Where the Heart Lands: A Homecoming of Champions

The familiar hum of the airplane's engines, the sight of cardboard boxes nestled among suitcases, and the comforting sound of the Croatian language over the intercom—these are the moments that signify homecoming for many Croatians. Recently, our national handball team experienced this profound journey as they returned from the World Championship in Oslo, silver medals in hand.

The gate is unmistakably Croatian.

Even in a foreign airport, lost in the shuffle of connecting flights and distant voices, you always know where Croatians gather. You don’t need signs—just follow the trail of oversized suitcases, the tightly bound cardboard boxes with names scrawled in black marker, the plastic bags filled with chocolates, fine alcohol, perfumes, and tiny wrapped toys destined for waiting children. We don’t just come home; we bring home with us.

The anticipation builds in the long corridors of departure terminals, but the true moment of relief comes when boarding that last plane. It doesn’t matter where you’re coming from—Frankfurt, Paris, Doha—when you step onto a Croatia Airlines flight, you exhale. The tension that has lived in your shoulders through layovers and delays lifts as soon as you hear the first "Dobar dan" from the flight attendant. You are no longer just traveling. You are returning.

I wonder if that’s how our handball players felt as they made their way back from Oslo, silver medals in their luggage but something heavier in their hearts. Exhaustion, yes, but also the knowledge that every kilometer flown was carrying them back to where they truly belong. Unlike me, they didn’t have to wait at a gate filled with cardboard boxes and duty-free bags. Their flight was special, chartered just for them. But still, I hope that when they stepped onto that plane and heard Croatian spoken over the intercom, they felt the same wave of relief.

It is the feeling of being carried home.

And, in their case met by the recently acquired Rafales in the Croatian air space, the Croatian army welcoming them first.

When I see a Croatia Airlines flight descending, coming in low over the rooftops of Zagreb, I know: Croatians are coming home. And I am happy for them. I imagine the players, some staring out the window, tracing the familiar landscape below. The little fields, the clustered villages, the winding river Sava guiding them back like an old friend. The closer you get, the more the world outside turns into something deeply yours, something written into your bones. And then—those sacred words: "Zagreb Airport."

No better feeling in the world.

For our handball team, that homecoming was not just a return; it was a coronation, a celebration, a farewell, and a reckoning of who we are. The plane doors opened to a country that had been holding its breath, waiting for its heroes. They stepped off the flight and into the arms of thousands.

The main square in Zagreb, Ban Jelačić Square, had seen its fair share of welcomes, but this one was different. This was an outpouring of love, of gratitude, of belonging. The air was thick with emotion—not just for the silver medal, but for everything it meant.

This was also the last homecoming for Domagoj Duvnjak in the national jersey. The man who carried our colors for two decades, who wore every victory and every loss with the same dignity, had come home one last time as a player. And when he stood before the crowd, his voice steady but filled with something deeper, he spoke words that hit straight to the heart:

"Odlazim ponosan, hvala ljudima koji su dali život za ovu državu. Da nije njih bilo, ja ne bih mogao predstavljati svoju zemlju 20 godina. Odlazim sretan, ispunjen, a reprezentacija je u dobrim rukama."

("I leave proud, thanks to the people who gave their lives for this country. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have been able to represent my country for 20 years. I leave happy, fulfilled, and the team is in good hands.")

This is who we are.

We are a nation that feels everything in full—joy, grief, nostalgia, pride. Even our opponents notice it. Dagur Sigurðsson, watching the uncontainable energy of the crowd, could only say, "You are all crazy." And maybe we are. But what he saw was not just a celebration. It was a nation showing, in song and cheer and tears, what it means to belong to this place.

We are a people who understand the weight of home. We have fought for it, sung for it, wept for it. And when we return to it, we do not come alone—we carry it in our hearts, in our voices, in our stories.

That final descent, that last leg of the journey—whether you are a traveler with a suitcase full of gifts or a hero with a medal hanging from your neck—is always the sweetest. Because it means one thing:

You are home.

Hvala dečki.