Preduga žrtva može pretvoriti srce u kamen. Volio bih da mogu plakati

Brakove nesretnima ne čini nedostatak ljubavi, nego nedostatak prijateljstva, Nietzsche.

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!

Prijateljstvo-ljubav

Zvonko je oduvijek gajio duboko poštovanje prema istinskom prijateljstvu i smatrao ga mnogo dubljim od ljubavi koja može biti prolazna jer se često temelji na tjelesnome, a ne na duhovnome. Pravi prijatelj, samo jedan pravi prijatelj, najdragocjeniji je dar na svijetu, znao mi je reći. I zato bi, kad smo razgovarali o nama, o našoj dugoj i trnovitoj vezi koju smo uglavnom proveli razdvojeni, uvijek naglasio da nas je održalo naše prijateljstvo, ne ljubav. Kao i obično, bio je u pravu iako sam se ponekad osjećala nesigurno kad bi mi rekao da je naše prijateljstvo oduvijek bilo mnogo važnije od naše ljubavi.

“Ali ljubav je vrhunac osjećaja, nije li, alfa i omega?”, prosvjedovala bih. Kako naše prijateljstvo može biti važnije od ljubavi? Bojala sam se da će, smatra li da su prijateljstvo i ljubav dvije različite stvari, i da je prijateljstvo važnije, naša ljubav trpjeti ili možda čak prestati postojati, da ću mu ja jednostavno postati „prijateljica” pa će u određenom trenutku pronaći neku drugu koju će „voljeti”. Beskonačno smo raspravljali o tome još dok smo oboje bili u zatvoru i kad sam ga posjećivala nakon što sam sama puštena, a još i češće kad se najzad vratio kući.

Veća važnost prijateljstva od ljubavi bila nam je stalna i bitna tema, naročito u teškim vremenima. Stalno ju je spominjao u pismima koja mi je slao, njegovim zabilješkama i na marginama knjiga koje bi ga nadahnule, na primjer u Platonovoj Gozbi koju je ustrajao da pročitam kada sam izišla iz zatvora. Riječ je o raspravi o prirodi ljubavi u kojoj Platon govori o razlici između Erosa, odnosno tjelesne ljubavi, i jedne beskonačno dublje, duhovnije ljubavi koja nadahnjuje um ili dušu, a koju bi Zvonko nazvao prijateljstvom. Htio se pobrinuti da shvatim i da me tješi činjenica da smo nas dvoje usprkos dugogodišnjoj razdvojenosti povezani nečime što puka fizička udaljenost nikad ne bi mogla prekinuti.

„Da se naš odnos može podijeliti na tri dijela (duhovni, tjelesni i intelektualni)”, napisao mi je 1993., „tad bi duhovni dio uvijek bio jači od druga dva. Također, čini mi se da je ova duga razdvojenost oslabjela druga dva dijela, ali naše su dvije duše postale snažnije i prisnije, tvoja svijest o tome pokazuje da se uzdaš u moju ljubav prema tebi, posebno kad se vidimo, odnosno kad se naše dvije duše susretnu i nakon toliko mnogo godina obraduju jedna drugoj”.

Prijateljstvo je uvijek bilo njegova utjeha i nadahnuće: „Vjerojatno bih mogao naći mlađe, zgodnije, pa čak i pametnije žene”, napisao je na svoj tipično izravan, iskren način, „ali kada je riječ o prijateljstvu i povezanosti duša, i najbolja od njih bila bi ti samo sjena”. Četiri godine kasnije, ponovno je istaknuo dragocjeni dar prijateljstva: „Draga moja Julie, upoznali smo život, zatočenje i smrt, i ništa nas nije moglo razdvojiti, ni vrijeme, ni vječnost. Vjeruj mi, naše prijateljstvo-ljubav često je jedino što moj život u ovim okolnostima čini podnošljivim”.

Nakon što je pušten iz zatvora, važnost tog prijateljstva postala je jasnija. Više od tri desetljeća, naš tjelesni kontakt, Eros, bio je samo letimičan. Pokoji zagrljaj, pokoji brzi poljubac bili su sve što su zatvorske vlasti dopuštale u pretrpanoj prostoriji za posjete zatvorenicima. Tjelesna blizina i njemu i meni bila je čudna i neobična, naročito prvih dana. Kao prvo, Zvonku je bilo neugodno od tjelesnih iskaza bliskosti, zagrljaja i poljubaca. U zatvoru su se oni smatrali znakom slabosti, a to je bilo opasno. Sad se najednom od njega očekivalo da odbaci desetljeća mentalne uvjetovanosti kako bi „nadoknadio” izgubljeno vrijeme.

Kada bih ga spontano potapšala, posebice ako bih mu prišla s leđa, razljutio bi se i upozorio me da to više nikad ne ponovim jer ga to čini nervoznim, jer „u zatvoru to ne radiš, u protivnom bi mogao izgubiti život”. Podsjetila bih ga da više nije u zatvoru, što je, kad sad razmislim, bilo glupo reći jer nisam mogla očekivati da će preko noći izbrisati pola svog života, pravila po kojima je živio, nepisane zakone kojima je bio podložan. Njegove reakcije isprva su me duboko boljele, ali zahvaljujući našem iskrenom prijateljstvu i duhovnoj povezanosti mogli smo sjesti i o svemu porazgovarati: o tome kako ja nerealno pokušavam povratiti sve što smo imali, propustili i izgubili; o tome zašto se osjećam povrijeđenom; o tome zašto je on ljut; o raskolu između njegovih želja i navika; o tome kako taj raskol utječe na sve ljudske interakcije, pa i našu. Ti su naši razgovori trajali satima, iz dana u dan.

Malo pomalo, smekšao je i počeo emocionalno ozdravljati. Prestala sam mu prilaziti s leđa i grliti ga oko struka ako nije znao da sam iza njega. Suzdržavala sam se dok sâm nije prišao. Naše prijateljstvo, koje je sve intuitivno shvaćalo, spasilo nas je kad „ljubav” to nije mogla. Zvonkova postojana vjera u svetost prijateljstva, ne samo našega već i drugih, nije bila hir ili rezultat nenadane epifanije, nego uvjerenje nastalo iz njegovih najranijih iskustava u djetinjstvu.

Jedno od njih bilo je povezano s njegovim djedom i djedovim ljubljenim volom. Mnogo su dugih godina proveli zajedno i vol je postao gotovo član obitelji. Ali na kraju je kucnuo čas kad je djed morao usporiti, već je bio u poznim godinama, i to je značilo da je morao prodati vola. Pojavio se je zainteresirani kupac i dao sjajnu ponudu. Umjesto da ju odmah prihvati, Zvonkov djed odmjerio je kupca od glave do pete i postavio mu jedno jednostavno pitanje: „Pušiš li?” Kupac se zabezeknuo. Kakve to ima veze? Je li stari skrenuo? „Ne, ne pušim”, odgovorio je. Zvonkov djed tužno je odmahnuo glavom i rekao da mu ipak neće moći prodati vola pa se okrenuo s namjerom da ode. Kupac to nije želio prihvatiti i zatražio je objašnjenje. Zvonkov djed na to je rekao: „Vidiš, moj vol i ja zajedno smo već jako dugo. Uvijek je naporno radio, čak i kad nije bio u najboljem stanju, a ujedno mi je bio i vjeran drug. Zato sam ja uvijek nastojao dobro brinuti o njemu, razmišljati o njegovim potrebama i biti suosjećajan i ljubazan. A to znači da bih mu svako toliko dao da se odmori. Otprilike svakih pola sata, kad bih ja zapalio cigaretu, i moj vol imao je vremena za odmor. Jedini način da mu i sad to osiguram jest prodajom drugom pušaču”.

Iako je to priča o običnoj životinji, Zvonka je duboko dirnula empatija između njegova djeda i djedova vjernog vola. Oduvijek je nastojao iskazati isti obzir u svojim odnosima s drugim živim bićima, i ljudima i životinjama. Jedna takva prigoda odnosila se na Zvonkovog prijatelja iz sela koji je zbog svoje nesređene obiteljske situacije bio svojevrsni izopćenik. Majka mu je bila sklona alkoholu, a otac više odsutan nego prisutan pa su ga djeca u selu, nedvojbeno pod utjecajem sudova i mišljenja svojih roditelja, većinu njegova života izbjegavala. Kada je postao punoljetan, pozvali su ga na odsluženje vojnoga roka. Prema običaju, dan prije odlaska u vojsku, prijatelji i obitelj pripremili bi vojniku oproštajnu zabavu. Zvonko je shvatio da za tog momka neće biti zabave, ni ispraćaja, ni pića, ni smijeha, ni pjesme. Srce ga je boljelo zbog tog mladića pa ga je večer prije odlaska izveo i prosjedio s njim cijelu noć. Bilo bi strašno, rekao mi je, vidjeti kako njegov prijatelj pati, sam i napušten večer prije odlaska na odsluženje vojnog roka.

Sutradan ujutro, kad je mladić ušao u autobus koji će ga odvesti u vojarnu, Zvonko je bio na postaji, jedini koji ga je došao ispratiti. Njegov se prijatelj rasplakao od zahvalnosti, čvrsto ga zagrlio i rekao mu koliko mu znači njegova podrška. I Zvonko se rasplakao, zahvalan što je mogao reagirati na patnju svog prijatelja i ponuditi mu utjehu i drugarstvo koje od obitelji i seljana nikad nije dobio. Mnogo godina kasnije, nakon što je taj isti prijatelj emigrirao u neku daleku zemlju, napisao je Zvonku pismo u kojem mu je rekao da je ona noć koju su proveli zajedno prije njegova odlaska u vojsku bila najsretnija u cijelu njegovu životu. Umro je prilično mlad i Zvonko ga više nikad nije vidio, zbog čega je duboko žalio.

Prijateljstvo, pravo prijateljstvo, posebno je važno u zatvoru pa je Zvonko, kad je najzad pušten, duboko osjećao odsutnost svojih zatvorskih prijatelja. Na kraju krajeva, oni su bili jedini kojima je mogao reći „sjećaš se kad smo prije dvadeset godina…” To nije mogao reći nikome u „slobodnom svijetu” osim meni, a ja ponekad nisam bila dovoljna. Čeznuo je za prisnim prijateljima koje je stekao iza zatvorskih zidova, za prijateljstvom izgrađenom na međusobnom pouzdanju, posvemašnjem povjerenju, peripetijama života u okrutnim uvjetima iz godine u godinu, na gubicima i tragedijama, radostima i tugama koje je s njima dijelio.

U najtežim danima na „slobodi”, govorio mi je da mu je srce „odrvenilo”, da je zbog kaosa s kojim se najednom našao suočen nesposobno iznova se spojiti s onim dubokim vrelom osjećaja. Yeats je kazao nešto slično o irskim mučenicima za slobodu, napisavši da „preduga žrtva može pretvoriti srce u kamen”. “Volio bih da mogu plakati”, uporno bi ponavljao Zvonko.

Kako probuditi osjećaje i pustiti suze, iznova se povezati sa Životom? Na kraju je pronašao pomalo neobičan, ali djelotvoran način. Uvijek i iznova gledao je Usamljenu golubicu, televizijsku seriju o prijateljstvu dvojice ostarjelih kauboja, Gusa i Kapetana. Mora da ju je pogledao najmanje deset puta, možda i više, i većinu je dijaloga znao napamet. Zapravo, znala sam ih i ja, budući da sam ju obično gledala s njim. Zvonko se poistovjećivao s likom Gusa, a drugi lik, Kapetan, podsjećao ga je na njegovoga bliskog prijatelja Sama. Zajedno su proveli više od dvadeset godina u raznim zatvorima i kroz to vrijeme iskusili i međusobno podijelili sve uspone i padove poznate čovjeku, sve obiteljske tragedije, smrti, gubitke, razbijene nade, snove, nade u bolju budućnost.

Gusa i Kapetana spajala je jednaka takva povezanost, plod mnogih godina kad su zajedno gonili stoku, voljeli i napuštali žene u svojim životima, suočavali se s izdajom prijatelja, dijelili nade i snove, strahove. U prizoru koji je Zvonko koristio kako bi se rasplakao, Gus i Kapetan zauvijek se opraštaju. Gus leži u krevetu, suočen sa spoznajom da će morati ostati bez obje noge zbog gangrenozne rane koju nije liječio. Umjesto toga, odlučio je umrijeti i kaže Kapetanu da nije spreman živjeti inferiornim životom. Izgubiti jednu nogu bilo bi prihvatljivo, kaže, jer još uvijek bi se mogao kretati i hodati uspravno. Ali izgubiti obje noge ne dolazi u obzir.

„Shvaćaš, ponekad bih poželio šutnuti neku svinju”, s osmijehom kaže Kapetanu. Pogledi im se sretnu, svjesni da je ovo svršetak njihova prijateljstva na zemlji. I tako se zauvijek rastanu, stoički, tek s naznakom suza. Ali duboka bol zbog gubitka najboljega prijatelja obojici im se čita s lica.

Mnogo puta, više no što pamtim, naletjela bih na Zvonka baš dok je gledao taj prizor i zatekla ga kako sjedi sa suzama koje mu se slijevaju niz lice, iznova proživljava vlastite rastanke s dragim prijateljima koje je ostavio u zatvoru i time, barem privremeno, odleđuje svoje srce.

Julienne 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…

Friendship-Love

“It is not lack of love, but lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.” (Nietzsche)

Zvonko always had a reverence for true friendship, considering it much deeper than love, which is so often fleeting, based as it frequently is on the physical instead of the spiritual. A true friend, just one true friend, is the most precious gift in the world, he would tell me. And that is why when we talked about ourselves, our long and difficult relationship spent mostly apart, he would always emphasize that it was our friendship, not our love, that held us together. He was right, as usual, although it used to irritate me when he would tell me that our friendship has always been much more important than our love.

But love, I would protest, is the pinnacle of emotion, isn’t it, the alpha and the omega! How could friendship hold a higher place than love?I was afraid that if he felt friendship and love were two different things, and that friendship were more important, then our love would suffer or perhaps even cease to exist, that I would simply become his “friend” and he would at some point go find someone else to “love”. We had endless discussions about this while we were both still in prison, when I was released and went to visit him, and even more often when he finally came home. This was a continuing and crucial theme, the superiority of friendship over love. I would find constant references to it in his letters to me, his notes, and in the margins of books he was inspired by. For example in Plato’s Symposium, which he especially wanted me to read after I was released. It was a discourse on the nature of love, in which he talks about the difference between Eros, or sexual love, and the infinitely deeper more spiritual love that inspires the mind or soul, which Zvonko would call friendship. He wanted to make sure I understood and was comforted by the fact that, in spite of our continued separation, we had a connection that could never be broken by mere physical distance. “If our relationship could be divided into three parts (spiritual, physical, and intellectual)” he wrote to me in 1993, “then the spiritual part would always be stronger than the other two… Also, this long separation, it seems to me, has weakened the last two, while our two souls have become stronger and more closely connected… And your awareness of this shows your trust in my love for you, especially when we see each other; that is, when our two souls meet and after so many years take joy in each other”…It was always the friendship that was his comfort and inspiration. “I could probably find younger, prettier, and even more intelligent women” he wrote in his typical straightforward, honest way, “but as far as friendship and connection of souls is concerned, the best of them would only be a shadow of you…” Four years later, he again emphasized the precious gift of friendship. “My dear Julie, we have come to know life, imprisonment, and death, and nothing has been able to separate us, not time, not eternity. Believe me, our Friendship-Love is often the only thing that makes my life endurable under these circumstances…”

The importance of this friendship became clearer after his release. For over three decades, we had had only fleeting physical contact, the Eros. A hug here, a quick kiss there, all the prison authorities allowed in the crowded prison visiting room. Physical proximity was strange and bizarre for both of us, especially in the early days. First, Zvonko was uncomfortable with physical expressions of closeness, hugs, kisses. In prison, all that was considered a sign of weakness, which was dangerous. Suddenly he was expected to shed decades of mental conditioning in order to “make up” for lost time. If I spontaneously patted him, especially coming up from behind, he would become angry, warn me never to do that, for it made him nervous, because “you didn’t do that in prison or you could lose your life.” I’d remind him he was not in prison anymore, which was in retrospect a stupid thing to say, as though he were able from one day to the next erase half of his life, the rules he lived by, the unwritten laws to which he was subjected. His reactions hurt me deeply at first, but thanks to our deep friendship and spiritual connection, we were able to sit down and discuss everything. How I was trying, unrealistically, to recapture everything we had missed and lost; why I felt hurt; why he was angry; the gap between his desires and his conditioning; how it affected every human interaction, even ours… Our discussions lasted for hours, day after day. He slowly softened, and began to heal emotionally. I stopped coming up behind him and putting my hands around his waist unless he knew I was there. I held back until he came forward. Our friendship, which understood everything intuitively, saved us when “love” could not.

His continuing belief in the sacred quality of friendship, not just between us but others as well, was not a whim or the result of a sudden epiphany, but a conviction that arose from his earliest childhood experiences. I recall a story he told me about the meaning of friendship that, at its conclusion, had me weeping like a baby. It concerned a friend of his in the village who, because of his disordered family situation, was somewhat of an outcast. His mother was a drunk, and his father was more often absent than present, and the children of the village, no doubt influenced by their parents’ judgments and opinions, had avoided him most of his life. Eventually, when he had come of age, he was called up for military duty. Normally, the day before, friends and family would have a going-away party for the departing soldier to send him on his way with the best wishes of all those who cared about him. Zvonko realized there was to be no party for him, no farewell, no drinking, laughing, singing. His heart ached for the boy, so he took him out the night before, just the two of them, and they sat together all night long. It would have been horrible, he told me, to see his friend suffering, alone and abandoned the night before he left for duty. The next morning, when he got on the bus that would take him to his military posting, Zvonko was there again, the only one, to see him off. His friend cried copious tears of gratitude, embracing him firmly and telling Zvonko how much his support had meant to him. Zvonko cried, too, grateful he was able to respond to the suffering of his friend and offer him the comfort and camaraderie he never got from family or villagers. Empathy is what makes humans human, he would often tell me. If you have no empathy for others, if you cannot put yourself in their shoes, feel their pain and respond to it, you are missing what is most important about being human. Years later, after that same friend had emigrated to Australia, he wrote Zvonko a letter telling him that night they spent together before he went into the army had been the happiest day in his entire life. He died fairly young, and Zvonko never saw him again, which he deeply regretted.

Friendship, true friendship, is especially critical in prison, so when Zvonko was finally released, he felt the absence of these prison friends deeply. After all, they were the only ones to whom he could say “remember twenty years ago when…” He was unable to say that to a single soul in the “free world” except me, and that sometimes was not enough. He longed for the close camaraderie he had forged behind prison walls, the friendships built on mutual dependence, total trust, the vicissitudes of existence under brutal conditions, year after year, the losses and tragedies, the joys and sorrows, all shared as common joys and sorrows, common tragedies.

During his most difficult days, his heart, he would tell me, had become “wooden”, unable to reconnect with that deep well of emotion, due to the chaos with which he was suddenly confronted in “freedom”. Yeats had written something similar about Irish martyrs of freedom, that “too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart.” I wish I could cry, he would tell me over and over again. How could Zvonko awaken those emotions and release his tears, reconnect with Life? He found a way that was somewhat unusual, but it worked. What he did was watch and rewatch a television series called Lonesome Dove, which was about the deep friendship of two aging cowboys, Gus and the Captain. He must have watched the series at least ten times after his release, probably more, and knew most of the dialogue by heart. As a matter of fact, so did I, since I usually rewatched it with him.

Zvonko identified with the character Gus, and his other prison friend, Steve K., identified with the Captain. He had spent over twenty years in various prisons with Steve K., and during this time, they had experienced and shared with each other every high and low known to man. All the family tragedies, deaths, losses, dashed hopes, dreams, hopes for the future… Gus and the Captain had experienced the same during their years together driving cattle, loving and leaving women in their lives, confronting betrayal from friends, sharing hopes and dreams, fears… The particular scene Zvonko used to make himself cry was the last farewell between Gus and the Captain. Gus lay in bed, confronted with the realization that he would have to lose both legs due to a gangrenous wound that had been left untreated. He had decided to die instead, telling the Captain that an inferior life was not one he was prepared to live.

Losing one leg would be acceptable, he said, because he could still get around and walk upright. But losing both was out of the question. “I’d want to kick a pig once in a while, you know?” he told Gus with a smile. Their eyes met in acknowledgment that this was the end of their earthly friendship. And thus, they parted ways forever, stoically, with only a hint of tears. But the heavy pain of losing one’s truest friend was etched deeply into both their faces. Many times, more than I can remember, I would come upon Zvonko at this point in the series, and find him sitting there with tears running down his face, reliving his farewells with dear friends he left behind in prison, and, in the process, unfreezing his heart.

Julienne Bušić

Ključne riječi #Julienne Bušić #Prijateljstvo-ljubav #Zvonko Bušić