Being Othered

By Rayan Vugdalic

This trip was full of remarkable moments: people I met and places were discovered that will leave a mark on me for many years. But there are two moments that, in particular, I would like to reflect on. In both instances, I was for the first time in my life othered because of who I was. Actually, not because of who I was, but because of who someone else decided I was. An identity I had not chosen was imposed on me.

The first instance happened on Friday morning during the trip, when we were in northern Kosovo, in the Serbian area. I decided to go on a run in the morning, before we would take the bus. I was supposed to go with Lisa but she forgot her shoes in the bus, so I decided to go by myself anyway. After just 10 minutes, a police car pulled over in front of me. A hand came out of the right-hand side window, indicating me to come closer. A policeman, sitting in the passenger seat started screaming at me in a language I did not understand. The other one, behind the wheel, was silently staring at me. I tried to explain why I was there, but no one spoke English. The man closest to me asked for my passport. Thankfully, remembering Anne’s advice of the day before, I had decided to take my papers with me before leaving for my run. After leafing through my passport for a moment, the policeman pointed at me. French, he stated. Then, he read out loud what was written. Amsterdam, he said. His tone got a little more inquisitive when he read my family name. Bosnian, he asked? Well, not really. I mean, yes; sort of, I suppose? He was not convinced. 

 

As he started to check the authenticity of my passport by looking at it through the light of the sun, he asked me for more details. He made the universal sign of sleeping, by tilting his head and putting his hand together under his cheek. I explained I was staying at a hotel, pointing at the direction I came from. He did not seem very convinced. He grabbed his walkie-talkie and started to read the numbers written in my passport. To whom, I am not sure; a colleague at the police station, I presume?

After a tense silence, he moved two fingers in the air, in a way that meant: “go on before I change my mind”. I quickly reached for my passport and ran away. I found out later that the policemen went to the hotel to corroborate my claims. What was most troubling about this event was not the fact that I was being questioned by police officers. It does happen everywhere, and I knew I was not going to get in trouble simply because I had done nothing wrong. Rather, it was the fact that I could tell in the body language, the facial expression, and the questions asked by the policemen that there was something about who I was (Bosnian? Foreigner? Student?) that they did not like. They had assumptions about who I was because of what I looked like or what was written in my passport. What it made me realize is how lucky I am that this virtually never happens to me. I have never been a victim of discrimination, and no one ever forced an identity on me that I did not choose. This slightly uncomfortable encounter gave me a minuscule glimpse of what it means to not be part of the dominant, majority group. I am not claiming to understand what it feels like to be victim of discrimination – I don’t – but it gave me, at least, a more direct perspective on it than I usually get, as a white, straight male living in Amsterdam.

A similar episode took place in the Monastery of Gracanica. The monk giving us the tour asked to talk to me in private. He asked me if I was white to which I answered that I thought I was. When I mentioned my Lebanese, Serbian and Bosnian roots he was very displeased. What upset him the most, however, was that I was French. Coming from a secular country, he assumed that I was an atheist. He concluded to me that I could therefore not understand the art that was surrounding me. Another consequence of being French (or of my mixed origins, I am not sure) was that I lacked a soul, he said. Most outrageously, his final claim was that France, a secular country, would not win the World Cup – God is not with you, he said. Of course, he was wrong – I might lack a soul or the ability to appreciate frescos, but France will most definitely win the World Cup! Joke aside, this was a shocking moment because someone made assumptions about who I was and about my worth as a human being based on my origins. It was also very strange how he mixed ethnicity, religion, and football in the same discussion. Most definitely a memorable experience!