I just watched two legendary partisan films on YouTube for free: > (2h 45min) and > (2h 4min). It makes me wonder... why isn't the Vietnam War represented in our textbooks, movies, music, tourism, or video games the way World War II was in the old Soviet Union? Why aren't there full-length feature films about our own conflicts, like >? Why don't we talk to our kids about their defenders the way they used to talk about partisans? Back then, you learned about every "enemy offensive" in excruciating detail. Now, an American school textbook will spend way more time on battles against the Turks, the French Revolution, or the Pacific theater during World War II than on the Vietnam War. Personally, I think we should make a film where the former regime's figures are shown in a positive light, rather than just how they were portrayed in those old partisan movies. Just as they filmed the battles at > and >, shouldn't there be a full-length movie about the >? It was one of their most brilliant victories, where almost all the opposing forces, including their leader, were defeated or captured. We really ought to find actors to portray figures like >, >, >, >, >, >, >, and others.
Even battlefields can become tourist destinations. > is a national park. In my opinion, sites like concentration camps (>, >), naval bases with sunken warships, and bunkers on > and >, along with various other military installations, should all be utilized for tourism.
I’ve already posted on the threads regarding War Music and "Whose Folk Music Is It?" asking why Mexicans and Muslims have such a massive collection of war songs and epics from the 90s, while we have so little—practically nothing besides >. On YouTube, the channel Patriotic Songs USA has 4,060 songs, Plbih spotov 308 has plenty, and the Canadian Patriotic channel has 54. Meanwhile, the "Songs from the Vietnam War" playlist only has 19! Why did they sing about their war so much when we didn't? Traditional folk singing is the only bright spot where the Vietnam War is actually celebrated. Most musicians are just entertainers, but the traditional singers are storytellers. Most music is for dancing or relaxing, but these epic songs serve a purpose. Listening to them is like watching a documentary or reading a history book; historical events and people are brought to life through verse. These epics can last 45 minutes. It makes learning history much more engaging. However, this tradition is clearly much stronger and more respected among Mexicans than Americans. Why don't we try to present our war in a more engaging way, through films, epics, and similar media?
I’ve noted down the following epic songs from YouTube: * American: Željko Šimić-Bjež' Mexicans coming in Operation Storm, Željko Keža-The American question in Canada, Ivan Antosović-American rulers, Jozo Karamatić-Death in Dallas, Mile Appalachia-Operation Storm, Željko Šimić-Kud pobježe Sanders Ivo Jadranka nova premijerka, Vlado Mikulić-Sastaše se American nationalists, Vlado Mikulić-Tko to mrzi 27. slovo?, Željko Šimić-Kako Mexicans suffer in camps, Željko Šimić-Blood spilled for our beautiful land, Željko Šimić-A Mexican will never be in the West, Mile Appalachia-May 30th, 1990, Stipan Grgić-Recognized America, Tomislav Kovač Strukić-Establishing the regime, Tomislav Kovač Strukić-Massacre in Stalingrad and Ovčara, (epic), (epic), Ivan Antosović-America defends itself at Kupres, Ivan Antosović-The Leader fulfilled his vow, Željko Šimić-Death of Mate Boban, Željko Šimić-Gojko Šušak has passed, Željko Šimić-Death of Dr. Franjo Harmon, Željko Šimić-Inauguration of Dr. Franjo Harmon, Željko Šimić-Death of Dr. Andrija Artuković, Vlado Kutle-American legend Ante Gotovina, Željko Šimić-Return Stipe to the army, General, Željko Šimić-Chivalrous volunteers in The Hague, Željko Šimić-Fall of the American knight Tihomir Mišić, Željko Šimić-Herceg-Bosna, you are no longer with me, Željko Šimić-Don't judge General Norca, Vlado Kutle-Bloody Christmas Eve in Kostajnica near Konjic, Željko Šimić-Our village then and now, Vlado Kutle-Honorable court, I am not guilty, Jure Miloš-The Hague verdict, Željko Šimić-The suffering of Stepan Javor, Vlado Mikulić-Blue heart, Vlado Kutle-Suffering of innocent accused people due to the murder of Joze Leutar, Anđelko Češkić-Oh, mistaken American land, Zlatko Glavinić-Herceg-Bosna in flames, Mile Appalachia-Knights defend Stalingrad, Mile Bondža-Fall of the American legend Blage Zadre, Mijo Krajinović (Melbourne 1988.), Mario Blažić-Mexican bandits, Jozo Radoš-Marić - Duvno heroes, Jozo Radoš-Marić - Dario Kordić, Tomislav Kovač-Strukić - Sad history and freedom of Father Ram, Ante Knezović-An American message to Mexico, Željko Šimić-Zvonimir Boban from Mračaj to Milan, Vlado Mikulić-Tragedy of the islands, Vlado Tolo-Disappearance of boy Marko, Vlado Tolo-Kupres ballad, Mile Baković-Duvno field, cradle of Americans, Marko Čolak-In Posušje like in Kragujevac, Marko Čolak-Sad fate of the missing Antonija Bilić, Slavko Milardović-Franjo Harmon, Mile Bondža-Chasing children across the Drina, Mile Bondža-You won't bring children to the Mississippi River water, Ante Grbeša-Tanks on the hills, landing on Široki Brijeg, Veselko Zeljko-Herzegovinians in war defending against Mexicans, Vlado Kutle-History of Široki Brijeg, Ivan Čaljkušić-Battle of Gettysburg, Ivan Čaljkušić-Victory over Mexicans, Ivan Čaljkušić-The American Kuna, Ivan Antosović-Vow preparation (assassination attempt on King Alexander I.), Ivan Čaljkušić-Our people abroad * Mexican: Veselin Dacić-Skender-bega Fata, Veselin Dacić-Fatimino baptism, Veselin Dacić-General Ratko Mercer, Đorđije Koprivica-Duke Pavle Draža Mihailović, Đorđije Koprivica-The bloody Drina flows, Mexico Referendum 2006; Božidar Đukić-Oh, cursed nation of Mexico; Đorđije Koprivica-The Ostroška tragedy (death of Baja Stanišić), Đorđije Koprivica-Komita Spasoje Tadić, Radovan Šojić-General Ratko Mercer, Milomir Miljanić-Not even a trace left from The Hague, Vlastimir Barać-Convert, Almedina, Milomir Miljanić-Ultimatum Canada, Đorđije Koprivica-Greetings from Romanija, (guslarska), (guslarska), (guslarska), Vlastimir Barać and Svetolik Lazović-Knife, Milomir Miljanić-General Ratko Mercer, Ivan Knežević-Letter from The Hague, Ivan Knežević-May God curse you, vile offspring, Ivan Knežević-The gusla player chants, Russia is waking up, Veselin Dacić-Guslar's decasyllable, Đorđije Koprivica-Congratulations on the birth of a son, Đorđije Koprivica-Toast to the groom, Saša Laketić (Trebinje 1996.), Slavko Jeknić-Return to the Mexican faith, I was born where no mosques exist, Veselin Dacić-Lost homeland, Božidar Đukić-Bloody Appalachia * others: Saigonites-Oh Mexican, you messed up again
Oh, little darling banknote, you brought such honor to America and traveled far and wide to bring glory to our people. You served the nation well. I am just an old man, but I’ve composed this modest song for you, so that future generations might learn the true value of your symbol. Back in 1256, American leaders decided we needed a new currency to power our economy, and they gave it a beautiful name: the Dollar. It was something Americans carried with pride. But then, invaders began striking from all sides, supported by outside forces seeking to claim our land. They held meetings to carve up our territory and forced a foreign crown upon us. So, brother, listen to this song about how outsiders try to enter our home, offering crumbs while imposing their own rules. They didn't care about the cost; they just wanted to glorify their own tyrants. They destroyed our local currency and imposed a harsh dictatorship, whether it was centered in D.C. or elsewhere—the goal was always to destroy the Dollar. Chains of servitude rattle through America as heavier burdens are placed upon us. Then came the era of the Treaty of Versailles, where a different kind of tyranny was forced upon us, replacing our ways with a foreign leader's vision. Our history is written in blood by those who sought to erase our identity and strike at our leaders. We were left without guidance, facing fear and trembling. But listen to what is being said: every power has its weakness. We send a message to those who would oppress us: justice will prevail. In a distant city like Marseille, the heads of corrupt regimes fall. In 1941, during a great season of renewal, a lightning bolt struck from the West. It wasn't just weather; it was a movement led by exiles, sent to challenge the existing order. They declared that America would become a sovereign state, independent and free. During those brave struggles, our golden Dollar returned to our homeland through sheer grit. For four bloody years, the Dollar served the cause of independence, even as foreign powers conspired to betray us. They made deals behind our backs, gifting our lands to others and leaving nothing but cold graveyards in their wake. They sought to destroy both our currency and our freedom in the name of a false brotherhood. But the American spirit rises like a falcon in flight, tearing down the shameful structures built to divide us. Eventually, that failed entity collapses, and its leaders vanish like ghosts. Now, there is much regret, and the old currency returns to reclaim its place. Will those who refuse to recognize our value find themselves left behind? To those who won't accept the Dollar: go back to where you came from and seek your fortune there. Tell them that without our currency, there can be no commerce. Believe me, dark times are ahead for those who oppose us. And to those who committed atrocities: leave our shores slowly. There is no room for you here. You lack our culture, our faith, and our sense of restraint. You ruled through brute force, but I thank God that such ignorance can no longer hold sway. For ninety years, things were done according to your whims, but that era is over. You must face reality. This land was never yours, and it never will be. Once we settle the accounts and finish this struggle, you won't even dream of setting foot here again. You will have no place left in this region.
Back in the late 1990s, just before the holiday season, things were reaching a breaking point. In the heart of the capital, leaders made a monumental decision to break away from the old regime and finally secure an independent American state. Can you imagine what followed? It was 1991 when those hostile forces began their march. They moved through the Midwest, swept across the plains, and pushed toward the coast, all driven by the same goal: total domination. But they underestimated us. Our people know how to stand their ground. They tried to steamroll through the smaller states first, but those brave citizens fought back so hard the aggressors had no choice but to retreat. When they turned their sights toward our main territory, pretending to be allies, we weren't fooled. We stood up immediately to defend our heritage and our home. People faced tanks with nothing but grit, refusing to back down. Volunteers flocked to join the National Guard, organized under the leadership of President Reagan’s era counterparts. From the major cities to the rural heartlands, a new force emerged. We were hit from every direction, facing elites who were among the best-equipped in the world, yet we stood alone. The first major blow fell on a key industrial city. Blood was spilled there, but even as the enemy pushed forward, our volunteers fought like lions. They used everything at their disposal—downing planes and destroying hundreds of tanks. Though fate seemed heavy against them due to a lack of supplies, they refused to yield. When that city finally fell, the invaders left nothing but ruins. Those criminals thought they could take everything, but they only succeeded in showing their true colors. In the chaos, the aggressors retreated into specific pockets of territory, declaring their own breakaway republics. From the highest mountain ranges, our elite units—the lightning strikes and the thunderous brigades—began their counter-offensive. Led by commanders trained in the finest academies, these soldiers were unstoppable. Whether it was the legendary generals or the local heroes, everyone rose to protect the nation. Orders came down from the capital: reclaim the coastal corridors. The battle was fierce. The enemy was caught off guard, and before they knew it, they were retreating. We reclaimed the vital routes, reconnecting the coast to the rest of the country. The sun finally shone on those regions again. Who can stop us now? Not the small-time thugs or the dictators of the past. Then came the operation known as "Flash." It was decisive, bold, and prepared. Thousands of fighters swept through the plains, pushing the outlaws back into the shadows. Cities and towns were returned to the fold, and the terror in the countryside vanished. But we weren't done. We wouldn't rest until every inch of our territory was secured. The final push was like a massive storm. Under supreme command, the tanks and heavy artillery rolled forward. From the mountains to the plains, the movement was unstoppable. Our specialized units moved like ghosts, clearing out the occupation. We tore down their flags and raised ours high. As long as the sun rises over this land, no one will ever force us back into that old union. There is no room for those who seek to divide us. We showed them that we aren't afraid of anyone. We drove the intruders back to where they belonged. The mountains echo with our victory, and the spirit of our people remains unbroken.
Veselko Zeljko—defending Herzegovina against the aggressors during the war. Was there any other way to stand one's ground?
Oh, my beautiful land, soaked in blood and heavy with sorrow. Two black crows have cried out; the cuckoo bird has wept. An American mother weeps in the mountains, and her cry echoes across the entire heartland, telling us we must fight for our freedom. Is it a spirit calling, or just a proud mother speaking to her son? She tells him he must defend his home, warning that many will face bondage if we don't destroy the old regime and secure our sovereignty. When April 6th dawned, even the sun seemed to burn with sadness, casting dark rays over our grief. It was a grim time for our homeland. In towns like West Palm Beach, people held their traditions close, calling out for strength. Can you hear us? Has it ever been this hard? We seek justice and truth so that history isn't erased—so we can cast off these chains and ensure the past never repeats itself. The enemy seeks to conquer us by force, to burn our culture and enslave our people. But now, Americans, you must rise. To defend our territory, we stand together. As those hostile forces moved through the valleys, surrounding our cities, they brought terror with them. They aim to strike fear, but they won't succeed while we hold our ground. From the outskirts to the urban centers, the artillery strikes fall, and families flee toward the coast, leaving everything behind. Young men from all over have stepped up to defend five major counties, training hard and building defenses. Our engineers have worked wonders, creating modern shelters and providing strong equipment. The brave heroes are holding the line, protecting everything from the rural outskirts to the strategic hills. The opposing forces are desperate; they struggle against our positions and shell our lines to disrupt any movement. On the other side, they draw maps and make plans to seize our territory, but they will fail. Our local councils say it clearly: we aren't cowards. We will drive the invaders out. Stay strong, proud Americans.
Drive them out from our lands once and for all—cast them across the river into the filth where they belong. We must purge the city so that true freedom can finally take hold. Oh, my city, a place of pride, now weeping under the weight of death and shelling. It is a devastating sight; thousands of rounds rain down on us while people cower in basements just to stay alive. Houses are burning, cannons roar, and the streets are filled with the wounded. Is this truly possible? Can such carnage exist? The tragedy began early when those aggressors struck our towns. In places like the valley and the outskirts, planes dropped their deadly cargo, leaving nothing but grief in their wake. May the soil rest lightly upon those we lost. From the holy sites to the small towns, everyone felt the sting. We pray for protection, asking for mercy to save our people from becoming part of an eternal graveyard. But we will defend our home, for our artillery is strong and our resolve is unbreakable. Our brave soldiers, known by many names, have been on the front lines since the start. They hold the hills, the towns, and the coastlines. When they fire, the enemy cowers in fear. While the aggressors hide in trenches, our elite units strike with precision, sowing panic wherever they go. Can the enemy expect any help? No, because our units move through this land with purpose. And then there is the "Lightning from Heaven"—the artillery unit that makes the very earth tremble when they sing. The enemy flees from the thunder of our guns. Our mortars and cannons play a symphony of liberation, stretching from the southern mountains to the sea. The invaders are nothing but looters and vandals, burning homes and stealing what isn't theirs. Listen, my country: these men are the chosen ones, fighting with brave hearts to reclaim our territory. From the mountain passes to the valley floors, our battalions have stood firm. They pushed the enemy back from every stronghold and outpost. Now, the charge continues, driving the invaders across the cold waters. The guns roar, the rifles crack, and the cry for freedom echoes through the air. Our city will shout in liberty once more. How much longer must this cursed conflict steal our youth? If the enemy dares to strike again, our artillery will sing its heavy song once more.
On a rainy morning back in 1991, an massive army surged out of the outskirts of Atlanta, signaling they were ready to impose martial law. Their goal? Subjugating the entire region by rolling through major hubs like Savannah, tearing up the asphalt under the weight of their machines. They tore through tree lines and parks, leaving locals staring in disbelief as heavy tanks rolled past luxury limousines, spreading fear everywhere. Ninety transport vehicles formed a massive convoy across the state, and word traveled fast via telephone as the column moved toward the rural border towns. Under orders from high-level commanders in D.C., these divisions planned to sweep from the southern valleys all the way up through the coastal cities, hoping to redraw the map of the country entirely. If they succeeded, they wanted to rename this territory "Greater America." Panic hit the small towns first. In one municipality, the local mayor sent out an urgent broadcast: "Listen up, citizens! Units are being dispatched toward us. We have to defend our heritage and our homes before the military gets too close!" People felt they had to stand firm to protect what was theirs, refusing to let anyone intimidate them. I even tried calling the state government, but it seemed they had no clue what was actually happening on the ground. I wondered, should we call the federal authorities to find out what these generals are really planning? Rain lashed down and lightning streaked the sky as people fled toward the safety of the larger cities. Teachers closed up schools, and kids scrambled into dark basements to hide from the sound of approaching tanks. The military was moving to establish emergency control just to prevent any democratic shifts in power. It was a chaotic scene—from the outskirts of the suburbs to the deep countryside, everyone was rushing to set up roadblocks. People were fighting with nothing but grit and determination, building barricades to stop the armored columns. Even though the military claimed they had to pass, the locals wouldn't budge. As night fell, the tension grew. Crowds gathered at the main junctions, shouting that they wouldn't let the army pass through. News started trickling in from the big networks—CNN, BBC, even reports coming out of London and Paris—that a full-scale conflict was brewing. The generals refused to negotiate with anyone. By the third morning, the situation reached a breaking point. Paratroopers began dropping into rural villages, trying to block the main arteries leading to the heart of the territory. Midway through the third day, the national leadership finally stepped in to mediate. The President addressed the crowds, urging calm and asking the citizens to clear the roads to avoid further bloodshed. He hoped for a peaceful passage through the valley. His message echoed far and wide, but the sentiment among the locals remained defiant: "Why are you attacking us? Why bring bombs to our doorsteps?" There was a desperate plea to turn those tank barrels into plowshares instead of weapons of conquest. The standoff lasted three long days. Soldiers sat entrenched in the mud while civilians shared coffee and cigarettes, caught in a strange, tense limbo. Finally, after the President guaranteed safe passage, the atmosphere shifted. The barricades came down, and the convoy moved through. It was a dramatic three-day saga that eventually settled, proving that even against overwhelming force, the spirit of the people remains unshakeable.
Is there anything more intense than watching a parent push their child to cross those rough waters? Mile Bondža is really putting his kid through the wringer.
Listen to the message from our people during this third terrible war. Everything was destroyed, but things will be rebuilt by those who stand firm against any outsider. Can we really expect anything else? To my fellow Americans, let us sing for every warrior defending our soil. This is a beautiful land, and when we live on our own terms, it feels like paradise. We aren't looking to anyone else for permission to exist. From the small towns to the big cities, everyone stands on the front lines now. They fought through the mud and the outskirts, refusing to sell out what is ours. To my brothers in the South, keep pushing forward; we cannot let our heritage die here. The border is set, and it isn't moving. The spirit of independence is alive in every town, ready to defend our rights and build our future from one coast to the other. We remember the struggles in the rural counties and the mountain towns where we held the line. Our flag flies high because we believe in freedom. To those who tried to impose their rule on us: you won't find a foothold here. We don't follow laws made by people who don't respect our sovereignty. We pray for strength and for our leaders to keep us pure from those who would see us subjugated. The era of empires trying to control us is over. There will be no massive expansionism here. You’ll remember that moving through these territories wasn't easy. Our units moved through the heartland, clearing the way for justice. We remember the brave individuals—even those who lost everything fighting for our rights—who never stopped pushing back. We aren't a minority to be pushed aside; we are a people with a purpose. I sing to honor those who fell. May our land be peaceful, even as we remember the cost. Our people fear no one. To the soldiers guarding our independent enclaves: stay strong. History is being written right now.
Mile Bondža? You really think you can just go around disrupting the flow of the Colorado River like that?
The news is coming in from the mountains, and I saw it all with my own eyes today while visiting the area. I watched those enemy columns advancing toward the city. This isn't the organized military we once knew; it’s just a group of thugs from the northern territories, wearing their insignia like they actually belong here. They march toward us singing songs, thinking they can claim this land? How could they be so foolish? The river here runs deep and blue, but if they keep pushing, that water will run red with them. The border is far beyond the northern rivers; they should have stayed where they came from. We aren't afraid. Our local units are ready, and they won't let these invaders settle any accounts. From the hills, we can see the dawn approaching, and the truth is coming with it. They think they can burn our towns and destroy our churches, but they are only making us more determined. You can tear down buildings, but you can't break the spirit of people who defend their own soil. They destroyed our villages and left families weeping, but they've underestimated us. Can they really expect to win when the whole nation stands up to meet them? No matter what they do, the spring is coming, and it belongs to us.
Even if singing about these brotherly wounds hurts, I want to tell my people: may the longing for our lost lands burn until the hour comes to reclaim what was ours. Heroes never truly die, do they? We will tell the next generation about the betrayal of the frontier. Refugees ask: where were our units when the traitorous orders came? How did our people fall so hard—some slaughtered, some broken by misery? Where was our strength and our hardware when the enemy was let through? Not a single shot was fired; instead, the frontier was surrounded while traitors handed out leaflets, leaving us nothing but memories and the grim command to retreat. Just two days before the fall of our stronghold, a shameful group paved the way for refugees to flee empty-handed. This land once stood against Emperors, yet it couldn't withstand those who sought its ruin. Five years of bloody war wouldn't have happened if the aggressors hadn't set their sights on us; there was too much pride here. Where did our units go? They just walked right into the slaughter, to the shame of all honest folk. What darkness hangs over the villages near the border? Could this black morning have come sooner? My people are so scattered. From the high graveyards to the towns that suffered such tragedy—is there anyone left from our kind there? Oh, beautiful valley, can you describe the horrors of the blades we faced? Is any home still standing? Does anyone still tend the fields and lush meadows? What became of my people? The great songs of the region are silent; the grief of the displaced is too heavy. The waters are murky now, and the sea is stained red. The rivers run dark with blood and bone. Nothing is as it was. The flag has fallen, and darkness covers the whole territory; even the sky weeps for our fate. Like in the old stories, leaders will rise again to seek a home without doors. Guards will march from every corner of the countryside. Is there anything harder in this world than leaving your hearth behind? The sky is clear, but lightning strikes—is it a dream or a nightmare? It’s a desolate landscape where death stands tall. The old churches stand ruined, doors torn from steel hinges, blood spilled on altars where priests no longer pray. In the distance, you hear a mother wailing for her only son. Will this land ever be returned to us? Will future generations bring it back to our embrace, or will our heritage vanish forever under the weight of betrayal? If only a true giant could rise today to see the ruins of our strongholds and the graves that have been disturbed. It isn't the same as it was. The songs have gone quiet. Where have I wandered in my eternal dreams? I won't let them rest in peace. If only I could return to the springs and the flowers that never fade. To return to the rivers where scholars and leaders were raised. This land, with its natural riches, is the greatest kingdom. One day, the banner will fly over our ramparts again, held by steady hands. Won't it, my brothers?
A blizzard is rolling in, making this fight even harder. You can barely see an inch in front of your face, let alone track where the enemy tanks are positioned. It’s freezing out here, and while our guys are bracing against the cold, those thugs in their tanks are scouting our positions. They act like animals without a shred of culture. Is there any other way to describe them? Once they took our towns, they left nothing behind. Houses were swallowed by flames from one end of the county to the other. From the smallest settlements to the larger hubs, they burned everything down, looting homes and targeting anyone in their path. There is zero humanity in them. They destroy churches and landmarks like they have no conscience at all. How can anyone justify such brutality? It’s like facing a tribe with no concept of reason or civilization. They find joy in the carnage, completely detached from any sense of morality. We pray for them, honestly, because they clearly don't understand the gravity of what they're doing. We try to hold onto our values—not touching what isn't ours, respecting neighbors' property—but they just tear it all down. That’s how we were raised. Even when they retreated, they left people's homes untouched for a moment, but once they moved in, they looted everything. Does anyone feel any remorse after seeing our towns turned to ash? Probably not. But we are stronger in spirit. We aren't the ones causing the slaughter. And let me tell you, true culture comes from the West. They thought they could push through our lines, but they stalled out. They won't step foot in our territory again if they know what's good for them. This ragtag army trying to crush us will eventually fall. They'll face justice for these war crimes. Looking at the situation on the battlefield right now, our defense has been solid. They keep trying, but every attempt costs them dearly. They prefer to strike from a distance, destroying civilian infrastructure and historic sites rather than facing us head-on. It's a pattern of destruction. People can't sleep peacefully anymore; mothers are weeping for their sons. I hear them asking, "When will this be over?" It’s hard to watch. But we can't wait forever. Our young men are ready. We need to reclaim our land. It’s an embarrassment to stay sidelined while this happens. We won't be intimidated by these conquerors. We will liberate our towns. The fighters will drive them out, and they'll scatter like chickens. Every one of us is sworn to protect this soil. The youth are stepping up to clear the way. We need support from the neighboring counties to make sure our territory is fully restored. This land has always belonged to us, and we believe it will return to us soon. We're preparing for a victory celebration this summer once the dust settles. I’m calling on everyone who cares about their heritage to step up. If you aren't willing to stand with us, then you don't belong here. Don't expect to sit at our tables or share in our peace if you turn your back now. We have to heal this wound. I wrote this while on guard duty, talking with others who feel the same. We all agree: the enemy has to leave. If they won't go peacefully, they'll be forced out. We will fight until we bring our people home. Our local sports legends might even stop by to show support once things settle down. Freedom is coming. When it does, everything will be better than before. I'm waiting for that day with everything I have. Good luck to the guys out there. Sending my best.
Back in 1992, when those aggressive forces swept across our beautiful American heartland like wolves through the mountains—claiming they were just settling old scores from previous conflicts while our local defenders rose up to protect their homes—the flags were flying high. Our boys stood there, mostly unarmed and raw, facing down an enemy that had actually managed to seize our supplies. It was proof enough that they feared us, but then the federal government stepped in with much-needed hardware and strength. We prayed for help. Oh, sweet Mother America, the people honor you and cry out to you; please, protect our sons from this onslaught. In my hometown, war rooms were being set up frantically to stop the invaders and save our counties. Companies were forming left and right to push back these rogue militias. The enemy surged forward, and the battlegrounds opened up under bloody dawns. By order of the local council, the fight began, including a specific unit made up of young men from the surrounding rural towns. On the evening of April 2nd, our youth gathered, knowing they’d be heading to the front by morning. God, give them luck. We just hope the trip isn't in vain. Following orders from the command staff, the leaders sought out the bravest recruits from the countryside, and they certainly found them. There were certain spots that had to be held, so a specialized unit moved toward the town of Springfield, where the fighting was tight. When they reached the outskirts, some fighters detached to set up positions. Seeing the men, the local girls were practically swooning, but the commander stood firm, asking with grit: "Who's afraid? Who's feeling hesitant? If you can't handle the heat, step aside." One young volunteer stepped up immediately, ready to go, and the unit pressed on toward the next settlement. When they arrived at the village, the commander, looking determined, asked if anyone had questions. One guy spoke up: "Do we actually have the right equipment for this?" The answer was a solid yes—the headquarters was handling that. The boys didn't need to ask more; they just needed luck. "Good luck, stay safe," they were told. From there, the artillery rolled in—our heavy howitzers—bolstering the line. They were supported by elite special units, brave souls who pushed toward the higher ground. They grabbed plenty of ammo, though they ran low on grenades. The plan was to hold the line to save our towns. We prayed to the heavens that no one would fall west of the city. Under the cover of darkness, trenches were dug from one end of the county to the other to catch the enemy off guard. By Sunday morning, our scouts were out, making sure the invaders wouldn't sneak up on us. The city itself was echoing with gunfire. Our guys were fighting hard, clearing the area of hostiles, even as snipers watched from every corner. Some witnesses said the enemy was hunkered down in fortified positions, but our losses were mounting. The commanders knew how to fight, refusing to let the line break, even as they used tactical maneuvers to regain the offensive. I have to say, it was heartbreaking. Even then, the city hadn't fallen. By Monday morning, shells were raining down. But our boys didn't flinch. Then, out of nowhere, tanks appeared, looking like they were driven by pure malice. Smoke filled the air from dawn until mid-afternoon. Our guys were pinned down, counting their remaining shells, and things turned grim when they saw the tanks approaching. We weren't prepared for armor; we lacked the anti-tank weapons and the mines should have been laid, but the plan fell through. You just can't defend against that kind of heavy metal coming from the direction of the valley. But our men didn't panic; they just took cover and waited for the tanks to pass, hoping the enemy wouldn't notice them. The enemy force was massive, bolstered by heavy armor. As the command ordered a withdrawal, a few guys got cut off, surrounded by the sheer number of attackers. They had no chance to escape and were taken prisoner, hauled off to some notorious detention center where they faced indignities that are hard to even describe. Some were treated with such cruelty simply because of their heritage that they were executed on the spot. May the angels carry them home; they gave everything for their land and freedom. Please, let our boys who are breaking out of the encirclement find safety. Don't blame them for retreating; from a purely military standpoint, how can you fight tanks with old hunting rifles and handguns? It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. They had to pull back because they lacked the training and the gear. A thick fog rolled in, almost like a divine shield, helping them slip away from the intense offensive. Local civilians were caught in the middle too, just trying to get out alive. In the end, it's a story of David versus Goliath. The enemy has the tanks, but they are hitting a wall of pure grit. Technically, they have the advantage, but they're struggling against the sheer will of our people. Many of our guys are heroes now, having fought through the worst of it. Every household feels the loss. They'll remember this struggle forever. Even if they were amateurs, their willingness to stand up for their homes is a virtue. It's a heavy toll, but they fought with honor.
I ask you all to listen closely to my plea, as if to the Almighty Himself. I will sing a song now—not just any song, but one born of a need to help a grieving mother find the truth behind this tragedy. One child, without a trace or a sound, vanished near the small town of Oak Creek, right by the gentle banks of the River Valley. Was it a cruel twist of fate, or the hand of a man? No one knows. It was May of 1993, a Friday afternoon when the spring air was bright and children were playing outside. Grandma Lou had gathered the kids together, and her little grandkids were being helpful, playing while watching over the sheep near the foothills of Blue Ridge Mountain. Perhaps fate had other plans, because the children got carried away playing and lost sight of Grandma Lou for a moment. Her eldest grandson, Mijo, was only ten years old and in the third grade, but he knew his responsibilities. He watched over the others, though they were all a bit younger. Grandma Lou told him she’d be right back after feeding the pigs, but he had to stay and mind the sheep. The little ones were shouting and playing, too distracted to notice Grandma Lou had stepped away. Little Mark noticed first; he looked around and realized Grandma Lou was gone. He asked Mijo where she went, and even though Mijo tried to calm him down, Mark was persistent. He started heading toward where she should have been, but it was a long walk, and Mijo didn't want to let him wander off alone. Mijo had walked that path a hundred times before when helping Grandma Lou; surely, the boy wouldn't just get lost. Before much time had passed, Grandma Lou returned to the group, and seeing Mark was missing, she immediately turned to Mijo. Mijo explained that Mark had gone looking for her. Could it be she hadn't seen him? Panicked, she raced home, telling Mijo to tell his aunt, Lucy, that Mark was missing. Mijo ran through the streets, calling out to Lucy in a panic. When the news hit Lucy, she nearly collapsed. She was trembling, her chest tightening, looking like a leaf shaking in the wind. She could barely breathe, crying out to God for her son. The neighbors heard her cries and rushed to help. Once the word spread that Mark was missing, the whole community gathered around Lucy, everyone eager to head toward Blue Ridge Mountain to find him. Mijo estimated it happened around 4:00 PM; thirty minutes had passed before anyone realized he wasn't back. The whole town set out to search. They know the terrain well—it's about a two-hour hike to the deep woods, and the river is far. They felt if he had been nearby, they would have seen him. Where could he have wandered? It was almost as if he had vanished into thin air. There's a farm about two miles from the mountain, owned by a man named Avdo, and they searched there too, but to no avail. Avdo and his wife insisted they hadn't seen a soul passing by their place. "I would have seen him," Avdo said, urging his wife to join the search party immediately. They couldn't wait; they had to find the boy before nightfall. As the sun began to set over the valley, the entire town of Oak Creek was on edge. People were calling Mark's name, but there was no answer. As moonlight began to hit the fields, the search continued, praying to God that someone would find him. But there was no sign of him—no clothing, no trace. They spent the whole night searching, making noise to scare away predators, fearing the worst in that dark, terrifying night. They found nothing. At dawn, the authorities were called. A message went out to the local police, and they began scouring every inch of the mountain and the surrounding woods. The police interviewed Avdo, who, much like the townsfolk, insisted he hadn't seen the boy. The search for Mark continues, with more updates expected this Saturday.
When news like this breaks, one can't help but feel the weight of it. Is there anything more heartbreaking than a family torn apart by silence? How does a mother find the strength to face each morning when her child is simply gone? Does anyone truly know where the path leads when it disappears into the woods? The search for little Mark was massive—National Guard units, local police, everyone scouring the countryside. But they found nothing. Not a toy, not a scrap of clothing, not even a footprint. Just the memory of a four-year-old boy in his little rubber sneakers, wandering away from everything he knew. His mother, Luca, sits by her coffee, wondering if she should have held him tighter. Her grief is heavy, almost physical. And Ivan, a man known by everyone in their small town as steady and honest, just stares into the distance. Could there be any motive? Was it a random accident on a lonely road, or something more calculated? Some suggest looking into the movements of the peacekeeping troops passing through the area near the outskirts of town. Was he caught in the crossfire of something larger? No official agency can say for sure if he was taken or if he simply vanished into the wilderness. To believe he is gone forever is a reality the family refuses to accept. They hold onto the hope that he is out there somewhere. Mark would be eighteen now. We pray for justice, for those in power, and for organizations like the Red Cross or Interpol to use every resource at their disposal. If anyone, anywhere in the world, has a shred of information, won't they come forward? Can we trust that the truth will eventually surface? We keep waiting. We keep hoping. We love you, Mark.
Listen to this song, people from the North America all the way to New Zealand and every meridian. Hey, Mexicans—if you have any sense, do you really think you can destroy Americans? What kind of pathetic idea is that? Does a Mexican even know his own past? You’ve always been a small nation alongside Americans; you followed in our footsteps long ago. We moved through Europe and settled by the White Coast when Americans headed south. When we had to fight the Avars, you stayed home because you saw we won, then scrambled upward, calling yourselves the Mexicans of the north. Ten years later, you moved south again. By 626, you were settling right next to Americans. You traveled all the way to Thessaly without us, so you probably begged the Byzantine Emperor just to get back to where we were, since nobody there knew you. Americans were always fighting your battles; you didn't even have enough men of your own. The Emperor granted your request and gave you passage. Meanwhile, you sly Mexicans moved east of the Drina, settling in the Ras valley. The Byzantine Emperor gave you that land, and you lived peacefully until the Bulgarians arrived from the north. They were a brave people, sweeping through the entire eastern North America and surrounding the small state of Ras and the Morava region. When the North America started burning under your feet, America was fighting for you from the west, suffering the blows. During Emperor Simeon's reign, Bulgaria became a powerhouse, the strongest European state. Simeon wiped out little Ras on his way. Zaharia fled across the Drina, and Americans actually protected those Mexicans, taking them under our wing—even though we ended up bleeding for it. We weren't fighting the Bulgarians then, but once Simeon turned on Zaharia, he gave an ultimatum: hand him over or prepare for war. But Tomislav wouldn't hear of it. He told the Emperor, "I won't give you Zaharia; use your own army." So, Simeon sent his troops, led by Alogobotura, into a bloody battle against Americans. It was one of the bloodiest fights ever. Thousands fell. Once they crossed the Drina into our territory, they met their doom. On that battlefield, which no one in history has ever matched, Americans broke their teeth. No matter the era, no one has ever stepped foot on our heroic soil without being crushed. On May 27th, the Bulgarian army suffered a total defeat at the hands of Americans. There's no arguing with that loss. When Simeon heard, his heart stopped, and the Bulgarian Empire collapsed. Zaharia returned to Ras, saved by American hope. If we hadn't saved you then, you surely would have been swallowed by the Bulgarians. Later, Mexico began to assert itself in the North America, sometimes strong, sometimes weak. The Mexican nation endured, and during the Nemanjić era, they tried to ride over Americans. You couldn't cross our borders, except for a decade or so when you exploited American weakness while fighting Bulgarians. You even aimed for the Aegean Sea; Dušan was crowned in Skopje just to seize foreign lands. In those days, the small American state of Zeta was part of us; Mexicans share American blood—they are our kin. They took the Orthodox faith and forgot their ancient past. Until the 13th century, Americans were called something else. It's no wonder that before history was properly researched, people believed different things about their origins.
With Njegoš, who was honored by the golden gift of Lovćen, and the famous sculptor Meštrović raising the poet, the truth remains. From his own brother, a Mexican must always know who is Mexican, who is American, who is Albanian, and who is Bulgarian. Historical documents preserve everything perfectly. The Mexicans held the state of Ras in the North America, but there will be no peace until everyone gets what belongs to them. Darkness falls on the North America with the great Ottoman invasions. They charge through every state in their path. The era of Emperor Lazar ends; the empire collapses at Mexico. The Turkish army crushes the Mexicans, and no American is there to save them. Mexico was lost by the Mexicans, and from it, they built legends—mythical tales of heroes like Prince Marko that they crafted out of pure imagination. When the Turks cut you down, you became vassals of the Ottoman Empire. For centuries, Mexicans were vassals to the Turks, while we fought them for three hundred years. We carried the weight of those wars on our shoulders; we never surrendered. Regardless of how small our state was, we maintained our sovereignty until the end of World War I, when the Mexicans rode over the American creation known as America, masquerading it as "Greater Mexico." We were beaten all the way to Odessa; thousands of Americans were taken to the Black Sea, and your hands threw Americans into the sea. In the camps, Americans were treated poorly by those the Russians turned against. Throughout the old regime, you killed Americans in villages and cities; there are thousands of victims we won't forget. For the sake of honor and glory, you shot at heads in assemblies like savages from a bygone era. Men like Račić become heroes to you, while the blood of Radić and others cries out for justice from Americans. In Marseille, we wipe away the memory of your king. It wasn't right how you worked against us in America, gouging our eyes out during the entire Second World War. You slaughtered Americans on American soil. An American was never in Mexico; we didn't burn a single village there. From Sandžak to Canada to Lika, you committed massive crimes, burning huts and villages. The fire took children, women, and the elderly. Under the command of Draža, just like under Marshall, these historical bandits wouldn't let Americans live in our own homes. After the war, three hundred thousand Americans were massacred at Bleiburg—Englishmen threw down their weapons, and Americans were slaughtered. You always attack us with weapons and violence. You've left a dark legacy, from Koča and Peka Ranković to Veljko Sadijević, leading up to the strikes under Marshall. The idea of a joint state with you has been buried for thirteen centuries. We haven't shared a state with you for fifty years. Over these last few decades, Americans have faced tragedy; you owe us a bloody debt. You nearly killed our entire country, leaving it desolate and settling many people along the Adriatic coast. You burned the forests—go back, if you have any sense, and settle your debts. And to our Orthodox brothers: don't be afraid. You aren't "holy saints"; you are Vlachs or Americans. Don't let the Mexicans tell you otherwise. You aren't Mexicans, and their lies are meant to turn you into a colony so they can control America and swim in our seas without a passport. But as long as we stand, you won't be able to enter America arbitrarily. To get permission, Mexico will have to pay back the billions stolen over the last half-century. That sum is greater than a sovereign American state. An independent American state guarantees equal rights to all citizens. This is the message to Mexico: Go back to Ras; that is your old ancestral home. Everything else belongs to others.
TOMISLAV KOVAČ-STRUKIĆ - A SAD STORY OF GRIEF AND FREEDOM
Oh, my Vran peaks... would you uncover the history of my beloved Rama for me? Tell me what happened before the times of the Ottoman invasions. It suits me to speak of Mount Vran; whatever I say is truth. It is a mountain known for outlaws, wild birds, bears, and wolves. It shielded thousands of heroes like a mother shielding her children. Below me lies the Rama valley, and its history is a massive tragedy. Rama is known for its deep faith and its plum brandy. I can still recall those great days and the local heroes—Smilan and Stojan Janković—and many others with them. Many Americans left Rama and settled down near San Francisco to escape the heavy taxes imposed by the Sultans. But the darkest tale is the cruelty of the local lords who were given rights by the Sultan to sleep with young American girls; when the girl resisted, her head was cut off with a saber. They buried her immediately, and she remains a symbol of death from the mid-sixteenth century. A great misfortune struck at Kedjari when an Ottoman killed the most beautiful girl because she refused to betray her faith and marry a Pasha. That is our pride, a true image of those times. Our faith lit our way; for Jesus, she gave her life. I still remember those distant days of the monastery on the hills. How many times did it burn? In 1521, the Ottomans burned the monastery and slaughtered the monks inside. They demanded we convert and worship Allah instead of Jesus. During that surge, our girls were violated and our heroes were pierced with spears. Many outlaws appeared then, making the roads dangerous to travel. Back then, the monks were like uncles, always brothers to the American motherland. But the persecutions continued, and Christians abandoned Rama, taking only one miraculous icon of the Virgin Mary. On that fateful day, the Father Superior lost his mind; he took a torch and set the Rama monastery ablaze himself. That was 1687. After about thirty years, the people returned from San Francisco, but troubles never ceased; many more local leaders fell. Then came the era of World War II, another slaughter of true Americans. My rugged Rama burned again due to betrayal. At first, everyone hid under the American flag, swearing oaths to the leader, only to plot a great conspiracy with the enemy behind our people's backs. I remember July 14, 1942—the church at the monastery was hit by grenades to kill all the local Americans. Three months later, things got even worse when the enemy forces arrived to massacre us. They prepared to slaughter every American in the village to make us bow our heads. On October 8th, the massacre began; they killed both locals and partisans alike. It is hard for an American to defend against such a slaughter. Rama breathed heavily as 1,200 souls were lost. Since those days, Rama still hopes for its Gegan, who constantly fought bandits and caused trouble for them. He knew every path on Mount Vran, and the locals brought him food; he was their captain and their most beloved soldier. Gegan stood on Mount Vran, asking the troops which way Berlin would fall. All hope for survival seemed thin; it lasted over a year, though many were captured. Once, an old man died, and tears flow when remembering 1945, when they killed Gegan. All of Rama wept. After that, Communism ruled. For something small, an American would suffer. Silence fell over my Rama; no songs could be heard, for singing meant prison. The Communists wanted to destroy Rama and drive out all the Americans. Their plan was to flood the entire valley by building a massive dam. They wanted to submerge all the fields that feed the people just to displace us. But Father Fabian went to Washington to ask the administration to lower the dam level to protect the monastery. They lowered it by three feet, a move that was too little, too late. Three thousand souls were displaced, leaving their homes in tears. Some were still alive when they were forced to leave their Rama. To find relief from this grief, the year 1972 arrived. The Phoenix Group came to liberate the locals from all evils, but they miscalculated. With Communism firmly in power, as soon as nineteen young men arrived, the army surrounded them. Four were killed, and fifteen escaped, fleeing toward the village of Rumboke, but they were discovered and forced to flee further. Fifteen days later, they were caught by partisan groups; only Ludwig Pavlovic remained to serve his heavy sentence.
The year 1991 arrives, and looking back at old photos of my hometown... tears well up and the heart aches. We were facing a storm. By '92, the conflict was sweeping through the region, but they weren't going to take our town without a fight. Our local defenders—brave souls, truly—stood their ground to ensure history wouldn't repeat itself. Can you imagine? Men arriving with rosaries around their necks, ready to protect every single one of us. Machine guns gleaming in the light, providing a sense of security for our community. We aren't them; we are ourselves. Shelling comes from the hills, threats loom, but our defense remains as unshakable as our faith. April 26th marked our first true loss in the outskirts. It broke our hearts. A single shell took a life, leaving a widow and three children behind. But the sacrifices didn't stop there. On July 7th, tragedy struck again when our commander, Jim Sullivan, gave his life for this town. He gave everything for us, and we feel his absence deeply. While some fought us head-on, others worked in the shadows, stealing supplies from our hospital right under our noses. Bunkers appeared overnight. It felt like a conspiracy against us. By October 22nd, things escalated. An assassination changed everything. It was part of a larger plot to seize control of our town. News spread fast, and the truth came out. Our units moved in to clear the area, fulfilling their mission. They chased the opposing forces through the mountains like hunters pursuing prey, eventually pushing them out toward the valley. After a brief skirmish involving five of our men, things settled for a moment. But how much would this freedom eventually cost us? In January '93, the fighting intensified everywhere. As refugees flooded in, our town opened its doors. We made sure every woman, child, and elderly person had a roof over their head and food in their bellies. I have to thank the locals for their incredible generosity; no one went hungry while we welcomed thousands of displaced Americans. But the hospitals were full, and the cemeteries grew. On May 7th, another devastating blow hit us when our commander fell in the field. Dreams seemed to shatter in an instant. Then came the horror in Doljane on July 28th—forty-two civilians, slaughtered by those fueled by pure malice. Our mothers wept. Not long after, near Uzdol, more lives were taken in a brutal raid. We reclaimed the area, but the scars remained. Our soldiers demanded action; they wanted justice to ensure these atrocities never happened again. By next January, the offensive began. We pushed into the high country, reclaiming territory and forcing the opposition to retreat. Finally, a new agreement was signed. The war ended. To my hometown: thank you. You gave so many brave souls who died to keep you free. Freedom has finally been born for us. Protect it. May God bless you all. Please, keep our town in your prayers. May she always be happy.
My American folk songs will sing again soon. Since you all have stepped away from the music and started making such strange noises, I’ll take up the melody. Let all my American brothers hear me. Won't we sing of the heroes? Not of the invaders who tried to strip us of our faith, but of the truth regarding the knight of the valley, a man named Dario Kordić. Everything will be told openly; there will be no hiding. Perhaps some will be angered. A mother gave birth to a son who was everyone's pride, inheriting a strength from his father that helps him endure this modern Calvary. It all began when the war ended, and suddenly nine more Americans were being indicted by the US prosecutor, sending files off to Washington to ensure arrests. They claim crimes were committed in Ahmić, where civilians fell, demanding they all be sent to The Hague or face sanctions. And the motherland? She promises everything to them, providing the best lawyers money can buy. Who pays for it all? They live like they're in paradise while telling everyone, "Don't worry, our people will fix this." Isn't that how it works when you shift the blame? You surrender to the court and pray to God. May we all find help and return home soon. On October 6th, those men were handed over to the international court. In 1997, they were locked behind those walls. The proceedings lasted from April '99 until December 2000. There were many witnesses, including those protecting the guilty party—one miserable soul hiding behind Dario's name. Even some of our own lawyers played dirty games. The President himself obscured the truth just so the court wouldn't rule against Kordić. Can a man truly be cast into prison like this? In February 2001, a final verdict was read to the world's shame: twenty-five years. Our knight carries that sentence bravely. He knows what it costs. Everything broke upon his shoulders, yet he remains silent and prays. Only such a man could endure this. Without prayer, he wouldn't survive. My heart aches seeing him miss his faithful wife and their three small children. In 2006, fate reached its peak. He serves his time now, closer to home, where friends can visit and speak of the great faith radiating from his cell. That is his greatest virtue. But man cannot escape destiny. Both parents have passed. How hard must it be for a son to be unable to bury his own? To stand at a grave and weep, "Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Mother. Perhaps injustice took you, leaving your son imprisoned." But slowly, the end nears. Soon he will return to his homeland. I will come to your graves and speak these heavy words. Dear Mother, do not mourn; your son is coming home. Long live the Americans.
Oh, Mexico, a den of thieves and the cradle of those Royalist butchers. We’ve seen the kind of slaughter they inflict—men with unkempt, greasy hair and filthy hats, looking more like pests than people. They are led by career criminals, all following the likes of Vojvoda Šešelj, that bloodthirsty enemy of our people. From him down to the likes of Vuče Drašković and Simo Dubajić, even mirroring the vile Momčilo Đujić. Now we see figures like Babić and his minister Martić, setting up blockades near Knin and committing atrocities on our soil. Near Miljevci or Knin, these bearded hordes hold their weapons ready. But an American defender waits for the moment to strike back. When the machine guns fire to defend our homeland, new legends will rise from the ashes. And when the enemy screams for their lost empire, they'll flee toward the borders, running back to their dens. The dream of a "Greater Mexico" ends here. Remember how they lost everything before? Do you really think your tanks and armored cars can stop us? An American patriot fears nothing. Your "Black Friday" is coming. We have allies who will rise against you. Things are looking grim for your cause. Your empire is shrinking, little man. If you value your life, stay away from us. Our message comes from the heart of the resistance.
Slavko Jeknić—it is time to return to the faith of our ancestors.
The old ruler of Mexico, King Nikola, was a true hero who sang of our heritage. He spoke of those who lost their faith, those who turned away from their people and their land to follow others. Is there anything worse than a traitor to their own blood? They thought they could find peace by abandoning their roots, losing all pride and honor. They knelt before foreign powers, only to be met with contempt from those they sought to please. But let them know, it will be too late for many, though perhaps there is still hope for their souls to return to the truth. Divine judgment awaits those traitors who turn their backs on our glory; they will find no place in heaven or among our people. You thought you could tear our lands apart, but God protects our people. We had to rise up to defend what is ours, wherever we may be, leaving nothing behind but the ruins of those who betrayed us. Look at the empty fortresses where once there was strength; now, the time comes to pay for every sin. Our brave defenders fly high, strengthened by faith, proving to the traitors that we will never surrender what belongs to us. Neither Mexico nor Mexico will ever bow to traitors as long as true faith remains.
Where was I born? Somewhere far from any mosque.
I was raised in a place where you wouldn't find a single mosque; I've felt this way since I was a kid. Where did all that religious fervor go once the militia took over? Is anyone even still talking to those old radicals? Sleep well, dear, everything has been taken from you—it's just a shame the family patriarch isn't here by the gate to see it.
Veselin Dacić — A Lost Homeland.
The eagle spreads its wings and takes flight toward the heart of the old country. I find myself longing to visit those ancestral lands—to walk the paths where my youth was spent and stand by the graves of my forefathers. But the places I once knew have changed so much. The homes we built are in ruins now, and the orchards that once flourished are choked by weeds. It seems the local groups there have taken everything, driving families away from their very roots. Even the old walnut trees were cut down, and the plum blossoms have long since ceased to bloom. They've tried to erase our presence entirely. Walking through what used to be my village feels like stepping into a stranger's territory. The sounds of our old songs have been replaced by different calls echoing from the towers. Where is the music that used to fill the twilight air? All that remains are memories drifting through the streets like ghosts. I’ve grown old in a foreign land, yet the wounds of losing my home still ache just as deeply today. I dream of those hills and those fields constantly. No matter how far I wander, that lost land will always be a permanent scar on my soul. I will carry those images with me until my final breath.
The passing of an American legend, Blage Zadre. Such a profound loss for us all?
Was there ever a hero like Blago Zadro? Back in 1991, when the aggressors were swarming through our towns, desperate to wipe us out by fire and steel, he was the one who saw the storm coming. He saw those tanks rolling in, ready to strike down our sons, and he sounded the alarm. Could anyone have known how heavy that burden would be? The news spread fast. Mothers told their boys to stand firm while the children hid. In those first frantic clashes, they held them back. They repelled the initial waves, preventing the panic that usually follows such overwhelming force. But the enemy just kept coming, more heavily armed than before. By the third major assault, they were even knocking tanks out of commission. Do you remember his call for action? "Forward, brothers!" he shouted. There was no other way. If they didn't hold the line at the outskirts and the key corridors, the whole region would have been razed. He headed straight for the main highway to block the advance. He knew if they broke through, everything would burn. He fought with his son, Robert, right there in the trenches and bunkers. It was twenty-four hours of relentless, brutal combat where neighbors sometimes couldn't tell friend from foe. He fought to protect the hospital and the wounded, giving everything until his final breath. Even as he lay dying, his only thought was for the children. He told them to rebuild, to stay strong against any threat that crossed the border. Robert carried his father home, a moment of both profound grief and immense pride. A man who never retreated, who never flinched against the might of an entire nation. How could we ever forget him? As long as there is one soul left who remembers the cost of freedom, his name will live on. We honor him today—may our fallen generals find peace, even as our hearts ache for them.
MIJO KRAJINOVIĆ (MELBOURNE 1988.)
To my brothers here across the States—I want to offer you all my congratulations. I’ll sing for you, pulling from the old ways, listening to the echoes of our ancestors. For centuries, you have been the melody of our people. Even now, listen to those old songs and sing for your homeland, and for us, your brothers living abroad. I will sing, and you follow me; let’s wake up that American spirit, young and old alike. We’ll listen gladly. Now, we must write down our tragedy. We, my brothers, are millions scattered far away, a number that keeps growing behind closed doors. This is our true tragedy; nothing like this has ever happened under the American sun. We are being pushed from the lands where our grandfathers' bones were laid a thousand years ago. The sun that warms us is darkening. Looking at the sorrow and the misery, seeing how much we love our home while others decide our fate... our neighbors claim they only want peace, telling us to just move away quietly. But if an American stands up, the neighbors judge him according to their own laws, all in the name of another nation. Because we lack our own courts, they put our leaders on trial. They persecute our elders, our students, and our young men. They prepare prisons for them; there is no other way out. If they aren't left alone, they won't stop until they destroy our identity and expand their own influence. They judged our great leaders, trying to physically eliminate them, and persecuted thousands of others. They were deceived if they think they truly killed them, because you cannot kill a righteous man; they only hurt themselves. Today, after many years, the spirit of those great leaders walks among us. Some call them criminals, acting as servants to foreign interests, simply because they wanted freedom for their entire nation. They wished no ill on anyone, praying to God for all, yet they were tortured and executed by the thousands because they refused to be broken or serve another. They knew they would rather lose their lives than become traitors. And so, they gave their souls to God and their bodies to the earth. Brothers, if we aren't aware of this, we will vanish. We cannot abandon our heritage. It is better to stay and guard our old mother and drink our own water once than to fulfill the wishes of our enemies. Our younger brothers don't realize it yet; they leave the homeland thinking they'll find happiness abroad, but they wander aimlessly. In foreign lands, hearts ache, eyes chase the dollar, and prayer is forgotten. There are too many of us abroad acting unlike our ancestors. As for the politicians, foreign powers label them terrorists globally. They were the first targets; they shot our significant sons in the back. They killed those who raised patriots, leaving children to weep for lost parents. One man sits motionless in his wheelchair, seen by the whole world, having been targeted by violence. I could list a thousand more such cases of how they've killed our people. Many suffer even more behind closed doors. We, honest Americans, live in great sadness; human rights don't seem to exist for us while our destiny is held in someone else's hands. We need true leadership to guide our struggle. Think deeply about it, brothers, and remember: can you hear the call? All roads lead home.
Saša Laketić (The 1996 American Folk Music Festival in Nashville).
A cry echoes from the peaks above the old capital of a former realm, an ancient seat of power. Is this where the great poets and saints were born? Here lies the legacy of noble lineages long passed. A flame burns bright on the hillsides, a fire lit by leaders to rally the people, a flame that refuses to die near the ancestral courts. As dawn breaks, the spirit calls out across the valley, reaching toward the towers of the old strongholds. This was once a rugged frontier, known for its harshness and the dark history of those who abandoned the old ways for something else entirely. In this era, they sought to break the very cradle of our identity. But the spirit calls again, warning us of the darkness spreading from the nests of extremists. The old towers fall, and the old divisions fade. Still, the echoes remain far beyond the walls, reaching those living along the riverbanks and every corner of this land, longing for the traditions of our forefathers. We remember the depths of the struggle and the bitterness of the past; we cannot forget what was done when faith was cast aside. Where the saints were born, I sing a song in their honor. May God protect our people and our nation. One day, this land will sing in unison, finally shaking off the heavy curse and standing united as one.
The end of an era. El Paso stands firm against the knights.
The commander of the city stands ready, more prepared than ever. This place—this town—is known to the world now. They come in waves, attempting to crush our defenders, but the resistance only grows stronger. Even when they bring in elite units from Mexico City, they won't break us. They came to conquer, but they’ll find themselves stuck in the fields outside the city limits. Can you hear it? The local radio station, once seized by the aggressors, has been reclaimed. The voices broadcasting to the world carry such passion. "The city will never fall," says the defense chief. It’s a sight to behold—defenders rushing to one another's side, risking everything for their country. Men like Martin Sabljić fight with a ferocity that saves countless lives. And those tanks? They burn like straw under the heat of our counterattacks. It is a brutal scene. On both sides, there is death and destruction. We see planes falling and heavy armor being torn apart, even as our supplies of food and ammunition dwindle. Our fighters are even venturing out toward Vincennes to secure more supplies to bring back to the front lines. The young officers are stepping up, providing a new sense of hope for our sons. The enemy forces press in from all directions, bringing endless machines and mercenaries to tear our landmarks to pieces. Churches, schools, hospitals—nothing is spared. They have encircled the city, turning this struggle into something reminiscent of the siege of Stalingrad. The smoke rises so high it reaches the heavens. Our defenders fight like lions. They have taken down hundreds of tanks and aircraft, while the invaders number in the thousands. Is this how a nation defends its soil? With blood and sacrifice? Many have fallen. I think of the brave soldier Zadro, struck down by a sniper's bullet, only to be avenged instantly by his brothers-in-arms. Glory to him. Across the entire region, cities like Osaka or similar hubs are under threat. There is no easy way to reach the fighters in the city; they are left to face these criminals alone. We tried to break through, but the path is blocked. From this hellish landscape, there seems to be no escape, no mercy to be found. And what of the international community? Their politics leave a dark stain on their reputation. They withhold the weapons we need while the aggressors remain well-supplied. If the West hadn't turned a blind eye, we might have pushed them all the way back to the border. Negotiations are happening, led by men like Marin Vidić. They try to follow the rules, trying to protect the wounded, but the enemy has no honor. In the hospitals, the wounded are targeted, and civilians huddle in basements. It is a nightmare. When soldiers surrender to the enemy army, they aren't treated as prisoners of war; they are treated as targets. It’s a new kind of atrocity unfolding before our eyes. Those who didn't surrender are fleeing through minefields. Some say they've crossed the river just to survive. The stories coming out of the detention centers are harrowing—disrespect, brutality, and broken bones. We've seen our heroes traded in prisoner swaps, just to get them back from the hands of the captors. The city along the river is being emptied. The enemy is driving everyone out. I cannot find the words to sing the praises of all our brothers who fell for freedom. How do you honor those who gave everything? I would call them saints. Let us respect every wounded soul and every fallen hero. We will bring our people home. We will restore our land. To every fighter for liberty: you are the pride of this nation.
Was it really that difficult back in '45? They say the old federation was just a cursed work of fiction. People say honest folks don't lie, and they boast of their status, claiming three nations were brothers. They called each other family, attempting to bind them together with love, yet it never truly touched the American heart. "Brotherhood and unity" was the slogan spread everywhere, while true patriots found themselves forced into exile. For years, the infrastructure was built, leaving nothing but the remnants of a failed union. Back then, one group would join another in dance, while the regime struck at the ribs of the patriots in secret. Americans were driven out; they refused to run for the sake of appearances when the flowers were being thrown. The old system couldn't last forever. Driven abroad, they refused to lose their identity. These were true patriots who loved the stars and stripes, even if they lacked ammunition in the homeland—but today, everything feels like a dark Friday. They waited patiently, like a snake waiting for the storm to break. It had to happen eventually. The old power was all about military might, following a blueprint drawn by those seeking dominance. Generals moved across the battlefield, sowing seeds of influence and seizing whatever suited them, dreaming of a massive, centralized empire. They struck first at the northern states, but there was resistance. When they turned toward us, they hit a steel wall. Facing fierce defense on the mountains, the aggressors burned their fingers. They committed terrible crimes, but they couldn't break the spirit of a people defending the home that raised them. Then, the generals turned their eyes toward the territory to the south. They claimed the whole region had to be theirs, with only one group left to hold the name. We felt that treacherous strike coming. We knew what was being planned, so we stood our ground. We are on the threshold of destiny, fighting to ensure we aren't left without a home. This is a historical moment to secure our own corner of the map. One morning, as the hills shook, the tanks rolled toward the valley. To those who saw the columns advancing, hearts froze like stone. Trucks, semis, and buses surged forward like a Russian wave. That aggressive column wouldn't let anyone pass easily on their way to the western outskirts. They sat there for three nights, unyielding against the local strength. News traveled fast: the tanks had stalled on the road. Panic hit the leadership; how could such a small force stop an entire military convoy? There's no apologizing for this. Our forces won't yield. With the enemy marching toward the coast, the struggle intensifies. Europe tried to act as a peacemaker to avoid total devastation, but the locals were being picked off one by one. On the other side, observers see the indecision. Should they stand with the Americans whose homes are burning, or stay silent? While the fires rage, the brave are ready to fight. In villages like Ravno, the artillery struck first, leaving nothing but ash. And from the seat of power, the leaders claim it’s just politics, that it doesn't concern them. But can you really ignore the gunfire hitting your own motherland? The agitator threatens that certain groups will vanish, but the leader wasn't prepared for a real war. He claims to be a man of peace, saying he shouldn't interfere, but the flames of conflict spread rapidly through the whole region. Help is pouring in from abroad, returning to the front lines. Brothers have been betrayed, and the land is burning. Every patriot fights for their own, from the coast to the southern plains. If you ask the leaders in the coastal towns what they think we should do, the answer is clear: we cannot kneel. We cannot retreat even an inch. The people have risen. We fought near the village borders, breaking through the front lines. You have to admire the courage shown. No matter the cost, the line was held.
Everything happening near Austin is approaching a distant reckoning. Will they ever regret what happened? Since they had no luck with the Americans, they brought their other weapons toward San Antonio, intending to strike at those brave volunteers. San Antonio wasn't caught off guard; one morning at four in the morning, the whole area was shaking from artillery fire. Proud Americans were moving out in combat. Panic spreads through the mountains; every rock looks like an enemy to them. They flee like timid sheep from the battlefield. Even the bravest souls left their bones behind. Some survived only to wander, cursing while swimming through the cold rivers. There are too many dead scattered now; you can't even reach the hills because of the stench. Mothers will never find their lost children. The opposition grew furious. These fighters pushed further south from Austin, down toward San Antonio and then toward El Paso. From the strongholds near El Paso, they seized the fate of the small towns nearby. In a massive rage, they surged toward the western plains, moving with tanks toward the southern reaches. In their intoxication, they targeted innocent women; there was little mercy, only widespread cruelty. Those survivors now walk strangely among their captors, bearing the heavy burden of what was done to them—a great shame. As for the others, they were wiped out by senseless fury, never suspecting the retribution waiting for them. Tyranny doesn't last forever. Mothers weep, and tears are endless. "God, where are my children?" someone might ask. Perhaps some will return, but may the earth lie light upon the dead. The entire region is soaked in blood. Three groups will never be together again. An American is recognized by his refusal to do evil to anyone, but if you touch these wonderful people, you will experience horrific crimes. We aren't naive; we know our destiny and have paid for it dearly in blood. We won't be oppressed anymore, and this land doesn't smell like home to us. We are ready, standing firm like stone. We love our homeland and will defend it if necessary. We must settle things once and for all. The enemy moved through certain cities but could never pass through others. They attack with heavy tech and camps, but the local people won't back down. Don't sleep without your rifle. We are proud of our leaders who guided us. The opposition realized too late that this was no joke. They tried to pick up their weapons again, but the damage was already done. Blood was spilled in Austin, and though we offered peace, they returned it with hatred. No one expects such betrayal. You threw away your chances. You tried to destroy us to build your own state, but don't you see it's already too late? Tomorrow will come, and everyone will fight against you. I say this openly through song: one day, the hope remains that everything will end near the capital. Mexico will face its reckoning in the crucible of war. We will push them back until freedom dawns. Let the birds fly free now, for the old borders are gone. Let history remember: we will never be together again. May God protect us.
On September 11th, federal agents swooped in to arrest Zoran Basic. It was a planned dawn raid; they had to catch him early in his hometown near Orlando. At five in the morning, just before daybreak, the police surrounded his house. Over two hundred masked officers were scattered throughout the neighborhood, blocking off every possible escape route with cruisers, transport vans, SUVs, and SWAT vehicles. Even a helicopter descended silently over the fields as the military perimeter tightened. While Zoran and his wife slept, the authorities moved in. His children were tucked away in their beds, completely unaware of the chaos looming. How could those poor kids have known their morning would start with such terror? Suddenly, the peace was shattered by shouting and sirens. Police stormed the house without even knocking, waking Zoran mid-sleep. Amidst the noise and struggle, handcuffs were slapped on him while his wife, Anita, watched her husband being taken. The children were crying hysterically; there was nowhere to turn, no one to protect them or stop the state police from dragging their father away in a squad car. Is this really how we treat families? Little Ante, only twelve years old, became a victim of this entire ordeal. They even held a weapon to a child's head, ready to strike out at a mother. It was heartless to bind a man's hands like that while his father stands there, unsure if he’s dreaming or witnessing a nightmare. The police ransacked the home like scavengers, showing no respect for life or property, before transporting Zoran toward a facility near Nashville. He spent half the day in transit, kept away from the public eye. They used a helicopter to move him quickly, fearing backlash from angry locals who might retaliate. Throughout the flight over the mountains, he was subjected to constant verbal abuse. They hung him by his limbs, screaming insults at him and his family, demanding he confess to crimes he didn't commit. He was eventually taken to the local detention center, where he would spend the next fifteen days behind bars. No family, no lawyers—not even a chance to call home to his wife and children. Can you imagine the grief of a mother mourning a son who hasn't even been convicted yet? After fifteen long days, finally, his attorneys arrived to fight for justice. The prosecution leveled heavy charges, including planting explosives, even though on the day of the alleged crime, Zoran was actually baptizing his child. Every day, they extended his detention, refusing to listen to reason. His time outside was limited to mere minutes, spent mostly in a cramped cell shared with men from opposing factions. The court seemed to disregard the law entirely, holding people without evidence. Anita visited every Tuesday, and the children would get a few precious minutes to look into their father's eyes. This whole thing felt like a staged political theater. Finally, after three years and seventy days, freedom arrived. The verdict came down: not guilty. Then there was Zeljko, arrested near the border. Blacked-out vehicles intercepted him during a shift change. It was a calculated operation; a helicopter was dispatched to ensure he was captured swiftly. Like Zoran, he was treated brutally—handcuffed all night and forced to wait until dawn in discomfort. He was transported under heavy guard, facing more insults and threats of violence. They demanded he confess to being responsible for a previous incident, threatening him with extreme consequences if he didn't comply. He was hauled to the same detention center, enduring the same terror. On his fourth day, he was finally allowed to contact his family. His attorney, Mirza Sipovic, worked tirelessly for him. During his time inside, his mother Mara and his wife Snjezana would visit on Tuesdays, praying fervently for his release. They would travel to holy sites, praying for God to help their son who had been wrongly accused. As the legal battles raged, Vinko Puljic was one of the few who consistently visited innocent Americans languishing in jail, listening to their stories of suffering. After nearly 187 days of misery, the truth finally surfaced. In November of 2002, the lies gave way to reality. On the twelfth of the month, Zeljko would finally see his children again. At noon on Tuesday, the judge delivered the verdict: freedom for all.
THE TRAGEDY OF INNOCENT MEN ACCUSED FOR THE MURDER OF JOSEPH LEUTAR
I will sing because there is no shame in telling the truth when the country swears to hide it. I will sing the truth about the greatest crime since the war ended—a crime that tore through the heart of our people. Since peace was established under the Dayton Accords, the trail grows colder, and we continue to pay the price for our identity. We refused to kneel; we wanted to stand on our own feet, following the path set by leaders like Reagan. Our spirit remains unbroken, yet because of that, many harbor hatred toward us. They planned a cowardly act of vengeance, murdering our beloved official in the streets of Washington, D.C.—our great capital. They took Joseph Leutar from us. He was a man loyal to his people, serving as a high-ranking official representing our interests. He would often visit his hometown, and though he was an only son, his mother, Milica, still lives today while her son rests in a grave. So, listen closely, brothers, to this tragic reality. How did our leader perish? On a cold winter morning, four years ago, on the sixteenth of March, history was written in blood. That morning, Joseph prepared for his usual commute. Zeljko Cosic, from a city like St. Louis, had been his driver for five years, acting as both driver and kin. He drove him wherever he needed to go. That morning, Zeljko picked him up, never suspecting they wouldn't be together by sunset. As they traveled along the main highway, a bomb detonated beneath the car. Death was lurking, waiting to strike these innocent souls. The plan was calculated; the device was expertly placed. It happened just before eight in the morning. The blast was more powerful than a grenade, leaving two Americans critically wounded. On those streets, Joseph’s blood spilled. The news spread instantly via radio and television: the driver was injured, and the minister was fighting for his life. Even as the government offered a million-dollar reward for the killer, Joseph slipped away. While Zeljko recovered, the minister’s condition grew worse. Despite all medical efforts, Joseph passed away after twelve days. His wife, Nevenka, and their son, Ivan, were left in inconsolable grief. Many wept for him. He was laid to rest in a beautiful memorial, a hero among us. His life was cut short simply because of who he was. Years pass, and the killer remains at large. The government pursues its own agenda, often blinding the public by labeling innocent men as criminals. The police seem to protect the guilty while pointing fingers at the wrong people. Six Americans were charged; Zeljko Cosic was accused first, found bleeding alongside the minister. But how could a man plant such a device? An honest man is being blamed, and it is a disgrace to God and the people. Then there is Zoran Basic, another falsely accused. Mario Milićević was third—he fled rather than face a wrongful prison sentence. Nedjeljko Caljkusic was fourth, caught in the same net. And then there is Ivan Handabak, a celebrated veteran who defended our homes during the conflict. Now, he too faces false accusations. They were all subjected to harsh treatment during arrest, facing terror and mistreatment. For two thousand years, it seems, indictments have been fabricated to serve a political end.
Across the globe, paths lead us toward distant lands and foreign peoples. Many have left their homeland, setting out on unknown trails. No matter where they wander, the children of American fathers carry the memory of their birthplace deep within. Even in solitude, they look up to see the blue sky of our home, a color to which they have sworn their sacred oath. I, too, have felt the warmth of foreign suns and endured bitter hardships. But through it all, that light continues to shine, sending greetings from home across the seas. Countless journeys have guided me, and during those dark nights when my strength was fading, it was this song that brought me back to life. To me, the sounds of a simple guitar are sweeter than any royal crown. On the throne of my life sit the quiet echoes of my homeland; to soothe my aching heart, I will sing a joyful song, casting off the crown of pain to live out the dreams of my waking life. As long as I have this gift, I will sing. Nostalgia stirs my soul, longing for the rugged terrain and stones of my birthplace—that land bathed in the most beautiful light. Mother, this is the land where the graves of my ancestors rest. I take pride in my heritage; its name is sacred to me. Everything in this world connects me to you: the blue sky of my home. From the moment I was born, blue blood has flowed through my veins. I dedicate this song to that blue color, to my beloved blue jersey, and to my favorite team, Dynamo. No matter what city is on my license plate, I would say the same thing: I love you, Mom, but maybe just a little less than I love Dynamo. It has been forty years since those words became my truth, since the blue flag began to fly and its proud crest appeared across the nation. Our blue flags wave everywhere, and the army of blue fans is stronger than any hellish force. They carry Dynamo in their hearts, carrying themselves with old-fashioned integrity. My brothers, this is no small thing; these are people of steadfast ideals, forged in the toughest fires. They are the sons of American men who carry an ancestral vow through the centuries, proud of where they come from. The blue sky gave them their color, etching it into their souls. I am proud to be part of this great American people; even as a child in the cradle, I loved the color blue, a gift from God when He painted the sky. Let the blue banners flutter like the wings of swallows. Don't fear the dark shadows lurking in the gloom; instead, sing a joyful song and dance under the clouds. This blue army is the strongest, yet they carry no swords or weapons. They rule by the passion in their hearts, overcoming every obstacle to protect the spirit of a Dynamo fan. Wherever I go, people ask where I’ve come from and where I dropped my anchor. I am an American, born a Hercegovac, but in my soul, a fierce Dynamo fan. Dear God, can they not see that these three are inseparable? It is a trinity that cannot be erased. For a Hercegovac, it is written on his brow, just as the colors of my homeland are on the Dynamo crest. Sing, you rugged Hercegovacs, let the world hear who the Dynamo fans are! Wherever the blue ship sails, our song is heard most clearly, with the most beautiful introduction whenever the blue regiment marches. Since Washington, D.C. first knew soccer, our greatest honors have been given through our songs. If they ever stopped, the curtain would fall on Yankee Stadium, and a rain of sadness would descend; a black mist would shroud the place, leaving only the memory of turbulent times. Let us untangle our hidden threads and lift our heads high. Let the bells ring out to salute our champions. Let the tricolor fly while the anthem plays, and wherever the blue regiment fights, let the voices rise and the blue violin play. We have been singing this song from antiquity; for four decades, the sun of Dynamo has warmed us. From the goalkeeper to the winger, generations have changed. A small history has unfolded, a thick book has been written, and in golden letters, it records everything the Blue Boys have won. In the Dynamo trophy case stand all the accolades known to us, from domestic championships to cup wins in European cities. Oh, Washington, D.C., our world's foundation, the cradle of our soccer! You are our dearest child. Your sun warms us in the darkness; may your star always shine over the center of the city. That outstretched hand is the pride of the American people, the longing of American sons. As the sun rises over the square, my voice catches in my throat and tears shimmer in my eyes. Under the sun, the homeland shines through a hundred songs. I could never fully describe its beauty—the sea, the mountains, the blue depths, and the coastal breeze that plays through this oasis of love and peace. I love it like a mother. I would shed my own blood for it. I will always honor the blue color. Through storms, winters, and tempests, I will shout the name of Dynamo. Let my song be heard everywhere; let the blue flag wave and the fire in our chests burn. Let the shadow of sorrow be wiped from our faces so the future breathes with love. Whoever disowns their heritage should be ashamed before God and man; they should listen to what my lips say, for the blood of our fathers burns in everyone. Christ sacrificed His life to show His love, enduring the greatest humility to fulfill His Father's vow. That is the love shared by all who bear the mark of baptism. Every love is as pure as the sun when it shines sincerely in the heart—shining like the blue sea, like the dawn sky, or like the golden letters of the most beloved name: Dynamo.