The "Oaks" represent the Croatian defenders—strong, resilient, and steadfast—while the "Storm" symbolizes the war, their recovery, and the problems they face. The title alludes to the inner strength and faith that helped them survive and stand tall, just like oaks that do not bend in the wind.
My joints ache with the memory of the past, a phantom pain that returns with every change in the weather. My bones, splintered by the shrapnel of a forgotten war, are a road map of my history. Every scar is a prayer, a testament to the fact that I lived. I am a Croatian defender, and this land, our land, is stained with my blood. My blood is the ink in which my history is written.
They say a prophet is not without honor, except in his own country. They don't mention that a warrior of light is also not honored. When we were needed, we were heroes, bathed in the light of victory and the promise of a better tomorrow. We were the guardians of our land, the shield and the sword that defended our right to exist. But when the dust settled and the cannons fell silent, we became something else entirely. We became a burden, a reminder of a past that many wanted to forget. We were told to lay down our arms, to return to a life that no longer existed, to a world that was no longer ours.
We were once the heart of this nation, beating with the rhythm of freedom. But now we are a forgotten pulse, a quiet tremor in the earth. The rights we earned with our blood and sweat, the recognition we were promised, became a point of contention. They said we took too much, that we didn't deserve it. They saw our wounds as a weakness, our sacrifices as a plea for special treatment. We were not prophets or heroes, but beggars. We were not warriors of light, but shadows of a past that haunted them. We gave so much, and in return, we received the ridicule of a society that we had saved. I remember the words of the Jesuit priest, P. Ike, echoing in my mind: "And if they had given up all their rights, lived as hermits, they would eventually become the object of ridicule again because they were warriors of light. Nothing would help, everything would just fall silent, and no sacrifice they would make after the war would only further anger a large part of society. Because being a hero and a leader in your own country always ends in ridicule."
My faith, like a sturdy oak in a storm, is what saved me. My body was broken, but my spirit remained unbroken. I found solace in my God, a constant companion in my darkest moments. I found strength in my body, pushing it to its limits, to prove to myself that I was still a man, not just a ghost. The pain of my recovery was a new battle, a new war. I had to learn to walk, to live again. I did not do this for them. I did not do this for the land that had betrayed me. I did it for myself, for the man that I was, for the man that I was meant to be. I am not a prophet or a hero, but a man. A man who carries his scars with pride. A man who has seen the worst of humanity, but has also witnessed the best.
The prophets of old were not respected in their own lands. Even Jesus himself, a man of miracles, failed to perform great wonders in his hometown. He knew the hearts of men, how they could be filled with both reverence and contempt. We, the Croatian defenders, are the same. We are prophets of a forgotten faith, a faith in a nation that seems to have forgotten us. We are the warriors of light, and our light is a beacon that many want to extinguish. But our light cannot be extinguished. It burns in our hearts, in our memories, in the stories we tell our children. We are not forgotten. We are not lost. We are here, and we will remain. Our story is written in the blood of our land, and no one can erase it.
However, in the silence of the night, as pain turns into strength, I feel something new. I hear a whisper, a quiet murmur that is growing. The new generations, those who haven't smelled gunpowder or tasted tears, are beginning to awaken. They don't see us as a burden, but as a source, as the roots from which they grew. Their eyes don't hold contempt, but curiosity and respect. They ask us, and we talk. Not about politics, not about rights, but about people. We talk about fear, about courage, about love for our country.
Like the first rays of sun after a long night, their empathy brings warmth. They recognize that our struggle was not in vain, that the freedom and peace they have today were built on our sacrifice. I see them gathering, not in protest squares, but on sports fields and in the mountains, carrying the symbols of our country with pride but without hatred. They are our hope. In them, our story continues, not as a story of wounds, but as a story of healing. We, the warriors of light, are no longer alone. We have followers, a new army of young hearts that understands that heroism is not in weapons, but in a heart that loves and protects its homeland. And as the sun rises over Velebit, I know that our story has a happy continuation. Our story continues.
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