BORDER-LANDS
The Magazine
TAKE THE TRIP |
IT WASN'T THAT LONG AGO |
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Tunisia was once a premiere travel destination for predominantly European folks. It was close, warm, and the country had been outfitted to meet the creature comforts of the vactioneers. Large cruise ships packed the docks and the narrow streets were jammed with tourists ripe for the picking of hawkish vendors and trinket-dealers.
War and the current regional unrest changed that, though. Since ...... there have been several attacks on tourists. Beaches, museums, and hotels have become crime scenes. The facts are undeniable, and the images are hard to forget. The Foriegner is the target in such places today. There is ransom money to make and gruesome messages to convey. These are hard times to travel with carless abandon, in certain parts of the world. We ended up in Tunisia because our friends had moved there. There was vacation time to burn and a desire to see a place never seen and a contrary scene to the Western world we spent the majority of our time in now- I missed the "simple" living of a small, one room apartment on the top of a bookstore in Dali, China and other places I've been. The flight was short, only a couple of hours. It was not enough time to sleep, so I worked. There was always work to do. The window was blocked by a large body, but the bright light of a sunny North Africa glowed. A mechanical squeal and the flaps shifted, slowing the plane as it approached the runway below. There is a strange sensation in the moments before touching down in a place never before seen. All of the wondering, considerations, and anticipation are drawn to the surface. Little can reproduce the work of true explorers, those who pushed past very real boundaries of knowing and extended human awareness, but its something and I savor it. |
There is a road leading out of Sarajevo, it is a two lane highway that is neither worn nor freshly laid. After the long climbs through Montenegrian mountains, where roads squeeze car and tractor trailer trucks between cliff face and long falls, it was a relief. Just drive, nice and straight. It gave me a chance to look out the window.
On that road there is a sad history. At first, I thought they were the relics of old farm families that had moved on. Then, I thought they were old houses abandoned for opportunit. After miles and the unmistakable reminensce of towns, hollowed out and gutted, I knew I was driving down a road that had been bombed, burned, and cast with the long shadow of atrocity. War had traveld that road for a very long time, and in the weeds and the tall grass were the history of the tragic civilian consequence of the Balkan Wars throughout the 1990s. I remember being nine, in the fourth grade, and seeing the news coverage of fighter jets strapped with missles and allegedly dolling out international justice from the stratosphere. We talked about it in school. Teachers told us we were only policing. It wasn't a war, they said. It wasn't a war for us, but it was hell for the Bosnians and the Serbs and the Croatians. It wasn't war for us, but it was war. Before we left Munich, we had dinner with Julia's parents. They told us about their own trip to The Balkans in the 1980s, before another conflict engulfed the region. They spoke fondly of Sarajevo, its multi-ethnic feel, and the architectural trophies of The 1982 Olympics. By the time we arrived, thirty years later, Sarajevo is still recovering. The Olympic Stadium remains, the recognizable rings stand, but they are beaten and pock-marked. The stadium itself, a place where bodies had once been pushed to great extents, had become a holding pen for the doomed. The famous Olympic tower was a sniper nest, bullets projected indiscriminantly at whomever entered the malicious crosshairs. There were other marks of the war bestowed upon the architecture and people of Sarajevo, a city bestowed the tragic note of being the longest besieged city in modern history. Locals refer to the scarring of bullets, shrapnel, and other deadly projectiles on buildings as .....Rose. It is everywhere. Some were patched and others remain. It has been ....... years since the war ended, and so there is a new generation of people who do not know the horror beyond stories and books, but those who did experience those dark days, there is a look, and there are the missing limbs, limps, and attitudes. Sarajevo |
HERE & THERE
A
COLUMN
Drunk On Myth: An Election Without Reason
A Special Election Edition
By Dylan P. Laurion
I was there when Donald Trump walked onto stage, one of the last to enter the hall on St. Anslem's College in Manchester, New Hampshire, a school that as become known as a regular host of primary presidential debates. At that point, there were still a lot of political wizards who dismissed the Trump Campaigns staying power. "He's a flash in the pan," they said. "This is typical inflated political numbers," others cried. And yet, Donald Trump remained. He became the Republican Presidential Nominee.
The night was frigid. St. Anslem's walkways were icy, and those moving towards the bright lights of television shuffled their feet and kept their eyes down- no one wanted to fall and miss the show about to take place. Up until that night, the Primary Debates, particularly for the Republicans, had garnered large numbers of viewers. Many of these folks, I imagine, and have been told, "Wanted to see the bloodbath." Moderators were crumbling before the enormous front of presidential hopefuls, many of which were flaunting themselves for the "Disenchanted vote."
When Trump walked into the room, there was a shift in energy. It was not awe. It was not respect. It was the snickering and nervous giggles often present in classrooms when the school wise-ass struts through the door and gives a wink- wild-hell is coming and everyone should be ready.
This has been the prevailing mood for much of this man's unusual run for presidency. People are drawn into the show, the gore of the arena.
The night was frigid. St. Anslem's walkways were icy, and those moving towards the bright lights of television shuffled their feet and kept their eyes down- no one wanted to fall and miss the show about to take place. Up until that night, the Primary Debates, particularly for the Republicans, had garnered large numbers of viewers. Many of these folks, I imagine, and have been told, "Wanted to see the bloodbath." Moderators were crumbling before the enormous front of presidential hopefuls, many of which were flaunting themselves for the "Disenchanted vote."
When Trump walked into the room, there was a shift in energy. It was not awe. It was not respect. It was the snickering and nervous giggles often present in classrooms when the school wise-ass struts through the door and gives a wink- wild-hell is coming and everyone should be ready.
This has been the prevailing mood for much of this man's unusual run for presidency. People are drawn into the show, the gore of the arena.
STORIES FROM THE VAULT:
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A FACE IN THE CROWD
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