On November 1, 2024, at 11:52 AM, Serbian collective consciousness entered a phase of intense transformation — one that would continue to shift and rearrange itself over the months to come. At that precise moment, a concrete canopy at a bustling railway station collapsed in Novi Sad, Serbia’s second-largest city, claiming 16 lives. As the news spread across the country, it stirred a wave of shock and sorrow, tearing open frustrations that had simmered for years.
The Novi Sad railway station was built in 1964 and underwent renovation between 2021 and 2024, restarting its operations in August last year. The majority of the Serbian sections of the railway were financed through a flagship project of China’s Belt and Road Initiative in the region, which would connect Belgrade to Budapest. The European Union also contributed funds to the wider infrastructure upgrade. The nature of these investments serves as a manifestation of Serbia’s geopolitical crossroads: a country waiting in the EU’s antechamber since 2012, yet with one eye turned east. But the questionability of this project goes beyond the symbolism of who paid for it.
The station was intended to serve as a symbol of Serbia’s progress and was set in motion by the Serbian Progressive Party, which has held the majority in Parliament since 2012. However, following the tragedy, it raised significant concerns over corruption and a lack of transparency. According to a report conducted by the Faculty of Technical Sciences in Novi Sad, the canopy was 23.11 tons heavier than originally designed. Following the collapse, Serbian President Aleksandar Vučić claimed that the underlying cause of the tragedy was the fact that the canopy was not renovated along with the rest of the railway station. Nevertheless, construction engineer Danijel Dašić explained that the canopy was lined with new marble slabs, which is enough evidence to assume that some work was done on it. Other experts voiced a similar opinion, denouncing the official statements as misleading and highlighting several construction flaws. Suspicion was further fueled by the refusal of the Chinese contractors to share documentation of the reconstruction publicly. Furthermore, the main subcontractor — hired by the Chinese consortium — was a local construction company, Starting, which was directly responsible for the construction. Starting has benefited from a warm relationship with the ruling party, securing numerous valuable government contracts since 2014.
The Serbian public did not take these links for granted or as mere coincidences. Students were the first to start what would soon become known as the Serbian fight against corruption. Student demonstrations evolved into nationwide protests overnight. The unrest gained momentum through symbols like painted red hands to represent the blood of the victims of the collapse, and blank sheets of paper to highlight the state of the Constitution and laws. The Minister of Transportation soon resigned, followed by the resignation of the Serbian Prime Minister Miloš Vučević at the end of January. However, Serbians did not find this sufficient, as they continued to demand accountability and prosecution of those responsible for the disaster — and the President refused to give that to them.
Instead, the President pardoned four men who assaulted a student protester and broke his jaw, authorized usage of a sonic weapon on protesters in Belgrade, and interrupted public transportation to Belgrade on the eve of protests. All of these invoked security concerns. The government went as far as mobilizing its own group of protesters, paying them up to $100 a day. Finally, the President and his party failed to hold anybody accountable; as of the one-year anniversary of the tragedy, no one has been tried, convicted, or sentenced for the collapse, which led to tens of thousands of protestors last weekend, with students marching over 70 miles from Novi Sad to Belgrade.
I visited Belgrade during one of its calmer weeks at the end of May. One of my first stops was the Museum of Yugoslavia, once the residence of Josip Broz Tito, where I met Ana. She was born in Belgrade but left for Paris in 2014. It was her second day back home, and she brought some of her foreign friends. I joined their conversation as it drifted toward the ongoing protests. Ana spoke about the protests with a mix of pride and content. Yet beneath her words ran a current of cynicism — a familiar feeling of disbelief I had often encountered in those who no longer trust that collective action can yield real, structural change. She, like many others whom I talked to, shared a vision of a future that was somewhat removed from the EU vision, which the Serbian government claimed to have. I was unsure whether there was a more positive outlook on the Serbian-Russian relationship, though the deep cultural affinity has been dictating the dynamics of this partnership for decades. However, Ana clearly illustrated the paradox of Serbia, which commonly existed before November 1, 2024, which is that people talked about politics but refused to get involved directly.
Serbia is a lively country with large patches of greenery and the mixed restlessness with fatigue of a young person. There are still remnants of violence and aggression from Slobodan Milošević’s authoritarian rule, reminding those who remember history that inaction is never harmless. The country may still wrestle with its place in the greater geopolitical picture, pledging allegiance to EU membership while maintaining ties with Russia. And yet, in the streets and in conversations with people like Ana, it becomes clear that the Serbian people are aware of their position — and, when pressed, they are willing to act, though the path ahead remains uncertain and fraught.
~ Cristina Panaguta `26
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