A year has now passed since the tragic collapse of a concrete canopy at the railway station in Novi Sad on 1 November 2024 — an incident that claimed 16 lives and ignited the longest wave of protests the country had seen in more than a decade. What began with student-led demonstrations in the wake of that disaster has since morphed into a broader movement exposing deep fissures in Serbia’s political foundations.
For many Serbians, the disaster resonated on a personal level. The station, originally built in 1964 and later reconstructed to serve the high-speed rail link between Belgrade and Hungary, stood as a communal landmark — a place for arrivals and farewells. The collapse struck at a shared space of everyday life, making it feel like it “could have happened to any of us.” At the same time, the government of Aleksandar Vučić and his ruling party had long touted infrastructure as their hallmark — roads, bridges, rail links and the forthcoming Expo 2027 in Belgrade featured heavily in official campaigns. The station’s failure came to symbolise the regime’s weakness: grand promises of development masking a deeper neglect of safety, oversight and accountability.
Over the past twelve months, the protests that ensued have exposed the hollowing-out of Serbia’s democratic institutions. The regime’s capture of courts, media and regulators means that the street increasingly remains the only arena for dissent. Since mid-2024, the country has seen frequent demonstrations, with nearly a thousand arrests recorded. The message from the protesters is clear: the era of staged “dialogues” and ceremonial politics is over.
On the economic front, the mood in the country has soured significantly. A national poll in September 2024 found 47 % of Serbs believed the country was moving in the wrong direction (against 46 % who thought it was on the right path). Since then disillusionment has grown — by late 2025 some 53 % said they believed Serbia was heading the wrong way, while only 36 % believed it was going in the right direction. Inflation remains above the EU average, wages lag behind rising costs, and public debt continues to weigh heavily.
Geopolitically, the government’s balancing act between East and West is under strain. While presenting itself as a neutral player, Serbia is increasingly reliant on Moscow-linked influence. Russian intelligence networks are said to operate with impunity on Serbian soil; meanwhile a so-called “anti-protest movement” comprised of regime loyalists and hired thugs echoes tactics seen in other authoritarian settings. Critically, the country now resembles what one commentator described as a “governmental Ponzi scheme” — borrowing legitimacy through spectacle while deferring collapse.
As the anniversary of the protests approaches, it is clear that Serbia’s political landscape has shifted for good. The student movement has merged with broader civil and political dissent, and neither the government, opposition nor academia can revert to the old status-quo of managed politics. What has emerged instead is not simply a demand for a new station or new infrastructure, but a broader awakening: an awareness that the stability offered under Vučić was never real — it was always borrowed.
In the end, the legacy of the canopy collapse may not be the tragedy itself, but the reckoning that followed. One year on, Serbia remains caught between repression and renewal, with the streets as the final forum for a society no longer willing to stay silent.
