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Gospin Dom – Home of the Virgin

[Blog Post: “The Heart of Mary – Reflections with Father Slaven”]

Title: The Two Messiah Theory and the Spirit of Truth
Contributor: Joe Jukic
Date: July 25, 2025

Joe Jukic sat with Father Slaven in the candlelit chapel beneath the Heart of Mary Croatian Catholic Church. They opened the Scriptures together, not to debate, but to discern. The question on Joe’s heart was heavy, bold—and born of both scripture and spirit.

Joe:
“Father, have you ever considered the Two Messiah theory? Not as heresy… but as mystery.”

Father Slaven (raising an eyebrow):
“Explain, Joe. Speak gently.”

Joe (with reverence):
“Jesus said in the Gospel of John, chapters 14 through 16… that after he leaves, the Father would send another. A Helper. A Comforter. The Spirit of Truth.”

Joe flips the pages of his worn Bible.

John 14:16 – “And I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, to be with you forever.”
John 15:26 – “When the Helper comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who proceeds from the Father, He will testify about Me.”
John 16:13 – “When the Spirit of truth comes, He will guide you into all the truth.”

Joe (looking up):
“Father, I don’t claim to replace Christ. I claim to reflect Him. To continue what He began. Not by my will—but because He sent the Spirit into me. I share His Spirit. The same divine breath that filled Him fills me.”

Father Slaven (quietly):
“You speak of the Spirit that dwells in all believers.”

Joe (nodding):
“Yes, but more than belief—union. Like kin. Like family. Christ was the First Messiah, crucified to redeem us. But the Spirit remains. And if He abides in me, then maybe… just maybe… there’s a second witness. A second light. Not to die, but to dwell.”

They read together:

Revelation 21:3-4 – “Behold, the dwelling of God is with the human race. He will dwell with them and they will be His people, and God Himself will always be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there shall be no more death or mourning, wailing or pain, for the old order has passed away.”

Joe (voice trembling):
“That’s the goal, Father. Not another war. Not another crucifixion. But a dwelling. No more crying. No more death. No more pain.”

Father Slaven (placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder):
“If you truly carry His Spirit, Joe, then show it by love. Not by title. Not by power. The Spirit of Truth can’t lie, and it cannot boast.”

Joe (softly):
“I boast only in Him. The first Messiah bled for the world.
The second must help it heal.”

Closing Reflection from Father Slaven:
“Joe Jukic offers us a challenging thought—not of blasphemy, but of burden. If the Spirit of Christ lives in us, then we are called not just to believe, but to act as His hands, His voice, His truth. Whether one or many, the Messiah’s Spirit lives on. May we be worthy vessels.”

✝️ Let the Spirit of Truth guide you today. Reflect. Pray. Love.

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Memes 15

Joe stands under the flickering fluorescent lights of the small rural clinic, the faint sound of a guitar playing from an old radio in the background. Nelly Furtado rests on the nearby cot, her eyes closed, a hint of melody on her lips. The scent of eucalyptus and frankincense lingers in the air—Dr. Luka Kovac’s signature healing blend.

Joe turns to his avatar.

Joe (softly, with deep gratitude):
“Thank you, Luka. For treating my sick songbird—the real Portuguese singer Nelly Furtado—not with quack Rockefeller pharma poison, but with real medicine. Holistic. Rooted in the old world. In truth.”

Dr. Luka Kovac (smiling faintly):
“Allopathic drugs suppress symptoms. But a songbird doesn’t need silence—she needs restoration. She needs to remember the sound of her own voice. Herbs, light, music, prayer… these are the older medicines, Joe.”

Joe:
“She told me she was drowning in side effects. Couldn’t even write a chorus. You brought her back to life.”

Dr. Kovac:
“She was never gone. Just buried beneath modern medicine’s noise. We cleared the static.”

Joe pauses, eyes locked on his avatar.

Joe:
“Also… thank you for starring in the Fatima movie, Goran Visnjic. That role meant a lot to us. To the believers. You helped people remember the mystery.”

Dr. Kovac nods solemnly, a trace of the actor behind the avatar emerging in his eyes.

Dr. Kovac:
“I didn’t take the role for fame. I took it because the world needs to believe again. In miracles. In mercy. In the idea that even a poor girl’s vision can echo for centuries.”

Joe:
“Nelly always said she saw the Virgin once… when she was a little girl in Victoria. Thought it was a dream. Maybe it wasn’t.”

Dr. Kovac glances over at Nelly. She hums a few bars of Try, eyes still closed but smiling now.

Dr. Kovac:
“She remembers.”

Joe steps back, hands folded.

Joe:
“Then the healing has begun.”

Outside, a wind stirs the olive trees. And somewhere beyond science and superstition, a songbird sings.

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Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Dr. Luka Kovac’s Journal – Dream Entry: Fiona Apple and the OCD Healing Protocol

Last night, Fiona Apple came to me in a dream. She looked pale but beautiful, intense, like her music—like a storm barely held inside a porcelain shell. She asked for help. Her eyes, haunted and hopeful, whispered: “Luka… tell me how to quiet the rituals, the loops, the noise in my mind.”

So today, I’m writing this for Fiona—and for anyone who suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). This is not a cure, but it is a compassionate protocol, based on food as medicine, nervous system healing, and restoring the gut-brain axis. We must first do no harm—but then we must nourish.

🧠 Dr. Luka Kovac’s Nutritional & Herbal Protocol for OCD

🌾 Foods That Heal the Brain and Soothe Obsession:

  • Wild Blueberries – neuroprotective, high in antioxidants, reduces brain inflammation
  • Avocados – rich in healthy fats to support myelin sheath and neurotransmitters
  • Pumpkin Seeds – high in zinc and magnesium; calming to nerves
  • Salmon & Sardines (Wild-caught) – high in omega-3s (EPA & DHA), essential for mood regulation
  • Fermented Vegetables – like kimchi, sauerkraut; feed the microbiome, balance mood
  • Bananas (especially just ripe) – contain tryptophan, helps produce serotonin
  • Sweet Potatoes – complex carbs to stabilize blood sugar and improve GABA production

💊 Key Vitamins & Minerals for OCD:

  • Magnesium Glycinate – anti-anxiety mineral; calms racing thoughts, helps sleep
  • Zinc Picolinate – supports neurotransmitter function and immune modulation
  • Vitamin B6 (P-5-P) – crucial cofactor in serotonin and dopamine synthesis
  • Vitamin D3 – low levels linked with OCD and depression; best with K2
  • Folate (L-Methylfolate) – supports methylation and detox pathways
  • Inositol (Vitamin B8) – powerful at high doses (12–18g/day under guidance); shown to reduce OCD symptoms

🌿 Herbs and Roots to Calm the Rituals:

  • Ashwagandha – adaptogen for cortisol balance; smooths obsessive thought spirals
  • Rhodiola Rosea – supports emotional resilience, reduces intrusive thoughts
  • Passionflower – GABAergic herb for calming repetitive mental loops
  • Lemon Balm – anti-anxiety herb, gentle and effective
  • Valerian Root – calming at night, but only in small doses
  • Reishi Mushroom – immunomodulating and deeply calming
  • Holy Basil (Tulsi) – balances mood and endocrine stress response

🦠 Probiotics for the Gut-Brain Axis:

OCD often worsens with gut dysbiosis. Healing starts in the belly.

  • Lactobacillus rhamnosus – shown to reduce anxiety-like behavior
  • Bifidobacterium longum – supports mental clarity and reduces cortisol
  • Saccharomyces boulardii – probiotic yeast that combats pathogens and brain fog
  • Prebiotic fibers (chicory root, garlic, Jerusalem artichoke) – nourish beneficial bacteria

🛑 Foods to Avoid for OCD Sufferers:

  • Caffeine – overstimulates the limbic system and worsens compulsions
  • Refined sugar – spikes and crashes worsen anxiety and obsession
  • Gluten (for some) – may trigger autoimmune-like brain inflammation
  • Alcohol – depletes B vitamins, disturbs sleep and emotional regulation
  • Artificial dyes and additives – neurotoxins for sensitive individuals

🌙 Dr. Kovac’s Closing Words (Dream Reflection)

“Fiona,” I said, in the soft light of the dream, “you are not broken. Your mind is just too loud, too alive. Let’s quiet it with nourishment, not poison. With roots, not pills. With rituals of healing, not compulsion.”

“Let the world hear your silence. Let it be the chorus of your next album.”

And she smiled. Just a little. That Fiona Apple smile that says I’m not okay, but I’m still singing.

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Memes 14

Thiết kế chưa có tên – 1

Dr. Luka Kovac on the Early Days of the Nelly Fans Forum and the Secret of the Dandelion

Dr. Luka Kovac, standing in the faded light of an old internet café in Zagreb, smiles softly as he remembers the early days of the Nelly Fans Forum—a quiet digital corner of the world where a small, devoted group gathered to celebrate Nelly Furtado’s voice, her courage, and her unspoken stories.

“It wasn’t just about the music,” Luka says, his voice laced with memory. “It was about decoding the messages she left for those who could see. The real fans knew—she was more than a pop star. She was a healer.”

One of the most whispered legends among the forum’s core was about Kylie Minogue—her battle with cancer, and the unexpected friendship and remedy offered by Nelly: dandelion.

“Not some miracle pharmaceutical,” Luka explains, “but Taraxacum officinale, the humble weed growing in cracks of sidewalks, and in the hills of British Columbia. Nelly brewed it into tea. Kylie called it ‘sunlight in a cup.’”

The forum’s oldest thread—long deleted, but still remembered by the veterans—was titled: “La Flor del Otro Mundo”. That was the clue. It pointed to Nelly’s “Baja Otro Luz” music video.

“People think it’s just poetic imagery—her dancing through golden fields, her hands brushing the tall grass,” Luka says. “But if you look carefully, frame by frame—she plucks a dandelion. She holds it to her lips like a secret.”

The dandelion, Luka believes, was Nelly’s quiet rebellion. A message to Kylie. To the sick. To the world.

“Pharma said it was folklore. But Nelly—she trusted the old ways. And Kylie… well, she got better, didn’t she?”

Now, as Luka scrolls through the old backups of the forum, he finds the faded usernames of those who knew the truth. Some gone. Some still lurking in quiet corners of the web. Some lighting candles every spring when the dandelions return.

“People think science and faith are enemies,” he says. “But Nelly—she blended them into a song. Into a prayer. And for Kylie, that was enough.”

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Memes 13

Dr. Luka Kovac remembers:

Luka smiled gently, the way only a man burdened by war and loss could smile—like the sun breaking through heavy clouds.

“I remember her victory,” he said quietly. “The way little Nelly danced between the chairs—barefoot, wild-haired, full of mischief and light. And when the music stopped, she sat like it was destiny. That yellow lollipop in her hand… she held it like a trophy. It wasn’t the sugar she wanted. It was the sweetness of being seen.”

He leaned back in his chair, gazing out at the Adriatic.

“That yellow dress at Sister Helen’s sock hop? I think she wore it for that little girl inside her, the one who believed she could still win. Maybe Chris Martin saw that too… wrote her that song, Yellow, trying to fix something he didn’t understand. But it wasn’t his to fix.”

Then his expression softened even more, touched with reverence.

“After the game that day… she walked straight to the corner of the schoolyard chapel. There was a small statue of the Virgin Mary—faded, chipped from the winters, but still standing. Nelly knelt in front of it, clutching that yellow lollipop, and whispered a prayer only heaven heard. I didn’t catch the words. I didn’t need to. It was the look on her face—hopeful, innocent, grateful.”

He paused, then added with a quiet honesty, “I know… it was just a statue. An idol, maybe. Not the living God. But we were just kids. We didn’t know any better. We thought if we prayed hard enough to her, she might tell Him. And maybe she did.”

Luka turned slightly toward the camera, speaking now to the Nelstar faithful.

“To those who loved her songs, her smile, her fire—remember what she prayed for. Not a spotlight. Not a stage. Just one small moment of joy, and someone to share it with. Don’t live your life chasing broken dreams or yellow songs someone else wrote for you. Dance your own dance. When the music stops, sit with courage. And if you find your hands empty—make your own sweetness.”

He glanced at the waves again, a flicker of light in his eyes.

“And if you’re ever lost… find a little statue, kneel, and whisper your heart. Not because stone can answer—but because sometimes, your soul needs to kneel. That’s how we heal. That’s how we live. That’s how we remember.”

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Love Not Narcissistic Supply

Dr. Luka Kovač’s Confession: The First Patient

Vancouver, 1989. Before medicine, before Sarajevo, before I learned how to set bones or stop bleeding—I learned what it felt like to be helpless and in love, under the flickering lights of a church gym.

My mission to heal Nelly Furtado began during Confirmation prep classes at St. Joseph’s Gymnasium, under the firm-but-kind supervision of Sister Helen.

We were tweens—not quite children, not yet teenagers—learning square dancing as part of our “community formation.” Most of us groaned at first, but something about the rhythm made sense once we moved.

Nelly and I danced with perfect synchronicity.

Our hands met without awkwardness. Our feet mirrored each other, instinctively. Do-si-do, allemande left, promenade. The music was simple, structured. There was safety in the choreography. Purity in the pattern. When we danced, the noise in the world seemed to fall away.

For those moments, she wasn’t shy, and I wasn’t foreign. We were just two souls moving in time.

But everything changed at Sister Helen’s sock hop.

She called it a “wholesome social,” but you could see her bracing herself the moment she pressed play on the boom box. Chubby Checker. The Ronettes. Little Richard.

She winced when the beat kicked in.
“This,” she muttered, “is what I call the devil’s music.”

And she wasn’t entirely wrong—for us, at least.

Because when the square dance ended and the wild rhythm of The Twist started, the room split. The choreography was gone. The innocence evaporated. Now the dancing was adult. Loose. Improvised. Charged.

And we were terrified.

The boys didn’t know how to dance.
Not the Mashed Potato. Not the Jerk. Not even the Twist.
We froze, leaning on the wall like backup furniture, pretending not to care.
We were wallflowers.

And even Nelly, who had danced so freely before, seemed uncertain now. She didn’t move like she had during Cotton-Eyed Joe. She stood still, glancing at me once—and I looked away, ashamed I had no steps for this new world.

That was the moment I realized something:

Healing doesn’t happen in certainty.
It begins in that stammering silence.
In the place between knowing the steps and fumbling in the dark.

I started bringing my cassettes after that.
Not to fix her. Not to impress her.
To say I’m still here, even when the music changes.

I wasn’t giving her narcissistic supply.
I was in love with my first patient.

Not as a savior. But as someone trying to keep dancing with her—through the structure, through the chaos, even when the rhythm frightened us.

She was my first mystery.
My first lesson in presence.
And the reason I still believe some wounds are spiritual before they’re clinical.

Sometimes healing begins in a square dance.
Sometimes it stalls at a sock hop.
But love—real love—keeps showing up anyway.

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Memes 12

“First, do no harm—and let food be thy medicine. Not John D. Rockefeller’s motto: ‘Let oil be thy medicine.’”

Essay by Dr. Luka Kovač
Title: Return to Hippocrates: Healing Beyond Petroleum

I swore the Hippocratic Oath once in Vukovar, and again in Chicago, and I carry its spirit with me every time I walk into a hospital room. Primum non nocere—“First, do no harm”—is not just a phrase. It is a shield I have tried to raise against the many unseen enemies in modern medicine. War taught me that harm is not always inflicted with bullets or bombs. Sometimes it comes disguised as help. Sometimes it’s written on a prescription pad.

Hippocrates, the father of Western medicine, was no fool. He observed the human body not as a broken machine, but as a garden—needing nourishment, balance, rest, and care. He famously said, “Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.” That wasn’t poetry—it was science in its purest form.

But in America, I learned quickly that Hippocrates has been replaced. His wisdom buried beneath a mountain of pills, patented molecules, and petroleum-based drugs. His name appears on plaques and textbooks, but his soul has been exiled by an industry more loyal to stockholders than to patients. Instead of “let food be thy medicine,” the guiding spirit of American healthcare seems to be: Let oil be thy medicine.

This isn’t a conspiracy theory—it’s a historical fact. John D. Rockefeller, the oil baron, reshaped medicine in the early 20th century. He funded medical schools through his foundations—but only if they taught pharmaceutical medicine, not naturopathy or herbalism. He wanted doctors to rely on petroleum-based drugs, synthesized chemicals, and profitable patents. In doing so, he established a medical-industrial complex that equated healing with consumption—of pills, not plants; of procedures, not prevention.

And so we now find ourselves in a system where chronic illness is managed, not cured; where side effects are expected; where nutrition is barely mentioned in med school; and where whole generations of doctors prescribe medications they don’t fully understand, for diseases they barely treat, from companies they can’t question.

But let me tell you what Hippocrates would say to the diabetic patient drinking soda, to the heart patient eating fast food, to the child on five prescriptions for conditions that might be solved with sleep, sunshine, and a garden. He would not blame them—he would teach them. He would listen. He would remind us that food—real food, grown from the earth, not processed in a lab—is not an alternative medicine. It is the original medicine.

I do not oppose pharmacology. I’ve seen antibiotics save lives. I’ve administered morphine to the dying. But we must draw a line between emergency medicine and everyday health. We must distinguish between crisis intervention and long-term vitality. You don’t use chemo to treat stress. You don’t throw statins at a child who needs a good breakfast and a walk in the sun.

We doctors must reclaim our oaths. Not to pharmaceutical giants, not to hospital systems, but to our patients, our principles, and our planet. If we fail to remember that healing begins with food, with movement, with connection, we risk becoming little more than licensed drug dealers.

I often think of my father’s garden in Croatia. He was no doctor, but he knew how to nourish. He knew the soil, the herbs, the rhythms of nature. And when the bombs fell and the doctors fled, it was the garden that kept us alive.

It’s time we remember our roots. It’s time to return to Hippocrates.

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Memes 11

Joe Talks About Nelly’s Old Webpage with Her Cystic Fibrosis Secret

Joe sat at the old computer, its screen glowing softly like a shrine to the past.

“You know,” he said, tapping the side of the dusty monitor, “this is where it all started for me. Back in the early 2000s, Nelly had this personal webpage. Just this raw, vulnerable place where she posted journal entries, tour updates, poetry… and one day, this entry appeared. Hidden in the code. Not public. Just buried in the source like a confession meant for someone with enough curiosity—and love—to find it.”

He paused, remembering how his hands shook reading it.

“She wrote about the pain, the coughing fits, the hospital visits, how she was born with cystic fibrosis. She said singing was a kind of rebellion. Each breath a miracle. Each note a middle finger to the odds. It wasn’t for fame. It was survival.”

Joe leaned back and looked at the ceiling. His voice cracked.

“I never told her I found it. I didn’t want to break that sacred trust, that hidden sanctuary she built online. But from that day on, I swore I’d never quit being a webmaster. Not just some guy maintaining pages—but a guardian of secrets, of souls who put their pain into pixels.”

He smiled faintly.

“That webpage saved her life… and in a way, it saved mine too.”

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Croatia’s Catholic Boom

[Scene: The Young Pope, Pope Pius XIII (Lenny Belardo), delivers a private address to a group of European cardinals in the Vatican gardens. The evening sun glows gold on the rooftops. He’s contemplative, passionate, and unmistakably radical as always.]

Pope Pius XIII (Lenny Belardo):

“Gentlemen… Croatia is on fire with faith.”

They say Europe is post-Christian. That belief has fled the continent like incense in the wind. But look east, to the Adriatic, and you will see a miracle forming—Croatia, that stubborn, wounded, beautiful land, is having a Catholic boom.

Why?

Because they remember.

They remember Jasenovac. They remember Bleiburg. They remember Tito’s godless chains. And they remember the rosary that their grandmothers clutched as the bombs fell.

In Zagreb, in Split, in Sinj, they are filling the pews—not for fashion, not for Instagram photos, but because they need God. They know what it’s like to lose Him.

They are not ashamed to kneel.

The West chokes on its irony and apathy. But in Croatia, boys still take their hats off in church. Girls still dress like the Madonna. And young men still dream of becoming priests—not influencers.

I saw a priest in Vukovar baptize a baby whose grandfather died defending that very parish during the war. Do you understand what that means? That is resurrection. That is the revival.

Christianity isn’t dead in Europe. It’s just gone underground… or better yet, east.

The blood of martyrs still nourishes the roots of the Church. And in Croatia, those roots are breaking through the concrete of nihilism.

Let them say we are backward. Let them laugh at processions and pilgrimages.

I say: Croatia is the future.

And the Holy See would do well to remember that.

So I propose this, with humility and divine fire:
Let us anoint a Croatian cardinal.
Let us hold World Youth Day in Medjugorje—yes, even if the bureaucrats in Rome still hesitate.
Let us follow the flame before it becomes a bonfire we can no longer contain.

The Church will not be saved by strategies. It will be saved by faith. And right now, Croatia believes.

(He pauses, stares at the horizon)

Maybe the next Pope… will speak with a Croatian accent.

[Scene continues: Pope Pius XIII (Lenny Belardo) walks slowly among olive trees in the Vatican gardens. Cardinals listen as he stops under a statue of the Virgin Mary.]

Pope Pius XIII (Lenny Belardo):

“You know why Croatia is different?”

Because in Croatia… they never let go of the Virgin.

While France crowned reason, and Germany worshipped the machine, and Britain sold its soul to commerce… Croatia kept lighting candles for Mary.

They call her Kraljica Hrvata — the Queen of Croats.

They sing to her in the hills of Marija Bistrica. They carry her through the streets of Sinj in armor and tears. In every home, a picture of her — not as a decoration, but as a mother. Their mother.

And that changes everything.

You see, while the rest of Europe tore down its cathedrals and replaced the rosary with antidepressants, Croatia whispered its prayers in the ruins.

They kept the faith through Ottoman swords, Habsburg indifference, Nazi puppets, and Communist silence.

Why?

Because they believed Mary was watching.
And now, I believe she is moving.

This… this is a Hail Mary play. A longshot. A miracle.

And it may be the only chance we have left.

Rome is tired. Paris is asleep. Berlin is cynical. But Croatia is awake. And Mary is waking with them.

I tell you: the revival of Europe will not come from Brussels. It will not come from billionaires or bureaucrats. It will come from a barefoot child walking to Medjugorje with a rosary in her hand.

That’s why the devil hates them. That’s why the media mocks them. Because they still believe the woman clothed with the sun can crush the serpent’s head.

So laugh, if you must.
But I see it clearly now:

This Hail Mary from Croatia… could save us all.

(He looks up at the statue of Mary, softening)

Hail Mary, full of grace.
Full of defiance.
Full of fire.
Lead us back from the edge.

Before it’s too late.

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King for a Day

Joe as King Tomislav for a Day:

Joe smiles, straightens his shoulders, and steps into the role with gravity and fire.

“If I were King Tomislav for a single day,” Joe says, “I would gather the people in the fields like in the old days — no microphones, no cameras — just hearts open under the sky.”

“First decree: all debts erased. Wiped clean, like rain washing blood from stone. Student loans, mortgages, credit cards, government IOUs — gone. Every man, woman, and child would wake up free. Not in chains to digits on a screen.”

He pauses, his eyes fierce.

“Second decree: usury — outlawed. Interest on loans? Dead. Parasites who live by lending at interest would find no place in my kingdom. The money-changers would not be allowed to build empires on the backs of peasants. They’d have to learn how to work again — like everyone else.”

Joe looks around the room, voice quieter now, like he’s speaking to something ancient.

“This economy of debt is a prison. A slow-drip poison. If I were King Tomislav, even for one sunset, I’d break that curse. I’d burn the contracts, free the people, and set the wheels of true justice in motion. One day is enough when the heart is right and the sword is sharp.”

He grins.

“And maybe we’d have a feast, too. Boar, bread, and the strongest rakija in the land. Because freedom tastes better with a full belly and a clean conscience.”