Camino – From Slavery to Freedom

By Petra Škarja

A book for all those who want to put the heavy burdens of the past behind them.

This book helps you in difficult moments. Even the hardest ones. It gives hope, strength, faith in life, and the meaning of perseverance.

This book has been a work in progress for at least 13, maybe even 24 years, but it finally found its way out after the Camino; after the journey that echoes my personal transition from slavery to freedom; after the liberation from childhood trauma I had been fighting for.

I was prepared to travel to the end of the world to get out, to rid myself of the shackles that had been getting heavier and heavier, and that is exactly what I did. I travelled to the end of the world, to Fisterra, in search of lightness and freedom.

Bestseller in Slovenia! More than 8,000 copies sold in a country of only two million people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035824953

Petra Škarja

“Be who you are; do what you love.” Petra Škarja is the author of several bestselling books in Slovenia. With the book Camino—From Slavery to Freedom, she has touched the most hearts and changed the most lives. She is also author of several biographies of Slovenian most successful entrepreneurs—she strongly supports entrepreneurial mindset in former socialist countries, where entrepreneurship was long forbidden.  As a successful young entrepreneur, she is frequently invited to speak at schools and businesses, and has delivered talks at TEDx, the Conference on World Affairs in 2022, and even in China.  Driven by her passion for literature, she founded the 5KA Publishing House, dedicated to supporting talented Slovenian writers. She believes that there are stories that deserve to live on forever...

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About the Author

Be who you are; do what you love.

Petra Škarja is the author of several bestselling books in Slovenia. With the book Camino—From Slavery to Freedom, she has touched the most hearts and changed the most lives. She is also author of several biographies of Slovenian most successful entrepreneurs—she strongly supports entrepreneurial mindset in former socialist countries, where entrepreneurship was long forbidden.

As a successful young entrepreneur, she is frequently invited to speak at schools and businesses, and has delivered talks at TEDx, the Conference on World Affairs in 2022, and even in China.

Driven by her passion for literature, she founded the 5KA Publishing House, dedicated to supporting talented Slovenian writers. She believes that there are stories that deserve to live on forever...

Copyright Information ©

Petra Škarja 2024

The right of Petra Škarja to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035824946 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035824953 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Just Austin Macauley Publishers

Camino

Camino is a piece of nature with which you become one.

Camino is the time you dedicate to finding yourself.

Camino is the people you meet—

Each and every one of them giving a part of themselves to you.

Camino is authenticity; the purity of nature,

The essence of life, the sincerity of relationships.

Camino is a decision to make a change,

But most of all it is something indescribable.

Something beyond words that can only be experienced first-hand.

This book has been a work in progress for at least 13, maybe even 24 years, but it finally found its way out after the Camino; after the journey that echoes my personal transition from slavery to freedom; after the liberation from childhood trauma I had been fighting for.

I was prepared to travel to the end of the world to get out, to rid myself of the shackles that had been getting heavier and heavier, and that is exactly what I did. I travelled to the end of the world, to Fisterra, in search of lightness and freedom.

First You Walk the Camino

My Way. My Camino. My Footprints.

The transition from slavery to freedom.

Sometimes hard, but worth every droplet of sweat.

Drawn by: Petra Škarja

Day 1

Irun, France

The bed I am lying in has probably been sweaty a hundred times over. It’s dirty, covered in hair and maybe even a home to famous bedbugs. All twenty-nine of my roommates in the albergho know exactly when I move because the bed creaks loudly and the more I try to lie still, the stronger the itch, the pain and the need to move. One of the travellers has already fallen asleep on the bunk bed below me, as evidenced by loud snoring, but it’s not the snoring that bothers me—it’s the giggles coming from a group of women. I can’t help but wonder how they ended up here.

The makeup, the high-heeled sandals and the pretty dresses don’t quite fit into this world; into the world of hiking, into the world of the Camino. To be completely honest with you, it’s not their looks that bother me, but their loud laughs, giggles and shrieks. From my point of view, they are being disrespectful to the travellers who have walked thirty kilometres in forty-degree heat and just want to get some sleep in peace. Well, I am probably not much better with the noisy, creaky bed.

I can hardly breathe in the heat. My thoughts are mainly negative and, if I’m honest, I have no wish to focus on the positive.

What is the purpose of all this? I ask myself over and over again.

As opposed to my usual trips, I might know the answer this time. I am taking this trip, the Camino, with a reason—to overcome my biggest challenge. It’s even hard to call it a challenge. It’s still a problem. The biggest one so far.

She keeps me company, she shapes me and (mis)leads me to such an extent that I have named her my hypocritical friend. I will tell you more about her later. I have been fighting her for more than 13 years. Sometimes to a greater, sometimes to a lesser extent, but she is always near. Despite all my efforts to overcome her, despite many hours spent with therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists, despite reading hundreds of books and working on myself, as we like to say, I cannot get rid of her. Most of the time I am alone with myself, with daily internal struggles. Day by day going deeper and deeper to such depths that it seems to me I can no longer go deeper, because I’m already too exhausted. When I hit rock bottom, it’s usually time for a change. Time to move my wave of troubles and make a considerable shift. Now is the time for this shift!

I know, I have said that it was enough at least a hundred times in the last thirteen years, to no avail, yet the signs before Camino and the feelings that are new to me are a clear indicator that something is different now. It happens to everybody—when you suddenly know something. Without a doubt. And this time, I am sure the decision is different, and a change is ahead of me. The time is now! I know it is!

This is why I chose the Camino. I came here to change my life.

Even if I suffer for forty days, it doesn’t matter. This can be my hike or my Way of the Cross, it can be my crucifixion or resurrection, as long as it brings change.

So, I walk the Camino. A thousand kilometres. My symbolic fight to defeat the biggest problem of my life: my hypocritical friend whom I never dared introduce to anyone. Until now.

Have you had a tough first day? A thin traveller with a Spanish accent asks me. He’s come to the Camino for just 14 days: The perfect vacation, he says.

Is it that obvious? I think to myself. Yes, it was a tough day, I reply, even though I don’t have the slightest intention of elaborating on the feelings I myself have a hard time understanding.

There’s actually no logical answer to the question. It just is.

Don’t worry, it’s normal, he confirms, instead of asking the question I expected him to ask. I travel all the time and I can hardly wait each and every time. But on the first day, on the plane, it’s always hard.

So, you understand! I was really happy that he understood how I felt because it made me feel more normal. Being normal—a tendency and a curse at the same time. Why is it so? I ask him.

I don’t know, but I guess this is how our bodies fight the changes that are so close when we decide to undertake such a journey. Maybe they want to protect us from the unknown. You are probably asking yourself why you are doing this when you really don’t have to, right? And he was right! This stranger without a name knew me better in that particular moment than my friends that I usually talk to about my feelings, questions and worries.

He gave me earplugs, saying: You might need them, smiled kindly and looked at me in a way that made me feel less alone. He left me lost in my confused mind.

He was right. Why do I always put myself into unfamiliar situations, even though I know it won’t be easy? And why do I have to do it when I’ve finally got my life in some kind of order?

Well, at least I like to believe that I have, after a great turning point. It has been two years and two months since then. Since the day an immense headache caused by inconsolable crying was overpowered by heartache, for which there was no chemical remedy. Two years and two months since the day when I was hugging my dog, a fluffy Pomeranian named Mala (Little One) who helped me get through the worst.

Two years and two months since the day when I was in debt and my accounts were blocked and all I had were my clothes, an old car, my phone and my computer. Nothing was left of my fairytale life. I lost my apartment and a partner whom I always imagined would become my husband and the father of my children. I lost a villa in a perfect location on top of a hill—a villa I helped build, a villa that caused a lot of stress, tears and pain, but at the same time brought joy in creativity. I was left without plans for the future. Yes, in this aspect life was beautiful.

I often felt like a princess, showered with attention by her prince, with whom she gathered corals in the Maldives, got a massage by skilled masseurs in Sri Lanka, lay around in magnificent Falkensteiner hotels, drove luxurious cars, gambled in Las Vegas, climbed the Mayan temples on Yucatan, got lost in Venezuela, sledded down dunes in the desert, and above all, often cried tears of laughter… That may be why I frequently had to face questioning stares. Some people even asked aloud: Why? What more could you have wanted? You had everything and more!

These questions remained unanswered, but they got me thinking about myself, about how humanity has lost its way. How far we have strayed from our essence, from our senses, how we have completely lost touch with nature.

When in our evolution did we become so lost that we now believe in this completely unrealistic chart of life’s values?

We all inherently want happiness, and society (media, politics, consumerism, everything around us) has convinced us that we will find it in a house, in money, in fame, in nice dresses, in high society, and in power.

When did we become so lost that we forgot to feel—to sense that this is one of the great lies in this world?

I believed all of this myself. One must probably experience both—glamour and poverty—to finally realise what one wants, independent from external influence.

It was nice, and at the same time very hard, to live those four years as a faux princess. You cannot imagine how very hard it was. I felt inside that this was not the life I wanted to live; I despaired daily, I watched my hands shake from the stress I was experiencing at the young age of twenty-one. My hair was growing thinner, and my skin was aging much faster than I wanted it to. And the worst thing was the light gone from my eyes, my curiosity about life was disappearing, and the burning desires in my heart were going cold. I was an old person in a young body. I was dead in a body that was very much alive, a body that hid all of my childhood wishes to see the world so far inside, so deep that I couldn’t even see their shadows.

But I didn’t know why. How could this have happened, when I was diligently following every step of how to live a happy life?

I grew up in a village with 20 houses and 25 barns. This is an exaggeration, but this is what we tend to do when we want to stress an important fact.

Growing up on a farm is paradise for a child—not that any child realises that. You have no other option but to breathe the fresh air, eat the greens from your garden, enhance your motor skills on the fields, learn physics through application, see the circle of life; the birth and death of animals. I will never forget how much I wanted to watch a calf being delivered, nor will I ever forget how fast I ran out of the barn once I saw the actual delivery. I knew the name of every animal, I knew their personalities, and I knew when they went on a trip—this was what was said when an animal was no longer in its barn, and we all played the game of believing this beautiful lie. You are always in touch with nature, whether you want to be or not. People in a village take many things for granted that others learn later in life.

It is only hard for a child who wants to see the whole world. The child who wants to explore the pyramids instead of a cave in a local forest, who wants to touch the most beautiful beaches of the world instead of the banks of the Krka river, observe lions and giraffes instead of cows, walk the red carpet in Hollywood instead of the way to school, conquer Mount Everest instead of a neighbouring hill, dance around the fire with Native Americans, barefoot in a loincloth, instead of going to a village fete, eat in the fanciest restaurants around the world instead of eating grandmother’s freshly baked bread with sugar and cream (and imagine she’s spreading a napkin in her lap), skydive instead of driving a tractor, observe the planes at airports around the world instead of swallows in the barn.

I adored television (show me a child who didn’t or doesn’t) and books—primarily because they showed me what the world has to offer and made me add things to my bucket list. My diaries were filled with photos of temples, beaches in paradise, mountains, and many other hidden gems on this planet.

With my wild curls, strong legs, moonlike face and rosy cheeks, my busy, skilled hands, a Capricorn’s nature, and my humble need to please others, I blended in perfectly with those twenty houses and twenty-five barns. But in my eyes, there were sparks that spurred the desire to see the world. The World.

It must be hard for parents who have such a headstrong child.

I got lost in forests countless times—literally got lost but was too afraid to admit it to my parents. I liked going places that others didn’t: meadows, springs and rivers. I never met anyone there, and I didn’t know then why I was doing it; I didn’t question it. As a child, you rarely ask yourself these very important questions of why you want or don’t want to do something. You simply do what an inner voice is telling you to do in that particular moment. Nowadays, I try harder to follow that unseen force, as there is something about it that makes it boundlessly infallible.

Why did I wander the woods and natural paths then? My best answer is that I was guided by an unstoppable and unquenchable thirst for exploration. I wanted to explore everything, especially nature and my own thoughts.

The first years of school were unbearably boring and difficult for me. I don’t know what was going on inside me at that time, but I remember the day when our school psychologist called my parents in to discuss me. They talked about me as if I weren’t in the room, even though I was sitting right there, a metre away from them. I was small, but not deaf, let alone ignorant. It is interesting how we manage to exclude children from our conversations, even when they are right next to us. Do we really forget that they hear and feel better than us?

They said I was too calm, too quiet, too shy, and something had to be done about my self-confidence, or I would have big problems later in life. They realised I knew things, but they guessed I was too scared to raise my hand and answer questions. They said that when I was asked something, I was petrified and didn’t say a word. If only they had known why I had escaped into my own world.

And so, it began. My mother made it her lifelong project to increase her daughter’s self-esteem. I think in all her commitment she still hasn’t given up her calling, as she still stresses the words that I’ve heard so many times before: Petra, you do not value yourself highly enough. Be confident! Yes, mother- Unfortunately, a child needs a model to observe and imitate, not a voice to listen to and obey.

I sensed her commitment through her meditation sessions. Today we would call it spiritual enlightenment, but at that time society simply considered her strange.

I didn’t know then what confidence meant. I didn’t know the vastness of the project my mother had undertaken. I do remember her bringing home books; Janez Rugelj, PhD., Anton Trstenjak, Louise L. Hay. I doubt I truly understood those books then, but I certainly understood the following: I fell in love with books. Books hold all the answers! Books explain what the world is like elsewhere, how people think, what is going on.

After the school library ran out of books I hadn’t read, I decided to write interesting things myself.

And I wrote and wrote and wrote. For the first time I felt like certain unspoken secrets from my early childhood, memories of the physical world that were eating me up from inside, could be put on paper and unburden my soul. Unburden it of guilt.

I wrote about the deepest depths a child is capable of in those early years when they stare into a drop of water and naturally invent their own philosophy. My brother laughed at me (why else do we have brothers if not to teach us, softly or harshly).

In third grade I fell in love—with volleyball. If this fact made you think of me as a typical volleyball player, I must correct you on that. I was a small child with the legs of a football player, weak hands, the stamina of a marathon runner and, of course, my loner nature. I was a good example of someone who isn’t suitable for volleyball following any criteria (even those measurable). But at that small school, in the large village of Mokronog, I was able to choose between chess and volleyball, since both classes had practice on the same day. I chose volleyball, since chess was boring enough when I played it with my father.

I fell in love with that sport! Not only with volleyball, but also with the feelings I had during practice. Proving oneself, achieving results, the feeling of victory after years of hard work, crying at unexpected defeat, the commitment to execute every movement perfectly, the combination of exhaustion and content after practice, and, perhaps this is most interesting aspect of it, volleyball presented a way to get to all of those destinations I had dreamed about. It shattered my armour that had grown harder every time I’d heard the words: it is impossible, and made space for my own: what if it is possible?

When I was named the best player of the tournament the second year in a row (I wasn’t really that good, but my competition was worse), I decided—this is my life. I will be a volleyball player!

Except I didn’t tell anyone at home. Courage has never been my strong suit. I was very good at hiding.

As a child I often made my mother worry, confused my father, annoyed my brother, and made my grandparents laugh, but the most important thing was my participation in school tournaments and additional activities, and my good grades.

Everything was as it should have been. Everything was as they said it should have been.

I received an imaginary map to lead me to a perfect, happy life, which is the dream of most people we know. It is that road that most of us follow tirelessly; the instructions for life known to all: Go to school and get good grades, study for a long time to get at least one PhD, get a good job in an office with air conditioning where you won’t have to work too hard, you will have a good salary, you will meet a partner and build a house with a white picket fence and have a dog and two children. You won’t have to labour like we do. Just study and get good grades.

And you will live happily ever after; unspoken words, left in your thoughts. Theirs and mine.

Simple.

I followed that axiom carefully and diligently, as if it was the highest truth in the world. First, I did it to make my parents proud, then to make a happy life for myself.

And you know what? I was doing well, really well. I was so proud at the end of primary school, as I walked towards the principal to receive all those gold medals, plaques, and rewards for special achievements. I was convinced that a wonderful life lay ahead of me, and I built that conviction solely on the foundation of good grades and doing well at school.

So why wasn’t I happy later in life? Why wasn’t I happy even when I was living in a beautiful apartment, building a house, creating a family, travelling, and had a promising career? I even bought a dog! All that was missing was a picket fence. Everything was as it should have been. I had everything I was supposed to have to be successful and happy.

But I felt that something was wrong, that I was not living my life properly. Life can’t be that hard, that stressful, and a person shouldn’t be so full of fear and pain. I felt it wasn’t right, although I was told that such was adult life. It is how it is. I wasn’t convinced by that answer.

This is the price of such financial stability, was the reasonable argument expressed by people close to me. Yes, there were a lot of problems, a lot of stress and work in that time, despite all the things I had, all the options… But deep inside me I felt that if this was the price, I was not willing to pay it. Not I, who remembered counting stars on top of Triglav, instead of at a wonderful hotel in the Maldives. I didn’t want to share this with my partner at the time, which was certainly my mistake, and I was more and more afraid to be myself. I was losing my individuality, my thoughts, and my feelings. I was becoming a programmed robot, believing I didn’t know and couldn’t do a lot, so I was better off following the teachings of the world. I trained myself in psychology, sales, NLP (neuro-linguistic programming), hypnosis, business, and communications; everything to become as good as I can possibly be. As good as I can be for this world.

But I never trained to feel myself, to listen to my own intuition, to follow my own inclinations. On the contrary—I denied all of it. I was smothering my true self. My whole life then was but a directed play. Even when the play was perfect and seemingly wonderful, it was so very empty. Painfully empty. Meaningless. Cold.

And year after year the visits from my hypocritical friend became more frequent.

In those years, I experienced some of the most wonderful and some of the most horrifying moments. I felt the most beautiful feelings and the most painful ones. I heard the sweetest words and the harshest ones. I lived in abundance and in prison. I had everything and nothing at the same time. Life with a bipolar person is just like the word describes it—bipolar. He feels like a god during a high and thinks about how easy it would be to swerve off the road at the right speed when he is low. All of this, along with my own battles with my hypocritical friend, made me tired.

I will not explain why I stayed in that relationship for so many years, or why I packed and emptied my bags so many times. I will not explain why, despite all the drama, I never doubted that he would be my future husband and the father of my children.

I definitely won’t explain how many times I swept the words I would never under the rug. Under the rug in the house that never became a home.

I will not explain because it is meaningless, and more than that—I can’t even explain it to myself. Is it reasonable to ask a person in love about the irrational things they do? I was exactly that—in love.

Except I wasn’t sure if I was in love with him or with my idea of a life with him.

There were days when we would talk about the next step—children. Yes, I wanted children, but not in that environment. Maybe the next step was what woke me up. It would have been fine if I had been meant to have such a life, but I did not want this life for my children.

I don’t know where I got the strength to leave that day. I didn’t leave the same as I had before: I left different. For the first time I felt that despite all the suffering and troubles that lay ahead, not a single cell in my body felt any doubt about leaving. I left for good. I left to find my happiness. I knew that I couldn’t find it there, that I had to go away. It was a day when the pain of staying was larger than the pain I felt when I was crying on the floor of an old, rented apartment, full of mould and darkness and terrible emptiness. That day I lost almost everything, but I was left with something that was more important than anything I’d lost.

I found, no, fought for another chance. To live the life I had dreamed about as a child. A life in which I would be truly happy. A life that would be mine. My way. A way without expectations or others’ demands, independent of social ladders, of what is right and what is wrong, what is more or less valuable, what you must and must not have, what you should be and how you must dress. No, I wanted my way, my life.

I didn’t know that it wasn’t going to be easy to find.

I fell asleep on a pillow wet from tears, clutching a fluffy animal in my arms, a dog named Mala (Little One), the beating of whose heart made me remember that I could still feel, whose eyes reminded me that eyes can sparkle like mine used to, to the sounds of a song that has become my favourite—My Way.

And right now, I am starting a journey of unknown trials, wherein the unknown itself brings fear. Right after I managed to get my life in order in the two years following my crying to My Way. Right when I feel good in my house.

My black car with white butterflies with the meaningful name Niko written on it stands lonely in the garage. The apartment I had wished for all these years is empty. My friends are probably drinking coffees with rice milk in our favourite cafes telling jokes, relaxed. My business partners are probably mad at me for not answering their emails and for my number being unavailable. My parents are worried about me again, wandering the world all alone, searching for something I cannot find at home. And I am completely present here, at the beginning of my way towards the Camino, which will somehow change my life.

Why did you come to Camino? A typical question. Everyone has their own why. Oh, my dear, unknown roommate for the night, how can I explain this to you in one sentence, when it has taken me years to come up with an answer? How can I tell you something I haven’t been able to explain to the people closest to me?

Why not? It can’t hurt, can it? Walking in nature, in the fresh air, being alone with oneself…and Spaniards are handsome, was all I told her in a relaxed tone, and which made the majority of the people who spoke English laugh. I was surprised that I couldn’t even tell a complete stranger about my hypocritical friend and my own battles.

Day 2

Irun—San Sebastian (27 km)

The Camino de Santiago, known in English as The Way of Saint James among other names, is a network of pilgrims’ paths serving pilgrimage to the shrine of the apostle Saint James the Great in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain, where tradition has it that the remains of the saint are buried. Many follow its routes as a form of spiritual path or retreat for their spiritual growth.

On average, we walk twenty-five kilometres per day. We have accommodation along the way, as well as enough food and drink, so special planning is not required.

And now I am here. A thousand kilometres; from Irun to Fisterra and back to Santiago de Compostela.