Crveni traktor (U čast neznanog studenta), srpski i engleski prevod

Točak vremena, Lili Bluz, digitalna obrada

(U čast neznanog studenta)

Iscurio sam iz sopstvenog sela jednog prošlog podneva, onako stihijski, kao da će

mi planina pobeći ako joj na tren okrenem leđa. Iskreno govoreći, nisam ni

planirao da otpočnem nekakvu ličnu revoluciju; samo sam hteo da obavim najdužu

šetnju u životu: od blatnjavog šumskog puta do asfalta, pa sve do natrpanih

gradskih ulica gde se, po glasinama, odvijaju protesti. Osećao sam da te

demonstracije pripadaju svima, ali ja sam imao potrebu da budem sasvim sam.

Od malih nogu imao sam neobičnu fiksaciju: u garaži mog dede stajala je gomila

metalnog starudija. Između ostalog, izvirivao je i jedan izlizani crveni traktor,

naslonjen na raspukli zid koji kao da je pucao pod težinom teške nostalgije. Taj

traktor nikada nije radio. Koliko znam, bio je više ukras nego oruđe. Ali nešto u

njegovoj boji, onoj oštroj, postojanoj, privlačilo me je. Činilo mi se da je ceo

kosmos, sav miris mokre zemlje i sva buka vetrova, stao u taj rezervoar.

Dok sam koračao niz krivudave puteve, sećao sam se kako sam, pre samo par

nedelja, na nečijem ekranu u planinskoj kafanici video prizor: gomila ljudi stoji na

visokom zidu išaranom šarenim natpisima. Neki su mahali natpisima koji su

veličali solidarnost, a na pojedinim delovima tog zida bile su izlepljene poruke o

ljubavi i jedinstvu. Nekome je to bila čudna turistička slika, a meni je delovalo kao

da su ti ljudi odlučili da gaze granicu između stvarnosti i sna, da je pregaze

cipelama i strpljenjem. Kao da su obznanili: „Ovo ovde više nije granica, sad je

samo stepenik.”

U nekom drugom snimku, video sam pojedinca u tesnom odelu, podignute ruke,

kako strastveno viče u mikrofon ili možda viče u vetar, teško je bilo razaznati. Lice

mu je delovalo strogo, a ljudi oko njega, nagurani ispod platforme, kao da su čekali

neka grandiozna obećanja. U pozadini se vijorila zastava, ne previše velika, ali

prkosna, dok su se negde daleko čuli zvuci sirena. Na trenutak sam pomislio da su

sirene možda znak za uzbunu pred oluju, a možda i poziv na buđenje.

Treća slika, ili možda san, bila je reprodukcija nekog starog, dramatičnog prizora:

žena visoko drži krpu boje žive vatre, čitava grupa raznolikih ljudi juri prema

nečemu. U dnu te slike leže tela—neko je ranjen, neko sasvim miran u

nepomičnosti. Dim obavija svu tu gungulu, a jedan dečak skače preko barikade

držeći pištolj kao da je igračka. Ta žena u centru, poluobnažena i snažna, nije bila

stvarna osoba nego simbol; gledao sam to i osećao: tu su se energija i haos ukrstili.

A onda sam iznova razmišljao o jednom crno-belom foto-razgledanju: nasmejan

čovek sedi na starom traktoru, nekakva neumorna vedrina iz njega izbija. Gume su

ogromne, blatnjave, a on, sav u radničkom odelu, izgleda srećniji nego generali na

balkonima. Na drugim slikama — opet traktori! Jedni poslužili godinama, drugi

ofarbani u narandžasto, pa ogromni plavi sa debelim točkovima, pa konačno

blistav, jarko crveni stroj u nekoj betonskoj garaži, sav nalešten, spreman za

muzejski postament. Zaticao sam sebe kako, pri samoj pomisli na te traktore,

osećam da se zemlja ispod mojih nogu trese, kao da su u njima sabrane sve

revolucije, sve pobune i svi još-neizrečeni zahtevi.

Već drugi dan hodam od planine ka gradu. U rancu imam tek par sendviča i flašicu

vode. Putem srećem samo pokojeg meštanina koji se čudi što vučem noge po kršu i

rogozu, sam i bez neke grupe. Kažu mi: „Sine, ’ajde s nama, čuli smo da se

okupljaju ljudi pred opštinom, tamo su svi zajedno.” Odgovaram im da ja želim da

budem van toga, ali ne i protiv. Kažem: „Možda se pridružim, samo da malo osetim

prašinu pod tabanima.” Nisu me razumeli. Očekivali su da ću se spustiti pravo u

gradsko jezgro i stati, sa još stotinama, vičući parole.

Ali ja ne mogu da vičem parole. Za mene je protest - tišina. Tišina duga kao ovaj

put, od mog sela do centra, kroz šumu, kroz tunele, pa sve do mosta gde se čuje eho automobilskih truba. Svaki korak, svako prelazak preko potoka doživljavam kao da preskačem neku liniju u sebi. Namerno sporo hodam, udišem miris smrekovih

iglica, i prelistavam sva ona sećanja o nesrećama: kažu da se nešto strašno desilo u velikom gradu- stala je konstrukcija ili se srušila nadstrešnica. Petnaest duša je

otišlo u večnost. Ljudi su besni, najavljuju se istrage, protesti, blokade i još ko zna

šta. Kažu da su to sad već meseci i meseci otpora.

Ipak, nisam mogao da se prosto utopim u to. Želeo sam prvo da vidim da li se

moj korak, taj krhki, nečujni, može spojiti sa korakom ljudi u protestu. Ako ne

može, barem ću znati da postoji razlika. Možda ću, negde pri kraju ove šetnje,

shvatiti da me taj crveni traktor iz dedine garaže oduvek zvao. Ili ću, pak, kad

stignem, videti koliko su gradske ulice drugačije od mojih planinskih staza.

Prolazim kraj livade, gde stoji usamljeni senik, a neko je na ogradi ostavio ispisano:

„Krvave su vam ruke” crvenim sprejom, i tužna golubica sa kapljom koja curi niz

njeno pero.

Nastavljam dalje, jer osećam da nemam pravo da se predugo zadržavam - možda

je to samo još jedan simbol koji ne želim da tumačim na brzinu.

Treći dan putovanja zatiče me na obodu nekog zaseoka. Ovde nema mnogo ljudi,

osim jedne grupe klinaca na biciklima, koja me gleda s podsmehom. „Kuda si

pošao, studentu?” pitaju me, mašući limenkom gaziranog pića, kao da me time

iskušavaju. Odgovaram, poluozbiljno, da idem „da obavim najdužu šetnju svog

života, a možda i da potražim traktor.” Oni se kikoću. Za njih je traktor tek stara

sprava koja ima da radi na njivi, ništa više.

Ono što mi više privlači pažnju jeste blaga napetost u vazduhu. Pričaju mi da su

protesti stigli i do njihovog sela. Neko je stopirao autobuse, neko je prekinuo rad na

seoskoj zadruzi, a noćas su, kažu, kamere na javnim mestima prestale da rade.

Jedan od klinaca dodaje: „Policija je dolazila i pitala za neke studente. Valjda si ti

taj.” Odlazim ćutke, nisam raspoložen za raspravu.

Negde pred veče tog dana, ugledam čudnu scenu: ispred lokalne crkve parkiran je

traktor, ali ne stari, već nov i sjajan, s nalepnicom koja izgleda kao da je upravo

zalepljena. Svetlo pred sam sumrak udara o limene površine kabine, boja se

presijava. Vidim da su točkovi ogromni. Deluje mi kao da je neko teleskopsko

čudovište. Priđem, i na sedištu zateknem čoveka prorezanog pogleda. On drži

volan, mirno, a motor ne radi. „Nešto čekate?” pitam iznenada. On se osmehuje

samo jednim krajem usana, kao da kaže: „Ne čekam ja, nego čekaju oni gore da im

donesem naplatu.” Ne znam na koga misli.

Te noći sam spavao u štali. Nisam imao hrabrosti da zatražim prenoćište u nečijoj

kući, i štala me utešila mirisom sena i blagom toplinom. Sanjao sam masu ljudi na

nekom širokom gradskom trgu, skupljene ispod velikih jarbola. Vidim ženu nalik

onoj iz slavne slike: s vetrom u kosi, maše platnenom trakom, a ispod nje, gomila

mladića i devojaka stoji na zidu obrastlom grafitima. I dok oni uzvikuju nešto,

jedini zvuk koji dopire do mojih ušiju jeste tiho brujanje traktora u daljini. Kao da

se motor negde zagreva, pulsira, spreman da uleti među ljude i preore sve.

Kada sam se probudio, već je bio četvrti dan mog hodočašća. Osećaj je bio i čudniji

i jasniji. Imao sam utisak da me grad zove, ali i da me se pomalo plaši. Čuo sam

priče: ljudi šetaju svakoga dana, baš u određeno vreme, zaćute na petnaestak

minuta, u znak sećanja na žrtve ogromnog propusta. Neki prelaze mostove, neki

preplavljuju trgove, a mene i dalje prepoznaju kao onog „usamljenog studenta koji

luta.”

Ipak, nastavio sam putem. Na starom, oštećenom asfaltu, pojavio se trag točkova.

Kao da je neko ogromno vozilo prošlo tuda. Možda je baš onaj novotraktor, ili je

možda više njih, neko pominjao da poljoprivrednici blokiraju magistrale. Na

jednom drvenom stubu pored puta piše: „Ne pregazi nas.” U glavi mi se javlja

razmišljanje o svim onim kolima koja su, možda, u brzanju udarila protestante. Čuo

sam da se to dešava, da besni i bahati vozači nalete na okupljene, da se ljute zbog zastoja,da nastane metež. Takve vesti su stizale i gore do mog sela.

Već se peti dan primakao. Na obzorju vidim šareno svetlo velegrada. Neko puca

petarde, neko možda signalne rakete, čitav horizont treperi. „Moram da saznam

gde je centar svega,” mislim se, dok me noge sve manje slušaju. Juče nisam pojeo

ništa osim kore starog hleba i komadića sira. Nemam goriva u sebi, ali imam

toplotu, neku neobičnu volju da vidim taj Čudesni Crveni Traktor koji mi se javlja u snovima otkako sam se spustio sa planine.

Sećam se opisa jedne scene: ljudi su blokirali glavnu raskrsnicu, stajali nepomično,

bez ijedne reči, na tačno petnaest minuta. U to vreme grad umukne. Samo semafori

prekucavaju boje, ali nema auta, nema buke. Kao masovna molitva, iako nema

spomena o veri. Pomišljam: možda sam i ja deo te tišine, iako hodam potpuno sam.

Usred te večernje atmosfere, čujem brujanje motora — odjek koji se urezuje u uši i

dalje odjekuje u plućima. Nije to običan motor, suviše je dubok, suviše nalik

lavljem urliku. Na trenutak osećam da je to onaj gorostasni traktor. Potrčim ka

izvoru zvuka, noge mi se odjednom lakše kreću. Ubrzo stižem do ogromne,

polukružne raskrsnice. Tamo je gužva: neke grupe stoje, pale sveće, jedu pecivo iz

papirnih kesa, dok ispred njih, između dve zgrade, stoji brdo automobila. I baš tu, u

epicentru, vidim kako se crveni lim preliva u svetlu uličnih sijalica. Kao da je

čitava raskrsnica proključala, a u sredini stoji traktor.

Nešto me gura da priđem, ali me zaustavlja čovek u plavoj jakni. „Opasno je,

momak,” kaže tiho. „Čekamo da se smire strasti, neko je iskalio bes, neki su se

okupili tamo da traže ostavke, a ovaj na traktoru ispaljuje rogobatne šale o

vladajućima. Nije prijatno.” Ipak, ja se provlačim, tražim pogledom kabinu.

Zaprepašćuje me prizor: tamo, gde je sedište, nema nikog. Motor radi, ali mašina se

ne kreće. Kao da ga pokreće neki duh.

Ne znam šta me tera, ali penjem se na prikolicu priključenu odpozadi. Tek tada mi

se otvara pogled na zid zgrada: na fasadi je scena slična onoj sa starog umetničkog

platna — nekakva silueta žene s podignutom zastavom, a iza nje obris deteta s

pištoljem igračke. Veliki ispis: „Ovo je vreme bez reči.” Kao da me izaziva da ja

kažem nešto, a ne umem.

Tu, na toj prikolici, stajem i posmatram kako dolazi zora. Svet postaje siv, i čini mi

se da se protest polako rasipa. Ljudi se vraćaju svojim kućama ili se spremaju za

nove blokade. U daljini, vidi se grupa mladića. Možda su iz moje generacije, ali

nisam ih ranije sretao. Oni na ramenima nose parolu ispisanu jednostavnom

rečenicom: „I tišina može da obori zid.”

Negde u meni javlja se bolno saznanje da, uprkos šetnji od planine do ovog

betonskog prostranstva, još nisam pronašao ni reč, ni misao, ni zajednički poklič.

Moja protestna šetnja bila je u tome da preispitam svoju tišinu. Ali sad stojim na

prikolici nečeg što deluje moćnije od bilo kakvog oružja. Možda je to sasvim

obično poljoprivredno vozilo, ali meni izgleda kao prikriveno srce ove pobune.

Ne želim da dođem do nekakve završne pouke, jer me lepa pesma Obojenog programa upozorova da je svaka definicija gubitak slobode: i sam sam zbunjen. Ipak,osećam da je svaka kap te maglovite zore upila u sebe i miris dima i energiju svih tih ljudi. Jedan starac dolazi blizu mene, ćutke me posmatra, pa, najzad, kaže:

„Tvoj protest traje onoliko koliko si spreman da izdržiš. Nemo’ da misliš da si sam

jer hodaš bez kolone.”

Smešim se, ponovo bez reči, i pogled mi pada na bleštavo crveno kućište motora.

Sve mi se čini da taj traktor, iako ne ide nikuda, zapravo pokreće sve oko sebe.

Neka tanka nit spaja onaj dedin zahrđali primerak — neupotrebljiv, a opet neuništiv

- sa ovim gradskim kolosom što bruji bez vozača. Razmišljam: ponekad nečije

prisustvo, ma koliko usamljeno, protrese stvari više nego masovno okupljanje.

Gledam prema zidu na kom su ljudi prethodno stajali, sećam se šumora gomile,

sećam se prizora ruku visoko podignutih, a onda se setim i onog čoveka u sakou s

uzdignutom rukom, u nekom drugom vremenu ili na nekom drugom mestu, možda

obećavajućeg, možda zastrašujućeg, možda i obesmišljenog. Sve to mi juri kroz

glavu, ali osećam i iskru humora u sopstvenoj situaciji: posvetio sam dane i dane da

hodam ovde, a sad sam zaglavljen pored traktora koji mi ne dozvoljava da siđem s

prikolice jer više ne umem da se vratim unazad.

Dok se iščuđavam, neko viče: „Hajde, spusti se, pusti traktor nek odradi svoje!”

Nesvesno klimam glavom i skačem nazad na asfalt. U tom trenu, motor ispušta

snažan zvuk, pa se lagano gasi. Čujem daleki smeh, možda se neko ruga toj ugasloj sili. Ili se možda ruga meni što očekujem da će me taj crveni metal odvesti u neko novo poglavlje.

Peti dan šetnje je gotov. Sada se nalazim među ljudima, ali i dalje ne vičem. Čujem

glasove: „Zaustavi se! Stani!” Kažu da u podne moramo ćutati tačno petnaest

minuta. Sećam se priča o nastradalima pod nečijom nepažnjom. I ja stojim i ćutim,

okrenut ka nebu. Vetar pomera parče papira pored mojih nogu. Na njemu je

ispisano: „Jedan čovek je nekad dovoljan.”

U grudima mi tutnji eho onih truba u daljini, eho motora, eho inata. Za mene je

protest počeo onog jutra kada sam odlučio da namerno sporo koračam ka gradu.

Nisam sačekao ni da smislim slogane. Sad stojim ovde, među senkama zgrada i

trgom koji čuva tragove pregaženih barikada, i osećam lako peckanje u rukama.

Možda je to želja da podignem glas ili da pokrenem traktor kojeg više nema.

Proći će možda još pokoji dan ili mesec pre nego što moja staza bude nastavljena.

Verovatno ću se jednoga dana vratiti planini i onom dedinom kršu od traktora,

možda ću ga upaliti, iako su mi svi govorili da mu je motor pregoreo. Možda ću ga

ofarbati ponovo, da izgleda kao onaj crveni koji sam video u gradu, da svetluca

onako živo i beskompromisno.

Ne verujem da ću ikada napisati parole na svom rancu, niti da ću se, kao oni hrabri,

gurati u prve redove, nositi zastave ili barikade. Moj lični protest ostaje u ovom

hodanju, u mojim tihim, ali tvrdoglavim koracima. A ponekad, u tim sitnim

koracima, čujem šalu, blagu ironiju na svoj račun: da ja, koji sam potekao iz

planina, postajem zaljubljen u gradski asflat i metalni sjaj traktora.

I tako, još uvek stojim na margini tog javnog okupljanja, nisam načisto da li da

priđem bliže ili da se povučem. Ali osećam da me boja ovog jutra, rumena poput

mog zamišljenog crvenog traktora, obavija. Tada počinjem da shvatam — ako je i

bilo smisla, leži upravo u tome da se svet posmatra iz neočekivanog ugla, iz

prikolice, s vrha zida ili iz šume, sasvim svejedno.

Još uvek ne dajem nikakvu završnu reč. Neka se grad i dalje raspravlja, neka šetači

pronalaze nove staze. Ja ću možda napisati po koje slovo na blatnjavim tabanima,

pustiti ih da se osuše i otpadnu na gradski trotoar kao seme. A seme, kažu, ume i da nikne, ponekad — pogotovo kada ga pritisne točak. Crveni točak. Onaj koji vrti sve što je izgledalo nesavladivo.

Iz zbirke priča Tajni grad, Ciklus o hodačima.

Razneseni Svemir, Vladimir Tomić, Oblak Kaktusa, u Beogradu 15.mart. 2025

Posveta: „U čast neznanog studenta”

U trenutku kada u Srbiji bukte veliki studentski protesti, nisam mogao da ostanem po strani. Podržavam bunt, podržavam potrebu da se ukaže na nepravdu i nesposobnost vlasti. Ipak, uvek mislim i na onu drugu stranu pobune: na ljude koji nose revolt u sebi, a nikada to ne ispoljavaju glasnim skandiranjem. To su tihi, introvertni pojedinci koje revolucija često zaboravi ili pregazi, a njihova se borba ponajčešće odigrava u unutrašnjem svetu. Verujem da i njihov glas, ma koliko nečujan spolja, ima istu snagu kao i žamor mase.

Zato ova priča nije napisana iz moje perspektive. U mojim drugim radovima često se prepoznajem i govorim o sebi; međutim, ovde sam svesno izabrao drugačiji ugao. Nije mi teško da u stvarnosti stanem i pred policijski kordon ako vidim nepravdu, ali znam da postoje nežnije duše kojima je takav direktni sukob nezamisliv. Njihov protest je možda sporiji, tiši ili još uvek nevidljiv, i baš zato zaslužuje da bude ispričan. U „Crvenom traktoru“ posvetio sam se tim autsajderima, studentima koji nisu na megafonu, ali su i te kako prisutni—u sebi, na marginama događaja, ali s podjednako snažnim osećajem nepravde.

Ova priča je za njih. Za sve one koji hodaju polako, bez parole u rukama, ali sa istim plamenom želje za promenom. Za mene je hrabrost često i u tišini, u nečujnom koraku, u mislima koje se ne izgovore, ali duboko pokreću. Kada revolucije „pojedu svoju decu”, najugroženiji su baš oni koji ćute, oni drugačiji i osećajni. Zato sam želeo da ih prikažem u priči: kao neznane, a opet presudne snage svakog bunta.

Sloboda vodi narod, Ežen Delakroa, izvor slike wikimedia commons.

(In Honor of the Unknown Student)

I slipped out of my own village one afternoon, almost on a whim, as if the mountain would escape me if I turned my back on it for just a moment. To be honest, I never planned on launching any personal revolution; I simply wanted to take the longest walk of my life: from a muddy forest path to the asphalt, and then all the way to the crowded city streets where, according to rumor, protests were taking place. I felt those demonstrations belonged to everyone, but I had this need to be entirely on my own.

From an early age, I’d had a peculiar fixation: in my grandfather’s garage lay a heap of rusty metal. Among other things, a worn-out red tractor peeked out, leaning against a cracked wall that seemed ready to break under the weight of deep nostalgia. That tractor had never worked. As far as I knew, it was more a decoration than a tool. But there was something about its color—so sharp, so steady—that drew me in. It felt as though the entire cosmos, the smell of damp earth, and the roar of the wind were all contained in that fuel tank.

As I walked along the winding roads, I remembered how, only a couple of weeks earlier, in some mountain tavern, I had glimpsed a scene on someone’s screen: a crowd of people standing on a tall wall covered with colorful slogans. Some held signs extolling solidarity, while other parts of that wall were covered in messages about love and unity. To some, it might have looked like a strange tourist attraction, but to me, it seemed those people had decided to trample the boundary between reality and dreams, to cross it with their shoes and with their patience. As if they were proclaiming, “This is no longer a border; now it’s just a step.”

In another clip, I saw a man in a tight suit, arms raised, passionately shouting into a microphone—or maybe shouting into the wind, it was hard to tell. His face looked stern, and the people pressed in below the platform seemed to be waiting for some grand promises. A flag was fluttering in the background, not too large but defiant, while sirens wailed in the distance. For a moment, I thought those sirens might be warning of an approaching storm, or perhaps they were a call to wake up.

A third image—or maybe it was a dream—was the reproduction of some old, dramatic scene: a woman holding aloft a cloth the color of living fire, while a diverse group of people charged toward something. In the lower part of that image lay bodies—someone wounded, someone utterly still in motionless repose. Smoke enveloped the entire commotion, and a boy leaped over a barricade holding a pistol as though it were a toy. That woman in the center—half-naked and fierce—was not a real person but a symbol; seeing her, I felt energy and chaos intertwine. Then my mind wandered again to a black-and-white photograph: a smiling man sitting on an old tractor, radiating an irrepressible cheerfulness. Its tires were huge and muddy, and the man, clad in work overalls, looked happier than any general on a balcony. In other pictures—tractors again! Some used for decades, others painted in orange, then massive blue ones with thick wheels, and finally a shining, bright-red machine in some concrete garage, polished as if ready for a museum display. I caught myself imagining that just thinking about these tractors made the ground beneath my feet tremble, as if they held within them all revolutions, all uprisings, and all demands yet unspoken.

I’ve been walking from the mountain to the city for two days now. In my backpack, I have only a couple of sandwiches and a water bottle. Along the way, I’ve encountered only an occasional local, puzzled by my solitary trek through boulders and rough brush, alone and without any group. They tell me, “Son, come with us; we heard people are gathering in front of the municipal building, everyone’s heading there together.” I reply that I want to be outside of it, but not against it. I say, “Maybe I’ll join later; I just need to feel the dust under my soles.” They don’t understand. They expected me to go straight down into the city center, to stand among hundreds, shouting slogans.

But I can’t shout slogans. For me, a protest is silence—a silence as long as this journey itself, from my village to the center, through the woods, through tunnels, all the way to the bridge where you can hear the echo of car horns. Each step, every stream I cross, feels like I’m skipping over some inner line. I walk deliberately slowly, breathing in the scent of spruce needles, and turning over in my mind the memories of various misfortunes: they say something terrible happened in the big city—a structure gave way, or a roof collapsed. Fifteen souls went to eternity. People are furious; there are promises of investigations, protests, blockades, and who knows what else. They say it’s been months and months of resistance.

Still, I couldn’t simply dissolve into that sea of humanity. First, I wanted to see if my own fragile, silent stride could merge with the steps of those who protest. If it can’t, at least I’ll know there’s a difference. Perhaps by the end of this walk, I’ll realize that grandfather’s red tractor had always been calling me. Or perhaps, once I arrive, I’ll find out just how different city streets are from my mountain trails.

I pass by a meadow where a lonely barn stands. On its fence, someone has scrawled in red spray paint, “Your hands are bloody,” along with the image of a sorrowful dove with a droplet trickling down its feather.

I move on because I feel I don’t have the right to linger too long—maybe it’s just another symbol I don’t want to interpret hastily.

On the third day of my journey, I find myself at the edge of some small settlement. Not many people are around, except for a group of kids on bicycles, eyeing me mockingly. “Where you headed, student?” they ask, waving a can of soda as if to taunt me. Half-seriously, I tell them, “I’m taking the longest walk of my life, and maybe I’m looking for a tractor.” They laugh out loud. To them, a tractor is just an old contraption that belongs in the fields, nothing more.

What captures my attention more than their amusement is a slight tension in the air. They say the protests have reached their village, too. Someone stopped the buses, someone halted work at the cooperative, and last night, they say, the cameras in public places stopped working. One of the kids adds, “The police came asking about some students. Maybe that’s you.” I leave quietly, not in the mood to argue.

Around dusk that day, I witness a strange scene: parked in front of a local church is a tractor, but not an old one—this one is brand new, with a freshly applied decal. The light at sundown reflects on the metal surfaces of its cab, the paint shimmering. The wheels look enormous. It reminds me of some telescoping beast. I walk up and find a man with a narrow, piercing gaze sitting in the seat. He’s gripping the wheel calmly, but the engine is off. “Are you waiting for something?” I blurt out. He smirks with just one corner of his mouth, as if to say, “I’m not waiting—they are, up there, waiting for me to deliver their reckoning.” I don’t know whom he means.

That night, I slept in a barn. I didn’t have the nerve to ask anyone for a bed, and the barn offered the comforting scent of hay and a gentle warmth. I dreamed of a crowd of people in some wide city square, gathered beneath tall flagpoles. I saw a woman, like the one from that famous painting—hair blowing in the wind, waving a ribbon of cloth—while beneath her, a throng of young men and women stood on a wall overgrown with graffiti. And though they seemed to be shouting something, the only sound I could hear was the distant hum of a tractor. As if an engine somewhere was revving up, pulsing, ready to churn through everything.

When I woke on the fourth day of my pilgrimage, I felt both stranger and clearer. It was as though the city was calling me, yet at the same time was a bit afraid of me. I’d heard stories: people march every day at a specific time, then remain silent for about fifteen minutes in memory of those who died in that catastrophic incident. Some cross bridges, some flood the squares, and they still point me out as “that lone student roaming around.”

Nevertheless, I continued on. Along the battered old asphalt, I noticed fresh tire tracks. Perhaps that brand-new tractor, or maybe there were more of them—someone mentioned farmers blocking the highways. On a wooden post by the road, someone had written, “Don’t run us over.” My mind wandered to all the cars that might have collided with protesters in their haste, hearing tales of angry, reckless drivers who plow into demonstrators, outraged about being held up, causing chaos. Such news had even reached my village high in the hills.

The fifth day was closing in. On the horizon, I saw the colorful lights of the metropolis. Some people were lighting firecrackers; others might have been sending up flares. The whole skyline flickered. “I have to find out where the heart of it all is,” I thought, though my legs could barely carry me anymore. I hadn’t eaten anything but a crust of stale bread and a piece of cheese yesterday. I had no real fuel left, but a stubborn warmth drove me on—some odd desire to lay eyes on that Miraculous Red Tractor that had filled my dreams since I descended from the mountain.

I recalled a description of one scene: people blocked a main intersection, standing still without speaking a word for exactly fifteen minutes. During that interval, the city fell silent. Only the traffic lights kept cycling through their colors, with no cars, no noise. It was like a collective prayer, though no one mentioned faith. I thought to myself: maybe I’m also part of that silence, even though I’m walking entirely alone.

In the midst of that evening hush, I heard the rumble of an engine—an echo that cut through my ears and kept resonating in my lungs. It wasn’t an ordinary engine; it was far too deep, too much like a lion’s roar. For a moment, I felt certain it was that colossal tractor. I broke into a run toward the sound, my feet suddenly lighter. Soon, I arrived at a huge semicircular intersection. There was a crowd: some groups were standing around, lighting candles, eating pastries out of paper bags, and in front of them, between two buildings, was a pile of cars. Right there, at the center, I saw a red sheen reflecting under the streetlights. It was as if the entire intersection were about to boil over, and at the heart of it sat a tractor.

Something compelled me to move closer, but a man in a blue jacket stopped me. “It’s dangerous, kid,” he murmured. “We’re waiting for tempers to cool. Somebody’s taken out their anger, some are gathered demanding resignations, and that guy on the tractor is spewing nasty jokes about those in power. It’s not a pleasant scene.” Still, I inched my way forward, searching for the driver’s cab with my eyes.

I was stunned: where the driver’s seat should have been, there was no one. The engine was running, but the machine wasn’t moving. As if some spirit was driving it.

I don’t know what compelled me, but I climbed onto the trailer attached at the back. Only then did I get a view of the building walls: on the facade was a scene reminiscent of that old painting—some silhouette of a woman holding a flag high, and behind her the outline of a child with a toy gun. A large inscription read: “This is a time without words.” It was almost taunting me to say something—yet I couldn’t.

Standing there on that trailer, I watched the dawn arrive. The world turned gray, and it seemed the protest was dispersing. People were returning to their homes or preparing for new blockades. In the distance, I saw a group of young men, perhaps my own age, but unfamiliar to me. They carried on their shoulders a sign with a simple sentence: “Even silence can tear down a wall.”

Some painful realization stirred within me: despite walking all the way from the mountains to this concrete sprawl, I still hadn’t found a single word, a single thought, or a common battle cry. My protest walk had been about coming to terms with my own silence. But now I stood on the trailer of something that felt more powerful than any weapon. It might just be ordinary farming equipment, but it seemed to me like the hidden heartbeat of this revolt.

I don’t want to arrive at some neat conclusion, because a beautiful song by the band Obojeni program reminds me that every definition is a loss of freedom—and I’m confused enough as it is. Still, I feel that every droplet of this misty dawn has absorbed both the smell of smoke and the energy of these people. An old man comes near me, watches me silently, then finally says, “Your protest lasts as long as you can endure it. Don’t think you’re alone just because you’re not marching in a column.”

I smile, again without words, and my gaze falls on the tractor’s gleaming red casing. It seems to me that even though the tractor isn’t going anywhere, it’s somehow propelling everything around it. A fine thread connects that rusty hulk of my grandfather’s—useless, yet indestructible—with this urban giant that rumbles on without a driver. I think to myself: sometimes, a single presence, no matter how lonely, shakes things up more than a massive crowd.

I look toward the wall where people had stood before, recalling the murmur of the throng, recalling the sight of raised hands, and then I remember that man in a suit, arm held high, in some other time or place—maybe offering hope, maybe inciting fear, maybe rendered meaningless. All of it whirls through my mind, but I can’t help laughing inwardly at my situation: I devoted days upon days of walking to get here, and now I’m stuck by a tractor that won’t let me climb down off the trailer—because I no longer know how to go back.

While I stand there perplexed, someone shouts, “Come on, get down; let the tractor do its thing!” Without thinking, I nod and jump back onto the asphalt. In that instant, the engine gives a mighty growl, then slowly dies. I hear distant laughter—maybe someone is mocking the way that power just shut off, or mocking me for expecting that red hunk of metal to carry me into a new chapter.

My five-day trek is finished. I’m among people now, but I still don’t shout. I hear voices: “Stop! Stand still!” They say we must keep silent exactly fifteen minutes at noon. I remember the stories of those who lost their lives to someone’s negligence. And so I stand and remain silent, my face turned to the sky. A breeze blows a piece of paper beside my feet. It reads, “Sometimes one person is enough.”

My chest reverberates with the echo of horns in the distance, the echo of engines, the echo of defiance. For me, the protest began the morning I chose to walk slowly, on purpose, toward the city. I didn’t even wait to come up with slogans. Now here I stand, among the shadows of tall buildings and a square that bears the traces of trampled barricades, feeling a faint tingling in my hands. Maybe it’s a longing to raise my voice, or to fire up a tractor that’s no longer here.

Perhaps a few more days or months will pass before my path continues. Someday, I’ll probably return to the mountain and that busted tractor of my grandfather’s. Maybe I’ll get it running, despite everyone telling me its engine is burned out. Maybe I’ll repaint it so that it gleams like the red one I saw in the city, shining defiantly and unyieldingly.

I doubt I’ll ever write slogans on my backpack or push my way to the front lines with flags and barricades. My personal protest will remain in this walking, in my silent yet stubborn steps. And sometimes, in those small steps, I catch myself smiling with gentle irony: I, a child of the mountains, have become enamored with urban asphalt and the metallic sparkle of tractors.

And so, I linger on the edge of that public gathering, still undecided whether to move closer or withdraw. But I feel the color of this morning, glowing red like my imagined tractor, envelop me. In that moment, I begin to understand: if there is any meaning at all, it lies in viewing the world from an unexpected angle—whether from a trailer, from atop a wall, or deep in a forest, it’s all the same.

I still offer no final statement. Let the city keep arguing, let the marchers discover new routes. Perhaps I’ll scribble a few letters on my mud-caked soles and let them dry and crumble on the city sidewalk, like seeds. And seeds, they say, have a knack for sprouting sometimes—especially when they’re crushed by a wheel. A red wheel. The one that churns through everything that seemed insurmountable.

From the short story collection Tajni grad (Secret City), part of the Ciklus o hodačima (Walker Cycle).
Razneseni Svemir, Vladimir Tomić, Oblak Kaktusa, Belgrade, March 15, 2025

Dedication: “In Honor of the Unknown Student”

Right now, as large student protests rage across Serbia, I couldn’t simply stand aside. I support the rebellion, I support the need to expose injustice and the incompetence of the system. Yet I’m always mindful of the other side of every uprising: those who bear revolt inside them but never express it in loud chanting. These are the quiet, introverted individuals who are often overlooked or trampled by the revolution itself, and whose struggles mostly unfold within. I believe their voice, however inaudible on the outside, carries the same power as the crowd’s roar.

That’s why this story isn’t told from my own perspective. In my other works, I often speak of myself, but this time I chose a different angle. In reality, I’m not afraid to stand face-to-face with a police barricade if I witness injustice. But I know there are gentler souls for whom direct confrontation is unthinkable. Their protest might be slower, quieter, or still invisible, and that’s precisely why it deserves to be told. In “Crveni traktor” (The Red Tractor), I wanted to honor these outsiders—students who aren’t in the spotlight, who don’t wield megaphones, yet who exist in the margins, deeply feeling the same indignation.

This story is for them, for all who walk at their own measured pace, without brandishing signs, yet carry the same spark of change. In my view, courage often lies in silence, in the unspoken, in the private realm that quietly propels us forward. When revolutions “devour their children,” it’s those who remain silent—those who are different and sensitive—who suffer most. That’s why I sought to depict them here: as unknown but essential forces behind every protest movement.