Freaks (Part Three)

Moving along the village streets, it is not at all strange if one steps on a piece of crap or a dog's pee. If one lives in the Balkans, however, it is not at all strange if one smells the striking stench of the collective identities that thrive here. We go further through the Ex-Yu streets to chronologically send to the end the monsters that emerged from the torn belly of the SFRY.

The seventh monster is the contagion that smolders under the name of the Federal Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina. This Balkan Iraq appeared on the modern political map in March 1992 after the successful referendum for independence boycotted by the Chetniks. Crookedly planted from the very beginning, this creation consists of two, or rather three entities, the Baliya-Ustasha and the Chetniks, who, despite all the slaughter, are forced to live together, within the same pre-war borders in which they lived from 1944-92 on the wings of Tito's phrases, which, for the sake of truth, had some mystical power. Scene of the bloodiest episodes in the Ex-Yugoslav wars (1991-2001), it is believed that around 110,000 people died in this territory and over 250,000 were wounded. Concentration camps reappeared on the scene in Europe after 1945 and medieval methods of torture were once again actualized by various orthodox Muslims, Orthodox and Roman Catholic Christians and similar pathologies.

Birth rates are terrible, mortality is stable, emigration is particularly pronounced, the future is extremely uncertain.

Collective identity: Glupe Balije, Mujo & Haso, Muslići, Poturice.

Genocidal potential: Built with the arrival of mujahideen from the third world, the dark traditions of the Handžar division are still alive.

Just a month later, the next abomination dawned on this world, this time a crumpled Yugoslavia, the idea of ​​the morbid moron Milošević S., his wife Marković M. and the Chetnik Academy of Sciences and Arts (SANU) - SR Yugoslavia. In this case, we have a vague insistence on the continuity of the terminology derived from the ideas of unification of the South Slavic countries. This third and last Yugoslavia (in any case the most miserable) consisted of four of the eight federal and republican territorial entities, namely Serbia, Montenegro, Kosovo and Vojvodina.

Although short-lived, this country indebted civilization with an unprecedented wave of radioactive Turbo-folk, dieselism, cinematic glorification of illiteracy, crime and corruption that culminated in the film Early, an extremely cretinous dress code dominated by tracksuits, gold chains and white socks, the lowest salaries in Europe, sponsorship, crime on a monstrous scale, daily murders on the streets of Belgrade, Valjevo and Surdulica, a land in the jaws of drug addiction, only to end quietly, after the intervention of the NATO pact in 1999 and the secession of Kosovo.

First renamed Serbia and Montenegro in 2003, this state collapsed with the departure of the weaker half of the federation in 2006, At least 13,000 dead and 50,000 wounded, including all military clashes as well as criminal settlements and liquidations and the escalation of other, seemingly unrelated to war-related types of death is the result of the existence of this disgrace of a state.

Collective identity: Dumb Chetniks.

Genocidal potential: The highest in Europe at that time.

The turn of the ninth monster, the most mysterious and least known of all twelve entities, came and that is the Republic of Western Bosnia, the brainchild of the socialist director and proto-tycoon Fikret Abdić. This character, known for the mega-affair with one of the largest food companies in the SFRY - Agrokomerc, dissatisfied with the policy of official Sarajevo - decided on an interesting step, to create his own state! Based around the Agrokomerc company in the neighborhood of a place called Velika Kladuša, as a socialist realist echo of the corporate pseudo-state Fordlandia in the Amazon founded by Henry Ford, this private state, so to speak the dream of libertarians, organized by a cadre of ex-communists is something that was on the very edge of probability.However, in September 1993, this state entity surfaced. Half the size of Andorra and with a population of some 60,000, Western Bosnia survived until Operation Storm in 1995, when for the last time the flag of this small state - which symbolized the centuries-old aspiration of the Western Bosnian people and their leader and teacher Abdić for their own state - was taken down from the masts around the factory halls of the dying Agrokomerc. In their place were raised white flags with a blue shield in which yellow lilies were entwined.

The blood toll for the existence of this state is unknown, although it is likely to be much lower than that of its neighbors.

Collective identity: Balije u zaleđu.

Genocide potential: Unknown, probably low.

There remains one more part of the quadrology of zombified collective identities and state communities in these regions, that colorfulness with dominant red and brown tones, that background of the stench of decomposed bodies, that radiation of the massive transfer of public money into private pockets...

(Roger Mortis, 153)

Freaks (Part Two)

We continue with the kaleidoscope of Balkan collective identities, an extremely sad topic that is most suitable for possibly pushing a suicidal person over the threshold. Although, in at least somewhat rational circumstances, it would be different. Very different.

The fourth creation born from the dead womb of the SFRY is called the Republic of North Macedonia. If some kind of ranking list of surviving state entities were made, this one (along with Kosovo) is at the very bottom. A totally irrelevant piece of land, it does not go out to the sea, there is no navigable river, there are no valuable resources or energy sources. But that poverty resulting from geographical and geological specifics is nothing compared to the misery called the local population.

A morbid, unreal, fantastically stupid population that consists of several identities, mainly of Hunzas (self-declared descendants of Alexander's empire), Shiptars, Gypsies, Seljuks, Chetniks, Torbeshes, Tatars and Tsintsars. Social awareness that is lower than the deepest hole around the Dead Sea, an innate tendency towards corruption and snitching, petty malice and malice combined with an anti-culture of living - makes this place such that refugees from wars in the Near and Middle East, various types of birds (such as vultures) and many viruses and bacteria bypass it. I suspect that supernatural phenomena also bypass it.

Although this work took place the last military act of the ex-Yugoslav wars that raged from 1991 to 2001, with the number of victims on both sides not exceeding 300 and the wounded 1000, the paradise is still in the mood to straighten the crooked Drina. To straighten the spine - not  really.

Terrible birth rate, stable mortality, particularly pronounced emigration, future - no.

Collective Identity - Mentally Retarded Hunza

Genocidal Potential - Almost Non-existent

The fifth is the mildly retarded situation known as the Croatian Republic of Herzegovinian-Bosnia. The Herzegovinians, known as Croats in the offside or as part of their collective identity suitable for stereotypical jokes at the expense of their imagined or real traits - were not allowed to remain without their own state. As a counterpart to their Chetnik brothers in terms of feces flowing through their veins - the Ustashas of course declared their own state on the territory of the SR Bosnia and Herzegovina in order to deceive possible international support for the proclamation of a state known as Bosnia and to gain the opportunity to return territories that were once under the umbrella of the ultimate evil known as the Independent State of Croatia.

But it turned out that this country was an extremely ephemeral phenomenon, imagined in the sick brain of the chief for the poor, the aforementioned crooked-mouthed sociopath Tuđman F. Hanging around on various maps and charts from 1991 to 1996, failing to enter any edition of the World Atlas, sponsoring at least 10,000 graves and 22,000 mutilations and injuries - this state project died under the weight of the ink of the Dayton Agreement.

Collective identity: Ustaše Light

Genocidal potential: Serious, in line with the broader genocidal policy of the mother country.

The sixth is Republika Srpska. This festering wound in the Balkans was declared even before Bosnia and Herzegovina declared independence, which means that people like Karadžić R. and Plavšić B. were particularly quick in their actions to hatch another cuckoo's egg that would later become an integral part of Greater Serbia.

A hotbed of genocide, crime, human trafficking and everything that was already listed in the section on the Republic of Serbian Krajina - this creation still lives on the margins of memory and legality as an integral part of the Bosnian Federation. But now it does not claim independence and sovereignty. Or does it claim it? For that, they will have to wait for Mother Serbia to give birth to a new Draža or for Jovan Deretic to grow wings. The short-lived independence of 1992-95, which cost 14,000 corpses and 25,000 wounded, I do not believe that satisfies the appetites of the local shamefully stupid and illiterate population.

Collective identity - Serbian shit.

Genocidal potential - Serious, as part of the bigger picture of Serbia's genocidal engagement in the region.

Next time we will get acquainted with the following sources of infection and paranoia in the Balkans.

(Roger Mortis, 152)

Freaks (Part One)

This year marks a third of a century since the collapse of the second Yugoslavia. The Tito one that became pregnant after the insemination by the vampiric nationalism of the mid-seventies and after the death of the locksmith and the last stand attempt of a certain Marković A. to prevent the birth - the inevitable happened, i.e. new state entities began to be born. Great hopes were placed on those entities, that they would grow up, finish school, join the army, get married... if only they would give birth to new entities, no, not at all. If possible, they would grab something from their neighbors, nothing more.

Without delving into the internal contradictions and reasons for the collapse, it would be interesting to look at the seven dwarves who survived from the initial twelve, whose inglorious existence soon began to stink incomparably more than the late SFRY in its most stinking times.

The first was a creation called Slovenia. A meaningless, mountainous country with a scorched seabed and not particularly bad neighbors, this country, which speaks a language that makes the eardrum suffer, went through a short but televisedly heavily exploited war with no more than 300 dead and 2,000 wounded on the way to insignificance. Retaining moments from the previous system with a somewhat less raw transition compared to the others, Slovenia, despite the mega-scandals with the corruption of the most vocal patriots of 1991 (Janez Janša, prime minister whose patriotism cost him at least 20 million euros of public money in his own pocket) in record time found Brussels as a replacement for Belgrade and remained number one in the gallery of freaks.

Birth rate terrible, mortality stable, emigration not particularly pronounced, future - monotonous.

Collective identity: Umazani Janezi.

Genocidal potential: Almost non-existent

The second was the bizarre phenomenon called Croatia. It is said that this country was unusually beautiful. If an analogy can be used, then one could imagine a long-legged blonde with serious sociopathic tendencies and dreams of her grandmother-serial killer who is sexually active only with people with whom she cannot understand. Four years later than that fateful 1991, 26,000 dead. 44,000 wounded was the balance of the creation that would become known under the popular name Prčija in the ownership of 200 families, gathered around the pseudo-dictator Franjo Tuđman (aka Krivousti) and the leaders of the Conversion. The citizens of this country saw salvation from themselves in the endless streams of credits and Brussels where, with a decade-long delay compared to their northern neighbors - they enrolled in the club 28.

Birth rate terrible, mortality stable, emigration in worrying growth, future, slightly suspicious.

Collective identity: Usrane Ustaše.

Genocidal potential: High. Turned into reality 1941-45 and partially 1991-95.

The third is already a kind of pearl. The state entity called the Republic of Serbian Krajina, founded in the days of Evil with the onset of the summer heat in the ubiquitous 1991. This maniacal state once stretched over a third of the area of ​​Croatia and was the cornerstone in the expected imminent unification of all countries where Serbs lived.

Financed through the plunder of the property of exiled people, smuggling of everything that can and cannot be smuggled, remittances from the budget of the patron state that will be discussed later, and general madness - the future certainly looked bright! A relative of the coockoo eggs that they sow to cause later shit (Donbas, Crimea, Transnistria, Abkhazia, Ossetia, Nakhichevan, etc.) - the Chetnik pride did not manage to celebrate its fifth birthday, but disappeared in the autumn and winter of late 1995 when the operations of the Ustasa army, Oluja and Blijesak, wiped it off the map in less than two weeks. 4,000 dead and 15,000 wounded were probably an appropriate price for several years of joy for the population wearing shaykacha hats and opanak footware.

Collective identity - Stupid Chetniks.

Genocidal potential: High. Partially manifested 1991-95.

The fourth in this parade of monstrosity is Macedonia. But more on that in the next installment.

Unfortunately, it will take at least four parts to cover the moment of birth of 12 Rosemary babies from just one womb...Fuck them all, motherfuckers.

(Roger Mortis, 151)

Paths

Human paths are strange. Especially when it comes to collective identity and possible ideological affiliation, some would say the evolutionarily built-in need to belong to a Tribe.

If we start from the assumption of at least a little above-average intelligence in an individual and elementary intellectual honesty - then that individual will reach Anarchy at some point in his life, on an intellectual and identity level. It is simply impossible for it to be otherwise.

Why is it impossible? Because all paths lead to the individual as an individual in itself, the beginning of every group, the last instance of biological predestination. No one was born into a group.

Once reaching it, one does not know where a person will continue and by what coordinates he will leave, The crossroads at which one will find oneself is a strange phenomenon. There are not four directions but countless. The path that one will take is a matter that depends on a thousand factors.

Fear, helplessness, insecurity, utilitarianism, wife, children, social condemnation, salary, pragmatism, car loan...or none of that but something completely eighteen. And completely understandable.

However, the point is that the people who have rubbed shoulders with Anarchy for at least two minutes in their lives are the ones who make life so bearable in these conditions.

(Roger Mortis, 150)

The Wild Bunch

Groups of deserters during the Great War, caught in no man's land or in the mountains, forests and deserts of various fronts - rejected their previous loyalties and, indulging in their madness, plunged into robbery and cannibalism. Completely freeing themselves from the constraints of national affiliation, religious instructions and good manners, fanatically united in their evil - members of different armies fraternized on two grounds.

The first was that typical deserter story where frightened and disappointed young men decided to try to survive without much fuss, hiding together with yesterday's enemies whom they knew through the sight, optical or mechanical. And the second... that was the above-described group of rabid deranged freaks, determined to take revenge on all of humanity, to tear off all fig leaves, to trample on all norms, to kill all that tragic naivety that had put them there, in holes covered with a thin layer of yellowish Sarin. Through the clouds of Chlorine, among the corpses whose eyeholes were being gnawed by rats - it was not difficult to achieve a radical change in perception.

Spiritually destroyed by suffering, perhaps more prone to madness than the rest, or just as a sublimation of general madness in its purest form, these former soldiers butchered wounded ex-colleagues and made simple culinary specialties out of them. Before that, they were thoroughly deprived of all possible material possessions, no matter how modest.

They did not limit themselves to that, but also attacked civilians, farms and oases, shepherds and goatherds, travelers and vagabonds. On the edges of all fronts, small but impressive groups of Wild People thrived, shadows in the fog, panic in the eyes of the recruit who had just arrived at the front who heard nervous whispers among the older soldiers about how the painful screams of the wounded Guillaume or Gary or Gennady or Gunther were interrupted by a few dull blows in the distance, and the stench of roasted human flesh occupied a place in the soldier's mind that nothing could drive out, until judgment day.

(Roger Mortis, 149)

Inglorious past

Interesting and pseudo-touching is the desire of a certain part of the population to lament about family traditions. If we know that in this territory there was no aristocracy, there was only the smallest bourgeoisie and almost no intellectuals - the urge to try to compile a family tree, a genealogical tree of some kind of Mitrevci family is strange. Wow, they survived for a long time. Just like anyone else!

I have never had the desire to dig into the past of my biological ancestors. At least not beyond what lives in the memory of my parents (farthest to their grandparents, i.e. my great-grandparents). I have no doubt that my distant ancestors belonged to the lower social classes (serfs/serf peasants/slaves), their total ordinariness, anonymity and non-exclusivity, and I think that they too would not want to be disturbed in the eternal peace that is certainly better than their rotten life.

A random ancestor in the 17th century, for example. Even if there was a way to find out something (and there isn't), what would he find out? That he was born and died somewhere in the Balkans, lived his life within a radius of 15 km, didn't know how to read or write, struggled to survive physically and save his children from starvation, buried several of them when they were little, had some poor bride, unfortunately the poor thing was always under threat of death during childbirth and died poor, whatever he was born. One would only grieve over the many generations of ancestors who were born in pain, never saw any life and died like dogs. If it were visualized, then it would lead to the visualization of characters like those played by  crypto-actors like Vancho Petrushevski and Dzhokica Lukarevski. And of course Lazar Barakov. At best, someone like Rade Rogozharov.

I don't understand the need for self-deception and empty fantasies that there are precise genealogical trees here that go back 500 or more years. Unless it's a priestly family (and of a higher rank), that's not the case, this isn't England to have a "Doomsday Book" with a population census from 1086. The kingdom was illiterate, the Ottomans didn't issue birth certificates, and there was no aristocracy that would draw family trees. I don't know how one could find out about an ancestor from a mountain village in 1699 without any documentation.

Probably not. Which doesn't stop some people from imagining famous, rich, and powerful ancestors. And that's just a reflection of what state-run historian freaks do on a smaller, personal level.

(Roger Mortis, 148)

Ice Ice Baby

Almost no one tried to be polite, let alone mournful. Drinking spritzer and devouring beans and sausages, the gathered population seemed unable to detach themselves from the everyday stupid atmosphere, from everyday behavior even for two hours to send off the deceased properly. And the deceased...was not a particularly good person but he was not particularly bad either. Having worked in a library his entire working life - and he did not have a particularly large number of friends. It seemed that no one even noticed him.

Considering that one of the deceased's favorite books was "The Invisible Man" by H.G. Wells - then we could also engage in a brief amateur and completely pointless psychoanalysis about the projection of the characteristics of one's life onto the tastes and attitudes that a person has...but this blog is not the appropriate place for such a thing since he himself is invisible in virtual spaces. The librarian somehow noticed that book on the shelves more often than the others and always wiped the dust and moisture off it. Maybe he was glad that someone had once remembered to write a book about invisible people, who are a significant minority in the world. The exact number is unknown, but there are certainly more of them than those who identify as Brazilians, let's say.

And it all started so naively.

The snow, which fell for 79 minutes, was enough for the dilapidated roof of the library to collapse under the weight of all 16 cm that had fallen so far. The librarian was alone on duty and as such turned out to be the only victim of this unfortunate set of circumstances. A beam hit him on the head, bleeding and sending him sprawling on the floor. The doctor who came to certify the death and sign the death certificate, scratching his butt and sniffing at brandy, searched his pockets for a pen. From them came the light of day a telephone bill, a party card, a shopping list and a key chain with an erect penis. A pen was not even a cure.

But that was the least of the problems and a pen was quickly found in the ruins of the library. And where is the stamp? To get a stamp, one still had to go to the hospital and the road was frozen. After a three-hour ordeal, the doctor finally reached the hospital and officially declared the librarian deceased. As far as the state was concerned, the librarian was deceased.

The coffin had already been lowered and the people were nervously looking at their watches and their mobile phones, wondering how much longer they would have to stand in the cold. As an old bachelor, the librarian was not particularly careful about his wardrobe. Without a woman's hand in the house, he knew how to sew an extra pocket on his coat or trousers himself, for every new gadget that came out on the market.

And one such, namely a cheap Chinese smartphone, will play a dramatic role in this bizarre story. In this world, there are always people who are not informed about someone's death, so some such person somewhere dialed the librarian's number at that moment. Suddenly, the sounds of the ringtone of the legendary hip-hop artist Vanilla Ice began to echo from the coffin, "Ice, ice baby, taradam taradam taradam tam tam Ice, ice baby". The crowd, unaccustomed to such situations, began to panic and run around, some fell into the unforeseen holes for the coffins, some hid behind the marble memorial plaques, and others were frozen in place.

Then, another sound spread through the air, the sound of hitting wood. The librarian, however, despite the insistence of the state authorities to declare him a corpse, was not dead. To the sounds of MC Hammer, the librarian was taken out by the sober gravediggers who opened the shroud. Recovering himself, he began to look around in disbelief, trying to understand how he had ended up in a hole and what all those crosses and heavens with distorted faces around him meant. "Finally, a day to remember!" - the optimistic side of the ex-deceased's brain called out.

"Kent touch dis, na na na na, tadam, tadaaam, kent touch dis."

(Roger Mortis, (147)