Generational revolts in Serbia. How I began to be proud of my country

Two days before the election, I barely slept. I was trembling. Although I have not lived in Serbia for thirty years, part of me is still there. I do not mean that metaphorically. Almost my entire family is there. On my way there, after crossing the European Union border, I would always enter a world that I loved and at the same time absolutely hated. The joy came from beautiful memories of my pre-war childhood, and the hatred from what came after it.

The Same Houses

After entering Mordor, as my wife and I rather unimaginatively called the country, I would always take a deep breath, turn off roaming so I would not go bankrupt, and set off to see my family. I entered houses that looked exactly as they had in 1993. And they still look that way today, although developers have taken over the city centre and changed it beyond recognition.  I was welcomed by kind people who laid out at least four types of meat, coffee and lozovača in front of me. When I said that I did not eat meat, they were initially horrified and shook their heads in disbelief, but eventually they gave me roasted peppers with bread. They got used to it.

The inhabitants of these houses grew old, fell ill and died. The half-plastered houses with unfinished yards, however, remained. Apart from a few acquaintances who still maintained their mental health and refused to give up hope, everyone had resigned themselves and showered me with various conspiracy theories. The main television news programmes reinforced them in this. They had grown accustomed to the system pretending to work while we pretended to follow it. The state had been overrun by the mafia, corruption and the law of the strongest. The poor grew poorer and the rich grew unimaginably richer. Powerlessness. On the buildings, graffiti with portraits of football fans who had died in some fight at a match, and inscriptions saying “Kosovo is Serbia”. The young people left, and only occasionally, like me today, visit their grandparents and have the best burek sold on the corner opposite the market.

On the way home – to Slovakia – I would breathe a sigh of relief every time after crossing the Hungarian border, with the feeling that I had finally left Gilead. I would turn on roaming and reply to all the messages and missed calls. After returning, I would stare at the ceiling for a few more days, and I would tell friends who complained about Slovakia: “If you want to find out how well you are doing, go to Serbia for a while.” And that remained true for a long time. I considered Serbia a frightening preview of where Slovakia might end up. I lived with a constant feeling of heaviness and shame. Paradoxically, because when the war began in the early 1990s, I could do nothing – I was eleven years old. Radical nationalism devoured everything.

And then, on 1 November 2024, the roof at a railway station collapsed and killed sixteen people. Thousands of female and male students poured into the streets, later joined by tens of thousands of other citizens from all social classes. For two years, hundreds of thousands of people filled squares and streets, blocked traffic and went on strike. The government physically attacked the demonstrators, destroyed the remnants of the independent media and willingly spread Russian propaganda. Several moments did, however, catch my attention. In Serbia, nothing ever goes smoothly. I almost feel that every generation eventually manages to carry out its own revolution, even though it must face violence in the process.

From a Negative Preview to a Role Model

The first time this happened was when Slobodan Milošević seized power with the blessing of frenzied nationalist mobs and buried everything progressive that the former Yugoslavia represented. But the young people protested. They wanted to live differently. In 1996 and 1997, they launched mass demonstrations against the rigged local elections in Belgrade. The nationalists eventually suppressed the protests, and Milošević remained in power with his corrupt war-criminal entourage. But not for long. In 2000, after mass demonstrations, he finally fell. The student movement Otpor played a key role in his overthrow, receiving extensive support from the pro-democratic artistic scene led by the respected pro-Yugoslav singer and intellectual Đorđe Balašević. Just as today, thousands of enthusiastic people flooded the streets then as well, and the euphoria was palpable. But the enthusiasm did not last long.

The corrupt nationalist-mafia structures used the system they had built over the years, and Vojislav Koštunica, Boris Tadić and Tomislav Nikolić paved the way for Aleksandar Vučić, a protégé of the radical nationalist Vojislav Šešelj, who wanted to leave nothing to chance. Slovakia’s would-be usurpers look like Aliexpress dictators next to him. Vučić went all in. He took over state-owned and private companies, destroyed the media, drove out dissidents and filled every position – from cleaner to parliament – with his own people. It seemed that nothing stood in his way. Young people and intellectuals left the country. And, just like me today, they complained about Serbian politics from the comfort of their homes in exile abroad. Sometimes, when they felt homesick, they had sarma for dinner or popped into the “Balkan” bakery around the corner for the square root of a burek. But then the roof collapsed, and what followed surprised everyone.

Even as I write this text, I have goosebumps. It turned out that not all the students had left. They told themselves that they were not going anywhere, but at the same time they did not want to live in a Russian governorate. Their conviction and perseverance infected the entire society. Nor did bringing pensioners to rallies or the mass import of Serbs from Republika Srpska, whose numbers always seemed to miraculously increase before elections, help Vučić. Nothing discouraged the students – neither violence, repression, ridicule nor threats. This time, however, they did not entrust power to any political party. They prepared their own independent list of candidates, consisting of scientists, professors, doctors, intellectuals and students.

Well, my parents’ generation lost its revolution. So did mine. I only hope that this time it will be different, although, you know, Serbia is Serbia... For now, however, I do not want to think about the possible conflicts and quarrels that will come when the euphoria fades and everyday reality takes over. Serbia needs to be rebuilt from within and built anew. I only hope that the old mental structures, which also exist in the minds of the young, can be rebuilt as well. At present, we know little about the direction their foreign policy will take, what the economic reforms or the fight against corruption will look like. Serbia, and above all the young people who have not left, are giving me hope for now that this time it will be different.

For a long time, I considered Serbia a negative preview of Slovakia. Now everything has changed. Now, on the contrary, I hope that Slovakia will follow the Serbian path. At last, I am proud of my birthplace, probably for the first time in my life since the outbreak of the war in the 1990s.

PUMPAJ BRE!!!!

Martin Djovčoš is a university lecturer at the Department of Translation Studies of the Faculty of Arts at Constantine the Philosopher University in Nitra. He is an interpreter and translator.

This text is part of the PERSPECTIVES project – a new brand for independent, constructive and multiperspective journalism. The project is funded by the European Union. The views and opinions expressed are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the European Union nor EACEA can be held responsible for them.