Bušiću su htjeli ‘prišiti’ teroristički napad iz 1975. godine: Osam su me puta vodili na detektor laži!

Zvonko Bušić vjerovao je kako dobre stvari trebaju biti dostupne svima. Ono za što je živio, radio i vjerovao, za što je podnio žrtvu, objavljeno je u knjizi “Zdravo oko”, koja je dostupna na Amazonu. pod nazivom “All Visible Things”. Poglavlje po poglavlje, kap krvi po kap krvi i život dan po dan objavljujemo svaka dva tjedna u 33 dijela – samo s jednim ciljem! Trajat će!

IZLAZAK

Nakon što sam od Komisije za uvjetnu slobodu dobio potvrdu da me otpuštaju iz zatvora, upravitelj zatvora me pitao želim li primiti ljude iz Domovinske sigurnosti (Homeland Security). Pristao sam porazgovarati s njima.

Razgovarali smo oko tri sata, bili su korektni i prilično ljubazni. Zanimalo ih je što planiram nakon izlaska, koja je moja politička filozofija, koje knjige čitam, kakav je moj stav prema SAD-u, jesam li ogorčen i slično. Bili su vrlo profesionalni, pa sam im odgovarao iskreno. Rekoh im da sam zahvalan sudbini na svemu što sam proživio i da ne mrzim nikoga.

Pokušao sam im to pojasniti jednom hipotetskom situacijom. Kazao sam im otprilike sljedeće: „Kada biste me stavili pred izbor da umrem u zatvoru ili da se mijenjam s Donaldom Trumpom, ali pod uvjetom da ne dobijem samo njegovo bogatstvo nego i da usvojim njegove stavove i poglede na svijet, ne bih uopće dvojio. Odabrao bih smrt u zatvoru!“

Samo pola sata nakon tog razgovora nazvala me menadžerica za moj slučaj rekavši mi da joj je javljeno iz Washingtona da je Ured za imigraciju tražio od zatvora da me zadrže još neko vrijeme. Već sam bio javio fra Jozi Grbešu neka obavijesti Julie da dolazim i kojim zrakoplovom. Doživio sam svojevrsni šok. Što znači ova nagla promjena plana? Kako ću javiti Julie da ipak ne dolazim kako sam planirao? Naime, već mi je bila ukinuta i telefonska veza pa sam bio odsječen od vanjskog svijeta. Moj prijatelj, Irac Joe Burke, pobjesnio je, nije mogao prihvatiti način na koji su postupali prema meni. Htio je savladati stražare i uzeti ih kao taoce dok se meni ne omogući telefonski poziv. Jedva sam ga spriječio da to ne učini.

Zatim su me zvali iz bolnice da mi izvade krv. Pitam se, zašto krv? Ta nedavno sam bio na pregledu! Stražar ne zna odgovor, ne zna ni bolničarka. U ambulanti nema moga kartona, premda sam na popisu za vađenje krvi. Sve mi je to odjednom postalo vrlo sumnjivo. Kakvu to igru vode sa mnom? Možda mi žele napakostiti reaktualizirajući davni slučaj na Aerodromu La Guardia?

Naime, u prosincu 1975. dogodio se teroristički akt koji je do dana današnjega ostao nerazjašnjen. Bomba postavljena u pretincu tada je ubila 12 i ranila sedamdesetak ljudi. Bio je to najveći i najsmrtonosniji teroristički akt dotada u Americi. Kada sam uhićen nakon otmice Boeinga 727, sve su učinili da mi pokušaju prišiti i taj slučaj. Osam su me puta vodili na detektor laži. Mogli su, što se mene tiče, i osamdeset puta budući da ništa nisam bio kriv niti sam na bilo koji način bio povezan s tim slučajem. No jedno se vrijeme u Americi ozbiljno spekuliralo mogućnošću da sam povezan s tim slučajem. Čak je Daily News objavio članak pod naslovom „Bušić drži ključ eksplozije na La Guardiji“.

Tako je to, kad čovjek upadne u policijski žrvanj, uvijek je kriv dok se ne dokaže suprotno. Tri-četiri godine prije puštanja iz zatvora ponovo su me ispitivali koristeći najmoderniju opremu i konačno su zaključili da nisam kriv. Sada sam na trenutak pomislio da žele uzorak moje krvi kako bi fabricirali naknadne dokaze za moju umiješanost u slučaj La Guardia. Bila je to prilično fantastična pomisao, no čovjeku pod velikim pritiskom svakakve misli padaju na um. U svakom slučaju nisam želio dati krv, a i u ambulanti su odustali kada su vidjeli da ne mogu naći moj karton.

Jutarnji sati su prolazili, a ja sam se osjećao kao zvijer u kavezu. Nitko se od zatvorskih šefova nije pojavljivao, što je dodatno pojačavalo moju sumnju i uznemirenost. Došlo je i vrijeme ručka, sjedam nevoljko i izgubljeno za stol. U jednom trenutku ugledam zamjenika upravitelja, prilazi mi, uhvati me za ruku i kaže: „Bušiću, sve je po starom, ideš kući!“ Pitam ga: „Što se događa, viši službeniče Coleman?“. Kratko mi objašnjava da su cijelo jutro bili na liniji s Washingtonom, i da je konačno prevagnulo mišljenje da me puste.

Na brzinu me fotografiraju i uzimaju otiske prstiju što je potrebno za izradu papira u našem veleposlanstvu. Uzimam svoje stvari. Po mene su došli isti oni ljudi koji su prije desetak dana sa mnom ljubazno razgovarali. Ovaj put nisu ljubazni, mrki su i osorni. Vežu me i uvode u automobil. To je dio standardne procedure, ali postoje finese i nijanse u postupku koje čovjeku jasno sugeriraju stav onih koji ih provode. U Chicagu me trpaju u jedan zatvorski kombi s još nekim zatvorenicima i odvoze u gradić stotinjak kilometara dalje. Tu me smještaju u tzv. bullpen, doslovno prevedeno staju za bikove, kako se u zatvorskom žargonu nazivaju prolazne ćelije u koje trpaju lancima svezane zatvorenike, njih po trideset ili četrdeset. Tamo se ne može čestito ni stajati, a kamoli što drugo. U takvim se ćelijama čeka po četiri ili pet sati dok se ne krene dalje.

S vremenom odvode neke zatvorenike, a neke nove dovode, uglavnom pijance i prostitutke. Samo ja ostajem, i nitko mi ništa ne objašnjava niti mi se obraća. Ne daju mi čak ni lijek koji redovito uzimam. Živci su mi napeti do pucanja, a po glavi se roje razni scenariji, sve jadan crnji od drugoga. Ne mogu spavati jer nemam lijek za živce u nogama, ali ni inače ne bih mogao jer nije bilo madraca, nego tvrdi, željezni ležaj s krvavim plahtama. Nisam imao ni sapuna za oprati ruke, ništa. Konačno sam se u očaju obratio mladoj stražarki: „Molim Vas, nisam zvijer, nego čovjek, dobar čovjek. Ne znam kakve su Vam laži rekli o meni, ali Vi budite čovjek i dajte mi barem malo sapuna.“

Mlada je stražarka kratko razmislila i odlučila biti humana. Kroz rešetke mi je ubacila mali komad sapuna. „Brzo!“ – rekla je – „Da nitko ne vidi. A kada budete gotovi, morate mi vratiti što ostane!“ S užitkom koji nije mogao biti veći oprao sam se koliko sam mogao i čak joj vratio komadić sapuna. Što se tiče toaletnog papira, bila je druga priča. Tada je već bio došao drugi stražar. Umjesto da mi da papir, sa sarkastičnim smiješkom je preda mnom držao rolu i spustio je na pod, otkuda se otkotrljala dalje, ali izvan moga dosega. Papir nisam dobio, naravno. Danas kada o tome razmišljam, vjerujem da su me htjeli, kada već nisu uspjeli spriječiti moj odlazak, potpuno izludjeti i izbezumiti da se vratim kući kao kakav prljav, lud, dezorijentiran i nasilan otpadnik.

Ujutro su me opet odveli u Chicago, u centar za raspored zatvorenika, i tu su se prema meni ponašali uistinu bestijalno. Veleposlanica Kolinda Grabar-Kitarović poslala mi je konzulicu koja mi je donijela novine s izvještajem o mom puštanju iz zatvora. Odatle me vode u zračnu luku. Zrakoplovom letimo za New York. Užasno vruć i sparan dan. U policijskom automobilu nedaleko uzletišta čekam polazak zrakoplova. Čuvaju me četiri policajca, koji se prema meni odnose kao prema nekom predmetu. Prikraćuju vrijeme razgovorom pokraj automobila. Jedan od njih je Portorikanac. On u jednom trenutku govori ostalima: „Čovjek će se ugušiti i dehidrirati zatvoren u automobilu na ovakvoj vrućini!“ Oni mu odgovaraju: „Znaš naredbu!“ On se ne predaje, preuzima rizik i otvara mi prozor. Bog mu duši dao dobro.

Konačno sam u zrakoplovu koji leti u slobodu. Sprovode me tri maršala. Ironično, pobjegao sam od jednog maršala, a vraćaju me trojica. Nakon četrdeset i jedne godine! Trebam otići na toalet, prate me moja tri čuvara. Zbunjen sam pred umivaonikom. Želim oprati ruke, a ne vidim kako odvrnuti slavinu. Zagledam ispod umivaonika, nigdje ničega nalik pipi. Maršali su u prvi mah sumnjičavi. Valjda su se pobojali da sam negdje sakrio bombu. Kada shvate o čemu je riječ, prasnu u smijeh. Nije im bilo jasno da postoji netko tko ne zna da je u novim umivaonicima dovoljno staviti ruke pod slavinu pa da voda poteče. A ja sam se tada prvi put suočio s činjenicom da privikavanje na život na slobodi i neće biti tako jednostavno kao što mi se činilo dok sam u zatvorskoj ćeliji sanjao o slobodi.

Ono što me posebno ražalostilo bila je činjenica, koju sam kasnije doznao od nekih visokopozicioniranih dužnosnika hrvatskih vlasti, da su i u hrvatskoj vlasti postojali oni kojima nije odgovaralo moje puštanje na slobodu i koji su se do kraja nadali da ću život skončati u američkom zatvoru. Logično mi je bilo da tako razmišljaju oni iz jugokomunističke nomenklature koje je Tuđman, želeći pomirbu, kooptirao u novu vlast, no čudilo me, da neki drugi, čija imena ovdje ne želim navoditi, nisu bili pretjerano skloni „Bušićevu izlasku iz zatvora“. Tako mi je barem tvrdio jedan znanac koji je devedesetih obnašao odgovorne dužnosti.

S druge strane, kada se prisjetim koliko su se jugoslavenske službe infiltrirale i u redove emigranata, ništa me ne čudi. Štoviše, što dulje boravim u slobodnoj Hrvatskoj, sve se više uvjeravam kako je komunističko nasljeđe i te kako živo. I u vidu mentaliteta i vidu naslijeđenih kadrova, koji su dobro umreženi i osiguravaju nesmetanu prohodnost svojih ljudi i svojih ideja kroz medije i institucije hrvatske države.

Zvonko Bušić

EN

Zvonko believed that good things should be shared with everyone. What he lived, worked for and believed in, what he sacrificed for, is presented in his book “All Visible Things”, which is available on Amazon. Chapter by chapter, drop of blood by drop of blood, and life day by day in 33 parts – with only one goal! He will live on…

Getting Out

After the Parole Commission notified me that I was being released from prison, the warden asked me if I would talk to some people from the Department of Homeland Security. I agreed to talk to them. We spoke for about three hours and they behaved properly and were actually quite pleasant. They were interested to hear what I planned on doing after my release, what my political philosophy was, what books I read, what my views toward the United States were, was I bitter, and so forth. They were very professional and I answered their questions honestly.

I told them I was grateful to Destiny for all I had experienced and that Ihated nobody. I tried to explain this to them by use of a hypothetical situation. It went something like this: “If you would give me a choice of either dying in prison or changing places with Donald Trump, but under the condition that I would not only get his wealth but also his positions and views on life, I would have no doubt. I’d choose death in prison!”

Just half an hour after this conversation, my case manager called me to her office and told me that she had received a call from Washington, and that the Immigration Office had asked the prison to hold me a little while longer. I had already asked Father Joe Grbes to inform Julie that I was coming, and on which flight. This was a shock. How would I be able to tell Julie I was not coming as planned? I had already been prohibited from making telephone calls, so I was cut off from the outside world. My friend, the Irishman Joe Burke, was in a rage and could not accept the way I was being treated. He wanted to take a guard hostage until they allowed me to make a phone call. I was barely able to talk him out of it.

After that, the hospital told me to report for a blood sample. A blood sample, what for? I had just recently had a medical exam. My file was not even in the doctor’s office anymore, I was no longer in their official custody, but I was nonetheless on the list for a blood sample. I suddenly became very suspicious. What kind of game were they playing with me? Perhaps they were trying to resurrect that long ago La Guardia bombing case? Actually, in 1975, a terrorist act took place that remains unsolved to this day. A bomb was placed in a locker which ended up killing twelve people and wounding seventy others. When I was arrested after the hijacking, the authorities did all they could to pin this case on me as well. They put me through eight lie detector tests. As far as I was concerned, they could have made me do eighty, since I was innocent and had no connection or knowledge of this event whatsoever. But for a while, there was a lot of serious speculation on the possibility of my involvement. The N.Y. Daily News even published an article with the headline: “Busic holds the key to the La Guardia explosion!” So I thought they wanted the blood sample in order to fabricate subsequent evidence of my involvement in the La Guardia case. It was a pretty fantastic thought, but when one is under great pressure, all kinds of scenarios come to mind. At any rate, I refused to give blood, and they backed off in the office when they saw they could not find my file.

That’s the way it goes. When a person falls into the clutches of the police, he is always guilty until proven otherwise. Three or four years before my release, they questioned me once again, using the most modern equipment at their disposal, and again concluded I was innocent.

The morning hours passed, and I was feeling like an animal in a cage. None of the prison officials appeared, which also increased my suspicions and anxiety. When lunch finally arrived, I reluctantly sat down at the table, feeling totally lost. All of a sudden, I saw the assistant warden coming toward me. He took me by the arm and said, “Busic, the original plan is back in force. You’re going home!” I asked him, “What’s happening, Mr. Coleman?” He explained quickly that he had been on the phone with Washington all morning and that the decision to release me had finally prevailed. They took my picture and fingerprints, which were necessary for our Embassy to issue my traveling papers. I collected my belongings. The same people who had spoken so pleasantly to me ten days before came to pick me up. This time they were not nice, but angry and grim. They chained me and took me to the car. This is standard procedure, but there are certain nuances that indicate to the prisoner the views of the officials transporting him. In Chicago, they loaded me into a prison van with some other prisoners and drove us to a small town about a hundred kilometers farther in Kenosha, Wisconsin. There they put me in a city jail bullpen, a temporary holding facility in which all the chained prisoners in transport were dumped, thirty or forty of us. It is often impossible even to stand in one of these cells, let alone anything else. Prisoners often wait for hours in the cells before continuing the transport.

They begin to remove some prisoners and bring others in, mostly drunks and prostitutes. I am the only one remaining, and nobody explains anything or speaks to me. They even refuse to give me my regular medication. My nerves are at the point of bursting, and all kinds of scenarios are going through my head, each worse than the other. I am unable to sleep because I have been denied my medication to calm the nerves in my legs, but I would not have been able to sleep anyway, because there was no mattress, only a hard, iron frame with bloody sheets. I did not even have soap to wash my hands, nothing. Desperate, I finally turned to a young female guard and say, “Please, I am not a beast but a human being, a good human being. I don’t know what lies they’ve told you about me, but why don’t you be a good person as well and give me at least a bit of soap?”After a few seconds, the guard felt pity for me and threw a small piece of soap through the bars. “Hurry!” she said. “Don’t let anyone see! And when you’re through, you have to give me back what’s left!” I washed up with an indescribable sense of joy, as best I could, and even returned a small piece of the soap.

As far as toilet paper was concerned, that was another story. Another guard had come by that time. Instead of giving me toilet paper, he held the roll of paper out in front of himself and allowed it to roll along the floor out of my reach. Of course, I got no paper. When I think about this today, I believe that, since they were unable to prevent my release, they intended to try to drive me crazy, shatter my nerves enroute, so that when I came home, I would look like a dirty, disoriented, and violent outcast. In the morning, I was taken to Chicago, to a prisoner collection center. Here I was treated in a truly bestial way. Ambassador Kolinda Grabar Kitarovic sent a consulate official over to me, who brought me newspapers with articles about my release.

From there I was taken to the airport. We flew first to New York. It was a horribly humid and hot day. I waited in a police car for the flight. Four police officers, who treated me like an object and not a human being, were guarding me. They passed the time conversing next to the car. One of them was Puerto Rican. At one point, he said to the others, “This guy is going to suffocate locked in the car in this heat!” They answered, “You know the orders.” He refuses to back down, takes the risk, and opens the window. God bless his soul!

I was finally on the plane taking me to freedom. Three U.S. marshals were transporting me. Ironically, I had escaped from one marshal and three of them were returning me. Back home after forty-one years! At one point, I needed to use the rest room, and all three marshals escorted me. Standing in front of the sink, I was confused. I wanted to wash my hands, but did not see a way to turn on the faucet. I looked below the sink for some way to get water out, but found nothing resembling a pipe. The marshals became suspicious. Maybe they thought I had hidden a bomb somewhere! When they realized what the problem was, they burst out laughing. It hadn’t occurred to them that I wouldn’t know all I had to do was put my hands under the faucet and water would come out. And that was the first time I was confronted with the fact that becoming adjusted to life in freedom was not going to be as simple as I had imagined it, while dreaming of freedom in my prison cell.

What made me especially sad was the fact (which I learned about later from certain highly placed officials in the Croatian government) that there were people in power who were not in favor of my release from prison and who hoped until the very end that I would die in an American prison. It was logical for those from the Yugoslav nomenclature who had been co-opted into the government by President Tudjman on the basis of “reconciliation”, but I was amazed that some of them who had themselves returned to Croatia from the emigration were opposed to “Busic’s release from prison.” On the other hand, when I recall how widely the emigrant circles were infiltrated by Yugoslav agents, it is not surprising.

What’s more, the longer I live in free Croatia, the more convinced I am that the Communist legacy is alive and healthy, as far as mentality and second generation cadres are concerned. They have wide networks and are able to ensure the unimpeded advancement of “their people” and ideas through the media and the institutions of the Croatian state.

Zvonko Bušić

Ključne riječi #fra Jozo Grbeš #Kolinda Grabar Kitarović #Zvonko Bušić