Serbia’s Silent Shame: How Homophobia is Eroding the Country’s Soul

The recent spate of attacks on LGBTQ+ individuals in Serbia has cast a harsh spotlight on the country’s entrenched homophobia and growing intolerance. Documented cases of violence against queer people have never been higher, with over 110 recorded incidents last year – more than ever before.

At its core, the issue is one of normalization. President Aleksandar Vucic and his Serbian Progressive Party have stoked a toxic climate of nationalism and xenophobia, targeting marginalized groups as “other”. This isn’t just about violence; it’s about erasure – the systematic elimination of identities that don’t fit into mainstream Serbia.

The rise of Da se Zna!, an NGO dedicated to documenting attacks on queer people, is a testament to the desperation of those fighting for their rights. The organization’s program coordinator, Matija Stefanovic, has spoken out against the systemic problem of violence and impunity in Serbian society. Yet even his words can’t mask the stark reality: anyone who dares to be different in Serbia today risks becoming a target.

This is a matter of national shame, rather than just a human rights issue. As Stefanovic has said, “We try to show people living in these towns that we know how hard it is – and that we haven’t forgotten about them.” However, for too long, Serbia has allowed itself to forget its own humanity.

The legacy of Slobodan Milosevic’s regime still casts a shadow over the country. The current government’s increasingly authoritarian tendencies have exacerbated the problem, making it difficult to address the root causes of homophobia in Serbian society. According to the latest edition of the Rainbow Map, Serbia has slipped six spots below the European average in terms of LGBTQ+ rights.

This decline reflects a society that has lost its way – and its sense of compassion. When 80% of respondents to an EU survey say they avoid holding hands with their partner in public, it’s clear that something is seriously wrong.

Education is key, as Stefanovic argues. However, education alone won’t solve the problem; it will take a fundamental shift in attitude and values. This means confronting the toxic nationalism that has taken hold of Serbia’s politics, and recognizing the humanity – not just the rights – of all citizens.

In Belgrade, the city remains quiet after recent attacks, its streets still reeling from the aftermath. Despite the violence and fear, there are glimmers of hope. The Pride Caravan that traveled to small towns around the country faced hostility and death threats, but it also brought a message of defiance – and resilience.

This is a battle for Serbia’s soul, a fight against the forces of darkness that seek to erode its humanity, and for the rights and dignity of all citizens – regardless of their identity or orientation. As Stefanovic so eloquently put it: “We know how hard it is – and we haven’t forgotten about them.” But will Serbia remember too?