Author: Skye Warner-Mackintosh
Centrally located on Kneza Miloša Street is the ruins of the former Yugoslav Generalštab building. Coming to the city for the first time in February 2023, it was the first thing I noticed upon arriving at the main train station. The building towers over you, occupying both sides of the street, and you are engulfed in the symbolic history of Yugoslavia and the contemporary struggle for a unanimous Serbian identity. The symbolic meanings of the building are not immediately apparent; you are invited to create your own meaning from the ruins before you. Unlike other remnants of the NATO bombing, such as the RTS bombing site, the Generalštab is impossible to miss; it is not subtle and located right in the heart of Belgrade.
Furthermore, the remains of the Generalštab building are a unique example of the maintenance of architectural ruins. Often, post-conflict reconstruction takes place as a prelude to identity reformation and healing (Ortiz and Córdoba, 2023). The question of what to do with buildings in the aftermath of conflict is often dealt with promptly, and buildings are often restored to their original historic design, preserved as ruins (although this is uncommon), or removed completely. The post-war period of reconstruction across Europe saw many German cities rebuild, with historically significant buildings either being preserved (and used as a museum or monument) or removed and rebuilt. Thus, for many places, rebuilding and commemoration are essential aspects of national bonding in post-conflict reconciliation, and this rebuilding is crucial in the healing process (Ejdus, 2017: 25).
Therefore, the Generalštab has “spontaneously grown into an inseparable part of the Belgrade cityscape and a de facto national monument of defiance and victimhood” (Ejdus, 2017: 36). It is laden with unambiguous meaning and, therefore, has been a crucial site of Serbian national-identity formation, specifically for people living in Belgrade, following the dissolution of Yugoslavia and remains to this day a highly controversial and puzzling symbolic urban space. This essay will critically examine the role of victimhood in Serbian national identity formation following the dissolution of Yugoslavia in 1991 and subsequent ethnic-conflicts across the Western Balkans. Using the Generalštab as an example, this essay analyses three central ‘readings’ of the building as advocated by Bădescu (2019): victimhood, injustice and resistance. Here, I make the distinction between state and societal victimhood, ultimately arguing that the building is a key signifier of the Serbian state’s geopolitical and mnemonic identity, yet also highlights growing resentment and resistance to this regime.
Historic Background
On the 25th of June 1991, Croatia and Slovenia declared independence from the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRJ). This marked the end of a union of South Slavs that had spanned over much of the 20th century. The success of Yugoslavia is widely debated amongst historians, although there is consensus that, throughout the period of 1936-1990, it was relatively stable. The dissolution of Yugoslavia in 1991, therefore, was relatively surprising and, although many authors could have predicted an ‘inevitable’ collapse, the violent and bloody nature of the aftermath of the collapse was quite unpredictable.
As discussed by Jovic (2001), the successive wars across the Western Balkans have numerous explanations, and it is impossible to pinpoint one ‘simple’ reason for the bloodshed that followed the dissolution. Whilst economic, socio-cultural, and political arguments have all been widely debated, it is clear that there was brewing discontent in the region throughout the 70s and 80s and Yugoslavia was largely tied to Tito. Therefore, following his death in 1980, the dissolution was not a matter of ‘if’ but, rather, ‘when’. It is impossible to give nuance to every argument on the dissolution of Yugoslavia when this essay’s purpose is to focus on the contemporary implications of these national dilemmas; however, it is important to understand the historical context that gave rise to different nationalist ideologies that dictated the nature of the breakup.
However, for many historians, the question is not why Yugoslavia broke up, but, rather, why Yugoslavia broke up in the way that it did. With years of bloodshed and ethnic conflict, ending in 1999 with the NATO bombing of Belgrade. The brutal aftermath of the dissolution of Yugoslavia has been greatly influential in shaping contemporary national identities in the Western Balkans. With ethnic conflict spreading across the region following the dissolution and 100,000 lives lost, the scars of the 90s remain etched in the memories of people across the region, making it difficult to separate national identity from the collective memories of the 1990s. Thus, understanding the widespread bloodshed and victimhood of every ethnicity in the Western Balkans is important and gives insight into the contemporary geopolitical dynamics of the region.
Theoretical Background
Memory
Assmann (2011) explores the relationship between the past and the self, arguing that the self would not exist without memories of the past. Here, “the human self is built from the stuff of time” (ibid.,15); we are products of stories, food, family histories, monuments, buildings and much more. Unlike traditional scholars of memory, Assmann argues that memory can often transgress the individual mind and can be promoted through inanimate objects (ibid.,17). Here, he makes the distinction between communicative and cultural memory. Whilst cultural memory is a collective preservation of the past (often through relics, monuments and symbols), communicative memory is much more subjective, often residing in the mundane tapestry of individual everyday life (ibid.,17). The city, therefore, is a site of both memory functions: in Belgrade, for example, one could walk through the city and reflect on the symbolism of the the Generalštab as a site of national bonding, whilst simultaneously reflecting individual symbolic histories interwoven in the urban fabric of the city.
Bădescu (2019: 183) notes that “cities have long been arenas of political struggle”, Belgrade is no different. It has been at the centre of many historical events and empires, and has often been a city of conquest. Until the dissolution of Yugoslavia, Belgrade was the capital city of the republic and, therefore, a vessel of Yugoslav identity formation and nation-building. As such, Yugoslav territorial bonding was fixed in Belgrade, with Tito residing in the socialist heart of New Belgrade (Abram, 2014).
Bădescu (2016; 2019) emphasises the active role of the city in constructing collective and cultural memories, as such, urban space becomes “a mediator for translating historic events into memory” and, within this, monuments are ‘selective aids’ in this process. Here, memory intersects with political experiences of urban space and a range of different actors are involved in interpreting sites of memory to make national symbolic meaning. Bernhard and Kubik (2014) refer to this as a ‘memory regime’ in which political elites, state institutions and civil society compete in defining historical interpretations as a strategy of legitimisation. As will be discussed later, the Generalštab building is symbolic of this power struggle, where different actors compete to assign a collective meaning to the building, either as a symbol of Western/NATO aggression, Serbian resilience, civil resistance or Yugonostalgia. Since 2014, when Vucic was elected, memory politics are ‘back’ in Serbia (Vukpalaj, 2025), representing a regime shift in how the 90s are commemorated and remembered in communicative and cultural memory.
Victimhood
Another central tenet that has anchored Serbian and wider post-Yugoslav national identity formation has been victimhood. Chouliaraki (2020: 8) defines victimhood as “a structure of affective communication that is deeply grounded in the past”. Thus, it marks an intersection of the past and present and requires subjective interpretation alongside political meaning-making to be useful. Hronešová (2025) states that victimhood has a strong unifying function and is often used to consolidate national identities and state narratives. Victimhood is, therefore, ontological and is defined based on a binary opposition of ‘us’ and ‘them’. This relational capacity of victimhood is particularly relevant in the Balkans, where there are different and competing experiences and interpretations of victimhood and history. Vukpalaj (2025) notes that victimhood can be mobilised by the state to achieve political aims and narratives. Specifically, narratives of Serbian victimhood, dating as far back as 1389, are used contempoaraily to justify the non-recognition of Kosovo as an independent state, particularly following Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine.
Moreover, victimhood is often top-down and state-led (Hronešová, 2025). Here, victimhood has a strong unifying function that can be monopolised by so-called memory regimes to serve the political elite. The pain and stories of the vulnerable can, therefore, be manipulated, creating an ‘ontological narrative framework’ that provides a basis for foreign policy, militarisation and the definition of the enemy. Hronešová explores how this has manifested in Serbia through so-called ‘strategic victimhood’.
The concept of ‘strategic victimhood’ illustrates how elites propagate narratives of historical injustice and foreign hostility to mobilise a national identity based on a sense of collective suffering. Here, historical injustice is woven into the consolidation of national identity, particularly in relatively stable post-conflict societies, and the ‘us-them’ divide is solidified in policy. Moreover, elites can specifically harness the character of ‘victim’ through the notion of ‘hijacked victimhood’ (Hronešová and Kreiss, 2024). Hijacked victimhood is defined as a political strategy where already powerful groups or leaders claim victim status. Here, the typical narrative of victimhood is inverted to defend or expand their power, often by portraying themselves as oppressed by marginalised groups they then demonise, using this perceived threat to justify aggression, policies, or violence. However, as will be discussed later, there is a uniquely emancipatory potential within victimhood, which can be used to consolidate grievance against the elite and illuminate top-down memory regimes.
Identity that contrasts Western values
As discussed above, victimhood is often something that is ‘hijacked’ by political actors, anchoring national identity and translating history into new ontic narratives. The Generalštab represents a disputed site of national bonding, a site that is “craving unambiguous meaning” (Ejdus, 2017: 36). As a building, it is experienced subjectively by passersby, but it has also been mobilised by politicians and the state as a site of victimhood since Vučić came to power. In the aftermath of the dissolution of Yugoslavia, the topic of the 90s was mostly ignored by politicians, with conversations often dating back to WW2, or even further back to Ottoman and Habsburg occupation. It was only in 2014, when Vučić came to power, that victimhood from the NATO bombing began to reemerge into official state narratives, marking a political decision to mobilise victimhood. As argued by Ejdus (2017: 31), the building remains there in ruin because it is there to satisfy Serbia’s ontological security needs. It represents a “defiant and brave nation” and, through this, becomes a “de facto national monument of defiance and victimhood”.
Thus, the Generalštab not only defines a new Serbian national identity, it also defines what this identity is not. It starkly contrasts Serbian identity with Western values, imbuing a sense of victimhood and struggle, which then determines foreign policy outcomes.
A key way this has been achieved is through the involvement of the Serbian Orthodox church in commemoration. Although viewed as a ‘neutral vessel’ in Serbian politics, the Church has become increasingly influential, enjoying the highest levels of public trust intergenerationally and becoming one of the largest investors in Serbia (Marinović, 2025). As argued by Edina Bećirović, the Serbian Orthodox Church has become an important tool in state-driven narratives of a Greater Serbian project, providing “legitimacy under the guise of spirituality” (Marinović, 2025). Although the influence of the Church is a different conversation, this has had particular implications in the commemoration of the 1999 NATO bombings, and the Church has played a key role in discussions regarding the future of the Generalštab building. As stated by Patriarch Irinej, “those ruins which are located in the centre of Belgrade should never be repaired. Let there be a testimony of our time, a testimony of [the destruction brought by] cultured Europe, testimony of democratic Europe that cared about freedom and democracy” (found in Bădescu, 2019). Thus, the Church deems the existence of the ruins as a crucial component of national
identity formation in opposition to Europe. The example of the SOC demonstrates how victimhood has been integrated as part of Serbian religious identity, which is inherently interlinked with new national identities. The existence of the building signifies resistance to Europeanism and represents a new Serbian national identity where historical memory is interpreted by the Church and the state.
However, the framing of historical narratives of victimhood can also be mobilised for political gain. Vukpalaj (2025) argues that memory and victimhood can be used to justify foreign policy goals, and the existence of the Generalštab ruins can be used to negotiate new geopolitical relations for Serbia. In November 2025, the Serbian government passed a ‘lex specialis’ that allowed the redevelopment of the Generalštab building. This was a somewhat surprising shift in official memory rhetoric that has largely promoted the preservation of the ruins to promote a Serbian identity forged in victimhood, as discussed above.
However, the government’s lease of the building to Jared Kushner, Trump’s son-in-law, who proposed to build luxury hotels and ‘Trump Towers’, showed a political divergence. However, some argue that this lease is geopolitically relevant, mobilising victimhood to improve Serbia’s political relations with a new right-wing administration in the US. Moreover, the framing of the bombing has been useful in developing closer ties with Russia and China, which historically opposed the bombing. Thus, victimhood has been hijacked to re-route Serbia’s political position in the international arena, yet there are areas of contention and resistance within these narratives, which will be discussed below.
Bottom-up
However, the ambiguous meaning of the building has also made it a site of public resistance where victimhood is interpreted differently. Here, the building’s ontic meaning shifts from symbolic of European aggression and Serbian might to symbolic of a rich Yugoslav history and, more importantly, of continued government divergence from the desires of Serbian citizens.
The architectural community of Belgrade have been a constant advocate for the reconstruction of the Generalštab to its original design. Importantly, the Generalštab was constructed as an ontic space in the 1960s as a symbol of Yugoslav unity against fascism. It was supposed to represent “features of a defiant and brave nation” (Ejdus, 2017) and is argued to be Serbia’s greatest feat of Socialist modernism, being architect Nikola Dobrović’s ‘magnum opus’. Thus,
the alternatives of either destroying the building, leasing it, or keeping it in ruin all oppose the dramatic symbolism of Yugoslav unity that the building represents.
Heritage watchdog DOCOMOMO stated that the destruction and lease of the building would be “erasure of a European masterpiece of modernist architecture and a symbol of Yugoslavia and Serbia’s post-war identity and creativity” (Docomomo, 2025). Furthermore, the decision would damage the relationship between Serbia and the European Union, which goes against 33% of the general public’s support for integration. This shows that contemporary critical Serbian national identities often oppose state-led narratives, with parts of the population advocating for the country to embrace the original purpose and design of the building. In response to the government leasing the building to Jared Kushner, there were a series of protests outside the Generalštab building in 2025, led by the Student Blockade, uniting all people opposed to the lease under a ‘We are the Wall Protest’. Here, the argument was that history and memory cannot be erased by administrative measures or special laws passed urgently. Thus, the people stood unified against top-down narratives of victimhood and memory, calling for collective memories to reimagine Serbian identity through the preservation of these ruins.
Finally, the Generalštab is a site of intergenerational resistance and represents resistance against the inequality created by the regime. For many, the symbolism is confusing and upsetting. Victimhood is still deployed here, but in more of a subtle way. As Bădescu (2019) argues, the Generalštab building represents a Western campaign against Belgrade that was paradoxical and unjust because the city also had the highest concentration of opposition to Milošević’s regime. Therefore, the building is symbolic of a historic regime that was somewhat opposed in the 90s, and acts as a reminder of this regime. However, whilst Serbian victimhood is still mostly operationalised in opposition to the West, the younger generation also feel a victimhood towards the regime itself. Hronešová (2025) examined victimhood in Serbian youth who had no experiences/direct memories of the 90s, finding that young people in Serbia feel that they are victims of the system more than they are victims of a concrete period in time. As one student stated: “We are victims of corruption rather than of wars” (Hronešová, 2025: 541). Despite this, they still emphasised the political elements of this. Serbia is seen as both a victim of domestic corruption and unjust international positioning, which is perhaps a legacy of the 90s. However, this example of positive victimhood has been mobilised throughout the student movements where, since 2024, students have become driving forces in fighting against top-down narratives of Serbian national identity, showing an optimism and promise for the future of national-identity where the memories and narratives can be made sense of in a rational way.
Here, the Generalštab is representative of a new Serbia, led by a generation that is somewhat detached from the ontic reality of the 90s, that does not exist simply in opposition to the West, but also opposes hijacked narratives of victimhood that seek to exploit national-identity to pursue regimes of corruption.
Generalštab still remains
This essay has traced a historical evolution of Serbian national identity in relation to different victimhood narratives in contemporary Serbia. The Generalštab is widely agreed to be an ontic space symbolic of multiple ambiguous meanings, and this has demonstrated how these meanings are mobilised by different actors to achieve different goals. On one hand, it is symbolic of European and Western aggression against Serbia; its existence is a promise to a new Serbian national identity that is defined in opposition to the West, and it is a monument dedicated to defiance and victimhood. On the other hand, it is symbolic of Yugoslav identity and modernism, a European architectural wonder, and the current regime’s decision to collaborate with the American right-wing on a redevelopment of the space marks a betrayal of this past. Thus, it is a site of national re-bonding, where people can be encouraged to imagine different realities, harness creativity and resilience to corruption.
However, one thing is clear: the Generalštab still remains, on Kneza Miloša Street, untouched. Everyday when people walk past new identities are constructed, different ideas of victimhood are projected, and different meanings are assigned to the ruin. It remains an important ontic site for the Serbian state, and the ambiguity of the building makes it somewhat impossible to imagine any future projects. Despite this, it is a crucial example in understanding how victimhood has framed national identity historically and contemporarily.
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