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!