Hold My Beer, Says History

In the early days of the war for Slovenian independence, I found myself near the Lazaret border crossing, between Debeli Rtič in Slovenia and Muggia on the Italian side. The scene was surreal. On our side, a state of war prevailed. The border station was surrounded by Slovenian police, while inside was a group of conscripts being screamed at by furious officers of the former Yugoslav People’s Army (JNA). Just a few meters away, crowds of people from Trieste were gathering, watching the drama unfold across the border with interest. Some stood at a nearby bar, drinks in hand; others were unbothered, calmly sunbathing and swimming in the sea. On one side: Kalashnikovs. On the other: Aperol Spritz.

That experience will stay with me forever. Just a few weeks earlier, I had been studying for final exams with peers from all over the world at the College of Europe in Bruges, Belgium, planning summer vacations—and then overnight, I found myself in the middle of a military conflict. At that moment, like every Slovene, I realized how fragile the boundary is between peace and war, between normal daily life and complete chaos.

We are right to be proud of the victory in Slovenia’s independence war. It lasted ten days. Seventy-six people lost their lives, including nineteen on the Slovenian side. We owe them gratitude and respect.

Compared to the other bloody conflicts in the former Yugoslavia, our war was relatively short and less bloody—but that in no way diminishes the significance of the victory or the sacrifice of those who gave their lives for an independent Slovenia. What’s striking, though, is how rarely anyone today considers how easily our war could have gone differently—lasting longer, causing far greater destruction and casualties. The idea that we may have narrowly escaped the tragic fate of some other Yugoslav nations is simply too frightening and uncomfortable. No one wants to think about what might have happened if the rabid nationalist generals in Belgrade had decided to throw everything at us—bombing all targets, civilian ones included—just as they did elsewhere in the region without hesitation later.

I’m convinced that Slovenia would have ultimately prevailed regardless. The only question is: at what human and material cost? I wonder whether, in that case, anyone would have dared label resistance against a stronger occupier as cowardice or betrayal—simply because of civilian casualties.

The belief that war is a temporary aberration and peace the automatic norm is a psychological defence mechanism—not unique to us. Europe has behaved similarly for decades, even though—historically speaking—we’re living in just a fleeting moment since the last war in which Europeans slaughtered millions of other Europeans. The memory of war is still alive, but more as ceremony and ritual than as a historical lesson with relevant messages for our time. Because something already happened, we believe it can’t happen again—not because it’s impossible, but because the thought is too disturbing.

To maintain our peace of mind, we act as though the descent into inhumanity we witnessed in the 1930s was a one-off, never to be repeated. Periodically, politicians don solemn expressions, lay a wreath or two, and solemnly declare: “Never again.” In truth, no one really believes that “again” is possible. Our behaviour—and our responsibility—reflect this.

Instead of empty ceremonial platitudes, I’d rather offer politicians and the public the words of Italian Jewish writer Primo Levi, who survived the horrors of the concentration camps: “It happened, so it can happen again.”

A few years ago in Strasbourg, I participated in a roundtable organized by the European Movement. I ended up in an argument with a local economics professor who took issue with my claim that the European Union is, first and foremost, a peace project. “Oh, come on with that nonsense,” he said. “Who still cares about war in Europe? Let’s talk about the future, not the past.”

First, I reminded him of my own experience with war in Slovenia. Then I politely suggested he share his theory with the son of my good friends—who was sitting in the audience, born during the siege of Sarajevo. “Explain to him that war in Europe is no longer relevant.” Today, I could add Ukrainians to that list—and others.

I understand the psychological need to believe we’ll always live in peace. Who would want to wake up each day fearing they’ll end it in a shelter or on the run? But I’m also convinced that, in the decades after World War I, many ordinary Europeans—people like you and me—watched the slow slide into chaos with disbelief and disapproval, yet still believed war wouldn’t return. “Oh, come on. What war? Let’s talk about the future, not the past.”

“Hold my beer,” said history. And repeated itself.

We live in a time of rising tensions over critical resources—from water to food to energy. The world, battered by the effects of self-inflicted climate damage, is on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Let’s recall how empires—and especially their leaders—have historically behaved whenever they felt their interests or Lebensraum (as it was called in those supposedly unrepeatable times) were threatened.

Hold my beer…

Despite all our tragic experiences, we are once again being sold a vision of the world built on national egoism, transactional relationships, zero solidarity or cooperation—a world where you can only win or survive if someone else loses.

We live in a time of pandemic, in which we have—individually and collectively—failed the test of solidarity and reason. Armies are building up on Europe’s borders.

But come on—what war? Let’s focus on the future, not the past.

We live in a time where difference frightens and threatens us. A time where we passively accept that children are drowning in our rivers. A time where people are once again compared to parasites, where hatred and even antisemitism are used shamelessly to discredit critics and political opponents.

But let’s stop worrying about the past. Let’s look forward, not back.

We live in a time when certain European politicians are deliberately undermining the only effective mechanism that, for nearly seventy years, has successfully protected us from ourselves—from our historical reflex to resolve conflicts through confrontation rather than cooperation.

The European project was created precisely as a counterpoint to the darkest and bloodiest chapter in Europe’s long history of wars and conflicts. That’s why the European Union was—and remains—first and foremost a peace project. Yet today, some are once again selling us the idea that the solution lies in national self-sufficiency and the adrenaline rush of inflated nationalism and sovereignty. That we should once more tackle shared problems not together, but each on our own—and against each other.

Hold my beer, says history.

Democracy is far from a perfect system. Inconsistency, incompetence, narrow interests, social injustice, and a lack of political culture and integrity create dissatisfaction, hardship, and injustice. Many are rightfully fed up with politics and politicians. Many are understandably disappointed with democracy and are searching for alternatives—strong leaders, aggressive rhetoric, the emotional comfort of scapegoating others for their own discontent. Efficiency at the cost of freedom. Security at the cost of humanity. Nationalist swagger at the cost of our future.

Déjà vu. Authoritarianism has never brought safety, stability, or peace. In the end, the suppression of freedom and humanity always leads, inevitably, to conflict and violence.

But hey—you know how it goes: look forward, not back.

If there's one thing that annoys me, it's sensationalist fearmongering for the sake of clickbait. Despite all the above warnings, I don’t believe this is a time for panic—still less for surrendering to fate. I’ve always described myself as a deeply concerned optimist. I believe that in the end, humanity and reason will prevail. But we’ll have to fight like hell to make it happen.

In European history, peace has never been the default—it’s been the exception, a brief moment of clarity. This current stretch, despite a few tragic regional setbacks, has been the longest yet. If we want to keep it going, we need to be far more responsible, consistent, and decisive in confronting political ideas and actions that threaten stability, freedom, and peace.

I don’t believe war is inevitable.

But I do worry about people who blindly believe that peace is.

It happened. So it can happen again.