Belgrade Waterfont: Clear as mud

Many people have yet to hear about Belgrade, but if you have you’ll know that Belgrade isn’t some pop-up city that occurred last night. It’s anything but that. The capital city of Serbia, Belgrade, is so deeply rooted within Europe, your history prof probably doesn’t know the complete history of this complex city. And until most recently, most people didn’t even know it existed. But alas, it exists.

Let’s get one thing settled before I continue. Belgrade isn’t a nice looking city. I mean, there are interesting and beautiful parts, but before I go to bed, I wash off the black soot that is left from walking outside in the Belgrade air. The streets are filled with people rushing to work, gypsy children begging on the corners and the occasional one-string violinist playing in front of the grocery store, I’m still trying to figure out how that works. The city itself has been bombed and destroyed so many times, over forty, that when you look past the dirt and hard faces you see a city built off of resilience. Serbia itself is a country which meets East and West yet remained non-conforming to either side.

But, those times have apparently changed. Rather East and West said, fuck Serbia and decided to take over by collaborating and building their own city within Belgrade for profit.

They call it Belgrade Waterfront. Looks nice, eh?

Belgrade Waterfront is a project of hotels, restaurants, retail space and office space along the Sava River. I didn’t want to get into what I personally think is wrong with the architectural layout of Belgrade Waterfront, but they left me with no option.

Firstly, as I said previously, Belgrade is a dirty city. Charmingly dirty, underground and filled with character. It’s really not your typical city. My gym is in a renovated bunker underneath a music school. My favorite jazz club is on the roof of an abandoned office building. You can see, it’s been coined the name of the Balkan Berlin for a reason. The city was never built on suits and ties, but rather on poetry, music, art and the human struggle. The city’s buildings are covered with symbolic and highly artistic street art, the buildings themselves are aged and deteriorating which is what Belgrade has always been. A hidden gem.  

 

 

This is actually what Belgrade looks like.

 

 

So, to understand why Belgrade Waterfront is esthetically wrong, I need to you visualize this for a moment. Here you have a city like I described earlier and then out of nowhere, obnoxiously situated along the river will be futuristic, high-rises with sleek lines and crystal clear glass. I should note that the center of Belgrade has one high-rise. One.

As you can see Belgrade Waterfront was not built with the intention to understand and blend into the city and people, but rather bluntly impose the right way of living. Now, I’m not saying it’s a bad way, but it’s not in flow with the history of the area.

But really, this is all just fluffy bitching on my part. There are many serious issues related to this project aside from its aesthetics. There is a huge lack of transparency with regards to where the money is coming from, the taxpayers involvement and legal obligations are unclear. This is really the biggest problem. The people who paying for it, Serbian citizens, are not included and informed of the development of the project. Like any normal person, we want to know how much and where our money is going.

So, the whole project is cloudy with many unanswered questions, however, the project is moving forward. So, who is this project really serving? We can cross out the citizens because most of them cannot afford to buy an apartment in one of these futuristically bullshit designed apartment buildings. The average cost of an apartment is 400,000 euros. Did I mention the average salary is under 400 euros a month? I did, didn’t I. Glad we got that out of the way.

This project is designed with one thing in mind: profit.

Yeah, yeah, sure, it puts Serbia on that map as a tourist destination, but let’s not get sidetracked from the real reason. It’s for profit.

Let’s take a closer look at who it really caters too. The list isn’t long. Wow, it’s actually very short. It serves the Abu Dhabi-based developing company Eagle Hills, foreign investors, and the government. The rest of us can all fuck off.

The web page of Belgrade Waterfront claims that it’s, the new face of the ancient city, the district links the historical and modern quarters with a modern centre of excellence that takes prosperity to new heights, for the benefit of Serbia and its citizens.

Wow, sorry, I just needed to take a breath. I literally just typed out bullshit.

When they say, the new face of the ancient city, they mean demolishing it and rebuilding it into another profit based city like Dubai. By new heights, they mean placing  fucking high-rises along the river bank, blocking anyone from viewing it unless you buy one of their pricey apartments. Are you getting where I’m going with this?  

But, let me just point out their last statement, for the benefit of Serbia and its citizens. This is gold. Comedic gold. For the citizens. Right. See, I’m not sure exactly what they’re trying to say with that. Do you mean this project will provide more jobs to the Serbian citizens? Well, that will probably happen, especially since the labour is cheap, matched with a high unemployment rate. However, these jobs do what for the society of Belgrade?

Belgrade is filled with highly educated individuals, who will have to opt for waitressing or janitorial work rather than scientific research, teaching, arts, etc. Is this the way to boost the economy? Is this the way to get people working?

It’s important to not only realize but accept that Serbia is in a crisis. More young people are leaving the country for employment and better living standards, but, it’s quite obvious that they’re going to leave anyways if they are getting paid 300 euros a month to serve coffee while holding a Ph.D. in chemistry or mental health.

So, instead of using that money to essentially hide Belgrade and lay a cloak of lies and deception over the real city, the money, all 3.5 billion, would be better spent restoring the city centre and upgrading already existing buildings as many are abandoned due to their poor infrastructure.

But, you know, I shouldn’t be so pessimistic. It’s all about positively these days. So, this project isn’t all bad. There’s going to be a new mall!

<insert enthusiastic clapping>

A beautiful, luxurious 140,000 m2 shopping mall, the largest in the Balkans. Oh joy, because at the end of the day, the Balkans really need another shopping center. This is truly a gift, the cherry on top of the cake.

You know, I just took another peek at the website for Belgrade Waterfront. Ironically, Belgrade Waterfront arrogantly used a quote from Prince Stefan Lazarevic’s dated when he established the capital of Serbia. Prince Lazarevic said, I have found the most beautiful place since antiquity. So, like any respectful, empathetic and profit based organization, they decided to take his words and shove it back up his ass, because at the end of the day, it ain’t beautiful unless it’s making money.

 

What your roommate tells you while you’re cooking pasta

I picked an apartment that was close to my school, which I thought was logical. So, I’m currently living in an Italian ghetto. Aside from staying in my apartment after the sun goes down, it’s going great.

Anyways, a month ago I was living in another apartment, the same ghetto, but a different street. My roommate was a 19-year-old Italian boy from Venice. He was studying psychology but he had such innocent and a child-like face that I thought he would suit teaching or becoming a professional mama’s boy. I think it was the Harry Potter glasses and soft cheeks that worked against him. He called himself, Federico.

So, I was in the kitchen cooking pasta. I decided to invest a couple meals cooking and eating pasta. This decision came after I chose to make him a house warming meal, where he, upon viewing the pasta, laughed at my face and said,” I have never tried this American pasta before.”

No, asshole, it’s not American pasta. It’s just fucking pasta.

Apparently, the pasta was not al dente.

So, we ate, and I started doing the dishes. He was leaning against the fridge, as he helpfully watched me wash the dishes as he peeled an orange. He was almost done peeling the skin off the orange when he then said hesitantly, “I need to tell you something.”

Naturally, my immediate thought was that he hosted orgies. That, or that I was too messy. However, the orgy idea was more probable.

I continued washing the dishes calmly and said, ” Oh, okay. What is it?”

“The police might come to the door, if they do, you have to tell them I’m not here.”

Exciting.

“Okay, got it. You’re not here.” I paused. “Why?”

“I’m…” he paused dramatically. I continue to anxiously wash the dishes. “An Anarchist.”

“That’s it?” I laugh in relief. “Okay, great.”

And that was the end of that. He then told me he’s leaving the next day to some Anarchist meeting in Venice and will come back in three days.

He came back two weeks later.

Ideally, I should have been concerned about the fact that he was missing for two weeks, but I liked living alone and figured he was probably arrested for creating public unrest after protesting against the closing of olive oil plantations or a factory that made those circular Italian crackers that taste like licorice.

I noticed his return after I had come home from school one day. He sat on the velvet red couch, wrapped in his duvet cover, sniffing and sipping on tea.

“You’re back” I forcefully said with a smile. “And sick. Where were you?”

“I was in Venice, squatting.”

Now, I have a couple friends who squatted in an abandoned cinema in the city center of Belgrade, they actually managed to get it re-opened. So, this sparked my attention.

“Where were you squatting?”

“In a car dealership.”

“Oh, a car dealership?” I wasn’t sure where this was going. “Was it in the center of Venice?”

“No, it was in the suburbs.”

“Wait, you squatted in a car dealership in the suburbs of Venice?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s a good way to network”.

It’s a good way to network.

I stopped making him pasta after that.

New Rules: A rule book to the Paris Attacks

New rules:
1. Unless you are an expert (i.e. have a degree or a lifetime of experience) on terrorism, the Middle-East, Islam, media, theology, social sciences, international politics, etc, a.k.a. you are able to tell me something that is based on facts and not your uninformed interpretation of a very delicate topic, I do not care about your opinion on any of the events in Paris. I’m not trying to trivialize the horrible things that happened, I’m just asking you to chill out because going insane serves no purpose.
2. Stop praying (or at least stop telling me to pray). It didn’t help mankind in the past 200,000 years, so it won’t help us now. Same goes for the fucking French flags. Narcissistic slacktivism pure and simple, only there to serve yourself and show what a great person you are.
3. Stop being so naive about the fact that mankind is violent. History is written in blood. That doesn’t mean we have to accept it (we should never!), but it doesn’t mean we have to be ignorant about it either. Life is not a Disney movie. You may mean it well, but quoting John Lennon won’t help anybody. It’s useless, hollow rhetoric.
4. On the other side, stop being scared of the unknown. The only reason you were born here is sheer luck. You didn’t build this country and it would easily exist without your xenophobic ass too. It’s very easy to bitch and moan when you’re sitting at home and you’ve only seen war and poverty on tv. If you judge people based on where they come from you are a racist scumbag and you are a big part of the problem yourself.
5. Use Facebook for pictures of cats and Taylor Swift videos. Voice your opinion to your friends or family or co-workers. Ask questions. Most of all, stay safe and don’t go hysterical. Read a book, educate yourself, eat healthy. It feels pretty good to be alive, doesn’t it?
*Yes, I know. This is an opinion too. But I’m only talking about the tone of the debate, the fact that there’s this big hype forming based on fear and misinformation. Of course, it’s all very confusing and the responses are understandable and meant well (except this retarded tweet:https://twitter.com/KayBu…/status/665807478060392448/photo/1), but I’m afraid by responding the way we do, we’re not honoring anything but ourselves and our digital persona. It should be about the victims of violence everywhere, not about our own sorrow and confusion.

Written by: Jeffrey Buys

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.

The Belgrade LGBT Parade

Twas Belgrade’s Gay Pride Parade today. Nothing more extravagant then a parade which was barricaded with 7000 Serbian riot police. However, it’s important to note without sarcasm, that this was the first gay pride parade in four years.

As someone whom grew up in Vancouver, the thought of  a gay pride parade only lit off feelings relating to  alcohol consumption and dancing. In Vancouver, streets would be filled with rainbow flags, floats of gay-pride performers and clubs full of people whom have disregarded the anti-LGBT frame of mind.

In comparison, the energy during the Belgrade parade was calm yet eerie. These streets  were usually bubbling with the voices of those mumbling to themselves as they dodge in between casual walkers,  youngsters munching on fresh pastries from the local corner bakery and old ladies searching for their escaped house cats. But those sounds were muted with silence. This silence would occasionally be broken with the sound of a barking stray dog – the only unemotionally involved mammal during the parade. As I walked down the sun-lit city center, I felt I had been dropped into a post-apocalyptic environment – awaiting for the next attack.  However I need not to worry, as any attack would be a true struggle, as riot-police had wedged themselves into every nook and crevasse- in between garbage bins, alley ways, and back-way apartment exits.

I waited for the parade to venture towards me, hoping to be able to catch a glimpse of all its glory. But alas, they were the size of ants to my eyes – a parade which should be shared and celebrated with the whole community was kept at an overly safe distance away from any eyes.

As I was turning home with disappointment,  a mature female pedestrian proclaimed her findings, as she yelled “faggot lover”  to my father.  Her eyes were twitching in rage as they started to gather tear drops which shortly after poured down her face.  Her twitching swollen eyes listened with great attention as my father gave a humbling speech, “do you see her? this is my daughter, I am not gay, but I do love them.  Listen, these are your people, they’re our brothers and sisters. And what you’re feeling now, is not because of them. Whatever you’re going through, it will get better, don’t worry, things will get better.”