Nedjelja, 27 srpnja, 2025

WHEN THE IRANIAN CONNECTION STAYS INVISIBLE: Suljagić’s Ascent to the Senate or a Glaring U.S. Intelligence Oversight?

Vrlo
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In the historic Kennedy Caucus Room of the U.S. Senate, Emir Suljagić stood as a symbol of resistance, remembrance, and politically convenient amnesia. He spoke of genocide, MTV, the war, UN peacekeepers, and the importance of speaking English. And of course, he spoke about himself—with the usual message: I am the story, I am history, I survived.

What’s curious, however, is what he didn’t talk about.

Take the radiator, for instance.
Not the cold one in Potočari (site of the Srebrenica Memorial Center), but the one at home—hot, metallic, and domestic. According to documents from the days when Bosnia and Herzegovina’s legal system still pretended to function, Suljagić used that very radiator in an episode of domestic violence, allegedly smashing his partner’s head against it in a fit of rage. But that chapter didn’t make it into the speech. Pity—it would’ve offered a healthy contrast to the humanitarian tone.

Luckily, the Clinton administration was there to clean things up. If that administration decides to wipe your record, you’re cleaner than the UN base in July ’95 (referring to the failure of the Dutch UN forces to protect the Srebrenica enclave during the genocide). Once your biography gets the eraser treatment, not even The Hague can remember you.

So now, Suljagić—once just a kid parroting English from MTV—gets to be a post-MTV moral authority, speaking on dignity, remembrance, and justice. Not a word about Grabovica (a 1993 war crime in which Bosniak units massacred Croatian civilians). In the room where Nixon was once grilled, Suljagić now stands—untouched, unquestioned—about episodes that even Nixon couldn’t improvise in the privacy of his home.

And he wasn’t alone.
Standing next to him was Sven Alkalaj, appointed from the “Croatian quota” (a position in Bosnia and Herzegovina’s diplomatic corps formally reserved for ethnic Croats), by Željko Komšić’s (Bosniak-backed) presidency. A Jew of the type Sarajevo tolerates: decorative, unproblematic, and not the kind to mention inconvenient massacres like Grabovica—or times when “resistance” and “justice” took to the streets with fists. Nor does he mention the cancelled rabbinical conference in Sarajevo, or the widespread anti-Jewish sentiment that still quietly simmers in the city, carefully ignored by the same elites who lecture the world on tolerance.

Where was Emir on September 11, 2001?

No one asked. But perhaps they should have.
Local lore claims Bratunac (a town near Srebrenica) was unusually lively that day. Some daidžas (Bosnian term for maternal uncles) allegedly celebrated the fall of the Twin Towers well into the early hours. One of them, Uncle Aziz, is said to have hosted a memorable party. But no one asked if Suljagić was there. Or was he instead working that day—perhaps in the Iranian Embassy in Zagreb, where, according to whispers, his job was arranged by none other than influential Uncle Hasanović (reportedly a pro-Iranian fixer in Bosnian political circles)?

And if such ties existed then—who’s to say they no longer do? Who keeps track now? CIA? Bosnian prosecutors? Konaković? (Dino Konaković – Bosnia’s current Foreign Minister, known for vague public assurances on national security.)

Where’s Abu Meali?

Or Bin Laden’s Bosnian passport? Or at least the question: “Do you know who gave it to him?” That doesn’t get asked when the speaker is a polished director of a memorial center, with credentials, CNN airtime, and just the right amount of selective trauma.

Krbava? Just a slip of the tongue.

Even though Suljagić once warned that “you’ll all end up like at Krbava Field” and that “there will be more Krbavas,” (referring to the 1493 medieval battle where the Croatian nobility was annihilated by the Ottomans), no one in the U.S. security apparatus, no Bosniak political figure, and certainly no liberal outlet felt compelled to ask: Who exactly is “you all”? The Croatian elite? The entire nation? And isn’t it a bit unsettling when a genocide survivor flirts with the language of genocide revenge?

But never mind that biographical glitch. The violin played, young Ajla Bajrami performed Srebrenica Inferno (a well-known musical lament dedicated to the victims of the genocide), and everyone was focused on tears—not footnotes.

At a commemoration for Srebrenica, where people demanded justice for the dead, spoke a man to whom justice had long ago forgiven what he did to the living.
He spoke of resistance, UN failures, and symbolic weight. And it all happened in a room made available by U.S. diplomacy, with help from the “Croatian quota,” in an institution that increasingly resembles a Tešanj wedding hall (a sarcastic reference to an ordinary local venue—rented to whoever pays).

Yes, Emir survived.
Though, arguably, he was never in real danger.
But the truth? The truth didn’t.

Not the truth about infanticide in Vitez (refers to the murder of Croatian children by Bosniak forces in 1993), about Grabovica, about Mladenka (a young Croatian victim whose case remains obscured)—or even just about the radiator.

/POSKOK/

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