Belgrade, Interrupted

As protests swept through the Serbian capital, Belgrade’s warmth became the only route home.

Our journey through the Balkans was winding to a close, and Serbia’s capital, Belgrade, was our final destination. Of all the cities we visited during two months of travel, Belgrade stood apart. It was vivid, layered and inexplicably welcoming. Its blend of history and modernity was magnetic; its people were unfailingly warm.

But even as we settled into its rhythms, the city was shifting beneath us. In the weeks leading up to our arrival, protests had erupted across Serbia as citizens took to the streets to demand justice, reforms and resignations. We were told not to worry; the demonstrations were mostly peaceful and unlikely to interfere with daily life. That assurance proved overly optimistic.

Our first week in Belgrade was spent deciphering its public transport, not because of the usual cultural hurdles (new language, unfamiliar scripts) but because much of the city centre had been cordoned off. Protesters had pitched tents around the Parliament Square and other government buildings, blocking routes and forcing buses to take endless detours. We missed our walking tour twice, not due to tardiness but because buses simply stopped showing up. Even the locals were confused, hopping off at random stops, trying to guess their way home.

Yet, in a way only Belgrade could make charming, these detours became a form of sightseeing. By the end of week one, we had inadvertently discovered far more streets than a guidebook would ever suggest. And over the next fortnight, the city slowly unfolded itself. We found joy in the small things – the friendly café owners, sunset walks by the Danube and conversations that bridged cultural divides. Our earlier transport woes had transformed us into reluctant but competent public transit veterans.

Then came June 28. Over 140,000 people flooded the streets in what was one of the largest protests in recent Serbian memory. This time, we heeded the warnings and stayed in. The next morning, Belgrade appeared calm again - almost deceptively so.

That evening, eager to enjoy one final night with our Serbian friends before departing for Germany, we arranged to meet in Zemun, a charming suburb with cobbled streets and fairy-tale architecture. What would normally be a 40-minute bus ride turned into a 90-minute odyssey. New road blockades had appeared, protesting arrests from the previous day. After switching between three buses and navigating near-constant detours, we finally arrived. But the city had more chaos in store.

At around 10 pm, reports surfaced that major roads including bridges connecting Zemun to the rest of Belgrade were being closed. The buses had stopped running. The cab-hailing apps returned nothing. For a while, the streets fell into an eerie stillness. Zemun, usually filled with laughter and promenade-strolling families, had emptied out. Police stood stiffly in position. Protesters, blowing whistles and waving flags, marched with resolve.

We were not the only ones stranded. A young man approached us, asking if he could share a cab. Unfortunately, we were headed in opposite directions. He shrugged and prepared for a two-hour walk. We were luckier, if only by virtue of friendship. Our Serbian companions refused to leave us behind. For an hour, the six of us tried every means to secure transport. When nothing materialised, they took us in for the night.

On the walk back to their apartment, we passed through a city that had cleaved into three groups: citizens desperate to return home; demonstrators seeking justice; and police tasked with preventing collapse. Whistles, slogans, and chants echoed through the narrow lanes. We did not understand the words, but we felt their urgency.

By morning, the tents remained, but the crowds had dispersed. Bus service had resumed. We reached our apartment only to find, soon after, that Zemun had been sealed off again. Our friends texted us photos of the streets we had walked now brimming once more with protestors.

As we made our way to the Belgrade bus station the next day, a wave of emotion overtook me. For three weeks, the city had given us not only beauty and hospitality, but a glimpse of its pain and persistence. Its streets had carried our confusion and our awe, our joy and our worry. As we left its city limits, I made a private vow: to return someday not as a passing visitor, but to a place that, somewhere along the way, had become home.

(The writer is a foreign language tutor and an inveterate wanderlust.)