Slovenia
By some estimates one-sixth of Europe's Slovenes emigrated to the United States between 1880 and 1920. It's a hard number to capture since there was no country of Slovenia at the time, and many were identified as other nationalities. On various immigration and census records, my grandmother's parents were identified as Italians or Austrians. Other emigres were called Croats, or the generic Slavs.
In actuality, both Anna Renar and Rudolph Zavnik were from this little village.
As "Austrians" their birthplace was Gabria. Some of the tombstones in the little cemetery had other spellings, like Gabrijah on one priest's grave from 1895.
No matter how it is spelled, or what country happened to occupy it in history, this is our ancestry.
More after the jump
I was very fortunate to connect with some of my distant Zavnik cousins living in Slovenia. There's quite a bit of contact between the American branch and the Slovenian and Trieste branches, with Christmas cards exchanged and the occasional visits among the older generations. They were very happy to meet us in Trieste and then drive us around Slovenia.
My aunt Susan made a similar trip in 1988. It was a very different time for the region as it was still Yugoslavia, though only a few years later Slovenia would wage a ten-day war for their independence. Since then, Slovenia has experienced fantastic economic growth, bolstered by tourism, the wine industry, and the growing manufacturing sector (the reason we were supposed to go to Slovenia in the first place). I'm sure it will be interesting to compare the photos I have from earlier this month with Susan's from more than twenty years ago.
This was one of the old Zavnik houses. The window on the far left is where the door once was, and on the first floor they ran a small store. I know I was expecting something more neglected.
And this is the ancestral church, St. Martin Church. According to the historical marker placed there (that was in Slovenian and English), this building is believed to be the third church built in the village. The first, a wooden structure, was replaced by a stone building. When this church was deemed to be too small, a larger church was built next to it. When this happened is unclear as this is from oral histories. What is known is that the bell tower was built in 1656, and St. Martin was refurbished and enlarged to its current size in 1670. There are two bells in the tower, the older one from 1399 and the newer one is from 1938, a turbulent time for the region, with inscriptions in both Italian and Slovene.
It was locked, so we could not get inside. But just being there, in a place where generations of my ancestors have been baptized, married, and buried was unlike anything I have ever experienced before. Quietly grateful, perhaps.
We went from there to the cemetery, separate from the town. The traditional grave-tending holiday for Slovenes is November 1, All Saints' Day. Usually my cousins go to Gaberje to observe the holiday, but with their busy lives in a city about an hour and a half a way, they have not been able to keep it every year recently. They were happy to be able to perform this duty while we visited. The cemetery was full of Zavnik graves, as well as a few Renar. This cemetery dates to the second half of the 19th century to today.
I was really interested in comparing how the former Communist government of Yugoslavia treated November 1 and the tending of graves with how it has been in China. I described to them how for years in China it was illegal to observe Tomb Sweeping Day, how it had been declared superstitious. In only the last few years, I told them, has the government changed its policy, first permitting the observance and now recognizing the tradition with an official holiday in the spring. They were shocked a government would do that. Even under the Communists there, burial rites were not restricted.
On the other side of the cemetery, away from the village, was this beautiful little shrine of St. Anthony.
Similar shrines were actually all over the outskirts of the village. There was one my Aunt Sue specifically told me to find, but unfortunately I didn't see it.
This one dedicated to The Holy Family, though, was also quite lovely.
Walking back up the hill from the cemetery we went to the old school house. This has been rebuilt and restored many times over the years, especially after World War II, but it is where my ancestors were educated as children.
Next to the school was the World War II memorial, remembering the local casualties of the war. This includes my grandmother's cousin on her mother's side, Olga Renar.
The youngest generation of cousins with us, two brothers in their late twenties-early thirties, were a little (but not rudely) amused at our wanting to see this place, tracing every name with my finger, follow every footstep between the old house, the church and the school, hanging on his father's every word (or at least their translation) of where the well was, where the vineyards were, where anything was at a time before we found ourselves in this adorable, freshly painted village in Slovenia in 2011. For them, it was a place their parents grew up, where they came every November 1 as a family to replace the old flowers on graves and visit old people. I imagined that it was probably fun for then when they were Myles' age, with lots of open spaces to run, a creek to swim in, and trees to climb. Probably as they got older, it was a place they cared less and less about, the holiday trip taking them away from other activities and friends. Now young, unmarried men, with a growing business to manage, they come infrequently.
But they got it. They understood. "This really means a lot to you, doesn't it?"
We left Gaberje, going down the road, where a sign told us that we were, in fact, no longer in Gaberje.
Lunch was at a gorgeous guest house serving Slovenian/Italian food and local wines.
When I posted this picture on Twitter with the caption describing it as made from grapes once tended by my ancestors, one of my friends commented back that while I missed getting inside the ancestral church, I did not miss getting the ancestral wine inside of me.
Following lunch, we went to the famous Postojna Cave, a must-see in that part of Slovenia according to my cousins. They were right, and it was a perfect fit for our family. We have grown to enjoy caves, and Myles has recently become interested in geology as a field related to paleontology.
This is the actual entrance to the cave, though it is now gated and there's a different way in for the tours.
Photographs were not permitted through most of the cave to protect the continued rock growth. Camera flash apparently aids in the growth of green bacteria colonies in the cave, which then impedes the natural processes of the caves.
The tour began with a rapid train ride descending into the cave, an hour-plus walk that winds through the cave in something like a figure-8, and then a train ride back to the beginning. There was a lot to see, even in our rushed tour group. Myles' favorite part was the Spaghetti Room. I wish I had a photograph. Basically in this one cavern the stalactites were so long, fine, and slender that it really did resemble thousands of stands of spaghetti hanging from the ceiling. There are pictures on the website, some that show this phenomenon. Another feature of the tour is an aquarium with the Olm in it. Also called the "human fish," this salamander has adapted amazingly to cave living: light skin, virtually blind, and can eat as seldom as once every ten years.
At the end of the tour, photos are allowed, but the rocks that are there are not nearly as thrilling as in the rest of the cave.
It was a brilliant day, and something we hope to do again in the future. It was a very rare opportunity for us, as Americans, to connect with a past that existed before we were Americans, and yet continues in parallel for others to this day. In Trieste and in Slovenia, I wondered what could have happened if my great-grandparents could have stayed. "See? They have it pretty good now, those that remained behind." But of course, I'm only meeting they who survived World War I, the anti-Slav campaigns of the Italians, the Nazi occupation, and Tito's Yugoslavia. I'm looking at my 30-year-old cousin's new Volvo sedan and the vineyards climbing the green hillsides, not necessarily at the names on memorials and the absences created by the 20th century. Not to mention how the heck would I be obnoxiously proud to be half-Irish if my great-grandparents never emigrated from their homeland.
I thought a lot about the waves of Overseas Chinese that have been coming to China, for many reasons and for varying lengths of time. Of Leslie Chang, who wrote about this in Factory Girls so memorably:
In actuality, both Anna Renar and Rudolph Zavnik were from this little village.
As "Austrians" their birthplace was Gabria. Some of the tombstones in the little cemetery had other spellings, like Gabrijah on one priest's grave from 1895.
No matter how it is spelled, or what country happened to occupy it in history, this is our ancestry.
More after the jump
I was very fortunate to connect with some of my distant Zavnik cousins living in Slovenia. There's quite a bit of contact between the American branch and the Slovenian and Trieste branches, with Christmas cards exchanged and the occasional visits among the older generations. They were very happy to meet us in Trieste and then drive us around Slovenia.
My aunt Susan made a similar trip in 1988. It was a very different time for the region as it was still Yugoslavia, though only a few years later Slovenia would wage a ten-day war for their independence. Since then, Slovenia has experienced fantastic economic growth, bolstered by tourism, the wine industry, and the growing manufacturing sector (the reason we were supposed to go to Slovenia in the first place). I'm sure it will be interesting to compare the photos I have from earlier this month with Susan's from more than twenty years ago.
This was one of the old Zavnik houses. The window on the far left is where the door once was, and on the first floor they ran a small store. I know I was expecting something more neglected.
And this is the ancestral church, St. Martin Church. According to the historical marker placed there (that was in Slovenian and English), this building is believed to be the third church built in the village. The first, a wooden structure, was replaced by a stone building. When this church was deemed to be too small, a larger church was built next to it. When this happened is unclear as this is from oral histories. What is known is that the bell tower was built in 1656, and St. Martin was refurbished and enlarged to its current size in 1670. There are two bells in the tower, the older one from 1399 and the newer one is from 1938, a turbulent time for the region, with inscriptions in both Italian and Slovene.
It was locked, so we could not get inside. But just being there, in a place where generations of my ancestors have been baptized, married, and buried was unlike anything I have ever experienced before. Quietly grateful, perhaps.
We went from there to the cemetery, separate from the town. The traditional grave-tending holiday for Slovenes is November 1, All Saints' Day. Usually my cousins go to Gaberje to observe the holiday, but with their busy lives in a city about an hour and a half a way, they have not been able to keep it every year recently. They were happy to be able to perform this duty while we visited. The cemetery was full of Zavnik graves, as well as a few Renar. This cemetery dates to the second half of the 19th century to today.
I was really interested in comparing how the former Communist government of Yugoslavia treated November 1 and the tending of graves with how it has been in China. I described to them how for years in China it was illegal to observe Tomb Sweeping Day, how it had been declared superstitious. In only the last few years, I told them, has the government changed its policy, first permitting the observance and now recognizing the tradition with an official holiday in the spring. They were shocked a government would do that. Even under the Communists there, burial rites were not restricted.
On the other side of the cemetery, away from the village, was this beautiful little shrine of St. Anthony.
Similar shrines were actually all over the outskirts of the village. There was one my Aunt Sue specifically told me to find, but unfortunately I didn't see it.
This one dedicated to The Holy Family, though, was also quite lovely.
Walking back up the hill from the cemetery we went to the old school house. This has been rebuilt and restored many times over the years, especially after World War II, but it is where my ancestors were educated as children.
Next to the school was the World War II memorial, remembering the local casualties of the war. This includes my grandmother's cousin on her mother's side, Olga Renar.
The youngest generation of cousins with us, two brothers in their late twenties-early thirties, were a little (but not rudely) amused at our wanting to see this place, tracing every name with my finger, follow every footstep between the old house, the church and the school, hanging on his father's every word (or at least their translation) of where the well was, where the vineyards were, where anything was at a time before we found ourselves in this adorable, freshly painted village in Slovenia in 2011. For them, it was a place their parents grew up, where they came every November 1 as a family to replace the old flowers on graves and visit old people. I imagined that it was probably fun for then when they were Myles' age, with lots of open spaces to run, a creek to swim in, and trees to climb. Probably as they got older, it was a place they cared less and less about, the holiday trip taking them away from other activities and friends. Now young, unmarried men, with a growing business to manage, they come infrequently.
But they got it. They understood. "This really means a lot to you, doesn't it?"
We left Gaberje, going down the road, where a sign told us that we were, in fact, no longer in Gaberje.
Lunch was at a gorgeous guest house serving Slovenian/Italian food and local wines.
When I posted this picture on Twitter with the caption describing it as made from grapes once tended by my ancestors, one of my friends commented back that while I missed getting inside the ancestral church, I did not miss getting the ancestral wine inside of me.
Following lunch, we went to the famous Postojna Cave, a must-see in that part of Slovenia according to my cousins. They were right, and it was a perfect fit for our family. We have grown to enjoy caves, and Myles has recently become interested in geology as a field related to paleontology.
This is the actual entrance to the cave, though it is now gated and there's a different way in for the tours.
Photographs were not permitted through most of the cave to protect the continued rock growth. Camera flash apparently aids in the growth of green bacteria colonies in the cave, which then impedes the natural processes of the caves.
The tour began with a rapid train ride descending into the cave, an hour-plus walk that winds through the cave in something like a figure-8, and then a train ride back to the beginning. There was a lot to see, even in our rushed tour group. Myles' favorite part was the Spaghetti Room. I wish I had a photograph. Basically in this one cavern the stalactites were so long, fine, and slender that it really did resemble thousands of stands of spaghetti hanging from the ceiling. There are pictures on the website, some that show this phenomenon. Another feature of the tour is an aquarium with the Olm in it. Also called the "human fish," this salamander has adapted amazingly to cave living: light skin, virtually blind, and can eat as seldom as once every ten years.
At the end of the tour, photos are allowed, but the rocks that are there are not nearly as thrilling as in the rest of the cave.
It was a brilliant day, and something we hope to do again in the future. It was a very rare opportunity for us, as Americans, to connect with a past that existed before we were Americans, and yet continues in parallel for others to this day. In Trieste and in Slovenia, I wondered what could have happened if my great-grandparents could have stayed. "See? They have it pretty good now, those that remained behind." But of course, I'm only meeting they who survived World War I, the anti-Slav campaigns of the Italians, the Nazi occupation, and Tito's Yugoslavia. I'm looking at my 30-year-old cousin's new Volvo sedan and the vineyards climbing the green hillsides, not necessarily at the names on memorials and the absences created by the 20th century. Not to mention how the heck would I be obnoxiously proud to be half-Irish if my great-grandparents never emigrated from their homeland.
I thought a lot about the waves of Overseas Chinese that have been coming to China, for many reasons and for varying lengths of time. Of Leslie Chang, who wrote about this in Factory Girls so memorably:
China calls them home--with the weight of its tradition, the richness of its language, with its five thousand years of history that sometimes seems to be one repeating cycle of tragedy and suffering. The pull of China is so strong, which is why I resisted it for so long.While I think life in Slovenia might be fine, I don't feel that same pull, that same compulsion, that Chang describes for many Overseas Chinese. I would like to return to Slovenia again, and document more completely the family's history. I would also like to go to Ireland, the tracks of that branch of my family already well known by some of my American relatives. But neither place calls to me like China seems to to that Diaspora. I wondered if, once in Slovenia, I would feel something like that, and I did not. I wouldn't dismiss living there as an expat; that certainly sounds better to me than our current situation. I've dreamed of visiting, and would like to again someday. I feel the connection, but not the longing to belong.
Comments
A large number of Byzantine rite slavs who came here wound up returning to Orthodoxy because the Latin rite bishops treated them so poorly. There were stories of priests who came here with their villages, only be told either to return to the old country, or to send their wives back, because a married priest would scandalize the Latin rite Catholics. It is a sad story.
Of the ones that stayed Catholic, many of their grandchildren moved to the suburbs and became Latin rite.
I attend a little Ruthenian Catholic church, even though I am not of that origin (not "nas," they would say.) I love being able to worship in the Byzantine rite as a Catholic, and am sad that this is such a small part of American Catholicism, when it was such a large part of Slavic Catholicism.
Susan Peterson
Bohemia is similar, a Slavic region with Latin Rite churches