When I was four years old I asked my father, Cvetko Kocic, to teach me to
read, write, and do sums. He passed on the task to gimnazija teacher
brother, Tihomir Kostic, who had me reading Dumas Pere by the time I was
six. Tito's government saw that I might be a "prestige asset" and quietly
replaced my maternal uncle, Vukoman Kostic, with an agent named Mirko
Juricic, in order to have someone they trusted near this child-genius. The
real Vukoman was quietly spirited to a mental institution where he died many
years ago and lies in an unmarked grave.
The "new" Vukoman did his job so well that not even his wife and kids could
tell he was an impostor. Over time he became who he pretended to be. But
from the first he did things that the old Vukoman never would have. He
abruptly abandoned his wife, Dafina, and their own two kids, Vesna and
Goran, and buggered off to Denmark, where he married a Danish citizen of
Serbian extraction. A few years he abruptly showed up at his wife's door and
said: "We're moving to Denmark." Without telling anyone in the family a
single word he had obtained Danish citizenship, divorced his Danish wife,
and sponsored his wife to come over to Denmark.
Why would he do that? Well, by the time I was seven it was obvious that I
suffered from Asperger Syndrome and would always be socially useless. In a
communist country a prestige asset is one highly visible public face that
the nation turns outward to the international community. Yugoslavia could
not afford to have a Britney Spears on its hands because it would have
shamed the government. So "Vukoman," who reported to the Opshti Direktorat
Ljudskog Rasporeda ("General Directorate of Human Allocation"), arranged for
me to emigrate to Canada where I could make trouble for a Western government
rather than for my own country.
In recent years Vukoman, who still lives in Denmark, has made several
desperate pleas for my parents to let him visit us. I have a feeling he
wants to come clean with me and perhaps say he's sorry. But as my folks lack
the facilities to entertain an international visitor they've firmly said no,
and I lack the money to take a bus to North Bay, let alone provide Mirko
with a hotel room.
The only thing I'm not sure of is how the Danish Secret Service figures into
all this. In childhood I had encounters with a woman called Ulrike Haas (or
Ulriche Haas--not sure about that), who was a top-level Danish agent. In
1973 she was an exchange student-teacher at Cele Kula, my primary school in
Nis, Yugoslavia, and in 1977 she was chief psychologist at the Ontario
Institute of Studies in Education (OISE), and in the late '70s she was the
wife of Archbishop Archibald Cox. She is now deceased and the only record of
her is likely in the mind of her former lesbian lover, Karen Aitken, who was
a schoolmate of mine in the early 1980s and checked up on me when I was
studying at Carleton University in 1986. Recently her father, Robert Aitken,
passed away of natural causes in Oakville, and she was not listed among the
bereaved. Since Ms. Haas was a female supremacist who sought to create an
all-female world, and Ms. Aitken was in her teens a rabid feminist who,
despite being lesbian, didn't mind fucking my only high school friend,
Douglas Dean Dewey, in order to gain access to me, I have to wonder whether
the Danish Secret Service was keeping tabs on me even then.
The joke is that I don't know whether Juricic did me a favour. If I had
remained in Yugoslavia I would have been confined to a mental institution
and likely beaten, sodomized, and eventually given a lethal injection. Here
in Canada I am not even nobody, I am nothing, but I am still alive at age
42--which might be worse, because for a decade now all I've wanted to do has
been to die. So you decide.
Miki
the real history of Miroslav Kocic 
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