biased, of taking sides. I wanted to write about the people, how they are also actors when they're most often portrayed only as victims in the violent settings. Then it's about the silence as well, voluntary or involuntary. In Bosnia, even after years people still could not talk/discuss the war, their experiences. One can be friends with anybody – a Croatian, Bosnian or Serb – but talking about the war with the other, would lead to an expected catastrophe; accusing each other, trying to establish who suffered the most. Whatever the popular/national narratives say, on the very ground level - considering the people who had to live, share and survive - nobody likes war, nobody likes violence.

Still, it’s that silence I fear the most.

Fika, Gask, and The State of Mind

Few days ago, on Skype, a dear friend made fun of me, or more precisely, not only me, also the pictures I uploaded on Facebook. In her words, “if someone wanted to learn world history, they can do so just by looking at yali’s pictures”. When she was looking at them, she said, all she could find were buildings, old buildings, but no traces of me, no traces of anything fun, or in other words, no traces of me having fun. In my defense, I replied, “I WAS having fun!”- “With old buildings?” To save the face, I kept on explaining the historic value of those places, and how exciting it was to be in the same building where some royalty or celebrity had also been, but.., I knew I was losing it. I couldn’t stop her giggle. Okay, I did admit, I’m this strange person who gets amused over old, silly things. I would rather prefer some ancient calm little town than flashy fun-filled cities like Las Vegas, Miami or New York. After all, it’s who I am! See now, she’s an adorable friend who never gets tired of teasing me, whatever I say in my defense, but that’s not the point. The point is that everyone travels for different reasons, to discover different things, and everyone sees the world with quite different eyes.

Maybe I’m always in search of the past, the traces left behind.., though looking at the past is never considered a good thing. At least in the paper works, where you are constantly reminded and expected to have a visionary perspective, to look far into the future. The applications, personal statements, interviews overwhelm you with questions like, “what do you expect to gain from this experience?”; “how do you think it will benefit your future endeavours?” Not that I always give honest answers, no, not necessarily. Is that even possible? Maybe they too are aware of it, but still, it’s always, forward, forward, and forward, never looking back. But then, look at a little girl walking along the beach holding her dad’s hand, amused by the imprints her little feet left on the wet sand, she could not help looking back and getting excited. She does feel the hand that holds her tight and leads her along, and she knows that she is walking straight even though her eyes are fixed behind. Isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t that a convincing reason to travel? But no, not to the selection committee, who wants cut and right, definite answers. So you give them what they want to hear. I am hoping to gain: 1, 2, and 3. Then the benefits will be, this, this, and this. That’s pretty much how things work. Yet, as you well know, life outside the paper works and procedures is simply awesome. You can always expect to find the unexpected.

The one word you keep hearing a lot in Sweden, especially when it comes to student life, is ‘Fika’. Literally, in Svenska (that is Swedish in Swedish!) fika means a break, maybe a coffee break, or any kind of break, a get-together. The word is used as a noun and also at times, as a verb, like “aren’t you fikaing?” Fikas are mostly organized by student nations (I’ll come to the nations later). And each nation has its fika on some specific day of the week, for example, Varmlands – the nation I am affiliated with – has fika every Sunday. They do on other days as well, but this Sunday fika is kinda special where they serve coffees, teas, and some really yummy snacks like brownies, cakes, freshly baked cookies, many other sweets and sandwiches too. There’s always a lot to choose. If you’re a sweets-loving person, then bingo!! Fika is your thing. I often end up with a sigh, not knowing what to choose. So fika, in a sense, is a small party/get-together, where you sit with some friends and have a nice chat over yummy, fresh snacks. What I love about the fika at the nations is that, everything is always cooked fresh at the nations by students, and they have the taste of a home-made snack/meal, not something you’d buy at some random coffee shop.

Now, getting back to the thing called nation. Student life in this small university town is nothing without the nations and the concept, from what I heard, is quite unique to Uppsala and no other parts of Sweden have them. When I say ‘nation’, it has nothing to do with its apparent meaning – it is not a political concept, and it doesn’t represent a country, or a group of people. It is, in a sense, an organization for students which I have never seen or heard before. It’s pretty much similar to student clubs, but way bigger than just a simple, small, student club. In itself, it’s a huge enterprise. There are altogether 13 nations here in Uppsala, each bearing the name of a province in Sweden, so you can guess, there are 13 provinces in Sweden. They’re outside the university body/administration, so university has no controls over them, and participation or membership is voluntary. It’s just for your social life, just for having fun. You can become a member of any nation, it does not matter, and you can always go to the events of any other nation, but you have to pay a little extra than the members. The amazing thing about nations is that, they are big enterprises with their own buildings, bars, restaurants, clubs, library, and so much more. They organize tons of events, including night clubs, gasks, balls, and tours around the country, not to mention the parties on special occasions like Christmas, New Year ’s Eve, or Valentine ’s Day. Since there are 13 nations in Uppsala, there’s always something going on. They even organize fun activities like mushroom picking in a nearby forest, or ‘pub crawl’ – something so famous, where you go (or crawl, which you’ll probably do after visiting 2 pubs) to all the pubs in all the nations and have something to drink at every place, in one night. Why would you do that? Don’t ask me! I’ve only been to ‘bearable’ events like, bbq party at Upplands Nation, Reccegask at Varmlands Nation, Mushroom picking at Savja organized by V-Dala Nation. Well, that’s a shame, I haven’t been to many, though I fika most often, at Varmlands or Kalmar. But sadly, I missed the ‘international cuisine’ at V-Dala, which is going on tonight. With all this being said, I also have to emphasize, that the student union is completely something else, not a part of the nations, and nations are not part of the student union, or the university clubs, they organize their own things too. So, there’s always a lot of things to do, and since this is a university town, there’s nothing much apart from the university and nations.

The nation I joined, Varmlands, was established 351 years ago, so quite old. In one of their old buildings, there is an ancient cellar from medieval times which they’re planning to renovate into a dance hall. How cool, dancing in a medieval cellar! Varmlands is already famous, and well known throughout Uppsala, for its Friday night club called ‘The state of mind’, with two dance floors. I can assure you that I didn’t know it earlier, when I was signing up for the membership, since I am no party girl. But when you’re in there already, I think there’s nothing wrong in checking out what’s going on, at least once in a while. (Yep, that’s how you make excuses!) Well, I’m not that a party type. But anyways, there was a reception at our nation to welcome new members. And during the welcome reception, we had a tour around the buildings and the 4 pubs of Varmlands (that’s right, 4 pubs, really, now you get the idea? And wait, one of them is a specialty cocktail bar!!), listened to the welcome speech of the curator, the secretary, the international officer, and then headed off to the main dinner hall. Dinner was modest, with complimentary alcohol of our choice, pasta and vanilla ice-cream with chocolate sauce for dessert. We had the nation’s choir sing for us during the dinner, and we sang songs ourselves (there were songbooks on the tables, though most of them were in Swedish), while sitting, standing on the floor, and standing on the chairs. Yes, you sing songs standing on the chair! They said that’s the tradition, you sing the last song while standing on the chair! I wouldn’t have believed it, would’ve probably thought of it as some kind of prank if I hadn’t seen the nation’s curator climbing on his chair. Well, if that’s how they do it here in Sweden, hooray! We all climbed on our chairs, and I should mention that I was quite drunk and was wearing high heels, but still I managed to climb up and down rather safely. You think that’s hilarious, it was indeed very fun. And I’m hoping to introduce this tradition to my friends in Toronto pretty soon. Well, what’s the point of learning new things if you can’t apply it somewhere else?

There’s another event people always talk about - the gask. Gasks are formal dinners, fancy 3 course dinners with 3 course alcohols (champagne, wine, beer, snaps, Baileys or Swedish punch with dessert) , organized by the nations. In my guess, gask is not a Swedish term, it rather sounds French. At the beginning of the term, all the nations organize their reccegask (the newcomers’ gask) on the same day. These are very popular dinners organized only a few times during a semester and the tickets will be gone in no time. Tickets for the international gask, which will be in late October, were already sold out in the mid-August. They’re that popular. Fortunately, I was able to get into the reccegask at our nation, though not the international. It was a big event too. The dress code for the gask is strictly formal, ladies must wear cocktail dresses and guys, formal suit. At the reccegask, new members from all the nations, with nation flags (every nation has its own flag), walked in procession to the university main building, where we were addressed by the university chancellor and entertained by the university orchestra and the choir. Then, we all went to our nations for dinner. We were all assigned a place at the dinner tables, so we can’t choose where we sit, we have to find the place with our name tag. The seating was arranged like man-woman-man-woman. We were told that, the person next to us, is our lady/cavalier. So if I am a lady, my cavalier would be seated to my left, and for a guy, your lady will be seated to your right. It’s something similar to a date, rather a fancy one. I must say I had fun, there was a Belgian sitting to my left and a German sitting to my right. My cavalier, the Belgian guy, was CUTE. But his girl friend was sitting just in front of us. Too bad. Anyways, the fun part is, I’m not very used to people treating me like a ‘lady’. But, the guy next to me, like a gentleman, pulled out the chair for me, and adjusted it so I could comfortably sit down. Needless to say, we climbed on chairs at the gask too, to sing the last song, and he lent his arms to help me climb up and down. In any other occasion, I would’ve returned a frown which stands for, “Yo think I can’t climb a bloody chair?!” But no, not at the gask. I was enjoying a dreamy moment filled with lady-like thoughts and behaviours. Well, don't ask me, if climbing on a chair is a lady-like behaviour. It is, in Sweden. Oh, how fun! After all the performances, by the nation’s dance club, drama club and the choir, and after all the speeches were done (that of the curators, and the inspector – who is usually a professor at the university), the night continued at the “State of Mind”.

That’s the end of a beautiful fairy tale!

On Blessings and Curses..

Life brings you quite a lot of surprises. All the time. Sometimes good, and other times bad, I mean really BADD. I’m not going to throw some worn out advices on how to cope with them, since I’m not so good at it either. I remember when I opened the luggage for the first time in my room, (it was past midnight and I was extremely exhausted after a long journey), I found out that the two pickle jars (Sinhalese vegetable acharu and Lunu Miris) I brought were broken and spilled all over my clothes. Those were the only SriLankan food I brought to Sweden, in case I became nostalgic. Looking at the suitcase, for a moment I wasn’t sure whether to worry about the ruined clothes or the ever lost pickles. Then I broke into tears. I still don’t know if I was crying for the clothes or the pickles, or for leaving my better-half behind, or for the lonely 10 months that lie ahead. Nevertheless, I cried, and cried and cried. But you know, I’m a very practical girl, I just don’t sit and cry or lie down and cry, I clean and cry, I wash the clothes and cry, I arrange my room and cry. After everything’s done, and eyes are out of tears, sleep will eventually take over. Then you can happily flash into a dreamy world. Now, that’s how you survive this not-so-pleasant-always life. Whatever happens, life must go on; and on; and on. There’s nothing wrong with crying or losing your mind. When you gotta freak out, you freak out. And then, do whatever you have to do and move on.

Then comes the good times, which toss you up in the air, and make you feel great about everything. The girl who lived in the same room before me, was an angel, or so I’d like to believe. Maybe she was psychic and knew a broke girl would move in after her, so left tons of useful things behind, including a quilt, pillow, laundry detergent, sleeping bag, weighing machine, extra towels, and some really nice TEA, actually the list goes on. For the first few days, it was like a treasure hunt in the room, closet and kitchen cupboards.. Not many other students were lucky as me, they had to buy everything on their own. This room was not that bad after all!

There are some other times when you are not exactly sure how to feel or react, and could not make up your mind if it’s a blessing or a curse. Since the moment I decided to travel to Scandinavia, I had this strange feeling that grows in the stomach, travels upward and get stuck in the throat, which obviously I could not avoid. It was a very different feeling, not similar to the one I had when leaving Sri Lanka for the first time. From Colombo, I directly went to Toronto - a very colourful city, where you can find people from almost all the different ethnic groups that exist in the world. Maybe I am exaggerating a little. But only a little. With the large Tamil population living in Scarborough, it’s almost impossible to feel nostalgic, even if you tried. The first few weeks, I had to remind myself that I am in Canada, and did not move back to Jaffna.

Unlike Jaffna, Colombo, the city where I grew up, and where my first childhood memories bloomed, has a quite heterogeneous population though not comparable to Toronto. I was born a Hindu but went to a Catholic school, my parents are from Jaffna but most of my friends were Indian/Colombo Tamils, Sinhalese or Muslims. I was very fluent in both Sinhala and Tamil so was able to travel around the city even when times were tough. As far as I remember, I wasn’t very attached to our hometown, Jaffna, since it was too far away, and by this, I do not refer to physical distance but the cultural one. Maybe because it was detached from rest of the country for a long time due to the armed conflict, or maybe it’s just the way it is. So, by moving to Toronto, where a large proportion of Tamil diaspora resides, who are mostly from Jaffna, or the surrounding parts, and whose concept of culture/home was frozen at a time when they left the country – which I believe usually happens with all the diaspora communities, I was able to witness the construction of ‘a home outside the home’. I saw Scarborough as a replica of Jaffna – a landscape recreated; ‘the home’ was everywhere, in the names of the stores, the temples, the food. Well, the problem was, that wasn’t ‘my home’. There were traditional Tamil foods and things that you couldn’t even find in Colombo, which I never saw in Colombo.

Identities – a baggage you have to always carry with yourself, whether you like it or not. I imagine myself as a girl carrying a heavy bag of masks. Different, but colourful masks. Depending on the time, place and circumstances you put the mask that best suits you. It was a lot difficult in Colombo, because the mask you want to wear may not always be compatible with what the society imposes on you. Or what the documents say about you. I am a Tamil from Colombo, but for them, I am a Tamil from Jaffna. I say ‘this is where I belong to’, but they say ‘no, you’re not’. In general, one might tend to think what difference would it make, if you’re a Tamil, you’re a Tamil. But no, it makes all the difference in Sri Lanka. It is what defines if you’re terrorist or not, it is what defines if you’re with us or them. But sadly I was never able to find a place in Sri Lanka, where I was considered into the group of ‘us’. When I travelled to Jaffna, people always identified me as someone from Colombo, but in Colombo I was always from Jaffna. So this is where the masks come in handy. You change your dialect, put on the mask, and there you are, one of ‘us!’ There are times when the mask doesn’t work, for instance, when you cross a checkpoint where they don’t care about your masks, only your id, and you get caught off-guard.

When I moved to Toronto, I had to rearrange the masks, for the Tamil diaspora and the mainstream society. Think I had a hard time with the Tamil community and not the rest of the society because, for others you’re just a Sri Lankan Tamil. It’s clearly defined. Period. But things get complicated within the group you belong to, or wanted to belong to. After much struggle, at some point, I lost the tendency to be included into the group of ‘us’. I was too tired. I wanted to be let alone. I wanted to show that I was different, and the Sri Lanka I know was different from theirs. Even yet, I could not live up to the expectations of how a recently migrated girl from Sri Lanka should look, act, and behave. I couldn’t cook a proper meal, didn’t know how to wear a saree, didn’t observe any religious practices, and didn’t care about the culture/tradition. The masks I carried in my baggage clashed with one another, crushed, and became worn out. I tried to make new masks to suit the new me, the responsibilities and duties come along with the new me. But I think I failed miserably. It’s not something that could be explained in plain words. Maybe I’ll try it again some other time but I know it’s not gonna work. Never.

And then I decided to travel to Scandinavia, a region quite homogenous compared to Canada, which does not have prolonged experience of migration from different parts of the world. I started to have this strange feeling since I know my masks have given up on me. This time it’s different. There’s no way I could get into the group of ‘us’. After all I’m a coloured girl, among a predominantly white population. I’ve heard people say that it’s good to be different, so you’ll get more attention. I am not the type of a girl who wants to draw attention all to her. I am more of an invisible personality, who enjoys staying in the background and observing silently. But not anymore. All these days, I am constantly reminded of Foucault’s (is that Foucault, uh my poor memory) idea of ‘gaze’. ‘visibility.’ In the classrooms, dinners, parties, dance floors, it follows everywhere. It doesn’t mean that people here are rude and stare at you all the time. No, it’s nothing like that. As Foucault (uh, is that Foucault?) explains, it’s the internal fear of being visible. Of course, you get a lot of attention, and arouse curiosity.

But would you call it a blessing or a curse?

The baggage, full of identities, different colourful identities, each of them defines a part of you, without one you cannot be the whole, and strangely enough, you cannot wear them all. New ones pop out of the bag when you travel to new places and surprise you, even when you’re not aware that you had it within you all along. Then some get lost along the way, and you throw out some away. But it’s the beautiful bag that you can never leave behind.

Huh, it almost sounded like a poem, written by a girl of her candy bag. Wow, I’m getting good at itJ

Of Times and Places..

When I get introduced to new people in Uppsala, there’s a question that I always encounter: Why did you select Sweden/Uppsala of all the countries/universities? It’s mostly the Swedes who ask, international students, they already know their answer. The truth, I don’t know. It just happened. York, my home university, has exchange partnerships with over 100 universities around the world, which involves at least 50 countries! That’s quite a huge list to select from. During the long, exhausting process of applying for international exchange, for no reason, I was struck by the name ‘Uppsala’. There was something in that name which aroused my curiosity, made me research a little more about the university and the surrounding town, and in no time I made up my mind that it’s the ONE!

I’m an anthropology student, no wonder I get excited over old things and old places! Uppsala University was the first university ever built in Scandinavia, somewhere around the 1400’s, the school of some prominent figures like Andres Celsius, Carl Linnaeus, and many other Nobel prize winners, well also, the present Swedish crown princess!! The town of Uppsala, with its beautiful cathedral, where the Archbishop of Church of Sweden resides, has been the religious capital of Sweden for quite a long time. Even before that, during the Viking period, Uppsala has been a popular pilgrimage center. Three ancient royal burial mounds are located in Gamla Uppsala (meaning ‘old’ Uppsala) and every year, I heard, a pagan religious festival is still held at a temple near these burial mounds. Apart from all these exciting facts, situated in this small charming town (well the Swedes don’t consider it a small town, as they say, it’s the 4^th largest town/city in Sweden, but for someone from rushing, highly populated cities like Colombo or Toronto, this is nothing but something between a village and a town), is a castle, botanical garden founded by Linnaeus, and an impressive library called ‘Carolina Redviva’. Besides, one should fall in love with this place simply for the architectural excellence of its buildings. Anyways, these are mere facts, the real magic of Uppsala is in the air, is in its own unique traditions, and its hills and slopes.

Well, now I think, though unintentionally, I’m giving you a rather romantic picture of a girl, strolling along the parks, and cobbled streets of a charming old town, enjoying every breath of life, getting excited about its calmness, old-ness, and uniqueness. In part, it’s kinda exactly what’s happening, but life, in general, always comes with its own practicalities. I arrived in Uppsala, exactly at 12 o’clock midnight. That’s not a very good time to arrive in a new town, except if you’re too interested in the ghosts of the town, and wanted to explore the haunted side of it. In that case, it’s just perfect. But not for me. After an exhausting journey which took more than 24 hours and not sleeping a wink, with delays at Toronto Pearson and Keflavik airports (Iceland), and the anxiety of being in a new place, all I wanted to do is to get to my room and just lie down. But as I sat down on the bed, and looked around the room, emptiness, sheer emptiness weighed heavily upon me and a voice cried inside, ‘No, I don’t want to be alone, now get me out of here’.. It was then I realized how much I hate to be alone in my own room, how much I detest sleeping alone in my own bed.

Yes, of course, journeys break the myths you have about yourself. The myth I had of me, as a girl wanting to be independent, alone and manage ‘things’ on her own, pathetically shattered into pieces. That was the first lesson I learned about ‘myself’ in Uppsala: that I simply want a little space of my own, in a larger shared space. That’s it. Period.

In a strange way, the place I live now, is not so bad at all. Called ‘Flogsta’, this area filled with student residences (high-rise buildings), is popular in Uppsala for its 10 o’clock screaming, otherwise referred to as ‘the stress buster’. It’s one of the strange student traditions of Uppsala. Every night, at 10pm, not even 09:59, exactly at 10, people open their windows and scream until they lose their voice. It’s creepy when you hear it for the first time, but fortunately, I was warned beforehand by my corridor-mate. And then you get used to it, just like getting used to the beeping of an alarm clock, after sometime you won’t even notice but continue with your thing. Whenever you meet some other student at the university and tell them you’re from Flogsta, you usually get a smile back and hear them say, ‘I heard some really interesting things about Flogsta’. Well, other than that, living in a corridor can be quite interesting. We get to meet many people and never feel too lonely. I share a corridor with 11 others; most of them are Swedish, and students. Since we all share a common kitchen, there will be someone in there always no matter when you go in, so you can have a little chat, peek into others’ dishes, and try to steal their recipes if you’re really into cooking. It’s a nice and warm environment, and Swedes I’ve met so far, are nothing like what I’ve heard of them before coming here. Well, at the least, I have to be faithful to the Swedish girl next door who made me strawberry pie and the guy who shared a cup of rice when I forgot to buy some!

However, it’s still too lonely, in the room. For someone who grew up in a small house with two siblings, with lots of fun, and fights, it’s hard to bear the emptiness, the quietness filled in the air of this room. We were used to sharing things.. Though I hated it most of the times and badly wanted to be on my own, now that I’m alone with no ‘sharing/shared’ responsibilities, I understand the price one has to pay for being alone, ‘independent’. It strikes you quite hard, when having to eat a really nice dinner all alone, with no one to share it, and especially when it’s chicken biriyani, which surprisingly turned out quite good. Not many of my corridor-mates can stand the spicy biriyani, the two guys who tasted it the last time would probably never want to taste it again, so I didn’t ask. Well, they might accept it out of politeness but why torture them?

Now.. now.. This is not what I intended to write here, at least in this page. But as I always say, human mind is a very special thing, so is life, you can’t expect them to follow your schedules, or act according to your plans. They never listen, like a strong-willed stubborn kid! I was gonna narrate the story of this girl, first time travelling to Scandinavia, who was afraid of this awkward feeling of whiteness surrounding her, engulfing her, but then I lost myself at ‘chicken biriyani!’

Works of human mind..

What do you call a traveler who can’t say goodbye?

It’s going to be two weeks, exactly at 12am, since I arrived in Uppsala. I can’t believe it is two weeks already. Feels like I have been here forever, at least a few months. Life is strange.. last days in Toronto seems a distant reality, not something happened two weeks ago. It is funny how easily our mind gets used to new environments, places and people, at times when you least expect it to happen. I have always been fascinated by travel writings, well needless to say that most of them were by men (though I found a wonderful anthology of women travelers), but they always promote the same image of a lonely traveler passing by, without any regrets, or memories of the past haunting along the journey. They don’t feel sad about the places they had just left, they are always excited about the places they will visit next.. and they only carry memories, beautiful, pleasant, sometimes adventurous but not so dangerous or painful memories. I wanted to be that traveler. I imagined myself as one of them. Never, ever would I have suspected that my travel journal would start with tears, and continue with sadness, pain and melancholy.

Oh, melancholy.. what a beautiful word that is.. I first came across the word ‘melancholy’, maybe that was not my first encounter with the word, but when that word particularly struck me, was when reading Ivan Turgenev’s translated short story ‘Asya’. The author describes of a calm quiet evening, (this I recall from my memory since I don’t have the book with me to recheck), when the protagonist was sitting under a lemon tree by the river, hearing music and merry voices of partying people in the distance, feeling the soft breeze on his cheek, when for no reason he becomes suddenly overshadowed with the feeling of melancholy. Well, as a reader you read, but grasping the feeling, the true meaning (if there’s such), not necessarily. But there I was, on a plane named ‘Hengil’, looking at the distant lights beneath, and the clouds that obscure the landscape, overcoming with the feeling of melancholy!

Maybe I should start narrating the story from the beginning.. It’s not a very beautiful story but not a very ugly one either. Maybe there is no point in narrating this story, maybe that’s why I didn’t want to write it for two weeks, maybe no one will be interested in reading it. But I can assure that it’s going to be different, different than the popular travel journals/writings of a happy-go-traveler, because this traveler did not want to travel. Well, that was not the entire case, she wanted to, as much as she did not want to. You know, human mind is quite a complex thing. You can never try to draw boundaries or try to fit that into certain clearly labelled boxes. So when I say, this traveler wanted to travel as much as she did not want to, you should understand that this is not the only case, there is a subsequent pattern.. well you will understand it quite clearly when you come to the part where ‘she wants to be alone, as much as she does not want to be alone!’ So let’s skip it for now.

People say that you learn so much about yourself, apart from the things outside yourself, through journeys. If I have learned anything, anything at all, from previous journeys is that I’m no traveler, at least not in a sense how the word ‘traveler’ denotes certain kinds of personalities or attitudes. Me? No.. Never.., though I badly wanted to be one, though I badly wanted to feel the earth sliding beneath my feet. I still remember the day when I left SriLanka, I kept reminding myself that I am off to an adventure and will be back in no time. But somewhere, somewhere deep in my heart I knew that I won’t be back, at least not for a while. I remember the wrinkles on amma’s face, (they were ‘sad’ wrinkles not ‘old’ wrinkles cuz amma never gets old! She still boasts about not having a single grey hair) I know she was sad though she pretended to hide it, because she knew I’ll be gone forever. Appa never suspects anything.. I remember the grey hair on the sides, his smile, the proud and also painful look in his eyes.. I was his favourite girl!! Akka and thambi used to push me to get anything from dad, let it be some pocket money, going to a movie, dinner at a restaurant, or shopping for some treats at Cargills supermarket. He never said no to me. And I didn’t tell him that I won’t be back. I didn’t tell him that his little girl is now grown up and going away. I didn’t cry then, at the airport, but I do now, when thinking back every now and then. I so wish I had said good-bye! I so wish I had said sorry! I so wish…

So you might have an idea right now.. It’s a story of a girl who regrets leaving people and memories behind, who feels sorry that she did/didn’t do certain things.. though off to an adventure, the strong presence of melancholy shadows her along the way. As a little girl picking up seashells along the shore, she collects memories of the past, good or bad, happy or sad, carefully wrapping them in her little flowing skirt.

Now, what do you call a traveler who can’t say goodbye, who can’t leave the past behind?

What do you call her?