Croatian excerpts

I couldn't decide whether this should go on this blog or on the Expatriot Letters. Since it is old, I'm putting it here. Jen, if you think it should be there too, I'll send it on over...

I started writing seriously after a summer I spent in Croatia and Bosnia back in 1998. While those first essays and stories were ponderous and adjective-laden, there are moments in them that I still like. These two excerpts come from different essays, but I think they belong together...

The First
Fahni sees miracles all the time, both at home in Cape Town and here in Croatia. He's used to them and is comfortable with the religious language surrouding them. "I think I have seen so many miracles in my life," he says to us this mid-summer day, "that I no longer remember they are extraordinary." Feeling trapped by his confession, I realize I will see what he has seen if I stick around. We have reasons for everything in America, but little is explicable here.
I stick around; I have to. I'm in the former Yugoslavia for six weeks and leaving isn't an option, unless war explodes again. ...

The Second
... We finish our time-off by taking a swim. The Adriatic is soggy. Lines of salt dry on my friends' faces. I spit out the luke warm water that laps into my mouth. Rolling about on the surface, we notice movement on the sandy floor ten feet below us: crabs probably.
Just past the beach, two small girls weave through rows of cypress trees, their flourescent swim suits reading, "Beach Time!" and "Fun in the Sun!" Shuffling along, their feet seek cool sand beneath the sun's view. By an ancient mound of communist concrete, they huddle together, whispering into each other's ear.
*****
The campers are finally in bed. I have an hour before my eleven to midnight security watch. Hiding from the vicious mosquitos, Elsabe and I lounge in the darkness.
"I talked to two girls today," says Elsabe, "They said they were best friends. I asked them 'for how long'? They said three days."
Three days. Since they got to camp.
"They are from Mostar." She peers at me expectantly as if this information ought to affect me deeply. Most of the children at camp are from Mostar. The Catholic Croatians inhabit the West Side. The Muslim Bosnians have the East Side.
Once someone asked John, "So what exactly divides East and West Mostar?"
John replied, "Oh, the river, and the fact that they've been killing each other for the last 800 years. Other than that, not much."
Elsabe waits for me to comment.
"Oh, Mostar. East or West?"
"One from each."
"oh . . ."
We lean back in our molded plastic chairs. Our dusty, tan legs stretch out before us. I point out the constellations to her; she had never seen the northern sky before this summer. I find it strange that the Croatian night sky is identical to the one outside my bedroom window in Northern California. She can't believe we are in the same timezone as Cape Town. We wave to a satellite. It takes forty-five seconds to cross the sky. Many governments look down into this area of Europe, as Kosovo, a current war zone, is only 150 miles south of us.
The camp may be a refuge for the children, but it's a battlefield for us. Money is missing again; someone is stealing. We think we know who, but we have to catch him red-handed. But how do you punish a Gypsy child who has been taught thievery from the crib? His family relies on his quick hands for food.
Elsabe and I find Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, and Polaris, with the help of Pietfrans' star guide. My flashlight fails, making the chart useless, so we watch for shooting stars.
I wonder if Elsabe's girls came from fueding families, as well as fueding nations? I want to believe they will be friends after leaving here, but I just can't. I feel naïve when I let myself hope.
"Did'ja see that shooting star?" Elsabe's asks.
"No. I never see a shooting star when I'm looking for one."
"Then stop looking."