Читать книгу Wastelands - Eirik Saethre - Страница 7

Polje was a space unto itself. An informal Romani settlement on the edge of Belgrade, it was home to approximately two hundred Ashkali and Roma living in small one-room shacks. Piles of trash lined the narrow lane that served as the main thoroughfare. Water was obtained from nearby fire hydrants while electricity was siphoned from streetlights. Completely concealed by a series of small berms, Polje was situated between two contrasting geographies. On one side, gray concrete high-rise buildings punctuated an urban landscape, and on the other, bucolic green fields stretched to the horizon. If Polje seemed out of place, so too did its inhabitants. Every resident was a migrant, refugee, or displaced person. A site of temporary asylum, the settlement was largely divorced from the realm beyond its borders. A teenage resident, Deon, aptly described Polje as “the other world.”¹ But the settlement was also an Other world, where the exiled sought to build their lives before they were inevitably dislodged once more.

Characterized as unhygienic, a squatter camp, and a slum, Polje was one of an estimated 583 “substandard” Romani settlements that pervaded Serbia.² Serbs decried the blight caused by these settlements while the government prioritized their destruction. Polje’s residents were continually under threat; their homes would never be secure. In addition, informal Romani settlements were socially, materially, economically, and legally isolated from the rest of the nation. The most substantive link between Polje’s inhabitants and the world outside its borders was the trash. In the urban sprawl just beyond the settlement lay a realm of discarded commodities that could be converted into food, housing, and cash. In so doing, Ashkali and Roma sought to turn garbage into success. Like everyone else in Polje, this is what drew Bekim to the settlement.

Although he was twenty-four years old, Bekim stood just over five feet tall and weighed barely ninety pounds, a result of being malnourished for most of his life. Given his slight build, Bekim had difficulty finding clothes that fit. Because he refused to wear boy’s sizes, he was constantly pulling up his pants in an effort to keep them from falling off. But this did not bother Bekim, who often joked about his wardrobe malfunctions. However, his humor belied a history of loss and dislocation. He came to Serbia as a child when his family fled the Kosovo War. Arriving in Belgrade, they first lived in Zgrade, and then, after it was destroyed by the Serbian government, Polje. Despite residing in Serbia for almost two decades, Bekim still lacked identity documents. As a result he was unable to work legally, open a bank account, or access state health care. Barred from the formal economy, Bekim earned money recycling paper and metal he found in dumpsters. This work was filthy, physically debilitating, and barely provided enough income to support his family. Married at sixteen, Bekim had fathered eight children, four of whom died in infancy. His wife, Fatime, was pregnant again and he fervently hoped this child would live.

Late one night as Bekim and I visited a nearby supermarket for food, his incessant struggle for survival was vividly illustrated. Walking out of the settlement, we entered a busy street lined with bright lights and tall buildings. As Bekim contemplated the proliferation of stores along our route, he asked if I had visited the nearby mall. He had never been inside and was curious what it was like. Even though it was not far from his home, the mall was a place Bekim would probably never go. People like him, he said, could get into trouble if they went to malls. Bekim knew the areas he should avoid. Suddenly, his stomach started to rumble. There had not been much food for dinner and Bekim only ate a fraction of it, wanting to ensure that his children had enough. Thinking about his last meal, Bekim casually commented that another one of his molars had fallen out. This was the second in as many weeks and a little more than half of his teeth remained. Stoically, Bekim added that at least it had been painless. He expected to begin losing his incisors soon, which were already black with decay.

Before long, we crossed an empty parking lot and arrived at the front of a large supermarket. Its windows were dark and the building appeared deserted. As I expected, it had closed an hour earlier. We had not come to shop. Wanting to avoid harassment, Polje’s residents assiduously avoided purchasing food at supermarkets. Nevertheless, these large stores were an important source of sustenance for Bekim’s family. Skirting around the side of the building, we made our way to a row of dumpsters in the rear. With Bekim starting at one end and me at the other, we meticulously combed through their contents. This is where we hoped to obtain our next meal. We were searching for any rotten fruits and vegetables that the supermarket had discarded at closing. While Serbs expressed disgust at eating food found in dumpsters, it was an accepted part of everyday life in the Other world. Molding tomatoes were not trash; they were nourishment. But despite our efforts the dumpsters yielded nothing. Fortunately, two other supermarkets were not far away. Perhaps, Bekim mused, we would have better luck there.

As we began walking, Bekim suggested that we buy a soda from a nearby convenience store. Although the door was locked, a clerk was conducting transactions through an open window. She fetched candy and snacks from inside the premises but allowed customers to choose their own beverages from an exterior refrigerator. For security, it could only be opened once the clerk disengaged a magnetic seal. However, when Bekim asked her to unlock the refrigerator, as she had done for the Serbs in line before us, the clerk refused. Instead, she summoned a coworker to fetch the bottle. Bekim paid in silence but as soon as we were out of earshot, he vented his anger. She treated us like thieving cigani, he said. Although cigan is routinely translated as Gypsy, these words have different origins.³ Furthermore, the former is far more pejorative and pervades Serbian speech. While Lady Gaga sings about loving the “Gypsy life,” Serbs discuss the dirty, lazy, and dishonest cigani who pervade their city. Given these stereotypes, Bekim was accustomed to regularly enduring interactions like the one at the convenience store.

Strolling two blocks more, we found ourselves in front of another supermarket. This time, Bekim paused. A group of young Serbian men was loitering not far away. Bekim knew that like the clerk, they regarded him as a cigan. Cigan was not only an insult; it inspired violence. Especially at night, cigani were chased and assaulted. Bekim had been forced to run for his life on several occasions and he did not want to repeat the experience now. A few scraps of food, he whispered, were not worth broken bones. Turning around, he guided me to yet another set of dumpsters. Once again, several men were standing nearby. Urging me to walk faster as we made our retreat, Bekim repeatedly glanced over his shoulder to ensure we were not followed. At this point he decided to return home, remarking that it was simply too dangerous to stay out any longer.

As we entered Polje, I was reminded just how separate the settlement was. Leaving the main thoroughfare, we turned down an inconspicuous lane. In the distance lay only darkness. Walking further, we left the city behind. The streetlights grew fainter, the din of traffic disappeared, and the air became colder. Soon we were enveloped by the night and unable to see anything but the narrow road we were traversing. Then, through the blackness, a scattering of faint lights began appearing in the distance. Suddenly, we entered the settlement, surrounded by shacks, trash, and silence. Bekim and I were home.

Sitting down outside his shack, I thought about our experiences that night. Bekim, a refugee, had spent an hour trying to feed his family by rummaging through dumpsters for rotten vegetables. During this brief time his alienness seemed to be omnipresent: he was fearful to enter a mall, treated as a thief, and risked being beaten. He returned to his home, a shack in a trash-strewn, segregated settlement, with nothing more than a bottle of soda. And this settlement, Bekim’s shelter from the dangerous streets, was continually threatened with demolition. He could lose what little he had in a matter of days. Seeing my expression, Bekim asked what I was thinking. I replied that I was contemplating our evening. Bekim nodded. Yes, he said, it had been an incredibly boring night.

Boring was a word commonly used to describe people’s lives in Polje. For Bekim, there was nothing exceptional about scavenging for food, avoiding assault, or facing eviction. Hunger, segregation, racism, and marginalization were so entrenched that they were not just the norm, they were tedious. This response was born out of the world of the settlements and the trash that sustained them. Polje and the people who called it home were so fundamentally estranged from Serbian society and from the Serbian state that the Other world became their only world. There was simply no alternative way to be. But if life in the settlements was boring, it was not without hope. The potential for a better existence lay in the dumpsters. Banned from the world beyond Polje, Ashkali and Roma looked to its detritus for their survival and prosperity. To understand these precarious spaces of displacement where trash is ubiquitous and transformative—these wastelands—this book follows Bekim and his neighbors as they scavenge life.