Balkan Talks

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.

It might not be visible today, but Bulgaria was the first tobacco producer and exporter in the 1980s. Before that, tobacco cultivation in Bulgaria started in the 18th century when Bulgaria was still a part of the Ottoman Empire. Up until the Second World War, Bulgaria developed even more this cultivation for it to hold an important part in the country's economy. During communist Bulgaria, tobacco cultivation and exportation exploded to the point that “half the population smoked and a fourth worked in the tobacco industry” in 1982. Thus, tobacco is intrinsically linked to Bulgaria’s society, economy, and politics.  This article proposes a focus on the history of women, tobacco cultivation, and smoking in Bulgaria since the 19th century. It is based on the wonderful work of Mary C. Neuburger: Balkan Smoke: Tobacco and the Making of Modern Bulgaria,published in 2013 by Cornell University Press.  I. Women and Smoking in Bulgaria: from the 19th Century to Second World War A. Tobacco entering Bulgaria and women’s life Bulgaria, after the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-1878 and its partial liberation, was still de jure a part of the Ottoman Empire. It was nonetheless de facto already functioning independently after 1878 and even more after the Unification in 1885 until it declared its independence in 1908. Tobacco was introduced in the Ottoman Empire more than two centuries earlier, but it started to be more cultivated in Bulgaria in the 19th century. Smoking first started among Muslim men, then Muslim women in the 17th century, but not in public spaces. Women were gathering and smoking only “in the baths, at fashionable parties, or in the salons of elite Ottoman or foreign homes”. It then slowly entered Christians’ lives, both men and women, almost at the same time, for it to be common in the mid-19th century. But, as for Muslim women, smoking for Christian women was restricted to domestic space “behind closed doors or high garden walls”, while men were gathering and smoking in the kafene (coffeehouse) and the kruchma (tavern), places of socialization reserved to men.  A woman herself, though not Bulgarian, documented smoking among Bulgarian women in the 19th century: Fanny Blunt (1839-1926). She was a diplomat’s wife and spent years in the Ottoman Balkans where she observed and reported smoking among women. B. Emancipation and Female Figures Slowly and scarcely, a handful of women started smoking in public in the 19th century and a bit more until the Second World War. They even started entering the kafene and European-style cafés, but later, only after World War I. They were only a few because being a woman in a public space without being accompanied by a man was almost impossible in society at that time. Learning about their profile, one can see that they were all quite strong and independent. But it has to be mentioned that most of them could be allowed this behavior because they were part of the Westernized elites and were claiming, directly or indirectly more freedom and more modern values. Another type of women smoking in public were women of « questionable repute », such as prostitutes, and women dancing and singing. Among these women from intellectual and cultural elites, the most famous and noticeable ones are Baba Nedelya Petkova, Vela Blagoeva, and Raina Kostensteva.  Baba Nedeliya Petkova (1826-1894), an important figure of the Bulgarian National Revival and pioneer for girls’ education in the 19th century, “was known to have scandalized Bulgarian sensibilities with her public smoking habit”.  Vela Blagoeva (1858-1921), writer and founder of the women’s socialist movement, was the wife of Dimitur Blagoev, the founder of the Bulgarian socialist movement at the end of the 19th century. Vela « was a well-known smoker and one of Bulgaria’s first “modern girls” ». Raina Kostensteva (1885-1967) was a literary figure of the early 20th century and interwar period. She was often seen in the kafena and the kafene-sladkarnitsi (café-pastry shops). She also was the woman who wrote and denounced, even criticized, the situation of women and smoking in Bulgaria, as being slowed and limited because of the Orthodox Christian values.  II. Fallen Women and Abstinence A. Fallen Women As seen above, smoking women in public was extremely rare. They were either “westernized” or “women of questionable morals” (singers, dancers, prostitutes). In both cases, they were seen by the vast majority of society as morally compromised women acting against traditional values, impersonating the symptoms of moral decline and depravity. They represented social decay and were suspicious. They were seen and categorized as “fallen women”. But, from today’s point of view, they were a small expression of the changes happening more widely in society at that time: women getting a little bit more liberty and rights.  B. Abstinence In opposition to smoking in Bulgaria appeared abstinence movements. They were initially influenced by American Protestant missionaries who started their activity in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and led those campaigns at that time and during the interwar period. Their anti-smoking (and anti-alcohol) campaigns aimed at keeping traditional family values and targeted both men and women. Among the actors of those campaigns, we could find women, even women as leaders.  Vera Zlatareva (1905-1977) and Ianka Tosheva were such figures. But they were not against smoking in itself only regarding tobacco. They were writing (especially in Vestnik na zhenata, (“Journal of the Woman”) and fighting for more rights for all women, and wanted them to “become modern [women] only by being both abstinent and socially conscious”. In this way, they knew Bulgarian women had been emancipated in different ways in the last decades, but they had to keep being respectable and responsible, and off smoking in this regard.  III. Tobacco Work and Harvest and Women A. Workers and Wars The tobacco industry started to hold a major importance in Bulgaria’s economy in the early 20th century. Thousands of people were working in the cultivation and harvest of tobacco. Among those workers, women were far from absent in cultivating and processing the “gold of Bulgaria”. Their role and work were even more important during the Balkan Wars and the two World Wars. Men were fighting at the front and women had to keep running one of the country’s primary economic resources, replacing men. They also had to multiply the production and harvest for national consumption and expectation, especially in Germany.  Even if women had a major role in those times and this side of the economy, their conditions as workers did not improve nor were acknowledged. They had to work even harder to keep their families, the economy, and the country running. They were not thanked nor they hard work estimate.  B. Protestations Women in tobacco cultivation, in addition to their work, also called for peace in 1917, as was the case more generally in Europe. “By December, around ten thousand workers, many tobacco workers among them, swarmed the streets calling for peace and revolution. The upheavals rapidly snowballed into antiwar protests across the country and on the front and led to mass desertions”. These demonstrations highlighted women’s increasing assertiveness in public life, challenging both economic exploitation and societal norms. During interwar decades, tobacco workers were among the most vocal labour groups and were advocating for improved rights and conditions. Despite these efforts, the industry continued to rely on cheap female labour, perpetuating cycles of inequality. Changing was to happen after the Second World War.  IV. Smoking and Women during Communism A. Smoking expanding massively to women Communist Bulgaria (1944-1989) marked a significant shift in attitudes toward both women and smoking. The country developed tobacco cultivation, harvest, and export as one of its main economic fields and was under the monopoly of Bulgartabak. This importance can be seen: “Half the population smoked and a fourth worked in the tobacco industry” in 1982. Women working in the tobacco industry and smoking can be seen for the whole period as a growing phenomenon. This time, women were finally acknowledged and praised: “[T]oday tobacco is the gold of Bulgaria, and women are its creators”. Women even appeared on a map in the Balgarski Tiutiun (“Bulgarian Tobacco”) movie in 1979. Women consuming tobacco were more and more and “by the late 1970s and 1980s, [...] the number of women smokers skyrocketed”. The State relied on its exports of tobacco to the East Bloc and especially the USSR, but it also promoted national tobacco consumption. Through various campaigns, it promoted smoking as a modern way of life and of expression, including among women. Women's literature, ads, and brands were also created: the “Femina“ brand of cigarettes, for example, especially targeted women, playing on independence, progress, and sophistication to sell to this feminine public. Modern women and, even more, smoking women, embodied new society’s values and habits: “Women played important roles in the visible discarding of rural backwardness in favour of a modern material life”. B. Anti-Smoking and Women Despite all these progresses, movements and campaigns against smoking for women still exist. One of the mediums of such campaigns was the journal Trezvenost (“Sobernity”) in which one could see images of people, both men and women, smoking, and pictured in a bad way. Those campaigns in different layers of society asked women to stop smoking for two main reasons: for moral (sexual) aspects, and mainly for health aspects. The moral (sexual) aspects denounced and wanted to stop were motivated because women smoking were seen as manly, and the sexual (phallic) evocation of a cigarette in the mouth of women made them less desirable in bed. This second aspect is directly linked to one of the two health aspects: since less attractive, women were having fewer babies. In that sense, “[s]moking women [...] posed a concerted threat to the Bulgarian nation itself because of issues related to reproduction and child-rearing”. Those narratives were stronger in the late 1970s and the 1980s when traditional values made their comeback.  The State was thus torn between promoting smoking for women as a marker of emancipation, modernization, and equality, but also for them to buy and help the economy; and refraining women from smoking because it endangered the future of Bulgaria.  Conclusion The history of women, smoking, and tobacco in Bulgaria reflects the interplay of gender, culture, and politics. From private indulgences to public controversies, tobacco has served as both a tool of emancipation and a source of societal tension. Women’s roles in the tobacco industry and their evolving relationship with smoking offer valuable insights into Bulgaria’s and Bulgarian women’s journey through modernity, war, socialism, and global phenomena. 

In Serbia today, a significant gap persists between the promise of gender equality enshrined in law and the realities of women's lives. While the Constitution guarantees equal rights, and gender quotas mandate at least 40% representation in government bodies, the situation on the ground tells a different story. Women often achieve higher levels of education than men but earn less on average and remain underrepresented in leadership roles. This systemic imbalance highlights the urgent need for action. While non-governmental organizations and research institutes, like the Institute for Philosophy and Social Theory, have long advocated for change, one avenue stands out as particularly transformative: education. But not just any education—comprehensive, inclusive adult education designed to empower women as equal citizens. Education That Deconstructs Patriarchy Why focus on adult education? Traditional schooling often reinforces patriarchal norms under the guise of preserving national identity, particularly in Serbia. Orthodox Christianity, a cornerstone of this identity, has frequently been wielded to uphold "traditional values" that stifle women's progress. This dynamic came to the fore in 2021, when Serbia adopted the Law on Gender Equality. The law aimed to tackle structural inequality but quickly met resistance, particularly from the Serbian Orthodox Church, which actively campaigned against it. Today, the law remains suspended, pending a review by the Constitutional Court. For education to truly liberate, it must address these cultural and ideological barriers head-on. This means engaging with the narratives that have historically oppressed women and offering alternative interpretations. For instance, Christian theology need not be an ally of patriarchy. Feminist interpretations of Christianity emphasize personal freedom and equality, values that align with the goals of women’s emancipation. A Critical Pedagogy for the Western Balkans The method for such education lies in critical pedagogy—a theory of learning rooted in dialogue, empowerment, and social justice. Inspired by Paulo Freire’s work with marginalized populations, critical pedagogy emphasizes not just literacy in reading and writing but also in human rights, democracy, and dignity. In the Western Balkans, where patriarchal and heteronormative "family values" dominate, such an approach could be revolutionary. By teaching adults to critically analyze the cultural and religious narratives shaping their lives, we can dismantle the ideologies that perpetuate inequality. This isn't about rejecting tradition outright but about questioning who benefits from certain interpretations of tradition and whose voices have been excluded. The Role of Christianity in Feminist Pedagogy Christianity's relationship with critical pedagogy is complex. In South America, Freire’s work drew heavily on liberation theology, a movement within Christianity that aligns closely with feminist ideals of love, equality, and freedom. In North America, critical pedagogues like Henry Giroux and Peter McLaren have used similar frameworks to confront evangelical fundamentalism and promote inclusive, democratic education. In the Balkans, however, Christianity often aligns with patriarchal family values, resisting discussions on gender equality and sexual education. Yet, even in Serbia, there are theological traditions that advocate for liberation and equality. Incorporating these perspectives into adult education programs could offer a powerful counter-narrative to the dominant patriarchal discourse. Why Education Matters Education is a slow but powerful force for change. By equipping women with the tools to analyze and challenge oppressive structures, we create a ripple effect that can transform entire communities. Adult education, in particular, allows women who may have missed earlier opportunities to engage with empowering ideas and build new futures for themselves and their families. The Western Balkans is at a crossroads. As traditional values clash with modern aspirations for equality, the region must decide whether to cling to outdated ideologies or embrace a future where everyone—regardless of gender—has an equal chance to thrive. Through critical, inclusive education, we can begin to tip the scales toward the latter.

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.