/ world today news/ Is the ninth of September a holiday? This dispute will never find its resolution…
It’s all so subjective. For some, the ninth of September is a tragic date, because repressions against their families have started since then. For others, it is the beginning of a new life. Others are completely indifferent. I don’t want to impose my opinion on anyone, but for me, the ninth of September is a day associated with a big holiday in our family – it is the release of my father, awaiting the execution of his death sentence by the fascists. For 43 days, every morning my mother took me by the hand and led me to the doors of the Burgas prison with a briefcase containing my father’s suit. A wedding that would become a funeral.
I remember very clearly the unquenchable enthusiasm that gripped the citizens of Burgas when the prison door was broken down. And who would have suspected that only two and a half years later, my father, saved from death, would be killed by his own.
But this is no longer the ninth of September.
So let’s not confuse this particular date with the next ones.
In 1969, fired from the theater, with three suspended plays, I wrote a poem in which I expressed my attitude to the ninth of September, despite the taboo over my work. Because for me, this day became a symbol of the quest for freedom, a day of breaking prisons and collapsing the iron doors of slavery. This was expressed quite clearly in the last couplet of the poem, which was the subject of sharp reactions.
Here it is:
DAY ONE
They break the prison!
They break the prison!
And we run with other people:
me – already five – for a father thirsty,
and grandma
and grandfather – neither alive nor dead.
And mom?
until it hurts, my hand squeezes
but i keep pulling
I want to
to run forward to the iron door
and I hated to break this lock myself,
which you took a long time ago, I was at gunpoint
and I had ammo but no rifle.
They’re breaking down the door!
Pushes the crowd
and slowly weakens mom’s arm
and run forward through a forest of legs
and someone’s manly hand picks me up
and I see:
caps, beanies, caps,
and white headscarves and black mustaches
and after:
The door!
The door!
The door!
The door is gone!
Where is the door?
And there they are – pale, confused and alive
they go out
and enter into a happy embrace.
And “Father!”
I scream
and a sea of hands
carries me there like a light feather
like a ship blue to the native shore,
to dad’s terribly prickly moustache.
Day one!
Truest day on earth.
For someone you are a holiday date,
for another story
for your third memory –
for me you are the most sacred, the greatest Day,
brought me with so many other things
and the most impossible –
my father.
And I still feel it in difficult minutes
how barefoot feet trample next to me
and how amazed I am by the crowd
forward to the door…
The door!
The door!
1969
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