Zvonko Bušić: Riječ je više vrijedila u zatvoru, nego na slobodi

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”. Taj djelić hrvatske povijesti odsad ćete moći čitati svake druge srijede na hrvatskom i engleskom jeziku, na portalu dijaspora.hr. Poglavlje po poglavlje, kap krvi po kap krvi i život dan po dan u 33 dijela – samo s jednim ciljem! Trajat će…

Na slobodi

Što je Zvonka šokiralo na slobodi nakon 32 godine u zatvoru?
Je li život u zatvoru ‘zdraviji’ nego vani?
Kako se kuhao grah u zatvoru?

Iznevjerena očekivanja nezaobilazne su životne činjenice. Onaj tko ih nije iskusio kao da nije ni živio. Osobno se nisam nikada toliko razočarao da bih prestao voljeti život i vjerovati u svoje ideale. Kada sam izašao iz zatvora i vratio se u Hrvatsku nakon toliko godina, bio sam zbunjen. Ljudi su već bili zapali u apatiju i defetizam, zanos i oduševljenje zbog stvaranja države i osvajanja slobode bili su potrošeni.

S druge strane i ja sam sam teško izlazio na kraj sa slobodom. Koliko god to paradoksalno zvučalo, nedostajao mi je zatvor. Nedostajao mi je okvir, raspored, ritam svakodnevice, borba. Da, zatvor je svakodnevna rutina, ali i strašna borba, u kojoj se svaka slabost ili pogreška skupo plaća. Na slobodi je sve drukčije, barem u početku.

Došao sam iz zatvora, iz maloga, skučenog svijeta gdje je sve bilo ograničeno – prostor, osobne stvari, broj knjiga, namirnice, baš sve – ali i sve je bilo na svome mjestu. Znao sam gdje su sve moje stvari, znao sam sve putove, svaki kutak, osjećao sam da je sve uvijek pod kontrolom. Kada sam izašao na slobodu, u vanjski svijet, svega mi je odjednom bilo previše. Kuća u kojoj je Julie živjela bila mi je ogromna, premda ima stotinjak četvornih metara. Osjećao sam se kao da ću se izgubiti ako se popnem na kat. Prvi dan sam sve obišao nekoliko puta, bez Julie, kako bih se mogao bolje orijentirati. Ona se čudila, jer mi je željela sve pokazati, željela je da sve zajedno razgledamo. No ja sam bio u oblacima, zapravo u nekim svojim maglama, kao da je sve to nerealno, kao da ću se probuditi i otkriti da je sve san.

U zatvoru sam često sanjao da sam negdje drugdje, izvan zatvora, pa bih se probudio i ustvrdio da sam, nažalost, još unutra. Teško je to opisati, predočiti ljudima na slobodi koji sve oko sebe uzimaju zdravo za gotovo. Obilje je, iz moje još uvijek zatvorske perspektive, svojevrsni eksces, imamo više no što trebamo, a kada imamo previše, ne uživamo i nismo zahvalni.

Otvorio sam hladnjak, činio mi se pretrpan, nisam mogao ni vidjeti što sve ima unutra. Bio bih ljut na Julie zašto to ne isprazni, zašto kupuje više nego što nam treba? Treba najprije pojesti ono što imamo pa onda ići u kupovinu. To je zatvorska navika. Bilo nam je ograničeno koliko mjesečno možemo potrošiti, sve smo čuvali da nam traje što dulje je moguće. Svaku mrvicu bolje hrane, grickalice, tunjevinu, sve smo čuvali kao najveću dragocjenost. A kako smo tek uživali u svemu! Ništa nije bilo hitno, imali smo vremena napretek, pa smo svaku radnju produžavali što smo više mogli. Samo neka dani prolaze.

Kuhanje, na primjer. Kada bismo uspjeli nešto prokrijumčariti iz kuhinje, satima bismo pripremili umak za špagete ili što drugo. Zatvorski grah kuhao bi se i do četrdeset sati. Uvijek sam rado kuhao grah, uspijevao sam ga pripremiti i u najoskudnijim uvjetima. Bio je to, recimo to tako, moj specijalitet. Nije ni čudo da je tomu tako s obzirom na život kakav sam živio. Stalna opasnost, česte promjene stanova i mjesta stanovanja, udbaške potjere i emigrantske paranoje, financijska oskudica, sve je to odredilo grah kao moje idealno jelo – lako se nabavljao, nije zahtijevao gotovo nikakve začine ni dodatke, a s druge strane gotovo svi začini i razne vrste mesa i razni prilozi bili su dobrodošli. Ipak, sva predzatvorska kulinarska iskustva s grahom blijede kada se usporede sa zatvorskim grahom. Pripremanje graha u zatvoru zahtijevalo je puno vještine, krijumčarenja potrepština iz kuhinje, a i vremena. Vremena sam, hvala Bogu, imao, a ostalo sam s vremenom usavršio.

Nakon što bih prokrijumčario potrepštine iz kuhinje, sol, grah i drugo što se dalo, grah sam stavljao u plastične vrećice za smeće, a vrećice uvezivao oko centralnih cijevi za grijanje koje su povezivale katove u jedinstven sustav centralnoga grijanja. Dalje je sve bilo stvar strpljenja i kontrole procesa. Temperatura u cijevima bila je oko četrdeset do pedeset stupnjeva u najboljem slučaju. Bilo je to kuhanje na “tihoj vatri” u pravom smislu te riječi.

Na slobodi su prioriteti posloženi drukčije. Odnos prema vremenu bitno je drukčiji. Toliko je mnogo razina moje ponovne prilagodbe “slobodnom životu”, a jedna od njih bila je, svakako, navikavanje na tempo života. U zatvoru dani traju cijelu vječnost, i malo je ili nimalo zadovoljstva, pa je na zatvorenicima da nečim, bilo čime, ispune svoje dane, mjesece, godine. Jedini način na koji to možeš učiniti obavljanje je svake stvarčice najsporije što je moguće.

Ako kuhaš kavu, ne žuriš, duljiš i širiš sve što činiš. To je gotovo kao zen budizam jer si svjestan svakog i najmanjeg pokreta, žličice u staklenki s kavom, miješanja, topline šalice na tvojim prstima, sporog pijuckanja, pranja šalice nakon što popiješ, odlaganja posuđa. Ili kad radiš salatu od tunjevine, svjestan si rezuckanja povrća, krajnje pedantnog rezuckanja, u kockice ili na trakice, miješanja, stanke za cigaretu, i zatim nastavljanja postupka. Trebalo bi nam sat vremena za nešto što bi „normalna“ osoba obavila u pet minuta, a kad nanižeš popis takvih djelatnosti – čišćenje ćelije, pranje poda ćelije, rezanje noktiju, pranje čarapa, čitanje knjige, riječ po riječ, još jedan dan prođe i prije no što si svjestan, i postaješ sretan jer Vrijeme je neprijatelj i u stalnoj si borbi da ga pobijediš.

Zato sam bio posve zbunjen i izgubljen kad sam se najednom našao bačen u svijet u kojemu se od mene očekivalo da sve obavim brzo, jednu stvar za drugom, u brzom slijedu, da u sekundi donosim odluke o svakodnevnom životu, pa čak i o stvarima od ogromne važnosti. Odlazak u samoposluživanje bio mi je i još uvijek je noćna mora. Sva ta ponuda, nizovi polica s proizvodima od kojih su mnogi veoma slični, etikete, boje, veličine i sastojci. Kako bih mogao ikada odabrati kad mi trideset dvije godine nije bilo dopušteno išta odabrati ili odlučivati? Trebala mi je cijela vječnost da kupim namirnice za Julie i sebe, a kada bismo se nakon kupovine vratili kući, oboje bismo bili rastrojenih živaca – ja zato što sam se osjećao posve bespomoćno, kao da sam u posvemašnjoj obamrlosti potpuno ošamućen, a Julie zato što sam uvijek bio veoma odlučan i siguran, a sad nisam mogao odabrati ni komad sira.

Što mi se dogodilo? Čudio sam se kako Julie može nešto pripremiti za deset minuta. To mi nije išlo u glavu, nešto tu nije u redu, to ne može biti dobro! A i kada bih se uvjerio da je brzo pripravljeno ukusno, svejedno bih i dalje zanovijetao, a Julie bi nemoćno slegnuIa ramenima. I dalje mislim da je ipak bolje polako pripravljati jelo jer uživaš u samom procesu, koncentriraš se, cijeli je svijet s tobom na neki način usredotočen na određenu radnju, pa je to i svojevrsno povezivanje sa svemirom. Teško je sve to objasniti, svijet mi je jednostavno bio prevelik. Nije mi djelovao pun čari, nego pun zbunjujućih stvari i varki. Sve mi je to teško padalo, osobito manjak sigurnosti, jer su samouvjerenost i poštovanje bile od životne važnosti u zatvoru, tamo će svaka mrvica slabosti odmah biti iskorištena. Moraš hodati kao da si kralj svijeta, moraš govoriti kao da je tvoja riječ zadnja, moraš biti spreman potući se ako je potrebno. Pokazivanje slabosti može te skupo koštati, pa i života.

Kada sam došao iz zatvora kući, zahtijevao sam od Julie da skloni neke male tepihe koje je imala po podu u kući. Ona je bila zbunjena, pitala je zašto to, lijepi su, a ne smetaju, no nisam joj mogao odmah objasniti kako sam se bojao da ću se poskliznuti preko njih i izgubiti ravnotežu, a time i samopoštovanje, i izgledati kao ruglo. To je opasno u zatvoru, ali ne i u kući. Možda ni sam nisam tada shvaćao zašto mi ti tepisi smetaju. Kasnije sam shvatio da me bilo strah gubitka ravnoteže. Teško se odviknuti od navika koje su važne za „preživljavanje“ u zatvoru. Još uvijek imam osjećaj da ne smijem pokazati nimalo nesigurnosti, barem s ljudima koji mi nisu jako bliski, premda je to u svijetu izvan zatvorskih zidina posve normalno.

Višak stvari u početku mi je predstavljao strašan problem. Otvorio bih ladicu, a unutra bi bilo svega i svačega, ubačeno bez reda. Nemaš pojma čega ima u kući, a čega ne, nešto kupiš, a onda kasnije nađeš još tri takve ili slične stvari. Živio sam kao asket toliko godina, i najbolje bi bilo da sam odmah otišao u neki samostan jer bih se tamo osjećao kao doma, našalim se ponekad na svoj račun. No Julie mi kaže da je to „normalno“.

Stalno sam se borio kako bih stvorio svoj zatvorski svijet u „slobodnom svijetu“, ali nije išlo. Kao što je Solženjicin rekao kada je bio pušten iz zatvora, da je ostavio zatvor, ali je istovremeno ostavio svoju „domovinu“, sve što je znao, sve što mu je bilo blisko, sve prijatelje, rutine, mjesta, predmete, krajolik, sustav življenja, pravila, prostor – i našao se kao novorođenče negdje u novom svijetu. Slično je bilo i sa mnom. Našao sam se sa strancima, a to su bili članovi obitelji, rod, u svom selu, koje se potpuno promijenilo, u svojoj zemlji, koja je sada slobodna, odjednom okružen drugim jezikom, vlastitim, najdražim, ali istodobno i nekako stranim nakon trideset i dvije godine engleskoga.

Pravila naučena u zatvoru, zakoni, bolje rečeno, u tom novom svijetu nisu značila ništa, nikoga nisu obvezivala. Na primjer, kada u zatvoru daš riječ, moraš je održati ili lako možeš izgubiti život. Riječ je sve. U zatvoru kada netko da riječ i prekrši je, imaš pravo, gotovo dužnost, pretući ga ili čak ubiti. To je zakon zatvora, možda grub i ljudima na slobodi nerazumljiv. Vani gotovo svi lažu, manipuliraju, a ništa im se zbog toga ne događa, ne srame se niti ih okolina zbog toga bojkotira. Vani ne smiješ kažnjavati protuhe. Samo ih moraš trpjeti, jer njihova riječ nema nikakve vrijednosti.

U zatvoru nema cinkanja. To je strogo zabranjeno, nešto najniže. Cinker mora biti u izolaciji jer će ga ubiti, to svi razumiju, čak i stražari. Na slobodi svi sve cinkaju, na ovaj ili onaj način, da bi nešto dobili, neki dobitak ili probitak. Ne događa im se uglavnom ništa loše zbog toga, svi to prihvaćaju kao normalno. U zatvoru je zakon potpuno suprotan. U zatvoru ne smiješ, na primjer, nekome dugovati novac, ili ćeš platiti na vrijeme ili ćete premlatiti, možda i ubiti. Pitanje je časti i poštovanje da, ako duguješ, platiš svoje dugove. Vani je sve drukčije, svi su u dugovima, duguju drugima, bankama, prijateljima, a kada ne plate, nikome ništa. Nedostaje osjećaj odgovornosti, integriteta, dužnosti. Pa se postavlja pitanje, gdje je normalnije, vani ili u zatvoru?

U zatvoru čuvaš prijatelje, štitiš ih, ako im treba pomoć, uvijek si na raspolaganju, pa i kada te to može stajati života. S njima dijeliš sve – tugu, radost, očaj. Vani nije tako, pravo prijateljstvo je rijetko, s ljudima koji te okružuju često ništa ne dijeliš, više se kriješ želeći se prikazati drukčijim no što jesi. Prijatelje mijenjaš po potrebi, najčešće iz interesa. Zato sam se osjećao vrlo osamljenim kada sam došao iz zatvora, osim Julie nisam imao nikoga s kime bih mogao dijeliti osjećaje, iskustva. Konačno i Julie je imala drukčije zatvorsko iskustvo, ženski je svijet ipak drukčiji od muškoga, a osim toga ja sam u zatvoru bio i puno duže.

Nisam nikomu mogao reći – „Sjećaš li se kako se prije dvadeset godina dogodilo ovo ili ono“, jer nikoga iz moga svijeta od prije dvadeset godina nije bilo u blizini. Od cijele obitelji, osim s Julie, sve te godine viđao sam se samo sa sestrom Zdravkom. Druge članove obitelji nisam vidio skoro četrdeset godina, pa su mi donekle djelovali kao stranci. Kako sam silno čeznuo za prijateljima iz zatvora, našim razgovorima o životu, o našim nadama i strahovima! Dijelili smo dobro i zlo i bili bismo umrli jedan za drugoga. Sve sam izgubio u jednom trenu, koji bi – apsurda li trebao biti najsretniji trenutak u mome životu, i da nije bilo Julie, tko zna bih li sve to izdržao.

Uvijek mi je bilo suludo da se mi zatvorenici, kada izađemo, ne smijemo uopće čuti ni družiti, jer će nas inače vratiti u zatvor, navodno da loše utječemo jedan na drugoga. Najprije smo prisiljeni provesti desetljeće ili više zajedno, kroza sve radosti i bol, patnje i gubitke, sve što čovjek može doživjeti, biti kao obitelj jedan drugome, a onda odjednom, kada izađemo vani, ne smijemo se ni vidjeti ni čuti jer je to strogo zabranjeno. Kakva nehumanost! Dođemo doma strancima, jer se više ne poznajemo, a ne smijemo imati kontakt s onima koji su nam bili najbliži.

U Arhipelagu Gulag Solženjicin piše baš o tim egzistencijalnim pitanjima zatvorenika puštenih iz logora. Njegove su mi riječi pri dolasku uistinu pomogle da steknem uvid u vlastitu situaciju, da bolje razumijem što se i meni samome događa. Kupio sam odjeću, na početku mi se sve svidjelo, nešto kasnije mi ništa više nije odgovaralo. Nisam znao što volim, što ne volim jer sam pola života bio u jednoj uniformi. Tada bih sve bacio i opet išao u kupovinu. Onda bi mi se činilo da imam previše stvari u ormaru, premda nije bilo skoro ničega. Strašno mi je smetala “gužva” u ormaru pa bih iznova sve bacio. Sada imam nekoliko košulja i hlača, dvije jakne, i to je to. Ako me netko vidi stalno u istome, sada zna i razlog. Ne mogu se nositi s obiljem, s viškom. Općenito mislim da je puno bolje imati manje nego više. To je očito problem današnjega svijeta – sve se materijaliziralo, što više imaš, to si bolji čovjek. Glupost! Upravo je suprotno!

Mislim da je Thoreau rekao da se bogatstvo mjeri prema broju stvari bez kojih možeš živjeti. Inače u zatvoru nema vratiju na ormarima, ladicama i policama jer stražari vidjeti kada prolaze uz ćelije moraju vidjeti sve što se u njima nalazi. Iz tog se razloga još uvijek nisam navikao zatvarati ormare, ladice, police, što, priznajem, Julie izluđuje. Osobito kada ostavim otvoren hladnjak. Osim toga, kao zatvorenici nismo mogli paliti ili gasiti svjetla, to je bilo u nadležnosti stražara. Znalo mi se nakon povratka na slobodu dogoditi da su sva svjetla u kući upaljena, a sva vrata koja postoje otvorena, pa je Julie znala kazati da kuća izgleda kao da je neki luckasti kućni duh ili provalnik harao po njoj.

Rastvorenim vratima i upaljenim svjetlima treba dodati da sam svuda ostavljao papiriće. U zatvoru nikada nismo imali dovoljno toaletnog papira, pa kada bismo dobili malo papira uvijek bismo sačuvali poneki komad od toga za kasnije. Još uvijek imam naviku da, kada uzmem papirnati ubrus, pola iskoristim a drugu polovicu zgužvam i kasnije negdje ostavim u kući. Julie i to izluđuje! Stalno mi govori da papira neće nestati, da se ne trebam bojati – no navika je navika. Ponekad ona skupi sve te papire na jedno mjestu, da kuća izgleda urednije, ali ih onda ja ne mogu naći, pa počnem iznova.

Za mene ono što nije na vidnom mjestu kao da i ne postoji. Kada je u pitanju WC, u zatvoru možeš staviti deset trupala u zahodsku školjku i voda će ih odnijeti. Stoga sam mislio da je i ovdje, na slobodi, tako. Nikoga nisam pitao, jednostavno sam tako podrazumijevao. Jednom sam, kratko nakon dolaska, ubacio u školjku sve ostatke grožđa, grančice i lišće. Ljudi su mi stalno donosili grožđe jer su negdje pročitali da ga silno volim jesti i da ga nisam jeo trideset i dvije godine. Naravno, zahodska se školjka potpuno začepila. Vodoinstalater je proveo sate odčepljujuće je. Bio sam, moram priznati, živi teror u kući.

Ali s vremenom sam naučio živjeti na slobodi, premda su brojni tragovi zatvorskoga života ostali, ako ne u postupcima, ono barem u načinu mišljenja i percipiranju stvari. Privikavanje na život na slobodi je potrajalo, često je znalo biti i neugodno, ali s druge strane pružilo mi je jedan drukčiji uvid u svijet, kakav bez te mogućnosti usporedbe života u zatvoru i života “vani” ne bih mogao imati. Brige i težnje ljudi koji su me okruživali na slobodi činile su mi se banalnima, njihovi strahovi bezrazložnima, a njihovo ponašanje često neprihvatljivim.

Srećom, sretao sam i mnoge pametne i krasne ljude koji su bili u stanju nadići banalnost svakidašnje rutine, ljude koji su dublje promišljali svijet i život. Druženje s njima, bez obzira na to jesmo li se u svojim promišljanjima slagali ili prijateljski polemizirali, pomoglo mi je da polako prevladam postzatvorske traume i uključim se u, da tako kažem, civilni život. Jer, gledajući unatrag, ja sam, iako ni dana nisam nosio odoru nijedne vojske, gotovo cijeli život bio vojnik. Vojnik jedne ideje.

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. From now on, you will be able to have access to this part of Croatian history every other Wednesday and print it out free of charge, in Croatian and English, on the dijaspora.hr portal. 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…

Free At Last

Thwarted expectations are an unavoidable fact of life. Those who have never experienced them have really never lived at all. I have personally never been so disappointed that I have stopped loving life or believing in my ideals. When I left prison and returned to Croatia after so many years, I was confused. People had fallen into apathy and defeatism, and the excitement and enthusiasm they once felt about gaining their freedom and statehood had disappeared. On the other hand, I myself had trouble coming to terms with freedom. As paradoxical as it may sound, I missed prison. I missed the structure, the schedule, the daily rhythm, the struggle. Yes, prison is a daily routine, but also a terrible struggle in which every mistake or weakness is dearly paid for.

Everything is different in freedom, at least in the beginning. I came out of prison, from a small, restricted world where everything was limited – space, personal items, number of books allowed, food items, everything – but everything had its place. I knew where all my things were, I knew all the corridors, every little corner like the back of my hand, and felt that everything was under control. When I came out into freedom, into the outside world, everything was suddenly too much, too big. The house Julie lived in was huge to me, even though it was only about 100 square meters. I felt as though I’d get lost if I went upstairs. The first day I walked through it several times, without Julie, in order to orient myself. She was surprised, because she wanted to show me everything, to go through it together. But I was in the clouds, in some kind of fog, as though it were all unreal and I would wake up and find that it was all just a dream. In prison, I often dreamt I was somewhere else, outside the jail, and then I would wake up and find, unfortunately, that I was still inside. It is difficult to describe this to people living in freedom, who take everything around them for granted.

Abundance, from my prison perspective, was equivalent to excess – we have more than we need, and when we have too much we do not enjoy it and we are not grateful. I would open the refrigerator and it would seem too full; I couldn’t see what was inside. I was upset with Julie and asked her why she didn’t empty it, why she bought more than we needed? Told her we needed to use what we had before we bought something else. In prison, we were limited to how much we could spend per month in the commissary, and we used everything sparingly so that it lasted longer. Every bit of any better quality food – snacks, tuna fish – we preserved as though it were gold. And how we enjoyed it! We were never in a hurry, all we had wastime, so we would prolong every little task we did as much as we could. Just so the days would pass.

Cooking, for example. When we would succeed in smuggling something out of the kitchen, we would prepare spaghetti sauce or whatever else for hours. I would prepare prison beans for up to forty hours. I always liked to make beans, and I succeeded under the poorest of conditions. Beans were, let’s say, my specialty. And that’s no wonder, considering the life I’d lived. Constant danger, changing apartments and cities all the time, UDBA pursuits, emigrant paranoia, financial difficulty – for such a life, beans were the obvious choice. They were easy to find, and hardly any other ingredients were needed, although additional spices, or various meats and other additions were certainly welcome. But all my pre-prison culinary experience with beans pales in comparison to prison beans. The preparation of beans in prison required considerable skill, the smuggling of ingredients from the kitchen, and time. After I would smuggle the ingredients – beans, salt, and whatever else I could – I would put the beans in a plastic bag and tie it around the central heating pipes that connected all the floors with the central heating system. The rest was just a question of patience and supervision of the process. The temperature of the pipes was about 40-50 degrees at best. It was slow cooking in the true sense of the word.

In freedom, priorities are set much differently. The relationship toward time is very different. There were so many levels to my adjustment to “life in freedom”, and one was certainly getting used to the tempo of life. In prison, days seemed like an eternity, with little or no enjoyment, so it is up to the prisoners to fill their days, months, years, with something, anything. The only way to do that is to perform every action as slowly as possible. If you make coffee, you don’t hurry, you drag it out and expand everything. It’s almost like Zen because you are conscious of even the smallest movement, the spoon in the coffee jar, the stirring, the warmth of the cup in your hands, the slow sipping, washing the cup after you’ve drunk the coffee, putting away the dishes. Or if you’re making tuna salad, you’re conscious of the chopping of vegetables, very fastidiously, in cubes or slices, mixing, a cigarette break, and then back to the process. We needed an hour to do what a “normal” person would do in five minutes, and when you make a list of all such activities – cleaning the cell, mopping the floor, clipping your fingernails, washing your socks, reading a book, word for word, days pass before you know it. Time is your enemy and you are always in a struggle to conquer it.

So I was totally confused and lost when I was thrust all at once into a world where everyone expected me to do things quickly, one after the other, to make immediate decisions about daily life, or even about issues of great importance. Going to a grocery store was a nightmare. All the choices, rows and rows of products that seemed the same or similar, the labels, colors, sizes and ingredients. How could I choose when for thirty-two years I was not allowed to decide or select anything? I needed an eternity to buy groceries for Julie and myself, and when we would get home after shopping, we would both be totally stressed out; me, because I felt so helpless, utterly numb and dizzy, and Julie because I had always been so decisive and now couldn’t even choose a piece of cheese. What had happened to me? I was amazed that Julie could prepare something to eat in ten minutes. I couldn’t imagine that, something was wrong, it couldn’t possibly taste good! And even when I saw that it could be good, I would continue ranting on about it, and she would get mad. I still think, though, that it is better to prepare things slowly because then you enjoy the entire process, you are concentrated, the whole world is somehow focused on what you are doing, and you feel connected to the universe.

It’s hard to explain, but the world was simply too large for me. It did not seem full of magic, but of confusing things and delusions. It was all very difficult forme, especially my lack of confidence, because confidence and respect had been of critical importance in prison. There every sign of weakness would be exploited. You had to walk as though you were king of the world, you had to speak as though your word was the law, you had to be prepared to fight when necessary. You could pay a high price, even with your life, for showing weakness.

When I returned home from prison, I asked Julie to remove the small rugs on the floor. She was confused and asked me why, said they were pretty, they didn’t bother anyone, but I was unable to explain right away that I was afraid I would slip on them, lose my balance and my confidence, and look like a fool. That had been dangerous in prison, but not at home. I probably did not even realize at first why the rugs bothered me. Later I realized I was afraid of losing my balance. It is difficult to change habits that had been necessary for “survival” in prison. I still have the feeling that I am not allowed to show the slightest bit of uncertainty, at least with people that are not that close to me, in spite of the fact that this is normal outside prison walls.

As I said, in the beginning, excess presented a big problem to me. I would open a drawer and inside would find all sorts of things thrown in without any organization. You have no idea what you have or do not have in the house, you buy something and then find out later you have three such items already. I lived as an ascetic for so many years that it would have been better for me, I have often joked, to have gone immediately into a monastery when I was released, because there I would have felt at home. But Julie tells me this is “normal.” I constantly struggled to recreate my “prison world” in the “free world”, but it just didn’t work. As Solzhenitsyn said when he was released from prison, he left prison, yes, but at the same time, he left his “homeland”, everything he knew, everything that was close to him, all his friends, routines, surroundings, possessions, way of life, regulations, space – and found himself a newborn in a new world.

It was similar with me. I found myself with strangers who were members of my family, relatives; in my village, where everything had changed; in my country, now free and suddenly speaking another language, my own, the one dearest to me, but at the same time, something foreign after thirty-two years of English. The rules learned in prison, or more accurately, the laws, meant nothing in this new world, nobody paid attention to them. For example, when you give your word in prison, you must keep it or you could lose your life. Your word is everything. In prison, when someone gives his word and breaks it, you have the right, and almost the obligation, to beat him up or even kill him. That is the law of the prison. Perhaps cruel and incomprehensible to people living in freedom. Here, almost everyone lies and manipulates, and nothing happens to them as a result, they are not ashamed, and nobody penalizes them for it.

In the outside world, you are not allowed to punish these offenders. You just have to put up with them, because their word has no value. In prison, you also don’t snitch. This is strongly prohibited, the lowest of the low. The snitch is always held in isolation because he will otherwise be killed, and everyone knows this, even the guards. In the outside world, there are snitches everywhere, seeking some benefit, profit, or advantage. And nothing really happens to them because of it, everyone accepts it as normal. In prison, the laws are completely different. For example, you are not allowed to owe anyone money; either you pay on time or you will be beaten or even killed. Outside, everyone owes money, to others, to banks, to friends, and when they don’t pay, nothing happens. That feeling of responsibility, integrity, and duty is missing. So I would ask, what is more normal, prison or the outside world? In prison you look out for your friends, protect them, and if they need help, you are always available, even if it could cost you your life. You share everything with them – sadness, joy, despair. It’s not like that on the outside; real friendship is rare, and you seldom share intimacies with people around you, but disguise yourself so you appear different than you are. You change friends according to your needs, mostly to benefit yourself in some way.

So I felt very lonely when I came out of prison. I had nobody but Julie with whom I could share my feelings and experiences. However, she had had a different prison experience than I, because the women’s prisons were completely different, and also because I was in prison much longer. I wasn’t able to say to anyone: remember when this or that happened twenty years ago? Because nobody from twenty years ago was with me anymore.

All those years, the only family member I saw was my sister, Zdravka. I had not seen other family members for forty years, so they seemed like strangers to me. How I longed for my friends from prison, our conversations about life, our hopes and fears! We shared our joys and sorrows and would have died for each other. I lost it all in a moment that, absurdly, should have been the happiest one in my life, and if it had not been for Julie, I don’t know if I would have been able to endure it.

It always seemed so insane to me that we prisoners, when we are released, are prohibited from being in touch or spending time together because we are supposedly a bad influence on each other. Violating this rule can result in a return to prison. First we are forced to spend decades or more together, share all our suffering and loss, joy, sadness, all a human being can experience, be like a family to each other, and then all of a sudden, when we are released, we are not allowed to see or hear from each other because it’s strictly prohibited. How inhumane! We return home as strangers, because we no longer know anybody, and are not allowed to have contact with those who were closest to us. In The Gulag Archipelago, Solzhenitsyn writes a lot about these existential issues with which every released prisoner is confronted. His words helped me gain insight into my own condition and to understand what had happened to me when I returned.

When I bought clothes, I liked them all in the beginning, and later did not like any of them. I didn’t know what I liked or not, because half my life was spent in a prison uniform. So I would get rid of it all and go shopping again. Then it would seem to me that I had too many things in my closet, although there was really very little. Since excess bothered me very much, I would get rid of more things. Now I just have a few shirts and pants, two jackets, and that’s that. If anyone sees me always wearing the same thing, that is why. To me, this is the problem with today’s world – everything is materialized, the more you have, the better person you supposedly are. Ridiculous. It is actually the opposite. I think it was Thoreau who said that wealth is measured by the number of things one can do without.

Another thing is that in prison there are no doors on cupboards, shelves, or drawers, because the guards have to be able to always see what you have when they pass by the cells. So I didn’t have the habit of closing anything – cupboards, drawers, etc., which drove Julie crazy. Especially when I left the refrigerator door open. Besides that, prisoners were not able to turn lights on and off; the guards did that. It was often the case that after I returned to freedom all the lights were on and all the cupboards and drawers were open, so Julie would say it looked like some poltergeist or intruder had been rampaging through the house. Along with this, I would also leave little crumpled pieces of paper all over the place. In prison we never had enough toilet paper, so when we would get a little, we would always save a small piece for later. I still have that habit, whenever I use a napkin, for example, of saving half of it and putting it, half crumpled, somewhere in the house. That drives Julie crazy, too. She is constantly telling me that we will never run out of paper, I don’t need to worry about that, but habit is habit. Sometimes she collects all the little papers and puts them in one pile, but then I can’t find them, so I start all over again. If something is not visible to me, then it’s as though it doesn’t exist!

In prison, for example, the toilet water pressure was so strong that you could probably throw in ten corpses and they would be swept away, so I thought it was like that in the free world as well. I didn’t ask anyone, I just assumed it. Once, shortly after my return, I flushed a bunch of leaves and grape stems down the toilet. People were always bringing me grapes because they had heard I loved them and hadn’t eaten them for 32 years. Of course, the toilet got totally blocked. The plumber spent hours trying to unplug it. I have to admit I was a terror in the house. But in time I learned to live in freedom, although many traces of prison remained, not so much in my actions, but in the way I thought and perceived things.

Becoming adjusted to life in freedom lasted awhile, and was often unpleasant, but on the other hand, it gave me a different view of the world that allowed me to compare life in prison and life on the outside. The worries and difficulties of those around me in the “free” world seemed so banal to me, their fears so unfounded, their behavior often unacceptable. Fortunately, I met many smart and exceptional people who were able to rise above the banality of daily routine, people who looked more deeply into the world, into life. Spending time with them, regardless of whether we shared the same views or engaging in friendly debates, helped me to slowly overcome the prison trauma and enter into, so to say, civilian life, and in retrospect, even though I’ve never worn the uniform of any army, I’ve been a fighter my entire life. For an ideal.

Ključne riječi #Julienne Bušić #Zdravo oko #Zvonko Bušić