Belgrade has rarely seen a week as turbulent as this one. The Serbian capital, already tense from months of anti-government protests and international scrutiny, now finds itself at the crossroads of political ambition, historical memory, and social unrest. At the heart of the storm is a controversial redevelopment project—one that ties together the legacies of war, the ambitions of powerful families, and the frustrations of everyday citizens.
On November 7, 2025, the Serbian parliament quietly passed a special law, fast-tracking the redevelopment of the bombed-out Serbian Armed Forces headquarters in central Belgrade. The site, which still bears the scars of NATO’s 1999 airstrikes, is set to become a luxury hotel complex under a joint venture between the Serbian government and Atlantic Incubation Partners LLC, a company owned by Jared Kushner, son-in-law of former U.S. President Donald Trump. According to documents published by the independent Serbian magazine Radar, Kushner’s firm holds a commanding 77.5% stake in the venture, while Serbia retains 22.5%.
The arrangement, inked in February 2024 but kept secret until now, grants Kushner’s company extraordinary leverage. Serbia must demolish the existing structures—long protected as the only Belgrade work of renowned Yugoslav architect Nikola Dobrović—by May 2026. The demolition must be completed "in a manner satisfactory" to Kushner’s firm, or the Americans can walk away and claim substantial termination costs. The deal also includes a 99-year rent-free lease, with an option for full ownership down the line.
The law’s passage, and the secrecy that surrounded it, has fueled suspicions of backroom dealings and ignited a wave of protests. Demonstrators, many of them students, have been a constant presence in the city center since the collapse of a railway station in Novi Sad earlier this year sparked a broader anti-corruption movement. This week, protestors formed human chains and drew a symbolic red line around the old headquarters, trying to block what they see as the sale of their city’s soul.
"It’s not just about me and my son, but also my drivers and their families, we have no vehicles and nothing to work with," said Milomir Jaćimović, a bus operator from Novi Sad who has become a face of the protest movement. Jaćimović and his 16-year-old son began a hunger strike on November 10, demanding the return of their seized buses and the annulment of what he describes as crushing fines imposed for his support of anti-government demonstrations. Three days later, his son ended his own strike, convinced by both his father and a lawyer to step back. "I managed to convince the child, I didn’t want my child to be part of this at all, both the lawyer and I talked to him, he will be here next to me, and we’ll see tomorrow," Jaćimović told Danas. "He hoped someone would address us, at least talk to us, but so far no one has."
Jaćimović’s plight is emblematic of a wider sense of disenfranchisement. He claims the authorities confiscated his vehicles because he transported students and others to anti-government rallies—a claim that, if true, underscores the deepening chasm between Serbia’s rulers and those who challenge their authority. "I have to pay obligations to the state, it’s embarrassing to even say it anymore, but I’m a dead man, I chose this, I don’t have many options," he lamented, his words echoing the exhaustion of many who feel left behind by Serbia’s political and economic transformations.
The government’s willingness to override regulatory controls for the Kushner project has only added fuel to the fire. The special law, which designates the redevelopment as a "project of national significance," allows officials to bypass the very oversight mechanisms that had previously delayed progress amid allegations that the site’s protected status was stripped on falsified grounds.
Why the rush? Observers point to President Aleksandar Vučić’s desire to curry favor with the Trump camp, especially after the U.S. imposed sanctions last month on Serbia’s national oil company, NIS, due to its Russian ownership. The sanctions, which took effect in October 2025, have left NIS’s refineries on the brink of running dry—an economic headache that the government is desperate to resolve. By accelerating a high-profile American investment, Vučić may hope to win some goodwill in Washington, or at least with those who might soon wield power there again.
But the government’s assertiveness hasn’t stopped at economic policy. On November 12, Information Minister Boris Bratina singled out independent media outlets N1, Nova, and U.S.-backed Radio Free Europe, declaring that they "should not exist on the country’s territory." The European Commission condemned his remarks, with a representative telling N1 that independent media are "a key pillar of European democracy." The threat comes after a year of mounting pressure on what remains of Serbia’s free press, and it’s set against a backdrop of students and citizens protesting not just corruption, but the erosion of democratic norms.
Meanwhile, tensions between Serbia and Kosovo continue to simmer, adding another layer of complexity to the country’s political landscape. On November 13, Kosovo’s chief negotiator Besnik Bislimi informed EU envoy Peter Sorensen that a Serbian bank had rejected three transfers totaling 304,511.16 euros. The funds, intended to support 3,650 Albanian children in the Presheva Valley with textbooks and advocacy, were blocked "without any legal, technical or regulatory reason," according to Bislimi. He described the move as a "systemic obstacle"—part of a deliberate administrative campaign to hinder legal and transparent support for Albanians in southern Serbia.
This isn’t the first such incident. Last year, Kosovo accused Serbia of obstructing agricultural subsidies for Albanians in the Presevo Valley, despite all legal procedures being followed. Residents and municipal leaders in these areas have long complained of discrimination and have repeatedly called for international oversight. For its part, Serbia accuses Kosovo of violating the rights of Serbs in the north, especially after Kosovo banned the dinar and closed Serbian-run institutions last year. The Brussels dialogue, ongoing since 2011 and now led by Sorensen, has yielded agreements—including a normalization deal in 2023—but implementation remains elusive.
Against this backdrop of high-stakes diplomacy, economic uncertainty, and popular unrest, everyday Serbians are left to navigate a country in flux. For some, like the Jaćimović family, the cost is deeply personal. For others, the battle is about preserving history and demanding a say in the future of their cities. And for many more, the struggle is simply to be heard in a society where the lines between public interest and private gain have grown increasingly blurred.
With the deadline for Belgrade’s redevelopment looming and the city’s nerves stretched thin, Serbia’s next moves will be watched closely—by its own citizens, by its neighbors, and by the world.
