In our region, this was called “domestic intelligence.” In those ancient times, “domestic intelligence” was a general term for intelligence educated at domestic universities and employed in domestic research centers, special institutions called “institutes.” For some exceptionally complex project developed in such an institute – say, I have no idea, a modern fifty-six-meter submarine with thirty-five crew members and six torpedo tubes – the newspapers would then write in large, proudly inflated letters that it was “entirely the fruit of domestic intelligence.”
One of such scientific research institutes – speaking of fifty-meter submarines – was the famous Brodarski Institute, founded on June 18, 1948, by a document personally signed by Josip Broz Tito.
Let's pause here for a moment: only three years have passed since the world war apocalypse, Yugoslavia is in ruins, and the country is facing an even greater catastrophe – Soviet leader Joseph Stalin has just withdrawn all military and civilian experts from Yugoslavia, refused to negotiate a trade agreement and is threatening economic sanctions – and Tito II is faced with the most difficult decision of his life. Okay, two.
Namely, on that Friday, June 18th, there are two papers on Broz's desk with blank spaces for signatures - one is a final warning from Moscow to come to his senses and confirm his arrival at the Cominform meeting in Bucharest, the other is a simple protocol decision on the establishment of some scientific institute, something related to the design of watercraft and hydrodynamic research, something that even he himself did not fully understand - and the secretary hands the Marshal his favorite fountain pen and, terrified, informs him that there are only a few drops of ink left in the inkwell on the desk, enough for only one signature.
And Comrade Tito, what's up, signed only one piece of paper and threw the other in the trash.
Of course I'm making this up, although - if you think about it - the ink shortage in post-war Yugoslavia would certainly be a more understandable reason for Tito's "summoning of reason": that in a devastated country under the threat of economic isolation, without trade with the USSR, without any help from yesterday's allies, their experts and intelligence, instead of a reasonable decision to go to the "Yugoslav Canossa" in Bucharest and diplomatically coordinate positions with his comrades from Moscow, he would sign a completely somnambulistic decision to establish some kind of fucking shipping institute. Okay, shipping, the same devil.
We know what happened next.
Not even seven years later, Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev – who succeeded the dead Stalin as head of the USSR and set about cleaning up his legacy – arrived in Belgrade as if to a “Soviet Canossa”, to pay homage to Josip Broz and congratulate him on his sixty-third birthday. And the latter then proudly showed him around the construction site of the Brodarski Scientific Institute on the other bank of the Sava, an impressive complex with a giant forty-meter wooden dome and a hydrodynamic pool so large that it took five days to fill it, and another five for the water to completely calm down for precise measurements, and so long that the curvature of the Earth had to be taken into account when designing the rails for guiding ship models. “Completely,” the newspaper wrote the next day, “the fruit of domestic ingenuity.”
Okay, of course I made this up too: during his historic visit to Belgrade in 1955, Khrushchev clearly did not see any forty-meter wooden dome, let alone a pool so large that the curvature of the Earth would have to be taken into account when designing the model's guides: such an institute, it is true, was indeed built, and it was indeed built on the other bank of the Sava, but not in Belgrade, but in – Zagreb.
At the time it was built, the Shipping Institute on Otok – yes, it was back in the old days when the other bank of the Sava River was still called Otok by the people of Zagreb – was one of only about thirty of its kind in the entire world. The seriousness of an industry and its intelligence was measured in such institutes at that time, and the seriousness of a shipping institute in the intelligence needed to design, say, a submarine: the Zagreb Institute was thus one of only a dozen similar ones in the world capable of designing a submarine that would be, as they say, “entirely a product of domestic intelligence”.
In the following decades, in the Zagreb complex of laboratories, excavation tunnels and giant three-hundred-meter hydrodynamic pools, which spread over almost one hundred and forty thousand square meters, almost one thousand and a half ship models were tested, and exactly thirty years after the Marshal signed that historic decision amidst a severe ink shortage, the Shipping Institute designed the third generation of submarines, the Sava class, a fifty-six-meter-long underwater beast with thirty-five crew members and six torpedo tubes.
We also know what happened next. Of course we know.
In January 1992 – before the smoke had cleared over Vukovar – the government passed a decree registering the famous Institute as a state-owned company. After that, it was easy: after several account freezes, and attempts to restructure and find a strategic partner, FINA initiated bankruptcy proceedings before the Commercial Court. Finally, the famous institute was liquidated exactly four years ago, on November 4, 2021, with the signature of the Minister of State Property, Darko Horvat.
Let's pause here for a moment: Covid-19-ravaged Croatia is preparing for the sad thirtieth anniversary of the fall of Vukovar, in the midst of the pandemic, Zagreb and Petrinja have been devastated by catastrophic earthquakes, and the Minister of Construction and State Property is faced with the most difficult decision of his life. Okay, two.
On that Friday, November 4th, Darko Horvat's desk had two papers with blank spaces for signatures: one a detailed plan for the comprehensive reconstruction of the earthquake-hit areas, the other a simple protocol decision on the liquidation of an institute - something related to the design of floating structures and hydrodynamic research, something he didn't quite understand - and the secretary gave the minister his favorite disposable plastic ballpoint pen with the HDZ logo. The minister thought that a disposable pen was for one use, so - what was he going to do - he signed the first piece of paper he came across by heart and threw the other in the trash.
Of course I made this up too, although – if you think about it – the lack of intelligence in the Plenković government is certainly a more understandable reason for the minister's "ignorance". Yes, sorry, "by heart": so that he could, by heart, sign a completely somnambulistic decision to liquidate the Brodarski Institute in Zagvozd. Okay, Brodarski in Zagreb, the same devil.
Now, of course, we know how it ended.
Just four months later, the one-time Darko Horvat became the first minister in the glorious history of the Republic of Croatia to be taken straight from his job by the police. And just four years later, last Thursday – the smoke from the Vjesnik skyscraper had not yet cleared – the last thirteen employees of the Brodarski Institute were declared redundant, and the once world-famous scientific and research center became nothing more than a building plot of one hundred and forty thousand square meters.
The price? According to the government's estimate, around forty million euros. Equipment, archives, technical documentation, vast experience, acquired knowledge and skills – in short, intelligence – clearly did not enter into the valuation. “Science must not have a price,” explained Plenković's Minister of Economy Ante Šušnjar on the same day, significantly underlining at the FER Day that “only science creates solutions that improve the economy, drive industry and strengthen Croatia's competitiveness.”
In an era of high technology, scientific innovation, advanced research and artificial intelligence, competitive Croatia is declaring knowledge a technological surplus. In our region, it's called "adio pameti": adio pameti, what the hell are you doing, we have artificial intelligence.
Thirty years after the war – exactly the same thirty years it took Croatian ingenuity to build a modern institute from the ruins on scorched earth, one of only ten in the world to design submarines – Croatian experts turned everything back into ruins and scorched earth. For three hundred euros per square meter.
Goodbye, home-grown wisdom, you've served us well.
Bonus video:
