A team of trained painters set out under the so-called under the cover of night, she painted in white the letter Z everything she reached, or everything she reached until she ran out of paint, on the Quay and in the surrounding streets, on the Varadin bridge and around it, as well as in Podgrađe below the fortress. It is not yet known who did it, but it will be found out because it is being worked on since the investigation is ongoing.
The next day, some unusual and so ordinary people gathered on the bridge itself, and unfurled the banner "EU go home! Serbia and Russia, that is our union". Unlike the painters, these did not hide: the local Serbian Radical Party took responsibility. Although that doesn't help much either: the faces of those people don't tell us anything, and if there is any content inside, it remains opaque. Because that's how people are: as soon as you see them, you don't immediately know who they are.
That the disbanded fifth column of a tyrant who is not well - those Volksdeutschers or Kulturbundovci of the new era - leaves behind white excrement in the shape of a large Latin Z, that is nothing new, neither in Novi Sad nor anywhere else. But why so much painting effort right now, and why is it concentrated in that area of the city? The explanation reads: "Because of the Exit". Good. But why are artists formerly known as Serbian radicals from the same place saying somewhere in the direction of the Petrovaradin fortress "EU go home"? The explanation is the same again: "because of the Exit".
Now, what does that actually mean? Has the European Union been noticed somewhere in Novi Sad? If so, tell me where, so I can go look around a bit inside while it's still here. And how is it possible that I didn't notice her? And I thought I could recognize such phenomena.
Let's get serious: the radicals and others can sleep peacefully, there is no European Union in Novi Sad, nor anywhere else in their field of vision, and there won't be one for a long time, and maybe never.
All it has is a benign music festival as part of a gentrified tourist offer, a cute little party during which a couple of tens of thousands of kids from this and some nearby parts of Europe leave a certain amount of money, lose their virginity once more, smoke a certain amount of joints and come home "richer" on Monday. for an experience". In the EU or not, it doesn't matter.
If we even imagine - no matter how crazy it is - that they brought the European Union in their backpacks on Thursday, they will already bring it back on Monday and return it unpacked and unused. They won't leave anything here, even for a pelzer, because it wouldn't be accepted here, I guess after twenty years of futile gardening, that's clear to anyone with sense.
It turns out that both these night painters and these daytime radicals are still waging a war that they won a long time ago, only they don't know and don't understand it.
Or their tolerance for everything that is not them and everything that is not like them is so low that they cannot tolerate even a symbolic sign of the posthumous life of something that once upon a time was a real symbol of a great, but not necessarily the majority hope: the hope that Serbia will finally to live and breathe within his own geography, to allow himself to feel good, comfortable and at home here where he lives, in Europe therefore, and not where the thoughts and dreams of an endemic variety of hot heads with a strong internal combustion of Nothing reside.
So with Exit it has become something like March 364: there is one Women's Day so that the other 361 can be a non-stop, groundhog-like Men's Day, and there are four days of Exit as a window display of the colorful "Europe", without actually having those goods at all in on offer and on sale. You can look through the glass window, but not touch, let alone buy. And then for XNUMX days we do our own thing without restrictions, ooh and ahh.
And yet, something drives me to rejoice when I see how nervous they are, how much they are blistered and thrown into furious despair by even this little bit of life and joy that will flash through our streets. Black Z-magic can't do anything to that life, its core is too healthy and solid. Well, let what's up on the Fortress be long ago not much more than a lucrative colorful lie, and let it only last four July evenings, and let me, so steeply depressed, persistently remain on the other side of the river, but as soon as it provokes the worst in those for whom I never it has not been determined that they contain anything but the worst, it must still be good and make at least an ounce of sense.
And as the Prophet says: Let Love In.
Bonus video:
