Arbeit Macht Frei

For Easter, Katie Duda, being the cool person she is, suggested we go to Krakow, Poland - a highly religious city in a highly Catholic country where the Easter celebrations were sure to be uplifting. Unlike the Czechs, the Poles fought under Communism for their faith. They held secret prayer meetings and updated Bible translations illegally to continue their Christian traditions within the family. When Communism was over, they rejoiced at the opportunity to freely practice their faith again, and, even as the years go by, their excitement has not faded.

To get there without losing any daytime, we took an overnight train from Prague to arrive bright and early in Krakow at 5.30 am - too early to check into our hostel, which was a good 20 minute walk away. So, we dropped off our stuff and walked around the deserted city at dawn... and then we walked, and walked, and walked some more. In fact, we walked from 5:30 am to 5:30 pm with very few pauses to stop and sit down. Traveling with two very devout Catholics on Good Friday, I was the odd one out not fasting. Hence, my complaints of hunger were not heeded nor appreciated, and sitting down with a bite to eat in front of them was a bit out of the question!

Despite my wrenching stomach, the positive atmosphere of the city at Easter was really stirring, especially having come directly from the Czech Republic, proudly the most atheistic country in Europe. There was a church on every corner, but the difference was that they were actually filled, and not just with tourists; the whole city was alive with Easter decorations and spring fever; there were last-minute preparations for the Passion play in the town square; people were dressed up and laughing, drinking coffee in cafes in the beautiful spring weather. It was a peaceful feeling to celebrate with the city instead of feeling like an outcast, that Easter was more than just an opportunity to decorate eggs and for boys to whip girls with birch branches (a Czech tradition that supposedly brings women youth and beauty, though I have only noticed a few additional bruises).

Krakow being as small as it is, we saw most of the city within the first few hours of walking (did I mention that we did a lot of walking?), including the Cloth Market, Wawel Castle, the old city gates and a multitude of churches and cathedrals. So, we decided to delve further south past the castle walls into Kalimierz… the old Jewish quarter.

At one point, there were over 70,000 Jews living in Krakow, most of which lived in Kalimierz before being moved to the Jewish ghetto across the river preceding WWII. Today, Krakow’s old Jewish quarter is still dotted with synagogues, cemeteries, a bustling coffee-house culture, and, of course, memorials to the 69,900 of those Jews that died in the Holocaust… for those of us that aren’t that great at math, that means that now only 100 Jews reside in greater Krakow.

In fact, almost 1/6 of Poland’s population died in WWII, including most of its Jewish population. While the Czechs surrendered almost without a fight, thus saving their beautiful cities and saving their people from Nazi revenge, the Polish fought back. And they paid for it. Hitler opposed the entire Polish nation and persecuted them for their devout faith (both Jewish and Catholic), for being highly educated, for being gay, and just for being Polish. On top of the hundreds of men that died in combat fighting against the Nazi regime, Germans conducted routine shootings in the middle of the street simply to reduce the Polish population itself. And, of course, they were shipped to Auschwitz.

Auschwitz, only a short bus ride from the center of Krakow, was hazy and not very crowded on the Saturday before Easter, making the whole experience even more harrowing. Every detail within the camp was simply a reminder that the whole place functioned solely as a murdering machine: train tracks ran directly through the camp, laid down only to haul people to their death; graveyards of chimney spires from prisoner barracks, their wooden bodies long gone, as far as the eye could see; stores of old shoes, clothes, and suitcases collected from the prisoners.

Our tour guide, actually the curator of the museum, was as passionate about us understanding the plight of the Polish people during the war as he was about the history of Auschwitz itself. Each room brought new stories of suffering, of pain, and of hope – enveloped by a place where such terrible things happened, a true testament to the terrible things that we are capable of, Mirek wanted us to understand that hope prevailed. We walked around the camp in somber silence, trying to take in everything he had said and doing our best not to break down with each new piece of information. How could something like this happen?

“Arbeit Macht Frei” (“Work makes you free”) was the phrase crowning the entrance gate. But free from what was not explicated. But, Polish people of every age, race, sex, and religion worked side by side for that freedom, a freedom that most of them would only encounter in death. Today, the Polish people appreciate their true freedom with such vigor and, following the Holocaust and Soviet occupation, truly embrace the ability to live their lives and practice their faith without intervention… but only an echo of their Jewish history remains.
Some people in our tour mentioned that it was a bit strange to be so heavily exploring Jewish history while in such a Catholic country and on the most important Christian holiday, but it made complete sense to me. Apart from gaining a broader vision of Polish history and how it has shaped its people, it seemed right to repent about the terrible acts we as humans have committed against our brothers and sisters because of racial and religious hatred and to remember the horrific acts that we are all capable of on the day we celebrate the grace we were freely given. While it’s easy to blame something as horrible as the Holocaust on someone else, it is mankind itself that should accept the guilt because of the pure ability we possess to do such appalling things. I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated Easter more.


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Propaganda Museum Excerpts

These are some excerpts from the writings on the wall at the Museum of Propaganda, a museum filled with rooms full of Communist posters. Definitely interesting.


“The Christian imagines a better future for the human race as joys in Heaven. We, on the other hand, will attain this heaven here on Earth.
- Moses Hess


“At the time when the totalitarian movement consolidates its position and creates its institutions, it abuses the natural religious tendencies of its subjects. The traditional religions are mercilessly persecuted and replaced by the brand-new cult.

Marx-Leninism also has its sacred texts and articles of faith, its prophets, loyal believers ready to sacrifice anything, as well as its heretics and apostates. Naturally it also has its own rites – instead of Easter or Pentecost, people now celebrate International Women’s Day or the Feast of Work. The prominent place in this quasi-religious hierarchy belongs to the archpriest of the order, the immortal leader. It is he who people address in their thoughts.”


“Totalitarian realms are characterized by unusual entropy of political power. It puts people into line and shapes their lives from the cradle to the grave. Independent thought is the last thing it asks from its subjects. A defenseless mass of indifferent atomized individuals can be organized most efficiently, so the movement systematically tries to transform the varied society of independent individuals into a single amalgam called “the people”. The society exists only as a name: people don’t trust one another any longer and what they share is fear at most. Any resistance is severely punished. All of this happens in the light of day, an illusion of normality. Behind a peaceful façade man is put in total slavery. And this “peace” is celebrated as the ultimate good. “

Immediately after this, I walked out of the museum into the square at the entrance of the Charles Bridge and got to see Bill Pullman filming a movie. Score, back to “reality”.

Musings of a 20-something

To be a 20-something is a terrible stage of post-adolescent, pre-adulthood limbo, stuck somewhere between an insecure reliance on your family and an assertive independence that requires little or no outside intervention. When you’re a child, adults seem to have everything together, everything under control. “Adult” is automatically anyone your parents’ age or older, and anyone still worth playing with is obviously a child. So, how do you categorize the people in between, the ones that aren’t really either?

We spend our whole childhood preparing for the moment when we graduate college and enter the world alone, ambitious and naïve, like a coming-of-age rite to prove we can make it alone. But, what we realize is that we are simply entering into 20-something-dom. In this vital stage of life, you realize you have no idea what you want to do or where you’re going, or even if you necessarily want to do or want to go anywhere. You start clinging tight to that childhood ignorance again and avoid real “adulthood’ at all costs, scared you’ll get trapped in an unavoidable corner – perhaps a corner office – you can’t escape from. In this stage of non-adulthood, you fake independence, knowing full well that the strings tying you to your former awkward teenage years have not been completely cut.

This thought brought about a strange epiphany a few weeks ago as I desperately attempted to quiet a classroom of arrogant, cooler-than-thou teenagers in my most difficult class. As I stood in front of them pleading for silence, it occurred to me that every time I walked into that classroom my body went stiff. The “kids” in front of me were really only about 5 or 6 years younger, something that had always made me a bit nervous since my presence didn’t command very much respect from that age group. It wasn’t very long ago that I was in their shoes, and their “I’m too cool for this class” attitude seemed to call me back to my own self-conscious high school years when kids like that made me feel the same way I did now; I would have never acted like them or necessarily enjoyed being around them, but I wanted them to accept me. Acceptance sparks confidence, and it became clear that I had never overcome that need for acceptance that I had always assigned to adolescence.

I had traveled half-way around the world by myself to teach high school English only to discover that I was the self-conscious one. It seemed an unfair twist of events that I wasn’t at all pleased with. I had done everything possible to retain patience, understanding, kindness, and love while in class with them, only to be met with consistent cynicism and criticism. And I let it BOTHER me because I wanted them to like me. I wanted them to like me so much that I was too afraid to discipline them for fear they would retaliate. I wanted them to think I was “cool” like the other English teachers and different from the Czech teachers that they always complained about. I wanted to be fun.

But, I was the teacher, and that’s what it boiled down to. It didn’t matter how old I was or where I was from, I deserved respect and deserved to be treated with respect as a person and as their teacher. A week after this realization, however, the situation got worse, and I confronted them about their behavior. A few of the more vocal students began verbally accosting me, saying they didn’t participate in class because they didn’t like being treated like children. They didn’t need to practice English, and they certainly didn’t need to participate in stupid games. Not prepared for such a caustic attack, I left the room crying.

Some of the students came to my office later to apologize for what had happened and to explain some things about their class. The ones that came told me that they DID appreciate the activities we did and that their attitude wasn’t necessarily aimed at me as a personal offense. Their group’s atmosphere was quite peculiar because the students themselves didn’t really get along very well. The ones that had so vocally accused me often made fun of other students and had inspired the rest of the class to adhere to a “too-cool” attitude in order to impress one another and avoid peer persecution. Even if they were having fun or wanted to learn, they certainly couldn’t show it in front of the rest of the class.

Suddenly it made sense to me. They were responding the same way that I was responding to them, except they were searching for peer acceptance while I was searching for theirs. But, I wasn’t in their role anymore. Through the course of time, the roles had been reversed, and they were looking to me for discipline, for guidance, and also for respect. I could respect them by giving them guidelines in class to teach them how people deserve to be treated. If I failed in that, then I would failed them… whether they knew that now or not.
I walked into the next class after the horrible incident and acted like nothing had happened. I was polite and treated them all like I had before, respectfully but with the appropriate distance; I smiled and had fun (even at the risk of further torment and several rolled eyes), but I knew when students were out of line and wouldn’t tolerate it; I tried to include everyone, even the ones that had hurt me last time, and I noticed that they seemed a little ashamed that day. Perhaps they were learning about peer pressure from the opposite perspective now, too - discovering that their classmates would stand up to them when they did something noticeably wrong.

I overcame a big obstacle that day that I had been avoiding for years, one that opened me up to being honest with myself about how I let others treat me in order to be accepted. I learned that its perfectly ok to defend myself and be who I am without pleasing everyone. That is a mark of true independence, and, somewhere in that 45 minute class, I became an adult.

My Decision

My Decision

This week I had to make a decision about whether or not to stay in Prague next year at Nad Aleji. So much has been up in the air for so long that I’d been avoiding settling into a final decision for some time… which essentially means I’d been mulling over what to do ever since I got here (which is probably not surprising to those of you who know me!). There was a possibility of a part-time position next year, but it was possible that someone else was going to accept it, and a string of other “possibiles” with only a few “certainties” mixed in between.

And, anyway, it didn’t seem like things would work out like I hoped they would to make the decision to stay here right. After my talk with Haley and her decision to go home, I witnessed how much she wanted to stay but how her heart knew she needed to go home… it was torture for her, and she kept faltering in her decision. I then decided I needed all the necessary information, so I spoke immediately with everyone involved with ESI, with the school, etc so that I would be able to weigh everything and come to a final conclusion. Much to my surprise, everything was going to work out to be the perfect situation to stay here: I could live with Katie, live in Prague, come back semi-independently, and teach mostly subjects (like American History, Literature, etc). It was perfect.

Then, I realized it still didn’t feel right. If I was still having doubts even when everything was seemingly working out just as planned (or rather, just as I had planned), maybe my heart had been trying to tell me something. Perhaps everything new about living in Prague had worn off and lost its initial glamour. Life in Prague had become life as normal here, only in a different place. The last few weeks, I realize that I’ve been homesick… for Sokolov. And that, in turn, for some reason, made me homesick for home. My heart wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t temporary, somewhere to settle in where the friendships were old and familiar, and the places, too.

I don’t know why God keeps putting me in new places and then plucking me away as soon as I get comfortable. But, that’s what He wanted for me the past few years, and He’s been faithful so far in providing all I needed in every place He’s brought me. Certainly there’s a reason for it. Until then, I feel completely peaceful about the decision, a peace I’m learning through God’s grace.

Perhaps that’s why I’m here.

Further Notes on Communism

So, in an attempt to take advantage of my time here in Prague and to patron all the various tourist-trap attractions it has to offer, Bethany, my semi-roommate (I currently sleep in her kitchen), and I went to the Museum of Communism to spend some free time we didn’t have. We went with fairly low expectations following the previous day’s visit to the National Museum, which, although free on that particular Monday, I felt had maliciously robbed me of my abovementioned non-existent free time. I have never seen so many unlabelled and apparently unimportant rocks in my entire life.

The Communist museum, on the other hand, was quite expensive even though there were very few actual artifacts (not even a rock) ; mostly readings and blown-up photographs next to artificial models or the occasional Communist officer uniform. Feeling a bit ripped off that I wasn’t getting the true Communist experience that I’d been seeking (perhaps my low expectations had been heightened with the entrance price), we settled down to watch a looping documentary film that we had already caught snippets of echoing from different corners of the museum.

Expecting another general account of what we had already read (which demanded some clarification since I’d been trying to read everything in Czech or Spanish to feel like I was actually accomplishing something by being there), instead we were surprised by an immediate onslaught of video clips of various Communist invasions, demonstrations, rallies, beatings, attacks, and violence following the Russian takeover. Prague was in ruins as tanks barreled through Old Town, barely missing mothers and children as they darted across the street; Prague natives peacefully protested in front of barricades of Communist soldiers, which ran after them with bats and mowed them down with fire hoses; plain-clothed police beat individuals in now peaceful neighborhoods where I occasionally enjoy a peaceful stroll or a warm cup of coffee; young men burned themselves in protest in Wenceslas Square in a desperate attempt to provoke the support and sympathy of the people to the cause against the foreign invaders.

It was the first time I had seen real videos of what happened to the people that surrounded me, and the faces and figures on the television screen were instantly cemented in my mind. These were my friends, my colleagues, my students’ parents, a nation of people that once had passion against a common enemy, a passion and a hope for freedom. And they were robbed of it, and robbed of so much more – and it couldn’t be explained in any museum, not entirely. No history book could ever create the clear mental picture that the video images provided, along with a year’s worth of observations, stories, and commentaries from Czech friends.

It’s so easy to forget, as I walk amongst the restored alleys and rebuilt squares of golden Prague today, that it all happened just a few years ago, within my own lifetime. But you can see it in the faces of the people who survived it, on the faces of the people in the video clips that remind you today that it was very, very real. And though the Czechs don’t speak about it much now, their silent protest against the history they would rather forget but that still visibly plagues them even decades after the fall of Communism, at least you know that you also can superficially experience the suffering of the Czech people at the Museum of Communism, all for only 140 Crowns.

Visa Vexations

In order to get paid, I need a visa. That makes sense… if you are going to work for longer than 2 months, that is! I, on the other hand, am only a substitute until Katie returns, even though I am officially employed by the school: a school that, unlike every other Czech institution I’ve ever been in contact with, actually does things by the book.

Hence, upon arrival I went to gathering up every official-looking document that I’ve acquired here in the Czech Republic, locating important papers from home (including my original birth certificate that Gymnazium Sokolov had never returned to me and would have otherwise been lost forever in a dusty school file) and waiting in forever-long lines at various government buildings in Prague only to be turned away for not having “such-and-such” that no one had ever told me I needed in the first place!

Standardization and clear communication, I’ve discovered, was obviously not a high priority, and I determined that the primary goal of this entire process was to simply discourage foreigners from applying for visas because they got so fed up with all the red tape. Perhaps that is why there are so many Americans working illegally in Prague!

I also learned what it means to be a foreigner in a diplomatic sense. There was very little catering to individual needs, and I stood in long lines (sometimes in the freezing cold) with everyone else wondering if the agent would speak English or be patient enough with my broken Czech to not just throw up their hands at my obvious and intentional ignorance of their unclear, consistently changing policies.

Eventually, I gathered everything necessary and only waited on the work visa. It came last Monday, which made me happy, and I was told that I needed to go to Bratislava the following day to the Czech Embassy to officially apply for the visa (apparently you have to apply from out of country) … which made me not so happy. In a mad panic, I threw all my things in a backpack, made last-minute plans and substitute lessons, and hopped on a train. Four- and -a -half hours later I was in Bratislava. I was luckily able to meet up with some friends from ESI that live there, Priya and Laura, and was just in time to help celebrate Laura’s half-birthday, which even warranted getting out a box of our favorite Doughboy’s cake mix!

In the morning, I figured out public transportation enough to drag myself to the Embassy with my huge backpack. After waiting outside until exactly 9am, I filled out the application form, which didn’t really cater to Americans (including no place for middle names, which caused quite a controversy when trying to explain), and then filled it out again, and again, and again before the attendant found it acceptable. The only problem then was that there were no more blank pages in my passport to insert the visa (that’s what happens when you are such a cool world-traveler I suppose!). So, I had to go right next door to the heavily guarded American Embassy to get some refill pages.

It was like coming home after a long trip or entering a nice hotel where you are the guest of honor. All I had to do was flash my passport, and I was guided in immediately. They greeted me in English and then formally escorted me to the front of the line, past the patient Slovaks awaiting their turn to apply for US tourist visas. It was a small victory given the months of patience and angst I had spent doing the same thing in the Czech, but it was unfortunately over the innocent Slovaks who hadn’t even been my evil persecutors in the first place. Still, it relieved me in some selfish way with a small sense of satisfaction. I got my pages and was sent off with a smile to the train station…

Where I immediately met a Russian boy I recognized from the Czech Embassy returning to Prague who eagerly wanted a travel buddy but spoke no English. After 5 hours of Czech conversation, I realized that there are no victories in this country that aren’t immediately mentally eradicated following any encounter with the Czech language and its constant victory over me.

But I shall overcome, oh yes, I shall.

Operas and Balls

Winter brings the much-awaited “plesy” (ball) season to the Czech Republic, a season of dancing, drinking, and dressing up to celebrate everything from the dancers association to the fire department. Every group has their own ples, but the most important of these is your maturitni ples (graduation ples). Think of it as a combination between American graduation and prom, except there is no confirmation yet that you will indeed graduate and you bring along all of your immediate and extended family to celebrate with you. And, as proud teachers that love their students and love to take credit for the fact that they will hopefully graduate, that is the one that we look forward to the most as well.

In Prague, of course, the most fashionable place to host a ples is the Lucerna, a beautiful, 3-tiered ballroom that served as the setting for the popular 90s dance movie “Swing Kids”. Once you enter the golden room flanked with red banners, parquet floors, and intricately decorated walls, you feel are swept into a different century, one where people actually went to balls in their finest gowns and danced the waltz and foxtrot with perfect ease… until you realize that this is still quite common in many parts of Europe and that you are immediately singled out as an American once you step foot on the dance floor.

Sokolov, on the other hand, is a bit more… well, intimate, let’s say. Surrounded by the faithful crowd that attends every ples, for lack of anything better to do in a small town, as well as everyone who can claim any relation to the graduating students, the 6 American Sokolovers again claimed their precious table alongside the blaring speakers at the Communist-grey Hornicky Dum to get the best view of the lone Sokolov band, playing renditions of “YMCA” and “Eye of (the- omitted) Tiger” at every ples I’ve ever been to.

Since the venue is so small, the Gymnazium has 2 plesy, one for classes 8A/4E and another for 8B/4D. I fought tears as my students processed into the candlelit ballroom wearing their carefully selected and relatively mature ples gowns and tuxes. As each was announced, the cheering fans above pelted them with Czech coins and blizzards of confetti from the balcony that mostly ended up in our wine glasses and hair. Following the maturant announcement, all the students and teachers danced around the room toasting each other with flutes of champagne and singing the academic anthem that most don’t know the words to.

Last weekend’s ples was also a bit different from the previous one because Milena came without her husband, Ilona came with her husband, and Marcela’s husband was drunk, which meant that they were all willing to dance and be crazy with the rest of us! We stood in a circle of black, as was the popular color of the evening, and boogied right alongside our students, who occasionally swept us away to join conga lines or other such antics.

After a night of partying until 3am, I slept in and then returned to Prague to join Lena at the National Theater for the opera Carmen: a French opera, set in Spain, and viewed in the Czech Republic with English subtitles. Operas and balls all in one weekend… I felt like royalty!

Life, Death & Mourning

I got an unexpected call from mom Sunday night giving me the tragic news that my cousin Toby had died in a strange accident, leaving behind a husband, two small boys, and an obviously shocked family. Not really sure what else to say or how to respond, I ended the conversation soon after that and retreated to my room to think and pray.

Having experienced loss while abroad before, I was prepared for the mixture of shock and helplessness that I encountered upon hearing the news, and I went to bed without talking much about it. Like so many problems at home that are easy to avoid here, I didn’t have to face this now -when the feelings were close enough to affect your emotions and cause sad reflection, but not close enough physically to officially mourn the loss, knowing that her absence upon returning to the States would reduce me to the despondent state of shock that everyone else had already experienced and dealt with. I had just been thinking about Toby that week and reflecting on our childhood Thanksgiving adventures and annual “cousin sleepovers” afterward, and I was immediately filled with a desire to go home and be with my family, while so obviously unable to do so.

The next day, I was planning lessons with Katie Byrne in her room when she asked me if I wouldn’t mind praying with her. We began talking about various joys and concerns, and Toby’s death came up in the discussion about the possibility of staying to teach at Nad Aleji again next year. Being the incredible and supportive friend that she is, Katie offered her condolences and focused on praying for Toby’s family. In her prayer, her words struck us both dumfounded mid-sentence, but we finished praying before we discussed it. She had pleaded with the Lord for understanding as to why He would choose to take the life of someone so young, someone’s Katie’s age, with no immediately apparent reason. Obviously realizing the implications of what she had just asked given her recent history provided the prayer request with added strength…or maybe even an answer.

Here was a girl Toby’s age who, miraculously through the power of prayer and grace, had been saved from the almost certain death only a few weeks before - given a second chance in life and devotion - praying for understanding about Toby’s death. We both realized that it could have easily been her life I was mourning, and, in that moment, the Lord solidified my faith that I was there (in Katie’s room, in Prague, in the Czech Republic) for a reason and for such a time as this - to have these discussions, to encourage and support each other, even though I was mourning Toby’s loss and missing my family terribly in the same instance.

On a train to Bratislava a few days later on my way to get my work visa, winding through the snow-covered Czech countryside, it made me think about all the opportunities for life and for Life in this country, despite the seeming burden of winter’s death that sets a somber tone in the once-green landscape now littered with bare branches. But did those opportunities include me?

My friend Haley who’s making the same difficult decision about leaving spoke words of wisdom to me, though they were meant more for her own hears than for mine. “There will always be a period of mourning when you leave somewhere you love, where you feel like you’re making a difference, and you have to say goodbye to all the people and circumstances that have changed you during your time there.” Just like losing people we love, we have to move on when we know its right and trust that the people and memories we leave behind will go on to the better places that wait for them, and we must use what they taught us in the next stage of our lives as well.

So, I must decide if that is the case for me this time. I can only admit that I’m scared either way, especially knowing that the mourning will be more acute when I return home. The comforting news is that I know life here will go on without me, and God’s work will continue here without me. I can rejoice in that knowledge and embrace the time with people here that I love instead of mourning my possible departure while still together.