Chlorophyll, Pillowcases, and the Bloodstreams of New Languages

Inspired by archival materials and photographs, through drawings, prose poems, and collective readings of poetry with people on the move, in their own languages, I interweave two realities: the 1960s and 1970s, when young people from Africa, Asia, and Latin America prepared for university entrance exams at the Workers’ University building and the contemporary moment, in which their compatriots and other people from developing countries come to Croatia as low-paid labour.

In the prose poems, I give voice to the students of that time, to their inner anxieties and hopes as they move through the corridors of the Workers’ University. In contrast, reflecting on today’s foreign workers—our neighbours whom I teach the Croatian language—incorporating drawing as a creative methodology. Alongside portraits of former students, I draw plants that originated on African or South American soil and have since become integral parts of our everyday lives.

During the 1960s and 1970s, Yugoslavia actively participated in the Non-Aligned Movement, promoting ideas of solidarity and cooperation among developing countries. The arrival of students from Africa, Asia, and Latin America was part of intergovernmental agreements, scholarship systems, and cultural exchange programs. In the media of the time, these young people were presented as symbols of friendship, anti-colonial politics, and the internationalism of the state.  In contemporary Croatia, their compatriots are no longer symbols of global friendship but rather a reflection of economic inequalities. They arrive as cheap labour, perceived by some of the local population as competition in the labour market. In the absence of a comprehensive migration strategy, this project calls for a shift in perspective towards foreign workers and seeks to plant a seed of understanding, solidarity, and support. Special thanks to Maša Štrbac, curator of the exhibition.

Near the Workers’ University building, I replicate voices and tune my bloodstream to the September cold.
With a small ivy leaf from the atrium, I mark photographs in a book. I stare at a stain on the corridor floor; it resembles a gazelle in a run. We repeat words from a moving image. Knowledge burrows into tubers torn out too early. A drop of grease alters the smell of paper. Beneath my eyelids, I assemble the negative of a three-meter anthill. Even the termites of the sun took a long time to pull all that sand.

To breathe into the skin that connects the thumb and forefinger. My thumb aches from drawing.
The apartment has decaying parquet floors, an old kitchen and bathroom, but the workspace is what matters. Natural light.
Not far from the building, trees face the room with bunk beds. Ten men sleep in that room. In the morning, where the trunk had been, emptiness occupies the space.
Within that word lies a part of my name. On one of the beds, seeds of the Buddha tree are pressed into a bracelet. Some plants develop aerial roots; in India, people weave bridges from them. I will ask them about this in language class, after arranging the tables and chairs into a circle. When they sit across from me for the first time, sometimes they do not remove their jackets and scarves. We store new sounds in invisible containers for the photosynthesis of voice, language, and heart.