Zvonko Bušić: Što nisi učinio danas, nećeš učiniti nikada! A što učiniš jednom, učinio si zauvijek!

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…

O vrlo ozbiljnim psihosomatskim problemima koje su proživljavali dugogodišnji zatvorenici nakon izlaska na slobodu s velikim sam zanimanjem još u zatvoru čitao autobiografske zapise poznatih bivših robijaša. O istim problemima privikavanja na život u slobodnome svijetu pripovijedali su mi brojni zatvorski poznanici koji su nakon izvjesnog vremena na slobodi ponovno dospjeli u zatvor.

Takvi zapisi i priče meni, koji sam čeznuo za slobodom, bila su neshvatljiva i nevjerojatna pretjerivanja ili pak obični izgovori. Čitajući i slušajući o tome, ponekad sam razmišljao da se to drugima možda i moglo događati, ali ne i meni. Bio sam uvjeren da ću se, ako ikada izađem iz zatvora, s problemima na slobodi moći i znati nositi.

Danas, nakon bogata vlastita iskustva tijekom ove već četiri i pol godine na slobodi, ponizno priznajem da sam se precjenjivao i brzopleto prosuđivao. Sada sam postao još uvjereniji da se gotovo nikakva iskustva, a ponajmanje ona bolna i mukotrpna, ne mogu prenositi s čovjeka na čovjeka, s naraštaja na naraštaj, s jedne zajednice na drugu. Pogreške i promašaji drugih, njihove patnje i stradanja ne možemo shvatiti, niti na njima možemo učiti. Očito svatko mora iskustiti na vlastitoj koži, da bi shvatio, naučio i razvio osjećaj suosjećanja.

Jedan od mnoštva problema s kojima sam se susreo nakon izlaska iz zatvora bila je spoznaje da je moj osjećaj za prostor i snalaženje u njemu toliko oslabio da nije ni sjene nekadašnjega. Svojevremeno sam se u velegradovima Europe i Amerike snalazio kao riba u vodi, a sada mi je raspored nekoga gradića i pamćenje puta ulaska u nj bilo teško. Kad se ni s protokom vremena stanje nije popravljalo, to me je zbunjivalo, zabrinjavalo i slabilo moje samopouzdanje. Zaključio sam da su desetljeća provedena u ćelijama od pet kvadrata i šetnja po istim zatvorskim kružnicama otupila moj osjećaj za snalaženje u prostoru. Sposobnost koja se ne koristi, zakržlja.

S obzirom da sam još u zatvoru ušao u predvečerje svoga života, pomirio sam se s time da se moj moždani centar za orijentaciju možda nikada neće potpuno regenerirati. Činjenica da prirodni procesi starenja čine svoje i vode prema jedinom stoposotnom ishodu više me zbunila nego preplašila. Uostalom, smrt uvijek ima posljednju riječ, a nje se odavno nimalo ne bojim. Nakon što sam u djetinjstvu prebolio tifus, vjerovao sam da neću umrijeti od bolesti ni od starosti, nego će me na mom opasnom životnom putu smrt mnogo ranije zateći.

Naviknut na tu misao s takvom sam se smrću pomirio, gotovo intimizirao. O činjenici da godine prolaze i vrijeme čini svoje gotovo da nisam stigao ni razmišljati. Ni danas nekoliko godina nakon izlaska iz zatvora tu opciju ne uspijevam doživjeti kao realnu. Život mi se i dalje čini pozornicom čuda i izazova. Možda sam zato i odlučio upisati autoškolu, premda su stvarni motivi za to bili ponešto kompleksniji.

Smiješno je da početkom trećeg tisućljeća čovjek koji je obišao pola svijeta nema položen vozački ispit. Nekoć sam naoružan glinenim bombama i otetim zrakoplovom s lakoćom savladavao razdaljine između kontinenata, sada sam prisiljen na autobusnoj postaji čekati ZET-ov nepredvidivi autobus da bih došao do centra!

Zbog toga što se nisam uspio uklopiti u slobodni svijet nakon svih tih godina, odlučio sam probati nešto novo, nešto što „normalni ljudi“ rade, jer kada bih i ja naučio neke nove vještine, bio bih sličniji drugima, oslobođen kompleksa nepripadanja. Tako sam tada razmišljao. Razgovarao sam s prijateljima o automobilima, jer to je tema o kojoj uistinu nisam ništa znao. Puno sam više znao o magarcima, ali nisam mogao zamisliti da bih jednoga dana mogao imati vozačku dozvolu, a kamoli vlastiti automobil. Bio sam siromašno seosko dijete koje se jedva uspjelo dočepati rabljenog bicikla. Kasnije kada sam zakoračio u emigraciju, hrvatska revolucija bila mi je puno važnija od običnih građanskih zadovoljstava i preokupacija kao što je vožnja automobila.

Tako sam nakon tri i pol godine slobode, početkom 2012., donio čvrstu odluku i upisao se u autoškolu, a u svibnju iste godine dobio vozačku dozvolu. Moram priznati da mi uvježbavanje vožnje nije išlo glatko, no ostao sam uporan jer mi je bilo neugodno odustati. Osim toga, računao sam da će ova nova vještina učvrstiti moje samopouzdanje i makar me donekle izjednačiti s „normalnm ljudima“.

Uspješno položenim vozačkim ispitom hvalio sam se pred prijateljima i tražio njihove savjete kakav i koji automobil bi najbolje odgovarao starcu koji je tek naučio voziti i koji se u automobile razumije kao tele u šarena vrata. Tražio sam samo pouzdan auto, nešto jednostavno, ali prijatelji, stručnjaci za „limene ljubimce“, sugerirali su mi da bih trebao neki sigurniji, veći auto, za slučaj eventualnog sudara ili prometne nezgode, a još bi redovito dodali kako „zaslužujem dobar auto nakon svega što sam prošao“.

Pristao sam, premda sam još osjećao nelagodu. Nije to bilo u mom karakteru, a nije se slagalo ni s mojim skromnim počecima i načinom života u zatvoru. No prijatelji su me na kraju uvjerili, a s obzirom da su mi puno pomogli u nabavi i kupnji auta, poslušao sam ih. Jedan od njih, koji je ne samo vrlo uspješan poduzetnik nego i iznimno pošten i častan čovjek, ponudio se da će mi pronaći takvo auto kod svojih poslovnih poznanika koji ih prodaju i nadoknaditi razliku u cijeni.

Tako smo kupili auto koje nam je preporučio vlasnik trgovine rabljenih auta. Dodao je da i on želi doprinijeti odričući se svoje zarade na autu, jer cijeni moj doprinos i žrtvu u borbi za hrvatsku slobodu. Sada sam, eto, vlasnik rabljenog Audija A6. Na početku sam se ponosio autom, stalno sam bio za volanom, pokazivao ga i razgovarao o njemu s drugima. To razdoblje mi je bio najljepše, jer sam prvi put osjetio potpunu slobodu kretanja, vozeći kroz cijelu Hrvatsku kada god sam zaželio, sam i slobodan kao ptica. Konačno sam postao „normalan“, iako mi je Julie već nakon nekoliko dana rekla da sam nježniji prema autu, nego prema njoj. Naravno, šalila se.

S vremenom je uzbuđenje jenjavalo, a radost, kako to biva sa svime što je novo, jednostavno se izgubila. Štoviše, počeo sam žaliti što nemam skromniji auto. Prevelik je bio skok od oskudice u zatvoru do Audija A6. Mučilo me da bi ljudi mogli povjerovati da sam si ga sam kupio, da sam izgubio svoju zatvorsku skromnost, da sam se pretvorio u materijalista koji traži zadovoljstvo u stvarima umjesto u idealima, da sam licemjer, da sam prestao biti asket.

O svojim sam nelagodama razgovarao s prijateljima, uvjeravali su me da mi nitko ne bi zamjerio, naprotiv. Ipak, još sam uvijek uznemiren, rjeđe vozim, a više razmišljam o tome kako materijalne stvari nikada ne donesu trajnu radost i zadovoljstvo. No, Audi je na početku morao dobiti ime. Prozvao sam ga – a zar sam i mogao drukčije!? – Rocinante. Bivša bedevija promovirana u viteškoga konja.

Mislim da je to ne samo primjereno ime za moj auto nego je i simbolično, je se često i osjećam poput Don Quijotea koji jaše na svom Rocinanteu, i u ovoj našoj kaotičnoj i korumpiranoj političkoj ludnici vodi borbu s vjetrenjačama. No i s fantomima prošlosti, koji izviru iz pročitanih knjiga i bolnih sudara sa stvarnošću.

Tijekom prvih nekoliko mjeseci s velikim sam uzbuđenjem i užitkom prokrstario na svom Rocinanteu Hrvatsku uzduž i poprijeko nastojeći nadoknaditi makar nešto od onoga što sam u životu propustio, i uhvatiti ono nešto što me još od mladih dana vuklo naprijed kao zvijezda vodilja. Obilazio sam mnoga mjesta u Hrvatskoj i u Bosni i Hercegovini, u kojima nikada nisam bio, posjećivao rodbinu i prijatelje, i pred njima se ponosno hvalio s mojim Rocinanteom. Bilo je to, uistinu, jedno od najljepših razdoblja od kako sam izašao iz zatvora.

I baš se u to vrijeme oko Rocinanteova spola razvila u jednom ugodnom društvancu lijepa raspravica, prava polemika. Bio je tu jedan ugledni izdavač, jedan poznati kolumnist i još nešto, uglavnom učena svijeta. Htjeli su me uvjeriti da je Rocinante kobila, a ne konj. Nemoj da te zavara impozantan auspuh, cinično me je razuvjeravao kolumnist, a izdavač ponudio poveliku okladu. Prihvatio sam, što bih drugo!? Bilo mi ga je žao što će izgubiti solidnu svoticu, ne stoga što bih ga žalio zbog gubitka jer je bio imućan, nego stoga što u okladi nije bilo nikakve neizvjesnosti, barem za mene.

S druge strane nesolidno poznavanje besmrtnog Cervantesova romana moralo je biti primjereno kažnjeno. Zahtijevao je to viši poredak stvari, a ako sam ja morao biti njegovo sredstvo, što se tu može!? Uglavnom, stvar je podignuta na višu razinu, izravno se obraćalo španjolskom veleposlanstvu, dok na kraju nije stiglo nepobitno tumačenje Cervantesova instituta o nedvosmislenom muškom spolu slavnoga Don Quijoteova konja, s rodoslovljem i ostalim učenim sitnicama.

Budalina Tale može jahati na kakvoj god bedeviji, ali Don Quijote baš i ne. Iz nekog razloga to mojim dobrim Hrvatima nije uvijek jasno. Stoga nam povijest, valjda, i jest prepuna, uz djela iznimnog viteštva, neshvatljivo sramnih epizoda.

Kad sam već kod oklada, prisjetit ću se i jedne iz rane mladosti. Moram priznati da su nekada oklade bile kudikamo neizvjesnije, životnije. Sjećam se, recimo, jedne zgode iz gimnazijskih dana. Prijatelj Tiho i ja zatekli smo se na boćalištu pokraj Kamenmosta, bicikle prislonili uz ogradu i gledamo lokalne ljude kako boćaju. U jednom trenutku ovi iz pobjedničke ekipe ponude nam da se ogledamo. O piće, naravno, a pije cijela birtija – igrači i neigrači. Mi pristanemo, za jednu turu imamo novaca, ali jedva. Dobijemo prvu partiju, oni traže revanš. Pristanemo. Oni dobiju drugu partiju. Predlažu nam da razigramo o sve i već naručuju treću ili četvrtu rundu pića. Mi već odavno više nemamo novaca za podmiriti ni trećinu duga, stoga pristajemo na razigravanje. Posljednje bacanje.

Tiho baca, ako izbije njihovu i smjesti našu uz bulin, dobivamo! Ako ne, kukava nam majka. Namignemo jedan drugomu, pogledamo u bicikle. Kom obojci, kom opanci! Mladi smo, brzi smo, gume na biciklima sređene! Promaši li Tiho, nokat u ledinu i šuma ti mati! Dobili smo, Tiho je pogodio kako treba. Ali to je bila oklada, prava, neizvjesna! Kasnije mi je u zatvoru jedan okorjeli zločinac, kad sam mu o tome pričao, gotovo prijekorno dobacio: „Ipak si bio spreman varati!?“

Mnogima sam ispričao tu zgodu, no nitko je nije pojmio s takvom moralnom oštrinom kao taj čovjek koji je od mladih dana išao krivim stazama. Iz pozicije nekakva moralna autoriteta u zatvoreničkom svijetu morao sam se pravdati zbog bezazlene mladenačke nepodopštine. Rekao sam da smo morali pronaći izlaz iz situacije, no da bismo drugi ili treći dan sigurno došli i platili svoje dugove. Tako sam za vrijeme te partije boćanja uistinu i razmišljao, no mnogo godina kasnije u zatvoru, taj mi se izgovor činio neuvjerljivim, štoviše bijednim. Priznao sam svom zatvorskom supatniku: „Imaš pravo, moralni izbori su izbori trenutka. Što nisi učinio danas, nećeš učiniti nikada! A što učiniš jednom, učinio si zauvijek!“

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…

Rocinante

While still in prison, I had read of the serious psychosomatic problems long-term prisoners were confronted with in various autobiographies of famous former prisoners. Other prison acquaintances who had been released and ended up in prison again also told me about these same problems of adjustment to the “free world”. For someone longing for freedom, these accounts and stories seemed either incomprehensible, or grossly exaggerated, or simple cop-outs. Reading and listening to them, I often thought something like that might happen to someone else, but not to me. I was certain that if I were ever released, I would be able to cope with any problems on the outside. Today, after all the experiences I have had the last four and a half years, I humbly admit that I overestimated myself and reached conclusions too quickly. I am now even more convinced that no experience, and especially the painful and agonizing ones, can be passed on from person to person, generation to generation, community to community. We are unable to comprehend the mistakes and failures of others, their sufferings and pain, or learn from them. Apparently every individual must experience it “on his own skin” in order to understand, learn, and develop a feeling of empathy.

One of many problems confronting me after my release from prison was the realization that my sense of space and how to operate within it was only a shadow of what it had been. At one time, I could orient myself like a fish in water in all the capitals of Europe and America, and now the layout of some small town and remembering how to get to it are very difficult for me. When things did not improve after a certain amount of time, I became confused, and my self-confidence decreased. I concluded that the decades I had spent in five-by-fivemetercells, and walking the same circles in prison had deadened my sense of space and orientation. A skill not used begins to wither away. Since I entered my senior years of life in prison, I came to terms with the fact that my center for orientation might never be able to regenerate in its entirety. The fact that the natural aging processes take their toll, all leading toward only one result, confused more than frightened me. Anyhow, Death always has the last word, and I have not feared it for some time now.

After I conquered typhoid fever as a child, I was convinced I would never die of illness or old age, but that Death would reach me earlier along the dangerous life path I had taken. Having become accustomed to this, I came to terms with such a death and became almost intimate with it. I had hardly even considered the fact that years had passed and time had taken its toll. But even today, several years after my release from prison, I still cannot see this option as a real one.

Life still seems like a kaleidoscope of wonders and challenges. Maybe it was because of that that I decided to apply for driving school, although my true reasons were a bit more complicated. It is strange that in the third stage of his life a person who has traveled half the world does not know how to drive. Once upon a time, armed with simply clay bombs, I was able to easily navigate the distance between continents with a hijacked plane, but now I am forced to wait for an unpredictable bus to get to the city center.

And since I haven’t been able to fit into the “free world” after all these years, I decided to try something new, something that “normal people” do, because if I were to learn some new skills, I would be similar to others, freed of the complex of not belonging. That is how I thought back then. I talked with friends about various cars, because that was something I knew nothing about. I knew a lot more about donkeys, but could never have imagined that one day I would have a driver’s license, not to mention my own car. I was a poor, village child who could barely manage to get hold of a used bicycle. Later when I entered the diaspora, the Croatian revolution was much more important to me than everyday pleasures and preoccupations such as driving a car.

So after three and a half years of freedom, at the beginning of 2012, I made a firm decision and registered for driving school. In May of the same year, I received my driver’s license. I must admit that driving did not go smoothly for me, but I stood firm because it would have been embarrassing to give up. Besides, I figured this new skill would strengthen my self-confidence and make me at least a bit more like “normal people”. With my fresh license, I went proudly to my friends to solicit advice about what type of car would best fit an old man who had just begun to drive and who knew as much about cars as a child in preschool would.

I was looking for a dependable car, something simple, but knowledgeable friends suggested I get something safer, larger, in case of a possible accident. They would also add that I “deserved a good car after all I had been through”. I gave in, although I felt uncomfortable. It was not in my character, and was not in harmony with my humble beginnings or my way of life in prison. But my friends convinced me in the end, and since they helped me find and purchase a car, I listened to them. One of them, a very successful businessman as well as an honest and upstanding person, offered to find me such a car among his business contacts who sold cars, and would make up the difference in price. Thus we bought a car recommended by the owner of a used car dealership. He added that he would like to write off his commission on the sale, due to his respect for my contribution and sacrifice to the struggle for Croatian freedom.

Now I am the owner of a used Audi 6. I was initially proud of it, and was always behind the wheel showing it off and talking about it to friends. That was the best period for me, because it was the first time I experienced total freedom of movement, driving throughout Croatia whenever I wanted, alone and free as a bird. I had finally become “normal”, although Julie complained to me after a few days that I was more affectionate toward the car than I was toward her. She was kidding, of course.

In time, the excitement waned, and as is the case with everything new, the joy also disappeared. What’s more, I began to regret that I did not have a simpler car. The jump from next to nothing in prison to an Audi 6 had been too great. I was worried that people would think I had bought it myself, that I had lost my prison humility, turned into a materialist who sought satisfaction in material things instead of ideals, a hypocrite, or that I had ceased being an ascetic. I talked about my discomfort with friends, but they tried to convince me that nobody would hold it against me; on the contrary. But I am still uncomfortable, drive less often, and think more about how material things never bring lasting joy and satisfaction.

In the beginning, before all this, the Audi needed to have a name. I called him – what else? – Rocinante. The former mare who had been promoted to a knight’s steed! I think this is not only an appropriate name for my car but also a symbolic one, as I often feel like Don Quixote riding on his Rocinante, tilting against the windmills of this chaotic and corrupt political nuthouse. And also against the phantoms of the past that reappear from the pages of books I’ve read and in certain painful confrontations with reality. During the first few months, I traveled throughout Croatia with my Rocinante, filled with excitement and enjoyment, trying to recapture at least some of what I had missed out on in life, and grasp what had from my earliest days driven me forward like a guiding star.

I traveled through many places in Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina I had never been, visited relatives and friends, and bragged about my Rocinante. It was really one of the most wonderful periods since my prison release. At that time, a friendly debate, actually a polemic, developed over the gender of Rocinante. A respected publisher,a renowned columnist, and several others were involved; in other words, an educated public. They tried to convince me that Rocinante was a mare and not a stud. Do not be fooled by the impressive muffler, the columnist told me cynically, and the publisher offered a large bet. I accepted, what else could I do? I felt sorry for the large sum he would be losing, not because of the money, since he was well to do, but because I had no doubts at all that I was going to win. On the other hand, insufficient knowledge of the immortal Cervantes novel had to be properly punished. If things needed to be raised to a higher level, and if I was to be the means, how could I refuse?

So it was eventually raised to a higher level and the Spanish Embassy was directly contacted until, finally, an indisputable interpretation arrived from the Cervantes Institute on the unambiguous male gender of Don Quixote’s famous horse, along with his geneology and other details. Lady Godiva may have ridden on a mare, but not Don Quixote. This for some reason is not always obvious to my dear Croatians. That is probably why our history is replete with not only acts of exceptional heroism but also incomprehensibly shameful episodes.

As long as I am talking about bets, I will relate one from my early childhood. I must admit that bets were at one time a lot more uncertain, as well as serious. I recall one of them from my high school days. My friend Tiho and I ended up on a bocce ball court near Kamenmost, our bicycles leaned up against a wall, watching the local people playing. At one point, those from the winning team offer us a bet over drinks, of course, for the whole bar – players and non-players. We accept. We have the money for one round, barely. We win the first round, so they ask for revenge. We accept. They win the second round. They propose that we play all or nothing and order a third or fourth round of drinks. We had run out of money to settle even a third of the debt, so we agree to all or nothing. The last chance! Tiho throws, and if he knocks their ball out and puts ours closer, we win. If not, we’re in it up to our knees. We give each other a sign, look toward our bicycles. If worst comes to worst, hit the road. We’re young, we’re fast, we’ve got wheels, and if Tiho blows it, we are out of there!

We won, Tiho made the necessary shot. But it was a bet, a real, actual bet. Later in prison, an incorrigible prisoner asked me, somewhat disparagingly after hearing my story, “So you were ready to cheat them?” I told this same story to many people, but nobody had the moral severity of this prisoner, who had from his earliest days taken all the wrong paths in life. From my position of some kind of moral authority in the prison world, I was forced to defend myself as having acted simply like an irresponsible, carefree kid.

I told him we had had to find a way out of the situation, but that we would surely have come back the second or third day to settle our debts. That’s what I thought during the bocce game, but many years later in prison, this excuse seems unpersuasive, even pitiful. I admitted to my fellow prisoner, “You’re right, moral choices are choices of the moment. What you did not do today, you will never do. And once you do something, you have done it forever.”

Zvonko Bušić

Ključne riječi #Bruno Bušić #Ljubavnici i luđaci #Zvonko Bušić