AKO KOGA ZANIMA MEHANIKA

 

 

Ne računajući grobove

Moje familije

Tamo više nema

 

Na drugim mjestima

I u drugim slučajevima

Taj proces ide puno brže

Ili malo sporije

 

Ali u ovom slučaju

Trebalo je tridesetak proljeća

Jedan život Brus Lija

Pola karijere Roling Stonsa

Da nas ima

Na tri kontinenta

I da nas nema

tamo

 

Rodiš se

Nekako

Negdje

Nepitan

I tako

dan po dan

Ulicu po ulicu

Učiš da voliš to negdje

svog rođenja

miris jorgovana u maju

procvjetale lipe u junu

Mamina familija

Tatina familija

 

Bilo nas je desetine

Svih generacija

A sad

Među živima

Tamo nas više nema

 

 

A za koje proljeće

Kad zasmetaju budućem parkingu

Ili stadionu

Ili tržišnom centru

Ni grobova

Biti neće

 

Eto ako koga zanima

Mehanika etničkoga čišćenja

Tako se to radi.

 

KAD NAM JE BILO….

 

Prvi si u raji džidnuo

grudvu na krov zgrade

od četiri vojna sprata

kad nam je bilo trinaest

 

Prvi si u raji eksirao pivu

na nekoj rođendanskoj žurci

uz Bajagine jahače magle

kad nam je bilo četrnaest

 

Skupa smo se prošvercovali

na koncert

EKV u Sebastijanu

pa nam prilazili

starije koke i frajeri

da nas pitaju

koliko nam je godina

i otkad pušimo?

kad nam je bilo petnaest

 

I prvo ljetovanje sa rajom

Baško Polje ‘89

Sunce, more, jeftino pivo

u tuzlanskom odmaralištu

i cjelovečernji derneci na plazi

gdje sam pokusavao izgubiti nevinost

uz katastrofalno domaće vino

a ti upoznao Zrinku iz K.

kad nam je bilo sedamnaest

 

Zajedno smo guštali rashladjenu viljamovku

tačno godinu poslije

sa Zrinkom iz K.

na tad još uvijek Trgu Republike

u suncem okupanom Zagrebu

kad nam priđe nekakav pjano

nekakav born again Croat

i upita nas za imena

a ti reče

Slobodan! (haj sad mrš)

kad nam je bilo osamnaest

 

Bio si tu i moje zadnje

banjalučke noći

uz mršavu svijeću

laži sa radija

obaveznu žestu

i presuh duhan

koji motasmo u listove

tvoje vojne knjižice

otpuhujući u kolutovima dima

tvoje učešće u ratu

i naše vrijeme zajedno

kad nam je bilo dvadeset

 

Onda je život odradio svoje

ne pitajući nas

za konstruktivnu kritiku

postojećeg stanja

i u svim dimenzijama

koje se izrodiše otad

ne postoji ta

u kojoj smo jedan

naspram drugog

 

Eh da ljudi

samo znaju

kako si ti

dobro crtao.

 

RIP Borislav Pilipovic (21/5/72 – 21/3/22)

A Trip To Zenica

After enduring twelve months of national military service, Branko returned home in autumn of 1990, wondering what to do next. The other two members of his hardcore punk outfit SWS went to serve the homeland at the same time he came back from paying his dues. He reasoned that just because the band was put on hold for another year, it didn't mean he couldn't do the other stuff, like organising the concerts. All he needed were the bands worth organising concerts for.

Luckily for Branko, his mate Dino had already formed one. The three-piece named themselves No Party. The enthusiastic bunch practiced intensively in their mate grandfather’s miniature garden shed. "Was this construction built for midgets?", moaned Dino, all 6’4” of him, realising he’ll have to practice with a bent neck.  Branko was pleasantly surprised with stuff he heard. It was fast, loud, and sporadically melodic. Most of the material played was their own. "We’re just not good enough to play anybody else’s songs", laughed Tiny the bass player, not being far from truth. Dino and Tiny knew they weren’t that great on the guitars despite eagerness to learn, but Roko was sixteen-year old beast on the drums that kept them glued together. 

On the other side of town, another band loomed on the horizon, Green Silence. They were a duo, Alan and Tihomir, law students in their early twenties, who because of loophole in the system managed to postpone military service till after completion of studies. Finding it impossible to recruit a drummer who would be on their intellectual and artistic wavelength, they opted instead for “Roland 626” drum machine, which Tihomir’s relative brought over from Germany. The machine was a thing of beauty (as told by chosen few who were allowed anywhere near it), and clever boys spent hours exploiting its capabilities. Their musicianship was already advanced, daring to cover number of songs by their favourite alternative bands, on top of the original material, sung in grammatically impeccable English. Branko was so impressed, he told them they were good enough to play anywhere, any town or country. They reminded him of Gang of Four gone Big Black. “You need to get your lazy arses out of Alan’s bedroom and move into proper rehearsal room”, he advised them decidedly. “This needs to be played loud. People need to hear this. I’ll see if you can share practice space with No Party lot.", said Branko, upgrading garden shed into proper rehearsal room in that one sentence. 

He already began envisioning  “BL Rock Invasion - part 2”. The original event took place in the Summer of 1988, when five vivacious bands from Banja Luka invaded the town of Doboj, a couple hours of gnarled third-class train ride away. Anyone who was anyone at the post-punk BL scene went along, which meant around twenty people. Branko organized the whole trip, managing for best part to keep things loosely together, before predictably, chaotic nature of such testosterone fuelled event duly prevailed, culminating in mass stage invasion at the end of evening, as Branko’s own band, SWS, played their last song “Fuck the future!”

 It became a legendary tale, repeatedly evoked by those who witnessed it. Someone’s leg got stuck inside a kick drum. A Fender bass guitar was tested against some unfortunate sod's back. A whole sink was somehow pulled out of the gentlemen’s toilet. And then People’s Militia joined the party and deported “BL Rock Invasion” back to Banja Luka the following morning. This time around, Branko contacted his old fanzine penpal Dule in Zenica, and Dule happily took on setting up the affair.

So, one Saturday in April of 1991, a horde of adrenaline fuelled youth boarded Bosna Ekspres train to Zenica, carrying shabby eastern European instruments and unhealthy amounts of alcohol. Only around half of lively excursion were actual band members; rest of the posse were mates who couldn’t resist temptation of intoxicated jolly outing. Amazingly, No Party had two genuine fans, Roko’s mates, Sipka and Bubanj, who came along to few rehearsals, and were two of dozen or so people witnessing band’s first ever gig, at City Library Hall in February that year. Lads even made DIY t-shirts, with No Party sprayed on in graffiti style. For this trip they were joined by mate of theirs, Mirko the Silly Bollocks, another troubled and enthusiastic young teenage soul. Mirko's claim to fame was that he proclaimed himself an alcoholic at the age of sixteen. He also liked to randomly recite poetry, probably influenced by Jim Morrison.

Some of the crew were merry even before train left Banja Luka  and seldom anyone remained sober throughout the journey. Sid was one of the worst, downing copious amounts of white wine in a very short space of time. “We’re fucked, he’s entering his ‘Iggy Pop phase’” cried Branko, realising Sid have removed his denim jacket and shirt and was sitting there rather unsociably, all wild stare, long hair and hairy chest. Never a good sign. “Is that him growling at me?” asked Mirko the Silly Bollocks, still complete novice when it came to Sid’s drunken outbursts. "Who fucking knows? Fucking horse. Last time he was like this he smashed the bottle against someone's front door", answered Branko, trying to wrestle the bottle out of Sid's hands. 

 

As soon as unruly mob tumbled out of the train at Zenica station, bare-chested Sid encountered a litter bin attached to a nearby pole, attempting to dismantle it with impeccably nihilistic dedication. Thankfully, Branko was one of those not yet completely under the influence, swiftly preventing Sid from doing something they all might regret later. "You better keep an eye on him, or he'll get us in trouble. Don't let that drunken horse touch anything", he instructed Dino. Others shouted and swore and spat drunken gibberish, staggering about aimlessly, holding onto nearly empty wine bottles.

 Dule the gig organiser, the one-man welcome committee, seemed perplexed by the scenery, standing aside motionless in his all black outfit and shades, hands buried deep in his pockets. Branko somehow managed to get everyone on the move. Dule slowly led the pack towards the venue. Some of the gang took liberty to urinate in nearby bushes.

- Forgive them mate, they don’t know what they’re doing, drunken morons. -  Branko felt obliged to apologize to their host, as the pack noisily crossed the bridge over river Bosna, the town basking in the early evening sunshine

- Mate, not sure what’s happening... my head is still buzzing from joint I smoked earlier...it’s all bit hazy to me - admitted Dule as if disengaging from responsibility.

A respectable number of hopefuls turned up to see what these wannabes from Banja Luka had to offer. Green Silence made an intelligent decision to play first. They appeared to be the only ones taking matters seriously, keen to represent their hometown in best possible light. They were the only two guys not to drink at all during the day. "The plan’s simple, we’ll get smashed afterwards", explained Alan. They walked on the stage looking like two library apprentices, switched on their precious Roland 626 drum machine (which they've never let out of their sight the whole day), plugged in their guitars and for next half an hour stormed their set with envying confidence, mixing thumping beats with cleverly odd bass lines and crunchy guitar parts, even treating the willing crowd with a cover version of “Universal Emptiness” by The Swans at the conclusion of stunning performance. Green Silence were cheered off stage with hearty applause and loud vocal approval. Hopefuls had their hopes raised.

Next up were “Highway 4”, Stooges and Ramones influenced bunch of sixteen-year olds, making their very first public appearance. It was obvious to everyone after couple of bars being played that these guys were not Green Silence. The unfortunate lads were cruelly ambushed by the occasion, trying in vain to recall song parts that disappeared from their memory as the booze flew in earlier that day, sometimes playing completely different song to each other, shouting and gesturing and getting nowhere in that maze of self-inflicted teenage confusion. Gianni the singer, who mumbled his way through the set, long curly hair obscuring his face in Joey Ramone fashion, suddenly announced: “AND NOW!! JUST THE DRUM!!!”, turning with drunken theatrics towards their drummer Izzy, losing balance and dropping the microphone in the process. 

Izzo, who at fourteen was the youngest member, appeared to have forgotten all about practicing for his moment in the spotlight. Instead of rolling into his ten seconds of fame, he obediently placed his drumsticks aside, as if taking a break, looking innocently at his older brother Gianni,  awaiting further instructions. “No, no, your solo! YOUR SOLO!” shouted Gianni, gesturing rhythmically, before realising he needed to pick the microphone off the floor, as the feedback was causing additional discomfort to an already disturbed audience. Young Izzy who, to his credit, didn’t need a third invitation, embarked on his solo sequence, before others disjoined him in what was shambolic performance by bunch of kids not ready to leave their rehearsal room yet. There were laughs and jeers from the crowd. “You need to practice harder, hairdos! ” heckled someone. “My girlfriend needs an ambulance after this!” shouted different voice. Some began imitating sound of a siren. 

No Party were the night’s headliners and although they practiced long and hard for their very first gig outside Banja Luka (and their third in total), that evening they made a series of beginner’s mistakes, such as getting pissed long before the stage time, and perhaps more disastrously, forgetting to tune their instruments. Zenica crowd was treated to a slap fest of cacophony and disharmonic torture, which was tolerated at first, mainly beacuse of Roko's fantastic drumming. Sipka and Bubanj, standing in the front row, t-shirts and all, gave their best to show support, but as the band onstage kept on falling from grace, few annoyed punters began engaging them in conversation, asking how can they possibly endorse this crap. "The name suits you well!", somebody in the audience remarked between the songs. Tihomir came over to the front, yelling: "You need to tune up! You guys are out of tune!"  Not having a courage, or a clue how to tune their guitars under pressure on the stage, the band continued playing, with an ill thought cover version of Joy Division’s “New dawn Fades” coming next on the playlist. Dino figured that instead of playing solo on the guitar, they'd be better off if he tries to hum the melody over the microphone.  A voice from the crowd cried loudly: “Stop massacring Joy Division! Is anything sacred anymore?” Then Dule the organiser came over and unplugged the amplifiers. Perhaps he was big Joy Division fan too. Roko kept on drumming for a while, before eventually stopping. Some guy in the crowd came through and tried to strum Dino's guitar and Dino kept pointing to switched off amplifier, still trying to sing the guitar solo over the microphone. Jeers from the crowd intensified. Roko walked off the stage, followed by Dino. Tiny the bass player  felt obliged to mutter few goodbyes to an unhappy crowd: “I’m sorry...the gig...THIS GIG...had been TERMINATED  We ARE SOrry. ZENICA, WE LOVE YOU!”

    “We love your mums, amateurs!” shouted that voice with a girlfriend, who might have needed ambulance for real this time around. No Party left the stage embarrassed and deflated, arguing whose fault it was. Jolly outing has turned into a complete fiasco. Sipka and Bubanj have taken their shirts off, looking lost and betrayed. Branko had already gathered rest of the crew together. “We need to leave, right now!” he urged, pointing towards exit door at the back. “There are some angry people out there, doubt they mean well! They think we are taking piss out of them. And I’ve overheard Convicts are gathering in the area. Looks like news about you lot pissing in the bushes had spread.”

“What convicts? Convicts from Zenica prison?” cried bewildered Mirko the Silly Bollocks, already imagining with horror one of those nasty fuckers abusing him.

“What? No, not real prisoners, you horse. A football firm!”

        They all sobered up solidly after that announcement, hastily gathered their gear and left without saying goodbye, pacing along poorly lit streets of Zenica, nervy and apprehensive. “I think someone’s running after us!” warned loudly some frightened voice, and mighty “BL Rock Invasion - part 2” did a collective runner. The idea of local football hooligans catching up with them didn’t bode well with any of the crew. Frightened lads jogged for what seemed to be an entirety, until finally reaching the station, just as some train was pulling in. “That’s our train!” shouted Branko, “JUMP IN!” he ordered, making sure no one was left behind.

Journey back home was spent sobering up, snoozing and gathering the impressions.

“I don’t think they’ll invite us again anytime soon” Dino tried to see a funny side, relieved the evening didn’t end in the mass brawl. “We were utter shit, u picku materinu!”, he concluded despondently, still angry at himself.

“I’m beginning to think that Branko invented story about angry mob.” Sid, partially sobered up, decided to share his doubts.

“No way! Where did you get that from?”

“Did you actually see anybody chasing us?” - smirked Sid.

“Well, I didn’t. I was just running like mental, not daring to look back. Ne okreci se sine. Why would Branko do that?” - wondered Dino.

“To make sure we board this train. I think this is the last one to Banja Luka.”

“Well, I never…cunning fellow, isn’t he?” smiled Dino. "And as for you, I'm glad to see that alcohol still hasn't completely destroyed your brain cells, detective."

“Don't you worry about my brain cells, better concentrate on practising your tuning.”, wisely suggested Sid, his jacket fully zipped, feeling chilly.

“Yeah, embarassing, I know. How much does guitar tuner cost?”, wondered Dino, as the train pulled into Doboj train station.

Kako sam casno nadzivio Tita

Zimsko ferije – tih mjesec dana promrzle magije u zivotu skolarca, kad se snijeg iz nepogode preobrazi u igracku; kad djeca nakon dorucka, umjesto nevoljnog teturanja do skole po bljuzgi i ledu, veselo jurcaju u snijezne radosti. Svakodnevno budalesanje po snijegu trajalo bi do dva sata popodne, zatim pauza za rucak i par sati dosadjivanja u stanu, kako bi se ispostovao kucni red, te pokusala barem malo osusiti namocena zimska odjeca na mlakim radijatorima, a potom u cetiri sata popodne trkom nazad u dvoriste, sve dok nas rani zimski mrak i zov nasih starijih ne bi potjerali kucama. A snjeznih radosti je bilo na pretek: sanjkanje, grudvanje, sopanje, plazanje po klizi, valjanje po snijegu, zidanje ledenih bunkera (djevojcice bi pravile Snjeska). Ali ni jedna od tih divnih razbibriga nije se mogla porediti sa najboljom igrom svih vremena, fudbalom na snijegu.

Ta eskimska loptanja u prostranom dvoristu nase zgrade bila su legendarna, a ja bih uvijek volontirao da branim, jer mi je bio neopisiv merak bacati se po mrzlom bijelom tepihu, zamisljajuci da sam Fuad Djulic, tadasnji golman FK Borac. Usprkos pasjoj hladnoci, djecije tijelo poneseno igrom bi se ubrzo zagrijalo ispod svih tih slojeva zimske odjece, te pocelo znojiti. A uz znojenje po pravilu dolazi zedj. A zedj bi se u takvim napetim situacijama, kad je rezultat tekme potpuno neizvjetsan i nema se vremena otrcati u kucu i napiti se vode, gasila snijegom. I tako sam se nekoliko puta najeo snijega. Sad bih volio slagati kako taj snijeg moga djetinjstva bijase cist i zdrav poput planinskog, ali je bio onaj banjalucki, nesebicno zacinjen sivim prahom tvornickog otpada fabrike Incel, dimnjaka iz kuca i ostalih ispusnih gasova.

.

Jedne veceri, malo nakon pocetka drugog polugodista, u mrklo doba, probudih se uz suh i intezivan kasalj. Bilo mi je nepunih osam godina i takva reakcija tijela mi je do tada bila nepoznata, ali sam slutio da nece na dobro. Nakon nekoliko dana sve intezivnijeg i bolnijeg kasljanja, strovalila me je u krevet visoka temperatura. Poceo sam povracati. Starci su me odveli u ambulantu. Doktor je dijagnosticirao upalu pluca. Prestao sam ici u skolu, ali sam odbijao lezati u bolnici. Uspio sam izmoliti svoje starije da me zadrze na kucnom lijecenju.  Tako sam se nesvjesno podvrgao dvostrukoj metodi terapije; kako onoj farmaceutskoj, uz antibiotike i andole, tako i onoj tradicialnoj, uz prevruce cajeve krcate limunom i zasecerene medom i rakijskim oblogama oko nogu. Preznojavao bih se svakodnevno, ali temperatura bi se iznova vracala. Znao sam da je situacija ozbiljna, jer mi cak ni Mujini cevapi (najbolji cevapi na planeti)  nisu budili glad. Jeo sam ih, ali nekako na silu. Kasnije bih uglavnom sve to ispovracao.

Nisam volio biti bolestan. To kazem jer se uvijek sjetim jednog druga iz skole koji je govorio kako voli biti bolestan. Valjda mu je godila paznja, sta li.  Osjecao sam se bespomocno. U vrlo rijetkim trenutcima kada me nisu skrhavali vrucica i malaksalost, dosadjivao sam se. Nisam se mogao igrati. Uglavnom bih nanovo iscitavao onih nekoliko stripova koje sam imao, gledao skolski program na televizoru (Opstanak), slusao radio. U nasem skromnom stanu od pedesetidva kvadrata, tacnije u kuhinji, radio je bio upaljen tokom cijelog dana. Taj radio je vec godinama predstavljao jedan od dva “prozora u svijet” moje nene. Drugi prozor je bio kuhinjski, koji je, kao i svi ostali kuhinjski prozori u nasoj zgradi, gledao na veliko zajednicko dvoriste. Ti kuhinjski prozori su inace predstavljali svojevrsnu pretecu “drustvene mreze” u nasem komsiluku. Preko njih bi se razmjenjivale informacije, komentarisali najnoviji dogadjaji iz sporta i kulture, neobavezano cakulalo, a ponekad i prepiralo, uglavnom oko toga cije je dijete natjeralo cije po loptu u koprive, ko ne postuje kucni red, ili ko je tresao dzanariku prije vremena.

Nekako bas u to vrijeme, razbolio se i najveci sin nasih naroda i narodnosti, Josip Broz Tito. Meni kao djetetu mnoge stvari nisu bile jasne, ali je Drug Tito nesumnjivo bio neka zesca faca, mozda cak i najzesca. Zdravko Colic, a pogotovo Bruce Lee su u to doba bili na vrhu moje ljestvice muskih uzora, ali njihove uramljene slike nisu visile u nasoj dnevnoj sobi, dok Josipova, u nebesko plavoj, marsalskoj uniformi, jeste. Na radiju i TV-u bi svake vijesti otpocinjale najnovijim izvjestajem  o zdravstenom stanju “Predsjednika Socijalisticke Federativne Republike Jugoslavije, Josipa Broza Tita”; kako je Drug Stari proveo prethodnu noc (uglavnom mirno, no bilo je i nemirnih), kako konzilij lijecnika klinike u Ljubljani na celu sa doktorom tim-i-tim cini sve da se otklone komplikacije nastale amputacijom noge. Na kraju izvjestaja spiker bi procitao poduzu listu najnovijih telegrama podrske i zelja za sto skorije ozdravljenje naseg predsjednika, upucenih od starne raznoraznih radnih kolektiva, saveza socijalisticke omladine, lovackih drustava, savjeta penzionera, udruzenja nosilaca partizanske spomenice i tomu slicno.  

Cinilo se da je bolest Josipa Broza jednako potresla moju familiju kao i bolest s kojom sam se hrvao, ako ne i vise. Tako sam i ja, usprkos vrtlogu visoke temperature, otezanog disanja, kasljanja i povracanja, sa velikim zanimanjem pratio zdravstveno stanje nase bijele ljubicice, uvijek se nadajuci pozitivnim vijestima iz Ljubljane. Nekoliko puta dnevno bih se potrudio ustati iz kreveta i dovuci do kuhinje kako bih sa nenom poslusao najnoviji izvjestaj. Novoformirani patriota u meni je, u vatri 38.7 celzijusa poceo rezonovati da, ako vec neko mora napustiti ovaj svijet, manja bi steta bila ako odem ja nego on. Drug Tito je nesumnjivo bitnija i omiljenija licnost od mene. Nisam uspijevao zamisliti situaciju u kojoj bi me itko nazvao po nekom cvijetu.

Cak sam u jednom momentu nadahnuca odlucio napisati mu pjesmicu podrske za sto skorije ozdravljenje. “Dragi druze Tito ozdravi nam hitno/ bolestan sam i ja, al’ to nije bitno”. Bio sam jako ponosan sto sam izrimovao hitno i bitno, potvrdjujuci usput da sam se spreman nesebicno zrtvovati za dobrobit svih nasih naroda i narodnosti. Neni sam premijerno izrecitovao pjesmicu, sjedeci za kuhinjskim stolom, u iscekivanju najnovijih vijesti iz Ljubljane. Prvo me je pitala da procitam pjesmicu jos jednom, a onda je samo ljutito odmahnula rukom i rekla da se ni po zivu glavu ne salimo to poslati Titu i da idem nazad u krevet. Mati je rekla da joj se bas svidja pjesmica, te pohvalila moju rimu. To mi je vratilo vjeru u prvobitnu, iskrenu i patriotsku namjeru da proslijedim svoje stihove nasem Marsalu. Otac je rekao pitati nekog svog jarana iz kafane, nekakvoga funkcionera, koji je uz to i clan partije, sta on o svemu tome misli.

No, dok je Drug Stari provodio uglavnom mirne noci, moje su bivale sve nemirnije. I dalje sam tvrdoglavo odbijao ici u bolnicu. Na kraju su me, za moje dobro, prestali slusati i odveli na urgentno odijeljenje. Rentgenski snimak je pokazao da bolujem od pleuritisa. Voda u plucima dosla je na svega nekoliko milimetara od srca. Pod hitno su me odveli na punktiranje. Nikad nisam vidio vecu iglu niti spricu u zivotu, ali je bolest u meni pobijedila strah.  Doktor je istinski pazljivo zabio iglu izmedju mojih rebara, govoreci mi smirenim glasom kako ce sve biti u redu. Zatim je puzevski sporo izbrizgao skoro pola litra tamno zuckaste tekucine iz mojih nejakih pleca.

Poslije toga su me smjestili na intenzivnu njegu, gdje sam konacno poceo provoditi mirnije noci, osjecajuci se zdravije svakim budjenjem. Izbrojao sam da su mi davali trinaest tableta na dan. Poceo sam jesti normalno. Zatim su malo potom prebacili u veliku sobu, koju sam dijelio sa jos nekoliko djecaka. Tu sam ostao skoro sest sedmica. Djecaci bi u sobi uglavnom provodili po nekoliko dana, pa kad bi bili pusteni kucama, dolazili bi drugi djecaci, i tako. Vecina ih je bilo moga uzrasta, ali bilo je i starijih. Ne pamtim vise imena, niti lica tih djecaka, osim jednog zivahnog pubertetlije, Gojka. Moja familja je prethodnog ljeta bila na moru u Makarskoj, kod gazdarice Dese, gdje provedoh fantasticnih deset dana igrajuci se sa njenjim sinovima, Gojkom i Radojkom, pa spontano pomislih kako bi i ovaj Gojko mogao biti prijazan i zabavan poput njegovog dalmatinskog imenjaka.

Medjutim ovaj Gojko, cim je skontao da je puno veci od ostale djece, zaveo je diktaturu u sobi, te uspostavio hijerarhiju jednog lica. Osim sto je bio snazniji od svih nas, poceli su mu su se nazirati brcici i nama slabasnim balavcima se cinio poput kakvog omanjeg covjeka. Svakodnevno smo bili prinudjeni udovoljavati njegovim prohtjevima u vezi izbora dnevnih aktivnosti, tako da smo se najcesce ‘igrali’ zuje. Nakon par prilicno bolnih partija, u kojima je postalo jasno kako su sanse da Gojko zuji prakticki nepostojece, dosjetih se iskoristiti svoju plucnu tegobu kao valjan izgovor, pa nije bilo druge nego da me Gojko postedi takve zabave. Ipak, najvise od svega ga je interesovala hrana. Nakon porodicnih posjeta, on bi uvijek prvi pregledavao sadrzaj svake vrecice, uzimajuci sta mu se svidi. Na srecu, od mene bi uvijek zaplijenio jadro napolitanke, koje mi nisu bile omiljene. Petkom bismo dobijali piletinu za rucak, pa bi svaki od nas morao dati Gojku jedan batak, i tako taj rad. To me takodje nije puno pogadjalo, jer sam uvijek preferirao bjelinu.

I tako, kaze Gojko jednoga petka, u pauzi izmedju dva bataka, kako jedva ceka nedjelju, jer ce mu doci njegovi za uskrs.

-          Uskrs! Ura! – povikah  sav sretan – Bice jaja i pereca!

-          Pa nece tebi biti jaja i pereca – skoro zadjuceno odbrusi Gojko, mljackajuci piletinu.

-          Kako nece? – upitah, zatecen.

-          Pa fino nece. Ne moze tebi. Ti si musliman.

-          Sta sam ja? – nisam kontao o cemu Gojko prica.

-          Musliman. Vi ne slavite uskrs, nema vama jaja i pereca.

Ne znam kako je radoznali Gojko skontao da sam to sto kaze da sam, ali znam da me je totalno sjebo tom pricom. Osjecah se nekako oznacen tom rijeci musliman, ali najvise me pogodilo sto sad odjednom vise nece biti ofarbanih jaja i zlacanih pereca. Odrastao sam u stereotipnom bosanskom komsiluku, provodeci dane u ubijedjenju da SVI slave i uskrse i bajrame i nove godine i prvi maj i dvadesetideveti novembar i osmi mart i rodjendane Druga Tita. Vazda je bilo i baklava i pereca. Sad odjednom za mene vise nece biti pereca, ako je vjerovati Gojku.

Mati mi dodje u posjetu te veceri. Ona je radila na onkoloskom odijeljenju u istoj bolnici, pa bi me cesto obilazila na pauzama. Odmah je primjetila da sam neraspolozen, na rubu placa.

-          Sta je sine?

-          Ma nista.

-          Kako nista? Sto si tako pokunjen?

-          Ma nije nista.

-          Hajde reci mami. Sta god da je, sredicemo mi to.

-          Gojko kaze da ja necu dobiti jaja i pereca za uskrs jer sam musliman. – briznuh u plac.

-          Koji Gojko?

-          Onaj veliki sto je sa mnom sobi. – smrcao sam, porazen.

Mati me zagrli.

-          Pusti ti njega nek prica sta hoce, nista se ne brini – umiri me ona svojim blagim, ali odlucnim glasom.

Osvanula je i ta uskrsnja nedjelja. Gojkova famiija se pojavila, svecano odjevena, donoseci mu zeljno iscekivane poklone. Gledah ceznjivo u one zlatno zute perece, osjecjajuci se kao popisan, jer sam musliman. Jos par familja je stiglo da podjele uskrsnje poklone sa svojom djecom. Odjednom, u sobu umarsirase moja mati i teta Ina, nasa komsinica koja me je cuvala i pazila jos od pelena. Stara je prtila ceker pun ofarbanih jaja i svjeze ispecenih pereca. “Ovo ti salje teta Irena, ovo teta Dobrila, a ovi su ti od mene!”, glasno rece teta Ina, trudeci se pogledom uhvatiti koji bi od djece mogao biti Gojko. Obuzela me je iznenadna i neocekivana sreca, sto zbog cinjenice da sam dobio pregrst jaja i pereca, ali najvise zbog spoznaje da sam dobio vise od Gojka. To mi je iz nekog razloga, u tom trenutku bilo jako bitno. Naravno, cim su se posjete razisle kucama, Gojko se lezerno posluzio nasim uskrsnjim darovima, kao sto i dolikuje sefu raje. Meni je uzeo skoro sva jaja, osim onih ofarbanih u zeleno. 

Ubrzo je Gojko potpuno ozdravio i razgulio kuci; dolazili su i odlazili novi djecaci. Ja sam jos uvijek bio tu. Konacno, nakon nekoliko “nije jos vrijeme” trenutaka, dosao je dan kad sam se vratio nazad pod svoj krov. U bolnici sam proveo nepuna dva mjeseca i poprilicno sam se navikao na rutinu bolnickog zivota, ali sam jedva cekao da napustim taj konstantni, odurni vonj bolesti. Nedostajali su mi mirisi doma, neninog kuhanja, osjecaj sigurnosti. Nedugo po povratku primjetih da mnoge stvari nisu bile kakvim sam ih zapamtio. Nas stan se cinio nekako manji, tmurniji; neke moje igracke, sedmicama netaknute, odjednom su mi izgledale isuvise djetinjaste, moj krevet nije bio udoban kao bolnicki. Svakog jutra u narednih sest mjeseci morao sam piti nekakav ljekoviti napitak od bokvice i meda, kako bi mi ojacala pluca. Nisam podnosio okus te ljigavo zelene tekucine, ali su ukucani bili odlucni u namjeri da mi ne popuste. Za moje dobro. Nevoljno sam se poceo navikavati na novi kucni rezim.

Medjutim, nije ni sve bilo tako sivo. Nesto apsolutno fantasticno se desilo istog dana kad se vratih kuci. Ispod jorgana na mom krevetu cekala me je akusticna gitara. Ni sam ne znam koliko dugo vremena sam moljakao roditelje da mi kupe gitaru i bio sam pravo razocaran kad je ne zatekoh ispod novogodisnje jelke. Izgleda da je, nakon sto me pleuritis zamalo ubio, proradio spontani osjecaj krivice u mojim roditeljima. Potpuno opcaran, prigrlih stidjivo taj predivni instrument, upijajuci miris lakiranog palisandera. U unutrasnjosti gitare primjetih naljepnicu sa kineskim slovima. U mojoj familiji nije bilo glazbeno obrazovanih, iako je tetka vec godinama pjevala u gradskom horu, a muzika sa gramofona se pustala svakodnevno, ponajvise zbog moje opcinjenosti Zdravkom Colicem. Jednostavno, u nasoj kuci nije bilo nikog ko bi me poducio osnovama sviranja gitare. Tako sam provodio vrijeme besciljno udarajucii po praznim zicama, pitajuci se sta i kako dalje.

                Na radiju su jos uvijek izvjestavali o zdravstvenom stanju Druga Tita. Spiker nas je odlucnim glasom uvjeravao kako lijecnicki konzilij ulaze nadljudske napore. Bilo mi je cudno kad sam cuo da je Tile jos uvijek bolestan. Nekako sam ocekivao da ce i on ozdraviti, nakon sto i sam uspijeh pobijediti opaku bolest. Razmisljao sam da mu odrimujem novu pjesmicu, ali sam odustao, najvise zbog toga sto moju prvu pjesmicu, onu iz bolesnicke faze, vise niko nije spominjao.

Tu postprvomajsku nedjelju provedoh osjecajuci laganu nervozu. Sutradan sam, nakon jako dugo vremena, trebao krenuti nazad u skolu. To u meni nije izazivalo nikakvu posebnu radost, jer nisam nesto posebno volio skolu.  Pokusavao sam po paternu prozivke iz skolskog dnevnika prisjetiti se imena djece iz razreda, ali sam ubrzo odustao, shvativsi da sam mnoge zaboravio. Vjerovatno su i mnogi zaboravili mene, sta da se radi. Tog predvecerja je moja familija, po obicaju, provodila kraj vikenda sjedeci u dnevnoj sobi, uz kokice i palacinke sa pekmezom od sljiva, prateci nedeljni tv program. Odjednom sa ekrana nestade Sedmorice Mladih ili Sase Zalepugina, ili tako nekog slicnog. Zamijenila ih je statictna poruka kako slijedi vazno saopstenje. Nakon nekoliko minuta tisine, zebnje i opsterastuce nelagode u nasem stanu, na ekranu se iznenada pojavilo smrtno ozbiljno lice spikera. Potresenim glasom je izgovorio:

 “Predsjednistvo Socijalisticke Federativne Republike Jugoslavije i

   Predsjednistvo Centralnog Komiteta Saveza Komunista Jugoslavije,

   radncikoj klasi i narodima Jugoslavije  –

   UMRO JE DRUG TITO.”

U kuci nevjerica, sok. Ja sam sjedio na tepihu, praveci smajser od lego kockica i zbunjeno posmatrao vidno potresene clanove obitelji. Tetka se rasplaka. Stara zapali cigaru. Nena trkom ode na kuhinjski prozor da podijeli tragicne vijesti sa ostatkom komsiluka. Komsinica Dobrila se pojavi na vratima. I ona je plakala. Cijela nasa zgrada je bila u soku Nemalo zatim vrati se i stari iz kafane. “Umro Tito!” zavapi on onako pripit i uvjeren da nam je ta vijest nepoznata.

Sutradan sam krenuo nazad u skolu. Neka su djeca bila sretna sto me vide, neka su izgledala potpuno ravnodusna. Maida, moja drugarica iz klupe, bila je i vise nego razgovorljiva. Primjetio sam da vise ne bali dok prica, pa me je to dodatno odobrovoljilo. To njeno balenje mi se gadilo. Uciteljica Milica, potpuno odjevena u crninu, tiho i nekako svecano zakoraci u ucionicu. Oci joj bijahu ispijene. Izgledala je kao da je dugo vremena plakala. Garant zbog Tita. Usprkos vidnoj potresenosti, smogla je snage sa osmijehom me pozdraviti, te pozeljeti dobrodoslicu u ime razreda. Ostatak tog tuznog dana smo proveli slusajuci price o Titu i partizanima, ili pjevajuci pjesmice o Titu i partizanima. Repertoar bijase poprilican.

Cinilo se da je svaki stan u nasem komsiluku bio kuca zalosti. Ljudi su jednostavno bili u soku i ni o cem drugom se nije pricalo. Mislim da su moji ukucani tih dana kupovali sve moguce dnevne novine, nanovo iscitavajuci skoro identicne clanke, pokusavajuci probaviti realnost. Na televiziji su prekinuti svi uobicajeni programi, pogotovo oni zabavni, a zamijenili su ih duga intermeca pracena klasicnom muzikom, maratonske vijesti krcate specijalnim izvjestajima iz svih dijelova nase domovine o tome kako je pucanstvo primilo najtuzniju vijest, te kakve su reakcije svjetske javnosti na ovaj tragicni dogadjaj, pa onda dokumentarci o Titu, te neizostavni partizanski filmovi, sto me je, priznacu, prilicno odobrovoljilo. Glavna parola tih dana bila je: “Druze tito mi ti se kunemo/ da sa tvoga puta ne skrenemo”.

Na dan Titovog pogreba radile su samo najurgentine sluzbe. Ostatak naroda i narodnosti su bili u svojim domovima, tugujuci uz tv prenos sahrane, pa tako i moja familija, ukljucujuci starog.  Zaista je sve izgledalo impresivno, ako se tako nesto moze reci za takvu prigodu. Mijesali su se osjecaji tuge i ponosa. Spiker nas je informisao da sahrani prisustvuje preko stotinu delagacija i zvanicnika iz svih dijelova svijeta. Tog dana u Beogradu zateklii su se i Rusi i Amerikanci, Englezi i Japanci, Norvezani i Afrikanci, Kinezi i Pakistanci, Palestinci i Sirijci, Talijani i Kolumbijci, Nijemci i indijci. Na ekranu su se pocela smjenjivati ozbiljna lica svjetskih drzavnika. Stari je, otvarajuci flasu Samotoka, ustvrdio da od Tita i Kasijus Kleja nema vecih dzekova. Kome su ikada na dzenazu dosli i Gadafi i Kastro i Tacerka i Pertini i Breznjev? Ja sam uvijek vjerovao da bi Brus Li pobijedio Alija kad bi se pomarisali, ali se nisam usudjivao podijeliti to misljenje sa starim. U stvari nisam imao kad, jer je povazdan visio u kafani, a kad dodje kuci jede i odmah zaspi. Nena je cesto znala reci kako on vise vremena zna provesti po kojekakvim bircuzima nego kuci s djecom.

Titova zena, Jovanka, izgledala je duboko potresena. Boze mili, kako li je njoj, procvili tetka, briznuvsi u plac. Uskoro su svi, sa suzama u ocima, pratili tuznu povorku na televizoru. Svi, osim mene. Nastojao sam ocuvati pribranost i tako poslati posljednu poruku nasem dragom Marsalu da na mene uvijek moze racunati. Medjutim, dok se kovceg sa posmrtnim ostatcima Druga Starog polako i dostojanstveno priblizavao Kuci Cvijeca, njegovom konacnom pocivalistu, pracen srceparajucom muzikom Lenjinovog posmrtnog marsa, u meni je nesto prepuklo, te se pridruzih uplakanoj naciji, iskreno se nadajuci da ce mi Drug Tito, gdje god da je sada, oprostiti taj trenutak slabosti.

              Uskoro je sahrana zavrsila. Nena ode do kuhinje da vidi sta cemo za veceru. Stari zavrsi flasu vina, te poce izmisljatii izgovore da razguli iz kuce.

-          Pa ne rade danas kafane – rece mu stara.

-      Reko je Braco da ce otvoriti u sest – spremno odgovori stari, ubijedjen da je to samo po sebi   dovoljan izgovor.

-          Valjda moze Braco jedan dan bez tebe – proba mati jos jednom da ga odgovori.

-          Ma moram se prosetati. Ova sahrana je bas bila potresna. – promrmlja stari.

-          Haj nosi te djavo, samo da te ne gledam – odbrusi mu nena, dok je mutila tijesto za kljukusu.

-          Mogu li ja napolje da se igram? - upitah.

-          Kakvo igranje na danasnji dan, jesi li normalan? – odbrusi nena i meni.

Onako emotivno rastresen, pomalo postidjen sto sam uopste pomislio na igru na dan Titove sahrane, sjednem uz svoju novu gitaru, lijeno prelazeci po praznim zicama. Kad stigoh do posljednje, najtanje zice, iznenada stadoh. Prepoznah notu. Sa tom notom je pocinjao Lenjinov posmrtni mars. Ohrabren tim eureka trenutkom, trebalo mi je svega nekoliko minuta da skontam da je druga nota posmrtnoga marsa na sedmom polju iste zice. Nakon nekih sat vremena pronasao sam sve potrebne note za prva cetiri takta kompozicije. Svi prisutni ukucani bili su i vise nego prijatno iznenadjeni mojim nenadanim progresom, cak i moja nena. Nisam mogao docekati da se stari vrati, pa da i njega obradujem  svojom novo-otkrivenom virtuoznoscu, ali sam nakon dosta cekanja, mentalno i fizicki iscrpljen desavanjima tog tuznog dana, zaspao prije nego se on vratio kuci iz setnje.

---

 [MV1]

A CLOSURE FOR DEAD ROOTS

A CLOSURE FOR DEAD ROOTS

He is dead

A voice told me

as I opened my eyes

this morning

Worried

that days like today

won’t help my psoriasis

So thank God

for these beautiful

little humans

I’ m entrusted with caring for

For porridge with honey and walnuts

and 8:55AM School run

in Hackney

Bye, dad

Bye, kids. Be good, I love you

They are ready in The Hague

I cannot face it

forcing myself to go for a walk

He’s not dead

I keep telling myself

Everything he slaughtered for

is very much alive and

eager to embrace him yet again

Until sick myth

transforms into a

glowing chapter

of butchered history books

Therefore

Continuing

Misery

Indefinitely

From a clear-cut psychopath

to a saint

in just a few generations

Grand scale delusions of

schizophrenic nations

I remember where I was

on the day

Ratko Mladic was arrested

Walking slowly the streets of Malmo

With my cancer ridden mother

18 years after we left Banja Luka

forever

Her phone rang

and friend asked for 'mustuluk'

They caught the bastard

Perhaps

there was a spark of

long forgotten justice

in her tired, drugged eyes

I felt for a moment

as if our tragedy isn’t a

foregone conclusion

just yet

He’s not dead.

I don’t need a voice to tell me that

But my parents are.

Buried on the opposite sides

of the World

Equally far away from their birthplace

Both equally

ethnically cleansed

Neither receiving a closure

You’re dead too!

The voice comes back

You’ve been dead for 25 years

And everyone of similar curse

Scattered across the Earth

Had been dead

all this time.

Your roots have been pulled out

Your steps

Your love

Your misery

Your name

had been erased

from collectively

fictionalised past

I escaped into a familiarity

of Supermarket shelves

Could stock up on katsu curry

Get some fruit

and milk

Christmas selections already on display

Mmmm... tempura king prawns

Twelve for two quid

Whole family embraced

Japanese food this year,

We really did

Oooh...pomegranate juice

Two for two.

Better get that too.

By the time I got home

Ratko Mladic have been sentenced

To a life in prison

For a number of crimes

Which

As judge said

“rank among most heinous

known to humankind

and  include

Genocide

and  

Extermination”

He exited the courtroom

in true Serbian hero fashion;

Shouting obscenities over conspiracies

Threatening the judge

With a raised left hand

I’ve read somewhere

Those who gesticulate

with their left hand

as they speak

Don’t really believe in

what they’re saying

I make some coffee

I roll it up

(larger than usual)

I take my “Ten New Songs”

Leonard Cohen vinyl out

It is hard for me to imagine

a lyrically more accomplished

Album

I open my windows wide

allowing the wisdom

of True Master

To breeze through the neighbourhood

He is dead.

But Leonard isn’t.

Ratko Mladic is dead.

And those who will

Lament

General’s fate today

are also dead

and have been

for past twenty five years

And I am

Scarred and

Shattered and

Bruised and

Battered and

Very much

Alive