Making a Difference in Macedonia - Part Two
By Alexandra J. Wall
In Athens, we were met by two Israelis: the director of the Israeli office of the Simon Wiesenthal Center, Dr. Efraim Zuroff, and the general director of Beit Lohamei Haghetaot, the Ghetto Fighter's House, Simcha Stein. Of my earlier visits to Greece, I had only good memories. But this time, it was different. I had read of the strong anti-American sentiment there before we left the United States, and had even argued about the NATO bombings with a Greek friend over the telephone. Now we experienced it firsthand. On the way to the Macedonian border, we saw variations of "USA killers go home," the "S" in USA made into a swastika, and "NATO get out." But all went smoothly, until we reached the border. While on the Greek side, the men formed a minyan for services (I would venture that that was the first time afternoon services were ever held on the Greek-Macedonian border) and we passed through the Greek side without problems, the Macedonians did not want admit us. Stalled there for several hours, one man took a frisbee from his bag and we had a game. Sarna's wife called him on a cell phone.
One female border official washed coffee cups from a tap. Time passed, and I had this terrible feeling that after coming all that way, we would not be allowed in. Jiro Ose, the Record's photographer, and I sat together at one point, and I expressed my worry that we might have to turn back. After all, not only were the Macedonians unsympathetic to the plight of the refugees flooding their borders, but they weren't particularly enamored of Americans at that point, either. "Don't worry," he said. "I have a good feeling about it."
His premonition proved correct. Whatever it was that Goldin and Sarna said, it worked. Interestingly, it was the woman official who finally allowed us to pass. Once on the other side, we met Azi Rahim, an Israeli volunteering in one of the refugee camps, waiting for us. He prepared us for what we were going to see the next day, and told us about the work the Israelis were doing with the refugee children. In the art they do, he said, you can sometimes see burning houses and soldiers, the trauma they went through.
Goldin took on a new persona, cruising the aisles of the bus, pushing peanut butter crackers and cookies. Conversation flowed freely; most people had been acquaintances, at best, but we soon found ourselves intrinsically bound by the spirit of the mission we'd undertaken. For me, it was one of only a handful of times in my life that I'd been among so many other descendants of survivors. To this day, it never ceases to amaze me how the stories of our parents and grandparents are so different, while certain details inevitably overlap.
It was dark when we reached Skopje, but it was easy to see it didn't have much character. The architecture was bland, boring, typical Communist chic. We met two young members of the Jewish community and went to a restaurant where we had dinner with the Israeli volunteers. The next morning, we drove to Stankovic I, a camp that is only about a 10-minute drive outside of Skopje. Stankovic is an ugly name for an ugly place; there are several camps bearing that name, with a numeral after it. Stankovic I is the largest. Supposedly temporarily, a home to some 30,000 ethnic Albanian refugees, it is a tent city with little more than outhouses and a German-run hospital. It is also about 10 minutes away from the border of Kosovo, against a dramatic backdrop of lush green mountains. One mountain we saw in the distance was still covered with snow, but down below, where we were, it was quite warm.
New arrivals came daily, and fewer left; it was way beyond capacity. That so many people were forced to live within the confines of such a small space defied the imagination. A brown stream of water ran directly outside the entrance, where women washed clothes and children bathed. A battered basketball hoop stood next to a UNICEF sign, an odd juxtaposition anywhere else but there. A volleyball net was the only other sign of recreation. Israeli flags lined the small space marked off near the entrance, and a big sign said, "Israel loves children." Music blared from a loudspeaker; alternating between Israeli singers like Yehudit Ravitz and groups like Jamiroquai and Pearl Jam.
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