In a country in the hilly Balkans, behind every hill lies an incredible human story, full of twists and turns and surprises. The actors of those stories are us. People involved in eternal questions of truth, honor, beauty, survival... The introduction to each of them is our life, that is, the fact that we live it even though we do not know its full meaning. The elaboration, more or less, concerns our encounter with other human beings, and the topic of how to share this little space with them, who also do not know the full answer to the aforementioned doubt: where do we come from and why do we stay here? The conclusions are various, but a large number of them are based on disagreement and misunderstanding.
"No-choice" is one of the favorite states we fall into and the ways in which we shape our relationship with others. Here in Montenegro, this "choice" is often considered the maximum social achievement, with which we adorn our heroic chests, emphasizing how "it is still good thing we stopped all contact" because otherwise..."anything would have happened"!
As lame and ridiculous as that sounds, there is some truth to it. "Negsbor" is an expression of powerlessness, our inability to, at some moment, most often in a moment of heightened emotions and sensitivity, we cannot and do not know how to deal with either our own or other people's limitations. Even the priest will sometimes advise you to "stay away from people" who cause you trouble and with whom you cannot resolve a misunderstanding like people. It doesn't matter now, whether it's your fault or theirs.
Only, if you hear it from a priest, know that it is, as it were, a "temporary measure". Sort of like first aid. A measure of necessary self-defense. If it persists, it can turn into self-deception. In the belief that there are some people with whom "there is no conversation" or human relations. Never.
The heroes of the anecdote (a true event with an interesting and instructive plot) that I will tell you lived in this kind of deception. The point of the story is not in the disclosure of personal information, but in the shocking emotions in which they drowned and from which they emerged. That's why I won't tell them their real names, nor their place of residence. Here, for the purposes of the story, let one be Mitar and the other Rajko.
They have known each other for a long time, live in the same city, do different jobs and lead lives of quite different intensity, but because of their hometown, and because of the same street where they live, they often met in the same places and in similar societies. It was an intense meeting, with a lot of mutual sympathy, humor and various small interpersonal concessions and favors that established that acquaintance. However, one summer, in circumstances that would later turn out to be extremely banal and ridiculous, they found a reason to hold something against each other. To the point that they never "speak" to each other again. All their mutual friends knew that the reason for the quarrel was exaggerated and a quick settlement was expected. But, as the poet says: "In the storm of silence, boats sank".
Decades have passed. Their paths diverged quite a bit. On many grounds. And she was among them: one was an ardent and public supporter of MĐ, and the other was moderate in expression but an unwavering opponent of that political option. However, their divisions are much more deeply and emotionally anchored in that summer misunderstanding, from a time much earlier than the local multi-party democracy. I mention this political division episodically as an indication that fate did not lead them in the direction of reconciliation, but only further distance.
Their children were friends, life created various stories that entwined the edges of their horizons, but Mitar and Rajko, never again "Hello"...
We have reached this summer of 2023 in the hilly Balkans. They both survived and August 2020 (although the epoch-making joy and sadness that were born in the streets here that year were dangerous for their old hearts), and covid-19 (although there was a pull-pull with both). They survived and waited until they found themselves in the waiting room of the local health center as two seventy-five-year-olds, as two old half-broken coots. Without the former strength to fight the battle, without the rush to go home as soon as possible, without good eyesight to be sure who they see in front of them... and without witnesses, any third party to hear them. Mitar stared at Rajko, unsure if he was seeing correctly, and Rajko was measuring whether Mitar was actually looking at him, even though they were alone. At that moment, alone in the world.
Sensing, I guess, in that waiting room for medical assistance, the daily need for mental health, the need for forgiveness, for rising from the stupidity and transience of this world, Mitar spoke: "Rajko, is that you?"
And Rajko, as if he had received an infusion of the strongest vitamins or a diagnosis of excellent health, answered in one breath: "Yes, my Mitre. What are you doing here? How are you?" as if at that moment that long-broken summer full of waves and shouts continued to bubble and roar, and as if recognizing each other in that (general human) weakness, they recognized themselves. As if they became a mirror to each other, both quick care and emergency care. And as if now, although closer to the end than it was when they had a fight, life could continue unhindered and in full flow. More beautiful and reborn.
Bonus video:
