Fragments of Belonging (2026) Movie Script
14, 15, 16, 17, 18...
I am...
52-year-old...
I am 52-year-old...
Something's not right?
A. I am "a"...
And "jarige" is with one "a"?
I don't know.
I am a 52-year-old woman
from what the Dutch
think is Eastern Europe.
How could I say: "I am a good citizen"?
That's weird.
I do everything just like the Dutch do...
But still...
It feels as if there is an invisible
wall between me and them.
-The.
-There the...
Between me and you, maybe.
So it gets personal to the heart,
to the bone you feel it.
FRAGMENTS OF BELONGING
It is already bright outside.
Loulou, no. Wait!
Give mum a kiss.
She's gone.
-Love you. Go, win!
-Yes.
OK. Go.
I am a citizen of the world.
Okay, maybe not the world,
but I am a citizen of Europe.
I have to go down first.
Wait.
I've never lived in any country
in one go longer than 10 years.
When I was 15,
my family moved from Croatia,
which was then part of Yugoslavia,
to the Soviet Union.
The phrase...
In the Soviet Union there is no sex!
10 years later, I moved to London.
Then, after some years in Zagreb,
I came to Amsterdam
and had a child with a Dutch guy.
I think we have to go to therapy.
You have something...
Not to therapy please!
Now I'm a bit stuck in Amsterdam's
notorious suburbs,
with my little pumpkin, Waldemar.
One, drop.
Even if I had an itch
to move elsewhere, I wouldn't.
Go pro, stop recording.
He has his Dutch father in the city,
his school, friends, activities,
so I just happily serve my most satisfying
and underappreciated role.
Relax. Feel how good it is...
But I miss togetherness
with some grownups.
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you...
This is when mum
was making a film in Istria.
-This is you.
-Yes.
-That's in London, my mum.
-Your mum?
This is again in Riga.
This is again in London. Again Moscow.
This is Saa.
That was my group of friends.
-This is my friend Igor.
-Was he your boyfriend?
No, he's gay. He lives in Switzerland now.
All your friends are elsewhere.
Where are your friends from
Amsterdam and the Netherlands?
Of course, I tried to connect
with my neighbors.
Neighbor, today is my birthday.
I have a piece of cake for you.
-Congratulations!
-Thank you. Bye!
But somehow, I never got invited.
So I thought, let me then invite
some people into our house.
And I came up with this fantastic idea
to open a tiny hotel in my son's bedroom.
Yes, really a "great" idea.
Hello.
Welcome.
To what extent do we need...
like, revelation.
It is about Chinese thought.
And now I'm making a film
about my loneliness.
I am a film director.
Right now I am making
a film about my own story.
- Oh, director?
- Yes, I'm a film director.
Oh, you're director?
-Yeah.
-Wow, director, director...
Director, oh.
I feel very good, very good.
-Very good?
-Very good.
You're very kind.
Ah, no, but you were very kind to me.
You touched my face.
You said hello in such a nice way.
You're like a lovely girl.
Do you think we'll have
a guest who can repair our tap?
Or we'll have to wait until you grow up?
Option two.
I really looked for it for a long time.
Okay, I can help.
-Loulou, go away.
-You need to close there.
-Okay, how do you close it here?
-I'm not sure, there's a faucet here, see?
But you don't have the knob.
My freelance documentary film career of
course needed a solid financial strategy.
Teaching, coaching, and now the guests,
who unknowingly became part
of my grand survival plan.
But I got so much more...
Instant friends who could
help with this or that.
We have apricots and hazelnuts.
With my guests, it was
as if I was back to my childhood.
When we children were hungry,
we could ring any of the bells
in our apartment building
and we would get some fresh
bread from any of our moms:
aunt Boa or Ljubica
or my mum, Zdenka.
My parents' best friends
were their neighbors.
And even if your neighbors
didn't like you,
you knew they were going
to take care of you.
Let's check if it's dry.
The jeans are still wet.
Maybe you will have to enlarge the house.
and to buy the one next door.
It will be super nice.
You have to make time
for the things that you love.
She loves me, so...
My guests understood me.
Maybe I didn't get the key to Dutch
society, mentality or something.
I don't want a relationship,
I don't want to be in love
and I don't want to be lonely.
It's unclear if I miss some people
or I want to be someone that people miss.
That's very interesting.
Sometimes I feel that guests think:
"When is she going to stop talking?"
Wait, wait...
How are you doing, guys?
Are you okay?
So motherly question.
You said this morning
that I'm like a mother.
-This morning and yesterday.
-I also said it.
Good night.
Mum thinks that the guests
are her friends.
-Are we friends now?
-No, we aren't.
What are we then?
I was not selling
to my guests only the room.
Okay. Next time, next time..
But my open heart, my family.
Mama, that's really strange when
you say I'm selling my family.
That's my room.
Where I sleep?
I am grateful that
I may sleep in your room.
But the best of all,
Waldemar loved them too.
-It's been nice talking to you, mate.
-Yeah.
Always some stupid guests...
They come to our house,
sleep in my room.
My room always reeks of weird people.
It always smells different.
Really... Not good.
What is your question, Tatjana?
I don't feel at home anywhere.
What are you longing for?
-Togetherness.
-Togetherness. Yes.
Ask someone to represent
you in the constellation.
Find someone to represent your mother.
That's your mother's mother?
Tatjana...
-Was that your mother's mother?
-Yes.
Put your father in the constellation.
How does this feel?
This background
makes it harder to belong
to the Netherlands.
That there is...
-To whom do you want to belong?
-I don't know.
Exactly. It's a difficult question.
Are you happy?
-Are you happy?
-Yes.
You arranged your Dylan Dog comics nicely.
Can you take this please?
Then I can open this...
That was it for my tiny hotel.
I grabbed myself together
and decided to blend in with the locals.
I joined in when a big furniture shop
organized breakfast for the neighbors.
This is our breakfast?
-Not this?
-That's extra.
OK. Good.
We can't take this.
Breakfast is there, ready.
So we get something.
This was my chance to meet
some people, I thought.
But no one approached me.
When I heard there was a commune
a few minutes from my house,
I pictured holding hands, looking
into each other's eyes, togetherness.
This is our chapel.
The setup is very much individual.
You kneel facing that direction.
You don't have to look at each other.
You are focused on yourself.
I didn't give up.
And for extra points,
I joined a biking group.
I dream of going back
to my granny's house.
A house full of people
always doing things together.
There, my grandad played the tamburitza.
And granny was always worried that
something terrible would happen to me.
Everything is different here.
Here I am free.
I called my father. He said:
"Look at our family.
We live across seven countries.
No one stayed in the village
where we were born.
We all found our place.
What is wrong with you?"
When my cousin, Andja,
came to Germany in 1968
the first thing she did was to change
her name into German-sounding Angela.
Once she married
Heinz from Welzheim...
Angela rarely visited us in Yugoslavia.
One time they came for a short visit,
and my sister dropped a glass of water
because Angela looked at her so strictly.
She was very Western for us.
Her sister Marica
also married a German,
and he even could
say a few words in Croatian:
Hello, good day, thank you.
When talking to us, Angela and Marica
added random German words into
their ever more broken Croatian:
Gr Gott, also...
It was clear to the whole family:
the sisters had become Schwaben
a word we in the Balkans
use for all Germans.
She sewed a dirndl there.
-Here's my dad!
-That's why I told you.
He's making a film! Karlovac,
it should have been all of us.
All good gifts, everything we have,
come, oh, God, from you.
We thank you for them. Amen.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
-Enjoy your meal.
-This is real Schwabian salad.
It has cucumbers, cheese and wurst.
-How do you say "essig"?
-Vinegar.
Heinz told me that I should learn German.
Rather than teaching kids Croatian.
Do they think that their
wives integrated well?
I would say yes.
-Normal.
-Normal?
It gets worse as they get older.
-That happens to everyone.
-He criticized you.
When we would meet Bosnians,
if I was around, she never spoke Croatian.
I like being there.
But I couldn't live there.
Once we were there, my aunt,
mum and me, for St. Nicholas Day.
There was nothing there
but darkness and death.
Nothing, nothing. There's no one there.
But you can come when people are around.
Then there is life, fun...
I can use that.
I was born here in Germany.
My children were born in Germany.
I married a German woman.
Of course, for us, we are Germans...
But for me it's clear,
I have other roots too.
I mean, it's a mother's tongue,
you would learn it.
Like my son learned Croatian
because I was very persistent.
If he would say mess', I would say:
mama doesn't understand.
He had to communicate with me.
You gave in.
We spoke German.
-You have to see it in context.
-Yes.
-You were alone.
-When mum came here...
There was dad, grandmother,
mother-in-law...
All Germans.
When I came to Amsterdam for love
with Waldemar's Dutch father,
I thought, "Ha,
this will be my easiest move ever.
Just learn to be blunt
and grab some skates."
Am I integrated enough now?
This is very good, honey.
You're doing very well.
But once I became a single mother,
doing well drifted away from me.
I became an immigrant.
Not a charming foreigner anymore.
Just an immigrant single mother.
You say you're not a child,
but a teenager.
Adolescent. But an adolescent
is still a child.
-That's true.
-I'm 11 years old.
I won't be a child when I turn 18, OK?
It's normal that mothers make breakfast!
About one million foreign
children live in Germany.
Many are born, like me,
in Turkey, Greece,
in Yugoslavia, Italy or Spain.
In Hannover,
every 4th baby born last year
was a little foreigner.
But where do we belong,
where is my home...
I don't know the answer
to these questions.
When I was a kid in the 70s and 80s
I would proudly count how many
of my relatives lived abroad.
I had so many.
The first one who left was my uncle, Boo.
I remember him driving an orange car.
But it turned out his car was just beige.
Everything from the West looked
so colorful to me back then.
Six buses were going only
to Odak. For holidays.
Six buses.
Each with 50 people.
Imagine how many people were there.
Only from Vienna. Imagine the rest then.
Everyone I knew had someone
who was a gastarbeiter.
My granny would sigh:
"It's a lonely life there."
Around one million people from Yugoslavia
packed their suitcases,
left their families,
and went to Switzerland, Austria,
and Germany to earn money.
They consider us second-class citizens.
We made ourselves second-class citizens.
Deliberately, in a way.
Not deliberately because I want it,
but because this country
was never 100% mine.
While my uncle Bozo was working in Vienna
his son Josip, my favorite cousin of all,
lived in Bosnia with
his mother and siblings
surrounded by the goods his father
sent home with his Austrian salary.
I was visiting for school holidays.
As a reward,
if we studied well, worked hard,
then he would bring
us here for 15-20 days.
To Austria. As a reward.
They never had a plan
to bring families here.
They came temporarily,
to earn money, to build a house.
He came for one month to buy a motorbike.
But he stayed for 36 years.
Clench your fists. Crouch.
Stand up.
Josip took me to his favorite
patriotic cafe in Vienna.
The men here knew
so much about belonging.
You must know who you are,
what you are and where you're from.
How come you don't belong?
-You'll find it too.
-Are you Orthodox or Catholic?
Once I get my pension,
I won't be here 24 hours.
-I'm going back right away.
-So you don't like Austria?
I like Austria! It's a very nice country.
How was it then to live
for 30 years with that idea...
-It was wrong!
-Wrong.
Do you regret that
you've spent your life here?
Yes.
My belonging isn't as clear
to me as yours is to you.
That's what makes us special.
That belonging also controls you.
It doesn't let you do what you want.
Our identity is sometimes narrow-minded.
Maybe it's too aggressive.
But to us, it means so much.
Because we... people from there,
don't know how to live as individuals.
Somewhere I was drinking ruby wine
Somewhere I was happy
with another woman
And you, and you
You were waiting for me
Somewhere I was drinking ruby wine
Somewhere I was happy...
It's like a drug to me.
Singing in the suburban cafs of Vienna.
The very songs I hated as a kid.
-I'll come again!
-Of course. You have to!
You're the best!
Are you sorry, are you sorry?
Oh, friends, are you sorry?
I start to hallucinate.
I think to myself: "What was
the problem in the first place?"
The moment of our farewell
has come closer!
We grew up in a society and mentality
where the individual was irrelevant.
Totally irrelevant.
Today in the Western world
only the individual matters.
But by singling out an individual,
you destroy communities
so the individual has no more meaning.
He is a wandering specimen.
He has nothing to hang
on to anymore. To what?
He has neither a group
nor a community. He has nobody.
He's always alone.
He has all the rights, but he's alone.
We called from those phone boots.
But mum didn't have a phone.
How could we talk?
We sent telegrams or we wrote letters.
And the letter was taking
three weeks to arrive.
We had a tradition,
when we were leaving for Germany.
All neighbors would come to say goodbye.
They would all come. To say goodbye.
It was a tradition.
We were always together.
Neighbors always helped each other.
Now there's no one.
We were 19, 20 years old.
You missed your mum,
the house, everything...
You needed a week to calm down.
Then later you'd forget it.
My tears flowed all the way to Slovenia.
Those times really were...
It's hard to leave your mother.
She would cry:
She would cry:
"Child, safe journey.
I don't know if we'll meet again."
She'd say that every time.
She would wave and bless us goodbye.
She told us: "My girls,
stay together. I'd like that.
I will die one day,
and you'll have each other."
That's how it was.
We live five minutes apart.
We're sisters, colleagues.
We talk to each other...
It would be nice for Tanja
to have a sister around too.
My sister Sandra
and I began to live together
when she was six and I was four.
Before that, she stayed
with our parents in Croatia
while I lived with
our grandparents in Bosnia.
I don't know what else to say anymore.
Just that I would like
you to come to visit me...
And then this feels like... Yes.
Pressuring you... I've been inviting
you to visit me for 15 years.
I keep asking you to come,
and you never come.
I'm the only one who comes, once a year,
and you won't even be at home.
And now you're
mad at me for asking this? OK!
How I wish that my sister
would come visit me!
So I can show her my home,
my garden, my street, my city.
As if then everything would become
more like a home for me too.
Blanca said one day, "Tatjana,
I would like to be your friend."
Tatjana, you're not doing it.
You are just touching slowly my hand.
I immediately knew
she could be my sister here.
This is gonna take forever, Tatjana.
Like many other expats,
Blanca couldn't decide where to live
since everything was possible.
To help her, I quickly came
up with this fantastic idea
invite her to live with us.
No, I think this is not fair..
Eight, seven,
three, two, one, I go.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Painting, yes?
Drawing, drawing.
Oh, please!
This time I checked with Waldemar.
Three, two, one, go.
And he approved of Blanca.
I want you guys to clean
the house tomorrow.
- No, we can refuse.
- We can say no, once.
I have exams.
- You have exams, you cannot, but you?
- No.
- I'm going with friends.
- Okay, unfortunate.
- I'm sorry.
-You're not at all.
We just needed to build an extra room
and then we would
be a happy little family.
Look. Now I can work.
-Sexy.
-Sexy?
-You mean that?
-This is very Dutch.
No?
You know what I think?
I find it a bit Slavic.
Oh, you're from Spain?
-From Madrid?
-No, from Zaragoza.
Zaragoza, oh.
And what are you doing
in this fucking country?
I'm not sure.
What do you mean?
-I don't know if coming back or not.
Okay.
But why, you like it here or what?
I like, what do I, the bikes,
I like biking.
And it's not as noisy as in Spain.
Blanca is a free bird,
a premium foreigner.
Thanks to her international job,
even after 10 years in the Netherlands,
she could just skip learning the language
and struggling with the Dutch G'
Blanca, Blanca, I'm just thinking,
is it a good idea to do this?
Yes.
-Why is that a good idea?
-Because to put the windows there.
You can park here.
Could you help? Then we could
have some beer together.
-Of course!
-How kind of you!
In the Netherlands,
we always help each other.
Oh, yes?
Maybe it's still difficult to connect.
I'm prejudiced that people
are prejudiced about me,
because I'm from Eastern Europe.
Or so people see me.
It's because you have
an outspoken character.
The Dutch are a bit narrow-minded
in that respect.
-Maybe some water.
-Water.
I'm thirsty.
Blanca brought so many
new people into our house.
-It's homemade.
-It could be 50%.
-Cheers!
-Cheers!
Cheers!
If I were an expat,
that would be so much easier.
Like my friend Igor.
In Zagreb we used to live together
but we both felt like outsiders there.
Since then, he found
his home here in Zurich.
It was so fascinating.
I started to hang out with people.
I realized...
You didn't go through socialism.
You didn't go through war.
When I realized that people
had normal childhoods.
When I saw how people
are calm and stable inside.
That was the biggest shock.
"Where did I live?
How did I spend my twenties?"
Here, people have a lust for life.
They think: "What's next?
What's the next adventure?"
It was so strange to me.
What, you don't wake up asking:
"Who's gonna screw me over today?"
I have to put in much more
effort to reach the same level.
It's interesting that you have five MAs,
you're highly educated.
Me too.
And yet we carry
this inferiority complex.
Just because we have...
Bosnian origins.
Yes.
I never actually felt
completely at home anywhere.
It could be even worse.
You could be from India.
And look like an Indian.
Then you come here...
Then it's much harder
to find your way in the Netherlands.
You dare to say "fuck off" to people.
I feel...
I feel like I'm not allowed to.
Because I am...
A foreigner.
-A foreigner?
-Yes.
But you're a human being,
aren't you? A foreigner!
I will be looking
at the camera with a squint.
Three, two, one, zero.
We just need to stay not moving or what?
Not moving, please. Blinking.
No blinking. Blinking is okay.
Three, two, one, and zero.
There is no little
cloud saying: "Croatia".
-"Eastern European"!
-"Amsterdam idiot".
You just see two people.
How is the mother?
Since the grandmother
is in the constellation.
Yes?
How is the grandmother?
You gave this child away.
I think it went like this...
It's spring.
My mother is 21.
She dresses me nicely.
Kisses me in the eye.
Then the other.
She hands me over, like a little
bundle to her mum, my granny Lela.
And granny is happy.
No... do you want me
to be ashamed of you?
Do you hate me? Do you hate me?
Why would you be ashamed
of your mum like this?
-Blanca, look at this.
-Blanca, is that shameful?
But you are not covering your ears,
that's most important.
Does it cover you something?
-Yes, here.
-No, but it just looks...
But it's worth it, it covers here, this..
Do not be on his side.
-I find it is worth it.
-Thank you.
I can do like this then no one sees me.
Yeah, is this good enough?
Yes.
-I can also walk like this and....
-That's the best.
And I don't say anything
so that you're not ashamed of me.
That would be great, thank you.
We couldn't buy a house in a better place
because houses are very expensive.
They're expensive because
of all these expats.
What is an expat?
Rich foreigners.
Immigrants are poor foreigners.
You wouldn't say that you are half-half.
Dutch and Croatian. You would say that the
Netherlands is home. Not Croatia. Or...?
Not Croatia. Or...?
My homeland...
So, which is your homeland?
I don't know.
Same. In Croatia I'm much more different.
You're different there? Different how?
I fit in less there.
But how?
-Get into the circle.
-How?
However you dance, it's good.
-Let him dance.
-I don't want to.
I don't want to dance.
I've always wanted Waldemar
to become a Westerner,
a tall Dutchman but with
a South Slavic heart.
Let him feel that collective spirit.
A family wedding in Vienna
was an introduction to mum's roots.
Will there be any Austrians
at the wedding?
-No.
-Aha.
You see? It's simply the way it is.
-Do you think that's a problem?
-Not for me.
Austrians always go strictly by the law.
None of us really stick to that.
We always find a way around it.
I guess those genes remain in us.
I don't know about this
younger generation,
for example, the children
who were born here...
-Yes.
-How they see it.
Your child was practically born here,
he came here so small.
Yes, my Bojan accepted it all,
everything Austrian.
But you saw yourself there's still
something... That Balkan thing in him.
-Have you ever had an Austrian boyfriend?
-No.
How come?
I don't find them attractive.
I don't like their mentality.
Are they cold in love?
You must know who's
the man and who's the woman.
If you cheated on an Austrian,
he'd get over it and still love you.
To me that's not a real man, honestly.
With Bojan it's clear
how things should be.
Your child will grow up here.
What generation is that?
Bojan's dad is here
and his grandad is here.
You were born here.
So how come you want your child
not to be a little Austrian?
She will mostly be Austrian.
We don't really plan to raise
her the way our parents raised us.
She needs to fit in here.
We don't want her to end up like us.
I'm Serbian, he's Croatian, and that's it.
We want her to be integrated,
to be a little "Schwabian"
too since she was born here,
with citizenship and all that.
Family is here to help each other.
When you need something.
To be with you when you sing
and when you cry, as they say.
Yes.
-You don't have that.
-No.
That family that knows when
you sing and when you cry,
that's your son.
-I'm very scared.
-No need to be scared.
I'll do it. Hello!
I'm stuck.
-You have to go one step higher.
-Hello!
This is fucking hot.
-Go on!
Don't swear, mum!
-Are we happy or what?
-So nice. I'm so happy.
-Tonight we are eating here.
-No way. Not in my room.
-Should I take it?
-Take it.
-Want half? Or...
-Antonio, you share it out.
-Blanca.
-Blancita. Hey chica, come here.
-How did you meet?
-I didn't say anything.
Oh now... It's not a secret.
She was my coach for the eating disorder.
-For?
-Eating disorder.
-Like some years ago.
-Ok.
We kept in contact.
That's nice. That's very nice.
I am very happy. Yeah.
But, that was already
five years ago, yeah?
I'd say to my granny Lela:
"Granny, you are my Bogo and my Tito."
Bogo was our nickname for God,
and Tito... Tito was just Tito.
My grandmother was 23 years
old when she buried her little baby.
A few days later
her five-year-old son also died.
In 1945, in the postwar chaos of Bosnia,
her husband was killed.
Then she was thrown out of the house.
Once the husband dies
and there are no children,
the wife loses all rights.
That's the old rule.
Inheritance goes through the bloodline.
Since she has no ties through the husband,
husband dead, children dead,
she becomes a stranger.
Yes.
A few years after the death
of her children and her first husband,
my granny married my grandfather,
and in 1950 they had my mother.
When my mum was six years old,
they had a son, Perica.
Perica also died.
He was two months old.
Just like me,
when mum left me with granny.
Dad, did mum ever tell you about
Perica? What do you know?
She told me she had a brother.
He died young.
-She found him dead.
-She found him dead?
Yes. She found him dead.
She saw him dead.
It was traumatic for her.
My grandmother was endlessly kind to me.
I received so much love.
But she wasn't kind to my mother.
-She wasn't kind to your mother?
-No.
My mother had to be "good"
for three dead children.
A mother vanishes when her child dies.
How is that for the grandmother?
-It's too heavy.
-Heavy, yes.
When she gave me these children,
I was confused.
Because she is my child, and not Tatjana.
She is confused.
She thinks that you are her child.
When I was about four years old,
my parents took me back
to live with them in Croatia.
In kindergarten, I was that odd kid
who ate greasy bacon city
kids wouldn't even touch.
And I just cried and cried...
Sometimes while chewing that bacon,
or because I had peed my pants
trying to keep up with my newly
discovered older sister
and her carefree spirit.
But most often because I missed
my granny Lela terribly.
I was looking for Perica's grave.
Because I feel as if...
Because I feel as if...
As if mum... I don't
think she knew it herself.
Remember, I asked her a million times:
"Why did you leave me with
granny and grandad?"
Mum never wanted to talk about it.
I would ask her, I kept nagging her...
I don't know the reason why.
Maybe she felt some kind
of guilt or something else.
I couldn't understand why Sandra
could stay with you, and not me.
Sure.
You compared yourself
and couldn't understand the reasons.
But you always said:
"This was normal back then."
-Or what do you say?
-When mum started working...
The problem was what
to do with two children.
Granny said: "Give her to me."
We gladly accepted, problem solved.
But we also thought
granny Lela also needed someone,
something to keep her busy.
Sandra stayed with you,
so she was the "good" one.
I always felt I wasn't good enough,
that I had to be better, the best.
You're saying: "I didn't belong
to grandparents or to you."
When you're young,
you don't dive so deeply into it.
You're guided by survival,
to get through life, to manage.
And as long as it works,
everything seems fine.
What's behind it, who suffers,
that doesn't even occur to you.
My uncle Bozo now lives alone
in a ghost village in Bosnia.
-When did you move to Austria?
-When Josip was born.
He was one month old.
We're talking how was it for me while
you were in Austria.
-How was it?
-You know how it was.
-He was going to school.
-He has bad hearing.
His task was to go to school.
If mother told
him to do something, he would.
Nothing special about it.
The point is, did Josip miss you?
And what did he expect
when you came home?
We didn't long for sweets
and bananas you were bringing.
We needed something else. A father.
-We had our mother every day.
-I know that.
As children you had this mythical father
who lived somewhere far away,
bringing things...
Exactly, it wasn't about the bicycle...
The only thing important
to them was to get a car.
I just wanted them to be careful.
Weekends they'd be gone,
they were never home.
I said nothing.
That was different.
I was a young man already.
I had other interests.
I was looking for a girlfriend.
But while I was growing up,
he would come on the weekend,
bring us chocolate...
Biscuits, bananas.
We had everything: bicycles, BMX bikes...
Pony bikes... We had them first. Skis...
Everyone else had skis from barrels.
We had proper ski boots and real skis.
We got everything.
But my father wasn't there.
Where is my dad? I needed my dad.
He thought he'd buy things for us kids,
so we wouldn't have to go abroad.
He wanted to prepare it for us.
These huge buildings,
big plans for agriculture.
But then that war came.
A match was lit,
and everything burned down.
His entire life turned to ashes.
All he worked for.
I mean, in the material sense.
But a scar remained on the soul,
of a different kind.
It was so hard. My wife cried,
my mother cried.
My boy was playing outside.
I passed by him.
He said: "Daddy, I didn't kiss you.
" He ran after me.
I kissed him.
If I'd known it'd be this hard,
I'd never have gone abroad.
So we hope that the storm keeps storming.
We hope that the storm keeps storming,
so that Blanca stays
I want her to go.
- You want her to go?
Yes.
-To go to Spain.
-No. She won't stay.
She doesn't want to stay.
She doesn't like us anymore.
-That's not true.
-It's true. It's true.
That's not true. Do you believe that?
-No.
No.
-Good, you go.
-No, I don't think it's good.
I really agree that this very wrong,
the way that I did it
and the way that I communicated,
and the way that I kind of avoided
having this conversation.
To tell you very clear,
I want to spend more time in Spain.
And this way I learned it from you.
Maybe I didn't say I miss you,
but yeah, this feeling that, yeah,
Now you have a boyfriend,
so you say bye bye.
I'm too optimistic.
I thought it will work.
I was also using this situation.
I thought, wow, wonderful.
I'm not alone anymore.
I think...
It feels like that we didn't have
a good base for a friendship.
No.
Having to replace someone,
that's quite something.
That is very hard.
You were an outsider.
Not the same as your sister.
Your sister was with your mother.
You were an outsider.
It doesn't mean there was no love.
But as a child,
you don't have the perspective.
Tell your mother: "This belongs to me.
These two belong to me.
My longing and my not feeling at home."
-Ok.
-Tatjana...
See you again.
Thank you for everything.
Thank you so much, Guillaume.
-Take good care of her.
-And we will see each other.
Yeah, ciao.
Bye!
-My mother is not home yet.
-Where is she?
-Dead.
-That could still be home.
But she died on the same date,
of the same illness, as her mother.
They were both 56. I am now 52.
I want a different fate.
Look at your mother.
Go, slowly, with the feeling,
to your parents.
You see how they're
looking at you, Tatjana?
A little from the side like this.
Now it's all ripping.
This will never straighten out.
OK, like this.
-Is it this one?
-Yes.
-Come, sit here.
-This is an empty reel, dad.
Wait, wait. Where will it stand?
I was wondering the same thing.
-How? Like this?
-There must be another...
-This little stand?
-Not that!
-May I?
-Go ahead.
Maybe we could even turn it on now.
Oh, look how dad's standing.
That time dad was looking
for us and we didn't come.
Where were we? Up in the hills?
Look at your father.
-I want to feel at home.
-I want to feel at home.
-That is my desire.
-That is my desire.
-I want to feel at home in this life.
-I want to feel at home in this life.
Always, when someone asks me, "Where
are you from?" I feel like I'm taken out.
It's the worst question ever. Somewhere,
and I don't know what to answer,
and I started, "What do I answer now?"
First of all, I left because of the war.
We had to go back and we just kind of
continued to migrate to our next country.
After eight years in Switzerland,
I thought to myself,
"It's time to move again."
-Because I feel like...
-Itching.
I kept saying like,
"Let's go somewhere else."
But of course, our son was at the age
where he started going to school,
and everything and everything changed.
The whole life changed with him, actually.
I was here for 12,
13 years until I got a passport,
and always I had this
burden of being a Yugo,
like really this complex of second-rated
citizen or something, right?
And then once I got a passport, Swiss have
this concept of like a Heimatort, right?
So all of the sudden,
they're just like: Zrich.
Like, you know, my Heimatort
is Zrich, and that's it.
Everything else, there's no place
of birth, they just kind of, yeah...
When we had the interview with
the city council, the hardest part for me,
I couldn't sleep for months,
of the question,
why do you want to become a Swiss?
And I was like,
what am I gonna tell them?
I don't wanna lie, I wanna be honest,
but what am I gonna tell them?
The only reason I wanted
to become a Swiss
is because I wanted my son and my husband
and myself to have one passport together.
So I thought, okay, I'm gonna
give Max a home that I don't have.
He should have a home,
he should have a belonging somewhere,
and be able to answer the question
if someone asks him proudly.
So say, I am Swiss.
I would like that it stops here with me,
that I don't give it to him.
-That you don't give it to your son.
-Yeah.
-It has to be under S.
-I don't know the alphabet.
Buzzcocks!
I love Buzzcocks.
I think he has it already better.
But he feels that I don't feel at home.
-Tell him: "I'm letting you go."
-I'm letting you go.
-"To your father."
-To your father.
-"To your half-brother."
-To your half-brother.
-"To your friends."
-To your friends.
-"To Dutch society."
-To Dutch society.
-"I'm letting you go."
-I'm letting you go.
"You don't have to carry my burden."
You must not carry my burden.
-"I carry my own burden."
-I carry my own burden.
Waldemar, look, this is Hunky Dory,
this here is the record.
I've got that.
-Isn't it cool?
-We already have ten Bowie records.
-But this is a great album.
-You love Bowie, buy it for yourself.
When we met, there was no question
whether you'd come to Croatia.
You have another son,
it was just natural that I'd move here.
I came here for you and Waldemar.
No, that's not true.
You came for me and Waldemar,
but also because this
was a country you liked.
At that moment.
With a flat hand.
I mean, there are different things
in the situation where you were in.
There's the location, there's the money,
and there is your son.
And there's me, we, as co-parents
or not co-parents in your opinion,
or at least part of the time.
You are very involved with Waldemar,
and then being there for him.
And then you can say, yeah, of course.
If you're that involved,
it has consequences.
You moved so far away
partly for the nice home.
But the consequence is: you live far away.
You want to be there for your son,
you have a nice home
but you live in isolation.
My first movement at that moment
was saying that something
was wrong with society.
Yeah, and with me.
But there was something wrong with you.
Well, anyway, you blame me that
I didn't take enough care of Waldemar,
so you had no time for anything else.
This idea that I, as a woman,
who took more care of a child,
had to drop my creative profession...
but do you understand this,
this, I mean...
Yeah, but now we go another
layer deeper, eh.
-Yeah, it is not okay!
-We could have, you know...
Even from practical point of view,
we should have stayed together.
Too late!
I mean, this is, you know,
it's such a general truth,
and I don't know if you realize that
but people who divorce,
they go into a poverty trap.
But I'm in a better situation.
I took less care of Waldemar,
and I'm a Dutch man,
so I'm less isolated.
I live here in the city center,
or near the city center,
so I'm in a better situation.
It's Waldemar.
Our son. So I will answer.
-Hey, Waldemar!
-Hey, Waldemar!
-Hello?
-Hello!
I'm also here.
How did maths go?
What? Turn it up!
-Fine.
-Fine?
We're busy here,
and I also have a date later.
A date?
What kind of parents does this kid have?
How is he supposed to grow up like this?
That's what I'm wondering too.
Now that you say it...
Yes. It's totally insane.
Mothers need to have
a life too, you know.
I hope we won't have
to pay for all this in 20 years.
-Probably yes.
-Not for our dating behavior.
But for other kind
of behavior, definitely.
A choice always comes with a price.
If you want a relationship,
if you want to integrate,
then both sides must give something
up to make the new possible.
You have to give up something.
The Dutch also have to give up something
if they really want an inclusive society.
Which is actually the ideal,
and which is the next
evolutionary step of humanity.
That we see everyone else
as our brother or sister,
daughter, granddaughter,
father and mother.
You don't have to hold my hand.
You're 52?
What do you mean?
"But with accent. An accent!
My son is half Dutch,
so going back is not an option.
I want to belong.
How can I feel at home here?
It's up to you.
Dear compatriot...
What a pity that you still
don't feel at home.
I have lived in the Netherlands
for 30 years.
Although I came here as a refugee,
I have never felt inferior.
Let alone not accepted.
I speak Dutch fluently,
also with an accent.
I am well integrated.
The Netherlands
has an individualistic culture."
I've noticed that.
"Most friendships here
are formed in youth."
So people are basically
saying that it's my fault.
Yes.
I don't think you're trying
to be like the Dutch.
-No?
-No.
It's as if you like not belonging.
Maybe that's it. Maybe
you actually don't want to belong,
but rather like being
a bit of an outsider.
Because if you can't
feel at home anywhere,
maybe the problem is in you.
I think that everyone
feels nowhere at home.
Maybe that's impossible.
Maybe people have simply learned
to live with that feeling,
that sometimes they
just don't feel at home.
Everyone has that.
Maybe it's harder for you than
for others. That could be it.
I imagine my mum and my granny
sitting somewhere up there
together, watching me.
Then they say to me:
"Taja, you're not a rootless wanderer.
Home is where the heart is."
"But what if the heart
is in many places?", I ask then.
And then... I don't know.
I can't hear them.
And the two of them just keep smiling.
When will you come?
Come on, Loulou!
-When are you coming back, sweetie?
-When I'm done skating.
-Around nine, ten.
-OK.
-Buy yourself something to eat then.
-OK.
Loulou!
Loulou! She left. Give mum a kiss.
Love you.
Bye-bye! Enjoy.
Where's that dog now?
Loulou!
Loulou, come here.
Look who's come to visit us!
I am...
52-year-old...
I am 52-year-old...
Something's not right?
A. I am "a"...
And "jarige" is with one "a"?
I don't know.
I am a 52-year-old woman
from what the Dutch
think is Eastern Europe.
How could I say: "I am a good citizen"?
That's weird.
I do everything just like the Dutch do...
But still...
It feels as if there is an invisible
wall between me and them.
-The.
-There the...
Between me and you, maybe.
So it gets personal to the heart,
to the bone you feel it.
FRAGMENTS OF BELONGING
It is already bright outside.
Loulou, no. Wait!
Give mum a kiss.
She's gone.
-Love you. Go, win!
-Yes.
OK. Go.
I am a citizen of the world.
Okay, maybe not the world,
but I am a citizen of Europe.
I have to go down first.
Wait.
I've never lived in any country
in one go longer than 10 years.
When I was 15,
my family moved from Croatia,
which was then part of Yugoslavia,
to the Soviet Union.
The phrase...
In the Soviet Union there is no sex!
10 years later, I moved to London.
Then, after some years in Zagreb,
I came to Amsterdam
and had a child with a Dutch guy.
I think we have to go to therapy.
You have something...
Not to therapy please!
Now I'm a bit stuck in Amsterdam's
notorious suburbs,
with my little pumpkin, Waldemar.
One, drop.
Even if I had an itch
to move elsewhere, I wouldn't.
Go pro, stop recording.
He has his Dutch father in the city,
his school, friends, activities,
so I just happily serve my most satisfying
and underappreciated role.
Relax. Feel how good it is...
But I miss togetherness
with some grownups.
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you...
This is when mum
was making a film in Istria.
-This is you.
-Yes.
-That's in London, my mum.
-Your mum?
This is again in Riga.
This is again in London. Again Moscow.
This is Saa.
That was my group of friends.
-This is my friend Igor.
-Was he your boyfriend?
No, he's gay. He lives in Switzerland now.
All your friends are elsewhere.
Where are your friends from
Amsterdam and the Netherlands?
Of course, I tried to connect
with my neighbors.
Neighbor, today is my birthday.
I have a piece of cake for you.
-Congratulations!
-Thank you. Bye!
But somehow, I never got invited.
So I thought, let me then invite
some people into our house.
And I came up with this fantastic idea
to open a tiny hotel in my son's bedroom.
Yes, really a "great" idea.
Hello.
Welcome.
To what extent do we need...
like, revelation.
It is about Chinese thought.
And now I'm making a film
about my loneliness.
I am a film director.
Right now I am making
a film about my own story.
- Oh, director?
- Yes, I'm a film director.
Oh, you're director?
-Yeah.
-Wow, director, director...
Director, oh.
I feel very good, very good.
-Very good?
-Very good.
You're very kind.
Ah, no, but you were very kind to me.
You touched my face.
You said hello in such a nice way.
You're like a lovely girl.
Do you think we'll have
a guest who can repair our tap?
Or we'll have to wait until you grow up?
Option two.
I really looked for it for a long time.
Okay, I can help.
-Loulou, go away.
-You need to close there.
-Okay, how do you close it here?
-I'm not sure, there's a faucet here, see?
But you don't have the knob.
My freelance documentary film career of
course needed a solid financial strategy.
Teaching, coaching, and now the guests,
who unknowingly became part
of my grand survival plan.
But I got so much more...
Instant friends who could
help with this or that.
We have apricots and hazelnuts.
With my guests, it was
as if I was back to my childhood.
When we children were hungry,
we could ring any of the bells
in our apartment building
and we would get some fresh
bread from any of our moms:
aunt Boa or Ljubica
or my mum, Zdenka.
My parents' best friends
were their neighbors.
And even if your neighbors
didn't like you,
you knew they were going
to take care of you.
Let's check if it's dry.
The jeans are still wet.
Maybe you will have to enlarge the house.
and to buy the one next door.
It will be super nice.
You have to make time
for the things that you love.
She loves me, so...
My guests understood me.
Maybe I didn't get the key to Dutch
society, mentality or something.
I don't want a relationship,
I don't want to be in love
and I don't want to be lonely.
It's unclear if I miss some people
or I want to be someone that people miss.
That's very interesting.
Sometimes I feel that guests think:
"When is she going to stop talking?"
Wait, wait...
How are you doing, guys?
Are you okay?
So motherly question.
You said this morning
that I'm like a mother.
-This morning and yesterday.
-I also said it.
Good night.
Mum thinks that the guests
are her friends.
-Are we friends now?
-No, we aren't.
What are we then?
I was not selling
to my guests only the room.
Okay. Next time, next time..
But my open heart, my family.
Mama, that's really strange when
you say I'm selling my family.
That's my room.
Where I sleep?
I am grateful that
I may sleep in your room.
But the best of all,
Waldemar loved them too.
-It's been nice talking to you, mate.
-Yeah.
Always some stupid guests...
They come to our house,
sleep in my room.
My room always reeks of weird people.
It always smells different.
Really... Not good.
What is your question, Tatjana?
I don't feel at home anywhere.
What are you longing for?
-Togetherness.
-Togetherness. Yes.
Ask someone to represent
you in the constellation.
Find someone to represent your mother.
That's your mother's mother?
Tatjana...
-Was that your mother's mother?
-Yes.
Put your father in the constellation.
How does this feel?
This background
makes it harder to belong
to the Netherlands.
That there is...
-To whom do you want to belong?
-I don't know.
Exactly. It's a difficult question.
Are you happy?
-Are you happy?
-Yes.
You arranged your Dylan Dog comics nicely.
Can you take this please?
Then I can open this...
That was it for my tiny hotel.
I grabbed myself together
and decided to blend in with the locals.
I joined in when a big furniture shop
organized breakfast for the neighbors.
This is our breakfast?
-Not this?
-That's extra.
OK. Good.
We can't take this.
Breakfast is there, ready.
So we get something.
This was my chance to meet
some people, I thought.
But no one approached me.
When I heard there was a commune
a few minutes from my house,
I pictured holding hands, looking
into each other's eyes, togetherness.
This is our chapel.
The setup is very much individual.
You kneel facing that direction.
You don't have to look at each other.
You are focused on yourself.
I didn't give up.
And for extra points,
I joined a biking group.
I dream of going back
to my granny's house.
A house full of people
always doing things together.
There, my grandad played the tamburitza.
And granny was always worried that
something terrible would happen to me.
Everything is different here.
Here I am free.
I called my father. He said:
"Look at our family.
We live across seven countries.
No one stayed in the village
where we were born.
We all found our place.
What is wrong with you?"
When my cousin, Andja,
came to Germany in 1968
the first thing she did was to change
her name into German-sounding Angela.
Once she married
Heinz from Welzheim...
Angela rarely visited us in Yugoslavia.
One time they came for a short visit,
and my sister dropped a glass of water
because Angela looked at her so strictly.
She was very Western for us.
Her sister Marica
also married a German,
and he even could
say a few words in Croatian:
Hello, good day, thank you.
When talking to us, Angela and Marica
added random German words into
their ever more broken Croatian:
Gr Gott, also...
It was clear to the whole family:
the sisters had become Schwaben
a word we in the Balkans
use for all Germans.
She sewed a dirndl there.
-Here's my dad!
-That's why I told you.
He's making a film! Karlovac,
it should have been all of us.
All good gifts, everything we have,
come, oh, God, from you.
We thank you for them. Amen.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
-Enjoy your meal.
-This is real Schwabian salad.
It has cucumbers, cheese and wurst.
-How do you say "essig"?
-Vinegar.
Heinz told me that I should learn German.
Rather than teaching kids Croatian.
Do they think that their
wives integrated well?
I would say yes.
-Normal.
-Normal?
It gets worse as they get older.
-That happens to everyone.
-He criticized you.
When we would meet Bosnians,
if I was around, she never spoke Croatian.
I like being there.
But I couldn't live there.
Once we were there, my aunt,
mum and me, for St. Nicholas Day.
There was nothing there
but darkness and death.
Nothing, nothing. There's no one there.
But you can come when people are around.
Then there is life, fun...
I can use that.
I was born here in Germany.
My children were born in Germany.
I married a German woman.
Of course, for us, we are Germans...
But for me it's clear,
I have other roots too.
I mean, it's a mother's tongue,
you would learn it.
Like my son learned Croatian
because I was very persistent.
If he would say mess', I would say:
mama doesn't understand.
He had to communicate with me.
You gave in.
We spoke German.
-You have to see it in context.
-Yes.
-You were alone.
-When mum came here...
There was dad, grandmother,
mother-in-law...
All Germans.
When I came to Amsterdam for love
with Waldemar's Dutch father,
I thought, "Ha,
this will be my easiest move ever.
Just learn to be blunt
and grab some skates."
Am I integrated enough now?
This is very good, honey.
You're doing very well.
But once I became a single mother,
doing well drifted away from me.
I became an immigrant.
Not a charming foreigner anymore.
Just an immigrant single mother.
You say you're not a child,
but a teenager.
Adolescent. But an adolescent
is still a child.
-That's true.
-I'm 11 years old.
I won't be a child when I turn 18, OK?
It's normal that mothers make breakfast!
About one million foreign
children live in Germany.
Many are born, like me,
in Turkey, Greece,
in Yugoslavia, Italy or Spain.
In Hannover,
every 4th baby born last year
was a little foreigner.
But where do we belong,
where is my home...
I don't know the answer
to these questions.
When I was a kid in the 70s and 80s
I would proudly count how many
of my relatives lived abroad.
I had so many.
The first one who left was my uncle, Boo.
I remember him driving an orange car.
But it turned out his car was just beige.
Everything from the West looked
so colorful to me back then.
Six buses were going only
to Odak. For holidays.
Six buses.
Each with 50 people.
Imagine how many people were there.
Only from Vienna. Imagine the rest then.
Everyone I knew had someone
who was a gastarbeiter.
My granny would sigh:
"It's a lonely life there."
Around one million people from Yugoslavia
packed their suitcases,
left their families,
and went to Switzerland, Austria,
and Germany to earn money.
They consider us second-class citizens.
We made ourselves second-class citizens.
Deliberately, in a way.
Not deliberately because I want it,
but because this country
was never 100% mine.
While my uncle Bozo was working in Vienna
his son Josip, my favorite cousin of all,
lived in Bosnia with
his mother and siblings
surrounded by the goods his father
sent home with his Austrian salary.
I was visiting for school holidays.
As a reward,
if we studied well, worked hard,
then he would bring
us here for 15-20 days.
To Austria. As a reward.
They never had a plan
to bring families here.
They came temporarily,
to earn money, to build a house.
He came for one month to buy a motorbike.
But he stayed for 36 years.
Clench your fists. Crouch.
Stand up.
Josip took me to his favorite
patriotic cafe in Vienna.
The men here knew
so much about belonging.
You must know who you are,
what you are and where you're from.
How come you don't belong?
-You'll find it too.
-Are you Orthodox or Catholic?
Once I get my pension,
I won't be here 24 hours.
-I'm going back right away.
-So you don't like Austria?
I like Austria! It's a very nice country.
How was it then to live
for 30 years with that idea...
-It was wrong!
-Wrong.
Do you regret that
you've spent your life here?
Yes.
My belonging isn't as clear
to me as yours is to you.
That's what makes us special.
That belonging also controls you.
It doesn't let you do what you want.
Our identity is sometimes narrow-minded.
Maybe it's too aggressive.
But to us, it means so much.
Because we... people from there,
don't know how to live as individuals.
Somewhere I was drinking ruby wine
Somewhere I was happy
with another woman
And you, and you
You were waiting for me
Somewhere I was drinking ruby wine
Somewhere I was happy...
It's like a drug to me.
Singing in the suburban cafs of Vienna.
The very songs I hated as a kid.
-I'll come again!
-Of course. You have to!
You're the best!
Are you sorry, are you sorry?
Oh, friends, are you sorry?
I start to hallucinate.
I think to myself: "What was
the problem in the first place?"
The moment of our farewell
has come closer!
We grew up in a society and mentality
where the individual was irrelevant.
Totally irrelevant.
Today in the Western world
only the individual matters.
But by singling out an individual,
you destroy communities
so the individual has no more meaning.
He is a wandering specimen.
He has nothing to hang
on to anymore. To what?
He has neither a group
nor a community. He has nobody.
He's always alone.
He has all the rights, but he's alone.
We called from those phone boots.
But mum didn't have a phone.
How could we talk?
We sent telegrams or we wrote letters.
And the letter was taking
three weeks to arrive.
We had a tradition,
when we were leaving for Germany.
All neighbors would come to say goodbye.
They would all come. To say goodbye.
It was a tradition.
We were always together.
Neighbors always helped each other.
Now there's no one.
We were 19, 20 years old.
You missed your mum,
the house, everything...
You needed a week to calm down.
Then later you'd forget it.
My tears flowed all the way to Slovenia.
Those times really were...
It's hard to leave your mother.
She would cry:
She would cry:
"Child, safe journey.
I don't know if we'll meet again."
She'd say that every time.
She would wave and bless us goodbye.
She told us: "My girls,
stay together. I'd like that.
I will die one day,
and you'll have each other."
That's how it was.
We live five minutes apart.
We're sisters, colleagues.
We talk to each other...
It would be nice for Tanja
to have a sister around too.
My sister Sandra
and I began to live together
when she was six and I was four.
Before that, she stayed
with our parents in Croatia
while I lived with
our grandparents in Bosnia.
I don't know what else to say anymore.
Just that I would like
you to come to visit me...
And then this feels like... Yes.
Pressuring you... I've been inviting
you to visit me for 15 years.
I keep asking you to come,
and you never come.
I'm the only one who comes, once a year,
and you won't even be at home.
And now you're
mad at me for asking this? OK!
How I wish that my sister
would come visit me!
So I can show her my home,
my garden, my street, my city.
As if then everything would become
more like a home for me too.
Blanca said one day, "Tatjana,
I would like to be your friend."
Tatjana, you're not doing it.
You are just touching slowly my hand.
I immediately knew
she could be my sister here.
This is gonna take forever, Tatjana.
Like many other expats,
Blanca couldn't decide where to live
since everything was possible.
To help her, I quickly came
up with this fantastic idea
invite her to live with us.
No, I think this is not fair..
Eight, seven,
three, two, one, I go.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
Painting, yes?
Drawing, drawing.
Oh, please!
This time I checked with Waldemar.
Three, two, one, go.
And he approved of Blanca.
I want you guys to clean
the house tomorrow.
- No, we can refuse.
- We can say no, once.
I have exams.
- You have exams, you cannot, but you?
- No.
- I'm going with friends.
- Okay, unfortunate.
- I'm sorry.
-You're not at all.
We just needed to build an extra room
and then we would
be a happy little family.
Look. Now I can work.
-Sexy.
-Sexy?
-You mean that?
-This is very Dutch.
No?
You know what I think?
I find it a bit Slavic.
Oh, you're from Spain?
-From Madrid?
-No, from Zaragoza.
Zaragoza, oh.
And what are you doing
in this fucking country?
I'm not sure.
What do you mean?
-I don't know if coming back or not.
Okay.
But why, you like it here or what?
I like, what do I, the bikes,
I like biking.
And it's not as noisy as in Spain.
Blanca is a free bird,
a premium foreigner.
Thanks to her international job,
even after 10 years in the Netherlands,
she could just skip learning the language
and struggling with the Dutch G'
Blanca, Blanca, I'm just thinking,
is it a good idea to do this?
Yes.
-Why is that a good idea?
-Because to put the windows there.
You can park here.
Could you help? Then we could
have some beer together.
-Of course!
-How kind of you!
In the Netherlands,
we always help each other.
Oh, yes?
Maybe it's still difficult to connect.
I'm prejudiced that people
are prejudiced about me,
because I'm from Eastern Europe.
Or so people see me.
It's because you have
an outspoken character.
The Dutch are a bit narrow-minded
in that respect.
-Maybe some water.
-Water.
I'm thirsty.
Blanca brought so many
new people into our house.
-It's homemade.
-It could be 50%.
-Cheers!
-Cheers!
Cheers!
If I were an expat,
that would be so much easier.
Like my friend Igor.
In Zagreb we used to live together
but we both felt like outsiders there.
Since then, he found
his home here in Zurich.
It was so fascinating.
I started to hang out with people.
I realized...
You didn't go through socialism.
You didn't go through war.
When I realized that people
had normal childhoods.
When I saw how people
are calm and stable inside.
That was the biggest shock.
"Where did I live?
How did I spend my twenties?"
Here, people have a lust for life.
They think: "What's next?
What's the next adventure?"
It was so strange to me.
What, you don't wake up asking:
"Who's gonna screw me over today?"
I have to put in much more
effort to reach the same level.
It's interesting that you have five MAs,
you're highly educated.
Me too.
And yet we carry
this inferiority complex.
Just because we have...
Bosnian origins.
Yes.
I never actually felt
completely at home anywhere.
It could be even worse.
You could be from India.
And look like an Indian.
Then you come here...
Then it's much harder
to find your way in the Netherlands.
You dare to say "fuck off" to people.
I feel...
I feel like I'm not allowed to.
Because I am...
A foreigner.
-A foreigner?
-Yes.
But you're a human being,
aren't you? A foreigner!
I will be looking
at the camera with a squint.
Three, two, one, zero.
We just need to stay not moving or what?
Not moving, please. Blinking.
No blinking. Blinking is okay.
Three, two, one, and zero.
There is no little
cloud saying: "Croatia".
-"Eastern European"!
-"Amsterdam idiot".
You just see two people.
How is the mother?
Since the grandmother
is in the constellation.
Yes?
How is the grandmother?
You gave this child away.
I think it went like this...
It's spring.
My mother is 21.
She dresses me nicely.
Kisses me in the eye.
Then the other.
She hands me over, like a little
bundle to her mum, my granny Lela.
And granny is happy.
No... do you want me
to be ashamed of you?
Do you hate me? Do you hate me?
Why would you be ashamed
of your mum like this?
-Blanca, look at this.
-Blanca, is that shameful?
But you are not covering your ears,
that's most important.
Does it cover you something?
-Yes, here.
-No, but it just looks...
But it's worth it, it covers here, this..
Do not be on his side.
-I find it is worth it.
-Thank you.
I can do like this then no one sees me.
Yeah, is this good enough?
Yes.
-I can also walk like this and....
-That's the best.
And I don't say anything
so that you're not ashamed of me.
That would be great, thank you.
We couldn't buy a house in a better place
because houses are very expensive.
They're expensive because
of all these expats.
What is an expat?
Rich foreigners.
Immigrants are poor foreigners.
You wouldn't say that you are half-half.
Dutch and Croatian. You would say that the
Netherlands is home. Not Croatia. Or...?
Not Croatia. Or...?
My homeland...
So, which is your homeland?
I don't know.
Same. In Croatia I'm much more different.
You're different there? Different how?
I fit in less there.
But how?
-Get into the circle.
-How?
However you dance, it's good.
-Let him dance.
-I don't want to.
I don't want to dance.
I've always wanted Waldemar
to become a Westerner,
a tall Dutchman but with
a South Slavic heart.
Let him feel that collective spirit.
A family wedding in Vienna
was an introduction to mum's roots.
Will there be any Austrians
at the wedding?
-No.
-Aha.
You see? It's simply the way it is.
-Do you think that's a problem?
-Not for me.
Austrians always go strictly by the law.
None of us really stick to that.
We always find a way around it.
I guess those genes remain in us.
I don't know about this
younger generation,
for example, the children
who were born here...
-Yes.
-How they see it.
Your child was practically born here,
he came here so small.
Yes, my Bojan accepted it all,
everything Austrian.
But you saw yourself there's still
something... That Balkan thing in him.
-Have you ever had an Austrian boyfriend?
-No.
How come?
I don't find them attractive.
I don't like their mentality.
Are they cold in love?
You must know who's
the man and who's the woman.
If you cheated on an Austrian,
he'd get over it and still love you.
To me that's not a real man, honestly.
With Bojan it's clear
how things should be.
Your child will grow up here.
What generation is that?
Bojan's dad is here
and his grandad is here.
You were born here.
So how come you want your child
not to be a little Austrian?
She will mostly be Austrian.
We don't really plan to raise
her the way our parents raised us.
She needs to fit in here.
We don't want her to end up like us.
I'm Serbian, he's Croatian, and that's it.
We want her to be integrated,
to be a little "Schwabian"
too since she was born here,
with citizenship and all that.
Family is here to help each other.
When you need something.
To be with you when you sing
and when you cry, as they say.
Yes.
-You don't have that.
-No.
That family that knows when
you sing and when you cry,
that's your son.
-I'm very scared.
-No need to be scared.
I'll do it. Hello!
I'm stuck.
-You have to go one step higher.
-Hello!
This is fucking hot.
-Go on!
Don't swear, mum!
-Are we happy or what?
-So nice. I'm so happy.
-Tonight we are eating here.
-No way. Not in my room.
-Should I take it?
-Take it.
-Want half? Or...
-Antonio, you share it out.
-Blanca.
-Blancita. Hey chica, come here.
-How did you meet?
-I didn't say anything.
Oh now... It's not a secret.
She was my coach for the eating disorder.
-For?
-Eating disorder.
-Like some years ago.
-Ok.
We kept in contact.
That's nice. That's very nice.
I am very happy. Yeah.
But, that was already
five years ago, yeah?
I'd say to my granny Lela:
"Granny, you are my Bogo and my Tito."
Bogo was our nickname for God,
and Tito... Tito was just Tito.
My grandmother was 23 years
old when she buried her little baby.
A few days later
her five-year-old son also died.
In 1945, in the postwar chaos of Bosnia,
her husband was killed.
Then she was thrown out of the house.
Once the husband dies
and there are no children,
the wife loses all rights.
That's the old rule.
Inheritance goes through the bloodline.
Since she has no ties through the husband,
husband dead, children dead,
she becomes a stranger.
Yes.
A few years after the death
of her children and her first husband,
my granny married my grandfather,
and in 1950 they had my mother.
When my mum was six years old,
they had a son, Perica.
Perica also died.
He was two months old.
Just like me,
when mum left me with granny.
Dad, did mum ever tell you about
Perica? What do you know?
She told me she had a brother.
He died young.
-She found him dead.
-She found him dead?
Yes. She found him dead.
She saw him dead.
It was traumatic for her.
My grandmother was endlessly kind to me.
I received so much love.
But she wasn't kind to my mother.
-She wasn't kind to your mother?
-No.
My mother had to be "good"
for three dead children.
A mother vanishes when her child dies.
How is that for the grandmother?
-It's too heavy.
-Heavy, yes.
When she gave me these children,
I was confused.
Because she is my child, and not Tatjana.
She is confused.
She thinks that you are her child.
When I was about four years old,
my parents took me back
to live with them in Croatia.
In kindergarten, I was that odd kid
who ate greasy bacon city
kids wouldn't even touch.
And I just cried and cried...
Sometimes while chewing that bacon,
or because I had peed my pants
trying to keep up with my newly
discovered older sister
and her carefree spirit.
But most often because I missed
my granny Lela terribly.
I was looking for Perica's grave.
Because I feel as if...
Because I feel as if...
As if mum... I don't
think she knew it herself.
Remember, I asked her a million times:
"Why did you leave me with
granny and grandad?"
Mum never wanted to talk about it.
I would ask her, I kept nagging her...
I don't know the reason why.
Maybe she felt some kind
of guilt or something else.
I couldn't understand why Sandra
could stay with you, and not me.
Sure.
You compared yourself
and couldn't understand the reasons.
But you always said:
"This was normal back then."
-Or what do you say?
-When mum started working...
The problem was what
to do with two children.
Granny said: "Give her to me."
We gladly accepted, problem solved.
But we also thought
granny Lela also needed someone,
something to keep her busy.
Sandra stayed with you,
so she was the "good" one.
I always felt I wasn't good enough,
that I had to be better, the best.
You're saying: "I didn't belong
to grandparents or to you."
When you're young,
you don't dive so deeply into it.
You're guided by survival,
to get through life, to manage.
And as long as it works,
everything seems fine.
What's behind it, who suffers,
that doesn't even occur to you.
My uncle Bozo now lives alone
in a ghost village in Bosnia.
-When did you move to Austria?
-When Josip was born.
He was one month old.
We're talking how was it for me while
you were in Austria.
-How was it?
-You know how it was.
-He was going to school.
-He has bad hearing.
His task was to go to school.
If mother told
him to do something, he would.
Nothing special about it.
The point is, did Josip miss you?
And what did he expect
when you came home?
We didn't long for sweets
and bananas you were bringing.
We needed something else. A father.
-We had our mother every day.
-I know that.
As children you had this mythical father
who lived somewhere far away,
bringing things...
Exactly, it wasn't about the bicycle...
The only thing important
to them was to get a car.
I just wanted them to be careful.
Weekends they'd be gone,
they were never home.
I said nothing.
That was different.
I was a young man already.
I had other interests.
I was looking for a girlfriend.
But while I was growing up,
he would come on the weekend,
bring us chocolate...
Biscuits, bananas.
We had everything: bicycles, BMX bikes...
Pony bikes... We had them first. Skis...
Everyone else had skis from barrels.
We had proper ski boots and real skis.
We got everything.
But my father wasn't there.
Where is my dad? I needed my dad.
He thought he'd buy things for us kids,
so we wouldn't have to go abroad.
He wanted to prepare it for us.
These huge buildings,
big plans for agriculture.
But then that war came.
A match was lit,
and everything burned down.
His entire life turned to ashes.
All he worked for.
I mean, in the material sense.
But a scar remained on the soul,
of a different kind.
It was so hard. My wife cried,
my mother cried.
My boy was playing outside.
I passed by him.
He said: "Daddy, I didn't kiss you.
" He ran after me.
I kissed him.
If I'd known it'd be this hard,
I'd never have gone abroad.
So we hope that the storm keeps storming.
We hope that the storm keeps storming,
so that Blanca stays
I want her to go.
- You want her to go?
Yes.
-To go to Spain.
-No. She won't stay.
She doesn't want to stay.
She doesn't like us anymore.
-That's not true.
-It's true. It's true.
That's not true. Do you believe that?
-No.
No.
-Good, you go.
-No, I don't think it's good.
I really agree that this very wrong,
the way that I did it
and the way that I communicated,
and the way that I kind of avoided
having this conversation.
To tell you very clear,
I want to spend more time in Spain.
And this way I learned it from you.
Maybe I didn't say I miss you,
but yeah, this feeling that, yeah,
Now you have a boyfriend,
so you say bye bye.
I'm too optimistic.
I thought it will work.
I was also using this situation.
I thought, wow, wonderful.
I'm not alone anymore.
I think...
It feels like that we didn't have
a good base for a friendship.
No.
Having to replace someone,
that's quite something.
That is very hard.
You were an outsider.
Not the same as your sister.
Your sister was with your mother.
You were an outsider.
It doesn't mean there was no love.
But as a child,
you don't have the perspective.
Tell your mother: "This belongs to me.
These two belong to me.
My longing and my not feeling at home."
-Ok.
-Tatjana...
See you again.
Thank you for everything.
Thank you so much, Guillaume.
-Take good care of her.
-And we will see each other.
Yeah, ciao.
Bye!
-My mother is not home yet.
-Where is she?
-Dead.
-That could still be home.
But she died on the same date,
of the same illness, as her mother.
They were both 56. I am now 52.
I want a different fate.
Look at your mother.
Go, slowly, with the feeling,
to your parents.
You see how they're
looking at you, Tatjana?
A little from the side like this.
Now it's all ripping.
This will never straighten out.
OK, like this.
-Is it this one?
-Yes.
-Come, sit here.
-This is an empty reel, dad.
Wait, wait. Where will it stand?
I was wondering the same thing.
-How? Like this?
-There must be another...
-This little stand?
-Not that!
-May I?
-Go ahead.
Maybe we could even turn it on now.
Oh, look how dad's standing.
That time dad was looking
for us and we didn't come.
Where were we? Up in the hills?
Look at your father.
-I want to feel at home.
-I want to feel at home.
-That is my desire.
-That is my desire.
-I want to feel at home in this life.
-I want to feel at home in this life.
Always, when someone asks me, "Where
are you from?" I feel like I'm taken out.
It's the worst question ever. Somewhere,
and I don't know what to answer,
and I started, "What do I answer now?"
First of all, I left because of the war.
We had to go back and we just kind of
continued to migrate to our next country.
After eight years in Switzerland,
I thought to myself,
"It's time to move again."
-Because I feel like...
-Itching.
I kept saying like,
"Let's go somewhere else."
But of course, our son was at the age
where he started going to school,
and everything and everything changed.
The whole life changed with him, actually.
I was here for 12,
13 years until I got a passport,
and always I had this
burden of being a Yugo,
like really this complex of second-rated
citizen or something, right?
And then once I got a passport, Swiss have
this concept of like a Heimatort, right?
So all of the sudden,
they're just like: Zrich.
Like, you know, my Heimatort
is Zrich, and that's it.
Everything else, there's no place
of birth, they just kind of, yeah...
When we had the interview with
the city council, the hardest part for me,
I couldn't sleep for months,
of the question,
why do you want to become a Swiss?
And I was like,
what am I gonna tell them?
I don't wanna lie, I wanna be honest,
but what am I gonna tell them?
The only reason I wanted
to become a Swiss
is because I wanted my son and my husband
and myself to have one passport together.
So I thought, okay, I'm gonna
give Max a home that I don't have.
He should have a home,
he should have a belonging somewhere,
and be able to answer the question
if someone asks him proudly.
So say, I am Swiss.
I would like that it stops here with me,
that I don't give it to him.
-That you don't give it to your son.
-Yeah.
-It has to be under S.
-I don't know the alphabet.
Buzzcocks!
I love Buzzcocks.
I think he has it already better.
But he feels that I don't feel at home.
-Tell him: "I'm letting you go."
-I'm letting you go.
-"To your father."
-To your father.
-"To your half-brother."
-To your half-brother.
-"To your friends."
-To your friends.
-"To Dutch society."
-To Dutch society.
-"I'm letting you go."
-I'm letting you go.
"You don't have to carry my burden."
You must not carry my burden.
-"I carry my own burden."
-I carry my own burden.
Waldemar, look, this is Hunky Dory,
this here is the record.
I've got that.
-Isn't it cool?
-We already have ten Bowie records.
-But this is a great album.
-You love Bowie, buy it for yourself.
When we met, there was no question
whether you'd come to Croatia.
You have another son,
it was just natural that I'd move here.
I came here for you and Waldemar.
No, that's not true.
You came for me and Waldemar,
but also because this
was a country you liked.
At that moment.
With a flat hand.
I mean, there are different things
in the situation where you were in.
There's the location, there's the money,
and there is your son.
And there's me, we, as co-parents
or not co-parents in your opinion,
or at least part of the time.
You are very involved with Waldemar,
and then being there for him.
And then you can say, yeah, of course.
If you're that involved,
it has consequences.
You moved so far away
partly for the nice home.
But the consequence is: you live far away.
You want to be there for your son,
you have a nice home
but you live in isolation.
My first movement at that moment
was saying that something
was wrong with society.
Yeah, and with me.
But there was something wrong with you.
Well, anyway, you blame me that
I didn't take enough care of Waldemar,
so you had no time for anything else.
This idea that I, as a woman,
who took more care of a child,
had to drop my creative profession...
but do you understand this,
this, I mean...
Yeah, but now we go another
layer deeper, eh.
-Yeah, it is not okay!
-We could have, you know...
Even from practical point of view,
we should have stayed together.
Too late!
I mean, this is, you know,
it's such a general truth,
and I don't know if you realize that
but people who divorce,
they go into a poverty trap.
But I'm in a better situation.
I took less care of Waldemar,
and I'm a Dutch man,
so I'm less isolated.
I live here in the city center,
or near the city center,
so I'm in a better situation.
It's Waldemar.
Our son. So I will answer.
-Hey, Waldemar!
-Hey, Waldemar!
-Hello?
-Hello!
I'm also here.
How did maths go?
What? Turn it up!
-Fine.
-Fine?
We're busy here,
and I also have a date later.
A date?
What kind of parents does this kid have?
How is he supposed to grow up like this?
That's what I'm wondering too.
Now that you say it...
Yes. It's totally insane.
Mothers need to have
a life too, you know.
I hope we won't have
to pay for all this in 20 years.
-Probably yes.
-Not for our dating behavior.
But for other kind
of behavior, definitely.
A choice always comes with a price.
If you want a relationship,
if you want to integrate,
then both sides must give something
up to make the new possible.
You have to give up something.
The Dutch also have to give up something
if they really want an inclusive society.
Which is actually the ideal,
and which is the next
evolutionary step of humanity.
That we see everyone else
as our brother or sister,
daughter, granddaughter,
father and mother.
You don't have to hold my hand.
You're 52?
What do you mean?
"But with accent. An accent!
My son is half Dutch,
so going back is not an option.
I want to belong.
How can I feel at home here?
It's up to you.
Dear compatriot...
What a pity that you still
don't feel at home.
I have lived in the Netherlands
for 30 years.
Although I came here as a refugee,
I have never felt inferior.
Let alone not accepted.
I speak Dutch fluently,
also with an accent.
I am well integrated.
The Netherlands
has an individualistic culture."
I've noticed that.
"Most friendships here
are formed in youth."
So people are basically
saying that it's my fault.
Yes.
I don't think you're trying
to be like the Dutch.
-No?
-No.
It's as if you like not belonging.
Maybe that's it. Maybe
you actually don't want to belong,
but rather like being
a bit of an outsider.
Because if you can't
feel at home anywhere,
maybe the problem is in you.
I think that everyone
feels nowhere at home.
Maybe that's impossible.
Maybe people have simply learned
to live with that feeling,
that sometimes they
just don't feel at home.
Everyone has that.
Maybe it's harder for you than
for others. That could be it.
I imagine my mum and my granny
sitting somewhere up there
together, watching me.
Then they say to me:
"Taja, you're not a rootless wanderer.
Home is where the heart is."
"But what if the heart
is in many places?", I ask then.
And then... I don't know.
I can't hear them.
And the two of them just keep smiling.
When will you come?
Come on, Loulou!
-When are you coming back, sweetie?
-When I'm done skating.
-Around nine, ten.
-OK.
-Buy yourself something to eat then.
-OK.
Loulou!
Loulou! She left. Give mum a kiss.
Love you.
Bye-bye! Enjoy.
Where's that dog now?
Loulou!
Loulou, come here.
Look who's come to visit us!