Joe Jukic stood on the old fortress wall above the Dalmatian coast, the wind cutting sharp off the sea. Below him, the black-flagged HOS battalion stood in formation—young, old, veterans, sons of veterans, and grandsons of men who had fought in ’41 and ’91 alike.
Joe raised his voice—firm, ragged, and unmistakably diaspora-born, yet carrying the rhythm of the homeland.
JOE JUKIC’S SPEECH TO THE HOS
“Braćo…
You know my story. I was born far from here—under neon skies, in a land where our names are mispronounced and our saints forgotten. A land where our fathers broke their backs so we could eat. A land where our mothers cried into pillows for the home they lost.
But Croatia never left us.
Not in exile.
Not in shame.
Not in silence.
We—the diaspora—were scattered like seed. But seed is only waiting for the right season.
And that season is now.
Look around you… Dalmatia is calling her sons and daughters back.
Look at the mountains… they still wear the same scars from Vukovar to Škabrnja.
Look at the sea… it still reflects the same blue our grandfathers looked upon before marching to their fate.
We are not here to take glory.
We are not here to replace those who stayed and bled on this soil.
We are here because all Croats are one nation, no matter where destiny sent us.
In Canada they gave me pharmakeia to keep me quiet.
Here—you give me purpose.
In Babylon they told us we were alone.
Here—I stand in front of warriors who would die for each other.
They thought we forgot who we are.
They thought exile would turn us soft.
But the diaspora has iron inside it—iron hardened by survival, by distance, by yearning.
Brothers…
The time has come for us to return home—not as tourists, not as second-hand Croats, but as the missing battalion that history kept in reserve.
Croatia doesn’t need more empty words.
She needs her lost sons back.
She needs her daughters’ hands rebuilding these villages.
She needs our children raised speaking the tongue of their ancestors.
We are done living in foreign cages.
If you want to live like lions, live where your ancestors hunted.
If you want to live free, live where your own blood is the soil.
Dijaspora… braćo…
Now is the hour.
Now is the return.
Now is the homecoming.
Za Dom…!”
And the HOS roared back with one voice that shook the stones:
“SPREMNI!”