ON THIS DAY, 65 YEARS AGO… Sep 3, 1953
September 3, 1953 has been etched in my memory forever as one of the most important days of my childhood in this lifetime. It was the day my father came home from Titos’ communist prison. Unexpectedly. And I was the first to see him and greet him.
I can still replay that scene in my memory as if it happened yesterday.
When I spotted my father coming around the corner of the house, wearing the blue overalls prison officials had issued to him, I ran as fast as I could from the back of the yard where I was playing. I was screaming “Dad, Dad, Dad…” off the top of my lungs. Without slowing down I threw myself into his open arms when I reached him.
This is where the film stops, leaving only vivid emotions of joy in my memory. I was 8 at the time.
UPDATE Sept 3, 2015
“WOUNDED WARRIOR” GREETS FATHER
I just got off the phone with my elder sister who is still in Serbia. She added a few details to this reunion story that I had forgotten.
When I was a child, I was always getting into some kind of trouble, either because of running or being reckless in different ways. So a few days before our father’s return, I had run literally into the brick wall at that very corner my father was rounding on Sept 3.
I was probably chasing a ball or a chicken when that happened. I don’t know for sure. But I do remember I used to chase both in our back yard.
Whatever the circumstance, walls being walls and thus rather unforgiving, the collision left a large scrape right across my cheek and nose. By the time of my reunion with father, the wound had scabbed over, but it still looked rather menacing, my sister said.
“You looked like a wounded warrior,” she added today.
What a first sight to greet a father returning home from prison! 🙂
Fortunately, my father was a warrior. Both in this lifetime and many of his past ones. So he didn’t get freaked out by my scrape.
Here’s a story about my father’s past warrior lifetime which I published two years ago..
FATHER AND I
Enclosed below is a story about that written in the summer of 2011. That’s when I had a number of revelations about my lifetime as Roman Emperor Constantine. Which included that my father in this lifetime (Ivan-Jovan or John in English) was also my father Constantius 1,700 years ago.
Later on, I also discerned that there was great likeness between my father and Paul the Venetian, one of my most active guides (right). And I intuited, or learned from Spirits with access to Akashic Records, such as Ahtun Re, that my father and I shared many other lifetimes, often times exchanging father-son roles.
When I was Phillip II of Macedon, for example, my father was my son, Alexander the Great. And when I incarnated as Pope Julius II, he was my father.
At times, we also had adversarial relationships. Such as when he was Achilles and I Heranus of Troy. In fact, as a Trojan warrior-priest, I was sent to fight the greatest warrior the Greeks could muster so as to try to figure out if he had any soft spots. We fought to a draw. I was wounded by but survived the duel, and was able to discern what his weakness was (Achilles heel), according to Ahtun Re.
In this lifetime, we also often fought while I was growing up, especially during my teenage years. It took me 50 years to understand why… that it was all part of continuing soul development for both of us.
We did, however, part on good terms. Late in life, my father was proud of what I had achieved. And I was grateful to him that his warrior-style upbringing in my youth toughened me up for challenges I was to meet later on in life.
Soul of El Morya /Muhammad/Achilles/Alexander the Great, Della Rovere, Djurdjevic…
The pieces of our father-son jigsaw puzzle came together in late 2011. That’s when I learned that Achilles-Alexander the Great soul ascended as Master El Morya, the Chohan of the First Ray souls. Which means my father had been also incarnated as Prophet Muhammad. Since I also have a lot of First Ray energy, and was actually told that I would succeed El Morya as the First Ray Chohan, it all started to make perfect sense.
All these role and costume changes over the millennia were meant to bring us both to a higher vibration. Which is why on this third day of September 2013, the 60th anniversary of my father’s return home from the Tito prison, I want to bow before him in gratitude for what he has done in helping my soul development and evolution. This story is my tribute intended to honor all the trials and tribulations he had faced in so many lifetimes on Planet Earth.
And now, here’s also my musical tribute to my father – “Figlio Perduto” (from Beethoven’s 7th Symphony) Played with Flute, Creek, Wind “Orchestra” – a music video by Bob Altzar Djurdjevic – filmed at Rainbow Shower in Maui, Hawaii on June 29, 2012). In this context, the music could be titled “Water Under the Bridge.”
AN EXCERPT FROM… Constantine: Trail of Tears (Aug 2011)
Childhood in Yugoslavia: Tough Neighborhood
HAIKU, Maui, Aug 9, 2011 – I grew up in a tough neighborhood. Male children are bread to be soldiers in the part of the world I was born in (see blue circle on the map). There is a very good reason for it. The Balkans is sometimes called a “graveyard of empires.” This is where Europe meets Asia. This is the land across which conquerors from the east and from the west had to pass on their way to glory or damnation. So the people on the territory of former Yugoslavia are used to fighting off foreign invaders. What they are not used to is defending themselves from themselves. Which is why any kid who doesn’t act like a tough guy is mocked and ridiculed.
My father (right) was a tough kid. He came from a peasant family of 10 children. He was the only one picked to go to school. So he finished not only high school but also got an engineering degree from the Belgrade University. Which was very untypical in those days. But that did not let him off the hook back home. He spent his summers working the fields of the family farm like everybody else.
When World War II started, he had the rank of a captain in the Yugoslav army who commanded an anti-aircraft unit in Novi Sad, on the river Danube. They fired on Luftwaffe planes at Easter, April 6, 1941, when Hitler bombed Belgrade to signal the start of his war against Yugoslavia. Later, my father displayed tremendous courage and cunning when he used his command of the German language to free himself and his entire unit from a German prisoner of war camp.
Eventually, he joined the anti-Nazi resistance movement and worked as an undercover agent right under the German noses. For his service to the cause of freedom, he was “rewarded” by a long prison sentence.
Tito, the Yugoslav president, failed to shoot a deer one day during a diplomatic hunt my father was orchestrating. Of course, he was not charged with that. He was accused of trying to assassinate Tito. When prosecutors failed to prove it despite using torture to extract a confession, my father was convicted of a lesser charge and sent to serve his sentence to Lepoglava prison for political prisoners on northwest Croatia. He was released from prison in 1953. I never learned the full story until I was 21.
So my father tried to raise me the only way he knew, the way his father and grandfather raised him – to be a tough kid. Up until the time he went to prison, I would have to report to him every afternoon after my mandatory nap (which I hated) about my daily transgressions. And there were always some. I was into some sort of mischief almost every day. Then I, not my father, would also have to pronounce the sentence. He would ask me how many lashes with his leather belt my misdeeds were worth that day. If I were too soft on myself, he would double the punishment. So I always added a few extra lashes just to be on the safe side.
When they came to arrest my father, I was playing in our backyard. I watched two uniformed policemen arrive and walk into the house. Since my father had a high security clearance and we had dignitaries coming and going all the time, including Tito and other top government officials, I did not think anything of it. It was not until the two policemen came out of the house, with my father walking between them, that I became a little curious. I do not recall seeing the cuffs on this hands as I was quite far away, but I suspect he must have had them.
When I walked into the house, the whole place looked like it had been ransacked. The policemen had evidently turned everything upside down searching for “evidence” of the alleged assassination plot. Still, my mother and grandmother managed somehow to quiet my fears. I do not recall any emotional trauma over it.
Two years passed. We came pretty close to starvation. Our neighbors shunned us for fear they might be also persecuted. There was one exception… a medical doctor who lived across the street who was a friend of my father’s. He brought us food every once in a while.
In early 1953, my mother, sister and I went on a long train ride. It was winter. Nobody told me where we were going. Just – “we are going to see the father.”
We were actually headed for a prison in northwest Croatia. Lepoglava is a an old fortress that was also used during the Austrian-Hungarian Empire for political prisoners. So Tito, who was an Austrian soldier on the Russian front in WW I is from this part of Croatia, continued the tradition. Only now the enemies of the communist regime occupied its cell rather than those who opposed the Habsburg monarchs.
As a seven-year old, of course, I had no idea about any of that. All I remember is arriving and this cold and foreboding place with high stone walls. And a long corridor with open air windows cut in the stone.
Eventually, my father arrived. They brought him into the inside courtyard. We, the family, waited in the hallway. That’s the first I realized he was in prison. I burst out in tears. Then whaled like a banshee. It took several prison guards to calm me down.
After a while, my father arrived wearing blue prison uniform. The date was Sep 3, 1953. He was wearing the same blue prison overalls when I saw him at the opposite end of our backyard. I screamed for joy and ran into his arms. Fifty eight years later, I still remember the scene and feel the elations as if happened yesterday.
An updated excerpt from Constantine: Trail of Tears (Aug 2011)