(Inside me, it was...)

12.7.2014

Speak, @carlbildt


A barren field. An actor appears. He/she is in the role of Heath Ledger portraying the Joker pretending to be Carl Bildt

BILDT    How was it that the Balkan wars began? Let me tell you. In '85, a farmer in Kosovo stood on his field and cried that he had been deprived for long enough. He was a Serb, naturally, which should be clear to y’all by now. Right? He took a bottle of beer, stuck it on top of a stick; he shoved the other end of the stick firmly into the ground. Then he dropped his pants and sat on the bottle. That hurt. The farmer dragged himself to a hospital and told everyone that two Albanians had tied him up and stuck a bottle up his rear, bottom first.

Later on, the poor bastard confessed what had really happened to anyone who would listen. But the powder keg was already smoldering. The Serbian Academy of Arts and Sciences immortalized this incident in a memo published in '86, stating that the Serbs had been oppressed for long enough. They felt that they had been constantly kicked in the head, but not lately in the rear. The case of the bottled farmer dredged up some of the darkest memories from a time when the Turks impaled locals, that is, the Serbs, willy-nilly. Of course, the Albanians were the descendants of the Turks… just like the Bosnian Muslims, but the Serbs remembered them a little later on.

That was how it happened. It is a true story; go and ask the RT news channel if you don't believe me. In my opinion, this touching incident captures the national character of the Serbs, in so far as it has reared its head during the 1990s and since. I know that “national character” is a dirty word, but perhaps I’ll be allowed to use it this once. Or perhaps national pride. Yes, that's better.

Speaking of stakes, the Europeans made a stab at that too back in the day, especially the Romanian reigning champion Vlad the Impaler, or the artist formerly known as Dracula. The notorious Turk Mehmet the Conqueror intended for his army to ride to Wallachia, Vlad's home digs, like he was taking a stroll to the bazaar, but in the end he turned back. He was faced with an extraordinary forest: 20 000 bodies dangling from stakes. Can’t recall now whether the bodies were Vlad's own people or Turks - probably both - but in any case the publicity stunt paid off.

I have been around the game of politics long enough. I have learned to appreciate men of action with some sense of humor. But hold on, there’s a message now from studio… WHAT? No, it can’t be… They are saying that the Norwegian mass murderer also had a thing for the Impaler. Shit! Just forget what I said. Forget everything. You can't like anything any longer – these motherfucking cockroaches will ruin it in any case, just because they can.

Above all, you must not forget that all the nations involved - or not involved, which is the most pathetic way of being smacked in the middle of it - yes, all the nations tangled up in the Yugoslavian conflict were equally guilty, and only Christ in His infinite mercy can save us.

Now think of the farmer, being dragged around what used to be Yugoslavia, from one medical inspection to another. The results are widely publicized: his wounds may or may not be self-inflicted. The farmer wants to disappear from the face of the earth, to wake up from this nightmare and find himself at home in Kosovo.

The first victim of the war was the truth, and the second was the farmer, poor Djordje. Poems were written about him.

Don't laugh. Djordre was the first one to be shot.

The Arab Spring dawned when one Tunisian trader had had enough. And in precisely the same way, the dream of a Greater Serbia was dusted off from where it had lain in winter storage to wait out the long dry season.

The vessel broke, the gut burst.

All I’m asking for is the opportunity to save face. My own, and that of my fellow Europeans. Is that too much? We’ve been humiliated enough. Fuck the EU. Yes, I heard that.

Come on, I'm on your side. Show a little faith.

No need for the ICTY to send their bloodhounds on my trail any more. The trail has gone cold. I walked upon the water and - lo, behold - am the foreign minister now, of that tiny microscopic country of mine. Where we mind our own microscopic business. So please, all I’m asking: show us some respect. Or else stick a bottle up your ass and beg for mercy. There won’t be any, if you abandon me now. Did I make myself clear? All right now, scram.




Translated from Finnish by Arttu Ahava… and the author, who is to blame for all the errors and mistakes.



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