E dehur jam…
Dear diaspora, today I drink. I drink to forget, I drink to pretend. To accept and to ignore. I drink because I feel like someone has to drink. And somehow, I wonder, are you secretly drinking with me?
I drink to ignore.
I drink to ignore how absurd it is that you work for flats and houses you see once a year. You moan about how your family has lost your favorite dress. How no one has taken care of the flowers while you were gone. Dear donor, dear guest, I am sorry for the sorrows and dreams that remain whispers in your head. I am afraid that someday they will be buried, not far from your flowers.
I drink to ignore how your moments of success are ruined by your conflicts. Your clubs and associations, oh so many of them are stillbirths. And there you are, wondering why through all those years your existence has been taken for granted, your potential neglected, your voice misused.
I drink to ignore your endless debates about your football players. How you judge yourself constantly. They say you live off your sweet sense of belonging. I drink because you don’t seem to see how that feeling is destroyed by your intolerance and judgement.
I drink to pretend. I drink to pretend that I don’t hear you cry when the crowd sings your songs. This is your bittersweet moment of unity. You know, you only have a few minutes before ambivalence takes over and your first child leaves to get a beer.
I drink to pretend that I don’t see how your families are being torn apart because you don’t allow them to be different. Do you still believe your own little lie that one day you will return home? I drink for all the decisions you make based on your delusion. For all the victims bearing your consequences.
I drink to pretend that it doesn’t hurt being a woman trapped in your claws. I heard you still justify violence and injustice through your culture? And was it you who told those young girls that marrying is an achievement? That it requires planning, endurance and willpower? I think I need a shot now. In fact, make that two.
I drink to forget.
I drink to forget about the loss of your beautiful language. You keep telling the world you die each time someone decides to forget your language, neglects your homeland, or refuses to marry your people. I am disappointed that you believe concerts and marriages are making up for your lack of education, art and debate.
I drink to forget the one time you attended an exhibition showing your own work. Oh, I really want to forget how you left by the time you realized you are surrounded by your people. Not without shouting that you can’t stand too many of you in one place. Even the paintings heard you.
I drink to accept.
I drink to accept that you still tell the old story of the cold Germans, French and Swiss. These countries gave birth to you. Their differences still feed you. And it seems to me like your biggest fear is finding out that you yourself have turned cold sitting there between your chairs.
I drink to accept that you still create your parallel worlds, your little Kosovos and Macedonias all over the world. Accept that you might die without having lived in the cities your millions of passports declare as your hometowns.
Mostly, I drink to accept that you have given up on trying to grow and trying to change.
I want to let go of you diaspora…. instead, I sit here and drink.