Brežice so duga postaja na poti v Ljubljano. Sedel sem pod napuščem, ki me je varoval pred večerno ploho, in poslušal kako ženski glas, samo zame, napoveduje zamudo. 8 minut do prihoda. Daleč je Švica. Prežet z melanholijo zatavam nazaj v spomine.

Ura je 5. V gore se hodi zjutraj. Iz svojega stanovanja se odpravim navzdol do avtobusnega postajališča. Prestopim na vlak, ki me po uri vožnje pripelje do vznožja tihih dvatisočakov. Simmental. Dolina, ki odpira bernske Alpe. Iz Erlenbacha se odpravim proti Stockhornu. Hitro je potrebno zagristi v klanec. Mimo krav čez travnike in pašnike. Megla se razkraja, slišijo se le kravji zvonci. Nezamenljivi zvok Švice. Stockhorn je moja gora. Navezan sem nanjo. Pot je tiha. Samotna. Ne srečam mnogo ljudi. To mi je všeč. V gore sem vedno najraje hodil sam. Ko sem sam v gorah, sem najbližje tistemu, kar nekateri iščejo v cerkvah. Pridem do vmesne postaje žičnice. Zdi se, da je na vsako goro speljana žičnica ali vzpenjača. Na tiste, še malo bolj impresivne, pa kar zobata železnica. Tu je konec samote. Začne se turizem. 

Od tu se pot, še kakšno uro in pol, vleče do samega vrha. Več je ljudi. Z občasnim Grüezi, kot se v gorah spodobi, se nekateri, lahkih nog, že vračajo nazaj. Še kakšen korak in odpre se pogled od vršacev bernskih Alp, kjer se v popoldanskem soncu, v sneg odeti, lesketajo Eiger, Mönch in Jungfrau, nazaj do dolinskih jezer. In tam, v meglici dopoldneva, nekje na sredi horizonta leži Bern.

Pogrešal bom Aare. Reko, ki Bernu daje značaj sproščenega in s tegobami sveta neobremenjenega mesta. V poletni vročini mi je bila v veselje, ko sem se prepuščal njenemu toku od Eichholzlija do mestne plaže Marzili. Veselje, ki sem ga delil z mnogimi someščani. Pogrešal bom Gurten, bernsko Šmarno goro, pod vznožjem katere sem bival ta tri leta in mi je omogočala hiter pobeg v zeleno srce kantona. Pogrešal bom Liebefeld, moj dom. Mirna soseska na robu Berna, mešanica blokov in kravjih pašnikov katere edina zanimivost je, da je tamkajšno osnovno šolo, le lučaj stran od mojega stanovanja, nekoč obiskoval Kim Jong-Un. Pogrešal bom najino stanovanje in star raztrgan stol, ki sem ga z ulice privlekel na balkon. S posedanjem, jutranjim čajem ali popoldanskim pivom in razgledom od gora do parlamenta. Veduta, ki bi jo lahko gledal do zadnjega dne.

A je ne bom. Zdaj sem tu. Na vlaku, ki s polurno zamudo prihaja v Ljubljano. Kdo ve, če bom še kdaj v poletni vročini posedal na Marziliju, pil pivo in z domačini razglabljal o naslednjem referendumu. Bom še kdaj videl ljudi, s poznanstvom katerih, sem si počasi stkal socialno mrežo v Švici? Bom še kdaj odšel na trinajsturna pohajkovanja po stranpoteh bernskih Alp, ko mi bodo družbo delale samo krave, ovce in gamsi? Ko se človek preseli, za sabo raztrga mrežo doživetij, občutkov in prijateljstev, ki so te osredinjala v nekem kraju in času. Ko utrip doživetij zamenjajo zbledeli spomini, prijateljstva pa razvodene v poznanstva, takrat kraj spet postane tuj, daleč, kot je bil nekoč.

Sitting on the bench in my underpants, sweaty and half green from the freshly cut grass sticking to my body, proud of a job well done, with a beer in hand and the intoxicating smell of food coming from the inside of the house, filling my nostrils. With the sound of purring cats in my ears, I look afar upon the green rolling hills painted with a patchwork of golden wheat fields on the background of dancing forests defying the breeze. I think to myself this could be a lifetime.

It was in Galitia among the centennial oaks and chestnuts where I saw an old man sitting on his simple wooden bench in front of an old house, that could also have been a hut, leaning on his walking stick, resting from all the days that have passed before his eyes. He didn’t care about all the joyful pilgrims, full of enthusiasm, as we were on the last leg of our journey to find absolvation in the old churches of Santiago de Compostela. Ignoring the movement of life around him, he sat there, his eyes staring beyond that what could have been seen, upon the moments long passed that now tickled his memory as a warm remembrance. His lips in a barely noticeable smile made me wonder, what was he thinking about? What moment of the past brings such serenity and peace to a life that is on the verge of dissipating into stories told by others. 

He stopped his elation and looked up into my eyes. I was startled. In his eyes I saw myself. It was not an old man sitting on the bench, but it was me. My body suddenly felt tired, aching from my toes to the end of my spine. My vision blurred and my heart slowed down to a beat barely noticeable. I am an old man sitting under the chestnut tree. In a flash my life unwinds before my eyes and I feel confused. The breathing gets faster and faster as I lose sight of myself and the world. Everything fades away. I gasp for air as everything slows down. My mind wanders away, slowly leaving my scrambling brains. I try to put in a last effort to make some sense of reality twisting and torquing around me, but to no avail. I give up as everything changes to a cacophony of colors. And then I remember. 

I remember her stepping from the house in a ragged dress covering her body, a gray tunic covered in a patchwork of colors, like she was a painter’s apprentice. An artist in the making with dotted colors worn as badges to prove her skills in the crafts of the Arts. Barefoot, walking on the grass towards me, I felt like a dwarf in the presence of an elven witch, falling under her spell. She leaned towards me, as I was trying to get the machine started. Her lips were just a breath away from my astounded gaze. She smiled and offered her help. I was awestruck by the mundane simplicity of her presence. I felt naked in front of her as I couldn’t grasp the shocking beauty of the moment.

Like a match tossed into a forest fire, my infatuation burned fast and bright until there was nothing left but a pile of ashes and a black slim trunk of what was once a proud me. I never leaned forward and kissed her. I haven’t told her I liked her. I haven’t tried to make a lasting bond of what could be more than a desire. I am making memories where there should be living experiences. A hug, a kiss, a fuck. I always falter. I pull myself back, hide the desire as fear conquers my actions. A fear of rejection, of exclusion, of being laughed at. 

Her meowing cats announce the food is ready so I step inside while the Sun is slowly sliding behind the horizon. When I wake up with a hangover, the magic of yesterday subsides. I know this will never be a lifetime. But a moment which will now pass into a memory and stay there as a monument to my infatuation with the landscape — and with her — until I quietly, hopefully with a smile, fall asleep on my bench under the chestnut tree.

Feminism in society is often portrayed as a bunch of hysterical, nagging women wanting their entitlements. Even women see declared Feminists as a nuisance and attention seeking, good for nothing, trouble makers. Why don’t they just confine themselves to the role that society gave them?: To be a good attendant to men, their needs, and desires. The beautiful system of patriarchy, where men’s needs supersede the needs of others.

What Feminism wants is simply equality, not superiority of women, as misogynists would claim, but equality. And even if we suppose that nominal equality has been achieved in some “Western” countries, namely in the form of voting rights and equal representation (which has been achieved in even fewer countries), equality is lacking in the private sphere. In the home, in the bedroom, on the street, women are still expected to perform their gender roles. Organise the home, take care of the children, provide sex, and give emotional support.

And they often are not seen as fully human if they are not attached to a man. Example: Women can only get rid of the unwanted advances of men if they say they have a boyfriend. It doesn’t matter if they are not interested, because only if some other guy is already fucking her, only then will we back off and recognise his territorial right. By acting like this we dehumanize women, as if they are property. And we men have to take ourselves accountable for upholding this system of patriarchy.

First, as a man, you have to recognise that you most likely have been an offender, a supporter of a patriarchal system. If not actively, you passively allowed women to serve you. Often not even realizing, but when we do notice, we do not act, as receiving service is nice. And this is a hard truth to swallow. We all like to think we are not like that, that we are the paragons of virtue, but I am not. Neither are you, but to that conclusion you have to come to by yourself. We have all, at some point in our lives, promoted patriarchy and transgressed upon women when they didn’t really want it. Pushed her in the roles we perceived appropriate for them. It does not help that patriarchy has surreptitiously taught us this way, made us complicit and then compelled us to bury and deny our shame.

I remember, when I was young, my mother occasionally said she would leave us (3 sons and a husband), because she couldn’t handle it anymore. I took her exuberant amount of house work (on top of her regular job) as just what mothers are supposed to do. A slave to her husband and her children. Her existence tied to ungrateful men, who never recognised her work, except as an occasional cruel joke, when she bitched about it. Portraying a mother as a hysterical woman who does not know how good she has it.

I remember how I preferred a woman to shave her intimate parts, for my own pleasure, because porn said this is what I should like. I shouldn’t like hairy women, so they should change, they should accommodate me, a man, because of my inhibitions. I rejected the most kind and sympathetic woman, just because she wasn’t smooth. Trim, shave, wax. But I, I will remain hairy as evolution made me.

I remember how one time I came home, crying, and seeking my lover’s emotional and physical support. I wanted sex and I softly persisted until she basically gave in. I forced my desires onto another human being even though she didn’t particularly want it. It took me years to realize that that encounter might not be consensual and I still don’t know if it was. We were in a relationship, but that does not mean I had any right to her body. A woman’s body is her’s, always, being in a couple does not change that.

It is hard to realize your own transgressions upon others and even harder to acknowledge them and accept them. They are not unusual, odd things that seldom happen, but a mirror of the society we live in. They are built into the very core of what is patriarchal society. So what can you, a man, do to uphold feminism and make a change?

When a woman asks you if she looks nice in her new clothes, tell her that she does not need a man to approve of her looks. Men never ask how they look, why should she? That does not mean you can’t give people compliments and show them attention, however when they seek your attention and approval, give them more than a casual “you look nice”, give them: I would go out with you even if you wore sweatpants. I like hanging around with you because I find you inspiring and intriguing. Self-Worth should not be tied to one’s look, but one’s kindness and awesomeness.

When a woman does shit you don’t agree with, don’t go all moral on her as if your morality supersedes hers. If she crashes by her “poor” choices, be there, the same as your mother was there for you. And never judge the actions of others based on how they reflect on you. People are not here to make you look good in society. Only your own actions should reflect how you are perceived by others.

When there is enough clothes or dishes to wash, don’t wait for your girlfriend to tell you you should do it, you have to see it for yourself. It is not just a woman’s role to recognise and relegate house chores. And don’t accept praise if you’ve actually done something in your household. You shouldn’t get a cookie everytime you are able to do a basic task. It is interesting how we default back to our mothers when there is something domestically to be done and we don’t know how to do it. Not saying there is something inherently wrong with respecting your mother’s knowledge, however do it out of appreciation for her, not convenience. Intentions matter.

And never presume a woman and her body is there to serve you. If she hints that she does not want to be intimate with you, back off and don’t be frustrated about it. If rejected, don’t persist. If she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t. Can’t do much about it.

By allying ourselves with the Feminist cause, maybe we men can also some day recognise and eventually escape the gender roles prescribed to us by the same patriarchal society.

Side note: I am not well versed in feminist theory and as white man, born in Europe, I have, compared to many, lived quite a privileged life. Even though I have long been supporter of equality, I have started to realise the scale of injustice in our society in my late 20’s, so my knowledge and experiences on the topic are limited. Furthermore this article is primary intended for people who do not know much more about Feminism, but the name for it, so accuracy might be sacrificed for clarity.

 

Distance from home is not measured in kilometers or miles, but in fading memories blurred by every passing day. Memories invoked by the yearning of the mind to be where the heart remembers happiness and easiness of the days. The days, whose reality is glazed by the patina of nostalgia, are made that much more irresistible but that much more far away.

I remember sitting on my grandparents’ porch in the outskirts of Brežice on a hot summer’s day, shielded from the heat by the grapevine stretching its branches above us. The wine was cold and my uncle’s story about my father’s university career was bringing tears of laughter to our eyes. The story goes (my father disagrees) that, when he came back home after failing an exam he should not fail, my grandparents confronted him. There was tension in the room. I can only imagine my staunch grandfather pouring his anger, a rare display of intense feelings on my father’s side of the family, into my father. As any father would, he asked the ultimate question that I have heard echoed from my father dozens of times. Will you do anything with your life?, Do you think about your future? In response my father easily shrugged his shoulders and said: Life is short. “At that point mother and me slowly exited the room”, my uncle added. In the background my cousins were screaming, running around barefooted on the grass playing football with my brother, while the summer day turned to dusk.

It was my second day in Lisbon. It was a warm and sunny day, a starch contrast to snow-covered February in Slovenia. We went out in the afternoon to do some tourism, as is appropriate. Out of the building and to the right. Down the slow slope of R. José Estêvão, past the enormous mural I never took the time to really look upon. Turn left, then right, over the underbelly street of Lisboa, the Regueirão Anjos, where the alternative cohabit with the homeless. With a slow touristy pace we arrived to Avenida Almirante Reis, the blood vein of Anjos. We stop at the traffic lights. I look around with the inquisitive eyes of a child. Everything is new. The melody of the language, the warmth of the City, tall, with tile-encased buildings leaning onto each other. She takes my hand and holds it, like it was nothing special. I looked at her, confused, what is happening? Sex is one thing, but public display of affection? She says: “Why not?” Overflown by the invoked feelings, I embrace the power of her love. We kiss as the red light turns to green. Across the Avenida we go up the hill to Monte Agudo. The view stretches all the way to fake Jesus on the other side of the river Tejo. I look across the cityscape. The city that became my home.

In Šiška, next to Celovška cesta, there is a small studio apartment in a highrise apartment building. One of many built in the golden days of Yugoslavian socialism. One room, bathroom, and a balcony. While I was sitting on the balcony with my hostess, sightlessly looking towards Rožnik and sharing a joint, we unanimously decided it is a good day for procrastination, since, if university took us 5 years so far, it can wait another day. So we invited our friends for a card game of Tarok and food. Despairing about university together is better than doing it alone. Slowly arriving, they bring goods. Some greens for food and some for smoking, a few beers, a bottle of wine and sour cream — the ultimate add-on to any food. While some start preparing the meal, I start dealing the cards. Slovenian swear words seem too mild for a game of such high pride stakes, so we readily use Serbo-croatian to denounce opponents and despair over the fate of cards dealt into our hand. When Valat is played, a rare but highly valuable play, the swearing intensifies and the rest of us lose the will to play as today’s winner is obvious. Luckily the meal is ready, remedying the annoyance of the defeated and silencing the gloating of the winner. In the background, the melody of Iztok Mlakar’s Od Franca Frančiškina god, a song praising the hobbit-like life of eating and drinking, is stimulating our appetite. When the powers of the day are spent, some venture home across Ljubljana and the rest of us fall asleep on the overcrowded bed. Surrounded by friends, the day glazes to memory.

“Saudade (…) is a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return. One English translation of the word is missingness, although it might not convey the feeling of deep emotion attached to the word “saudade”.— From Wikipedia under “Saudade”