December 5 is the International Volunteer Day. This year, it was supposed to be a celebration of 100 years of summer camps, but Covid… Nothing for this year, just online sessions. First “work camp” took place after WWI on the former battlefield of Verdun (France). Can you imagine German volunteers helping the French? It all started like that, and in the past years I participated in similar camps in Spain, Portugal and Serbia. But my volunteering began in 2014 due to a natural disaster.
River Crnica (Serbian: “crn” means black) looks literally like a stream. In a town of Paracin, a well fit high-schooler should be able to jump across it on its widest part. The legend says it was called Belica (this time, “beli” means white) 300,400 years ago until one day… a bloody clash with the Ottomans changed its colour.
But in May 2014 the etymology of the “black river” was literal. Paracin faced a catastrophe and dark days to come. Serbia and the region were hit by the worst floods in a century, and the damage was exacerbated by the government’s incompetence and unpreparedness.
We all remember solidarity and unity of Serbs back then. People of all ages filling the sandbags, lending their boats and equipment to military, giving away food and clothes for the endangered and homeless. I did all I could, I did manual labour at the river banks and collected goods for the Red Cross. In our newspapers you could read about a great image of two most furious rival ultras groups forgetting about “their colours and identity” and volunteering together. All that enthusiasm somehow diminished as the water level reduced. But that did not mean the end for destroyed towns like Paracin. For its citizens, a nightmare had just begun.
My grandfather used to say: “Fire leaves something behind, water leaves nothing” alluding to problems which occur after floods – infections, destroyed walls, indoor mold, emptiness and stink.
I saw a call on Facebook from one random guy. He said he would organise a transport from Novi Sad to Paracin. All we need are the rubber boots and good will. Anyways, from 50+ “likes” on the event, a small dream team of only 17 gathered on the parking lot. When we arrived to Paracin (my first time there) I remember that sour feeling and disgust with the first image. No, it was not about the consequences of flooding. It was about their young citizens. Not even two weeks after it – they were drinking their espressos and smoking cigarettes, gazing at us strangely. Did I really come there with all this “anti-Chernobyl” outfit, while their boys were chewing plastic spoons and talking about Liverpool game…?
But “down-town” (here meaning lower part of the city where river was raging) looked like a scene for Tarkovsky’s Stalker. Creepiness and moisture. Mud and sludge. Unusable vehicles. Mini garbage landfills in front of every household. And that infamous line on the walls, 180 cm of water level of Crnica just a few days ago. It was like a graph of life and death. One story buildings meant nothing. Lucky ones could bring their wealth and kids upstairs.
Back then, I remember helping in three houses.
House 1)
“Hey son, take this big fella and demolish everything you see”. Big fella was a sledgehammer. Everything I see was four empty walls of their old house. Music was played. It wasn’t Metallica’s “Seek and Destroy”, but even with that Serbian accordion sounds I enjoyed the process of using pure power and 5% of brain to smash. I did not show my joy immediately. I mean, I did not want to express it at all, it was supposed to be sad and sympathetic. But owners started first with black humour and jokes. With offering rakija, beers and biscuits. With showing off to their neighbours how “clean and empty” their yard was. I know that in the past 30 years we faced three wars, a revolution, sanctions, hyperinflation, blackouts, you name it… But how come you can be that positive, yet not spiteful when your home is gone? With all their funny accents, hairy bellies and beautiful sunny weather – it felt like a sitcom.
House 2)
Not my taste, but it looked expensive and well-decorated. I saw Swedish car plates, but whole this kitsch interior was screaming these people were gastarbeiters (Serbian workers in West Europe and Scandinavia who come here once in a while or after retirement). I always recall this situation while we, volunteers were moving their destroyed sofa. “Heey, be cautious while squeezing it through the door – you are going to tear it up”, the wife told us, almost screaming, with no irony at all. I sighed thinking about all that pain and sacrifice. Years of heavy and honest work in Stockholm outskirts charged by the naughty river for one night. I understood and moved that sofa like it was Salvador Dali’s work entering his museum in Figueres.
House 3)
A heavy story. While we were empting a small shed out, the proprietor’s destiny struck me with shock. That old gentleman, who stood alone smiling and satisfied that “the youth is helping him” told us how his wife funeral was just two days ago. Poor grandma was caught in that old building when the water was rising. She spent a night there drenched and died later in hospital from pneumonia. But we all admired his courage and pride. He was amazed by the thought of a dozen of boys and girls crossing 250 km to help anonymous people like him, while his own acquaintances where chilling out in cafes. He even promised to write an article about us. It was a pleasure to listen to this eloquent gent while we were doing the dirty job with brooms and hoses.
It was the end of the hard and inspiring day. That night ride home crystallised my opinions about “free work”, helping people out. The whole bus was smelly, our hair dirty, and shoes destroyed. We shared potato chips and discussed about experiences from other houses. With all that hunger and “fragrance” in the air I felt so satisfied. I felt meaningful. An idea to give something without expecting anything in return… To be discrete and incognito about it. We did not change the world, but we changed someone’s. We came and returned.
Happy Volunteer Day!