Balkan Talks

In recent years, the world has embraced a narrative of “green transition.” As the climate crisis accelerates, batteries and renewable technologies are widely promoted as a way out of fossil fuel dependency. Indeed, moving away from oil and gas is necessary and urgent. But the story of Rio Tinto’s planned lithium mining project in Serbia’s Jadar Valley shows that not every solution marketed as green is just, sustainable, or emancipatory. Source: https://protesti.pics/studenti The logic behind the project is straightforward: Europe wants to electrify transport, store renewable energy, and reduce emissions. Lithium, the essential component for batteries, is in high demand. Serbia, with one of the largest lithium deposits in Europe, has become a prime target for extraction. And Rio Tinto—an Anglo-Australian mining giant notorious for environmental and human rights scandals worldwide—is leading the charge. Yet, if we look more closely, this is not a break with the past. It is a continuation of the same colonial patterns that have governed the global economy for centuries: a wealthy industrial center exploiting a periphery, leaving behind toxic landscapes and broken communities. A Familiar Pattern: From Oil to Lithium While battery production is often framed as the opposite of oil—“clean,” “green,” “progressive”—the underlying dynamics are strikingly similar. During the petroleum boom of the 20th century, transnational corporations from richer states set up operations in poorer countries, promising prosperity. What they delivered was often environmental devastation, political corruption, and lasting social division. Today, lithium is marketed as a savior. But extraction projects like the Jadar mine threaten to poison rivers, destroy arable land, and displace communities, all in the name of sustainability. In reality, this is what the French authors Servigne and Stevens, in How Everything Can Collapse, describe as the “green growth illusion”—the idea that we can maintain endless consumption by simply swapping one resource for another. It is a convenient ideology that avoids the deeper reckoning with how overproduction and extractivism drive ecological collapse. Echoes of Bolivia: The Global Lithium Rush Serbia is not alone in this struggle. Bolivia’s experience shows how lithium extraction, if driven by foreign capital and export agendas, can reproduce dependency and injustice rather than build sovereignty or sustainability. In Bolivia, often called the “Saudi Arabia of lithium,” decades of neoliberal reforms and failed nationalization attempts have left the country struggling to secure fair terms for its own natural wealth. As Mašina reports, massive deposits in the Salar de Uyuni were meant to deliver prosperity to local communities. Instead, Bolivians have faced environmental damage, water depletion, and new forms of foreign dependence, despite initial promises of industrial development and ecological responsibility. This comparison matters because Serbia is being told the same story: that lithium will bring jobs, modernization, and geopolitical relevance. But if Bolivia teaches us anything, it is that “resource nationalism” without democratic participation and strong environmental protection is just another variant of extractive colonialism. Green Colonialism and Political Complicity Many students and activists in Serbia argue that Rio Tinto’s project is possible not despite Aleksandar Vučić’s autocratic rule, but because of it. Over the past year, students have protested corruption, attacks on independent institutions, and repeated violations of civil liberties. Yet the European Union has been largely silent. Why? According to many critics, it is because Brussels has a strategic interest in Serbia’s lithium deposits. For all its proclamations about democracy and rule of law, the EU is willing to look the other way when it comes to Vučić’s consolidation of power—so long as he remains a reliable supplier of raw materials. As one student protester put it: “The EU does not care about democracy if you can guarantee them cheap lithium.” This is precisely how colonial economies were justified in the past: sacrifice zones in less developed regions, a steady flow of raw materials to the industrial core, and local populations reduced to labor pools and collateral damage. The only novelty today is that the extraction is branded as “green.” What Future Are We Choosing? If climate collapse is the defining crisis of our time, it is vital that the solutions we pursue are not only technologically effective but also socially just. Extractive megaprojects imposed from above reproduce the same patterns that have already devastated ecosystems and disempowered communities. They deepen inequalities and accelerate the destruction of life-support systems in the name of “progress.” Rio Tinto’s project in Serbia is a case study in how the green transition can become a new front for exploitation, not an exit from it. To truly break with fossil fuel logics, we must reject both their material infrastructure and the ideological foundations that treat land and people as expendable. If Europe wants to build an energy transition worthy of the name, it must stop outsourcing environmental damage to the peripheries of the continent. It must support local self-determination, invest in circular economies, and abandon the dogma of endless growth that has led us to this brink. Anything less is not a solution—it is simply a new form of colonial extraction wearing a green mask.

Compiled by Adriana Zaharijević & Jana Krstić In late 2024, a tragedy shook Serbia — the collapse of a newly renovated railway station in Novi Sad claimed 16 lives, exposing deep layers of state negligence for its citizens and soaring levels of corruption. What began as mourning soon transformed into one of the most widespread civic uprisings in Serbia’s recent history. Led by students, joined by educators, workers, and citizens across the country, the movement challenged not just a single government failure but the broader erosion of democratic institutions. This timeline offers a structured account of the unfolding events, focusing on the regime's violent retaliation against the Serbian educational system. Photo by Hristina Zdravkovic From Mourning to Mobilization Nov 22, 2024 – Silent vigils blocking the roads in honour of the Novi Sad victims. The vigils were announced to the authorities. In front of the Faculty of Dramatic Arts, those gathered were attacked by the passers-by, some of whom were identified as the officials of the ruling party, SNS. Nov 25, 2024 – The students of the Faculty of Dramatic Arts occupied the faculty building in protest, to be successively joined by four other faculties (University of Belgrade) and the Faculty of Philosophy (University of Novi Sad). Dec 25, 2024 – 84 public faculties and one private faculty are blocked (74% of all Serbian faculties). At the same time, 73 secondary schools, i.e. 14%, are occupied by their pupils. These numbers would grow. Mid-December – All public faculties (but one, Orthodox Theological Faculty) gave their public support to the four students’ demands. Dec 20, 2024 – The Ministry of Education abruptly shortened the first school semester in order to prevent the school teachers, already in legal strike, from joining the blockades. Pupils remained in schools until the end of term. Due to the Ministry’s executive order, the first semester was not graded. Student marshals at the protest, sourced from https://protesti.pics The Months of Uprising – January and February 2025 Jan 20, 2025 – The second school semester was supposed to begin. It didn’t. At the beginning of March, approximately 500 schools across Serbia were in blockade, while around 400 continued with legal strike (15,500 teachers in blockade, 9,000 in strike; 70–80% schools in some form of work stoppage). In parallel, various social sectors – medical and agricultural workers, the Bar Association and the Association of Engineers, post office workers, cab drivers, actors, and pensioners – joined the blockades or initiated strikes. Jan 21 – The Rector of the University of Belgrade addressed the parliamentary Committee for Education and Science and stated that "the University of Belgrade gives its full support to the students", citing the support of a huge majority of professors. Rebellious and Free University platforms of professors and researchers began to connect and organize. Teachers formed their informal associations – PULS, Udružena prosveta Srbije – and those platforms began to collaborate. Student marshals leading the protest, sourced from https://protesti.pics The Days Prior to the Sound Cannon (March 15) March 4 – The salary of education workers was reduced between 50 and 100 percent; in some cases, high school teachers were paid only 2,191 RSD (less than 20 EUR), in others 12,000 RSD. An informal group of IT experts invited citizens to join the "Solidarity for Education" network and donate to help educators. The network is still in operation. March 7 – A group of 30 young people, presenting themselves as ‘the students who want to study’ or ‘Students 2.0’, set up tents in front of the president’s office in Pioneers Park. In the following days leading to the major gathering on March 15, the ‘Students 2.0’ were joined by SNS members and affiliates, and then by suspicious characters, many of whom have an established criminal record. The park area was soon fully occupied, fenced, and additionally shielded by 150 tractors without licence plates. The encampment is still in place. March 9 – Commenting on the large protest scheduled for 15 March, the President said he expected the opposition to "organize great violence" at the rally in Belgrade and that "everyone who participates in it will be arrested". This marked the beginning of a long line of threats to participants and organizers – still labelled as the ‘opposition’ funded by foreign money, despite the fact that the students openly and consistently refrained from supporting opposition parties. March 13 – At a press conference two days earlier, the University of Belgrade rector emphasized that the students, who organized the gathering, want a peaceful and dignified protest, stressing that the conflicts, announced for days by government-controlled media, are not part of the students’ plans. March 15 – The largest gathering in the capital, with more than 300,000 people in the street. The gathering was interrupted by the alleged deployment of LRAD (long-range acoustic device) on peaceful protesters during 15 minutes of silence for the victims of the Novi Sad collapse. The Ministry of Internal Affairs denied the allegations despite footage of the incident, as did the President, who called for the prosecution of those ‘lying’ and ‘spreading disinformation’. Tractors in front of the National Assembly of the Republic of Serbia, positioned ahead of the announced student protest on March 15. Sourced from https://protesti.pics Serbian Academia at the Helm of the "Coloured Revolution" Since December, the regime unsuccessfully sought to single out the ‘leaders’ of the students protests. Before March 15, the opposition was still defined as the main culprit behind the blockades. March 18 – In a TV interview, the President commented: "Faculty professors who do nothing, except participate in blockades, will get potatoes. Tomorrow, I think… They will get nothing." March 24 – The Ministry of Education of the technical government, caretaker government issued regulation 5/35, which effectively reduced the professors’ salaries to 12.5% of what they earned before. March 25 – The Ministry of Education has launched inspection supervision of faculties across Serbia, widely seen as yet another form of pressure on higher education institutions. March 28 – The rector of the University of Belgrade was turned into state enemy no. 1, ‘the face of evil’ (Minister in the technical government). March 31 – The dean of the Faculty of Philosophy in Niš was stabbed by a passer-by at a protest. April 1 – The dean of the Faculty of Economy in Belgrade was summoned to the police. April 18 – The rector of the University of Belgrade was summoned to the police on charges of abuse of official authority (sued by the ‘Students 2.0’). The Dean of the Faculty of Philosophy welcomes students at the protest in Niš. Sourced from https://protesti.pics The Effects of Potato Regulation 5/35 University professors are no longer paid for 20 hours of teaching and 20 hours of research per week, since the ratio was changed to 35 to 5 in favour of teaching. As there are no classes, professors receive only 12.5 percent of their salary, or, according to some reports, about 20,000 dinars (170 EUR) per month. Financial Violence Against University Professors – The drastic cut in research hours has subjected university professors to severe financial hardship, endangering their basic livelihoods. Collapse of the Accreditation System – Scientific and artistic research is essential for accreditation and quality assurance of university programs. With the new decree, this capacity is undermined. Jeopardising Engagement in Projects – With only 5 hours allocated to research, professors are unable to participate in or apply for most European projects, severely limiting international academic cooperation. Weakening Career Prospects – The decree severely hinders career advancement, as promotions are based on research output now nearly impossible under these conditions. Student cyclists in France, sourced from https://protesti.pics (Unanswered) Appeals of the Serbian Academics March 4 – 80 researchers holding EU research grants in Serbia sent a joint letter to the European Commission calling on it to help tackle corruption in the country. The Commission acknowledged receiving the letter but has neither replied nor commented. March 20 – An Open Appeal for international academic support for Serbian students and professors was signed by around 4,500 academics in less than a week. March 26 – 470 deans, professors, assistants and other employees of the University of Belgrade submitted an initiative to the Constitutional Court to assess the constitutionality of the Regulation. March 31 – The Serbian Academy of Sciences and Arts demanded the withdrawal of the Regulation. April 17 – The academic community appealed to the new Prime Minister, a professor of medicine, to withdraw the Regulation. And many more... Protest in Niš on March 1, sourced from https://protesti.pics Where Are We Now? Students’ demands remain unmet. Primary and then secondary schools gradually resumed classes in late April and May. The government’s ambition appears to be to quell the blockades without a clear plan for how or when the school year will end. Many teachers are threatened with dismissal – or already dismissed. The new Ministry of Education is dubbed the "Ministry of Revenge". Several faculties have entered legal strike; most remain in blockade; a few now teach asynchronously online. All faculties are exposed to non-payment of funds for material costs, fines, inspections, and reduced budgets. The illegal reduction of professors' salaries has entered its third month. There are frequent threats to cancel the funding of state universities. Strategy: divide et impera. At a rally in Niš on May 17, the president claimed young people were misled by social media and manipulative professors, to whom he said: "they will not get money until they start doing their work." A new Bill on Higher Education, announced recently, has sparked fears that it will further repress universities and significantly reduce academic autonomy. Protest in Belgrade on March 15, sourced from https://protesti.pics What Should We Do? This is a moment for concrete solidarity. The Serbian academic community now stands as the last bulwark against a rising wave of authoritarian repression. Colleagues around the world must use every platform – from faculty senates to social media – to denounce the crackdown. Academic associations should call on European and global bodies to condition funding on respect for university autonomy. In classrooms and at conferences, professors should spotlight Serbia’s struggle and keep it in the global conversation. Most importantly, we must stand with the students and professors who have placed themselves on the front lines of this fight. Their call for transparency, accountability, and independent education is not just Serbia’s cause – it is a defense of values cherished by academics everywhere. The world’s scholars cannot look away. The protection of knowledge and democracy depends on it.

What do a child in Sarajevo in the 1990s and a child in Ukraine today have in common? A historian and student shares how moderating an exhibition at the Museum of War Childhood in Kyiv sparked a personal and academic journey into Balkan history, empathy, and the power of cultural memory. This blog reflects on how museums can connect past and present across borders—and how stories of childhood in wartime can bring people and nations closer together. Author: Vladyslava Oliinyk Last summer, I had the unique opportunity to moderate a temporary exhibition at the Museum of War Childhood in Kyiv. Although the exhibition was managed by the museum’s Ukrainian branch, moderators like myself had to familiarize ourselves with the institution’s origins in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. The Museum of War Childhood is a relatively young institution—its permanent exhibition opened only in 2017—but its conceptual depth is striking. The idea behind the museum lies in the tension between the uniqueness and universality of growing up during wartime, as first explored in the book War Childhood by Bosnian entrepreneur and author Jasminko Halilović. Halilović transformed his personal experiences as a child during the Bosnian War (1992–1995) into a literary work and, eventually, a cultural institution. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava As a historian, I was familiar with the basic chronology and causes of the Bosnian War, but I had never examined the conflict on a micro level. During my undergraduate studies, my focus was on the history of visual art in Victorian Britain, and I gave little attention to Central or Eastern Europe. It wasn’t until Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine that I felt a personal urgency to understand the region’s post-Soviet transitions and the independence movements of neighboring countries. The complex and often painful recent history of the Balkans earned my deep respect, but at first, I struggled to see how our experiences were connected. Encountering the Museum of War Childhood changed that. I began to recognize parallels between the Russian-Ukrainian war and the Bosnian conflict—especially in how children navigate trauma, displacement, and interrupted childhoods during wartime. The museum made these connections tangible, offering a space where individual stories speak across national and temporal boundaries. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava In my growing curiosity about the Balkans, I chose to join a Central European University specifically because it offered a course on Balkan Studies. Ukrainian universities also offer Central and Eastern European studies, but I realized that to truly understand the region, I needed to learn from the people who live there. Who can speak more vividly about the intricacies of student protests in Serbia than those participating in them? Who can reflect more truthfully on the Bosnian war than those who lived through it? Through my studies and encounters, these questions are finding meaningful answers. My experience taught me how cultural institutions, like museums, can provide powerful tools for rethinking war, trauma, and identity. Today’s museums can connect the histories of different nations, revealing shared tragedies and common challenges—particularly for children navigating the chaos of war. This renewed focus on the experiences of minors has led me to new research interests and opened a new chapter of European history I had never expected to engage with so deeply. Museums, I’ve learned, can simultaneously build bridges and highlight difference—and in doing so, they provide a space where empathy, inquiry, and healing can coexist. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava

Protesters in Istanbul clash with riot police after the arrest of Mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu in March 2025.Turkey is witnessing its largest wave of protests in over a decade. Demonstrations exploded across the country starting March 19, 2025, after Istanbul’s popular mayor Ekrem İmamoğlu – a leading opposition figure – was detained and arrested along with over 100 others. Crowds swiftly poured into the streets of Istanbul, Ankara, İzmir and nearly every major city, rallying against what they see as a politically motivated crackdown by President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s government. The protests began as a show of solidarity with İmamoğlu but have grown into a broader outcry over Turkey’s direction. We will try to answer the questions – who, what, where, when, why, and how – and paint a picture of a nation at a crossroads. A drone view shows people gathering during a rally to protest against the arrest of Istanbul Mayor Ekrem Imamoglu as part of a corruption investigation, in Istanbul, Turkey, March 29, 2025. (Reuters) What Sparked the Unrest in Turkey? Who is involved: The protests involve hundreds of thousands of ordinary Turks from all walks of life. Opposition political parties, led by İmamoğlu’s Republican People’s Party (CHP), quickly threw their support behind the movement. University students have been at the forefront, and people spanning the political spectrum – right-wing and left-wing – have united under national symbols like Turkish flags and images of Atatürk, Turkey’s founding father. Even some expatriate Turks have rallied in solidarity, with demonstrations reported in places like Northern Cyprus, Ireland and Western Europe. On the other side, the government and security forces have mobilized heavily to contain the unrest, indicating how seriously Erdoğan’s administration views the challenge. What and Where: The movement erupted nationwide, with massive protests in Istanbul (home to the largest crowds), the capital Ankara, the Aegean city İzmir, and dozens of other provinces. Within hours of İmamoğlu’s arrest on March 19, crowds gathered outside Istanbul’s police headquarters, and by the next day large demonstrations had spread to cities and towns across Turkey. Protesters chant slogans like “İmamoğlu, you are not alone!” and “Erdogan, dictator!”, voicing anger not only at the arrest but at years of eroding democratic norms. The timing (When): Starting March 19, 2025, protests have continued through the spring and into the summer, with major weekend rallies. For instance, a late-March weekend saw what the CHP claimed were over 2 million people rallying in Istanbul, an unprecedented turnout since the Gezi Park protests of 2013. As of July 2025, demonstrations are still ongoing in various forms, sustaining momentum for over three months. Why – causes and grievances: The immediate trigger was the arrest of Ekrem İmamoğlu, who is widely seen as Erdoğan’s chief political rival and a potential future presidential candidate. The arrest – on charges of corruption and even aiding terrorism – is viewed by protesters as politically motivated to sideline a democratic opponent. “The day the government decides its opponents is the day democracy dies,” warned İmamoğlu’s wife, Dilek İmamoğlu, urging citizens to raise their voices. Beyond İmamoğlu’s case, broader frustrations fuel the unrest. Turkey has been mired in an economic crisis with soaring inflation (over 40% annually by early 2025) and a sharply devalued lira, leaving many struggling with high prices and rents. Protesters decry what they call growing autocracy under Erdoğan – citing authoritarianism, corruption, and democratic backsliding as core issues. In essence, “We’re fighting not just for Ekrem, but for Turkey,” as Dilek İmamoğlu told one crowd. Many see this as a fight for the future of the republic itself, demanding justice, rule of law, and a voice in how the country is governed. How are the protests unfolding: Largely through peaceful mass rallies, marches, and civil disobedience – though tensions have occasionally flared. Protesters have organized huge demonstrations and even strikes and boycotts; for example, CHP called for boycotting businesses seen as pro-government. In the streets, a festive yet defiant atmosphere prevails: people wave national flags, sing the national anthem, and carry banners with quotes like “Sovereignty belongs unconditionally to the nation”. University students and even pensioners march side by side, banging pots in cacerolazo protests and shining laser pointers – creative tactics to show dissent. Social media and messaging apps have been crucial for organizing, despite government efforts to restrict them. Notably, protests have cut across typical political divides – uniting secularists and conservatives, Turks and Kurds (flags of a pro-Kurdish party were seen in the crowds) – indicating widespread discontent beyond any one faction. Authorities Crack Down: Government Response and Public Reaction The Turkish authorities have responded with a mix of hardline measures and dismissive rhetoric. Erdoğan’s government moved quickly to ban public gatherings in Istanbul and later Ankara and Izmir, imposing a temporary prohibition on protests. Riot police with water cannon trucks and tear gas have been deployed in city centers. In Istanbul, police barricaded roads around the detention center holding İmamoğlu, and clashes erupted as officers used pepper spray on crowds outside institutions like Istanbul University. Over the first week of unrest, nearly 2,000 protesters were detained according to the Interior Ministry, including many students and even journalists (a visiting Swedish reporter and a BBC correspondent were briefly held). More than 300 students were reportedly arrested in nighttime raids on their homes for joining demonstrations or posting protest support online. While most have since been released pending trials, such tactics have been condemned by human rights observers as intimidation. Erdoğan has dismissed the protesters as “marginal groups” and accused the opposition of destabilizing Turkey. He even claimed the opposition was “sinking the economy” and vowed that “sabotage targeting the Turkish economy will be held accountable” – effectively blaming protesters for the country’s financial woes. This combative stance suggests the government is doubling down rather than yielding to protester demands. Thus far, key demands of the protesters include the release of Ekrem İmamoğlu, an end to what they call persecution of the opposition, and guarantees of free and fair elections in the future. Many are also boldly calling for the resignation of Erdoğan’s government (chants of “Hükümet istifa!” – “Government resign!” – echo at rallies). The CHP and allied opposition parties have shown rare unity, continuing to nominate İmamoğlu as their presidential candidate despite his imprisonment. Public reaction within Turkey is sharply divided. The protest movement enjoys broad support among urban populations, youth, and those frustrated with economic hardship and corruption. Crowds have remained energized even through Ramadan and into national holidays. On the other side, Erdoğan’s loyal base and pro-government media either minimize the protests or label them as unlawful. Major state-aligned TV channels have given scant coverage to the demonstrations, focusing instead on government events. In response, protesters have leveraged alternative channels – from independent news outlets to social media – to get their message out. (Notably, activists even staged a symbolic blockade of the state broadcaster’s offices to protest biased coverage) Internationally, Turkey’s turmoil has drawn concern: for example, U.S. and EU officials have cautiously urged respect for democratic rights. But Erdoğan, emboldened by a recent electoral win in 2023, has so far resisted any compromise, betting that his control over state institutions will outlast the street fury. Unrest in Serbia: A Parallel Wave of Protest Police detain a demonstrator during student-led road blockades in Belgrade, Serbia, July 3, 2025.Even as Turkey’s protests rage, a different but resonant movement has been unfolding in Serbia. For roughly eight months now, Serbians have held persistent anti-government protests, which intensified into 2025. The Serbian protests were sparked by tragedy: on November 1, 2024, a newly renovated train station canopy collapsed in the northern city of Novi Sad, killing 16 people. Public outrage erupted amid allegations that corruption and negligence were to blame for the disaster. By late November, students in Novi Sad began organizing silent vigils and class boycotts to honor the victims and demand accountability. This soon grew into a nationwide movement against what protesters call a culture of corruption, cronyism and authoritarian governance under President Aleksandar Vučić. Throughout late 2024 and into 2025, the Serbian protests gained momentum and spread to hundreds of towns and cities – over 400 locations by March 2025. This breadth is extraordinary for a country of Serbia’s size, reflecting deep frustration beyond the capital. The movement has been largely student-led and decentralized: university and high school students launched daily actions, including brief traffic blockades each day at the exact time of the Novi Sad collapse (11:52 a.m.), stopping traffic for 16 minutes in memory of the 16 lives lost. Over time, other segments of society joined in – teachers, professors, opposition activists, workers, even farmers. Major rallies in cities like Belgrade, Novi Sad, Niš, Kragujevac have drawn tens of thousands of people, sometimes in defiance of police roadblocks set up to prevent them from converging. An independent monitoring group estimated about 140,000 protesters gathered in Belgrade during a mid-March demonstration, making it one of the largest in recent Serbian history. The demands of Serbian protesters have evolved and broadened. Initially, they sought accountability for the Novi Sad tragedy – investigations and punishment for any officials or contractors whose corruption led to the collapse. When President Vučić’s government reshuffled but remained in power, protesters shifted focus to systemic change. They began calling for snap elections to be held well before the scheduled 2027 date, declaring Vučić’s regime “illegitimate”. To ensure any elections are truly democratic, they demand reforms: a cleanup of voter rolls, equal media access for opposition voices, and an end to alleged vote-buying. Students also insist on better funding and autonomy for universities, recognition of student bodies in decision-making, and education reforms after a decade of what they see as decline. In essence, Serbia’s protests target what they describe as authoritarian drift and state capture under Vučić – strikingly similar themes to those in Turkey’s unrest, albeit triggered by a different event. The response of Serbian authorities has grown increasingly forceful in recent weeks. For many months, weekly marches and campus sit-ins went peacefully, but by mid-2025 tensions escalated. In early July, riot police clashed with demonstrators in Belgrade and other cities, firing tear gas and pushing back crowds that had begun to blockade major intersections. During one large rally on July 1, scuffles broke out; by the next day, police detained 79 protesters in a crackdown, including students manning a blockade outside Belgrade’s law school. Officials reported dozens of injuries on both sides. President Vučić and his interior minister have taken a hard line – Vučić lashed out that protest organizers were “terrorists” trying to overthrow the state, and warned darkly of foreign instigators behind the unrest (though he offered no evidence). Pro-government media in Serbia have echoed this narrative, launching a smear campaign painting protesters as violent extremists or puppets of Western intelligence. These claims are strongly denied by protesters, who note that Serbians have a history of toppling strongmen (as they did with Slobodan Milošević in 2000) through people power. Human rights groups and the European Union have voiced concern over Belgrade’s heavy-handed tactics, with the U.N. human rights office urging Serbia to respect peaceful assembly after reports of “violence, harassment & arbitrary detention” of protesters. Parallels and Contrasts: Turkey’s Protests vs Serbia’s Protests Despite different spark points, the protest movements in Turkey and Serbia share notable similarities – and key differences – in their causes, organization, public reception, and media environments. Below is a breakdown: Causes and Triggers: Both uprisings began in response to a galvanizing incident that symbolized deeper grievances. In Turkey, the trigger was explicitly political – the jailing of an opposition leader (İmamoğlu) seen as a threat to an entrenched ruler. In Serbia, it was a deadly infrastructure failure – a collapsed station roof – viewed as a consequence of government corruption and incompetence. In both cases, what started as outrage over a specific event quickly evolved into a broader protest against the ruling regime’s misrule. Turks are decrying years of democratic backsliding, alleged politicization of the judiciary, and economic mismanagement. Serbians likewise are protesting corruption, lack of accountability, and what they see as authoritarian tendencies in Vučić’s 12-year rule. Essentially, demand for good governance and justice is at the heart of both movements, even if one was triggered by an opposition arrest and the other by a tragic accident. Organization and Leadership: The organizational dynamics differ. Turkey’s protests, while spontaneous in spirit, have the backing of established opposition parties and politicians – the CHP and other opposition parties actively mobilized supporters, and prominent figures like CHP leader Özgür Özel and Ankara’s mayor Mansur Yavaş have joined in or voiced support. A broad coalition of civil society groups, unions, and even rival political ideologies have united, using national unity symbols (e.g. portraits of Atatürk) to bridge divides. In Serbia, the protests have been notably grassroots and student-driven. There is no single charismatic leader; instead, student councils and ad-hoc committees have coordinated actions across universities. Opposition parties in Serbia did eventually lend support, but the momentum has largely come from young people and civic groups rather than top-down party rallies. Both countries’ movements have leveraged creative tactics (marches, road blockades, campus strikes), but Serbia’s are uniquely centered on academic institutions (many universities remain under student blockade as of April 2025), whereas Turkey’s are centered in city squares and municipal centers. In short, Turkey’s protests have visible leadership from opposition politicians, while Serbia’s are a more diffuse youth-led civic uprising. Public Response and Scale: Both movements have drawn massive turnouts, reflecting significant public backing. Turkey’s crowds reach into the hundreds of thousands nationally; at one Istanbul rally in late March, over 2 million people were claimed to be in attendance (opposition figures). Demonstrations have occurred in almost every province of Turkey, a scale not seen since at least 2013. Serbia’s protests, relative to its population, are similarly widespread – active in 400+ towns and cities by spring 2025. In Belgrade, independent estimates put recent crowds in the six figures, and even medium-sized cities have seen rallies of thousands. Both countries have seen multi-generational participation: young students and older citizens marching together, united by a feeling that the country is at a turning point. Notably, neither movement has been completely universal – the ruling parties still command a base that has largely stayed off the streets. But in both Turkey and Serbia, the protesting portion of the public is energized, creative, and sustained in a way that has clearly rattled those in power. The geographic spread (nationwide reach, not just capital-centric) and longevity of these protests mark a significant similarity. Media Coverage and Government Narrative: Both regimes have reacted by trying to control the narrative. In Turkey, where mainstream media is mostly pro-government, coverage of the protests has been limited or skewed – state TV largely echoed Erdoğan’s line that the protests are a “show” by marginal agitators. The government even temporarily restricted social media platforms like Twitter (X), YouTube, and Instagram to hamper protest organization and reporting. Independent Turkish journalists face intimidation; some foreign reporters were detained while covering rallies. Likewise in Serbia, state-friendly media have minimized the protests or depicted them as violent riots. President Vučić’s labeling of protesters as “terrorists” was amplified on certain TV channels, aiming to erode public sympathy. Protesters in Serbia have responded by directly challenging media bias – one dramatic act was the blockade of the national broadcaster RTS, disrupting its programming to demand fair reporting. International media, by contrast, have covered both Turkey’s and Serbia’s unrest extensively, framing them as battles for democracy. This external spotlight put pressure on authorities: for example, the UN and European officials criticized Serbia’s police crackdown and urged restraint, while Western diplomats quietly pressed Turkey to respect political pluralism. Overall, media freedom issues are central in both cases: protesters accuse their governments of propaganda and censorship, and in both countries independent journalism itself has become part of the story. In conclusion, Turkey and Serbia – though different in context, size, and political system – are experiencing converging currents of popular dissent. In both nations, citizens have been driven to the streets by a sense that their leaders have amassed too much power for too long, at the expense of accountability and everyday people’s well-being. The Turkish protests continue to demand a reversal of democratic backsliding and relief from economic pain, while Serbian protesters press for an end to corruption and a voice for the next generation in shaping the country’s future. How these movements unfold remains to be seen, but in both Istanbul and Belgrade the message ringing out is unmistakable: people have limits to their patience, and when those are crossed – whether by a political witch-hunt or a national tragedy – the public will stand up, speak out, and insist on change. Both Balkan and Anatolian streets now echo with calls for justice, proving that demands for democracy and accountability transcend borders in this turbulent moment for the region.

Author: Ivana Milićević, Research Assistant at the Institute for Philosophy and Social Theory, University of Belgrade On March 15, 2025, the largest protest in Serbia’s history was organised in Belgrade, seeking accountability for the collapse of the concrete canopy of the newly renovated railway station in Novi Sad, which killed 15 people. As illegalities and corruption in the reconstruction project started to reveal, this immense tragedy turned into a grim reminder that “the corruption kills”, leading to massive anti-corruption protests led by Serbian students. How did we get here? After the 15-minute silence in commemoration of the victims was broken by a physical assault on students in front of the Faculty of Dramatic Arts in Belgrade by people close to the ruling party, students across Serbia started blocking their faculties, with a seemingly simple demands for the rule of law and institutional response. What they ask for is transparency about the Novi Sad train station’s renovation, a dismissal of charges against activists arrested during the first anti-government protest in November, and criminal prosecution of those who attacked student protesters. Their demands have been supported by universities, teachers, lawyers, agriculture workers, artists and representatives of various industries. Around 80% of Serbian citizens supports most of the demands, while around third took part in the protests, which have been organised in more than 200 localities across Serbia. Having clearly distanced themselves from all political parties and consistently insisting on transparency and institutional accountability, it seems that the students succeeded in reaching an agreement on the fundamentals, which demonstrated a high potential for generating broader support for long-term political changes. As such, it seems that the demands deserve broad international support as well, particularly from the European Union, as they highly align with its fundamental values, insisting on democracy, rule of law and human rights protection. Where has the EU been along the way? So, why has then the EU remained so reluctant in addressing the protests, particularly as it claims to closely follow the current political situation in Serbia? While silence sometimes speaks the loudest, occasional statements from the Brussels spoke even louder in expressing its support to the government and lack of worry for the enlargement’s fundamentals. Gert Jan Koopman, the EU's Director-General for Neighbourhood and Enlargement Negotiations (DG NEAR) visiting Serbia in January 2025, failed to express his concerns regarding the lack of transparency and accountability for the collapse of the railway station canopy or any support to the peaceful protests which had already became historical. On the contrary, he noted Serbia’s “steady progress” towards the EU and was “eager to support Serbia in completing the necessary reforms”. It may come as no surprise if we remember that in October 2024, not long before the tragedy, in her visit to Serbia, President of the European Commission Ursula von der Leyen, praised Serbia’s progress and commitment to delivering on reforms, in particular on the fundamentals - rule of law and democracy. While von der Leyen has not hesitated to express support for “the Georgian people fighting for democracy", she has remained remarkably quiet about the events in Serbia. Indeed, the EU’s spokesperson Guillaume Mercier did express concerns about the reported attacks against protestors and called all key actors to engage in a constructive political dialogue. However, the EU failed to follow-up on the findings of its own progress reports which have for years urged Serbian authorities to step up their efforts to fight corruption, ensure the independence of the judiciary, and guarantee freedom of expression, even after it was confirmed that the European Public Prosecutor’s Office investigates the misuse of EU funds in the case of the railway station. The EU high representatives were addressed by Members of the European Parliament, Serbia’s professors and esteemed public figures from different spheres, scholars and expert groups, and EU research grantees, who all in their open letters asked for Union’s more active role and principled response to these events. The reaction of the European Commission was particularly expected looking ahead to the last protest in Belgrade, as the tensions ran high with contra-protesters supported by hooligans and war veterans gathered in front of the National Assembly and president Vučić using inflammatory rhetoric. The pro-EU citizens and organisations kept addressing it, to provoke its reaction to major protests in one of its candidate countries with a major democratic decline, but were mostly left without a proper response.   What does the European Union stand for (?) The Commissioner for Enlargement Marta Kos responded to the received letters of concern by an open letter as well, with an aim to “recall what the European Union stands for”. Successfully avoiding to mention students and their demands, Kos did tackle a very important issue stating that “Serbia's path towards the European Union offers solutions to many of the issues that are at the heart of discussion today“. She stated that the process, if properly implemented, strengthens the fight against corruption, ensures the independence of the judiciary and accountability of institutions. But what happens if the process is not being implemented properly, but hindered by the lack of credibility, contested political interests and disregarding of the principle “fundamentals first”? In that case, “the path” may lead to legitimising the regimes with growing authoritarian tendencies, at the cost of promised stability or commercial interests. In order for the accession process to restore its “transformative power” it would first need to restore the credibility of both conditionality policy and the perspective of membership. Currently lacking both, the EU risks to lose its relevance in the light of the changing political reality in Serbia. Its strong support to the lithium extraction project in the Jadar valley remained steady despite serious concerns on the lack of environmental standards and rule of law and continuous attacks on environmental and human rights defenders, some of whom were even targeted as “eco-terrorists”.  The EU praised the Memorandum of Understanding signed with Serbia on Strategic Partnership on sustainable raw materials, battery value chains and electric vehicles as a way to enhance integration process and “reaffirm Serbia’s EU path”. The former Minister of Traffic and Infrastructure Goran Vesić assessed that Serbia “essentially became an EU member” by the signing of the Memorandum. This has shown that there is a mutual understanding on both sides that the progress in the accession process is being evaluated somewhere far away from the prescribed conditions, progress reports and especially principles which prioritise fundamental reforms – democracy and the rule of law. This also shows that neither of the sides takes the integration process seriously, as they both agree to “take the most out of it” in the circumstances in which the enlargement “gained a new momentum" only nominally, and the old promises (of stability) seem to be enough. Experts and civil society have already expressed concerns about how this trend will affect the perception of the EU and citizens’ attitudes towards the enlargement. The support for the EU integration has lowered among youth in Serbia in the last five years, particularly among the youngest of the respondents, while, according to the Balkan Barometer, most of the Serbian citizens (35% of them) think that their country will never become a member of the EU. The same research shows a trend that youth of the region is becoming more uncertain or neutral about the EU accession. It is certain that this will also be the case with the youth in Serbia. The values that students stand for, although correspond to them, are not European values, but their own and they will firmly protect them regardless of the EU’s support, as they have for months now. This time, it is the EU that is on the test, to “step up and fulfil its self-proclaimed task of a democracy and rule of law promoter”. The “words of concern” and bureaucratic euphemisms may not be enough to restore not only the credibility of the accession process, but also its relevance among youth, who proved to be the guardians of its “core values”, without ever referring to it. In accordance with its own principles and enlargement methodology, the EU needs to systematically and clearly address the roots of the student’s demands, as their fulfilment may bring the reforms crucial for the integration process. But it cannot go the other way around. The EU should initiate a direct dialogue with Serbian citizens, including students, experts, workers, and civil society organisations, and provide unequivocal support to the fight for democracy and the rule of law, if it still has the ambition to act as a driver of reforms rather than a factor of status quo. After all, it seems that the EU is the one who should be reminded what it stands for.

On November 1st at exactly 11.52 a concrete canopy on Novi Sad railway station collapsed instantly murdering 14 persons, while 3 were seriously injured. The number of victims rose to 15 when a young woman died in the hospital due to her injuries. Two injured victims still remain under severe hospital supervision, almost three months after the collapse. This sunny, peaceful day was one of the darkest in recent Serbian history, especially for Novi Sad. This multicultural town is known for its peace and quiet, its people being extremely polite and kind. However, in the past three months, even this has changed.  Although government officials assured the public that all necessary measures will be taken and the responsible persons will be punished, the angry and hurt citizens did not believe the government whose corruption and lack of transparency have been an issue for several years. The citizens started spontaneously gathering on the streets at 11.52 almost every day, paying respect to the dead. At first, for 14 minutes of silence, and then 15, a minute for each life that was lost due to a corrupted reconstruction project of the railway station.  At one of these 15-minute gatherings, students of the Faculty of dramatic arts in Belgrade blocked the street in front of their Faculty in order to pay respects to the Novi Sad victims. They were physically attacked, by what at first seemed, passers-by. However, soon after the incident, the public identified the attackers - local government officials from Belgrade. The students were determined to seek justice for their hospitalized peers and set together in order to discuss the next steps. Their collective decision was the blockade of the faculty, the institution they see as their own, in order for other institutions to listen to them and start working according to the law, in their own capacities and competencies.  Soon after, in acts of solidarity and support, other faculties and universities across the country started their own blockades. From that moment on, each decision, including the decision about the blockade, was voted by the plenum (an assembly of all the members of a group or committee) organised by the students themselves. Now, four months after the tragic event in Novi Sad, more than 80 faculties (including Faculty of Theology in Belgrade and some private faculties) are in a blockade. The wave of violence spread towards the younger students, those who dared to raise voices in their highschools. But so did the wave of blockades and protests and the number of involved citizens increased. High school students started blocking the streets every day at exactly 11.52, university professors, high school teachers and principals stood behind their students and supported their requests. Soon the unions of miners, IT professionals, media and culture workers gave their support to the joint cause - requests for the institutions to prosecute the law breakers and protect the students during the peaceful protest.  Besides the direct democracy that the students practice everyday on their plenum meetings, they have shown incredible knowledge and capability to organise, communicate with the public, to stand in solidarity with other peers, but most importantly, they showed that knowledge and determination they have is beyond any textbook lesson. They have gone through the cracked and weakened educational system, acquiring the core knowledge for critical thinking, direct democratic participation and hands-on solidarity. They sacrificed their lectures, exams and grades in order to demonstrate that a common goal is above the personal results and successes. In a country without media freedom, they managed to communicate their message so clearly and efficiently, that it reached even the most distant of towns and villages in Serbia.  How did they succeed? On foot. This is not a metaphor—literally, on foot. It all started with a large gathering on February 1st in Novi Sad, marking 3 months from the tragedy. In order to pay their respects to the victims, students blocked 3 bridges together with the citizens. But what was even more moving and influential, was a two-day long march from Belgrade to Novi Sad when students walked through towns and villages carrying their message that justice must be met. Local people gathered, cooked meals for students and supplied them with anything they needed - from food and water to bandages and medical supplies. With tears in their eyes people of all ages greeted students like they were liberators.  The next large gathering was on February 15th in Kragujevac, as this is where the first Serbian constitution was signed on this day in 1835, a date Serbia still celebrates as its Statehood Day. Students set off on foot from different towns toward Kragujevac in groups, passing through smaller places to inform people about what was happening and break through the media blackout. Some groups walked as much as 150 kilometers in just three days. In Kragujevac, they announced another gathering in Niš 15 days later, where an even larger number of people attended, and once again, students and young people marched on foot. The latest research shows that around 80% of the population now supports the students' demands. From the very beginning of the blockades to these massive protests, marches, and demonstrations, the movement has consistently upheld the same four demands. The first demand is for full disclosure of all documentation related to the reconstruction of the railway station canopy in Novi Sad. The second is for all those who committed violence against students during the blockades to be arrested and prosecuted. The third is for the release of all activists who were detained for supporting the blockades. And the fourth demand is for a 20% increase in the state budget allocation for higher education. The next major gathering is scheduled for March 15th in Belgrade. According to student groups, this will be the final gathering, marking the end of all protests. On the other hand, these same student groups continue to unequivocally and persistently inform the public that they will not give up on the blockades until all four demands are met. In other words, students are confident that on March 15th in Belgrade, they will secure the fulfillment of their demands. How? Follow our portal on March 15th to find out. PUMP IT UP!

We are thrilled to publish a new thought-provoking piece by Vladimir Petrović and Novak Vučo from the Innovation Center of the Institute for Contemporary History, University of Belgrade. Their article, “Belgrade Graffiti & Murals: Continuation of War by Other Means? – Traces of War in Yugoslavia and Ukraine in Belgrade Street Art: Reflections on Connections”, offers a gripping tour through Belgrade's streets, where right-wing nationalism, war nostalgia, and geopolitical tensions are fought out in paint, stencils, and slogans. From Ratko Mladić murals to the letter “Z” and graffiti wars over Kosovo and Ukraine — this text explores how political walls in Belgrade are covered in more than just paint, they’re layered with history, ideology, and unresolved conflict. The article has been positively peer-reviewed by Dr. Vjeran Pavlaković, one of the leading experts on graffiti, memory, and transitional justice in Southeast Europe. 👇 Download and read the full article in PDF: N.Vučo, V.Petrović - Belgrade Graffiti & MuralsDownload

How Can We Make Philosophy Teaching FAIR? – Principles of Feminist Reconstructed Philosophy Education is a groundbreaking book that reimagines how philosophy can be taught in high schools—making it fairer, more just, and more inclusive. Developed through action research in classrooms across southern Serbia, this book is both a critical reflection on traditional teaching and a practical handbook filled with ready-to-use lesson ideas. The authors explore one central question through a feminist lens: How can philosophy help change the world? Download the book for free here:👉 Get the PDF The book’s author at the launch event, photo by Emilija Krstic What’s Inside? The book offers: A clear analysis of the current education system in Serbia, mapping challenges and exploring why previous reforms often fell short. Principles and methods for FAIR (Feminist Reconstructed) philosophy teaching, where theory and practice come together as equally important tools. Detailed lesson plans, workshop ideas, and classroom activities, from discussions on gender stereotypes to creative exercises that connect philosophy to everyday life. Open-access materials, all available to download via QR codes in the book, so teachers can easily apply this approach. Accessible even to those new to feminist or education theory, the book draws on current research and real experiences from classrooms. It’s intended for philosophy teachers—and educators in other social sciences—who want to make learning more relevant and engaging. The authors stress that this is not a quick-fix recipe but an invitation to rethink, question, and learn together with young people, in a spirit of solidarity and respect. Action Research That Inspired the Book The book is rooted in action research carried out in late 2024 and early 2025 in five high schools in Niš, Bujanovac, Bela Palanka, and Vlasotince. The authors worked closely with students and teachers to design and test a new approach to philosophy. Lessons were fully participatory—students discussed, shared ideas, and reflected on what they learned and how it made them feel. Many encountered feminist philosophy for the first time, opening space for important conversations about equality, identity, and democracy. The research showed that young people—especially girls—are eager to see contemporary topics and gender equality reflected in their education. A Call for Change Based on this experience, the authors prepared an official proposal to update Serbia’s philosophy curriculum. The proposal calls for: Introducing more women philosophers and gender perspectives. Adopting interactive, student-centered teaching methods. While the Institute for the Improvement of Education has formally received the proposal, it hasn’t yet been approved. Officials have said it will be considered during curriculum revisions planned for late 2025 and early 2026. Meanwhile, the authors and their partners are continuing to advocate for change. They invite teachers, students, parents, and anyone interested to join this effort—by discussing it, sharing information, or reaching out to institutions. This isn’t just about feminist philosophy; it’s about building an education system where critical thinking and fairness truly matter. What Reviewers Are Saying This book was shaped by a community of scholars, teachers, students, and activists. Reviewers describe it as an ambitious and much-needed innovation in Serbian education. Here’s what some of them said: “One of the book’s greatest contributions is that it avoids pseudo-feminist critiques and superficial trends, and instead seriously engages with the question: How does philosophy change the world?”– Eva D. Bahovec, Professor of Philosophy, University of Ljubljana “This is one of the pioneering efforts in our education system, filling a gap that has existed for far too long.”– Daša Duhaček, Professor of Political Theory, University of Belgrade “I hope future generations will learn about feminism early enough that something finally changes—and that girls will feel safer walking alone.”– Adrijana Tomić, high school student, Bujanovac Download the Book How Can We Make Philosophy Teaching FAIR? – Principles of Feminist Reconstructed Philosophy Education is available as a free PDF.👉 Download here Feel free to share it with colleagues, students, and anyone interested in more inclusive and thoughtful education. This project was supported by the National Coalition for Decentralization, Proaktiv, and the Human Rights Committee Niš, funded by the European Union in Serbia.

Author: Emi Postoli Civil society is often considered to be the backbone of democracy, but in Albania, it feels more like a shaky, loose foundation. During its 30 years of democratic consolidation, Albania has failed to ensure the effectiveness of a successful civil society. Despite the high number of activists and NGOs in Albania, their effectiveness is hindered by a range of different historical, institutional, and political factors. Today, political participation and voluntary social action are two areas of civic engagement where Albania is struggling. What holds Albania back from building a strong civil society, and what can be done to overcome these challenges? The communist shadow The country’s long communist legacy is undeniably one of the main causes of its weak civil society nowadays. Civic engagement in Albania was not absent during the communist period, but it was tightly connected to the ideology and interests of the system. Citizens could not initiate any community-driven/voluntarism actions without the involvement of the state, so Albanians did not experience taking a proactive role in society. For instance, volunteerism today may sometimes take a negative connotation simply because of its reputation during communism. Additionally, the regime fostered a culture of spying among citizens leading to fear and mutual suspicion being always present, leading to a weak sense of community and social cohesion.[1] Thus it now appears difficult to build a vibrant civil society based on the experience of a negative collective memory regarding civic cooperation. The gap in implementation Today, while a legal framework exists to include NGOs in decision-making processes, its implementation often falls short. According to a report by the Institute for Democracy and Mediation, the majority of Albanian citizens almost never engage in civil society, and the data indicates that a low trust in the NGOs (compared to media for e.g.) are the main factor contributing to this occurrence.[2] Efforts to bridge the gap between the government and civil society, in terms of institutional mechanisms, have been inconsistent. Although the legal framework does provide space for the inclusion of organizations, proper implementation is usually lacking. Institutional mechanisms for facilitating the linkage and communication between state entities and NGOs are underdeveloped and there is no unified approach on the government’s side. The National Council for Civil Society was legally established in 2015 to facilitate the relation between civil society and the government, but it has produced very little outcome for advancing the dialogue between the two parties.[3] Involvement in the drafting of laws or policies relevant to the sector is almost inexistent. While the government has made efforts to engage with civil society, these initiatives lack practical support and fail to translate into meaningful institutional backing. Influence of politics The engagement of civil society is also heavily politicized at times. The lack of firmly established democratic principles undermines the development of a strong civil society by allowing political affiliations to dictate governmental support for NGOs. Civil society organizations frequently face pressure from political actors to align their activities with partisan agendas, limiting their ability to monitor government actions or hold policymakers accountable.[4] This creates power imbalances that may stop the organisations from achieving their goals. Consequently, civil society cannot perform its monitoring role and hold the government accountable for certain policies or lawmaking. According to UNDP, there is also a lack of transparent criteria with regard to the selection of organizations or associations involved in the decision-making process, allowing for assumptions of favoritism.[5] This dynamic not only weakens CSOs’ independence but also impedes Albania’s democratic progress. It turns out that organizations with more critical stances that do not align with the incumbent’s interests may be disfavored regarding their direct involvement. Decisions taken by government entities with regard to funding and partnership opportunities as well as different regulatory policies for civil society organizations are usually unclear and there is little consultation, leaving dissenting voices marginalized.[6] This kind of politicization directly impacts the sustainability of civil society practices in Albania as political interests are not fixed but short-term, while democratization should be a long-term process. As a result, many Albanians view CSOs as extensions of political parties rather than advocates for genuine social issues, undermining their credibility and public trust.[7] The belief that civil society is politically biased or self-serving makes citizens  reluctant to engage or participate in its initiatives. Lastly, internal factors also impact the effectiveness of civil society in Albania today. In terms of their organisation, civil society organisations sometimes struggle because of issues such as low financial capacities, and lack of professional staff, or limited capacities. [8] In addition, the civil society in Albania appears fragmented whereas the resources and opportunities are usually limited. Financial dependency forces many organizations to rely on funds coming from political entities or politically influenced sources, compromising their civic mission.[9] When external sources and donations appear limited, state support is the only way left for civil society organisations to survive. Is there hope? Despite the challenges faced, civil society has seen some notable efforts in recent years. In 2019, civil society organizations empowered workers to form unions, such as the Unified Miners of Bulqiza Union. Another example is that of 2018-2020 when there was a considerable degree of engagement against the demolition of the National Theatre. However, the case of civic mobilization against the dismantlement of Syria’s chemical weapons in Albania in 2013, remains one of the most successful victories. Protests stemmed from common civic environmentalist concerns engaging dozens of citizens as well as CSOs advocating for the protection of the environment. Initiatives regarding environmental problems have also been very active with regard to the power-plant construction in river banks or national protected parks, where CSOs have provided their legal support, expertise, activist power, and opportunities for media coverage in helping local communities. Yet there has been no shift in the government policy with regard to the construction of the hydro plants of Dragobi and Çeremi. These examples indicate an existing potential for citizen engagement in decision-making in Albania, yet one could argue that the defeats could act as hindrances for future civil society initiatives. Despite the challenges it faces, Albania’s civil society demonstrates the potential for meaningful change, especially with the right support and a more robust institutional framework. Efforts like environmental protests and workers' unionization show that collective action can make a difference. However, to truly strengthen its democracy, Albania must focus on building trust, transparency, and collaboration within its civic space. A strong civil society isn't just an ideal, but it’s essential to ensure that the voices of the people help shape the country's future. [1] Kotoni, M. (2011). CIVIL SOCIETY IN ALBANIA: A CLOSER LOOK AT THE FACTORS WHICH PREVENT ITS STRENGTHENING AND DEVELOPMENT. [2] IDM. “Citizens Engagement in Decision-Making.” Welcome to IDM, 17 Sept. 2020, idmalbania.org/new-projectwidening-the-democratic-space-through-citizens-engagement-in-decision-making/. [3] Agolli, Ariola, et al. Participation of citizens and civil society in decision making, Study on the legal and regulatory framework and practice in Albania. (2013) [4] Florian Cullhaj. (2016). Democratization from Within. Edizioni Nuova Cultura. [5] Albania Progress Report 2022 | United Nations in Albania. (2022). Albania.un.org. https://albania.un.org/en/224031-albania-progress-report-2022 [6] Florian Cullhaj. (2016). Democratization from Within. Edizioni Nuova Cultura. [7] Bino, B., Qirjazi, R., & Dafa, A. (2020). Civil society participation in decision-making in Albania. Institute for Democracy and Mediation for Westminster Foundation for Democracy. [8] Vurmo, G. (2010). CIVIL SOCIETY INDEX FOR ALBANIA IN SEARCH OF CITIZENS & IMPACT Albania World Alliance for Citizen Participation. [9] Bino, B., Qirjazi, R., & Dafa, A. (2020). Civil society participation in decision-making in Albania. Institute for Democracy and Mediation for Westminster Foundation for Democracy.

Author: Mary Drosopoulos The Balkans, with its rich mosaic of cultures, histories, and stories, have long been a site of complex political identities and alliances. In this intricate tapestry, Balkan women authors have emerged as powerful voices of dissent, solidarity, and advocacy, often drawing connections between their histories of displacement and the plight of others. Among the many causes that have sparked their literary and activist fervor, Palestine has stood out as a particularly poignant symbol of resistance. After all, the written word is not merely an artifact of aesthetic value, but a political act; a medium through which justice can—and must—be imagined. This article delves into the stories of two remarkable women authors from the Balkans whose journeys with Palestine have taken unconventional and often challenging paths. One, a writer from North Macedonia, stumbled upon the Palestinian cause not in her homeland but in Germany, where the collision of diasporic identities and political awakenings led her to discover new dimensions of solidarity. The other, a thriving literary voice in Berlin, found her career sabotaged by editorial and publishing circles due to her outspoken stance on Palestine, ultimately forcing her to leave Germany and seek refuge in spaces more accommodating of her convictions. Through their experiences, one can explore the intersections of literature, activism, and exile, shedding light on how Balkan women writers navigate global struggles for justice while grappling with the unique challenges of their own geopolitical and cultural landscapes. ‘Perfect Chaos’: Crossing Borders, Weaving Narratives Marina Trajkovska’s journey into Palestinian advocacy began not in her homeland of North Macedonia but in Germany, where an entirely new world of narratives and solidarities opened before her. Growing up in a country embroiled in its own political disputes, her exposure to Palestine was shaped by a narrow and heavily filtered media lens: "The only things we heard were about the Gaza Strip and terrorism," she recalls in an interview for Balkan Talks. This limited perspective was further complicated by North Macedonia’s gratitude towards Israel for its formal recognition of the country as the "Republic of Macedonia," a politically sensitive acknowledgment that relegated Palestine’s story to the margins. It was only after moving to Berlin that Trajkovska encountered a vibrant Palestinian diaspora and began to unravel the complexities of their culture, history, and struggle. Through her work with the Berlin-based NGO Loesje e.V., she participated in programs funded by the European Commission designed to foster dialogue and creativity between Israelis and Palestinians. Moreover, her understanding of the Middle East was enriched as a participant and alumna of the Euro-Arab Youth Forum, a longstanding initiative of the Council of Europe with the League of Arab States, aiming at promoting intercultural dialogue among young people and organisations. What began as a professional opportunity soon transformed into a deeply personal passion. With subsequent trips, she immersed herself in Palestinian cities, villages, and communities, forging connections that would profoundly influence both her activism and her creative work. Marina Trajkovska book signing in Bitola, 2017 Trajkovska’s engagement with Palestine was not confined to observation. Her activism focused on empowering Palestinian youth by integrating them into international initiatives and European projects. Through these efforts, she sought to create opportunities for cultural exchange and mutual understanding. This hands-on approach deeply informed her creative pursuits, particularly her trilogy, Perfect Chaos. The first volume, published in late 2017, explores the roles and responsibilities of women across different societies, with a protagonist who is intricately connected to Palestine. For Trajkovska, the trilogy was more than a work of fiction; it was an act of education and advocacy. North Macedonia, a country without formal diplomatic ties to Palestine and with limited media coverage of the conflict, lacks widespread understanding of the Palestinian struggle. Trajkovska’s work sought to bridge this gap, offering readers a nuanced portrayal of Palestinian culture, resilience, and daily life. "Despite the different places where we live, the expectations of women are more or less similar everywhere," she notes, emphasizing the universality of human experience amidst diversity. Yet, the author is acutely aware of the political constraints shaping her homeland’s stance on Palestine. North Macedonia’s dependence on Israeli support in its transitional economy has influenced its foreign policy, often aligning it against Palestinian interests in fora like the United Nations. Despite this, she believes that her people hold a deep empathy for Palestinians, informed by their own historical traumas, thus ‘a shared sense of suffering." Marina Trajkovska in Jerusalem, 2019 Author, Character and Lived Experience: Principles Beyond the Page Lana Bastašić, the Zagreb-born Bosnian-Serb author of the acclaimed road trip novel Catch the Rabbit, has never shied away from navigating turbulent waters, whether in her fiction or in life. Her novel, originally published in Serbo-Croatian as Uhvati zeca (2018), which won the 2020 European Union Prize for Literature, is a poignant meditation on identity, memory, and the fraught landscapes of post-Yugoslav reality. Like the narrator of her celebrated work, who embarks on a chaotic journey through the fissures of history and friendship, Bastašić herself has undertaken a journey of profound ethical reckoning—this time on the frontlines of cultural politics. In a decision that sent ripples through literary circles, Bastašić, who was until recently based in Berlin, announced last January on Instagram the termination of her contract with S. Fischer Verlag, one of Germany’s most esteemed publishing houses, citing its silence on the Israeli bombardment of Gaza and the systematic censorship she observed unfolding in Germany. Bastašić was unsparing in her critique of Germany’s intellectual climate, accusing it of suppressing Jewish artists, writers, and scholars who have spoken out against Israeli policies. Many, she noted, had been “silenced,” lost their livelihoods, or faced public vilification. This silence, she argued, undermined any claims to combatting antisemitism. In severing ties with S. Fischer, the author struck a blow against what she sees as a moral void in the German literary establishment, exposing the uncomfortable nexus between cultural prestige and political complacency. Lana Bastašić The consequences of this decision were immediate and far-reaching. Bastašić openly acknowledged the financial losses incurred by walking away from a German translation deal. "The advance that I would have gotten for my next novel in German translation is bigger than all my other nineteen translations combined," she remarked in an interview with Middle East Eye. For any writer, the German market represents not just income, but visibility: invitations to festivals, readings, and book fairs. For Bastašić, however, the cost of staying silent far outweighed the material gains of compliance. In the months that followed, she announced her leaving Berlin. It is tempting to frame this decision as an act of self-sacrifice, yet this would do a disservice to her resolve. Like her Catch the Rabbit protagonist, who refuses the comfort of forgetting, the author herself refuses to disengage from the fractures that define our world. Her choice is not simply a renunciation of privilege but a reminder that the privilege of a voice must be wielded responsibly. In Bastašić’s personal narrative, one finds echoes of her literary work: the same unflinching gaze, the same determination to uncover uncomfortable truths. Defiance as Creation; feminist activism under the postcolonial solidarity lens This act of defiance sits at the crossroads of several pressing questions: What does it mean to be an artist in times of moral crisis? How does one navigate the tension between creative autonomy and ethical responsibility? For an artist, the act of defiance is not merely a rejection of oppression; it is the reclamation of agency, the insistence on the autonomy to speak, to create, and to resist. As the philosopher Jacques Rancière argues, “Politics is about what is seen and what can be said about it, about who has the ability to see and the talent to speak.” In this sense, the act of defiance is deeply tied to the very essence of art. For Marina Trajkovska and Lana Bastašić, defiance has manifested in profoundly different yet equally consequential ways. Their experiences, shaped by their identities as Balkan women writers and their shared advocacy for Palestine, illuminate the tension between the artist’s ethical responsibility and the constraints imposed by geopolitics, economics, and institutional power. The city of Berlin, symbolic in itself for its history of division, served as a pivotal stage—offering freedom and opportunity to one, and constraint to the other. The personal stories of these two authors are not isolated incidents but part of a broader tradition of Balkan women writers whose work transcends the boundaries of art to enter the realm of activism. Emerging from a region historically defined by conflict, marginalization, and political upheaval, these women often embody what Svetlana Slapšak, a prominent feminist scholar from the Balkans, has termed the “double burden” of writing: grappling with both patriarchal oppression and the political demands of a divided and contentious space. For centuries, Balkan women writers have used literature as a tool for resistance, drawing on their own histories of displacement and struggle to advocate for others. Their work often blurs the lines between the personal and the political, reflecting a commitment to justice that is as much lived as it is written. This dual role—artist and activist—positions them uniquely to engage with global struggles. In Trajkovska’s case, her advocacy stems from an empathetic connection between the historical traumas of the Balkans and the contemporary plight of Palestinians. She draws on shared experiences of displacement, colonial meddling, and the erasure of identity, using her literature to foster understanding and solidarity. Her activism reflects the theoretical framework of postcolonial solidarity (Todorova 1997; Ugrešić 1996; Rexhepi 2018), wherein marginalized groups recognize their interconnected struggles against global systems of power. Bastašić, on the other hand, exemplifies the feminist ethic of refusal articulated by Sara Ahmed in Living a Feminist Life (2017). Ahmed writes, “To refuse to reproduce what you inherit is to refuse to make it easier for a history to keep happening in the same way” (2017:2). Bastašić’s decision to sever ties with her German publisher is a refusal to participate in a system that profits from her voice while silencing others. Her defiance is a feminist act of rupture, a rejection of complicity that forces the cultural establishment to confront its ethical failings. In a conclusive thought, one could say that for any artist, but especially one whose work and experience is situated in the Balkan context (be it geographically, personally or academically), resistance is not merely a posture but a relentless reconfiguration of what can be spoken, seen, and endured.

Author: Semran Murtezani, Master of International Law "The Vinca Case" is a novel by Goran Milasinovic that recounts a tragic incident at the Vinca Nuclear Institute in 1958. Although a work of fiction, the novel’s subject matter is specific and unique, holding significant historical value for understanding the political, scientific, and security dynamics of former Yugoslavia and beyond. The narrative explores the ethical, humanitarian, and scientific complexities surrounding nuclear research, detailing how the futures of six scientists at the Vinca Nuclear Institute transformed in unimaginable ways. Notably, the novel is grounded in real events. The title, "The Vinca Case" refers to the village of Vinca, home to a laboratory dedicated to nuclear research during the Cold War. This era in Yugoslav history was characterized by a complex interplay of scientific ambition and political tension, particularly in the realm of nuclear weapons development. Six scientists at the laboratory suddenly found themselves in a life-altering situation following a catastrophic accident, exposed to lethal levels of radiation during a nuclear experiment. Milasinovic’s fluid narrative style provides a detailed and accessible portrayal of the events, creating a vivid and compelling account of this pivotal moment. After World War II, nuclear weapons development reshaped international relations and marked a new phase in human history. Rivalry among states centered on advancing their nuclear capabilities, posing new challenges across economic, political, and scientific spheres. Nations sought to adapt to contemporary policies to gain prestige on the international stage, while also striving to establish protective mechanisms against potential threats to national security. The Vinca incident marked a turning point in Yugoslavia’s approach to nuclear technology. It drastically altered the lives of six ambitious scientists, some just at the outset of their careers, who suddenly faced a life-or-death situation due to high radiation exposure. The need for urgent medical intervention was critical, as the consequences of the incident were severe and shocking. Fortunately, the Yugoslav state decided to cover all medical expenses for their recovery, bolstering the state's image as a caring protector of its citizens. This was not mere political rhetoric; from start to finish, the state ensured the injured scientists received world-class treatment at the renowned Curie Institute in France. However, an unexpected challenge awaited them during their treatment. At the heart of "The Vinca Case" is an ethical dilemma faced by a French doctor involved in the scientists’ recovery. This character personifies the moral conflicts that arise when medical experimentation intersects with nuclear science. As the doctor confronts the consequences of the accident, readers are invited to reflect on the complexities of scientific progress and the ethical weight of human life in its wake. Despite using all conventional methods, the doctor’s efforts to treat the scientists prove unsuccessful. He is left with a profound ethical dilemma: should he proceed with a groundbreaking, experimental treatment or leave the scientists’ fates to chance? This decision is fraught with uncertainty; the doctor must first convince himself and then his colleagues, aware that success is far from guaranteed. Nevertheless, the severity of the circumstances drives him to make a historic choice—to proceed with the bold experiment. Under the careful supervision of the Curie Institute, preparations for the treatment begin. Ultimately, the experiment succeeds with five of the six scientists, marking the first successful human bone marrow transplants and a major milestone in medical history. However, Vladimir Gavric, one of the scientists, does not survive the transplant process. This event is not only a significant scientific breakthrough but also an emblem of friendship between France and the former Yugoslav Republic, particularly among the survivors, donors, and medical personnel involved. In summary, the novel underscores the delicate balance between fortune and misfortune. In the aftermath of the incident, the Yugoslav government formed a commission to examine the causes and consequences of the tragedy, concluding that the incident was due to "unprofessionalism and negligence." Through this novel, readers are given an in-depth exploration of both a tragic incident and a remarkable story of medical success, conveyed with meticulous detail.

Since Serbian militias entered villages in the Kosovar province in 1999, many boys and men have been missing, including Fahrije’s husband—a single parent who had been caring for their two children and her disabled father-in-law. Left to ensure her family’s survival, Fahrije takes matters into her own hands. She first obtains a driver’s license, then starts a small business, actions that provoke the wrath of the conservative, patriarchal local society. The director, Blerta Basholli, originally from Kosovo, first encountered Fahrije Hoti’s story during an interview she gave on American television, in which she discussed the backlash she faced for seeking independence and proposing a cooperative to provide work for other widows in her community. At the time, the director was living in New York on a scholarship. Initially, she mistook the story for a joke due to her emotional and geographical distance from Kosovo. However, upon realizing the seriousness of Fahrije’s situation, she was inspired to delve deeper. Captivated by the story, the director began writing and directing what would eventually become Hive in 2011. A decade later, the film made history by winning all three major awards in the World Cinema section at the Sundance Film Festival—the only film to ever achieve this feat. Basholli approaches the story with restraint and confidence, avoiding unnecessary melodrama or overemphasis. This is a tale of humanity and resistance, framed by a clear feminist perspective. In Hive, patriarchy is represented not only through visible actions—such as stones smashing Fahrije’s car windows, her father-in-law’s objections or an attempted assault by a supplier—but also through the absence of a male protector. The ghost of patriarchy lingers in the perception that Fahrije’s efforts to support herself dishonor her missing husband. Her grief is entangled with guilt: if her husband is dead, her actions are seen as a confirmation of his death, dissolving their marriage, and rejecting her eternal dependence on him. If, by some miracle, he were alive, many believe he would feel ashamed of her. Fahrije’s husband thus becomes like Schrödinger’s cat—both alive and dead—while society seeks to confine her autonomy. The backdrop of numerous missing persons and the ongoing search for their remains adds an emotionally charged layer to the narrative, making Hive reminiscent of Parallel Mothers by Pedro Almodóvar. However, unlike Almodóvar’s melodramatic approach to historical tragedy, Basholli masterfully integrates the collective trauma of a community with one woman’s personal journey toward emancipation. Fahrije’s struggle becomes an example for the other widows in her village, who rally around her. Central to Fahrije’s transformation is her evolving relationship with her late husband’s beehive, which gives the film its title. Initially, she is a foreign presence, vulnerable to stings despite protective gear, and haunted by the notion that her husband had "never been stung." However, as she confronts societal obstacles and normalized misogyny disguised as tradition, she finds her strength. She emerges as the queen of the hive, uniting the worker bees to create an independent, resilient ecosystem that requires no male master. This symbolism underscores the real-life success of Fahrije and her colleagues, celebrated in the film’s credits. This way, Hive highlights the critical importance of women’s solidarity in challenging male dominance. Fahrije’s story is one of hope in a nation still haunted by the ghosts of a brutal war. The fact that the narrative is based on true events and a real woman makes its impact even more profound.

What do a child in Sarajevo in the 1990s and a child in Ukraine today have in common? A historian and student shares how moderating an exhibition at the Museum of War Childhood in Kyiv sparked a personal and academic journey into Balkan history, empathy, and the power of cultural memory. This blog reflects on how museums can connect past and present across borders—and how stories of childhood in wartime can bring people and nations closer together. Author: Vladyslava Oliinyk Last summer, I had the unique opportunity to moderate a temporary exhibition at the Museum of War Childhood in Kyiv. Although the exhibition was managed by the museum’s Ukrainian branch, moderators like myself had to familiarize ourselves with the institution’s origins in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina. The Museum of War Childhood is a relatively young institution—its permanent exhibition opened only in 2017—but its conceptual depth is striking. The idea behind the museum lies in the tension between the uniqueness and universality of growing up during wartime, as first explored in the book War Childhood by Bosnian entrepreneur and author Jasminko Halilović. Halilović transformed his personal experiences as a child during the Bosnian War (1992–1995) into a literary work and, eventually, a cultural institution. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava As a historian, I was familiar with the basic chronology and causes of the Bosnian War, but I had never examined the conflict on a micro level. During my undergraduate studies, my focus was on the history of visual art in Victorian Britain, and I gave little attention to Central or Eastern Europe. It wasn’t until Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine that I felt a personal urgency to understand the region’s post-Soviet transitions and the independence movements of neighboring countries. The complex and often painful recent history of the Balkans earned my deep respect, but at first, I struggled to see how our experiences were connected. Encountering the Museum of War Childhood changed that. I began to recognize parallels between the Russian-Ukrainian war and the Bosnian conflict—especially in how children navigate trauma, displacement, and interrupted childhoods during wartime. The museum made these connections tangible, offering a space where individual stories speak across national and temporal boundaries. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava In my growing curiosity about the Balkans, I chose to join a Central European University specifically because it offered a course on Balkan Studies. Ukrainian universities also offer Central and Eastern European studies, but I realized that to truly understand the region, I needed to learn from the people who live there. Who can speak more vividly about the intricacies of student protests in Serbia than those participating in them? Who can reflect more truthfully on the Bosnian war than those who lived through it? Through my studies and encounters, these questions are finding meaningful answers. My experience taught me how cultural institutions, like museums, can provide powerful tools for rethinking war, trauma, and identity. Today’s museums can connect the histories of different nations, revealing shared tragedies and common challenges—particularly for children navigating the chaos of war. This renewed focus on the experiences of minors has led me to new research interests and opened a new chapter of European history I had never expected to engage with so deeply. Museums, I’ve learned, can simultaneously build bridges and highlight difference—and in doing so, they provide a space where empathy, inquiry, and healing can coexist. Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava Photo by Oliinyk Vladyslava

Meeting with Angel Igov, The Meek, Rene Karabash, She Who Remains, and their translator Marie Vrinat-Nikolov, Lyon, France, March 28th 2024 This article summarizes the following Bulgarian literary meeting: "Two voices of contemporary Bulgarian literature". The two voices are those of Angel Igor for his historical novel The Meek and Rene Karabash for her fictive biography She Who Remains. There was a third voice, this of their French translator Marie Vrinat-Nikolov. Presentation of the meeting On Thursday, 28 March 2024, at 7 p.m., the Terre des Livre bookshop in Lyon hosted the literary event "Two Voices of Contemporary Bulgarian Literature". Hosted by their translator, Marie Vrinat-Nikolov, Angel Igov and Rene Karabash spoke about their novels. Around thirty people attended the one-hour-and-a-half event. That was more than expected! So, excellent news. This Bulgarian literature event featured the novels The Meek by Angel Igov and She Who Remains by Rene Karabash. Both authors were present. The Terre des Livres bookshop organized the meeting in partnership with the Bulgarian Cultural Institute of Paris. Another book presented (without its author) but linked to the theme of the evening was ViktorPaskov’s Germany obscene tale. Presentation of the books and the three speakers The historical novel The Meek is the fruit of extensive research. Its protagonist, the poet Emil Strezov, becomes one of the judges of People’s Court, set up in Bulgaria between 1944 and 1945. This court condemned thousands  of dissidents" and opponents to the new Soviet regime in power at the time, including death sentences. The story then follows the evolution of Strezov, whose power is going to his head. The novel is in Bulgarian and translated into German, Macedonian, and French. She Who Remains is a fictive biography by Rene Karabash. The story set in Albania is the monologue (stream of awareness) of Matia, formerly Bekia. On the eve of her wedding, Bekia is raped and decides to become a sworn virgin. She renounces her identity as a woman and takes on the status and role of a man under the name "Matia". It provoked her fiancé's honor and the kanun (a set of Albanian traditional laws), leading to a vendetta. The novel, written in Bulgarian, has been translated into Bosnian, Macedonian, French, Polish, and Arabic. Marie Vrinat-Nikolov moderated the meeting "Power and its abuses" as the central theme of the evening. The discussion revolved around History and how it interferes with everyone's personal (hi)story. Punctuated by readings of excerpts in Bulgarian and French, the talks between the three speakers revealed the authors’ inspirations and writing processes. The Meek, Angel Igov The author of The Meek shares the three main reasons that inspired him to write his novel. The first was a comment he heard one day from someone close to his father. This person mentioned his participation in the People’s Court as a young judge. He then insisted on convicting a defendant who, in the end, was not that guilty. The second reason is that Angel is very interested in this period of Bulgarian History. The third reason is that this moment in Bulgarian History, particularly 1944-1945, is crucial to study and speak about. The subjects of the People’s Court and the Communist period in Bulgaria have already been documented. However, they had yet to be a subject in literature or fiction. The author consulted many archives related to this court to write his novel. One of the primary sources he used was the newspapers of that time. Angel said, "Yesterday's newspapers are always more interesting than today's". This applies even more to research purposes. During his research, the rise of fascism and the cruelty of youth were what caught his attention the most. The majority of the tribunal's members were (very) young. Nevertheless, Angel emphasizes this several times: neither History nor human beings are black or white. Indeed, his book does not present a Manichean vision of events or characters. The figures, motivations, and motives of the members of this tribunal are diverse. Some took part out of opportunism, careerism, or a desire for revenge. Or for power, death, or a way to escape poverty. And sometimes for several reasons at once. This illustrates that History and individual stories bear several dimensions. History and stories are not abstract but very concrete. And The Meek shows that. She Who Remains, Rene Karabash Like Angel Igov, the author of She Who Remains, led much research over two years. She did it through books (including Broken April by Ismail Kadare) and rare interviews of sworn virgins. Rene wanted to travel to Albania, but it was difficult and risky. It didn't prevent her from writing a realistic book. Indeed, Albania's specialists at Sofia University believed she had gone there to document and conduct her research. Rene Karabash shares her inspirations and motivations with us. Through this book, she wanted to document violence, one of the facets of a patriarchal society. Although extreme in this case, the author, who grew up in the Bulgarian countryside, comments that the background is the same whether you're in Albania, Bulgaria, or elsewhere. Society is violent, and patriarchal society is violent. This violence and the trauma it produces are very vivid in the narration of She Who Remains. The author describes her narration as "schizophrenic". Written without full stops or capitals, Matia’s stream of awareness/consciousness and words are punctuated only by commas. The protagonist opens up, tells his story, and tells what's inside of him and has to be told. And this is precisely what Rene warns us about: is the protagonist reliable? What is true in this stream of memories and thoughts? The comments Rene received for her novel are all robust, full of shock and pity. They evoke the violence of the subject and the traumas often shared. The author would have liked illiterate people who are frequently the victims of trauma and have less opportunity to talk about it to read her book. The aim would have been to see their reactions and feelings about the(ir) story. Voices: The translator Marie Vrinat-Nikolov Marie Vrinat-Nikolov, the foremost translator of Bulgarian literature into French, also reveals some aspects of her work regarding translating these two books and shares her concerns, questions, and difficulties. For The Meek in particular, but this applies to all translations, she stresses the importance of sound and sonority. She uses the announcement of the condemned death's sentence as an example. In Bulgarian, смърт (read "smurt" with a rolled R) sounds sharp and violent. Both "death" and "(la) mort" in French sound less sudden and tragic. However, using another translation for this word would have modified the wanted effect in Bulgarian, which is nonetheless conveyed in French. Of course, for She Who Remains, it was necessary to keep Matia's stream of consciousness and, therefore, of words. The character spits out his thoughts and overwhelms us with violent memories. The effect these memories have on the reader is multiplied by the words, which follow one another without a pause, moment to breathe, or even to catch a breath. Conclusion This Bulgarian literary meeting with Angel Igov and his novel The Meek and Karabash's She Who Remains marks the revival of the meetings organized by the bookshop Terre des Livres. From the number of interested participants present on Thursday evening, everyone could see that both Bulgarian literature AND events of this kind attract many people. The bookshop, the organizers, the speakers, the editors, and the public all deserve our thanks. We can only hope that others such event will happen in the future.

In the annals of World War II, the Partisan movement in Albania stands as a testament to the indomitable spirit of resistance and the quest for liberation. Born out of the crucible of occupation and oppression, the Albanian Partisans emerged as a formidable force against fascist tyranny, forging a path towards freedom and national sovereignty. Occupied by Italian forces in 1939 and subsequently by Nazi Germany in 1943, Albania found itself caught in the crossfire of global conflict. Yet, amidst the chaos and despair, a new chapter in Albanian history was written — one of courage, sacrifice, and unwavering determination to reclaim the nation's destiny. The roots of the Partisan movement can be traced back to the early days of occupation when a diverse coalition of patriots, communists, nationalists, and ordinary citizens united in resistance against foreign domination. Led by figures such as Enver Hoxha, Mehmet Shehu, and others, the Partisans embarked on a daring struggle for liberation, confronting the might of fascist armies with guerrilla tactics and popular mobilization. Central to the Partisan ethos was the belief in the power of the people — the conviction that ordinary men and women, united in common cause, could overcome even the most formidable adversaries. Drawing strength from Albania's rich history of resistance against foreign invaders, the Partisans tapped into a deep well of national pride and solidarity, rallying people from all walks of life to join the fight for freedom. The rugged terrain of Albania's mountains became both sanctuary and battleground for the Partisans, providing refuge from enemy patrols and a strategic advantage in their guerrilla warfare tactics. Operating in small, mobile units, they launched ambushes, sabotaged enemy supply lines, and rallied support from rural communities, turning the tide of war in their favor. But the Partisan struggle was not just a military campaign; it was also a social revolution — a movement to overturn centuries of feudal oppression and build a more just and egalitarian society. Through their actions, the Partisans sought to empower the disenfranchised, elevate the status of women, and promote education and literacy among the masses. One of the most remarkable aspects of the Albanian Partisan movement was its ability to transcend ethnic and religious divisions, uniting Albanians of all backgrounds in a common struggle for liberation. In a region plagued by ethnic tensions and sectarian violence, the Partisans stood as a beacon of unity and solidarity, embodying the ideal of "Albania for Albanians." The culmination of the Partisan struggle came in November 1944, when the combined forces of the Partisans and the Allied powers liberated Albania from fascist rule, heralding a new era of independence and self-determination. Yet, the victory came at a great cost, with thousands of Partisans sacrificing their lives in the fight for freedom. Today, the legacy of the Albanian Partisan movement lives on as a symbol of courage and resilience, inspiring future generations to stand up against injustice and oppression. As Albania continues its journey towards democracy and development, the spirit of the Partisans remains a guiding light, reminding us of the power of ordinary people to shape their own destiny and forge a better tomorrow.

In the annals of history, the Yugoslav Wars stand as a stark reminder of humanity's capacity for destruction and despair. Amidst the chaos and carnage, however, another narrative emerges — one of resilience, courage, and the unyielding spirit of women who stood at the forefront of struggle and survival. In the crucible of conflict, feminism in Yugoslavia took on new dimensions, challenging traditional gender roles, and reshaping the contours of power and resistance. As the flames of war engulfed the Balkans in the 1990s, women found themselves thrust into the heart of the maelstrom, bearing the brunt of violence and displacement. In the face of unimaginable horrors, they became agents of change, catalysts for transformation in a society torn apart by ethnic strife and nationalist fervor. Throughout history, women have often been relegated to the margins of war, their voices silenced, their experiences overlooked. Yet, in Yugoslavia, they refused to be mere bystanders to history. From Sarajevo to Srebrenica, from Zagreb to Pristina, women mobilized, organized, and resisted, demanding justice, dignity, and peace. In the midst of chaos, feminist movements emerged as beacons of hope, challenging patriarchal structures and advocating for gender equality in all spheres of life. Women's organizations sprang up across the region, providing vital support networks for survivors of sexual violence, refugees, and displaced persons. They became centers of empowerment, offering education, counseling, and legal assistance to women grappling with the trauma of war. But feminism in Yugoslavia was not confined to the realm of activism; it permeated the very fabric of everyday life, reshaping relationships, identities, and aspirations. In the makeshift refugee camps that dotted the landscape, women became the backbone of survival, nurturing families, tending to the wounded, and rebuilding shattered communities from the ground up. Their resilience was a testament to the indomitable human spirit, a testament to the power of solidarity in the face of adversity. In the ruins of war, they found strength in sisterhood, forging bonds that transcended ethnic divisions and ideological differences. Together, they confronted the injustices of war, demanding accountability for crimes committed against women and girls, and calling for an end to impunity. Feminism in Yugoslavia was not without its challenges and contradictions. In a region steeped in patriarchal traditions and conservative values, the struggle for gender equality was often met with resistance and backlash. Women who dared to defy societal norms and assert their rights faced ostracism, violence, and even death. Yet, they refused to be silenced, defying the forces of oppression with unwavering determination and resilience. As we reflect on the legacy of feminism in Yugoslavia, let us remember the countless women who refused to be victims of war, who turned their pain into power, and their suffering into solidarity. Theirs is a legacy of resilience, courage, and hope — a legacy that continues to inspire generations of feminists around the world in the ongoing struggle for justice and equality.

In the tumultuous landscape of the Yugoslav Wars, amidst the chaos and brutality, another lesser-known narrative emerges — the plight of LGBT individuals who found themselves doubly marginalized and persecuted in the midst of conflict. While the wars in the former Yugoslavia have been extensively documented, the experiences of LGBT people remain largely overlooked, their stories buried beneath the rubble of history. Yet, their struggle for survival and their fight for recognition and rights amidst the horrors of war deserve recognition and remembrance. During the 1990s, as Yugoslavia descended into a series of bloody conflicts marked by ethnic cleansing and widespread violence, LGBT individuals faced persecution on multiple fronts. In the hyper-masculine and conservative societies of the Balkans, where traditional gender roles were deeply entrenched, homosexuality was often viewed as taboo, deviant, and immoral. As such, LGBT people were not only targeted by nationalist forces seeking to purge their perceived enemies but also ostracized and stigmatized by their own communities. The war unleashed a wave of hyper-nationalism and toxic masculinity that further exacerbated the marginalization of LGBT individuals. In this volatile environment, where identity was weaponized and difference was demonized, LGBT people became convenient scapegoats, symbols of moral decay and cultural contamination. They were subjected to harassment, violence, and discrimination, forced to conceal their identities and live in fear of discovery. For many LGBT people, the struggle for survival meant hiding in the shadows, camouflaging their true selves behind a facade of conformity. They navigated a perilous landscape where exposure could mean death or persecution, where intimacy was a luxury and love was a risk. In the face of unimaginable adversity, they forged hidden networks of solidarity and support, finding refuge in the company of fellow outcasts and allies. However, amidst the darkness, there were also moments of resilience and resistance. Despite the pervasive climate of fear, LGBT individuals dared to assert their humanity, to reclaim their dignity, and to demand recognition and rights. In the midst of chaos, they organized clandestine gatherings, created underground publications, and formed advocacy groups, defying the forces of hatred and intolerance. Their struggle for visibility and acceptance continued long after the guns fell silent. In the turbulent aftermath of war, as the region grappled with the legacy of conflict and the challenges of transition, LGBT activists emerged as voices of courage and conscience, advocating for equality, justice, and inclusion. They fought against discrimination in all its forms, challenging societal norms and pushing for legal reforms to protect the rights of LGBT individuals. Yet, the road to equality remains long and arduous. In many parts of the former Yugoslavia, LGBT people still face entrenched prejudice, social stigma, and legal barriers to full inclusion and participation. The struggle for acceptance is ongoing, a testament to the resilience and determination of those who refuse to be silenced or sidelined. As we reflect on the legacy of the Yugoslav Wars, let us not forget the voices and experiences of those who have been marginalized and forgotten. Let us honor the courage and resilience of LGBT individuals who dared to love in a time of hate, who dared to hope in a time of despair. Their stories remind us of the enduring power of the human spirit and the imperative of solidarity in the face of adversity. In their struggle, we find inspiration, and in their resilience, we find hope for a more just and inclusive future.