On November 7, 2025, the Serbian parliament passed a controversial law that sets the stage for a sweeping redevelopment project at the heart of Belgrade. The new legislation, approved by a 130-40 vote in the 250-member assembly, paves the way for the demolition of the former Yugoslav Army General Staff headquarters—an iconic structure partially destroyed during the NATO bombing campaign of 1999. The project, valued at $500 million, is spearheaded by Affinity Global Development, a U.S.-based investment company linked to Jared Kushner, the son-in-law of former U.S. President Donald Trump.
For many Serbs, the ruined General Staff building is more than just a relic of war; it stands as a potent symbol of resistance and remembrance. The NATO airstrikes, which lasted 78 days and were aimed at ending then-President Slobodan Milosevic’s crackdown on ethnic Albanians in Kosovo, left deep scars—both physical and emotional—across Serbia. To this day, anti-NATO sentiment remains strong, and the prospect of transforming the bombed-out structure into a luxury hotel and apartment complex has ignited fierce debate.
According to The New York Times, the project was initially approved in the spring of 2024, after the Serbian government revoked the building’s cultural heritage status. This decision, which many saw as a betrayal of national memory, sparked outrage among preservationists and the broader public. The government then signed a 99-year lease with Kushner’s firm, Affinity Global Development, outlining plans for a gleaming high-rise hotel, luxury apartments, offices, shops, and a memorial complex dedicated to the victims of the 1999 bombings.
The road to redevelopment, however, has been anything but smooth. Shortly after the lease agreement, Serbia’s organized crime prosecutors launched an investigation into allegations that documents used to strip the building of its protected status had been forged. The director of the state-run culture institute was accused of falsifying paperwork to justify the removal, leading to a temporary suspension of the project. Despite these legal hurdles, President Aleksandar Vučić’s ruling party pressed forward, introducing a special bill last weekend that would allow the project to bypass standard bureaucratic procedures. The new law, passed under a constitutional mechanism typically reserved for emergencies, invoked the legal principle of “lex specialis”—meaning that a specific law takes precedence over general regulations.
Supporters of the project, including President Vučić, argue that redeveloping the site will bring significant economic benefits and help Serbia “overcome the burden from 1999.” In a June 2025 interview with the BBC, Vučić said, “We are ready to build better relations with the US – I think that is terribly important for this country.” The government has also claimed that the new development, with its memorial component, will honor the memory of those lost in the NATO campaign while revitalizing a neglected part of the capital.
Yet, the backlash has been swift and sustained. Hundreds of protesters gathered outside parliament as lawmakers debated the bill, brandishing banners that read, “Culture is not for sale, we will not give up the general staff.” Opposition politicians have been especially vocal, labeling the law unconstitutional and accusing the government of sacrificing national history for the interests of Trump’s family. Aleksandar Jovanovic, an opposition lawmaker, described the law as a “crime” and warned that it would replace a revered heritage site with “casinos and Jacuzzis.” Zdravko Ponos, a former army commander-in-chief turned opposition leader, told parliament, “You will demolish something that is a symbol for this nation. With the agreement you signed with the most important son-in-law on the planet, you have obliged to tear this down and clear at the cost of Serbia’s taxpayers.”
Transparency Serbia, an anti-corruption watchdog, issued a scathing critique of the law, warning that it “represents a combination of the two most dangerous forms of corruption—the legalization of law violations and the tailoring of general rules to fit hidden interests in one specific case.” Architectural experts have also decried the loss of what they consider prime examples of mid-20th-century Yugoslav design, while many ordinary citizens see the development as an affront to the country’s painful history.
The controversy is not limited to Serbia. The Trump family’s international real estate ventures have faced similar opposition elsewhere. In Albania, plans to turn Sazan Island—a former military base—into a luxury resort have drawn criticism from environmentalists and locals alike. Meanwhile, in Vietnam, farmers blocked the construction of a Trump-branded golf resort over disputes about land compensation.
Despite the uproar, the Serbian government remains steadfast. President Vučić has suggested that the judicial investigation into the project was prompted by “demands from abroad” aimed at preventing Serbia from improving ties with the Trump administration. The government insists that the redevelopment will not only transform a derelict site but also help reposition Serbia on the global stage, balancing its relationships with both Washington and Moscow. The country has felt the impact of U.S. tariffs and sanctions on Russian interests, including its majority Russian-owned oil refinery, Nafna Industrika Srbije (NIS), making diplomatic maneuvering all the more delicate.
For now, the fate of the General Staff building—and what it represents—hangs in the balance. As bulldozers prepare to move in, the debate over memory, identity, and progress continues to roil Serbian society. Will the new development offer a path to healing and prosperity, or will it deepen the wounds of the past? Only time will tell, but for many in Belgrade, the struggle over this patch of ground is about much more than bricks and mortar—it’s about who gets to shape the story of Serbia’s future.
