Zvonko Bušić u memoarima otkrio kako je izgubio oko: Ljudi su bili naviknuti na tragediju. Kao da su mislili da sam dobro prošao jer sam izgubio samo jedno oko!

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!

GORICA

Gorica je stoljećima bila granica. Graničarski mentalitet ima neke svoje specifičnosti. Jedna od njih svakako je i dublje shvaćanje posvemašnje raspolućenosti svijeta. Gorica je uz to bila silom nametnuta granica, isti je narod živio s obje strane. Međutim, vlasti s obje strane bile su dva različita svijeta, azijatska Turska carevina s jedne strane i stara europska sila Mletačka Republika, i kasnije Austrougarska Monarhija s druge strane. Tako je zapravo Gorica bila trostruka granica, jer je puk toga kraja čuvao svoju nevidljivu vlastitu granicu prema nasilju i perfidnosti s Istoka i Zapada.

U tom složenom mikrokozmosu, u kojem su se zrcalila sva bitna obilježja makrokozmosa, puk je vječno bio gladan kruha i slobode. Ali granica ima tu prednost da i neslobodan računa na nemoguće, to jest na to kako će upravu u tom stiješnjenom prostoru između dva carstva naći nišu za vlastitu slobodu. I nije slučajno da su upravo ti krajevi Hercegovine i Dalmatinske zagore rađali kroz stoljeća ljude koji su na svoj način, gazeći mračne staze i bogaze, glavinjali k svjetlu slobode. Uskoci, hajduci, harambaše i serdari, šverceri, škripari, taj dinarski element, kako bi neki rekli, nisu činili ništa drugo do spašavali vlastitu glavu izmičući potjerama u privremenom limbu silom oduzete slobode. Bez iluzije da će spasiti glavu.

U knjizi Otmičari ispunjena sna Boris Maruna apostrofira činjenicu da smo moji suborci i ja, dakako izuzevši Julie, dinarskoga podrijetla. Premda i sam Dinarac, Maruna neke stvari dobro uočava, pak sasvim pogrešno. Posebno griješi kada govori o Bruni Bušiću, valjda ne shvaćajući da oportunizam i borba za koju smo se Bruno i ja odlučili ne mogu ići ruku pod ruku. Bruni kao i Dinarcima općenito Maruna zamjera violentnost, laku zapaljivost i naglost, kao i nerazumijevanje načina na koji svijet funkcionira. Sve se to može, vjerujem, prigovoriti i svakoj revolucionarnoj skupini maloga naroda koja bez ikakve svjetske pomoći, bez sredstava i gotovo bez ljudstva pokušava postići nemoguće, to jest promijeniti zatečeni svjetski poredak i pronaći onu gore spominjanu nišu slobode za svoj narod.

Po naravi stvari nedostatak snage i sredstva nadoknađuje se radikalizmom i spremnošću na žrtvu. Sama kontemplacija još nikoga nije dovela na vrh planine, premda o tome postoje lijepe istočnjačke prispodobe. Odstupit ću od načela da citiram po sjećanju, kako Maruni ne bih učinio krivo, stoga navodim doslovan citat iz knjige Otmičari ispunjenog sna: „Bruno Bušić je nedvojbeno talentiran čovjek, on je nedvojbeno kadar napisati Poziv nadostojanstvo i slobodu i koješta drugo, ali moj dragi Bruno, sam, ili u društvu naših dobronamjernika, laskavaca, podrepaša, budala i provokatora (za ove je predzadnje i potonje glavno da pokazuju njegov mentalitet), nema potrebno iskustvo, nema prirodnog dara, ne shvaća i, jednostavno, nije dorastao da bilo što vodi, ili da sagleda bilo kakve posljedice ovoga kotrljanja. I na toj ćemo se razlici, prije ili kasnije, morati rastati. Dobro pisati i voditi bilo što, pa i seosko kućanstvo, nije nužno ista stvar. Kad bi bila, onda su Antun Gustav Matoš i Tin Ujević morali svakako voditi hrvatski narod. Možemo se samo domišljati koliki bi tek u tom slučaju bio hrvatski Bleiburg”.

Kako pogrešno! Zapravo, Maruni bi se trebalo odgovoriti obrtanjem njegove misli, pa konstatirati kako je ono što on u ovom ulomku kaže zoran dokaz toga kako dobro pisati i dobro politički misliti nije nužno ista stvar. Maruna je napisao nekoliko dobrih pjesama, bio je vjerojatno i dobar Hrvat, ali nije znao politički misliti. Bio je odveć cinik i oportunist da bi bio politički vidovit. Privlačili su ga idealizam i spremnost na žrtvu istinskih hrvatskih boraca za slobodu, ali još su ga više, čini se, onespokojavali i plašili.

Prvo, Bruninu su darovitost za vodstvo vrlo dobro uočili analitičari Udbe. Zato su ga i ubili. Partija se s druge strane nikada nije zamarala, recimo, time da naškodi Maruni ili Jakši Kušanu kojega Maruna kuje u zvijezde. Isto tako Tuđman, koji je na kraju sa svojom strankom i hrvatskim narodom ostvario hrvatski san, najozbiljnije je iz cijele emigracije računao s Brunom Bušićem, a ne s nekim drugim protagonistima emigrantske scene koje Maruna preferira.

Drugo, što se tiče primjedbe o Matošu i Ujeviću, teško da bi oni Hrvatsku vodili lošije nego Supilo i Trumbić za vrijeme Prvoga svjetskog rata ili Pavelić tijekom Drugoga svjetskog rata. Točnije, Bleiburg gotovo da i nije mogao biti veća tragedija, nego je bio. Bez obzira na činjenicu tko bio u tom trenutku na čelu Hrvatske. Mislim da politička spretnost nije dostatna kvalifikacija za vođenje naroda kao što je hrvatski, tu se još više od političke spretnosti traži politička odgovornost i hrabrost.

Vođe malih naroda koji se bore za slobodu moraju biti i osobno hrabri ljudi, spremni na vlastitu žrtvu, a ne samo vješti političari. To što smo Pešut, Matanić, Vlašić i ja bili Dinarci više je splet okolnosti i statistike negoli nekog plana. Tražio sam ljude dovoljno čvrste i pouzdane za izvršenje zadatka, a činjenica da su Dinarci bili daleko najbrojniji u političkoj emigraciji zaslužna je što je od njih bila sastavljena i skupina s kojom sam izvršio otmicu.

Za vrijeme cijeloga svoga djelovanja u političkoj emigraciji zastupao sam integralno hrvatstvo, koje je uključivalo i Muslimane, a tako je razmišljao i Bruno. Stvari su kasnije krenule drugim tijekom, kotač povijesti ne može se vraćati unatrag, ali neke geostrateške i geopolitičke zakonitosti nastavljaju djelovati i kada ih se zanemaruje. Moje goričko djetinjstvo opskrbilo me radoznalošću i zaigranošću, ponekad i preteškom za samo jedan ljudski život.

Oskudica raspiruje maštu, obilje je otupljuje. Priče i pjesme koje sam slušao u djetinjstvu još i danas u mome duhu posjeduju onu živost, kolorit i dramatičnost kakvu često nemaju ni realni događaji. Ima nešto u ljudskoj naravi što je predodređuje da stvarnost najživlje doživljava kroz priču. Često sam se imao prilike uvjeriti da ljude do suza gane neki film, roman ili pjesma, a prisebnost uspiju sačuvati u najdramatičnijim ili najtužnijim životnim trenucima. Ako je ta epska podloga u meni – premda treba reći da je isto toliko dramska i lirska – ono što me čini Dinarcem, moram priznati da u tome ne vidim nikakav problem.

Afektivno, transponirano kroz mit i priču u identitetsko, prisutno je u svim podnebljima. Ono što se od kraja do kraja razlikuje jest možda osnovna crta, boja toga afektivnoga, te omjer u kojem je pomiješano s racionalnim. A taj omjer pak nedvojbeno više ovisi o pojedincu kao takvom negoli podneblju iz kojega pojedinac dolazi. Ipak, dojmovi se nikada tako duboko ne urezuju u čovjekovu svi – jest kao u djetinjstvu. Gorica meni nije samo to epsko i to dinarsko što sam odrastajući upio, nego i bogati splet čisto osobnih impresija, slika, simbola, osjećaja, mirisa, cijelih malih mitova pospremljenih u prostornovremensku kapsulu u mojoj glavi. To je moja Arkadija i moja Platonova pećina, moja Itaka i moja Dubrava. O nju se opirem kada su sva druga uporišta nestabilna, ona iz mene provali u trenucima kad sve mudrosti ovoga svijeta zvuče prazno.

Recimo kao jedne prosinačke noći u zatvoru:

Tisuću je i devet stotina
devedeset četvrta godina.
Polovicom prosinca miseca,
prije zore i žarkoga sunca.

Ove noći u mojoj tamnici,
u prokletoj zemlji Americi
sanjao sam da mi majka stara
s Međugorskom Gospom razgovara.

Gospu pita o povratku mome
i moli se Bogu velikome
da joj spasi iz tamnice sina,
kojeg čeka već dvajest godina.

Moja majka zaklinje i moli,
a Gospa joj ublažava boli.

I tješi je da ne gubi nadu,
da viruje u Božiju pravdu.

Da će skoro sina dočekati,
i sa njime Uskrs proslaviti.

To Kenduša kad je saslušala,
od radosti dugo je plakala.

Tada sam se iz sna probudio,
i u mraku dugo prosjedio,
gledajući iz moje tamnice
njeno drago, uplakano lice.

A sjećanja iz davne prošlosti, žive slike iz moje mladosti,
ne dadoše zaspati mi više,
zato srce ovu pismu piše.

Sićajuć se svega i svačega,
više dobra negoli lošega.

Sićajuć se matere i ćaće,
svakog pedlja roditeljske kuće,
U kojoj smo rođeni i rasli,
nas šestero, dokle smo odrasli.

Sićajuć se velikih blagdana,
svih Božića i svih Stipanjdana.

Kad smo skupa na okupu bili,
i blagdanske radosti dilili.
Dok su tići krila zadobili,
i u bili svit se otisnili.

Odmaglili na sve čet›ri strane,
ostavljali starce uplakane.

Al› svi su se počesto vraćali,
na ognjište, di smo odrastali,
Donoseći radost i veselja,
vraćajući zajam roditelja.

Samo sam ja osta bila vrana,
zato mi je mati uplakana.

I znam da će i ovog Božića,
tužna sidit kraj svoga borića.

Pa joj moram poručiti sada,
da se dobra ukazuje nada.

Bog će dati, sve će dobro biti,
uskoro će sina dočekati.

A nek› ovi današnji blagdani,
za nju budu pravi, sretni dani!

Neka bude veselja i pića,
u Peije, za vrime Božića!

Zapalite sviću na boriću!
Radujte se svetome Božiću!
Sretan Božić i Novu Godinu,
nakon zime, radujte se sinu!›

Ova pjesma na narodnu nije nastala kao pokušaj nekakvog poetskog stvaranja, nego je bila svojevrsna autoterapija u tmurnim trenucima. Sve što doživljava i proživljava, što doživi i preživi čovjek morao zaodjenuti u neki oblik, inače sve to ostaje tek nemušto kretanje biosa u vremenu. Na onoj razini doživljajnosti koja je možda dostupna i životinjama.

Međutim, daleko od toga da je moje djetinjstvo bilo samo idilično, u arkadijskom prostoru i vremenu, odijeljeno od surovosti i grubosti života. Kada sam imao osam ili devet godina, dobio sam trbušni tifus. Isprva ga moji roditelji nisu ozbiljno shvaćali. Djeca su tada stalno pobolijevala, posebice ondje odakle ja dolazim. No kako moja vrućica nije popuštala i više nisam mogao jesti, shvatili su da je riječ o nečemu vrlo ozbiljnome. Budući da su moji roditelji morali raditi na polju, nisu mogli ostati kod kuće i brinuti se o meni, došla me njegovati baka.

Tada nisam jeo već dvadeset sedam dana. Najdramatičnije je bilo kad me posjetio novi liječnik. Bio je mlad, netom diplomirao. Kada me pregledao, mojima je rekao da ću umrijeti, da se tu više ništa ne može učiniti. Sjećam se ili mi se barem čini da se sjećam kako je oko moga kreveta stajala gomila ljudi, a onda su jedan po jedan izašli iz kuće, vjerojatno ne želeći više tratiti vrijeme na izgubljen slučaj. Ali moja je baka odbila odustati i prihvatila je izazov da mi nekako vrati zdravlje. Sjedila je uz moj krevet po cijeli dan i molila, plačući, bdijući nada mnom.

Sjećam se da je imala veliko guščje pero, čiji je vrh umakala u med i prelazila njime preko mojih usana u nadi da ću imati dovoljno snage ili želje da ga poližem. Kao da sam je promatrao negdje iz visine, izvan vlastita tijela. Ondje gore bilo mi je divno, djeca su se igrala, patke plivale u jezeru, ali kada sam vidio njezinu bol, njezine suze, sažalio sam se nad njom i vratio se u svoje tijelo da je razvedrim, i isplazio jezik kako bih polizao med. Kada je ona to vidjela, vrisnula je: „Živ je!“

Bila je silno ponosna na sebe što me vratila u život. Nakon toga, trebala su mi dva ili tri mjeseca da se oporavim. Isprva sam bio previše slab da bih hodao, pa sam se držao za bakine skute pokušavajući se kretati po sobi. Nikad se nisam pomagao štapom ili nečim sličnim. Sve u svemu, propustio sam tri mjeseca nastave.

Bilo je teško kada sam shvatio da ne mogu ni stajati na nogama, uzme li se u obzir da sam ranije u svom razredu mogao najdalje skočiti. Dvije ili tri godine kasnije, majka se jednom zbog nečega rasrdila na mene, više se ne sjećam što sam učinio, i najednom je izlanula: „Šteta što nismo mogli iskoristiti one kapsule!“ Tako sam saznao da su moji roditelji već bili pripremili lijes za moj pogreb.

Peija je bio ljut na nju jer je to rekla, ali kad bi se moja mati rasrdila, ljutnju bi uvijek izrazila na veoma živopisan način. Naći se tako blizu smrti duboko je i snažno iskustvo. Nakon njega, čovjek drukčije gleda na život, ne uzima ga tako ozbiljno, osobito kada uistinu iskusi život nakon života. Takvo iskustvo čovjeka nadahne osjećajem odgovornosti i obveze. Samome sebi kažeš:

„Život mi je iz nekoga razloga pošteđen, dakle očito mi je namijenjeno nešto postići, nekako doprinijeti…“.

U zatvoru sam kasnije često razmišljao o smrti, o njoj mnogo čitao i shvatio da sam tada doživio takozvano izvantjelesno iskustvo. Nekoliko godina kasnije, kada sam imao samo šesnaest godina izgubio sam oko. To se dogodilo pukim nesretnim slučajem. Stajao sam sa skupinom prijatelja i jedan od njih odsutno je gađao sjekirom suhi panj na tlu dok smo razgovarali. U jednom trenutku, dobacio sam upaljač jednom od momaka i načas skrenuo pogled kako bih vidio hoće li ga on uhvatiti. Upravo u tom trenutku komadić drveta odlomio se od panja i uletio mi u oko. Izvukao sam iver iz oka i nisam razmišljao o njemu, ali nekoliko sati nakon toga, vid mi se zamutio, a još kasnije, zamijetio sam da mi se upalilo oko. Rekao sam ocu što se dogodilo, a on je odlučio da sutradan svakako otiđem liječniku.

Čim mi je liječnik pregledao oko, odmah me poslao oftalmologu u Mostar. Tamo sam jedva uspio stići prije velike snježne oluje. Oftalmolog je rekao da će oko morati van i da je prava sreća što sam došao, jer da sam samo još malo čekao, upala bi se proširila i na drugu oko i ja bih sa sedamnaest godina ostao potpuno slijep. Nisam oklijevao. Rekao sam mu da izvadi oko. Tjedan dana proveo sam u bolnici pod nadzorom, čekajući umjetno oko. Sjećam se da me brinulo samo kako će izgledati, hoću li izgledati kao nakaza, hoće li svi vidjeti da nemam jedno oko.

Kada sam napokon došao kući, činilo se kao da su svi, obitelj i prijatelji, primili tu vijest prilično nehajno. U kraju iz kojega dolazim, ljudi su naviknuti na tragediju, na nedaće, na oskudicu. Kao da su mislili da na određeni način imam sreće, da sam dobro prošao jer sam izgubio samo jedno oko. Na kraju krajeva, moglo je biti mnogo gore, mogao sam izgubiti oba oka, ili nogu, ili čak život.

Dodatna prednost bila je da su mi seoske djevojke posvećivale još više pozornosti. Mora da sam u njima pobudio želju da me njeguju, što je meni odgovaralo. No, iskustvo vađenja oko bilo je uistinu bolno. Nisu mi mogli dati anesteziju jer su se bojali da ne oštete te drugo oko, operaciju sam trpio pri punoj svijesti, bez narkotika.

Operacija je trajala satima, a bol je bila neopisiva s obzirom da oko ima milijun malih živaca. Nekada sam mislio da sam zbog toga gubitka na neki način obilježen, hendikepiran, danas držim da je i to bio svojevrstan dar. Dar koji me poučio trpjeti fizičku i duševnu bol, i na taj me način pripravio za nesiguran, težak i promjenjiv život koji me čekao. Konačno, vjerojatno ne bih preživio zatvor da se zarana nisam naučio nositi s fizičkom i mentalnom boli.

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…

Gorica

For centuries, Gorica was a border. The border mentality has its specificities. One of them is a deeper understanding of the utter divisions in the world. Along with that, a border was imposed upon Gorica; the same nation lived on both sides. Meanwhile, the governments on the two sides were from two different worlds, the Asiatic Turkish Empire on one side, and the old, European power, the Venetian Republic, later the Austro-Hungarian Empire, on the other. So Gorica was really a three-way border, because the population of that area protected its own invisible boundaries from force and perfidy from both the East and the West. This complex microcosm mirrored all the significant characteristics of the macrocosm; the population within it was hungry for food and for freedom.

But the border, even though unfree, has the advantage of always counting on the impossible; it will always find a niche in this narrow space between two empires for its own freedom. And it’s not a coincidence that throughout the centuries these areas in Herzegovina and the Dalmatian hinterlands produced people whoin their own specific way traveled along the darker paths in order to break through to the light of freedom. Ambushers, Uskoci (irregular soldiers in Habsburg Croatia), Hajduci (outlaw freedom fighters against Habsburg authorities), brigands, Harambasi (senior commanders of a Hajduk band), Serdari (officers), smugglers, etc. This Dinaric element, as some would say, did nothing but try to save their own skin, fleeing from arrest warrants and living in temporary limbo after their freedom was taken from them by force. Without the illusion that they would come out alive.

In Boris Maruna’s book, The Hijackers’ Fulfilled Dreams, he emphasizes the fact that my colleagues and I (all except Julie), were of Dinaric descent. Even though he was himself a Dinaric, he gets some things right and others wrong. He especially gets it wrong when he talks about Bruno Busic, probably not understanding that opportunism and the struggle Bruno and I had undertaken cannot go hand in hand. Maruna is especially critical of the radicalism, temperament, and impulsiveness he attributes to Bruno and the Dinarics, as well as their lack of comprehension on how the world functions. I think the same criticisms could be directed to every revolutionary group coming from a small nation lacking international support, resources, and people. Nonetheless, it attempts the impossible, that is, to change the world order and find that small niche of freedom for their people. In the nature of things, lack of strength and resources are made up for by radicalism and the willingness for sacrifice. One never reaches the top of the mountain solely through contemplation, in spite of lovely stories from the East.

I am going to make an exception here and not quote from Maruna’s The Hijackers’ Fulfilled Dream by memory, but rather word for word, so as not to do him a disservice. “Bruno Busic is without a doubt a talented person, and is more than capable of writing A Call for Dignity and Freedom and many other things. But my dear Bruno, alone or in the company of kind-heartedsycophants, flatterers, fools, and provocateurs, lacks experience, natural talent, and simply doesn’t comprehend that he is not capable of leading anything or of grasping the repercussions of such actions. And here we will have to part ways. Writing well and leading anything at all, even a village household, is not necessarily the same thing. If it were, then Antun Gustav Matos and Tin Ujevic (Note: famous Croatian poets) should have led the Croatian people. We can only imagine the dimensions of the Bleiburg Massacres if such had been the case.”

How wrong! Actually, we should turn the tables using Maruna’s own thoughts and point out that he himself is a perfect example of what he says in this paragraph – that writing well and thinking well politically are not the same thing. Maruna wrote a few good poems, he was probably a decent Croatian, but he did not know how to think politically. He was too cynical and opportunistic to be politically clairvoyant. He was attracted to the idealism and willingness to sacrifice of true Croatian freedom fighters, but at the same time, they unnerved and scared him. First, Bruno’s leadership abilities were noticed very well by UDBA analysts. That is why he was murdered. On the other hand, the Party made no effort, for example, to harm Maruna or Jaksa Kusan (Note: political émigré in England, who launched the monthly Croatian Bulletin, and New Croatia together with a group of young immigrants), whom Maruna praises to the stars. Also, Tudjman, who eventually – together with his party and the Croatian nation – succeeded in realizing the Croatian dream, of all those in emigration, had always counted most on Bruno Busic and not on any of the other Croatian emigrants that Maruna preferred.

As far as Matos and Ujevic are concerned, it would be difficult for them to have done a worse job than Supilo and Trumbic during the First World War, and Pavelic during the Second World War. Bleiburg could hardly have been a greater tragedy than it was, regardless of who might have been leading the Croatian government at the time. In my opinion, political proficiency is not enough to lead a nation like Croatia; political responsibility and courage are also critical. Leaders of small nations must be personally brave people, prepared to make sacrifices, not just be skillful politicians.

The fact that Pesut, Matanic, Vlasic and I were Dinarics was more a combination of coincidence and statistics than part of some plan. I was looking for people who were strong and dependable enough to perform the task, and the fact that Dinarics comprised the majority in the political diaspora explains how the group I formed for the hijacking were Dinarics. Throughout my activities in the political emigration, I always promoted integral Croatianism, which also included Muslims, and Bruno felt the same way. Things took a different turn later, the wheels of history cannot go backwards, but some geostrategic and geopolitical laws continue to operate even when we ignore them.

At any rate, my Gorica childhood provided me with a curiosity and liveliness sometimes too excessive for just one human life. Poverty stirs up the imagination, while excess smothers it. The stories and poems I heard in my childhood still linger in my soul today with the same liveliness, color, and drama that real events often lack. There is something in human nature that determines that reality can be best and most deeply experienced through stories.

I’ve often confirmed that a film, book, or poem can bring people to tears, while they manage to remain totally controlled in the most dramatic or sorrowful moments in real life. If this epic foundation within me (although the lyrical and dramatic is just as present) makes me a Dinaric, then I must say I do not see this as any kind of problem. Affectively, the transposition of myth and story into identity is present everywhere in the world. The only thing that differs from place to place is perhaps the personal element, the level of affect, how much of it is mixed with the rational. And this percentage depends without a doubt on the individual as such, rather than the area from which he comes.

However, impressions are never as deeply engraved into a person’s consciousness as they are during childhood. Gorica didn’t just give me the epic and the Dinaric as I grew, it gave me a rich combination of purely personal impressions, pictures, symbols, feelings, smells, entire small myths stored away in the space capsule of my head. It was my Arcadia and my Plato’s Cave, my Ithaca and my Dubrava. I cling to it when all other anchors appear unstable; it breaks forth in moments when all the wisdom of the world sounds empty. For example, one December night in prison:

It happened in the year one thousand nine hundred and ninety-four
Sometime in the middle of the month of December
Before dawn and the sun’s warm rays.

That night in my dungeon
In this cursed land, America
I dreamt that my old Mother
Was in conversation with Our Lady of Medjugorje.

My mother asked Our Lady about my return home
And she prayed to almighty God
To save from the dungeon her son
For whom she has waited for twenty years.

My Mother begs and implores
While Our Lady alleviates my mother’s pains
And counsels her to keep her hope alive
To believe in God’s justice.

That her son would soon return
To celebrate Easter together
When Kendusa heard these words
For a long time she shed her tears of joy.

Then I woke from my dream
And sat for a long time in the darkness
Looking out from my dungeon
At her dear face all wet from tears.

Memories from long ago
Vivid recollections of my youth
Did not let me fall back asleep
Thus my heart writes this poem.

Remembering everything
More good things that bad,
I remembered my mother and father
Each inch of our house.

The house we were born and grew up in
Six of us children grew up there.

I remembered all the important feasts
Every Christmas and Saint Stephen.

Times when we were all together
Sharing the happiness of those holy days
Untilwe all grew our own wings
And flew out into the world.

We dispersed to the four corners of the world,
Leaving our old people weeping,
But we all often returned
Back to the hearth where we grew up.

All brought back happiness and joy
Giving back to our parents what they had given us
I am the only black sheep
For whom my Mother has been weeping.

I know it will be the same this Christmas
Sadly seated beside the Christmas tree,
I have to tell her now
That hope is on the horizon.

God will make all well,
Soon you will see your son.

Let these festive days be
True days of celebration for her.

This poem, written in such simple style, was not an attempt at poetic creation, but a kind of self-therapy in a dark moment. Everything a man experiences and lives through must be rendered in another form; otherwise, it is all just inarticulate human movement through time. A level of experience accessible only to animals.

But my childhood was far from idyllic, in Arcadian time and space, removed from the brutality and roughness of life. When I was around eight years old, I contracted typhoid fever. My parents did not take it seriously at first. Children were always getting sick, especially from where I came from, but when my fever would not drop and I was unable to eat, they realized it was something grave.

Since my parents had to work in the fields, they were unable to stay home to care for me, so my grandmother came. Twenty-seven days had passed since I had eaten anything. The most dramatic moment was when the new doctor paid me a visit. He was young and had just graduated from medical school. When he examined me, he told my parents I was going to die and there was nothing more that could be done.

I think I remember a crowd of people standing around my bed, and then leaving the house one by one, probably not wanting to waste any more time on a lost cause. But my grandmother refused to give up and took up the challenge of restoring me to health. She sat at my bed day after day and prayed, cried, hovered over me. I recall that she had a thick goose feather and she would dip the tip into honey and brush it across my lips, hoping I would have enough strength or will to lick it. It was as though I were watching all this from above, outside my body. Up above it was wonderful, children were playing, ducks were swimming in a pond, but when I saw her pain and tears, I felt sorry for her, returned to my body to make her happy, and stuck out my tongue to lick the honey.

When she saw that, she yelled out, “He’s alive!” and was extremely proud to have brought me back to life. After that, I needed 2-3 months to recuperate. First I was too weak to walk, so I would hold on to my grandmother’s skirt as I tried to walk around the room. I never used a cane or anything. All in all, I missed three months of school. It was hard for me to accept I could not even stand on my own two legs, having in mind that earlier I could jump farther than anyone in my class. Two or three years later, when my mother was mad at me for something or other, I don’t remember what, she blurted out, “Too bad we never got to use that coffin!” That was when I realized my parents had already prepared a coffin for my funeral. Peija was upset with her for saying that, but when my mother got angry, she always expressed it in a very colorful way. Being close to death is a very deep and powerful experience. Afterwards, one looks at life differently, doesn’t take it so seriously, especially if he has really experienced life after life. Such an experience imbues a person with a feeling of responsibility and duty. You tell yourself, “My life was spared for areason, so I am apparently supposed to contribute something, achieve something…” In prison later, I thought often about death, read a lot about it, and realized I had had a so-called out of body experience.

Then, several years later when I was only 16, I lost an eye. It was an accident. I was standing with a group of friends and one of them was absently hitting a dry stump on the ground with an ax as we talked. All of a sudden, I threw a lighter to one of the boys and turned my head to see if he would catch it. Just at that moment, a sliver of wood came loose from the stump and flew into my eye. I removed it and thought no more about it, but several hours later my vision became blurry, and later, I noticed my eye was inflamed. I told my father what had happened, and he said we had to definitely go to the doctor the next day. As soon as the doctor examined my eye, he sent me to the ophthalmologist in Mostar. I barely managed to get there before a big snowstorm. The ophthalmologist then told me the eye had to come out and that it was lucky I came in when I did, because otherwise, the infection would have spread into the other eye and both of them would have had to be removed, leaving me totally blind at the age of sixteen. I did not hesitate. I told him to take it out. I stayed in the hospital under supervision for a week, waiting for an artificial eye. I just remember thinking about what it would look like, whether I would look like a freak, whether people would be able to notice I only had one eye.

When I finally came home, it seemed like everyone, friends and family, had taken the news in stride. Where I come from, people are accustomed to tragedy, difficulty, impoverishment. It was as though they thought I was lucky in a way, that I’d gotten off easy losing just one eye! It could have been worse, I could have lost both eyes or a leg, or even my life. An additional advantage was that the village girls devoted much more attention to me. I must have awakened their nurturing tendencies, which was fine with me.

But the experience of the removal of my eye was very painful. They were not able to give me an anesthetic for fear of damaging the other eye, so I had to endure the operation totally conscious, without narcotics. The operation lasted hours, and the pain was indescribable, given that the eye has thousands of tiny nerves.

I used to think I was marked by this loss, handicapped, but today I believe it was a kind of gift. A gift that taught me how to endure physical as well as mental pain, thereby preparing me for the unstable, difficult and ever-changing life ahead of me. In the end, I probably would not have survived prison if I hadn’t learned early on how to cope with physical and mental pain.

Zvonko Bušić

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