Serbia is once again trembling with unrest, not from the aftershocks of war, but from the deep rumblings of civil discontent.
What began as a candlelit vigil for victims of state corruption has exploded into the largest wave of protest the country has seen since the fall of Slobodan Milošević.
Tens of thousands of demonstrators packed the streets of Belgrade this weekend, braving police lines, barbed wire, and – in an unprecedented move – the piercing shriek of Long Range Acoustic Devices (LRADs), a controversial crowd-control weapon more often seen in war zones than European capitals. The use of these so-called sound cannons against unarmed citizens observing a minute’s silence has sent shockwaves far beyond the Balkans.
“We were standing in silence, holding photos of our loved ones,” said Marija Jovanović, whose brother died in a hospital fire allegedly caused by misallocated funds. “Then came this horrible sound. It was deafening – like the state was trying to drown out our grief.”
The trigger for the protests is as tragic as it is telling. A spate of recent deaths – including in hospitals, infrastructure collapses, and police custody – have been linked to what activists describe as a “culture of systemic corruption.” The protesters accuse President Aleksandar Vučić’s administration of hollowing out state institutions, suppressing dissent, and siphoning public money through opaque tenders and cronies.
What distinguishes this round of unrest from Serbia’s turbulent past is its scale and demographic breadth. Pensioners march beside students. Doctors in white coats link arms with farmers. Even Orthodox priests have appeared in the crowd, blessing mourners and warning of “moral decay at the heart of the state.”
Government officials have been quick to downplay the uprising, dismissing it as the work of “foreign provocateurs” and “radical extremists.” But such rhetoric rings increasingly hollow as videos flood social media showing riot police pushing elderly protesters and LRADs being deployed against peaceful gatherings.
The LRAD, a device capable of projecting focused sound at over 150 decibels, has raised particular alarm. Its use in Serbia marks the first time a European government has turned the device on its own people in peacetime. Human rights watchdogs have condemned the move, warning that prolonged exposure can cause permanent hearing damage, especially in children and the elderly.
“This is not policing, this is psychological warfare,” said one international observer based in Belgrade. “To unleash military-grade sound weapons against citizens engaged in a silent memorial is not just disproportionate – it is dystopian.”
Yet defiance is thick in the air. When the sound cannons howled, protesters dropped to their knees in silent resistance, clutching photographs of lost relatives and banners reading “You Will Not Silence Our Dead.”
The symbolic power of silence in the face of sonic assault has not been lost on observers. For many Serbs, it evokes memories of darker chapters in the nation’s history – from NATO air raids to communist purges – and speaks to a deeper yearning for dignity and justice in a country long tormented by misrule.
President Vučić, who has ruled with an increasingly iron fist since 2017, has found himself on the defensive. While his Serbian Progressive Party maintains control of parliament and much of the media, cracks are beginning to show. Several local mayors have resigned in recent days amid corruption allegations, and a leaked memo from the Ministry of Interior revealed internal concern over “unprecedented civil resistance.”
In response to mounting criticism, Vučić has promised a “full investigation” into the hospital deaths and has vowed to clamp down on corruption – promises that ring familiar to a public weary of empty pledges. At the same time, his government has doubled down on security measures, authorising the use of tear gas, baton charges, and continued LRAD deployments.
International reaction has been muted. The European Union, ever cautious when it comes to the Western Balkans, issued a tepid statement urging “dialogue and restraint on all sides.” The United States called for respect for the right to peaceful protest, but stopped short of criticising the Serbian government directly.
Such diplomatic hedging is hardly surprising. Vučić, despite his strongman image, is seen by many in Brussels and Washington as a linchpin of regional stability – a leader who can keep Kosovo negotiations on track and Russian influence at bay. Yet critics argue that this realpolitik comes at the cost of enabling creeping authoritarianism.
Back in Republic Square, where the protests began, there is little faith left in international saviours. “The EU won’t save us. America won’t save us,” said Dragan Petrović, a retired engineer who joined the protests for the first time this week. “We have to save ourselves – with courage, with truth, and with silence, if that’s all we have.”
As night fell on Belgrade, the candles flicker once more. No slogans. No chants. Just the hum of grief and the roar of defiance beneath it. Serbia stands at a crossroads – one that may well define its future far beyond the current headlines.
