We are

Since the beginning of the war in former Yugoslavia I have been sick; sick in my soul. I am against racism, war, and violence. It's always the same question: what can I do against it? I am not a truck driver, to drive humanitarian aid. I am not a housewife, to pack up food. I am not a nurse. I am a theater director and dramatist. Why not go to a refugee camp? To free people from their lethar­gy. To kill time and break the boredom. To adapt what they have experienced during the war into a theater production and try to rouse their culture, creativity, and fan­tasy again, so that they find themselves again.

When I met Jadranka from "Wo­men in Black" in Zurich, I was delighted. In spite of the fact that we didn't know each other, we realized this project toge­ther. Now it's difficult for me to express all my impressions here. The idea of Ma­la Krsna sparked an infinite number of memories in me. Likewise, there were two different angles of observation. On one hand, I had time, practically all day, for life in the camp. On the other hand, because of school, we didn't have re­hearsals until late in the evening. And not even every night. That's how it happened that private life and the exhau­sting work on the performance overlap­ped. The first two weeks, only my tou­ghness and unbelievably strong will kept our work active. The ideas were weak, rare. We discussed how to intensify the work. In the beginning there was always an hour delay, and somebody always had something else to do. But in the end, af­ter three weeks, what these young peo­ple showed on stage was a strength of emotion which even today gives me the chills. A complete drama, lasting almost an hour. Out of nothing we created props, with which we were more than satisfied. We gathered costumes from the whole camp and altered them In the end we had everything.

The story, the contents of the play, also provokes a range of strong emotions: enough war, finally peace for everyone. Let us all live together. As a symbol, Sarajevo—a multi-cultural, Olympic city. In addition to that, three scenes from the camp—strong, impressive. The elderly women, who came here old and helpless, are once again put to work. The young people with their problems, without a ro­om for gathering together, without a TV antenna. Women without a washing ma­chine. One's own lamp, for reading or studying at night, becomes a thing of pri­celess value. The performance opens with Death, who (fat and obese) drags him­self across the stage. He (Death) lives only by feeding off of human flesh. But now he has over-indulged and evaporated. Four young people jump forward, rejoice, dan­ce and sing. WE ARE.

EXCERPTS FROM MY JOURNAL

October 3, 1995
After a pleasant summer, through the Austrian hills, Hungary, I arrive in Belgrade. A wonderful welcome: "First you stay with us for two days and then go to the camp."

October 6,1995
We drive. The corn stands sadly, unpicked. A field without people. Always loud tractors with trailers, loaded to the brim. An empty view. Hands which are still. They peep out from under plastic tarps. And then we stop. The refugee camp. Large L-shaped concrete buil­dings. On the left, a little house, with a common kitchen. Here I am and here I'm supposed to stay for 3 weeks. The camp director, a government employee appointed by the Red Cross, greets me coldly. He looks me straight in the eyes asking: "Is it clear? No politics!" People surround our car. Besides dresses, socks, sweaters and wool for the women, eve­ryone receives soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a roll of toilet paper. Young girls, aged 12-16, speak to me in surprisingly good French and English. One older woman shakes my hand: "long before Germany…many years of work, war…back to Yugoslavia…again war…we lost everything." Tears. I nod my head, as a sign of understanding. I find no words of solace. Immediately beside me, an elderly man is with a wrinkled sad face, in his hands a small bunch of red apples. I think — my God, he can't be offering that to me. My fridge is too full of food. The central heating works. A cabinet with dresses and sweaters can't be closed. The unfed dog and cat. "Here...please," the old man offers me and I mumble, "Thank you very much, thank you," and his apple is already in my hand.
The idea for the theater perfor­mance was met with a great response. "Super," to use their favorite word.
After already cold bean soup and tomato salad, they invite me as a guest to their "houses." Four bunk beds, 20 squa­re meters. A square table. Four chairs. Free space in the room and the upper bunks are covered with their personal things. To the left of the wall sleep Jagoda and her 2 1/2 year old son Stefan. To the right of the wall there is Dusan, an older, quiet man. Across from the win­dow, Jovo, jolly and always ready to joke. Next to Jagoda, with the head to­ward the window, is my bed.

October 7,1995
I brush my teeth. In the sink are cof­fee grounds together with other trash. The drain is clogged. Nothing works. One woman tries to unclog it with some thin hose. Seven of the ten faucets do not work. The shower curtains hang, torn and dangling. The laundry room is closed in the afternoon and evening. It takes time for the tank to fill with warm water.
For breakfast, watery powdered milk. Bread. "Dobro jutro...gut geschla-fen...bonjour...good morning." Toplica, the boss's right hand man, is the person who is responsible for me. He speaks En­glish fluently. At 22 years old, formerly a soldier, he is now the business manager of the camp. He is organizing the first meeting about the theater for Monday, October 9 at 8 P.M. Three wasted days.
I am constantly invited as a guest. They have come from Mostar, Tuzla, Srebrenica, Sarajevo, and other places which are unfamiliar to me. One woman has diabetes. Another man has cirrhosis of the liver. Medicine is running out. The older people have no teeth and no glasses. Their happiness surprises me considering how bad their psychological state must be.

October 8
Ljilja the young librarian, and I travel to Belgrade. Women in Black is ce­lebrating its four year anniversary. Four long years of public protesting against war, they stand bravely every Wedne­sday on the main square in Belgrade. Four long years of exhausting work, struggles for peace, and social and humanita­rian support of refugees. They have a reason to celebrate. The little apartment is packed. In addition to the Yugoslavs, there are also guests, women from all over the world. In the middle is a little flower pot with bean sprouts from Switzer­land. Happiness, a crowd. The latest po­ster reads "Stop war in Bosnia," a recurring theme: "Is there a chance for peace in Bo­snia or will war continue?" None of us believes in the peace, in the governments that signed it. Only female American baseball players believe in the news. Laughter, and then all of a sudden I am overcome with a wave of fury. A corpu­lent woman with a permanent smile ar­rives with a crucifix. Confusion in my head. Has God ever won or stopped any war? According to legend, he obeyed the stronger ones, he was humble. In fact, he was a loser. But we, the women of today, we don't give in so easily to crucify our­selves. I believe in God, but I can't make him responsible for war. Every religion, whether it is Islam, Catholicism, Ortho­doxy, Buddhism, Judaism etc. has the same message—DO NOT KILL. If we all heeded this, there would be peace all over the world. "Dear God do this for us...Dear God help us to...Dear God give us..." but in essence WE alone must... Bullets fly across the country, and she is talking about Jesus. Oh my God! I leave and surrender myself to Marija to spoil me with her cuisine. Never before have I enjoyed so many different types of food, prepared with so much love, food from all parts of Yugoslavia.

October 9
Finally the first meeting about the theater. Ten girls (aged 12-16) and three boys (aged 15-19) attend. The girls all want to be queens, good fairies, and nymphs, rich and beautiful. Only one wants to be an artist, to worry about guarding the cul­ture. The guys want to be soldiers, bosses, leaders. But they all have something in common: the wish to fix the world, to live in free­dom. When asked, "Why a soldier?" he answers: "Because I like!" He would like to be a "boss," to not have to do anything, and a "leader" in order to be a free per­son, to have his own country and to be someone. When asked, "What would you tell the world if you had the chance?" — silence and helplessness. They aren't used to sharing their thoughts with others. I wonder whether it is due to fe­ar, or lack of communication, or is it bet­ter politically not to say anything. They want to think about it until tomorrow.

October 10
Stefan's play room is the top bunk. Every night they put him up the­re, he points to the car and then to the floor...vroom, bam, bang, crash. It's hard to raise a child in such a small space, to be clean and stay healthy living under such difficult conditions. As soon as he goes outside, he quickly learns from the older children. They play "war, killing each other," they hit each other over the head with poles and throw rocks. Eventually Stefan falls, "Jagodaaa..." His clothes are changed and again ten minutes later, the next puddle. Jagoda cleans the room for all of us. She cooks on a little hot-plate for us three, she embroiders tablecloths for a couple of dinars, and after rehearsal there is always coffee and cakes waiting for me—incredible apple pie and crepes which she alone has baked. Jagoda — my angel on earth.
We wait almost an hour for everyone to gather. They chat, gossip, laugh, and think very little. We speak English. Boris and Marinko translate. They gesti­culate, they use mimicry and drawings, bad attempts at using verb tenses. "I think...to listen...to watch..." Obstacles and shyness slowly wear away, and I begin to easily understand them—they are direct. When I've had enough of their noise, I scream "Stop." three minutes of attention and then it starts all over again. But, the first scene, the appearance of Death; we are already improvising.

October 11
The toilets, of the "squatting" variety, are always filled with water. Excre­ment is smeared on the walls or lies in piles in front of the drains. The flushing mechanism is broken. You fill the bucket with water, and then with a strong stroke you toss it from the doorway. Then you squat (be careful of your pants su­spenders), again fill the bucket, and toss. The sinks in the washroom are once again clogged.
Toplica has to give me wool blankets for the Death costume. He protests and thinks that this can be made from dyed sheets. I'm still wondering who would have done it, how and where. Jagoda and Milisav sew the costume. In the evening we try it. It's just right. The girls are well disguised in that costume. Dragan, "the soldier," surprises us with his idea. His friend's father has carrier pigeons. Perhaps at the end we could let one fly out.

October 13
An uncomfortable incident. I have to change rooms, to be more comforta­ble. But I don't need to be more comfor­table, I feel good being with Jagoda. To­plica insists. I cry, holding a young puppy in my arms. "Here's your key." The big boss appears. Toplica takes the key back, 'You can stay." I wonder what all this is about. More comfortable? In the room, on "my chair" sits a frail, old woman. Six weeks in the refugee columns. She's from Slavonia. She had a little village household: cows, pigs, chickens, and now her 70 year old life in a one square meter box. Jagoda says, "Granny Marija, you should sleep," and shows her the top bunk. It's all clear. Of course, I climb up on top. One look, one friendly handsha­ke, MY granny.

October 14
One person is always late. The in­cident with Granny gave me an idea for the next scene. The others judge it to be "super," and we improvise. The task for tomorrow: to find a title for the perfor­mance and a name for the group.
In order for us to be able rehearse at all, we have to take the key from the common kitchen. This room is locked immediately after the evening meal. Ta­bles on top of tables. Chairs on the side, we take out the potatoes and vegetables from the kitchen. Bosko, the security guard, won't give us the key. We are bo­thering him, he doesn't care about this theater thing. I get angry and shout at him, "You do your job, I do mine, so plea­se give it to me." A quarrel, a discussion and then the key back! That also influen­ces the mood. Empty philosophizing, a quarrel, and rehearsal is somehow slug­gish. We postpone the rehearsal until to­morrow. A Sunday afternoon.
Yet two more times Bosko plays this game with the keys. The next time we must use the eye doctor's office. We are pressed for time. The rehearsal lasts a long time, everything is dragged out, every beginning of a rehearsal is al­ways, somehow, sluggish.

October 23
I wait for Toplica. What will we do for opening night? Organize it in the common kitchen? Seating, lighting, the beginning? We consult the real boss, Sasa, and all of a sudden he becomes in­terested in the theater. Without infor­ming us, he contacts a small theater. So the premiere is performed on a real sta­ge, in the neighboring village. Now we have to find lighting. Toplica becomes more active all of a sudden. Death's co­stume is being sewn the night before the premiere. Three women sew it by hand and Granny helps also. The new costu­me, made from heavy blankets, is finally sewn. The last day, we make props, we glue, draw and paint the backdrop with almost totally dried out markers. The first and only dress rehearsal is finished.

October 27
The noise is almost unbearable. The speaker works the whole time, the batteries are almost completely dead, on­ly because the girls want music with their song. With difficulty I explain to them that they have to give up this spe­cial demand. And just as this happens, Boris's character almost collapses, be­cause the speaker has no more power. But Boris, in grand style and without problem, is able to overcome this. For the hundredth time, Vedrana forgets to turn to the audience. But these are all little details, and for the first time these young people are on stage, acting for the first time. To have put this all together and put on a performance in only three weeks, they deserve a "Congratulations and Bravo!"
The whole refugee camp, even Bosko, the whole village, Women in Black, the local TV, they are all there.
THE MALA KRSNA THEATER GROUP plays to a full house, their own, started from nothing, enchanting drama­tic performance: WE ARE. APPLAU­SE, APPLAUSE, APPLAUSE.