Post by MiG on Sept 3, 2008 0:01:29 GMT -5
Serbia's bitter salute to nationhood
Novi Sad's international literature festival revealed a worrying cynicism about sovereignty and integrity among local poets
I ought to have expected to hear Serbian nationalist poetry at the third international literature festival in Novi Sad, but it is still a surprise to share a stage with a poet delivering verses with titles like Prayer for Kosovo and refrains that repeat the word Serbia, accompanied by salutes. Just to add to the experience, this happened on the day when the most prominent Serbian poet of recent times, Radovan Karadzic, refused to enter a plea at his war crime trial in The Hague.
The guest of honour at Novi Sad was Ben Okri, who argued forcibly that no dictator has ever written good poetry. He added that when poets gather, they do so to speak of the highest aspirations of mankind. He may be right: I do not know Serbian well enough to judge Karadzic's poetry, and when I shared a stage with another ultra-nationalist poet, I had to judge the quality of his work by his hand gestures and the audience's response, which ranged from indifference to embarrassment. But I am not convinced that poetry is an agent of good: many prose writers have unappetising political views, such as Martin Heidegger and Knut Hamsun, whose Nazism cannot quite erase the merits of their work.
The problem for poetry in general and Serbian poetry in particular is that there is something poetic about nationhood. Like poetry, nationalism depends on language. And its moods are covered by poetic genres, especially the heroic and the elegiac. Taken together, the heroic and elegiac cover the entire range of Serbian nationalism: recounting the exploits of medieval nobles or mourning their defeat by the Turks at the Battle of Kosovo in the 14th century. A local poetry translator told me that her nation's heart was broken over Kosovo, and yet that throughout the ages Kosovo has awaited the Serbs' return. I was told that it was General Tito who allowed the Albanians to settle in Kosovo while forbidding Serbs from entering. When I asked why Tito would do this, I was told that it was because he was a freemason. I suggested he was better understood as a communist but was put in my place; only the little people believe in communism: wiser heads know there is an occult intelligence at work in history and it was a masonic conspiracy that led to the new heartbreak of the Serbian nation.
These are vital elements of poetry: confabulation and imagination. But poetry also has room for analysis and, via ambiguity, multiple voices. This is why Novi Sad may be the most appropriate city for an international poetry festival in Serbia. It is a diverse city with a lively student population. I attended mass at the splendid city centre Catholic church. The enormous deconsecrated synagogue is a memorial to the Holocaust, but a living one used for classical music concerts throughout the year. These things counter the black hand graffiti seen across the city, as well as the numerous promises to liberate Kosovo.
I left Novi Sad with the impression that the key attribute of Serbian nationalism is bitterness – yet that most Serbs are determined to shrug it off and look forward. This was the overwhelming message of the Novi Sad festival which was, in the best sense, an international colloquium. My only question is: are they failing to look back at themselves? Unfortunately, the international atmosphere does not encourage Serbian soul-searching.
Serbs seem largely indifferent to the fates of Slobodan Milosevic, Karadzic or other war criminals. They are even phlegmatic about the 1999 Nato bombing of the country. They do care about Kosovo, but in a fatalistic way. Kosovo independence is regarded as a key moment in international law; in effect, the moment that such law ceased to exist. This confirms the widespread view in Serbia that national sovereignty and integrity is a joke, a view that recent events in Georgia confirm. By shrugging at these perceived injustices and turning away to forget, Serbs leave a wide space for ultra-nationalists to appropriate their national symbols – as British fascists appropriated the union flag. These are worrying issues, coming at the start of a dark era in world diplomacy. Their resolution is beyond the compass of any poet, but it may be wise for poets in Serbia – and elsewhere – to look again at what they do.
Novi Sad's international literature festival revealed a worrying cynicism about sovereignty and integrity among local poets
I ought to have expected to hear Serbian nationalist poetry at the third international literature festival in Novi Sad, but it is still a surprise to share a stage with a poet delivering verses with titles like Prayer for Kosovo and refrains that repeat the word Serbia, accompanied by salutes. Just to add to the experience, this happened on the day when the most prominent Serbian poet of recent times, Radovan Karadzic, refused to enter a plea at his war crime trial in The Hague.
The guest of honour at Novi Sad was Ben Okri, who argued forcibly that no dictator has ever written good poetry. He added that when poets gather, they do so to speak of the highest aspirations of mankind. He may be right: I do not know Serbian well enough to judge Karadzic's poetry, and when I shared a stage with another ultra-nationalist poet, I had to judge the quality of his work by his hand gestures and the audience's response, which ranged from indifference to embarrassment. But I am not convinced that poetry is an agent of good: many prose writers have unappetising political views, such as Martin Heidegger and Knut Hamsun, whose Nazism cannot quite erase the merits of their work.
The problem for poetry in general and Serbian poetry in particular is that there is something poetic about nationhood. Like poetry, nationalism depends on language. And its moods are covered by poetic genres, especially the heroic and the elegiac. Taken together, the heroic and elegiac cover the entire range of Serbian nationalism: recounting the exploits of medieval nobles or mourning their defeat by the Turks at the Battle of Kosovo in the 14th century. A local poetry translator told me that her nation's heart was broken over Kosovo, and yet that throughout the ages Kosovo has awaited the Serbs' return. I was told that it was General Tito who allowed the Albanians to settle in Kosovo while forbidding Serbs from entering. When I asked why Tito would do this, I was told that it was because he was a freemason. I suggested he was better understood as a communist but was put in my place; only the little people believe in communism: wiser heads know there is an occult intelligence at work in history and it was a masonic conspiracy that led to the new heartbreak of the Serbian nation.
These are vital elements of poetry: confabulation and imagination. But poetry also has room for analysis and, via ambiguity, multiple voices. This is why Novi Sad may be the most appropriate city for an international poetry festival in Serbia. It is a diverse city with a lively student population. I attended mass at the splendid city centre Catholic church. The enormous deconsecrated synagogue is a memorial to the Holocaust, but a living one used for classical music concerts throughout the year. These things counter the black hand graffiti seen across the city, as well as the numerous promises to liberate Kosovo.
I left Novi Sad with the impression that the key attribute of Serbian nationalism is bitterness – yet that most Serbs are determined to shrug it off and look forward. This was the overwhelming message of the Novi Sad festival which was, in the best sense, an international colloquium. My only question is: are they failing to look back at themselves? Unfortunately, the international atmosphere does not encourage Serbian soul-searching.
Serbs seem largely indifferent to the fates of Slobodan Milosevic, Karadzic or other war criminals. They are even phlegmatic about the 1999 Nato bombing of the country. They do care about Kosovo, but in a fatalistic way. Kosovo independence is regarded as a key moment in international law; in effect, the moment that such law ceased to exist. This confirms the widespread view in Serbia that national sovereignty and integrity is a joke, a view that recent events in Georgia confirm. By shrugging at these perceived injustices and turning away to forget, Serbs leave a wide space for ultra-nationalists to appropriate their national symbols – as British fascists appropriated the union flag. These are worrying issues, coming at the start of a dark era in world diplomacy. Their resolution is beyond the compass of any poet, but it may be wise for poets in Serbia – and elsewhere – to look again at what they do.
www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/sep/02/serbia.radovankaradzic?gusrc=rss&feed=worldnews