Emerging from the Shell, Part 3: Leaving the Legacy

...But then one starts to notice the hard, bitter reality underlying the beautiful veneer. Statue succeeds statue in one long, endless procession, as if the cumulative historic, artistic evocations will somehow amass into a cohesive national identity. Only a few hundred feet from the frozen waving women is a monument to the working man in all his facets, artisanal as well as educated, set atop a relief glorifying individual diligence in a manner reminiscent of Soviet-era communism.  Less than forty feet away from this is another bronze figure: an anti-Daphne, half-transformed from his tree-ish roots; he emerges from his original craggy nature with a startling bravado, daring the teenage skateboarders whizzing by to wound his invulnerable sinews. And why should he fear, when he rises in the shadow of two mounted horsemen, one on either side of the stone bridge spanning the river Vardar? These men, memorialized for their failed rebellious heroism, presumably (judging by the short lifespans engraved on the bases of the statues), counter the more lowly one down the street of Mother Theresa, an Albanian grew up in Skopje. Then there’s another bronze woman, striding down the street while talking on her cell phone, followed by a charging bull, rather à la Wall Street, then another statue, then another, not even counting the small classical temple opposite Alexander’s empty pedestal.

It almost seems too much, these desperate efforts to create an urban ambience. On the one hand, it is truly inspiring to see, as I did, a rich and bustling city center, with resident roller-bladers leisurely weaving in between such statues in their course along the river paths, reveling in one of the country’s reputed 300 days of sunshine (quite a shock for us Brits!). On the other hand, my first run demonstrated the sharp limits of such idealism, as only a few kilometers eastward along the river, plentiful foot traffic abruptly gave way to vacant paths, thriving commercial centers to empty concrete shells and industrial complexes, and relatively smooth, clean concrete paths to trash-ridden sandy gravel, dotted with weeds struggling for life.

 Faced with such contrasts, I couldn’t help but recall our conversation with the Macedonian MP on Tuesday evening. He openly bragged of recent advances due to his party, the VMRO–DPMNE, or Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organization – Democratic Party for Macedonian National Unity, which signaled Macedonia’s growing political economic significance: new trade partnerships with the UK, stability in the midst of worldwide economic recession, 98 percent (!!) of students enrolled in one of Macedonia’s exploding number of universities. He proudly pointed to the display case filled with gifts from other nations, and smiled at our open admiration of the elaborate wood paneling and furniture in one of the parliamentary meeting-rooms. He explained how the parliamentary library synthesized the best political works from around the world, arranged by country (evidently, the librarian in charge of the American books is a HUGE David McCullough fan), and how the artist commissioned to create the massive mosaics in the plenary captured the proudest symbols of Macedonia’s heritage: Cyril and Methodius, the scholar and statesman brothers, respectively, behind the Cyrillic alphabet; Byzantine-style orthodox churches; the lynx, owl, and other animals, native species showing the diversity of the country’s fauna. Truly, Macedonia has many achievements, and warrants the pride evinced in Skopje’s ubiquitous monuments.

Yet underpinning, or suggestively absent from, the MP’s glowing descriptions, is the reality of the country’s centuries-old inner turmoil. The mosaics displayed the architectural glory of the Church, but what of the significant and growing Muslim population? Deborah, in her absolutely lovely British-Indian accent, inadvertently opened a kettle of worms when she asked about the “masks” she had seen in yet another of the city’s sculptures. The MP then launched into a sobering admission of the country’s religious conflict, indicated by the proliferation of the city’s “mosques.” And what of Macedonia’s historic identity crisis? The diverse Serbian, Albanian, Croatian, etc. populations are emblematic of the country’s constantly shifting political character, as the Balkans were repeatedly invaded and overrun by more powerful empires. In some English dictionaries, Kosta even explained, “Macedoine” still refers to the eclectic salad equated by the French with the precariously, even explosively diverse Macedonian state. It makes sense that policies enacted by the conservative party, reminiscent of right-wing American Tea Party-ers, would try to create unity among such a population. But what good can come from doing so by alienating significant, potentially volatile groups, or by enflaming the country’s more powerful Grecian neighbor? How does a statue of Alexander the Great foster peace in the region when Greece still smolders at the Macedonians’ impudence in naming itself after a figure claimed as Greece’s own for hundreds of years (Philip of Macedon, Alexander’s father)?

Or, how does a rejection of all things socialist accord with the legacy of a regime that, in the words of the Macedonian professor of English we later met, haunts the people’s minds from the moment they rise to the moment they go to bed? A team joke sprouted from the MP’s declaring that it was a good thing the liberal socialists were not in charge of the mosaics. If they had been, he said, pointing to the abstract pictures courtesy of the previous party’s tenure, Cyril and Methodius would have “a nose there, a face there,” Picasso-style (henceforth, any abstract or slightly bizarre object we encountered was clearly "designed by the socialists"; anything beautiful--"Good thing it wasn't designed by the socialists"). National identity and rightful recognition of the past, he implied, was inconsistent with socialist ideals. 

Kosta’s account of the MP’s clear dedication to his people certainly held true, evidenced by the clear vision of progress permeating throughout Skopje, but even the MP acknowledged the incredible amount of work required to improve the country. We need to bring things back to the the 50's, he said, when everything was rosy, when gambling and sexual immorality did not permeate society. He saw utterly no disjunction in the government legislating morality; indeed, I imagine that if we had asked about it (perhaps me, the "forthright American"), he would have stared in bemusement at the very idea. And he saw no problem with blurry boundary between church and state, touting all the advances that had occurred since a Protestant became president for the first time in the 90s. In fact, the (conservative) VMRO–DPMNE brands itself as the Christian Democratic party, although the religious heterogeneity the MP described within his own family seems typical of the party as a whole. It was really special, though, to be able to pray with him in the members' tea room, both for him and for Macedonia. As Christian prayed several times throughout the trip, its Christian roots are incredibly deep, established by Paul himself. "Come over into Macedonia, and help us," a Macedonian man pleaded in a vision in Acts16:9. This was what we were trying to do,  "assuredly gathering that the Lord had called us for to preach the gospel unto them" (v. 10). But as so often happens, seeing God in all His fullness in others' lives inevitably pointed to the need for Him in my own. We were trying to help the believers and non-believers in Skopje, but how much have I been helped by them and their faith!

As I have found so often over the course of this trip, I found that my impressions of the meeting with the MP only fully coalesced after discussions with the rest of the team--due to limited space, often held in the slightly bizarre grotto of the hostel basement restaurant, with "windows" lighted to simulate daylight and 80s music blaring in the background. Several times, this led to our collapsing into laughter, but we felt that God understood our unintentionally praying in rhythm to an 80s beat; perhaps He even enjoyed the variation. Christian had prepared sheets for a nightly compline, an evening prayer service often practiced in Anglican churches. This tradition ended after a few nights when the sheets mysteriously disappeared (an overzealous cleaning lady, perhaps?), but we continued ending each day with discussion and prayer--often at far too late an hour, yet thoroughly satiated with the events of the day. 

And thus endeth the second day.