Tuesday, 18 October 2011

Our School / Scoala Noastra

A few weeks ago I was invited to play accordion at the Camden International Film Festival here in Maine. The festival focuses exclusively on documentary, and this year there were several amazing films. As a musical prelude, I played my normal repertoire for all of the films, weather they were about returning Iraq war veterans, Fly fishing, or skate punks. On Friday afternoon I was happy to play before a film that was directly relevant to the music I was playing - Our School.




Our School, produced and directed by Mona Nicoară, follows three Roma children through the process of integrating Roma and non-Roma schools in the Transylvanian town of Targu Lapus, Romania. Thirty towns in Romania were given funds to integrate schools, and the production team chose Targu Lapus as the most likely to succeed. Integration was a resounding failure, and the Roma children who stayed in school were transferred into schools for the mentally disabled at the end of the 'integration' period. While similar stories have been repeated over and over across Eastern Europe, but perhaps most severely in Romania, the film poignantly shows how school administrators, teachers, and officials talk about racist policies that we most often hear about in headlines.




The filmmaker, Mona Nicoara, is a Romanian human rights activist who made the film, admittedly, from an advocate's perspective and with the optimistic assumption that the integration program was going to succeed. I spoke with her after the film screening about her experiences working in and outside of Romania.

One major difference of opinion between Mona and some of the Roma I met in Serbia is that Mona believes that the benefits of Roma integration outweighs its pitfalls. While acknowledging the difference between integration and assimilation, her position is that the fact that Roma have lived side by side with Gadje (non-Roma) for millenia is proof that their identity will remain intact regardless of changing circumstances. Even loss of language, what I would consider a strong indicator of the death of cultural identity, is something that she believes Roma will be able to overcome. In Mona's view, any theory, accepted truth, or prediction by anthropologists and social theorists, Roma buck.

One point of view she shared with my friends in Serbia - the European Commission's 'Decade of Roma Inclusion' is a conduit for recycling funds that leave Roma, quite literally, in the dust. Funds (which are substantial) for this initiative are explicitly structural. That is, they are distributed exclusively to NGOs who will reinforce government programs, in turn strengthening national objectives to assimilate or relocate Roma. A strange time we live in, when the name betrays the nature, a la Clear skies Initiative and Operation Iraqi Freedom. Citizen beware.

Our School closes with one of Gogol Bordello's most apt refrains, 'You love our music but you hate our guts.' The film has garnered much-deserved international acclaim, and perhaps more importantly, has received a lot of attention in Romania. Will this affect any positive change for Roma? Who knows. In speaking with Mona, she told me how the school system and the non-Roma Romanian families had no problem with the film crew focusing on the Roma kids. Perhaps in part, because the presence of the film crew underscored how they were exotic and out of place in a formal school setting. In any case, a candid portrayal of the situation did not threaten Romanian families or school administrators who blatantly and systematically filtered Romani children out of the educational system, and thereby society at large.


Monday, 10 October 2011

Goodbye Serbia, Hello world

It's been a slow time for updates but a busy time in life since I returned to the US from Serbia in late August. I have a number of posts that I have been meaning to catch up on, and hope to get the ball rolling again in the coming weeks.

Although I started this blog as a way to share my experiences studying Romani music in Serbia, I have been pleasantly surprised how much I have been able to continue my independent, low-budget, non-academic, highly anecdotal and personally thrilling research since I returned stateside. Highlights include hanging out with some amazing people over the past month - two Roma rights activists, a Romani dancer from Kosovo, a filmmaker from Romania, and an amazing Romanian/Serbian Rom accordionist living in Queens, NY.

So, while gears have shifted from Eastern Europe to the East Coast of the US, I'm planning to continue to write about my encounters with Romani music and issues as they warrant interest. In part to ease my pangs of Serbian nostalgia, but also as a way of widening scope beyond my own experiences from this summer in Valjevo, I'm hoping to use this blog as a way of gathering, filtering, and relaying topics that I, and hopefully you, will find interesting.

Sunday, 21 August 2011

Food, Hrana, Xabe

Next to music, food has been the most time consuming and interesting aspect of my time in Serbia. When you can't participate in conversation at the kitchen table, understand the news, or read the newspaper, food takes on a heightened importance as one of the best ways to make sense of where you are. Call it coincidence or etymological fate, but the commands 'eat, drink!' in Romanes is
'ha, pi!'  Happily, indeed.

In the month I've been in Valjevo, I have only eaten out twice. The rest of my meals have been prepared by my gracious hosts, so I'm pretty sure that my food-based judgments have some basis in reality. Going through my catalog of pictures over the past month I also realized that I did not take any photos of the foods that are the real staples here. I think I have eaten more tomatoes in the past 30 days than I have in my entire life up to this point. Fresh hot peppers garnish the table at EVERY meal. The ceramic salt tray even has a hole in which the pepper rests when it is not being ripped into. Canola or sunflower oil is a given.

So without further ado, some of my ingestive highs and lows over the past month.






Burek, I hate to love you. Made with a variety of fillings - meat, cheese, spinach, mushrooms, Burek hides its guts in an inflated swirl of filo dough. Often topped with sesame seeds and always heavy with oil saturation, most of the burek I have had here is golden brown on top and black on the bottom. 






Watermelon, aka Lubenica, is plentiful and cheap. Plentiful as in pick-up beds overflowing with them. Cheap as in 18 dinars per kilo - about 11 US cents per pound.





This is bread porridge, one of my arch-rivals of Serbian cuisine. It tastes, not surprisingly, like buttered bread. Unfortunately it has the texture of buttered bread that has already been fully chewed. When served piping hot it is glutenous and sticky. When it cools it could be used as grout. In the picture above it is combined with Kajmak, a very salty cheese-like substance of Turkish origin.

I was told several times that this stuff is good for stomach problems, such as hangovers or surgery. If you can get it past your mouth, maybe it's true.





My absolute favorite in Serbia, apple burek, made with apples from our front yard. Note the salt dish with the pepper-holding hole (no pepper pictured here). On the other side of the dish were black pepper would reside in the US, in Serbia there is more salt. Yin and Yin.









Fresh fruit from the front yard. Pears, apples, grapes, walnuts, raspberries, and plums, the mother of Serbian booze. Both Slivovitz and Rakiya are made distilled from plum wine, and home stills are common. The best one I had was sweet and warming, from an old guy Dusan knows. The worst one I had reminded me of the smell of model airplane glue.

For reasons I cannot understand, at all, 90 percent of the fruit here is left to rot on the ground. From what I can tell, canning, preserves, juicing, or fruit salad, is unheard of. Every day the grandmother here rounds up the apples that fell from the tree, puts them in a plastic bag, and places it in the trash.



















Oink oink, we'll be pigs. I'm happy I'm not a vegetarian trying to find food in Serbia. Perhaps even more difficult than that is trying to eat Kosher, a concept which seems to be utterly untranslatable here for another American in the house.




A general store in a nearby Romani village. First time I've ever seen a balance in action.






Shopska Salad, tomatoes, cukes and salty cheese.




Two other unique dishes I did not get pictures of are Burania, a soup made from long, bisected bean pods, and Skanja (?) a hair-like byproduct of lard rendering. Tastes as delicious as it sounds.

And, I also must mention the joy of fresh sugary donuts with turkish coffee. No two are the same shape, all are delicious.

Friday, 19 August 2011

Play buddy

Rasha is a violinist from Grabovica I have met with a few times over the past week. I feel like I'm getting the better end of the deal playing with him, but it's affirming to have someone of his experience to want to take the time to get together to play music together. He said that if I stuck around I could start playing weddings. In my suave Serbian I responded, "hochu!"
 - I want!

I've learned about a dozen new songs and dance tunes over the past few weeks, so our session last night went on for quite a bit longer than the last one. Here is a Kolo that I learned the first two parts of last night. I love how rhythmic and smooth his playing is.



 

Why do we care about singers?


After slogging my way through a few hundred pages of peasant uprisings and beheadings in my brick of a book The Balkans, I very happily came across an (English!) copy of The Ground Beneath Her Feet in a pile of Serbian art history books. Salman Rushdie is one of my all-time favorite authors, and I have been wanting to read this book for a long time. Coming up on my last few days in Serbia, this passage struck a bell in my head that has not stopped ringing.


Why do we care about singers? Wherein lies the power of songs? Maybe it derives from the sheer strangeness of there being singing in the world. The note, the scale, the chord; melodies, harmonies, arrangements; symphonies, ragas, Chinese operas, jazz, the blues: that such things should exist, that we should have discovered the magical intervals and distances that yield the poor cluster of notes, all within the span of a human hand, from which we can build our cathedrals of sound, is as alchemical a mystery as mathematics, or wine, or love. Maybe the birds taught us. Maybe not. Maybe we are creatures in search of exaltation. We don't have much of it. Our lives are not what we deserve; they are, let us agree, in many painful ways deficient. Song turns them into something else. Song shows us a world that is worthy of our yearning, it shows us our selves as they might be, if we were worthy of the world.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Tamburica takeover


One of the highlights of last week was when a tamburica band from Vojvodina, northern Serbia showed up for an evening of music making. As was the case with the brass band I wrote about in an earlier post, these got out of the van, tuned, and started playing. They stopped playing about five hours later, with no break or signs of slowing down.








To my amazement, this band has no name. They all come from the same town, and as it was to explained to me, they are a subgroup of a few dozen musicians there who all share the same repertoire. This particular formation is one variation that might include all, some, or none of them tomorrow or the next day.

This is a pretty radical concept when compared to the culture of music making in the US that pushes brand identity before content. These guys are veteran musicians who fucking rock, and they don't have a name for their band.









They played their guts out. The videos don't do justice to the music or the vibe but they are a nice token from one my favorite musical evenings ever.







Monday, 15 August 2011

Guča trumpet festival

After three weeks of debating whether or not I would go to the Guca festival, the stars aligned and I got to see for myself the madness in all of its beer-soaked glory. For those of you who do not  know, the Guca trumpet festival is the largest music festival in Serbia, and one of the largest in Europe. During one week, one million people descend on what is otherwise a sleepy village in central Serbia to get drunk and be blown at by horns.


While this sounds like a grand time in principle, Guca has been criticized in recent years for a turn towards corporate showcasing and away from music. Which is not to say that music is not abundant. 10-piece brass bands play at full volume a few feet away from each other, separated only by a gaggle of hippie-dancing festival goers sporting newly purchased pink afros and green army caps. Brass bands are fundamentally the work of Roma in Southern Serbia, and nearly all of them are at the festival - if they are not competing they are working for tips under restaurant tents or in the streets.





One of the students at the Amala school was offered a set on the stage through the Australian embassy, so I got to tag along and hang out back stage at the cultural house.











One of the highlights of the festival was seeing some of the dances up close. Unlike in some of its neighboring countries, Serbian folk dancing is more performative than social. After spending the past few weeks working on the feel and ornaments of this music on the accordion, it was great to see similar gestures happening in feet. I came really close to buying a pair of these leather elfy dancing shoes, I'm regretting already.








Not much else to say about Guca, except that I could not help but notice a lack of acknowledgement of any Romani contribution to the festival, despite the fact that Guca exists only because it can draw from a longstanding tradition of Romani brass music in the area. The brass bands playing at Guca are function bands, gigging throughout the year at weddings and celebrations. Nevertheless, Guca is presented as being all about trumpet, not so much the people who play them. Trumpets are pretty boring if you don't have bad-ass musicians behind them.





A perk of traveling with the band is that I got a free meal ticket. This is the vegetarian option. Yes, that is beef floating in oil.