In an increasingly polarized Serbia, silence is often a conscious response to exhaustion, risk, and the limits of constant political engagement. From Storyteller.rs.
In Serbia, where silence has become suspicious, there are people who do not shout and cannot be heard. In most cases, they do it consciously. Not because they have nothing to say, but most often because they have learned how quickly noise eats up meaning. And while the fight for truth, justice, memory, or just the feeling that something can still be changed is being waged in the streets – they remain on the sidelines. Not because they are indifferent, but because they choose to observe and to breathe between two extremes.
They rarely speak of their reasons in public. Most often they do so only in confidence, in conversations that never make it into notebooks.
Many of those quiet conversations carry a similar vein: people who once fought loudly for change are now choosing caution. Some of them were part of movements like Otpor, which helped topple Milosevic’s regime in 2000, or stood in the crowds during earlier turning points, deeply believing in the promise of October 2000 and all that came before it.
They carried an enormous burden then: organizing, resisting, and pushing history forward. And now they hesitate. Not out of apathy, but out of a hard-won fear that a new personal commitment might lead to another collapse. In a few months, or years.
For them, retreat is not an escape; it is a way to preserve the energy and determination they still have left and wait for the moment when they feel that their engagement can have real meaning.
Many of them are simply waiting for the next election, believing that this is when their voice will carry the most weight.
Today’s society lives on a thin line between noise and silence – between those who take to the streets and those who stay in the workshops, offices, classrooms. And then there is an invisible majority that does not choose a camp, but every day chooses that “something” that the other two sides cannot understand and accept. Their neutrality is most often not the absence of a stance, but a mirror of a society that has learned to fear both its own voice and its own shadow.
This is the story of those who, in a society that has long been dividing faster than it can understand, are called neutral.
Aleksandar is one of them.
Aleksandar: Silence of the Shop
In a country where every opinion must be assigned to a camp, Aleksandar chooses not to have one. Not because he doesn’t know, but because he knows too much. Standing aside has become his only remaining freedom and a short pause between the arguments he sees on the streets, in the media, and on social networks.
In his repair shop, the smell of oil and gasoline mixes with the odor of coffee from a large mug. The engine roars, the radio plays quietly, and the door is wide open to the street, where people and news pass by. Aleksandar is 30 years old and works as a car mechanic in a city in Vojvodina that we won’t name here. He wouldn’t want it either. He says that peace is the greatest luxury he has left.
“Everything is political here,” he says. “Even if you’re fixing a car, they’ll ask you, ‘Whose are you?’ ”
He grew up seeing factories shut down one by one, with stories of workers’ pride and unions that are now almost nonexistent. His father worked in a factory that went bankrupt during privatization. “At least he knew who was to blame,” Aleksandar says. “Nobody knows anymore.”
He doesn’t watch TV, he doesn’t trust news sites. The news, he says, is just noise to him. “When you keep hearing the same noise, you don’t even know where it’s coming from. It’s just buzzing in your head,” he adds.
He’s often told that he’s apathetic. He says he’s not. He says he’s tired of having to make choices in everything. “A friend of mine was at the protests. Now he can’t find a job because everyone knows he was there. Another one who kept quiet is said to be a coward. And I’m looking for an answer to the question: if you have to choose between a sticker and a paycheck that will keep you alive, which will you choose?”
Sometimes, when he closes the shop, he looks up at the sky through the clouds of smoke and dust. The engine is still cold, silent, as if it is barely breathing. He says that at these times he thinks about what is happening, but he does not see his place in it. “I do not want to choose sides, but I also know that I do not want to close my eyes either. I do not know any other way to explain this attitude of mine.”
Perhaps this is his form of resistance: an attempt to preserve at least a bit of silence in a time that allows it less and less.
Belgian anthropologist Stef Jansen has written about such silent forms of internal resistance. In his article “The Streets of Beograd: Urban Space and Protest Identities in Serbia,” based on field research on the protests in Belgrade in 1996–1997, he pointed out that resistance is often born not in city squares, but in everyday life – in streets, apartments, and even in the silence of living rooms.
Aleksandar’s repair shop may not even be such a space, but in a country where silence is often considered loyalty, even silence can become a place where resistance begins to take shape.
When Even Grief Becomes Political
It was 1 November 2024. At 11:52 in the morning, the roof of a newly renovated railway station collapsed in Novi Sad. Sixteen people died. In a second, the metal structure transformed from an everyday thing to a horror. The city suddenly became a symbol of neglect and a metaphor for corruption that cannot be seen, but everyone feels. And everyone is silent. Until it kills.
While firefighters and rescue workers were pulling out bodies, state officials took turns in front of the cameras. Before investigators arrived on the scene, the tabloid media already had the culprits and state officials claimed that the roof was not even the subject of reconstruction. Of course, it turned out very quickly that they were lying.
But people had already started taking to the streets. In silence. Without speeches, without slogans. Only with flowers and candles, with eyes lowered to the ground and one question in their eyes: how did we get here?
Novi Sad became a symbol of continuity that evening – not only of tragedy, but also of the resilience of a society that, despite fear, still manages to mobilize. Over the past three decades, Serbia had witnessed various protests. Each of them had the same thread: an attempt to awaken a society that had learned to be silent. Sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly, citizens tried again and again to push the boundaries of normality – only to return to the same state of exhaustion and disbelief after each rebellion.
And then, after the disaster in Novi Sad, the silence broke again – thanks to students. In the days that followed, faculty blockades and peaceful protests spread from city to city, from university to university, from urban areas to rural towns. By December of that year, more than 80,000 people were on the streets in the three largest cities: Belgrade, Novi Sad, and Nis. On 1 February 2025, Novi Sad students organized a protest on three bridges, while on 15 March, a protest in Belgrade gathered, according to some estimates, around 300,000 citizens.
As the Helsinki Committee for Human Rights states in its report “Student and Civic Revolt: Fear Switched Sides,” the student protests mobilized a society that had been apathetic for decades and inclined to resignation rather than resistance. Although still without a clearly formulated alternative to power, the student uprising became the trigger for a broader social resistance, the beginning of a long and difficult process of creating a system of values and political responsibility.
“Without a new social and political paradigm, without a new reference system of values, it is difficult to imagine the defeat of [President Aleksandar] Vucic’s regime under the existing circumstances,” the report concludes.
This document summarizes what was already felt on the streets: that the resistance in Serbia today is not organized, but it is persistent; that it may not yet have leaders, but it is aware that silence has become unbearable.
On the Ethical Burden of Choosing to Stay on the Sidelines
While some loudly demand change, others remain silent. Maybe out of fear, maybe out of helplessness, because every word can be misinterpreted in this country. Like Aleksandar, they choose silence – and they are not alone in it. Their silence is part of a broader picture of a society in which every nuance is narrowed to the extreme and every word is measured through fandom logic.
The line between voice and silence, between responsibility and overlooking, is particularly problematic for Czech philosopher Tomas Koblizek, who believes that the term “polarization” is often used incorrectly in modern society – as if the opposing sides were equal and each had a piece of the truth.
“We use the word ‘polarization’ as if it were about symmetry. But in reality, conflicts are often not symmetrical. Some sides are more powerful, more vocal, have a monopoly on the media and language,” he says. “So it’s wrong to say that everyone is ‘equally guilty’ of divisions. When we do that, we actually shift responsibility to those who may be trying to resolve the conflict.”
According to his interpretation, neutrality is not always appropriate. “If we know who is abusing power and we pretend not to see it, that is not neutrality, that is complicity in inaction.”
Nevertheless, Koblizek emphasizes that not all silence is the same. “There is a difference between those who are silent because they are running away from responsibility and those who are silent because speaking out would pose an existential risk for them and their loved ones,” he says. “The question is whether anyone can ask them to publicly criticize.”
When Silence Becomes Resistance
Social anthropologist Aleksandar Boskovic does not find the phenomenon of political neutrality surprising, but as a natural pattern of human behavior. “People naturally have different opinions. We have never thought in unison,” he says. “What is called neutrality today is just another option – a way of being neither for nor against, or both for and against at the same time.”
According to Boskovic, neutrality does not have to mean apathy, but a rational attempt by an individual to find a safe place in a world that requires him to take sides.
“In societies with a high level of conflict, people choose what allows them to survive. And that is a rational decision, even if it looks like a retreat from the outside,” he says.
Koblizek follows up on Boskovic’s anthropological analysis of silence as a rational response, emphasizing that silence in modern societies is not always a personal choice, but a consequence of fatigue.
“Some people’s silence is sometimes the result of manipulation in the information space,” Koblizek says. “Disinformation campaigns today often deliberately provide the audience with contradictory information, overwhelming them, so that people lose interest in the topic, they get tired, they no longer express themselves.”
It is a state in which people do not trust anyone – not because they are stupid, but because they are exhausted, he says.
Koblizek adds that silence can also be the result of deliberate misrepresentation, the aim of which is to cast doubt on any fact and to make everything seem relative. “People are then less inclined to speak out clearly against injustice when this injustice is presented to them as injustice only from a certain point of view.”
But some people who keep their distance sometimes really do avoid responsibility, just as some who take to the streets carry thoughtful and reflective positions that go far beyond slogans. Both truths can exist simultaneously.
For reality is rarely binary. It is shaped by different thresholds of fear, fatigue, courage, and care. Between silence and protest lies a wide spectrum of human experience and none of it fits neatly into the categories we try to impose.
Attributed Silence
Auto mechanic Aleksandar chose silence. But there are those who did not choose it – it was attributed to them. People whose silence is interpreted as a sign of loyalty and every word as proof of belonging.
In another city, in another context, there is a person about whom much is known but almost nothing is heard. She works in a public institution, not out of conviction, but as a professional. For years, she has tried to keep her work above politics: to let results speak instead of statements.
But in a country where silence has its own color, that’s not enough.
“They called me ‘their’ person,” she says. “And no one asked me what I thought.”
“Of course, you can’t escape politics here, even if you think you have nothing to do with it,” she says. “If you don’t support either side, you’re immediately ‘their’ person. …
“Polarization doesn’t just manifest itself in the media. It enters family homes, offices, meeting rooms, hallways, and relationships between colleagues. People have stopped greeting each other, they don’t go out for coffee together. Everything becomes a sign – both speech and silence.”
“I’m neither for nor against,” she adds. “I’m just trying to support the work, the people, the institution, and some kind of normality. This is my resistance. My response. Not to lay down my arms.”
Sometimes, she adds, she wonders if she’s wrong. “Everyone expects me to join in. But I can’t lie. I can’t scream if I don’t believe it. And then they call me a coward. Or a coworker. And I’m just trying to survive, to maintain what little dignity I have at work, in interpersonal and collegial relationships, and in my surroundings,” she says, her voice starting to shake.
She is silent when politicians come, she is silent when local activists criticize her. “Everyone looks at you as an enemy if you are not with them. And whose enemy am I? I just want to do my job,” she pauses and lowers her voice. “I often ask myself where my limits are, how long I can ethically and psychologically endure working in such an unhealthy environment. First and foremost, one must think about one’s health. Sometimes I tell myself that I will leave. But if all of us who try to work honestly leave, who will stay? Who will protect the institutions that are still breathing?”
The silence is not due to fear, but to exhaustion. “I am not a neutral person,” she says. “I just don’t explain myself anymore.”
Boskovic points out that political communication in Serbia has been confined to its own bubbles for decades. “Parties and movements speak almost exclusively to their own supporters. Few try to reach out to the undecided, and even fewer to those who are neutral – and that is a mistake,” he says.
That is why, he adds, neutrality is often mistaken for passivity, even though it carries a trace of resistance – an attempt to maintain normalcy and distance in a world saturated with aggression.
“When you are pressed from all sides, retreat becomes a way to maintain inner peace,” Boskovic says. “These are people who do not want to be part of the noise. And that is a political stance.”
He explains that societal anger towards “neutrals” often stems from a sense of powerlessness. “You can see this in art too. In Lars von Trier’s 1991 film Europa, he depicts Germany after World War II, where a priest says that God supports both the victors and the vanquished, but not the neutrals. This is, of course, an allusion to Dante and his idea that there is a special circle of hell for those who remain neutral in times of moral crisis,” he says.
This is the message that often resonates in speeches, headlines, and social media today, directed at those who are called “neutrals.” However, such an attitude, Boskovic says, does not stem from moral superiority, but from a sense of powerlessness on the part of those who shout and still cannot change the system – and therefore look for the guilty among those who remain silent.
“In reality, silence is often not a betrayal, but a way of surviving in a space where both sides are equally violent – just with a different sign.”
Boskovic says that withdrawing from public life can in some cases be understood as a symbolic act of resistance.
“When you are pressed by aggression from all sides, retreat is a rational response, an attempt to maintain ‘normality’ and safety. In the 1990s, many in Serbia lived in ‘internal emigration.’ Today, this pattern is repeated, only in the digital world, on networks full of hatred and noise,” he says.
Indeed, in societies like Serbia’s, where the boundaries between public and private are constantly blurred, silence often becomes the last refuge of rationality. Boskovic refers to Max Weber, who wrote in the early 20th century about different types of rationality and how people in complex societies make decisions that are always logical from their perspective.
“Those we call neutrals make rational decisions – they behave in the way that seems safest to them. This does not mean that they are against change, but that they are choosing a way to survive the chaos,” Boskovic says.
Such patterns, he says, are not new. Historian Latinka Perovic has written about them through the prism of “internal emigration” and the conflict between the “dominant and unwanted elite” in Serbian society.
“Since the late 19th century, liberal and enlightenment tendencies have been suppressed and discouraged. People who tried to change society often ended up in silence – not because they had nothing to say, but because no one wanted to hear them,” Boskovic says.
Jasmina: A Voice That Understands Both Silence and Shouting
Jasmina Mihnjak from Novi Sad has her own opinion. She participated in protests in the 1990s and never stopped believing that change starts with individuals. Yet today, after all the waves of anger and disappointment, she no longer shouts.
“Not because I agree with those I once shouted against,” she says. “But because I have learned how easily shouting can become an echo of what you are fighting against.”
She is a psychologist by profession, and therefore she perceives every social upheaval as a prolonged trauma. “What we are experiencing is not just a political crisis, it is long-term stress, collective fatigue. People no longer have the capacity for anger or faith. That is why they withdraw into their own little microworlds, creating personal survival zones. That is not apathy, that is psychological self-defense,” she says.
For her, silence is sometimes the only way to preserve the little inner peace that is left.
“Peace is no longer a luxury, but a question of mental health. When you constantly live in noise, you have to find your own quiet space, even if only within yourself. Otherwise, you will go crazy,” she says.
Mihnjak often talks about the breaking of the bond of understanding.
“We have lost the ability to see things through the eyes of others. Even if we know someone is right, if they are not ‘ours,’ we don’t want to hear them,” Mihnjak says. “There is no longer any dialogue on social media, only echoes. People write to be heard, not to have a conversation.”
Mihnjak compares today’s protests to those of her youth.
“In the 1990s, we had a sense of belonging, at least in the fight against injustice. Today, there is more energy, but also more frustration. Young people grow up in a noisy society where every emotion is ridiculed or abused,” she says. “And that is why I understand them. Some scream out of helplessness, others remain silent to protect themselves. Both reactions are human.”
Although she often attends protests, Mihnjak says she no longer always goes.
“I am bothered by this new moral exclusivity. It is as if each side thinks it has a monopoly on the truth. And I am interested in dialogue, not victory,” she says.
A Language That Divides
“The saddest thing is that no one from the other side – from the street, from the movements – has ever come to talk to those they are fighting against. To ask: ‘How do you see this country?’ As if dialogue is no longer an option,” Mihnjak says.
She thinks that protests serve as a brief moment when society speaks before falling silent again.
“It is important that we do not lose the voice of understanding in the noise. Because if we forget how to listen to each other, we will wake up to silence again – only emptier,” Mihnjak says.
In the end, she says, we don’t need more shouting.
“We need to learn to talk again. To admit that none of us is completely right and that silence is sometimes the only way to hear others again,” Mihnjak says.
This is what philosopher Koblizek is also talking about when he claims that the solution cannot come through even louder conflict, but through a change in language.
“Polarization often persists because speakers no longer use words to exchange ideas, but to present their own identity. We do not enter into dialogue with the intention of saying something and hearing something, but only to show who we are. That is why conflicts are often static,” he says.
“Polarization ends when we stop talking about others and start talking to others.”
Vladimira Dorcova Valtnerova is a media consultant and journalist based in Serbia’s Vojvodina province. She is the owner and editor-in-chief of Storyteller.rs, where this article originally appeared in Slovak.
This article was written as a part of the Complicating the Narrative pilot project at Transitions.
