glava

Riots Are Easy. Ballots Are Harder.

Ever since I saw Adam Curtis’s 2025 documentary series Shifty, I can’t stop thinking about a sub-plot in it: that intellectuals and creative thinkers withdrew into art instead of trying to change the real-world political system.

In my circle, this was absolutely true. At the beginning of the 21st century, we found doing politics, and even debating politics, boring. We much preferred discussing music and movies, and we were deeply convinced that understanding them was what mattered. In real life, from nine to five, we were chasing breadcrumbs left by the post-WWII generation.

The breadcrumbs are gone now. In Europe, austerity measures and corrupt politics have left my whole generation pessimistic about our future.

The revolts in France over recent weeks show that the new generation will not sit on its hands and accept that this grim reality is theirs. This raw, unstructured process shows that a generation can quickly become radicalized, but European youth are still unsure how to become politicized.

They might take a lesson from the Serbian students.

I am in Belgrade right now, where I will have the chance to take part in historic elections this weekend. These elections are the result of relentless student pressure on a corrupt, crime-ridden government. The spin dictatorship that has ruled Serbia for a decade and a half was surprised by the students’ uprising and didn’t know how to tackle it. The students confused the system even more by deciding to run their own electoral list. The ruling government started glitching because a new generation wants to reassess collective action as a means of change. The students aren’t handing their momentum to an opposition party; they are on the ballot themselves.

The corrupt Serbian government will not let go easily. They will intimidate, steal, and in the end resort to violence. We already know the script; the actors in this government charade have been playing the same roles since the nineties. All the dirty tricks are known; only this time, the student movement has energized a large part of the country, which openly speaks out against the government and is ready to fight for democracy and the rule of law.

The conversations being held in Belgrade now, in family homes, restaurants, and cafés, are somber but full of hope. We are waiting for a perfect ending.

With that, my millennial brain goes to the only perfect ending I know — The Sopranos — and to the song that closes it: “Don’t Stop Believin’.” It’s the soundtrack for this week.

Further reading

1. The 2024–present anti-corruption protests — overview, from the Novi Sad canopy collapse to today
2. Crime group chief claims contacts with the president — on KRIK's Belivuk investigation
3. Beyond football: the power of Balkan hooligans — Belgrade Centre for Security Policy

Notes from riding a 200 km brevet.

The petrol station worker takes two steps out the door and lights a cigarette when he sees me coming on my road bike. I can see him sigh as I clearly disturb his hundred-percent-illegal break. This is the downside of having German as a third language; I can't properly scold him for how dangerous it is to smoke at a petrol station. And also - I'm not in the mood. I am on the clock, riding a 200 km brevet, and this middle-of-nowhere petrol station is my refueling break.

I started that morning at 7:10 from Moabit. I was on the start line just a few minutes before seven, and was pleasantly surprised by the variety of bikes. In the past, I did brand-sponsored group rides where all bikes were carbon, everyone wore tight Lycra, and the mood was usually serious and grim. Here, people of all ages were relaxed and smiling and dressed as if they had never seen an Instagram cycling ad. A brevet is not a race; it is a social event where a group of people tries to cycle at least 200 km under a strict time limit, through a series of checkpoints. It is a low-key event for long-distance nerds. Just bike riders standing on the pavement of a quiet street, waiting for their assigned time to come up. Then they jump on their bikes and start pedaling in the same direction.

On long-distance rides, petrol stations are my main source of nourishment. Although I have enough calories on my bike, I usually still need to resupply with water, and this smoker's petrol station is the only thing open around kilometer 110. I enter the store behind the worker and his last puff of smoke. While I browse the drinks, looking for iced coffee and water, four people enter the store, and they all seem to know each other. Nobody is here to fill up the tank; they're here to chat, buy lottery tickets, stale petrol station sandwiches, and cigarettes. With my arms full of bottles and snacks, I queue behind all of them, realizing this is not going to be a quick stop.

I don't like bike racing, but once I start pedaling, I have a ticking clock. As long as I am moving, I feel peaceful. So I am nervous in the queue, because this isn't according to plan. Deep down I know a few more minutes mean nothing on a nine-hour bike, but the pedaling devil sits on my left shoulder, and whispers: "You are wasting time here." I seriously consider leaving the store; the next petrol station is at 135k, and the one after that at 170k. I know this because I carefully went through every segment of the route and mapped every place I could use to rest.

After fourteen minutes of patiently waiting, it is my turn at the register. The worker is chatting above my head with a lady leaving the petrol station, both of them laughing, while he scans my items on autopilot. Silence fills the store as we're alone again; our eyes meet, and his smile turns solemn as he asks, "Cash or a card?" My card taps the cash register before he finishes his sentence.

I love long-distance cycling because it stretches time. Everything feels way longer, and as a result, everything is more memorable. On any other day, this petrol station interaction is something I would forget. But this goes straight into the memory bank along with a guy on a Ritchye bike I rode with for 20k, pushing each other as hard as we could; a lady at a petrol station serving me espresso in a real espresso cup with a small biscuit, saying everyone should enjoy a cup of coffee properly; a dip in energy I felt at 150k, pedaling through it anyway; a guy who shared a water bottle with me at a petrol station at 170k; a rider on a flat-pedal bike who had to shake out her hands every few minutes from the strain; a stain of iced coffee on my left shoulder that I spilled somewhere along the ride and only noticed at the finish line; along with many more small encounters, brief sentences, and unusual patterns of the landscape north of Berlin.

While I stuff myself with the sweets I also bought, the smoker steps outside, takes two steps from the door, looks into the dirty public ashtray, finds the cigarette he left unfinished when I came, takes it out, lights it again, looks at me and says: "Gute Fahrt noch." I thank him, and I feel that my actions haven't disturbed a single thing. I am just a tiny dot moving slowly toward the distant finish line. My legs start infinite revolutions again.

Small milestones, near and far, from this week.

Next to me on the bench is an older lady. She is clearly a grandma and her job this afternoon is to watch over her grandson as he goes on the biggest slide in the playground. The slide is so steep that my son refused to go on it for years. But this small kid slides fiercely and every time time the boy lands in sand grandma sends cheers and claps from the bench

A two-hour fight from me, is my brother. His daughter, my lovely 18-months-old niece, is having her first week at day care. She surpasses everyone's expectations with enjoying everything about it. My brother's favorite part of the day is when she starts calling foxes, foxes, foxes from the doorstep of the daycare. 'Foxes' are her orange shaped house shoes shaped, you guessed it, like foxes.

An ocean between us, a colleague is telling me that his son is starting training for navy seals next week. He is beaming while telling me that his son decided that he would be marine when he was eight, and navy seal when he was twelve. This kid has now graduated from a military academy and is on his way to fulfill his childhood goals. His proud dad can't hide it on the video call.

I hear or see these stories all the time, and although sometimes they don't resonate with me, I understand them now. No matter the culture or environment - seeing your kids tackle challenge and succeeding is a perk of being a parent. A relief that follows hours, days or years of worry and care - a reward so grand that rarely can stay unspoken.

My son started elementary school this month. For the first two weeks I was allowed to take him all the way to the classroom, but this all changed last Friday. I am not allowed to enter the school anymore. Asking him to go into the new environment alone was really hard on him the first few days. But not this Wednesday - he hugged me, kissed me, let go of my hand and jumped into the river of kids that was flowing into the school. Before I could take a deep breath of relief, he was already inside talking to a classmate. I turned my back, pulled out my phone, and dropped voice message to my wife - words rushing out, telling her he made it, knowing that she will be beaming thought the day too.

A short story part of the Dreams and Fears series.

I would usually start my bar shift around two in the morning. The good thing is I don't leave my bed for it, but the bad thing is my mind always invites the crowd that sucks. I would be behind a bar cleaning glasses when Capitalist would arrive. His flawless body-fat percentage goes hand in hand with pale skin and sunken eyes. He would lean over the counter and say:

"What are we going to do about the money?"

"What do you mean?" I would say.

"I mean, we need it, don't we? We are not going to participate in this rat race forever, right? We just need to hit and hit big. Then you can stop worrying about the mortgage, or even better — you can even stop working."

"Dude, we are good; we are way better than most people"

"You are being silly again. What most people! You can't do this nine-to-five till your retirement; you will lose your mind. I reckon we need roughly around 20 years' worth of salaries, and then we are off the hook"

"Twenty years!!! Are you insane? I can't make that!"

"Yeah, you can. Look at the other idiots who are killing it. I think we just need to monetize your hobbies. For example, photography, or even better - cycling. Why not start filming yourself? I can already see it - become a long-distance cyclist as a middle-aged family man. Clicks will be rolling in."

"I don't want to do that. First, stupid idea to get off the hamster wheel by spinning it faster. Second, it will bring just more stress, and I already have enough of that at work."

"And tomorrow you will have it more," says the Assistant. His name is Assistant, but I've never seen him assist me with anything except complain that I haven't done what I'm supposed to do. He sits on the corner of the bar, doodling in his notebook, never lifting his head while he speaks to me.

"You forgot to prepare for tomorrow's presentation slides. The ones they explicitly asked you for, and also I think you double-booked the meeting about Hank's performance review"

"No, I haven't!"

"Yes, you have. You're on the school run tomorrow — remember?"

"Fuck, I am." - I panic - "But I really do have to talk to Hank"

"Of course you do! He stopped showing up to work before 11 am again. You should do something about that. The feedback needs to be timely; you can't sit on your hands with this one"

"Yes, yes, you are right. I think I will wake up earlier and finish the slides. I will ask Marina to do the school run, and then during lunch I will prep for Hank"

"Ugh, waking up earlier — this is not good for your body battery," adds the Nutritionist while picking up darts from the mark. Handsome, vain, and lonely, he is constantly worried about my health. "Last night your sleep score was 65, and the night before you got almost no deep sleep. Even while I speak to you, I am not sure if you are sleeping at all. I think you should hit REM right now if you want to be fresh tomorrow and keep your HRV balanced all day"

"Fuck, you're right! I am not sleeping at all. I will be anxious and impatient all day if I don't catch sleep right away. Ok, that is it, let's sleep. Everyone out. Out! The bar is closed for the night, people!”

"Wow, wow, come on, not fair" — Cultural Critic jumps from his chair. "You promised me tonight is the night we will discuss Nolan and his inability to write female characters correctly. And also, the new Top 100 book list is out by The New York Times, and it is complete shit. I thought tonight was the night we would go over this."

"Nope nope nope. Out, out. You all go somewhere else and leave me be." I start waving my hand towards the door. "I will put the closed sign on the door, and start counting backward, and if I am lucky I will catch 3 hours' sleep”

Chairs start to move, dissatisfied mumbling hangs in the air, but everyone heads towards the door. Critic whispers in my ear something about Andrei Rublev, but I just take his arm and point to the door. Nutritionist hugs him as they walk outside and tells him loudly, so I can hear

“Leave him. He is just dehydrated.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as I close the door, but when I turn around, I notice that he is standing in front of me. I try to avoid him by moving left and then right, but he is too quick, always one step faster, always in front of me. Short, with greasy hair and a twinkle in his eyes, he could pass as an evil leprechaun in some old creepy children's book. The Fear of Death himself is in front of me, and he is grinning ear to ear:

"Well, you don't want to close the shop before telling me how many times you have called your parents this week, eh?"

I go one step backward.

"C'mon, sleepy sleepy. Are you afraid you will see yourself on video call and realize that you are also getting old, eh, c c c."

I close my eyes and say, in the loudest way possible:

"One hundred!!"

"No, no, don't do this. No breathing will save you. Only talking with me will do. Tell me, will today be the last day that your son holds your hand."

"Ninety-nine... ninety-eight..."

"Will you know when that day passes that it was the last day?"

"Ninety-one...Ninety..."

"Ooooh, and your voice is getting raspier on every count; maybe it is throat cancer"

"Eighty-five... eighty-four..."

“It would be a shame to die so young without seeing your son grow"

"Seventy!"

"And, I wonder, would anyone show up for your funeral..."

"Sixty-five... sixty-four... sixty-three... sixty-two..."

Sixty-one body battery — is what my watch tells me right after waking me.

“Hmm, I am thirsty,” I say while I sit on the edge of the bed.

“What did you say?” Marina says from the kitchen

“Nothing, just a bad dream!” I shout, and then, after a small pause, I add, “Can you please pick the kid up from school today”

---

Short fiction story part of the Dreams and Fears series.

A short story part of the Dreams and Fears series.

He was staring at his feet and thinking these were the wrong shoes for snow. He had only taken two steps from the car, and his feet were already wet and cold. The gate in front of them was covered in ice, and it looked more like an entrance to an icy cave than to the small garden of a one-story house.

"What am I even doing here?"

"C'mon, it is not that bad; we just need to check that the house is in solid condition. We haven't been here since your uncle passed away," she said and gently put a hand on his shoulder. He nodded, while trying to remember when he agreed to all of this.

"What is that noise?" She was afraid to say it out loud, but to both of them, it sounded like screams. "Where is it coming from?" Her eyes started darting until they settled on the house on the hill that loomed over his uncle's. "I don't remember it being that big."

He raised his head and looked at the house, and indeed, the structure looked bigger. It was as if someone had added extra floors in the middle, as if it had grown from within. It also looked both familiar and new at the same time, like it had always been there during his summer visits to his uncle, and yet as if someone had just built it yesterday.

He couldn’t tell who lived there or what was inside, but he was certain that the screams were coming from the basement.

He was also certain that you should never walk alone near it at night.

---

Part of the Dreams and Fears series.