The more often I think of Motovun, which keeps popping up in my mind with growing signs of spring, the more often I remember that I am only a furešt there, to use the Istrian word for “foreigner” (“Straight from the Forest,” April 13, 2009). By the way, that is the verdict of not a few people in and around the hilltown. Egged on by those in power, they have succumbed to the insult all too gladly. Although I have long accepted my fate, the Istrian word still grates in my mind. As I wrote years ago, I could only be glad that my parents were dead when I was called a foreigner in the land of our ancestors (“Luckily for My Parents,” October 29, 2008). And by mere newcomers by any serious historical standards, too. At any rate, I keep calling myself a furešt in preparation for my return. Which I do so as to lessen the pain of hearing the accursed word from someone else’s mouth, of course. “Furešt, furešt, furešt,” I keep insulting myself as I walk around Zagreb. “Furešt, furešt, furešt…”

Addendum I (March 9, 2012)

Egged on by those in power, as I claim? Indeed. I was called furešt at the meeting concerned with the spatial or physical plan of Motovun, which took place on October 21, 2008. The mayor of Motovun led the meeting. It was the leading people of the Istrian political party in power that introduced the insulting word, too. And it took off, as witnessed by Masa Jerin’s article in Glas Istre (The Voice of Istria) on October 24, 2008. Entitled “Furešts versus the Locals,” it tells it all. Marina Kelava’s “Moral Bankruptcy of Local Community,” which appeared on the H-Alter website (www.h-alter.org) on October 30, 2008, says it all in the very title. Of course, I wrote about all this to the members of Motovun - Eco Town, an association concerned with sustainable development of Motovun, a day after the meeting (“The Mayor and His Stooges: An Electronic-Mail Message to the Members of Motovun - Eco Town,” October 22, 2008). A day later I resigned the presidency of the association (“My Resignation,” October 23, 2008). So many years later, I am still reeling from the experience. As witnessed by this piece, the Istrian word for “foreigner” is lodged deep in my heart. And all I had in mind at the time was to protect the local community from excessive development associated with golf and polo, which were enshrined in the spatial or physical plan of the municipality discussed at the meeting. Months later I learned that excessive development was a part of a scam going all the way to the top of the Croatian political system (“Croatians as Foreign Investors in Croatia: A Letter to Croatian President Stjepan Mesić,” August 30, 2009). Note the word “foreign” in my letter. Enough, though. As I walk around Zagreb, I keep insulting myself in preparation for my return to Motovun: “Furešt, furešt, furešt…”

Addendum II (March 13, 2012)

I did think about taking the mayor of Motovun to court for insult, for he did nothing to stop his stooges from calling me a furešt at the fateful meeting, but I decided against it in the end. His first lawsuit came some three weeks after that meeting (“Welcome to Motovun!” November 13, 2008). Less than two months later came another lawsuit, this time from the Municipality of Motovun, but with his blessing (“Merrily into 2009!” January 2, 2009). Both were for libel, though. And both were for the same piece of writing posted on my Residua website (“Croatia Spells Conflict of Interests,” October 3, 2008). A year later came the third and last lawsuit (“A Complete and Total Cockroach,” October 27, 2009). It was the second from the mayor, this time for insult. As the misery piled up, I often thought of my decision not to file a lawsuit for insult myself, but it was too late for that. According to the Croatian law, there are only three months for legal action, and the mayor knows the law. At any rate, I remain a furešt forever. And in the land of my ancestors going back some five centuries at least.

Addendum III (March 5, 2013)

Once again, the growing signs of spring bring Motovun to mind ever more often. Predictably, my sorry status there is popping up in my thoughts with growing alarm. For I am only a furešt there. Many locals, and especially those in power, including the mayor himself, have their origins in Međimurje on the Austrian and Hungarian borders, after all. Brought to the deserted hilltown soon after World War II, they could not care less about my Venetian origins. So be it, though. But I still have to keep reminding myself of my status as I walk around Zagreb: “Furešt, furešt, furešt…”