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Part I: The Gas Mask I can recall it as if it was yesterday. I am ten years old. It's the year 1984; we are deeply in the cold war era. The annual military training day has been scheduled in my elementary school on the suburbs of Bratislava, Slovakia. We come to school, sit in the classroom, twisting and chatting, happy that classes were waived. The teachers walk among the kids, loosely gossiping, handing out gas masks. One of them explains how to put on the mask and release the breathing filter. It is a lot of fun and teasing—children look like elephants with the masks with long trunks on. Suddenly, a long, high sound penetrates our ears; school broadcast screams, "Attention, attention. Chemical alert. The enemy attacked the country. Put on your mask. Go to the basement." The sound is annoying; it goes right into the brain. All at once, it is not that much fun. We run down the stairs in lines, big gas masks dance on our small skulls. In the basement, the sports teacher explains to us what to do when the atomic bomb falls on Bratislava, "At first you find a ditch. You lay down in a ditch because the pressure wave can jam you like a tomato." And then he explains what to do in the case of air force attack, how to treat the wounds caused by exposure of chemical weapons, how to transport an injured person. I observe the ceiling and my infant brain contemplates, "That's strange, in TV they said that if a bomb fells, we will be all dead at once no matter what." That was a long time ago. In the flow of years, the former enemy, "The
Western Imperialists," turned to be a sincerely welcome investor
in my native Slovakia. The cold war is over. There are no more military
training days in our elementary schools. But the foggy feeling of danger
and insecurity I experienced in the basement of my school at the age of
ten is sealed firmly into my mind. When I came to the United States in January 2001, I was both disturbed
and amazed by the way Americans act. Their optimism seemed to be endless,
almost as if it would be restricted to doubt. They trusted their government—an
idea incomprehensible for somebody coming from Eastern Europe. Their self-esteem
was object of my criticism and secret envy. On the morning of the 11th
of September, everything changed. The next few days, I was taming my reincarnated apocalyptic fears seeded
during the military days of my childhood. Walking in the campus, I observed
the faces trying to anticipate what is going on in the heads of Americans.
Much more than fear or anger, I saw plane confusion. People looked lost
and perplexed. No trace of endless optimism. I felt almost relieved. The best thing I experienced in the United States has been the tolerance towards cultural differences. Slovakia is a relatively culturally homogenous, small country. From my first day here, my biases received a lesson many times. I even didn't know I have so many prejudices. Nowadays, the country faces a much bigger proof of tolerance: not only to be able to accept a different culture, but a whole different world, the world of Islam. Whoever destroyed the Twin Towers in New York, Afghanistan was appointed as the target of revenge, euphemistically named retaliation. It would be foolish to even think that U.S. government would consider applying Gandhi's doctrine. Still, the daily news about the America's new war delivered through TV channels, desperately fighting for the viewer, seems somehow blurred and unbelievable. It's like another film. Uninformed public is surprised by the reviews of U.S. military politics of the last 15 years; the enemy was given a bearded face; flags; heroic statements are heard every day. None of you who will read these lines is probably able to see behind the curtain and understand the real roads of power. We, the ordinary mortals, we are powerless. Isn't it good? Who would scarify more than few inflamed words over the cup of coffee for something that still didn't reach me physically? Not me. Something has changed. Being insecure, I feel the presence like never before. Not quite like in the cinema. |