Mama Leone

Hello Gentle Reader

There are a few processes in regards to time and its unhindered passage. The first is birth. This is the first moment, where the individual that is being born, has no control over anything that happens: the circumstances in which they are being born; to whom they are being born to; and most importantly the entire event itself, and that very first breath. The novel itself best describes this passage into the world:

“I still didn’t understand at that point, so I filled my lungs with a deep breath and for the first time in my life confronted a paradox: though I didn’t have others to compare it to, the world where I’d appeared was terrifying, but something forced me to breathe, to bind myself to it in a way I never managed to bind myself to any woman.”

From there comes that lengthy process called “growing up.” It’s that process from toddler to child to teenager, which one develops, begins to understand the world, experience everything, and have a sense of boundaries instilled in them. This period in everyone’s life time feels like it stands still. The days feel long and never ending; the nights continually young – and stolen by the command that it is time for bed. As a child time was experienced at much more decelerated rate. Still everything was met with impatience. There was no time for waiting. Yet as time goes on, as children one begins to understand the fundamental difference between being a child, and the adults that surround them: years and time. Children (at least I did) was well aware of how different they are treated then their adult compatriots. Opinion – what could a child possibly know in regards to matters that would require an opinion? In this sense children are quickly scolded or patronized in some manner or another. This always leads to a child to have that aching suspicion that they are missing out on something; and after awhile time begins to move far to slow, and a desire – if not a need to grow up faster; becomes more apparent.

While reading “Mama Leone,” I immediately came to reflect at periodicals on other books that I have read from a child’s perspective: “Touch,” by Adania Shibli and “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy were often reflected on while reading “Mama Leone,” – at least in the first part. But looking back throughout my collection of books, I smile at the characters who were children, that left an impression on me, or who I had enjoyed their perspectives from. The list could go on, from Kamal from “The Cairo Trilogy,” or “Lullaby,” from “Mondo and Other Stories.” These characters showcase a fresh and oddly eccentric view on the world around them. The smallest of issues – like getting into trouble; being shooed off, being reprimanded; but also when the adult world intrudes into the childhood realm of simpler understandings; and a child understanding that their world is being invaded by ‘adult problems.’ To be honest though, there is no nostalgia or reflection held towards my own childhood. Yet reading a book, which is portrayed from a child’s perspective, is always entertaining. Their world is fresh, new and exciting. Such books display a world, where adult concerns of the world, have yet to interlope and take root. Then again in my own childhood, I was worried that leaving lights on in the house would run up the electricity bill, up to the point, that it would no longer be affordable; which was paradoxical to my own fear of the dark, which lead to my own persistence of having the necessity of a night light. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed the little girl from “Touch.” Her battles were grand, yet upon adult reflection, so miniscule to larger events. Much like Lullaby from “Lullaby,” who makes the decision not to return to school; and yet insists she does not have a boyfriend. Then there is Daniel from “The Boy Who Had Never Seen the Sea,” who makes the courageous to go live by the sea. All of the characters who were children at one point though eventually grow up. Kamal grows up, and becomes more engaged in the outside world. Lullaby faces a dangerous encounter with a stranger, and is forced to become self-aware of her own body growing up. “Firefly,” is also not immune to the process called growing up, and suffers the challenges of the world and the pains of growing up.

Miljenko the child narrator from the first section of this book is well aware of his odd place in the world, and his small stature in it. It is apparent early on that the narrator is well aware of what separates him from the adults that surround him. His own parents are not capable of raising him, nor were they capable of sustaining their own relationship. After a while it becomes apparent that his parents could no longer love each other; as their thoughts turned from what they loved or liked of each other; but what they began to hate and dislike about each other. This leads the narrator Miljenko to be raised by grandparents. What follows is Miljenko’s confusion with the world, his attempts at understanding it, and his moments of revelation. His curiosity is childlike and absurd at times. Like asking his grandmother if an individual can: “poop out their soul.” Miljenko is skirted from Sarajevo to summer homes, because of his grandfather’s asthma. Because of this sense of restlessness brought on by being old and disease; the narrator often does his best to make everywhere home. But also comes to understand his own outsider position in the world and the cities that he travels too. He is more than well aware that his mother is not a mother to him; but a child who had happened to have him, and was therefore not mature or entirely certain of the decision to have had him in the first place, as she herself is needy and requires his grandmothers love attention as much. Though she puts in an honest attempt at raising him, with books that she has read; but it becomes painfully clear after a while she reads these childhood development and parenting books as a form of scripture. She becomes cold towards her own child, continually vivisecting his development, and criticizing him. Something Miljenko turns into a serious game to avoid, the lectures, to avoid the talks, and to just go on his, own way. One begins to understand, despite the carefree behavior that Miljenko shows; he is in the end a alienated individual.

The first part of this book could be considered autobiographical on the author’s part. Yet embellishment and poetic license must have taken place. Jergović in a sense allows all readers to think of their own mental patterns, as they observe the child Miljenko’s patterns. Watching Miljenko deal with the cruelties of the world, as atrocious and mundane as they are; like his grandmother drowning the kittens of a family cat. Trying to discover his, own place in the world; and how death is a shadow that follows those in old age. How the smallest smack or reprimanded and deserved scolding – or getting it on the snout; is warrant enough to think of ways to get back at the adult world. Such as, getting into the toy box, and imagining oneself driving away; far away. To be done with the small world we ourselves inhabit, and those that fill our lives with continual lectures, and sermons on what is to be a good person, and what constitutes to be a bad person. Yet it is the moments so tender like meeting a American who is most likely a spy and his German Shepherd Donna and declaring her his girlfriend. These are the moments that make the story great, in how they grapple with the adult world form a child’s perspective, without losing the nature childlike naivety and innocence.

The second part of this collection of short stories, are not related to the first part. The second part I found it more difficult to enjoy. After over a hundred pages surrounded with Miljenko, and his odd sense of the world, we switch to third person narrations. These narrations discuss the Balkans War. This was the war, which had split up the former Soviet state of Yugoslavia. What followed were fragmented countries, which had taken back what was there’s and their land: Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia and Serbia – as well as the disputed Kosovo. Miljenko Jergović, writes in the latter part of this collection of short stories, to understand what had happened. He writes of émigré’s and refugees who have fled their war torn homeland, for somewhere else; another place to call home, as theirs was in a domestic dispute. Jergović writes of aimless wanderings, their harder lives, and their uncertain futures in these short stories. One comes to understand that the war did not just separate countries; destroy buildings, kill people – it sent people scattering to the four corners of the world; in a desperate attempt to call another place home. These stories are about their struggles, of adjusting to new worlds, new languages, and new cultures – in a place where no one knows who you are, and where they do not care. These are the stories that recount the make it or break it, lives that followed the Balkans war. Jergović is an interesting author because he is Bosnian, but lives in Croatia and writes in Croatian.

If you are to read “Mama Leone,” it should be for the first part alone on its own merits. Jergović had written empathetic stories, which a reader can relate to. Despite the stories being primarily set in Sarajevo and having a rooted sense of place and are tangible towards the surroundings; there is an understanding that these stories could have been set anywhere in the world; because they have that relatable experience of being a child and growing up. As for the second part of book, they are concerned with the eventual split and destruction of the nations involved and the displacement of the people; but there’s something off – perhaps it is because the first part was dedicated so long to a single character that, it was difficult to become attached once again to these new characters – and their vignette’s and portraits of their displacement and restlessness. In all though a great collection of short stories. Jergović is one of the greatest writes from this region of Eastern Europe; and it can plainly be seen why.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
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M. Mary