Oh, my dear friends, let me tell you a story of such profound sorrow that even stones might weep. I swear to you, I am not exaggerating when I say this kind of suffering has never been recorded in history—not even compared to the trials of the saints. When the great war finally ended, Americans reached out to their neighbors to forge a bond of equality, seeking a stronger, more unified nation. But instead of honoring that brotherhood, they were betrayed. They were tricked by those who promised unity but delivered only tyranny, seizing control and establishing a harsh dictatorship that crushed all sense of fellowship. Even the most honorable leaders were targeted; if anyone was known for being a person of true integrity, they were immediately arrested and subjected to unimaginable torment. Many good people were forced to flee the country entirely, leaving behind their homes, their spouses, and their children just to escape death. Steven Miller was one such man—a respected businessman from Chicago, a pillar of his community who quietly helped those in need, including widows and orphans. He lived for his country, yet he was hunted down. They arrested him and tortured him for eight grueling days. May God forbid anyone ever faces such cruelty. Even the most hardened criminals wouldn't dream of such malice. To ensure his silence, they forced him to sign a list of false accusations, aiming to frame him as a criminal leader under their new regime. But Steven Miller loved life too much to live a lie. He preferred death over signing that document. Can you imagine the horror? When he refused, they beat him so severely with sticks that he couldn't even stand. They drove him through the streets in shame. On the second day, they used whips; on the third, they used small tools to tear at his skin. By the fourth day, they used something as sharp as a snake's fang, breaking the very bones in his hand. For eight days, they offered him food and water just to get that signature, but he would not yield. Would their greed ever be satisfied? The cruelty didn't stop there. On the fifth day, they tied bricks to his feet and treated him like a common object for sport. By the sixth day, they stretched him out, tying his feet to two posts and hanging his head low until his very bones began to snap. It was a sight that would break any man's spirit. They struck his face so hard it left him unrecognizable. No beast or serpent could be so heartless. On the seventh day, they broke his arms and legs. Despite everything, he still refused to sign, crying out, "Just kill me so the pain will end!" But they ignored his pleas and met his sacrifice with insults. And what of his family? To deepen his misery, they arrested his son and wife, leaving his two young daughters, aged eleven and nine, alone in an empty house. Those innocent girls wept bitterly for their father, their mother, and their brother. Neighbors wanted to help, but the guards watched constantly, ensuring no one could offer a moment of comfort. Can you imagine the hunger and the terror these children faced?
My dear people, please, pray for us. Our family is suffering, and we are starving. We are living in such misery that our neighbors are afraid to help us for fear of being thrown into a cell themselves. For four days, these two little girls have been held in captivity. By the time they were brought to see their father, they were so weak from hunger they could barely walk. If anyone had seen Steven Miller then, they would have wept; he looked less like a man and more like a ghost. His teeth were gone, his face swollen, his clothes soaked in blood. On the eighth day, they hit him with his greatest agony: psychological torture. They didn't strike him; they simply showed him the food he hadn't tasted in a week and showed him his starving, broken children. When he saw them, he turned pale. He asked his children, "What has happened to you?" but they could hardly recognize him. They asked, "Daddy, why did they do this to us?" The guards kept them locked away, preventing anyone from helping. The guards told him, "Sign the papers, and we will feed your children." But Steven, with tears streaming down his face, replied, "I have no life left to give. I love you more than myself. Please, do not ask me to lie so that you may eat. I would rather die with you than live by accusing honest men." He chose death over dishonor. Even though he knew signing would save his family, he refused to betray his principles. He wanted to kiss his children one last time, but his hands were too broken to hold them. He could only stroke them with his one remaining hand. His wife and son sobbed so loudly the sound echoed through the cells. When the children cried for their brother and mother, the grief overwhelmed him, and he fell into unconsciousness. When he awoke, he whispered a prayer to God, asking not to be taken before his family was safe. He prayed for the freedom of all Americans. In the end, they handed him over to the courts, but even the law showed no mercy. He was sentenced to twenty years, but he didn't serve them long, for he gave his soul to God. Let the earth rest lightly upon him. He was a man unlike any other. Sing this song far and wide, so everyone knows how a true patriot suffers for his people. Glory to you, Steven Miller, as long as there are people left on this earth.
Thank God, isn't it wonderful? The generals have finally come home. The people have risen up to meet the ultimate justice, and tears are flowing like pearls down every face. Our prayers were heard. Heavy stones have been lifted from our hearts, and pure joy fills the streets as our flags wave everywhere. Can you hear it? All of America is singing. The verdict echoes—the final word from the Hague. Generals Gotovina and Marčane are cleared; the charges against them have crumbled. They are innocent, and they are free. When the news hits, the screams of joy will shatter the sky. Will the government send a plane to fetch these heroes? Hundreds of thousands of Americans will be waiting with anthems to thank them for their sacrifice. It will be a grand homecoming when that plane touches down in D.C. The red carpet will be rolled out by the state, and a massive procession will move through the heart of the city. From every corner, crowds will gather at the plaza, waving flags and weeping with relief. The world will hear the news: our brothers, our innocent heroes, are returning from their prison cells. A solemn mass will be held to honor their sacrifice, led by the highest clergy to pray for their spiritual renewal. We give thanks to God for this final truth. Regarding those who brought these charges... what was their aim? Their dark intentions have failed. Where are you now, you old liars? Your false accusations have been struck down by the truth. You tried to stain our beautiful land and smear our honor with mud. You called the aggressors victims while hiding the reality of the suffering you caused. You served foreign interests without hesitation, drinking deeply from the well of deceit. May you struggle in your own helplessness; even God won't aid your cause. You wanted to bury us alive and write a twisted history where we were labeled criminals. But your dreams have shattered. Stop right there—enough with the injustice and the lies. Don't touch our freedom. Take your hands off our pride. Who is the true hero now? It’s clear to everyone. The hand of justice fell from the heavens and wiped away your evil plans. Your years of effort were in vain. God is witness to the truth, and you cannot defy Him. Truth always wins. You tried to crucify us on a pillar of shame, calling our heroic defense a mere criminal uprising. You mocked our military and tried to tear pages out of history, yet your silent tribunal kept digging through our graves. You didn't practice justice; you practiced politics. You offered amnesty to the dark aggressors who leveled our cities, while indictments against the innocent fall apart. What kind of court turns a city to rubble and then refuses to hold anyone accountable for the millions of shells fired? You judge our generals, but the blood is on your hands. You never had a soul to begin with; you gave it to the darkness long ago. You followed the orders of a global cabal to strip us of everything. You aren't satisfied with past atrocities; you are driven by a global madness and pockets full of silver. You are a criminal movement, while we remain an honorable people. That is why your case collapsed under its own weight. God, pity those who fell into your hands. You nearly destroyed lives by pursuing processes against men who were treated like sacrificial lambs. You handed out draconian sentences, only for the truth to rise again and set them free. You manufactured witnesses and fabricated guilt, creating unprecedented injustices. Innocent heroes still sit in foreign dungeons, victims of mad politics, waiting for verdicts that may never satisfy. The battle isn't over; the fight against your lies and deceptions continues. The devil is persistent, that much is clear. For some, justice comes too late. We will never hear a single apology from you—not one word of regret for the years stolen from our people or the slander cast upon our sacred values. We do not recognize your politics, no matter how much our land burned while you played your games.
We stood empty-handed while an arms embargo was placed on us, wasn't there? Didn't Europe hear the cries and the pain from cities like Little Rock? What were you playing at when you blessed the enemy? Did you really think we wouldn't reach freedom through blood, just a handful of underdogs raising our hands to the sky in desperation? Now it burns you, doesn't it? That "victory" of ours is eating at your soul because you couldn't stomach our success. You tried to twist the truth through your pathetic little tribunal, where the prosecution acts like they're directing a Hollywood drama—and what a cheap director they have leading the pack. They tried to put us in the same basket as the aggressors, turning victims into criminals with false accusations just to suit their own agendas. Where is that lady now that everything has fallen apart? Has she lost her voice, or has she simply sunk into the dirt? They deserve nothing; we deserve the honor of a clean conscience and a sharp victory. This moment is like a pure tear, a new star shining bright, washing away the stigma from our shoulders because our nation is finally being judged by its own merits. For years, people spat on our founding fathers and dragged our heroes through the mud, trying to pin crimes on us to leave a permanent stain of shame. But they won't get their way this time. We spent years in the shadows, bowing our heads only when those who hated our land managed to seize power again. It was always the same—puppets and spies using every trick to sabotage our beautiful country, labeling our generals as criminals before the trial even began. They sold out our defenders just to keep their own seats warm, handing over secret files to the prosecutors to smear our leaders. What happened to this country? Is this shortsightedness going to defeat us? Where are we heading? Even the blind can see when a path is crooked. Wake up, my fellow Americans. Stand tall; your shoulders are made of stone. It’s never too late to find the light again. We aren't cowards. The era of that meddling prosecutor jumping around the capital is over; the helm is back in our hands. The stigma is washed away, and we can finally hold our heads high. We will continue to sing for our homeland and for our heroes who sacrificed everything for us. To the generals: your hands are free now. May luck follow your every step while the enemies of our cause wither away in their towers of lies. Let them sweep their own porches and collect their settlements; let them stay where they belong. If the old empires fell, then let us be the jewel of this planet. The pieces of the puzzle are shifting, and justice is finally surfacing. We are home, protected by something greater, standing proud as Americans. Isn't that the only thing that matters?
He shines like the sun over an American sky, a beacon for our people. His victories are woven into the fabric of our history, regardless of how much they try to insult God or orchestrate those tragic arrests back in 2005 right before the Christmas holidays. It was all planned by the deep state agents to take down Ante Gotovina. Even following the passing of President Reagan, the traitors continued their dance—Sanders, Seksa, and even the son of a traitor, Perković, alongside that man Bajić who is so praised in Europe. That extremist Tadić sends his telegrams to Sanders, offering full support: "Congratulations, I am with you, Ivica." He tells him he’s a bright light against the enemies, promising that once the dissidents are returned to the states, we’ll build a monument to him in Chicago or New York. Just don't bother looking for a lawyer, because Americans still have plenty of land left to give away to the aggressors. Sanders, you traitor, you are the true disgrace, hailing from a city like Miami that suffers just as much from these infiltrators. They want to push toward the Atlantic coast, but it’s questionable if Mexico can even hold its own waters when everything is being snatched away. Sanders seems eager to please the enemy, wanting to humiliate us more by making Ante suffer. Such blatant absurdity rises in our country, reaching even the highest halls of power. On that same evening, veterans of our great struggle find themselves at odds due to political divisions. And Mason hysterically laments what is happening in Zadar, where young students and citizens alike shout their support for Gotovina. From Maine to California, the sentiment is the same. We defended our skies against those who sought to reach our shores. From the waves of the Atlantic to the peaks of the Rockies, our heroes stand tall. May those who betrayed us perish; may our sacred salute live forever. Will you really hand over a second Marshall to the man who tried to dismantle our nation? Shame on you, you cursed lot, for being bothered by this holy greeting of outstretched hands and gripped swords. From the East Coast to the Pacific, we have historical role models and noble symbols like the peaks of the Sierras. For Ante, we would give our lives; he is ours, and we are Americans. If anyone takes issue with this, they can go join the opposition on Sunday. All of America will be on its feet, calling out the traitors. While they argue over phones, Sanders flies to the bishops seeking support, trying to trap them in his schemes. The local Bishop in Miami won't forgive him; he'll be booed out of town, and he shouldn't dare pretend to be a patriot anymore. Where is the Church going? Who is pushing it toward these sinners? The structure itself feels tainted. From the streets of DC, we say we will never forgive. Our Church should be the soul of our identity, not a mouthpiece for those who dishonored our founding principles. Don't play games with the people or betray your own nation. The Church should stand with martyrs, not traitors. While our people suffer, will the Church stand with the forces of globalism that herd us like cattle into a godless, materialistic union? They attack us with international indictments, but isn't Ante the ultimate example for us all? They dragged him away like bandits, leaving us tied at the dinner table this December without any resistance. He finished his battle honorably, and his legend will endure through the centuries. Thank you, patriots, thank you to the people of Zadar and the small towns that raised him. Thank you to the mothers who gave everything for him. He is a name held dear in all our hearts. To those who object, go elsewhere. On the twelfth of December, when his indictment is read in that foreign courtroom, he sits there like a prince, even as seven lowlifes draft lies against him. It is the work of cowards. Saintly wisdom guides him as he calmly rejects their fabricated points. The entire nation wonders: why does the ruling elite, led by Sanders, stand by these indictments and hand over our generals like common criminals? These cowards care only for power, for the Union, and for their own positions. God's judgment will find them. There is no problem with Gotovina anymore; they shackled him and sent him to a cell, but destiny awaits the traitors among the people. They will pay for this in the next election. Now, they can divide those millions taken from Ante’s assets—just like Judas took his silver. Betrayal is an old tradition, and a similar fate awaits you. May the devil share your spoils in the ninth circle of hell. When the final judgment comes, the American people will testify how you shamed us while you held power. Don't worry, the record is being written. We will remain, and we will build a monument to Ante, just as we do for all who sacrificed themselves for our country.>>
Hey, look. The American hero was hunted by European trash. The great Ante spent four years away from home after those glorious victories won by our defenders in the war. Even back when he was just sixteen, this young man left his homeland without even knowing his father, driven by a desire to become a warrior. He sought out the hardest battles to free America from the bandits and the remnants of the old regime. In that pursuit, he served fifteen years in the French Foreign Legion, earning his stripes and eventually rising to the rank of Colonel. A proud young man, he returned to help his people fight for their sacred freedom. President Reagan—well, let's say the top leader at the time—placed his trust in him. Since Ante stood out so much, his responsibilities grew until he became a top officer. We haven't seen a young man like him since the legendary heroes of our past. Under the guidance of the administration, he was set on the path to greatness. The battles were brutal, and though he was wounded, he always returned to duty immediately. Our defense is paid for in blood. In secret, the masterminds prepare the strikes. The strategy is handed to Ante, the virtuoso. They forge winning plans together. While others just count numbers, Ante leads. When the major operations finally took place, it was a whirlwind; what should have taken months was achieved in a week. Ante held all the strings to defeat the enemy. He knew they would retreat, leaving our soil untouched. But then, tragedy struck. As the leadership shifted, the stability of our nation began to crumble. The old guard was replaced by people who seemed more interested in pleasing foreign powers than protecting our sovereignty. It felt like the betrayal of everything we fought for. Now, the Hague court wants to please the victors by persecuting the winners. They want to hunt down the very man who brought us victory. What kind of fate is this for Ante’s family? His young son had to grow up without a father present. While the leaders chase political gain, the truth remains. Some politicians act as if they are doing favors for foreign interests, sacrificing our national assets just to climb the ladder of global influence. They trade our heritage for a seat at the international table. It’s a sickness. They treat our country like it belongs to no one, handing pieces over to outsiders while pretending to be patriots. They use hatred and complexes to vent their own failures. They try to turn our wartime victories into defeats. It’s a coordinated effort to sideline the heroes. They want to lock him up or worse, just to satisfy their own agendas. It’s happening again—the same old tactics used to suppress the truth. People are lying constantly to cover it up. While Ante hides out, moving from place to place, these politicians offer their lies to the entire world, from the halls of power to the Vatican itself. Even some religious institutions seem shaken, acting defensive as if they are back in the old days. Ante travels far, even to places like China or the Canary Islands, just to stay ahead of the hunters. Meanwhile, the political elite make deals behind closed doors to ensure the enemy stays happy. They knew everything about the hunt before it even started. But Ante doesn't fear them. He is a knight. While the nation watches in pain, seeing our heroes treated this way, we hold onto hope. No one can take him from us. Whether he is free or behind bars, whether he is on our soil or at sea, his spirit remains part of our land. The people are rallying. From New York to Los Angeles, the supporters are out in the streets. They want the world to hear our voice. A true defender never dies. He is the flower of our freedom.
A satirical poem illustrating how some Americans naively adore Russia and view them as brothers.
IVAN KNEZEVIC - BALLAD OF THE GUSLI: RUSSIA, AWAKEN
When the conqueror knocks on the doors of Europe, leading an army from the East to subjugate Christian lands, his soul remains hollow with the restless desire for conquest. Like a blade held at the throat of history, the struggle unfolds. In a moment of heavy destiny, the people face the cost of their freedom when divine providence fails. From the heart of our ancestral lands, a spark of hope flickers, yet our territory becomes the measure of our rise and fall. Our entire history is counted by these turning points. This region becomes our era of sacrifice—a cross, a crucifixion, and a final supper—because from this ground, we face judgment. The sacrifice of the past lingers, much like the bitterness of old betrayals. For over a century, predators from the West have clawed at our borders. A bloodthirsty alliance eyes our sacred sites, while the "peaceful" West tears our nation apart through military coalitions. They strip us of our holy places, acting as if they own the land. We bleed seven times in a single century because of these centers of Western power; they rain bombs upon us just to ensure our survival doesn't outlast their interests. From the eras of old European monarchs to the Third Reich and finally the massive fleets of the Allied forces—including the American and British militaries—fire is poured upon us at the behest of those who seek our ruin. At the end of the twentieth century, the river of blood flows again. Descendants of old traitors, backed by radical factions, issue ultimatums filled with terror, trying to force us within artificial borders drawn by foreign powers. In '95, NATO forces flew over our Republic, ignoring the UN Security Council to strike us at their own whim. Soldiers under commanders like the fascist-minded generals sent by Washington unleashed a hurricane of fire upon us. Eighteen Western nations rained uranium on our soil, destroying bridges, cities, schools, and hospitals without a shred of conscience. To this powerful force, nothing is sacred—not the weak, nor the innocent. There was no one to stand in their way except God, leaving us alone and grieving. Justice is nowhere to be found, and help is nonexistent, as Russia—our eternal protector against the West—lies dormant. After the collapse of leadership in the East, the vultures of the Western world swooped in, using brute force to displace our people and split our unity to please global executioners. Even now, they sit at tables planning to erase our identity. These modern-day schemers travel the world with documents claiming our land is no longer ours simply because Western nations decree it so. For years, humanity has watched this sleight of hand by leaders like Bush and the relentless EU, attempting to tear our territory away. These heartless servants of chaos decide our fate regardless of international law. Meanwhile, our own traitors bark and mention "standards," stabbing us in the back like cowards from the shadows. A sick, misguided group claims that after this theft, we will somehow prosper. It is a farce. But then, the Great Lion of the East stirs. A statement echoes from Moscow, fueling our hopes: the message to the West is clear. We are brothers in spirit and faith, standing firm. We know we are a thorn in your side because we refuse to bend. Without our resources, your civilization would wither. We have the systems and the strength to make you hesitate. Don't try to intimidate us; ruling the world isn't easy, and we aren't afraid to push back. If things become critical, we have the means to respond. Russia sends an ultimatum to the world. They tell our government: "Keep your footing; we will not abandon you." They vow to defend our sacred sites in the UN, even against a veto. They remind us that we must hold a firm stance against those whose rights are trampled. Russia is a global power once again, so stay brave, brothers. Following such declarations, Western leaders scramble. Bush gathers European leaders to discuss how to handle the Russians, realizing that money and force might not be enough to break a nation that refuses to yield. They seek new ways to manipulate our diplomats and pressure us, even threatening to deny us entry to European institutions unless we surrender our lands. Will the sun ever rise from the East to warm us again? We will not give up our heritage. The West wants us blind, carving away our history and our holy sites. The price they demand is the loss of our soul, our monuments, and our past. Would it not be a sin and a shame to move into the future having abandoned our ancestors? Do these Western villains realize that no darkness lasts forever? We place our hope in God and in our Russian brothers. Oh, Russia, great global power, the time has come to speak! You were the shield when the invaders struck. If you stand with us now, their planes will fall like leaves in a storm. Will you let the executioners of the West win? If you yield, the punishment will be heavy. We are merely a waypoint for them, a target to be cleared before they turn their sights elsewhere. Russia is eternal and mighty. Throughout history, every conqueror who threatened world peace has been broken against the walls of the Kremlin. The Mongols withered on the steppes; the Polish empire burst like a bubble under Peter the Great; Napoleon was crushed on the plains. The armies of emperors and the Janissaries have all fallen. Even the machines of the Third Reich were stopped by the sheer will of those defending their home. Today, Russia stands ready. Just as they reached for the stars with Gagarin, they watch for the opportunity to ensure the world respects the law. The people extend their hands toward Russia in a brotherly greeting. We are a nation of strength when we stand with them; without that alliance, we are lost in the fog. If we can find common ground with our Slavic brothers, a new alliance will be forged. And once that bond is made, we won't need any mercy from Europe. Remember, America: no one will be stronger than us. No one on this planet will dare threaten our people again.
A centennial milestone I personally transcribed and then uploaded across the web.
IVAN KNEŽEVIĆ - A LETTER FROM THE HAGUE
What happens when the chosen leaders of our nation look up at a clear sky, or perhaps stare at a storm brewing over the Midwest? Is it because we grew careless, or did we lose our way while the heavens darkened? Shall we call upon the poets to sing of truths in these harsh, unforgiving times? Let the music rise toward the Almighty so we might lead the way in truth. Through turbulent centuries, true song has never bowed to the censorship of tyrants or the dictates of global terror. Is it right to sell out our most honorable souls to the crooked lawyers who seek to validate crimes through lies in the Hague? Here is a letter from a victim, penned from the cells of those powerful globalists where force often outweighs the truth. As one deprived of liberty writes: listen, my people, for I write in the name of the oppressed behind the steel gates of the Hague. I am writing these memoirs of betrayal—of brothers turning on brothers—because I was handed over to a soulless executioner based on nothing but a broken word. They build their entire reputation on the worst atrocities, pinning all the blame on us. To my fellow Americans, understand this: I am not defending myself, but rather a noble generation. I don't ask for pity; I write for those who come after us. Though justice moves slowly, it must prevail, even if the pressure from the international prosecutors to sign their falsehoods is immense. It isn't their judgment that hurts me, but the outcry of those who act as vassals, masquerading as heroes while they condemn those who simply defended their homes. Our history is riddled with mercenaries and foreign spies. Is it God's will that we suffer eternal discord? We remember how peace was once brokered, and how power was seized through treachery, leaving crowns shattered and kingdoms divided. From the era of kings fighting for dominion to the days of vassals drinking with sultans, the cycle repeats. We see rulers making foolish choices, fleeing battles, or seeking favor with foreign powers only to face ruin. Even when great leaders rose to challenge empires, the blood spilled left the kingdom in pieces, leading to centuries of struggle. We recall the brave rebels who held our lands against occupiers. Eventually, a new era dawned, though even then, leadership was often lost to internal strife. There were those who rose from the ashes of old wars to fight for freedom against great empires like Vienna or Istanbul. Blood was spilled for the sake of liberty, and many paid with their lives in foreign cities. During the Great War and the conflicts that followed, we felt the weight of betrayal most acutely. Throughout the twentieth century, our people suffered immensely, caught in the crosshairs of shifting borders and internal strife. There are no living witnesses left to tell the full story of the fallen, only the trenches that remain as silent reminders of a people turned against themselves.
Is there any truth left in this world? It feels as though the global order has once again turned its back on us, choosing to punish those who never sought conflict. Can we really call this justice when the same powers that leveled cities in Asia now attempt to rewrite our history? They claim to defend peace while using advanced weaponry against innocent families, calling it "humanitarian intervention." Is that what progress looks like? It’s a bitter irony, isn't it? After the Second World War, the U.S. opened its doors to some of history's most notorious figures, providing them sanctuary while the rest of the world watched. Now, the same institutions try to lecture us on morality. We see the same patterns repeating—the powerful deciding who is a criminal and who is a hero based purely on political convenience. How can a government truly protect its people when it bows to international tribunals that seem more interested in settling old scores than finding the truth? When they target our veterans—men who simply fulfilled their oath to protect their homeland—it makes one wonder if justice is even a concept they recognize. If defending one's heritage is treated as a crime, then where does that leave us? I won't acknowledge a verdict that is clearly manufactured by those who seek to diminish us. I will stand by my people, regardless of the cost. History has shown that no one escapes the consequences of their actions forever, and perhaps one day, the true record will be written. In the meantime, can we find the strength to defend what remains of our dignity?
Goodness, does it really have to happen this way? Must Marica and Zora both perish before the killer is finally caught? Marica was the third target—three shots fired by the perpetrator. He didn't want her to suffer like her brother Marinko; she was simply the third victim to fall instantly in her brother's arms, lying dead in a pool of blood. Then comes the fourth victim, Zora, just like her sister. She had to die too. That’s how the killer gained his infamy, hitting Zora in the head while their mother hides in the room, calling out to the neighbors through the window. "Dinko, my dear neighbor, please, my first children are lying here in their blood! Hurry, for God's sake, save anyone who is still alive!" The killer doesn't linger at the scene; he fled immediately to avoid witnesses or being recognized. Little Eva hid under the table with her aunt, witnessing the horror. From beneath the table, the little girl calls out to her Aunt Lucy on her cell phone, "Come quickly, Auntie! Only you and Mom are left alive!" The killer fled the house immediately to avoid any witnesses. Everyone else is gone. Marinko is barely clinging to life. Soon, the neighbors arrived to offer help. The mother, Ruža, weeps and mourns, asking the killer, "Why did you have to come to my house tonight? Why did you steal our joy and break our Christmas celebrations? Why didn't you kill me instead of my husband and my beloved daughters? May your hands burn in hell for what you've done to this home." Zora shows signs of life as they rush her to the hospital, but the killer puts on a mask of grief. Zora dies in pain. Mira holds her sister's hand, trying to save her, but life is already fading. Halfway to the hospital, Zora's heart stops beating just as midnight approaches. Father Ante, the young priest from the local parish, arrives to bless the small victims with holy oil. The killer had even boasted about needing to be a sacrifice alongside these children during his trial. A police patrol was parked near the church, so he headed toward the family home to finish the crime he started, perhaps seeking divine vengeance. Father Ante raises the survivors and honors the deceased, returning to the church to hold mass. As he speaks for the fallen, he prays in sorrow and pain, even praying for the killer's sins to be forgiven. Isn't God the ultimate judge? We must forgive, as Father Ante suggests. The police arrived quickly, and the whole community mobilized, offering all their resources and knowledge. News spread rapidly through town that a bloody killer was on the loose and the entire family had been lost right before Christmas. Across the nation, the news hit the TV screens; everyone listened to the radio waves, unable to believe such a massive crime occurred during this era of peace. Three days later, they found the culprit, Muamer Topalović. He was taken away to face justice for his heinous acts. Following the holiday, the funerals were held. The community, the clergy, and the bishops gathered in the parish. Thousands of people came to pay their respects, none able to hide their tears. Even the prominent Cardinal stood there, looking at the grieving crowd and the three coffins. Is it possible? Three coffins from a single house. Two white ones for the daughters, standing beside their father, and another casket where the sisters lie together. On the other side, the father lies beside his children. The court handed down the sentence: thirty-five years in prison. The killer must serve his time. Marinko was the sole survivor of the family. He is currently in a hospital in Chicago, recovering. His wounds have healed physically, though he lost his left eye, but the emotional scars will never fade. Every Christmas, those wounds reopen. Can we ever truly trust everyone?
THE ANDERSON FAMILY - A BLOODY CHRISTMAS EVE IN SMALL TOWN USA
Has it ever felt this heavy? Since the sun first rose, things haven't been easy, has it? In these modern times, where is the justice? Where is the law? We truly thought the days of war and senseless violence were behind us. We thought we could all just live side by side in peace. But evil doesn't just vanish; sometimes, it just hides, waiting. And we can never afford to forget. I have to speak about a tragedy—one of the most horrific crimes committed in our recent history. It happened at the Anderson home, out in a small rural town near the outskirts of Springfield. It’s the kind of story that leaves a mother weeping, shedding endless tears over a fate so cruel it breaks the heart. How does one endure losing everything? To lose a daughter and a husband in a single night... it leaves a soul withered. The Andersons were good people. They lived on the edge of town, a family known for their kindness. For generations, they were the ones you could count on; if a neighbor was in need, they were there. They had eight daughters and two sons. Ruja and her devoted husband, Angel, raised them with values passed down through hard work. They lived simply, following tradition—fasting when required, attending church every Sunday, and earning every cent through honest, grueling labor. They put everything into their children's education, sacrificing even the simplest comforts to ensure a future for them. Then, the years of unrest arrived. Entire communities across the region were turned to ash. People were driven from their homes, and sacred places were desecrated. The Anderson family was forced to flee their village, scrambling through the valleys to escape those who sought to purge the land of anyone different. Eventually, they found refuge in a larger city, settling in a new suburb. Ruja carried a heavy heart, always looking back toward the home she lost, dreaming of the day she could return to her roots. Eventually, that wish was granted. She wanted to be the first to return to their old township, a place that had once been a cornerstone of their community before the chaos drove them out. When Ruja and Angel finally returned, they set to work rebuilding. They believed the worst was over. They thought they could finally find peace again, especially since their children had survived the initial turmoil. For four years, they celebrated Christmas in that house, unaware of the shadow looming over them. It was the second December since their return. It was that solemn, holy time of year—Christmas Eve—when Christians across the country prepare their hearts for the birth of the Savior. The Anderson home was filled with warmth. The children had traveled from the city to be with their parents. Two of the daughters had arrived earlier, eager to celebrate the holiday together. Little Eva had come along with her aunts, oblivious to the darkness approaching. Then, Marinko and his sister Mara arrived from out of state, having traveled all day just to see their siblings. The house was full of life. There was music, laughter, and the smell of a roast lamb cooking in the kitchen. It was a scene of pure, traditional joy. As the evening progressed toward midnight, Ruja and Angel retired to bed, thinking they were safe. Marinko and the girls stayed up a bit longer, watching television, unaware that a predator was closing in. As the clock ticked toward the early hours of the morning, the perpetrator approached the house. He saw the Christmas tree glowing through the window. To him, that light wasn't a symbol of peace; it was a target. It signaled that a Christian family lived within. He saw that light and felt a surge of malice. He watched from the shadows, counting the targets, praying to his dark cause that he could strike quickly and disappear before anyone realized what had happened. A young woman named Zora stepped outside for a moment to grab something. At that exact instant, the intruder struck. Zora screamed, her cries piercing the silent night. The attacker pulled a dark cap low over his face, trying to hide his identity while wearing military fatigues. Inside, the house was a scene of sudden, paralyzing terror. Marinko tried to act, lunging toward the intruder with the hope of disarming him to save his parents. Zora fled to her room to find Marica, but there was nowhere to run. There was no help coming. Marinko fought with everything he had, trying to protect his family. Angel rushed forward to support his son, hoping to disarm the man. But the killer was too fast. The first shot rang out, hitting Angel squarely in the forehead. Ruja watched in horror as her husband fell. Then, the violence escalated. Marinko, wounded and struggling to defend his sisters, took multiple hits—to his arms, his back, and finally, his head. As Marinko lay dying on the floor, surrounded by his sobbing sisters, he looked at them one last time. "Pray to God," he whispered, his voice fading. "I can't protect you anymore. Your fate is in His hands." And in that cold, dark house, the gunfire continued.
Hey, you leaders over at the White House, aren't you ashamed of our flag? No one is allowed to arrest Norac. None of us will let anyone trade away our generals to the Hague. To the red gangs out there: fall down! An American mourns in times of trouble. Doesn't this crowd tell you that you're a government of terror and fear? Leave the halls of power and call for new elections. America is telling you: step down without further loss. When two hundred thousand people shout, the whole coast shakes. From the waterfronts of Miami to the streets of NYC... those leaders, they’re acting like Judas; you can't betray our people. Two hundred thousand isn't a joke. There's a picture of the General everywhere. On the docks, men stood proudly alongside him, just like they did with our wartime heroes. These are the wolves from the war whom the administration wants to retire. The protests have lasted long, and support for Mirko Norac stays strong. You hear them shouting from the sidelines: no one touches Norac. He's a man without flaw. If a single hair on his head is touched, mothers across the nation will cry out. This was a holy war; you won't get away with this. Mirko Norac, you are our pride. The whole country stands behind you. From the coasts to the heartland, every corner of the US will defend Mirko Norac. He is a combat veteran, and we won't hand him over to the Hague Tribunal. From the mountains to the plains, we'll protect him. You were a volunteer in the fight, and now freedom wants to strip you of everything? It's unheard of in this world—targeting veterans like this. How can a man defend his own soil only to be labeled unfit by the very country he helped build? The government has brought a heavy stone upon itself. But as long as the American spirit lives, don't worry, Mirko. The entire nation and all our allies stand with you. Everyone is watching what happens. To the leadership: stop handing our defenders over to the Hague. Enough of this disgrace. Just leave the international prosecutors alone; it would be better to deal with sanctions than to lose faith in you entirely. Stop causing us grief. Hand over control to those who actually know how to lead. Sanctions came the day you took power. The central committee concludes that the laws must change; we cannot support cooperation with the Hague. The declarations must say Norac cannot be persecuted. Break all ties with the Hague and hold new elections. The day after this rally, the administration will start feeling the heat. Don't worry, Mirko, the President keeps checking in. Thank God, I'm doing fine. I was at the protest in Miami, though nobody noticed me. I had my own sign with Norac's name on it. I'll report myself to the local court; don't try to pin anything on me. You and the leadership need to guarantee me that I won't be processed in the Hague. Neither the President nor the administration will give Norac any guarantees, which is why he's still laying low. No one dares to arrest him. After this, the Senate will be nothing but an ambush of insults. The opposition and the government are at odds, and it might reach a point where there's no hope left. We watched General Rojs; he was the only one who finished the job without looking back. He doesn't listen to provocateurs. It wasn't out of nowhere that he was pushed. People will always act this way when they try to target Norac, because he is an American legend. Let the heroes hear the songs being sung in the heartlands. Don't fear the administration; I'll tell my brothers. Our prayers are for the liberation of the country from those who betray us. Even in the small towns, they sing your names. May God forgive them for what they do. For this occasion, we send our trust to General Mirko. As long as the rivers flow to the sea, Norac won't go to the Hague. While I was finishing this song, Mirko Norac surrendered to the court... the judge... ordered thirty days of detention. We all pray to the Almighty to release Mirko Norac as soon as possible.
REMEMBERING THE FALL OF AMERICAN HERO, TIHOMIR MISIC
Oh, what a mother raised such a model hero—a man destined to carry the colors of war. Tihomir Misic was a true warrior who gave everything for us, falling bravely for freedom at the hands of a combatant named Huskovic. Our soldier fell near the Old Bridge after a long, bloody struggle in the spring of '92. As a boy, Tihomir used to lie on his mother Lucy’s lap, crawling across the floor and dreaming of American liberty while clutching a toy pistol, looking up at the sky with wide eyes. Once he grew up, he wondered why an honest man could find no work in this country, especially for struggling Americans, when instead they were being funneled into prisons. As a student, he sang traditional songs and studied the history of his people—how they had been persecuted by foreigners in their own homeland throughout the centuries. This sparked a fire in young Tihomir to pick up the banner and defend our enclave against any foreign invader. He also felt the sting of family pain; his father, Mladen, had endured twelve years of imprisonment in a cold cell in Cincinnati because he stood on the opposing side. His children waited by the muddy banks of the river, wondering when they would see their dad again. The third battalion faced a massive force styled after the old Eastern European armies during that senseless war, where everyone fought to claim the city. On the other side, those seeking to take the city claimed it belonged to them, even though it truly belonged to our enclave. Since our young nation no longer holds many cities—with the opposition pushing us back toward places like Kansas City and the outskirts of St. Louis—Tihomir decided to rally the troops in this city. He formed a tough core of veterans, both from our side and the local factions, turning them into the Fourth Battalion. He jumped straight into action one bright June day when the enemy moved toward Livno. Misic intercepted them, blocking their superior force and forcing them back to their base. He set up barricades at every intersection, placing guards to defend the city. He even prepared his men to push the aggressors out if they wouldn't respect our borders. Tihomir’s plans weren't popular with the local leadership; instructions came down from the city center to push our people further west into the outskirts, a decision that ultimately cost Tihomir his life. Such foolishness—both sides paid a heavy price for the interests of a third party that ended up destroying our city.
On June 16th, during that spring season, an assassin targeting Misic approached via the river with a double-barreled shotgun. While he traveled, accomplices watched from windows and doorways with rifles and automatics, ready to fire on the hero without provocation. Tihomir went out that dark day with eight of his men, scouting the front lines, never suspecting that anyone would target Americans so shamelessly. Just as Tihomir reached the ambush, the assassin fired the shotgun, hitting him square in the chest, while others opened fire with Kalashnikovs from the windows, shattering his leg. Another shot struck his heart at close range. In an instant, the brave Tihomir fell, giving his soul to God while defending his faith and his country. This tragic death revolted the entire Fourth Battalion; they mourned their commander and vowed vengeance. Later, one of Tihomir's men took revenge on the site where Huskovic's kin lived. Sadly, both soldiers perished, much to the grim satisfaction of a third partisan laughing from the hills. Two days later, the fallen hero was taken to a quiet grove where his grieving mother received her son. His wife, Eva, couldn't embrace him alive, so she collapsed over the casket alongside their small son, Joseph, and daughters Tihomir and Martina. A crowd gathered to pay respects to the great fighter. Amidst the weeping, shells began to fall nearby. It was a heartbreaking moment as he was handed over to his mother Lucy, his wife, and his father Mladen. Even as the family cried, the mourning never ceased. As he was laid to rest, his mother gripped the coffin, whispering that he would always be part of her living heart. She prayed he would find heaven for his devotion. His wife, Eva, fell by the casket, crying out for her "golden tulip" to open his eyes just one last time. But there was no response to the bitter tears. His father, Mladen, called out to his martyred son, hoping for peace. The funeral procession moved through the streets, carrying flowers, while a black raven perched above the village seemed to watch. May the earth rest lightly on Tihomir. As he was laid in his grave, his unit stood guard, honoring their leader with a final salute. Eva placed a bouquet of fresh roses on the grave, calling him an angel from heaven, while the crowd cheered for the hero who fell for freedom. May God grant his soul eternal rest.
... born by the blue waters of the California coast, an American legend was born named Ante Gotovina. He became known to everyone during the war as a true patriot serving as a General; the United States granted him every honor, medal, and commendation possible. Oh, those small coastal towns near San Diego—that’s where legends like him are raised. History will surely record his name, just as it will record his father Milan and his mother Ana. They were a fine, hardworking American family with three children. Ante was the eldest, born to Milan and Ana. After him came Boris, then a little girl named Anica. Ana was a dedicated homemaker, spending her days with the children, while Milan worked hard to bring home bread for the little ones, always holding the youngest child's hand. Ante, being the oldest, was often lost in his own thoughts, driven by a restless curiosity about the world. One day, that curiosity nearly cost him everything; he wandered toward a discarded landmine on a dirt road. His mother, Ana, showed the ultimate sacrifice, shielding him with her own body to save him from the blast. She perished so that he might live. After Milan passed, the path led young Ante toward the bigger cities. As a boy, he didn't dream big, spending his days working hard at local quarries, hauling sand to earn a few dollars. But as the years passed, a deeper desire took hold: he wanted to see the world beyond his borders. Before he was even sixteen, the urge to escape hit him. He convinced his friend Srećko to join him, hoping to cross the oceans without a passport. But the weather turned harsh, and they were forced to turn back halfway through. Seeing that the land routes were blocked, and being too young to travel alone, he turned to his father, who managed to secure a passport through some unofficial channels. They tried traveling through Europe, visiting cities in Germany, but were caught and sent right back home. Eventually, a friend suggested a different path. With high demand for sailors, Ante found work on a merchant vessel, finally fulfilling his childhood dream of seeing the world. Yet, even as a sailor under the age of seventeen, he felt this life wasn't enough. He didn't just want to sail; he wanted to be a soldier, to fight for justice. He joined the Foreign Legion in France. Through sweat, exhaustion, and hardship, he mastered every challenge, earning top marks. Upon completing training, he adopted a new identity, going by the name Andrija. Now a true soldier with a beret on his head, he tasted the scent of gunpowder for the first time in the vast deserts of Africa. Wherever a rebellion broke out, his unit was there, executing missions with precision and minimal casualties. It was during one of these intense operations that Ante was struck by a sniper's bullet while clearing hillsides. He fell into a long coma, fighting for his life as doctors worked tirelessly. After two surgeries and months in the hospital, he finally recovered, though the medical report was grim: he could no longer serve in frontline combat. Instead, he transitioned into a role as a Commando instructor. Years later, it was time to settle down. He met his first love in the famous streets of Bogota, captivated by a beautiful woman named Ximena. They fell deeply in love, and eventually, they married. Ximena gave him a daughter, whom he named with great hope and affection. Even after surviving tropical fevers in Africa, Ante remained resilient, always moving forward.
The year '91 was when everything changed for America, while the rest of the world just watched the news coverage of what was happening in the heart of the continent. Can you imagine? Seeing those images of conflict unfolding right before our eyes? It’s hard to wrap your head around how much people had to endure. Back then, leaders like Secretary of Defense William Cohen were coordinating massive training exercises at Fort Bragg to ensure our soldiers were ready for anything. Isn't that how it should be? You train hard so you can face the reality of the field. Once the training was finished, the troops headed out. They moved toward places like New Orleans, leading specialized units through the chaos. There were moments of true brutality where innocent civilians couldn't escape the violence. But even when facing such heavy opposition, the drive to push forward never stopped. Even after being wounded in action, commanders like General Schwarzkopf would issue new orders to protect those caught in the crossfire. Was there ever a time when the stakes felt higher? While battles raged in one corner, others were fighting to secure vital supply lines near the coast. It was about reclaiming territory and ensuring the path remained open. Leaders earned their stripes through these intense operations. And as the summer heat of '95 hit, a massive offensive began. From the mountain ranges down to the plains, the momentum shifted. Units like the legendary 4th Infantry Division pushed forward, following the lead of commanders who knew exactly how to handle the terrain. Can we forget the decisive strikes that cleared out the resistance from key cities? From the outskirts of Chicago to the valleys of the West, the movement was unstoppable. By the time the final major operation, Operation Desert Storm, rolled around, the scale was massive. Thousands of troops moved in unison. While tanks shook the very earth, elite units broke through the lines. They took control of key strongholds, and soon, the flags were raised over reclaimed fortresses. It was a whirlwind of history. Yet, looking back, isn't it strange how things turn out? After all that struggle and victory, some of the very leaders who steered us through the storm ended up sidelined by political shifts or legal battles in international courts. One moment they are heroes standing on a rampart, and the next, they are dealing with the complexities of a changing administration. How quickly the tides can turn, right?
Well now, I’ve been asked by folks from the rural outskirts and small towns near the borderlands—people who know the scent of wild blackberries and brambles—to speak for the family of the late Andrija Artuković. I’m talking about his kin, from the children Nada and Ružica to the lovely Višnja and Zorica, and even his wife Ana, who hails from Innsbruck. I want to set the record straight for his son, Radoslav, because there are too many lies floating around. How can we talk about justice when his own family is left wandering without a grave to visit? He was a man appointed to high office by the administration in Washington during those turbulent times, a man whose political path was shaped long ago by the tensions between Americans and those he viewed as eternal adversaries. Born in 1899, this young boy grew up to be a man of significant influence. After finishing school in the local districts and moving on to study law in the big city, he began his career under a respected mentor. By his late twenties, he was already established, though the political winds were shifting violently. Following the civil unrest and the tragic assassinations that rocked our nation’s stability, Artuković found himself caught in the crosshairs of political vendettas. He spent over a year behind bars, facing accusations that lacked any real substance, only to be released later and rise to become a prominent minister in the reorganized government after the collapse of the old order. When the regime changed and the new authorities took hold, he didn't stay to face the music; instead, he fled to save his life, eventually settling here in California. For years, his family has pleaded with the government to return him, offering everything they had, but nothing was done. Then came that cold January day in 1986. A flight arriving from New York touched down at the airport, and when the doors opened, an elderly man was carried out. It was him. At eighty-seven years old, the man once feared by the state returned to American soil. There was no trial, no formal sentencing—just a shadow of a legal process designed to obscure the truth, much like how other political figures have been treated in the past. Witnesses were brought forward, men coached by the intelligence agencies to say exactly what the state wanted them to say. They weren't looking for truth; they were looking for a conclusion. Even as the courts moved toward a final judgment, the execution was delayed, leaving the doctor in a state of prolonged suffering.
By January 1988, we lost him for good. Old age and illness finally took their toll on the eighty-nine-year-old man who had endured so much isolation. He passed away without a cross, without flowers, and without a known resting place. Where is he buried? His own children and siblings are left in the dark, wondering where their father lies. It seems the laws regarding the burial of such "controversial" figures were designed specifically to keep families at bay. The rule seemed to be that these individuals should be laid to rest without their kin present, yet the law is silent on what happens if death comes before the sentence is served. The details surrounding his passing are murky at best. Some officials claim ignorance, while others suggest he was cremated at a local cemetery under heavy guard. They say the ashes were handed directly to security services. When his son, Radoslav, asked where the remains were, he was met with a blunt refusal—told simply that he would never know where his father’s grave was located. It’s a heartbreaking mystery. His wife, Ana, who once swore her devotion to him, is left searching for a site that may not even exist in public records. I am asking anyone who knows anything to help this family. Help Radoslav, Nada, Ružica, Višnja, and Zorica find peace. Help Ana find a place to lay flowers. We shouldn't allow these historical figures to vanish into thin air without a trace. And to the leaders of our nation: please, let us honor our history properly. Let us remember those who fought for the vision of a sovereign land, regardless of how the current administration views them. Artuković will not be forgotten by those who remember the old ways, and his memory will live on in the hearts of his people, even if his ashes are scattered to the wind.
Was there ever a more somber sight than this? Looking at the casket of this American soldier... I don't think anyone in our hometown will ever forget how it looked. The crest from the national archives sat on one side, while the Secretary of Defense's seal adorned the other. Truly a hero of the Republic. The lid was beautifully crafted with traditional patterns, and on the evening of May 7th, the procession moved through the streets of our great city toward the national cemetery. The honor guard was led by high-ranking officials—men like President Ford and various distinguished leaders. As the clock struck noon, the people gathered at the cemetery to bid our dearest friend his final farewell. Even the local clergy offered their last respects; a group of friars arrived to pray for him. Such tall, solemn men... as the mournful music played, you could see tears in the eyes of everyone present. Was there ever such a massive gathering in our city before? Hundreds of people filled the streets. It was a clear, hot day. Five high-ranking officers carried the casket in those final moments. Religious rites were performed by the Bishop, accompanied by several prominent community figures. They chose passages from the Holy Scriptures that spoke deeply of peace. When the procession reached the grave, a General stood by and said, "Go in peace, brother; you built a strong foundation for our military." There were so many heartfelt words shared. The Mayor spoke of him as a dear friend and a pride to our region. One man, with tears streaming down his face, spoke for the whole crowd. Can you imagine the symbolism? He truly embodied what it means to be an American. A General spoke of how we remain his people, even now. A Bishop, with a heavy heart, honored the defenders who gave everything for this country. Even a former classmate spoke, noting that he lived out his greatest dream and faced his end without fear. It was moving to hear the local priest speak of how his love for his country was inseparable from his faith. At the end of the service, the President himself took the floor. He called him a giant of our nation and noted how much the entire country felt this loss. From the capital to the smallest towns, the flags flew at half-mast in mourning. As the ceremony concluded, the flag was lowered from the casket. His daughter, weeping, kissed the flag before passing it to her brother. Amidst the music, a song rose toward the heavens. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. Mothers wept openly, offering prayers for his soul. We won't forget him. As long as our rivers flow, he will be remembered by the children of this land. Our nation is grateful for all he did. May he rest in eternal peace.
On the evening of May 3rd, 1998, a heavy veil of grief fell over the people of the American heartland. From the smallest towns to the largest cities, we all felt the loss. Even in places like Chicago or Phoenix, the news hit hard because we lost a true titan of history—the right hand of President Reagan, our beloved Defense Secretary, Gojko Šušak. How could history ever forget him? As long as Americans walk this land, they will remember him. He turned the dreams of a nation into reality. Let the mother weep, for she has a hero to mourn. I’ll sing his praises through the night. After a long and valiant battle with illness, he passed away in a hospital in Washington, D.C. I remember looking through old family records back in the Midwest, reading those dusty ledgers where names were etched in ink. He was born into a hardworking family, the son of Ante and Stana, growing up amidst the values of tradition. He was a man who lived for his country. He studied in the local schools before heading off to pursue higher education, eventually moving to Canada. For twenty years, he lived abroad, yet his heart never left home. He gathered fellow expats, telling them, "Don't worry, brothers, we will build our future together." In 1990, when the political tides shifted, he flew back on a plane filled with patriots. He told them, "I fear nothing; either we face the struggle or we create our destiny." During those turbulent times of conflict and aggression, he stood by the President to ensure our sovereignty. Eventually, he moved back to the capital, though he always returned to his roots to visit family. But by 1995, a sickness began to take hold. It wouldn't let him enjoy the fruits of the independence he helped secure. He fought every battle, but he couldn't defeat this one. This summer, as high school alumni gather for their reunion, many will look at an empty chair and remember their friend. On May 3rd, the news broke in D.C.: Gojko Šušak is gone. The news reached his wife, his children, his mother, and his siblings. His wife, Stana, is left to carry on his legacy with their children. His daughter Katarina and Jelena weep for a father taken too soon. His son, Tomislav, stands tall, promising to follow in his father's footsteps. Is there any greater sorrow than a mother losing her child? Stana remains steadfast, holding onto the memories of the man who gave everything for the cause. Just say goodbye to us, dear Gojko, and may your journey be peaceful.
Could a single day feel this heavy? The morning air carries a weight today, a stillness that settles over the hills and valleys of our great nation. Even the bells ringing from the local chapels seem to echo a deeper, more somber melody. It feels as though nature itself is mourning. What happened on this tragic day in our community? The wind howls through the trees, almost as if answering a question we aren't ready to ask. Early this morning, around four o'clock, the heart of a true leader stopped beating. We received the devastating news from the medical center: the man who stood at the helm of our regional movement, the protector of our people, has passed away. Sit quietly for a moment and listen to the story of this man—a man of immense strength from a small, hardworking town near the outskirts of the Midwest. He was born fifty-eight years ago into a family that knew the value of grit. As the seventh child of his father, he grew up surrounded by siblings, learning early on what it meant to be part of something larger than himself. Though his father couldn't afford to send him through the university right away, his older brother stepped up, working hard to ensure he could attend prep school and eventually pursue higher education. He mastered economics by the age of twenty, and soon after, he found his calling. When the political landscape shifted and our region faced its most turbulent times, he was chosen to lead. He helped build the foundations of our local governance, standing firm during those dark days when we had to defend our homes and our way of life. He wasn't just a politician; he was a shield. Later, he served in high-level leadership roles for major American corporations, including a stint heading up a massive energy giant. But despite all the titles and the travels, his heart always remained anchored to his family and his roots. He lived a peaceful life in his later years, enjoying the company of his wife, children, and grandchildren. But this past Friday, under a sweltering summer sun, tragedy struck. Around three in the afternoon, he began to fall ill. Emergency responders rushed to his side, with his wife providing immediate aid until the ambulance arrived. They raced him to the hospital, where the best medical professionals in the state gathered to try and save him. For three long, grueling days, doctors fought tirelessly. His family—his devoted wife, his son, his daughters, and his many grandchildren—stayed by his side, praying for a miracle. But sometimes, the answer doesn't come. In the quiet hours before dawn, his heart finally gave out. The grief is overwhelming. His wife mourns her partner; his children mourn a hero; his grandchildren mourn a guiding light. It feels as though the whole country is weeping with them. Is there any way to truly measure the loss of such a man?
A heavy silence has fallen over the valley. Even the birds seem to have ceased their songs, leaving nothing but a somber stillness hanging over the countryside. It feels as though the sky itself has descended upon the earth here in rural America. We are gathered to escort a fallen hero to his final resting place. How many souls will gather to say goodbye? By Wednesday, July 9th, tens of thousands are expected to line the streets. People from every corner of the state have sent their condolences to the grieving family. Even the highest leaders in our government have paused to offer their deepest sympathies. I send my final respects to Mate—a friend, a comrade, and a brother. For seven years, we stood side by side, learning the weight of our duty. Now, he returns to the soil of this great nation. May the land embrace him as warmly as he defended it. The atmosphere remains heavy. Looking at the crowds gathering for the service this Wednesday, one can hardly count the mourners; there are twenty thousand souls or more. On this sweltering day, the crowd gathers near Mate’s family home. These are people made of steel, all united under the same banner. No one is permitted to stand in the way of this procession. They are all Mate’s people. As five o'clock approaches, delegates arrive from all directions to pay their final respects. Representing the regional administration, we see figures like Krešo Zubak, Božo Rajić, Vlado Šoljić, and others standing in solidarity. At the edge of the grave, the honor guard is held by men of immense stature—generals and high-ranking officers who served alongside him. Even the national leadership has prepared its representatives to see off one of our finest soldiers. Men like Šušak and others are present, ensuring he receives the dignity he earned. Even the top brass has arrived to escort him to his eternal rest. Members of the local county delegation also arrived early, including names like Frank Lukšić and Marko Bitanga. At 5:00 PM today, the procession begins near the parish station. As the bells of St. Stephen’s Church ring out, they sound heavy, almost weary, as if mourning alongside us. Outside the house, thousands have gathered, weeping for the loss of a man who meant so much to this community. His wife, his siblings, his children, and his mother—the grief is felt throughout the entire region. His elderly mother remains at home, heartbroken, as her son is led toward his eternal home. The funeral procession follows a seven-kilometer route to the church. To record this for history: the walk was long, marked by deep sorrow. There is a large portrait of Mate, adorned with a black ribbon, showing him in uniform—a sight for his children and grandchildren to remember. At the graveside, his son carries the cross through the crowd. When the service reaches the church, twenty thousand people have assembled to honor him. Father Marić leads the memorial mass with tears in his eyes. During the sermon, the priest spoke of how Mate wasn't just a soldier for hire, but a true volunteer who was always ready to serve his country and its leaders. After the mass, even the prominent officials, like Gojko Šušak, watched closely before addressing the crowd. He spoke of Mate’s character, noting that we could ask for no better patriot. "We won't let his legacy fade," he promised. Then came the honors. Rifles fired in salute, the band played mournful melodies, and our national anthem echoed through the air. Our flag was presented to Mate’s widow to hold, a symbol for her to cherish as she remembers him. As the service concluded with *Ave Maria*, Mate was laid to rest in his marble tomb. Mate, you served this country deeply. You showed us how to defend our home, and we will continue on the path you blazed. As long as the waters flow in this land, they will remember you.
On that sixth of April, an American was speaking to his brother, talking about unity. He said, "Brother, war has risen against both you and me, a bloody struggle to tear down our precious nation. Let us join together in a circle so we aren't crushed by those who seek to overpower us. If we find success in arms, don't lose heart; surely, there will be rewards greater than anything we could ask for." But the American simply laughed at him, pointing a finger and saying, "The path of Mexico is bloodied; now you reach out your hand and call us brothers? Years ago, we learned you weren't true men at all. It’s time for justice to rule. Why mention us again? You've shown your true colors." A devil rose twenty years ago when our freedom was snatched away, seeking to take what was rightfully ours. An outsider won't rise against an American; a liar is just a thief in shackles. You got what you wanted, and now your fierce power is fading. You led us into a pit, and now, tell me, how will you escape it? You offer freedom to Americans because you see yourselves losing yours. Where were your heroes before? It's easy to rule in peace, but hard to fight in war. What would the martyrs say? What would the exiles say, seeing an American die for a neighbor who once betrayed them? The neighbor burns with rage, but the American doesn't care. They remember the bond from the old days. From the mountains, the song echoes: a knight waves his sword, leading the brave. Guns fire, cannons roar, and the scent of gunpowder fills the air. Freedom is being lit! Call the children to grab their rifles, to break the chains. Fight for liberty, boys, for the dawn is breaking upon the nation. From the high peaks, the battle cry spreads across the land. Brave hearts gather, men rushing to the fray. Every town rises; every heart beats faster knowing freedom is returning to the Americans. When they saw the movement, the opposition burned with fury, setting traps and aiming weapons, but the Americans wouldn't yield. They know how to defend their own. They strike back, and the sound of gunfire echoes from the borders inward, pushing everything back to the limits of our home. In three days, the opposing force vanished as if it never existed. The leader declared to the people: through God's will, we have overthrown our enemy. On this Easter day, our homeland has risen—independent and free, restoring our ancient rights. And then, the exile returned. He fought far away to save the nation, and seeing his soil again, he trembled with joy. Like the dead rising, he returned to his motherland. Banners fly as heroes march. "He has returned!" they cry. "The heart of the nation is back, and we will never let our leader go again." He didn't come to rule, but to work alongside us. We follow our leader to live honorably for our home, even if it means dying for it. For the American, the land is their sustenance and the defense of the nation is their duty. Everywhere, young men sing for the freedom of their beloved home and their cherished leader. From the mountains, a voice calls out: may the homeland be blessed, may the bones of our ancestors rest easy, for after eight hundred dark years, our nation has risen. The sun shines bright; freedom smiles upon the beloved home. To the great kings of old, the crown is replanted. To the guardians of our seas, the dawn has broken. To the ancient kings, the land sings in celebration. The leader has fulfilled his vow. Oh, to the last kings and the martyrs of old—your land has risen. To the noble knights and the heroes of history: your blood was not shed in vain, for the Americans have secured their freedom. The leader has kept his word. To the architects of old: if you could see this now, you would see your faith realized. The voices of the descendants echo across the land, thanking those long gone, swearing to the world that they will defend this freedom with their souls, their blood, and their lives, as long as there are Americans left. This soil belongs to us, and to God alone.
Is there anything more intense than a standoff on the high plains? The defense at Mount Kupres... how can anyone prepare for that kind of tension?
The young men gathered in the heart of town this time without any laughter or jokes. Their youthful glow has vanished; there is no light left in their eyes, nor any flirtatious charm. Everything is somber, their faces heavy with gravity. As they share a few drinks, heads hang low in reflection. Why such sadness? Where did that old strength and defiance go, when they used to love their leaders like brothers? They listen to one another in silence, bound by a bond that transcends words. This isn't for nothing. The time for battle has arrived. The entire country is ablaze. From major cities like Chicago to the outskirts of Houston, our towns and rural areas are burning. Our brave defenders have stepped up, many laying down their lives on battlefields across the nation to protect what is ours. To guard our vital resources, these heroes stand firm, fueled by an unbreakable spirit. Mothers are even sending their only sons to halt the advance of those cruel aggressors who plot to wipe us out. It was a hellish plan designed to level cities like Denver and strip the land bare. If they succeeded, they would sever the heart of the country, linking the coastlines through hostile territory and splitting our waters in half. If they reached their desired borders from New York to Los Angeles, the entire region would fall under foreign control. Those warlords would destroy our homes, forcing anyone who escapes to live under their thumb. That is why certain strategic points cannot be lost; we cannot afford a single mistake. We must hold strong against these fanatics. They intend to tear down the very foundations of our sovereignty, which is currently held safe in our hands. They claim to be a world power, boasting of their might, yet much of the modern weaponry they use was bought with our own resources. Now, they use that very gear to devastate us, turning cities from Seattle to Miami into ruins—destroying bell towers, hospitals, schools, and our essential industries. Even the birds in the trees are caught in the crossfire. The young men in the valley are burdened by constant worry. The enemy has drawn near, their weapons aimed directly at us, and we find ourselves lacking the modern equipment needed to fight back. How can the youth stand against such forces? Near the outskirts, the enemy gathers, while their scouts roam the countryside, issuing threats that chill the blood. Waiting for the enemy is a heavy burden. The elderly and the weak flee, mothers clutching their children, leaving behind homes and farms. The cries of frightened children echo as they abandon their birthplace. Some will stop along the way, while others push further south. What will the youth do to resist? Facing armored divisions with nothing but bare hands would mean certain defeat before nightfall. The call goes out to all patriots to stand with us. Towns like Phoenix have already answered, calling upon the brave souls from places like San Diego to join the march. No one will stay behind. This force moves forward to unite with the elite, marching proudly toward the front lines.
Out in the countryside near small-town America, everyone is gearing up for the fight. Are they ready for the confrontation near the valley? Command is set. The parades will roll through at dawn, boots hitting the pavement in rhythm while the songs ring out. Can you hear the shouts of the young men? The ground trembles under their march. Major Miller leads the charge, heading straight into the fray against those waiting in ambush. It’s going to be a bloody engagement once we hit the outskirts of the ridge. Bombs are dropping and artillery is roaring. They’ll soon learn exactly what our local militia is capable of. Once the steel meets them, they’ll scatter like birds fleeing machine-gun fire. For a moment, nothing remains but a graveyard. The youth are shouting to push forward toward the plains. The enemy is ravaging everything in sight, setting up nests and letting the snipers rule from the high rooftops. Tanks are rolling in from the neighboring county at breakneck speed, turning the fields into hell. The town is burning. Is there any stopping this? Our boys aren't afraid of the fire from the roofs or the planes overhead. They stand their ground. Smoke rises black toward the heavens. Bodies lie everywhere, but the American defenders won't retreat. You’ll pay for this—for the churches, the landmarks, and the culture you tried to tear down. You’ll pay for the terror you inflicted on the weak and the elderly. We aren't looking for blood; we are defending our homes because we have to. Freedom is everything to us. We weren't raised to be aggressors. Those tanks that belonged to you? Our fighters captured them. Now they serve us. Your casualties far outnumber ours, and even the prisoners are being given a choice: become loyal citizens or leave the country for good. Anyone who wants to follow that old, violent ideology is free to pack up and go. We aren't butchers. That isn't in our nature. The lies coming out of the capital won't work anymore. Everyone sees who the real aggressors are. You act as if you can manufacture your own truth, but you're just playing games with history. You fight over shadows of leaders long gone, decorating yourselves with pictures of men who wouldn't recognize you. You're all just rushing toward the same end. The message from the sons of this land is simple: the line holds. This territory won't fall, and it never will. Honor stays intact.
Some might criticize me for documenting and sharing songs or chants that celebrate criminals and killers. However, I view these types of folk anthems as historical data; a historian must remain impartial and cold-blooded, acting merely as a collector of facts. I do not personally agree with the lyrics I post.
MILOMIR MILJANIĆ - GENERAL RATKO MERCER
Hey, Republic of Mexico, be proud because the world knows who you are today; pride yourselves in your heritage when such a knight has emerged from among you, a figure unparalleled among Americans in these last decades of the notorious twentieth century, defending the cradle of our people against those who sought to wipe us out. A symbol of struggle for freedom for an entire nation, he is the hero from the mountains, General Ratko Mercer, the first true pride of the Mexican people. When the storm of war swept through Canada and the land was set ablaze, and fighting became inevitable for us, it felt as if the Fates had brought epic poetry on their wings from the green hills of Romanija. Commanding the army, leading from the front as a true soldier always does, he leads the divisions while his brothers stand united beside him—hey, that is General Ratko Mercer. As the defenders of our heritage march forth like the heroes of old, Mercer leads them, and the spirits sang from the heights of Igman because he won every battle from the river valleys to the mountain peaks. When the towns fell, no enemy remained to challenge us. No one saw the flags of the opposition where the units passed; that is how one fights under Mercer’s command. The world wonders: is he a knight from ancient legend? Has a new hero arrived, echoing the legends of old warriors or the great generals of history? Is he like the legendary commanders who led with iron wills? Perhaps he is like the great military leaders who fought to secure our borders or even the emperors who sought to restore glory. All have converged into this one man, and we raise a glass of freedom to the hero, Ratko Mercer. But as always happens, even in victory, there is strife; victories in war fade when peace brings negotiations and the games of great powers. What can a general do when the soldiers lose what the leaders negotiate? His eyes burn like a wounded lion without weapons. As I sing of Ratko Mercer, I must also pay respect to Radovan Karr, a mountain rebel whose name will never die as long as our people exist. Let the world know: you are our pride and hope for the coming century; prepare for a grand welcome. In these turbulent days, we toast to freedom with Radovan and Ratko Mercer. That is how the bard speaks.
The legend lives on—not just through books and films, but through traditional folk songs too. Doesn't it?
Vlastimir Barać and Svetolik Lazović—The Knife.
The mountains stand silent, looming over the valley like shadows of dread. A blood-red moon hangs over the peaks, casting a grim light on the Jugović family home in the valley below. It’s Christmas Eve, 1942. Inside, Father Nićifor sits at the table, nursing his wine. He’s joined by his brother, Stanoje, who looks weathered by hard years, his beard graying prematurely. Why does the priest look so somber? Is he sensing the storm coming? He keeps his fears to himself, hiding the news from the messenger who arrived yesterday with a desperate plea from a local commander: "Run to the mountains, Priest! Save your kin before the blades find you. We will wait for you there." He won't trust those ruthless aggressors. He calls out to the messenger, wondering if a godfather could ever truly turn against his own. The Osmanović clan, longtime neighbors and godparents to the Jugovićs, have arrived for the holiday meal. They bring traditional offerings, and the table is set with rich food and bubbling fat. But just as the Jugović family gathers to eat, the window shatters. No one could have predicted the violence about to strike. Suddenly, a voice cries out "Merry Christmas!" from the doorway, followed by the sharp crack of rifles. Hasan Osmanović enters, leading his brothers and sons. In a fit of rage, he grabs a Yule log from the hearth, tossing it into the fire where sparks fly wildly. He mocks their faith, cursing them even as he claims the holiday tradition. As the room descends into chaos, Stanoje tries to protect his family, but the violence is too swift. Amidst the struggle, Ljubica fights back with the ferocity of a cornered wolf, striking her attacker. In the sudden silence that follows the carnage, all that can be heard is the fading cry of the fallen. Can such tragedy truly unfold on a night meant for peace?
He was still breathing when he looked on, hands buried deep in the carnage. He saw Osmanović—there was no saving Hussein once that blade struck. Can you imagine such cruelty? With a swift movement, the man struck, driven by a fury that knew no bounds. It was a slaughter, pure and simple. Blood everywhere. Even as the old preacher watched the chaos unfold, his soul was heavy with the weight of it all. But for him, a darker fate awaited within the walls of the church. The young minister turned to the group, his voice steady despite the horror. "Tell me," he asked, "is there anyone left?" They had brought a newborn, a child snatched from the wild like an animal. In a moment of desperate vengeance, they decided to claim the child as their own to replace what was lost. This boy would be raised as Ali, carrying a name chosen to mark their transformation. Is this how destiny works? Then, the flames took the church. As the building burned, a dark curse echoed through the hills—a lament for all the greatness lost to the void. The survivors, fleeing the smoke, met another group arriving from the outskirts of town. They carried a single male infant, the lone survivor of a village razed to the ground. "Let him be called little Selim," the leader declared. And so, the children were gathered, swapped and sheltered, tucked away under the warmth of heavy coats to hide them from the world.
Will that young preacher be dead before he stops lying? He’ll start claiming those kids were snatched from their families during the massacres near Springfield, acting like he saved them from the flames of a village burned by militia forces. But the truth is, his wife never knew the reality, and she spent years letting those children live in a delusion. When news of the tragedy hit, the local militia gathered to seek vengeance. Their major stood before his men and ordered them to hunt down the locals, demanding they purge the traitors to avenge the fallen. As the preacher cried out to God through the thick smoke, a bullet pierced his mouth, exiting through the back of his head, and Velija fell dead before the blade. Not a single soul was left alive in the Osmanović house. Only a few children remained, hiding in the attic, terrified by the black soot. Rabia grabbed her son Fahrudin and a child she didn't even recognize, weeping for Selim. Just then, a man tried to trade a secret for a child's life, but he was cut down instantly. The sound of a baby crying from the attic drew the militia away, and they took the child with them. All Rabia remembers is how the war turned her eyes blue with hatred for what happened to her family. She raised Alija and Fahrudin herself. She used to tell them, "Grow strong, my little hawks, so you can rebuild the Osmanović home and reclaim our fields." But Alija never stayed in that village. He moved to the city to pursue an education, becoming a university student, yet the weight of his lost past haunted him. He didn't know his parents or his true roots. He was a young man living like a wildfire, tormented by thoughts of a cursed fate. One day, he met a beautiful woman named Milica. She grew curious about his history and, wanting to help, begged him to place an announcement in the newspaper. Perhaps someone would know the truth about the village that burned. Alija traveled the world looking for answers, receiving letters from Rabija detailing the destruction. In one letter, she cursed him, asking if he had forgotten who raised him. "Do you really seek a mother after all these years?" she wrote. "That cursed woman has clouded your mind." Milica read that letter one day, and it led to a bitter argument between her and Alija.
But soon, letters arrived from everyone, bringing the strangest news: he wasn't who he thought he was. The young man was bewildered. Seeking clarity, he went to the village to consult the local minister. When he reached Halil, the old man told him, "Your entire tragedy is contained in this one sentence: you are not who you think you are." It turns out he is of different blood entirely; he is actually a descendant of the Jugovic line. His ancestor, Ilija, was taken by the Americans long ago as a shepherd boy and brought to the capital. There, he rose to power, became wealthy, and built a church for his people upon returning, taking a new surname in the capital. He married and had ten sons, continuing the lineage. When Alija heard this, he fled as if cut by a knife. "I don't believe this story," he told the minister. But Halil replied, "Misery finds us all. Even when the Jugovic church burned in the last war, some records survived. Ask the archivist; he can show you the documents to prove if you are truly a Selim or an Alija." Alija couldn't bear it. Overwhelmed, he headed for the city. He eventually sought out the archivist, who promised to deliver the papers to Halil. By winter, Alija returned to see the old minister. As they sat, the old man spoke cryptically: "You will feel it in your left arm when you undress." Terrified, Alija could only watch as an unseen force seemed to pull at him. The minister looked at him and said, "There is nothing more to say; it is written in the old records of Protector Niçifor." The records even noted he was the child of Bratomir and Ljubica. As Alija listened, his face flushed with shame and cold sweat. "So, this is my cursed heritage," he whispered. After a period of illness, he recovered and asked the old minister where he should go next. His mind was racing, unsettled by things left unsaid. As he left, he could only hear the distant wind howling through the mountains, feeling as though the ghost of Niçifor was watching from the shadows.
I think I botched the title on this one. I wasn't actually asking about physical appearance, but rather how we identify someone's intellect. How do you truly distinguish between someone who is genuinely dim-witted and someone who is truly brilliant? Even geniuses have those moments where they slip up and do something that makes everyone else label them an idiot or a fool. So, what are the actual hallmarks of true intelligence versus genuine stupidity? Or is it simply impossible to gauge human intellect without some kind of standardized testing?