"Ko nije drvo razumeo prvo pa tek onda sadio, taj nije ništa uradio."

 

The silence of Srebrenica

The Flower of Srebrenica

I was in Srebrenica seven years ago.

I am embarrassed to say that was the first time (!) I really learnt about the scale and depth of suffering inflicted on people here in the name of what the war criminals thought of as Serbdom. We never talked about it at school, my parents never brought it up, and for the reasons I don't know I never actively sought it until then. Ever since my first visit, I've carried with me a piece of painful silence I felt in the streets of Srebrenica that day. The silence that takes place after gunshots cease, after people flee their homes, and return only to find their loved ones missing. The silence that only grows heavier with words because there are no words that can turn back the time and stop maniacal hatred. Whenever I look into the silence of Srebrenica I carry with me, I start crying.

I grieve with everyone who lost their loved ones, and everyone who lost themselves in the trauma of war. I was too young to make sense of it at the time, but I've grown into the trauma through my parents and the collective experience of piecing together the idea of what the hell happened. Putting together this puzzle for myself is one of the most important callings of my lifetime. Without it complete, I won't figure out who I am. The puzzle that is offered through the dominant narratives of history in Serbia is crooked, it is missing important pieces including empathy and compassion, and above all, it misses the acknowledgment that terrible crimes were committed in our name. Whenever I'd try to talk about it with my parents, there would be a pushback in the form of: "Look at how many Serbs were murdered in that war". I can't accept this argument—not because I don't see victims on all sides—but because ethnicity shouldn't matter if we want to move beyond hatred.

A year ago, I was planning to be in Srebrenica today to pay honor to the victims of the genocide. The pandemic complicated things, but I am there in spirit, the silence is deep today.

...

Pre sedam godina sam prvi put bila u Srebrenici.

Sram me je da priznam da sam tek tada prvi put uvidela veličinu zločina i patnje nanešene u ime onoga što su počinitelji smatrali srpstvom. Nismo o zločinu pričali u školi, niti su moji roditelji otpočinjali temu, a ne znam ni zašto do tada nisam sama istraživala.

Od svoje prve posete nosim sa sobom delić teške tišine koju sam osetila na ulicama Srebrenice tog dana. To je tišina koja nastaje kada puške ućute, kada ljudi napuste domove i nikada ne pronađu svoje najmilije. Što se više govori, tišina više raste, jer ne postoje reči koje mogu vratiti vreme i zaustaviti maničnu mržnju. Kad god pogledam u tišinu Srebrenice koju nosim sa sobom, ja zaplačem.

Tugujem sa svima koji su ostali bez svojih najdražih, i sa svima koji su sebe izgubili u traumi rata. Bila sam previše mala da bih shvatila šta se dešavalo tih godina, ali znam da sam odrasla uz traumu kroz roditelje i kolektivne pokušaje rasuđivanja o onome što se dogodilo. Sklapanje ove slagalice  je jedno od najbitnijih zvanja u mom životu. Bez kompletne slike, neću ni sama znati ko sam. Slagalica na kojoj počiva dominantni narativ istorije u Srbiji nije kompletna, nedostaju joj delovi poput empatije i saosećanja, a ponajviše, nedostaje priznanje da su u naše ime počinjeni teški zločini. Kad god otpočnem priču sa roditeljima, pre ili kasnije dobijem odgovor: "Pogledaj sve žrtve na srpskoj strani". Ne prihvatam ovaj argument, ne zato što ne vidim sve žrtve, već zato što etnička pripadnost ne sme biti bitna ako želimo da prerastemo mržnju.

Pre godinu dana sam mislila da ću danas biti u Srebrenici i pridružiti se svima koji odaju počast žrtvama genocida. Pandemija je zakomplikovala planove, no osećam da sam tamo duhom, tišina je danas duboka.

...

Пре седам година сам први пут била у Сребреници.

Срам ме је да признам да сам тек тада први пут увидела величину злочина и патње нанешене у име онога што су починитељи сматрали српством. Нисмо о злочину причали у школи, нити су моји родитељи отпочињали тему, а не знам ни зашто до тада нисам сама истраживала. Од своје прве посете носим са собом делић тешке тишине коју сам осетила на улицама Сребренице тог дана. То је тишина која настаје када пушке ућуте, када људи напусте домове и никада не пронађу своје најмилије. Што се више говори, тишина више расте, јер не постоје речи које могу вратити време и зауставити маничну мржњу. Кад год погледам у тишину Сребренице коју носим са собом, ја заплачем.

Тугујем са свима који су остали без својих најдражих, и са свима који су себе изгубили у трауми рата. Била сам превише мала да бих схватила шта се дешавало тих година, али знам да сам одрасла у трауму рата кроз родитеље и колективне покушаје расуђивања о ономе што се догодило. Склапање ове слагалице  је једно од најбитнијих звања у мом животу. Без комплетне слике, нећу ни сама знати ко сам. Слагалица на којој почива доминантни наратив историје у Србији није комплетна, недостају јој делови попут емпатије и саосећања, а понајвише, недостаје признање да су у наше име почињени тешки злочини. Кад год отпочнем причу са родитељима, пре или касније добијем одговор: "Погледај све жртве на српској страни". Не прихватам овај аргумент, не зато што не видим све жртве, већ зато што етничка припадност не сме бити битна ако желимо да прерастемо мржњу.

Пре годину дана сам мислила да ћу данас бити у Сребреници и придружити се свима који одају почаст жртвама геноцида. Пандемија је закомпликовала планове, но осећам да сам тамо духом, тишина је данас дубока.

Imagining the future with Eliot Peper

I spent a wonderful hour last week in conversation with Oakland-based novelist Eliot Peper. Eliot's latest novel Veil tells a story about the world burdened with the consequences of human-caused climate change. In it, Eliot examines the possibilities of geoengineering, and imperfect humans who make sacrifices to stir the earthsystem towards healing.

This discussion came as a result of my own venturing into science fiction over the course of the pandemic. Diving into alternate worlds gave me comfort as I grappled with uncertainty of the lockdown. Eliot was kind enough to hear me out and generously offer his time to discuss the role of imagination and story-telling in hard times.

The recording of our discussion is here. I extracted some of the ideas Eliot shared that lingered with me the morning after the event, read on.

On predicting the future: Although we imagine the future, we often believe that the present will keep extending—the world that we're born into will always be the way it is. [Most] predictions of what the future will be like are extrapolations of how things are.

On our ability to rebuild the world: We made up all of the things that surround us: we invented the government, debt, city councils, the system that we call civilization. Although the reality is more fragile than we thought, this also means that we can re-invent it.

On exercising imagination and Eliot's writing process: I try to tell a deeper story that accesses a deeper truth of what it means to live your life at the time of great change. We are the stories we tell ourselves and other people, either on the individual level, or the cultural level.

I kicked off yday's discussion with @eliotpeper, reflecting on the wonderful words of @duanalla: "[W]e need stories of belonging that move us towards each other, not from each other [...] This is the work of peace. This is the work of imagination." pic.twitter.com/aFzs3iTTvu

— Gavrilova (@marijagavrilovv) May 22, 2020

We all daydream, all the time. Being a novelist is like being a professional daydreamer. Normally, you would daydream about one thing for half a second and go on to something else. The next time you catch yourself daydreaming, keep the one thing going. Rather than cycling to the next one, think what would it smell like, what would be some of the weird details, what are the consequences, what would be surprising? Try thinking about it for two minutes, and you'll find that, suddenly, it'll branch out and you'll go places you never imagined.

Another piece of advice that was helpful to me in creating a theory of imagination, of how I think about my own work, is that I simply notice things. I follow my curiosity. If I'm interested in something, I'll go down the Wikipedia rabbit hole, I will read books, and if I have a follow-up question, I might send a follow-up email to the author and ask. One of the things that I came out of college thinking is that I need to read serious books. And that's changed completely. I now only follow my curiosity. If you follow your curiosity you get to a place at which you're most interested. I try to write only what interests me. If I do that successfully, that starts to come off the page for people.

[My writing] is similar to meditation. I strive to be there for the material, to exist for the characters. That is the hard work of writing a novel. My research process is very easy, because I'm reading things that I find interesting. I try to take threads and weave them together. When I was writing Veil, the effort was not of planning a multi-year project. It was rather learning what was interesting, paying attention to my relationships and friendships, and how I was growing - and then pulling all those things together into a narrative. Once you got them, you want to weave them together as tightly as possible.


On the tools for writing: I wrote Veil using Scrivener, which is intended for long-form pieces of work. For the current thing I'm working on I'm using Ulysses, which is helpful because it syncs well between my phone and computer. There's no organization, it's just things that I think about and dream of. I want to keep it that way. I even use things like Twitter, my blog or my newsletter, for note-taking. I change the [writing] process with every book. It makes me think in new ways, challenges me.

On positive science fiction: There have been calls in the past few years for more positive science fiction—that misses the point. What defines our experience is not the tropes of the world. What makes the world better is people overcoming adversity, it's people struggling and showing an enormous amount of creativity and dedication and persistence to overcome all of the challenges that life throws at us. I wrote Veil to be a very hopeful book. But I did that not by making the future pretty. I did it by making the future sort of how I experience the present, with beauty and pain woven through the whole thing, with an underlying knowledge that these characters are trying to do their best.

On leadership that inspires him: I am amazed by the people and groups who are stepping up to the plate [during the pandemic]. When you have a moment of disruption of systems, there's an opportunity to build new rules. I am inspired by those people who in their own lives are looking at all of these problems and finding opportunities to make things better.

Recommended readings during the pandemic: Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning: there couldn't be a better time to read this if you're trying to find a sense of strength in the dark times. Second, Alix E. Harrow's The Ten Thousand Doors of January.

On imagination... Because of your imagination, you have control over how you react to events that are beyond of your control. By taking us on journeys through radically diverse futures, science fiction can help to free our thinking from the subtle bonds of the status quo.

Small worlds: my zines

Austin Kleon uncovered the world of zines for me a couple of weeks ago—and the timing couldn't be better.

Self-isolation further fostered my need to make things with my own two hands.

I'm lucky to have the flexibility to work from home, and stay safely secluded with my family, but isolation and screens wear on you.

Zines give me an opportunity to extend my imagination beyond the four walls. While my hands are busy cutting, gluing, and arranging bits of magazine scraps, my mind wanders far away from the coronavirus and the change it forced onto all of us.

For my first zine, I took a very lackluster approach. I didn't plan its flow or content. I opened an old edition of the Economist and picked visuals that struck me, and stuck with me. I first built the last page, then the first, and then had to find the way to connect them through the middle.

What came out of the process, was a gloomy story of a man who is different, and disliked for it.

Zine-ing like there's no tomorrow. It's a great way to upcycle some old editions of @TheEconomist. Thanks @austinkleon for the inspiration! #stayhomemakezines pic.twitter.com/d4fRm2mX7v

— Gavrilova (@marijagavrilovv) March 22, 2020

There was more of an intention behind my second zine. I had a cut-out of a fish, or a screaming girl, and some building roofs. I put those together. Then I went looking for a poem to inspire the rest. I went for Yoko Ono's book Grapefruit, because she'd surely have something strange enough to follow the story of a girl flying on a fish. And she does indeed.

A floating city 

The second level world 

Upstairs on the clouds 

Mountains and rain roaring underneath 

Like venice, we have to commute by 

boats through air currents to visit 

eachothers floating houses. 

Cloud gardens to watch all day

A floating city
The second level world
Upstairs on the clouds
Mountains and rain roaring underneath
Like venice, we have to commute by
boats through air currents to visit
eachothers floating houses.
Cloud gardens to watch all day @yokoono #stayhomemakezines pic.twitter.com/tcI6nQGX0b

— Gavrilova (@marijagavrilovv) March 28, 2020

The swans

I captured a photo of this swan couple during a walk today. They are calmness, they are grace, they are commitment. Black and white, this sight makes me think of my dear old neighbor who lost her husband of sixty years this week, and of her pain.

The words of W. B. Yeats fill the gray skies above the swans:

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

My favorite photograph of Susan Sontag

I love this photograph of Susan Sontag with her son, David.

Their relaxed demeanor, her loving gaze, they know each other well as friends and family.

Sigrid Nunez, a woman whom David dated and who lived with them for two years wrote about Susan and David's relationship:

[S]he always insisted that she and David were different from ordinary mothers and sons. She liked to think of herself as David’s “goofy older sister.” It wasn’t neediness that made her want to keep David with her, she’d tell people, but her enormous love for him.

Susan Sontag loved lists. This one about raising a child, she put out in 1959, when David was seven years old. 

1. Be consistent.
2. Don't speak about him to others (e.g., tell funny things) in his presence. (Don't make him self-conscious.)
3. Don't praise him for something I wouldn't always accept as good.
4. Don't reprimand him harshly for something he's been allowed to do.
5. Daily routine: eating, homework, bath, teeth, room, story, bed.
6. Don't allow him to monopolize me when I am with other people.
7. Always speak well of his pop. (No faces, sighs, impatience, etc.)
8. Do not discourage childish fantasies.
9. Make him aware that there is a grown-up world that's none of his business.
10. Don't assume that what I don't like to do (bath, hairwash) he won't like either.

When humans suffer, nature rejoices

Living in the Anthropocene as is means that the growth of human well-being is burdened with high cost to the natural environment.

In the same manner, human suffering gives nature an opportunity for recovery.

The coronavirus outbreak reminds us of this balancing act.

Residents of Beijing report hearing the birds better:

Reduced human activity due to the #coronavirus means we can hear the birds better! One of the most active in my compound right now is the Light-vented Bulbul (白头鹎, Bái tóu bēi). A vernacular name is 白头公, bái-tóu gōng, literally translated as 'white-headed old-man'. pic.twitter.com/BWMeAqHmMW

— Birding Beijing 北京观鸟 (@BirdingBeijing) February 12, 2020

With a substantial decrease in the volume of international and national flights in China in the past month, as well as lower electricity demands, country's CO2 emissions have fallen by a quarter. Experts, however, caution that this is likely to be only a drop in annual emissions, and that the impact would come only with the long-term fall in demand.