Visar Zhiti
(Extract from the
novel “Torn Hell” by Visar Zhiti)
New
prisoners kept coming before we old timers had had a chance to get to know each
other, which, by the way, was forbidden. The lack of contact with others
lessened one’s self-perception. That poor mass of humanity, seemingly dressed
the same, with identical haircuts, equally famished, where another seemed to be
you and you someone else; without individuality we were nothing if not empty
transparencies, multiplied by a thousand, or two thousand, by a million, by
millions. During the age of slavery,
three thousand years ago, this setup would have reduced you to nothing more
than a slave due to your long years of imprisonment We whispered among
ourselves that cosmonauts could see our jails from afar, from the cosmos,
perhaps from the moon, the prison caves, the rows of the condemned, the
seemingly endless chain of them, stretching longer than the rivers. There were
no prisons anywhere else.
Among the prisoners emerging one day from the police van was a young man
with a face paler than those of others who had survived their interrogation period.
Around his shoulders he wore a black jacket with a flap in the back. Perhaps
that was the fashion outside. He was told to take it to the clothes depot; he
would get it back the day he was discharged (or whatever was left of it). He
was also to get rid of his shoes and pants and don the prison uniform.
When he was done, he emerged from among the new arrivals and silently,
slowly, with the dignity of slow motion, he started climbing the path toward
the barbed wire fence, disregarding the prisoners’ mounting tension. We had
fixed our eyes on him. He walked sure-footed, his head held high. “Hey” – said
some voices- “where are you going? There is no exit there. The guards will open
fire. . .” These voices caught the attention of the guards inside the compound,
where one of them, unexpectedly, rushed toward the newcomer screaming that he
stop, as the guards would shoot: “Hey you, prisoneeer! You guards, don’t shoooot.”
The prisoner, however, continued walking, without turning his head, with
dignity. He entered the killing zone where signs marked “DO NOT ENTER” were buffeted
by the wind like crosses in a graveyard. The soldier in the nearest guard
tower, like from inside a wooden monster head and from between its teeth, was
aiming his automatic rifle in our direction. “No,” yelled the guard from inside
the compound, “soldier, don’t fire, I, too, am here.” He reached the recently
sentenced man, grabbed him by his arms and pulled him back. “Turn around,” he
yelled, “what’s the matter with you? Why are you crossing into the forbidden
zone, or are you trying to get killed?” Look at the other inmates, be patient!” The former citizen did not open his mouth.
“Are you insane?” He nodded in agreement. When he came close to us, he looked
bewildered, more terrified of us than of the guns. He probably saw himself like
one of us.
I was overcome by sorrow, I didn’t know whether for me or for him who
wanted to get killed. I not only did not dare kill myself, but had given up thinking
altogether. Besides, whom was I supposed to kill, we were no longer human
beings. My sorrow turned completely toward the unknown newcomer. It would have
been better for him had he been killed. It would have been over for him and a
challenge to the status quo. My very thoughts terrified me, for being so merciless
toward another’s life. I had no right to want someone else’s death, even though
others felt that way toward me.
I doubt it that from the very beginning we had a psychologist among us.
Had there been one, he would have been rejected as a Freudian. More likely, someone
among us could have become a psychologist in prison. Chances were slim but
psychological anomalies were all around us. A psychologist could have thought
along these lines: “The inside guard, no more than a rubber truncheon for the
regime, dares to save an enemy’s life. That must mean that the dictator is very
ill, probably in his death throes; he may even be dead. They may be hiding it as
in ancient Chinese dictatorships that were ‘led’ by dead emperors. Thus, the
policeman of the ‘class warfare’, by saving the life of a prisoner may have
been promoting his own future thus extending the life of an evil, even as he
prevented death.”
Why, are you thinking that the policeman
did not save the prisoner’s life, just out of human concern . . . ?
“No, no, no way, he was trying to avoid being arrested. Time has come
for us to trade places. How could I miss it if the policeman didn’t?”
Trading places is not necessarily a change. Can there be no society without
condemned individuals, hence without judges, without jails, without prisoners?
Translated from The Albanian by Genc Korça
No comments:
Post a Comment