Counting Blood Cells
On war, personal history, and professional racism.
The war ended when I was a little girl, barely three years of age. One of my first memories is being stuck in a basement of a building we lived in, with my mother and grandmother, and two dozen other people, mostly old women. My mother was not feeling well and the others had deep frowns etched on their faces, so the awkward genius that I was, I rounded up the other four children and told them the planâwe make a singing play with our teddy bears and dolls that we took with us and make the adults smile again. It worked for a few minutes, and the feeling of seeing my pained mother smile was probably the reason why I still remember it to this day.
We were in the basement because a bomb alarm rang through the city of Zagreb, and my mother was in pain because she was miscarrying my sibling from the stress. I only found out about this when I was a teenager. Innocent little girl that I was, I thought she was just hungry because I was hungry as well. The time spent confined in the basement was a total of twelve hours, I believe. Now that I have a small child that is the same age as I was back then, I only have the utmost respect for my resilient mother.
By the age of four, I believed all men were born with missing arms or legs.
When the war initially broke out, my father and my mother first fled to Germany as a newly-fanged couple, but it did not last long. My father could not live with himself watching his countrymen being slaughtered by (quite literally) the neighbors they shared streets with until recently. He was twenty-one or twenty-two years of age when he decided to enlist as a military volunteer (domobran, literally âdefender of Homeâ) and he was sent to the same front where he came fromâOsijek.
Croatia did not evoke a general draft of any men to fight this war. There were plenty of domobrani.
There were a few weekends when he was allowed to visit my mother taking refuge back in Zagreb, and thatâs how I was conceived. There is a photo in a tucked away family album of him holding me when I was a few months old. He was wearing an army uniform and his eyes glistened with held back tears.
The war ended. My father came back with shell shock and all his limbs, much to my surprise. The theory evolved. Only men older than my dad had missing limbs, then, except for my grandfather. He was too angry to have lost limbs somewhere.
At the tender age of seven, or eight, we were driving down to Slavonija. Back then, that meant a six-hour drive weaving between abandoned villages. My little brother was asleep for most of it, and I sat in the middle of the backseat (to hell with child boosters and seat belts) with my elbows up on the seats and asked my father a million questions.
âWhy are there holes in the walls of houses here?â
âWhy are there no kids around? We just passed a playground and there was no one there!â
âThereâs only old people sitting in front of doorsteps!â
âIs this village empty?â
So my father, after a glance at my mother who pretended to be sleeping, decided to tell me everything, to pass the time and keep himself awake for the drive, and finally process what he had been through.
He explained the war to me in great detail. The people who he played cards with were suddenly on the other side of Dunav, shooting at the bars where they drank themselves stupid every Friday together. The friends he lost, the friends he made, the friends whose bonds were only strengthened by being in the same trenches together. He told me that the war was inevitable and it was only a matter of time, and that he did cry when Tito died despite only just becoming a teenager, because he knew on a base level instinct that it will lead to a war. He could only hope to be a part of it himself, not his father or his son. That he was angry at the people who had lived in Croatia all their lives, who shared bread with Croatians, only to turn their backs and join the JNA as soon as shit hit the fan because they suddenly remembered they were Serbian. The soil and the good faith relations mattered little when blood made a calling; something a lot of people on the Left seem to conveniently ignore. Brotherhood and Unity, but only in name.
When I asked him if he ever fired from his weapon, he was quiet for a bit, and I let the silence linger because I wasnât an annoying kid. He then said no. I thought he was lying, but I did not poke further. This was the only time we talked about the war directly and extensively.
We then arrived to his childhood home in Slavonija, and we found it riddled with bullet holes, the windows were broken, the doors unhinged. It was even worse than the houses I saw on the way there. My grandmother was completely heartbroken, she cried and cursed, then wiped off the tears and went to check the damage. The next few years were spent on repairing the only home they had ever known. The garden of red roses bloomed once again.
The Music of my Childhood
As a kid, I thought it cringe when the adults would get drunk and sing Äavoglave (link with English lyrics), but now I understand. I get it now, dad.
Hereâs a version of the song from last year, without fancy editing and filmed straight from the audience. The chant Za Dom Spremni (For Home, Ready) is classified as an offense akin to Heil Hitler because UstaĹĄe used it way back when. No one cared about this until the EU started waving their finger. The government said they will prosecute the people who yelled it at the concert. Good luck, bozos.
As one can expect, I was part of many weddings as a child. People were getting married left and right after the war, to finally seal their love and hide the pregnancies, and they invited everyone they knew that was still alive. There was no such thing as a âchild-free weddingâ back then, and it still is a foreign concept here. The flags of Croatia were waved with patriotic vigor; the veterans showed up in army uniform instead of suit and kravata; the rakija flowed ceaselessly into throats, and the songs were always the same. Nationalist tear-jerkers, and everyone sang along with a loud resolve and tipsy hugs. Sude mi (They Judge Me) by Miroslav Ĺ koro was a song for 1am, when most had left after food and dance, and the ones remaining were waiting for the drunken group therapy and high emotions. Hereâs a Rentry link with translated lyrics. Look at this man singing the song in 2003 and tell me honestly that it did not touch your heart. The same goes for Mojoj Majci (To My Mother) by Prljavo KazaliĹĄte, a song that was banned by the Serbs because of one lyric that they deemed too nationalist.
I kako sad ovako sam // And how am I supposed to go alone
Protiv tuge i oluje // Against sadness and the storm
Kad smo bili kao prsta dva // When we used to be like two fingers
Prsta dva jedne ruke? // Two fingers of one hand?
As anyone who looked into the Yugoslav war would know, the Serbs used three fingers (middle-index-thumb) of one hand to signal to each other, while Croats used two (middle-index) to signal V.
The link to Mojoj Majci leads to the concert in 1989 in the heart of Zagreb. The war wasnât there yet, but everyone was feeling it seeping into the pores of society, the electricity in the air before blood gets spilled. This concert was a huge problem because the tensions were already rising. 300,000 people showed up. It was obvious proof of nationalism taking root in an otherwise completely idyllic and peaceful Yugoslavia, and if you claimed it was otherwise, you were a fascist. The year is different, the playbook is the same.
Since Slavonija and Baranja were under direct occupation by JNA and the Serbs, and were liberated during Operation Flash and others, many songs were inspired by the blood that had already soaked this land once known as the Bread Basket of Yugoslavia. If you would like some zeitgeist of this musical uprising, have a listen to a folk rap song DoÄi u Vinkovce (Come to Vinkovci) with lyrics in English here. There are many, many more songs, but this article would be far too long if I included them all.
Subcultures were a big thing when I was in high school, and one of them was the skinhead / neo-Nazi / hooligan aesthetic that a couple of my classmates adopted. We were fourteen years old. This was mildly frowned upon by teachers, and that was the extent were willing to deal with it. The loudest guy, the de-facto ringleader of the group, meticulously shaved his head every week and wore Dr Martens boots with red lace and a black blazer with a swastika hidden on the inside, and his washed out black jeans were held up by suspenders. He was choleric and angsty, and my first look at excessive virtue-signalling. He instigated fights and often ranted about the Serbs. Serbs this, Serbs that. Serbs deserved even worse fates than the Americans delivered, we should have genocided them, we should have gutted them for what they did, all during class because he was bored and angry. One of the teachers had enough one day, and asked us to raise our hands if our fathers were a part of the war, either as official military or as domobrani. More than half the classroom raised their hands. He did not raise his.
The children of cowards are always the loudest. It is a common pattern that holds true in the entirety of ex-Yugoslavia, and something to keep in mind when one interacts with younger Millennials from these parts.
âWhere were you in â91?â is a common question to stop any further historical discussion with people who are deemed unworthy or are twisting the truth. It is the Croatian equivalent of âpost physiqueâ or âpost handâ from /fit/ and /pol/, respectively. The Homeland War, as we call it, is in living memory for most Croatians. People know people who died, and they know who made that happen.
Except for the people he personally knew, my father did not instill in me, or my brother, a hatred for the Serbs as a people. He was correct when he said that the flames of war were fanned by the media. But my father is a man with a soft heart, and his daughter is too good at noticing patterns.
Counting Blood Cells
This is a common phrase in ex-Yu territory, to count oneâs blood cells. It is usually meant in a dismissive way (âLetâs not count the blood cellsâ) to avoid bringing ancestry into arguments and being petty about the smallest things, but the existence of such a phrase means that ancestry and history are the only logical outcome of any discussion around here. All roads lead to DNA.
To understand how schizophrenic Balkan people can be, you have to consider that genetic maps and research are a favorite pastime of many bored housewives and forum connoisseurs. They will read stuff like this and then argue that no, in fact, there is a higher percentage of Illyrian DNA (which is a magnificent meme at this point because Albanians claim it for themselves and no one else) in this particular region they come from compared to the gypsy dwelling that the opponent is from, obviously. This minute bickering can be found at the smallest level, where one village of people will feel superior over the neighboring villagers because there is one family whose haplogroup is J2 instead of I2. The arrival of the Internet to the Balkans turned these discussions into science-backed shit-flinging. Until then and still today, recognition of one another by pure physiognomy exists without normies necessarily knowing the name for it. The broad knowledge of haplogroups only emboldened the common Balkan man to argue and discriminate now based on FACTS rather than FEELINGS.
Many different maps depicting different criteria look basically the same in the Balkans and ex-Yugoslavia, and it can be reduced to the below image.
Linguistics
Unfortunately for Serbia, they were under direct Ottoman occupation intensely for about 350 years, with regions gradually falling starting from the year 1371 until full liberation in 1912.
Anyone who knows a person with a superiority complex will tell you such a person harbors great insecurities which are masked as bravado and confidence.
The Turkish loanwords in the Serbian language have become so instrumental and absorbed in every day vernacular that they do not even register them as loanwords anymore, and if they do, they hide behind the âSerbo-Croatianâ moniker, as if Croatians commonly use words like pendĹžer for window instead of prozor. The Croatian language went through a lot of reform to streamline it with a puritan perspective and removal of loanwords. We say povijest (history), they say istorija. While there are still many Germanic loanwords in northern Croatia and Italian ones in Dalmatia, it is confined to dialect and region. The official, unified Croatian language was cleansed.
Serbian language uses Cyrillic alphabet (I can almost hear a Bulgar in the distance screaming at me to add that they invented it) as the main one, while Croatia first used glagoljica then Latin alphabet like everyone else west of us.
This divide is not only linguistic, but religious as well. Croats are majority Catholics, Serbs are majority Orthodox. A conspiracy theory of mine is that the bottom half of Serbia is cursed because of the Dunav river line cutting them off. The line also somewhat neatly separates Orthodoxy and Catholicism, taking into account the mountainous and islamicized Bosnia as a cut off.
Very Quick Rundown of History
To exemplify the eternal butthurt of Serbia, we can simply have a look at our history together. After WW1, we made a union together, a State of Slovenes, Croats and Serbs (DrĹžava SHS), but then!
On 1 December, Regent Alexander proclaimed unification of "Serbia with lands of the independent State of Slovenes, Croats and Serbs into a unified Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes".
Look at the naming order from one to another. Incredible things happening.
Stjepan RadiÄ famously resisted the unification with Kingdom of Serbia, with a quote âDo not rush like geese into fogâ, which every school kid here knows about. Later he was shot in the stomach by a Serb PuniĹĄa RaÄiÄ and died after agonizing for three weeks.
Now letâs take a break and do a physiognomy check.
This guy above is Stjepan RadiÄ.
A Croatian pure of heart, with only love for our beautiful homeland.
The guy below is PuniĹĄa RaÄiÄ, the Serbian guy who shot him, a member of Peopleâs Radical Party.
I hope you will draw your own conclusions here, without my intervention. A juxtaposition like this should be good enough.
There is no need for me to go in-depth with our history, plenty of Youtube videos cover this extensive topic, however biased it can be. A lot of the facts were muddied, changed, hidden away, and Slavs in general are not really notorious for writing down what happened and keeping records straight.
All I can tell you is that the entire history of Croatia, from 7th century onward, is taught throughout elementary and middle school, and it was a tangled bowl of hell porridge to learn. It is a rabbit hole that unravels, and keeps on giving.
The Real Deal
There is so much more that I could include, but most of the things are easy to look up online. Except for the racism. Well, thatâs not true, and if youâve ever been in a Balkan thread on /pol/ or on the now-banned r/2balkan4you, people do not hide their disdain from each other. It is easy to meme about it, and every thread devolves into complete chaos within six posts.
Most memes are rooted in some variation of genetic shitposting, political turmoil, religious differences, and food banter. They say itâs all ironic, but art imitates life and I have heard how people talk about different ethnicities.
But, without further ado, let me break it down for the Westerners so they can be accurately racist online. Keep in mind that every single country listed has a rampant problem with corruption and nothing is ever taken seriously about it. It runs so deep, one can bribe a cop for drunk driving or hitting a gypsy with like 50 euros, if you have the extroverted charisma to pull it off.
Serbia
Thereâs a joke in Croatia that goes like âFirst came the Serb, then came the amoebaâ, as they love claiming everything and anything under the sun as theirs. Wikipedia had problems with Serbian editors claiming random people as originating from Serbia, and now I found this article that they banned six editors because they kept re-writing history of the Yugoslav war and Serbian politics in the year of our Lord 2026. None of the six people had any connection to each other, they independently did this regardless of political orientation.
Vojvodina up north should secede and join either Croatia or Hungary, they would be much better off and they are spiritually and genetically closer to us than anything south of Beograd.
Beograd is a cesspool of drug addicts and prostitutes, much like our own Split, which no Croatian likes except for dumb tourists. Serbian politicians cannot help themselves but suck that ruski dick. They delude themselves into thinking Russians are their brothers because of Orthodoxy, but Russia does not even think about Serbia unless itâs to use them to destabilize the geopolitics of the region to rattle the EU bureaucrats. They gobble it up without question, and even elected a president with lips fit for the job to make sure nothing goes to waste.
They are not even in the EU, but they still import tens of thousands of migrants from fuck-ass places like Nepal and India and mainland China. Kosovo will never be Serbia again, they just needed a nationalistic chant because they had none before that.
Anything south of Beograd is basically what Russia was in the 90s. The poverty level is unfathomable to a Westerner. No flat screen TV, no newest gen smartphones, no new shoes for years, because they cannot afford it. Some still use outhouses or those squatting toilets. Though to be fair, a lot of Italy has those as well. There is nothing to do there but get drunk and complain about the government, which can be comfy on itâs own. This is true for most of the Balkans.
Serbs are not the kebab removers that they made the online Westerners believe they were. One meme song does not erase centuries of history. Good PR campaign though, well played.
Median salary is 600 euros, and that includes Belgrade as an industrial powerhouse. NiĹĄ and Novi Sad arenât too bad, everywhere else is crkavica (loose translation would be living on a wage just enough to not die) and itâs specially bad in the rural areas.
Serbia concentrates the biggest amount of Yugonostalgics, people who wish for the old days to return so they can piggyback off of others. The Boomers, and the Zoomer communists are the worst about this.
There are literal prostitutes reading the news on TV, and there was a prostitution ring that involved female dogs that was recently busted in Serbia. Before you cast your judgment, most of the âclientsâ were Westerners.
Self-sabotage is the name of their game. I genuinely do hope they claw their way out of the shit pit they dug themselves into before it gets even worse, but I can see them backstabbing their neighbors quicker than they admit fault.
Bosnia and Herzegovina
Most of the jokes in ex-Yu star two Bosnians, Mujo (Muhamad/Mustafa) and Haso (Hasan), and sometimes Fata (Fatima) as the wife of Mujo.
They say the jokes are all actually true, and itâs easy to believe them. I will try to translate some of them to give you a glimpse into the kind of people they are.
After a car crash, Mujo and Haso enter paradise. A gentleman donned in a white robe greets them and says,
âWelcome to paradise! You do not have to worry about money because there is none here. You do not have to worry about jobs because there are none here.â
Mujo looks at Haso and says,
âWhy the fuck did we come here then, itâs the same as in Bosnia!â
Fata died and Haso visits Mujo when he hears him playing the piano.
âMujo why are you playing the piano, your wife died yesterday.â
âDonât worry, Iâm only using the black keys.â
A Frenchman, an American, and Mujo drink together.
The Frenchman says, âI have such good hearing, I heard a mouse eating sugar in the pantry last night.â
The American says, âI have such good hearing, last night I heard rust eating the rim of the car in the garage.â
And then Mujo says, âI have such good hearing, when I heard something in the closet, I went to check and it was the coat going out of fashion!â
There are thousands of these. It is silly humor that has been central to the Bosnian mindset and identity for decades. These go very hard once everyoneâs drunk and the spirits are high.
Bosnians are technically Muslims by majority, but theyâre the kind of Muslim that drinks a lot of alcohol and doesnât really pray all that much. Their official unemployment rate is 13%, but thatâs just on paper. Everything is just on paper, while reality is wildly different.
The country of Bosnia and Herzegovina is actually run by a guy called Christian Schmidt as he has power over their elections, for some reason. So the lovely multi-ethnic diversity peace and prosperity project of the tri-religious and tri-ethnic union of BiH falls flat because itâs barely held together by a German.
The Saudis have been investing a lot into Bosnia, not for the infrastructure or anything useful, but to build more mosques.
The Serbs had at least tried to get their independence back from the Ottoman Empire; the Bosnians just took it up the ass. Couldnât be bothered. For centuries.
When people threaten kids to be better in school, they tell them theyâll end up as a sheep herder in Bosnia if they donât, which I now realize is being romanticized in the West and I have no clue how to reconcile that at all. Weâve come full circle.
I mentioned this in a Note somewhere, but itâs been lost to the wind, so I will repeat for archival purposes. Some years ago, one of those old wooden electric poles fell down due to harsh winds and hit a guy right on the head, he was completely pancaked by it. Residents of nearby buildings saw this and rushed out to help him, but he just started cursing a lot, and people realized he was Bosnian due to the accent. He just dusted himself off and went on his way. I cannot find any news article to prove this, youâll just have to believe me.
Itâs hard to hate on Bosnians, easy to meme about them. They gave us Dubioza Kolektiv, and this video describes them better than I ever could. Itâs even in English, so I hope you enjoy it. Absolute banger.
Kosovo
The ÄorÄe MartinoviÄ incident.
ÄorÄe MartinoviÄ was a Serb farmer from Kosovo who was at the center of a notorious incident in May 1985, when he was treated for injuries caused by the insertion of a glass bottle into his anus. Although the facts of the incident remained in dispute for years afterwards, it played a role in worsening ethnic tensions between Kosovo's Serb and Albanian populations.
Also, there is a statue dedicated to Bill Clinton, situated in Bill Clinton Boulevard, in the capital city of PriĹĄtina.
Excuse the BBC article, but here it is in case you want to know more about this.
Montenegro
I honestly have no idea what these people do down there, probably nothing. They say a Montenegrin keeps a chair next to his bed to take a rest after waking up.
I heard they make Western tourists pay an extra tax for breathing air when they enter the country. I also heard they are moving forward with the EU application recently. Theyâve been using the euro as their official currency since 2002, even though theyâre not in the EU at all. Before they adopted euro, the official one was Deutsche Mark. I donât even understand how exactly they are a functional country, but then again Belgium exists, so they are excused.
Albania
No one likes the shqiptars, and they donât even like themselves. Over 10% of their population has accumulated in London to presumably fight other Muslims who are too brown for them. If they settle elsewhere, they usually open up an ice-cream shop or a bakery. Itâs always one of these two, they do not venture into anything else. The bakeries are actually decent and open until ungodly hours on the weekends to serve drunkards after a night out. They sound funny to the rest of the Balkans, as if they have a built-in lisp. Äokoljada hehe.
Highest % chance of getting shanked by one of them out of any other ethnicity.
Dua Lipa is a PR ambassador to improve the Albanian image in the West.
Macedonia
Imagine being Macedonia, the land of an amazing flag and Alexander the Great, and you really want to be a part of the EU (lol) so you keep applying for it (lol), but Greece keeps vetoing your application because they are drama queens and they tell you that if you rename your country into North Macedonia, theyâll give a thumbs up with Brussels (lol). So you do, you go through with it on all official documents, everything gets changed into North Macedonia as if you are some province of another country, and the EU âbegins talksâ with you. Itâs been years of âtalkingâ about it, and anytime thereâs any movement in the EU direction, the political opposition holds protests to block it despite the name change and all.
You even held a referendum about the name change, but only 37% of the population actually showed up to cast a vote so it was deemed void. But at least you get to enter NATO as the 30th member, right before the global collapse in March of 2020.
Bulgaria
I consider Bulgarians to be the actual prototype of modern human. The out-of-Africa theory is bullshit, we all came from Bulgaria and evolved, while they stayed there as they are. One day I will visit them and prove my theory correct.
They cannot keep their politics in place for more than two weekends, but they can hold their liquor well. They have had eight parliamentary elections in five years. The most recent one was eleven days ago as of time I wrote this. Banana republic with the highest emigration compared to other EU states, but I find them fascinating enough to observe from afar. Weird, existential sense of humor and constant mental anguish imposed on themselves for nothing. All those Russian depression songs that are popular nowadays are actually about Bulgarians.
It seems to me they have also been cursed by some ancient deity and they still suffer for it.
Romania and Moldova
I do not consider them to be part of Balkans. They do not consider themselves to be part of the Balkans. Every Balkan map made by a Westerner includes them both. No one knows why.
If you call them gypsies, they will break into your home and fuck your wife while holding you at gunpoint. We all hate gypsies, but they have to deal with them a lot more than anyone else. If the EU allowed it, theyâd have cleansed their land of them yesterday.
Moldova gave us Dragostea din tei by O-zone, and they have a catchy banger for Eurovision this year.
Every (actual) Romanian that Iâve met has been the silent type with a lot of pride and inner rage that they drink back down if it tries to come up.
Croatia
I will not slander my homeland.
However, the people on the other side of Lika, from Rijeka to Split, would sell their own mothers into slavery if it meant more money made during the summer. They live by working intensely for 6 months during the season serving fat entitled Germans who are too poor to go to Mallorca, then doing nothing but shitpost on Facebook during the winter. Spiritually, they are closer to Sardinians than anyone else, but they do have a strong sense of Croatian patriotism and would not blink twice to murder someone who talks shit about our Homeland. High drug use rate, specially in Split, high extroversion and low impulse control, to their own detriment. Constant sun exposure does something to people, I swear.
Soft spot for Dubrovnik and the people of Dubrovnik. Leave them alone.
Croatians can be very passive during times of peace, too passive and too yielding to a lot of imposed things from others. We suffer from feeling like weâre too small and insignificant to do anything by ourselves. I wish we were different in that regard.
During times of conflict, however, the passivity dissipates. Our history is bloody and metal as fuck.
Slovenia
Now I know that Slovenes do not like to be lumped in with us barbarians on the Balkans and much prefer the neighboring Austria and Switzerland, but you are locked in here geographically.
Slovenes are commonly referred to as the femboys of the Balkans. Small country, beautiful land, can travel through from one side to the other in under an hour. I donât understand a single thing they say and find great pleasure in forcing the gas station clerk speak Croatian to me as I am obliged to buy a 7-day vignette just for passing through. I take my wins when I can.
Sorry to that one person from Slovenia who subscribes to me, you cool.
All in all
I have long said that I am happy with my comfy shithole. When the migration crisis hit in the summer of 2015, I saw the writing on the wall and watched in horror as Western Europe suicided in front of us. I also knew that all these âeconomic migrantsâ are not interested in the Balkans. We do not have big bucks to give away for free like Germoney does.
The world is changing rapidly and for the worse, but I am sure that my dearest Balkans will still be the same, as it ever was, no matter what happens. There is no zoomer shortage of alcohol drinkers. Men arenât breaking their bones to be taller and women arenât delusional about how the world works. Clocks still tick correctly in this part of the world, no matter which haplogroup weâre talking about or whatâs the % of PVRE ILLYR1AN DNA. No matter the âpopulation collapseâ or âAI takeoverâ, the rakija will still be drank, the lambs will still spin over fire, the people will still curse their governments. Nothing changes on the Balkan front.
As I was writing this, my thoughts were filtered through the prism of an American man reading this, and boy cowboy I can tell you that if you ever want to learn how to be a proper Chad and go through a proper rite of passage, spend a year or two in the Balkans. There is no masculinity crisis down here. Men still duke out their genetic differences outside of bars when they hear a different accent. Women will likely devour you whole, and you might wake up in a bathtub filled with ice cubes and a pressure gauze taped over the skin where your kidney was. Maybe.
You can be racist to a Balkan person if you are correct about it. They will argue against it to death, but they will not call the cops or try to get you cancelled or make you lose your job. They will open up a bottle of rakija or order three rounds of beer and then the discussion can continue. There is still integrity and acceptance that words are just words, until of course they become fighting words.
There are quite a few things we all have in common down here. Most notably, there is white-hot hatred for gypsies and communists, cursing every third word and deeply appreciating when someone outside of the region curses in our tongue, hard alcohol, a melancholic acceptance that the world is shit, and to never trust anyone, especially not the Jews.
It took a long time to write this. I hope there is some new obscure information about the Balkans that you were not aware of before. The post will remain free to read until ten thousand Serbs spawn in the comment section.
Didnât understand the second Bosnian joke but the first one is incredibly funny - pls tell me more
The more I learn of the balkans the more beautifull (in a simple and pure kind of beauty) it all seems