Gde nam ode istorija? Where Did Our History Go? ( 2003-2007)

(In Serbian, in English)

Djindjica sam upoznala pre no sto je postao Djindjic. Skocio je preko redakcijskog stola i rukovao se sa mnom kad me je zajednicki prijatelj predstavio kao feministkinju, ironicno. Secam se i posle, kad god bih ga srela na javnom mestu, rukovao bi se sa mnom, onako feministicki levicarski, i to ne ironicno vec zabavljeno/ozbiljno. Kasnije kad je postao javno dobro, vise se nismo privatno vidjali osim slucajno. U tom smislu ja kao da nemam sta da kazem o javnoj figuri Djindjica sto svi ne znaju bolje od mene.

Zivim u soku i fragmentima njegove zivotne price i moje licne istorije.

Istorija krupnim koracima napreduje, rekao je jednom priikom kad smo sedeli kod njega u malom stanu, kad mu se cerka tek bila rodila; to je bila recenica s kojom je na neki nacin hteo da kaze sa zaljenjem da nema mnogo vremena za privatni zivot.

Kakva si, kao neka baba, obratio mi se u jednom drugom trenutku kad sam se brinula za neke neplacene cekove usred opsteg rasula zemlje koja pljacka svoje gradjane.

Nisam se uopste uvredila vec trgnula, stvarno sam bila u logici penzionera, ja koja nemam ni posao..

I onda, jednom kad smo pricali o buducnosti u Srbiji rekao je; ko je iole pametan trebalo bi odavde da brise, ovde nema buducnosti.

Niti je on otisao, niti mi koji smo ga pazljivo slusali.

Nekoliko puta su me njegove izjave bas iznervirale; prisustvala sam velikoj raspravi u vezi sa njegovim odlaskom na Pale…onda sam bila zrtva ulicnog nasilja u gej paradi 2001 kad je Djindjic izjavio da nije vreme za tako nesto jer je ceo grad zeljan Colica posle svega sto smo prosli…

Dok ovo pisem neprekidno mi se vrzma u glavi dan njegovog ubistva. Sparan nervozan dan: trcim u ministarstvo zdravlja po neke papire, onda kod svoje advokatice odmah tu kod stanice, nekoliko puta prolazim kroz Nemanjinu, odnosno onu ulicu pozadi; vidim parkiraliste gde se desilo ubistvo i cuvara dok izlazi sa burekom u ruci. Hocu da presecem put kroz dvoriste, on me zaustavlja…ne moze kaze, ovo je zgrada vlade…pojma nemam ali se secam da mi deluje potpuno neobavezno parkiraliste i besmisleno sto ne mogu da presecem i stignem na vreme u zdravstveno u Nemanjinoj…

Secam se vrlo dobro te prazne ulice pozadi gde je bio parkiran atentator Zvezdan, saznajem kasnije. Secam se da stizem u ministarstvo na vreme, da me prozivaju, da ulazim u kancelriju po papire i da mi zvoni mobilni. Placuci moja advokatkinja vice: ubili su ga, ubili su Djindjica…bacam papire i trcim kuci, emotivno uopste ne mogu da shvatim sta se desava, ja imam zakasnele reakcije ali sam zato kao elektricni zec kad su akcije u pitanju.

Palim televizor, okrecem telefone i naravno vidim znam, sve znam…Ne mogu da spojim sliku sa osecanjima. Neki uzasni strah probija kroz emotivnu distancu.

Kad mi je majka umrla rekla sam mojoj rodjaki koja je dosla da me poseti; pitacu mamu gde je ostavila porodicni nakit pa da ga sacuvamo.

Nesto slicno sam osetila i 12 marta 2003: samo da ga jos nesto pitamo onako svi preko tevea, pre no sto ga sahrane zauvek…

Onda krece ono kolektivno plakanje njegove ekipe, vlade, onda ona strasna sahrana u najruznijoj crkvi na Balkanu, onda akcija sablja, onda lepljenje plakata Dosta zlocina i beskrajni razgovori sa gradjanima, koji se nude da pomognu u bilo cemu. Posebno se secam jedne studenkinje koja mi je uzela plakate iz ruke, usred noci i reklla da ce ceo univezitet da oblepi, da ja slobodno idem da spavam, a onda se rasplakala.

Zapravo sve dok lagana i sigurna restauracija Milosevicevih nevidljivih i vidljvih prijatelja nije potpuno zavladala zemljom, nisam bila politicki svesna u sta nas je uvalila njegova smrt

Poslednje suocavanje bilo je surovo; na sudjenju u Beogradu pre nekoliko meseci: Bagzi zasticeni svedok baca u nedra tunjavo neke poluinofrmacije. A onda ustaje Zvezdan, kao pobednik, covek koji je ubio iz patriotskih razloga i ostavio pusku za muzej istorije.

Sedim pored neke nepoznate zene koja deluje da sedi u sudnici da bi se ugrejala, nekoliko Bagzijevih kolega i to bi bilo to.

Djindjic je bio veoma popularan politicar, voleli su ga i oni koji se nisu slagali s njim, cenili su ga i njegovi neprijatelji, cak i njegove ubice.

Gde su svi ti ljudi sada, sta misle da rade sa svojom buducnoscu i savescu. Mislim da to nije pitanje demokratske stranke ili njegove porodice. Cak ni politicara i mislioca, prijatelja koji se kunu u njegovo nasledje. U pitanju smo svi mi koji smo osvestili jedan deo svog gradjanskog identiteta u Srbiji kroz njegovu politicku hrabrost. Jer sve mozemo da kazemo u korist ili protiv njegove politike osim da bez njega istorija ne bi krupnim koracima napredovala a da bez njega istorija itekako krupnim koracima nazaduje.

Where Did Our History Go?

Anniversary of Zoran Djindjic’s assassination

I met Djindic before he became “the” Djindic. He jumped over the office table and shook my hand when our mutual friend introduced me as a feminist, ironically. I remember, too, that afterwards, whenever he would meet me, he would shake my hand in a feminist leftist way — but not ironically, on the contrary, seriously amused.

Later on, when he became public domain, we no longer met privately — only randomly. He was the most important Serbian politician of the 20 century, who managed to step into the 21st, who toppled Milosevic, who was eventually killed by state mafia resisting his progressive steps toward a modern Serbia.

– History marches with big steps, he once said, when his daughter was just born and we sat at his place in his small apartment. He was regretting his lack of time for a private life.

– You are behaving like a granny, you know, he told me on one occasion when I was worrying about one unpaid check in the midst of a calamitous economic fall — a criminal state robbing it’s citizens of their bank accounts. I wasn’t offended by this remark — it made me come to my senses. The state’s elderly pensioners were famous for voting for Milosevic, while I didn’t even have a real job.

Once we spoke about the future of Serbia and he said: anyone with a grain of sense would leave Serbia. There is no future here.

He didn’t leave. Those who listened to him carefully didn’t leave either.

A couple of times I really got angry with his words and deeds: I was present at a uncomfortable discussion about his visit to Pale and the Bosnian Serbian leaders now indicted as war criminals in Hague… Then again, I was angry when I was the victim of street violence in the gay parade in 2001, and Djindjic declared that it was “too early” for such political issues.

While I am writing this, in my mind I have all the time the day of his murder. A steamy hot day, nervous; I am rushing to the ministry of health to do some paperwork. I am crossing the Nemanjina street, and the parallel one behind the government : I see the parking lot where the assassination is going to happen, I see the guard stepping out of his booth with burek in his hand. I want to cross the parking lot in order to reach my destination faster, he stops me: You can’t do this, this is the building of the government. I haven’t the foggiest but I remember how this parking lot seems very informal and unguarded. It’s absurd that I cannot cross it.

I remember the empty street where the killer Zvezdan was parked in waiting. I remember entering the department of health in time, that they are calling out my name to get my papers and that my cell phone is ringing. In tears my lawyer is screaming: they killed him, they killed Djindic… I am throwing the papers and running back home…

I am switching on the TV, phoning everybody I know and of course I see, I know, oh I am getting it all very well. Dark fear is rising from my guts.

When my mother died, I said to my cousin: I will ask my mom where the family jewels are so we can keep them for our children. I felt something similar on March 12, 2003: let us ask Djindjic just a couple of things more, even through a TV screen, before they bury him forever.

Then the collective tears follow: of his crew, of the government, that terrible burial in the ugliest church in the Balkans, then the action Sword to get all the criminals involved in his murder, then the bumper stickers action all over Serbia STOP THE CRIME: endless conversations with citizens who are willing to help in whatever may be necessary. In particular I remember one student whom I met at midnight on the street: she snatched all of my bumper stickers and said, I will do it in my university, you go to sleep. Then she burst in tears.

Then commenced the slow but certain restoration of Milosevic’s friends, visible and invisible. I wasn’t politically aware altogether of what a desperate situation his death had brought to us.

The last awareness I had was terrible: in the court in Belgrade a couple of months ago, Bugsy, the protected witness, is muttering some half truths about the murder. Then Zvezdan the killer stands up as a winner, the guy who killed his country’s president out of patriotism and who bequeathed the gun to the museum of history.

I was sitting next to an unknown woman who seems to be in court just to warm her bones, a couple of Bugsy’s friends, me, and that’s it.

Djindic was a very popular man. Even people who didn’t agree with him liked him. His enemies thought well of him. His murderers, too.

Where are these people now, what are they thinking, what about their future and conscience? I don’t think it is a matter of a democratic party, his family. Not even of politicians and philosophers who are swearing on his grave using his words. It is a matter of all of us who gained a part of our civil identity in Serbia thanks to his political courage. We can say all we want to say, in favor or against his politics, but thanks to him, history advanced in big steps forward — and without him, history limps and crawls back into the dark.

About jasminatesanovic

Jasmina Tešanović (Serbian: Јасмина Тешановић) (born March 7, 1954) is a feminist, political activist (Women in Black, Code Pink), translator, publisher and filmmaker. She was one of the organizers of the first Feminist conference in Eastern Europe "Drug-ca Zena" in 1978, in Belgrade. With Slavica Stojanovic, she ran the first feminist publishing house in the Balkans "Feminist 94" for 10 years. She is the author of Diary of a Political Idiot, a war diary written during the 1999 Kosovo War and widely distributed on the Internet. Ever since then she has been publishing all her work, diaries, stories and films on blogs and other Internet media.
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