Written by: Đorđe Šćepović
In 2025, Montenegro will mark its biggest anti-fascism holiday completely stripped of meaning. A total void, because everything that could be emptied of meaning has been over the past five years of so-called freedom and democracy. Montenegrin cities are adorned with foreign flags. State institutions flaunt their colors, while those that don’t keep silent about it all.
In a country where both law and common sense have been suspended, nothing surprises us anymore, nothing shocks or leaves us speechless. Not the obscure laureate Vuković, nor the previously unknown Stanišić, a drawing teacher at the respected Theological Faculty in Doboj. Not even the most famous local amateur, Dragan Koprivica, who, through no fault of his own, was awarded the July 13th prize last year. This eternal yes-man and lifelong amateur in everything he touches has, in just a few days, confirmed his sole purpose: to serve and only serve.
Once a party entertainer catering to Milošević’s regime, following orders to teach in Belgrade when university professors there were being fired, today Koprivica appeases third-rate poets and artists, all under the direction of his political patrons. This amateur has appeared before us multiple times in a short span, which neither doctors nor pharmacists would recommend.
In one such appearance, confronted with the truth about himself, Koprivica resorted to insulting Danilo Marunović, something we can somewhat understand. Noise and rage. The complexity and misery of amateur Koprivica. Because dedicating your life to amateur theater and still leaving no mark can be painful, and the pain grows especially sharp when sitting across from you is an accomplished academic director whose plays are performed across the region.
In another appearance, this accordion player and hobby writer did the same, this time primitively and provocatively insulting publicist Budo Simonović, just because Simonović spoke the truth about Bećir Vuković and this year’s award ceremony.
At one of Vučić’s many media outlets, Koprivica and a certain Dragan Bojović (each complimenting the other) tried to smear Miloš Karadaglić with cheap defamation, following a pre-written script and a pre-prepared video clip.
But in reality, they only revealed themselves and their agendas. Babbling about a world-renowned guitarist, these two anonymous party soldiers once again showed the world the mud and filth they come from.
Once again, the merry gang of Serbian victims declared the protest against the ugly decision to award Vuković as extremism, Ustaše sympathizing, anti-Serb sentiment, and other nonsense from a well-worn playbook, but all in vain. They try, but it’s pointless. By 2020, even those who brought Mandić, Šaranović, and the like to power with their votes no longer believe the lies about Serbian suffering.
And if you look through the list of July 13th prize winners from the years when it was supposedly “unreachable for Serbs,” and when Serbian writers, as Bojović claims, “illegally gathered in catacombs” lent by the Serbian Church, you’ll see that’s yet another barefaced lie. But at least we’re used to lies. Lies from those who celebrate July 13th today, while at tavern tables and party meetings, they revel in Chetnik songs, glorifying war criminal saints. Lies of followers who are traitors and murderers, who collaborated with the Nazi occupier. Lies of those who elevate fascist collaborator Joanikije Lipovac to the skies while preaching about July 12th and Krsto Popović.
Still, even though we know they live by Ćosić’s admission that “lying is a Serbian state interest,” we won’t get used to their lies. No matter how much we drown in meaninglessness and chaos. No matter how much we suffer from statements by the Minister of Culture, who, you know, doesn’t tell the truth, dodging responsibility regarding laureates and publishers who falsified CIP, ISBN, and everything related to the infamous awarded book.
No matter how much it gets under our skin, and no matter the so-called middle-class opinion that “Vuković is a good poet despite his political and ideological views.” To start with, those who say that about poetry know as much as Dragan Koprivica. Besides, even if it were Ezra Pound, Mussolini’s protégé and one of the world’s greatest poets, gentlemen, the book for which Vuković was awarded has a fake CIP and was very likely printed in one of those shady print shops owned by notorious publishing tycoons and known forgeries, in a print run just enough for each jury member to get a copy. And someone has to answer for that. The publisher, the author, and those who voted for a fake book.
And Dragan Koprivica, the court jester, or, in the language of old times, the court fool, is certainly one of them. An accomplice in deception and fraud.
If not today, then tomorrow. Nothingness doesn’t expire.
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