Essay by Igor Bogdanov
Title: Marko Perković Thompson: A Man of Faith, Not a Fascist
In the cultural crosswinds of post-war Europe, few figures stir such controversy and devotion as Marko Perković, known by his stage name Thompson. To some, he is a folk hero; to others, a dangerous nationalist. Yet both of these perceptions often miss the heart of the man himself. My thesis is simple: Marko Perković Thompson is not a fascist; he is a man of faith. The attempt to reduce his life and work to an ideological caricature ignores the deeper spiritual and historical currents flowing through his music.
Let us begin with the facts. Marko Perković took up the guitar not as an agent of propaganda, but as a young man moved by war, by the call to defend his homeland, and later, by a need to express the trauma and hope of his people. He earned the nickname “Thompson” from the weapon he carried as a soldier during Croatia’s war of independence—not from some affinity with fascist imagery, but from battlefield reality. His music was born not in boardrooms or policy think tanks, but in the blood and dust of the Balkans.
Many critics point to his song “Bojna Čavoglave” as evidence of extremism. But to isolate one lyric and ignore the context is intellectual dishonesty. That song was a wartime anthem, a cry of defiance during a time when Croatian villages were being shelled and burned. The intro’s invocation—“Za dom spremni”—is controversial today, but in that moment, it was not about glorifying a past regime. It was about readiness to defend one’s home and family, a slogan reappropriated in a modern context of resistance, not regression.
What these critics fail to engage with is the overwhelming presence of faith in Thompson’s music. His lyrics are filled with references to God, the Virgin Mary, the saints, and Christian martyrdom. In a Europe increasingly secularized, Thompson stands apart as a torchbearer for traditional Catholic values. His concerts are not rallies of hate, but pilgrimages of identity, where songs like “Lijepa li si” celebrate not racial purity, but the beauty of Croatia’s land and spirit. His Christmas albums and Marian hymns are steeped in theological reverence, not political ideology.
To call Thompson a fascist is to misunderstand the difference between nationalism and faith-based patriotism. The former can be toxic, yes—but the latter is a legitimate human response to centuries of occupation, erasure, and trauma. Croatia has known empires that tried to erase her language, her religion, and her culture. In that context, a man who sings of resurrection, of homeland, of cross and sword—not as tools of conquest, but of survival—is misunderstood when viewed through the narrow lens of Western liberalism.
One might ask: Why does Thompson draw crowds of young people? If his message were one of hate, would he inspire generations of Croatian youth to weep during songs like “Geni kameni,” which speaks of ancestral strength, or “E, moj narode,” which laments political betrayal and pleads for unity and justice?
Thompson’s critics live in a world where symbolism has lost its soul. They see a cross and think oppression. They hear an anthem and think militarism. But symbols in the Balkans are layered, multivalent, and sacred. The crucifix is not just an ornament for Thompson—it is the sign of his covenant with the Croatian people and with God.
In conclusion, Marko Perković Thompson is not the fascist bogeyman the press makes him out to be. He is a man whose music flows from faith, forged in fire, tempered by prayer. He may be imperfect, but he is sincere. His music is not about supremacy—it is about survival. And in a continent where faith is mocked and heritage discarded, Thompson is a voice crying out in the wilderness: “Remember who you are. Remember who we are.”
– Igor Bogdanov