Although a female writer in male-dominated Zagreb Film, I am a welcome figure at the Studio; an American writer is a rare species here. When Matko asks my signature for the contract’s extension, I recollect John Grierson’s advice and agree to stay for another three months. Despite dragging myself through the after-work hours as if enduring a burden or serving a punishment, I continue to sense that the experience as a whole fits into a larger scheme for my life. Since my very young years, a gut feeling has been telling me that every experience is leading me somewhere quite specified. To date, this message remains based on feeling, not fact. For all his sagacity, Grierson could not shed any light on this question for me.
Always I have felt that life contains a profound inner meaning, but not yet have I discovered what that meaning could be. Not through religion, not through philosophy, not through work, and not even through the love of family and friends, have I uncovered why I was born. I learned about God in the synagogue but lacked attunement with the divine depths of Judaism. My family celebrated the Jewish holidays, but also the nonreligious aspects of Christmas and Easter. Perhaps, after the war, the family felt a pressure to assimilate somewhat into the predominantly Christian society. At any rate, my sister Bonnie and I hung up our empty stockings on Christmas Eve and the next morning excitedly retrieved them filled with small presents and sweets. We never had a Christmas tree, but we exchanged Christmas gifts; on Easter, we colored eggs and received from our parents chocolate bunnies and new Easter outfits.
So, for various reasons, I grew up knowing Judaism—and Christianity—only externally, and considered myself a secular person. Being raised in a Jewish family that practiced a nondogmatic and “hybrid” religion probably opened my mind to respect other religions. But I still have the question: Is there really, as some people attest, a perfect, omnipotent, omniscient incorporeal “Being” who is the originator and ruler of the manifested universe? If so, does such a Being influence human society as well as each person’s individual life?
In Zagreb, I have time to ponder life’s import and to contemplate my daily experiences. Always I search for meaning. Circumstances may provoke me to utter: “Coincidence?” Doggedly I ask myself: Is there a Greater Power guiding me? Frequently I remember my occasional sensation of blessed good luck. My intuition keeps hinting that there is more to life than my materialistic upbringing suggested.
At a very young age I started to wonder: What is our purpose for being? Not yet have I answered this crucial question. And, as John Grierson so mercilessly pointed out, I am already twenty-nine! The material shortcomings of Tito’s Yu-go-slave-ia mirror my own shortcomings. My greatest lack, I realize, is not yet knowing the hidden truths of existence. Minus the answers to life’s most important questions, how can I succeed in reaching my life’s ultimate success, whatever it may be? My experiences are surely acting as my Oracle of Delphi, but am I catching all the messages transmitted?
I do perceive, thanks to Yu-go-slave-ia, that I am less free in my thinking than all along I have assumed. It has become clear that my American-bred conditioning holds me tightly in its grip. Even while dealing with the immediate challenges of Yugoslavian life, I project myself into the future. I mull over what doors the Zagreb Film job might open for me professionally. At other times I live in the past. This is not the past of the old Croatian capital possessing a rich cultural history tracing back one thousand years. My head dwells pretty much in my own past, caught up in thought patterns created over nearly three decades. Ambition, competition, and acquisitiveness exert a deeply rooted authority.
Social dictates bind me. I am noticing my slavery to social norms. For instance, I am programmed to believe that my value as a human being increases in accord with the quantity and quality of my official papers, such as my academic degrees and assorted awards, diplomas, and certificates. But the papers I earned in America denote pretty much nothing to most of the people around me in Yugoslavia. I start doubting the validity of this ingrained social standard.
Besides the enhancement conferred by official papers, I have been taught that my human value escalates according to what I wear, own, drive, and even eat. In Zagreb, it strikes me that judging a person by outer appearance is a habit I acquired while growing up. Society projects material guidelines that can indicate one’s wealth and success. Clothing and shoes, bags and accessories, and other accouterments, especially those with brand names connected to high prices and social superiority, help define one’s human identity.
My minidress clash with the cursing old woman tugs at me. The incident pesters me to rethink my tendency to follow the latest New York or California fashion trends. My wanting to abide by the principle, “When in Zagreb, do as the Zagrebians do,” forces me to acknowledge that, at home, I allow myself to obey fashion commands telling me how to look and what to wear, what is “in” and what is “not with it.”
During my Barnard years, however, I had become free from dress codes. In that period, many a conflict arose with my parents because they disliked my “unconventional” clothing. I defended my offbeat style by retorting, “Clothing is only an outer covering. It is who I am that matters.” (Not that I knew then who that “I” truly was.) My reasoning fell on my parents’ blocked ears. By the time I graduated from college, I found that to participate optimally in the work world I had to conform a bit to mainstream fashion. So my parents’ thinking was not wholly incorrect; it was their combative approach to my developing ideas that proved faulty. Now, having lugged a suitcase of Fifth Avenue outfits to Zagreb, I know that fashion decrees influence me.
Emancipating myself from fashion directives will let me take, unwittingly, a tiny but conscious step along the road toward knowing my truest me. As I intuited in my college days, how I look cannot be equated with who I am. But “who am I?” remains a burning question.
I vent my thoughts to John Grierson in letters I send him after he leaves Zagreb, even as I wonder whether “the watchers” are also reading our correspondence. Grierson’s responses help me feel less alone. He puts my experiential findings into a larger perspective. In one of his letters to me, he asks: “How is your Yugoslav odyssey going?”
“Ah, my dear doctor,” I reply, “the life and working practices here are easy-going and lackadaisical if you are Yugoslavian. If you are American, you work hard. It is not official white slavery, for I am here voluntarily. Every week I get my thirty-two dollars worth of dinars. The Studio cannot complain. It is getting hard currency value out of me. And I am not complaining, simply observing. The entire world, including myself, may criticize America and Americans, but everyone is very happy to get our products and our know-how.”
In one letter, Grierson again expresses disappointment with the present Yugoslav documentary films: “I saw little this time in Zagreb to make me believe they were devoting themselves very deeply to that art of theirs. Maybe I had a bad sample of films. Anyway, I am back with the notion that if that’s the violin, it just doesn’t play very well.” He was referring to the Yugoslav documentary Homage to Hands, the story of a violinmaker.
I write him: “They seem curiously unambitious. The political system does not seem to inspire them. Even my chief at the Studio, one of the most Westernized Yugoslavs, lives every day with little organization and overall perspective. When he apologizes for something he has postponed, he invariably calls himself a ‘lazy Yu-go-slave.’ Although joking, there is an element of truth in what he says. I sometimes think they have to start the morning with their plum brandy just to get up enough courage to face the rest of the day.”
John Grierson confirms my thoughts on the Yugoslavian system when he states, in his characteristic handwriting: “I think of your reactions to Zagreb as an important testament, for I have not before heard the Yugoslav relative conditions made so plain. I now seem to understand Djilas a little better.”
Whatever understanding about Yugoslavia I give John Grierson, it is Grierson who enables me to perceive more deeply the benefits I reap in Zagreb. He expands my awareness of my own relative conditions. He stimulates me to discern that every experience, dark or light, has its compensations. He recognizes my creative passion. I am an anomaly to his age-based-path-knowing formula, yet he awards me his endorsement.
Certainly I am flattered that the respected British documentarist compares my critique of the Yugoslav lifestyle with the sharp political acumen of Milovan Djilas. It would be easy to take Grierson’s praise at face value, congratulating myself for my sprouting ability as a social critic. I have no such illusions. I am at elementary school level in the knowledge of how society is run behind the scenes by the often-secretive workings of those in power.
The cable I receive from John Kemeny of the National Film Board of Canada verifies my naiveté regarding the manipulative ways of government. His words are ominously clear: “STOP SHOWING ARTICLE.” A letter follows, mysteriously implying the negative repercussions the publication of my article could have.
A state of tension exists between creative artists in East European communist countries and their governments, but in Canada? I am reminded that, despite constitutional laws on the books, free speech in any society is never fully guaranteed if the speech is directed at a reigning government. A democratically elected government supposedly operates on behalf of the citizenry, but when threatened with the communication of an inconvenient truth or truths, a democratic government may use repressive actions to restrain critical speech, free press, and public disclosure.
John Kemeny’s cable of censorship stuns me. His red-light reaction to my paper’s publication confirms there is some self-risk involved with criticizing or exposing any government, even innocently. My article reveals insider knowledge of the Canadian government’s attempts to suppress information that may reflect poorly on Canada’s image. The little-known censorial aspect of the Canadian government’s role as filmmaker is the basis of my article. Considering that the NFB produces hundreds of films a year, the extent of government interference is negligible. Nevertheless, after our interview Kemeny asked for the right of approval over my final text. Perhaps, having spoken so openly, he had nervous afterthoughts?
Agreeing he could suggest factual corrections or editorial improvements, I never imagined I was extending a right of censorship. Having given Kemeny my word, I have no moral option except to withdraw the text. How ironic. Kemeny complained about the censorship of his films, and then censored my article. Grierson’s forecast proved correct.
Through this incident, minor yet major to me, I gain personal experience in the operational ways of government and politics. In the Yugoslavia of 1968, the populace knows very well the clamps on its personal liberties and freedoms. Lacking the freedom to criticize government policies publicly, Yugoslavs endure the freedom from punishment that comes by practicing silence. A democratic government, I had taken for granted, allows the communicator to serve the citizenry by explaining and exposing the abuse of power of any kind. Democracy is compromised when government or business influence the media from doing its communicating job to the utmost.
The censorship of my paper on the National Film Board of Canada makes me look askance at ever involving myself professionally with the machinations of government and politics. The borders of my personal core are fanning out. I sense that there are secrets more necessary to discover than the behind-the-scenes functioning of governments. There are revelations more significant than the methods democratically elected governments use to obstruct the communication of governmental unpleasantries. There are ponderings more crucial to share through my pen than those pertaining solely to societal events of the transient present.