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How to take a dip in ideological swamps and keep breathing HOW TO TAKE A DIP IN IDEOLOGICAL SWAMPS AND KEEP BREATHING All things will fall into place, they say While the idiot tells his tale And shakes his rattle of bones Something good will come out of it, they say And the idiot strangles yet another chicken To pass the time Everything happens for a reason, they say While the idiot keeps doodling his grand design And baring his tongue Justice will prevail, they say But the idiot just got hiccups And this is all as far as I can tell Brooklyn, 2003 This is my twelfth year in the United States. My day starts with preparing my kids’ lunchboxes and ends by coaxing them to turn off their games, and get ready for bed. Or may be I should say this is when my day actually begins, reduced to the two hours before sleep when I get to read what I want, or occasionally see a movie of my own choice. Meanwhile I rush to school, repeatedly emphasize to my students the benefits of logical reasoning, chat with my colleagues, and then rush back to take the kids home, prepare the dinner… you get the picture. It’s just an ordinary day of a suburban soccer mom who earns her living by serving digested ideas to not always hungry young minds. But then in the midst of all this I have a dream. Nothing prepares me for this dream. In the dream a man I was close to 20 years ago is killing another man in my presence, an acquaintance and a colleague of ours, but one of the wrong nationality. My friend is deformed by rage, he kicks his victim, scorns him, stabs him. “Fuck your Serbian mother!” he yells. I stand there terrified, but do nothing, say nothing. I even hold the victim for him. Definitely, I’m not only a witness, I am an accomplice. My thoughts are spinning. I’m thinking: No, I have to report this, I have to tell on my friend. But then, even if I tell, I won’t redeem myself, I’ll never redeem myself. I’ll be locked in this hell forever. I’ll never again be clean, never be myself again. I’m lost once and for all. This is when my kids wake me up. I visit Croatia regularly each summer, and I notice one thing: nobody thinks about the war any more, people have moved on with their lives, houses were rebuilt, new malls, supermarkets, highways and billboards erected, even multiplex movie theaters with cartons of popcorn. Since I moved to America, America has moved to Croatia, or so it seems. So, if people in Croatia have moved on, what private pathology can explain my dream? I never lost a loved one in war, never witnessed a killing, never really wished to kill anyone. My whole activity in the war involved fear and trembling, hiding and running away, moving my daughter, moving my things, moving myself, to safety, away from the bombs, away from the country, away… Obviously, even an ocean apart and twelve years later, I’m still in the thick of it, my collective unconscious nicely preserved and ready for action. No matter that I never imagined my Croatian ethnicity could have any more political relevance than the color of my hair, or the name of the street I live in, no matter that I stayed away from politics, refused to join any party, that I didn’t love my Serbian friends any less, and that I eventually emigrated and thus avoided the pressure of everyday life in Croatia under Tudjman. Still… Despite all those efforts to withdraw to my private world, to avoid compromises, to maintain my integrity, despite of the price I paid for not joining, for not cheering along, it was all for nothing, I’m still stained. An ideological crossroad indeed seems like a cross on the road to me, with all of us propped up on it, blood dripping from our wounds, unable to get down and walk away. In the course of my life I have navigated through three ideological spheres: born and raised under socialism, trying to save my skin under nationalism, landing reluctantly in capitalism. I would describe myself as apolitical if this was a valid category, but as I learned from experience, there’s never a way out, even if the only thing you do deliberately is try to stay out. They simply count you as “not one of us”, so you get your ideological label and play your political role even while sitting home and patting your tummy, which is what I literally did during student protests against the socialist regime in the fall of 1971. While my husband and our student friends marched in the streets, got beaten by the police, and then returned home and debated long hours, I was blissfully patting my bulging belly and knitting baby blankets. But no baby blankets could have saved me from taking a dip in ideological swamps, no matter how hard I tried to wrap them around myself and my babies. Baby blankets, by the way, are known to be porous. My ideological engagement by way of disengagement started in high school when I politely declined to join the communist party, explaining I didn’t feel mature enough. An intellectual snob with a bourgeois background, being fully immersed in reading Kafka, Camus, Proust, Bergson, Krleza, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot and others, I couldn’t imagine what on earth I’d be doing in the company of the mediocre and opportunistic students who were responding to the party’s call. Politics was pushed to the margin of my awareness as something completely uninteresting, boring, and dumb, something I couldn’t even start thinking of seriously. It was all dumped into the same box of kitschy parades, stories about Tito’s childhood, war movies, men in ties cutting ribbons at the openings of the new factories. My judgment of politics was mostly based on my aesthetic sensibilities. I couldn’t take an interest in something so dull and so kitschy, geared to the mental level of five-year olds. It was a mystery to me how grown-up men could undertake this business seriously, and it never occurred to me their preoccupations could have any relevance for my life. Intellectual snobbism that kept me away from the ruling ideology was soon joined by a different shield: hormones. I happily fell in love, got married right out of high school, knitted baby blankets through the student uprising, and had my baby as a college sophomore. When my professor Gajo Petrovic, a leading philosophical figure at the time, invited me to contribute to the philosophical journal Praxis he edited, I bluntly refused, explaining to him, with all the earnestness of a 20 year old, that I didn’t see myself as a philosophical writer. The only thing I wanted to be was a mom. Talk about a bad career move! But as a result of my stupidity, which I in retrospect try to explain away by postpartum hormonal perturbation, I never got connected to the Praxis school and my ideological slate remained completely clear of the traces of Marxism. Not that I was uninformed: being a nerd, I dutifully read all the Marxist works that were on the reading list, but none of my professors ever asked me one question about them. Maybe I was just emanating different kind of vibes. Instead, we had enjoyable discussions about Nietzsche, Heidegger, and Wittgenstein. The blank state of my ideological slate certainly didn’t help later in my job search. Although I was among the best students in my class, and started off with two parallel graduate programs and one additional undergraduate program, just to get an edge in the job market, I received one rejection after another. After long months of unsuccessful job hunting, I decided the career of a mother was more appealing, so I had another child. Finally, almost four years after graduation, I got a job at the Philosophy Department in Zadar, due to a package deal offered to my husband, a psychologist. Even years later, in the mid ’80s, the fact that I stayed out of the Praxis circle still haunted me. When I applied for the position in aesthetics at the Zagreb Philosophy Department, I was rejected once again. Although I had completed my graduate program, and was the only candidate with publications in the field, Gajo Petrovic’s protégé was hired instead. Later, Petrovic reminded me, in a moment of remorse, I guess, that I could still apply for the position at the College of Veterinary Medicine in Zagreb, vacated by the person hired. Although I was eager to return to my home town, I was too proud to try that remedy. Another shield from the ideological storms in the macho atmosphere of Dalmatia was my gender. As some feminists have claimed, women were not always the primary victims of male ideologies. In the world men have arranged more is expected of them, and they are the ones who necessarily have to show their ideological passport. The fact that I’m a woman helped me to wiggle out, and avoid the spotlight. Maybe this explains why they never again invited me to join the communist party; since my husband was a player in political charades, I was able to stay protected in the background, and focus on raising my kids and doing philosophy. During the 80s, while the communist rule was gradually falling apart, I was able to publish my philosophical writings without ever including an obligatory mention of Marx or the Marxists, as some of my colleagues felt they had to do. Nobody ever asked me to do so. I wonder about those who have done it: gluing a chapter on Marx to a work completely unrelated to the topic. Were they asked to do this, or did they do it on their own? Was it a conscious career move, a fear of repercussions in case they omitted it, or was it simply conformism, opportunism? Would they delete it today, if they prepared a new edition? My ideological cocoon, however, was brutally torn apart when I got divorced, assumed the position of the Chair of Philosophy Department in Zadar, and the ’90s thundered in. The joyful arrival of democracy was followed by the sobering realization that the unified front that had opposed the communists actually consisted of people whose views were radically different from my own. The comfortable feeling of being part of the crowd was replaced by an unexpected feeling of isolation. The green party for which I voted in the first democratic election got less than 1% vote in Zadar. My aesthetic approach to politics and feeling of intellectual superiority over the poor ideologues quickly gave way to fear. When Croatian nationalists started their political campaign, using my old tools of ideological trade I discarded their platform with nonchalance in the same old kitschy box, along with the communist parades, and well known ribbon cutting men in ties. In the school cafeteria I jokingly explained that even my cat knew better than to vote for Tudjman: his photo was the one my cat chose to scratch when it appeared in one of the magazines. My chuckling was cut short by a glance I got from a person sitting at a side table. It turned my blood cold: it was a glance of a murderer. That glance marked the end of my ideological virginity, I finally understood what was at stake. It’s about your life, stupid! What followed before my final move to the States in September 1995 was a series of panicked attempts to stay away from the chaos evolving around me. In the wake of it, I found myself running away in fright from the political gathering at the Roman forum in Zadar when I saw some of our students stepping onto the podium in black shirts. My aesthetic criteria didn’t fool me this time: I clearly recalled Bertolucci’s Nineteen hundred and felt what was coming. After failed attempts to make our students of different ethnicities express mutual solidarity, I resigned my position as Chair of the Philosophy Department. As the bombs started falling on Zadar, I moved my daughter to Zagreb, and found myself touring Croatia each week, hiding in the basement, removing broken glass from my apartment and my car, attempting to save water, save my photo albums, save my skin. I was certainly getting a different perspective on the meaning of my ethnic identity: regardless of the fact that I refused to assign any significance to it and refused to capitalize from it, regardless of the fact that I boycotted the referendum for Croatian independence because I was fearful, as it turns out justifiably, of the consequences a positive outcome might have, I was still just a Croatian, and, as such, a target for attack by the Yugoslav army. Lying in the basement on a makeshift sponge bed my good neighbors offered to share with me, listening to the thunder of bombing outside, I finally felt, without any reserve, that I belonged to my nation, to a part of suffering humanity which was under attack solely because it was what it was. In this sense nationalism and racism are worse than communism or religious discrimination. With the latter, one always has the option of joining the party or converting, but no personal engagement can change your race or your ethnicity, so there are no cures once your group gets targeted. Not that I had any inclination to join the people in the neighboring Serbian village where the shells came from. I watched the roofs of their houses from my bedroom window and couldn’t comprehend what made these people fire on the town where they had their jobs, where their kids were in school, where they did their shopping, visited doctors’ offices, went to the beach. I was equally unable to understand what made my fellow Croatians hate their Serbian neighbors who sat under the same shells. I was shocked when a colleague of mine, a psychologist, greeted me one day screaming: “I hate them, Vanda, how I hate them!” Taken by surprise I enquired who she hated. She was referring to the Serbs, of course. I saw my male colleagues, who only yesterday were discussing logic and philosophy of mathematics, suddenly sporting guns in their pockets and telling dirty jokes about the Serbs. A fellow aesthetician took over the ministry of war. A good friend of mine advised me against dating a man whose paternal grandfather was Serbian. Another colleague, who happened to have a Croatian last name, confided in me that he was actually a Serb. Soon my own nation started committing atrocities against others, smearing me with a sense of guilt. The world around me was changing rapidly in unpredictable, and to me incomprehensible ways. In my naiveté I felt ethnic conflicts belonged to the prehistory of rational civilization, along with stone spears. I tried to make sense of what was happening, wondering what lessons could be derived from the war, besides what we already knew from before, i.e. that it was the worst of human inventions. My wiser philosopher friend brought me to my senses. In his ho-ho-ho Santa Claus manner, he laughed and said: “Gee, Vanda, you would like to become a war profiteer, wouldn’t you? To get epistemological profit from the war, that’s what you want?!” Indeed, how selfish of me to seek personal insight as a comforting byproduct of a historical tragedy! The tragedy is just what it is: tragic, not in any way meaningful, or useful. The best we can do is empathize with the victims, acknowledge the tragic fact, not try to hush it down with some wise commentary, or the smarmy feeling of self-elevation occasioned by the suffering of others. If in my dream I focused on helping the victim, instead of despairing over my dirty conscience, I might have had some chance for redemption. But, no, I’m no role model myself, thinking too much and doing nothing, fretting over the nuances of my own physical, intellectual and spiritual well-being, instead of actively contributing to a cause. At that time, though, I had my hands full trying to keep myself and my family safe. I was thankful that my son got a scholarship from Yale, and was able to get out of the chaos. My daughter, however, was in the midst of her turbulent teenage years and the fact she had to stay in Zagreb with her seriously sick grandma certainly didn’t help. I was torn between staying with them and maintaining my job in Zadar, which required commuting under the bombs on a weekly basis. My war experiences intensified. Once a shell fell on the stairs of an underpass into which I had just run. I spent five days in my friend’s apartment during an attack from the land, sea, and air. Her father, a retired Yugoslav army officer, was calculating the possible trajectories of the rockets, making sure we were sitting next to the firmest wall. Her Serbian mom fed us from her food supplies. There were at least 6 of us lying on mattresses on their living room floor. I held my office hours in a packed café, the popularity of which was secured by its safe location in the city walls. I pulled three of my philosopher colleagues from the town under shells, in my little Fiat with the broken rear window. I pushed through a crowd of people, many of them refugees from the neighboring Croatian villages, carrying plastic bags with their only belongings, trying to get on any bus leaving the town. The greatest fear was that we would be cut off from the rest of the country, sharing the destiny of Vukovar, a city the Yugoslav army had, along with its citizens, leveled to the ground. And I knew that after I managed to escape from the city, I would have to return to it again in a week if I wanted to keep my job. To say that I was freaked out is to put it mildly. An unexpected beam of hope came when I received a letter from Belgrade announcing that I was awarded a Fulbright scholarship at Columbia University beginning in September. It was May 1992, I held the letter in my hand, sitting under shells in Zadar, while my mother in Zagreb went through chemotherapy. When I had submitted my application for the scholarship, Yugoslavia still existed, so the committee operated through its capital. By the time the decision was made, Croatia was under attack by the Yugoslav army. The situation seemed completely surreal; I thought there was no way I could go. Events, however, took a quick turn. My mother’s condition worsened, she died in June. My boyfriend, who was simultaneously admitted to the graduate program at CUNY, proposed to me, hoping we could leave as a couple. We got married in August, and landed in New York in September. That could have sounded like a happy ending, except that it was the beginning of the hardest period of my life. By the time we landed in New York in an empty apartment on Riverside Drive, we were all so traumatized there was no way we could have enjoyed the advantages of a new situation. Before he left, my husband learned that the College Council in Zadar, without any discussion, declined his reappointment, in spite of the positive evaluation of the reappointment committee: his Serbian last name was a sufficient argument. The news we got from Zadar was changing from bad to worse. Our logician friend, whose parents had protected me in their home, and who was the most talented student I ever had, was the next one to lose her job. Our department had been targeted by the nationalists; more cleansing was on the horizon. From their conservative religious stance, they publicly criticized our cosmopolitan aspirations and promotion of the analytic method, dismissing us as “Coca-Cola philosophers”. Since taking over the key positions in the Ministry of Science, they had control over our research grants, job openings, reappointments, and promotions. True, they did indirectly offer to take me under their wing. One of their eagles used my name as ammunition in a public attack against Marxists in the Philosophy Department in Zagreb. He claimed the reason they had not hired me was because I was Croatian. This was certainly my unique chance to present myself as a victim, and “secure what was rightfully mine”. In order to extricate myself from this mess, I wrote a letter to the colleague who was the main target of the attack, explaining to her that I didn’t stand behind it, and that, although I obviously didn’t approve of her decision not to hire me, since I didn’t believe it was based on merit, I doubted that she had relied on nationality as a criterion. A year later, when I ran into her on the street, she gave me a hug, thanking me for the letter. Meanwhile, she endured harassment and pressure from the nationalists, including threatening phone calls. From our New York refuge, we tried to alert American colleagues to what was happening to Croatian philosophers, and tried to get some kind of official support from the American Philosophical Association. We did manage to get a letter sent to the Croatian Philosophical Association, but in the process we learned the attention span of people willing to listen to our lamentations was bounded by Western news coverage and their sense of comfort. Typically, this amounted to at most a few minutes. No wonder: the destruction of the bridge in Mostar got 30 seconds of coverage, while the woman who cut off her husband’s penis the same day received 2 minutes. Soon we learned to divert polite inquiries about the Croatian war to other topics, and ask for practical advice about problems at hand instead. And such problems were abundant: how to find the right school for my daughter, how to get health insurance, how to pay our bills... But our attempts to organize our life in New York didn’t get very far. All the perturbations took their toll: my daughter’s mental health was seriously endangered, and I had a miscarriage. I decided to give up on the extension of my scholarship and returned with my daughter to Croatia. My husband, who had started his graduate program, stayed. When I returned, I realized I couldn’t continue to work in the cleansed Philosophy Department in Zadar. Meanwhile, the colleagues I worked with had either been fired, or had quit. So I quit also, hoping to get a position in Rijeka, a city that escaped nationalist control, and where I had been adjuncting for a few years. Indeed, they managed to get a line for a full time position and I applied. What happened next was that the Ministry of Science decided to withdraw funding for this line. I certainly offered them an easy way to get rid of me. A colleague of mine, who was in contact with the minister, asked him what they held against me: my history was clear of communism, my genealogy clear of Serbian blood. The minister explained that I was not a good Catholic - I got divorced from my husband. True. Stripped of my patriarchal armor, I was up for grabs. The updated information about my getting remarried to a younger Serbian guy certainly would not have helped. Thus started my 11 year long academic exile. Academia, by the way, is the only place where a nerd can earn a decent living. Take the nerd out, and she will sink. Or almost. The situation I found myself in was not one I was prepared for. With a deeply troubled sixteen year old daughter to care for, amidst a war, and with no job. Or, later, in America, with two little children to care for, in a foreign country, without the right papers, without a steady job, with no family or friends who could have helped, in a marriage that was starting to fall apart. My mother, herself divorced, had pampered me too much, proud of my scholarly success, and made me grow up with the impression that all would be well, because I’m good and smart and do my homework on time. Yeah, yeah. I’m certainly aware that my story is the story of a woman who was privileged in many ways. My sailing through the two totalitarian regimes was not so smooth, but I lost virtually nothing: I didn’t lose a loved one, my property was not destroyed, neither I, nor any of my family members or friends were arrested, raped, or tortured. I was not deprived of food, water, or shelter, I was not forced to do a menial job. Most of the time I was aware of the situation, and I had some options. I did have a career, nobody ever censored my writing, nobody fired me, I just chose to quit. My life looks more like a soap opera, than a tragedy. I might have even been an object of envy. Thinking of all the things other people have gone through, and are going through right now, I can hardly complain. And yet… I wish I could have been free of the group identities, which did not depend on my own choice but nevertheless determined almost every aspect of my life, and burdened me with fear and guilt, despite the fact that I invested my energy solely in trying to break free. I know this is impossible: one is always born somewhere, sometime, to someone; our group identities enfold and protect us, and by protecting us restrict us and sometimes suffocate us. It’s a pity there is no such thing as a collective national psychotherapy, because that’s what we all need: plucking out bad seeds from our national psyche, and cleaning up our acts. Instead, we are relying on quick fixes: adopting new jargon, new policies, new ideologies. I don’t harbor the illusion any more that my life in a new territory is a way of escaping it all. Our history has a way of trapping us and dragging us into surreal situations. On one occasion an American feminist friend of mine interested in political theories in Eastern Europe asked for my help with translating a review of Croatian political theories in English. And there I sat in the Brooklyn College cafeteria, dutifully translating a text by a well known Croatian nationalist, who was responsible for public attacks on my friends, and most probably for some of the cleansing. On another occasion, the colleague from Zagreb who failed to hire me, the former Marxist who withstood the attack of the nationalists and maintained her position, visited New York in order to give a talk. At the time I had two preschool children, my husband, chasing his own demons, unable to help. I was scraping for adjunct courses, completely desperate, convinced I would have to give up philosophy for good. After finally getting a realistic insight into the job market for philosophers, I realized the odds that a college might hire a middle-aged woman from the Balkans, with a degree from overseas, with no publications in American philosophical journals, and no recent publications for that matter, a woman with no connections, and no time to network, with no money to pay for babysitters and thus no time to do any reading, writing, or publishing, were close to zero. For the hour I socialized with my colleague from Zagreb she was happily talking about her philosophical ideas without enquiring how I was doing. When I eventually managed to tell her of my problems she earnestly advised me to emigrate to Australia. I watch in amazement how time erases past ideological conflicts, and thus reveals their true nature and their essential irrelevance. Since totalitarian ideologies are just a means of brainwashing the masses into supporting a cause which is in the interest of their advocates, once an ideology’s usefulness wears off, it is easily discarded and replaced. I used to wonder how the most eager Stalinists could turn into the most eager nationalists overnight. The communist idea of social equality, with its international scope, could not be simultaneously upheld with discrimination on ethnic grounds, or with the market values which are now gradually overtaking the Balkans. True, these ideas were not entertained simultaneously, but successively. And those who accepted them really never had any convictions; they just had needs which were met by their adherence to the dominant ideology. Some might not have even noticed that the switch happened. America certainly is different from the Balkans: it offers a menu of ideologies one can pick from and live by, with the only condition being that they fit within the general political, legal and economic framework. And since this framework is sufficiently flexible and comfortable, most people just take it for granted. As a not yet naturalized immigrant, who is now, after years of struggle, able to survive comfortably, I feel both sufficiently protected and sufficiently isolated, neither the victim nor the player. I’ve put the process of naturalization on hold, afraid my new identity would burden me with a new sense of guilt. I already share American fear: I lived in New York in September 2001. I am enjoying my distance from political and ideological currents, aware that it is provisional and fake. It is a momentary breathing space bought at the price of deliberate ignorance, isolation and compliance, the price I’m willing to pay in order to get to do what I love: raise my kids and teach philosophy. So, thirty years later, I’m still pushing along the same track, only this time I’m aware of what I would see if I chose to take my blinds off. Right now, I daydream and entertain the vision of myself as a free floating, frei schwebende, intellectual, free of any ideological baggage, who only wishes to be grounded in humanity on planet Earth.
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Vanda Božičević - Ideološko raskrižje Kako zaroniti u ideološku močvaru a ne prestati disati KAKO ZARONITI U IDEOLOŠKU MOČVARU A NE PRESTATI DISATI Sve doći će na svoje mjesto, kažu Dok idiot priču priča svoju I zvečku od kostiju trese Nešto će se dobro rodit’ iz toga, kažu A idiot još jedno pile davi Da ubije vrijeme Sve s razlogom događa se, kažu Dok idiot šara svoje veliko djelo Otkrivajući jezik Pravda pobijedit’ će, kažu Al’ idiota je baš spopalo štucanje I, koliko ja znam, to bi bilo sve Brooklyn, 2003. Dvanaesta je godina da sam u Sjedinjenim državama. Moj dan započinje pripremanjem lunch paketa djeci, a završava nagovaranjem da isključe igrice i spreme se za spavanje. Možda bi bolje bilo reći da je upravo to vrijeme kada započinje moj dan sveden na dva sata prije spavanja, kada uspijem pročitati što želim, ili povremeno pogledati neki film po vlastitom izboru. U međuvremenu jurim na fakultet, uvijek iznova tumačim studentima prednosti logičkog zaključivanja, ćaskam s kolegama, a onda jurim natrag po djecu, kuham večeru... jasno vam je. Obični je to dan revnosne mame s periferije koja zarađuje za život serviranjem prožvakanih ideja ne baš uvijek gladnim mladim umovima. No usred svega, ja najednom usnim san. Potpuno sam nepripravna na taj san. U snu, čovjek s kojim sam bila bliska prije 20 godina, u mom prisustvu ubija našeg zajedničkog znanca i kolegu, osobu pogrešne nacionalnosti. Moj je prijatelj izobličen od gnjeva, udara žrtvu, vrijeđa je, probada. “Mater ti jebem srpsku!” viče. Stojim užasnuta, ali ništa niti činim niti govorim. Čak mu i pridržavam žrtvu. Očito nisam samo svjedokinja. Ja sam suučesnica. Misli mi lete. Razmišljam: Ne, ovo moram prijaviti, morat ću ga tužiti. No, čak ako ga i prijavim, neću se time iskupiti, nikada se neću iskupiti. Zauvijek ću biti zarobljena u ovom paklu. Nikad više neću biti svoja, zauvijek sam izgubljena. U taj me čas djeca probude. Hrvatsku posjećujem redovito svako ljeto i primjećujem jednu stvar: nitko više ne misli na rat, ljudi su nastavili svoje živote, kuće su nanovo izgrađene, tu su prodajni centri, supermarketi, autoceste s velikim reklamnim panoima, ima čak i multiplex kina sa kutijama kokica. Otkako sam ja odselila u Ameriku, Amerika je uselila u Hrvatsku, ili se bar tako čini. Pa, ako je Hrvatska krenula dalje, kakva osobna patologija može objasniti moj san? Nisam izgubila nikog bliskog u ratu, nikada nisam prisustvovala ubojstvu, nikad nisam stvarno poželjela nekoga ubiti. Čitava moja ratna aktivnost sastojala se od straha i drhtanja, skrivanja i bježanja, premještanja kćeri, premještanja stvari, premještanja same sebe na sigurno, daleko od bombi, daleko od zemlje, daleko... Daleko, preko oceana, 12 godina kasnije, ja sam očito još u žarištu rata, a moja kolektivna podsvijest je dobro sačuvana i spremna za djelovanje. Bez obzira na to što nikada nisam zamišljala da moja hrvatska pripadnost može imati veći politički značaj od boje moje kose ili imena ulice u kojoj živim, bez obzira na to što sam se držala dalje od politike, odbila se priključiti bilo kojoj stranci, što svoje srpske prijatelje nisam ništa manje voljela, i što sam napokon emigrirala izmaknuvši tako pritisku svakodnevnog života u Hrvatskoj pod Tuđmanom. Pa ipak... Usprkos svim tim nastojanjima za povlačenjem u vlastiti svijet, za izbjegavanjem kompromisa, za očuvanjem integriteta, usprkos cijeni koju sam platila jer se nisam priključila, jer nisam navijala, sve je bilo uzaludno, i dalje sam ukaljana. Ideološko mi raskrižje djeluje poput križa na putu na kojem smo svi razapeti, dok nam iz rana kaplje krv, nesposobni da siđemo i udaljimo se. Tijekom svog života prošla sam kroz tri ideološke sfere: rođena i odgojena u socijalizmu, pokušavala spasiti golu kožu u vrijeme nacionalizma, nerado se skrasila u kapitalizmu. Ja bih sebe opisala kao apolitičnu, kad bi takva kategorija uopće postojala. Iskustvo me, međutim, poučilo da se politici ne može izmaći, čak i kad cijeli trud ulažemo u to da ostanemo po strani. U tom nas slučaju jednostavno uvrste u “one koji nisu naši”, te tako dobijemo ideološku etiketu i igramo svoju političku ulogu čak i kad sjedimo kod kuće i gladimo svoj trbuh, što sam ja doslovce radila za vrijeme studentskih demonstracija protiv socijalističkog režima u jesen 1971. Dok su moj muž i naši prijatelji studenti izlazili na ulice, bivali pretučeni od policije, te po povratku kući dugo diskutirali, ja sam blaženo tapšala svoj nabrekli trbuh i plela dječje dekice. Nikakve dječje dekice me, nažalost, nisu mogle izbaviti od zaranjanja u ideološku močvaru, ma koliko se trudila omotati ih oko sebe i svoje dječice. Uostalom, dječje su dekice poznate po svojoj poroznosti. Moj ideološki angažman dezangažiranjem, započeo je u srednoj školi kada sam pristojno odbila postati članom komunističke partije, uz objašnjenje kako se ne osjećam dovoljno zrelom. Kao intelektualni snob građanskog podrijetla, potpuno zadubljena u čitanje Kafke, Camusa, Prousta, Bergsona, Krleže, Jamesa Joycea, T.S. Eliota i drugih, nikako se nisam mogla zamisliti u društvu mediokriteta i oportunista koji su se odazivali pozivu partije. Politika je bila potisnuta na marginu moje svijesti kao nešto posve nezanimljivo, dosadno i glupo, nešto o čemu nisam mogla ni početi ozbiljno razmišljati. Sve je to za mene bilo dio istog paketa zajedno s kičastim prvomajskim paradama, pričama o Titovom djetinjstvu, ratnim filmovima, muškarcima s kravatama koji presjecaju vrpce na otvaranjima tvornica. Moj sud o politici većinom se temeljio na mom estetskom senzibilitetu. Kako bi mi moglo biti zanimljivo nešto tako dosadno i tako kičasto, prilagođeno mentalnoj razini petogodišnjaka?! Bilo mi je neobjašnjivo kako se odrasli mogu ozbiljno baviti tim stvarima, i nikada mi nije palo na pamet da bi njihova zanimacija mogla biti od ikakvog značaja za moj život. Intelektualnom snobizmu koji me čuvao od vodeće ideologije, ubrzo se pridružio zaštitnik druge vrste: hormoni. Sretno sam se zaljubila, udala odmah po završetku gimnazije, plela dekice za vrijeme studentskog pokreta i rodila na drugoj godini studija. Kada me je moj profesor Gajo Petrović, tadašnji vodeći filozof , pozvao da sudjelujem u filozofskom časopisu Praxis, kojeg je on uređivao, glatko sam ga odbila, objasnivši mu, sa svom ozbiljnošću jedne dvadesetogodišnjakinje, kako se ne vidim kao filozofskog pisca. Biti mama je bilo jedino što sam tada željela biti. Nema šta, odličan potez u karijeri! No rezultat moje gluposti, koju gledajući unatrag nastojim objasniti pozivanjem na postporođajni hormonalni poremećaj, bio je taj da se nikad nisam povezala s praksisovcima, pa je tako moja ideološka ploča ostala čista, bez ikakvih tragova marksizma. To ne znači da sam bila neobaviještena: kao štreberica, uredno sam pročitala sva marksistička djela s popisa literature, mada me nitko od profesora nije nikad ništa pitao o njima. Mora da sam širila neke druge vibre. Umjesto toga, vodili smo ugodne razgovore o Nietzscheu, Heideggeru, Wittgensteinu. Čistoća moje ideološke ploče svakako mi nije kasnije bila od koristi prilikom traženja posla. Unatoč tome što sam bila među najboljim studentima na svojoj godini, te unatoč tome što sam naknadno započela dva paralelna postdiplomska studija i jedan dodatni dodiplomski studij, kako bih imala prednost na tržištu rada, primala sam jednu odbijenicu za drugom. Nakon dugih mjeseci neuspješnog traženja posla, zaključila sam da je karijera majke privlačnija i rodila drugo djete. Konačno, četiri godine nakon diplomiranja, dobila sam posao na Odsjeku za filozofiju u Zadru, zahvaljujući paket aranžmanu ponuđenom mom mužu, psihologu. Čak i godinama kasnije, sredinom osamdesetih, činjenica da sam ostala izvan kruga Parxisa i dalje me progonila. Kada sam se prijavila na natječaj za mjesto asistenta iz estetike na Odsjeku za filozofiju u Zagrebu, ponovno sam odbijena. Iako sam u međuvremenu magistrirala, te bila jedina kandidatkinja s objavljenim radovima iz tog područja, umjesto mene primljena je osoba koju je protežirao Gajo Petrović. Kasnije me, pretpostavljam u trenutku grižnje savjesti, Petrović podsjetio da se mogu javiti na mjesto na Veterinarskom fakultetu u Zagrebu, upražnjeno od osobe koja je bila primljena. Mada sam žudila za povratkom u rodni grad, bila sam preponosna da kušam takav lijek. Dodatnu zaštitu od ideoloških oluja u dalmatinskoj macho atmosferi predstavljao je moj spol. Slažem se s onim što tvrde neke feministkinje: ne mislim da su žene uvijek primarne žrtve muških ideologija. U svijetu kojeg su uredili muškarci, od njih se više očekuje i oni su ti koju su se dužni ideološki očitovati. Činjenica da sam žena pomogla mi je da izmigoljim i uzmaknem središtu pažnje. To možda objašnjava zašto me nikad nisu ponovno pozvali da se učlanim u savez komunista; budući je moj muž bio igrač u političkim šaradama, ja sam mogla ostati zaštićena u pozadini i usredotočiti se na podizanje djece i bavljenje filozofijom. U osamdesetima, dok se komunistička vladavina postupno raspadala, mogla sam objavljivati svoje filozofske radove i bez spominjanja inače nužnog Marxa ili marksista, što su neki moji kolege mislili da moraju činiti. Nitko nije nikada to od mene tražio. Pitam se o onima koji su to uradili: zalijepili poglavlje o Marxu na rad koji nikakve veze nema s tom temom. Je li to od njih netko tražio, ili su to činili sami? Je li to bio svjesni karijeristički potez, strah od reperkusija u slučaju izostanka, ili je to naprosto bio konformizam, oportunizam? Bi li danas, pripremajući novo izdanje, to izbrisali? Moja ideološka čahura brutalno se, međutim, raspala kada sam se razvela, prihvatila mjesto Pročelnice Odsjeka za filozofiju u Zadru, a grmljavina devedesetih je nadolazila. Radosnom dolasku demokracije slijedilo je otrežnjujuće uviđanje da se ujedinjena fronta koja se suprotstavila komunistima zapravo sastojala od ljudi čija su stajališta bila radikalno različita od mojih. Udobni osjećaj pripadanja gomili zamijenio je neočekivani osjećaj izoliranosti. Stranka zelenih za koju sam glasala na prvim demokratskim izborima dobila je u Zadru manje od 1% glasova. Moj estetski pristup politici i osjećaj intelektualne superiornosti nad bijednim ideolozima ubrzo su ustuknuli pred strahom. Kada su hrvatski nacionalisti započeli svoju političku kampanju, koristeći svoje staro oruđe ideološkog zanata, nonšalantno sam odbacila njihovu platformu u onu istu staru kutiju s kičem u koju sam prije trpala komunističke parade i muškarce s kravatama koji presijecaju vrpce. U fakultetskom kafiću šalila sam se kako čak i moj mačak zna da ne treba glasati za Tuđmana: izgrebao je njegovu fotografiju koju su objavili u jednom časopisu. Moje smijuljenje presjekao je pogled osobe koja je sjedila za susjednim stolom. Krv mi se sledila: bio je to pogled ubojice. Taj je pogled označio kraj mog ideološkog djevičanstva, konačno sam shvatila što je u pitanju. Glupačo, o tvom se životu radi! Mom konačnom preseljenja u Ameriku u rujnu 1995, prethodio je niz paničnih pokušaja da se sačuvam od kaosa koji me okruživao koji je svakim danom postajao sve veći. Uoči rata ustravljeno sam pobjegla s političkog skupa na rimskom forumu u Zadru ugledavši neke od naših studenata kako stupaju na podij odjeveni u crne košulje. Moj me estetski kriterij ovog puta nije prevario: jasno sam se sjetila Bertoluccijevog Dvadesetog stoljeća i shvatila što se sprema. Nakon propalih pokušaja da nagovorim naše studente različite nacionalne pripadnosti na uzajamnu solidarnost, podnijela sam ostavku na položaj Pročelnice Odsjeka za filozofiju. Kad su na Zadar počele padati bombe, kćer sam preselila u Zagreb, a ja sam svakog tjedna putovala Hrvatskom, skrivala se u podrumu, uklanjala razbijeno staklo iz stana i automobila, nastojala štedjeti vodu, spasiti foto albume, spasiti golu kožu. Nesumnjivo sam sticala drugačiji uvid u značaj svog nacionalnog identiteta: bez obzira na činjenicu da sam mu odbila pridati bilo kakav značaj, te odbila na njemu profitirati, bez obzira na činjenicu da sam bojkotirala referendum za hrvatsku neovisnost zbog straha, koji se pokazao opravdanim, od posljedica koje bi pozitivni ishod mogao imati, ipak sam bila samo Hrvatica, te kao takva meta napada jugoslavenske armije. Ležeći u podrumu na provizornom krevetu od spužve koji su moji dobri susjedi ponudili da podijele samnom, slušajući grmljavinu bombi, napokon sam, bez ikakve rezerve, osjetila pripadnost svojoj naciji, dijelu napaćenog čovječanstva koje je napadnuto jedino zato što je to što jest. U tom smislu, nacionalizam je gori od komunizma ili vjerske diskriminacije. U slučaju ovog drugog, naime, čovjek uvijek ima mogućnost učlanjenja u stranku ili preobraćenja, no nikakav osobni angažman ne može vam promijeniti rasu ili nacionalnu pripadnost, dakle kad jednom vaša skupina postane meta napada, nema uzmaka. Naravno da nisam imala nikakvu želju da uzmaknem i pridružim se ljudima u susjednim srpskim selima iz kojih su dolijetale granate. Kroz prozor spavaće sobe promatrala sam krovove njihovih kuća ne mogavši shvatiti što je nagnalo te ljude da gađaju grad u kojem su radili, gdje su im djeca išla u školu, u kojem su obavljali svoju kupovinu, išli liječniku, odlazili na plažu. Isto tako nisam bila u stanju razumjeti što je nagnalo moje Hrvate da mrze svoje srpske susjede koji su se našli pod istim granatama. Šokirala sam se kada me jednog dana kolegica psiholog, pozdravila uzvikom: “Mrzim ih, Vanda, kako ih mrzim!” Zatečena, pitala sam se tko su ti koje mrzi. Naravno, mislila je na Srbe. Vidjela sam svoje kolege, koji su još jučer raspravljali o logici i filozofiji matematike, kako iznenada izvlače pištolje iz džepova i pričaju proste viceve o Srbima. Kolega estetičar preuzeo je ministarstvo rata. Moja me dobra prijateljica savjetovala da se ne viđam s čovjekom kojem je djed po ocu bio Srbin. Drugi kolega, koji je slučajno imao hrvatsko prezime, povjerio mi je kako je zapravo Srbin. Ubrzo je i moj narod počeo napadati druge, namećući mi osjećaj krivnje. Svijet oko mene brzo se mijenjao na nepredvidiv i meni nerazumljiv način. U svojoj naivnosti smatrala sam da etnički sukobi pripadaju prahistoriji razumne civilizacije, skupa s kamenim kopljima. Pokušala sam pronaći smisao u onom što se događa, pitajući se kakve se pouke mogu izvući iz rata, osim onog što smo od prije znali, t.j. da je rat najgora ljudska izmišljotina. Moj mudriji prijatelj filozof dozvao me pameti. Poput Djeda Mraza, nasmijao se i kazao: “Bi l’ ti to, Vanda, htjela postati ratni profiter? Tebi je do epistemološkog profita?!” Zaista, kako sebično od mene, tražiti uvid kao utješni nusprodukt povijesne tragedije! Tragedija je upravo to što jest: tragična, bez ikakvog smisla ili korisnosti. Najbolje što možemo učiniti je poistovjetiti se sa žrtvama, priznati tragičnu činjenicu, a ne pokušati je ušutkati nekim mudrim komentarom ili samozadovoljnim osjećajem vlastite uzdignutosti posredovane tuđom patnjom. Da sam se u svom snu usredotočila na pomaganje žrtvi, umjesto što sam očajavala nad svojom nečistom savješću, možda bih imala izgleda za nekakvim iskupljenjem. Ali, ne, ja nisam nikakav uzor, osoba koja previše razmišlja i ništa ne radi, zaokupljena nijansama vlastite fizičke, intelektualne i duhovne dobrobiti, umjesto da aktivno pridonosi samoj stvari. U to vrijeme, doduše, bila sam prezauzeta nastojanjem da sebe i obitelj držim na sigurnom. Bila sam sretna što je moj sin dobio stipendiju od Yalea, te se mogao izvući iz kaosa. Moja je kćer, međutim bila usred turbulentnog pubertskog doba, a to što je morala ostati u Zagrebu s teško bolesnom bakom nikome nije koristilo. Bila sam rastrgana između ostanka s njima i čuvanja posla u Zadru, za što je bilo potrebno svakog tjedna putovati izložen bombardiranju. Moje ratno iskustvo se intenziviralo. Jednom je granata pala na stepenište prolaza u koji sam upravo utrčala. Provela sam pet dana u prijateljičinu stanu za vrijeme napada sa zemlje, s mora i iz zraka. Njezin otac, umirovljeni jugoslavenski oficir, izračunavao je moguće putanje raketa, postavljajući nas da sjednemo uz najčvršći zid. Njezina majka, Srpkinja, hranila nas je iz svojih zaliha. Najmanje nas je 6 ležalo na madracima na podu njihovog dnevnog boravka. Svoje konzultacije sa studentima održavala sam u prepunom kafiću čiju popularnost je osiguravala bezbjedna lokacija unutar gradskih zidina. Izvukla sam troje svojih kolega filozofa iz grada pod granatama, u malom Fiatu razbijenog stražnjeg stakla. Probijala sam se kroz gomilu ljudi, od kojih su mnogi bili izbjeglice iz susjednih hrvatskih sela, koji su nosili svu svoju imovinu u plastičnim vrećicama, pokušavajući se ukrcati u prvi autobus koji je odlazio iz grada. Najviše nas je bilo strah da ćemo biti odsječeni od ostatka zemlje i podijeliti sudbinu Vukovara, grada kojeg je jugoslavenska armija bila okružila i žustro poravnala sa zemljom. Znala sam da ću se, ukoliko želim zadržati posao, nakon što sam uspjela pobjeći iz grada, za tjedan dana morati vratiti. Blago rečeno, bila sam izbezumljena. Neočekivani tračak nade pojavio se kada sam primila pismo iz Beograda kojim mi je javljeno da mi je dodjeljena Fulbrightova stipendija na sveučilištu Columbia s početkom u rujnu. Bio je svibanj 1992, u ruci sam držala pismo za vrijeme bombardiranja u Zadru, dok je moja majka u Zagrebu primala kemoterapiju. Kada sam predala molbu za stipendiju, Jugoslavija je još postojala, pa je odbor radio preko njenog glavnog grada. Do vremena kada je donesena odluka, Hrvatska se našla pod napadom jugoslavenske armije. Situacija se činila posve nadnaravnom; mislila sam kako ne postoji način da odem. Događaji su, međutim, doveli do brzog zaokreta. Stanje moje majke se pogoršalo, i u lipnju je umrla. Moj dečko, koji je istodobno primljen na doktorski program na CUNY, zaprosio me, nadajući se da bismo mogli otići kao par. Vjenčali smo se u kolovozu, i u rujnu stigli u New York. Ovo bi moglo zvučati kao happy end, da to ustvari nije bio početak najtežeg perioda mog života. Do vremena kad smo se skrasili u jednom praznom stanu na Riverside Driveu u New Yorku, bili smo svi toliko traumatizirani da nikako nismo mogli uživati u prednostima nove situacije. Prije odlaska, moj muž je doznao kako je Savjet Filozofskog Fakulteta u Zadru, bez ikakve diskusije, odbio njegov izbor u zvanje asistenta, usprkos pozitivnoj ocjeni stručne komisije: njegovo srpsko prezime bilo je dovoljan argument. Vijesti koje smo dobijali iz Zadra mijenjale su se iz loših u gore. Naša prijateljica logičarka, čiji su me roditelji primili u zaklon u svom domu, i koja je bila najtalentiranija studentica koju sam ikad imala, bila je slijedeća koja je izgubila posao. Naš je odsjek postao meta nacionalista; na horizontu su se nazirale nove čistke. Sa svog konzervativnog religijskog stajališta, javno su kritizirali naše kozmopolitske aspiracije i promociju analitičke metode, dezavuirajući nas kao “Coca-Cola filozofe”. Od preuzimanja ključnih pozicija u Ministarstvu znanosti, kontrolirali su novčana sredstva za istraživanja, nova radna mjesta, reimenovanja i napredovanja. Istina, indirektno su ponudili primiti me pod svoje okrilje. Jedan od njihovih jastrebova upotrijebio je moje ime kao municiju za javni napad na marksiste na Odsjeku za filozofiju u Zagrebu. Tvrdio je da me svojedobno nisu zaposlili zato što sam Hrvatica. To je svakako bila moja jedinstvena prilika da se predstavim kao žrtva, te “osiguram ono što mi s pravom pripada”. Da bih se iskobeljala, napisala sam pismo kolegici koja je bila glavna meta napada, objasnivši joj kako ja iza toga ne stojim te, iako se ne mirim s njenom odlukom da me ne zaposli, jer ne vjerujem da je zasnovana na zaslugama, sumnjam da je koristila nacionalnost kao kriterij. Godinu dana kasnije, kada sam na ulici naletjela na nju, zagrlila me, zahvaljujući mi za pismo. U međuvremeni je trpjela šikaniranje i pritisak nacionalista, uključujući i prijeteće telefonske pozive. Iz svog njujorškog skloništa pokušali smo uzbuniti američke kolege zbog onoga što se događalo hrvatskim filozofima, i pokušali smo dobiti nekakvu službenu podršku od Američkog filozofskog društva. Uspjeli smo ih nagovoriti da pošalju pismo Hrvatskom filozofskom društvu, ali smo u međuvremenu uvidjeli kako je raspon pažnje ljudi koji su bili spremni slušati naše jadikovke bio ograničen stilom zapadnih vijesti, kao i njihovim vlastitim komforom. Ta je pažnja uglavnom trajala ne više od nekoliko minuta. Nije čudo: rušenju mosta u Mostaru vijesti su posvetile 30 sekundi, dok je žena koja je istog dana mužu odsjekla penis dobila 2 minute. Ubrzo smo naučili skrenuti pristojna pitanja o ratu u Hrvatskoj na druge teme, te tražiti praktične savjete o trenutačnim problemima. A takvih je problema bilo obilje: kako izabrati odgovarajuću školu za moju kćer, kako se zdravstveno osigurati, kako plaćati račune... No naši pokušaji organiziranja života u New Yorku nisu daleko dogurali. Sve preturbacije ostavile su traga: mentalno zdravlje moje kćeri bilo je ozbiljno ugroženo, a ja sam imala spontani pobačaj. Odlučila sam odustati od odobrenog produljenja stipendije i vratiti se s kćeri u Hrvatsku. Moj muž, koji je bio započeo svoj doktorski studij, ostao je. Kada sam se vratila, shvatila sam da ne mogu nastaviti raditi na očišćenom Odsjeku za filozofiju u Zadru. U međuvremenu su kolege s kojima sam radila bili ili otpušteni, ili su dali otkaz. Tako sam i ja dala otkaz, nadajući se mjestu u Rijeci, gradu koji je izbjegao nacionalističkoj kontroli, gdje sam nekoliko godina honorarno predavala. I zaista su uspjeli otvoriti stalno radno mjesto te sam podnijela molbu. Što je dalje bilo? Ministarstvo znanosti odlučilo je povući financiranje ovog mjesta. Ponudila sam im, naravno, lak način da me se riješe. Kolega, koji imao vezu s ministrom, zapitao ga je što imaju protiv mene: moja povijest je bila bez tragova komunizma, genealogija čista od srpske krvi. Ministar je rastumačio kako nisam dobra katolkinja – razvela sam se od muža. Istina. Bez svog patrijarhalnog štita, postala sam laka meta. Svježa informacija o tome kako sam se preudala za mlađeg Srbina sigurno ne bi pomogla. Tako je započeo moj 11-godišnji period akademskog egzila. Akademija je, uzgred, jedino mjesto gdje štreberi mogu zaraditi za pristojan život. Izbaci štrebericu iz akademije, i ona će potonuti. Ili gotovo potonuti. Nisam bila pripravna za situaciju u kojoj sam se našla. Brinuti se o šesnaestogodišnjoj kćeri s teškim psihičkim smetnjama, usred rata, bez posla. Ili kasnije, u Americi, brinuti o dvoje male djece, u stranoj zemlji, bez potrebnih dokumenata, bez stalnog posla, bez obitelji ili prijatelja koji bi mogli pomoći, u braku koji se počeo raspadati. Moja majka, i sama razvedena, previše me bila razmazila, ponosna na moj uspjeh u školi, i odgajala me pod dojmom kako će sve biti u redu, jer sam dobra i pametna i na vrijeme pišem zadaće. Kako da ne. Naravno, svjesna sam da je moja priča priča žene koja je bila u mnogočemu privilegirana. Moja plovidba kroz dva totalitarna režima nije baš tekla glatko, ali praktično nisam izgubila ništa: nitko mi nije poginuo, imovina mi nije bila uništena, ni ja niti itko od članova moje obitelji ili prijatelja nismo uhapšeni, silovani ili mučeni. Nisam bila lišena hrane, vode i zaklona, nisam bila natjerana na fizički rad. Većinu sam vremena bila svjesna situacije, i imala sam neku mogućnost izbora. Imala sam karijeru, nitko nikad nije cenzurirao ono što sam pisala, nitko me nije otpustio, ja sam dobrovoljno dala otkaz. Moj život više sliči sapunici nego tragediji. Možda sam čak bila i predmetom zavisti. Razmišljajući o svemu kroz što su drugi ljudi prošli, i kroz što prolaze, teško da se mogu žaliti. Pa ipak... Voljela bih da sam bila oslobođena od skupnih pripadnosti koje nisu ovisile o mom izboru, ali su ipak odredile gotovo sve aspekte mog života i opteretile me strahom i osjećajem krivnje, usprkos činjenici da sam energiju uložila jedino u nastojanje da ih se oslobodim. Znam da je to nemoguće: čovjek se uvjek negdje rodi, u neko vrijeme, od nekih roditelja; naši nas skupni identiteti ogrću i štite, a štiteći nas, ograničavaju nas i ponekad guše. Šteta što ne postoji nešto poput kolektivne nacionalne psihoterapije, jer to je ono što nam svima treba: čupanje zlog sjemena iz naše nacionalne psihe i suočavanje s vlastitim greškama. Umjesto toga, mi se oslanjamo na provizorna rješenja: usvajanje novog žargona, novih politika, novih ideologija. Više ne gajim iluziju da je moj život na novom teritoriju način izbjegavanja svega toga. Naša povijest ima način da nas uhvati u stupicu i uvuče u nadrealne situacije. Jednom prilikom, moja američka prijateljica, feministkinja, zainteresirana za političke teorije u Istočnoj Europi, zatražila je od mene pomoć pri prevođenju pregleda hrvatskih političkih teorija na engleski. Tako sam se našla u kafeteriji Brooklyn Collegea pokorno prevodeći tekst dobro poznatog hrvatskog nacionaliste koji je bio odgovoran za javne napade na moje prijatelje i, najvjerojatnije, za neke od čistki. Drugom prilikom, kolegica iz Zagreba, koja me nije bila zaposlila, bivši marksist, koja je odoljela napadu nacionalista i ostala na svom položaju, došla je New York održati predavanje. U to vrijeme imala sam na brizi dvoje predškolske djece, dok mi moj muž, boreći se s vlastitim demonima, nije mogao pomoći. Grebla sam se da dobijem bilo kakva honorarna predavanja, potpuno očajna i uvjerena da ću zauvjek morati dići ruke od filozofije. Nakon što sam konačno stekla realni uvid u tržište rada za filozofe, shvatila sam kako su izgledi da neki fakultet zaposli sredovječnu ženu s Balkana, s inozemnom diplomom, bez objavljenih radova u američkim filozofskim časopisima i bez novijih objavljenih radova uostalom, ženu bez veza, i bez vremena za njihovo uspostavljanje, bez novaca za plaćanje dadilje, dakle bez vremena za bilo kakvo čitanje, pisanje ili objavljivanje, bili gotovo ravni nuli. Kroz jedan sat, koliko sam se družila s kolegicom iz Zagreba, ona je veselo iznosila svoje filozofske ideje, bez raspitivanja kako meni ide. Kada sam joj napokon uspjela ispričati o svojim problemima, ona me najozbiljnije posavjetovala da emigriram u Australiju. Promatram u čudu kako vrijeme briše ideološke sukobe iz prošlosti, otkrivajući tako njihovu pravu narav i njihovu osnovnu nevažnost. Pošto su totalitarne ideologije tek sredstvo za ispiranje mozga masama radi potpore stvari koja je u interesu njihovih zagovaratelja, kada se jednom korisnost ideologije potroši, lako ju je odbaciti i nadomjestiti. Nekad sam se pitala kako su se najgorljiviji staljinisti mogli preko noći prometnuti u najgorljivije nacionaliste. Komunistički ideal socijalne jednakosti, sa svojim međunarodnim dosegom, ne može se braniti istovremeno s nacionalnom diskriminacijom, ili tržišnim vrijednostima koje danas postupno osvjajaju Balkan. Istina, ove zamisli nisu bile podržavane simultano, već sukcesivno. A oni koji su ih prihvaćali nisu nikada ni imali nekih pravih uvjerenja; imali su samo potrebe koje su udovoljavali podržavajući dominantnu ideologiju. Neki možda nisu ni primjetili da je došlo do smjene. Amerika se svakako razlikuje od Balkana: ona nudi jelovnik ideologija među kojima čovjek može odabrati neku i po njoj živjeti, pod jedinim uvjetom da se uklapa u opći politički, zakonski i ekonomski okvir. A pošto je taj okvir dovoljno fleksibilan i udoban, većina ga ljudi uzima zdravo za gotovo. Kao još nenaturalizirani emigrant, koji konačno, nakon godina borbe, može udobno preživjeti, osjećam se i dovoljno zaštićenom i dovoljno izoliranom, nisam ni žrtva ni igrač. Odgađam proces naturalizacije, u strahu da će me novi identitet opteretiti novim osjećajem krivnje. Već dijelim američki strah: živjela sam u New Yorku rujna 2001. Uživam u svojoj distanci od političkih i ideoloških struja, svjesna da je privremena i lažna. To je trenutni prostor za disanje kupljen po cijenu namjernog neznanja, izolacije i popuštanja, cijenu koju sam spremna platiti kako bih mogla raditi ono što volim: podizati djecu i podučavati filozofiju. Nakon trideset godina, dakle, i dalje guram istim putem, samo sam ovog puta svjesna što bih vidjela kada bih skinula zaslone. Ovog časa sanjarim i uživam u viziji sebe kao slobodno plutajuće, frei schwebende, intelektualke, slobodne od bilo kakvog ideološkog balasta, koja jedino želi biti usidrena u čovječanstvu, na planeti Zemlji. S engleskog prevela Marija Barbić; Objavljeno u zborniku/katalogu s multimedijalne izložbe Žena na raskrižju ideologija, Split, 2007.