Croatia awakens: half a million gather to proclaim faith, homeland, and identity

In times when crowds are mobilized by empty slogans, imported ideologies, or disposable spectacles, what happened last night in Croatia breaks all the molds. It was not a protest, nor a partisan political act, nor a festival commercialized by multinationals. It was something else. It was a people rising to declare who they are.

More than half a million Croats gathered at the Zagreb Hippodrome, not to demand privileges, but to defend something much deeper: their faith, their homeland, and their memory.

At the center of the event, Marko Perković, known as Thompson, a living symbol of Croatian cultural resistance, gave a concert that became a national ceremony.

The event, announced as the largest solo concert in Europe, exceeded all expectations. It was a spiritual, patriotic, and cultural demonstration unprecedented in twenty-first-century Europe.

Perković opened the night with a greeting that, for many in the West, is almost incomprehensible:
"Hvaljen Isus i Marija!"—a traditional Catholic formula from the Slavic world meaning: "Praised be Jesus and Mary!"

It was not a decorative phrase. It was a declaration of principles.

He did so in Zagreb—a European capital governed by the eco-leftist coalition Možemo (which in Croatian means "We Can!"), whose political platform includes radical feminism, gender ideology, cultural reengineering, and national uprooting.

The contrast could not have been more explicit.

While Mayor Tomislav Tomašević enthusiastically promotes projects of depatriarchalization, inclusive language, and subsidized climate activism,  half a million Croats replied with Catholic fervor. Crucifixes held high, patriotic chants, national flags—all of this happened in his city, under his administration. And he could not prevent it.

It was the people who took the floor. The word was: tradition.

From the stage, Thompson thanked the massive attendance, expressed the desire for national unity, and urged a return to Christian roots. He emphasized that those present, who had come from every corner of the country, shared the same essential values: family, tradition, nation.

For more than three hours, the war veteran transformed a concert into a liturgical act of national belonging. It was not a spectacle. It was embodied identity.

It is no coincidence that it was precisely a musician who mobilized such a crowd. Much less that this musician was Marko Perković.

Thompson has become a national symbol that divides depending on one's point of view: for many, a hero; for others, a scapegoat. His biography is intimately intertwined with the Domovinski rat, the Croatian "Homeland War" of the 1990s. As a young volunteer, he fought on the front lines with a Thompson submachine gun.  The weapon became a guitar, the battlefield a stage, and the military march a cultural declaration.

It is not surprising that Western media do not know how to classify him. Perković doesn't fit into the paradigms of post-national pop culture.

He has been familiar with criticism for years. He has been accused of using symbols associated with the Ustaša regime. But the reality is different: Perković has publicly and repeatedly distanced himself from all fascist ideology, clearly and emphatically. His lyrics do not focus on the 1940s, but on the 1990s; they do not speak of collaboration, but of survival.

The Western press doesn't know how to digest him. Because Thompson doesn't fit the mold of globalized entertainment or post-national pop culture. He is not a manufactured idol. He is a Croat who sings as a Croat, for Croats—and that, for many in Brussels and Berlin, is intolerable.

Bojna Čavoglave ("The Battle of Čavoglave"), his most famous anthem, begins with the cry Za dom spremni ("For the homeland, ready!"). In the West, it is feared. In Croatia, it is answered. Because it is not about provocation, but about a slogan that, for many, represents resistance, honor, and living memory.

The fact that this tension is openly debated in Croatia, far from being a problem, is a sign of democratic maturity. Here, history is not censored: it is confronted. It is remembered. It is lived.

Meanwhile, the same media that remain silent in the face of true totalitarian threats are scandalized when half a million people sing to their flag and pray to their God.

They did so with conviction.

Throughout the night, the religious dimension took center stage.  Thompson's lyrics are filled with Christian references: the cross, the Virgin, the saints. For the globalist ruling class, this is a provocation. For the Croatian people, it is the most natural thing in the world. It was not an evangelizing spectacle. It was popular Catholicism—living, authentic, non-negotiable.

At a climactic moment, the hymn Maranatha ("Come, Lord!" in Aramaic), composed by Bishop Ante Ivas, was sung while an image of a candle lit for the victims of Bleiburg was projected on the screen. Unforgotten history became present—as prayer, as a call for justice, as an act of faith.

During Neću izdat ja ("I will not betray"),  Perković handed the microphone to young Catholic singer Petar Buljan, who proclaimed that he and his house would serve the Lord—echoing the Book of Joshua. The audience repeated it in unison. Half a million people praying together. No leaders. No sectarianism. Only faith.

Drones in the sky formed the images of the Virgin Mary and the Cross. The Hippodrome fell silent. It was not part of the show. It was collective consecration.

The power of the message was not only in the religious aspect. Musically, Thompson combines hard rock, metal, and Croatian folklore. His songs do not follow trends; they stake out emotional and cultural territory.  What the elite call "emotional populism," for his people is unfiltered authenticity.

The most electrifying moment came, as expected, with Bojna Čavoglave ("The Battle of Čavoglave").  The audience sang from their very core. For some, scandal. For many, justice.

At the end of the event, Perković took the floor once again. He thanked everyone for the unity experienced that night and gave thanks to God. He commented that, although the concert had lasted almost three hours, time had passed quickly thanks to the spirit of communion among all. Addressing the youth in particular, he said they were stronger than his own generation and expressed that now he could die in peace, because Croatia was in good hands. He closed with the promise that they would meet again, and performed the last two songs.

What was experienced in Zagreb was a powerful signal for all of Europe. There was no hatred. There was no violence. There was memory, prayer, and unity.

It was the testimony of a nation that doesn't need to apologize for existing. Although Zagreb is far away, for many Argentinians of Croatian descent what happened last night was also their own. In Buenos Aires, Chaco, or Mendoza—where thousands of families preserve Croatian surnames, memories, and devotions—the homeland is not just a geography, but an inheritance of the soul.

Croatia doesn't end in Europe. It also lives in America. Last night, its heart spoke to those who never stopped listening to it.

Meanwhile, in Madrid crucifixes are being removed and festivals of forgetfulness are subsidized, in Zagreb hymns, flags, and prayers are raised.

Europe needs less Davos... and more Zagreb.