Suffled How It Gush: A North American Anarchist in the Balkans — Book Excerpt
Last month, we released Shon Meckfessel’s Suffled How It Gush: A North American Anarchist in the Balkans. Equal parts journalism, history, and personal memoir, the book records Shon’s travels throughout ex-Yugoslavia and the greater Balkans region, chronicling the beauty of an area too renowned for its ugliness. As George Katsiaficas, author of The Subversion of Politics, desrcibes it: “Shon Meckfessel bathes in undercurrent discourses and points us to Balkan dynamics contradicting the nationalist loyalties that distort people’s lives. Rather than making ethnic claims or endorsing any hierarchy, he clarifies existing struggles against states and points toward a region free of domination.”
It’s a book of serious political analysis that reads like a novel. We’ve posted a taste below. [When you’re done reading, please visit Free the Hikers and help Shon’s friends—Shane Bauer, Josh Fattal and Sarah Shourd—who were recently arressted while hiking the Iran/Iraq border.]
* * *
On the train through South Serbia, the stretch when I usually feign sleep to avoid conversation, the man sitting across from me offers me a cigarette. He must have noticed me staring at his tattoo—a large peace sign in bold, home-tattoo lines. And, higher on the same arm, another tattoo—the Serbian nationalist symbol, within the handle of a dagger. This time, as I am here to write about neighboring Kosovo, I take a breath and accept his cigarette. His wife maintains her distant gaze through the window as we step into the hallway.
“Znaš, Srbi su pacifisti. You know, Serbs are pacifists,” he begins. I have never before heard this claim for a people who have a tradition of throwing a three-day party when one of their sons joins the army. Only marriage and death are feted to the same extent. “Croats are fascists,” he continues, perhaps noticing from the tag on my bag that I boarded the train in Zagreb. This is the conversation I had hoped to sleep through, particularly as I keep dropping Croatian words throughout my Serbian.
“The state was,” I agree, “but many Croats also fought with the Partisans.”
“No, they were all Ustaše.”
“But Tito himself was half Croat!”
He pauses. “Tito was good. Peace, prosperity, brotherhood and unity…” I decide not to press him further to acknowledge Tito’s heritage, and move on. At the moment, I am here to find out about a subject close to the hearts of Serb nationalists, and tell him I am heading to Kosovo, to write on the situation for minorities.
“You are a writer. Will you write about this conversation?”
I tell him I don’t know yet. “I was in Kosovo.” He points to his shoulder tattoo. “You don’t want to go there, too many Albanians now. Albanians are bad—they rape women, kill children. You know, they are Muslims?” I nod sternly. “Well, Muslims are terrorists.”
“Not all!” He asks for an example, but I hesitate to say Bosnia, the first example in my mind. I fear my very limited Serbian is not up to the task of defending the one and a half billion people of the Umma in one swoop, but I see no way out. “Teroristi su samo u posebnim situacijima.” They’re only terrorists on special occasions.
In the next train car, someone’s radio blasts one of these strange American-sounding pop songs such that I have never heard outside the Balkans. “Everybody has cheated everybody, in the 21st century. Time to make sure, you don’t lose…” I begin to doubt my own sanity. Am I projecting my paranoia in radio waves?
The train enters Niš. He points out the Mahala, the Romani neighborhood, which seems to be going about its business as we pass it. We exchange waves with some kids. I tell him I’ve been studying Romani in America. He tells me he speaks Romani, as well as Russian and, of course, Serbian.
I tell the pacifist how I am worried what will happen to the Roma if Kosovo becomes independent from Serbia. “Kosovo will never become independent,” he states with complete resolve. “It’s the sacred ground of Serbia, as Jerusalem is for Israel.” I follow the simile through in my thoughts, but decide to keep it to myself. “Like, the heart?” I offer. “Yes, the heart of Serbia.”
He offers me another cigarette, but I apologetically explain that I am exhausted from my voyage. Attempting to recline sandwiched between passengers on each side, I squeeze my eyes shut and focus my very awake attention on appearing to nap deeply. After twenty minutes, he shakes my shoulder, not convinced. “Amerikanac!” Realizing I have little choice, I accept a cigarette.
“Ja, Srbin.” I, Serb. I had guessed as much, but respond with a manly nod. “Žene, Albanka.” My wife, Albanian. This I had not expected. I cannot hold back my astounded smile. His face still serious, he shrugs, “Ljubav.” Love. Apologetic, almost embarrassed.
“You see, I am not a nationalist, I am a pacifist.”
Yes, I tell him, I think I am going to write about this conversation.