Igor Pacemski Jones: Gordana…

I have always found the name Gordana giggle-worthy. Technically, the name isn’t lacking, though my mental maturity rather is.

In my world, the name Gordana, is a mélange of Grdana, Serbian for Maleficent (any self-respecting middle-class child in Yugoslavia was weened on Serbo-Croat Disney), of the chortle resulting from the fact it means fat in Spanish and of the memory of two inconsequential relatives bearing the name.

One is a nasal history teacher from Bitola with a dodgy husband, and t’other, a distant relative from Perth, and the subject of a long-standing family anecdote. Said relative invited herself over from Perth in 1983 and brought over (feel free to gasp in disbelief) a duvet or a doona as no doubt her class of Australians would have referred to it. Said duvet was subsequently forgotten and requested to be returned to Australia.

Nevena Pachemska in all her 80-ties shoulder pad glory, trapsed over to the main Post Office, presumably the only place one could send a DHL parcel from, only to have her sanity questioned by the matter-of-factly PTT employee and asked to vanish, with duvet in tow! The scandal that ensued in the Perth’s diaspora, very likely saw our good name sullied and us being branded duvet-thieves. When questioned how on earth she managed to carry the blasted thing to the post office, mother kindly elaborated that she didn’t carry it on her back like a sherpa, but papa gave her a lift in our Volkswagen Beetle named Marko and sporting, much like our president, the most unfortunate banana yellow colour , thus perfectly resembling a postal vehicle….I digress….

The subject of this column, madame president herself, was voted by over half a million of my fellow citizens, making her, the choice of the populus. I am not sure what percentage of the voting corps have grasped her ludique and ornate oratory vignettes, peppered with the acting skills of a leading actress in a provincial theater asserting dominance over the make-up or wig room, but they voted her in, nonetheless….

She was allegedly born in Skopje, then miraculously popped-up in one of the grander houses on the Ohrid riviera, that allegedly belonged to a Turkish family friend who had somehow given them this Chelsea worthy residence. All this happened to have played out during the worst time of UDBA (the secret police) and property nationalization. The mind boggles (not)!

As a lady, she has every right to be discrete about her age, but as a highly ranked civil servant, most certainly not. It is clear that madame has been blessed with enormous privilege from her not so humble beginnings in ex-Yu socialism and this trajectory continued throughout the transition to capitalism in the 90-ties, aided by her husband’s very public and much maligned interference, leading to a subsequent closure of an agricultural co-operative and wholly unsavory business involving several duty free shop locations that in those tax free anarchist days were a veritable license to print money.

All of the above should have rendered her the number one enemy of the party that stood behind her election campaign so generously, yet, somehow, her opponent Stevo Pendarovski was the one tarnished with the brush of elitism. The man lives in Avto Komanda, which is basically, Dagenham and madame president in Taftalidje, our equivalent of Pimlico Grid.

I couldn’t help but start by analyzing her fashion sense, as this is my immediate domain of expertise. She exhibits a penchant for bright pastels (think Bridget Jones’s mother) and her marigold jacket made a particular impression. She also often walks the edge of power dressing, by draping batik and patterned silk scarves in a nonchalant Henrietta pissed at Brinkley’s in 1991maner, but opts for soft tailoring rather than structure, often in tones worn by the late Queen Elizabeth.

There is also a relaxed air to her ensemble choices, which are more often than not ill-fitting and in dire need of correction or taking in (sleeves too long, waists not cinched) creating an impression of a detached rich pensioner spending her cash in Vero Taftaldije on French cheeses, gluten free water biscuits and Tokaj, for a soiree for 6 carbon copies of herself, each in a different batik scarf, talking about the glory days of their youth as communist pin ups …

We must understand that UKIM, the university that employs her is not the global political stage and both her look and demeanor are in urgent need of attention. She is, however a well-kept, handsome woman and those things are easily rectified and all she needs to do is ask for help (or her team needs to bestow the advice of some Macedonian fashion guru that will deal with the sleeve crisis that make her look like one of Snow White’s seven dwarves).

In the interest of research and objectivity I listened to her full speech at the Ukraine peace summit in Switzerland. Taking her generation into account (Russian or French were the languages of choice) she speaks, or at least reads relatively good English. I couldn’t help and draw a parallel between her and another democrhistian, Giorgia Meloni. Meloni was factual, dry, calculated, almost cruel in her delivery, but was certainly convincing in conveying a message of how much Italy has supported Ukraine during this period. Gordana’s car crash of a speech was pure comedy to say the least.

First of all, she thanked the organizers for executing the event at the highest level, as if she hails from Japan and is au-fait with events organized with robot-like precision and not from a country where plastic chairs and Coca-Cola fridges are frequently sighted at press conferences and Latvian and Austrian flags are frequently mixed-up during state visits. I was surprised she didn’t toss them a dime to shine her shoes. She then proceeded to recite an ode to Ukraine, full of verbiage straight out of a PC primer, condemning the bad Ruskis for attacking Ukraine and of course, in an attempt of Eurotrash middle class and “une femme sérieuse” assertion and dominance, the inevitable literary quote was dropped (“For whom the bell tolls” this time), accompanied by lots of wide-eye sincerity, fluttering eyelashes and the usual am-dram antics.

For the irony to be greater, her election campaign was widely rumoured to have been heavily funded by Russian dirty dollars, making this display, probably the most hypocritical of all speeches at the summit. Does all of this make her Mefistopheles? Very likely, but only to the point of realisation that something is not quite right, something is off-kilter. We are not talking about cataracts here. We are taking about something significantly more sinister and deeply saddening, indicative of a terrible condition that is not uncommon in her age group. A condition that is isolating, that builds a wall around the individual stricken with it and something one generally does not wish on one’s worst enemy.

Many of you would say, what about senile old Biden (we have a nasty habit of relativising evil or misfortune on a national level). Yes, there are similarities, but above all, there is a huge difference. Biden is surrounded by a team who would never allow him to be filmed infront of an empty wall, clearly ignored by the press and organizers and visibly distured by the unfamiliar surroundings (captured on camera and posted on social media no less!).

This evokes contradictory feelings inside me. I have a mother who is seven years older that Gordana (based on her reported age) and though in good knick, she is clearly aging. Luckily, she is mentally more agile than I am, however, it is impossible not to start comparing the two women. On one hand, I see a representative of my demographic segment (we do live in a classless society, n’est pas!?) who strangely reminds me of my mother, on the other, a skilled speaker blessed with elloquence, but lacking in substance and at the end of the day, someone consciosly serving what I perceive to be the political version of Satan.

Who is the real Gordana? What stance, as a democrhistian and a right winger will she take on the subject of the exploitation of female workers in the textile industry (one of the country’s biggest employers)? On the question of marginalised communities, such as the Roma or frankly, on the subject of every woman in backward, rural environments? What will she do apropos the blatant interference of the church in fundamental women’s rights? Will she attend gay pride? Will she talk some sense into Mickovski or are we going to hear tirades in unfortunate pastels for the next five years?

As we say in Pimmers, I will err on the side of caution and expect nothing. I find her a more rafined version of Danela, a Troyan horse blessed with the gift of the gab, that has enabled a backward and fundamentally dark political structure back in the driving seat. And I would love nothing more than to be proven wrong. I would absolutely relish eating the humblest of pies if she delivers, though my age, experience and happy to say, rapidly diminishing gut, say otherwise.

P.S: She did not attend gay pride. The LGBT community was summoned for a photo op at her office, giving her unnecessary credibility and then shunned. I would have waited for her to support the event before acting like Mr. Collins expecting the patronage of lady Catherine de Bourgh. A sign of the times to come!? I am afraid so.

(Авторот знае да го реши Шродингер за Јаглерод 6, но одбра да црта гаќи. Горд татко е на 3 мачки и луда папагалка со субмисивен дечко папагал. Лош шеф и сопруг на една измачена бугарска мечка. Многу чкарт педер, кој пие, арчи и се тепа.)

*Мислењата изнесени во текстовите се лични коментари на авторите и не го претставуваат ставот на сајтот сутерен.мк

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