Why I Was and Remain a Yugoslav

Why I Was and Remain a Yugoslav

By Nerzuk Ćurak

A Time of Joy, a Time of Reckoning, a Time of Remembrance

The manuscript A Time of Joy, A Time of Reckoning, A Time of Remembrance is the masterwork of a singular personality. Miodrag Ivanović sets out from his birthplace of Šepak, nestled between the mountain Majevica and the Drina River, on a magnificent journey—a journey of “measuring the world.” Along the winding rivers of his decades-long life, he comes to know not only the world in all its contradictions, but, more crucially, himself—echoing the ancient philosophical imperative inscribed at Delphi: gnothi seauton—know thyself.

This is a book woven from unrepeatable life experiences, gathered by a powerful character—an educator, teacher, professor, scholar, professional officer, but also a devoted father, grandfather, and husband. All these roles, in varying measure, are folded into the pages Ivanović offers not only to himself or his family, but to a broader public—as a debt he imposed upon himself, a responsibility assumed by one of the most ethically steadfast people I’ve ever had the privilege to know. I say that with no calculation, no reservation, and no hesitation. I met this man where responsibility is forged—Miodrag Ivanović was my professor at the Faculty of Political Science in Sarajevo, my John Keating from Dead Poets Society, my captain who taught me to seize the day and never abandon my ideals.

So this is not merely a formal review of a compelling text that refuses to be put down—it is also the tribute of a student to his teacher, written with the conviction that, difficult as it is to remain responsible in an irresponsible world, those called by the life force to rise above inherited molds and traditions must, with full awareness of the risks, embark on the long journey down the Path of Responsibility. Miodrag Ivanović never stepped off that path—one inaccessible to those who, whether from cowardice, laziness, cynicism, or some other failure of spirit, chose only the warmth and safety of the collective lie over the courage of self-knowledge.

The manuscript before you, dear reader, is infused with a sense of responsibility toward others, toward the self, and toward truth. To speak the truth with “the brilliance of its own clarity,” and to do so without wounding anyone—even those who betrayed the principles of humanity, and of the author himself—is to remain within the bounds of dignity, offering at least the possibility of hope that not all is lost. That, though unstated, is the essential method of this stirring chronicle of a foretold exile, written with the quiet authority of a man of uncommon grace and uprightness.

And what, you might ask, is the subject of this vast and multifaceted work? It is a manuscript written in many registers: at once a family history, a scholarly analysis of the political, economic, and cultural dismantling of Tito’s Yugoslavia, and a micro-anthropological study of the best and worst of human beings. Above all, it is a careful and composed autobiography of a man whose every page affirms Meša Selimović’s enduring truth—that a person loses everything if they do not find meaning in love.

The overarching motif, fluttering like a banner of sincerity and loyalty above Ivanović’s prose, is love, without calculation, without the faintest doubt that even in moments of most resounding defeat, no one, nothing, can sever the bonds of the beloved. In that spirit, the purity, devotion, and honesty with which the author writes about Zdenka Dugandžić, his beloved wife, is a hymn to a woman who captivates, just as the majestic, woman-shaped landscapes painted by her father, the late naïve artist Sekula Dugandžić of Lepenica near Kiseljak, once captivated the world.

Reading Ivanović’s timeless expression of love, love in which, as he writes, you always know where you stand, I am moved by the verses of the poet Mile Stojić, a brother in both Bosnia and Croatia:

If I were born again,
and had the choice, I would not choose
this language, nor this calling,
nor this sign of faith, nor this faith
without hope. I would not accept
to be taught justice by murderers.
I would not choose this time
nor this land, where there is no solace,
nor these brothers who have sold me,
nor this people who sacrifice
their sons to the golden calf.
I would cast off my name.
Only you would I choose again,
you whom I touch each day a thousand times
with the gaze of loyalty and light.

* * *

The autobiographical thread is only one dimension of this written manuscript. It is interlaced with the life stories of two families, just as their histories are seamlessly woven into the author’s imagination—an imagination underpinned by the distinctive factual fabric of the Ivanović and Dugandžić lineages.

Family is the micro-level of this sweeping manuscript, yet also the central force driving its narrative. I deliberately use the word “narrative,” because although this is not a novel, how the biographical and memoir-based material is presented is vivid, forceful, linguistically alluring—so much so that the reader finds themselves easily immersed in the lives of both primary and secondary characters who together form a living photograph of the family: a photograph in which the departed gradually fade into memory, and the newly born inscribe their names into the genealogy of a family that, despite all the Scylla and Charybdis of life, remains—blessedly—a happy one.

The macro-level of this multi-genre text is the former shared state, socialist Yugoslavia. Both the author and I believe that this state represented the historical apex for our peoples, because what followed, judging by nearly every measure of social reality, was a significant historical regression, a descent into darkness. It was a darkness that Miodrag Ivanović foresaw through his knowledge, intellectual imagination, and human decency—a darkness embodied in the rise of nationalism, most notably Serbian nationalism. (For the greatness of a person is first seen in their ability to recognise the log of evil in their own nation’s eye, rather than reducing it to a mere splinter.) He does not seek to excuse or explain away the impending execution of Yugoslavia, orchestrated by Slobodan Milošević and those who elevated him to power.

I recall a conversation with Professor Ivanović shortly after Milošević took power in Serbia. While most of the Serbian intelligentsia cheered their new leader, Ivanović said quietly, with both anger and disappointment: “This fool will bring a sea of blood to our country.” His foresight mirrored that of Nijaz Duraković, who, upon the legalisation of monoethnic political parties in Bosnia and Herzegovina, recognised it as the condition for future bloodshed. Neither of them was wrong.

Time of Joy, Time of Reckoning, Time of Remembrance is written with the author’s deep conviction that a responsible culture of memory demands the acknowledgment of the bright moments of our shared Yugoslav past—even as nationalist agendas attempt to erase any collective memory, as if history in these lands only began with calls for fratricide. The manuscript is interspersed with reflections on Yugoslavia’s sporting achievements, lending it an added dimension of value. Simply invoking names like Miroslav Cerar, Vera Nikolić, or the Yugoslav basketball greats is itself an affirmation of the values of professionalism, self-sacrifice, and loyalty to a higher purpose—values that non-aligned Yugoslavia so passionately pursued in its pursuit of peacebuilding.

Ivanović goes further, contextualizing these achievements in the era of nationalism, showing how the nationalist mindset attempted to invalidate even the most unassailable sporting triumphs using cultural barbarism—by reinterpreting collective victories through nationalist lenses, by expelling accomplished athletes from their post-Yugoslav homelands for having the “wrong” name, or for marrying across ethnic lines. Yet these attempts at erasure only underscore the human purity of these luminous moments in the world of sport. It is no coincidence that Ivanović chose to embed these athletic interludes in the dense fabric of his scholarly and essayistic work. They are not mere adornments, but a spiritual connection to the author himself, whose devotion to sport reflects his fidelity to the core values of homo ludens—the human as a playful being who, through play, uncovers hidden powers on the path to self-knowledge.

It is hardly surprising, then, that Ivanović is not only a polymath in intellectual disciplines, but also an accomplished athlete—a black belt in karate. This undoubtedly helped shape him into a person of authentic inner strength, committed to the chivalrous ethics of the game, to calm, and to the profound belief that nonviolence is always superior to violence. What could be more imposing than the spiritual journey of a man who, though groomed by military schooling to be an officer of the “People’s Army,” refused—despite being among the best of his generation—to become part of the dominant militarist elite? Guided instead by his ethical compass, he sensed the direction of the army’s drift—into a darkness populated by careerists, sycophants, envious informants, and potential killers. So he left behind what remained of Tito’s military and set off into uncertainty. This path led him to London, the heart of an unmatched global empire, where he would measure both the world within and the world without, and secure a future for his wife and children.

There is deep emotion in the passages where Ivanović describes his struggle with the institutions of this imperial titan—not to remain a refugee confined to the lowest caste of England’s stratified society, but to assert his abilities and, despite all obstacles, break through into the upper layers of a society known for its distance, but also capable of the joy that comes with encountering people as remarkably good, strong, and reliable as those to whom Ivanović, at the close of his manuscript, awards the imaginary medal of indisputable humanity—among them the unforgettable Jerry Hartigan, a saint who walked this earth.

I want to add one more note regarding the attribution of key structural values in this work. Beyond the biographical dimension, the sporting vignettes, and the broader tableau of Yugoslav society, there is a fourth foundational element tied intimately to the scholarly legacy of Professor Ivanović. As a distinguished doctor of economic sciences, he could not allow this chronicle of Yugoslavia’s dissolution—what the dearly missed Predrag Lucić once so brilliantly described as “a dream dreamt by the best, destroyed by the worst”—to omit the critical economic and political factors that helped bring about the death of the “Yugoslav paradise.”

He addresses them in a scientifically grounded and comprehensive way, beginning chapters with italicised prefaces that serve as demonstrations of academic rigour—fact-based and analytical readings of the political-economic miscalculations that led to the country’s collapse and allowed the worst sediments of history to rise to the surface.

In the spirit of John Kenneth Galbraith, the American Nobel laureate in economics, Ivanović uses these prefaces to underscore the importance of economics in shaping life itself. He demonstrates how both the deification of the “invisible hand of the market” and the exaggerated, irrational tendencies of state intervention are ideological constructs incapable of fostering a highly developed economy grounded in genuine social justice.

In this light, his critique of Yugoslav self-management reveals that “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Or, to quote Shakespeare, “If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces.”

The unrestrained communist imagination of the “new man of the future,” though noble in intent, failed to reckon with the factual texture of life. That, too, was a core reason for our collective Yugoslav defeat, in which the failure to understand the primacy of economics was no small part of a deeply sorrowful undoing.

* * *

Miodrag Ivanović was fortunate, throughout his professional life—during his studies, his master’s, his doctorate, all of which are described in beautiful passages throughout this enriching manuscript—to have met remarkable people who, in their way, served as a counterbalance to the scoundrels that no autonomous, free, and independent spirit can ever entirely avoid in life.

Those luminous individuals—like the much-too-soon departed and noble Slobodan Inić, the brilliant journalist Boro Krivokapić, Ambassador Pribićević, or Lazar Stojanović, director of the legendary film Plastic Jesus—provided equilibrium against the weeds of evil multiplying in geometric progression through the corridors of the Ministry of Defence and other levers of masculine power.

But that patriarchal power wasn’t confined to the expected structures of traditional male dominance; it seeped even into places where, in our naïve imaginings of the world, one might least expect it. Ivanović recounts an evening that left a lasting impression—dining in the company of the great chess master Svetozar Gligorić and his wife, Dana. As a still-young man, unpolished in knowledge, he had thought of that “aristocratic world” as one of untroubled joy. His account is especially poignant and worth quoting in full:

“The dinner unfolded slowly, elegantly, like something out of a novel. Jokes and stories were exchanged in English—I understood none of it. For the first time, I became acutely aware of the shortcomings and limits of my education. That same night, after midnight, I learned one of life’s greatest lessons. Mrs. Dana, the wife of the famed grandmaster, had too much to drink. As the night wore on, she began cursing, weeping, and accusing her husband of everything and anything. It seemed that her life, her youth, had been eclipsed by this great man. Her language turned coarse, raw, peasant-like—curses hurled like a cart-driver’s. She damned success itself, all that wealth, all of it. I felt deeply uncomfortable. I was stunned and shaken by the sudden chasm that opened beneath a life in quiet despair. I asked myself: how could such sorrow and ruin erupt from behind so polished and refined a façade, all washed in manners and grace? I never forgot that a beautiful home, masterpieces on the walls, fine porcelain, gourmet dishes, a sports car and a new Ferrari in the garage—none of that means anything when it comes to what we call happiness or fulfilment. It seems all great men and their great successes leave behind casualties—those who live alongside them. Gligorić’s dominance, his intellect and genius, had smothered that once-beautiful woman, on whose face that night only traces of beauty remained.”

He would return to that evening many times afterwards, with a kind of mournful clarity—a reminder not to forget that bitterness, the taste of a wasted life. The traps life sets spare neither genius nor greatness, and only the art of living can help us sidestep them. Even today, Ivanović admits, he is still searching for the balance between moderation and excess, parsimony and generosity, the intellectual and the material, joy and the sense of a life misused. Painful and shocking as that night’s ending was, for him, it was sobering and redemptive. Literature, in the truest sense of the word.

Ivanović’s manuscript flows like a river. From the spring of early childhood to the confluence of a seasoned and tested life in London, he tells the story of his existence in a voice that is never overbearing—honest, rich, and full of life’s textures. He dives into all shades of human experience, not hesitating even to recite to his son some of Vuk Karadžić’s more licentious verses. This is a family hagiography teeming with the sap of life, one in which every reader can find a mirror and recognise the trials and dignity of decent people.

Everyone who reads this book—when it finally sees the light of day—will come away richer for it, just as Ivanović himself was when, living and working in Sarajevo, he met Zdenka, the light of his life. A quiet, enduring reminder that we, the people of books, must give thanks to all the gods that be for placing in our paths those rare, unyielding angels, who, immune to flattery, are “anointed” with the gift of delivering truth with a brutal grace, untempered by calculation.

“Zdenka could never understand how a sane man could spend a Saturday morning reading a book. Or worse still, watching a film. Saturday is for cleaning the house, tending the garden, and wiping the dust. For me, from as early as I can remember, reading has been the most important task. It was a habit from boyhood, the most effective escape from reality. Later, it became part of my profession. More than once, Zdenka said to me: ‘I’m amazed you haven’t achieved more, with all the books you’ve read.’ And I thought—perhaps she’s right. Maybe I haven’t achieved anything remarkable. The seed of doubt stays with you forever. But then I consoled myself, in a Socratic way—we doubt, therefore we are.”

And that, if I may be so bold, is my teacher Miodrag Ivanović. There are many more sections of this book I could single out as the most beautifully woven strands of life. Still, I want readers to find their paths into this manuscript—a work that, despite life’s hardships, stands as a profound, mature, and profoundly human story about the optimism of the will, the possibility of hope, and the power of kindness. It is also the story of one boy who carved his path from a small village to the British metropolis without ever losing his humanity.

In the postscript, as a magnificent testament to the life of a gentle soul with a resolute character, we witness a celebration of the heart: Miodrag raising toasts at his son’s wedding and his daughter’s. But these are no ordinary toasts. They are the distilled wisdom of a cosmopolitan man, a citizen of the world, who knows he has fulfilled his most basic human duty: he has made those closest to him happy.

And on a broader human level, he leaves the door open to compromise—even when all seems lost. But that’s Miodrag for you: just as he ends his remarkable and stirring manuscript— “The refugee’s burden is heavy and stiff. At times, it feels like true misfortune. Those who’ve lived it-who have searched for themselves in a new world, trying simply to survive, to make it, maybe even to begin again—know this all too well: the constant worry, the gloom, the uncertainty. Anyone who made it through, who survived, who raised their children on that path, and still loves people—and hasn’t succumbed to hate—is a true hero.

I wanted to share a brief memory and a feeling with someone, so I posted a note on Facebook titled ‘On the anniversary of Josip Broz Tito’s death – a remembrance.’ I called for mutual respect, which I still believe is possible—even without ‘brotherhood and unity’—through visits, trade, celebrations, even if only out of interest.

Soon, a comment followed from Vjekoslav Jukić, whom I met in Mlini on the Croatian coast during a holiday in 2015. I quote him word for word:

‘Mr. Miodrag, I usually don’t comment on posts like this, but this one angered me. I considered you an intelligent man, but you and the Serbian people keep running from the truth—that you were the ones who tore apart and raped what was already a former country, that you Serbs, with all the tools of war at your disposal, struck at Bosnia, Croatia, Kosovo, Albania, Slovenia, and that your leadership then is the same one in power now, which means your nation has failed to reckon with the historical fact that you are a genocidal people who must confront the truth, admit your crimes, take responsibility for the atrocities committed against civilians, and beg forgiveness—because that is the only path forward. Don’t pretend ignorance and ask, ‘Who divided us?’ You divided us. You wanted Greater Serbia. We wanted democracy. I was born in Vukovar, and I tell you—shame on you for pretending to be innocent when your hands are covered in blood… You should be ashamed to post something like this.’

I replied:

‘Dear Vjekoslav, I didn’t mean to anger you. Everyone has the right to their view on these matters. Each of us carries their guilt and shame, individually, as does each nation. There is no general or absolute verdict of a nation’s guilt. Not all Serbs are perpetrators of genocide. Forgive me—I had hoped we might speak about our shared pain without insults. Whatever happened, I understand your anger. But still, we must try to live side by side, however and wherever we can. Your expulsion from Vukovar is my exile as well. Be well—and may we meet again, in health. All the best.”
So it is, and so I must conclude my review of this manuscript, written by a brilliant mind and a good man.
To the publisher: do not delay—send this inspired work to the press as soon as possible.
(Sarajevo, April 4, 2021)