Brought Down by Laughter

Written by: Vjera Mićović 

You’ve probably read The Name of the Rose. And if you haven’t, chances are you’ve seen the film. Either way, you understand the essence: it’s not really a story about a monastery, it’s about something that makes every authority, everywhere, break into a sweat, laughter.

Remember? The lost book of Aristotle on comedy. The monk who poisons anyone who dares to read it, claiming it’s to “protect the faith.” And that unforgettable line: Laughter kills fear.

Laughter is dangerous, it spreads panic. It’s a lethal adversary when you’re in power but can’t bear the sight of your own reflection.

Still, despite the nature of our government, we’re living through a relatively low-stakes phase. Our leaders, arrogant and humorless, are simply trying to suffocate laughter. So it’s no wonder that the healthy, intelligent, sharply satirical humor on display in Kotor ran straight into the back of a police van.

Why? Because someone in Kotor had the audacity to mock Minister Slaven Radunović, the same man who, in all seriousness, suggested we hold a referendum to decide whether Kotor should remain under UNESCO protection.

Naturally, the carnival responded the way carnivals should: with wit, precision, and razor-sharp mockery. One mask said more than a hundred speeches. Social media erupted with images of brilliant carnival masks, elaborate installations carrying bold, allegorical messages, all aimed squarely at ridiculing this absurd proposal. That wave of public enthusiasm must have triggered the command: Cut the music. Remove the masks. The program is over, too much truth.

It seems that in this country, you can joke about almost anything, civil society, anti-fascism, even sacred national holidays, but not about this government. Not this kind. The kind that manufactures absurdities faster than we can satirize them. Every. Single. Day.

And so comes censorship, served, of course, in the polished packaging of the Democrats. They’ve got Radunović’s back. They speak the same language.

Last year in Herceg Novi, they burned a puppet of writer Andrej Nikolaidis, with a “justification” that bordered on the grotesque, and the mayor at the time just smiled, brushing it off as “Mediterranean charm”. When you're in power, even horror can be rebranded as humor.

But in Kotor, the carnival is still fighting to be what it was always meant to be: a space for freedom, for laughter, for resistance through ridicule. That’s why they tried to smother it. And yes, the masks came off, but not the carnival masks. The ones that slipped were on the faces of those in power. Not for the first time. We know them well, arrogant, ignorant, stumbling over words they don’t understand, wearing suits too small for their egos and too big for their intellects.

So now I wonder, what exactly wounded Slaven Radunović, a man whose confidence borders on delusion? A man who acts as if he earned his degree at the Sorbonne, not some business college in Novi Sad? A populist. A fan of right-wing performance art.

The answer is simple: laughter. The carnival masks of Kotor hit him where it hurts most, his belief that he is important, powerful, untouchable. But Radunović is the kind of man who prefers his people silent and on their knees. And yet, surprise!, Kotor showed him that not only do people not fear him, they don’t even respect him. He may have a position. But he has no authority.

Kotor spoke for all of us. Our laughter declared: We see you. We know exactly who you are. The emperor has no clothes.

That’s the power of satire. It doesn’t knock down walls, but it cracks them. It doesn’t topple governments, but it exposes them. It doesn’t silence authority, it simply reveals its incompetence.

And one final message to those in power: no matter how hard you try to silence every voice that doesn’t reek of obedience, there are still children of great Montenegrins among us, children of Duke Marko Miljanov. And he taught us this: a person is worth as much as they’re willing to speak the truth, to anyone’s face.

So we’ll keep speaking. Civilly. Peacefully. And with roaring, unrelenting laughter.

Because let’s face it, you provide more material than satire can handle.