People swarmed from every direction.
They flooded the streets of the Serbian capital, Belgrade, flags on their shoulders, emblems raised high toward windowsills and beyond. Their rhythmic chants of “poompa, poompa, poompa” surged with excitement, electrifying the city air until it was ready to boil.
Later, our guide explained their words meant “to pump,” or “to pump it up until it explodes”—a fitting rallying cry for the collective, energetic anger of Serbian youth.
We had flown out of San Francisco just a day before for a weeklong experiential learning course called Peace and Reconciliation in the Balkans and landed in the midst of the biggest protest in Serbian history.
What I noticed first was that the protesters were young—many younger than me. They marched in tracksuits and raggedy sneakers, carrying generations worth of frustration on their shoulders. They treaded down the same roads, flanked by buildings that had been razed to the ground again and again—from Attila the Hun in 442 to NATO bombings in 1999.
Perhaps that violent history is what made Serbian youth so uniquely aware of their place in it. They understood the importance of standing up—organized and peaceful—against the corrupt government of Aleksander Vučić. That the student-led protest remained entirely nonviolent, despite being 300,000 strong, grew even more impressive as we gradually delved deeper into the region’s history and politics on our trip.
From speaker to speaker, activists, academics, human rights lawyers, we learned—clumsily but surely—that the people’s grievances ran deep. Government corruption, nepotism, mafia ties. Environmental degradation. State-controlled media.
As we stood in the middle of Belgrade’s Central Plaza, our guide noted that it was being repaved again, just months after the last paving—a typical pattern in a country where public works projects are often a part of corrupt, cronyist maneuvers.
The specific spark for this wave of protests was the Novi Sad tragedy in November 2024, when a canopy at the railway station collapsed during renovations, killing 16 and injuring another. But really, that was just the last straw.
So, despite everything—all the strife and systemic injustice—would the peaceful protesters get what they hoped for? Would the protests turn violent?
On the trip, I had the opportunity to pose these questions to a Serbian expert on regional peace and conflict. After all, despite the soaring demonstrations of March 15, Vučić still stubbornly refused to resign.
The expert’s take was that a peaceful protest—no matter how large—was unlikely to unseat the regime. He noted that it was the students leading the work to call out that the status quo was unacceptable—but that it was the older generations who needed to be accountable for making change.
One unique aspect of this protest sparked intergenerational exchange.
Prior to the protest, the government had stopped all transportation into Belgrade. In response, Serbian youth trekked to the capital city on foot from all over the country. Meanwhile, to accommodate these erstwhile pilgrims, local restaurants banded together to feed the protestors, and universities organized makeshift spaces for their sojourn.
For me, a vicarious observer, those were the details that mattered. More than the images on the news, these acts of solidarity showed how citizens can leap from apathy to action, how a fractured society can unite to let its future speak.
We would do well to learn from the Serbians. What I witnessed was more than a protest. It was a powerful accusation—a finger pointed directly at tyranny, as if to say:
We want change, not brutality. But what about you?
Roo Luo is currently completing her MA in International Policy and Development at the Middlebury Institute. She has a background in East Asian regional studies and post-Socialist culture and society.
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