There are three sides to every story. Your side, their side, and the truth.

Anonymous

Active — sobriety, friendship and peace is a European youth organizationgathering 25.000 young people who have decided to live sober. We consi-der alcohol consumption an obstacle for development of individuals andsociety. There is too much harm caused by alcohol. We think we can con-tribute to improvement of living quality of individuals in different socie-ties by abstaining from drinking.Active with its 500+ youth groups and 25.000+ members offers a safe and al-cohol free environment where children of addicts can learn to be childrenagain, experience friendship and trust. By this Active breaks the chain to re-produce the alcohol problem into the next generation.We are promoting alcohol free life style and offering an alternative tothose who do not accept alcohol as a natural part of our cultures.

BAD TIME STORIESEditor: Kristina Sperkova

This book is published with the help of grants from

Council of Europe and European Commission

© by Active — sobriety, friendship and peace

Layout: Olaf Jobmann

Cover illustration: Kristina Sperkova

Printed in Slovakia, 2010Printed by: Webprint s.r.o, Slovakia

www.activeeurope.org

These pages are echoes of your stories

Foreword

The book you are holding in your hands right now, the title of which youmight be wondering about, asking yourself whether there is a spelling mi-stake in it or whether the title was really supposed to be that provocative,consists of two parts that are interwoven. One part is the "Bad time stories"and the other one is "Under way".

"Under way", which opens the whole book, is like a way that connects va-rious towns and villages that have already been there. "Under way" wasbuilt additionally, exactly the same way as roads that people build whenthey discover that there are other places to see but to reach them mightbe complicated. We have created "Under way" to be able to travel fromone true story to another.

"Bad time stories" is a collection of true stories. "Bad time stories" are nobedtime stories. "Bad time stories" is a collection of stories that not manypeople will read before falling asleep. "Bad time stories" is a unique andvery important collection of stories that are not unique. Unfortunatelythey are not. "Bad time stories" are stories about violence and fear, aboutregrets and ignorance, about loneliness and disillusionment that we canfind in all parts of society. "Bad time stories" need to be spread, so morepeople understand that they are not alone.

The idea of this book came together with the idea of having the campaign"Content matters". The aim of this campaign was to offer space to peopleto express their views on youth participation and on role of youth in theprevention of violence.

All the people caught by the idea of "Content matters" had the opportu-nity to publish their stories, pictures and slogans on the campaign's web-page http://contentmatters.activeeurope.org. Seven winning pictureswere printed out as stickers, and many of the texts and pictures collectedare connected to each other. We were told about violence of different

5

Ida Braaten, Norway

7

kinds - violence outside, violence behind the walls of so called homes, vio-lence between individuals and violent pressure of society forcing certainnorms on all of us without questioning the consequences. We got to listenabout reality that is often unspoken, be it for reasons of taboo, kindness ordiscomfort, and we have given it a voice in the form of this book.

The following pages carry the stories about civil courage and standing upto the norm. They bring the examples of active participation that each andeveryone can get involved in regardless of the specific issue of engage-ment. True stories. The stories, which are going on out there, but do notbecome headlines of the evening TV news. The stories, which bear theirheroes who are not remembered and archived together with the popularmagazines.

We are happy that we have managed to capture this reality and compressit into these pages so we are now able to share with you a tale that startsin a narrow street with no exits but slowly broadens with each person whocares until it reaches a crossroad of hopes and conscious choices.

If all of us understood the importance of our actions that often are seen asinsignificant in the complex machinery of happenings, "Bad time stories"could also promise a spirit of a bedtime story, a happy ending of a good-night tale.

Kristina Sperkova

6

Annika, Faroe Islands

"Under way"

"Just because it's everywhere, it does not mean it belongs there"

The entire world seems to be on the road, always out and about. Each andevery person seems to be headed somewhere. "Under way".

Every step we take is meant to be a step into the future, is meant tobring us closer to something that lies ahead. What is that something? Iwalk through the streets, shopping malls and marketplaces, I wait at busstops and train stations and I find myself in the midst of yet another waveof people on yet another airport and everywhere I witness, eye-witness,the same faces, the same gestures, the same attitudes: underway. Hurry-ing ahead. And as I find myself in the middle of a crowd, mass, a mess ofpeople, all trying to enter the metro first, I am being flushed back andforth, here and there by the people who hurry ahead into the metro,ahead with the metro, ahead from the metro, ahead to the future, tosomething in the future. What is that something? As I am flushed around,pushed, punched and prodded by yet another mass of people, I happen tosee the faces clearly for an instant: they, too, have question marks ontheir foreheads, question marks in their frowns, question marks in theireyes, unsure of what that something is. Uncertainty goes away when wehead somewhere. We might not know where, but at least we are underway. I came to realize this during that insignificant instant when I wasdrawn into a metro although I was heading into the opposite direction.

Last Tuesday I stopped being under way. But first I was forced to be un-derway when the metro machine swallowed me together with all theother question marks and flushed me into the opposite direction I origi-nally was heading. Last Tuesday. The machine soon started to spit outmore and more people; every time its doors opened like mechanic startingsignals and gave way for the next stage of the hazy hurry. I was proddedonce more, this time into a free seat. There I sat, suddenly, with my shoul-

98

Sasa, Slovakia

Longing Story

This is going to be a longer story.Or better: A Longing Story.

"You are sitting on a bench in thepark, it is getting dark already, but stillthe sun gives her last few warm beamsto the earth. You can feel it as you canfeel the soft breeze and hear the birds'gentle songs. You are totally relaxed;every muscle of your body is loosening as you concentrate on your own re-gular and calm breath. At the moment you are feeling nothing but securityand well-being. You are getting tired and it is not a bad feeling, you wel-come it, you sense how you are losing yourself in this moment and you letit happen. You are not afraid of letting go of your consciousness. You easeup as you hear my words; you ease up and fall back in time."

She was sitting on the rough, cold floor in her apartment. The only lightcame from a single candle, since she could not pay the bills anymore. Shealso could not afford to buy food or something to drink and, to be more pre-cise, this actually was not her apartment anymore. The clothes she worewere old and rigid by dirt. The only thing that was not messy and brokenwas her little notebook, which she used as a diary and sometimes justnoted her soul in it. She opened it; the first page contained a letter, one ofseveral pieces of paper. "To Elizabeth Asbury, my daughter, the beautifulyoung lady, she has become!" it read. She swallowed at the thought of herfather. Or the person she had called "father". Ellie blackened her namefrom the letter and wrote: Ellie Buried. She gave her new name a sarcasticsmile. That was brilliant, not only because her mother hated it when herfriends called her Ellie, but even more because it looked and sounded like"A lie buried"- which, in her case, was actually true. Her smile faded slowly

11

ders aching. Fearful I looked at my watch and realized that I wouldn'tmake it to the meeting. I checked the watch on my mobile phone to be en-tirely sure. Isn't it strange that with this huge and growing amount oftime-showing devices, we in fact have less and less time? I dwelt a littleon that thought and looked through the window at the world. It was a Tu-esday and I realized that I had travelled that way before. With mygrandpa, actually. Where did we go? And when was that again? As I tried toremember, I surrendered to my fate and got more comfortable on theseat. The metro was almost empty now and started feeling cosy. Still try-ing to excavate memories in my head, I found interest in a newspaper onthe seat next to me, but when I picked it up some pale, old rags of paperended up in my hands. They really caught my curiosity and so I started rea-ding:

10

When you're young you’re

supposed to have fun,

not give yourself

toxic and stun.

Mari (20), N

orway

Marie, Germany

her skin. She still did not realize what she read, this was so unreal, shecould not comprehend what all these words meant, written in the mostbeautiful handwriting she had ever known.

As Ellie looked up she realized where she was. Sometimes she thoughtthat something - or someone? - had dragged her here. With a sigh she fol-lowed slowly the narrow path through the graveyard to where her fatherlay, and sat down. The pale moonlight illuminated the dark letters engra-ved into the marble stone and Ellie realized that it must be really seldomthat someone was able to marvel at the beauty of a loved one's grave bey-ond the lachrymal curtain of mourning. This was so absurd. Her fatherhardly ever treated her okay, but still: here she was, sad and incrediblyangry. Sore and grieving. She remembered the burial well, this unbearablevariety of feelings, like the unlimited possibilities of colours a prism wasable to create. Only that Ellie's feelings were just a thousand different sha-des of grey. And after everything her father had done, after all she hadbeen through, she so wanted him to be with her in this particular momentthat it tore her heart apart. She pulled her notebook out of her pocket andwrote:

If you see me crying And walking down the street, Then please stop trying To tell me what I need Cause I'll never be flying Be the one who angels meet And I'd rather stop trying To get back up on my feet

Ellie's words, although only a whisper, cut the bone-crushing silence: "I am tired of detesting you for making my life a constant World War

13

as she wrote by the bare candlelight: Sitting in the dark Waiting (for what?) Wasting my life Feeling lonely Without really being it (that's me)

Remaining in the Silence Waiting (what for?) Wasting my strength To grief Without really having to (that's me)

Fading in Fear Waiting (for what?) Suffocating my tears By repressing Without really knowing it (that's me)

Good lord, she really was lonely, was she not? She closed her notebook witha snap. Ellie needed to get out of there, needed to feel that she was alive.

A few minutes later she was on the road - again. At this particular mo-ment she appreciated the full moon, spreading his cold, coaxing lightaround her, showing her the way. Lost in her thoughts she was not aware ofwhere she was going and the nightmarish feeling of killing loneliness re-sted upon her shoulders. After a while she dug out the letters and picturesher father left her- again. Ellie read as she was walking, or better walkedas she was reading, and she still tried to fight back her tears, which wereconstantly running down her cheeks like little smithereens of glass slicing

12

She stared looking down into the river and memories, that made her feelat home, passed her mind, like the river's water flowed, following therough tide.

She saw her father's face in her inner eye as she jumped and finally, fi-nally felt the peace of mind which she so had been longing for since the lastdesperate weeks. In this moment the world dissolved and every burden shehad to bear was lightening and finally disappearing. The second before herbody would dash against the icy water she felt love and was ready to seeher father again, not knowing that an ambulance was already on the way.

Marie (22), Germany

This honest and naked story caught and captured me. I missed the stop to getoff and change for a metro back into the city. All the plans, the entire schedulefor that day, last Tuesday, had to be thrown overboard. But somehow, surpri-singly, I didn't feel annoyed, stressed, disappointed about the world and an-xious about the missed meeting and the growing items on my enormous/moun-tainous to-do pile. The metro had transformed from a transport machine intoa time machine for me, offering space for perspective. What was it that I hadjust read? How was that girl today? Was that a real story? Did the girl really sur-vive? And how many people out there in the world which I was looking atthrough a metro window would have to experience similar things? And why,why couldn't, or worse, didn't anybody help her see a way out from the one-waystreet she must have felt walking along?

My thoughts started spinning and swirling high and wide. For a magical whilethey were flowing into all possible directions, but the metro became transportmachine again, cold and hostile with people elbowing their way through, pus-hing themselves into seats, into my seat, into my thoughts. Our world of hur-ried heading towards a something chases moments of reflection away. We only

15

three, you know, and the way you treated me. Whenever I am in rage aboutyour cowardice, your inability to face your life, my memory of your drun-ken breath, I see you lying on your deathbed, telling me over and overagain that you love me and that you are sorry. What now? Too late to besorry?

I am tired of the doubtfulness you left in me. You could be so awesomeand the next day so brutally disgustful. You knew so much, but often youweren't even able to speak. Sometimes you made it so easy for me to loveyou, like a daughter should love her father, but at the same time I neededto hate you or otherwise I would have lost my mind.

You taught me a lot, but continuously you took so much from me. You know, I tried to meditate today, as you taught me to, and I actually

heard your gentle voice inside my head, but then reality snapped me upviolently, and it felt as if I was losing you again.

I am tired of all the unanswered questions you left behind and I am actu-ally tired of fighting, so I'll just give up. Although you were hardly ever afather to me, at least you loved me. I appreciate that after all, but youhave to understand that I cannot do this anymore, since the worst thing isthat I am more and more tired of living. So I am sorry, but this has to cometo an end in order for me not to hurt myself again."

Ellie stood up and laid her notebook on her father's grave, knowing thathe would take care of it. Next to it she placed a bottle of his favorite whis-key to mock him, whispered: 'Cheers, dad', and slowly walked away. Withevery step that carried her further away from her father she felt more andmore delighted. This was a good decision, Ellie was sure. People felt thatmuch safer in the world when they had an aim they could try to reach.

When Ellie reached the bridge where she had always gone for a walk withher father in the good, dry times, she finally felt something similar to hap-piness, because she had reached her aim for today - almost.

14

Shame

Do you know the feeling of total freedom? I find it seldom, but there havebeen moments in my life when I felt this total abundance of freedom. I feltit in my hair on a crystal white snowboard slope; I felt in the moment whenthe ball that I shot hit the net; and I also felt it biking, free-handed biking,because my arms were stretched out to embrace the world, the entire uni-verse, and as my arms were reaching out, my body was upright and myhead turned to the sky, I was rolling, flowing, gliding with my bike throughthe world, with my bike to all my dreams. That's one of those magic mo-ments of total freedom.

I came from the library one chilly autumn day. I had found interestingbooks and read new thoughts which made me so happy and lightheartedthat I felt like biking freehand. I was biking through the park where I usu-ally play football, close to home. So I had everything under control. All mysenses were enjoying the abundance of freedom and lightheartedness.Until I saw a gang of three guys taking up the entire way. I knew them. Theyhung out on the football ground where children can play and where theyleave broken glass of their booze behind. Careless. I knew them. It is thoseguys who are so afraid of the world that they cling to the backstabbinghands of beer and vodka bottles, to at least get hold of something in thisworld. Also that day they walked down the bikeway with their bottles ofcheap beer, beer cheaper than water.

In our society there is not much space for magic moments and so I prepa-red to bike around them. They did not seem to be getting out of the way.From a near distance they started hissing at me. I figured they had recog-nized me. Too late did I realize that they were actually launching themsel-ves at me. In an attempt to avoid one guy from pushing me from my bike Iwent to the grass in a big curve, but he came running and pushed me frommy bike. I fell from the bike and rolled over the lawn. But the guys werenot done yet. Now they wanted money from me or a mobile phone. While

17

see ourselves and leave little room to see others. It became clear to me so-mewhere in between two metro stops, so clear that it felt astonishing that Ihad never realized it before. And so, last Tuesday, I did something else unusual,unfamiliar: I got off the hazy hurry, got off the metro machine one stop earlier.I decided to walk home, slowly, but with clear thoughts. I walked calmly andcontent, more focussed on the story than on the way: Why could that girl notfind help? This question circled in my head, appeared and disappeared and ap-peared again with stronger urgency: Why did the girl from the story not gethelp? Without having noticed it, I had entered the park where I used to playbasketball, where I and my sister would train together and where I would meetfriends. And suddenly I remembered an event that I myself had experiencedway back in adolescence, which all the hurrying had buried under its musts andhave-to's:

16

I want people to like me for who I really am,

not for who I am drunk.Däden (24), Switzerland

None came to help. In the middle of the city.Moments of total freedom have made me experience what can be possi-

ble. They made me see what I can do. In that moment of shame I saw intothe grand canyon of our world, miles deep where morale and solidarity areforever buried. Because the truth is that there are more young, too youngpeople out there. Alcohol in their hands makes them become time bombs.The truth is that there are worse cases out there, where perpetrators notonly jump on wheels and lights, but on chests and necks and arms. Andpeople stand by. In the middle of the city. I feel shame.

Maik Dünnbier (24), Europe

In that moment, in the middle of the park from my adolescence, in themiddle of the day, last Tuesday, those stories felt connected. My own ex-perience was fresh again and I could feel the emotions surfacing. As theydid, I felt a connection to the girl from the diary. All we are silent seekerson the search for help or support or a caring word. Aren't we? This que-stion was ringing in my mind and I tried to find answers in the buildingsaround me. High buildings, grey, with windows like cold eyes, empty eyesand balconies gazing at me like open mouths. Also the buildings carriedquestion marks, like the people at the metro station, in the metro, in theworld, and they made me wonder what was going on behind the walls, be-hind the windows. Maybe there were answers. Maybe there was caring,comfort or support, a refuge for at least a few of us seekers? Out of theblue of my wondering my thoughtful eyes were struck by a tearful pair ofeyes. And for the fraction of a second, until I blinked, it felt like they toldme their story and, in doing so, found comfort for the eternity of a mo-ment:

19

getting back up on my feet I said that I had neither. One guy started to at-tack me by pushing me backwards. I could see the alcohol in his eyes! Theother two were backing him up, with beer bottles in their hands. I figuredthat there was no point in getting into a real fight, so I let him push mearound. Again and again. Finally they got tired of this. I was no streetfighting material. But my bike seemed like a perfect victim for their drun-ken courage. While one guy started to leave, the other two started jum-ping on my bike; on the wheels and the frame; on the lights and the chain;I stood by. Shocked more than afraid.

And then I started to look around. It was day time, late afternoon, in themiddle of a park that lies in the middle of the city. There were actuallypeople around. There were people watching from a few balconies. Therewere those who came from shopping and those who came from work. Andin that moment, when the realization struck me, that there were peoplearound, I felt as alone as never before and never after. My bike got ruined.My clothes got dirty and torn. Otherwise I was fine. Shaking, but fine. Sha-king and alone. I took my bike on my shoulder and went home. Defeated -not by the drunken bricks, but by society. I felt shame rising in me and withshame in my eyes I looked at the people who had witnessed the scene.

18

Maik, Europe

I walked, wandered more and greeted a friend on his bike, but was not reallywith him. I thought of the story of this pair of eyes I had just seen. We see somany things, every day, day in, day out, but only of few things do we try tomake sense. On that last Tuesday I tried to make sense of the pair of eyes thattalked to me, but then I heard two men on a nearby playground screaming ateach other. It was impossible to understand what they were arguing about.However, it was clear that they were about to get violent. In those momentsI used to feel pity for myself, for only being able to afford a place in such acheap area and for the disgusting scenes I had come to witness. But on thatday, last Tuesday, I felt how minor, how unimportant my tiny, selfish worrieswere, because I had the diary pages on my mind, because I had communica-ted for the fraction of a second with this pair of eyes. I believe they all ope-ned a door to my memory that is usually held closed in all the hurrying andthe heading to something. A memory of my friend from school surfaced likethe feelings from the attack on me in this very same park. I decided to sitdown and let the process of remembering take its course:

21

I used to have a wet pillow

I used to cry. I used to cry a lot. I used to cry when you were not home. Worrying that

the big storm outside would hurt you while you were out with your friends.I used to cry, worried WHEN you would come home. Worried how you wouldbehave. Would you feel good? Would you be upset? Would the alcohol mon-sters in your body make you angry? Happy?

I used to cry when you were screaming, because the sky was not blueenough or whatever reason you would find. I used to cry when you were ar-guing with my mom, with YOUR wife. I used to cry when you threw glass,things and especially words on me.I used to cry when you didn't care if youmade us cry. I used to cry because I still can't understand why you becamethe kind of person you are now. Why did you let your potential and perso-nality drown in beer?

I used to cry because I was worried what would happen when we wouldgo to the family party together.I used to cry because of the broken Christ-mas decoration.

I used to cry because I couldn't bring any friends home, since no one knewhow drunk you would come back home.

I used to cry because you didn't accept even the basic logical arguments.Iused to cry since no one else would understand ...or know... I used to crysince you don't see you are the reason why I don't drink.

I would like to say this is the past and we all woke up from the nightmareand you have stopped to drink. But I can't. We are still living in a fear whereno one can say what more damage alcohol will do.

Sometimes I still cry because I feel better off without than with you.

Dear father, stop it ... I want to be proud of you again.Alexandra (24), Slovakia

20 Lazjon, Albania

As I sat there on the bench in the park from my adolescence, watching howthe police separated the two drunken street fighters, I started to thinkabout how we remember. It seems like nothing is ever really lost and stillwe are not able to penetrate into any memory whenever we wish to. Itried as hard as I could, but I did not remember the year, the exact timescale me and my friend had spend together. Her story was stored in myhead and it loomed from the depths of the ocean of memories, but the de-tail of time remained concealed deep in the ocean. My grandpa used totell me a lot about his journeys as a train conductor and the small adven-tures he had experienced on different trips. I know all the cities he hasbeen in, but when I am in one of them, I hardly ever think of my grandpaand that he must have stood at the same spot some years ago. How andwhy do memories visit us? And who decides what is important to remem-ber and what not? Will I remember the pair of eyes behind a cold windowand the feelings they evoked in my chest? Will I remember the content andthe feeling of the diary pages; after all they had changed my perspectiveand my day.

All of a sudden I felt a vibration in my left jeans pocket. Urgency re-en-tered my life when my mobile phone started ringing. My colleagues cal-led, a bit worried, and as soon as they understood that I was okay, veryangry, since I had missed the meeting and forgotten to inform them. Butthat day, last Tuesday, I cared a little less about the hurrying world, theelbow and metro machine world. I felt there was a reason why those diarypages ended up in my hands and in my mind, and I decided that even if Iwould never find out about that reason, I still wanted to dwell on thestory, the following experiences and the somehow connected memories.

My grandma had always been a passionate newspaper reader and collec-tor, and she would share articles with me if she believed or decided that

23

My active NO!

I have never been drunk and I have neverwanted to be drunk. I tried alcohol when Iwas studying at school, but I didn't like thetaste of it, as well as the way how my class-mates looked when they were drinking. Itseemed terrible for me to see a girl who wasvomiting, falling to the ground or doingsome other stupid things she would never doin normal conditions. I didn't want to look the same.

Besides, I have 4 uncles and some of them are only a little bit older thanme, so we often went to some parties together. They got drunk and be-came violent. They always wanted to fight and they did it. I didn't knowhow to feel - I didn't want anybody to hurt them, but neither did I wantthem to hurt somebody. So somehow I got a feeling that alcohol is not at alla good thing… And there was one more event that strengthens my feeling…

Once, my dad was celebrating something in a bar with his friends. Late atnight somebody rang at our door. Those were two policemen bringing mydad home. They said they had found him on the street. He went to bed, butin the morning we found out that something was wrong…He was talkingsome really strange things and his forehead was all blue. Doctors found outthat there was something wrong with his skull; he had hurt it by fallingdown or somebody had beaten him. We can feel some consequences of thiseven today and I always think that it wouldn't have happened if he wouldn'thave been drunk…

PS: I've never understood those young people who go to some concert andthen proudly tell that they were so drunk that didn't remember anything.What's the point of going somewhere then? I always remember every singleminute of my life and I am proud of it!

Ivana (26), Latvia

22

Hanna, Faroe Islands

June 25

I ran down the hill laughing. It was a crazy night, a great night. I joined theseven 14-year-old kids in my class, who were standing in a tight knot."What's up?" I asked, but I didn't get an answer. Instead I heard snatches ofthe conversation they were leading. It didn't take me long to figure it out.One boy left the group with an empty beer bottle in his hand. I looked at itsuspiciously. He was back in an instant; he had replaced the empty bottlewith a full one. I knew that they had not brought the bottles along withthem. I knew that it was wrong, but I didn't think twice about it, after allit hadn't been I who stole the bottle. That was the excuse I made to com-fort myself. There were many German campers on the camping site withus and all of them had left to watch the semi-finals of the Euro 08, Ger-many against Turkey. When the bottle was handed to me, I didn't hesitate,but took a sip. It tasted horrible, but I didn't say anything and passed thebottle on. I was having a great time, just doing nothing, standing aroundand laughing at random things. This was exactly how I had imagined theend-of-year school trip; well, maybe without the bottle. Next to me, Lindahad grabbed the bottle. She was gulping the beer down as if it was coke. Ihad to stare; I hadn't known that side of Linda. It disgusted me. Then Les-lie arrived on the scene. "Take the bottle away from her!" she shrieked. Ididn't understand what she meant and as no one else seemed bothered Ididn't give Leslie or Linda any more attention.

I didn't notice when the two plastic bottles were stolen. There was nolabel on them: it could have been anything. Later we agreed that it hadbeen whiskey. We all drank. Even I had a sip or three. They had handed methe bottle with a laugh, saying that I surely wouldn't drink. It didn't tasteof much, just burned terribly in the throat. Someone gave Linda the bottleand I discovered that it wasn't just beer that she drank as if it were a softdrink, but also everything else alcoholic. Leslie tried to stop Linda fromdrinking and took the bottle away from her. She told all of us not to give her

25

they could be of importance to me. Over the years I had accumulated animpressive pile of cut-out articles. Following a feeling that I might havesome material connected to the dominant topic of this day, last Tuesday,I raised myself and went home. On the way I only stopped to buy two pie-ces of apple cake, a newspaper and a good drink for an afternoon of con-templation. It is easy to get good apple cake where I lived, and newspa-pers are sold almost on every corner, but drinks, somehow solemn andtasteful which are not produced by the alcohol industry, are rather diffi-cult to find. Eventually it was a box of yellow tea I bought and headed, no,I strolled home. The poetry of a good walk is its clarity, when thoughtsstart flowing in the rhythm of the steps, when every perception transla-tes into a thought, when there is time for deep breaths and every deepbreath infuses an idea with life, and when every step forward means onethought forward, because all thoughts, all ideas, all incomplete trains ofcontemplation fall into place, form a picture, a whole, and thus revealthat they are interwoven.

My grandma, for some reason, never really liked reading fairy tales ortelling stories, legends to me. Instead she would prefer to read articlesfrom newspapers to me and tell me about real happenings and incidents.And as I walked downhill, leaving the park behind me, one of her real lifestories sprung up into my mind:

24

Next time when you blame

alcohol for your action, take a mirror.

It was you in the end! Sasa (24), Slovakia

herwise. Suddenly I was brought face to face with the sad side of alcohol.Linda had to vomit again, and there was vomit in her mouth and nose, ma-king it difficult for her to breath. I had no idea how to handle the situationand I sensed that the others didn't know either. Once again it was Lena whosuggested the right thing to do. She got our teacher, even though almosteveryone disagreed with her.

What happened next was terrible. I watched as the teacher and Lesliehelped Linda out of her tent, she needed a shower, she needed to wash outthe vomit, otherwise she would suffocate. Linda wasn't awake, but alsonot asleep. Leslie and our teacher were helping her walk, if that's what onecan call it. She was placing one foot in front of the other and after a verylong time we managed it to the showers. With our teacher aroundeveryone noticed the seriousness of the matter. But it was only later, whenhe told us so, that I realized how close Linda had been to death. What a ter-rible way to die, I thought, especially if you're only 14 years old.

As a result of to these events, I was afraid of alcohol. I hadn't kept myhead together when I had been presented with alcohol. I didn't know if I'dbe strong enough to say no. But now I know that it's not hard at all to say noto alcohol. Especially not with the memories I have to recall the negativeside of alcohol. I've also discovered that it's possible to have the sameamount of fun with and without alcohol and on the day after you still knowwhat you did. For me it's pretty clear, life without alcohol is definitely abetter life than life with alcohol. *) All names have been modified

Stephanie, (15), Switzerland

I walked up the stairs towards my little flat hardly noticing the steps, I un-locked the door and entered my little home. Home has always been a re-fuge for me, a place of withdrawal from the world, to be by myself, re-

27

the bottle, but Linda came begging to whoever had the bottle and some-how she would always end up with the bottle. Leslie tried to talk to Linda,tried to tell her not to go down the same path again, but Linda just laug-hed at her and told her to stop worrying. Linda's condition became worse.Some girls were trying to convince her to go and sleep in her tent, but shewouldn't budge. She wanted to have fun. This went on for a while, until so-meone finally had the senses to put an end to things. Lena took both bott-les and flung them into the river. Most of the guys got angry at Lena. Theytold her that they had it under control. But Lena just pointed at Linda orignored them. And when I looked at Linda, I had to agree that it had beenthe best thing to do. And I noticed that I would never have had the courageto do the same.

Finally some people managed to get Linda into her tent and the rest ofthe class sat in a circle on the grass and had a good time. Some guys weredoing handstands and cartwheels to prove that they were still sober; somewere successful and some weren't. I was in a good mood, but not everyonewas. Leslie was worried; Linda had woken up twice to throw up, and vomitwas spread all over the tent and clothes and luggage. I learned that Lindahad been drunk a number of times before. I was shocked. Some girls wentto help Leslie with Linda. Lena dragged me along; I wouldn't have gone ot-

26

Dzenan, Serbia

Alcohol makes you ignorant

Caring about the others and yourself... Being able to help when help isneeded … Being aware of the people's feelings around you… simply care. Iam sitting in a place with a group of people who actually care, who areaware and believe in a better world. I am sitting and thinking… What a pa-radox! What made me think about this is the story of a friend. While liste-ning to the music and drinking Bosnian Coffee we started to think aboutthe times in life when one feels very grateful. So I listened…

His story started on a prom. Of course this is the part where it's easy toimagine a bunch of crazy teenagers who measure the amount of fun withthe amount of alcohol in the blood. At least this is the case with most ofthem. My friend said this was one of the two times he drank alcohol. He hadsome at the prom. Afterwards the crowd moved to another place. And yes,he had more. The reason why he decided to leave the place and took hiscar to go home is something that would determine you as an unstable andnot mentally healthy person in some countries, but I guess common senseis an unknown word in alcohol's dictionary. He left the place and decidedto drive through the city a bit longer. Again why? Well, I guess if we knewthe answer to these questions, no harm would be done. On the street hesaw three friends and offered them a lift home. He drove one of them andthe other two stayed to drive around. The rest of the story is followed bythe driving out of the city and letting the other two to drive without dri-ving license. The highlight of the night was the moment when they weresupposed to go home and my friend decided to drive once again… That wasthe "safer" alternative. The road, speed driving, losing control of the carand almost crashing into a tree. They were lucky and only stuck betweentwo trees.

But what is special about this story? We've heard thousands of them al-ready. We've all seen American movies on this topic and we totally got usedto this. It's normal, it happens. What I really wanted to share are the

29

charge and obtain distance. But that day, that Tuesday, made me questionhow it must feel for other people whose home is not safe? How must theheart feel that belongs to this pair of tearful eyes I had seen earlier thatday? And thinking that way I can't but hope that there is some comfort,some support for this little heart. But I can't be sure. Maybe the battered,pale diary pages belonged to that pair of eyes? I let myself fall backwardson my bed. That Tuesday was devoid of hectic and hurrying, but no lessstrenuous. It was in fact filled with bad time stories, but I hoped that thepile of collected interesting articles would give me more perspective anda clue of understanding.

Chewing my cake I turned on the radio. I had never been familiar withthe afternoon program, but was especially surprised by the topic of lastTuesday's radio show: "Civil courage - do you dare to swim against thestream?" I learned that people were welcome to call in or to write e-mailsand share their views on group pressure, how to resist it and how to takeactions even when nobody else does. For a moment I stood in awe, lookingthrough my window into the squared eyes of all the concrete buildingssurrounding me, touched by the inexplicable magic of life once you let itrun its course: there in the radio I could listen to my day's headline, thetheme of last Tuesday. I have not read the newspaper I bought last Tues-day until the day, because listening and paying attention to the people'stestimonials consumed me. Some of their stories were striking:

28

I'm fond of history and I know that alcohol hasalways been used to keep the underclass silent.Alex (37), Switzerland

thoughts of my friend and me after he told me the story. He said he thoughtabout the damage on the car first. He didn't see his girlfriend somewhereon the way. He forgot about the other two people that were in the car…"You don't care about the others, only about yourself," he said:"If some-body needed my help that night, I wouldn't be able to help." You are aloneand individual in alcohol's conscience, and you create yourself the mate-rial for regretting afterwards. He realized how lucky all three of themwere and the day after was the day he said "thank you" many times. Youdon't want to stop caring, because that's one of the things that make youhuman. the substitution of the mind and consciousness that you get withalcohol is only temporary and can cost a lot. My friend made me think andrealize there are plenty of choices one can choose. I care, and he does,too. Lesson learned. Still grateful!

Azalea & Dzenan (23), Bosnia & Serbia

31

30

The difference between what we do and

what we are capable of doing would

suffice to solve most of the world's problems.Mahatma Gandhi

Krsitina, Slovakia

A story where there'snothing to tell about

I never got to know my grandfather. He had an alcohol problem and oftendrank too much. My mother told me how embarrassing it was for her tocome home from school and step over her father who was stinking of alco-hol and urine. One evening in the winter he drank too much again and fellasleep outside. He got very sick and died.

It all happened long before I was born and this is the only story I knowabout my grandfather.

Liis (26), Estonia

33

Why don't I drink

There are many reasons why I don't use alcohol, but one of the most emo-tional reasons is this: I was four years old when my father died. He dranksome alcohol and wanted to ride a horse. But the horse felt the smell of al-cohol and became mad. My father fell off the horse and fell on a stone rightwith his head. After some days he died in a hospital. It is very stupid that avery clever, kind and helpful person has died only because of alcohol. Wecan blame alcohol not only in such accidents, but it also destroys people'shealth. Eva (22), Latvia

32

Sten, Sweden Team Abba diddirnar, Faroe Islands

Alcohol creates world pain

I have never been close to anyone with alcohol problems. I bet that you whoare reading this now wonder why I'm writing this and why I stay sober. It's be-cause of world pain. I hear about people whose life have turned into, sorryfor my words, shit! I heard about those who become addicted, have their fa-milies but don't give a damn shit. For them the only important thing is the al-cohol. I'm not sure about the pain they are going through, I don't know if theyhave problems that they want to escape from or not, if they drink becauseof pain or fun. I don't know, but I can't help feeling sorry for them.

I'm not sure how alcohol would affect me and I don't want to know. I don't wantto support something that creates misery, pain and death. Peter (14), Sweden

Often, maybe all too often group pressure is discussed in terms of having or nothaving; in terms of having the right clothes, with the right brand or not, of ha-ving the latest video game, CD or football shirt, in terms of having the coolestfriends; but those contributors surprised me and extended my perspective:group pressure is also about actions. It is about doing what we are supposed toin different contexts or finding alternatives. Alternatives, that was the magicword and it still is. All the hurrying and hectic, all the schemes and stress, theconstant state of being underway, being on the way leaves us optionless, choi-celess, powerless. And it became clear, as clear as a long known, almost trivialtruth that civil courage first and foremost means to dare and see other peoplebut ourselves. Civil courage means helping the people around us, it is as simpleas that, but to be able to do so we must leave space in our hurries and have-to's,in our missions and musts. Every day should contain the alternative to get offa stop earlier and walk instead. Last Tuesday was the experiment of an alter-native and on the radio there were people talking about themselves, but alsoabout this very attempt I was making. There was even one more story on the radio that captured my interest...

35

34

Natasha, Macedonia

But I'm no fucking Pointer to say what is right or wrong. I won't be standingoutside the liquor store and yell at people how wrong I think they are. Ortear down all the medium-strength beer from the shelves in the supermar-ket. Of course I could ask and nag about how alcoholism affects families andwhat it does to our society as soon as I get asked why I don't drink. But I don'tdo that.

I know there are people who can handle alcohol. I have nothing againstthose who drink. But the question is if they know what the hell they are pou-ring in their bodies. "I don't hate people who drink alcohol, I hate alcohol" -as one of my acquaintances once said. Can't be more true to me than that.

I have grown up in a family with a disease called alcoholism. This meansthat I love my parents. But I hate alcohol. What it doesn't mean is that youcould see my dad or mom sitting on a park bench next to the liquor store.

Alcoholism is a disease that affects the whole family, but nobody seems tounderstand that. Except for the ones in it and those who are closest to us.

We who didn't know how to behave when we came home after school, be-cause we had no idea of how many drinks had been taken, but were per-fectly aware that if there were more than two glasses on the table, it wasbest to tiptoe the rest of the day.

We who had no friends at school because we thought more of if we movedaway our daddy's shoes so that he didn't stumble on them, or if we put themin the wrong place so he couldn't find them and became angry and did some-thing bad to mom. Or we who drank the fucking drink because it was the ea-siest way to get peace and quiet. Because you're not normal if you don'tdrink.

I'm afraid of the dark. There are 400,000 children out in Sweden with atleast one abusive parent, but we are afraid to say no to alcohol, because we"don't have strength to tackle our problems when we are sober," or "can'tdance without a little wine in the body"; or "can't have as much fun if we're

37

A thing too many people know, but are afraid to show.

I wanted to yell at him that everyone in this world is not as damn good as heis. I wanted to throw out everything that was in my head and slap it in hisface. But most of them are things he has wit and senses enough to realizeanyway, so it had not done any good at all.

So instead I kept my mouth shut. (Yes, I can do that, too, it just doesn'thappen very often.)

When I get really angry there are tears running down my face. But (and Iknow how stupid it is) if I would have let them fall this time, he would pro-bably wonder why, and I wouldn't have been able to answer that questionright then without screaming so hard at him that his ears would break.

Not everyone can handle alcohol. I don't even want to try. I don't want torisk anything, and I have fun as hell without it. (Okay, I'm a little bitter now,or actually bitter like a piece of charcoal, but usually I am a pretty happyperson.) But what he said got me thinking about why I am lecturing aboutwhat I do.

I lecture because there are millions of children to addicts. I lecture be-cause it should be okay to talk about alcohol. I lecture because our societyis going through so much suffering due to alcohol, but nobody dares to doanything about it. I lecture because there is a chance that it will help a littlegirl or boy in time. I lecture because there is a chance to help people withthe same background. I lecture because there is a chance that societymight dare to open its eyes.

I think it's disgusting that there are people who grew up like me, who maynever know how crazy it is, how good they are and what they are worth. Ihate that it has to be someone like me, telling about my life as I do to en-sure that people dare to open their eyes and speak up.

I am passionate about what I do, and if there is a chance that it will helpsomeone along the way, that it helps someone to take that first small steptowards help then it is worth every minute I spend.

36

But if there is anything I can say about my dad today, it is that he has neverbeen a better person than he is now.

And if there is anything I can say about sober alcoholics in general, it isthat: It's damn hard to find nicer people than those who are trying to reco-ver from an addiction, and it's a shame that society makes it so difficult forthem. They are often much better people than many others. Because thereis a directness and honesty you rarely encounter elsewhere. These arepeople who learn to love for real. They learn to tell when something iswrong, and how to deal with their feelings. These people are there for eachother.

This is comparable to people who experience something very hard toget-her. You become welded together in order to achieve the same goal. To sur-vive.

Most people I talked to on my lectures are very aware that there arepeople who drink too much, and know someone or a few themselves, butnot how much it affects society. Many get a shock when they realize howmuch can go wrong just because the norm is set. Because there are normsin a family with alcoholism as well.

The human body is not made to take care of alcohol, even if some of us ho-wever tolerate it better than others. But whose life will be better off withit? No, I am neither pregnant nor driving tonight or think alcohol is disgu-sting. I have chosen to be a teetotaler, and I gladly stand for my choice.

BUT: When I go out at the pub I go out to dance and have fun, just like you.Not to discuss what alcohol does to our society. That is something I ratherdo some other time. There are many points to summarize here:

- Alcohol and its side effectsare destroying terribly much on our earth,and it is a shame that there is a need for people like me who are talkingabout it, because we can choose away alcohol and reduce these related

39

not drinking" or "it tastes so nice", or "don't dare to talk unless we are a bitaffected or calmed by alcohol" or "don't dare to break the norm", etc ... I rarely ask you whether you are drinking or not, or why. You don't even needto have any fucking excuse to me for drinking. Yet, you give it to me.

I could counter every excuse with a question: Will your problems be sol-ved just because you drink? Can you really dance if you need alcohol to doit? What is the point of drinking whiskey to have fun? Does it have to be al-cohol in a drink to make it taste nice? Do you think you will have better so-cial skills if you always have alcohol in your body when you talk to someone?Who is to say that the standards and norms of our society are the right ones?But then I would be standing all night ...

I don't care if you drink, even if it makes it damn difficult for me not todrink. Because it is not easy to get hold of an alcohol-free drink at the pub.That is when the bartender starts scratching himself in the head, while hismouth very clearly illustrates a question mark. Without alcohol? Are theredrinks like that? How do you do one of those?

Sure, Sweden is out on the field and prevents that people are drinking toomuch, close the pubs earlier, the liquor store, but nobody knows how to fixan alternative, except all the fucking sober riders who are standing withpointing sticks and forcing people to write on the blackboard with chalk: Iwill not drink ... at least three hundred times a day.

And why would they listen to us? We are not part of the norm. Because wedo not drink. I'm one of the lucky ones who can say that my father is an al-coholic, sober since September 21st, last year. Because alcoholics are al-ways alcoholics.

To make a long explanation short: An alcoholic has no special appearance,any special hobbies or only exists in the slums. The alcoholic is a humanbeing like you and me. But he or she is allergic to alcohol. And an allergy candevelop in anyone.

38

That story was a compelling testimony of deep love and of the power ofconscious choices. And it made me question myself: how consciously do Imake choices in and about my life? Just in the morning I was pushed, pun-ched and prodded into the complete opposite direction of where I actuallywanted to go. But if I am powerless and hurrying more or less unconscio-usly through life, how can I be courageous and give help to people aroundme? Should I have stopped, maybe even tried to talk to the eyes behindthe window?

The radio show turned my view from helpless situations in careless andhostile surroundings to reasons and forms of civil courage and people whowant to change something they observed is flawed. I started wonderingand pacing around in my small flat with many questions spinning and swir-ling again: Maybe the radio show and some contributions would have hel-ped the girl from the diary pages? Maybe she even heard the show? Or didshe even contribute? I couldn't be sure, because I switched the radio on alittle late. But I felt a strong need to be sure. I turned on the internet andsurfed to the radio homepage trying to read some submitted stories. Ifound the story that was read in excerpts on air.

Being this enchanted, I felt a memory once more sparkle in my mind. Anot-her story my grandma had told me with emphasis. This memory suddenlysparkled so clearly that I even knew where to find it in my newspaper ar-ticle collection. It was a short text from a local newspaper from where Ihad grown up about a positive example of engagement of a local boy.

41

damages and risks incredibly much. This is an advantage we don't havewith many of the world's deadly diseases, so I don't really understandwhat went wrong or why it's such a big problem to change it.

- I'm more than glad to be able to help in this matter, but the pub is noplace I want to discuss it, and I hate to be a Pointer. At the pub, I wouldlike to have fun with my friends. Just like you.

- Alcoholism is a disease that develops with the use of alcohol. No onetakes their first drink and thinks that they will become an alcoholic.There are as many reasons why someone becomes an alcoholic as thereare alcoholics in our world. Scary enough, there are as many potentialalcoholics as there are people in our world, too.

- We can change the norm. I am a person. I make a difference. I never toldor would tell my friends that they shouldn't drink. But they are still drin-king a lot less when I'm around.

- There is no reason to pity me. I have become who I am today because Igrew up as I did. But I wish no one else having to go through the samethings to understand. Therefore I rather share it.

- No one can be prouder than me over my dad. And no one can see howmuch my dad has grown in my eyes more than I do. My dad is a sober al-coholic, and one of the finest people I know today, although we have hada long and difficult path behind us. (I love you dad)

- I don't hate people who drink alcohol. I hate alcohol. - I do not require you to become or stay a teetotaler. Only that you makea conscious choice, and I wish you knew what it meant and that you re-spect my choice.

- In my dream world, there is no such thing as alcohol.

That's all on my heart for now.Jenny Elgh (24), Sweden

40

they stop drinking or so, it's not so easy. Also when in some pubs or bars,just mineral water is almost more expensive than beer, and there are notmany places to meet to comfort everyone. On the other hand, I've got suchgood feeling when I say NO, it simply raises my self-confidence.

Some time later I've been asked to go to another Active seminar in Buda-pest, and I couldn't say no, and I'm really glad I was there. Then I've beento Summer camp in Sweden, where I met more non-drinking people. In Slo-vakia it's really difficult to find someone who doesn't drink; it's just like it'sin our nature. Alcohol is connected with culture and history, but I'm happyto be like one of those few alcohol-free drops of water in entire ocean.Three months later I attended another Active seminar in Brno. And now I'min Sarajevo at yet another of Active's seminar. Active is so empowering;after meeting Active people I always feel such energy I can spread aroundand also promote life without alcohol or other drugs, it's just so great.

Well the conclusion, I'm really glad I don't drink, and I've got support fromother people that encourage me or at least accept it.

Rastislav (22), Slovakia

43

Alcohol — free drop of water in entire ocean

And so it begins... As I remember, I haven't drunk before I was 18, but I'veseen many times what drunken people look like; it was reason why I didn'twant to drink. I also saw how my father came home encouraged by alcoholand he went straight to bed. Those are main reasons why I don't like alco-hol. But once as I was having party with my friends and they convinced meto drink, it was so awful; I even don't remember some moments. From thattime on I drank just in "social" amounts, so I've had control of myself and Icould remember everything. So I used to drink from time to time, someti-mes less, sometimes more, mostly with friends in the dormitory, the so cal-led student's life.

Then one day, it was a year ago, my friend asked me if I wanted to go andspend New Year's evening with some people from different European coun-tries, and I thought, why not, it can be fun. It was my first contact with Ac-tive which is a European youth temperance organization. I had heard abouta Slovak member organization of Active called NOM before, but I didn'tknow what it was all about. So I've seen what I believed in, that you canhave much fun also without alcohol, and it's even better than when youhave some alcohol in your veins, and I liked it. Well, it wasn't a problem forme not to drink in that way. I had drunk before just because it was like an-tisocial that I didn't want to drink, and it really doesn't taste somehow spe-cial; it has more negatives than positives. But when you don't drink and youare with people that drink, it has one disadvantage - you are the only re-sponsible person with clear mind.

Well; I have to admit that I've drunk from time to time also after that Ac-tive winter camp. I've simply been convinced, mostly by pressure, to drinksomething. I regret that I have such weak power of will sometimes, butmost of times I've managed to say NO and no one could convince me todrink something. And sometimes it is so difficult, when you are under pres-sure of your friends, but I can't say to them that I won't meet them until

42

Rosi, Germany

rence between going fast and going lightly. My winged boots carriedme to yet another surprise at the meeting place of the organization:there was a young woman employed as social worker, making an ef-fort to empower young people and foster their citizenship. Westarted talking, I shared my thoughts about the radio show and sheexplained some interesting things for me about alcohol and otherdrugs and their relation to violence and participation in society. Shetold me about a touching story from her work:

45

The article finishes with the quotation: "I've got support from otherpeople that encourage me…" It was because of this very quotationthat my grandma found this article important enough to point my at-tention to it, to cut it out and save it for me. She'd tell me that it isone thing to be open for help and encouragement and show thankful-ness instead of believing that one could do it alone, too. And it isanother thing to pass help on and in that way return the effort thatsomeone made in encouraging a person. My grandma found that in theexample of the local boy who first received help to find his own wayand later became leader of this organization now giving help to ot-hers. Isn't that what civil courage is about? For a moment I starteddreaming about how the girl from the diary pages would find a way tohelp the tearful pair of eyes. Even in my memory my grandma mana-ged to inspire me.

Out of curiosity I tried to find out about the local organization thenewspaper article wrote about. Would it still exist? Would I find apicture of the boy even? In an air of satisfaction and curiosity I dranka glass of yellow tea and went on an adventure in the World WideWeb. And indeed there was this organization, still existing. However,a picture of the boy I could not find. But I did find a partner organiza-tion close to my home. What a coincidence. Or was it the magic of lastTuesday, when everything falls into place perfectly like all mythoughts during a calm walk? Inspired by the wisdom of my grandmaand the magic of the day, I decided to skip yet another hurrying. In-stead of going to the football training I went down to see the organi-zation and what is was really about. Usually I avoid walking throughmy neighbourhood after sunset, but that day I felt lightness in mysteps like I was wearing Hermes' winged boots. There really is a diffe-

44

The exercise of power is determined by

thousands of interactions between the world

of the powerful and that of the powerless, all

the more so because these worlds are never

divided by a sharp line. Everyone has a small

part of himself in both.Vaclav Havel

Me, my parents and alcohol

My name is Sandrine. I am 15 years oldand I live in Switzerland. When I was stillvery small, I used to undertake manytrips with my parents. Even back then I noticed the arguments and the ag-gression between them. It was by the time I came to school that I startedto understand why my parents always argued and became that aggressiveso quickly. Solely the alcohol was to blame for that. If I was in the wrongplace at the wrong time they used to let their aggression out on me byscreaming at me or hitting me.

My problem was that I couldn't be angry at them. They tried to makeeverything possible for me, according to their resources. Neither did I everseek help from other people, since I had learned from early childhood thatI was not allowed to talk to anybody. Towards the outside we were the per-fect family - father, mother and child. I learned to live with all that, butthen something even worse happened: When I was eight, my father had abrain bleeding. As he was about to be released from the hospital he had astroke. He fell into a coma. After three months they wanted to turn off themachines already, but then he moved suddenly. He woke up. All his doctorssaid that it was a miracle that he had woken up again. My dad then had tolearn everything from the beginning. He spent two years in the hospital. Iexperienced all that.

Now, I was "alone" with my mother. The alcohol consumption of my mo-ther increased enormously in those years. Since my father was not athome, she let all her aggression out on me. That became worse from dayto day, but I let it happen to me. When I was ten I started to ride horses andwent to the youth leisure time centre in my town once a week. That was agood change and sometimes I even forgot my problems and worries. My dadcame into a collective living community for disabled people after thosetwo years. He learned many things through the help of me and my mother.

He could walk again, talk, eat and much more. He felt very good in thatcollective living community. Today he comes home once a month and stilllives in that collective living community. He is happy.

I still had the problems with my mother. At the age of eleven I went to anactivity of Juvente (a youth organization in Switzerland based on princi-ples of sobriety and friendship) for the first time, thanks to the youth lei-sure time centre. I did not like it at first. Two years later I tried it again andwent to an activity. Suddenly I found it brilliant. I got to know new people,those who don't drink any amount of alcohol. It was a new situation for me,but I liked it. When I was back at home I told my mother about Juvente. Shefound it a good idea that I continue to participate in their activities. SoonI became a member of Juvente and thereby took a pledge not to consumealcohol or other drugs. I also told my mother about it so that she might quitdrinking. But she didn't want to hear about that. She always avoided dis-cussing it. So I said nothing anymore.

In the age of 14 I got my horse and my dog. These animals are the mostimportant things in my life. Otherwise, I have no idea if I would be stillhere. Also Juvente was a big part of my life. It gave me strength. I thinkthat if I would not be a member of Juvente, I would be one of the manychildren who are dependent on alcohol and other drugs. But despite thebeautiful things in my life, the problems with my mother still existed. Not-hing had changed except of my age.

Through problems in my school class, I got to know the school psycholo-gist. She was the first I could talk with about my problems. I told her every-thing. She suggested asking my mother to make a choice: me or the alco-hol. And so I did. But my mother did not really take me seriously. She didnot answer me and I just let it be. Because she has pressure tools againstme: my horse and my dog. The school psychologist tried continuously toencourage me. She managed and thus I wrote a letter to my mother that

47

46

Natasha, Macedonia

are always complex. Therefore they demand openness from the listener,a sense of understanding for others beyond ourselves.

With these words on my mind, I went home again. Thinking.

Being underway is the hallmark of today's world. But we live so fast thatwe happen to miss the people around us, their faces, gestures, sounds.Last Tuesday taught me that being underway demands more from us in un-derstanding our fellow men. To be able to read in the faces and to listenwith open hearts to what people narrate about themselves, even if theydon't speak with words but with frowns or actions or tearful eyes from be-hind windows or gestures, is the core of any civil courage. In all the hurrywe must still be able to experience the stories of our fellow men. It isthere we find the content of life, the nature of civil courage and the magicof finding comfort and support while we are all under way.

49

contained everything I had on my heart. She took this letter seriously. Wetalked about her alcohol consumption. After the talk I waited till she wouldapproach me. She came after two weeks. After that everything went veryfast: she talked to my school psychologist about different therapies. Shedecided to start by going to a counseling twice a week.

So, now she goes to this counseling and I hope that she will finally decidevoluntarily to go through rehabilitation. I have no idea how everything con-tinues, but I hope that I finally can be happy and that my mother will bebetter. I only know that I would not have managed all that without Ju-vente. All those people understood me and helped me to talk about pro-blems. I learned to show and express emotions. Today I only think abouthow I can help others who have grown up similarly. I do not want that any-body has to experience the same things as I did.

That is my story and I hope it makes many people think.Sandrine (15), Switzerland

Once again, I felt a connection to this story, felt feelings rising in me, pi-ling up in form of an inner understanding, deeper understanding. I couldsee the tearful eyes behind the window, could hear the voices from theradio, and had the diary pages in front of my eyes again.

I expressed my appreciation for the real story the woman just sharedwith me and explained my grandma's intention to share the newspaper ar-ticles instead of fairy tales with me.

She told me that she, too, liked my grandmother's real life stories bet-ter than fairy tales. Real life stories sharpen the view and fine-tune theears. They force us to see and listen with our hearts, because the suspenseis not always built, the moral is not always delivered and the characters

48

Keep your friends alive,

Don't drink and drive.Sara (21), Sweden

51

„Friendship does not need alcohol!“

50

Ida Braaten, Norway

52

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank all those who reflected on the topic of the cam-paign and decided to share their views and experience by contributingwith their texts, slogans and pictures. This book is your art and we are gra-teful to have the possibility to set the small pieces into a big picture. Dear Marie from Germany, Maik Dünnbier from Europe, Alexandra fromSlovakia, Ivana from Latvia, Stephanie from Switzerland, Azalea fromBosnia and Herzegovina, Dzenan from Serbia, Eva from Latvia, Samsonfrom Switzerland, Liis from Estonia, Peter from Sweden, Jenny Elgh fromSweden, Rastislav from Slovakia, Sandrine from Switzerland, Annika fromFaeroe Islands, Hanna from Faroe Islands, Kristina from Slovakia, Lazjonfrom Albania, Natasha Jancheva from Macedonia, Rosi from Germany,Sanja from Macedonia, Sara Lundell from Sweden, Sasa from Slovakia,Sten from Sweden, Tibor from Slovakia, Alex from Switzerland, Dädenfrom Switzerland, Mari from Norway, Mirisa Tokic from Croatia, withoutyou there would not be this book.

In addition to those who have contributed, we would like to thank all those,who promoted the campaign, who helped with the distribution, collecting thestories and pictures, who proof read the texts, translated them into English,who designed the material. Thanks to Alexandra Pappova, Emina Nuspahic,Maik Dünnbier, Rosi Siedelberg, Olaf Jobmann, Janika Tamm and Mari Kogstad.

We would like to express our appreciation for the great cooperation and verygood service to Emil Mihala from Webprint s.r.o, Trencin.

This book would not be possible to publish without financial support of Coun-cil of Europe and European Commission – Education and Culture DG's Youth in Ac-tion Programme.

Note: This publication reflects only the views of the respective authors.The European Comission or Council of Europe cannot be held responsiblefor any use which may be made of the information contained therein. Back cover photo: Sara Lundell, Sweden

ACTIVE OfficeSignalgatan 3, S-702 25 Örebrowww.activeeurope.org