As could be guessed by my last name, the paternal side of my family hails from the former Yugoslavia. Until this trip, I never had the chance to visit. Oft would I yearn to embrace my Serbian homeland, to return where the Danube flows with šljivovica, to mourn beloved Tito. Mind that my family and I wax sarcastic.
I do however desire connection with my heritage. The way I heard about this OCS was the response I got from asking the department, “Do you have any programs in Serbia?”—as a joke. No one cares about the Balkans. I expected a “No,” perhaps a “Huh?”; “Well…” had me taken aback. Actually going to Serbia—and Bosnia too—compelled me to set a fantasy I fathomed for my amusement up against reality. Strangest of all, my exaggerated admiration became an authentic love for a land that is really in no way home; I was never even near the villages where my grandparents grew up, and they left for America more than half a century ago.
The essence of my “Serbian homeland” was an artificial nostalgia, a mental substitute for the languages I do not speak, the relatives I barely knew, and the memories of somewhere I had never been. I nonetheless cherished it and made certain I was up to date on happenings in the region’s past and present, in particular the ongoing student anti-corruption protests. They bring me hope that the nationalism which tore Yugoslavia apart is dying out, but also I confess some Serbian pride. At the same time, my phone’s lockscreen was (and is) a photo of Tito with an edited jawline and a filter. I find it important to leave room for the ridiculous. How else would I end up in Serbia?
As I waited aboard the bus before the border, I contemplated that my lofty expectations were probably too high. My moment of “return” had almost two years of build-up—time enough for any dream to surpass what reality can offer. Bracing myself for disappointment, I looked out the window. Serbia was beautiful. I kept my expectations high.
That first night in Belgrade I had dinner with my cousin. She does not live in Serbia—none of my family does anymore, for that matter—but she came by to see me. I had met her maybe once before, perhaps when I was two. Still, it was a lovely time eating traditional food with a rakija digestif. I was very relieved to have enjoyed the cuisine that had long been in my heart but little in my mouth—although I have had and do like my grandmother’s cooking. Through food and drink and family my Serbianness was legitimized.
I went on adoring all I expected to adore. The Museum of Yugoslavia fascinated me with familiar history. And for all its funny quirks, like a set of Tito-themed playing cards in the gift shop, which I bought, a palpable sadness lingered around the president’s grave in the House of Flowers. Though my relationship with Yugoslavia was in no way based on lived experience, I felt the museum’s nostalgia much resembled my own.
When we went to Novi Sad, I knew I was at the heart of the aforementioned protest movement, which began there after a train station canopy collapsed and killed 16 people. A few others and I happened to meet a likely protester riding a bike, who just as I had imagined he would denounced nationalist politics, explained some graffiti, and rode off into the overcast midday proverbial sunset.
This protester stood for the Serbia I am proud of. All my life, whenever I mentioned Serbia, people thought of the 1990s. I was of course familiar with the Bosnian Genocide going into this trip, and unfortunately, its denial remains strong in parts of the country—albeit far from ubiquitous. As we left for Bosnia, I prepared to learn much more and, if need be, leave my Serbian-Yugoslavian mishmash fantasy behind. I did one of those.
We heard lots about the Yugoslav Wars, and I made sure to visit the museums; they were well-done. But our lecturers blew me away. They were unapologetically pro-Yugoslavia, anti-nationalist, intersectional hooligans running on hope and nostalgia. It was spectacular to hear about two of them illegally placing fake Partisan memorials throughout Sarajevo. The lecturers called this a “hack,” a covert infiltration into Sarajevo’s prescribed memory to broaden people’s perceptions. It is the power of pretend.
I consider my love of Serbia, first contrived, then genuine. Like the memorials, my tongue-in-cheek glorification of my “homeland” was a fabrication, yet it led me to seek truth. Pretend is necessary to understand reality is incomplete, and that understanding brings people hope, desire, and the will to pursue an ideal. By pretending some things are possible, sometimes, they actually are.