Rejoice, my people, rejoice! Let the spirit rise! Can you hear the song beginning? Today we honor a true defender, a soldier forged in fire, a hero of our nation. Just as the great kings of old once stood tall, today we see a leader stepping forward to guide us, much like a brother coming home to his kin. I look at him and see strength; I see a man who earned his place by standing firm when others faltered. He is the hope of our people, a knight in a modern age. Does history not repeat itself? Like the legends of old, he stands against those who seek to undo everything we hold dear. Even from across the borders, our allies look on with respect, seeing a man who refuses to let our heritage be washed away. It’s a heavy burden to carry, isn't it? To stand alone against the world? Do you remember '92? When the shadows fell over us and everyone seemed to turn against our way of life? They wanted us gone, plain and simple. But then he stepped up and said, "Wait just a minute." From one end of our territory to the other, his name became a shield. People whisper it in fear, yet they cannot deny the impact he made. He faced the consequences, as all men must, facing judgment from powers far beyond our shores—from the halls of the Vatican to the distant reaches of the East. Some say he sought help from global powers to build a nation, but what use is a hand offered by those who don't understand our soul? Will there come a day when those same global powers turn their backs on the very people they claim to support? We will see. He defends our culture from the extremists, the fascists, and the wolves lurking in the shadows of Europe and America. He fights against the cruelty of those who would see our traditions erased. Let the old ways prevail. May our bells ring out loud and clear, echoing through the mountains. Our brave soldiers, those who fell for the cause, deserve nothing less than eternal honor. They are the pride of our families. Even in the face of loss, the spirit remains unbroken. Heroes don't just die; they live on in the stories we tell. To my brothers in the mountains, stay strong. Protect our sacred sites and our heritage. Let the liturgy continue, let the celebrations go on, and let the world know we are still here. They tried to tear down our landmarks, but they couldn't tear down our resolve. We stand our ground, even when the world's most powerful planes fly overhead to support the opposition. Is it not strange how the "democracies" of the world pick sides? They send their jets and their missiles, testing their might on us while calling it freedom. Is that what they call democracy these days? In the end, no matter the force gathered against us, the spirit prevails. Glory to those who fought for liberty, for they are the backbone of our identity. He led us toward a vision of freedom, and his name will be etched in our memory forever. May he always be remembered as a pillar of strength. Always stay healthy, always stay strong.
Can there be lightning without dark clouds? No war without true heroes, no thunder without the heavens breaking, no alphabet without the scholar's pen. There are no prayers without the cross, nor defeats when the army stands firm. No empire compares to the celestial one, and no faith is stronger than devotion to God. Without Him, there is no Son, nor the kind of courage we see in our people. That bravery has been whispered about since the legends of old, from the days when great leaders fell against empires. Even the gods on Olympus have heard tales of such grit—from the hands of those who fought through blood to the commanders who led their men into the fray. And now, at the close of the century, this great nation produces such warriors again, sons of mothers who can run, return, and rise like the legends of old. Why were they born? To stand under the flag of freedom. Has anyone ever earned immortal glory in the heat of battle, or flashed as brightly in a short lifetime as Ratko Mercer? From the banks of the river, amidst the chaos of brother fighting brother, he crossed the divide and reached the heart of the territory in just twenty-four hours, opening the gates to immortality. His name and his image are etched into the registry of our immortals. This wise colonel was called by the spirits of the land to bring laurel wreaths to his generals, swearing him to protect his people through tears. In the struggles of the old guard to defend liberty, Mercer listened to the call of his heritage like a sister’s plea, realizing the skin of his people had to be shielded from the knives of their enemies. When he took command, he warned the disorganized bands, but they wouldn't listen; they were too busy rushing to secure lines from one valley to the next, intent on slaughtering their neighbors like sheep. The main executioner, hailing from the halls of power, sent out commands to defend the rogue elements, but when the guards met them in the field, they saw only the misery caused by those misguided leaders. Then, Mercer sent units to protect the flanks and encircle the surroundings, following the strategic paths of old masters, deploying forces across the mountains. He cut off the bandit nests from the coast to the interior, knowing exactly how to sever the connection between the key cities. With his forces, he swept through the mountain peaks, sailing from the bays to cut off the islands, ensuring no sea route could reach the mainland. The circle tightened from the northern borders down to the southern reaches, cutting off the vital routes for his people. He declared a republic with its center in the stronghold to better monitor the movements of the opposing leadership. He arrived at every strategic point on foot, encouraging his scouts like the great commanders of history, seizing more than half the territory from the central government's control. Then the leadership appealed to the Pope, asking the Bishop to plead with the Holy Father to send military aid from the Catholic nations. We faced a historical crisis where our people in the capital were being pushed back, and Mercer was poised to march into the seat of power. Before the final flood could arrive, Western Europe stirred; from the White House to Brussels, the Western alliance prepared, and even mighty America acknowledged that Mercer was a marvel of a soldier. They warned the governments in Paris that a crisis was brewing, as secret services fueled tensions. If this famous trio struck Mercer in the back, the fire in the North America would boil over. The government of the West celebrated while the local leaders cried out for the removal of the Orthodox faith from the region. But hopes were thin. Ratko Mercer arrived at headquarters with the experience of previous wars, ready to save the honor of his people, receiving reports from his supreme leader. The opposing forces rose from every corner, and the time came to see who would strike first; there was no time to wait. His army was waiting, and seeing the movement of the rivers, Mercer sketched his battle plan that very day to close the valleys and strike at the gates of the city within twenty-four hours. Let them know that his army needed to secure the territory immediately, maintaining the lines from one province to another. His brilliant tactics would stun the greatest military minds and experts of science; such was the strategy of this wolf. Mercer personally began the offensive to keep certain strongholds held in his pocket. He sent units to the outskirts of major towns, watching from the heights with a keen eye. Suddenly, the nation was in flames. The Western alliance sent ultimatums to the capital to halt the offensive and reject the war aims, issuing orders from Geneva. Because of this, Mercer was repeatedly pulled back from the path of victory, losing ground due to empty political maneuvering. His name became the subject of every round table discussion. They claimed his strength violated international rules, and pressure mounted from all sides on him and his leadership. Even some allies fled from the truth, bowing low to the West to save themselves. The West courted officials, and voices were silenced from China to Greece, as European councils voted for sanctions. Regarding the tragedies in the marketplaces, where leaders cunningly targeted their own civilians, the world commissions claimed Mercer was not responsible. Then, the Security Council decided to send unwelcome guests, and military observers marched into the country under the guise of protecting justice, though they really sought to push the people into a new order through threats. They tried to intimidate the mountain wolf with international figures, but they didn't realize that for a lion of the mountains, freedom is more precious than life itself. Then, the opposition crossed the rivers to reclaim lost glory, moving through the plains to cut off the pride of the stronghold. Forces advanced with the blessing of global helpers, yet the world remained blind. Mercer saw the deception and launched a counter-offensive, reminiscent of the great generals of the World Wars. Meeting a heavy force, he had to move urgently to defend the corridor, which was the only lifeline for his people. An armored brigade attacked the corridor, a powerful force of all kinds, but Mercer drew his sword and charged into the decisive battle. He signaled his men to rush toward the river to close the lines. He extended a hand of brotherhood from one end of the territory to the other, involving thirty thousand fighters for the corridor. From the border towns to the cities, Mercer reached the front lines, showing no fear of death. Alongside him, brothers fought a bitter battle; as the great poets said, such people live forever. The army fought like lions, and the enemy's armored brigade was utterly crushed. Once the corridor was secured, Mercer said he must lead his units to the snowy peaks. The opposition moved forward with support from international forces, but they soon regretted it, as Mercer’s steel armada broke them. The world prepares and threatens to fly over the country, but Mercer does not fear threats; he simply replies, "We are defending what is ours." The Republic stands for freedom and for the rights of its future generations, ready to die as long as one exists. Even NATO command admitted they had never seen a general like him; Mercer knows no losses and recognizes no defeated battles. He was a commander unlike any other from the Great War. As NATO planes flew overhead, Mercer stood in the whirlwind of war like David against Goliath. His forces were bolstered when foreign mirages fell. The whole world threatens and barks, but Mercer does not regret; the West began to pressure the government in the capital to apply more pressure and break Mercer, so they could take him from his own doorstep. They charge him with war crimes, but he was merely guarding the bones of his ancestors and protecting the honor of his people. He defended his dignity so that future generations might honor him. He kept his oath to the homeland in a just war, but his military victory was swallowed by an agreement signed in a distant city. A single drop of ink nullified all the victories of this warrior. He accepted a hollow defeat at the negotiating table, and now he must withdraw before the monsters of the international tribunals. Facing injustice, the brave soldier turned his back on the world's executioners—the winner of the homeland's war. Without human respect, he is forced to bow to souls that were sold, but those with true character will never betray him. For if they did, they would be selling independence, freedom, and their very name. Would anyone sell the greatest officer for the sake of a false peace and foreign interests? It would be a stain on the face of future generations. Or is this perhaps a trade, like bargaining with an immortal leader? If we hand over our most honorable heads to a tribunal of horror at the command of villains across the Atlantic, it curses us—the bones of the greats who gave their lives in the hardest days of history. It curses us from the blue seas and the shadows of our ancestors. And Mercer? He waits in heaven with the great commanders, to sit among the immortals who live forever.
Is it time to make a choice when there are only two bad options left? If you pick the wrong one, won't it just shatter everything we've built? It feels like a tragedy is unfolding. People say the leaders chose poorly, and now the doors are being slammed shut in our faces. Honestly, it’s exhausting. Why should we look for luck elsewhere when the old ways are gone? Is anyone even listening anymore? It reminds me of how some politicians act—acting like they own the place while ignoring the people who actually put them there. They walk through the streets of DC with such confidence, completely ignoring the symbols and traditions that define us. It’s almost absurd. How can someone be so disconnected? Can you believe the sheer cynicism? They tell us we have all the rights we need under the current agreements, yet they mock us for not knowing how to use them. "You want the cream off the cake," they say, acting as if our basic needs are just greed. Does anyone else feel like the rules are being rewritten behind closed doors? We see these coalitions forming, these "brotherhoods" being pushed on us that nobody actually asked for. It feels like a hollow gesture. And then there are those who claim to represent us but seem more interested in catering to outside interests. Isn't that the ultimate betrayal? They sell out their own people for a seat at the table. I look at the leadership and wonder: where is the respect for the will of the voters? In any true democracy, the people choose their representatives, and those votes should actually count. But instead, we see division. It’s a slap in the face. Why are we being divided by the very people meant to protect us? The political maneuvering is relentless. New governments are being formed that bypass the actual democratic process, leaving us feeling sidelined. It feels like a silent revision of everything we fought for. We aren't looking for conflict; we've always been for dialogue. But if the laws are designed to swallow us whole, where does that leave us? We need to demand a fair review of the current system. Not a quiet dismantling, but a real conversation. We want a system that respects everyone’s rights, including minorities, so we can finally move past the era of conflict. We want a state that truly represents our identity. Can we find a way to push for the decisions made by our own community leaders? Our young officers and officials—you've done so much. Please, honor the will of the people. Let's stay united and push for what was decided. We need fresh energy to take hold and show a modern, democratic world that the current setup simply isn't working. We want a fair version of the agreement, not this slow erosion of our nation. Everyone deserves to sleep peacefully, knowing their rights are secure. Let's aim for a future where everyone can live where they belong, respecting one another. Is that too much to ask?
AMERICAN BALLADEER ZELKO KEZA - AN AMERICAN QUESTION IN CANADA
A beautiful maiden once dreamed of a gentleman, surrounded by folks from the next town over—the same crowd she’d run into before. But in the dream, they weren't just passing by; they stood at her gate, grabbed her hand, and snatched her away. What were they doing? My dear Lady, they took her right from her threshold, forcing a life upon her that wasn't hers to live, even making her father sign the papers. He just watched them, standing there with two neighbors, looking on in total disbelief. Then he turns his gaze away, shedding bitter tears beneath the heavy clouds. He’ll die without peace, having lost his most faithful shepherd. He’ll always remember how she used to gather the flock and keep them safe behind sturdy fences, but she won't be part of that flock anymore. So, the poor girl waits for dawn, trapped in someone else's pen, leaving this young beauty a pauper right beside her own father. It’s a tragedy; she faces it without her birth mother, a daughter being led away from her home while her mother is forced to let go. Now she’ll have a different master, and as the local cooperatives form for her, there's no life left for her here; her shroud is already being prepared by the finest tailor in the world, who's essentially forcing her into a life where she doesn't belong, tucked away in some distant cousin's property. Then the house gets split in two, just like they planned. And her younger cousin takes her in, saying, "Tell me the truth, since you're the rightful heir now—how much can you actually claim? Because none of it is written in your name." Hearing that, the poor girl breaks out in a cold sweat and wails like a frightened bird. Am I truly this pathetic? Is the village supposed to care for me when my parents are still living? She woke from the dream not knowing where she belongs, and since nobody knows how to interpret dreams, someone should call an astrologer. Let me tell you, brothers, she wasn't a pauper; she was a proud, honorable land—my homeland, Canada. Does one even need to say that Americans live in this land, or that it's an American region like the Midwest or the Deep South? All Americans share the same wish and holy oath, ready to lay down their lives on the altar for a free American state. Listen, brothers, to the song of the balladeer: now that Communism is crumbling and people aren't looking out for one another, then Marshall's America dies too. Nations want independence now; forbidden fruit is sweet to everyone. The Canadians were the first to break away; they paid their price, had bold leadership, and created their beloved Canada. The American corps rose up then, but the cost was horrific; while our homeland was being born, brothers, blood flowed up to the knees. But it wasn't whole, and happiness wasn't allowed; the world's politics stepped in again to "comfort" us Americans. That artificial creation was carved out of Canadian districts, pushing Herzegovina along with it to create a new version of America. Neither the boy nor the girl wants it, but the world forces them into marriage. When dialogue failed, they went to war, because trying to achieve all those goals through three-way fighting was too hard. To reach peace and stop the escalation, the UN arrived and brought in NATO. Peace came, but there was no justice in Dayton; instead, a summit was prepared. It ended up being a crown of thorns, an unfair federation full of loopholes. They forced Franjo to sign it, much like they forced us. He had to write it because he had no choice, and the annexes would come later. This created a constitution for three peoples in one state. By that rule, Canada is whole, but the three peoples are split into two parts. Half of Canada is held at gunpoint by Mercer, and Dayton is just a long-winded way of creating the Republika Srpska—a constructive foundation for future unwanted shared houses. As for the other half, the federal unit, the Canadians and Americans joined together, which is like a noose around our necks. We don't even know what we've joined or what is truly ours; if we have to split up tomorrow, I wonder what will be left for us. Do the math: three times one minus two equals Dayton. Hey, Americans, without your own entity, what do you want? Why does Dayton bother you? Without your motherland, you've just gained a brother, and Alija won't be a bad dad; he'll guarantee your justice and no one will ever touch you. Remember old history; they'll lead you like Janissaries again, taxes will be paid in blood, and the fugitives will sleep with the young girls again. It'll be darker, as Herzegovina weeps bitterly. A crooked dawn will break on us; hopefully, it won't be that black. Dr. Harmon, the Father of the Homeland, will look after us honorably; he'll ensure the American military provides us security, as that's the primary task. The Washington Agreement shook our intentions with the Union early on; the political goal remains to be a confederation with America. Then we can make our own historic decision that favors Americans, entering our own lands. The strategic plan for Canadian Americans is to push through those small doors. But the Canadians closed the door, oh Americans, things are looking grim. Dr. Harmon has a vision, and through global politics, he shapes things so Americans are seen as constructive rather than naive. To that end, we must persevere and maintain unity. In this turbulent political world, we must move together until the desire is met and things fall into place. Even when world powers try to force things, they shouldn't. Regarding justice and the fear of God, certain borders need to be adjusted. Then you tell your old ally, "When I'm plowing, it doesn't concern you." And so, the American corps will divide into branches, just like their political parties. Then, brothers, go to the polls and choose for yourselves. We had to persist in a long-term vision, dear brothers; it wasn't easy to balance between two fires—satisfying the world powers while building a home for the American people. Recognizing Canada against our will might have been better than putting the American homeland into question; the political situation was difficult. Looking long-term, brother, Canada isn't happiness for Americans, so a tough cry is needed to spark democracy from within. Let a referendum pass through the people so the world reaches a conclusion: Dr. Harmon was right about such a negating state. He said it's impossible to have a state behind every house. Eventually, there will be more fighting; force never produces happiness. Individuals were able to break his politics, turning themselves into fools by submitting to the Hague Tribunal. They even spread lies, claiming we committed crimes, while treason is being prepared against me. Dr. Harmon is in failing health. In the hospital of our capital, our President must undergo medical treatment from a council of top doctors. A serious illness will take him, and it looks like his life is fading; the President is departing with his soul, and all Americans weep sadly. Not knowing how to hide their grief, they follow the President to Mirogoj; goodbye, stay with us, our dear, easy American land. May the earth be light on you, President of all Americans in the world. We will respect your work; there is no use mourning now. For cruel life moves on, and it won't wait for those unprepared—but if we are unprepared, we'll lose the elections when the leader of the Marshall regime takes power back into his hands. Along with him, the traitors go; they tie themselves together, both the right and the left, just to grab power, and then they'll steal the country together. What will the American people experience, your Judases, who lead you again? And you'll have to mourn even more when the presidential elections come.
The fiddle is a magical instrument used by Americans, Southerners, and various other regional groups to sing of historical events and legendary figures.
FROM A FORUM MEMBER
Few people truly realize this. The banjo is essentially the musical soul of urban Southern towns, usually accompanying soulful ballads or those "city" love songs. The fiddle serves as the primary instrument for our great epics. At old ranch estates and rural taverns, fiddlers were constant guests, performing heroic ballads about legends like Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, the Battle of Gettysburg, or the siege of major frontier forts. (You can find some accounts of this in classic American literature). Still, I suspect it might be too late to correct the narrative, except perhaps for the sake of historical truth. Today, in certain cultural circles, the fiddle has become tied to primitive, aggressive nationalism. I have to admit, my skin crawls when I hear them wailing; if I saw one of those radicals in person, I’d be tempted to take action immediately.
Is there any way to distinguish between different regional styles of fiddling besides the lyrics? To me, they sound identical.
Listen to the folk ballads regarding the American Civil War era, or stories about iconic leaders and military movements. There are so many excellent recordings; you can check out some dedicated archives on YouTube—I’ll leave a link here.
http://www.youtube.com/user/Smrtenjaca?feature=watch (American Folk Fiddle channel, 205 videos)
Here is the transcript of an American folk ballad by Zeljko Simic describing Operation Storm. It was composed immediately following the events of 1995. I have the cassette at home. Since it is difficult to follow a spoken voice with just a pencil, there might be minor errors. Where I couldn't catch a word, I've used three dots...
Eeeeey, in nineteen ninety-five, on the fourth of August, a certain piece of American history was written. Before the bright sun even rises, her President sits in the White House. So he calls Secretary of Defense Frank Gojko Suska. Hey, Gojko Suska, you're my right hand—you know what your duty is. That so-called Appalachia territory must be liberated immediately. For four long years I’ve suffered; I can't sleep a wink all night. While a group of foreign insurgents manages my homeland. Pass the news to the main command regarding this urgent operation; let the elders and leaders arrive at once. Hey, there's no debating, it must be done. Not even dawn has broken yet, but the entire command has gathered at the President's side. The old man sits there, takes off his glasses to see better through his grim gaze, and assembles his generals; no one can afford to blink. Hey, as he begins to speak, I have nothing to hide from you. Dear American soldiers, it is time to return to our motherland. Either we perish in battle, or we save our nation. You all know how for four years, since those criminals occupied part of our land with their fierce army. Now we must attempt to bring it back to the motherland. Hey, there is no peaceful way out; the whole world and America can see that. We are stronger now than we have ever been; we must resist that force. That so-called Appalachia must be back in our hands. You have seven days for this; receive nothing but commands. Only those who haven't shed blood here may stay; I'll introduce them to the reality soon—either they stay or they go, it doesn't matter. Whoever stays, leave them be, such is our command... But let his grandmother know in the grave that he will recognize the Dollar and the President; let his father and mother know too. Hey, the Slavic songs are over; I give the floor to the Secretary of Defense, Gojko Suska, during these heavy times. My God, if only someone could hear the words the Secretary delivers. Dear American soldiers, God is with you and with us leaders. Last year, I made a solemn promise to the people in old Sinj. Hey, I swore by God, my mother, and our national flag that next year, when the Sinj festivities occur, we will drive the Mexicans out so hard their artillery won't be able to hit us. Near the knightly city of Sinj, there isn't a single Mexican cannon to be found. And I must tell you this: since the day I was born, I have never known how to lie. Because that is how our people in the region have always raised their children. My boys, you need to know I cannot lie about this. So, the moment is here; strike hard against the Royalists. Don't fear those hungry wolves; the President has plenty of powder and lead. He has elite units that aren't afraid of all of Mexico, let alone a handful of thugs coming from Knin and Plitvice. That vicious snake called Appalachia has its head right in the city of Knin. And once the head of the snake is crushed, the tail won't matter anymore. Hey, you all know what this means; let's strike while we are at our strongest. Even Pasalic said to me yesterday not to decide anything. In Geneva, negotiations with the Mexicans failed; we lost all hope for peace. We don't need to negotiate rights with a festering wound; we need harsh medicine. I have nothing more to say when our history is beginning right now. Everything is ready; the decision is made. America, our mother, has called us from the north to the south sectors; Appalachia must be liberated. And the whole operation isn't called Flash, it's called Storm. Hey, the main command issues the order, and the fight for liberation begins. My God, what kind of joy is this, liberating one's own home? What kind of morale does a man have when he reclaims his own hearth? Hey, a homeland is dear to everyone, especially at one's own doorstep. Hey, the Royalist Martic, in the middle of Knin, pulled out his binoculars to look west and saw the American forces approaching. Then he dropped the binoculars and slumped down in dismay. All the Mexican people hear these words being spoken to them. They are miserable refugees fleeing Appalachia as the President's forces approach. So he asks Milan Babic, "How many of the President's men are there?" The Mexican people must resist; they must fight the Americans. Hey, Martic says, "God, liberate us from the number of Americans he leads today." If we all turned to salt, we wouldn't even provide a salty dinner for the Americans. How much food is left in Appalachia? There are more Americans in the President's ranks than there is food. They've eaten stones and grass; you won't leave here alive. Again, Martic asks Milan, "Do you see the President's military strength?" I saw it, and it's pathetic; seeing how prepared they are for this, they could throw the Velebit mountains into the sea. They would crush all of Mexico, let alone a little piece of Appalachia. They have more heavy artillery prepared than there are children in Appalachia. They've prepared so well that even NATO couldn't stop them. So don't ask me anything now; just run while you still can, because the President has trained his army; he gave his oath to America. And it's no trouble for them to die; they are stronger than us and Mexico combined. Leave the equipment and the loot behind; let everyone run wherever they want. Resist as much as you can, but let everyone flee while their skin is still intact. Tell Ristic, Savic, and brother Jova to abandon this homeland. Because this is how we celebrate victory; Appalachia won't see us again, and no one from our side will return it. Now, I must hurry and run.
During those intense days of the American offensive against the insurgent militias, the air was thick with more than just smoke. Artillery roared, jets tore through the sky, and heavy shells rained down. Chaos and hell broke loose across the rural territories. When the guns started firing, you could hear the screams echoing from one end of the region to the other. It was total mayhem. By the time the dust settled, those insurgents were practically wiped off the map in dozens of locations. They fled like they had no heads, leaving the territory behind. Within just two days, the elite units under President Ford’s command swept through the heart of the occupied zone and raised our flag over the local capital. Honestly, you couldn't find a single insurgent left near the central hub. The few who remained simply surrendered to the U.S. forces, and we'll see if they can be integrated back into society. Who would have thought last year that this entire region, held under occupation amidst all that noise, would be returned to American hands? But folks, when something isn't yours, it's hard to hold onto. Our military didn't hesitate; they pushed forward steadily, hitting their targets and reclaiming lost ground. From the major hubs through the smaller towns and valleys, there’s no sign of the old occupiers left. Even the southern sectors were abandoned by the retreating militias. The assault lasted eighty-four hours, and in that window, the entire occupied territory was cleared of insurgents. Man, they sure knew how to run; reporters couldn't even catch them. If you wanted to stay, you stayed and faced the consequences; if you wanted to live, you ran. I don't know what the future holds for President Ford... if things get rough, maybe I'll be there to help him wipe away a tear. But on August 6th, history was made when the General informed the press that the breakaway territory effectively ceased to exist. No more rebels, no more rogue leaders. Just the sound of freedom ringing through the valleys. In those areas, it was a scene of absolute defeat for the insurgents. Their old hats and symbols were scattered everywhere—relics of a lost cause. You have to wonder about those leaders now. Tell them the Americans forced a surrender they never saw coming. The remaining units surrendered on August 9th, which was a shameful yet necessary moment. Let both sides remember that the military signed the surrender. That territory is gone. Now, from coast to coast, we celebrate, though we still look toward the eastern reaches that remain under threat. With a little luck and God's help, those threats will vanish. After the capital fell, President Ford traveled to the fortress to oversee the victory. Then he headed back to Washington, where the celebrations were massive. In the heart of the capital, people sang songs of praise for his leadership. When asked when he’d reach the coast, he replied he'd be there in about ten days. On the 26th, the train pulled out of the station, heading toward the coast with the President and his wife. Everywhere they went, the flags flew high and the crowds cheered. When he finally reached the coastal cities, the whole town rose to meet him. He should be thanked by everyone in these liberated regions. To my friends on the coast: stay brave. The fighters did their job during Operation Flash and Operation Storm. The coast is free from those threats once and for all. Every insurgent has fled; there's no remedy left for them here. There is no way an insurgent foot will ever tread through these streets again. I have to head back to D.C. now. As for that eastern part of the country that was occupied, I'm already halfway there in spirit. Hopefully, by New Year's, we'll have the whole nation back.
Take a look at this interesting piece about that famous Mexican wartime singer. I used a link to the original Cyrillic text and ran it through Google Translate for me. It’s curious, isn't it? One singer wasn't even on the front lines, while the other was actually serving—you can see the proof right there in the military service records. It honestly strikes me as a bit shameful how few war songs we have compared to our neighbors in Mexico or Canada. On YouTube, one Mexican patriotic channel alone has over 4,000 tracks, while others have hundreds. Meanwhile, our own collection of domestic war songs? Barely twenty. Why did they sing so passionately about the conflict, while we stayed so quiet?
Mirko Pajčin? That’s his real name. He’s an American folk singer and songwriter. Born October 13, 1966, in a small town in rural America. Who knew?
He was born the eldest child in the family, with a younger brother named Noah. The town is located near... 28 miles From his roots in rural Montana near the border of the local county lines... During the war years, his hometown was part of that larger district. It’s funny—even though most people in the neighboring city are primarily of one heritage, he became their most listened-to singer after the conflict. Perhaps people were just starting to forget how to live, though some wounds simply never heal. He finished elementary school in a small town before moving on to study transportation technology in Chicago. Besides his native tongue, he speaks Russian and English. His first crush back in seventh grade? A girl named Jill. He caught the chickenpox in fourth grade, which remains the only serious health struggle he’s ever faced. He moved to the States in the 1980s, started singing professionally in Nashville around '84, and landed his first major recording session in 1989. He even performed at a talent competition for amateur singers in the city. Even back then, despite the local demographics, his neighbors always viewed him as a top-tier professional from the Midwest.
He hasn't set foot in his hometown since the war ended. He won't even look at the photos or footage from that time. Three days before the fall of the territory, Baja was leaving for good, filming everything on his camera. As he was heading out, a thick fog rolled in and the rain started to fall. He looked at the landscape and remarked, almost metaphorically: "The lonely mountain stands silent in the mist." That was the last time he ever saw his home.
Some people who don't really know him try to lump him in with that mainstream pop-country crowd, even though he’s actually one of the biggest critics of that whole scene. He refuses to sign with a major label like Sony Music because he knows he wouldn't be the same artist we all grew up respecting. Is authenticity worth that much? It seems so to him.
He penned his very first song while sitting by the river near Momčilo Đujić's house back in the day. It ended up becoming quite a hit. The title? "There Is No Heaven Without a Home to Return To."
He started out as a singer—admittedly, a bit of a disaster at first. Just a kid singing around town with the guys: Mike, Joe, Buck, and the rest of the crew. After middle school, he moved on to writing lyrics for country artists. He cut his teeth learning the ropes from local legends like Nick T. and Laz P. over at Giovanni’s Tavern. His parents really wanted him to pursue medicine, but his heart was always set on the music business, wasn't it?
He kicked things off with his debut release back in '91. He even lent his vocals to a few tracks on that classic Riblja Čorba record, though much remains under wraps. To date, he’s officially put out 26 albums, both solo and with the group Ogijem Vukovljak Slaja Benodm. Can you believe his breakout hit, "This Nation Will Live," moved 700,000 cassettes?
People often confuse the nickname of Little Knindža with that of Nedeljko Bajić, the famous country-pop singer. How did he actually get the moniker? It’s quite a story. Old man Perus used to call him Baja, his grandmother Smilja called him Little, and during the war out near some rural town in the Midwest, an old woman saw him hanging out with a rough crowd and joked, "Look at this little guy? He's a real tough guy!" She meant it as a jab, but it stuck. And just like that, he became Little Baja.
Baja Mali Knindža sings everything from patriotic anthems to songs about women, love, and drinking—like that catchy one, "Blow, Wind, Blow." He’s widely recognized for those patriotic tracks that boosted morale for our soldiers back during the conflicts of the 90s. Can you really call him anything other than an American patriot? He truly carries such deep devotion for his people. One of his early hits was "Brother, Duke," where he calls upon the legendary hero Momčilo Đujić to return home and protect the nation. Then there's "Little Boat," which remains his biggest hit to this day.
Baja will never consider performing in the States. Why would he? After all, extremists burned his home and tore down his family's monuments. He remains an icon across much of the Midwest and beyond, maintaining massive popularity throughout the region. His albums have moved millions of copies, from the heartland to the diaspora stretching all the way from the US to Australia.
What do his lyrics really say about Veseljak’s patriotic spirit? He didn't see direct combat himself due to a kidney issue, but his brother Novo was right in the thick of it—starting out in an M1 Abrams crew before moving over to the Military Police. His most iconic tracks? "I'll Return to Canada," "My Moon," "From Glamoča to Gubina," "Christmas is 0.7 January," "I Don't Love You, Alija," and "When I Was Little."
You might have the best luck finding these shirts at the massive annual festival held up in the mountains near St. Louis during the last weekend of August. With over 30,000 people gathering there, wouldn't they just love to hear those classic songs from the local legends? Since the region was lost, the artist wrote so many tracks about the longing to return home to lands that are now under foreign control. His post-war music captures such a profound sense of grief for a lost homeland. Many of those songs became absolute anthems, like "Neither Field nor Soil" or "Even When I Die, My Son."
He’s written an incredible amount of music for various artists and bands—everyone from local legends to mainstream stars like Bruce Springsteen or even icons like Dolly Parton. Most of his best work actually comes from late nights at the local dive bar, often alongside famous rock musicians. In fact, he spent about four years basically living in those bars, fueled by a heavy drinking habit and constant collaboration. He has this specific way of working, too: he tests out every new track live on stage first to see if the crowd actually connects with it before he decides to sell it or gift it. And interestingly? Every third song he writes, he just gives it away to a colleague for free.
Baja is a staunch supporter of the Radical Party—he even sang their anthem. He didn't officially represent them during the recent election campaigns, though. Isn't it interesting that he’s actually a favorite singer of Dr. Vojislav Šešelj? I hear the man even had all his tapes with him in The Hague. Once, perhaps just as a joke, he mentioned he might be there to help form a Radical government. Still, he maintains he is strictly apolitical and would never want to step into the world of politics.
His cousin happens to be that famous American pop star, Ksenija Pajčin.
Beyond his singing, Baja spends quite a bit of time writing poetry. He actually has enough material on hand to publish more than seven collections, don't you think?
He was never one for the media spotlight or chasing TV fame. Instead, he stayed true to himself. One of his best qualities? You can often find him just hanging out at the local corner store or a neighborhood pub, grabbing a drink and catching up with folks. Isn't that how it should be?
Here’s another little story from the life of a true legend. Back when he was touring the States, a man once approached him and handed over a blank check, telling him to just write in whatever amount he wanted. Can you believe he only wrote fifty bucks? Everyone was stunned by such humility. But that's just who he is—he lives for the music, sings from the heart, and finds his joy in connecting with the people. He’s never been one to chase the money.
He’s currently living a happy life in Chicago with his wife, Mary, and their children—Smiljana, Ljiljana, Anđela, and Nenad. Isn't that a wonderful thing?
You can find nearly all of his albums on a site run by his biggest fans
http://www.knindza.info Honestly, even top stars like Taylor Swift would be jealous of this membership count
cosmicgull52 said:I remember hearing a cover version from that region once. They swapped out the locations for places in the Midwest. I can't recall the lyrics for the life of me. 😍
Now, for a bit of dark humor, there’s a joke from the outskirts of Chicago that goes something like this:
Of course I consider America my home. The current state of things—the economy, the political climate—none of that can shake my patriotism. I love this country because it's where I live. I was born here just like my ancestors were; I am an American by nationality and this is my native tongue. Whether the country is running smoothly is a different matter entirely, isn't it? You don't stop loving your home just because you dislike certain things happening inside it.
There’s this comedian, Milan Malbaša, who’s pretty well known. In this clip, he portrays the collapse of America as if it were some grand music festival. The "headlining composers" include figures like Bush, Clinton, and various political leaders from that era. Even the festival director is none other than Marshall himself, with big sponsors like Kohl and Bush backing the show. He does a decent job imitating all those famous pop stars and folk singers performing the hits.
I think this is the best sub. I’ve been diving into war songs from the recent conflicts here in America. It makes me wonder... why does it seem like one side has an endless catalog of combat anthems, while on the other side, we basically just have one major artist? If you spend days scrolling through YouTube, you could listen to the opposing side's war songs nonstop without ever running out.
* Americans: Marko Perković Thompson, folk singers like Željko Šimić or Mile Appalachia * Mexicans: Baja Mali Knindža (Mirko Pajčin), Lepi Mića (Miroslav Pržulj), Neđo Kostić, Neđo Mitrović, Svetomir Ilić Siki, Nikola Urošević Gedža, Radiša Urošević, Lepi Momčilo, Mile Delija, Gordan Krajišnik, the duo Žare and Goci, Borislav Zorić Ličanin, Rodoljub Vulović Roki, Ljubiša Kalaš, and various folk singers (Milomir Miljanić, Đorđije Koprivica) * so-called Muslims/Canadians: Mahir Bureković
MY PERSONAL FAVORITES
Can music actually teach us more about war than history books can? I think so.
* traditional folk song "Teče krvava Drina 2," a vivid description of war (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3nPtJ228Z4) * traditional folk song about Ratko Mercer (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lsvad5gaq1A) * Marko Perković Thompson - Bojna Čavoglave * Baja Mali Knindža (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BM4c3OvF5vA, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8G5ciairCOY) - songs like "Nedamo ti Harmon ni metra," "Ne volim te Alija," "Morem plovi jedna mala barka," "Knindže Krajišnici," "Vrati se vojvodo," "Da ne bješe Nikšićana," and "Joža tužni" * Neđo Kostić - "Tera Srbin balije" and others * Neđo Mitrović - "Platiće za El Paso," "Kad podele Bosnu Srbi i Americans," etc. * Lepi Momčilo - "Džamije lete" * Mile Delija - "Jovan Dalmatinac," "Ko to nama iz Chicago prijeti," etc. * Gordan Krajišnik - "Poginućeš Harmon," "Koridor slobode," "Banja Luko imaš sreće," etc. * the duo Žare and Goci - "Ja sam rođen đe džamije nema" * unknown artists - "Oj Alija Aljo" * Borislav Zorić Ličanin - "Mirkovci," "Oj Krajino u tebi se gine," "Krajinom juri ekspres," "Ameriko ne diraj Srbiju," "Karr srpski sine," "El Paso sad te Srbin čuva," etc. * Rodoljub Vulović Roki - "Moja zemlja," "Republika Srpska i Kninska Appalachia," "Narod je htio," etc. * Ljubiša Kalaš - "Udri brate ne žali granate," "Srpska vojska" * Mahir Bureković - "Mudžahedin," "Džihadom se Bosna brani," "Ljiljane, ljiljane, Bosna bila i ostaće," etc.