Across the former Yugoslavia, queer activists have long built solidarity across contested borders. From anti-war protests in the 1990s to today’s Prides, they have built regional ties that politics and nationalism could not.
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You can simply scroll past — but please don’t overlook the importance of an independent queer press.
You can simply scroll past—but please don't overlook the importance of an independent queer press.
Time is now or never.
Queer voices disappear without independent journalism to amplify them.
We document what others won't touch.
We hold power to account when it threatens our communities.
This work exists only because you choose to fund it directly.
Donate over €25/month and receive our limited-edition tote bag — a badge of resistance, a statement that you stand for fearless journalism.
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Can't donate? Sharing our work helps more than you think
“It would be interesting to open a queer bar in Pristina and see what happens,” Rita, a 24-year-old Kosovar woman, was referring to how the local community might react, given the persistence of homophobia in Kosovo and across the Balkans.
As if her words had been a prediction, a year later, Bubble opened its doors in the centre of Pristina. The first queer bar in Kosovo, it quickly became a gathering point: a “safe bubble” hosting all kinds of events – from poetry readings to drag shows.
At one drag show, Adelina Rose, one of Bubble’s regular drag performers, asked the audience where they had travelled from. One spectator answered: “from Serbia.” A short silence fell over the room before Adelina answered with a smile. ”Welcome, neighbour.”
It was a simple exchange, but one that echoed a much longer story: queer communities in the Balkans have long demonstrated cross-border solidarity despite nationalism, war and repression.
From war protest to queer organising
Goran Miletić remembers that time well. Today one of the heads of Civil Rights Defenders, a leading human rights organisation in Europe, his activism began in the 1990s in the squares of Belgrade, protesting against the wars that were tearing Yugoslavia apart.
”I’m a little older than most of the activists you’ll meet today,” he recalls. ”I was part of the first LGBTQ+ organisation that existed in Serbia, Arcadia, because, at the time, homosexuality was illegal, and we wanted to protect ourselves.”
Despite some visibility under socialism, homosexuality was still criminalised in parts of Yugoslavia in the 1990s. Activism was risky. As nationalist leader Slobodan Milošević rose to power, that activism merged with peace and anti-war campaigns opposing his regime. Miloševic’s rule, built on Serb nationalism and an appeal to traditional family values, pushed queer people to the margins, while the wars that took place between 1991 and 2001 unleashed a wave of militarism and normalised toxic masculinity.
“In that context, feminist organisations, queer visibility groups, pro-independence activists from Kosovo and representatives of ethnic minorities all came together. We were all part of the anti-Milošević movement, and we worked regionally,” Miletić recalls.
In 1992, large crowds gathered at Republic Square in Belgrade to condemn Serbia’s role in the war in Bosnia, and peace concerts such as Yutel brought together artists from across the region to denounce the conflict. At the same time, activists set up conscientious objection centres to provide legal and social support to those who refused conscription.
Nationalism entrenched
The Yugoslav wars left tens of thousands dead and millions displaced. Peace came through international intervention, but nationalism and religious conservatism did not fade; in some cases, they grew stronger.
“In late socialist Yugoslavia, in public spaces, we could see a liberalisation of discourse [about queer communities], but when Bosnia became the state we know – after the war – the process of criminalisation began,” says Matej Vrebat of the Sarajevo Open Center, a feminist and LGBTQ+ organisation.
After the breakup of Yugoslavia in the early 1990s, the newly independent states built their identities on nationalist rhetoric that often relied on traditional and religious values, often portraying queer people as foreign and undesirable. In Serbia, especially, homophobia became entwined with national belonging in the post-war years.
Legal change, social hostility
The 2000s brought important reforms, partly driven by EU accession talks, as well as relentless local activism. Bosnia and Herzegovina decriminalised homosexuality in 2003. Serbia passed its first anti-discrimination law in 2009, explicitly covering sexual orientation and gender identity. One year later, Belgrade Pride returned after a decade-long ban, though only under massive police protection and violent opposition.
Yet these legal changes had a limited effect. Hate speech remains widespread in media, politics, and online platforms. Same-sex marriage is still banned across the Western Balkans, and in several countries like North Macedonia and Albania, there is still no legal recognition of trans people.
Crossing borders today
“We know that today there’s a lot of hate speech, and I think LGBTQ+ people are more aware of different kinds of intersectionality. We know what discrimination based on a single characteristic of identity feels like, and probably we have a deeper awareness of that,” explains Vrebat.
Back to the queer bar Bubble in Pristina. Adelina responded to that person who said they were from Serbia with a simple: “Welcome, neighbour.” It wasn’t an unusual reply; this community often crosses borders, unbothered by the nationalism waiting for them on the other side.
That spirit is mirrored in CEL Kosova, the country’s main LGBTQ+ organisation, which regularly collaborates with activists in Serbia. It even organised a study visit to Serbia, meeting NGOs there to exchange experiences on how institutions handle LGBTQ+ rights.
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Every July, the queer communities of the Balkans embark on a kind of pilgrimage, travelling across former Yugoslavia to join the Pride marches of each country’s capital. Regional ties are also sustained through cultural events like the Merlinka queer film festival, held in Belgrade, Sarajevo, and Podgorica, or through umbrella groups like ERA, which unite organisations across the Western Balkans.
“Nationalism is still very much alive in the region, but in the LGBTQ+ community, we avoid that crap,” says Goran Miletić. “There’s a lot of solidarity regardless of borders, nations, all of it. When something happens in Kosovo, they invite us to be there, to speak, to take part. We’re always there, despite everything. Honestly, never in all these years has that affected us, and I’m really, really glad for that for what can be done together.”
From the collapse of Yugoslavia through the wars of the 1990s and into today, queer activists have always acted regionally. From the margins, they have created what governments and international organisations have long tried to create since the end of the conflict: small but powerful bridges between communities.
This report was first published at https://europeancorrespondent.com/en?utm_content=gay45
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