america

My Serbian experience with the Syrian crisis

I’m usually not one to volunteer. In fact, while other people in high school were busy helping handing out sandwiches to the homeless, I was working.The notion of volunteering, meaning, not getting paid, was a hard one for me to conform to. Let’s get something straight, I wasn’t a complete asshole. I would donate food, clothes and toys where it was needed in both Canada and Serbia, I just didn’t want to invest my time in helping. Ok, nevermind. I’m an asshole. However, two days ago my mother strongly hinted that I should perhaps go attend a meeting about the Syrian refugees. I had seen the thousands of refugees sleeping in the local parks, waiting for the next bus to come so they can head to their new homes, but I had adapted to seeing that and it had minimal effect on me. So, I sluggishly put on my pants and sneakers and went to the meeting that I was somewhat emotionally flat about.

I went. I listened. They suggested we volunteer 4 hours a day, which I cringed at. Four hours, hmmm, that seems like a lot.  At the end of the meeting, they showed us the facility where they were providing food, water, clothes, shoes and cell phone chargers. I was slightly intrigued but not enough to start working that very minute. My emotional status was of no need to the coordinators, and they placed me on the food line within the following minutes.

I put my gloves on, grabbed a cart of canned fish. And then the people came.

It wasn’t just two or three refugees meandering around checking the local architecture. There were groups of them. Men, teenagers, women, children, babies. These aren’t just Syrian refugees. I’ve met many from Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan and the list goes on. Though I had seen them in the parks, I was never in verbal contact or close enough to even really see them. They’re exhausted. They’re hungry. They’re homeless. I asked how long it takes them to come here, they say, over one month. Coming from Canada, I have never seen anything like this in my entire life.

It’s been two days of volunteering and I am trying to figure out what my volunteer group can do to become a more efficient for the refugees. Though I am helping them, I’m truly humbled and grateful to be involved. My volunteer group started with two women who just wanted to help. We now have over 20 volunteers and rely on private donations from individuals. Not one act of violence has been carried out the refugees in Serbia, which makes me extremely proud to say.

Today, I learned how to say the words  car, apple and water in Arabic. I helped a baby stop crying and gave juice to some little kids. And this makes me happy.

From friendzone to no-zone. A non- romantic comedy letter.

Bubice,

I know how I feel, you know how I feel, and anyone who sees us can us figure it out- I love you. What am I supposed to do? You’re my best friend. I share my laughs, my worries, my thoughts with you, as what any best friends would do. And what am I supposed to do about this? I love my best friend, who doesn’t want me. This is the classic female-male friendship story, which for the first time I’m now living in.

I spend time with you because I like you. I like being around you. I like the way you make me feel. I know at least those feeling are mutual, or else you wouldn’t invest your time with me.
But to this day, I still cannot understand this. You introduce me to your family, we see each other every day and spend the drunk nights with you trying to make-out with me. But, I’m not good enough for you.

It’s like I’m in the quasi-relationship with you, where we act like we’re together, but we’re not. This isn’t fair to me. I cannot be the girl you hang with while you wait for something better to come along. I have never been that girl and never tended to be that.

Listen, I chew on chicken bones, my socks frequently smell, and I accidentally killed my guinea pig. I am flawed. But, I am beautiful. I am funny. I am kind. I am smart. I don’t have to tell you this, you know that already.

You talk about the “click”, okay, fine. But there comes a point, where you have to start asking yourself, if there apparently isn’t anything between us, then what are you doing. There is something within you that you’re ignoring and suppressing, you are blocked and you’re not being true to yourself.
I’m writing this without any expectations, of anything. I don’t expect you to understand, but as my best friend, I needed to get this off my chest.

Kiflice.

Lonely sweat on the dance floor

These lyrics, such as “My girls got my back”, oh just wait little Sophia, wait till you gon’ to the club, and your ladies all see a man, they gon’ ditch your ass like a hot pocket.
And there you will be, Sophia, dancing beside all your girls, alone, while making out with their newly found men, occasionally winking at you, giving you the. “I’m having such a great time with this man, he’s special, he’s not like all the other men that roam the wild dance floors, he must really like me because he moved my sweaty hair from my face and that’s romantic”.

And its stuffy, oh god, it’s so stuffy and hot, and they sweatin’, you sweatin’, and you alone girl, you standing there beside your girl as she’s rubbing her ass in his crotch, his head is tilted back with his eyes closed, because he’s tryin to enjoy this moment of intimacy, holding her waist for emotional and mental support, and there you be, staring at your phone as you sway, 3rd wheelin’, but it doesn’t end there, the guy’s friend see’s you, he knows you ain’t gon’ leave your girl, he’s gon’ come behind you say “hey” in your ear, grab your waist and start grinding with you, and because you think you have your girls, you wait for them to notice your “come help me” face, but your girl has sweat in her eyes and they sting so she closes them to avoid the pain, and there you are, to shy to say no to the guy, so you continue dancing, but not giving 100%, doing more of like a slight giggly sway, which to you emphasizes your disinterest, is enough for him to get a signal that you are enjoying his company.
And then, and only then, will you remember your hit when you were six years old, and think “wow, wasn’t I right, you’re my best friend forever, cross my heart and hope to die”. And then you do it again next week, in hopes of role reversal.