New Blog

Since January 2014 I have a new blog. It is titled as "Travel to Tell the Tale" and serves as my personal website.

Go to Travel to Tell the Tale

Arrival in Amman

I am finally in Amman

After borders of two

Israel and Jordan

Having crossed on a long, long tour

This is more than coming back

More than a feeling

More than the once experienced

world: so unique and relieving

With Arabic music on streets

With someone saying so sweet:

Mozza, habibi, gamila (1),

And I laugh: aiwa, ana Masreya, Masreya, Masreya (2)!

Amman looks so live at night

The city – illuminated

My mind – tired, oh, so tired but

Fascinated

I see it from the window of a taxi

I smell it through the fumes of driver’s smoke

His long-sleeved shirt, white and neat

He smokes three cigarettes with an ease

I would normally shout

But today I allow

We pass the wedding

And hear people cheering

I am longing for the morning

To hear the prayer calling

And I want to say salam alekoum

To everyone I meet

Look! A man with a donkey

Walking on a street

Look! An old, old lady

Welcoming us with a cup of tea

Oh, Amman, oh Amman

In the gardens of Allah

You gift me with 10 days

To find my own ways:

To embrace every plant

and kiss desert sand

You make my soul sing,

And my body spring

I am yours, oh Jordan,

I am yours!

With my slightest shivers,

With my deepest thoughts.

(1) Beauty, my love, beautiful

(2) Yes, I am Egyptian, Egyptian, Egyptian (meaning: I was living in Egypt, I know some Arabic; and this reminds me of my Egypt times)

EC Latvian stagiaires meet Andris Piebalgs

European Commission (EC) Latvian stagiaires meet Latvian Commissioner Andris Piebalgs who is EC Commissioner for Development.

04.07.2013.
Brussels, Belgium

Photo
From left to right: Leonards Bunga, Līga Kuzmane, Agnija Kazuša, and EC Commissioner Andris Piebalgs.

Bridges

When I see the lake surrounded by so much greens as I cross Rue du Bemel, I can no longer believe I am in Brussels; the one I am used to. The smell of fresh grass, pure lake and cosy, lovely neighbourhood rather reminds of a village than a city of eurocrates (European Commission Beaulieu buildings are just across the Woluwe Park). Here, I also find Academie des Arts de Woluwe-Saint-Pierre where local youngsters and adults come for doing arts.

There is an exhibition organized on 21st of June; just before the students of the Academy leave for summer vacation. Their sculptures and paintings and videos are displayed in two floors. Among them, my colleague’s sculpture is there in the middle of one of the rooms. There are lots of impulses that strike my mind: clay bodies swimming in the water, Iberia light tickets to Barcelona, heart trees, shade of a woman, pregnant belly, a man stuffed his mouth with a full-size green apple, strings and wires, the music of loneliness, the music that runs past you as on tiptoes, but reaches your deep soul strikingly, French and French. Rooms get filled with people, probably parents and relatives of the students whose work has been exhibited. In the corners of the rooms there are tables with wine, juice, cheese and chips and other snacks. Some of the people spend most of the time there.

I talk to my colleague about his other sculpture which is not exhibited here, but that I have seen on photos. It’s a metal hand that is confronted to a wooden hand. They are facing each other and forming a shape o an egg. I ask him for a deeper meaning of this idea. He tells me, it’s a bridge.

At night, I have a very vivid dream: I am in Southern China, a small town. I am introduced to the local school and I am surprised to see loads of potatoes that they serve there. It rings to my mind that Chinese don’t eat that much potatoes. The primary food should be rice. But I don’t pay attention. I rather notice that the entire city is swarmed with people and I am sure, there must be an occasion for that. I ask for an explanation, and someone replies: we are celebrating the new bridge. Then, I look on my left and I see a bridge over the river that has been built to connect two shores of the city. It’s full of people and indeed, they are celebrating the new bridge.

 

Strasbourgh through Seven Seats

This story was originally published in "Internal Voices".


The weather should be better than in Brussels. Hopefully. My colleague compares the weather in both European Union official cities as I talk to him about European Commission trainees’ two-day trip to Strasbourg organised by the Politics and International Relations subcommittee.

Around 50 of us board the bus on the early, bright morning of May 19th from Brussels to Strasbourg. During the journey, I overhear some trainees discussing the previous night’s Eurovision song contest, some others are already planning what to do when in Strasbourg. There are some who just take a nap or read a book and perhaps there are others like me who naïvely hope these are going to be two warm days in Strasbourg. 

No such luck! As we arrive at Strasbourg Gare Centrale, we are immediately embraced by rain or perhaps we just brought it with us from Brussels to ensure we have it for the next two days. Thus, the Alsatian city close to the border with Germany doesn’t gift us with long walks admiring its gorgeous architecture. Instead, we move “from seat to seat” as my South African friend precisely describes, trying to avoid unwelcome showers over our shoulders.

Read the full story here.

 

My story in "A Sea of Words 2012"

Picture taken from IEMed.

My story "Blue Eyes' Story" (originally "Zilo acu stāsts") has been included in IEMed publication "A Sea of Words 2012" 5th edition.

You can find the publication with 14 short stories from different Mediterranean countries and download your copy here. The topic of the publication is "Solidarity between generations".

 

India, Bring Spring to Brussels!

To describe my first days in Brussels with one color, I would choose gray. Gray not only in terms of gloomy weather, but also the rhythm of life. People get up in the morning, go to work, earn money, go out, go for dinner, party on weekends. Unless you are a newcomer who needs to get used to metro that runs in two levels or find your way in the city, life seems to be more or less predictable, stable and in some way comfortable. At least the slice you get to taste as not being fully integrated yet. It’s mid March. I have moved to Brussels to do a traineeship at the European Commission. If I look at my life exactly one year back, everything seems totally opposite. I was living in Hyderabad (India) with more sun, more adventures, more colors. People welcomed spring in the craziest way I have seen so far – splashing colors everywhere and at everyone. They call it Holi, Hindu festival of colors.

It’s Easter break in Brussels, but no signs of spring to arrive soon. Since I never plan my grocery shopping in advance, on the day of the second Easter I realize that all the supermarkets are closed, I have moved out from a temporary place in Jette to a permanent one in Etterbeek and find myself hungry for all: food, colors, spring, India. “Those small Arab shops should be open," my flatmate tells me. So with a hope to find them I get lost in the streets of Etterbeek. Etterbeek is one of the 19 municipalities of Brussels city. My Belgian friend told me that the 19 municipalities are like 19 faces of Brussels. Each has its identity. Jette, for example, is more traditional, Flamish concentrated municipality while Schaerbeek is where a lot of Turkish immigrants live. And what is Etterbeek like? The municipality that is located close to all the European institutions with the famous Schuman metro station as a landmark. I have no clue yet.

I am listening to Chammak Challo, the soundtrack composed for the Bollywood movie Ra One. Last year it was a hit in India! Chammak Challo on streets, in weddings, in clubs, loved by youngs and olds. As I am looking for shops, I imagine myself one year ago. Would I ever face such a situation? In India, food finds you wherever you live, wherever you go. Street vendors follow you on trains or buses, in the corners of streets, next to your house, at touristic spots. Indians truly care that you get your meal. “Had your breakfast? Had your lunch? Had your dinner?” They will ask you each time to make sure you are fine.

Here, it’s taken for granted. Maybe not for those Arabs who have opened their shops on a holiday (but that’s not a holiday for them, I assume). I enter one such shop. Small and compact. I am looking for bread, but can’t find it there. So, I buy noodles instead. Then I get out and walk further on until I notice another shop. It’s actually not that hard. As I look around the area, I realize those small shops are not that scarce. Now it's another Indian hit on my MP3 player. It’s Subha Hone Na De or commonly known as My Hero. It lifts me up. I enter a shop. Too lazy to take off my headset. I do enjoy the song, the powerful rhythm, the energy. And I see fresh French baguettes on a shelf. With no doubt I take one and present it to the salesman. For a slight politeness I take off one of my headset. He tells me 70 cents. As I start looking for coins in my wallet, he asks me:

“Are you from Poland?”

“No. From Latvia.” I don’t mind to answer. “And you?” I ask in return.

“I am from India.”

“What?”

I can't believe what he just said. I want to give him my MP3 player as if proving - see, I was just now thinking about India, listening to My Hero and Chammak Challo, remembering Holi and colors, but I say nothing of that as if I am tongue tied and suddenly don’t know where to begin.

“Wow!” I only exclaim. “You are from India! I was living in India last year!”

“Really? Where?”

“Hyderabad.”

“Oh, that's south. I am from north, Punjab. It’s close to the Golden Temple.” He tells me with a pride in his eyes.

“I loved India!” I go on. He smiles and keeps in speaking about Punjab. I feel like we both have found each other in the right time and at the right place. We both get nostalgic.

I haven't paid him the 70 cents yet. Now after our nice chat it feels a bit awkward to hand him the one euro coin I have prepared. But I do it. And it's even more awkward to take the change - 30 cents. But I do it too. He is a vendor, I am a customer. Just like he lived in the North of India, I lived in South. We part with smiles and for some reason, I promise I will come to his shop more often…

I get out in the streets and suddenly notice something I didn’t pay attention to before. I see Indian ladies wearing winter jackets and under those dark, heavy jackets I notice colorful Indian kurtas hiding from the winter. Spring needs to come to see those kurtas at full length not only covering their ankles. I conclude. Where is Spring? Where is it? When will we finish this bad weather? My Italian colleague complains to me in the elevator as he looks at his umbrella scornfully. He is not the only one. The entire city is waiting for spring. It becomes one of the commonly discussed topics.

Some weeks later I am running to the bank in Etterbeek to solve a problem with my bank card. As I am doing it during my lunch break, I don't have much time. I hurriedly enter the bank. My cheeks red, my hair tousled, I am gasping for breath. I see a family being served before me. It’s a lady, her husband and their newly born baby. I look carefully at the young man and suddenly notice his outfit. He is wearing....what? Soft slippers, sweatpants and a worn-out jumper you would normally wear only at home. It could be his pajamas. How dare you go to a bank like this? Straight from your bed? I condemn him in my mind. But he smiles, looks at his wife as she handles the bank procedures, admires his newborn baby and doesn’t seem to worry about anything in this life.

Then I look out the window and see a few beams of sunshine.

Maybe he is right. Maybe Spring has arrived.