I don’t wear a uniform, I don’t have a badge, and no one knows my name beyond the license plate stuck on the dashboard. But at night, while I’m driving, I often have the feeling that I’m drawn into other people’s fates like a silent witness – or, God forbid, a participant.
My job is to drive. But life keeps throwing me more than that.
I was there when people were fighting in the back seat, while I tried to keep my direction and my sanity. I was there when a woman in the ninth month clenched her fist and said that “there is still time”, and I knew that there was not. I was there when a young man was running from someone – or from himself – and asked me to drive without asking. In such moments, you realize that the city is not just concrete and lights, but a stage on which a thousand dramas are being played at the same time.
And every time, somehow, I get drawn in.
Not because I want to. But because I can’t turn my head.
It’s true – I’m screwed too. I carry my defeats, my failures, my silent shames. There are days when I can barely make ends meet, when my own thoughts overtake me faster than I can drive. I’m no movie hero. I’m afraid. I doubt it. I get tired.
But I have something I haven’t lost – empathy.
When someone cries in the back seat, something stirs in me. When I see fear, I can’t ignore it. Perhaps because I myself have been on the edge many times, I recognize that edge in others. It’s like we carry the same scar, just in different places.
I don’t solve other people’s lives. I don’t bring justice. But sometimes I stay parked for a minute longer, until someone gets their act together. Sometimes I say one sentence that calms me down. Sometimes I stand between violence and weakness, even though I know I can get the better of it. Not because I’m brave, but because I can’t do anything else.
Maybe that’s my secret heroism – that despite everything that broke me, I didn’t turn to stone.
The city draws me into its dark passages, into fights, childbirth, escapes, confessions. And I go through all that with a vulnerable heart, which might be easier to extinguish than to wear. But as long as I can feel someone else’s pain as if it were my own, I know I haven’t failed yet.
But on nights when a child is born in the back seat, or when I lift someone out of their own despair even for a little while, I feel like I was more than a driver. I was the man in the right place at the wrong time – and that, sometimes, is quite enough.
If I can’t change the world, I can at least be a shield in one part of it.
And for a man who’s screwed himself, that’s a big deal.
Nezasticeni svedok 5.
Ne nosim uniformu, nemam značku, niti iko zna moje ime dalje od onog na dozvoli zalepljenoj na kontrolnoj tabli. Ali noću, dok vozim, često imam osećaj da sam uvučen u tuđe sudbine kao kakav tihi svedok – ili, ne daj Bože, učesnik.
Moj posao je da vozim. Ali život mi stalno podmeće više od toga.
Bio sam tu kad su se ljudi tukli na zadnjem sedištu, dok sam pokušavao da zadržim pravac i razum. Bio sam tu kad je žena u devetom mesecu stezala šaku i govorila da „još ima vremena“, a ja sam znao da nema. Bio sam tu kad je mladić bežao od nekoga – ili od sebe – i tražio da vozim bez pitanja. U takvim trenucima shvatiš da grad nije samo beton i svetla, nego pozornica na kojoj se istovremeno igra hiljadu drama.
I svaki put, nekako, budem uvučen.
Ne zato što to želim. Nego zato što ne umem da okrenem glavu.
Istina je – i ja sam sjeban. Nosim svoje poraze, svoje promašaje, svoje tihe stidove. Ima dana kad jedva sastavim kraj s krajem, kad me sopstvene misli sustignu brže nego što ja mogu da vozim. Nisam nikakav heroj iz filmova. Plašim se. Sumnjam. Umorim se.
Ali imam nešto što nisam izgubio – empatiju.
Kad neko zaplače na zadnjem sedištu, u meni se nešto pokrene. Kad vidim strah, ne mogu da ga ignorišem. Možda baš zato što sam i sam mnogo puta bio na ivici, prepoznajem tu ivicu kod drugih. Kao da nosimo isti ožiljak, samo na različitim mestima.
Ne rešavam ja tuđe živote. Ne donosim pravdu. Ali ponekad ostanem minut duže parkiran, dok se neko ne sabere. Ponekad kažem jednu rečenicu koja smiri. Ponekad stanem između nasilja i slabijeg, iako znam da mogu izvući deblji kraj. Ne zato što sam hrabar, nego zato što ne mogu drugačije.
Možda je to moj tajni heroizam – u tome što, uprkos svemu što me je izlomilo, nisam postao kamen.
Grad me uvlači u svoje mračne prolaze, u tuče, porođaje, bežanja, priznanja. A ja prolazim kroz sve to sa ranjivim srcem, koje bi možda bilo lakše ugasiti nego nositi. Ali dok god osećam tuđu bol kao da je moja, znam da još nisam propao.
Ali u noćima kad se rađa dete na zadnjem sedištu, ili kad nekoga izvučem iz sopstvenog očaja makar na kratko, imam osećaj da sam bio više od vozača. Bio sam čovek na pravom mestu u pogrešno vreme – i to je, ponekad, sasvim dovoljno.
Ako već ne mogu da promenim svet, mogu makar da budem štit u jednom njegovom deliću.
A za čoveka koji je i sam sjeban, to je velika stvar.