"Jas Sakam"
Monologues from Macedonia No. 1
(A kitchen in Macedonia. THE PROFESSOR talks to his niece. His rhetoric is artfully emphatic.)
THE PROFESSOR: You say bi sakala because you don’t know any better. But what is bi?...Bi sakala is not our culture. It’s not Macedonian. It’s conditional. I would like. But what is the condition?...Why would you walk into a store and say I would like…something?...You would like something if what? If…what?...It’s not a hypothesis. You’re not implying you want something. You want something.
Bi sakala is not our culture. It is an American imposition on our language. It’s not polite. It’s passive. It's corporate terminology that turns the power structure upside down. Bi sakala is American. Not Macedonian.
In America, you walk into a store and the person behind the counter says Can I help you?...I have a problem with that. I don’t go to a store to be helped. I go to be served…Can I help you?...I need help if my leg is broken…not if I want coffee. I have a problem with that. It’s a corporate construction. It doesn’t make sense.
Did you know that in America, you park on a driveway and drive in a parkway?...It’s not logical. It makes no sense. And tell me…where is the apple in pineapple?... Hmm? Where?! They call it a pineapple, but where is the apple?...Tell me! There is no apple!
There’s no logic. It doesn’t make sense. So why should I take America’s corporate terminology and apply it to my language? It’s not our culture.
You young people don’t get it. You don’t even know what you’re saying…Bisakala. I would like.
Jas sakam. I want. That’s our culture. That’s Macedonian.
"Thirty"
Monologues from Macedonia No. 2
(Resen, Macedonia. A fall morning. MAJA, a woman in her mid-twenties, kneels by the carcass of dog on the side of the road. She touches the dog. It is still warm. This is recent. Several other dead dogs are within sight. A friend stands behind her.)
MAJA: I know it’s not a nice thing to say, but I hope whoever did this has the same kind of end.
How can someone do this? There are other…ways…
So there are too many of them. So what? The world has too many people, but nobody is poisoning my food. Nobody swerves to hit me when I’m crossing the street.
Thirty dead dogs. Thirty. In one night.
(She stands and takes her time brushing off her hands.)
The little black dog didn’t show up this morning. Yesterday when I was petting him he cried. Real tears. I’ve never seen an animal cry. He wanted to live.
(She looks at the carnage.)
I think they all want to live.
* The views expressed on this site do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State, or any of its partner organizations. They are the observations and reflections of someone who likes good stories.