What if nobody is reading this blog?

What is the purpose of writing the blog if no one is reading it? It is true that I did not "advertise" my blog anywhere, and that not too many of my friends even know about it. I simply does not want to be in everyone's face: telling to people "read my blog" is not my style. But it tells me a lot about myself. Why am I so humble, so low profile, so passive when it comes to displaying my qualities? The other day someone asked me: Do you still write the blog? And I, instead of saying: "Yes, why don't you check it out?", I said: "Yes, but I am not updating it regularly." So much for my ability to advertise. I know some other people who have blogs and they have their audience. I am still waiting to be discovered. Like a new continent. At the same time, I know that it does not work that way. I understand that blogging means constant updates and finding your audience who can count on you. I understand that blogging is not just writing what is on your mind, but writing about something that is relevant to your audience. I tried several topics here: some are about my son ( parenting of a child with special needs), some are about my sister ( not only about her violent death, but also about her work), some topics are just random, about things that happened to me or others. None of these stories attracted much attention, except one. That one is the topic about exodus of Serbs from Krajina in 1995. I said there that I despise Belgrade and its politics for the way how they treated those refugees. I understand that it is hard for my readers to follow because I write sometimes in Serbian, sometimes in English, the practice that I will be changing. So, my dear readers, you tell me what you like to read here. I am at your service.

Dada and Arkan

She was furious that he used her image in his propaganda film during Serbian elections at the end of 1993. It was only few months before her death. I never saw that advertisement. However, few days ago, purely by accident, I came across the clip on youtube in which I saw Dada with Arkan. She was there, doing her job, being a journalist, going to the source. He was the source then in 1991. Somewhere in Slavonija. They are both dead now. Ironically buried just feet away at Novo Groblje in Beograd. Two opposite ends of the tragedy: she, who believed in humanity, and he who believed in doing a dirty job for Serbian government. The fact that he his still a hero, and her death is still a taboo, tells the story of Serbia today. I, personally, think that the virus of hatred that she mentioned in her letters to me is incurable disease. I wish I will be proven wrong. How the things stand now: slim chance.

About Dada

You will never meet her. Because she is dead. But if you had a chance to meet her, to know her, you would never forget her smile, her ability to listen, and her concern about everything called human. She was different than majority and she was left to die alone, in the night, with the bleeding hearth. You, who never met Dada, do not know and understand the depth of her humanity. She did not want to believe that there is an excuse for human becoming an animal ( I ask for forgiveness from animals to call some humans animals, but in the absence of the better word...). She saw it first hand. She was there: Croatia, Bosnia. War, smell of blood, smell of burnt house, smell of death. She was there. And she could not find an excuse for this under the sun. And she objected the idea of the "uebermensch" ( ask Dobrica Cosica what I mean here ). I will continue writing about Dada, because she is always with me: even after 15 years, I still vividly remember her, every time I read her articles, her letters, I feel her presence and how smart she was, and how talented she was, and my thoughts end in the horror of the night between April 7 and April 8, 1994. Just a month before my son was born. I see her in him, in me, in my parents, I can see her because it is not possible that someone so extraordinary like her just disappears. She is still with us, and as long as I live, I will remind you of her. Because you do not know her, you were not lucky to know her. Dada is alive!

Letter to Mr. Greenspon

Dear Mr. Greenspon,

I just wanted you to know how shocked and worried I became when I heard of the terrible incident on Friday. I hope Jacob is doing well. I also have a son who goes to the same school as yours, the same age. What can I say: the worst parent's nightmare is that the child will be hurt.

The reason I am writing to you is that I hope that we will find out some real answers to what happened before the man who was on three different kinds of medications decided to do something like this. It is about the time to find out how is it possible that the people who are very mentally ill walk around with no support, or place to go to. I hope you will be in the position to find out answers to these questions, and prevent something so horrible happening again.

I wish Jacob very fast recovery. I know that physical wounds will heal faster than psychological, and I wish him all the strength that I am sure he has ( which he showed with being able yo pull through this horrifying ordeal ).

Take care.


http://www.thestar.com/News/GTA/article/587951

Dada - 10, februar 1964 - 8, april 1994

Bullying

I do not know why I did not write about this before. I guess I was trying not to think about it because it was so painful and unavoidable. When I reported bullying to Human Resources of XYZ ( name not published because of the fear of reprisal) company in Toronto, I was told by HR person that she is an "expert on bullying". I knew right away that she was a bully herself, trying to convince me that I was not really bullied. She asked me: Do you know what bullying is? And I said: I know. The bullying is when you know that you are bullied. She was so hard trying to look professional, and I was so hard trying not to say anything bad about my boss, for whom I knew was the mastermind of the bullying plot. I read everywhere that it is not smart to say anything bad about your boss, even if he is a pure evil, so I followed that advice. Even more so, I said nice things about him, hoping, as any victim is always hoping, that this will elicit some empathy on his side. No, it did not happen. After I reported bullying the things got much worse. It was actually a group bullying, I called it mobbing, by three people that I sat with in the same cubicle. They were constantly taking turns in making personal remarks about me: how I talk to my son on the phone, how I say words, more subtle remarks but very clear to me that no matter what I do they will not show any respect for me and my good work and all the help I was offering to them. For me this all thing became somewhat exepriment "in vivo". I was saying things that I was hoping will improve the situation, showing interest in their shallow conversations, tried to share some stories that I thought will show to them that I am also a human being with a little bit different but similar interests and concerns as theirs. The only one thing I could not do, is to go to their level, because I cannot make fun of other's misfortunes. And when one of them commented on the death of the boy who run away from home over disupute with parents over xbox 360, when she referred to the dead boy as "that ass kid now knows better", I had to keep my mouth shut and bite my tongue, because whatever I wanted to say to her could not convey how much discusted I was with that comment. And so on, I could go on and on. If you do not understand by now what I am trying to say, just stop reading it here. Well, Human Resources came back to me with the conclusion that "there was no evidence of bullying". I said I would be suriprised if they found any. I resigned next day. Some will call it victory for the bully. I call it staying alive. Because, seriously, these people are so mean that they would not mind taking your life. It is true, and it is happening right now.

Dada

Stizu najnovije vesti iz Srbije: Dada Vujasinovic je NAJVEROVATNIJE ubijena. Vidim fotografiju sa uvidjaja, crno belu, Dadino telo blago povijeno, jedna ruka zgrcena, kao da je malo podignuta, usne u polozaju kao da nesto zele da kazu, otvorene oci: umrla je gledajuci. Da li su vrata bila zakljucana, ko je poslednji bio u stanu, ko je razbio luster, ciji su krvavi tragovi prstiju na fotelji, ko je stavio pusku pored nje, i da li je uopste pucano iz te puske. Zaglusena buka puske sacmarice u sitne sate u novobeogradskom bloku. Niko nije cuo pucanj.

Dani, meseci, godine otkucavaju u vremenu lazi i zla. Vlasti se smenjuju, ostaju isti ljudi na vlasti. Cesto mislim da niko nije vredan ni da pomene Dadino ime. Suze moje majke koja ne razume zasto je pisac napisao da je htela da se otruje tabletama. Pogresno shvacena rec, recenica, ne pomaze moje objasnjenje da je to knjizevna istina, da su oni koji su je ubili to vec insuinirali dovoljno puno puta, i da postoje i oni koji mozda veruju da je novinarka bila luda. Luda u nenormalnom vremenu. Normalan u normalnom vemenu. Cista matematika.