The battered shell of Belgrade’s former Ministry of Defence, a haunting remnant of the 1999 NATO bombing, has become the epicenter of a fierce political and cultural storm in Serbia. On November 7, 2025, the Serbian parliament approved—by a decisive 130 to 40 vote—a special law fast-tracking the redevelopment of the General Staff building, known locally as Generalstab. The bill, which classifies the project as “urgent,” paves the way for a $500 million luxury hotel and mixed-use complex spearheaded by Jared Kushner, son-in-law of former U.S. President Donald Trump, and his Miami-based investment firm, Affinity Partners.
But the transformation of this bomb-scarred landmark into a Trump-branded property has ignited outrage among architects, activists, and opposition politicians, who see the move as an erasure of national memory and a blatant act of political opportunism. According to The Telegraph, the Generalstab complex—a rare work by Yugoslav modernist architect Nikola Dobrović—was struck multiple times during NATO’s 78-day air campaign against Slobodan Milošević’s regime. For many, the building stands as a solemn war memorial and a symbol of Serbia’s turbulent recent history.
“The demolition of the Generalstab must not happen. We will defend it,” Belgrade architects Katarina and Marina, representing the arh.politicne civic group, told The Telegraph. They predicted a surge of peaceful protests and initiatives in the coming days, all aimed at rallying public pressure to halt the redevelopment. The sentiment was echoed by opposition politician Marinika Tepic, who condemned the removal of heritage protections as “sacrificing the nation’s history to please Trump and planning to pour champagne where bombs once fell.”
Despite the uproar, Serbian President Aleksandar Vučić has thrown his weight behind the project, having hosted Kushner multiple times and championed the redevelopment as a path to economic revitalization and international prestige. As reported by Radio Free Europe, Vučić’s support has not been without controversy. On November 3, during a televised appearance on Prva TV, he lashed out at the Office for Organised Crime (TOK), accusing prosecutors of being a “corrupt gang” and of selectively refusing to prosecute certain individuals. His remarks were especially pointed regarding the TOK’s investigation into allegations that forged documents were used by the Serbian government to strip the General Staff building of its cultural heritage status—a move viewed by many as clearing legal obstacles for the Kushner project.
Vučić’s accusations didn’t stop there. He claimed the prosecution was acting on “orders from abroad,” arguing, “Serbia must not build better relations with the Trump administration. That’s why they have to pursue this.” The Office for Organised Crime swiftly condemned the president’s statements as “shameless claims” and an unlawful attempt to influence ongoing criminal investigations. In their November 4 statement, the TOK Collegium charged that Vučić had “exceeded and abused the powers granted to him by law and the Constitution and attempted to exert inappropriate and unlawful influence on this prosecution by commenting on ongoing criminal investigations.”
Yet, instead of backing down, Vučić doubled down during a subsequent visit to Brussels, admitting, “I did go too far, but unfortunately for me, I was telling the truth.” He also accused prosecutors of lying when they claimed he was interfering in their work. This escalating war of words has exposed deep rifts within Serbia’s justice system and its relationship with the executive branch.
The High Prosecutorial Council, the body charged with safeguarding the independence of prosecutors, has remained conspicuously silent. According to Branko Stamenković, the Council’s president, a session scheduled for November 7 failed to reach quorum after key members—including the Minister of Justice and two council members—either failed to attend or left abruptly. The Council is currently in the midst of an election campaign, with 11 seats up for grabs in late December, a fact that some, like Lidija Komlen Nikolić of the Association of Prosecutors of Serbia, argue has left the body “paralysed.” Komlen Nikolić told Radio Free Europe that the Commissioner for Independence within the Council could have prepared a report on inappropriate influence by the president, but doubted there was a majority willing to adopt it.
This is not the first time tensions between Vučić and Serbia’s judiciary have boiled over. In April 2025, more than 250 judges and prosecutors signed a statement denouncing the president’s remarks as “going beyond the previous level of interference in the work of judicial institutions” and bordering on criminal acts. The statement followed Vučić’s threat to file criminal charges against a prosecutor who declined to arrest journalists from independent media. Earlier, in August, he targeted Mladen Nenadić, Chief Prosecutor of the Public Office for Organised Crime, accusing him of acting on “directives from abroad” in a high-profile corruption case stemming from the fatal collapse of a Novi Sad train station canopy.
Meanwhile, pro-government media have stoked the flames, publishing the names and photographs of judges who ruled to repeat local elections in Kosjerić—a move that critics say is designed to intimidate the judiciary and reinforce the narrative of “blockers,” a label government officials use for anti-government protesters demanding accountability for the Novi Sad tragedy.
Amid this political theater, the Generalstab redevelopment has become a symbol of Serbia’s struggle to balance economic ambition, historical memory, and the rule of law. Supporters, like parliamentarian Milenko Jovanov, argue the project will transform Belgrade into a “destination not to be missed” and potentially improve relations with the Trump family and, by extension, the United States. “Whether [the hotel] will lead to improving relations with the Trump administration, with the United States—honestly, I would like that,” Jovanov told The Telegraph.
Critics, however, see the project as a betrayal. “To hand over this site to private investors connected to Donald Trump’s family—to the very same side that initiated the 1999 bombing—is viewed by most people here as an unacceptable and symbolic act of betrayal,” a Belgrade architect told The Telegraph. General Wesley Clark, the former NATO commander who oversaw the bombing campaign, has also weighed in, warning that building a memorial to the victims of the NATO attack on the site would be a “betrayal toward NATO troops who participated in the campaign.”
As the Trump Tower Belgrade website begins advertising “unrivalled luxury” and the city braces for protests, the fate of the Generalstab stands as a test of Serbia’s democratic institutions, its commitment to memory, and its place on the world stage. The coming weeks, with elections looming and public pressure mounting, may well determine whether history or commerce wins out on one of Belgrade’s most storied corners.