History Review
Lassoed to the Austrian Empire since the fourteenth century, Slovenia made a geographical departure when that German-speaking kingdom was shattered after the First World War.
Napoleon conquered this area, calling it the Illyrian Provinces, and planned to run it as a naval base on the Adriatic. Even after she was returned to the Austrian Empire, Slovenia continued many of the practices Napoleon initiated, including free schools for the masses.
Hoping they’d have more in common with groups who spoke similar languages, in 1920 Slovenians sign up in a new country with Serbs and Croats. In name alone, the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes illustrated the power structure in the newly mapped land, and the groups’ enthusiasm about being part of it. Even the Slovenian language—different from Serbo-Croat—wasn’t officially recognized, and Slovenes were seen as third-class citizens in the country ruled by a Serbian king. Some Slovenes wanted to secede from the start, but a small country is a vulnerable country, and by the time the Second World War broke out it was too late: their land was seized first by Fascist Italy, then by the Nazis, with tens of thousands of Slovenes deported to concentration camps. Leading the resistance movement that rose up to lash back at the Fascists was locksmith-turned-military man Josip Broz Tito; after the war ended, he nailed the former kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes back together again (with a few additions) as the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, which he ruled first as prime minister, then as “president for life.” An avowed Communist, he nevertheless disliked Stalin and kept Moscow at arm’s length.
ISTRIAN PENINSULA
The toe of land dangling off Slovenia’s southwest and dipping into the bay of Venice is heartbreakingly beautiful, which is why this land and her many nearby islands have been fought over for centuries, being snatched by Austrians, Venetians, and Napoleon. Now divided into Slovenian, Italian, and Croatian sections, all of Istria was claimed by Italy after the First World War. In 1946, Tito annexed part of the area, driving out 300,000 Italians and killing 20,000 more in his anti-Fascist sweeps. During the postwar years there was so much hatred between Italians and Slovenians in the border city of Nova Gorica (known as Gorizia on the Italian side) that a wall was erected cutting right through it. Part of the divider came down in 2004, when Slovenia entered the EU, but resentment still lingers on both sides. Ongoing issue: the return of houses to Italians who fled after the Second World War.
Yugoslavia, or the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia as she was formally known, was a real mix: under Tito she pulled together six republics, three religions, two alphabets, and a dozen ethnic minorities. There wasn’t much chance to break from the country when Tito was alive—while the dictator looked warm and cuddly compared to Stalin, he nevertheless ruled with an iron fist and the frequent help of his secret police. He wasn’t about to bid farewell to resource-laden Slovenia, Yugoslavia’s industrial motor: with 8 percent of Yugoslavia’s population, Slovenia contributed 20 percent of the country’s national income. After he died in 1980, the Communist machine likewise kept wealthy Slovenia locked in its hold, although dissent was simmering. Calls for autonomy grew into a movement for independence, which the Yugoslav government successfully resisted. Until, that is, a group of smart-aleck Slovenes hacked away at their handcuffs in an innovative way: by mocking the Communist machine.
YANKING THE CHAINS3
Shortly after Marshal Josip Tito finally loosened his thirty-five-year-long grasp on Yugoslavia by dying, a group of young Slovenes in tiny mining town Trbovlje devised a powerful way to illustrate the absurdity of living under Communism. Instead of protesting, they parodied the totalitarian system, saying it just wasn’t totalitarian enough. Called Neuer Kollektivismus (New Collectivism), the group began their subversive attack with art that captured nationalistic leadership in its absurdity. In 1987, NK entered a prestigious Yugoslavian poster contest—a serious annual competition for a design to commemorate National Youth Day. NK’s submission: an old Nazi poster of a patriotic-looking youth—with the Yugoslav flag waving where the swastika used to be. Their submission won, and the judges lavished praise on the design for “expressing the highest ideals of the Yugoslav State.” Just before the poster was to be plastered across the country, its Fascist origins were revealed. The government was so horrified that Youth Day—one of the most important holidays of the Tito era—was quickly erased from the calendar and never celebrated again. Taking advantage of “the Poster Affair,” NK formed a band. Well, sort of—it was more a politicized, musical, experimental theater group with an industrial beat. Taking the German name for Ljubljana—Laibach (a pointedly sensitive move considering Slovenia was Nazi-occupied in WWII and Tito hated Fascists)—the four-man group goose-stepped across the stage in black uniforms and blasted speeches from Tito, Mussolini, and Hitler mixed with covers of “Let It Be” and “Maggie May” with their lyrics barked like orders. Censors quickly shut down Laibach’s performances and banned NK’s art shows, which made the group so infamous—a TV commentator implored the public to kill them—that even out-of-touch peasants knew who they were and the grave threat that they posed. Laibach moved to Ljubljana, where they continued pushing the censors’ buttons by staging art shows of political posters calling for the death of political posters (while distributing propaganda about the propaganda machine), which infuriated the government more. Tens of thousands poured in to see their edgy exhibits and performances. The controversial group was charged with disseminating propaganda; the charges were dismissed, and, realizing that the more they condemned NK and Laibach the more power they gave them, the Slovenian censorship board gave up and let them do pretty much whatever they wished. With the general lifting of censorship, the whole country opened up, and calls for independence grew louder.
With Slovenian censorship turned on its ear, the media became more brazen. In spring 1998, so many politically provocative publications were flying around, and there was such a new spark of discussion and hope in the air, that the season was dubbed “Slovenian Spring”—although the Yugoslavian national government wasn’t as open as the Slovenian state government. When a Slovenian magazine devoted an entire issue to the idea of an independent Slovenia, the national government became apoplectic as it debated how to fight against this new Slovenian “secret war.” Another publication went further. Mladina, formerly the propagandistic magazine for Socialist youth, suddenly turned into a Slovenian version of magazines like Spy. Part investigative, part humor, the ballsy publication began targeting the national government in general and skewering Defense Minister Branko Mamula in particular. Publicizing his arms sales to Libya and famine-ridden Ethiopia—for which Mamula was dubbed a “salesman of death”—Mladina humiliated him further describing how the defense minister had used Yugoslav soldiers as slaves to build his grand villa on the Adriatic coast.
The article didn’t play well: Mamula was forced to resign, and the military decided the magazine’s writers should pay. Further infuriating the military, one of Mladina’s star journalists, Janez Jansa, got his hands on a document showing that federal Yugoslavia was planning to militarily suppress Slovenia’s move toward independence. In 1988, Jansa, along with another Mladina journalist, the editor in chief, and the soldier who had leaked the information, was hauled off to a military trial. The trial of the “Ljubljana Four” was so serious that it was closed to the public and the media, and was conducted in Serbo-Croat. Its effect was to solidify the independence movement.
Of all the writers, Jansa was targeted most fiercely, and the public rallied around the twenty-nine-year-old, demanding he be found innocent. When Jansa, along with the other journalist and the army man, was found guilty and sentenced to prison, Slovenians erupted in anger and demanded independence in demonstrations of 30,000 and more. Petitions were signed, more articles written, the Slovenian legislature passed laws affirming the right to determine Slovenia’s future, and Slovenia held her first multiparty elections, which pro-independence parties won. Aft
er a few weeks in prison, the writers and the army man were released. In December 1990, Slovenians voted in a referendum about whether their country should break away from Yugoslavia and become her own sovereign state; 88 percent voted yes.
Janez Jansa: Left-wing journalist turned right-wing populist
In 1991, Slovenes took over manning their borders, and the Slovenian government declared Slovenia independent. The Yugoslav armed forces briefly disagreed, showering Ljubljana with bombs from above and then marching in. Sixty-six died in the resulting ten-day War of Independence, but Slovenian leader Drnovsek, voted in to continue running the country after independence, quickly negotiated their (generally) peaceful retreat.
“For more than a thousand years we were waiting to have our own independence, and we have had it now for ten years. People see it as very precious.”—Ernest Petric, Slovenian representative to the United Nations3
The Slovenian departure from Yugoslavia first inspired Croatia, then Bosnia, to try the same, and before long, the secessionist mood and Serbia’s attempt at domination had kicked off an ugly Balkan war. Slovenia didn’t enter into the fighting, which never crossed over her borders, although plenty of fleeing Yugoslavs did.
The United States blamed Germany for helping to spark off the Bosnian War. Why? Germany was quick to recognize Slovenia’s 1991 independence, which inspired Croatia and Bosnia to secede from Yugoslavia. The U.S. didn’t recognize Slovenia as a sovereign state until 1992, much to Slovenian chagrin.
Slovenia could afford to secede: oil, steel, iron, coal, and mercury are but a few of her natural treasures, and agriculturally she can hold her own. The country also has a fine wine industry, harking back millennia to the days when she was run by the Romans. Nevertheless, the post-independence economy initially went into shock after losing Yugoslav markets, but Slovenia gracefully changed gears. Western Europe quickly picked up the slack, buying two-thirds of Slovenia’s exports; many Slovenian workers became co-owners of the firms that employed them under Communism. The computer industry boomed; over 200 software companies operate in Slovenia, and Ljubljana, with her university population of 35,000, has plenty of young, educated entrepreneurs.
There have been a few snags in recent years as well. Janez Jansa, who was rabidly antimilitary as a reporter, was appointed the country’s first minister of defense and became a power-crazed arms nut. He was booted out as defense minister in 1994, amid allegations of roughing up citizens, tapping phones, and tailing journalists. A first bid for NATO membership was rejected in 1997, causing such a furor that the foreign minister was forced to resign. (Slovenia joined NATO in 2002, but to do so she had to change her maritime law that had prevented nuclear-powered vessels from traveling through Slovenian waters.) Slovenia’s initial stab at entering the EU was blocked in 1996 by Italy, which was still furious about the status of Italians’ homes in the Slovenian part of Istria. And the status of the “erased”—those 130,000 refugees who came to newly independent Slovenia to avoid Slobodan Milosevic’s ethnic cleansing—is still an issue hanging heavy in the air. In 2004, Slovenes—led by Janez Jansa, who by then had gone very right-wing—voted against giving the erased Slovenians citizenship, a question mark on Slovenia’s generally shining record.
Despite his political yo-yo-ing, Jansa is still hugely popular: he was elected prime minister in 2005.
NEIGHBORLY RELATIONS
Slovenes generally get on well with the neighbors, although there is occasional squawking. Austria, which once lorded over the area, is now a major trading partner, but there’s friction in southern Carinthia, where Slovenes are the majority of the population and want the government to put up street signs in Slovenian too—an issue which makes right-wing nationalist leader Jörg Haider, governor of those parts, go ballistic. Relations with Croats, with whom Slovenes always had more in common than with Serbs, are sometimes problematic and tinged with competition: they get into territorial pissing matches over fishing waters, which are poorly defined between the two countries. Italians are huge supporters of the local tourism industry, and dealings with sometimes-prickly Hungary are generally smooth.
Future issue: Slovenia co-owns a nuclear power plant with Croatia. Built in the 1980s, the plant is located in Krsko, Slovenia, but Croatia is responsible for dealing with the radioactive wastes. Lately Croatia has been grumbling loudly about the arrangement.
Hot Spots
Ljubljana: Many hadn’t heard of the Slovenian capital before U.S. president George W. Bush and Russian president Vladimir Putin met here to discuss arms in June 2001, and most still can’t spell it, but this beautiful capital shines with culture and is a magnet for those searching for neo-bohemia. Some liken it to Paris of the 1920s, Prague in the 1980s, or Seattle in the 1990s. Just don’t start a chain restaurant or buy up their land.
Artist haven Ljubljana: Tourists can now find it
Italian border: Italians flood into the region of Istria at weekends, drawn by the casinos and the prostitutes. The bridge between Italy and the Balkans, this boundary is crossed by smugglers carrying everything from tobacco to slaves.
Piran Bay: Croat and Slovene fishermen sometimes snipe at each other in this disputed zone, Slovenia’s only maritime access to the Adriatic Sea.
Bohinj: Slovenia may be a thoroughly modern and Internet-connected country, but they still celebrate the Kravji Bal (Cow’s Ball), a festive, old-time bash in the alpine meadows, that marks the annual change of cattle pastures.4
Hotshots
Janez Drnovsek: Prime Minister, 1992–2002; President, 2002–present. He’s been leading Slovenia since the 1980s. Never a hard-core comrade—he was said to cut out of Communist policy meetings to head to the slopes—the economist is a well-traveled polyglot who got Slovenia into the clubs that matter. Definitely a left-leaning humanist, he demanded that Western leaders apologize to Muslims over Denmark’s cartoon controversy, and he was so upset about the crisis in Darfur that he signed Slovenia up to fund housing for 10,000 refugees.
Janez Jansa: Defense Minister, 1990–1994; Prime Minister, 2005–present. Parliamentarian and leader of Social Democrat Party; his investigative reporting about Yugoslavia’s defense minister—and the trial that followed—spurred Slovenia to independence. As defense minister himself, Jansa was accused of illegal arms sales, using his position for political influence, tailing journalists, and being linked to nefarious activities. Jansa turned ultraconservative after he stepped up as leader of the Social Democrats in the mid-1990s and introduced legislation barring citizenship for refugees. Definitely has a fan club.
Josip Broz Tito (1892–1980): Yugoslavia Prime Minister, 1945 onward; President for life, 1953–1980. Tito went down as the world’s most beloved dictator: he reduced ethnic tensions to a dull roar and kept Yugoslavia out of the Soviet Union. His dislike of Stalin was good for Yugoslavia’s economic health, since the Communist country was forced to trade in Western markets. Tito also unleashed his secret police, carted political prisoners off to an Adriatic island, and gagged the press. Some still mourn his 1980 death.
Laibach: Musical offshoot of artists’ collective Neue Slowenische Kunst (NSK)/Neuer Kollektivismus (NK), they helped kick-start independence with their totalitarian-swiping industrial band. Though they’re now targeting NATO and the EU, they played a concert at the EU Accession festivities in Dublin, and they are so respected that even the official website of the Slovenian government describes Laibach as “absolutely pivotal in the field of music.” Propelled to cult status, they gig everywhere these days.
Laibach also formed its own republic—complete with real passports. The documents reportedly work, and those friends of Laibach with the VIP versions are said to have received VIP treatment from passport controllers who aren’t quite sure just where the country is.
Other creative hotshots: Architect Joze Plecnik (1872–1957) left his unique mark and mix of styles on Ljubljana, Vienna, and Prague. Besides the Alkatraz bunch and architect-sculptor Marjetica Potrč—who had a solo sho
w at New York City’s Guggenheim—another big name is Irwin, a collective of anonymous artists. In theater, the playwright Ivan Cankar is most influential, but let us not forget perhaps the world’s most famous Slovenian-American, the late Frankie Yankovic, best known for his fancy footwork as “the Polka King.”
CREATIVE STANDOUT
Of all the Slovenes who ever picked up a pen (or quill as the case may be), none is more revered than France Preseren (1800–1849), whose lyric poems held high lofty ideals, and were often quoted during the independence struggle. Writing in the mid-1800s, when nationalism was on the rise and Austria was trying to suppress all non-German languages, he used poetry as a vehicle for politics, demanding freedom and more rights for the Slovenian people. Like Laibach, he raised the censors’ hackles; one collection was withdrawn from sale in 1847. Like Laibach, censorship only made him more famous; his works were published in a newspaper the following year. His words have been quoted in Slovenians’ most trying times, including during the “Slovenian Spring.” In 1989, his poem “Zdraylijica” (“The Toast”) was set to music as the country’s national anthem.
The Toast
God’s blessings on all nations,
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