Exorcizing Fear and Catching Stories

My grandmother often complained that her heart ached. I learned later that heartache is one of the only ways that our physical and emotional pain intersect in our brain. That kind of pain can only be cured by taking the story that causes it out of your chest and setting it free. If you do not let it go, it will become a part of you. It will slowly start running through your veins and grow into a secret whisper in your ear that you can ignore for a surprisingly long time...but not forever. Eventually, it will develop a mind and a life of its own. And it will take over yours.

Where I grew up, people never let go of stories. But then again, the stories they carry are so powerful that they cannot be released without special help. What people do instead is to take the stories out of their hearts in the company of others, make them dance to the late night music, and create vivid imagery with the smoke silhouettes above their heads. When the story comes to an end, they fold it up again and put back in their heart. If you find yourself anywhere in the Balkans, stop for a moment in the middle of the night and listen carefully. You can hear and meet these stories everywhere - on the street, coffee shop, park, sea, river, and especially at a bar or a house echoing with clinging glass and laughter.

Seeing stories set free is beautiful, yet truly dangerous. If you're not careful enough, they can try to violently move in your own chest. They don’t do this because they are inherently evil and out to destroy you, but because they fear to be homeless, without a body and a voice that would carry them on. If you do not give your story a voice and it stays with you alone, it will continue to whisper to you in your dreams, any time you are alone, and even if you think you cannot hear it, your body will. The story is not meant to be locked away in one’s chest like that. But then again, learning how to let it go can be about the most painful thing you ever do. When you master letting go, those who carry heavy stories open up and release them in your company, knowing that they would not burden you. It’s nice to catch a lot of stories. But you absolutely must find a way to set them free immediately.

Let me explain this better. This is how I caught a story the other night:

Clutching a large glass of wine, I hid in the corner to sneak another puff of my “last cigarette ever.” The story of the connection between cigarettes and nostalgia is old, so I do not have to tell you that one. If there are cigarettes in memories and stories you call home (because let’s be honest, home is nothing more than a story we titled as such) then giving them up means finding another, different home. You see, I am building a new one at the moment, but I haven’t fully moved in yet. I seem to constantly leave something behind in the old place and keep needing to return. And those old rooms are still filled with people smoking cigarettes, drinking wine, and telling stories so powerful that one night with them can change you forever. If you are there for a night like this one, then you are in for a real treat - it’s heavenly.

I’m sitting in the audience of a homey performance space. On stage are our friends, beautiful musicians preparing for their next concert in town. This rehearsal seems to be very unproductive, but the wine and the laughter keep music pouring for hours. There is a secret ingredient to all of this. You wouldn’t notice him right away because he is very subtle. He moves between chairs and rooms silently and makes sure that the magic keeps dancing in the air. He is the reason your glass is always full, your plate is always warm, and your lighter magically appears again when you need it to sneak just one more “last cigarette ever.”

- Are you also from Bosnia?

The mystery wine god appears with the bottle and tops off my glass. His movements slow and controlled, almost fearful. I remember Daliborka Uljarevic’s description of “our men” exhaling cigarette smoke, exorcizing their fear. I just exhaled my first puff, and it must have sent the signal. We can smell each other when we’re away from the Balkans.

- Yes, I am. You too?

- Yes.

- I came here over twenty years ago, you know. But before that...I was where I wish no one to be.

He looks down, places the wine bottle on the table next to us, and stares at me as if to decide if I can handle what is about to come next. For a moment, I stop breathing. I am not sure I can handle it either. But that cigarette burning in my hand somehow gives me reassurance that I can. If nothing else, smoking gives me time to think. I can strategize how to respond to whatever comes next. Probably one of the reasons why cigarettes are so hard to give up for me.

- What do you mean?

- I was in a concentration camp.

The smoke I just inhaled burst out of my lips together with the only one word that came to mind at that moment.

- Fuck.

- Yes, fuck.

He smiles. I stare at my cigarette. I don’t think it is fair to smoke. He knows what I’m doing if I “strategize now” and take another puff, so I blurt out the first question that comes to mind.

-How is your health? Are you ok?

He smiles again. But this time, the smile is a sign of relief. As if I passed some sort of a test.

- Yeah...I could see you would know what I’m talking about.

- I don’t know...I imagine...a lot...I hear stories…

- Well but you know what happened. You know where I was.

- You were at that camp?

- I was. Four months.

- And then?

- They set us free when they came.

- And others?

- Most of them didn’t make it.

- And you?

- I sometimes wish I didn’t make it. But I did. It’s good. I am blessed. I am a pacifist, they didn’t plant hate in my heart.

Now I take a puff. And I inhale another silent “fuck”. I feel as if I have no right to feel anything about his story or the fact that he remains a “pacifist” but I do. I can feel the good old anger bubbling up slowly. I heard this way too many times...and I know that the worst of the story is yet to come.

- They took me out of my house. They killed my father. Brother. They were my friends and neighbors. Then I came here and “their” people helped me…you know...the same ethnicity, but these are the real people. They saved me. Those hurt me, but these helped me. It’s not about ethnicity, you know. So that’s why I cannot hate anyone. I forgive.

He must have noticed a trace of a resentful smile on my face. I think I am jealous of his ability to forgive. I am still holding a grudge. I am still bubbling.

- But I can tell you - if someone did to my kids what was done to me I would kill them without hesitation. But as for me - I am ok. I am blessed.

Before I get a chance to say anything, another friend sits next to me, cracks a joke, asks for more wine, and I start hearing the music again. I sit quietly and finish the rest of my cigarette. He smiles and silently drifts away, continuing to move slowly in the dark, filling people’s glasses.

He folded the story and put it back in his heart.

I caught it.

And it was just set free.