Aleksandar Hemon (rojen leta 1964 v Sarajevu) je bosansko-ameriški pisatelj, znan po literarnem raziskovanju tem izgnanstva, identitete in spomina. Po študiju primerjalne književnosti na Univerzi v Sarajevu je delal kot novinar. Leta 1992 je med bosansko vojno obtičal v Čikagu, ostal v ZDA in kasneje pridobil ameriško državljanstvo. Poleg dela Moji starši: Uvod / Tole ni zate (2019; v slovenščino prevedeno in izdano pri založbi Goga 2024) so njegove pomembnejše knjige: The Question of Bruno (2000) (Vprašanje Bruna), Nowhere man (2002) (v prostem prevodu: Človek od nikoder), Projekt Lazar (2008) in Knjiga mojih življenj (2013). Njegovo delo zaznamujejo hibridna identiteta, zgodovinska travma, črni humor ter formalne inovacije, kot je mešanje fikcije, memoarjev in dokumentarnih elementov. Bil je finalist ameriške Nacionalne knjižne nagrade leta 2008 (National Book Award), prejel je nagrado PEN/W. G. Sebald (2011) in Nacionalno revijalno nagrado leta 2012 (National Magazine Award). Zaposlen je kot profesor kreativnega pisanja na Univerzi Princeton. Zastavljena vprašanja v veliki meri izhajajo neposredno iz branja zadnje v slovenščino prevedene Hemonove knjige Moji starši.
Aleksandar Hemon (born 1964 in Sarajevo) is a Bosnian-American author celebrated for his exploration of displacement, identity, and memory. After studying literature at the University of Sarajevo and working as a journalist, he was stranded in Chicago in 1992 during the Bosnian War, eventually becoming a U.S. citizen. Besides My Parents: An Introduction / This Does Not Belong to You (2019; translated and published in Slovenia by Goga, 2024), his major works are: The Question of Bruno (2000), Nowhere Man (2002), The Lazarus Project (2008) and The Book of My Lives (2013). His work is marked by hybrid identity, historical trauma, dark humor and formal innovation like blending fiction, memoir, and documentary elements. He was was the National Book Award Finalist in 2008, he received the PEN/W.G. Sebald Award in 2011, and the National Magazine Award in 2012. He works as a creative writing professor at the Princeton University. The questions raised stem largely and directly from reading the Slovenian translation of Aleksandar Hemon’s latest book, My Parents.
Glede na vaš izjemen pisateljski uspeh na svetovnem nivoju bi vam na začetku zastavila nehvaležno klišejsko vprašanje: kako vam je uspelo uspeti?
Ne vem, kaj natančno mislite z uspehom. Samo par knjig sem objavil, od katerih jih je le nekaj prejelo večje nagrade, in nekaj ljudi jih je prebralo. Zunaj Balkana, vključno s Slovenijo, malokdo pozna moje ime. Uspešen sem vtoliko, da me plačujejo za opravljanje dela, ki bi ga počel tudi brez plačila. To je zame že velik uspeh – in uspelo mi je le zato, ker sem počel, kar sem si želel početi, ne glede na vse, in neodvisno od zunanjih potrditev.
Given your exceptional literary success on a global level, I’d like to start with an admittedly clichéd and somewhat thankless question: How did you manage to succeed?
I’m not sure what you mean by success. I just published a few books, few of which won any major prizes, and some people have read them. Outside the Balkans, including Slovenia, few people know my name. I am successful inasmuch as I get paid to do what I would do for free. That for me is plenty of success, and I managed to do that just by doing what I wanted to do no matter what, regardless of external affirmation.
Kako dolgo pa je trajalo, da ste se v tujem jeziku – angleščini – zmogli v celoti izraziti?
Pisanje prve zgodbe v angleščini mi je vzelo tri leta, pet let je trajalo, da je bila objavljena, in sedem let, da sem napisal in prodal svojo prvo knjigo, Vprašanje Bruna.
And how long did it take for you to become fully able to express yourself in a foreign language – English?
It took three years to write my first story in English, five to publish it, seven to write and sell my first book The Question of Bruno.
Kako ste se odločili, da boste napisali in objavili tako podrobno, natančno in – vsaj bralcu, ki ju ne pozna, se tako zdi – mestoma brutalno direktno poročilo o svojih starših?
Nekaj sestavkov o svojih starših sem napisal že pred odločitvijo za pisanje knjige. Tisto, kar me je nekje v letih med 2014 in 2015 pripeljalo do odločitve, da bom napisal to knjigo, je bila takratna t. i. »migrantska« kriza, ko so čolni prepolni migrantov in beguncev začeli prečkati morje proti Evropi in so se mnogi utopili. Civilizirani Evropejci (in Američani) so jih dojemali in v medijih predstavljali kot dehumanizirane, deindividualizirane množice, kot da bi bili kakšni zombiji ali pa ščurki. Pred Brexitom so britanski fašisti in rasisti uporabljali (ponarejene) posnetke skupin migrantov in jih opisovali kot »trume«.
Sam prihajam iz družine in z območja, kjer so bile selitve stalnica. Nihče v moji družini ne umre v državi, v kateri se je rodil, še posebej je tako na očetovi strani, ki izvira iz Ukrajine. Zato vem, da ima prav vsak posameznik s tistih čolnov ime in zgodovino, prav tako pa družino, ljudi, ki ga imajo radi, ter da je imel in ima vsak od njih tudi svoji etiko in estetiko, filozofijo življenja, upanje za prihodnost in spomine na preteklost. O njih nisem mogel pisati, lahko pa pišem o svojih starših, ki so se pri petdesetih junaško preselili v Kanado in začeli novo življenje. S seboj niso prinesli ničesar drugega razen svojih pesmi, prehranskih navad, spominov in svoje življenjske filozofije. Vse to mi je bilo poznano, saj se v naši družini pogovarjamo, pogosto precej glasno, zato je skrivnosti zelo malo. Tako sem svojim staršem samo prisluhnil, z ljubeznijo in spoštovanjem.
Sam prihajam iz družine in z območja, kjer so bile selitve stalnica. Nihče v moji družini ne umre v državi, v kateri se je rodil, še posebej je tako na očetovi strani, ki izvira iz Ukrajine. Zato vem, da ima prav vsak posameznik s tistih čolnov ime in zgodovino, prav tako pa družino, ljudi, ki ga imajo radi, ter da je imel in ima vsak od njih tudi svoji etiko in estetiko, filozofijo življenja, upanje za prihodnost in spomine na preteklost.
How did you decide to write and publish such a detailed, precise, and – at least to a reader who does not know them – in places brutally direct account of your parents’ lives?
I had written a few pieces about my parents before I decided to write a whole book. What made me decide to write the book, some time in 2014 or 2015, was the then called ‘migrant’ crisis, when boatloads of migrants and refugees started crossing toward Europe, many of them drowning. The civilized Europeans (and Americans) were pereceiving them and representing them in media as dehumanized, deindividualized masses, like zombies or cokroaches. Before the Brexit, British fascists and racists were using (doctored) images of masses of immigrants, describing them as ‘swarms.’
I come from family and history of migration. No one in my family dies in the country in which they were born, particularly on my father’s side, which is Ukrainian-speaking. I know that every single one of those people on the boats had a name and history, and a family, and people who love them, and they had (and still have) their ethics and aesthetics, a philosophy of life, a hope for the future, memories of the past. I couldn’t write about them, but I could write about my parents, who, heroically, moved to Canada in their fifties and started a new life. They brought nothing with them other than their songs, food, memories, philsophy of life. I was familiar with all that, because we talk in my family, often loudly, and there are very few secrets. So I just listened to my parents, with love and respect.
Sami vidite knjigo bolj kot »dokumentarec« ali bolj kot roman, delo fikcije?
Nikakor ne gre za izmišljeno literarno delo.
Do you see the book more as a ‘documentary’ or as a novel, a work of fiction?
It is not fiction at all.
V besedilu pravite: »Resnična zgodovina se vedno odvija na osebni ravni.« Trditev na nek način lahko sprejmem, a naslednji hip se mi pojavi ugovor, ne, zgodovina je v resnici nadosebna, pa ne vem, ali je to zaradi pristopa k zgodovini, izkušenega v šoli, ali zaradi česa drugega. Lahko bolj pojasnite svojo tezo?
Vi mislite na koncept zgodovine v smislu vélikih pripovedi, ki izvirajo iz abstraktnih pojmov kot so nacija, usoda, svoboda, imperij itd., in ki jih običajno širijo in ohranjajo t. i. veliki možje. To je Zgodovina. Toda ko se nekdo v Kremlju, Beogradu, Washingtonu ali Jeruzalemu odloči preoblikovati svet po teh abstraktnih idejah, bo dron ubil otroka, nekdo bo postal begunec in bo končal na primer v Čikagu, ali pa bo celotna širša družina v Gazi izbrisana. Za vse te ljudi zgodovina ni koncept ali nekaj nadosebnega.
In the text, you state: ‘True history always unfolds on a personal level.’ I can accept this claim to some extent, but then a contradictory thought arises: No—history is actually superpersonal. And I’m unsure whether this reaction stems from the approach to history I learned in school or something else. Could you elaborate further on your thesis?
You are talking about the concept of history, the grand narratives coming out of abstract concepts (nation, destiny, freedom, empire etc), usually perpetuated by the Great Men. That is History. But when someone in Kremlin or Belgrade or Washington or Jerusalem decides to reshape the world according to those abstract ideas, a child gets killed by a drone, someone becomes a refugee, and ends up in Chicago, an entire extended family is wiped out in Gaza. To them, history is not a concept or superpersonal.
V zvezi s spoznavanjem med vašima očetom in ženo navedete, da jo je vprašal, kaj se je njej ali njeni družini zgodilo hudega, pa je bil potem kar malo razočaran, ko ni imela povedati nič takšnega. O čem se sploh lahko pogovarjamo, če se ni zgodilo nič zares hudega?
Ne vem. Ljudje povsod in vedno pripovedujejo zgodbe, kar je človeško prav tako kot jezik. Toda pripovedovanje ima lahko tudi zdravilno in refleksivno vlogo – ko svetovi izginejo, ostanejo kot dolge sence prisotni v zgodbah.
Ne vem. Ljudje povsod in vedno pripovedujejo zgodbe, kar je človeško prav tako kot jezik. Toda pripovedovanje ima lahko tudi zdravilno in refleksivno vlogo – ko svetovi izginejo, ostanejo kot dolge sence prisotni v zgodbah.
Regarding the encounter between your father and your wife, you mention that he asked her what terrible thing had happened to her or her family, and he ended up feeling rather disappointed when she had nothing like that to share. What can we even talk about if nothing truly bad has happened?
I don’t know. People tell stories wherever they are, whatever happens, which is as human as language. But storytelling can have restorative and reflective function—when worlds are gone, their long shadows are present in the stories about those worlds.
Precej govorite o travmi, čeprav – in to je zelo dobrodošlo – niti ne tarnate niti ne pomilujete. Strinjam se, doživeta travma nedvomno spremeni subjektovo resničnost, tako tisto v času doživljanja travme kot bodočo. Kaj pa mislite s spremembo strukture sveta, kaj drugega, globljega, kot da za subjekt, ki je doživel travmo, tudi svet odtlej ni več, kot je bil ali kot ga lahko dojemajo drugi? Lahko pojasnite s kakšnim primerom?
V Bosni poznamo pregovor “Koga su zmije ujedale i guštera se boji.” (v prostem prevodu: Če te je kača pičila, se bojiš tudi kuščarja.) Ko pričakuješ katastrofo, pride do temeljne preobrazbe resničnosti. Katastrofa je dogodek, ki spremeni strukturo tvojega prebivanja, vključno z vsakodnevnimi rutinami. Stvari dobijo drugačen pomen, spremenijo se.
V Sarajevskem bluesu, eni velikih knjig o obleganju Sarajeva, avtor Semezdin Mehmedinović piše o tem, če parafraziram, kako so bili Sarajevčani pred vojno radi opaženi, kako so se radi lepo oblekli in se šli sprehajat po glavnih ulicah mesta, samo da bi jih kdo videl in da bi sami videli druge – in kako se med obleganjem Sarajeva nihče več ni hotel prikazati zunaj zaradi srbskih ostrostrelcev in topništva v okoliških hribih, takrat so vsi cenili samo še najbolj skrite prehode v mestu.
You tell extensively about trauma, although – and this is very welcome – you neither complain nor (self)pity. I agree that experiencing trauma undoubtedly alters the subject’s reality, both during the trauma itself and in its aftermath. But what do you mean by the ‘change in the structure of the world’—something deeper, beyond mere perception—as if, for someone who has endured trauma, the world itself (and its phenomena) is no longer what it was or how others perceive it? Could you explain this with an example?
The Bosnians say: »Koga su zmije ujedale i guštera se boji.“ If you were bitten by a snake, you’re afraid of lizards. The fundamental transformation of reality happens as you are expecting a catastrophe—that is, an event that will alter the structure of your life, including your daily practices. Things have a different meaning, they are used differently.
In Sarajevo Blues, one of the great books about the siege of Sarajevo, Semezdin Mehmedinović writes (I paraphrase) about how Sarajevans before the war liked to be seen, how they would dress up and walk on the main streets to be seen and to see, and how under siege nobody wanted to be seen because of the Serb snipers and artilery in the mountains around, and hidden passageways were valued.
Naš »zahodnobalkanski« prostor je majhen, marsikaj, kar opisujete kot »bosansko«, je prav tako »slovensko«, začenši s frazo »dober kot kruh«. Oboji smo tudi navezani na slovanski pesimizem ali vsaj melanholijo. Tudi pri nas pogosto govorimo katastrofično, beseda »katastrofa« pa se (zelo lahkotno) uporablja tudi v precej banalnih okoliščinah. Pravite: »Če hočeš izraziti svoje mesto v svetu, se moraš definirati v navezavi na katastrofe, ki si jih izkusil.« Hočete reči, da smo le na ta način dojemljivi za druge?
Odvisno je, kdo so ti drugi. Ljudje, ki so odraščali v privilegiranih, na videz stabilnih družbah, ne razmišljajo v kategorijah katastrofe. Tudi ko se ta dogaja, je ne vidijo – tako kot je to v Ameriki. Že trideset let poskušam (re)predstaviti resničnost, kot sem jo doživel (ali jo konstruiral), moje bralstvo pa so še vedno v veliki večini priseljenci, begunci, ljudje z Balkana.
Kar se tiče podobnosti med Bošnjaki/Bosanci in Slovenci – seveda si delimo veliko zgodovinskih izkušenj in referenčnih realnosti, vključno s selitvami sem in tja. Ena mojih (ukrajinsko govorečih) tet je bila poročena s Slovencem, to je bil moj stric Vili. Bil je odličen mizar, očetu je pomagal zgraditi vikend (»vikendico«) na Jahorini, rad je plesal in vsi so ga imeli radi.
Pred nekaj leti sem na poti do Ljubljane priletel v Gradec v Avstriji. Založba mi je na letališče poslala voznika. Bil je Bošnjak. Povedal mi je, da je po njegovi oceni 65 % Slovencev pravzaprav Bošnjakov.
Pred nekaj leti sem na poti do Ljubljane priletel v Gradec v Avstriji. Založba mi je na letališče poslala voznika. Bil je Bošnjak. Povedal mi je, da je po njegovi oceni 65 % Slovencev pravzaprav Bošnjakov.
Our Western Balkan space is small; much of what you describe as ‘Bosnian’ is equally ‘Slovenian,’ starting with the phrase ‘dober kot kruh’ (good as bread). Also, we are all bound to Slavic pessimism, or at least melancholy. In Slovenia, we often speak catastrophically, too, and the word ‘catastrophe’ is used (very casually) even in rather trivial circumstances. You say: ‘If you want to express your place in the world, you must define yourself in relation to the catastrophes you’ve experienced.’ Are you suggesting that this is the only way we become legible to others?
Fotografija: Mirjam Dular
Depends who the others are. People who have grown up in privileged, seemingly stable societies, do not think in terms of catastrophe. They cannot see it even when it is happening, as has been the case in America. I’ve spent 30 years trying to (re)present the reality as I experienced it (or constructed it), and my readership is, still, by and large, immigrants, refugees, the Balkan people.
As for the similarities between Bosnians and Slovenians, we share a lot of historical experience and referential realities, including migration from one place to another. One of my (Ukrainian-speaking) aunts was married to a Slovenian, my uncle Vili. He was an excellent carpenter, helped my father build his cabin (vikendica) on Jahorina, liked to dance and was well loved by everyone.
A couple of years ago, I flew to Graz in order to get to Ljubljana, so my publisher sent a driver. He was a Bosnian, and he told me that, by his estimate, 65% of Slovenians are actually Bosnians.
Tudi moja mama, tako kot vaša, od nekdaj trdi, da je nemogoče živeti petdeset let, ne da bi doživel vojno. Do razpada Jugoslavije sem naivno verjela, da je ta rečenica zastarela in da smo vendar že toliko napredovali, da je izjava »brez veze«. Žal ni (več). Imate kot bivši prebivalec Bosne in sedaj svetovno znani pisatelj kakšno novo idejo ali razlago s tem v zvezi, kakšno novo upanje?
Civilizacija ne napreduje. Samo obstaja in njena vrednost je nevtralna. Nemška koncentracijska taborišča ne bi bila mogoča brez civilizacijskih »napredkov« kot so nacionalna država, tehnologija, birokracija, moderna, izurjena vojska, film, tisk, vlaki, letala itd. Nobena vojna v Evropi ali pa kjerkoli drugje ni bila v tem smislu »ne-civilizirana«, že tisoče let. Pravzaprav bi lahko celo trdili, da je vojna eden od motorjev »civilizacije«. Vsaj nekaj zadnjih sto let bi težko našli vojno, v katero ne bi bil neposredno ali posredno vpleten civilizirani Zahod, ki ima navado, da svoje vojne upravičuje s trditvijo, da je to način širjenja »civilizacije«.
My mother, too, like your mother, has always claimed that it’s impossible to live fifty years without experiencing a war. Until the dissolution of Yugoslavia, I naively believed this saying was obsolete—that the civilization has progressed enough to render the statement ‘pointless’. Sadly, it doesn’t look like this anymore. As a former resident of Bosnia and now a globally recognized writer, do you have any new ideas or explanations about this—any new hope?
Civilization does not progress. It just is, and it has neutral value. German death camps would’ve been impossible without the civilizational »advances«: nation-state, technology, bureaucracy, modern, trained army, film, press, trains, aviation etc. No war in Europe, or anywhere else for that matter, has been »uncivilized« in thousands of years. In fact, a case could be made that war is one of the engines of »civilization«. It might be hard to find a war in the past hundred of years that did not invlove, directly or indirectly, the civilized West, which has a habit of justifying its wars by claiming that it is the way to spread ‘civilization.’
Zelo zanimivi se mi zdijo deli besedila, kjer – čudovito vpleteno v siceršnjo pripoved – pravzaprav teoretsko razpravljate o pisanju, literarnosti, jeziku in pomenu (besed). Pravite: »… in vendar zna biti skrajno težavno, še posebej če je pomen besede/koncepta vpisan v telo.« Je ta posebnost tisto, kar bo vedno razločevalo besedilo, ki ga je napisal človek, od besedila, ki ga je napisala UI?
Med informacijo in znanjem je razlika. Velika zmota digitalne civilizacije je prepričanje, da je informacija znanje. Umetna inteligenca (UI) zagotavlja informacije, pogosto tudi napačne, medtem ko znanje lahko obstaja samo v živem človeku. UI ničesar ne ve, le informacije obdeluje. Kar prosite človeka, naj opredeli, kaj je »življenje«, nato pa vprašajte UI, naj stori isto. Vsak človek ima izjemno kompleksno znanje o tem, kaj pomeni »življenje« – in za razlago tega bo porabil celo življenje.
UI ničesar ne ve, le informacije obdeluje. Kar prosite človeka, naj opredeli, kaj je »življenje«, nato pa vprašajte UI, naj stori isto. Vsak človek ima izjemno kompleksno znanje o tem, kaj pomeni »življenje« – in za razlago tega bo porabil celo življenje.
The parts of the text where you theorize about writing, literariness, language, and the meaning of words—beautifully woven into the narrative—are particularly fascinating to me. You say: …and yet it can be extremely difficult, especially when the meaning of a word/concept is inscribed in the body. Is this very specificity what will always distinguish a text written by a human from one written by AI?
There is a difference between information and knowledge. The great fallacy of the digital civilization is that information is knowledge. AI provides information, frequently false, but knowledge can exist only in a living human body. AI knows nothing, it just processes information. Ask a person to define ‘life’ and then ask AI to do it. Every person has extremely complex knowledge of what ‘life’ means and would have to spend their life explaining it.
Pred kratkim sem zasledila statistični grafikon, da je v Sloveniji že dobrih deset let več psov na leto kot je osnovnošolcev. Ne glede na vse poznane koristi domačih ljubljenčkov za človeka je vseeno primerjava nekoliko šokantna. Sami se v knjigi večkrat referirate na domače živali. Kako gledate nanje danes, imate oziroma bi imeli svojega Meka?
Z ženo imava pse že dvajset let, občasno celo po dva hkrati. Z njimi smo večkrat potovali po Evropi, saj so del družine. Mislim, da ne bom nikoli živel brez psa.
Recently, I came across a statistical chart showing that in Slovenia, there have been more dogs per year than elementary school children for a good decade now. Despite all the known benefits of pets to humans, this comparison is still somewhat shocking. In your book, you often reference domestic animals. How do you view them today—do you have, or would you consider having, your own Mek?
My wife and I have had dogs for the past twenty years, two at times. We traveled to Europe several times with our dogs, as they are part of the family. I don’t think I’ll ever live without a dog.
Izjemno zanimivo tezo zapišete: življenje kot neprestano oblikovanje prostora, v katerem človek (v tem primeru par, vaša starša) živi. Ali potemtakem z življenjem v najemniškem stanovanju, kjer prostora največkrat ne moremo posebej dosti prilagajati svojim željam, ta dimenzija bivanja odpade in kaj jo nadomesti?
Človeško zavest si predstavljamo kot prostor – moj um je znotraj mene, imam svojo notranjost. A moj um oblikujejo izkušnje mojega telesa v prostoru zunaj njega. Obstajamo in doživljamo tako svet znotraj kot zunaj sebe. V iskanju, preizkušanju, kako oblikovati ta prostor, ni nikakršne povezave z lastništvom.
An exceptionally intriguing thesis: life as the perpetual shaping of the space in which a person (in this case, a couple—your parents) lives. Does living in a rental apartment, where we often cannot meaningfully adapt the space to our desires, then strip away this dimension of existence? And if so, what replaces it?
We imagine human consciousness as a space—my mind is inside me, I have interiority. And that mind is shaped by the experience of a body in space. We exist and experience the world both inside and outside ourselves. Seeking to shape that space has nothing to do with the ownership status.
Izpostavite pomembno vprašanje: »Ali so odpadki še vedno zakonita last tistega, ki jih je odvrgel?« Tega pomisleka nimamo, če gre za amorfne, neuporabne smeti. Čim pa gre za predmete, ki so v resnici še uporabni, si jih ne upamo prisvojiti, čeprav povsem jasno vemo, da se jim je dotedanji lastnik dokončno odrekel, čim jih je odvrgel. V današnjem zahodnem oz. bogatejšem delu sveta se tako pogosto meče proč še povsem uporabne predmete. Ste našli kakšno dobro idejo ali rešitev s tem v zvezi?
Kapitalizem temelji na tem, da se njegovi izdelki mečejo proč. Vse, kar ste kdajkoli imeli v lasti, je potrebno nadomestiti z nečim »boljšim«, naprednejšim, z nečim, kar vas bo s tem, da predmet posedujete, še bolj osrečilo. V družbah ali krajih, kjer tržni kapitalizem ni močno zasidran, ljudje menjajo eno reč za drugo, si stvari izmenjujejo in si jih posojajo, jih nenehno popravljajo ali celo izdelujejo sami. Najbolj zahrbtna plat kapitalizma je, da se nam vedno predstavlja, kot da je nekaj naravnega, da je edini pravi način delovanja. Sprejeli smo, da je rast bistvo vsake družbe, da je naravno želeti si novih in boljših stvari, predvsem pa vedno več stvari. Kapitalizem nenehno obljublja napredek in izboljšanje, vendar pa so napredek in izboljšave na voljo predvsem preko lastništva. Po vsem svetu smo priča razpadanju demokracije, kapitalizem pa je postal kvečjemu še bolj brutalen. Trenutno uničuje ameriško demokracijo.
Kapitalizem temelji na tem, da se njegovi izdelki mečejo proč. Vse, kar ste kdajkoli imeli v lasti, je potrebno nadomestiti z nečim »boljšim«, naprednejšim, z nečim, kar vas bo s tem, da predmet posedujete, še bolj osrečilo. V družbah ali krajih, kjer tržni kapitalizem ni močno zasidran, ljudje menjajo eno reč za drugo, si stvari izmenjujejo in si jih posojajo, jih nenehno popravljajo ali celo izdelujejo sami.
You raise an important question: Do discarded items still legally belong to the one who discarded them? This is clear with amorphous, useless waste. But when it comes to objects that are still functional, we don’t dare claim them, even though we clearly know the former owner has irrevocably renounced them the moment they were discarded. In today’s Western or wealthier parts of the world, perfectly usable items are often thrown away. Have you found any good ideas or solutions to this?
Fotografija: Mirjam Dular
Capitalism depends on disposability of its products. Everything you’ve ever owned had to be replaced by something ‘better’, more advanced, something that could make you even happier for owning it. In the societies or places where market capitalism doesn’t have a strong hold, people barter, exchange things, keep fixing them, or even make them themselves. What makes capitalism most insiduous is that it always presents itself as natural, as the only right way to do things. We have accepted that growth is the purpose of any given society, that it is natural to want new and better things, more things. Capitalism constantly promises progress and improvement, but progress and improvement are mainly available by way of possessions. We are witnessing deteration of democracy all over the world, but capitalism has only become more brutal. Presently, it is destroying American democracy.
V ZDA nisem nikoli bivala dalj časa, zato me je nekoliko presenetila vaša teza, da se v ZDA veselje sistematično izkoreninja. Kako se s tem soočate sami in kako razlagate razloge in povode za to?
Ameriška ideologija je zlitje puritanstva in kapitalizma. V puritanski tradiciji je sumljivo tako veselje kot vsako drugo močno čustvo. H. L. Mencken, jedek ameriški kolumnist, ki je pisal pred približno sto leti, je puritanizem opredelil kot »zlovešči strah, da bi nekje nekdo utegnil biti srečen«. Še več, edina pot do zadovoljstva poteka v kapitalizmu prek nakupov – torej denarja – zato nič ne more biti neregulirano ali spontano. Ljudje na zabavah ne pojejo, kot je to navada v moji družini, ampak karaokajo ali pa kupijo vstopnice za koncerte, kjer pojejo skupaj z zvezdnikom.
I’ve never lived in the U.S. for an extended period, so your thesis that joy is systematically uprooted there struck me as somewhat surprising. How do you personally confront this phenomenon, and how do you explain its reasons and causes?
American ideology is a combination of puritanism and capitalism. In Puritan tradition, joy, or any kind of excessive feelings is suspect. H. L. Mencken, the acerbic American columnist who wrote about a hundred years ago, defined puritanism as »a haunting fear that someone, somewhere may be happy.« Moreover, the only pathway to joy in capitalism is by way of buying—money—so it cannot be unregulated and spontaneous. People don’t sing at parties, like my family, they do karaoke or they buy tickets for concerts and sing along with the star.
Še ena zanimiva misel: pripovedovanje zgodb prizemlji obstoj v nenehno spreminjajočem se svetu. Vendar – kot dokazujejo tudi zgodbe iz preteklosti vaše ukrajinske veje družine ali pa bosanske zgodbe o tipičnih vaških likih, o katerih poročate – te zgodbe so pogosto metaforizirane, pretirane, ne ravno realne. Je to potem res prizemljitev ali morda ravno odzemljitev, polet, uteha v domišljiji? Kako bi v tem smislu opisali vaše zgodbe, vaše romane?
V zgodovini človeštva in v književnosti je »realizem« kot estetika mlad in obroben pojav. Zahteva, da naj književnost predstavlja resničnost, ima temeljno meščansko dimenzijo, saj nerealnost kapitalizma zahteva kapitalizacijo resničnosti – resničnost je dostopna le z nakupom. Za mojo družino, kot za vsa ljudstva oziroma ljudi, ki so bila zgodovinsko podvržena selitvam, so zgodbe posode akumuliranega znanja (ne informacij). Če prideš v novo državo s par kovčki ali brez česarkoli, kot mnogi migranti, kaj bo hranilo tvojo filozofijo življenja, tvojo etiko in estetiko, tvoje spomine in mite? Zgodbe, glasba, hrana – samo vse ustvarjalne prakse.
Another intriguing thought: ‘storytelling grounds existence in an ever-changing world’. Yet—as evidenced by the stories from your Ukrainian family lineage or the Bosnian tales about typical village characters you recount—these stories are often metaphorized, exaggerated, not entirely real. Is this truly grounding, or perhaps the opposite: a transcendence, a flight, a solace in imagination? How would you describe your own stories, your novels, in this sense?
In the history of humanity and its literature, »realism« as an aesthetic is young and marginal. The demand that literature represent reality has fundamentally bourgois dimension, as the unreality of capitalism demands commodification of reality—reality is only available by way of purchase. For my family, as for all (historically) migrating people, stories are containers of accumulated knowledge (not information). If you come to a new country with a couple of suitcases, or with nothing at all, like many migrants, what contains your philosophy of life, your ethics and aesthetics, your memories and myths? Stories, music, food, all creative practices.
Pravite: »Pripovedovati pomeni povzemati in poenostavljati, sprejemati odločitve, ki kažejo na moralno videnje sveta – v ozadju je vedno etična zgodba.« Tudi Ivo Andrić je v esejističnih razmišljanjih o pisateljskem ustvarjanju zapisal pomensko podobno. Ima Andrić mesto v vašem pisateljskem izoblikovanju?
Spadam v generacijo, za katero je bilo Andrićevo delo obvezno šolsko branje. Imel je nekoliko orientalističen pogled na bosanske muslimane, a je bil tudi dober pisatelj, ki je v svojih vrhunskih trenutkih uspel preseči lastne predsodke in odkriti v bosanskem svetu lepoto in modrost. Njegove kratke zgodbe so mi ljubše od romanov, ki so po svoji naravi nekoliko posploševalni.
Spadam v generacijo, za katero je bilo Andrićevo delo obvezno šolsko branje. Imel je nekoliko orientalističen pogled na bosanske muslimane, a je bil tudi dober pisatelj, ki je v svojih vrhunskih trenutkih uspel preseči lastne predsodke in odkriti v bosanskem svetu lepoto in modrost. Njegove kratke zgodbe so mi ljubše od romanov, ki so po svoji naravi nekoliko posploševalni.
You say: ‘To tell a story means to summarize and simplify, to make decisions that indicate a moral view of the world – there is always an ethical story behind it’. Ivo Andrić wrote somewhat similar thoughts in his essayistic reflections on writing. Does Andrić have a place in your writing formation?
I am of the generation for whom Andrić was required reading. He had a somewhat orientalist view of the Bosnian Muslims, but was also a good writer who, at his best, managed to get beyond his prejudices and find some beauty and wisdom in the world of Bosnia. I prefer his stories to his novels, which by nature have generalist ambition.
Katere pisatelje ali romane še posebej radi berete oz. ste jih brali?
Vse življenje veliko berem in to ne samo romane. V zadnjem času sem navdušen nad knjigo All Fours (v prostem prevodu: Po vseh štirih) Mirande July. Obožujem Neapeljsko tetralogijo Elene Ferrante. Užival sem v delu Po šumama i gorama (v prostem prevodu: Preko gozdov in gora) Milenka Bodorogića. Všeč so mi dela Eduarda Louisa in Dijane Matković. Danilo Kiš je zame pomemben. Berem pa tudi veliko poezije, zgodovinskih knjig ter knjig o glasbi in znanosti.
Which writers or novels do you particularly enjoy reading or have you read?
I’ve been reading a lot my entire life, and not just novels. Most recently I loved Miranda July’s All Fours. I love Elena Ferrante’s Naples tetralogy. I enjoyed Milenko Bodorogić’s Po šumama i gorama. I like the work of Eduard Louis and Dijana Matković. Danilo Kiš is important to me. I also read a lot of poetry and history books, and books about music and science.
Zelo simpatična in tipična za del ljudi se mi zdi izjava, ki jo navedete za vašega očeta: »Ne mislim brati izmišljenih stvari samo zato, ker so lepo napisane.« Je vseeno prebral kakšno od vaših knjig? Je prebral Moje starše in če da, kako je komentiral?
Je. Moj oče sicer pogosto zaspi med branjem. Oba moja starša sta prebrala knjigo o njima. Videla sta, da je polna ljubezni do njiju in nista imela posebnih pripomb. Vedela sta, o čem pišem, in sta želela sodelovati. Bereta tudi romane in zgodbe ter sta od nekdaj ponosna na moje ustvarjalno delo in ga podpirata.
Oba moja starša sta prebrala knjigo o njima. Videla sta, da je polna ljubezni do njiju in nista imela posebnih pripomb. Vedela sta, o čem pišem, in sta želela sodelovati. Bereta tudi romane in zgodbe ter sta od nekdaj ponosna na moje ustvarjalno delo in ga podpirata.
I find the statement you attribute to your father quite relatable and typical for some people: ‘I don’t care to read made-up things just because they’re nicely written.’ Did he end up reading any of your novels or stories anyway? Did he read My Parents, and if so, how did he respond to it?
He did. Often falls asleep while reading. Both of my parents read the book about them. They could see that it is full of love for them and had no particular objections. They knew what I was writing and were eager to participate. They read novels and storie,s too, and they have always been proud and supportive of my creative operations.
»Kult materinstva je bil pravzaprav zasužnjenje.« Kako izvirno in precizno ste to podali! Nanaša se sicer na vašo mater, torej na generacijo nazaj. Kako pa vidite to danes, v današnji Ameriki, v današnjem svetu?
Fašisti so obsedeni z materinstvom, saj potrebujejo ženske in njihove maternice, da proizvedejo več »naroda«. Ženske služijo narodu, ki je vedno v osnovi moški – zato nacionalisti vedno stremijo k nadzoru nad ženskami in njihovimi telesi. V Ameriki so fašisti na oblasti in trenutno izvajajo neprekinjeni napad na ženske ter na vse ljudi, ki niso beli heteroseksualni moški.
‘The cult of motherhood was, in fact, enslavement.’ How original and precise your phrasing is! While this refers to your mother—and thus to a generation ago—how do you view this idea today, in contemporary USA and the broader world?
Fascists are obsessed with motherhood, as they need women and their wombs to make more of the nation. Women serve the nation, which is always fundamentally male, which is why nationalists always strive to control women and their bodies. In America, fascists are in charge and there is an ongoing assault on women and all people who are not white heterosexual males.
Kruto iskreno poveste tudi to, pred čemer si marsikdo zatiska oči: v bistvu bi se (tudi) moji starši morali ločiti. Kar seveda ni prav nič posebnega, če je res, da se kvalitetne odnose najde le pri 10 do 20 odstotkih parov. Spet prispevate nov uvid ali pa vsaj novo artikulacijo: »… nista znala najti načina, kako bi razdrla delitev dela.« Mislite, da je (bilo) res prav to ključno? Nič ne omenjate vpliva kulture, okolja in – vsaj posredno – vere, ne glede na posameznikovo izrekanje v zvezi z njegovo vernostjo.
Ne vem, kakšno je bilo pravno stanje. Domnevam, da ločitev ni bila enostavna. Prepričan sem, da je pomanjkanje stanovanj igralo pomembno vlogo, saj ženske ali celo moški niso mogli dobiti novega bivališča zase. Samski ljudje so imeli težave s pridobivanjem stanovanjske pravice v državnih stanovanjih ali stanovanjih, ki so jih svojim zaposlenim nudila podjetja. Mislim, da je vloga kulture in zagotovo religije (vedno) precenjena. Če je družba sposobna sprememb – za kar pa mora obstajati infrastruktura, pravna in druga – se ljudje lahko razvijejo onkraj tradicije. Mnogi v socialistični Jugoslaviji so se.
You somehow articulate this simple honest truth that many prefer to ignore: my parents, too, should have divorced. Of course, this isn’t the least bit special if it’s true that only 10 to 20 percent of couples achieve quality relationships. Once again, you offer a fresh insight—or at least a new articulation—of the issue: ‘…they couldn’t find a way to dismantle (or break apart) the division of labor.’ Do you think this was truly the key factor? You don’t mention at all the influence of culture, environment, or (at least indirectly) religion, regardless of an individual’s professed faith.
I don’t know what the legal situation was. I would guess that divorce was not easy. I am sure that the shortage of housing played a role, as women, or even men, could not get another place to live by themselves. Single people had a hard time getting company/state apartments. I think that the role of culture, and certainly religion, is (always) overrated. If a society is capable of change, for which there has to be an infrastructure, legal and otherwise, people can evolve beyond the tradition. A lot of people in the socialist Yugoslavia did.
Še ena izjema artikulacija: »Saj nobeno razumevanje zdaj ne more vplivati na pretekle odločitve.« Kako vam to spoznanje pomaga pri premagovanju lastnih življenjskih dilem?
Odločitve lahko sprejemaš le v okviru trenutnih okoliščin. Ljudje me nenehno sprašujejo, kaj bi se zgodilo, če bi ostal v Sarajevu leta 1992. Seveda tega ni mogoče vedeti. Lahko bi me ustrelili prvi dan, lahko bi preživel in postal alkoholik z emfizmom (opomba: potencialno smrtno nevarna bolezen pljuč, zanjo je značilno napredujoče izgubljanje prožnosti pljučnega tkiva) zaradi desetletij kajenja, lahko bi srečal švedsko princeso in se poročil z njo ali pa bi postal prodajalec ratluka. Zamisliti si alternativno preteklost je vedno fantazija. Podobno je to, kar zdaj vem, posledica odločitev, ki sem jih doslej sprejel. Ne morem se odločati za nazaj, saj bi bilo to kot potovanje skozi čas. Ko je enkrat sprejeta, je vsaka odločitev edina možna. Preprosto povedano: smo, kar smo, zaradi vseh svojih odločitev – in nobene napake ni mogoče razveljaviti. To je velika težava za ljudi, ki živijo v preteklosti in si nenehno predstavljajo alternativna življenja, bodisi kot nostalgijo ali zgolj kot obžalovanje.
Fotografija: Mirjam Dular
Another exceptional articulation: ‘No understanding now can influence our past decisions.’ How does this realization aid you in overcoming your own life dilemmas?
You can only make a decision within the present circumstances. People ask me all the time what I think would’ve happened if I had stayed in Sarajevo in 1992. But, of course, there is no way to know. I could’ve been shot the first day, or could’ve survived and become an alcoholic with an an emphysema from decades of smoking, or could’ve met and married a Swedish princess, or could’ve become a rahatlokum distributor. Imagining an alternative past is always a fantasy. Similarly, what I know now is a consequence of the decisions I’ve made so far. So I cannot make a decision retroactively, as that would be like time travel. Once made, every decision is the only one that could’ve been made. In simple terms, we are who we are because our decisions, and no mistakes can be undone. This is a problem for people who live in the past and keep imagining alternative lives, by way of nostalgia or just regret.
Napišete tudi: »Dejansko bi bila lahko bolečina edini dokaz za obstoj duše.« Duša, še en slovanski koncept, ki je zelo lepo nakazan tudi v filmu Dragana Bjelogrlića, Toma, o pevcu Tomi Zdravkoviću, ki je tudi za nekaj let odšel v Ameriko, a se je vrnil nazaj v Bosno oz. v Jugoslavijo. V ZDA niste nikjer našli duše v tem smislu?
No, tu v Ameriki je soul glasba, pa tudi blues, jazz in hiphop – vse del afroameriške tradicije. Toda beli Američani imajo malo ali nič duše. Ves čas si prizadevajo za moč, denar in prepričani so v svojo superiornost. Trump je njihov guru (angl. spirit animal; pojasnilo izraza: nadnaravno bitje, idol, vzor, duhovni vodnik).
No, tu v Ameriki je soul glasba, pa tudi blues, jazz in hiphop – vse del afroameriške tradicije. Toda beli Američani imajo malo ali nič duše. Ves čas si prizadevajo za moč, denar in prepričani so v svojo superiornost. Trump je njihov guru (angl. spirit animal; pojasnilo izraza: nadnaravno bitje, idol, vzor, duhovni vodnik).
You also wrote: ‘In fact, pain might be the only proof of the soul’s existence.’ The soul—in the Slavic concept, beautifully hinted at in Dragan Bjelogrlić’s movie Toma, about the singer Toma Zdravković, who spent a few years in USA but returned to Bosnia (Yugoslavia). Did you find no trace of the soul in this sense during your time in the U.S.?
Well, there is soul music here, as there is blues, and jazz, and hiphop, all of which are part of Afro-American tradition. But white Americans have little or no soul. They tend to strive for power and money and a sense of inherent superiority. Trump is their spirit animal.
Vaše besedilo vleče bralca neprekinjeno naprej od prvega do zadnjega poglavja in je na nek način stalno v svojem nežnem valovanju in prepletanju podajanja zgodovinskih dejstev, opisovanja življenja obeh junakov ter vašega vzporednega razmišljanja. Zaključek – mislim na zadnjih par stavkov – pa je nekoliko drugačen, sentimentalen, skorajda malce holivudski. Ste morda pomislili, da bi knjigo spremenili v scenarij za film?
Nimam prav nobenega interesa, da bi svoje knjige prilagajal za film ali televizijo. To bi me dolgočasilo – ko nekaj končam in odložim, je zares zaključeno. Poleg tega je verjetnost, da bi ameriški producent vložil denar v zgodbo o dveh starejših bosanskih migrantih v Kanadi, manj kot enaka ničli. Ameriki niso mar priseljenci in begunci, razen takrat, ko jih sovraži ali pa jih uporablja za samohvalo svoje »tolerantnosti«.
Your text propels the reader seamlessly from the first to the final chapter, maintaining a gentle, rhythmic undulation as it intertwines historical facts, the portrayal of the two protagonists and their lives, and your parallel reflections. The conclusion—I’m thinking of the last few sentences—feels slightly different, sentimental, almost Hollywood-esque. Have you perhaps considered adapting the book into a screenplay for a movie?
I have no interest in adapting my books for the screen. That would bore me, as I am done when I am done. Moreover, the likelihood of an American producer investing money into a story about two elderly Bosnian refugees in Canada is well below zero. America does not care about immigrants and refugees, except when it hates them or uses them to congratulate itself on its ‘tolerance.’
Pogovor z dovoljenjem urednika Sobotne priloge poobjavljamo na Jantarni lastovki.
