Lesbian Activism

Edited by Bojan Bilic * Marija Radoman
LESBIAN ACTIVISM
IN THE (POST-)
YUGOSLAV SPACE
Sisterhood and Unity
Lesbian Activism in the (Post-)Yugoslav Space
Bojan Bilić · Marija Radoman
Editors
Lesbian Activism in
the (Post-)Yugoslav
Space
Sisterhood and Unity
Editors
Bojan Bilić Marija Radoman
University of Lisbon University of Belgrade
Lisbon, Portugal Belgrade, Serbia
ISBN 978-3-319-77753-5 ISBN 978-3-319-77754-2 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-77754-2
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Acknowledgements
A lot of care and support streamed through our electronic correspond-

ence as we devised and completed this volume. We are grateful to our
authors-friends for engaging with us in this endeavour and to Paul
Stubbs for consistently strengthening our belief that issues of gender
and sexuality must be kept high on our political agendas. Our Palgrave
editor Amelia Derkatsch once again accompanied us gently, making
sure that our cooperation always stayed smooth and pleasant.
We would like to dedicate this volume to Lepa Mlađenović, who is
on so many of its pages, and other lesbian/feminist/queer activists that
have inspired us over the years … their courage, support and solidarity
have made our work and our desires possible.
v
Contents
Introduction: Recovering/Rethinking (Post-)Yugoslav

Lesbian Activisms 1
Bojan Bilić
Yearning for Space, Pleasure, and Knowledge: Autonomous

Lesbian and Queer Feminist Organising in Ljubljana 27
Teja Oblak and Maja Pan
Cartographies of Fear and Freedom: Lesbian Activists in the

First Belgrade and Zagreb Pride Parades 61
Sanja Kajinić
Sisterhood Beyond Borders: Transnational Aspects of

Post-Yugoslav Lesbian Activism 87
Irene Dioli
Breaking the Silence: Lesbian Activism in Macedonia 109

Irena Cvetkovic
vii
viii
Contents
Searching for a Lesbian Voice: Non-Heterosexual Women’s

Activism in Montenegro 133
Marina Vuković and Paula Petričević
(In)Visible Presences: PitchWise Festival as a Space of

Lesbian Belonging in Bosnia and Herzegovina 163
Adelita Selmić and Bojan Bilić
Conclusion: Discovering the Lesbian in Us—On Our

Ongoing, Never-Ending Struggles 189
Marija Radoman
Epilogue: Collecting Fragments—Towards (Post-)Yugoslav

Activist Archives 215
Bojan Bilić
Index 235
Notes on Contributors
Bojan Bilić is FCT Fellow at the Institute of Social Sciences,

University of Lisbon, and Adjunct Professor of Gender and Social
Movements in South East Europe at the School of Political Sciences,
University of Bologna, Forlì Campus.
Irena Cvetkovic holds a Ph.D. in Gender Studies and works as execu-
tive director of the Coalition Margins in Skopje, Macedonia.
Irene Dioli works as a researcher and translator for Osservatorio
Balcani Caucaso Transeuropa, Rovereto, Italy.
Sanja Kajinić is MIREES academic tutor and Gender Studies lecturer
at the School of Political Sciences, University of Bologna, Forlì Campus.
Teja Oblak collaborates with Lesbian Feminist University at Metelkova
City and the Anarcho-Queer-Feminist Collective Rog, both in
Ljubljana, Slovenia. She is a co-editor of the Radio Študent feminist
radio show Sektor Ž.
Maja Pan is a feminist philosopher and non-formal educator with
a Ph.D. in Philosophy from the University of Ljubljana. She has been
involved in regional and transnational activism since 1997.
ix
x
Notes on Contributors
Paula Petričević is a philosopher, feminist, columnist, human rights

and peace activist. She has worked at the Centre for Civic Education in
Podgorica, at the Centre for Women and Peace Education in Kotor as
well as a high-school philosophy teacher.
Marija Radoman is a researcher and teaching assistant in the
Department of Sociology, Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade.
Adelita Selmić studied sociology and philosophy at the University of
Zagreb and holds an M.A. in Human Rights and Democracy in South
East Europe from the University of Bologna/University of Sarajevo. She
is interested in LGBT and human rights activism in the post-Yugoslav
space.
Marina Vuković holds a B.Sc. in Economics from the University of
Montenegro and an LLM in International Human Rights Law and
Practice (LLM) from the University of York. She has worked in the
areas of corporate social responsibility and human rights.
Introduction: Recovering/Rethinking
(Post-)Yugoslav Lesbian Activisms
Bojan Bilić
In June 2017, halfway through our work on this volume, an unusual

piece of news made headlines around the globe: Serbia, a highly patri-
archal and post-conflict country, got an openly lesbian prime minister
(e.g., Bendix 2017; Verseck 2017).1 The decision of the newly minted
president Aleksandar Vučić to give Ana Brnabić a mandate to form a
new government was yet another steep turn on the centuries-long emo-
tional roller coaster of regional politics.2 As scholars of Eastern Europe
who survived the turbulent 1990s of Yugoslavia’s disintegration and lived
through the confusions that preceded and followed it, both of us (Marija
and Bojan as editors of this volume) thought that we could hardly ever
again be surprised with the hybridities—loops, labyrinths, delays, and
accelerated advances—that characterise our “semi-peripheral” existence
and swing our personal and professional trajectories in directions which
we cannot anticipate.3
B. Bilić (*) 
University of Lisbon, Lisbon, Portugal
© The Author(s) 2019 1
B. Bilić and M. Radoman (eds.), Lesbian Activism in the (Post-)Yugoslav Space,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-77754-2_1
2
B. Bilić
However, in spite of this rather unfortunate habituation, we were nev-

ertheless taken aback by the short temporal arch—of only 16 years—
which separated disturbingly lesbophobic/homophobic imagery of
the first Belgrade Pride Parade (see Kajinić, this volume; see also Bilić
2016a) from a poorly known official who not only assumed what is, at
least nominally,4 the most important executive position in the coun-
try, but also became the second openly lesbian head of government in
world history.5 Ana Brnabić “has risen from obscurity” (Wintour 2017,
online) both within LGBT activist circles and in terms of mainstream
political party membership to induce a profound shift within symbolic
layers that shape the ways in which we imagine those who hold political
power (Laufer and Jovanović 2017). This unexpected appointment not
only made Serbia an exception among its East European neighbours, but
“fast-forwarded” it to the ranks of countries with much longer traditions
of (homonationalist) non-heterosexual emancipation.6
Thus, as is often the case in unstable environments, the domain of
the inconceivable all of a sudden shrank to confront us with ambiva-
lences which arise when the silenced, the marginalised, and the des-
picable rapidly climb the ladder of power.7 And as if that were not
enough, our surprise reached new heights just a few days later—the
minimal amount of time necessary for completing preliminary “blood
cell counts”8 that are fundamental in the regions in which people sup-
posedly dream of nationhood. Upon learning that Brnabić was neither
more nor less than “one quarter Croatian” (B92 2017; T. P. 2017), were
we not justified in fearing that all of our efforts to highlight the need
for more intersectional accountability in both scholarship and activism
(Bilić and Kajinić 2016; Bilić and Stubbs 2016; Radoman 2013, 2016)
were at risk of evaporating in irrelevance?
Although—or exactly because—we were not immediately sure what
to think about this “intriguing move” (Tanjug 2017, online) of the
Serbian ultra-nationalist-cum-European democrat president, Brnabić’s
precipitous rise to global visibility convinced us even more that the time
was ripe for taking stock of the achievements, tensions, contradictions,
and emotionally laden processes of post-Yugoslav lesbian activisms.
Through our own engagement with activist politics and friendships,
we have been for years evoking a more lesbian world, a kind of world
Introduction: Recovering/Rethinking (Post-)Yugoslav …
3
that would, we thought, once and for all put an end to widespread
misogyny and hollow illusions of masculine perfection. Our friend
Lepa Mlađenović (2016a) refers to lesbian nests as welcoming shelters
in which one can find refuge from unbearable patriarchal dominance
that reaches its climactic points in violence, war, and environmental
devastation. We thought that in spaces led by lesbians, which would be
sustained by understanding, solidarity, and mutually recognised fragil-
ity, we would finally feel secure enough to slowly start doing away with
secrecy and leaving behind that tiring need to offer multiple, quite dif-
ferent, accounts of who we are depending on how homophobic we feel
our interlocutors—usually our own loved (and possibly not anymore
loving) ones—could be (Huremović 2017; Radoman, this volume).9
How were we then supposed to reconcile this profound, unquench-
able need to be seen in the entirety of our complex and fluid desires
with one of the earliest new prime minister’s statements that Serbia was
not “that homophobic” (Tanner 2017, online)? How are we to under-
stand and support a lesbian politician—that potential embodiment of
our hopes—so willing to succumb to an authoritarian man who pub-
licly says that the idea of taking part in a Pride March “does not cross
his mind” and that he will do something “useful” instead (FoNet 2017,
online)? How can we be seen with our sexual diversities, ageing bodies,
physical incapacities, weaknesses and ever more strangling precarities
by people who only two decades ago wreaked havoc on our commu-
nities and gambled on our futures? Is lesbianity10 expected to mask—
and does its visibility necessarily stem from—an uncritical integration
of our region into the global capitalist system that asks us to relinquish
our socialist past as an infantile utopia to which we cannot return
(Gligorijević 2017; Maljković 2017)? To what extent is each and every
one of us, even if unwillingly, complicit in the rapid dispersion of the
leftist core of emancipatory non-heterosexual politics which begins with
the contradictions that neoliberal capitalism inevitably pushes us into? If
some of us are so willing to have an easy recourse to class privilege, how
can we understand the ways in which our specific social and geograph-
ical positions seep into what we can possibly do with our gender ori-
entations and sexual yearnings?11 In these new troubling circumstances
in which the cause of sexual liberation is being ever more increasingly
4
B. Bilić
appropriated by nationalist and conservative forces, who can really claim

to be an heir to the courageous revolutionary visions that inspired the
very first instances of intersectionality-sensitive lesbian activism?12
(Re)Politicising (Post-)Yugoslav Lesbian

Activism
It is such intricate and painful questions that we encountered on our
collective voyage into the largely uncharted waters of post-Yugoslav les-
bian activist initiatives. Given that we enjoy travelling together—and
only fleetingly come into existence as a nomadic microlocation that
reconstructs, in novel ways, our shattered cultural space (see Bilić, this
volume)—we have taken with us not only generations of scholars who
made it possible for us to emerge in life/writing, but millions of voices
that struggle with the darkness of oblivion to appear and poignantly
speak to us of shame, fear, humiliation and regret. As we are waiting
for meticulous herstorians13 to “look through the margins, gaps, dis-
crepancies, ruptures, and breaks” (Chou, as cited in Garber 2005, p. 43;
see also Bennett 2000) that hide thick sediments of women silence in
Eastern Europe (Herzog 2013; see e.g., Dimitrijević and Baker 2016),
we turn to activists—those who, not without personal conflicts or clash-
ing ideological commitments—guide lesbian desire towards articulation
so that it can acknowledge and appropriate its own name14 and find its
way out of the suffocating seclusion of a single body.
While completing this volume in December 2017, we hear the ech-
oes of feminist activists—our friends, teachers and co-authors—who
exactly 30 years ago, in December 1987, gathered in Ljubljana,15 the
hub of Yugoslav “new social movements” (see Oblak and Pan, this vol-
ume), to imagine better futures for themselves and for us. Ironically, lit-
tle could they know that very soon their country would be torn apart
through a series of armed conflicts which not only produced incredible
human casualties and enormous psychological and material damage, but
also unravelled decades of women’s emancipation efforts and challenged
pan-Yugoslav feminist co-operations to breaking points (Miškovska
Kajevska 2017).16
5
During three days of “discussions and laughter” (as cited in Dobnikar

and Pamuković 2009, p. 22) at what would later be called the first
Yugoslav feminist meeting, Suzana Tratnik introduced the recently
established group Lesbian Lilith (Lezbična Lilit),17 a subgroup of Lilith
(Lilit), feminist section of the association ŠKUC (Student Cultural
Centre) which was the host of the conference (Velikonja and Greif
2012; Plahuta Simčič 2012).18 It was in the spirit of this new group
that participants came up with a statement in which they intrepidly and
promisingly concluded that:
(…) Lesbianity must become publicly visible and we will organise the
first Yugoslav lesbian festival. We use this opportunity to invite all lesbi-
ans to establish their own organisations around Yugoslavia. We demand
a constitutional amendment guaranteeing the equality of all women and
men regardless of their sexual orientation. (Dobnikar and Pamuković
2009, p. 16)19
Although we would like our book to inscribe such liberatory gestures

and their initiators deeper into the palimpsests of (post-)Yugoslav activ-
ist history, through all of the contributions presented here we, more or
less explicitly, ask how we can fuse celebrations of our islands of free-
dom with a critical attitude that examines and re-examines who this
malleable we really refers to (Cohen 1991). Summing up their impres-
sions on the gathering in Ljubljana, four feminists from Belgrade pub-
lished a text in Student in which they stated:
The question arises as to how one can articulate [these] women’s energies?
How can frustration and rage be transformed into political actions? How
can we create a different social context within which women could find
their desires and needs and step out of their classic roles, isolation, and
vacuum? To the question—who will speak on behalf of women workers,
who will speak on behalf of Albanian women, who will speak on behalf
of Roma women—the answer is clear. But many of them still do not have
any social conditions which would allow them to speak up and it is nec-
essary to create such conditions. (Staša Zajović et al. 1987, as cited in
Dobnikar and Pamuković 2009, p. 28)
6
B. Bilić
Even though our job is made easier through a greater but by no means
taken for granted availability of data and the focus on still living actors
that by calling themselves lesbian spare us discussions about who this
“label” could retroactively be attached to (see Baker 2016), ours is not
primarily a book on the her-story of (post-)Yugoslav lesbian activisms.
Rather, we are here trying to circumvent strong temptations to “his-
toricise merits from bygone times” (Lesničar Pučko 2015, online), and
explore how the above-mentioned “conditions for speaking up” are
created throughout the distinctly turbulent social transformations that
our region has witnessed over the last four decades. We draw upon a
multitude of our own positionalities, identifications, experiences, voices
and perspectives to explore and take a stance on the range of ideological
choices and political objectives that have shaped feminist/lesbian/queer
activist endeavours.
What is more, at the Ljubljana gathering, one of the most well-
known Croatian/Yugoslav feminists Lydia Sklevicky (1952–1990),
told about a working-class lesbian who decided to come out during
a discussion organised in Zagreb in 1981 by Woman and Society
(Žena i društvo), a section of the Sociological Association of Croatia.
On that occasion, highly educated lesbian women “who could afford
to carry the stigma of lesbianism” because “they were in a way part
of the social elite” (as cited in Spaskovska 2017, p. 137) did not
show solidarity with a lesbian woman who worked as a typist.20 The
worker, Albanian, and Roma women that appear in the Belgrade
feminists’ text and Sklevicky’s story remind us of social and racial
cleavages that were subdued by the officially socialist regime only to
explode throughout and after its collapse (Bilić, this volume; Baker
2018). Our chapters, therefore, revolve around this crucial ques-
tion—as relevant today as it was over 35 years ago—about how we
can make sure that new horizons of lesbian and, more generally,
non-heterosexual/non-heteronormative liveability, which activist
engagement strives to render possible, are not truncated by falling
back on the “still so unfortunately resilient regimes of discrimination”
(Maljković 2016, p. 224; see also Savić 2017), many of which hail
from the solidified layers of European colonial “supremacy”.
7
As was the case with our previous books (Bilić and Janković 2012;
Bilić and Kajinić 2016; Bilić 2016b), this one is also traversed by
Donna Haraway’s (1988, p. 584) lesson that “the standpoints of the
subjugated are not innocent positions”. If anyone does, it is women, les-
bians, and lesbian activists who know that none of us live a single-issue
life (Lorde 1984/2007): subjugation has numerous facets that are dif-
ferently intertwined in our biographies and social realities (see Kurtić
2013). By treating emancipatory struggles as living spaces and expos-
ing how they are themselves often imbued with social distinctions (Bilić
and Stubbs 2016; see Radoman, this volume), we look at them critically
(which is to say—respectfully) and structurally. Such an approach does
not only acknowledge the hopeful fact that the political field remains
radically open, but it also allows us to carve our own niche within it.
Resisting/Transforming (Gay) Patriarchy

All of our volumes, this one included, reflect both the excruciating
hardship of—and the urgent need for—conceptualising and practic-
ing intersectionality-sensitive politics (Crenshaw 1989, 1991, 2015).
In spite of the widely recognised potentialities of political engagement
informed by an insight into the matrix that entangles, in contingent
ways, multiple strands of oppression, we are continually saddened by
Moraga’s (1983/2015, p. 257) claim that the coalitional idea of (Third
World) feminism “has proved to be much easier between the covers of
a book than between real life women”. Although we cannot help feeling
that traps of hierarchisation and unreflected privilege are waiting for us
at every step, a collection of writings on lesbian activism is a way for
us to escape the paralysing impossibility of addressing all of the combi-
nations that interlocking discriminations can produce. Given that les-
bianity intertwines both gender and sexuality as fundamental operators
of power, the lesbian condition and lesbian activism can certainly teach
us something about how one inhabits, survives, and problematises the
crossroads of misogyny and lesbophobia. These two regimes of exclusion
have deep, if contradictory, roots in our social, cultural, and religious
8
B. Bilić
traditions and, by consequence, in the individual consciousness of each

and every one of us. That is why, as Margaret Cruikshank (1980) argued
approximately a decade after the Stonewall riots, announcing lesbian
existence still remains a deeply political and courageous act.
Over the last years we have been shocked by unrelenting rates of
femicide in the post-Yugoslav space (e.g., Istinomer 2017; Kovačević
Barišič 2016). Hardly a day passes without deeply disturbing news of
women being harassed, beaten, and killed by their husbands and part-
ners, very often in the presence of their children. Decades of ethnically
motivated conflicts, authoritarian traditions, impoverishment, omni-
present unemployment and devastated health and education systems
have all converged to produce “violence which permeates our lives
and informs our worldviews, our feelings, [and] our everyday actions”
(Zaharijević 2017, online). Even though intense feminist/LGBT
organising (Maljković 2016) and, more recently, Europeanisation
pressures (Bilić 2016b) have dealt a blow to pervasive heteronorma-
tive attitudes, one should not underestimate the destructive potential
of wounded masculinity. Blagojević (2013, p. 98; 2017) invites us to
“de-essentialise and denaturalise” men both discursively and practi-
cally, so that they can have a chance to perceive themselves as gendered
actors who are not only perpetrators but also victims of violence. The
Gramscian “time of monsters” (Gramsci 1971, p. 276) opened up by
conflicting gender regimes in which many men feel that they are losing
their patriarchal anchors cannot but lead to confusions which put us at
risk of slipping into male essentialisation. This is, we believe, an impor-
tant point for lesbian activists who have been, as women with less emo-
tional or financial investment in men, at the helm of confronting male
violence in the domestic setting or outside of it (Mlađenović 2016b).21
While the operation of the explosive confluence between nation-
alism, militarism, masculinity, transition to capitalism, and revived
religiosity in the post-Yugoslav space has been amply, although not suffi-
ciently, theorised (e.g., Žarkov 2007; see also Echeverria and Sernatinger
2014), we are here also concerned with and intrigued by how patriar-
chal dominance travels from the heterosexual/sexist sphere to pervade
9
non-heterosexual activist enterprises which one would expect to be

more sensitive to difference and exclusion. The silencing of lesbian (and
other non-“typically”-male) voices is a discriminatory practice that has
accompanied global contemporary efforts at non-heterosexual emanci-
pation ever since their beginning, forcing lesbian women to devise sep-
aratist initiatives for their sexual liberation (Cvetkovic, this volume).
Also in the Yugoslav space, patriarchy runs like a deep current under
the last three decades of activist organising. Mojca Dobnikar (as cited
in Lesničar Pučko 2015, online), for example, claims that “there was
a lot of machismo” and that “a vulgar sexist discourse was something
common” in the 1980s Ljubljana alternative ‘scene’ which otherwise had
strongly progressive (lesbian and gay) strands. Similarly, but in 2014,
Matea Popov (as cited in Marušić 2014, online), a lesbian activist from
Croatia, stated that she decided to leave the Zagreb Pride organisation:
(…) due to the hierarchical and patriarchal structures that put women
and young people under a glass ceiling beyond which they cannot rise.
Of course, there is always a possibility of entering into power fights and
trying to win your own place. It is hard to explain these power structures
and how firm they are, but at the end of the day (like everywhere else) it
somehow turns out that women leave while men stay and that those pro-
grammes that are done by women are treated as “just some kind of work-
shops and friendships”, whereas the programmes led by men are perceived
as “rescuing the world and high politics”.22
Although it is not easy to empirically “capture” manifestations of struc-

tural (gay) patriarchy given that they emerge over years in different,
more or less pronounced, forms, our chapters show that male dominance
has often obscured the crucial lesbian presence in non-heterosexual
activist groups and thus intensified specifically lesbian organising
(e.g., Cvetkovic, this volume; Oblak and Pan, this volume; Vuković and
Petričević, this volume). We appreciate that every activist act—exposing
one’s body in the street, in the court, in front of television cameras or
angry crowds—is an act of courage, but there can hardly be any doubt
that gay (male) activists have received (or claimed) disproportionate
10
B. Bilić
amounts of attention (see Maljković 2016) in spite of consistent lesbian

engagement. As activist scholars we, of course, understand that destabi-
lising patriarchy is a monumental task which, first and foremost, requires
that we rein in the patriarchy that is in us.
Given that Yugoslav socialism showed that there cannot be a com-
plete overlap between the “women’s” and the “class” “questions”, it is
rather disappointing to hear today—yet again mostly male—leftist
voices who invoke this state project without problematising its author-
itarian, patriarchal and deeply sexist dimensions (see Bilić and Stubbs
2016).23 Nada Ler Sofronić (as cited in Svirčić 2011, online), an activ-
ist from Sarajevo and one of the nodal points of Yugoslav feminism,
acknowledges that Yugoslav women indeed were protected in the sphere
of work and could count on social and health insurance. But she also
states that:
it was a huge subversion to claim that the socialist system swept under
the carpet the key issues concerning women’s existence. For example the
fact that the women who were in the front lines of the socialist revolu-
tion were quickly marginalised after the victory, they were exposed to the
feminisation of underpaid jobs, they were remunerated less than men and
progressed in their careers more slowly… and that even a socialist state
benefited from the unpaid work that women were doing in their families.
We have our own experience to testify that women’s emancipation, les-

bian/sexual liberation, and gender diversity cannot be reduced to exclu-
sively class-oriented paradigms. Similarly, our non-heteronormative
sexual desires should not be considered a “luxury” whose recognition
is supposed to stay in the profit-oriented realm of neoliberal consum-
erist capitalism (see e.g., Dimitrijević, as cited in Konjikušić 2015).
Complexities of sexual and intimate citizenship, instead of dividing us,
should rather stimulate us to imagine new, more inclusive, gender- and
sexuality-sensitive ways of being together (Kesić 2017). It is with this in
mind that we have worked on our book—we would like to align this
volume with the tradition of lesbian theoretical and activist interventions
which have aimed to show that if activism is supposed to write us into
life, then it is fundamentally a struggle against erasure and disappearance.
11
Yugoslav Space—Lesbian Space

In other words, our coming (out) together 24 is a hopefully gentle,
inclusion-oriented intervention into a fragile her-story of our activist/
scholarly struggles which has innumerable departure points and con-
stantly re-invents itself through multiple “first times”25 and “historic
achievements”. In her speech at the third Yugoslav feminist meet-
ing in Belgrade on 30 March 1990, Lepa Mlađenović (as stated in
Dobnikar and Pamuković 2009, p. 63), one of the most well-known
Serbian/Yugoslav feminist/anti-war/lesbian activists, stated:
I am one of those feminists who love to use the term “historic event” for
feminist events – [the conference Drug-ca žena]26 was for me an historic
event in the same way in which this one is that too… that gathering was a
landmark point in my life […] at that occasion I did not understand any-
thing. The majority of sociological and philosophical analyses of women
existence were all Greek to me. But if someone asked me whether I was
a feminist, I would respond YES, even though I did not have any idea
about what that really meant.
The harrowing abyss that precedes us, the lesbophobia/homopho-

bia that still surround us, and the neoliberal obsessions with efficiency
that pervade us, all offer many opportunities for (repeatedly) pioneer-
ing enterprises. The intermittency of lesbian/non-heterosexual activisms
that this book reveals reflects and refracts erratic trajectories of our own
and others’ non-heterosexual lives. “Queer failure” is first and foremost
the impossibility of walking down the well-trodden paths of heteronor-
mative temporal linearity (see Halberstam 2011; see also Dioli 2011).
In this regard, the disappearance of socialist Yugoslavia, which did
not only leave indelible scars on the body, on the skin, but also on
memory, could perhaps be considered a radical form of queer failure.
The post-Second World War Yugoslav time-space as an experiment
which—always declaratively, often concretely and contradictorily—
tried to avoid binaries, devise alternatives, harness capitalist expansion,
supply work, emancipate women, promote peace, problematise coloni-
sation, encourage international co-operation, and interrupt long-term
12
B. Bilić
divisions by embracing ethnic, religious, and linguistic diversity, all

of this was perhaps too queer to live. It would be, then, an illusion to
expect that time can smoothly survive the destruction of its correspond-
ing space. As a space vanishes it leaves in its wake a temporal disper-
sion, conflicting and overlapping temporalities which blur distinctions
between what was, is, and will be. The (post-)Yugoslav therefore does
not refer to two separate historical realities—one before and the other
one after Yugoslavia’s disintegration—but, rather, highlights how these
are inextricably intertwined in temporal loops that shape our personal/
political circumstances and choices. As with our other volumes, in this
one too, our fragile, always present, already failed socialist Yugoslavia
stubbornly hinges on a feminist/lesbian/queer hyphen which connects
trauma with promise (see Bilić and Dioli 2016).27
But if we accept the fact that Yugoslav socialism and its predominantly
male leaders (one of whom was quite unquestionable) were less favoura-
ble to women than they officially declared, is it not a little bit paradoxical
to realise that throughout the 1990s, it was the widely celebrated broth-
erhood that collapsed while the subdued sisterhood persevered?28 Does it
not seem peculiar that many of those who did not have “full access” to
the Yugoslav socialist project continued to demonstrate—way beyond its
painful disintegration—that it did indeed have a certain historical and
cultural legitimacy and political substance in spite of all the divergences
that it tried to encompass? Numerous accounts which have by now exam-
ined pan-Yugoslav feminist co-operations point to how much energy,
understanding, and love was necessary to resist the nationalist-militarist
avalanche that threatened, and to a great extent managed, to sweep away
decades of being together (e.g., Bilić 2012; Kesić et al. 2003; Kesić 2017;
Miškovska Kajevska 2017; Mlađenović 2012; Vušković and Trifunović
2008). “We greet you as sisters and can hardly wait to see as many of
you as possible”, say Katarina Vidović and Biljana Kašić (1988, as cited in
Dobnikar and Pamuković 2009, p. 41), in their invitation for the second
Yugoslav feminist meeting that took place in Zagreb in December 1988.
It is this surprising resilience of caring sisterhood that we would like
to illuminate through our intervention into brotherhood and unity, the
strictly patrilinear principle of the Communist Party of Yugoslavia which
we as Yugoslavs were supposed to “protect as the pupil of the eye”.29
However, feminist/lesbian sisterhood cannot surface to assume its place
13
in this paradigm without profoundly transforming also the idea of unity:

in contrast to illusory invocations of potentially authoritarian nation-
al(ist) monoliths, the unity of sisterhood is a space of both painful and
enriching difference: it hybridises cultures, languages, and traditions
to appreciate the multiplicity of women’s worlds and acknowledge the
multi-dimensionality of their needs and experiences. Our volume shows
that (post-)Yugoslav women/lesbian activists have been for decades trying
to cross the lines30 and step over proliferating physical, political, ethnic,
racial, social, and sexual borders (Kajinić, this volume).31 Their nomadic,
pan-Yugoslav, transnational, European, global friendships (Mlađenović
2012) testify to Gloria Anzaldúa’s (1987/1987, p. 217) words that “to
survive the borderlands, you must live sin fronteras, be a crossroads”.
This is particularly visible through the fragmented herstory of Lesbian
Weeks that in 1997 started gathering lesbian activists from all of the
post-Yugoslav countries (Cvetkovic, this volume; Dioli, this volume) as
well as in women’s (art) festivals which also, although less explicitly, act as
spaces of post-Yugoslav lesbian belonging (Selmić and Bilić, this volume).
Finally, in the same way in which Yugoslav socialism and, later on,
the wars of the Yugoslav succession were to a great extent a “male mat-
ter”, their interpretations and histories which have led to hundreds of
books, have also been in “male hands”. Local, diasporic, and interna-
tional social science scholarship has by now paid a lot of attention to
elite layers of politics. Presidents, prime ministers, warriors, and war
criminals—mostly male, heterosexual, and homophobic—not only
fill the pages of scholarly analysis and newspapers on a daily basis, but
keep offering us the same right-wing politics of division, authoritar-
ianism, and impunity that scratches old wounds and hinders healing.
Militarised patriarchy and extreme right-wing populism (in its var-
ious guises) which pervaded and destroyed the Yugoslav space pushed
women and their political engagement to the margins of our collective
remembrance. We have gathered in this volume to go in the opposite
direction and illuminate the fact that the courageous feminist response
to different forms of violence has always had an important lesbian
dimension. It is by no means immediately obvious—and has to be
explicitly stated—that the struggle for freedom in our turbulent region
has also been woven with the tenuous but resilient threads of lesbian
support, care, and love.
14
B. Bilić
Notes
1. Yugoslavia also had the first female prime minister of a communist
country. Milka Planinc was the president of the federal executive coun-
cil from 1982 to 1986.
2. Maljković (2017) draws attention to the fact that it was Aleksandar
Vučić who “outed” Ana Brnabić when announcing her appointment on
a TV programme. In such a way, the entrance of a lesbian politician
into public space was “mediated” by a man instead of being also
an act of activism that could have led to benefits for the general
non-heterosexual population.
3. Blagojević (2009, p. 34) argues that “the semiperiphery is in its essence
transitional, in a process of transition from one set of structures to
another set of structures, and therefore it is unstable, and often has
characteristics of the void, chaos, or structurelessness”.
4. Pešić (2017) claims that Aleksandar Vučić decided to appoint
Ana Brnabić in order to demonstrate his firm grip on the Serbian
Progressive Party and Serbian political life, more generally. By choos-
ing a relatively unknown figure willing to submit to his demands, Vučić
remained the centre of political power even though he moved to a more
ceremonial and representative office of the President of Serbia. What
is more, by appointing a lesbian woman, Vučić not only strategically
appreciated the homonationalist trend in European (Union) politics
(Bilić 2016b; Puar 2007), but also challenged the members of his party
to elect a candidate who would have never been elected had he not pro-
posed her. For other standpoints in this debate, see also Dinić (2017),
Stojanović (2017) and Gligorov (2017), among others.
5. Jóhanna Sigurðardóttir was first. She became the 24th Prime Minister
of Iceland in 2009 and held that office until 2013. Before becom-
ing Prime Minister, Ana Brnabić worked as Minister of Public
Administration and Local Self Government.
6. Belgium, Luxembourg, and Ireland have had openly gay (men) prime
ministers.
7. In 2010 a long-term gay rights activist and the former president of the
NGO Gay-Straight Alliance Boris Milićević was elected to the Board
of the Socialist Party of Serbia which had been established by Slobodan
Milošević (B92 2010). Some activists/analysts saw this as a pinkwash-
ing act of the Socialist Party that was supposed to “testify” to its liberal
attitudes towards “sexual minorities”. See e.g., Maljković (2014).
15
8. “Blood cell counts” (brojanje krvnih zrnaca) is a metaphor frequently

used in the post-Yugoslav region to refer to the obsession with ethnic
origin or belonging.
9. This sort of optimism is analogous to the belief that the victory of
Barack Obama in 2008 heralded an era of a “post-racial” America.
Instead of a new vision of “racially blind” American citizenship that
should have followed in the wake of the brutality of slavery and racial
segregation, institutional racism showed its unfaltering resilience
throughout his rule, but especially during the second term (Joseph
2016). See also Smithers (2009).
10. I agree with Olasik (2015, p. 202) that although “such an item (les-
bianity, BB) is unlikely to be found in a dictionary, it places emphasis
on experience and quality rather than a particular state or a problem-
atic condition, which is the case with the more common ‘lesbianism’ -
a word of either/both dismissive or/and medical connotations, which
has its roots in psychiatric discourse. (…) This conscious, though not
popular, alteration remains my personal, political, and academic choice.
I am thus appealing for discontinuance of the former term (lesbianism)
(…) The alteration I suggest is my grassroots way of contributing to
struggles for lesbian recognition. I believe that, as bell hooks put it,
‘Language is also a place of struggle’”.
11. Another blow came a few months later from Alice Elisabeth Weidel,
a lesbian German politician who has served as leader of Alternative
for Germany in the Bundestag. Alternative for Germany is a far-right,
anti-immigrant and Eurosceptic party that does not support same-sex
marriage or adoption. Lau (2017, online) claims that Weidel entered
into a pact with the right-wing extremist wing of her party which could
be summarised as: “You accept the lesbian and I’ll shield you from the
Nazi stuff, but don’t go too far”.
12. For example, in a statement published in April 1977, the members of
the Combahee River Collective (1977, online) expressed their com-
mitment to “struggling against racial, sexual, heterosexual, and class
oppression, and see as our particular task the development of integrated
analysis and practice based upon the fact that the major systems of
oppression are interlocking. The synthesis of these oppressions creates
the conditions of our lives”.
13. However, although historical accounts of lesbian lives will surely follow,
Garber (2005, p. 43) warns that: “Historians may never be able to con-
struct for women the complete documented histories that are possible for
16
B. Bilić
men who – in control of literacy, publishing, archival preservation, and

even the very definitions of sexual desire – have set the historical record”.
14. Butler (1991, p. 18) argues that naming oneself a lesbian also means
making oneself a lesbian “in some more thorough and totalizing way, at
least for the time being”. Of course “declaring oneself to be a lesbian is
not what makes one experience lesbian desire: tending toward women
as objects of desire is what compels such a risky action of self-naming
in the first place” (Ahmed 2006, p. 93). In this volume we perceive
activists as those who struggle to make such—even if contested, unsta-
ble or overlapping—naming(s) possible.
15. The first Yugoslav feminist meeting took place in Ljubljana, Slovenia,
between 11 and 13 December 1987. After this, there were three
more such meetings, one in Zagreb (16–18 December 1988), one in
Belgrade (30 March 1990–1 April 1990), and the last one in Ljubljana
(17–19 May 1991).
16. Sensing an imminent dissolution of the country, the Belgrade feminist
activist Sonja Drljević, who participated in the third meeting,
stated: “Everyone’s expecting capitalism in which everyone will be a
capitalist. I’ve never seen such a country. Certainly women will be
second-class citizens. How bad will it get, if this inequality is so bad
now under Communists, who are at least in principle committed to
women’s rights?” (as cited in Dobnikar and Pamuković 2009, p. 74).
17. The establishment of the group was announced in a supplement of
the Slovenian weekly Mladina (published on 30 October 1987) which
was entitled Let’s love women (Ljubimo ženske) and which brought the
manifesto of Lesbian Lilith, inviting lesbian women out of anonym-
ity. Remembering this, Lepa Mlađenović (as cited in Spaskovska 2017,
p. 136) states: “When we saw the supplement in Mladina, which we
did not know was being prepared, we were very impressed. Of course,
the coming into existence of the first lesbian group in Yugoslavia for us
is a historic event which we celebrate… what some of us [in Belgrade]
dreamed of and wished for was realised by our comrades from
Ljubljana and we were really impressed/enthused”.
18. In January 1988 this lesbian activist initiative separated from Lilith and
was registered within ŠKUC as Lesbian Section LL (Lezbična sekcija
LL), thus becoming the first specifically lesbian group in the Yugoslav
and Eastern European space.
19. The original statement in Slovenian says that “lesbianity must become
visible” (“da mora lezbištvo postati vidno”), whereas the Serbo-Croatian
translation, provided by the participants, reads that “lesbianity should
17
become visible” (“lezbejstvo treba da postane vidljivo”) (Dobnikar and

Pamuković 2009, pp. 16–17). See also Spaskovska (2017).
20. This woman must have been Marija Bogović who at the time of the
Woman and Society discussion had “three grown up children, [was]
41 years old and [had] recently been divorced from her husband”
(Olga 1982, p. 13). Olga, an American lady of Yugoslav origin who
in the early 1980s returned to Yugoslavia “in search of Yugoslav lesbi-
ans” states that after the feminist meeting “Marija got on her feet and
told the audience why she is a lesbian and all about male dominance”.
Marija later wrote a “coming out letter to the newspaper, letting other
lesbians know who she is and where they can get hold of her” (Olga
1982, p. 13). Although poorly known, perhaps Marija Bogović’s pub-
lic gesture could also be considered one “starting point” of Yugoslav
lesbian activism. In 1996, the publishing house “Pavličić” published
Marija Bogović’s autobiographic book Violets and a Whip: A Confession
of a Woman Interested in Women (Ljubičice i bič) in which she writes
about her efforts to find a lesbian partner. Janković (2013, online)
claims that this book, characterised by “nationalist rigidity”, was at the
time of publication “the worst selling book” in Croatia.
21. While violence seems to be most frequently discussed in relation to men,
there is a growing amount of literature on violence in same-sex part-
nership, including lesbian couples, which claims that gays and lesbians
are not less violent than their heterosexual counterparts. This is mostly
related to internalised homophobia, higher risks of traumatic experi-
ences, and difficulties with accessing health or counselling services. See
e.g., Elliot (2008), Stiles-Shields and Carol (2015), or West (2002).
22. Another lesbian activist who did not feel welcome at Zagreb Pride
meetings was Ana Brakus (2015). See also Zagreb Pride’s (2015)
response to Brakus’ text in which she talks about what she found prob-
lematic in the operation of that activist group.
23. In this regard, Forca and Puača (2007, p. 73) claim that:
it also happens that activists – radical in areas such as labour rights,
direct actions and the like, succumb to the patterns of nationalist
and patriarchal elitism and machismo. Such politics are manifested
in glorifying their own success, work and actions and denying,
belittling, degrading and aggressively attacking every initiative
coming from elsewhere. Most such groups have never publicly
distanced themselves from nationalism. Cooperation with them,
18
B. Bilić
which is important because of a very small number of activists and

huge social problems, is made very difficult due to aggressive com-
munication, where one of the most successful ways of situation
changing is – insisting on principles of nonviolent communica-
tion. Such groups, that often call themselves anarchist, concentrate
their actions on ‘starting a revolution’ whereby they, more often
than not, exclude the possibility of supporting antinationalist man-
ifestations and actions, always finding ways to discredit organisers
and deny their participation. Their ‘revolution’ mostly addresses
labour rights, but neglects the fact that it is among this very work-
ing class, and quite often among them themselves, where national-
ism, misogyny and homophobia are the most widespread.
24. Lewin and Leap (2002, p. 12) claim that “conducting lesbian/gay

research is tantamount to coming out – whether one is actually lesbian/
gay or not. Although doing research in New Guinea, for example, does
not lead to the assumption that one must be a native of that region,
studying lesbian/gay topics is imagined as only possible for a ‘native’”.
25. See, for example, how the Dutch lesbian activist Evien Tjabbes criti-
cises the organisers of the 2017 European Lesbian* Conference in
Vienna for saying that they convened the first international lesbian
gathering. Tjabbes was herself among the organisers of the “first les-
bian conference ever” that took place in Amsterdam from 27 December
1979 to 1 January 1980. As a matter of fact, that conference was fol-
lowed by a series of international lesbian gatherings organised by the
International Lesbian Information Service (ILIS) that was founded
within ILGA in 1980 and became a separate organisation prior to the
ILGA Turin conference in 1981. ILIS ceased its activities in the 1990s.
Tjabbes’ intervention at the Vienna conference is available here: www.
youtube.com/watch?v=JTzcOOoHFPU&t=3457s.
26. The international feminist gathering Comrade Women: The Woman

Question: A New Approach (Drug-ca žena: žensko pitanje—novi pris-
tup) took place in Belgrade in 1978. Even though the French feminist
Christine Delphy, one of the participants, argued that “the word les-
bian was not uttered during the whole conference” (as cited in Olga
1982, p. 13), the meeting was of fundamental importance for Lepa
Mlađenović who would later become one of the leaders of lesbian
activist organising in the Yugoslav, and broader European, space (see
Bonfiglioli 2008; Delphy 1979; Mlađenović 2012).
27. Bonnie Zimmerman (as cited in Sayer 1995), a lesbian feminist and
women’s studies scholar, suggests that “space is a profound metaphor
19
for lesbian writers which has a lot to do with the fact that we were scat-
tered in such a way that we must create a concept of space because that
space is not given to us”.
28. Jalušič (2002) shows that “sisterhood” and the “communal” had some-
what negative connotations in the 1980s’ Ljubljana activist scene. See
Oblak and Pan (this volume).
29. In the Serbo-Croatian original: “Čuvajmo bratstvo i jedinstvo kao zen-
icu oka svoga”.
30. See Biljana Kašić’s poem Crossing the Lines, written in 1994 during a
watch at the Anti-War Campaign of Croatia. Feminist activist from
Belgrade wrote: “Biljana was thinking of us when she was writing it.
We are thinking of Biljana and our friends from Zagreb by publish-
ing it” (as cited in Vušković and Trifunović 2008, p. 389; see also Bilić
2012, chapter 3).
31. Madina Tlostanova (2013, as cited in Kronotop 2013, online): “When
you are the border, when the border cuts through you, when you do
not cross borders in order to find yourself on either side, you do not
discuss borders from some zero point positionality, but instead you
dwell in the border, you do not really have much choice but to be a bor-
der thinker”.
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Yearning for Space, Pleasure,
and Knowledge: Autonomous
Lesbian and Queer Feminist
Organising in Ljubljana
Teja Oblak and Maja Pan
Over the last three decades, Ljubljana has witnessed a series of auton-
omous lesbian feminist and queer feminist initiatives that have mostly
grown in squats. In this chapter, we, both long-term activists, provide
an overview of the development of the autonomous lesbian and queer
feminist initiatives in Slovenia, primarily focusing on the Red Dawns
festival collective, the Lesbian Feminist University group and the
Anarcho-Queer-Feminist Collective Rog. We intertwine the political
notion of autonomy with the practices of squatting because we con-
sider both of them particularly relevant for the early and contemporary
alternative/non-mainstream political organising. Autonomous organ-
isations and groups defend our dignity and define our “active subjec-
tivities” (Lugones 2003) against the oppressive and liberalist structures
that produce unlawful citizens, peripheral subjectivities, and under-
ground cultures. This is achieved through creating a space for the much
T. Oblak (*) 
Lesbian Feminist University, Ljubljana, Slovenia
M. Pan (*) 
University of Ljubljana, Ljubljana, Slovenia
28
T. Oblak and M. Pan
needed political content—by taking, or more precisely, re-appropriating

it unlawfully—which is the case with lesbian and queer feminist squat-
ting. Creation of such space is achieved not only by taking it physically,
but also by occupying our own identities.
We consider our analysis part of the continuous autonomous fem-
inist activists’ struggle against hierarchical narratives that central-
ise, marginalise or exclude the most radical features of the movement
itself. Drawing upon intersectional political affinities, we argue that the
autonomous lesbian/queer feminist organising has made an impact on
the development and the proliferation of feminist consciousness and
actions that involve and engage all liberation movements and their sub-
jects. Our text constitutes a celebration of these processes as well as an
invitation for their continual rethinking.
Feminist and Lesbian Groups Until 2000

Feminist movement appeared in Slovenia in the second half of the 1980s
during a tumultuous period of the newly formed “civil society”, within
which there were peace, ecological, and gay initiatives (Jalušič 2002). Apart
from the influence of punk and sufficient “softening” (Gržinić 2001) of the
Party structures, the flourishing culture of experimental art enabled social-
ist youth organising to grow into a more liberal and critical structure such
as ŠKUC (Student Cultural Centre) which is the oldest NGO in Slovenia,
and where the first women’s section in the former Socialist Republic of
Slovenia was established (Jalušič 2002). After 1984, the majority of gay
and lesbian cultural projects that exist up to today were founded in ŠKUC,
such as Ljubljana Gay and Lesbian Film Festival (Tratnik 2001, p. 376).1
In April 1985, a founding meeting of a new women’s group Lilith
(Lilit) at ŠKUC-Forum took place in Ljubljana’s alternative cultural
club K4. Discussions covered women’s sexualities and ended up with
a party attended by more than 250 women (Jalušič 2002). Mojca
Dobnikar, a Lilith activist, stated:
It was one of the most important events in the lives of many women
there. Everybody was so euphoric - the first women-only event in
Yearning for Space, Pleasure, and Knowledge …
29
Ljubljana ever! A well-known male journalist from a liberal media journal

wanted to enter, but was not allowed; afterwards, that journal kept on
making jokes about feminists. (Oblak 2017; see also Jalušič 2002)
Further on Dobnikar explained:
In the 1980s there was a widespread opinion that it is good to do some-

thing public, not only to go around your own private garden […] we
were dissatisfied with what it meant to be a woman back then. (as cited in
Jalušič 2002, p. 122)
Lilith activists were active critics of the system, but they also had the
need to meet, socialise in new ways and politicise new women´s iden-
tities (Jalušič 2002). This is how Lilith remained a women-only group
that held women-only events, and became a crucial junction and public
space for other women- and feminist-related actions and initiatives in
Ljubljana. Because of strong anti-nationalist stances and vivid transna-
tional cooperation with other feminist groups, this eventually led to the
now legendary four Yugoslav feminist meetings between 1987 and 1991
(see Dobnikar and Pamuković 2009) and also inspired efforts at fighting
violence against women (Jalušič 2002).
In 1987, a separate lesbian group named ŠKUC-LL (Lesbian Lilith)
originated from Lilith focusing on “lesbian activism”, not feminism
(Jalušič 2002). Some other lesbians that remained within Lilith and
focused on “lesbian feminism” also carried on with their activism in sepa-
rate groups. The main difference between “lesbian activism” and “lesbian
feminism” relates to separatism: namely, “lesbian activists” did not agree
with women-only spaces and chose to collaborate with gays to achieve
their political goals, based on sexual orientation; feminism for them came
only after sexual orientation or not at all (Jalušič 2002). Particularly dur-
ing the 1990s, the majority of established “lesbian activists” oriented
themselves more towards the West and less towards the former Yugoslav
space where autonomous feminist lesbians were influential.2
In general, at the end of the 1980s, feminist and lesbian groups
organised themselves at the margins of the new “civil society” (see
Mastnak 1985), let alone society as a whole. As Jalušič (2002, p. 29)
stated:
30
T. Oblak and M. Pan
Feminist initiatives were separated from this movement, partially by their

own choice, partially because they were, along with other homosexual ini-
tiatives, the least welcome in the circles of “civil society”.
At the turn of the 1980s to 1990s, it was prevalent in the media to call
feminists in Lilith and other feminist groups “lesbians” or “men haters”.
One report about the Yugoslav feminist meeting got entitled as “That
unpleasant smell of men”, while Lilith was characterised as “divided into
the thinking ones and the lesbian oriented ones” (Jalušič 2002, p. 50).
In September 1993, soon after the disintegration of Yugoslavia,
groups and individuals from the new social movements of the 1980s
squatted buildings of a deserted Yugoslav army complex at Metelkova
Street in Ljubljana. Apart from pacifist and anti-war tendencies, the
main “hunger” of Ljubljana’s civil society in the late 1980s was hav-
ing their own physical space (Babić 2013). In this respect, “in many
ways, the subcultural movement […] was the historical subconscious of
Metelkova. This subculture was an exceptional underground collision
of art, culture, and politics”, claimed Gržinić (2001) about the relation
of the subcultural movements, feminist movement and squatting which
were all indispensable in forming the unique features of the squat that
has the longest tradition in Slovenia. Metelkova’s collaborative func-
tioning is based on assemblies, constantly resisting fierce pressures of
evictions, legalisation, privatisation, and lately also an overflow of mass
tourism (Pureber 2013).
Among squatters there were also lesbian feminists from the dissipat-
ing group Lilith. They occupied a part of the northern building com-
plex and established the Autonomous Women’s Centre (AWC) that
consisted of many smaller focus groups: Modra, Ženska svetovalnica,
F-IKS, Luna, Prenner club, and a first feminist lesbian group Kasandra
(Dobnikar 1996). Grassroots activist Lili Vučenović from the group
Modra remembers: “At that time there was no electricity, no heating,
we sat by the candles, made flyers, invited women, we wanted to form a
group of women” (Jalušič 2002, p. 218).
Lesbian feminists from Kasandra were instrumental in building and
sustaining the AWC. They formed a lesbian social club named Lola, an
info centre and a small library; activists organised meetings, discussions,
31
parties, literary evenings, creative workshops in women’s writing, visual

arts workshops, and exhibitions.
I remember going to Kasandra for the first time in 1996 with my girl-
friend under pretence of borrowing a Slovene feminist journal Delta. On
the office wall there was the famous Man Ray’s poster of sisters Mossé,
underneath Dragana Rajković, the co-founder of Kasandra sitting in a big
office chair, smirking. Although very honest, one needs to imagine this
kind of aestheticism and seriousness quite at odds with others, generally
dirty and messy areas of the squat. There was also a small library shelf,
with a precious selection of Yugoslav and world feminist and lesbian lit-
erature. My fascination was sealed when we found out we all studied phi-
losophy. (Pan, unpublished autoethnographic note)
The AWC represented what feminists from Lilith had yearned for:
a public space of “one’s own” for women’s and feminist themes and
actions. Symbolically and practically, this was made possible by the
self-developed, intergenerational and transnational feminist knowledge
transfer between Lilith and the AWC activists. A long-term activist at
Metelkova, Nataša Serec, remembers: “Dragana from Kasandra was like
a mentor – she introduced feminism to us many years before we con-
ceived Red Dawns” (Oblak 2017; Hvala 2010a).
Moreover, the AWC followed Lilith’s line of separatism and admitted
only women.
It stayed with me forever how fierce we were at ‘throwing out’ the

unknown men who insistently imposed themselves at our parties in Lola.
It was usually the one or even more likely the two of us, who were the
nearest to the door that managed the intruder, since most of the time
there was not someone delegated to do just that. If words did not suffice,
such person got surrounded by many of us and carried out. For feeling so
safe, we actually did behave (also sexually) way more freely than I remem-
ber women did elsewhere. (Pan 2017, unpublished autoethnographic
note)
Based on this and other similar accounts we confirm that separatism

was and still is crucial in enabling safer expression (of opinion or sexual)
32
T. Oblak and M. Pan
that can lead not only to independence but to proper autonomy in

political organising. In this respect it is worth noting that the lesbian
feminist separatist space Lola was operating for years, precisely since the
establishment of the AWC in 1993. While the lesbian club Monokel
(also at Metelkova squat) that was established as a lesbian club as late
as in 1998 (Cultural Centre Q 2017) by ŠKUC-LL—though intended
for lesbian socialising—remained mixed and functioned only on special
occasions as women-only or lesbian-only party venue.
In media presentations of lesbianity and homosexuality in the 1990s,
Kuhar (2003) noted a shift towards de-medicalisation and depolitici-
sation of homosexuality: media discourse has been influenced also by
lesbian and gay activists through their cultural achievements and by
promoting human rights as a way of attaining “developed Europe”.
More broadly, “the new activists heightened the level of lesbian print,
they introduced lesbian theory or lesbian studies and articulated politi-
cal demands” (Jalušič 2002).
In contrast, lesbian feminist activists from Kasandra opted for build-
ing and expanding local communities in Ljubljana and across Slovenia
as well as contributing to a transnational lesbian (and feminist) commu-
nity, especially within the post-Yugoslav space. Between 1991 and 1994
Kasandra participated in organising the Women’s Camps, which were,
according to Dobnikar (1996), of great importance: “when places for
public feminist activism were depleted, those camps represented wom-
en’s islands, places of freedom, exchange of experiences, and inspira-
tion for activities” (online). In the period after Slovene independence,
the state engaged in varied processes of racialisation and ethnicisation,
“erasing” residents from the former Yugoslav republics3 and applying
strict asylum policies for war refugees (Baskar 2004; Doupona Horvat
et al. 2001). During that time, Kasandra consisted of lesbian feminists
that were of non-Slovene national belonging or that nourished strong
anti-nationalist and anti-war stances.
In 1992, the Fifth Feminist Yugoslav Meeting was not organised
due to disagreements mostly around establishing umbrella organ-
isation of all feminists from the ex-Yugoslav states (Jalušič 2002,
p. 63). Nevertheless, the war did not lessen the feminist network in
33
post-Yugoslav space (Dobnikar 1996) and Ljubljana´s feminists showed

solidarity with women in war zones (Mlađenović 2001). At the time,
other mainstream lesbian and gay groups from Slovenia were rather
unwavering in their orientation towards the “progressive Europe” and
away from the “backward Balkans”. This was and still is in concert with
promotion of such orientation by liberal government in Slovenia which
was striving towards accession to the European Union and the NATO,
in order to become part of the “progressives”, “the countries with proper
human rights”,“the moral countries” and of “the future” (Velikonja
2005). In our opinion, that process started to change, especially for
activist lesbians, only slowly, approximately 15 years after the coun-
try’s independence. Importantly, this opinion contributes additional
criticism to the thesis of the ongoing artistic and activist exchange as
analysed on the example of the Gay and Lesbian film festival Ljubljana
(Kajinić 2016, p. 76)—with the necessary observation that there was a
time lap in between, significant also for the majority of the mainstream
cultural politics of the state. The same strong non-assimilationism that
was characteristic of the political autonomy of Kasandra, remained a
signature feature also for the autonomous festival Red Dawns and other
feminist and queer initiatives further explored in our chapter.
Probably one of the most visible and memorable events for all of
the participants was a joint meeting of lesbians from the post-Yugoslav
space, the “Lesbian Weekend”, which was organised by Kasandra
and Labris, a lesbian organisation from Belgrade, in 1997 in Pohorje
(Markunova 2017). The influence of the post-Yugoslav lesbian feminist
meetings (the last one held in 2015; see Dioli, this volume) originates
from solidarity and sparking exchange of energy between “lesbian femi-
nists” and “feminist lesbians” that had, according to Mlađenović (2001,
p. 383), manifold effects:
The most important achievement was that links were forged among lesbi-
ans from Croatia, Slovenia, Macedonia and Serbia. The mood during the
Lesbian Week fostered many ideas and new projects. This was a crucial
moment and lesbians from Belgrade have afterwards decided to register
the group and rent a space for lesbians only.
34
T. Oblak and M. Pan
Kasandra activists occupied and fostered new public spaces for lesbi-
ans mostly through transnational and intercultural connections. The
importance and domain of such work is lucidly expressed by Biljana
Jovanović, feminist author and activist, who in 1993 stated (as cited in
Lazić and Urošević 2016, p. 266):
I keep thinking about how to culturally reintegrate this [Yugoslav] space

in spite of it being fragmented into one hundred states, because this is
more important than anything else.
A contribution to lesbian visibility during the feminist fight on violence

against women could also be noted in the manifestations and actions in
Ljubljana, from 1995 to 1997 organised by AWC. Maja Pan remembers
(2017):
Possibly the first rally I ever attended was at Dragana’s invitation in 1996
in Ljubljana to fight violence against women. I remember seeing her on
the street holding a banner with some lesbian content. There were not
many women who wanted it but I grabbed it since I considered myself to
be out, saying to Dragana that I hope my mother does not see me on TV
smoking a cigarette.
Apart from non-assimilation which has been characteristic of les-

bian feminist activists, Kasandra’s intersectionality shows an example
of squatting out of need for a space for activities critical of the norms
or mores of the dominating society. By occupying the topoi that “we”
(see Foucault in Rabinow 1984; Cohen 1991) do not inhabit or “are
excluded from”, such groups are performing a political gesture of
self-liberating necessity. Consequently, a double effect takes place:
the paradoxical liberation by occupation and secondly, the effect of
autonomous lesbian feminist organising—prevention of the “colonisa-
tion of gender” (Lugones 2008). Kasandra did not understand squat-
ting as a practice that would refer to “squatting” of our own personal
identities, in a way that would indicate an autonomous use of these
identities without possessing and legitimately owning them, as queer
feminist autonomous organising could assume. Kasandra was closer to
35
understanding the categories of being a “woman” or “lesbian” as iden-

tities which we do not possess but which rather possess and occupy us.
As opposed to the reflection of the later Red Dawns collective (from
the third edition on) where, according to the above sense, the squat-
ters became not only the occupied but the occupiers at the same time,
Kasandra’s agenda was clearly separatist, possibly also a radical feminist
one in the materialist constructivist understanding of gender, but not
a queer feminist one. In this sense, Kasandra was not in favour of the
early inquiries into queer feminist theory and practice. After being deci-
sive for a new feminist initiative at Metelkova and the feminist festival,
the feminist-lesbian group Kasandra and AWC altogether ceased to exist
by 2001 (Jalušič 2002).
Red Dawns: Feminist and Queer Communist

Bastard
From the very start Metelkova managed to sustain itself as a squat
within which the majority of crucial positions were held and a bulk of
work was done by women while their input remained invisible (Pan
2007a). As the co-founder of Red Dawns Nataša Serec (as cited in
Hvala 2010a, p. 14) remembers:
women at Metelkova were pretty sympathetic, we were prepared to work

for free and were devoted to fight for preservation of Metelkova because
at that time many things were uncertain. But when journalists came or if
there was someone to be praised, there were always men who talked, our
comrades, who liked to be exposed more than us.
In 2001 a lesbian feminist from Kasandra and another activist and art-
ist from Metelkova came up with the idea of Red Dawns, a women’s
festival of alternative art. Serec (in Hvala 2010a, p. 14) recalls: “We
wanted to give ourselves an opportunity to prove as organisers, activ-
ists, and artists”. The expression “communist bastard” was coined by
D. Rajković (Pan 2007a) to refer to the festival’s clear leftist politics but,
36
T. Oblak and M. Pan
on the other hand, the “bastard” aspect was used to indicate disobedi-
ence and staying on the margins or even out of law.4
Since its beginnings, the Red Dawns fiercely experimented with auton-
omy at squats and other spaces by following the do-it-yourself (DIY)
principles of organisation (Pan 2007a), non-hierarchical mode of organ-
ising and community building (Babić 2013; Pureber 2013). The open-
ness of the collective to new people and contents proved to be a contested
issue for its long-term organisers, spanning emotions from enthusiasm
and inspiration to fatigue (Hvala 2010a). Due to a generous and deliber-
ate knowledge transfer and attraction of younger people, it has been pos-
sible to sustain such self-organisation for almost 15 years and to enable
the kind of puissance (Babić 2013) that keeps the organisation going.
Lesbian feminists and lesbian activists were present in the festival’s
programme and organisation since its first edition as individuals and
groups, such as Kasandra and queer feminists from the groups Ljudjeza.
org (2017) and Alter Šalter (Hvala 2010a). Moreover, activists from the
lesbian club ŠKUC-LL-Monokel at Metelkova squat joined in from the
beginnings of the festival. Suzana Tratnik (in Hvala 2010a) explains: “We
wanted to include lesbian subculture into broader women’s initiatives” (p.
25). However, an activist of Lesbian Feminist University recollected:
During the Red Dawns festival I enjoyed being in a community of pre-

dominantly women, which I had not experienced many times earlier at
the lesbian club but I often wondered where the profiled lesbian activists
and visitors of mainstream lesbian-gay parties were. That made me think
a lot about the political passivity of lesbians and the narrowness of iden-
tity-centred politics and interests. (Oblak, unpublished; see also Merc, as
cited in Hvala, 2010a, pp. 42–43)
The Red Dawns festival represents important feminist and queer coun-
ter-public (Hvala 2010b). Its influence covers various layers of feminist
experience. In the words of the long-term organiser, Anna Ehrlemark
(as cited in Hvala 2010a):
Everybody who has been here is constantly referring to the festival as a

high point of their own development within their organisational work or
37
feminist struggle or art. The festival promotes a political, not an apolitical

view of feminism. […] My general feeling is that the understanding of
feminism by alternative and mainstream people in Slovenia is extremely
banal and one-sided.
Until the present day, the Red Dawns festival has not had its own space.
Though, by collaborating with Metelkova, Rog Factory squats and
youth centres across Slovenia, they manage to temporarily occupy and
reshape hosting spaces and communities and spread their influence to
the contested area of “the queer”.
How Did Queer (“Kvir”) Come Round

in Slovenia?
It is due to the Red Dawns festival that the women’s, feminist, and
LGBT movement got introduced with the term and practice of queer,
mostly by inviting queer and trans performers from all around and
offering them an open, radical, and experimental space at the festival.
The redefinition of the Red Dawns festival took place from the initial
“festival of women’s production” limited to Metelkova in 2000, to “fes-
tival of women”, then “women’s pocket festival”, “festival without con-
cept” to the “feminist and queer festival” in 2007 (Pan 2007a; Hvala
2010a).5 When trying to theorise the decision of the organisers we
made the following claim:
To give up the relative gender marker ‘woman’ completely is like deleting

the whole century of the fight for the liberation of women. Still, I am not
claiming that we need to successively get liberated as women first to see
our gender become relative. Both those processes should be simultaneous.
(Pan 2007a, p. 76)
Approximately at the same time when the Red Dawns festival defined
itself as queer feminist, some of the activists involved in its organisa-
tion formed the queer collective Alter Šalter in Tovarna Rog (Rog
Factory) squat. In 2006–2007 they read about, researched and practised
38
T. Oblak and M. Pan
queerness, but later moved back to lesbian activism due to their opin-
ion that “Slovenia is not ready for queer activism!” (Hvala 2010a).
Consequently, a new group named Vstaja lezbosov (The lesbos uprise)
was formed, which made public actions, graffiti and video art aimed
at greater lesbian visibility and reacted to lesbophobia in public spaces
(Tratnik 2010).
Until that time one could feel a certain discomfort, even doubt and
resistance towards the queer in the Slovene lesbian and gay movement.
Only few activist theorists dealt with it (Tratnik 1995; Pan 2004, 2007b,
2010; Hvala 2012).6 Queer emerged through a self-declaration of the
individuals at the margin of the movement.7 For example, earlier to
those, the transnational queer feminist vegan group Ljudjeza.org (2002–
2005) was operational in Slovenia, mostly in Ljubljana and Maribor
(Ljudjeza.org 2017). This small autonomous affinity group of queer fem-
inist intellectuals, artists and anarchists, focused on public and media
activism that tried to intersect queer feminist, vegan and anti-capitalist
politics. The basic novelty and uniqueness of this group was to consist-
ently involve feminism, lesbian feminism, queer feminism and ecofem-
inism with animal rights and workers’ rights, by the means of activist
tactics and transnational anarchist networking while resisting various local
and global manifestations of oppression. This and other fragile groups are
much in line with what Lugones (2003, p. 6) called “active subjectivity”
[which] does not presuppose the individual subject and it does not pre-
suppose collective intentionality of collectivities of the same. It is adum-
brated to consciousness by a moving with people, by the difficulties as
well as the concrete possibilities of such movings. (Lugones 2003, p. 211)
This becomes particularly insightful when viewed with the background

of the utopianism of the early Queer Belgrade Collective (see Puača
and Marković 2006; Jeremić 2015; Bilić and Dioli 2016) with whom
Ljudjeza.org was building an affinity (as termed in Haraway 1991).
The importance of the liminal character of the autonomous queer
feminist groups emerging in a decade after the AWC can be further dis-
cussed by applying the concept of social liminality. It positions queer
subjectivity as a space of invisibility where “lesbian” and “queer” are
39
rendered beyond the laws and regulations. Thus it becomes potentially

liberating. A working-class lesbian, a Roma lesbian, a transgender les-
bian, a migrant lesbian or a precarious lesbian is a person who has the
experience of “moving across realities”, and within each of them she is
acting differently. As Lugones (2003) claims, this can be understood as
liminal which is important because “when the limen is understood as a
social state, it contains both the multiplicity of the self and the possibil-
ity of structural critique” (p. 61). This critique stems out of the subject’s
ability to experience herself as multiple (but not in a banal sense) and
“as such, liminality is threatening to any world or any aspect of a world
that requires unification, either psychologically, morally, politically, or
metaphysically” (Lugones 2003, p. 61). However, as we will try to show,
the subject can change the structure from the position of invisibility
rather than simply visibility, too.
As a social state, liminality is liberating and can serve as a platform for
creating solidarity not only in the cliché sense of “opening up the space”
but more importantly for “taking up the space” to enable multiple, freer
life and a mutual recognition of active subjects. However, it can be liber-
ating only as long as it does not get instrumentalised which is what hap-
pens with the (neo) liberalisation of active subjectivities (see the section
on the autonomous Anarcho-Queer-Feminist collective at Rog).
Apart from sporadic small groups, in the first decade of the 2000s, the
DIY festival Red Dawns significantly reduced the gap in the area of con-
tinuous collective self-organising, which occurred after the cease of AWC
at Metelkova (Tomasek 2011; Jalušič 2002). After 2010 it was the Lesbian
Feminist University group that further enacted autonomous organising
and carried on with particularly Kasandra’s lesbian feminist politics.
Lesbian Feminist University:

Reclaiming Lesbian Feminism
Besides organising the festival, some of the Red Dawns organisers
missed additional continuous learning within the collective. In her cri-
tique of knowledge production the queer feminist activist Urška Merc
(in Hvala 2010a, p. 42) went even further:
40
T. Oblak and M. Pan
If you look at gender studies, the readers, you see, that there is focus on
American literature, though every space has its own feminist herstory
[…] sometimes I think that even activism got swallowed up by cultural
colonialism.
On similar grounds, in 2010 Lesbian Feminist University (LFU) sprang

up at Metelkova from a profound wish to learn, reflect, and research. As
Oblak (2017) remembers:
I wanted more than just to read and be immersed into works of aristo-
cratic lesbian writers of the 1930s Paris. I missed contemporary lesbian
and feminist texts that would critically deal with our lives, bodies, part-
nerships, precariousness, lack of jobs, neoliberal capitalism, rising fascism.
For the LFU collective, to declare to be a university represents “an iron-

ical gesture” (LFU 2017) by which the knowledge regularly mediated
by pedagogical authorities in a rigid, conservative formal university is
reclaimed and where activists can self-organise education (Antihistory
2017). As the long-term LFU activist Maja Kraljič argued from the very
start:
“You can learn and acquire knowledge of just anything you want in
this world, you just need to persist!” (Oblak 2017, unpublished).
For a long time LFU thought of itself as a group without predeces-
sors since the Autonomous Women’s Centre became practically invis-
ible: the local feminist lesbian organising was repressed and forgotten
(Jalušič 2002; Hvala 2010a). Thus, the long-term activist Merc (as cited
in Hvala 2010a, p. 42) was further wondering:
Why is Kasandra not part of the anthology about our lesbian movement
/i.e. Tratnik and Segan 1995, our insertion/? This anthology pretends to
serve as a reference for any future historical studies, which implies that
Kasandra can vanish from memory and from the LGBT map of Slovenia.
These worries were especially founded in the pre-internet era’s reliance

upon printed sources. Apart from such worries the motivation of LFU
was also related to making a strong claim for feminist practices since
sexism was regular at lesbian parties and in the cultural scene:
41
When my activist colleague, a feminine lesbian who dresses up accord-

ing to the gothic subculture, went to party at a lesbian and gay club, two
lesbians there scolded her and wanted her to go out to a straight place,
because “such women” did not belong there as they couldn’t possibly be
real lesbians. (Oblak 2017, unpublished autoethnographic note)
Motivated by such experiences LFU continuously organised lesbian and

feminist events and established a community of lesbians and women,8
interested in lesbian feminism. Similarly to Kasandra, LFU does not
deal with queer feminism. Still, to be occupying the “lesbian” topos
for LFU bears the same meaning as in Monique Wittig’s claim (1992):
“Lesbians are not women” (p. 32). In the concept of the “double con-
sciousness” of Lugones (1990), being a “woman” and being a “lesbian”
are unstable, changeable and intermeshed categories, as she demon-
strates by the case of ethnic minorities (see for example “American” and
“negro”). As far as Kasandra was concerned, liberation through agential
power, the “active subjectivity” is achieved (importantly via separatism)
through emancipation of women, through autonomy that is primar-
ily understood as economic independence and being free from gen-
der-based violence (this includes also certain institutional autonomy).
The same would hold for lesbians, who are consequently considered to
be doubly oppressed, so sexual autonomy is added to the emancipatory
imperative.
Due to communal needs LFU claimed safe(r) spaces opened to lesbi-
ans, women and trans-persons. Tadeja Pirih, a long term LFU and Red
Dawns activist, remembers (in Oblak 2017):
With a mixed audience, lesbians and women did not express their opin-
ions loudly. That totally changed at the LFU meetings. They became
almost impatient to talk and take part in a debate.
In the absence of “cis men” at lesbian and women-only spaces and fem-
inist events (Tomasek 2011), feminist activists often expressed their
personal need to have women-only spaces (Oblak 2017). Lóránd con-
cluded when interviewing Mlađenović (as cited in Lóránd 2014, p. 297)
that “safe space helps not only the consciousness-raising of women, but
42
T. Oblak and M. Pan
even secures the learning environment significantly better than a mixed

group”. This is how LFU sought autonomy and release from power
relations inside the squat and spaces, where they were hosted (Pureber
2013). LFU understands autonomy as an experimental practice of
having agency in addressing those critical issues precisely within those
spaces, for example at lesbian and gay clubs etc. Thus, it is not a physi-
cal space alone but radical openness that builds community. In relation
to their group’s strategies, a long-term LFU activist observed:
When being open to new lesbians and all other women, supporting
them to build their own feminism, to research about the potentials and
the needs of everyone, to be productively critical without victimising or
blaming, we can build a community. What I most remember from the
LFU gatherings and what I also most enjoyed was joy and hope. (Oblak
2017, unpublished)
The method of hope proves to be one of the most important activist meth-
ods of reproduction, sustaining long-term feminist groups (Hvala 2015).
LFU activists also promote the principle of paying every lesbian and
woman for her work and contribution to activism, at least symbolically,
as a reaction to the “obligatory voluntarism and undeserving wages” in
activist spaces (Pistotnik 2013). This is partially also a response to the
regular imposition of voluntarism on younger lesbian activists (Oblak
2017). In movements for radical social change women do most of the
invisible, unpaid work which is part of the broader reproductive work
to sustain community and society that contributes to primary cap-
italist accumulation (Federici 2006). In their manifesto (Lezbično-
feministična univerza 2017), LFU states:
We revolt against the reproduction of groups and community to be dele-

gated to the young, women, and other persons with less political power.
In doing reproductive work we should rotate and share.
Beside small public spaces and squats, LFU and other lesbian/queer
feminist initiatives created networks in order to utilise their politics
towards community building also in other locations.
43
Feminist Encounters in the Streets

After 2011, many people responded to the escalating general social dev-
astation and reduction of gained social and economic rights (Stanojević
2014) by mass protests, uprisings and self-organised occupations in
Ljubljana, Maribor and other cities across Slovenia (Brown 2013).
During these protests the autonomous feminist initiatives built a com-
mon feminist block. As Pirih remembers the uprisings during 2011–
2012 in Ljubljana:
We, feminists, all stood behind one sheet on which we wrote

‘Overworked and Underpaid’. Then some women came to us and praised
the slogan, that this was totally true also for them and that it was so good
someone finally exposed it. (Oblak 2017, unpublished; LFU 2013)
Besides emphasising violence of neoliberal capitalism against women,

autonomous feminist initiatives started to expose sexism and misogyny
at occupations and protests, enacted in the sexist use of language in slo-
gans, chants and in overall power structures, similarly to exposures of
feminists active in autonomous spaces in the past (see the motivation
to initiate and maintain the Red Dawns at the Metelkova squat). Apart
from coincidental connections, the lesbian/queer feminist community
first bonded on the streets; by graffiti workshops and direct actions
(LFU 2017) and then at the occupations and protests, where some new
feminist initiatives were formed—such as the Revolt Social Workers.9
They markedly contributed to public demarcation of mainstream,
pro-capitalist lesbian and gay activism and more radical, lesbian and
queer feminist activism. If Dobnikar (as cited in Jalušič 2002) stated in
the past that “without concrete action there is no feminism” (p. 199),
then such urban actions and protests resonated in Hvala’s claim (2008,
p. 2) that
the need for feminist activism that will not only defend existing rights but
will also establish the sites of personal and political emancipation in con-
texts where there is still no space for women and lesbians (and queers).
44
T. Oblak and M. Pan
At first, lesbian and gay activists in NGOs approved of the “in-your-face”

actions of the Revolt Social Workers. However, the group soon col-
lided with public disapproval by some lesbian and gay activists when
they carried out a direct action of throwing blood-painted sanitary pads
at the neoliberal mayor of Ljubljana who made an official speech dur-
ing the Pride Parade in 2013. The commentators interpreted this as a
collision of identity and isolated anti-capitalist politics, whilst not tak-
ing into account the intersectional pro-queer feminism of the Revolt
Social Workers (Narobe 2013). Thus, a striking demarcation between
the pro-capitalist stream of the lesbian and gay movement that strives
for personal and group capitalist achievements in the mainstream pub-
lic, and a more marginal one marked as “radical” autonomous groups
finally took shape.
The mass uprisings radicalised few initiatives and triggered femi-
nist protests anew, such as the second Reclaim the Night! rally in 2014
(Reclaim the Night! 2017). Soon, similar radical politics was enacted by
a new group, the Anarcho-Queer-Feminist Collective at Rog that also
(re)claimed its space.
The Anarcho-Queer-Feminist Collective at Rog:

Feminist Coalition Struggling for Space
After the end of the Autonomous Women’s Centre at Metelkova in
2001, the autonomous feminist groups lost their own space (Jalušič
2002). A wish to have their own space has been a dream of many fem-
inists, of many generations. However, it is hard to obtain one’s own
space in a squat anew particularly where their users behave from the
start as if “these spaces have been given away forever” (Babić 2013).
During the ten years after the initial squatting in 2006 some impor-
tant self-organised political initiatives, such as the Erased, the invisible
migrant workers etc. got their refuge at Rog, the squatted space of the
closed bicycle factory. In 2016, the municipal authorities tried to evict
its users by force and to demolish the squat in the broader project of
gentrification of Ljubljana (APL 2017). An important role in defending
45
and occupying the Autonomous Factory Rog that endured repression

of the authorities was played also by the feminist coalition consisting of
individuals from autonomous lesbian/queer feminist groups and others
with the same affinities. Intense collaboration in the occupation of Rog
gave impetus to forming a new heterogeneous, non-hierarchical collec-
tive called the Anarcho-Queer-Feminist Collective at Rog (Avtonomne
feministke 2017) that soon sought to build its own space in the squat-
ted area. Though they “earned” their own space at Rog by their own
bodies during occupation, they were only invited to move to the former
space of young lesbian and queer visual artists on the third floor of a
high building (activist in personal communication with the first author,
2017). This possible unwillingness of the Rog assembly to comply with
more accessible space for queers and feminists raises some questions
regarding the influence of the sporadic and temporary feminist and
lesbian/queer presence.10 That is one of the reasons why the Anarcho-
Queer-Feminist Collective at Rog was formed—to demand and exert
continuous and definite inclusion of feminist, queer, and anarchist prac-
tices into autonomous spaces. In their manifesto the collective demands:
Feminism as a method of addressing patriarchal practices and thinking

about structural relations in any fight and in any autonomy building,
should be immanent to every self-organising group or movement.
(Anarhistično-kvirovsko-feministični kolektiv v Avtonomni tovarni Rog
2017)
Apart from marking Rog with anti-sexist and anti-violence graffiti,

zines, posters, workshops etc., and applying other anarchist methods
(Dark Star 2012), they have actively summoned and took part in Rog
assemblies, struggling to include debate on violence against women*,11
lesbians, trans and queer persons in autonomous spaces. However, deal-
ing with violence was at first objected to, but soon ‘delegated’ over to
women*:
At our space we sometimes temporarily accepted women* and trans

survivors of violence at Rog that did not have anywhere else to go and
searched together for solutions. But from then on, when any violence
46
T. Oblak and M. Pan
happened at Rog, everybody anticipated that we will take care of it. No,
just everyone should respond! (Rog activist, personal communication
with the first author, 2017)
The fact that the collective demands a response to violence against

women* and its prevention from the whole Rog community reveals a
new feature of the Slovene squatted spaces (Avtonomne feministke
2017). With survivors of violence at autonomous spaces, but also
with other vulnerable people that seek refuge there (migrants, the
Erased, homeless etc.) the collective actively practices radical social
work (Hrvatin 2016). In comparison to formal services done by estab-
lished women´s NGOs, radical social work of Anarcho-Queer-Feminist
Collective at Rog seeks to explore community accountability and
directly empower survivors (Crimethink 2013). Such an approach is vis-
ible from the statement for the rally Reclaim the Night! (2017):
With a mass of our revolted voices and fists that are raised together in the
air, we destroy the world’s association of repressive apparatuses that suffo-
cate us. With sister*hood and solidarity we build a community based on
self-defence that will break through chains and free us all!
By introducing sister*hood and feminist comradeship12 (Avtonomne

feministke 2017) once again to the feminist scene, the autonomous les-
bian and queer feminist groups in Ljubljana further distinguished them-
selves from women’s and LGBTQA NGOs.
Further Divisions Between Autonomous

and Non-Autonomous Organising
The main connecting element in affinities mostly among women, les-
bians, queer, non-binary, transgender persons, and gays, remains a
struggle for freedom of all genders and sexualities, against patriarchy,
capitalism, racism, fascism, neo-colonialism, violent European pol-
icies against migrants, and for freedom of life (Haraway 1991; Pan
2007a; Hvala 2010b; Hrvatin 2016). In this way autonomous struggles
47
differentiate themselves and criticise activism based on identity politics

of the mainstream LGBTQA groups, especially those that remain rel-
atively distant from the more general positioning within the anti-
capitalist, anti-racist, and anti-fascist struggles. Such groups are limited
to taking part in some of the more radical actions but only as long as
they concern their own protection from violence while they tend to be
critical towards the autonomous feminist groups if they interrupt or
problematise the acquisition of isolated rights and privileges of their
own group (see the Revolt Social Workers group and their contested
intervention at the Pride Parade Ljubljana in 2013). However, autono-
mous lesbian/queer feminist groups hold the political stance that there
is no “difference among oppressions” (Lorde 1983; Mlađenović 2001).
Thus, feminist groups support protests for the homeless people, the
migrants, the precarious workers, the Erased etc. and try to respond
to their imminent needs by experimenting with direct social work and
cohabitation in autonomous spaces (Hrvatin 2016). The Anarcho-
Queer-Feminist group and sister*ly affinity groups13 problematise issues
of genders, sexualities and gender-based violence in the antiracist and
migrant organisings at Rog. Their potentially transformative practices
with migrants and refugees differ from the racialising and ethnicising
practices of the “tolerance”, “multiculturalism” and “humanitarian-
ism” characteristic of the liberal NGO’s representative projects (Burcar
2013).
This way, it is inevitable that the smaller core of autonomous lesbian/
queer feminist groups gets formed from the persons who are most active
in the initiative and contribute to the community action and commu-
nity building—be it from the local and occasional supporters to the
international activists, visitors and users to persons mobilised from the
margins, like migrant women, precarious women, homeless women. As
Pan (2007a, p. 77) claimed in the approach of the Red Dawns founders:
Each person adds their own diverse feminist work, knowledge, and expe-
riences, thus, each of them is already a sovereign feminist in both practical
and theoretical sense. This way, understanding and contact with artists are
more direct and deeper.
48
T. Oblak and M. Pan
Close contact among such diverse people and experiences promotes

mutual learning and self-transformation of individuals and groups as a
whole, which can be seen in personal as well as in collective long-term
transformations, for example within the Red Dawns festival.
There are also experiments in deliberate intergenerational knowledge
transfer, such as the one between the authors of this article and among
some aforementioned initiatives, such as the Intergenerational meetings
between Lilit, Red Dawns and LFU (LFU 2017). These practices fur-
ther increase group autonomy and freedom from the domination of the
existing power relations that produce knowledge both within liberation
movements and in the society at large.
Hereby individual circumstances and abilities to participate in activ-
ities of the group are taken into consideration. The ability to reproduce
oneself and the movement is crucial for a long-term existence of self-
organised movements for radical social justice (Federici 2006). By means
of constant self-reflection and disclosure of possible hierarchies that prey
upon a group despite its political awareness, autonomous lesbian/queer
feminist groups can maintain non-hierarchical and democratic decision-
making processes. Opinion leaders or any hierarchical positions have
to be contested through a plurality of opinions. Thus, lesbian/queer
feminist autonomous groups differ from the so-called individual
opinion leaders that the media promote as representatives and decision
makers of the actual state of affairs regarding women or LGBTQAs.
In comparison to liberal LGBTQA or women’s rights NGOs, we
can draw another demarcation line regarding formal hierarchies, legally
prescribed responsibilities, and leadership positions based on project
and funds acquisition, which is a feature inscribed into the very body
of the organisational structure and the neoliberal project management.
Overall, NGO-isation leads to a de-politicisation of activist groups due
to over-generalised and non-transformative project topics (Hemment
1998) whereas autonomous lesbian and queer feminist groups are
responsive to the most acute social events, be it by organising a mani
festation or an ad hoc action according to urgent needs. They do not
follow any annual plans or strategies and do not immerse themselves
only in short-term projects.
49
Despite difficulties posed by an increasingly gentrified and privatised

city (APL 2017), the presence of autonomous lesbian/queer feminist
groups within the squats like Metelkova and Rog Factory represent a
starting point and a base for activities, self-organisation and socialisation
within affinity groups. Autonomy enables broad experimenting with the
ways of production, of acquiring money, sustaining the community and
reproduction (Federici 2006).
Anarchist tradition additionally influences autonomous feminist
activities, namely their practices of self-organisation, transnational net-
working, alternative economy, and squatting (Dark Star 2012; Crnkić
and Tepina 2014). This helps to explain a critical and negative relation-
ship of autonomous feminist groups towards institutions. However, the
groups demand institutional involvement when basic social rights are at
stake, especially of those from the margins, for example, migrant, home-
less, unemployed, and precarious persons. Moreover, assistance of the
formal NGOs and minor funding by municipality or state may be con-
sidered a re-appropriation of one’s own money paid by taxes which is
used for fulfilling the needs of the community, rather than of authorities
or elites.
The most noteworthy feature of the autonomous lesbian/queer fem-
inist groups compared to women and LGBTIQA NGOs is their active
refusal of the victim position. The first Red Dawns organisers illustrate
this point:
Not suppressed, though we are oppressed, exploited, humiliated, auto-

destructive women and hence typical victims, we want to promote the
daring, self-confident, (self )ironical, witty and non-compromising
woman that neither tries to be liked nor a coquette, and does not
collaborate with the centres of patriarchal power. (Pan 2007a, p. 75)
By personal and communal openness and empowerment, sister*hood

and comradeship, intergenerational support and knowledge exchange,
activists and supporters of these groups are able to feel safe(r) and
free(r), which sparkles humour, feelings of joy and pleasure in activism
and being together.
50
T. Oblak and M. Pan
We have here presented the politics and a brief herstory of recent

autonomous lesbian and queer feminist groups in Ljubljana, but we are
aware that in the meantime new initiatives and actions may have sprung
up.14
Conclusion: Occupation as Liberation

Drawing upon intersectional political affinities, we argued that an
autonomous lesbian/queer feminist organising has made an impact on
the development and the proliferation of feminist consciousness. Our
text celebrates these processes and solicits their continual rethinking.
In the beginning of the 1990s an important autonomous lesbian
and queer feminist tradition started growing in Ljubljana, especially in
autonomous spaces. Unlike the identity movements, the autonomous
groups we outlined here aim to involve diversity and community and
seek pleasure in collaboration, actions, and self-organisation away from
institutions. In other words, they tend to unite on the basis of political
affinities and a radical critique of systemic inequalities and assimilation.
Due to structural invisibilities, it is important to archive and mem-
orise such a critical and rich tradition and enable intergenerational and
transnational transfers of knowledge. Since we have had the chance to
witness ourselves how the same old challenges tend to (falsely) appear
as new ones, such as facing and fighting the far-right and antifeminism,
along with a re-patriarchalisation of women and sexual conservatism. It
is because of this experience that we perceive such groups and commu-
nities as agents of utopian change.
In attempting to “read the resistance” of preceding fellow activists
and understand our present ones, we apply Lugones’s concept of “dou-
ble-consciousness” of the colonised (2003, 2010) to theorise queer
subjectivity; first in relation to building up material lesbian/queer
autonomous spaces, and then towards the issues with liberal colonisa-
tion and intersectionality. We aim to begin understanding of current
positionings in the sphere of lesbian feminist, queer feminist, trans fem-
inist, and liberal lesbian and/or women activist movements, not only in
Slovenia, but more generally.
51
As shown in this text, a strong political differentiation that is at stake

in the contemporary lesbian/queer/trans/feminist activism, is probably
a result of three or even more decades of feminist struggle. Constituting
multiple and diverse subjectivities which are able to define and narrate
themselves and act autonomously, away from the normativity imposed
by the dominant regime, is a theoretical and political task that we recog-
nise time and again.
What constructs the doubleness in Lugones’ sense is an agency of
inhabiting a “fractured locus” (Lugones 2010). According to our reason-
ing, to inhabit a fractured locus equals being occupied with a gender
category and being its occupier. In theorising queer subjectivities and
autonomous queer feminist groups, we took the notion of gender occu-
pying the subject further: in return, the subject tries to occupy gender
within their subjectivity and social manifestations.
Approaches to resist occupying, the “inhabiting” (or in Lugones’ ter-
minology “colonial”) forces are manifold—here we opt for the concept
of autonomy to contrast it with the politics of (neo/liberal) co-optation,
institutionalisation and assimilationism. A tension that arises between
the two is clearly set, embedded, and employed in a complex, dyadic
subjectivity constituted through squatting. Such tension is not only
ostensibly organised around the notions of being “given a space in soci-
ety” as opposed to “taking up” one, but it also pushes the subjectivity
precisely towards occupying a topos which one does not belong to or
has not been provisioned for—in a structure (of oppression). When
thinking about agency we used Lugones’ (2003, p. 211) term “active
subjectivity”: “to make clear a possibility of resistance and its con-
ditions”. This is crucial since she contends that in the strict sense, the
oppressed do not possess an agency anyway, thus, their resistance is at
stake and is possibly futile and immoral:
The subservient nature of the intentions disqualify the oppressed from

agency in the first case. Lack of institutional backing disqualifies the
resister from having agency. This “lack” is the crucial source of the pos-
sibilities of an alternative sociality. Since the modern conception of
agency as autonomous subjectivity cannot countenance resistance by the
oppressed, and since agency is a precondition of modern understandings
of morality, resistance to oppression is conceptually disallowed as moral.
(Lugones 2003, p. 211)
52
T. Oblak and M. Pan
We see active subjectivity based on positivised lack as enacted (possibly

performatively, i.e. with gender against gender) precisely in the capacity
for resistance of autonomous organising. The alternative socialities that we
are trying to create nowadays with(in) autonomous spaces are the “same”
in a way as those in the past, but at the same time, they are also un(for)
seen. If for a “woman” to desire another “woman” means in the first place
a kind of squatting—occupying what legally is not and cannot become
her/s, transgressing all that she is supposed to represent and to be, this
urges against identifying as a “woman” (Wittig 1992), which we see at
work in the LFU collective. The meeting of oppression and resistance or,
as we defined, the collision of occupation and liberation is suggested.
In the first section we mentioned the notion of prevention from col-
onisation that is inherent to those squatting gestures that are not only
occupying but are also acting as the occupied. Currently, the problem
of lesbian visibility is that it is being instrumentalised in the public and
then used as a liberal example of provisional and nominal equality. As
such, further hierarchy is imposed within the pluralist identities, and a
colonisation (or in our conceptualisation: the fact of being squatted) by
a homogeneous, stable, and normalised identity becomes the most fore-
seeable subjectivisation model. During this process the lesbians of racial
minorities, the trans lesbians, the precarious lesbians, the migrant lesbi-
ans do not become more visible. In such a context, the political struggle
for the autonomous social and political spaces which perform this dou-
ble squatting gesture is of utmost importance.
Nowadays, these sites of resistance can be understood and valued as
squatting of the colonial, i.e. the heterosexist, the racist, the capitalist
power domination from which our realities have to be captured and
reinvented, precisely with and against those powers that constitute us.
Notes
1. In Slovenia there is a continuum of people from the socialist youth
movement and similar organisations who managed to transition to
mainstream institutions during the late eighties, while some state bod-
ies transformed themselves into non-governmental ones (Sanja Kajinić,
personal communication with the second author, August 2014).
53
2. First such self-organised—but undocumented as autonomous event

was the First International Yugoslav Lesbian camp on the island Rab,
organised by M. A. Lužar and friends in 1988, which gathered thirty
participants from around the world (Pan, personal communication
with the organiser 2017).
3. The Erased is a group of at least 25,671 people who held legal residen-
tial, working, and social rights in Slovenia until 1992, when they were
unlawfully deprived of those through an erasure from the registry of
residents (Pistotnik 2007).
4. Compare this depiction to the depiction of the Ljubljana’s Gay and
Lesbian Film Festival, the oldest European lesbian and gay film festival,
which is named as one of the most successful “child(ren) of the alterna-
tive movement” (Španjol, as cited in Kajinić 2016, p. 67).
5. For a discussion on intersectionality-related aspects of LGBT activist
politics in the post-Yugoslav space, see Bilić and Kajinić (2016).
6. When working as a lecturer for kindergarten teachers in an educa-
tional module in 2002–2003, and later working as a human rights edu-
cator for pupils, I started expanding the notion “I am not a woman”
to deconstruct not only the gender roles but the idea of fixation and
self-evidence of identities themselves (Pan 2004).
7. Red Dawns has actively invited and hosted events on trans/gender
issues carried out by trans feminist artists and activists, even before
they were invited and accepted into the more mainstream cultural
women´s festivals and before the emergence of trans activism. Due to
recent development of the profiled NGO-associated trans* (transgender
and gender non-conforming persons) activism and with the increased
public visibility of trans persons, the majority of LGBTQA NGOs
and spaces, e.g. the gay club Tiffany, publicly declared their allegiance
safe(r) space politics and no tolerance for transphobia.
8. First, the LFU safe(r) space included “lesbians and women”, though
they were always inclusive of trans and non-binary persons. Recently,
the LFU collective added “trans persons” to their declaration of safe(r)
space and an asterix (*) to the notion of women.
9. A radical feminist group The Revolt Social Workers sprang up in 2012
to advocate feminism and direct social work. The group soon included
and supported lesbian and queer feminist politics and advocated in
favour of freedom of all genders and sexualities (see Vstajniške socialne
delavke 2015).
54
T. Oblak and M. Pan
10. For example, the queer collective Alter Šalter working at Rog in 2006–
2007. Afterwards, especially in 2015–2016, the Revolt Social Workers,
the Red Dawns and also the Lesbian Feminist University co-organised
few events there (Oblak 2017; LFU 2017).
11. Asterisk (*) indicates that the term “women” also includes transgen-
der, intersexual, and other gender non-binary persons (Anarhistično-
kvirovsko-feministični kolektiv v Avtonomni tovarni Rog 2017).
12. “Feminist sisterhood” was also a claim of women’s squatting move-
ment in the 1970s in Western countries (Wall 2017). However, fem-
inists from Lilith in the 1980s did not use it. Perhaps the reason for
this discomfort lies in the use of similar terms addressing the masses,
such as brotherhood etc. by the Yugoslav political apparatus at rallies
and festivals. E.g., Jalušič (2002, p. 138) wrote about revolt and “feel-
ing of totalitarianism” when encountering such calls to sisterhood and
comradeship at an international feminist conference in Ireland in 1987.
Nevertheless, the term “comradeship” is regularly used by some anar-
chist circles in Ljubljana.
13. E.g. the Group for inclusion of women migrants into community—is
a self-organised group working at Rog. It practices safe(r) space open
only to women and children due to the needs of women migrants and
refugees in Ljubljana (Skupina za vključevanje migrantk v skupnost
2017).
14. The idea appeared that a yet unpublished chart (Hvala and Zajc 2014,
following an idea of a chart of women’s and feminist initiatives until
1995 (in Jalušič 2002, pp. 290–291)) of autonomous but also non-
autonomous organising in the sphere of non-state operated feminism
should work as an open online platform to which activists can add their
own initiatives and by doing so create their own ascriptions to the his-
torical timeline.
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Cartographies of Fear and Freedom:
Lesbian Activists in the First Belgrade
and Zagreb Pride Parades
Sanja Kajinić
The history of lesbian organising in the (post-)Yugoslav region goes

back at least to the very first feminist Yugoslav encounter in Ljubljana
in 1987 (Dobnikar and Pamuković 2009, see also Bilić, introduction
to this volume; Oblak & Pan, this volume). However, an important
strand of political organising focused on visibility can be traced to
two groundbreaking events for the LGBT communities in Serbia and
Croatia—the first Pride parade attempted in Belgrade in 2001 but pre-
vented by violent homophobic attacks, and the first Pride parade held
in Zagreb in 2002 under close police protection. This chapter, based on
my unpublished MA thesis (Kajinić 2003), builds up around the anal-
ysis of twelve semi-structured in-depth interviews with women who
took part in those events. My main research question was as follows:
how do lesbians in Croatia and Serbia deal with the violent homopho-
bia manifested at the Belgrade and Zagreb Pride parades?1 This question
shaped other decisions: interviewing women in Belgrade and Zagreb
S. Kajinić (*) 
University of Bologna, Bologna, Italy
e-mail: [email protected]
62
S. Kajinić
who participated in those events, as well as trying to observe the issues

of ethical feminist research. My positionality as a participant in both
events, an activist and consequently a researcher, has deeply affected me
and this text.
That the Pride parades celebrate the Stonewall rebellion as a historical
moment of political resistance which started the contemporary move-
ment for LGBT rights is simultaneously well known and easily forgot-
ten. On the night of 27 June 1969, the police raided the Stonewall Inn
in New York in one of the routine violent raids of the bars with homo-
sexual and transsexual guests, but this time the drag queens, lesbians,
and gay men fought back. A month after that, on 27 July 1969, some
500 people walked in a first Pride parade to the Stonewall Inn. The les-
bians, gay men, and transsexuals were joined by the members of the
anti-war movement, the leftists, the feminists and the supporters of the
civil rights movement (Brickell 2000; Kates and Russel 2001).
Since then, Pride marches have spread globally. In an important way,
the annual Pride event has become a test for the strength of the local
LGBT communities world-wide as well as for the degree of tolerance
of the societies it takes place in. This becomes obvious in the case of
the countries where a Pride parade is organised for the first time, and
the events of the first Prides in Serbia and Croatia testify both to the
excitement and the danger connected with organising such public
manifestations.
Engaging in the process of making connections and learning from
different Pride scenarios was an opportunity for reflection for my inter-
viewees and me not only at the time of my research in 2003, but also
now some fifteen years after, when the extent of the influence of these
experiences on the local queer individuals and communities is still felt
and important to acknowledge. Most of the Prides in Western countries
seem to have taken the road of depolitisation by turning into carnev-
alesque celebrations of differences. This turn seems so steeped in the
capitalist equation of consumerism and the freedom of choice that some
Pride theorists talk of ‘resistance through consumption’ and ‘resistance
to consumption’ as political choices available to the participants of
such Pride parades (Kates and Russel 2001, pp. 1–18). There are, on
the other hand, some Pride parades that still seem to balance between
Cartographies of Fear and Freedom …
63
the traditions of protest and of festival. For example, the annual LBGT
Pride march in Johannesburg is ‘unique in South Africa’ in being ‘simul-
taneously angry and carnevalesque’ since it draws on the tradition
of human rights protest marches and the marches of defiance which
preceded the fall of apartheid, but at the same time also on the style and
meaning of the carnevalesque tradition of the Pride march (Gevisser
and Reid 1995, p. 278). On the thoroughly activist end of the spec-
trum are the Prides held in Zagreb and Belgrade, which are politicised
because of the seriousness of homophobic violence their participants are
confronted with.
In this research, the majority of the interviewed women both in
Belgrade and in Zagreb were active in lesbian or LGBT organisations
in their countries, and again, most of them were involved in the organ-
isation of those Pride parades. From the six women I interviewed in
Belgrade, four of them were activists of the lesbian group Labris, one
was a former activist in the same group but had recently left it, and only
one woman had almost no connections with it. The situation was quite
similar with the interviewees in Zagreb—most of them were in some
way active in either or both groups that organised the Pride, Kontra
and Iskorak. From the six women interviewed in Zagreb, two have
been actively involved with the Organising committee of the Zagreb
Gay Pride, two were involved with the LGBT groups but not with the
organisation of the Pride, while two of them had not been involved
with lesbian activism at the moment of the Pride parade. It is also inter-
esting that one of my Zagreb informants did not march with the Parade
itself, but was on the other side of the fence, an important angle in
itself.
Most of my interviewees talked of their lesbian, or in the case of two
women bisexual or politically lesbian, identities in the context of the
discussion of lesbian activism, process of coming out, and of visibility.
Such emphasis on the public aspect of their sexual identities might be
occasioned both by the majority of my informants being lesbian activists
themselves and by the prism through which they narrated their identi-
ties: the public event of a Pride march. The activist self-understanding
of lesbian identity as resistance resonates with the origins of lesbian
(feminist) theory in women’s and lesbian struggles of the 1970s and
64
S. Kajinić
with the seminal texts of lesbian theory such as Radicalesbians’ defini-

tion of a lesbian as ‘the rage of all women condensed to the point of
explosion’ and of Cheryl Clarke’s seeing lesbianity as an ‘act of resist-
ance’ and ‘rebellion’ against ‘a male-supremacist, capitalist, misogynist,
racist, homophobic, imperialist culture’ (as cited in Gross and Woods
1999, pp. 561–564). However, my interviewees’ complex narration of
their identities also engaged with the essentialism versus construction-
ism identity debates overtaking lesbian and gay theory of the 1980s (see
Esterberg 1997) as well as, to an extent, with the queer theory’s disrup-
tion of the homosexual/heterosexual binary and any rigid notions of
gender and sexuality (see Phelan 1997). The interviewed women nar-
rated how their, for the most part, already formed identities were refig-
ured and reformulated under pressure and as a reaction to both the
publicity of homophobia and hate violence and to a relative surge of vis-
ibility of gays and lesbians at those Prides.
The relevance of this research could be connected with the way in
which Lapovsky Kennedy (1998) explains her interest in collecting oral
histories and analysing the ways in which pre-Stonewall lesbian history
was constructed. She explains that the majority of lesbians she inter-
viewed could not learn about homosexual life in homophobic society
but were ‘constantly creating their lives, developing a biomythography’
(pp. 345–346). She points out that due to secrecy surrounding homo-
sexual identities in contemporary societies, ‘each gay or lesbian person
has to construct his or her own life in oppressive contexts, a process
that oral history is uniquely suited to reveal’ (1998, pp. 345–346). It
might be argued that the in-depth interviews with activists ideally func-
tion as opening up similar opportunities to reflect on the process of
creating meaningful living in Serbian and Croatian societies. In a sim-
ilar way, this for me was an attempt to engage in research which would
reflect the way in which activists and Pride participants from Serbia
and Croatia have thought of, invented, perceived, felt about the Pride
parades in their countries.
Throughout the interviewing and writing process, I was also aware
of the critical importance for this research of learning to listen better.
Anderson and Jack (1998, pp. 158–165) warn that ‘in order to learn to lis-
ten, we need to attend more to the narrator than to our own agendas,’ and
65
that ‘the processes of analysis should be suspended or at least subordinated

in the process of listening.’ Finally, relying on the qualitative methodology
has led me towards a research project which both offers space for voices
of women from Serbia and Croatia, and reflects the process of my learn-
ing to engage in the ‘production of more feminist knowledge’ (Reinhartz
1992, p. 17). This knowledge in the context of two post-Yugoslav
first Prides is woven as a shared map of experiences and voices.
The Context of the Belgrade Pride

On 27 June 2001, the first ever Gay Pride Parade in Serbia was sup-
posed to take place at the Republic Square in Belgrade. Also some
workshops, round-table discussions, a theater performance and a party
were planned afterwards. The working slogan of the Belgrade Pride
was ‘There is space for all of us,’ and the flyer optimistically suggested
‘Behind the Rainbow might be right here’. It wasn’t. At 3 p.m. at the
Republic Square, there were some 20 ‘participants’ of the ‘parade’ and
about 1000 opponents—members of the neo-nazi movement Obraz,
supporters of football clubs Rad and Crvena zvezda, skinheads, and
supporters of the Serbian Orthodox Church. They started to beat who-
ever looked different. Then a group of about 10 lesbian women com-
ing from the Labris office, carrying colourful balloons, appeared at the
Square not knowing what was waiting for them. The aggressive crowd
started chasing them as the most visible targets at that moment, and
then continued for several hours attacking men with coloured hair, ‘sus-
picious’ tourists, and finally policemen. Allegedly, more than 40 people
were injured in the streets. Afterwards, the chief of the Belgrade Police,
Boško Buha stated that Serbia is obviously not ‘ready for such public
display of deviance’ (Labris 2001, p. 30). The crowd reacting against
such ‘deviance’ were ‘yelling nationalist and fascist paroles: “Faggots are
the shame of Serbia”… “All faggots should be killed’” (Labris, p. 50),
the onlookers were mostly indifferent, while the police stood by refusing
to help until they were attacked themselves.
This single day influenced many lives. I was both at the Square
when it all started and later in the office of a women’s group, then at
66
S. Kajinić
one woman’s apartment that turned into emergency headquarters where

participants came for support. We phoned around incessantly, talked
over fresh news, watched all TV-programs, and tried to help each other
through the first shock. For many of the participants, Belgrade Pride
violence was the most extreme head-on collision with homophobia
they had ever experienced. The atmosphere was that of panic, fear, but
also of extreme mutual support and caring made visible by this crisis.
Afterwards, besides the media attention and streams of support mail
the organisers received, also all of the participants in the Belgrade Pride
were awarded the Grisly Bear Award by the International Lesbian and
Gay Cultural Network. The lesbian group Labris devoted a whole issue
of the fanzine they publish to the events, documents, and reactions of
the participants and the media to the Pride. There was a round-table
discussion and some self-help group discussions at Labris. Some ten
women from Labris came and participated in the Zagreb Pride the fol-
lowing year. Inspired by what seemed to me politically creative after-
math of a violent event, my main objective in interviewing the women
participants of the Belgrade Pride was to see how they dealt with the
experience of homophobic violence, and understand the influences of
this event on their lives two years after it happened.
The Context of the Zagreb Pride

On 29 June 2002, the first ever Gay Pride in Croatia took place in
Zagreb. There were about 300 participants and almost the same num-
ber of police and hired bodyguards who protected the participants from
the mob composed of skinheads, Bad Blue Boys (fans of the Croatian
football team Dinamo), members of the religious and political right
and some other scandalised citizens. The Parade itself went on without
major incidents (except from throwing of bottles, ashtrays, melons, and
lighters at the participants), but after the event itself some 20 attacks
on people connected with the Pride were reported. The opponents
of the Gay Pride used the rhetoric of hate (for one thing, comparing
non-heterosexuals to undesirable ethnic groups) to justify their outrage
and stress the us/them divide. Thus, a group of skinheads yelled, ‘Go
67
to Serbia!’ while one Bad Blue Boy had a T-shirt on with a message:
‘Faggots into concentration camps!’
However, the fact that the first Zagreb Pride actually occurred, the
support of important persons from the public and cultural life, the pro-
tection received from the police, and the optimistic, charged atmos-
phere at the Parade all testify to the importance of this event for its
participants but also for activism in the entire region. It seems that
this very ‘first chance to walk the streets as a lesbian’ (Hela, personal
communication, 2002) meant an enormous lot. It also seems that
the LGBT visibility and public debate generated by the Zagreb Pride
and by the ensuing lobbying for legal changes, brought a great deal of
empowerment to LGBT persons Croatia.
I was part of the Organising committee, which met once a week for
some three months before the Zagreb Pride to organise fundraising,
safety, and other issues. As a participant, I also felt the fear of aggression
that surrounded us, as well as the empowerment as speaker after speaker
talked of tolerance and importance of respecting the human rights of
all. I limited my project to interviewing women who had either helped
organise the Pride, or participated in it in some way. I started this inter-
viewing process with an aim to hear and document their impressions of
Zagreb Pride and changes this brought into their lives.
Mapping at Belgrade and Zagreb Prides

Already during the transcribing process, I noticed that the interviewed
women were drawing maps all the time—either literally, with their ges-
tures or verbally. It was all about spacing and timing—Lepa’s drawings
and arrows on paper showing where she was at what point of time in
relation to the crowd at the Republic Square in Belgrade; Tanja K.’s
pointing to the statue, to the zebra crossing, to the taxi-cabs; other
Belgrade Pride participants’ structuring of their narratives around what
happened at the Republic Square, what happened at the SKC,2 what
happened later at the ‘gathering places’—women’s groups or private flats
where some of the participants came afterwards. Then, Zagreb Pride
participants’ constant evoking of the shared spatial crisis outlines—the
68
S. Kajinić
shock at the beginning of the march, the panic at the Cvjetni Square,3
the return to the safety of Zrinjevac4 and the nervousness at leaving
it, which all functioned as a communal imaginative redrawing of the
Zagreb Pride’s march route.
It was impossible to overlook the significance that my interlocutors
attributed to their own and other’s location in these webs of spatial and
temporal relations and how helpful they found them for the processes of
meaning making. Just in case I could miss it, Ljilja spelled it out for me.
She was talking about her own process of recovering from fear after the
Belgrade Pride and how helpful ‘the immense amount of talking’ and ‘a
sense of togetherness’ with others was for her at this time. Then she said:
We really talked for months about this. We would go out for a drink and
(laughter) we would make maps – which woman had been where… Yes,
we were making maps of which one of us was where in which moment,
for how much time we missed each other… We talked about strategies
that women (…) that each one of us used in that moment to survive. We
joked about that – later of course. (Ljilja, personal communication, 2003)
Thus the mappability of experiences at those two Pride parades pos-

ited itself both as the most promising organising concept and a major
dilemma. What if, when looking at the narratives of women who partic-
ipated, we look at how different emotions—fear/confusion/pride/rage,
emerge at different locations of the map, and at how emotions and nar-
ratives change depending on the spatial, temporal and identity locations
of the participants? According to Jameson (2000), cognitive mapping
enables us to perceive the global picture of the totality of class relations;
the ability to perform cognitive mapping becomes an indispensable tool
for envisaging and performing political action, and moreover, ‘the inca-
pacity to map socially is as crippling to political experience as the analo-
gous incapacity to map spatially is for urban experience’ (Jameson 2000,
pp. 282–283). While for Jameson the practice of cognitive mapping is
an indispensable strategy of socialist politics, I would like to focus on
the implications that could be read from the maps of the first Prides in
Croatia and Serbia for the consequent activist and political strategies.
69
Dealing with the Maps of Fear

Suzana remembers feeling ‘in the body - that fear and stress we experi-
enced.’ However, that feeling lasted intensively only that day after the
Zagreb Pride, while the ‘fear passed after a week, and later it wasn’t so
(important).’ She talked to her sister, talked and wrote letters to some
friends, and ‘so it passed somehow’ (Suzana, personal communication,
2003). Tanja talks of ‘panically’ phoning around after the Belgrade Pride
in order to see how her friends were and get more information. She also
mentions going to Dragana’s flat where a lot of women participants
gathered afterwards:
I know that I had a huge wish to see all those women at one place. And
I knew that a lot of them would be at Dragana’s place. So even with my
hand which was hurting like hell I managed to assist Vesna (in a wheel-
chair) to the second floor. Simply out of this wish to see everybody, to
know that everybody is ok, to hear also other stories – how we survived.
(Tanja, personal communication, 2003)
Jelena tells of how she put ‘the fear on the side for later.’ During the
Zagreb Pride, she felt responsible as an organiser for ‘raising the energy,’
so only after it all passed, she started feeling the consequences: ‘for a
week after the Pride I would not go into the tram,’ and ‘for days after
that when I would hear some male voices screaming – I would freeze.’
She feels that what helped her was talking with ‘various friends who
were completely aware of the problem, understood it and were ready to
listen.’ However, she tells of a particular problem she had afterwards:
I think that I do not seem to people as if something could break me (…)

And I did hold up pretty well in that period when others were in panic
and I thought that we should be supportive. But when other people got
over it, then they started joking and kidding. And I was sick; I was in
total coma about it… And the people did not really get it, like – what
now? Since they just got better, but I was still… (…) But there were
friends who understood what I was talking about. (…) And I had (a need
70
S. Kajinić
to talk) to those who would listen, who (didn’t think that I was) made of
steel (laughter). (Jelena, personal communication, 2003)
Nina also tells of the constant phoning after the Belgrade Pride, explain-
ing to her family that she is alright, going to one’s women’s organisa-
tion, and then also to Dragana’s flat to meet other women. She explains
that
it was really very important to me that I could spend the rest of that
day with those same women and that I knew that each went somehow
through it, that we are all together. It was really crucial to me to end that
day with those women and that they were ok, more or less. I mean – ok
in principle, nobody was killed, nobody was seriously hurt, and every-
body got through. (Nina, personal communication, 2003)
She also tells of trying to be ‘very very calm’ and supportive in the
days immediately after the Pride since she saw that ‘the other women
around me are upset, and I didn’t want me to make a scene and scream
although maybe I felt like (doing that).’ However, when the situation
started to ‘calm down, to get more normal,’ she tells of having to deal
with ‘bad paranoia, but really bad’—she was panicking about her safety
especially because of a TV-interview she gave only a couple of months
before the Pride. She explains how she was talking with her friends and
‘telling the whole story again and again.’ However, some of her feelings
were more difficult to share; ‘but about the tripping in my head I hav-
en’t talked until I talked to Lepa,’ she tells about the event that finally
led to a conversation that made her feel somewhat better:
One day we had a meeting, I came to the Centre and I was trembling all
over. Because I took a taxi, I was taking taxi all the time those days, even
for short distances, like – I don’t want to go on the street. I came into
the taxi of some guy who had a cross, you know, on his mirror. And he
started the conversation like – hey, bre, when are you going to escape?
And I am like – what? To escape, why would I escape? And he is like
– well, it is time to escape. In fact, he was thinking about the holidays
(laughter). And I am like (laughter) – let me get out of the car, let me
run away from here (laughter). And I go out of the taxi and go to the
71
Centre like that, and I guess Lepa saw it since she asked if I wanted to
talk. (Nina, personal communication, 2003)
Nina explains how that conversation as well as being on holidays on the

seaside helped, but the main influence on her feelings was time—‘time
passes. So, all of this also passed.’
Petra tells of the intensity of the feelings she experienced at the
Zagreb Pride and how she ‘could only talk to’ Vesna T., a feminist activ-
ist who was also the Pride program host, and after talking to her she was
‘comforted in a way.’ However, she also remembers the atmosphere after
the Pride: ‘I think that for a week after that we (my girlfriend and I)
haven’t talked about it at all, but—every noise produced by more than
two people was really problematic’ (Petra, personal communication,
2003).
Lepa tells of the whole day of phoning around when she finally came
to the women’s organisation in which she works, and making a ‘list’ of
the attacks and ‘incidents’ of the Belgrade Pride: ‘I was making a list
which I still have somewhere – what happened to whom, and who saw
what happening (…) In the end, some forty people were on that list.’
Immediately after the Pride, she went to a conference in Amsterdam
and describes arriving at the Amsterdam train station as:
coming to a completely different world after this, you know – people

totally different, the sun is shining (…) it really seemed like some heaven
on earth – as if we came from some… underground, from nausea and
violence and fear, mostly from fear – to somewhere where none of that
exists, there were not even any signs of anything similar (…) I remember
that as a complete contrast. (Lepa, personal communication, 2003)
Mima describes the two ‘dominant feelings’ that ‘marked’ the Zagreb
Pride for her:
(i)n fact, since I was in Zadar during the war, that feeling that you don’t
know will something hit you and from where it will come, and you
walk on, and simply that fear in your stomach, that insecurity. That
was the feeling that really coloured it for me. But at the same time that
72
S. Kajinić
feeling (…) of some kind of satisfaction that we made something happen.

(Mima, personal communication, 2003)
She also explains that talking to family, friends, and acquaintances, as

well as writing were her primary methods of dealing with her Pride expe-
riences. Tanja K. tells of being ‘in shock’ at the Belgrade Pride, so that
only ‘a couple of days after that, it all caught up with me.’ She describes
the influence of her emotions catching up with her on her behaviour:
on the street, when I would see bald guys, I would immediately think
– this one was there. After that I changed my behaviour on the street. I
changed my whole story. When I say ‘lesbian’ I speak somehow in a more
quiet way, so it can’t be heard. (…) before that I was behaving completely
normally thinking that it is all ok, also when you say words ‘lesbian’ or
‘gay’. But after that I got quiet, completely – I didn’t even dare hug any
woman friend on the street. I was always thinking that somebody was
watching, that somebody would comment. You cannot know anymore
who is who…. (Tanja K., personal communication, 2003)
She also mentions talking with her friends a lot about the Pride events:
‘and that talking lasted for a long time – even now it’s mentioned every
now and then.’ In turn in Zagreb, Sara speaks of feeling excluded in a
certain way because she did not participate in the ‘parade’ by walking in
it, and of feeling isolation mixed with the fear especially during the time
right after the Pride:
I had a feeling – now all those who were in the parade are here and com-
forting each other and understanding each other, and I was on the side,
and I don’t belong here at all; I should go home, I can’t be here anymore.
I really fell apart there (…) then I went with that girl with her car, and
in the middle of the way I already broke down – (told her) to let me out
there (…) Then I was walking the dogs (laughter) (…) and there were
our local skinheads whom we don’t see often but they are there, and they
were drinking. I was walking by them. I mean, I always walk by them.
And then I thought – see, everything stayed the same (laughter). I mean,
concerning that violence and panic – nobody will kill me, let’s go on….
(Sara, personal communication, 2003)
73
She explains how difficult it was for her to talk to people who partici-
pated in Zagreb Pride about her feelings of not belonging, and of the
relief she felt when a couple of days after the event she met two other
gay persons who were participating from the outside:
then all three of us talked about it and realised that all three of us who
were outside have the same problem – a bit different but the same. We
talked about it so much – we really got carried away. Then it was a bit
easier for me – when I saw that others have the same problem – those
who weren’t in the parade. But we haven’t solved it… you know, I haven’t
found a person with whom to talk who was in the parade – who would
listen to me, so that I tell my part (…) Everybody had a bunch of their
own problems, there was no time for that. And somehow I thought that it
was completely unimportant – that I was feeling as if I don’t belong, while
the people are dying from fear. (Sara, personal communication, 2003)
She goes on to explain how her feelings got subdued with time, though
not completely resolved:
with time it wasn’t solved, it just disappeared, got lost. Because, later,
when (the organising) of the next Pride started, I didn’t have that feeling
anymore. It’s only that even when I think about the (last) Pride now, I
still don’t feel it as something mine. It’s strange, you know, it is not at all
as important to organise something as it is to be in it - for the feeling of
belonging to that group. (Sara, personal communication, 2003)
Ljilja tells of phoning around first from Labris, then from another
women’s group where they went because it felt safer than in Labris
office. She remembers phoning and getting phone calls till late that
night from people who participated in some way so that ‘we arrived at
a number of two hundred people who came to support us, maybe there
was even more who didn’t get in touch.’ She tells about being afraid
after the Pride that the group of women around Labris would ‘fall apart
– that we would be so much in fear that we wouldn’t be able to work
anymore, and that the women who come here would be so scared that
they wouldn’t dare to come anymore.’ She then tells of her personal
fears after the Pride and the ways she dealt with them:
74
S. Kajinić
on the street, simply that fear of almost any man who looks suspicious to
me. Then that unease when sitting in a café among men. The unease in
the bus, on the street and so on. That is something that lasted for a cou-
ple of months. Also the fear when I go into a taxi which on that mirror
has a cross hanging. So, everything that was some kind of symbol – any-
thing – either men in football shirts or men with short hair. That lasted
a couple of months. I, of course, worked on it, developed some mecha-
nisms and it simply passed. And that fear that we as individuals, that I
and many others as individuals, will go a couple of steps backwards. (…)
that this what happened at the Pride would pull some of us back. That
definitely has happened to me. I mean, again I lost a couple of months in
fear and had to work on myself. And now, again – slowly, slowly, slowly.
(Ljilja, personal communication, 2003)
She goes on to tell how tense the months after the Pride were both for
her and for the Labris as a group, but that ‘fortunately my fears mostly
did not come true. So, nobody burst into (the office), the group did not
fall apart, women continued coming here, I got over my personal fear
of (…) men who look suspicious.’ Talking about the first Zagreb Pride,
Iva explains that she has ‘in fact felt a lot of fear, which I haven’t in any
way resolved yet (…) and only now am I aware how much the Pride
had influenced me.’ She felt very positive about the workshops which
were planned in connection to subsequent Zagreb Prides—on safety of
the participants and on dealing with fear. She comments on not being
so much a part of the LGBT community at the time to get enough sup-
port from it, but also questions if enough discussions within the com-
munity have happened after the first Pride.
Identity and Self-Change at the Belgrade

and Zagreb Prides
For Mima, the Zagreb Pride ‘definitely catalysed’ her change of atti-
tude toward activism: she had doubts about efficiency and necessity of
being involved in the LGBT organisations but ‘realised that it is terri-
bly important’ and that she herself would like to get more engaged. She
75
talks of becoming aware that in an effort to make any sort of political

impact in the struggle for lesbian or any other minority rights
a group has much more energy than an individual (…). And simply, I
have a need to react with some energy to everything that is happening.
Not just in the safety of my room thinking that everything is ok, that
we live in harmony. Because we don’t! (Mima, personal communication,
2003)
When asked about the influence of the Zagreb Pride on her identity, she
says that ‘the Pride was crucial for me’ in terms of ‘definitely strength-
ening my activist tendencies.’ She further explains how the Pride influ-
enced her awareness of the need for more visibility of lesbians and gay
men in Croatia, and also clarified the ways in which she would like to
engage in activism. She explains this influence by emphasising that
maybe if there weren’t so much aggression against us from the others,

maybe I wouldn’t have such a need to get engaged in fighting that some-
how. If it had all went as in some parade in New York or in San Francisco
where everybody celebrates and all is great. After that, you probably come
home full of positive energy and you don’t have a need to change some-
thing. But after something like this, you definitely want the next Pride to
be better. (Mima, personal communication, 2003)
Tanja K. thinks that no major changes or influences on her identity

happened because of the Belgrade Pride—the only thing that changed is
her ‘opinion about this city, about the people who live here’. Ljilja also
talks about how her experiences at the Belgrade Pride changed the way
in which she perceives the people around her. She then explains how it
was ‘definitely’ reflected on her identity:
in a sense that I realised that I as a lesbian… that because I am a lesbian

my life can be endangered. All that my life means – not only that, even
my right to life. Of course I had information before (…) But it is differ-
ent when you experience something and different when you get some-
thing as an information (…) But then again, this is simply a fact I have to
live with and not something which should hold me back in my identity
76
S. Kajinić
or (keep me afraid…) because my identity is endangered. This is simply

a fact, not only for me but for many of us. (Ljilja, personal communica-
tion, 2003)
Petra talks of a major and disquieting impact of her experiences at the

first Zagreb Pride on her sense of self and safety:
some feelings, which I was building up for many years – of invulnera-

bility, for example. You build a shield around you in a way, you protect
yourself in different ways, with different mechanisms. And you think
that you honed them to perfection at some moment, and that you always
have some option. I think that this (the Pride) was the moment when
absolutely all of my mechanisms were completely thorn down. You know,
when you feel bare, weak, and helpless, as a target simply. This was simply
an irresolvable situation, completely irresolvable. Then you fall apart – as
if in fact some basis of your life falls apart, just like that all of a sudden.
(Petra, personal communication, 2003)
She, however, also explains how her experiences at the Pride had a
major influence on her sense of being a member of an ‘identity group
at all.’ From her ‘individualistic’ self-perception she shifted to a feeling
of ‘(b)elonging to something and feeling as a part of something – this
is something completely new in my life,’ and she talks about this as the
‘biggest change’ she went through under the influence of the Pride.
On the other hand, Boba explains how her experiences at the
Belgrade Pride ‘only pushed me more inside’ and intensified the feeling
she sometimes has of being in ‘a completely hopeless situation’ of not
having any support from her environment. She, as some other women
also, talks about the Pride experience as a crash course on the actual
extent of homophobia in the society she lives in: ‘it brought my atten-
tion to where I live. Although I knew all that – more or less. But this
was really intensive; brutal.’ She self-ironically explains how her Pride
experience influenced her identity:
it made me hide it (laughter). I mean, hide it from the wider popula-

tion. (…) I don’t know if I will ever in the future be ready to be polit-
ically active as a lesbian. (…) I don’t think I will be. But again, I don’t
77
know, I say that now, but maybe in five years… maybe some other things
will happen which will shake me up but… This is the biggest influence
(laughter). (Boba, personal communication, 2003)
Jelena talks of how difficult it is to assess the impact of the Zagreb Pride
on her—she is ‘more cautious in some situations’ but stresses that it is
‘difficult now to say how much the Pride influenced the fact that when I
see somebody who looks like a skinhead I do not feel like hugging with
Petra exactly in that second when I am passing by him.’ She would not
go so far as to say that the Pride strengthened her identity, though she
thinks that it in a way ‘supported it’ and what is most important for
her—it didn’t ‘stop me in anything.’ She explains that the real impor-
tance of the Zagreb Pride to her was in clearly showing the extent of
hatred against gays and lesbians, and thus in a way legitimising the
necessity of the struggle for the LGBT rights in the eyes of the wider
public. She, however, also talks of the paradoxical and sometimes dis-
couraging dynamics of this struggle:
it is also very easy to get discouraged. On the one side, you get stronger
because you see that you have to fight for some basic freedom because
otherwise you cannot live like that. On the other side, it is like fight-
ing with the windmills. You ask yourself are there ever and when are the
changes going to come; how old are you going to be if you are even alive
then. Of course that you think like that in some moments, but personally
I don’t get discouraged. We should continue. (Jelena, personal communi-
cation, 2003)
Lepa explains that the most important issues she had to deal with
because of her experiences at the Belgrade Pride were connected with
her feelings of guilt and responsibility because of her role as an organ-
iser, and with her trying to understand her ‘frozen fear’ mechanism of
distancing from fear and thus ‘not getting some (important) informa-
tion.’ However, she emphasises that ‘the whole sphere of my work on
lesbian rights’ and her ‘attitude toward my lesbian existence’ have not
changed—she is still politically active and visible as a lesbian activist.
Another long-standing activist, Sara remembers the moment at one
anti-fascist demonstrations in 1999 when she became aware that
78
S. Kajinić
those skinheads and all those rightists can hate me based on all the
main points of my existence: because I am a woman, because I am a les-
bian, because I am Jewish, because I have family in Serbia, you know
– everything! Because then I was working for the Anti-war Campaign.
Based on my work, sex, gender, family, anything. Anything I enumerated
to myself – each of my identities. You know, there is not one to which
they could say (yes) (laughter). (Sara, personal communication, 2003)
She goes on to explain that if she was to ‘list my identities in some

order’ of importance, she would always prioritise her being a ‘pacifist
– always, and a peace activist’ over other things, including her sexual
orientation, since ‘this is what makes me different in my own eyes from
other people, and these other things don’t, they shouldn’t.’ However, her
experiences at the Zagreb Pride made her aware of the prioritisation of
her sexual orientation over her other identities and she talks of this as
‘terribly sad’:
I feel horrible when I see how it changes my whole life, how important it
is. Because I think – why would my sexual orientation be important, why
would it be interesting or important to anybody at all? I think I am much
more than that – that this is just a question of whom I love and with
whom I am. But then when I see how it influences my life, that every-
day I have to lie or hide something, then it turns out that it is in fact the
most important thing in my life. And everything – problems with parents
and with the Pride and with everything – it turns out that it really is the
most important thing in my life and that everything turns around it. I am
really annoyed that this identity covers up all other identities. (Sara, per-
sonal communication, 2003)
She talks about how the Pride played a big part in her ‘becoming aware
of my fear’ and realising ‘how much in fact I feel like in prison. And
the whole of Zagreb became prison after that.’ Since, ‘if it wasn’t for
the Pride I wouldn’t have to think am I going to go in front of the cam-
eras. Rather, I would live my life.’ She tells of constant questioning of
her ‘priorities’ and their validity for her: ‘is it really important to do the
work I love or is it maybe more important to be who I am?’
79
Tanja explains what effect the violence and aggression she experi-
enced at the Belgrade Pride had on her:
I had an enormous need, I guess from stubbornness, to yell to the whole

world that I am a lesbian. Once I jokingly said that even if I was not
a lesbian before, I would have probably become one after the Belgrade
Gay Pride. If because of nothing else than out of rebellion. I think it only
made me stronger. (Tanja, personal communication, 2003)
Suzana did not experience the Zagreb Pride as a major influence on a

personal level since ‘all those things connected to identity and coming
out, I somehow went through them earlier, so it wasn’t as tense for me.’
The aspect that was new to her was the political dimension of public
visibility achieved through the Pride:
that I could walk the street with a banner, that was a new experience.
I guess (the Pride) strengthened (my identity) – because we all went
through all that together. It had a very important political significance, it
was happening for the first time here, and it was very important for me to
be part of that. For all of us to go out like that, I think we needed cour-
age. (Suzana, personal communication, 2003)
Nina thinks that the Belgrade Pride made her more aware of ‘where I
live, with what kind of people I deal with,’ but has not in any radical
way changed ‘my principles, my attitudes – after two years, everything is
still in place, everything stands where it was.’ She explains the influence
it had on her lesbian identity:
I cannot tell that because of it in any way I questioned my identity. But

definitely, because I am a lesbian in this society, I was in fear for a certain
time. I remember that for some time after the Pride I was letting my hair
grow. I was doing that TV-interview before the Pride, but after the Pride I
wouldn’t do that anymore. So, radio is ok, TV is not, the newspapers are
ok but not under my full name. I mean, forget it, it equals suicide. But on
my identity as identity – no, I wouldn’t say (it had influence). Now, two
years after it, I would say it didn’t. (Nina, personal communication, 2003)
80
S. Kajinić
Iva clarifies the significance of her choice to politically identify as a les-

bian though ‘technically I am bi- or if you want polysexual’ by explain-
ing that ‘at the present moment in Croatia, it is very important to
politically situate yourself in regard to feminism and in regard to sexual
orientation.’ She stresses that the Pride has ‘strengthened’ her political
choice to express her identity ‘as lesbian, though it isn’t exclusively les-
bian. You know, if (lesbian identity) weren’t so problematic, there would
not be such need to emphasise it’. She illustrates her opinion that it is
‘really terribly necessary’ to be publicly visible with one’s marginalised
identities by narrating:
I encountered a lot of opposition to the Pride, a lot of people told me:

well, in the same way straight people could organise their parade! I really
do not see the logic in that argument. How can anybody even think of
that? I mean – the first thing you think of is: do you think the skinheads
would come? (laughter) Do you think somebody would throw bottles
at you? Do you think you would need the police to protect you? What
parade of heterosexuals? I mean, we have the parades of heterosexuals
every day, hello! (laughter). (Iva, personal communication, 2003)
After critically warning against decontextualising of the influences of

the Zagreb Pride by overvaluing them in relation to all the other influ-
ences on her identity (her process of coming-out, her engagement in
other LGBT initiatives and organisations), Iva goes on to ‘sort out’ the
particular change brought about by the Pride:
now I can see that the changes are really possible. Sometimes it really
seems that changes are happening so slowly. But the fact that I thought
that the Pride won’t happen for the next ten years, and it did happen,
and that now another one will be organised – this all encourages me
somehow. Although everything else is pretty much negative. But to the
extent that I became aware that sometimes you have to start some action
even when you think that the society is not ready – that this is the way to
change the society, this is how the Pride helped me. This is why I wanted
to get involved in all that and give my contribution. (Iva, personal com-
munication, 2003)
81
Conclusion
Both during this research and retrospectively, the first Pride marches
in Croatia and Serbia stand out as groundbreaking events that ignited
personal changes in their participants and far-reaching organisational
changes in local and regional LGBT movements. For the purpose of
this text, I looked at the history and significance of the Pride parades in
general, as well as at the particular political and social backgrounds of
the Belgrade and Zagreb Prides, arguing that the political ‘origins’ of the
Gay Pride parades in the Stonewall rebellion of 1969 and the tradition
of demonstrating for lesbian and gay rights tie in more relevantly with
the first Belgrade and Zagreb Prides than the parallel tradition of the
Gay Prides developing into the carnevalesque and commercial celebra-
tions of differences. Also, the contextualising of the first Belgrade and
Zagreb Prides with regard to the political moment and social atmos-
phere in which they took place helped cast light on their outcomes as
well as on the similarities and differences between them. For example,
the instances of hate violence and prevalence of hate discourse testify
to the depth and aggressiveness of homophobia in both Serbian and
Croatian societies; on the other hand, the lack of official political sup-
port in Serbia resulted in the lack of police protection which made
possible such brutality at the Belgrade Pride which remained unpun-
ished; while the relatively supportive political climate in Croatia mobi-
lised efficient police protection of the participants at the Zagreb Pride
though it could not lessen the loudness of the homophobic opponents
or prevent the later attacks on the Pride participants. The analysis of the
narratives of the interviewed women was structured around the spatial
metaphor of cognitive mapping of their experiences at those Prides by
looking at how different emotions emerge at different locations of their
narrative maps, but also at how emotions and narratives change depend-
ing on the participant’s spatial, temporal and identity locations.
Interesting spatial clarifications emerged from such reading, for
instance the relatively hopeful expectations that led the Belgrade Pride
participants to the Republic Square that day right into the hands of
the homophobic mob. The readers followed the routes of their shock,
82
S. Kajinić
confusion and escape, and the narratives of their dealing with homo-
phobia both right on the spot—at the Belgrade Pride, and later with
its influences on their ways of behaving and thinking. Similar mapping
traced the relatively more ‘sobered’ expectations of the Zagreb Pride
participants significantly structured around the Belgrade Pride prec-
edent of the previous year, and followed them on their substantively
shared route of the Zagreb march—through its ‘tunnel’ when crossing
the main Zagreb square, its crisis points, its coming back to the safety of
the fenced-in space at Zrinjevac and continuation of the program, the
tear-gas and risky evacuation at the end.
Since fear kept emerging in the interviews as a dominant emotion
caused by the aggressiveness of homophobia and violence at those
Prides, the interviewed women testified to the practical strategies of giv-
ing and offering support, writing, discussing at workshops, with friends
or other important persons; as well as to the narrative strategies of
dealing with the traumatic memories of homophobia: the interviewed
women’s use of irony and humour as distancing devices, as well as their
drawing on the memories of solidarity and statements of shared cause
for strength and support.
What also emerged from my interviewees’ narratives showed the
ruptures and refigurations which those Prides as points of pressure
influenced upon the identities and self-perceptions of the interviewed
women. The recurring red thread through Pride participants’ voices is
the insistence on the importance of visibility of LGBT people brought
about and performed at those Prides, and their reiteration of the need
for continuing or resuming with the practice of holding Prides in Serbia
and Croatia. These two events, though fraught with painful emotions
and difficult personal stories, ignited years of passionate activist politics
in the post-Yugoslav region, Pride-related and otherwise. In particu-
lar, if asked what was ‘specifically lesbian’ about these Prides, I would
highlight the strong participation of women—lesbian activists of Labris
and Kontra, as well as the lived experience of feminist solidarity that
changed our individual maps of participation into relationships that
sustained us personally and transformed the means and the range of our
activism.
83
What was implicit in many interviews and shared as activist knowl-

edge by many participants was that the activists from Belgrade and
Zagreb supported each other and that the Zagreb event was also—at
least partially—conceived as a response to the violence in Belgrade the
previous year. This was a recurrent thread in the first year of the work of
the Zagreb Pride Organising Committee, and a strong motivation for
activists who have participated in the Belgrade event or even just heard
much about it, and the following year wanted to create a different and
hopeful public street action for LGBT visibility in Zagreb. The connec-
tions and mutual influences of lesbian activists from both cities are to be
found also in our communication between the two events, and the pres-
ence of some of the same women participants of the Belgrade ‘march’
the following year at the first Zagreb Pride (see Dioli, this volume).
These are the collaborations, of friendship and politics, that encour-
aged me to see the first Prides in Belgrade and Zagreb as interrelated
and powerful beginnings of an eventful decade in lesbian activism in
the region, continuing the creative tradition of Yugoslav feminist and
lesbian regional organising.
Notes
1. This chapter purposefully zooms in only on the very first Pride marches
in Croatia and Serbia. For reflections on consequent Prides’ history in
these countries, see, for instance: Bilić (2016) as well as our edited vol-
ume (Bilić and Kajinić 2016).
2. The SKC (Studentski kulturni centar) is a student cultural centre where
the ‘rest’ of the Belgrad Pride program was supposed to take place but
didn’t. Some of the participants headed toward it after the violence at the
Republic Square, and most of the crowd did also.
3. Cvjetni trg or the Flower Square is a square in the centre of Zagreb
where the whole manifestation was initially supposed to take place.
However, due to the lucky circumstances (i.e. a book fair was already
taking place there), the Pride parade got only the permission to pass
through the Cvjetni. This was fortunate because the Cvjetni turned to
be the place where the police had most trouble keeping the Pride par-
ticipants safe—there are many cafes there, the passage for the parade
84
S. Kajinić
participants was very narrow, there was the highest concentration of the
attackers there etc. For these and other reasons, the interviewed women
as a rule refer to the passage through the Cvjetni as a crisis point.
4. Zrinjevac is the name of the park in the centre of Zagreb in which the
Pride actually took place—from where the march started, to where it
returned after a bit more than half an hour of walking around a planned
route in the centre of the city, where the speeches and the program were
resumed, where the tear-gas was thrown amid the participants, and from
where some of the participants were evacuated in police cars. Thus,
Zrinjevac also constantly comes up in the interviews as a spatial land-
mark with different significations for different women. The situatedness
of the Zagreb Pride at Zrinjevac is also symbolically important because
of a murder of a gay French tourist that had taken place there three years
before the Pride.
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University Press.
Sisterhood Beyond Borders: Transnational
Aspects of Post-Yugoslav Lesbian Activism
Irene Dioli
Our first stop on this voyage through transnational encounters in

post-Yugoslav lesbian activism takes us to Bologna, 1998. It was Italy’s
third Lesbian Week attended by 10 lesbian activists from the states
of former Yugoslavia. One of them was Lepa Mlađenović, who later
described the event in a vivid account:
About two hundred Italian lesbians gathered on a hillside next to Bologna –

lawns, woods, terraces, halls…the old house of Mrs Guastavillani. This
wise woman decided to allow ‘ordinary citizens’ to enjoy the villa that was
previously only available to the rich and privileged. She left her home-
town the house on the hillside. Thus, in recent years, the city authori-
ties have created various initiatives to bring people together: children of
war victims from Bosnia, women’s organisations, ecological projects, then
youths who reject to serve in the army and perform civil service instead,
and those who love big weddings…
I. Dioli (*) 
Osservatorio Balcani Caucaso Transeuropa/CCI, Trento, Italy

88
I. Dioli
This time, from 2 to 8 June, Villa Guastavillani was transformed into a

lesbian city. The lesbians completely reorganised the exterior and interior
spaces, exhibition halls, video rooms, lesbian bar…lesbians were setting
up the equipment in spite of the old electrical network, installing their
stereo devices, a room for conversations, debates, workshops, bedrooms,
soccer fields…
If we go back to the events that preceded this moment, then it is
important to say that, two years before, the same venue had hosted the
Second Lesbian Week, in which special guests were lesbians from three
countries of the former Yugoslavia: 10 of us from Ljubljana, Novi Sad,
Belgrade, Zagreb. This event was important to us – it was the first chance
for lesbians from these cities to come together after the war and the new
states. (Mlađenović 1998, online)
These words by Lepa Mlađenović evoke one of the many encoun-

ters shared by women and lesbian activists between the post-Yugoslav
space and Italy. Over the years, long-term women activists from both
sides of the Adriatic have exchanged views, invitations, and experiences
in a number of meetings, events, and initiatives devoted to feminist
and lesbian issues. When I read, watch, or listen to these accounts, as
I have been doing while writing this chapter, I can see a history com-
ing together, threads of a network stretching over the borders between
countries and within the post-Yugoslav space.
In my own little, tangential way, I have been an explorer of these
networks, a little dot hopping around this solid foundation of encoun-
ters and relationships for a few years. My own experience as an Italian
student, then scholar, researching about gender and sexuality issues in
the region, has led me to pass by and witness—at the beginning, almost
by chance—crucial moments in the development of LGBT and queer
activism in the region, a process in which lesbian and feminist activists
have played a paramount role. On the other hand, it has also led me to
interrogate, with the increasing awareness left as a gift by contacts and
conversations with the protagonists of this chapter of history, the issues
related to transnational encounters, cooperation, and organising—both
within the region itself and between the region and its neighbours, at
the institutional and grassroots level.
Sisterhood Beyond Borders …
89
This chapter, through research and interviews carried out in different

stages over the last ten years, seeks to explore some of the transnational
dynamics involving lesbian activism of post-Yugoslav countries, in both
their thorns and roses, including experiences of transnational solidarity
and cooperation at the European level as well as regional post-Yugoslav
networks and the Lesbian Week events.
My First Conference: Thoughts About Lesbian

(In)Visibility in Yugoslavia and After
Before I made my first trip to former Yugoslavia, I had never really
come across the concept of privilege as it is currently used in social
studies and activism, but one particular moment stood out to me, in a
way loud and clear enough that it has stayed vivid in my memory, like
a scene from a movie, and I started to get it before I actually learnt to
articulate it.
It was October 2005. I was a student in a Master’s programme on
Southeastern Europe, and I was travelling from Italy to my first confer-
ence on gender studies, in Zagreb. I travelled alone, by train—someone
from the organisation would pick me up at the station and host me for
the days of the conference, and then I would move to Belgrade for my
thesis fieldwork. It all felt like an adventure and—as I see it now—that
kind of “just a little scary” that someone who has never actually had
to fear for their life can feel. At the border crossing, I starkly realised
that things could be very different as I watched the border guards give a
hard time to a young (probably Roma) man in the same compartment
as me, who was searched, manhandled off the train, and then returned
with a snarl. As for myself, I did not even have the chance to show my
papers, as the officers remained oblivious to my presence. I was white,
25, sporting an overall and braids, and clueless enough to blend into the
furniture. Privilege made me invisible to trouble, so to speak.
A different kind of invisibility—now commonly referred to as
“femme invisibility,” not that I knew this was a thing back then—kept
protecting me when I got to the Transgressing Gender Conference in
90
I. Dioli
Zagreb. The Archbishop of Zagreb had made a few heated statements

about “evil” arriving in town, and there was fear of attacks. People
were worried about their safety, but as a foreigner of—again, so to
speak—“standard” appearance I was little of a target. When organis-
ers advised us not to go around the city on our own, to stay in groups,
and take off conference badges outside the conference premises, I did
get how serious the situation was, but I could not really feel that it was
about me too. I thought of myself and found it almost amusing to be
called “evil.” But again, the Archbishop was not certainly thinking of
me or people like me. The targets were people who were visibly “differ-
ent” and visibly transgressed gender norms. Anyway, I would be moving
on in a couple of days and be safe, flying under the radar—including,
both fortunately and unfortunately, gaydars, as no one ever even won-
dered if I could possibly be a lesbian myself.
When looking into lesbian life in socialist Yugoslavia, oral narratives
and the available written accounts point to invisibility as the defining
element of lesbian existence, in both public discourse and everyday life.
This was another kind of invisibility, though—less about individual
invisibility and more about an identity the existence of which was not
even acknowledged. For example, one of my respondents said, “lesbians
were invisible, not only to the public, but to each other as well. Many
of them thought that they were the only lesbians in their surround-
ings” (Mira,1 personal communication, October 2010)—and several
others articulated the same feeling. Within the country’s dominant cul-
ture—not an exception to the repression and domestication of sexual-
ity shared by communist systems—a rhetorical emphasis on hegemonic
masculinity stigmatised male homosexuality as an expression of weak-
ness, while a general erasure of female sexuality and pleasure virtually
cancelled female homosexuality from the picture. The criminal code (30
June 1959) deemed male homosexuality illegal in the whole Yugoslavia,
but made no reference to female homosexuality (see Hosi Wien 1984).
The virtual invisibility of female homosexuality is exemplified by this
short excerpt written by Jelica Todosijević for a Report on lesbians in
Yugoslavia, published by the IGLHRC (International Gay and Lesbian
Human Rights Committee) in 1995, suggesting how discrimination
faced by lesbian women was directed to their non-married status rather
than their sexuality:
91
Being a lesbian in Yugoslavia means that you don’t exist at all. You don’t
exist legally, you don’t exist illegally. You are an offensive word, a bad
character from a cheap novel or a heroine from the midnight porn on the
Third Channel of Belgrade Television. Being a woman who loves women
means to live hard and in fear. […] A woman in Yugoslavia is validated
by the man who she is with. If she chooses the way of living she desires, it
means that she’s condemning herself to the endless battle for her integrity.
By the mid-to-late 1990s, homosexuality was decriminalised in all of

the former Yugoslav republics. Decriminalisation bills had already been
passed in Slovenia, Croatia, Vojvodina, and Montenegro in the late
seventies, whereas a second wave of decriminalisation involved Serbia,
Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Macedonia in the mid and late 1990s.
As a consequence, formerly clandestine organisations (e.g., Arkadija in
Serbia) were able to become more visible. New organisations were also
created. However, such legislative changes—often prompted by interna-
tional pressure and adopted without Parliamentary discussion—did not
affect society’s overall attitudes, being neither the outcome of grassroots
action nor the result of broad domestic consensus (Bilić 2016a). Thus,
increased visibility stirred the violent reactions of conservative groups
against LGBT activists and events, most often in the indifference of the
respective governments.
In addition, the intensification of nationalist trends following the
disintegration of Yugoslavia, together with economic crisis and social
uncertainty, triggered a re-patriarchalisation process (see e.g., Naumović
1999; Bringa 2004). Against this backdrop, the adoption of conserv-
ative values influenced with particular intensity the sphere of family
and gender roles (see Iveković 1996; Iveković and Mostov 2002). The
strongly gendered violence of ethnic wars—a classic reminder of how
sexual imageries of potency and invasion shape political and military
violence and propaganda—brought normative gender enforcement to
the surface of public discourse (Žarkov 2007).
In nationalist ideologies, people outside the gender binary and other
than heterosexual are excluded from the canons of national identity (see
Iveković 1996; Iveković and Mostov 2002): if men are cast as macho
warriors and women as means to achieve the nation’s continuity and
homogeneity, homosexuals are left as traitors of the nation (see Bilić, this
92
I. Dioli
volume, epilogue). Indeed, especially during the 1990s, homosexuality

has been labelled as a foreign import: with the beginning of LGBT activ-
ism, often supported by Western European organisations, nationalists
were able to use discomfort with non-standard sexuality to amplify hos-
tility towards national and ethnic others, according to the other-phobic
topos of a “pure” national character “corrupted” by the contact with the
West—a constant within the nationalist discourse (Čolović 2002).
This was what I learnt, with great enthusiasm, in my MA course on
gender and nation, taught by Rada Iveković, which was hugely signif-
icant for me—in fact, what was I going to present at my first gender
studies conference in Zagreb was my paper for her course, devoted to
“Female homosexuality, patriarchy, and nationalist communities”. In a
somewhat verbose manner, the paper argued that
by asserting difference and the right to difference in the realm of gen-

der identity and sexual orientation, as well as questioning the dogma of
women’s dependence upon men, female homosexuality testifies to the
potential multiplicity of social and interpersonal relational models, thus
contributing to questioning on the conceptual level the unchangeable
character of authoritarian and hierarchical social structures.
I just—bravely—went back to look at that paper from 12 years ago, and

I see that I never even used the word “lesbian”, except for a couple of
quotes from someone else’s work. I find it funny now, that I was writ-
ing about the revolutionary potential of being a lesbian and I did not
even dare to use the word. Activists like Lepa Mlađenović, instead, had
reclaimed that very word to find community and solace in times of war
and violence.
Imaginary Feminist Lesbian International

Community
After learning about the pervasive gender normativity of national-
ism and ethnic wars, I also learnt how feminist and lesbian activists
played a crucial role in the anti-war mobilisation of the 1990s, laying
93
the groundwork for human rights associations to develop for women,

children, refugees, and minorities—and thus preparing a space for deal-
ing with gender and sexual diversity as well, in a way perhaps analo-
gous to what happened in the wake of the Second World War and the
Holocaust, when human and civil rights discourses powerfully emerged
within Western democracies (Bilić 2012; Churchill 2008).
In her “Notes of a feminist lesbian in anti-war activities”, Lepa
Mlađenović (2012) examines the role played by lesbian women in the
peace movement, highlighting the process of coming out by lesbian
peace activists as well as the way feminist peace movements like Women
in Black made space for lesbian subjectivities in their workshops and
politics. Her analysis further shows how lesbian perspectives found
space and support in at least a part of feminist NGOs that embraced
a comprehensive agenda against all kinds of discrimination (including
sexism and homophobia), whereas this did not happen in human rights
organisations, where a hierarchy of needs—with focus on ethnic vio-
lence—would push women’s and LGBT issues to the side.
One of the things we learned very early was that war creates a priority of
survival needs. The right to be alive and the right to survive become the
first priorities. This is a fact in war-torn countries: there is no social space
for naming identities. The rule of nationalism imposes nationality as the
only identity with political meaning. (Mlađenović 2012, p. 129)
Mlađenović’s essay also provides a touching account of international

solidarity, recalling how Western European lesbian volunteers and pro-
fessionals provided support from their countries or travelled to former
Yugoslavia to help. The image of a transnational lesbian community is
vivid in these pages: the author “decided to write in English, as I made
imaginary feminist lesbian international community my audience, and
it felt safe” (Mlađenović 2012, p. 127). In her writing, and also during a
conference on the history of lesbian movements in Europe (Von Känel
2017), Lepa Mlađenović remembered the vital support of fellow les-
bian activists from all over Europe during the war, including Germany,
Switzerland, Italy, and the UK.
94
I. Dioli
Yet in the midst of all this anger and brutality, the gift of the international
lesbian movement came to us. All during the war, lesbians from many
places in the world were in solidarity with the anti-war movements in the
former Yugoslavia. First, we lesbians from Serbia longed to meet our sister
lesbians from Croatia, Kosovo and Slovenia. There were only a few of us,
but longing was deep and it was only at international conferences that
we would embrace each other. Serbian borders became difficult to cross.
Nevertheless, the lesbian support continually arrived at our addresses: let-
ters, packages, gifts, coffee, chocolates with words of tenderness. Often
from lesbians we had never seen and perhaps may never see, sometimes
from women we knew. There were books, journals, newspapers from
lesbians in France, Spain, Italy, and the United States that were sent to
lesbians in Belgrade, Zagreb and Ljubljana. Letters of support. The anti-
war song Universal Soldier with the voice of Buffy Sainte Marie which we
played a hundred times. Music cassettes of beautiful Cris Williamson and
Lavender Jane were the most loved ones and were replayed in my kitchen
again and again. Also funny lesbian stories by Kate Clinton. Enough to
keep us tuned into the tender love of lesbian sisterhood and sometimes
— in the midst of work with refugees and fascist politics — also remind-
ing us that we were also lesbians.
In addition, many lesbians from other countries supported the wom-
en’s groups even though they never identified their support as lesbian.
They came to our women’s centres to volunteer, to witness our misery and
courage and make us feel less alone. There is not yet a study on the high
percentage of lesbians becoming international volunteers. But we surely
met many of them in our region. (Mlađenović 2012, p. 134)
We Don’t Need No Education: Transnational

Lesbian Activism After Yugoslavia
As Mlađenović’s essay shows, in a context of domestic isolation and lack
of support, lesbian activism sought strength and support in grassroots,
transnational networking at the regional level. In September 2003, for
example, a regional network was initiated by both individual activ-
ists and organisations from Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina,
Macedonia, and Montenegro on the ground of shared history and lan-
guage. Members met four times a year to discuss training in advocacy,
95
lobbying for public policy, and activist strategies. The network meetings
were highly valued by groups and individuals in the region as a site of
cooperation, support, and solidarity as well as of exchange of informa-
tion, experience, and knowledge—a “safety net” for both new and long-
time activists. In the end, structured activities slowed down and stopped
because of lack of resources and energies.
However, also thanks to the development of online networks, les-
bian and GBT organisations from across the former Yugoslav space have
established bonds (e.g., communication and cooperation in the organi-
sation of festivals) to overcome the isolation created by hostile domes-
tic contexts. This is consistent with cosmopolitan interpretations of the
international human rights activism that identify peace and transnation-
alism as its core values, countering a conflict between state and citizens
with transnational, horizontal solidarity among citizens (Kaldor 1999).
Given that traditional national identities are imbued with gender and
sexual normativity, regional solidarity within the former Yugoslav space
becomes even more significant in the case of lesbian and GBT activism.
Indeed, many initiatives in this realm, especially festivals, have meant to
cross national borders and offer solace in the regional community—for
example, the imaginary Queeroslavia of the first Queer Beograd festival
in 2004 (Dioli 2009b; Bilić and Dioli 2016; see also Selmić and Bilić,
this volume).
Although, as this volume shows, there were non-heterosexual activ-
ist initiatives in former Yugoslavia, a more intense development of
LGBT movements took place in the context of a global growth of the
NGO sector after 1989 (Štulhofer and Sandfort 2005) and benefited
from a number of transnational factors, including international fund-
ing and globalised attention to LGBT issues in human rights activism
(Greif 2004). However, along with opportunities, international coop-
eration and globalisation also brought new conflicts. The international
community played a role that varies in significance and effectiveness in
the development of post-conflict NGOs, including LGBT endeavours.
For example, some countries (e.g., Serbia and Croatia) already had an
established network of activist organisations (including LGBT), whereas
in Bosnia and Herzegovina, according to a leading LGBT activist, it
was the very anti-war mobilisations that created the space for various
96
I. Dioli
associations to develop (Dioli 2009a, b). On the other hand, the UN

presence in Kosovo, bringing along a strong community of interna-
tional workers, led—in the perception of my respondents—to signifi-
cant international support for the local LGBT community. Legislation,
for example, has been inclusive regarding sexuality issues since the for-
mation of the state under the UN monitoring: the Kosovo Constitution
includes an article forbidding discrimination on the grounds of sexual
orientation and the anti-discrimination law is explicitly inclusive of
sexual orientation (see Kosova Women’s Network 2009). This certainly
provides a more favourable framework for LGBT activisms, although
legislative changes have all too often limited effects.
In 2009, after finishing my MA and going through a number of
jobs for a few years, I finally got my first research post at Osservatorio
Balcani Caucaso (now, Osservatorio Balcani Caucaso Transeuropa), an
online media outlet and research center based in northern Italy and
focusing on Southeastern Europe and the Caucasus. Unsurprisingly,
my first personal project was a mini-series of interviews with lesbian
activists and former activists from Albania, Bosnia and Herzegovina,
Croatia, Serbia, and Kosovo, that sought to explore their views on
LGBT activism and its relationship with the European and domes-
tic contexts. In the years that had passed since my MA research, the
European Union had gradually intensified its role through the appli-
cation of conditionality policies (Bilić 2016b). As a consequence, sex-
ual rights advocacy was also involved in the Europeanisation process,
especially when, after remaining marginal in the beginning of negotia-
tions, social issues and LGBT rights came to enjoy greater significance
and attention (Deacon and Stubbs 2007). LGBT organisations became
more structured and the development of NGOs provided some activists
with a chance to become professionals—although my respondents were
divided about such developments and some claimed that many NGOs
were interested in perpetuating their own existence.
On the other hand, local activists interfacing international LGBT
organisations expressed their concerns about top-down, “neo-
colonialist” approaches (Butterfield 2016). As an activist from Bosnia
and Herzegovina explained:
97
If an international organisation is simply looking for a new place to

implement a model or a strategy that has been applied to x countries in
Western Europe without taking local specificities and contribution into
account when planning a project, it is probably going to fail or be irrele-
vant or not sustainable and we are going to be the ones left to deal with
the consequences after the international partner leaves.
If an international organisation regards the local counterpart as an
implementer rather than a partner, and if the work is not carried out in a
participatory way from the beginning, the relationship and the work itself
become problematic. Local activists need to be empowered, not directed.
(Svetlana, personal communication, August 2009)
In particular, many concerns have been raised about international

NGOs and LGBT organisations and their top-down, Euro-centric (as
in Western-Europe) approach and disregard—or lack of awareness—of
the specific problems of Eastern European women. For instance, here
Jelica Todosijević from Serbia talks about the Vienna NGO Forum, a
preparatory meeting for the UN Conference on Women in Beijing
1995:
I was disappointed to discover that I was the only out Eastern European
lesbian in the Lesbian workshop. I had a support of three other out
Eastern European lesbians (two from Hungary and one from Yugoslavia)
who were, unfortunately, fully engaged in other workshops and couldn’t
attend this one. Lesbians from Eastern Europe are not to be blamed for
this poor showing, because they never had the chance to be there. Both
money and lack of information kept them away. I myself was confused
by what was expected of me at such a conference, but now I realise the
importance of being involved in drafting language for these large con-
ferences. If I hadn’t been there, the language on lesbian human rights
would not have addressed Eastern European Lesbians concerns at all.
(Todosijević 1994)
Another widely expressed concern referred to a lack of understanding by

international activists and organisations of the differences between their
own context and working methods and local ones, which made work-
ing in the domestic context harder and more dangerous. For example,
98
I. Dioli
activists pointed to the different relationships with local and national

authorities:
I was dismayed at the patronising and dismissive attitude of the ILGA

representatives, lesbians who were leading the workshop on lesbian
human rights. They have no understanding whatsoever of our problems
because our problems are so different from theirs (If Eastern Europeans
were better organised and more present at those thirteen ILGA’s
Conferences, something like that wouldn’t have happened!). They kept
asking for concrete suggestions with which I could lobby my govern-
ment, not even realising that it is insane to suggest that anyone lobby
the Serbian government. Fortunately, Rachel Rosenbloom, from the
International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission, was there.
If they didn’t respect me, at least they respected her, and she somehow
understood that those of us from the East have different concerns. For
example, I pushed hard for the inclusion of education as a goal, because
that is the only means we have for reaching the public – demonstrations
are out of the question! I also suggested that we include the language “les-
bians, single women, and women who are not attached to men” because
many Eastern European lesbians do not identify themselves as lesbians.
We were able to get this language into the document, largely as a product
of Rachel’s efforts, but the final result was like we haven’t done anything
during those two days. (Todosijević 1994)
In our country [Bosnia and Herzegovina], for example, where we are
dealing with huge corruption and a weak government, activists have
nobody to support them, for example in terms of political parties or gov-
ernment. The government is, in fact, your obstacle, which is not the case,
for example, in the UK or France, where the government itself is pushing
the change. (Svetlana, personal communication, August 2009)
Thanks to the insights of my respondents, I became more aware of the

limits of thinking about LGBT issues in terms of linear progress. Later
on, as I reflected on those interviews, I tried to avoid words and con-
cepts like “influence,” “impact,” or “shape”—or any formulation imply-
ing a country or region passively “receiving” inputs from outside/above,
or hierarchies between “advanced” and “backward”. In this regard, how-
ever, things have changed and improved in some ways. If we look at
the European Lesbian Conference of 2017, women from Eastern and
99
Southeastern Europe were included both as organisers (Biljana Ginova)

and speakers (Lepa Mlađenović, Mima Simić, and several others from
Poland, Ukraine, and Russia; Von Känel 2017, online). Some respond-
ents mentioned the human rights approach as one of the differences
between Western and Eastern European activism:
Another problem I encountered during trainings with international part-

ners involved different methodologies. For example, our approach is
strictly connected to human rights, which fits the context we operate in.
Everything we do, in terms of public policy, lobbying, and advocacy, is
based on a human rights approach. The human rights platform gives you
more leverage in our relationship with the institutions because even the
government has to be accountable in terms of human rights, while not
necessarily so in terms of, let’s say, sexual diversity or feminism – which
are problematic concepts in a traditionalist context. (Svetlana, personal
communication, August 2009)
As highlighted by Svetlana, a non-identity approach under the umbrella

of general human rights advocacy gives a less problematic leverage on
conservative national institutions and may foster unity among different
groups by allowing them to overcome the debates on sexual identities—
as categories may be contested, but behaviours are more clearly identi-
fiable (Mertus 2007). On the other hand, one limit of a human rights
approach lies in its gender-neutral character that overlooks the specific
position of women (Mercer 2004), possibly providing less visibility for
lesbian representation, advocacy, and identity.
As mentioned earlier, lesbian activists from the region have kept cre-
ating occasions to meet and connect beyond national borders, on the
basis of lesbian identity and solidarity. For example, for the purposes of
this chapter, I was drawn by a suggestion of the editors to find out more
about the Lesbian Week festivals that have taken place in the countries
of the former Yugoslavia since 1997. Organised by regional lesbian asso-
ciations, these meetings have gathered 30–60 regional and international
participants coming together to share information, knowledge, and
experiences, but also—and perhaps most importantly—to find mutual
recognition, solidarity, and support beyond national borders.
100
I. Dioli
Lesbian Weeks: “Overcoming the Painful

Borders Drawn by War and Homophobia”
While researching the Lesbian Weeks, I found out that they stemmed
from a solidarity initiative between Italy and former Yugoslavia. In
1996—on the occasion of Italy’s second Lesbian Week, in Bologna—
Italian activists raised money to invite ten activists from former
Yugoslavia to take part in the Italian Lesbian Week—in the “lesbian
city” described by Lepa Mlađenović in the quotes at the beginning of
this chapter. As stated by Lepa Mlađenović (as cited in Von Känel 2017,
online):
even though it was all in Italian, we were really happy, but what happened
was that the lesbians from Slovenia came back and organised the first
Lesbian Week for us.
The first Lesbian Week (Lezbejska nedelja) was organised in June

1997 in Pohorje, Slovenia, by Ljubljana’s lesbian group Kasandra and
Belgrade lesbian human rights organisation Labris, and attended by 45
participants (see also Oblak and Pan, this volume). Italian activists Anna
Pramstrahler and Antonia Ciavarella—who invited activists from for-
mer Yugoslavia to Bologna in 1996—took part in the event and wrote
about it in an article published in fall 1997 in Towanda!, the first lesbian
magazine officially registered and formally distributed in Italy.
About 50 lesbians from Serbia, Slovenia, and Croatia found each other
again after the dark years of war. […] The lesbians from Macedonia and
Bosnia could not attend because the organisers lost contact with them, or
they fled abroad, or they have no passport.
Pointing out the difficulties in the organisation, the obstacles especially
for Serbian women – e.g., they are not allowed to transit on Croatian
territory – is not sympathy. We simply want to encourage reflection that
lesbians can move on from the war only if other lesbians, of other coun-
tries, can give and receive strength and self-determination from the sisters
marked by conflicts. Lesbianism must regain its international dimension.
(Ciavarella and Pramstrahler 1997, pp. 10–11)
101
The article by the Italian activists contains an interesting quote by

Dragana Rajković, a Croatian activist that decided to live in Ljubljana
and was part of the core group that organised the first Lesbian Weeks.
In this quote, language, used by nationalism as an instrument to divide,
is reclaimed with the opposite function, in a form of active resistance to
divisions created by wars:
We, the Slovenians, want to keep speaking Serbian-Croatian to under-

stand other lesbians, but we think that in ten years the younger genera-
tions will no longer do so. (as cited in Ciavarella and Pramstrahler 1997,
p. 11)
However, war was not at the centre of the debates because, as explained
by Barbara Berce, “war was the only artificial thing in our lives” (quoted
in Ciavarella and Pramstrahler 1997, p. 11). “They would rather talk”,
commented the Italian activists, “about themselves and their life –
which is, as we know, another way to talk about the world” (Ciavarella
and Pramstrahler 1997, p. 11)—coming out, identity, visibility, sexu-
ality, and creativity. As the final document illustrating the conclusions
of the event (“Lezbejska prava su ljudska prava”, “lesbian rights are
human rights”) reads, “it turns out that we have overcome national and
state borders and met through the experiences of our lesbian existence”
(Labrys 1998, p. 266). Also the accounts of the second festival—held
in Sombor, Serbia, from 17 to 22 October 2000—treasured regional
connections:
Labris keeps on networking and overcoming the painful borders drawn

by war and homophobia in the daily lives of lesbian women. (Vučaj 2009,
p. 22)
Participation from the region became more comprehensive since the

third Lesbian Week of September 2004—titled “Our network, our
strength” (“Naša mreža, naša snaga”), that managed to gather 45 par-
ticipants from a number of lesbian and LGBT organisations across
the region, including countries that had not yet been represented, like
Macedonia and Bosnia and Herzegovina (Labris 2017). By 2011, when
102
I. Dioli
the fourth festival was held in Belgrade, women from all of the former
Yugoslav countries were present, with the exception of Kosovo, and
were joined by participants from Sweden and Germany.
A highlight of the fourth Lesbian Week was the participation of
scholar Joan Nestle and her partner Diane Otto, a moment that appears
in more than one account as a source of inspiration:
Experiencing the Lesbian Week is never a simple thing, to paraphrase

J. Nestle […]. After her words, it is inevitable to evaluate the lesbian
experience with new, far superior standards and to notice the importance
of your participation in reality […]. After her words, shame is left as an
empty cannon, and pride gets a new dimension. (Labris 2015)
Joan Nestle gave two speeches, one of which was filmed and is availa-
ble on YouTube (see Roy 2012). Nestle shared her experience of coming
out as a lesbian in the 1950s in the United States, and she told exten-
sively about her experience of being perceived as “deviant,” subject to
state control (as the bars visited by the working class butch-femme com-
munity were consistently policed), but also embracing her own being
“deviant” as a site of liberation. It is probably safe to say that these
accounts powerfully resonated with the participants of the 2011 Lesbian
Week, confronted with state homophobia, daily struggles with invisibil-
ity and coming out, and violent repression or policing of Pride Parades.
Indeed, the end titles to the video from the meeting read:
Beaming with passion and compassion, she spoke of her lesbian past, how
far lesbian desire can take us against the forces of the State and why it is
important for the community and every one of us to gather details from
our lives and to found our own lesbian archives. (as cited in Roy 2012,
online) [emphasis ID]
In summer 2017, I had the chance to interview Jelena (personal com-

munication, August 2017), a younger activist from Labris, who was
involved in the two most recent editions of the festival (Belgrade 2011
and Belgrade 2015). She told me:
103
Initially, the Lesbian Week was used as a way to connect through all
Balkan countries, to recreate the connections that were severed by the
war. After that, the Lesbian Weeks were used to support lesbian move-
ments in all Balkan countries and to create a platform for regional devel-
opment of the lesbian movement.
When I asked how participation in the festival had evolved over the
years, and what the event represented for her, Jelena (personal commu-
nication, August 2017) stated:
The first couple of words are: empowerment, unity, power, sisterhood,

multiculturalism. […] Over the years, what I noticed is that multicultur-
alism is becoming more and more visible, that we as lesbian community
are evolving in all our diversity and it is the best possible way to accept all
our identities. We are all different and that difference is sometimes chal-
lenging. The main thing that was challenging is that generation gap and
the ways that different generations are perceiving the ways of engaging in
the lesbian movement. […]
The main change is that I have a great regional network with other
lesbian activists. That gave me the empowerment in my personal life, the
fact that I can rely on every single woman that I meet and that we are
all there for each other is the most valuable thing that I took from the
Lesbian Weeks.
The feelings of solidarity and empowerment in her words reminded me

of what the Italian activists wrote about the first Lesbian Week of 1997,
twenty years before, as an ending to their article:
The songs of our sisters transmitted to us the strength of their memory,

their many hugs reminded us that their history is our history. (Ciavarella
and Pramstrahler 1997, p. 12)
While researching the Lesbian Weeks—exchanging conversations with

both regional and Italian activists and watching the filmed testimonies
of those encounters—I have witnessed and felt very vividly the notions
of “sisterhood” and “unity” that lie at the foundations of this book and
the pleasure of meeting and being together “beyond the painful borders
104
I. Dioli
drawn by war and homophobia,” and also beyond any hierarchical

dichotomy between the East and the West.
Conclusion
In 2005, when I moved from the conference in Zagreb to my research
stay in Belgrade, I had very little familiarity with activism, even in
my own country, and very little awareness of the complexities around
and within activism itself. Over those months, I went from thinking
of activism as something you could do in your free time to seeing
people—most of them lesbian-identified, queer, or bisexual women—
whose very existence was a form of activism, as being open about their
identities was a statement and a daily struggle. Although activism in my
country probably had a longer, more visible history, it was in Belgrade
that I discovered the concept of intersectionality (Crenshaw 1989)—
that had a long history in US feminist activism and theorising, but was
still relatively foreign in Italian activism—as activists there had been
using it to confront the multiple forms of oppression they experienced
in a patriarchal, nationalist context. I realised at some point in my
stay—and I am even more grateful about it now—how much patience
and generosity those women showed me by letting me in. In this pro-
cess, I understood how much coming in contact with lesbian feminists
of the region, and witnessing moments of their work, became a learning
experience for me.
One of the first people I met there was Zoe Gudović, a long-time
feminist and lesbian activist and performer, member—among other
things—of the Queer Beograd Collective, which I was interested in
because I wanted to write my MA thesis about the Queer Beograd
Festivals. I remember that, while walking to an event, she asked me:
“how do you identify yourself?”. The question was new for me—had
been out to myself for what seemed forever to me, but I had very lit-
tle awareness of identity politics—still, the answer came quick and
straightforward: “female, lesbian.” Many things have changed in these
years—some of the people I met then have left the region, some left
105
activism, some probably identify in a different way than they did then
(I, for one, have come to identify as queer). But in 2015, when I sat
for lunch at a conference in front of Lepa and she asked me another
blunt question—“Do you identify as a feminist?”—I was, again, taken
a bit by surprise, but I said—“yes, of course.” And, as new letters have
been added to the LGBT acronym and queer and intersectional activ-
ism has provided a critical look at categories of identity, oppression, and
resistance, my feeling is that “lesbian” remains an indispensable category
for those who identify as feminists—by which I mean that we need this
category to exist and be acknowledged, whether we personally identify
with it or not—because of this very element of female solidarity beyond
differences and borders.
Note
1. The name is invented.
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of the future. Retrieved on January 26, 2018, from www.youtube.com/
watch?v=zUqHQiCgOQI.
Štulhofer, A., & Sandfort, T. (Eds.). (2005). Sexuality and gender in postcom-
munist Eastern Europe and Russia. New York: The Haworth Press.
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Todosijević, J. (1994). Eastern European Lesbian networking. Retrieved on

January 2, 2018, from www.qrd.org/qrd/world/europe/eastern.european.les-
bian.networking.
Von Känel, M. (2017). History of lesbian movement in Europe. Retrieved on
January 26, 2018, from www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTzcOOoHFPU.
Vučaj, S. (2009). Treći glas: Coming out i lezbejke u Srbiji. Belgrade: Labris.
Žarkov, D. (2007). The body of war: Media, ethnicity and gender in the break-up
of Yugoslavia. Durham and London: Duke University Press.
Breaking the Silence: Lesbian Activism
in Macedonia
Irena Cvetkovic
In April 2013, along with a few lesbian friends from Skopje, we set up
several banners on the most frequented overpasses, exits, and entrances
to the city. The banners read: “Lesbians wish you a nice day!”, “Lesbians
wish you a safe trip!”, “Lesbians welcome you!”. At the time, we were
not quite sure about what we wanted to achieve with this. We just
wanted to have fun while being aware of the risks we were running in
our homophobic society. The action was carried out at night, in the
empty and sleepy capital. The next morning, photographs of the ban-
ners were all over the media, and the social networks quickly followed.
However, even the most homophobic outlet covered our initiative
kindly. We thought this was due to the fact that our action was just an
apolitical attempt to make people like us. This changed as soon as the
news was shared on a Facebook page that gathered LGBT people from
Macedonia as the response we received there was far from expected.
Translated from Macedonian by Julija Micova.
I. Cvetkovic (*) 
Coalition Margins, Skopje, Macedonia

110
I. Cvetkovic
One woman, who introduced herself as a lesbian, remarked that “the

bad word” made the action distasteful. The word in question was:
Lesbians! She explained that in spite of her sexual identification, she
considered the term ugly and inappropriate for public use, suggesting
instead a softer version, namely L-girls. Some other lesbian participants
in the discussion supported her view and we understood that what
appeared to be a safe exposure in public was in fact a significant political
leap within our own community.1 What we did was a visibility action,
a cry and a modest attempt to publicly utter, hear, write, and read the
word “lesbian”. The naming became more problematic for the lesbians
themselves than for the general public (see Bilić, introduction to this
volume; Radoman, this volume).
Throughout Macedonian social history, lesbians have been invisible,
hidden, nameless. The lesbian voice had been excluded from the political,
social, and cultural sphere. Lesbian women who took part in the discus-
sion following our public intervention were irritated by the politicality of
our gesture because it opened a crack through which all of the concealed
life stories, fears, experiences of shame, discrimination, and exclusion
gushed out irreversibly. It was not the general public our banners managed
to provoke, it was our own community. And that was good.
In this chapter, I argue that lesbian women, their everyday practices,
experiences of violence and discrimination, their struggle for human
rights are unheard, marked as socially unimportant or unworthy. The
lesbian political voice has become more of an ornament in the two
major political and social discourses: the gay rights movement and the
women’s movement.
I am aware that I cannot offer an exhaustive depiction of Macedonian
lesbian activism because its herstory is fragmented and dispersed. I
will, therefore, focus on a few instances in which lesbians made polit-
ical claims. For that purpose, I conducted semi-structured inter-
views with seven key activists, and I looked into media content and
relevant NGO documents and publications. This chapter offers an
insight into the early LGBT activism and the more organised feminist
and women’s initiatives, drawing attention to the role lesbians or les-
bian issues have played in them. I associate early LGBT activism with
the appearance of the first LGBT organisations (early 2000) working
Breaking the Silence: Lesbian Activism in Macedonia
111
mostly on HIV issues. Since it is not clear whether there is an organised

feminist movement in Macedonia, I focus on the work of the biggest
union of women organisations, the Council of Women’s Organisations.
I also discuss the first attempts at lesbian strategic separatism (with the
appearance of the first lesbian and feminist group called LezFem) and
the relations that lesbian activists have created with some of the key gay
and women’s political actors.
Our Sisters Are Straight: Macedonian

Women’s Organising
The women’s antifascist movement in Macedonia was politically rel-
evant and laid the foundation for today’s women’s organising.2 The
first women’s organisations were established after the country became
independent from Yugoslavia in 1991. The Women’s Organisation
of Macedonia was founded by ten women from Skopje in 1994 and
later became the Macedonian Union of Women’s Organisations
(SOŽM). (There was also the Association of Albanian Women operat-
ing for some time within the Albanian Party for Democratic Prosperity
(Škarić-Murdževa 1996)). The Union comprised 23 local organisa-
tions whose efforts concentrated on different peace and charity causes
(Škarić-Murdževa 1996). The president of the SOŽM Savka Todorova
(personal communication, October 2017) pointed out that the then
circumstances imposed these topics as priorities. The 1990s and the
early 2000s were troubled by war in the region, with Macedonia facing
an embargo imposed by Greece, which had a negative impact on the
nation’s economy. A series of armed conflicts destabilised the country
and resulted in erupting nationalism, religious and ethnic hatred, and
intolerance. In her analysis of the Macedonian women’s organisations
between 1990 and 1996, Škarić-Murdževa (1996, p. 9) concluded that
“similar to the political parties, the criterion of ethnicity is visibly pres-
ent in women’s organisations as well”.
In 2000, the Open Society Foundation—Macedonia, commonly
known as the Soros3 Foundation, developed a Women’s program. Its
112
I. Cvetkovic
primary goal was to aid the development of feminist initiatives within

the women’s movement. According to the head of the Women’s pro-
gramme, Marija Savova (personal communication, September 2017),
women’s movements at the time were apolitical and non-feminist. The
beginnings were characterised by an invisible, yet strong ethnic division
among the organisations of the women of different ethnic communi-
ties. Instances of cooperation among Macedonian, Albanian, Turkish
and other women existed sporadically. Women organised in a political
union remained mostly in their own ethnic community. Consequently,
the early forms of and attempts at alliances, networks and coalitions
focused on the different ethnic identities of the women comprising
them. Sexuality and gender remained untouched, waiting for better
days. Namely, discussion about different women implied solely differ-
ent ethnicities rather than (also) different sexualities, thus reproducing a
homogeneous image of “women”.
The early 2000s witnessed an introduction of women’s studies to the
Macedonian scene, with 2000–2001 as the first academic generation.
The studies were initiated by SOŽM as
an alternative and addition to the scientific gap in the current educational

system, designed as interdisciplinary studies on women’s topics, a place
for research and self-research, discussion, debate, and new initiatives and
opportunities to affirm women’s culture. (Women Studies 2001, p. 5)
Women’s Studies were intended to contribute to the production of

knowledge relevant to women as well as to strengthen the feminist
position, and undermine discriminatory, exclusive, and offensive narra-
tives of women’s sexuality that were dominant in the academic world.
However, the reading list included books of dubious scholarly value,
such as Psychology of Gender. Gender Identity and Gender Roles by Olga
Škarić-Murdževa, also used at the St. Cyril and Methodius University in
Skopje. According to an analysis of this textbook,
80 per cent of the sixth chapter “Psychosexual Development, Disorders

and Ethic Re-examination” is dedicated to proving that homosexuality
and transsexuality are mental and social diseases to be eradicated, while
113
the remaining 20 per cent deals with Freud’s theory of sexuality as the
“standard frame for healthy psychosexual education and development”.
(Vrangalova 2011, p. 265)
Vrangalova’s analysis identifies the problematic assumptions of the

author’s chief premises, namely that “homosexuality is an unnatural
and abnormal occurrence” and “stagnation of the psychosexual develop
ment at a low level,” along with her assertions that heterosexuality is
“1. Better for society; and 2. Healthier for the individual”. She also
brings attention to the “evidence” presented by Škarić in her book:
religious and moral beliefs that homosexuality is wrong, increased risk

of sexually transmitted diseases in homosexual sex, physiological incom-
patibility of anal sex (painful for most people), shorter life expectancy
in homosexuals, pronounced promiscuity, higher suicide rate, more fre-
quent exposure to violent sex, the collective homosexual fantasy that
sexual violations and rape by a stronger, more powerful man are normal.
(Vrangalova 2011, p. 265)
In other words, despite potentially good intentions, the Women’s

Studies programme continued to perpetuate pseudo-scientific beliefs
that were discriminatory towards non-heterosexuals.
The negative connotations mainly referred to gay men. Lesbians were
excluded from the homophobic rhetoric. SOŽM’s president, Savka
Todorovska, agreed that lesbians and other non-heterosexual people
were treated unethically in the textbook, claiming that the issues in
question were poorly known at the time and the Union was not aware
of the positions in the textbook.4
Soon after Women’s Studies were launched within the SOŽM,
another organisation offered Gender Studies as an informal course.
Namely, in 2002, the Euro-Balkan Institute from Skopje opened a
School for Gender and Politics as an alternative educational institu-
tion offering short interdisciplinary courses with a focus on gender and
feminist theory. The School succeeded in filling the void in the existing
educational system (formal and informal) by introducing contemporary
scientific perspectives on women with different sexual orientations. In
fact, the School generated some of the key advocates for LGBT rights.
114
I. Cvetkovic
Even though lesbian involvement in women’s organisations and initi-

atives was not formally banned, nevertheless, the movement’s prevailing
values made lesbians feel redundant or disinterested in active participa-
tion, until the emergence of certain feminist spaces (schools, workshops,
actions) open to different women. Emergence of lesbian voices became
possible through those spaces.
Addressing peace initiatives, Savka Todorovska noted that SOŽM
members chose motherhood as the dominant advocacy position for pac-
ifist values. They spoke of disarmament and withdrawal of the troops on
behalf of concerned mothers. The political context imposed such con-
cerns as the most powerful mobilising principles, so lesbian women did
not actively participate in those initiatives. While SOŽM women who
were most prominent in the public focused on initiatives for peace and
coexistence, on the margins of social and political life Macedonian les-
bian women initiated communication with lesbian activists from former
Yugoslavia. Although rare and unsystematic (with the exception of the
School on Gender and Politics), these cracks in the dominant terrains of
women’s organisation are worth analysing.
The early 2000s in Macedonia were marked by a military conflict,
although military interventions in the region had ended and the devel-
opment of democratic society was promptly on the way, as were lesbian
and feminist initiatives. In the interview, Marija Savova recounted a
story about her Slovenian colleagues who organised a Lesbian Week in
Slovenia but did not manage to recruit participants from Bosnia and
Herzegovina, Macedonia or Montenegro (see Dioli, this volume; see
Oblak and Pan, this volume). They asked Marija to help them find at
least one lesbian from Macedonia. “Where was I supposed to find par-
ticipants with no outed lesbians or similar organisations in the coun-
try?”, she remembers. Although Marija had been involved in women’s
organisations and the movement for years, she had never met a self-
declared lesbian. The organisers of the Lesbian Week managed to find
a Macedonian participant who agreed to participate only if no one else
but Marija from the Foundation Open Society had access to this infor-
mation. Upon return, the lesbian woman did not embark on any ini-
tiatives in the country. This woman later became a member of the first
115
lesbian feminist group LezFem, and agreed to an interview with me to

which I return below.
Although the story in question could be dismissed as a memory of
a seemingly simple visit to a lesbian event in Slovenia, these contacts
became the first sparks of lesbian activism in Macedonia. In the mean-
time, the Women’s Program within the Foundation provided activists
from women’s organisations with intensive training conducted by lec-
turers from Serbia. Lesbian topics were also discussed at the lectures.
Remembering those years, Marija says certain topics and principles
required meticulous interpretation. According to her, the organisa-
tions were dominated by older women whose values dictated that issues
about sexuality were solely private matters. Marija (personal communi-
cation, October 2017) states:
‘We can’t interfere in private matters’ reacted some women in response to

the interest in lesbians within the women’s movement. In our society fem-
inism equalled lesbianity, such was the perception of feminism. Resistance
was there, let me tell you, because after the trainings women would
approach me, asking whether I was married, or whether I had children.
Therefore, feminism’s entry into the women’s movement led to gen-

der and sexuality discussions and consequently the first information
about lesbians, who started to be acknowledged as women on whose
behalf women’s organisations could speak or act. Although this rup-
ture ensured that lesbian voices were heard, interest in lesbian lives and
experiences was still sporadic, located only on the margins, and with-
out continuity. Even though the potential was there, lesbian topics were
silenced in women’s organising.
Analyses of political and social rhetoric mostly focus on speak-
ers, narratives, and visual and gestural elements of political debates.
However, silence is also a rhetorical strategy,5 not a mere absence of
speech or thought. One of silence’s functions can be ignoring an issue
in order to deny its legitimacy or avoid it altogether (Anderson 2003).
Failing to name, i.e. ignoring lesbian women and their problems and
needs, is an act of avoidance, but also a gesture which portrays women’s
116
I. Cvetkovic
community as homogenous and stable. The meaning of the term

“women” has maintained a focus on women as mothers, women in the
family, businesswomen, etc. As a performative strategy, silence implies
an exclusion of identities which may problematise the idea of the het-
erosexual woman of “our ethnicity”. The absent presence of sexually and
gender non-conforming women is prescribed and materialised in the
representation of reality by the relevant NGOs with silence as the key
strategy. It allows the majority to enjoy the privilege of not having to
acknowledge what it knows. Lesbian silence within women’s political
voice concealed lesbians from the community of women, and revealed
the principal characteristic of a community considered homogenous:
women are our straight sisters. Those who are not, i.e. lesbians, should
find another space to belong to. Occupying a small and sporadic seg-
ment of the women’s movement, lesbians were left with LGBT organ-
isations, where they were expected to be recognised as members of
a larger community of people joined together by their sexual orienta-
tion and gender identity. However, even in this larger group, lesbians
remained silent for some time.
The issue of non-heterosexual identities and practices in the early
days of the country’s independence was almost inexistent. From a legis-
lative point of view, until 1996, sex between consenting adult males in
Macedonia remained a criminal act punishable by imprisonment. As a
result of the obligations that the country had to meet in the context of
its admission to the Council of Europe in November 1995, male homo-
sexuality was silently decriminalised in 1996. Nevertheless, lesbians
remained invisible even in the eyes of criminal regulation of sexuality
and prosecution of “wrong” sexual desires. On the one hand, this pro-
tected them, but on the other, it revealed the lack of interest in female
homosexuality. However, the emergence and first attempts to launch an
LGBT movement caused certain shifts among the lesbian community
in Skopje and Macedonia, more broadly. The following section discusses
early LGBT organisations from which a specifically lesbian activist
organisation would later emerge.
117
Our Community Is Male: Lesbians in the LGBT

Movement
Organised LGBT activism in Macedonia was set in motion in the early
21st century. Namely, the first NGO to focus on LGBT rights was
established in 2002. This was the Centre for Civic and Human Rights
(CCHR), an NGO that chose not to explicitly refer to itself as an
LGBT organisation. In a promotional publication, the CCHR declared
that it was opposed to all forms of discrimination and violence, advo-
cating free expression of one’s “sexual choice, as part of the body of
fundamental human and civil rights” (as cited in Miškovska Kajevska
2016, p. 83). When asked about this stage of LGBT organising, key
Macedonian LGBT activists defined the period as “non-visible activ-
ism”. Namely, CCHR’s strategy was to practise silent and non-visible
LGBT advocacy under the umbrella of human rights. Fear from nega-
tive reactions on the part of the state, the general public, as well as the
LGBT community itself imposed the need for low-profile activism.
The early 2000s actualised the issue of non-heterosexual identities in a
complex
multicultural national context [with] several cultures with homogenising

and essentialising tendencies, a constellation of constant panic of threat
and uncertainty of the country’s national identity, a transitional period
that has been marked by recent establishment of the country as inde-
pendent, as well as by the inter-ethnic conflict of 2001. (Being LGBTI in
Eastern Europe 2017, p. 9)
As one would expect in such circumstances, democratisation was sup-

pressed by state- and nation-building processes. Consequently, the
social and political influence of the church continually expanded, with
traditional value systems rooted in gender asymmetry becoming increas-
ingly dominant. The non-heterosexual issue, particularly the lesbian
one, remained almost invisible or represented as a phenomenon threat-
ening the nation’s wellbeing, i.e. the nation’s reproduction embodied in
the nuclear heterosexual family (see Dioli, this volume).
118
I. Cvetkovic
In 2003, the first organisation with an open reference to LGBT rights

in its name was established in Skopje. This is the organisation EGAL—
Equality of Gay and Lesbians. Despite its declarative orientation
towards activism for the rights of gay men and lesbians, EGAL focused
on sexual health of gay men and men who have sex with men, including
those who identify as gay or bisexual, distribution of safe sex supplies,
voluntary and confidential HIV testing, and targeted international and
state institutions working on public health. The LGBT issue was intro-
duced to the public, in this case, by the health domain, i.e. protection
from HIV and other sexually transmitted infections. Once again, lesbi-
ans were excluded since safe sex-related issues and HIV ranked lower on
their agenda.
The first officially declared LGBT organisation Macedonian
Association for Free Sexual Orientation (MASSO) was established in
2004. MASSO was founded by a gay man, Kočo Andonovski, and a
lesbian woman, Gordana Trpčevska. Kočo Andonovski was the first
gay man in Macedonia to come out on national television. Gordana
Trpčevska was active in the organisation but avoided public appear-
ance. Consequently, lesbians, contrary to gay men, lacked public rep-
resentation and the lesbian issue and activism remained invisible even in
MASSO. The Association stopped operating in 2008, and immediately
afterwards, the first lesbian organisation, the Women’s Alliance, was
founded. The Women’s Alliance is almost unknown to the public, even
within the LGBT community. The organisation maintained the strat-
egy of early LGBT low-profile activism, focusing on self-help grassroots
activities. The Alliance remained silent when it came to the adoption of
laws and policies clearly concerning lesbians in Macedonia.
Instead of Women’s Alliance, the political issues relevant to lesbian
women, gay men and other non-heterosexuals were later advocated by
the Coalition Sexual and Health Rights of Marginalised Communities
(Coalition SHRMC).6 The Coalition SHRMC made the first seri-
ous attempt to incorporate women’s initiatives in the mainstream gay
movement through joint programmes with the non-profit organisation
“Akcija Zdruzenska” and the Euro-Balkan Institute in Skopje. On sev-
eral occasions, the Coalition SHRMC organised events or published
119
texts on feminism, lesbian feminism, and gender studies to serve as

the groundwork for the struggle against homophobia and transpho-
bia. These three organisations unsuccessfully engaged in fund raising
for a long-term project intended to bring the gay and women’s move-
ment closer together. Lesbian organising, and lesbian activism remained
underground and invisible until the LGBTI Support Centre in Skopje
was opened in 2012 and the first lesbian-feminist group LezFem was
formed as part of the Centre. LezFem was the first informal lesbian
group to engage in visible and politically distinct lesbian activism. As
one of the founders, I maintain that there were two crucial reasons for
a lesbian feminist group within the LGBT Centre, the invisibility of the
lesbian issue and the need for a feminist perspective to transform les-
bian activism from inward-looking and focused on self-help initiatives
to public and political.
A study on discourses, power and sexual minorities during the transi-
tion period (the 1990s and the early 2000s) showed internal differences
within the gay community:
There is still a deep division in the gay community between lesbians

and gays, and still a considerable lack of communication. Some of the
interviewed women emphasised the greater degree of closeted-ness of
the lesbian community in comparison to the male gay community.
Another difference that was pointed out was the manner of communi-
cation. Namely, lesbians in Macedonia do not use Internet social forums
frequently, such as Gay Romeo for men. Their communication is mostly
based on smaller networks between friends. A 24-year-old woman stated
that her identification with heterosexual women is stronger than with gay
men. Almost all of the interviewed women noted that the debates around
homosexuality are exclusively focused on male homosexuality, which as
they pointed out, is best illustrated in media where images of lesbians are
very rare to be found when homosexuality is discussed. (Dimitrov and
Kolozova 2011, pp. 161–162)
The fact that the participants in the quoted research referred to the
media is crucial in understanding lesbians’ status in Macedonian social
reality, i.e. their invisibility and silence. The lack of lesbian identities
120
I. Cvetkovic
and issues represented by the media can be interpreted as an investment

in a policy of invisibility of non-heterosexual women. In this regard,
Dimitrov and Kolozova (2011, p. 174) argue that:
in the greatest number of texts published, the photographic material

included represents mostly naked men, groups of naked men in saunas,
gay pride frames of half-naked men, men in leather, or with other fetish
requisites. An important aspect of the representation of non-heterosexual
practices and identities in Macedonian media is that mostly male homo-
sexuality is represented. Not only that the texts written are referring in
the greatest number to male gay issues, but also the iconographic material
used is almost always representing gay male couples.
Dimitrov and Kolozova (2011) refer to this representation strategy as

masculinisation of homosexuality. This masculinisation of homosexual-
ity, defined here within media representation, is replicated throughout
the social, political, and cultural representations of lesbians.
Emergence of Lesbian Voices Within the LGBT

Movement
Yet, this silence is far from absolute. Lesbian women managed to
breach cracks from which to articulate their voices. These cracks, as I
mentioned before, were sporadic and unsystematic but powerful and
important. Orgasmic Letters7 from 2007 was the first short stories col-
lection to explicitly deal with lesbian sexuality and love published in the
period before the political organising of lesbians and lesbian feminists.
As the author, in the first rush of public interest, I received dozens of
letters from girls, telling me how important they found the opportu-
nity to read about experiences they could identify with. Most of the let-
ters mentioned hiding and passing the book from hand-to-hand among
young lesbian women from the interior of the country. I see this as a
small, but important attempt to bring lesbians together in environments
where being a lesbian was considered not only a sort of personal curse,
but also public danger.
121
While the lesbian question remained invisible in the public, lesbian

women began organising themselves on the margins of cultural pro-
duction, media discourses, and other activist initiatives. Analyses of
the general context in that period (the pre-organisational life of lesbian
women) state that
the high rate of violence and discrimination LGBTQ people suffer on a

daily basis, the lack of non-discrimination laws and hate speech regula-
tion, as well as other non-discriminatory legal provisions are some of the
main reasons why queer people developed an “underground” culture and
do not speak of their sexual and intimate lives publicly. (Dimitrov and
Kolozova 2011, p. 156)
In this context, lesbian voices were even less audible than the general
LGBT i.e. gay men voices. Activist initiatives perceive sexual identity
as collective8 and use it as a strategic construction that should enable
political resistance.9 And yet, an analysis that would exclude lesbian
voices from LGBT activism before the formation of LezFem would not
be fair. Such an approach would impoverish the knowledge on lesbian
activist beginnings and networks, despite the negligible public response.
The lesbian share in sustaining non-heterosexual activist enterprises
in Macedonia cannot be ignored. It is for this reason that I asked my
respondents to elaborate on the spaces for sharing and issues important
to lesbians in that period, as irrelevant as this information may seem
to them from the present perspective. At first, many of the interviewed
activists claimed that the period before LezFem was insignificant from
a lesbian aspect but in the course of the interview it gradually became
clear that these humble beginnings led to the first lesbian activist initia-
tives with long-term effects.
The information I received on the inclusion of lesbian voices in the
LGBT movement was mostly gathered in interviews with three key les-
bian advocates, active from the very beginnings of the LGBT organi-
sation. Biljana Ginova (personal communication, October 2017),
founder of LezFem, Jana10 (personal communication, September 2017),
member of LezFem and Gordana Trpčevska (personal communication,
October 2017), founder of MASSO and the Women’s Alliance. The
122
I. Cvetkovic
three women embarked on activism in the infancy of LGBT organis-

ing, i.e. with the activities of the first organisation dealing with LGBT
issues—the CCHR. Activism for them is a personal and emotional
political position rather than simply a profession or occupation.
Jana is a lesbian from Skopje, born in 1970. She says that she spent
her youth lonely. She fell in love for the first time when she was 15 or
16, at an age when she knew nothing about sexuality and women’s sex-
ual orientation. Jana states:
Nobody spoke about it, there weren’t any activities, unlike nowadays
when I can always go to the Centre [LGBTI Support Centre in Skopje]
to a party and meet people, chat… There was literally nothing, which was
difficult for me because I withdrew and fantasised about my love interest,
about how I was a boy, and wooed her, how she became my girlfriend.
That’s how I imagined myself, not as a girl with another girl.
The lack of socialising spaces for lesbian women, the lack of information
and knowledge, and finally the lack of a lesbian community created an
environment where young lesbians felt lonely and grew up in fear of
being the only ones in Macedonia. Jana made her first lesbian friends
in a women’s football club, where this type of sexuality was also forbid-
den. Two girls were suspended from the club for being in a relationship.
One of the girls introduced Jana to lesbian women from Serbia where
she made the first contact with lesbian activists. Lepa Mlađenović was
mentioned in all three interviews as a key figure, inspiring Macedonian
lesbians to commence with activism or learn about it. These contacts
provided Jana with the opportunity to be the first Macedonian to
attend the Lesbian Week in Slovenia, where she met lesbian activists
from the region. Jana remembers that time as “the best days of my life”.
She spent the late 1990s and the early 2000s in frequent communica-
tion with lesbians from the region. She was particularly impressed by
the fact that some of those initiatives had institutional support and that
the mayor of Ljubljana opened one of the events. As Jana recalls, it was
the first time she witnessed support from someone from the political
establishment.
123
Serbia and other countries of former Yugoslavia symbolised pro-

gress, freedom, and equality for Jana. There she socialised with other
lesbians and bolstered her political knowledge, learned about activism
and enjoyed lesbian solidarity. However, the euphoria proved prema-
ture when she participated in the 2001 Belgrade Pride. The violence
against the participants taught her that lesbians could enjoy freedom
and equality only in closed spaces and events where members of the
community were the only participants (see Kajinić, this volume). She
discovered that many other post-Yugoslav places were as homopho-
bic as Macedonia. She returned home with this knowledge and joined
MASSO several years later, where she kept in touch with lesbians from
the region. MASSO embraced these contacts and jointly organised
closed events, trainings, workshops, where mostly Serbian lesbian activ-
ists shared their knowledge with the aim of developing a lesbian activist
movement. Although they did not quite manage to do this, the meet-
ings and contacts gave birth to the idea that one day lesbian women
could articulate their political agenda independently.
Moreover, Biljana is a lesbian from Bitola, born in 1980. Being a les-
bian in a small town from the interior is an altogether different expe-
rience in comparison to living in Skopje. Early LGBT organisation of
the community in Bitola was fostered by MASSO when they opened
a chapter there, appointing a local lesbian woman as coordinator. The
space provided the lesbian women with the opportunity to receive and
share knowledge via film screenings and debates on feminist issues.
Unfortunately, any potential the office had to offer was destroyed
with MASSO’s termination. Soon after, EGAL opened an office in
Bitola, focusing on gay men and men who have sex with men. Biljana
remembers how, at the time, she substituted the lack of lesbian topics
and spaces in her hometown with active participation in a web forum,
a virtual space created within MASSO’s official website allowing lesbi-
ans throughout the country to socialise and network. Although Biljana
jokingly refers to the forum as a great place for finding a girlfriend,
the fact should not be disregarded. Namely, the lack of physical space
where homo or bisexual women could get together was compensated
for through virtual/online encounters where those women could debate,
124
I. Cvetkovic
exchange information, and perhaps agree on a meeting. The forum

also acted as a venue for people who wanted to spread homophobia or
provoke. The chief premise of such hate speech was that homosexual-
ity is an illness, but this only boosted solidarity among lesbians. After
MASSO’s chapter in Bitola was closed, Biljana moved to Skopje. Several
years later, together with other feminists, lesbians and political lesbians,
among whom was Jana, she founded LezFem, the first feminist lesbian
group in Macedonia.
Gordana is from Skopje, born in 1971. She claims she became an
activist out of spite. Namely, in the early 2000s, Gordana lacked any
ambition to become an activist. However, being a lesbian in Skopje,
she realised that girls like her have no place to socialise or hang out.
So apart from her job, Gordana decided to manage bars and organise
lesbian and gay parties. One night, the CCHR’s team decided to host a
closing party of a conference in a new bar that Gordana was to manage.
Once the word spread about the type of bar being opened, the police
showed up and the party was interrupted. At that moment, realising
that the bar was closed due to unwanted patrons, all she could think
was “this is getting to me. I won’t back off, even if you threaten me with
a public beheading. That’s when my personal struggle began”. Gordana
met an expatriate working and living in Sweden, interested in the failed
attempt to open a gay and lesbian bar. He offered funding for estab-
lishing an organisation that would advocate against all forms of homo-
phobia and human rights violations on behalf of the LGBT community.
Gordana immediately accepted the offer under one condition: “I will
not come out publicly.” She was joined by Kočo Andonovski and so
began the story of MASSO. Gordana was determined never to speak
out in public. She listed personal reasons, mostly the fear of how it
would affect her family, which was going through hardship. “I tried to
smooth things over at home, not to add fuel to the fire by publicly com-
ing out”.
Nevertheless, the lesbian group Gordana managed in MASSO started
organising workshops and events, mostly in collaboration with activ-
ists from other former Yugoslav republics. Lepa Mlađenović, for exam-
ple, visited Skopje quite often to support her Macedonian sisters and
125
insisted that lesbian women should separate from the LGBT organi-
sations. Encouraged and motivated by these meetings, Gordana and
several other women formed Women’s Alliance, the first lesbian organ-
isation in Macedonia. According to Gordana, the context dictated an
inward-looking approach focused on empowerment and support. The
absence of lesbian voices in political debates weakened the position of
the LGBT community, particularly regarding the adoption of the Law
against Discrimination. However, the Alliance’s decision to turn towards
the community and offer services to alleviate lesbian lives filled a visi-
ble void in the social, health and cultural system in the country. Thus,
instead of strengthening the lesbian political voice, Women’s Alliance
decided to cooperate with EGAL and HERA, health service organisa-
tions, and introduced lesbian-specific services such as gynaecological
exams and psycho-social support. There are different consequences of
lesbian separatist organising (see Oblak and Pan, this volume). Some of
the positive ones are empowerment and safe spaces, but we should not
exclude the risk of isolation. Consequently, as Gordana confirms, the
number of people attending the events organised by Women’s Alliance
never increased. Women’s Alliance kept in touch with around 20 lesbian
women and did not recruit other participants. Later on, things changed
when the Alliance created a website (Queer.mk) offering contents on
LGBT rights, and managed to sensitise the general public, and inform
lesbians and other LGBT people.
The beginning of LGBT activism also marked the beginning of les-
bian organising which at the time aspired towards networking and
establishing communication with lesbian activists from the region, in
addition to reinforcing the community as a precondition for a more
public engagement. The founder of MASSO, Kočo Andonovski (per-
sonal communication, September 2017), stated that MASSO through
him and other male peers was more focused on EU integrations, espe-
cially since 2005 when Macedonia gained the status of EU candidate.
Kočo and other activists used this as an entry point for advocating legal
changes of the status of the LGBTI. While gay men advocated for pub-
lic policies and legislation, focusing on EU integration, lesbians turned
inward and concentrated on enabling collaboration and international
126
I. Cvetkovic
communication channels. And so, just like a traditional heterosex-

ual family, gay men took care of politics and the public sphere, while
women looked after themselves and the family, i.e. other lesbians.
Even though nascent LGBT organising remained within the patriar-
chal matrix, it did introduce a certain emancipatory potential for les-
bian women, which resulted in awareness and motivation for initiating
a political, feminist movement. It gave birth to LezFem, an activist
group that voiced the lesbian question in the public sphere.
Emergence of Lesbian-Feminist Voices: LezFem

Seven of us, members of different LGBT initiatives, used to meet at
different activist events. All of us well-educated and already involved
in activism. The most important thing we had in common was our
interest in politics and belief that we can contribute to social change.
The opening of the LGBTI Support Centre brought a new social space
where we could meet and discuss the need to create a lesbian political
voice. Together we embarked on the established of an activist group
called LezFem, the first lesbian feminist initiative. We spent many
nights deliberating why and how we could create a lesbian movement
and finally shared our story with the public. We produced a leaflet to
represent our goals:
LezFem originated from the gatherings and long conversations held by

several girls who identify themselves as lesbians, political lesbians and
feminists. Our goal is to increase the visibility and political relevance
of lesbian and feminist activism and promote fresh resistance strategies
against the dominant ideological concepts upheld by patriarchy, chau-
vinism, heteronormativity, nationalism and clericalism. We strive towards
creating an authentic political voice, in search for different past women’s
experiences while we build upon their knowledge and continuity today, as
well as towards political articulation of daily experiences and social rela-
tions among women, not just emotional but also economic, friendly, pro-
fessional and family. It is specifically in these female realities, rather than
fictional life styles, that LezFem locates the source of knowledge, values,
energy and power.
127
At the beginning of the chapter, when discussing the action “Lesbians

wish you …”, I stressed the importance of naming. As Ainley (1995)
argues having a language to describe yourself means that you exist.
Being a mute segment of the LGBT movements or an invisible element
of the women’s movement implied feeling—yet not articulating—the
specificity of the lesbian voice. Feeling the potential which the lesbian
community carried within went hand in hand with a lack of necessary
tools for naming such an experience. Naming the lesbian community
was the first step since naming implied acquiring legitimacy (Brandão
2009, see Bilić, introduction to this volume). The next step was inscrib-
ing the political views in the public sphere and creating alliances and
coalitions with our feminist sisters.
The early 2010s brought fresh voices to both women’s and gay ini-
tiatives. Young lesbians and feminists offered a critical introspection
of these two movements and created new informal feminist groups.
LezFem found sister-allies in the feminist activist groups “Bori se žen-
ski” (Fight like a woman) and “Tiiit ink”. The collaboration and
support resulted in several important events, actions, protests, and
publications. The women from LezFem, joined by feminists, spoke
out about the law on pregnancy termination, how women’s participa-
tion in the anti-fascist struggle was erased or ignored, etc. The feminists
included lesbian voices and topics in their initiatives such as the femi-
nist festival “First born girl” (Prvo pa žensko). Together they organised
the first lesbian regional forum “Sisters Outsiders”11 where lesbians and
feminists from the former Yugoslav states got together, learned from
each other and built international alliances. The reinforcement of les-
bian-feminist voices was closely related with generating forms of being
together based on solidarity and political values instead of shared iden-
tities (Haraway 1991; see Oblak and Pan, this volume). As a result,
lesbian women looked up beyond themselves and, rather than being
isolated in their validation and support groups, they created a political
voice, imposing it as relevant in the public sphere. Nowadays, LezFem
has partly returned to the beginnings of lesbian organising, offering dif-
ferent ways of empowering the community by providing a safe space
where women can learn, socialise and articulate ideas for new activist
endeavours.
128
I. Cvetkovic
Conclusion
The road of lesbian activism in Macedonia has been rocky, but the
movement has managed to transform invisible subjects into polit-
ical voices. Traversing the two main terrains of women’s and gay
movements, lesbian women discovered spaces and topics to help
them articulate their needs, problems and experiences. Lesbian activ-
ism and feminism introduced significant changes in the women’s and
gay movement, bringing gender and sexuality in their focus. “Flawed
women” (Ženi so feler), as they used to be called in the early years of
the women’s movement, today are a source of knowledge and fresh
resistance strategies, with broader social implications. Although this is
just the beginning, the acquiring a voice was the first major step our
sisters made. The slogan “silence = death” established by US AIDS activ-
ists taught the community an important lesson: lesbians in Macedonia
broke the silence by embarking on a struggle for life, equality, and
freedom.
Notes
1. The term community in this chapter describes lesbians as a group
with shared sexual orientation in the Macedonian political and social
context.
2. The dominant purpose of the women antifascist movement after the
Second World War was to enable access to education to Macedonian
women and other interventions that would stimulate political and
social inclusion of women. The literature on the French Revolution,
human rights and the European social democratic movement came to
Macedonia via Thessaloniki and influenced women and women eman-
cipation initiatives. There are many written documents on this influ-
ence, but the most obvious proof is the establishment of the numerous
women’s organisations and societies in the mid-nineteenth century,
most of them led by female teachers: Kostur Women’s Association,
Secret Women’s Association (one founded in Struga and one in Bitola),
Women’s Association, Women’s Biblical Association etc.
129
3. The Foundation Open Society—Macedonia (FOSM) was established

in 1992 as representative office of a foreign entity, and was registered
as national legal entity—foundation—in 1999, pursuant to the Law
on Citizens’ Associations and Foundations. FOSM is part of the Open
Society Foundations’ global network, founded by the US philanthro-
pist George Soros. When Macedonia was hit hard by the severing of
economic ties with the rest of Yugoslavia and an economic embargo
imposed by Greece, the Open Society foundation in Macedonia pro-
vided a $1 million grant for medical supplies to Macedonia’s hospitals
and clinics; helped set up an internet connection for universities and
NGOs; supplied educational, health, art, and cultural institutions with
computers, copy and fax machines; and awarded scholarships to grad-
uates from Macedonia’s universities. With Macedonia’s economic woes
unabated, tensions grew between Slavic Macedonians and members of
the country’s Albanian minority. The foundation worked to help estab-
lish Macedonia as a democratic state for all of its citizens, regardless of
their ethnic origins or religious background.
4. However, in 2012, SOŽM and Savka Todorovska together with the
LGBTI Support Centre and other non-governmental organisations
organised a Tolerance March under the motto “Against Homophobia,
Misogyny, Transphobia!”.
5. One of the most paradigmatic cases of using political silence is Ronald
Reagan’s silence on the HIV epidemic during his presidency (Perez
and Dionisopoulos 1995; Altman 1994). Reagan’s silence was not an
“absence” but rather a political strategy that demonstrated the impor-
tance the epidemic had for the Republicans at the time, i.e. the impor-
tance of not allowing it to gain legitimacy in the public eye.
6. The Coalition SHRMC is now known as Coalition Margins.
7. Orgasmic Letters is a collection of short stories on lesbian love and sexu-
ality, written by me. The short stories were first published on an anon-
ymous blog called Alena. One of the stories was selected as a winner
in one competition for young writers called Novite (The new ones).
The stories were gathered in a book and published in 2007 by Gjurgja
(Cvetkovic 2007).
8. In traditional and conservative societies sexual identity is based on bio-
logical, psychological, and gender binary attributes. Creating a sense
of self is guarded by binary logic where the lesbian question is always
130
I. Cvetkovic
perceived through the homosexual/heterosexual, male/female, normal/

abnormal oppositions.
9. Lesbian group identity initiates lesbian activism and conversely, les-
bian activism creates and maintains lesbian political/group identity.
Therefore, the absence of a publicly declared lesbian obstructed the pos-
sibility for lesbian mobilisation and activism.
10. For the reasons of privacy, this activist will be named Jana in this
chapter.
11. The title is inspired by Audre Lorde’s (1984/2007) collection of essays
and speeches called Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches.
References
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1990s. London: Cassell.
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Anderson, T. J. (2003). The use of silence as a political rhetorical strategy,
Unpublished master’s thesis, Eastern Illinois University.
Being LGBTI in Eastern Europe: Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia,
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25, 2018, from www.eurasia.undp.org/.
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Skopje: Macedonian Union of Women’s Organisations.
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Union of Women Organizations in Macedonia.
Searching for a Lesbian Voice:
Non-Heterosexual Women’s Activism
in Montenegro
Marina Vuković and Paula Petričević
We accepted an invitation to write a text about lesbian activism in

Montenegro with pleasure, having in mind that we are both fierce advo-
cates of lesbian rights. At the same time, we feared that, yet again, some
other voices would talk about lesbians, instead of themselves. Because of
this emotional “dissonance,” we made an effort to approach our lesbian
respondents in a friendly and sisterly manner and relate to their experi-
ences, problems, and dilemmas, but also appreciate joys, longings, and
enthusiasms that guide their activism. Simultaneously, we endeavoured
to keep distance from them, so that we could take a critical look at their
engagement and the emancipatory perspectives that may be opened in
the future.
Translated by Marina Vuković and Jasna Bulatović.
M. Vuković 
British Council, Podgorica, Montenegro
P. Petričević (*) 
Newspapers Vijesti and Monitor, Podgorica, Montenegro
134
M. Vuković and P. Petričević
The shadow under which lesbians in Montenegro live is much thicker

than it appears at first sight. Although the first LGBT non-governmental
organisation (NGO) in the country—Slobodna duga—was founded in
2003, and five Pride parades have been held so far, there is no NGO
that gathers only lesbians—this is not even done by the only women
LBTQ organisation—KvirA1 which was in the focus of our research.
KvirA represents an informal and independent group of activists who
operate within Queer Montenegro, an NGO that deals with the promo-
tion and protection of LGBT human rights since 2012.
Currently, there are no publicly outed lesbians in Montenegro, nor
outed queer or trans woman who would be prepared to be indisputa-
bly associated with the movement for emancipation of non-heterosexual
women.2 Homophobia and patriarchy are recognised as the key obsta-
cles to the improvement of the position of non-heterosexual women,
and the combination of these two factors has a considerable influence
on the absence of a public person who would declare herself as an LBT
woman, which is considered by our respondents as one of the major
problems of lesbian activism, i.e. activism of non-heterosexual women.
The interviews3 we conducted with women during summer and
autumn 2017 unambiguously show that the female part of the rainbow
spectrum in Montenegro needs a real and recognisable face. However,
not one of them, at least for the time being, thinks that her face could
be the one. We conducted four in-depth interviews—two with the
foundresses of KvirA, one with a KvirA activist and one with an activist
who does not participate in the work of this organisation, as well as a
focus group with seven KvirA activists.
Starting from the principle that the personal is political, we wanted to
gain an answer to the questions that regard not only social and politi-
cal activity of KvirA, but also pertain to the way in which our respond-
ents understand lesbian identity, patriarchy, and feminism. On the
other hand, we wanted to gain an insight into the motives for KvirA’s
foundation, steps through which KvirA has gone in the process of its
empowerment, as well as the challenges that it has faced along the way.
We were also interested in the extent to which KvirA is satisfied with
the achieved results, who is perceived as an ally and an enemy in its
activist battles, as well as in the manner in which solidarity networks
function among lesbians and organisations dedicated to human rights
Searching for a Lesbian Voice …
135
in Montenegro and in the region. Finally, we wanted to shed light on

the plans for further development of KvirA and identify advantages and
risks entailed in different visions of its future.
We began our interviews with a somewhat naive question—
When have the lesbian voices started to dissociate from the rest of
the Montenegrin LGBT movement?—assuming that lesbian activist
engagement has become distinguished through the process of KvirA’s
formation. However, this was not the case given that the lesbian voices
“have never really dissociated themselves,” as one foundress of KvirA
says (Ema, personal communication, July 2017).4 The idea of KvirA
was to establish a group which was not exclusive in any way and which
offered a space for all women’s identities (Ema, personal communica-
tion, July 2017), including lesbians.
It is hardly surprising that lesbian feminism in Montenegro does not
exist if we take into account that feminists are few and far between.
There are no consistently offered Women Studies programmes (there
was one organised by Anima—the Centre for Women’s and Peace
Education from Kotor) and courses regarding these issues are given
sporadically at the Montenegrin faculties where they are mainly reduced
to one-semester modules within post-graduate studies, sometimes with
questionable intentions and quality (Petričević 2011). Due to the lack
of a referential place where such knowledge would be produced and
disseminated, and which would establish links with similar centres in
the region, stereotypes related to feminism go largely unchallenged, and
some may even be recognised in the attitudes of the interviewed activists.
LGBT People in Montenegro

In order to better understand the context in which non-heterosexual
women activists work, we will take a look at the NGO “scene”
(NGOs)—focusing on LGBT organisations—as well as at the chal-
lenges they face in the fight for LGBT rights. According to official data,
4 805 non-governmental associations and 150 foundations were regis-
tered in Montenegro in September 2017, most of which act in the field
of culture, protection of human and minority rights as well as in the
field of arts (Ministry of Public Administration 2017). The most recent
136
publicly available, although incomplete, data show that 766 people were
employed in the non-governmental sector at the end of 2015, which
amounted to 0.37% of the total number of employees in Montenegro
(Velat 2015).
The largest number of NGOs in Montenegro is focused on resolv-
ing problems in local communities and struggling with both human
resources and financial means to implement key ideas (TACSO
2016). NGOs often lack expertise in the areas in which they operate,
as well as computer literacy. On the national level, there is a small
“core” (TACSO 2016, p. 39) of profiled organisations with many
years or even decades of experience in the fight for human rights, the
rule of law, and good governance. While European Union (EU) funds
represent the largest source of funding for their activities, complex
bureaucratic procedures often take a considerable amount of time,
putting the purpose of implementing projects behind and leaving
insufficient space for the freedom of political action. It also seems that
the existing legal framework contributes to the narrowing of perspec-
tives when it comes to the modalities of citizens’ associations because
it does not recognise informal associations as a form of organising.
These data are especially important for our research, since KvirA is an
informal group that nevertheless operates within a non-governmental
organisation.
The focus of a smaller number of human rights organisations is
precisely on LGBT rights. These organisations have played an impor-
tant initiators’ role, not only in the process of shaping public policies
in order to improve the position of LGBT people in Montenegro, but
also in organising key events aimed at increasing their visibility, pri-
marily the Pride Parade. In 2010, the informal Coalition Together for
LGBT Rights was formed upon the initiative of the NGO Juventas. The
Coalition prepared a proposal of the first Action plan for the improve-
ment of the situation of LGBT individuals in Montenegro, which
served as the basis for the preparation of the first governmental strategy
in this field. The first Pride Parade was organised by the LGBT Forum
Progress5 in the municipality of Budva in 2013 and was marked by vio-
lence against its participants. Four years later, the fifth consecutive Pride
Parade organised by Queer Montenegro in Podgorica was held without
137
incidents, and according to the organisers’ estimates, gathered a larger

number of LGBT people compared to the previous parades.
Furthermore, it seems that under the pressure of growing expectations
coming from the EU, the government of Montenegro is more willing
to improve the legislative and strategic framework in the field of LGBT
rights. After many years of efforts on the part of Queer Montenegro for
the Law on Registered Partnership to find its place on the government’s
agenda (Queer Montenegro, 2013, online), the Ministry of Human and
Minority Rights has established a working group for drafting the law,
with three representatives of LGBT rights organisations involved.6 The
adoption of this law, which LGBT activists expect will “improve the
quality of life of LGBT people” (Kalezić 2016, online), is planned for
the end of 2018.7 In November 2017, this Ministry also issued a call
to interested members of the public to submit comments on the 2018
Action Plan for the implementation of the Strategy for improving the
position of LGBT Persons (2013–2018) (Ministry of Human and
Minority Rights 2017, online).
Despite evident progress aimed at improving public policies, the five
Pride Parades held, and the LGBT people’s courage to come out of the
closet on the eve of this year’s (2017) Pride Parade, it seems that the
same key challenges for the LGBT community remain. We are par-
ticularly concerned by the results of the last public opinion poll on
discrimination in Montenegro, which was dominated by the respond-
ents’ attitude towards LGBT people as “sick”, “derided, abnormal, and
unnatural” (Centre for Civic Education (CCE) 2016, p. 13). Moreover,
every other citizen believes that people of different sexual orientation
“are so harmful that efforts should be made to fight against this phe-
nomenon by all forces” (CCE 2016, p. 14). It is indicative that 14% of
the respondents consider that physical violence against LGBT people is
justified (CCE 2016). The results of a public opinion survey conducted
in 2015, in which 54% of interviewed LGBT people reported that they
were verbally mistreated or abused, while 28% were victims of physical
violence, are therefore not surprising (ILGA-Europe 2016). Also, LGBT
people “as individuals and as a group represent the main target of hate
speech in Montenegro” (European Commission against Racism and
Intolerance—ECRI 2017, p. 15).
138
The problem of violence against LGBT individuals and activists is

explicitly pointed out by the European Commission in 2016 report on
Montenegro (European Commission 2016).8 However, the absence of
public information on cases of violence against lesbians and transsexual
women contributes to the creation of a misleading impression that vio-
lence against them actually does not exist. However, one of the KvirA
members, a woman we spoke with, indicated the serious proportions
of this problem. She spoke about the consequences of her choice to be
what she is, in the following way:
I do not think at all. I have probably been beaten 65 times, but I cannot
really, I cannot think about whether something will happen to me. It’s
easier for me to do what I want to do. (Sonja, personal communication,
October 2017)
NGOs recognise the practice of treating a majority of reported cases

of violence against LGBT persons as a misdemeanour according to
the Law on Public Order and Peace, although there is often evidence
of more serious criminal behaviour, including hate crimes (ECRI 2017,
p. 18).9 Human rights bodies also point, with concern, to the lim-
ited prosecution results in these cases and warn that this can “send the
wrong signal to the public and create a culture of impunity” (ECRI
2017, p. 18). An illustrative example of a permissive relationship to the
culture of impunity can be found in the case of the temporarily banned,
and in the end never held Academic Walk of Pride in the Municipality
of Nikšić, planned for 2015. The police explanation that the cause of
the temporary ban was related to a high security risk10 showed that the
state “capitulated under the threat of football fans” (Gorjanc Prelević
2016, p. 49) and indirectly encouraged violent behaviour instead of
prosecuting violators (Gorjanc Prelević 2016).
It is, therefore, clear that LGBT NGOs must take advantage of the
current process of Montenegro’s negotiations with the EU in order to
more decisively demand changes with regard to the attitude of institu-
tions towards LGBT people. Otherwise, a solid legal framework and
well-written action plans remain useless, as long as there is no budget
139
for their implementation. Isolated examples of sensitised civil servants

dealing with LGBT rights in their institutions are not sufficient and sys-
temically viable, especially if there is a lack of sensitivity coming from
the heads of these institutions. Five Pride Parades in Podgorica remain
in the shadow of the Walk of Pride in Nikšić whose ban calls into ques-
tion the purpose of the state institutions competent to preserve citizens’
security, respect them and protect their right to freedom of assembly
and expression.
Therefore, it is slightly surprising that the Ministry of Human and
Minority Rights was rewarded by the NGO LGBT Forum Progress for
its contribution to the visibility of LGBT people in 2017, despite the
fact that the promotion and protection of human rights is actually its
key responsibility. Without intending to discourage institutions to work
more responsibly and in the interest of LGBT people, it seems that
this approach might contribute, not only to the further passivisation of
state institutions, but also help the existing political regime to collect
points in the complex process of fulfilling interim benchmarks on its
EU accession path. Giving awards to state institutions in the setting of
accumulated economic and social problems could be understood as a
legitimisation of their often questionable results in terms of the protec-
tion and promotion of fundamental rights of LGBT people.
When it comes to the role of NGOs in the Montenegrin society, our
impression is that the ideal of social initiatives and movements that “are
protesting vociferously and often very creatively against systems that
are clearly not working for their societies” (Taylor 2013, p. 5) is most
present within women’s rights organisations. These organisations are
most radical in expressing dissatisfaction with the current policies of the
Montenegrin government in different aspects. Some of them, albeit a
smaller number, do not want to give legitimacy to the current political
regime by participating in different working groups and other working
bodies established by the state administration. Such decisions are not an
expression of contempt for the way in which state institutions function,
but are based on an often negative experience of cooperation across sev-
eral years over which NGOs’ criticism of the government and responsi-
ble ministries has steadily grown.
140
The largest number of women’s rights NGOs is focused on

gender-based violence and limited but precious cooperation with state
administration and local self-governments has been achieved in that
domain. The slowest and most difficult measurable progress is cer-
tainly the one related to changes in the patriarchal cultural patterns
which continue to shape the Montenegrin reality. The clearest and most
defeating indicator of this situation lies in the percentage of women
who own real estate (6%) or the percentage of women who own enter-
prises (9, 6%) (Montenegrin Employers Federation 2013). Montenegro
is also at the top of the list of countries with the highest gender imbal-
ance between new-born boys and girls due to a prenatal choice of sex,
i.e. a practice of selective abortions used as a tool to provide a “male
heir”, which leads to a demographic masculinisation with a ratio of 100
born girls versus 109 boys.11 This practice has resulted in the lack of
3000 women of reproductive age in Montenegro. Moreover, according
to forecasts, 8000 less women than men will be living in Montenegro
in less than 20 years (Centre for women’s rights 2017, online). Keeping
in mind the above, it is clear that Montenegro provides an inhospitable
context for lesbian and women activism.
Place for Two: A Non-Formal Activist Group

of Non-Heterosexual Women (KvirA)
From the perspective of one of its foundresses, the process of establish-
ing KvirA started spontaneously:
There were no plans. I am a coordinator for LGBT community build-

ing in Queer Montenegro12 and I also work at the Drop-in centre of the
NGO Juventas13 as a host from 5 to 9 pm. So I started making acquaint-
ances with people from the LGBT community and wondered why the
number of women was not higher than it was at that moment. There
were only about fifteen women. Then I organised the first gathering, a
small party, in a flat we rented. Some new women appeared there and
we started throwing parties once a month or once every two months.
141
The number of women today is around 140. (Eva, personal communica-

tion, July 2017)
KvirA was founded in 2014 and its foundresses have substantial expe-
rience in LGBTIQ activism and in the non-governmental sector, more
broadly. Some of them have also played a key role in shaping public
policies concerning LGBTIQ people, as well as in raising awareness
of decision makers through engagement in other LGBTIQ or human
rights organisations. What united and encouraged them to establish an
informal group of activists was the need to speak in their own name,
so that exclusively male voices would no longer speak for them. Today,
KvirA is a diverse group of women with a wide range of abilities, skills,
and expertise, from design and photography to project writing, med-
icine, and advocacy. As expected, these women come from all parts of
Montenegro, since KvirA is the only activist hub of non-heterosexual
women in the country. There are also writers among the women, whose
works found a place in the collection of queer stories published by
Queer Montenegro. However, one of the foundresses points out that
there has not been much research into their creative potential so far and
explains the reasons for that:
Somehow I would not like to go into a more serious story as long as I

know that I cannot give something… I think the knowledge that will be
given to our members (referring to the project they have been granted) at
one point will result in women having the feeling that they can give us
something in return, in the sense – that if there is some chance for a con-
test for queer stories to be launched one day, that we have some reward,
some symbolic moments… a moment of returning what is given to us is
symbolic, it’s terribly important to me because I think that activism in
Montenegro takes a lot while giving back a little…. (Ema, personal com-
munication, July 2017)
Ad hoc activities have been implemented so far by KvirA, includ-

ing street actions of writing graffiti with the titles such as “Women,
Mothers, Lesbians”, “Gay is OK”, “Places for two”, “Gay zone”. An
exhibition linked to anti-fascist monuments, whose pieces were painted
142
with rainbow colours was also organised. Through this kind of engaged
art, they wanted to point out that lesbians were also among the liber-
ators during the Second World War anti-fascist struggle.14 The foun-
dresses claim that out of 140 members, 40–50 try to be involved in
organising all activities. KvirA has its own football team and periodically
participates in competitions with lesbian associations from the region.
The organisation also managed to collect funds to implement a project
aimed at improving the level of knowledge on queer and feminist the-
ory as well as policies, among their members in the upcoming period.
There is also a psychological counselling centre that is opened to
KvirA members three times a week. No special SOS line for lesbians
exists, but one of the KvirA foundresses is fully available. She explains
her relationship with the members in the following way: “The SOS line
for women is not there, but everyone can get my phone number and
ask any question. I am in daily contact with 140 women” (Eva, personal
communication, July 2017). This grassroots “bottom-up” approach is
inherent to informal groups and as such represents an exception to the
scene of predominantly project-oriented activist organisations alienated
from their constituency.
Also, the Drop-in Centre, which has been made available by the NGO
Juventas free of charge, is important for KvirA members and their hetero-
sexual friends as a main venue for their gatherings and a place where they
can “be silent and talk” (Svetlana, personal communication, October
2017). However, the impression is that members are missing more input
from the KvirA activists, especially in terms of psychological empower-
ment, and feel that this is especially important for new members.
Someone who is an LGBT person feels lonely too often, there is plenty of
coffee drinking, waiting for Godot, more work is needed. This is a much
more serious story than one may think. (Zoi, personal communication,
October 2017)
She further emphasizes that the results of KvirA work would have been
much more tangible if the organisation had focused on specific activities
on a daily basis, not just during the organisation of Pride Parades, “just
seven days a year” (Zoi, personal communication, October 2017).
143
Challenges of Sisterhood and Unity in KvirA

As for their allies in their struggle for LGBTIQ rights, KvirA’s foun-
dresses recognise the NGO Juventas and Queer Montenegro because
they provide them with both technical and professional support.
Cooperation with women’s rights organisations has not yet developed,
which can be partly explained by the fact that KvirA’s activities are still
not sufficiently present in the public sphere. Although KvirA selected
a certain number of organisations as sources of future support when it
comes to the promotion of feminist policies and women’s activism, it is
interesting to note that, apart from Anima—the Centre for Women and
Peace Education from Kotor, there have not been open calls for joint
action by other women’s organisations. The reasons for the absence of
such an initiative by organisations with a lengthier service on the public
scene can be numerous. The criticism of one of the foundresses illumi-
nates one of them related to the narrow and potentially lesbian/bi/trans-
phobic view regarding what is understood under the term “woman”:
Lesbians are women too. LBT women are women. If we are going to talk
about women, let’s talk about them, why are they omitted? There is a
constant talk about faggots (when I say faggots, it’s not a bad word to
me), but still no one remembers to say that these lesbians are also endan-
gered, just as faggots are…. (Eva, personal communication, July 2017)
If we come out of national frameworks and focus on the analysis of rela-

tions between KvirA and relevant organisations from the region, it is
noteworthy that KvirA has a developed network of contacts in almost
all countries of the post-Yugoslav space. They, for example, cooperate
with an amateur LBT FemSlam group from Belgrade, which deals with
sports and with other organisations from the region, dominantly in the
realm of their project activities aimed at regional exchanges of knowl-
edge and experiences. The transformative nature of such gatherings for
its members is illustrated by one of the foundresses:
Every time they meet people who are not from Montenegro and are very
specific, there are changes in their minds in regard to what they would
144
like to do when they return home. What they would do with their lives
when they return to their rooms, into their four walls. And the moment
when they realise that the change occurs when they get involved is very
interesting, when they realise that they can learn something from it, to
get something for themselves and that is what matters. (Ema, personal
communication, July 2017)
Another aspect of cooperation that came to light in the previous

period was the exchange of experiences with activists from Bosnia and
Herzegovina as well as Croatia, regarding the content of the drafted or
existing legislation in the areas of gender identity and registered partner-
ship in these countries and the effects of its application. KvirA’s foun-
dresses closely follow the comparative legal solutions in these areas and,
based on the abovementioned consultations, they have participated in
giving comments on proposals of legal solutions drafted by Juventas,
Queer Montenegro and the Institute for Legal Studies. Regarding the
law on gender identity, there has been a particularly valuable transfer
of knowledge from Croatia,—which is, according to one of the foun-
dresses, relevant in the light of the tendency of the Montenegrin gov-
ernment to rely on Croatian legislation and transcribe Croatian laws.
Nevertheless, Eva explains that cooperation with organisations from
Croatia is rather limited due to the challenges of financial sustainability
faced by these organisations (Eva, personal communication, July 2017).
It is evident that there is a significant space for intensifying KvirA’s
cooperation with organisations from other post-Yugoslav countries.
Nevertheless, KvirA’s focus on the local context and local challenges
may challenge its readiness to react to cases of injustice outside its own
yard. One of its foundresses openly speaks about the lack of “transna-
tional solidarity” (Bilić and Janković 2012, p. 74) amongst lesbians and
lesbian organisations in the region:
People do not seem so much concerned with what is going on in the

region. I do not know, I am using my own example, I’m not affected
by the things that are happening in the region because I think that
those things are also happening here, I just do not have a reason to be
affected…. (Eva, personal communication, July 2017)
145
Another stumbling stone for building or revitalising ‘sisterhood and

unity’ in the post-Yugoslav space is reflected in the way individual activ-
ists from the region perceive the position of transgender women:
Radical feminist policies know to be exclusive. I personally do not like

to hear them say that a trans woman is not a true woman and that she
therefore cannot be a part of this story because she had a male privilege
for a while… On the one hand, I agree that these women had a male
privilege but, on the other hand, I know they didn’t, because it is a com-
pletely different story compared to a cisgender man. They may have been
raised in that sense and very guarded, cuddled, and cherished in a way
that female children may not be. However, they also experienced a hell
from the moment they became aware of their other gender identity… I
am just not sure to what extent we will be understood, we are not exclu-
sive in that sense. For example, we consider that an experience and, pri-
marily the experience, the lives we live, this kind of “core”, are something
that can only enrich this story and thus do not in any way detract from
what feminism is. And that is equality, and that is important for all who
did not live from the very beginning as a woman. It is especially impor-
tant for them to feel accepted, welcome, part of the community, which
knows to be very exclusive in certain moments. It is quite possible that
we will have these contentions and debates with our colleagues from
the region. We have already had some clashes regarding the exchange of
opinions, especially during Lesbian Week, which happened in December
2015, where I just heard such statements that transsexual women are not
women, and that transsexual men were actually lesbians all their life. And
I experienced a nervous breakdown at that moment because it is already
an oppressive policy… Each of us has this oppressive experience and it is
absolutely unacceptable for me that someone who called herself a radical
feminist puts into question someone’s femininity. Anyone who will prob-
lematise it in our further work will not be able to cooperate with us. So
it’s a red card for me, the moment we begin to produce something we are
actually fighting against. (Ema, personal communication, July 2017)
The answers of our interviewees to the question about the relation

towards feminism demonstrate a broad range: from a superficial and
stereotyped acquaintance to an informed and well-founded relation.
146
Above all, there is an understanding of feminism as an “anti-masculine”

theory and movement:
Everything that moves toward the extreme end is bad, and feminism that
moves toward the extreme end is particularly bad, since it starts as some-
thing positive, it starts like – we advocate for the equality of women and
all that – and then suddenly you realise at the next moment that the mes-
sage is – let’s conquer men, cut their genital organs off and throw them to
the lions. (Roza, personal communication, July 2017)
There is also an opinion that “if I am a feminist, I have to grow hairs”

(Kora, personal communication, October 2017). Of course, different
perceptions are also present, similar to the attitude of one of the partici-
pants in the focus group:
Given that we are women, it is completely logical that we are on our side.
Every woman thinks that it is completely logical to be a feminist, because
on whose side you will be, if not on your own. And that is it. I cannot
think of anything worse than when a woman says that she does not sup-
port feminism. (Lena, personal communication, October 2017)
One of the interviewed activists is on the same page when she asserts
that feminism is “like a litmus, you propose a topic to people to see
if they will slide or not, there are topics where you measure whether a
person is an intellectual or not, these topics simply have to exist” (Zoja,
personal communication, September 2017).
What is concerning is that a significant number of respondents
understand feminism through radical feminism,15 and radical feminism
through TERF—trans-exclusionary radical feminism, i.e. a movement
which insists on the substantialisation of gender, and which considers as
women only those who are born as women, promoting in this manner
transphobia grounded on the essentialist foundations, which is far from
the spirit of feminism, as understood by the authors of this text.
Beside several exceptions, the impression is that the activists of KvirA
obtained the first more meaningful information about feminism pre-
cisely from transphobic radical feminists which turned them away from
147
further research about the ways in which feminism, along with the the-
ories and policies that originated from it, may be conceptualised. This
has implications for the position of women not only in the LGBT
community, but also in the general society, as well as for the potential
of political imagination formulate responses and devise strategies for
undermining the hetero- and cis-normativity pressures that they are
exposed to.
Visibility of Lesbians and Lesbian Activity

in Montenegro
Elusiveness and incapability to name a female character, voice, and sub-
ject in the Montenegrin social and political space has a long and, in
fact, versatile history, but in this text, we will not move further from
decriminalisation of homosexuality which took place in Montenegro
in 1977. The legal framework that preceded the abolition of the crim-
inalisation of male homosexuality did not prohibit “female sexuality”
(Brković and Kalezić 2016), which remained “under the radar” of the
legislator of that time. This position of an untenable lesbian subject—
neither named, nor forbidden (Butler 1991)—is, therefore, present
from the very beginnings of the fight for equality of LGBT persons in
the Montenegrin society. Forty years later, non-heterosexual women
that we interviewed about the conceptualisation of lesbian identity and
its position in the Montenegrin society and LGBT community, testify
about invisibility similar to the one described by Butler:
Lesbian identity is not understood in the society at all (…), lesbians do

not exist, they are always the ones who seek the attention of men, to join
them in the entire story, if possible (…) this is something that happens to
women and then passes, of course, in the end they choose “the natural”.
(Ema, personal communication, July 2017)
Non-existence that she speaks about is, in fact, the absence of

comprehensibility, i.e. cultural intelligibility (Butler 1991) of les-

bians in a conservative society, certainly related to the patriarchal
148
conceptualisation of woman: “I have never heard more talks about mar-

riage and children than among those women who love women”, asserts
one of the foundresses of KvirA, and then continues:
Why? Because they consider that in this manner they will satisfy some
other, someone else’s criteria, but not their own. I think that this is one of
our really big problems – instead of working on the love for themselves,
being honest toward themselves, they are very often led by a completely
different motive, to satisfy their families, to make sure that their families
are fine, not to let themselves be the cause of stress and problems. […]
“One day I will have a husband, I will have to have a husband” – is a sen-
tence, which is very indicative of certain attitudes that people have about
their own life, and these are young women. (Ema, personal communica-
tion, July 2017)
Deep rootedness in patriarchal imperatives is evident through a large

number of LBT women who do not question marriage. As a matter of
fact, many of them are entering into a heterosexual marriage, on the
one hand, as a way of responding to the expectations of the environ-
ment and, on the other, due to the wish to become mothers, which is
something that many of them indeed want. The situation changes with
time: the impression of our interviewees is that this was the case more
often before and that, as they become better informed, women also start
considering other forms and modalities of partnership and parenting.
One of the reasons for the absence of publicly declared lesbians and
their remaining in “transparent closets” is the lack of readiness to expose
their personal lives to the homophobic and hostile public, and the fear
that such a type of visibility would consume the manner in which they
have been perceived in the public until that moment, through their
vocation, professional achievements or some other form of activism and
that, by this act, they would turn their sexual orientation into the pri-
mary identification and eventually “profession”:
I think that they all feel what I feel, that suddenly everything is forgotten
then, this is the only interesting thing, and whatever else it is that you are
doing is completely neglected, (…) this is the only thing that matters,
and it is not that easy, I think that is not simple if you have a professional
149
life of your own, and it means that you would have to be a human rights
activist deep down and then to mix everything together in some way, and
I think that it is not easy. (Zoja, personal communication, September
2017)
Invisibility of lesbians in Montenegro that still persists is caused both

“externally”—by the general inhospitality of the homophobic envi-
ronment towards disruptions of traditional gender roles, expressions,
identities, and sexual orientations, and “internally”—through a deeply
internalised customary norms and homophobia, on the one hand, and
the ethics of care that places inter-human relations in the centre of
moral acting, on the other. This may be recognised in the way in which
our interviewees talked about disclosure—outing as a deeply personal
and simultaneously political act. In that sense, it is important to empha-
sise the care about partners, present or former ones, with whom these
women decide (or not) to enter into the process of disclosing their sex-
uality. The reason for which outing is avoided or limited to a narrow
circle of friends lies not only in the lack of understanding or potential
rejection by parents and the closest environment, but also in the fear of
the consequences that our actions would have for other people, regard-
less of how much we may be convinced of their propriety (see Bilić, this
volume):
You know what, now that Marija is here, I twitch on that, I cannot say
that I would dare to expose her, she is not somebody who grew up with
this and I am a huge step out for her, she is, you know, hetero totally –
was (laugh), so I have to protect her, I must not expose her to the situa-
tion in which somebody reproaches me and then drags me through the
newspapers and so on… That is what I have to keep in mind. (Zoja, per-
sonal communication, 2017)
There is also a certain transformative potential that outing may have on

a person in front of whom it is performed. One of the interviewees per-
ceives it as a gift of confidence, on the one hand, and of gratitude and
accepting differences, on the other, which broadens and deepens our
experience and our understanding of human relations. This is the gift
that changes and enriches by making people closer one to another.
150
The members of KvirA quote the pressure of their families after out-
ing, the request that this should not cross their doorstep, as a com-
mon problem they face: “It is enough that I know this about you,
nobody else needs to know” (Eva, personal communication, July
2017). Support “among four walls” is the best reflection of ambivalence
between the need to empower and accept the loved ones emotionally,
and the necessity to preserve the impression of “normalcy” in front of
the environment, not to “make waves”, as stated by one of them. This
reflects the need to stay protected by family members in a generally
homophobic environment and points to the mechanism of “transparent
closet”16:
In the majority of cases, the narratives of acceptance rest on the idea

‘you are still my child’, which implies that homosexuality is nevertheless
something negative. This is in line with Fields’ argument that those par-
ents who respond to a child’s homosexual orientation by destigmatising
the identity nevertheless rely on a conventional understanding of gender,
sexuality and parenting, and thereby paradoxically help perpetuate heter-
onormative conceptions of normalcy. (Švab 2016, p. 1354)
In these terms, outing represents “a constant struggle against those who,

on the one hand, accept the disclosure, and then, on the other, refuse
to accept its implications” (Davies, as cited in Švab 2016, p. 1354).
The intensity of this pressure is confirmed by a comment of one of
the KvirA activists: “This is like you need to say that you have cancer”
(Ema, personal communication, July 2017)
Although it may be unexpected for long-term activists, in their
answers we often come across the joint “don’t ask, don’t tell” strategy in
terms of disclosure/outing to parents, where sexual orientation does not
represent a problem, given that it is never openly posed as a question:
I never came out like I sat my mother and father down and said – Mom,
dad, I… (…) I do not have a problem regarding them (parents), it is not
a problem for me to tell them, but they do not ask me about this and I
cannot find space for myself to talk about this with them, since they do
not ask anything about this, whether I have a boyfriend or a girlfriend or
not. (Eva, personal communication, 2017)
151
My friends know, my sister and her husband as well, parents still do not
know, but they assume something (…) we do not want to qualify this in
any other way except as a roommate yet, I think that this is fine for now, I
think that the moment will come when I feel the desire to unmask this –
roommate, yeah right… some things are not completely invisible, but we
do not talk about this in a completely open way. (Ema, personal commu-
nication, 2017)
They are convinced that parents assume and (up to a certain point)
accept their sexual orientation, but not openly. This policy of hushing
up in which they participate and persist consciously is mainly unrecog-
nised as a form of internalised homophobia, massively overpowered by
honest, enthusiastic and relentless work in connecting and empowering
LBT women.
When it comes to lesbian identity perceived as a basis of association
and joint action, the interviewed activists mostly do not think that it is
either necessary or needed as a prerequisite of effective political inter-
vention, and/or that it is a weak common denominator not only for
activism, but also for socialising or going out for some of them, with
one exception:
I think that it is – now. (…) And I think that it is a good concept, to

be a “political lesbian” is not that bad, not for me, and it is not impor-
tant whether I am a lesbian, it is not of significance, but I will be, at
the moment when I should change things by what I will be. And it is
important only for this reason. (Ema, personal communication, July
2017).
This approach represents a “strategic essentialisation” (Spivak 1988)

of lesbian identity, used as an answer to homophobia and discrimina-
tion, and targeted above all at finding and including the largest possible
number of female supporters in the process of non-heterosexual wom-
en’s emancipation in Montenegro. A strong critical attitude towards
the concept of “authenticity” as a condition for dealing with activism
is visible; belonging to LGBT community as an identification fac-
tor and closed, essentialist attitude that we “have to belong to LGBT
community in order to talk about LGBTQ rights, is unbelievable”
152
(Ema, personal communication, July 2017). Lesbian identity is mostly

understood as an unnecessary essentialisation and in any case insuffi-
ciently strong and consolidating basis for producing social and political
changes.
Categorical refusal of one’s individual identity or a number of identi-
ties linked to sexual orientation perhaps represents the most stable and
distinctive characteristic of KvirA’s work. They connect with each other
on the basis of the fact that they are women, moreover non-heterosexual
women, who seek and produce social change. However, it may be
assumed that even such an openness and heterogeneity of the group, as
much as it is impressive, has a negative impact on its cohesion, visibility,
and mobilising potential.
In spite of the consensus regarding the most important problems for
non-heterosexual women in Montenegro, three years as of KvirA’s estab-
lishment, male voices still dominantly talk about them, their rights and
the challenges they face. Matilda, a member of KvirA talks openly about
this issue:
I hate the fact that our LGBTIQ community is led by gays. It looks like
gays are doing everything, because he [referring to the Executive director
of Queer Montenegro] shows up and, you know, “he is a fag”. It really
looks like they are doing everything, and they are not, we are doing a lot
of things for our community. It really gets on my nerves. (Matilda, per-
sonal communication, July 2017)
This is confirmed by the attitude of one of the foundresses of KvirA:

“Nobody ever talks about the fact”, she states, “that every Pride organ-
ised so far has been prepared by women” (Eva, personal communica-
tion, July 2017), although she is resolute when she says that there
is no discrimination of lesbians among LGBT persons. In the opin-
ion of the majority of our interviewees, there is a connection between
traditional understanding of gender and discrimination of lesbians.
However, our interviewees mainly refer to the practice of question-
ing traditionally perceived genders and the related discrimination.
The answers are mainly focused on the high level of hatred and vio-
lence trans persons are exposed to, as they are considered the most
153
vulnerable group by all our interviewees, without exception. The “con-

cept of ‘real’ man and ‘real’ woman is something that absolutely defines
the manner in which somebody will treat us”, claims Ema (personal
communication, July 2017), and therefore “a butch lesbian will be more
likely attacked than a femme lesbian. The one with short hair, wearing
almost male clothes, will be more likely attacked than the one with long
hair, who looks like a ‘real’ woman, which happened before”—as testi-
fied by the majority of the respondents.
Besides, they point out that more intensive animosity is present toward
men who do not behave in line with the traditional gender expression,
than in case of women who do the same thing: “It is harder to be a brave
gay than a brave lesbian” (Hana, personal communication, October
2017), they assert, confirming in this manner that demasculinisation
of men, alienation, and sacrilege (by feminisation, for example) of their
“male essence” is the most serious problem for a patriarchal homopho-
bic environment (see Bilić, introduction to this volume). Having in mind
that they mostly consider that it is easier for lesbians, they find it difficult
to explain the fact that there is no public person who identifies as such.
Perspectives: Informal Versus Formal Activism

KvirA activist Roza summarises the current KvirA position in the fol-
lowing way:
For now, we’re OK. As a swing, we are waiting for the right moment to
spring into action and create chaos. (Roza, personal communication, July
2017)
Thus, KvirA’s development perspectives are branching into two differ-

ent directions and our interlocutors oscillate between: informal activ-
ism, on the one hand, and the formalisation of engagement that would
allow greater access to donor funds, on the other. The key to their suc-
cess so far lies in the gathering and empowerment of the “community”.
“An organisation without a community is nothing”, explains Roza
(personal communication, July 2017). Therefore, a formalisation of
154
the organisation presents a risk and calls into question the survival of
a peculiarity of their grassroots approach—“you listen to them anytime
day and night” (Roza, personal communication, July 2017), which was
also recognised by activist groups from the region:
The model that has been developed here by us is to communicate with

each individual separately. People feel honoured, respected, and this is a
model that has been shared with activists in the region. This was not the
case before, and now everyone gets a special message leaning on him/her,
which makes people feel invited to make a contribution. (Eva, personal
communication, July 2017)
From the perspective of one of the foundresses, the initial KvirA vision
was to develop into a resource centre that would be available to all activ-
ists and from which everyone would gain something. She is also very
aware that informal action gives freedom which non-governmental
organisations do not offer within the existing legal framework. It seems
that informal action goes hand in hand with the sensibility and polit-
ical beliefs of KvirA’s foundresses that are based on the abandonment
of hierarchy and animosity towards the positions of leaders, directors,
managers, etc. KvirA does not have strategic or action plans as activi-
ties are implemented spontaneously, when it is deemed necessary. There
is a certain resistance towards formalisation of their actions among the
foundresses. This is understandable since NGO-isation often represents
“the transition from a rather loosely organised, horizontally dispersed
and broadly mobilising social movements to more professional, verti-
cally structured NGOs” (Lang 2013, p. 62).
However, during the conversation we had with KvirA’s foundresses
and activists, the dominant view was that KvirA formalisation nev
ertheless represents the key to its sustainability. Two out of three par-
ticipants of in-depth interviews considered a formalisation of the group
fundamental for its development. For one activist, an informal group
is just “a fistful of people gathered on the street” (Roza, personal com-
munication, July 2017), which corresponds to the division into “seri-
ous/professional NGO work” versus “less serious activism” (Butterfield
2016, p. 24). This can partly be explained by the dominant logic of the
NGO scene where informal activism is marginalised in relation to the
155
NGO activism and, in a sense, undermined. The current legal frame-

work that does not recognise informal groups certainly contributes to
this attitude.
NGO-isation is also “often accompanied by increased institutionali-
sation and professionalisation” (Paternotte 2015, p. 390) which require
not only the development of appropriate expert knowledge and above
all the technical and administrative skills of activists, but also the will-
ingness to cooperate with the authorities (Paternotte 2015). As such,
it represents a necessary prerequisite for obtaining financial support by
donors. Practical examples demonstrate that focusing on profession-
alism carries the risk of neglecting the “community” and permanent
consultations with its members, as well as putting the “community’s”
interests behind. Thus, “the idea of a small group of people changing
the world” is lost in the process of “strengthening organisational capac-
ities” (Bagić 2004, p. 222). Finally, professionalisation often entails
the loss of those who leave the activist scene because they do not want
that writing of reports or project proposals in accordance with dictated
donor priorities, the preparation of applications, and the ‘strengthening
of capacities’ become their everyday life (Bilić 2012).
Although they are making fearful steps towards what appears to be
certain—the process of formalisation—it is worth noting that KvirA is
already using some available funds to apply for funding as an informal
and independent group within Queer Montenegro. One of the pro-
jects that has been approved and which is focused on queer and femi-
nist politics, will be tackling the issue of KvirA’s formalisation. Within
the scope of this project, it is planned that a discussion will be opened,
focusing on the advantages and disadvantages of formalisation among
the members, which will require coming out of the transparent closet.
But not only that—the intention is to determine if there is a critical
mass of women who are willing to deal with LBT activism “as some-
thing that is a part of their lives” (Ema, personal communication,
July 2017). Obviously, there is uncertainty among KvirA’s foundresses
regarding the sufficient number of women to initiate a group motivated
by the will to change the situation of lesbians in Montenegro. Despite
the apparent readiness of a certain number of members to emerge more
strongly in the public sphere, many are not ready for compromises that,
156
in their opinion, come with it. Nora explains that, unlike her public-
ly-exposed colleagues, she is not in the mood for ‘diplomatic relations’
with decision-makers, which, in her opinion, automatically makes her
‘unsuitable’ for public action.
Whichever form of action they opt for, the further work of KvirA will
require space for a new, fresh energy. KvirA’s foundresses are aware of
this and also openly express the need for the existing “set of people” to
be changed (Ema, personal communication, July 2017) so that KvirA
does not suffer from the “founding syndrome” that is otherwise present
in the non-governmental sector in Montenegro (TACSO 2013) and the
region, more broadly (Bilić 2012). Although they have different concep-
tions of non-heterosexual activism, what it should be and how it should
develop in the local context in the future, KvirA activists, as a rule, give
priority to their personal example.
For all types of activism, I think that means that you demonstrate by your
actions what you are fighting for. No advocacy and nonsense, there will
never be a stronger message than your personal example. (Hana, personal
communication, October 2017)
Therefore, the emphasis is placed on individual action through a personal

example rather than a collective, organised action that would potentially
have a transformative effect on the “community” itself. This shared position
stands in sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker tension with the almost
certain formalisation of the group’s further work, and represents an impor-
tant issue that KvirA members will have to consider in the near future.
Conclusion
Informal group KvirA, as the only form of non-heterosexual women’s
organising in Montenegro at the moment, sways between a couple of
key ambivalences: the one between informal acting and formalisation of
the work motivated by the need for sustainability, security, and availa-
bility of donor funds, but also the one related to understanding of fem-
inism, perceived by a significant number of respondents through the
radical glasses of trans-exclusion.
157
If it is easier to be a courageous lesbian than a brave “fag”, how come

there is no publicly outed lesbians, who would represent the movement
for the emancipation of non-heterosexual women in Montenegro, hav-
ing in mind that the majority of LGBT activists are themselves women?
Is it possible for one to embark on the adventure of dismantling hom-
ophobia and patriarchy without forging a stronger relation with the
international feminist heritage? May we even understand this obstinate
absence without relying on feminist theories, like the one of Judith
Butler that speaks about “abjectivity” of lesbians and non-sustainability
of the lesbian subject in the rigid regimes of hetero-normativity?
Cannot a massive and insufficiently questioned domination of patriar-
chy, which prevents forming and visibility of lesbian and LBT subject in
the Montenegrin context by a number of complex mechanisms, account
for this absence, pointed at by all of our interviewees?
In the situation in which these questions are hardly problematised,
longing for “normal” life outside of the oppressive and “hetero-normative
concepts of normality” (Švab 2016) often results in a superficial mimicry
or—in somewhat happier circumstances—leads to a “transparent closet”
within which non-heterosexual women in Montenegro mostly remain.
“I do not want to leave my life in the foundations of an abstract state”,
says Zoja, remaining, not without remorse, in her own and often group
isolation, and not succeeding to move “into the metaphysics of presence,
speech and cultural visibility” (Fuss 1991, p. 4) with her not-meant-to-be
“sisters”.17
Since women NGOs in the country have been recognised by the
activists of KvirA as “natural” allies, then the exchange of knowledge,
experiences and inclusion in the joint activities would represent a neces-
sary step toward untying a knot in which Montenegrin lesbian activism
is entangled. Not one among the women we interviewed mentioned sis-
terhood or referred to it in any manner, and the big question is whether
we may achieve “cultural intelligibility” (Butler) of lesbians without the
sisterhood and the policies founded on it.
On the other hand, one should not neglect the potential of KvirA’s
identification with the insufficiently explored and complex term
“queer” to contribute to spreading (popularising) of the membership,
having in mind that this phenomenon as such “surpasses the rigid
158
boxes of LGBT or straight sexuality and allows the ‘privilege’ of self-

definition” (Queer Beograd Collective, as cited in Bilić and Dioli 2016,
p. 151). KvirA’s current “hiding” under a mysterious “queer” umbrella
may serve, at least temporarily, as a mechanism of protection against
violence (Bilić and Dioli 2016; see also Selmić and Bilić, this volume),
as long as there is a scarce understanding of this concept among the
broader community. However, all of those interested in furthering the
non-heterosexual cause must keep in mind the regional experiences
pointing to the challenges of transferring this fluid concept to new
socio-political contexts (Bilić and Dioli 2016) through which it acquires
new political interpretations and meanings, both inside and outside of
the LGBTIQ “community”.
Notes
1. The word ‘KvirA’ stems from an effort to feminise and slavenise the
word ‘queer’, into ‘KvirA’, emphasising intent to (re)present LGBT
identities as something ever-present and really existing in Montenegro,
not as something “imported” from the West. The processes of appropri-
ation and translation into local context characterised both visual iden-
tity and messages of the Montenegrin Prides in continuation. Leaving
capital ‘A’ letter at the end of the word ‘KvirA’ highlights gender aspect
of the group, shifting towards identity politics that the word ‘queer’
supposed to problematise and overcome.
2. This certainly does not mean that there are no lesbians, queer or trans
women in Montenegro who are out. Just before the Pride 2017 one
part of the advertising campaign were video spots in which parents of
non-heterosexual women publicly supported their daughters’ sexual
identification. Moreover, two women came out as bisexuals in a video
promoting LGBT rights on the eve of the 2017 Pride Parade, while two
declared themselves as members of LGBTIQ community. One person,
declaring as lesbian, also spoke against violence in the video, with dark-
ened body and face and changed voice.
3. We would like to thank Itana Kovačević, psychologist, for her help
with formulating questions for our in-depth interviews. Her long-term
159
counselling experience improved our understanding of the everyday

lives of our interviewees.
4. All the names mentioned in the article are pseudonyms.
6. Selected NGO members are: Jelena Čolaković (NGO Juventas),

5. Website of LGBT Forum Progress: http://lgbtprogres.me/en/.
Danijel Kalezić (Queer Montenegro) and Bojana Jokić (LGBT Forum

Progress).
7. According to a statement of executive director of the Queer
Montenegro, LGBT individuals currently do not have the right to
legally visit their partners in the hospital and get information on their
health status. Furthermore, they cannot exercise the right to health care
on the basis of partner’s insurance neither can they inherit pension or
property in case of partner’s death.
8. The latest publicly known case of violence against LGBT individuals
is about a Montenegrin LGBT activist who decided to seek asylum in
Sweden after being physically attacked by a group of men. Although
the attackers were arrested, he did not believe that he could exercise
the right to a fair trial in Montenegro: “I was literally forced to leave
Montenegro and look for a safer future. My decision was additionally
strengthened by the fact that I faced problems with the police while
filling complaints. I had problems with courts and prosecution and
I think that I cannot have a fair trial in Montenegro” (CdM 2017,
online).
9. According to data provided to ECRI by NGOs, “only one criminal
indictment was filled for the serious bodily injury during the Pride
Parade in Podgorica, while proceedings related to charges for misde-
meanours are being concluded by imposing fines of 100 to 700 euro”
(ECRI 2017).
10. This decision was confirmed in the second instance by the Director
General of Directorate for security and protection affairs and oversight
in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The Constitutional Court confirmed
a judgement of the Administrative Court rejecting an appeal of the
Walk of Pride organisers. Organisers submitted a constitutional appeal
against these decisions in November 2016 (Gorjanc Prelević 2016,
p. 46).
11. Instead of 101 boys, which would represent a natural ratio between new-
born boys and girls, according to the UN Population fund from 2012.
12. Website of NGO Queer Montenegro: www.queermontenegro.org.
160
1 3. Website of NGO Juventas: www.juventas.co.me/index.php/me/.

14. Just a year earlier, the municipal committee of the Communist Party
of Nikšić advocated for the prohibition of the abovementioned Nikšić
Walk of Pride, with the support of other actors of the activist scene, as
well as academic institutions.
15. Radical feminism is also relatively poorly known and often

misunderstood.
16. “The transparent closet seems to be a sort of mechanism that prevents
relationships among family members from being destroyed so that,
after the coming out, everything appears normal and unchanged on the
surface” (Švab 2016, p. 1352).
17. “To be out, in common gay parlance, is precisely to be no longer out;
to be out is to be finally outside of exteriority and all the exclusions
and deprivations such outsiderhood imposes. Or, put another way, to
be out is really to be in—inside the realm of the visible, the speakable,
the culturally intelligible” (Fuss 1991, p. 4).
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(In)Visible Presences: PitchWise
Festival as a Space of Lesbian Belonging
in Bosnia and Herzegovina
Adelita Selmić and Bojan Bilić
On 7 September 2017, a group of mostly women activists walked

around the streets of Sarajevo and staged a protest at the Alija
Izetbegović Square, one of the city’s central locations (Ženskaposla
2017). They were carrying crosses, green slates, and huge obituaries
which contained elementary biographical information about women
murdered by their husbands or partners. Such a multi-confessional/
multi-ethnic funeral performance was supposed to draw public atten-
tion to the alarmingly increasing and insufficiently addressed rates of
femicide in Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH) (see also Bilić, introduction
to this volume; Radoman, this volume). This mournful event also
marked the beginning of a new edition of what has otherwise been
a joyful celebration of women’s friendship, support, and solidar-
ity that goes way beyond the country’s profound political cleavages.
A. Selmić (*) 
University of Sarajevo/University of Bologna, Sarajevo,
Bosnia and Herzegovina
B. Bilić 
164
A. Selmić and B. Bilić
PitchWise Festival of Women’s Art and Activism (Festival ženske umjet-

nosti i aktivizma PitchWise), that takes place in September, has over the
last 12 years gathered women—nationally, regionally, and internation-
ally—to create a safe-haven, a women’s space of encounter which has
always had a lesbian dimension.
In this chapter, we employ a range of empirical sources, including
semi-structured interviews, participant observation, as well as documen-
tary and video material, to point to PitchWise ’s somewhat subdued, but
consistent lesbian aspect. We claim that this manifestation can provide
us with an insight into the ways in which lesbian identities, commu-
nities, and activist endeavours are articulated in spite of the socially
unfavourable circumstances marked by high levels of lesbophobia/hom-
ophobia. In the absence of a specifically lesbian activist organisation,
such as those that exist in other countries of the region, PitchWise con-
stitutes an ephemeral network of friendships and affective ties that pro-
mote lesbian belonging. More specifically, this manifestation performs
a double function: on the one hand, it operates as an intimate—and
perhaps also therapeutic—gathering for its women/lesbian participants
while, on the other, acts as an important sensitising agent that femi-
nises the public sphere and visibilises lesbian existence within it. Both
of these functions locate lesbian liberation in the domain of affective,
intersectionality-sensitive, and regionally/transnationally-oriented femi-
nist politics.
In the first section of this chapter, we take a look at some of the
most prominent features of women’s and feminist activist organising
in BiH. Even though there were individual feminist voices before the
1990s armed conflicts, it is only after the war that feminism becomes
a stronger principle of BiH women’s engagement which also consid-
ers sexuality as a political issue. Here, we discuss the challenges of
the present-day LGBT initiatives and zoom in on the position that
lesbian women/activists assume in them. Finally, we draw upon the
words of its organisers, contributors, and visitors to illuminate the
ways in which PitchWise welcomes lesbian women and activists and
promotes the freedom of lesbian sexual expression.
(In)Visible Presences: PitchWise Festival as a Space of Lesbian …
165
Feminist and Non-Heterosexual Activist

Initiatives in Post-Dayton BiH1
After the Second World War, women’s history in BiH which, of
course included the operation of the Anti-Fascist Women’s Front (see
Dugandžić and Okić 2016), was to a great extent overshadowed by the
political developments and more innovative feminist currents occurring
along the line Ljubljana-Zagreb-Belgrade in the late 1970s and 1980s
(Helms 2013; Kajinić, this volume; Oblak and Pan, this volume).2
A woman from Sarajevo, Nada Ler Sofronić was among the initiators of
the 1978 Belgrade conference Drug-ca žena which represents an impor-
tant point in the history of Yugoslav feminism (see Bilić, introduction
to this volume; Bonfiglioli 2008). However, apart from scattered initia-
tives that had a prominent academic aspect, it seems that
we can talk about women’s associations and activism as an important seg-

ment of civil society, but not about a feminist movement in BiH. To the
extent to which they are present, feminist movement and feminist activ-
ism can be reduced to exclusively individual efforts that have never mani-
fested themselves as an organised social force. (Ždralović 2013, p. 13)
Even though the upsurge of militarised patriarchy throughout the last

decade of the twentieth century dealt a hard blow to the already fragile
and fragmented BiH women’s history, it also intensified women’s organ-
ising across the increasingly impermeable borders and served as a basis
for feminist initiatives in the post-war period (Bilić 2012; Mlađenović
2012). Feminists across the region were the first to meet and assist ref-
ugees and returnees, often showing courage and jeopardising their own
positions in the ethnically homogenising spaces (Popov-Momčinović
2013).
After the armed conflict, in a profoundly reorganised, re-
patriarchalised, and impoverished post-Dayton BiH, ethnic belong-
ing established itself as the pre-eminent criterion of political life (e.g.,
Kurtović and Hromadžić 2017).3 At the same time, in the dominant
political discourse, European Union integrations have remained the
166
only viable option for the region, which brought an insistence on the
improvement of non-heterosexual people’s status (Bilić 2016a; Kulpa
2014; Selmić 2016). However, the divided ethnic communities seem
to share intolerance towards sexual diversity: a recent survey conducted
by Popov-Momčinović (2013) found that citizens of BiH show high
levels of distance towards non-heterosexual people and are also poorly
acquainted with non-heterosexual sexualities. For example, 42.2% of
the examinees consider it unacceptable to have a homosexual person for
a neighbour, colleague, or boss. Moreover, 56% of respondents think
that homosexuality should be cured and 74% are against seeing two
men kissing in the street (Selmić 2016).
In such an ethnocratic and homophobic context, human rights
have remained one of the last resorts upon which mainstream activists
draw to go beyond ethnicity and promote gender equality, women’s
rights, and sexual liberation. As has been the case in other post-
Yugoslav republics, the human rights paradigm has gone hand in hand
with a professionalisation of activist networks that are almost exclu-
sively dependent on international funding. As Bilić and Kajinić (2016,
pp. 14–15) argue:
Operating in straitened circumstances, characterised by fear, existential

uncertainty, poverty and competition for (in certain periods more avail-
able, but still) limited foreign donations, the major part of the activist
“scene” quickly professionalised, making it increasingly difficult to envi-
sion forms of engagement that would stay outside of the NGO frame.
Professionalisation and bureaucratisation pressures, induced by foreign
donors, favoured the thin urban “layer” that already counted on substan-
tial amounts of social and symbolic capital. This led to a rapid “division
of labour” through which organisations, while declaratively prioritising
cooperation over competition, specialised in certain areas.
As a result, non-heterosexual existence, not unlike what occurs in many

other settings, is almost exclusively a matter of legal debates and legisla-
tive interventions which are rarely reflected in real life (Knauer 2012).
In this regard, Europeanisation-induced improvements of the legal
framework that have been introduced over the last two years indicate
167
that sexual orientation is ever more a category which counts on legal

protection (Selmić 2016). According to the latest reports of the relevant
national and international NGOs, progress has been made in terms of
anti-discrimination policy and hate crime regulation:
The anti-discrimination action plan published in April was the first

national level policy of its kind to explicitly name LGBT people. The
language in the existing federal anti-discrimination law was clarified, and
sex characteristics were also added to the list of protected grounds in all
spheres of life. (ILGA-Europe 2017, p. 4)4
Nevertheless, BiH is still marked by public outbursts of homopho-

bia and different forms of violence and discrimination against LGBT
persons.5 Particularly disturbing is the increase of domestic and peer
violence motivated by sexual orientation or gender identity as well as
pervasive instances of homophobic and transphobic views in academic
institutions (Bošnjak et al. 2017).6 Many sources also point to con-
tinuous discrimination against LGBT persons in terms of partnership
and family life as there is no legal measure that would protect same sex
unions. In spite of the European jurisprudence and trends, BiH (and its
constitutive entities) still have not considered legal solutions that would
allow couples to register same-sex partnership (Tanić 2016).
The atmosphere of political ambivalence in which legal improve-
ments are mostly a matter of international pressure rather than of a
genuine local interest in acknowledging sexual diversity,7 cannot really
put an end to fear, secrecy, and entrenched institutional homophobia.8
As one would expect, many activists living and working outside of the
country’s capital in which there are a few activist organisations, describe
the position of LGBT people as even more difficult. For example,
Lana Prerad, a former activist of the Banja Luka Association of Queer
Activists [BUKA—Banjalučko udruženje kvir aktivista], states:
As the activities and influence of the association grew, pressures also grew,
as well as the number of threats and attacks on members of the associa-
tion which ceased to exist after two years. Most of the members moved
abroad and the ones who stayed continued with individual or cultural
168
activism… the LGBT community usually gathers in one café, which is

the only place that accepts diversities, including queer identities as well.
(personal communication with the first author, October 2017)
Fragile Lesbian Activist Voices

Women/lesbian activists have been at the helm of non-heterosexual
organising in BiH ever since 2004, when the Association Q (Asocijacija
Q), the first formally registered LGBT initiative, was established in
Sarajevo. Svetlana Đurković,9 Slobodanka Boba Dekić, Emina Trumić,
and Alma Selimović were, among others, involved in strengthening
the LGBT “community” (Bavčić and Delić 2014; Kajinić 2008). They
operated “under the auspices” of queerness—a concept and organising
principle which can give activists more manoeuvring space (and possi-
bly “postpone” violence) because the broader public is less familiar with
it (see e.g., Bilić and Dioli 2016). In an interview with Dioli (2012,
online), Svetlana Đurković states:
For myself I use the word queer, and I’ll tell you why. While society iden-
tifies each one of us by sex, gender, and sexual orientation, the layers of
my self-identification are far more complex and break the norms on more
than one level. So, the combination of the parts of my identity and my
activist and research work are oriented towards queer theory. Queer the-
ory deals with the construction of sex, gender, and gender norms. On the
other hand, as a human rights activist, I am engaged with defending the
rights of LGBTIQ individuals that are alone in this country and I believe
every identity is entitled to visibility. In my country, where most people
have some kind of segmented identity based on religion and nationality,
everyone is easily read by their name or language. So people don’t ask,
they assume who you are. Our organisation works specifically on the
rights of each person to self-define and self-identify, even when those
identities do not fit social norms and common understandings.
The trend of lesbian/bisexual women’s presence in BiH non-heterosexual

activist endeavours has persisted up to today. In this regard, Emina
Bošnjak (personal communication with the first author, October 2017),
the executive director of the Sarajevo Open Centre (SOC), states:
169
What is interesting, is that lesbians/bisexual women are actually the most

visible persons of the LGBT movement… they are usually the first ones
to react, either in the public space, on the street, in the media or in other
settings.
However, given the socio-political climate that we sketched above, it is

hardly surprising that lesbian women have not up to now managed to
a more explicit lesbian activist agenda. Azra Čaušević, a member of the

overcome the burdens of (at least) double discrimination and articulate
Sarajevo-based activist organisation Okvir, states:
In 2011 there was an initiative to organise a lesbian group Viktorija…

there were a few lesbian parties and the girls also had a Facebook profile.
At that time there was also a club in which a lesbian woman was work-
ing. They never registered their organisation because the initiative simply
was not serious enough and to do something like that there should be a
group of people who would take such a task seriously. There was another
attempt at a later point… two girls wanted to form a radical lesbian
group… Lepa [Mlađenović] connected them with us and we offered them
space, but in the end nothing happened. (personal communication with
the first author, October 2017)
In spite of consistent support offered by lesbian activists from the region

(see also Cvetkovic, this volume), articulating lesbian solidarities has
to a great extent remained a matter of private networks.10 As Emina
Bošnjak (personal communication with the first author, October 2017)
states:
There is not a single lesbian group, but rather several groups linked by
different interests or perhaps age, and most probably the complex net-
work of romantic, intimate, and friendly relationships. Those are groups
of lesbian, bisexual, queer, and rarely trans women. Activism is usually
not high on their lists of priorities.
Bošnjak’s statement shows that many lesbian women seem to be dis-

tant from the existing LGBT activist organisations regardless of the
fact that there are prominent lesbian activists in them. The problem
170
of representational responsibility and the detachment of local non-

heterosexual population from activist initiatives are quite widespread in
the region (see Bilić and Stubbs 2016; Selmić 2016). This is mostly due to
the fact that in all of the (post-)Yugoslav republics, although in different
periods (male) homosexuality was decriminalised through a revision of
the respective penal codes rather than through grassroots engagement or
a wider societal consensus on human rights claims. In this regard, there
seems to be a temporal inversion in comparison to the more firmly
established Western LGBT activist organisations in the sense that highly
professionalised post-Yugoslav activist groups precede (instead of follow-
ing and stemming from) spontaneous instances of protest that would
articulate and be a reaction to local grievances (Bilić 2016a, b).
In difficult social and political circumstances in which homophobia
was never really problematised, more mainstream women’s organisations
do not seem to be interested in associating themselves with lesbian ini-
tiatives. What is more, foreign donors are reluctant to engage with the
lesbian cause because they consider it already covered by other groups
working on sexual emancipation. With this in mind, Bavčić and Delić
(2014, p. 243) claim that
it is evident that, apart from Cure Foundation, almost no women’s organ-

isation is dealing with these issues. Moreover, women’s organisations sel-
dom support formal initiatives such as those for signing petitions and
press releases against violations of lesbian human rights. Interestingly
enough, neither donor organisations, which are guided by their own
policies and priorities in BiH, show interest in strengthening the lesbian
movement in BiH.
PitchWise: Practising Feminism in BiH

Even if one acknowledges the predominance of the human rights par-
adigm and the intense juridification of non-heterosexual politics, one
would be mistaken to reduce emancipatory non-heterosexual efforts
to them. There are vital currents of activist engagement which usually
stay below the radar of law makers or temporarily disrupt sometimes
171
impersonal, professionalised forms of activist operation. In this regard,

the Foundation CURE (Fondacija CURE 2010, online) has been an
innovative actor on the BiH “civic scene” since 2004. It presents itself as
a feminist-activist organisation that promotes gender and sex equality

and works for positive social change through educational, cultural and
research programs. By organising affirmative collective actions, CURE
celebrates the strength and power of women, and helps to empower indi-
viduals to become initiators of social change in Bosnia and Herzegovina
and the world. The feminist activism has created a safe space where
women are strong, fearless, competent, and united with all their differ-
ences. CURE is an organisation of professionals and volunteers who take
to the streets to protest against violence, discrimination, violation of laws
and basic human rights.
The appearance of the Foundation CURE marks a stronger femi-

nist turn within BiH women’s activism which addresses the needs
of a younger generation of women.11 As one of the CURE initiators,
Jadranka Miličević (as cited in Gušić 2017, online) states:
I was also one of the founders of the civic association Women to Women
(Žene ženama) in the bygone March 1997 and I think that we initiated
many social changes. We were preoccupied with supporting women who
belong to different strata: returnees, displaced, local, survivors of war vio-
lence, refugees… but there was an increasing recognition of the issue of
young women (those who are no longer girls and not yet adults)… that
is why some of us who were the founders and members of Women to
Women decided to establish the Foundation CURE. […] we also wanted
our name to be intriguing and different. The majority of organisations
and associations devoted to women issues have something like women
and us (žene i mi), so we decided to come up with something different
and until then unseen in our civil society.
An integral part of this activist strategy that tries to leave behind forms
of organisation which do not intervene into the deeply entrenched
patriarchal patterns is related to artistic practice. PitchWise,12 a fes-
tival of women’s art and activism has been annually organised by the
172
Foundation CURE since 2006. Reflecting upon its beginnings, the

activists (Fondacija CURE 2016, online) state that:
the festival has grown out of the need to take derelict and neglected areas
and transform them for a meeting which will bring together socially
engaged artists, activists, theorists, feminists and all others interested in
women’s issues in BiH and the region.
Since its foundation, PitchWise has offered a space for encounters that
go way beyond legal improvements and give precedence to affective ties,
solidarities, and support. Given that these ties are feminist in nature,
PitchWise problematises deep political divisions in the country and
endeavours to gather women regardless of their ascriptive features. In
the words of one festival participant:
PitchWise is for me a celebration of women’s solidarity, women’s support,

especially in this time that is catastrophic for each and every one of us… and
not only for us personally, but also for our environment, more generally… it
is a safe space where at least a 100 women of different ages, socio-economic
backgrounds, religious or ethnic origins, gather for three or four days and
enjoy conversations, information and experience exchange, chat, love, singing,
emotions. (Selma Hadžihalilović, as cited in Fondacija CURE 2015, online)
Moreover, PitchWise strives to devise its programmes intersectionally

and is particularly open to different socially marginalised groups. With
this in mind, two PitchWise organisers Jadranka Miličević and Taida
Horozović (as cited in Đorđević et al. 2013, online), state:
We provide a space for everyone who represents the other, as well as to

groups which are considered minorities or which are marginalised. These
include: women who make up the majority of the population, persons
whose sexual orientation conceptually or literally differs from the hete-
ro-patriarchal norm, persons with disabilities, men who are fighting
against gender-based violence; as well as men advocating peace and
nonviolence; environmentally conscious persons and groups, as well as
a number of other alternatives to the boring and violent society which
imposes on us the bonds of taboos and stereotypes.
173
In accordance with the programmatic politics of the Foundation

CURE, PitchWise pays special attention to a younger generation of BiH
women. For many of them, this festival represents the first opportunity
to meet feminist activists. As one young participant/organiser states:
PitchWise was an eye-opener… I randomly ended up seeing one exhibi-

tion there and within half an hour I met a huge number of wonderful
women… in four days I realised that everything that I had been doing
up to then was called feminism. In that regard, PitchWise was for me the
beginning, the first step into that feminist story that will stay with me.
(Marija Vuletić, as cited in Fondacija CURE 2015, online)
PitchWise as a Space of Lesbian/Queer Women

Belonging
Given that the feminist orientation of the festival initiators is not
only limited to the issues related to gender, but also encompasses sex-
uality, PitchWise appears as a space which welcomes non-heterosexual
women.13 It is quite exceptional in this regard because there is no other
organisation that specifically addresses the needs of non-heterosexual
women in the BiH socio-political context.
PitchWise is a very important moment because it is public and for every-

body’s eyes, so it increases the visibility of LBT women and women of
other different identities. Every year we think about something for LBT
women, for example, an empowerment workshop led by an activist from
the region… in any case, we make sure that there is a space for women to
express themselves and feel free with their identities. (Marija Vuletić, as
cited in Velagić 2015, online)
Along with the idea that it renders lesbian existence visible and allows
it to enter into the public space and start sensitising the heteronorma-
tive environment in a way which is not “intrusive” (like, for example, a
Pride March), PitchWise also offers an opportunity for non-heterosexual
women to meet each other and embrace their sexuality.
174
As I have been organising PitchWise for three consecutive years, I have

to say that for me a space for LBT women is extremely important. The
festival is huge and dedicated to all women and it leaves a space for all the
multiply marginalised groups such as LBT women. It is very important
that there is a safe space because some of the women who attend have
never had an opportunity to meet other LBT women… Unfortunately
there are women groups which do not recognise lesbians, so it is good
that a space opens up for these women to link with each other, exchange
experiences and sometimes also get to know themselves better. (Marija
Vuletić, as cited in Velagić 2015, online)
Such initiatives can be particularly significant for women who do not

live in Sarajevo as they have very few other opportunities for articu-
lating and living their sexual desire. Thus, the festival enables affective
ties that open sexual/political possibilities and promote learning. In the
words of one of the organisers:
I am happy to see women from smaller communities bring new lesbian

women to PitchWise… it has always been a secret place of gathering…
the majority of workshops that we have organised end by people coming
out to me and telling me painful stories about how they cannot come out
to their parents… they need more empowerment and being together, so
that they can feel what it means to be in a community… when we are not
out, we are very lonely… I felt a need to meet other lesbians when I came
out to myself… I had a pile of questions… first regarding sex, and then
many other issues. (Vildana Džekman, personal communication with the
first author, October 2017)14
In this regard, some of the most prominent feminist and lesbian activ-
ists in the region have regularly contributed to the festival by con-
ducting feminist workshops for (lesbian) women.15 For example, Lepa
Mlađenović has been a frequent visitor. She states:
Sarajevo is my grandmother’s city and I promised that whenever I could,

I would come to Sarajevo to offer experience workshops as a gift to
women – that is the debt I have towards you for the war that you had to
175
survive. All those who have wars in their past are in need of tenderness
and love. (Lepa Mlađenović, as cited in Mixer 2014, online)
Similarly, in 2012, the organisers arranged a panel discussion related

to lesbian activism within the feminist movement, where activists
from Serbia, Croatia, and BiH—Biljana Stanković Lori, Matea Popov,
and Berina Džemailović—talked about their engagement. Particularly,
Matea Popov is a frequent participant who contributes to lesbian-
oriented aspects of the programme. Reflecting upon her involvement in
PitchWise, she (as cited in Velagić 2015, online) states:
It is for sure that there still are some forms of feminism and some femi-
nists who are openly or implicitly homo/transphobic… the lesbian ques-
tion, as well as the status of bisexual and trans* women, are issues that
should be of every feminist’s concern, regardless of her sexual orientation
or any other identity. At the same time, many LBT women are an impor-
tant part of feminist circles and very often they represent their fighter’s,
adamant, strong, and courageous aspect which speaks and yells, which is
heard and leaves a trace. It is hard for me to imagine being involved in a
feminist (or any other) initiative which does not recognise LBT women…
such kind of feminism would not make any sense to me… I see PitchWise
as a space which acknowledges and respects LBT identities, just as it does
this with any other woman and/or feminist who comes to the festival.
Also, the feminist-lesbian choir from Zagreb, Le Zbor,16 performed at

the fourth edition of the festival in 2009.
One of the performances that definitely drew public’s attention was the
dynamic choir from Zagreb – Le Zbor. What characterises them is a com-
bination of activism and innovative feminist politics and they share a
talent for something they are truly excellent at – namely singing. (HRH
Sarajevo 2009, online)
In the September 2017 edition, which was attended by the first

author, two panels were related to women’s sexuality, homophobia, and
176
different forms of resistance against patriarchy. The 2017 event took

place under the slogan The World is Our Canvas—Every Woman’s
Experience is Equally Important (Svijet je naše platno—svako iskus-
tvo žene je važno) and gathered numerous international visitors and
participants, many of whom were from the Yugoslav region. Thus, the
festival yet again highlighted the idea of activist regionalism as the guid-
ing concept of feminist/queer/LGBT movements in the post-Yugoslav
space (see Dioli, this volume). Those “annual meetings”, as one par-
ticipant puts it, provide a chance for the common cultural, linguistic,
and political legacies and issues to enable novel, more inclusive, forms
of being together. Kajinić (2013, p. 21) notes that those who take part
in feminist/queer/LGBT festivals in the region: “imagine the previously
shared geopolitical space in different terms, but co-create its queerness
through intensive networks of representation”. In other words, regional
activist gatherings17 construct a form of Queeroslavia which embodies a
“post-Yugoslav longing for queer transnational citizenship” (Dioli 2009,
p. 2) and intertwines reminiscences of Yugoslav socialism with invoca-
tions of a common cultural space that would be open to sexual diversity
and non-heteronormativity (Bilić 2016a, b; see also Dioli, this volume).
Moreover, consistent engagement of the PitchWise organisers has over
years increased the number of women who attend this kind of discus-
sions and especially the proportion of those who actually live in BiH.
For example, during the 2010 festival, one of the participants noticed
something about the queer and feminist events in the region:
There is no in-flow of new people! That is the biggest problem – also at

PitchWise Festival! When we went to Sarajevo for the PitchWise – it was
us: everybody from Belgrade, everybody from Ljubljana, everybody from
Zagreb. I say: where are the local people from Sarajevo? They are not pres-
ent! How can you do a festival in the middle of Sarajevo without them?
(Gabe 2010, as cited in Kajinić 2013, p. 214)
However, the latest edition of the festival, with all the familiar faces of
regional lesbian and feminist activism, gave the impression of exactly
the opposite—the in-flow of new people, and many of them from
Sarajevo. The audience was still rather diverse, especially in terms of age
177
and linguistic background. Even though the performers were mostly

from the region, younger generations of participants from Sarajevo and
other BiH cities, seemed to comprise the majority of the crowd at the
festival’s venues. One regular participant and a feminist activist involved
in LGBT initiatives in Sarajevo stated:
there are no other events of this kind in BiH. Also, there are not many
organisations left dealing with the women’s rights, let alone with lesbians.
PitchWise is the only festival with an evident lesbian presence, even more
now than it was before. (Vanja Matić, personal communication with the
first author, September 2017)
Conclusion
Over the last years, LGBT-related initiatives, mostly embedded in
the European Union integration and human rights discourses, have
increasingly become a relevant element on the BiH activist landscape.
As efforts for recognition and legal protection of non-heterosexual
individuals take place in the distinctly complex post-Dayton polit-
ical system, where the burdens of the past are combined with serious
socio-economic and political issues, LGBT activists and people face
constant struggles when finding their ways through the state institutions
and different domains of public and private life. With this in mind,
our chapter represents a nascent ethnographic study of the PitchWise
Festival of Women’s Art and Activism, showing that there are innovative
activist currents which draw upon feminist principles to problematise
donor-dependent forms of operation and devise activist endeavours that
give precedence to intimacy, solidarity, and support.
Although not necessarily announced as such, PitchWise has for more
than a decade been a site of lesbian belonging in the still highly les-
bophobic/homophobic BiH. “Through art we can touch taboo topics
that are difficult to talk about”, states one of its organisers (Valdana
Džekman, as cited in Zulić 2017, online). An important objective of
the festival has been creating a space attentive to the linkages between
sexual politics, patriarchy, and violence. Starting from the premise
178
that feminism must take into consideration non-heterosexual women,

PitchWise has enabled many lesbian women to articulate and appropri-
ate their lesbian desire. This has been mostly achieved through political
engagement that creates new forms of collectivity at the cross-roads of
the private and the public. While keeping its events (in principle) open,
but not opting for more confrontational activist strategies, PitchWise
constitutes a semi-public intimate sphere located in a political con-
text in which more overt forms of lesbian/non-heterosexual sexuality
still cannot emerge. The intimate sphere, Lauren Berlant (2008, p. 10)
argues,
carries the fortitude of common sense or a vernacular sense of belonging

to a community, with all the undefinedness that implies. A public is inti-
mate when it foregrounds affective and emotional attachments located in
phantasies of the common, the everyday, and a sense of ordinariness, a
space where the social world is rich with anonymity and local recogni-
tions, and where challenging and banal conditions of life take place in
proximity to the attentions of power but also squarely in the radar of a
recognition that can be provided by other humans.
As a place that is traversed by affective ties of its participants, which

may perform not only emancipatory, but also therapeutic functions,
PitchWise brings lesbian women in closer contact and offers them a
platform upon which their experiences can be shared. It also points to
lesbian existence in BiH and presents lesbian/women’s sexuality as a
political issue. By doing so, it slowly increases lesbian presence in public
life while trying to avoid and minimise the probability of lesbophobic
violence.
However, PitchWise ’s insistence on women, their concerns and iden-
tities, resurfaces the old tension between universalising and minoritis-
ing activist projects (Cvetkovich 2007) and highlights temporal loops
that (post-)Yugoslav non-heterosexual activist engagement has been
caught into (Kulpa and Mizielińska 2011). Given that the first BiH
non-heterosexual initiative, appearing in the early 2000s, already drew
upon the liberating potential of queerness which by that time became
more widely known, it could not share immediate ideological affinities
179
with the more separatist feminist/lesbian groups emerging in Slovenia,

Serbia, and Croatia in the late 1980s and throughout the 1990s (when
the activists still were not familiar with the idea of queerness). Such a
temporal arrangement may make it look that it would perhaps not be
necessary to go “back” to a specifically lesbian initiative in the context
in which queerness has already been employed as a principle of activ-
ist organising. Although it “might seem like an anachronism, a return
to the period before queer culture”, the need for PitchWise shows that
BiH has over the last three decades witnessed a patriarchal backlash as
a result of which women, and especially lesbian women, have remained
unrepresented.18 This makes it possible for queer and more identi-
tarian (LGBT) discourses to co-exist or be intertwined in visionary
activist endeavours. PitchWise is queer in the sense that it is an alter-
native which not only imagines but also enacts “utopian possibilities”
(Cvetkovich 2007, p. 466) “that exist in the here and now […] include
hardship and violence […] and offer strategies for survival” (p. 467).
Even though it combines queer and more identitarian elements,
PitchWise may not have always managed to avoid exclusion which—as
one of the fundamental patriarchal principles—seeps into the major-
ity of post-Yugoslav activist initiatives (Maljković 2016). Even though
lesbian/GBT/queer engagement can problematise and even foreclose
some—namely ethnic—lines of division, it may produce other, those
related to gender or sexuality. As one observer of the Sarajevo activist
‘scene’ notes:
I wonder why there was not so much fuss19 over the PitchWise 2008,
organised on 11-14 September 2008. It was a festival of women’s arts.
What is the difference, in terms of arts, between the two events? Both
are social groups, both do arts and both exclude “those they do not have
everything in common with”. PitchWise excludes those who do not have
a vagina, while Queer Sarajevo Festival excludes those who do not have a
partner of the same sex. (Ikic-Cook 2008, online)
While the extent to which some men may feel excluded by the pro-
grammatic strategies of the PitchWise organisers probably varies, this
festival is nevertheless a reminder that feminism as a value system which
180
strives to affect all social relations, is crucial within the fragile public
sphere that develop after wars and political violence. Feminist activism
which operates at the confluence between academic, activist, and artistic
practice could offer a more inclusive, citizen-oriented approach in the
context of deeply ethnocratic politics. BiH, “as a society of the others,20
of the missing, and the remaining ones” (društvo ostalih, nestalih i pre-
ostalih, Husanović 2012, p. 13; see also Touquet 2015) already counts
on numerous strands of a transformative feminist agenda that struggles
with “the ethno-religious tripartite division or the gender bipartite divi-
sion” (Popov-Momčinović 2013, p. 218). Such an approach could not
only help overcome numerous limitations of the highly convoluted BiH
political system, but it could also embrace, and perhaps even celebrate,
the role which sexuality plays in private/public life in this post-
Yugoslav/post-conflict country.
Notes
1. The General Framework Agreement for Peace in Bosnia and
Herzegovina (also known as the Dayton Agreement or Dayton
Accords) was reached in November 1995 and formally signed in Paris
in December 1995.
2. For an account of women history and organising in BiH before the
Second World War, see, for example, Spahić et al. (2014).
3. The dominance of the ethnic principle in political life was challenged
by the protests and plenums during 2013 and 2014 in bigger cities
across the country. The protesters required their efforts to be under-
stood as a form of civic disobedience without reference to political par-
ties or the government. As argued by Milan (2017, p. 1358), “plenums
did not only constitute acts of resistance that disrupted routines, as
did the 2013 protests and the simultaneous occupation of the square
in front of the National Parliament building, but also represented acts
that prefigured a new socio-political paradigm that challenged the exist-
ing one established by the Dayton arrangement”. See also Malewski
(2014).
4. Hate crime regulation is now equable on the entire territory of BiH
and crimes committed on the grounds of sexual orientation and gender
181
identity are acknowledged by the Criminal Codes of both entities. The

relevant amendments were adopted by the BiH Parliament in April
2016, and entered into force in June 2016 (OSCE 2016).
5. The media coverage of LGBT related topics has increased in the last
two years. According to the SOC, 1299 articles have been published
in all the media during 2016. In the same analysis, it is found that “the
majority of texts were neutral in their tone (399), followed by positive
(112), and then negative (35), which is the lowest number of nega-
tive texts recorded since SOC monitors and analyses media reporting”
(Bošnjak et al. 2017, p. 47).
6. For example, the president of the University of Sarajevo Student
Parliament Haris Zahiragić, made anti-LGBTI remarks, by claiming to
have conducted research that found that “homosexuality is a systematic
and contagious disease” and “that LGBTI people should be separated
from the rest of society” (ILGA-Europe 2017, p. 3). It was only after
a year that the Senate of the Sarajevo University reacted to complaints
made by the SOC and condemned the mentioned statements, but no
further sanctions were taken against Zahiragić.
7. In the domain of political parties, the support to sexual minorities
is mostly limited to the multi-ethnic party Naša stranka (Our Party)
(Selmić 2016). In May 2015, the Youth Forum of SDP (Social-
Democratic Party) adopted the Resolution on sexual orientation and
gender identity, which states that all members are committed to advo-
cate rights of LGBT population. The precedent in the work of institu-
tions of BiH was a thematic session of a Joint Commission for Human
Rights of the Parliamentary Assembly of BiH on the rights of LGBT
people held in May 2015, the event that indicated the beginning of
somewhat different and more positive political climate regarding the
LGBT cause.
8. For instance, a public gathering that was supposed to take place
on the International Day against Homophobia (IDAHO) in May
2017 was cancelled because the cantonal Ministry of Transport failed
to respond to the request of the organiser, SOC. In March 2016, an
LGBT-friendly club Art Cinema Kriterion in Sarajevo was target of
the homophobic attack, when a group of young men entered the club
and attacked one of the staff, while shouting homophobic assaults. The
attack was soon condemned by the Minister of Justice of the Sarajevo
Canton, Mario Nenadić, but even a year later, “the attack has yet to
182
be brought to trial and the police are still carrying out an investigation
without any visible results” (Bošnjak et al. 2017, p. 9).
9. “Svetlana Đurkovic was a guest in a variety of TV shows in almost all of
BiH media outlets. Eventually she became the front of the LGBT com-
munity and also the first queer person who came out and was known to
the general public” (Spahić and Gavrić 2012, p. 113).
10. Zimmerman (2000, p. 2) argues that “through private rituals and cre-
ation of separate social spaces and fictive kin networks, lesbians in var-
ying regional contexts have established the sense of community and
solidarity needed for collective action”.
11. Naida Kučukalić (as cited in Oslobođenje Portal 2017, online), a fem-
inist activist from Sarajevo, states: “Feminism is still a bad word in
BiH”. Similarly, as Spahić-Šiljak (2012, p. 238) notes, “being a feminist
means being in the minority, with a meaning from the socialist period
that connected feminism with bourgeois heritage, radical feminism, les-
bians and a ‘suspicious code of conduct’”.
12. The name of the festival (pičvajz) is a play of words: on the one hand,
it refers to a slang Serbo-Croatian expression used to describe a mess, a
disturbance, a traffic jam, a fight or a party, while on the other hand, it
also invokes the derogatory word for the female genitals (pička).
13. A similar festival—Blasfem—was organised for the first time in Banja
Luka in June 2017. See Isović Dobrijević (2017).
14. The organisers are aware that in the audience there may be lesbian
women reluctant to come out. That is why one of them states: “When
it comes to lesbian identity, it has always been important for us to
boost this topic while implementing feminist workshops. We never
know who is sitting in the audience and we want to make lesbian par-
ticipants feel good” (Vildana Džekman, personal communication with
the first author, September 2017).
15. One of the participants in these workshops states: “In 2009 I attended
a two-day Pitchwise workshop with Lepa Mlađenović. There was
around 20 of us women and girls, coming from all over the region, all
walks of life, of different ages, sexual orientation, life experiences. We
had an exercise where we were divided in pairs and were asked to share
our feelings about traumatic events that happened to us. I remember
talking to this perfect stranger candidly about my life and then turn-
ing around to look at other women. All of them were engaged in their
conversations, listening to each other, sharing their stories, some of
183
them crying and hugging each other for support. This was the first time
in my life that I truly realised how much in common we all have as
women, and how important it is to have safe spaces where we can share
our deepest thoughts and feelings, knowing that we are among our
sisters” (Vanja Matić, personal communication with the first author,
December 2017).
16. Le Zbor is the first lesbian-feminist choir in Croatia and the wider
Yugoslav space. It was founded in November 2005 as a women/femi-
nist/non-heterosexual initiative that gathers around 15 singers.
17. Events contributing to the production of the queer space and time of
feminist and queer art in the region and beyond include, among others,
Red Dawns (Rdeče Zore) festival in Ljubljana (see Oblak and Pan, this
volume), Merlinka in Belgrade and Sarajevo, Queer Zagreb since 2003
and Vox Feminae in Zagreb since 2007. There was also L’art pour l’Ac-
tion lesbian festival in Novi Sad organised by the now inactive activist
group NLO—Novi Sad Lesbian Organisation.
18. In this regard, one of the PitchWise organisers talks about fear as the
main reason for the lack of formal gathering of LBTQ women in BiH.
“The goal is to empower LBT women – so they could perhaps launch
an organisation. We did not come to that yet and I think that the rea-
son for that is fear” (Vildana Džekman, personal communication with
the first author, September 2017).
19. The Queer Sarajevo Festival in September 2008 was the first larger-scale
public event related to LGBT population in BiH. It took place at the
Sarajevo Academy of Fine Arts and was attended by around 300 peo-
ple. However, the festival was interrupted by groups of football fans
and religious activists who attacked the participants (Grew 2008).
Organisation Q, the organiser of the festival, was active until 2009, but
Svetlana Đurković, its central activist, immigrated to the United States
soon after.
20. Interestingly enough, LGBT individuals are increasingly becom-

ing trans-ethnic citizens, positioned beyond the insistence on ethnic
belonging. Research that encompassed 545 persons ranging from 15 to
54 years of age, conducted by the SOC (2013), has shown that 73% of
LGBT examinees did not want to declare their ethnicity. LGBT per-
sons constitute the “Other” to all three main ethnic groups (see Selmić
2016).
184
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Conclusion: Discovering the Lesbian
in Us—On Our Ongoing, Never-Ending
Struggles
Marija Radoman
Over the last few decades, there has been an increasing number of studies
on lesbian sexuality, women who love women, lesbian desire, construc-
tion of lesbianity, lesbophobia, lesbian identity, lesbian partnership—it
looks like a lot has been already written about ‘the lesbian’ among/in us
(Dunne 1997; Zimmerman 2000; Irvine 2003; Clarke and Peel 2007).
Nevertheless, in my own research, as I interview women who are both
emotionally and sexually devoted to other women (Radoman 2015), I
seem to repeatedly encounter one basic issue: ‘how difficult it is to say
‘I am a lesbian’’. I used to think that this was a feature of societies with
a long-standing neglect of women’s homosexuality in which ‘lesbians
remained invisible even in the eyes of criminal regulation of sexuality and
prosecution of ‘wrong’ sexual desires’ (Cvetkovic, this volume; Dioli, this
volume). Perhaps, this was related to the fact that the word ‘lesbian’ (lez-
bejka/lezbijka) in Serbo-Croatian—along with signifying same-sex ori-
ented women—has a distinctly negative and derogatory connotation.1
M. Radoman (*) 
University of Belgrade, Belgrade, Serbia
190
M. Radoman
A lot of energy, cultural redefinitions, appropriations, and resignifications

will be needed until this term starts being associated with pride, with our
love to be lesbians and with the possibility to accept and enjoy the way
in which we refer to ourselves and in which others refer to us (see Bilić,
introduction to this volume).
However, for someone like me who lives in Serbia and shares the
painful experience of numerous cancelled or banned pride parades
(Radoman 2016), violence, and repression against non-heterosexual and
queer people (Labris 2017; Asocijacija Duga 2017), it is becoming clear
that the problem of pronouncing ‘I am a lesbian’ has deep causes and
that their examination takes us straight to the entanglements of post-Yu-
goslav political developments with our desires and identitarian articu-
lations—entanglements that are hard to disentangle. Constant social
rejection, homophobia, and various other, interlocking discriminations
(Bilić and Kajinić 2016) combine to produce the conditions in which
lesbians, gays, and other non-heterosexuals live in the post-socialist
countries that once belonged to Yugoslavia (Cvetkovic, this volume;
Ivanović 2014; Kajinić, this volume).
In this regard, in her account of internalised homophobia/lesbopho-
bia, the Croatian writer Jasna Žmak (2017, online), who in her work
devotes a lot of attention to lesbian sexuality, wrote:
Today it is hard for me to describe how my own emotional state, my

intimate life had looked like before I came out, probably because I never
talked about these issues with anyone. No, not with a single person. I
spent the first twenty years of my life in an absolute silence about my sex-
uality. That is an aspect of my growing up which never ceases to fascinate
me (…) The majority of us start absorbing self-homophobia in childhood
because it actually represents the homophobia that we as children inter-
nalise along with a range of other stupid things we are exposed to (…)
some already in the family, others in school, in the church, while working
out or engaging with the media. A lot of strength and awareness is needed
to root it out. And time, very often we need a lot of time.
Stories about coming out as well as those about internalising guilt and
shame still have not been adequately told—they are inhabiting fields of
Conclusion: Discovering the Lesbian …
191
silence regardless of whether we are looking at Serbia with its history

of failed and violent pride marches (Kajinić, this volume), Bosnia and
Herzegovina in which pride still has not happened (Selmić and Bilić,
this volume; Selmić 2016), Montenegro with hardly any outed les-
bian activists (Vuković and Petričević, this volume), Macedonia with
its profound political instabilities (Cvetkovic, this volume), or Croatia
and Slovenia which have laws on same-sex partnership, but still a lot of
homophobia in schools2 and the public sphere, more generally.
In the post-war 90s in Croatia, nationalism was the dominant ideology so

everyone who threatened the great project of establishing the independ-
ent Croatian state was the enemy: feminists, queers, Serbs, atheists were
all not proper Croatians. To be Croatian has for a long time been syn-
onymous for being Catholic, heterosexual, and patriotic; and sometimes
I feel it still is. I never knew any queer people while growing up. I don’t
recognise myself in the rhetoric of ‘knowing I was gay since I was born’
because I didn’t know one could be anything other than straight. I believe
I became a lesbian when I found the words and language for it thanks to
the LGBTIQ + activism I saw around me in Pride marches and on TV.
(Marta, personal communication, January 2018)
Cultural definition of lesbianity is a necessary political fight that is help-

ing us to build something new on the level of politics and—very impor-
tantly—on the level of our own selves. Valerie Jenness (1992, p. 67)
wrote about the significance and urgency of articulating lesbianity as a
social category that can serve as an ‘interpretative scheme’ for the under-
standing of our experiences:
The construction of a lesbian identity is firmly located in a developmen-

tal process that begins with an awareness of the social category ‘lesbian’.
Regardless of how the category is understood, an awareness of the social
category lesbian must be present for a woman eventually to categorise
herself as a lesbian and adopt a lesbian identity. If the woman is not aware
of the social category, she cannot assess her experiences in terms of that
social construct and its affiliated identity.
192
M. Radoman
Without such cultural and historical models, we find ourselves in a sort

of ‘cultural vacuum’—which for many non-heterosexual people trans-
lates into relationships and strategies that are fragile and sustainable
only in certain—their own—ways and not without costs: sometimes
heterosexual patterns are appropriated and adapted, on other occasions
completely new and innovative existential modes are created and tested.
In such a way, a lack of cultural models for non-heterosexual peo-
ple could be understood as ‘a negative factor with potentially positive
effects’ (Weeks et al. 2001, p. 112).
This volume stems from our idea to take stock of the efforts that have
been invested into the building of something ‘new’ over the last more
than three decades of lesbian activism in the post-Yugoslav space. There
are few written traces of the earliest initiatives in the sphere of lesbian
rights, but recent collective academic-activist efforts (Bilić 2016a; Bilić
and Kajinić 2016) are rapidly filling this lacuna and our own book con-
stitutes their further advancement and extension.
In the majority of post-socialist societies, scientific interest in everyday life

and culture of gays, lesbians and other queer people and communities has
a much shorter history in comparison with the one in Western societies
and is quite often limited to individual researchers and NGOs’ projects
that aim at understanding, respect, and equal rights for LGBT popula-
tion. (Ivanović 2014, p. 120)
What guided Bojan and me as editors of this book through the whole
process of its creation was the wish to include in it the highest possible
number of participants and active figures of the regional lesbian/queer
movement. It is for this reason that one part of this concluding chap-
ter brings excerpts from the interviews/electronic correspondence that
we conducted/had with Marta Šušak (Croatia), Miloš Urošević (Serbia),
and Lejla Huremović (Bosnia and Herzegovina), all feminist activists
who have helped us to further problematise the questions raised by
non-heterosexual activist engagement in the post-Yugoslav space.
193
Lesbophobia in a Post-Socialist Context

Whenever it is talked about violence against LGBTQ people, images
of gruesome physical attacks—explicit and direct threats on someone’s
physical integrity—seem to dominate. There is much less talk about
violence within LGBT circles or invisibility as a form of violence—‘to
live a gay or lesbian identity publically is an exception that undermines
the rules of ‘normal’ social life instead of being accepted as a norm guar-
anteed by the right to be different’ (Ivanović 2014, p. 121). As a mat-
ter of fact, even in those instances in which there is no direct violent
experience, the imagined risks may have a palpable influence on every-
day choices regarding the ways in which we manage our identities and
decide to live our lives.
Recent data on the violence against non-heterosexual people suggest
that the levels of homophobia and heteronormativity are still rather
high in our region. Regardless of the legislation that prohibits discrim-
ination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender expression, the
rights of many non-heterosexual people are violated on a daily basis.
This is evident in a general social climate in which the freedom of non-
heterosexual people’s movement is often unguaranteed and their public
expressions of sexuality encounter one or the other form of discrimina-
tion. For example, public surveys still show that a huge number, at least
50%, of Serbian citizens consider homosexuality a disease (RTS 2014),
while 80% would not like to have an LGBT person as a family mem-
ber (Socijalno uključivanje 2018). But also, for the new generations of
women who love women, we can say that we have much more space for
lesbian love:
Through activism we create spaces to live our own desires, spaces in

which we can be free and who we are. And we allow those after us to have
choices that we did not have. Already now, the situation is a bit easier for
Mlađenović, as cited in Čaušević 2014, online)

girls who feel excited about girls than it used to be 30 years ago. (Lepa
194
M. Radoman
The problem is that violence is most of the time reported by organisa-

tions rather than by individuals who have suffered it and there is a lack
of centralised documentation and statistics about the number of crimes
motivated by homophobia and transphobia (Labris 2017). The exist-
ing strategies of documenting homophobic crimes do not allow us to
understand how many of these involved gays, lesbians, or trans people
specifically. This practice is reflected in the fact that public surveys usu-
ally do not differentiate between homophobia, biphobia, or transpho-
bia, so gays, lesbians, bi, and trans people tend to remain invisible in
them. Research has shown that respondents have different attitudes and
express varying degrees of stereotyping depending on whether they are
asked about lesbians or gays (Herek and Capitanio 1999; Herek 2004).
This is to say that for the time being it appears quite hard to talk about
regional levels of lesbophobia with any certainty. If we zoom in on the
legislation, most discrimination is still present in the sphere of partner
relations and family with a tentative exception of Croatia and Slovenia.3
According to Marta Šušak, one of the co-founders of the first student
LGBTIQ + initiative AUT at the Faculty of Humanities and Social
Sciences in Zagreb, she started getting in a better touch with her iden-
tity only upon leaving Croatia:
Because of the context I grew up and came out in, where there were only
a handful of people who were publicly out, my lesbianity has always been
more of a political than a personal identity. So ever since leaving Croatia
and moving to Berlin, I have been feeling a kind of freedom which was
out of reach for me back ‘home’: the freedom to explore my sexuality and
relationships without the constraints of a homophobic society holding me
back. The toll on our relationships and private lives is enormous when
we’re constantly fighting against a system that doesn’t want us. Moving
out of Croatia made me realise just how much energy I was spending just
trying to survive and fight back in a country that still lives in the past and
therefore offers very little future for new generations. (Marta, personal
communication, January 2018)
The invisibility of lesbians is a particular form of lesbophobia equally

present in both academic and activist realms (Kajinić, this volume;
195
Vuković and Petričević, this volume). Some authors start from the
assumption that lesbian sexuality has been historically less visible
because there are different histories of the ways in which men and
women have been constructed as social categories.
‘Access to employment and an independent income has been both
easier and more profitable for men than for women and, in criminal
law, homosexuality has been constituted almost exclusively as a mas-
culine proclivity’ (Jagose 1996, p. 45). Also, it is assumed that ‘female
homosexuality does not occupy the same historic positions as male
homosexuality in the discourses of law or medicine’ (Jagose 1996,
p. 13). So, structurally observed, unequal position imposed on women
extends to lesbians, while heteronormativity means their double discrim-
ination. According to Teresa de Lauretis, heterosexuality is:
intimidated as heterosexuality, in the sense that women can and must feel
sexual in relation to men and imposed as heterosexuality in the sense that
sexual desire belongs to another, begins in other. In this standard frame-
work, shockingly simple, yet authoritative, always renewed, unfortunately
also in feminist theory, whatever women feel towards other women can-
not be sexual desire, unless it is ‘masculinisation’, usurpation, or mimick-
ing the man’s desire. (De Lauretis 1994, p. 123)
Women’s homosexuality has stayed invisible because women’s sexuality

has stayed invisible and often been interpreted as ‘innocuous’ because
women supposedly have ‘weaker’ sexual desires than men and tend to
be associated with reproduction (Hupperts 2011). Women’s sexuality
loses its autonomy through a frequent equalisation with its reproductive
function. Given that a man is often perceived as the initiator of a sex-
ual act,4 there are frequent representations of women as romantic and
essentially asexual.
Ideology limited the possibility for even an attempt at scientific defini-

tion of lesbianism. But even more important, the social position of most
women militated against the easy emergence of a distinctive lesbian way
of life. (Weeks 2012, p. 144)
196
M. Radoman
Nevertheless, the question remains as to how we in our own time

approach these phenomena—what does the history of homosexuality
tell and can teach us about gay and lesbian lives in contemporary world?
We need (her)stories of the ‘marginalised’, of those who have been ban-
ished from the official ‘masculine’ histories if we are to develop an
awareness about the ways in which culture has shaped both gender and
(homo)sexuality in our own space. In this regard, research on lesbian
practices in the former Yugoslav countries is still missing and it would,
as our book also does, surely point to a whole range of ambiguities, con-
tradictions, and conflicts that are inbuilt in this engagement.
The herstory of lesbian organising in Croatia illustrates a general
trend that has prevailed in other republics too—the problems lesbians
have in articulating their position within the feminist movement, and
the fear of feminists in the 1980s that all women’s organisations would
be labelled ‘lesbian’. According to the Croatian feminist activist Nela
Pamuković:
the process of raising the level of awareness of lesbians was not easy
because feminism itself was treated as a movement of weird, eccentric
women, lesbians, and haters of men. For this reason, lesbians were not fully
accepted within feminist groups, this was a rather complicated situation.
(Nela Pamuković, as cited in Marušić 2014, online)
Also, the wars on the territory of Yugoslavia during the 1990s fur-
ther slowed down the empowerment of lesbian organisations—‘There
was simply no possibility for such a type of political activism’ (Nela
Pamuković, as cited in Marušić 2014, online).
With a distance of almost three decades, Marta offers her own per-
spective on the lesbian movement and her position within it:
As an activist of the younger generation who has only been active in the
LGBTIQ + movement since 2010, my knowledge of lesbian activism in
the region is only fragmentary, gained mostly from my personal experi-
ence and the limited exchanges I had with lesbian activists of the older
generation. I am aware of the informational discontinuity of lesbian
197
activism in Croatia and the region and the need for younger generations
of activists to be more aware of the history of our L(GBTIQ) movement.
The legacy of ex-Yu lesbian activists is enormous and their influence on
the today’s LGBT movements in the region is indisputable: they were the
first ones to break the silence around non-heterosexual identity and desire
in the region, establish lesbian spaces and spaces of lesbian exchange and
give non-heterosexual women the personal and political tools to come out
first to themselves and then publicly. (Marta, personal communication,
January 2018)
What is more, we cannot neglect the impact that traditional religions

(Christianity, Islam, and Judaism) have had on perceptions of homosex-
uality in the post-Yugoslav space. In the 2011 census, around six mil-
lion Serbian citizens said that they were Orthodox Christians, and even
though all of them may not be particularly observant, the influence of
the Serbian Orthodox Church is quite strong, if for nothing else than
because its vitriolically homophobic statements get a lot of media atten-
tion (Ivanović and Radulović 2014). The overwhelming presence of the
Catholic Church in Croatian political life has cemented conservative
movements that oppose same-sex marriage, but also encourage resist-
ance struggles. In this regard, Marta states:
The strong influence the Catholic Church has over state politics and
the shame and guilt I was forced to feel while growing up has also made
me the activist I am today. I remember the kiss-in protest organised by
Zagreb Pride in 2013 in front of the Zagreb Cathedral, which marked
the beginning of the fight against the rise of neo-conservatism in Croatia.
Under the Christian motto of love and acceptance Love the neighbour,
a couple of dozen of us activists were surrounded by a few hundreds of
anti-protestors who were yelling ‘You are not Croatia!’ and ‘Faggots!’.
In the following months we had to deal with the homophobic referen-
dum on marriage, which eventually defined marriage as a union between
a man and a woman in the Constitution, and the ever growing back-
lash on LGBTIQ + , reproductive and women’s rights we thought had
been secured a long time ago. (Marta, personal communication, January
2018)5
198
M. Radoman
The political background of homophobia in the post-Yugoslav space

cannot be dissociated from the interpretations of homosexuality
as an ‘inherently’ Western phenomenon that threatens ‘our’ tradi-
tional national and religious values (Sremac et al. 2014; see also Bilić,
epilogue, this volume). The dissolution of Yugoslavia left in its wake
ethnocratic parties and stimulated a proliferation of right-wing groups,
all of which are based on the principle of exclusion and intolerance
towards non-heterosexuality (Selmić 2016). In this regard, the history
of Belgrade Pride parades (Bilić 2016b), for example, demonstrates
important linkages between the state and the activity of right-wing/
hooligan groups which started during the Milošević regime and perse-
vered way after its fall in October 2000 (Petakov 2017). It is, therefore,
important to keep in mind the resiliency of right-wing politics and its
capacity to adapt to regime changes and modern democratic rhetoric.
This ‘versatility’ can obscure its links with fascist legacies and extreme
nationalism (Kuljić 2002).6
It is with this in mind that we cared to show in this volume that an
analysis of lesbian activism cannot be detached from a broader political
context.7 One of the questions that has been touched upon—but which
will need to be taken up in much more detail in future research—has
to do with the way in which non-heterosexual, and especially lesbian
activism, positions itself in the context of neoliberal capitalism, increas-
ing populism, and the assault of right-wing groups. This issue draws
attention to the tension between, on the one hand, predominantly ‘lib-
eral’ and ‘leftist’ activists/political positions, on the other. It remains to
be seen whether these differences that create ideological fissures also in
other areas will keep doing so in the future. For the time being, it seems
that important segments of lesbian activist initiatives are geared towards
a critique of neoliberal capitalism:
Identity politics like, by the way, any other idea with an emancipatory
potential has been co-opted by neoliberal capitalism which has made of it
its own tool for social stratification and domination. Although it is often
not easy to assume a precise position on these issues, I have come to a
conclusion that communitarian ideologies carry the potential (along with
risks and traps, especially for women) to strengthen a class-bound group
199
with solidarity principles based on shared living experience. Power may

come from a socially informed alliance within which there, of course, are
different identities that will not be manipulated by neoliberal promises.
(Lejla, personal communication, December 2017)
Undoubtedly, the invisibility of lesbians in this region is part of the

structural repression that shapes their existence, but that also includes
the activity of lesbian activists, an important point that the authors
emphasise in all of the preceding chapters. Historically, this story is not
new—Suzana Tratnik (2001, p. 375) describes the position of ‘lesbian’
in her talk on the history of the lesbian organising in Slovenia:
Visibility is a kind of declaration of the ‘reality’ of lesbian existence (…)

Compared to male homosexuality, lesbianism was almost unknown/
unacknowledged, unrecognisable and enigmatic; even today its existence
is under question in many places. This explains the public curiosity: the
requirement for uncovering and the constant popping up of questions
such as ‘What do lesbians look like?’, ‘What do they do together?’.
In this regard, lesbian feminism appears as one of the key guiding prin-
ciples of lesbian activist engagement in the post-Yugoslav space:
Since we live in a patriarchal society (in which even most gay men often
perpetuate patriarchal patterns of behaviour) lesbian feminism is crucial.
Lesbians are still struggling for visibility in the public space. Take, for
example, the media coverage where gay men are still dominant. Because
of this, I believe that lesbian feminism has great potential... apart from
contributing to visibility and reducing violence against marginalised peo-
ple, it can generally contribute to a better life of lesbians. (Lejla, personal
communication, December 2017)
Marta explains important differences in the (self-)perception between

younger and older generations of homosexual women enabled by the
possibility of meeting other LGBTQ persons. This invites us to reflect
upon the ways in which forms of activism/visibility and naming con-
struct our own understanding of lesbian space(s).
200
M. Radoman
Lesbian and women-only spaces have been slowly dying out ever since
I came to activism: places and spaces such as the lesbian archive and
library LezBib, whose address was secret and given upon request only,
that served as the primary place of exchange between non-heterosexual
women, were replaced by more public spaces where LGBTIQ + people
could meet, such as clubs, parties and Pride marches. There is still a need
to celebrate the often neglected L in the acronym: for instance, through
the initiative Zbele na Tron, that organises cultural events and parties for
lesbians, bisexual and trans women and the event Lesbian of the Year held
once a year to mark queer women’s contributions to activism and art.
The Centre for Women’s Studies has also remained an important place
for feminist and lesbian exchange. I would also argue that there has been
a change in discourse and ideology when it comes to lesbian identities:
many of the activists of my generation would not call themselves lesbians
or lesbian feminists and would instead embrace queer as an umbrella term
for their activism and desires. (Marta, personal communication, January
2018)
Miloš Urošević, a long-time activist of the Belgrade-based Women in

Black8 describes the importance of lesbian presence within the feminist
movement:
Lesbian activists were those women who at the first feminist gathering
held in Ljubljana in 1987, have pledged to open a SOS help-line for
women and children who were victims of male violence, and they man-
aged to open shelters for women who were trying to flee from male vio-
lence and managed to organise lesbian groups and they were successful.
Lesbian activists were part of the anti-war movement, demanding to stop
killing, demanding to establish an international Women’s Court for war
crimes committed against women. Lesbian activists, among other femi-
nists, organised the first female march Bring night back to us, in Belgrade
in 1995. Lesbian activists organised the first Lesbian march in the
Balkans, which was held in Belgrade in 2015. (Miloš, personal communi-
cation, November 2017)
Some aspects of lesbian activism remain particularly neglected. The

role of personal care, burnout, and awareness of one’s own position in
the wider context of precarious work and capitalist labour conditions
201
are essential for building solidarity in activism. Lejla speaks about this
aspect, pointing out that our actions and emotions are linked to the
context in which we live and work:
We often forget to take care of ourselves, about us, about our psychic
health, about our capacities and possibilities. About how much we as
individuals can and must. We should not fall into the trap of everyday
life that is patriarchal, heteronormative and which requires certain rules
of behaviour and achievement from us. I think that we are in constant
danger from the ease of seduction of these patterns and that our own
awareness, daily functioning and struggle can make it difficult for us. Of
course, this is just one of the problems that the activists face, but from my
current experience I consider it an important issue. (Lejla, personal com-
munication, December 2017)
The position of trans persons is a topic that is increasingly talked about

lately and it opens up one of the important and sometimes burning
issues of LGBT activism, especially lesbian activism. In contrast to the
notion of the existence of trans-exclusionary radical feminism in les-
bian activism (see Vuković and Petričević, this volume), many femi-
nists emphasise the importance of a non-essentialist approach that goes
beyond identity politics and passes the boundaries of LGBT activism
(see Oblak and Pan, this volume). Lejla opened this question:
I wouldn’t say that trans persons only contributed to a common battle

and dynamics in recent years. They are present all the time, but often they
were not accepted as equal and remained invisible. That’s exactly why it’s
important to talk about it because I do not consider it necessary to sepa-
rate each identity, but accept it and give everyone space. It does not mat-
ter if we are talking about lesbian or gay, trans, bisexual, intersex, queer,
and everybody else. I think it is very important to have awareness of the
privileges and positions where we are. And that’s certainly the duty of the
feminism we live. (Lejla, personal communication, December 2017)
On the other hand, Miloš (personal communication, November 2017)

talked about the importance of lesbian-only spaces, emphasising the dif-
ference in relation to the gay and trans movements:
202
M. Radoman
Lesbian activism has been hit by the queer and trans movement and now,
as was the case in the beginning, we must defend the idea of only wom-
en’s spaces, which is important as such, because it is the idea that it is pos-
sible to have oases without male supremacy (…) lesbian activists have the
right to separatism, separation from those who are not women. Exclusion
and separatism are not the same thing.
Many of these issues will surely stay points of contention in political

debates and activist initiatives both regionally and internationally.
Making a Book: Sisterhood, Anxiety, and Joy

Along with the effort to include in our book as many activists/voices
as possible, which—truth be told—was not always smooth or success-
ful, we endeavoured to ‘capture’ our authors’ impressions regarding our
cooperation and their contributions to it. We did this by asking them
to reflect with us upon their writing once their chapters were complete.
Writing is more often than not a seclusionary practice that isolates us
both as authors and activists who work with ‘others’ and it is frequently
accompanied by questions, doubts, and uncertainties. We thought that
our anxieties, feelings of loneliness, and fears should also have an oppor-
tunity ‘to speak’ because they are an (often poorly visible) integral part
of the contexts in which we work and which shapes our everyday strate-
gies of action and resistance. In this regard, our authors have showed us
innovative, intimate, empathic ways of entering into a collective writing
enterprise which recognises ‘living’ people, their emotions, psychologi-
cal states, and exhaustive, courageous struggles in which they have been
involved for a lot of time. Our intimacy does indeed render us more
vulnerable, but it can also be an instrument upon which we can rely to
create new solidarity nets—and we hope that all of the preceding chap-
ters testify to that. As Adelita, a co-author on the chapter on Bosnia and
Herzegovina and the PitchWise festival, states:
the most interesting part of the research was correspondence and con-
versations with women who organise PitchWise and participate in LGBT
203
activism in Bosnia and Herzegovina… it is this that constitutes the basis

of our empirical material. What made it relatively easy and fun for me
to do all of this was the fact that networks, friendships, and all sorts of
casual and intimate relations have been intertwined in this project.
This made my own engagement as a researcher both comfortable and
gratifying.
The majority of our authors perceive their participation in this volume

as a contribution to a pioneering endeavour of writing an up to now
inexistent political analysis of (post-)Yugoslav lesbian activisms.
This volume represents an untold herstory of lesbians in the post-Yugoslav

space and it is the first time that something of this kind is published.
(Adelita)
We wanted this book to go beyond a ‘sheer’ political dimension or

expand it by visibilising aspects of writing that reflect the conditions
in which activist work is frequently done. For example, many of our
authors mentioned that producing their contributions was a challenge
because they were confronted with deadlines and exhaustion. Paula
stated that ‘regardless of the fact that the whole process was challenging
and inspiring, I believe that a similar adventure will not be repeated any
time soon’, whereas her co-author Marina claimed that ‘writing is never
just a pleasure, it is indeed a never-ending process’. For Irene,
writing this chapter has been my most ‘personal’ academic endeavour so

far. It has been also the hardest, both because of the autoethnographic
direction taken by the chapter and because I was writing while being
basically burnt out. Thanks to the caring support of the editors, I am
glad to say it has also been the most satisfying – not only because of the
final result, but because I felt part of a community of soul as well as of
intellect.
The authors counterpose their involvement in the making of this book

to the general invisibility of lesbians which gave them the feeling of
doing something they had not done before. ‘The experience of work-
ing on this volume was rather different from any research projects I had
204
M. Radoman
been working on’ (Adelita). Writing about lesbian activism or about

lesbians in our region still belongs to the domain of ‘alterity’ and our
book opens up a space for further social and cultural legitimation of this
topic.
Writing on lesbian activism in Bosnia and Herzegovina, a country

in which women make up the significant part of the LGBTIQ social
engagement, but do not have their own (lesbian) organisation or any
written history, meant that we had to start from our own observations,
experiences, and ideas, and turn them into valid documentary and eth-
nographic material. During this process, I sometimes received casual
comments on how lesbian activism in BiH does not exist. Yet, our goal
was not only to acknowledge that lesbian activism does exist, but to cap-
ture its forms, ideologies, manifestations, and anything that makes it
vivid, however hidden it may seem. (Adelita)
Similarly, Irena also perceives her work in and on lesbian activism in

Macedonia as a means of puncturing the frontiers of heteronormativity
in research:
The process of writing the chapter showed that we, as a society, lack
archives on lesbian lives and activism. We lack studies and research on
this topic that would fill the gap on non-heterosexuality in our national
production of knowledge. (Irena)
For Teja, writing about the lesbian movement in Slovenia also was an
important personal and political experience:
Working on the chapter was a source of profound joy and euphoria – to

make a memory and analysis of otherwise under-represented or hidden
lesbian/queer feminist groups and to make this information available to
broader audience out of our Ljubljana circles. (Teja)
It looks like the most precious aspect for all of us engaged in writing
this book was the opportunity to learn from the experiences of other
women through empathy and listening.
205
The interviews we conducted with our respondents were transforma-

tive in multiple ways, not only in the sense of what I thought I knew or
what I would hear and learn about them, but also concerning the way in
which I would feel and behave during and after them. The hardest thing
for me was resisting the temptation of entering into an argument with
them – the ‘unnaturalness’ of that position was a constant nuisance, but
the need to listen without directing them or intervening into what they
wanted to say and considered most important eventually prevailed and I
am immensely grateful to all of them for their trust, for the ‘gift’ as one
of them said, that they gave me, for the strength with which they live, for
the sorrow that they allowed me to take a look at. (Paula)
This ‘transformative’ effect of our authors’ encounters with their

respondents made us think about feminist epistemology’s empha-
sis on ‘socially located knowledges,’ which draws attention to reflexiv-
ity and the role of the researcher in constructing knowledge (Doucet
and Mauthner 2007). All of the contributions struggled to appreciate
a ‘plurality of perspectives’ as we were all led by the belief that ‘mar-
ginalised groups hold a particular claim to knowing’ that should be
embraced and encouraged (Doucet and Mauthner 2007). This way,
in-depth interviewing from feminist perspective is particularly inter-
ested in arriving at experiences that are often hidden and still waiting
for articulation (Hesse-Biber 2013). Irena applies this feminist approach
when she bridges the differences and positions of the researcher and her
respondents:
I really enjoyed the interviews and the willingness of lesbian women and
activists to share their personal stories of discrimination, but also fight for
dignity and rights. The women were very sincere and open and the con-
versation with them was a process for both of us (me as a researcher and
them as respondents) to re-think the past struggles from a distance, eval-
uate our common activities and goals and, what was most important, to
find motivation and hope for the future. (Irena)
For some authors, working on their chapters was particularly challeng-

ing because they had to revisit their research done ten or 15 years ago.
Sanja, for example, draw upon the data she collected in 2001 and 2002
206
M. Radoman
while participating in the first prides in both Belgrade and Zagreb. She
then wrote her MA thesis on the basis of that material—a document
that has been widely used, but only now published. Sanja returned to
those valuable data from a different perspective, with new knowledge,
and richer experiences:
I am aware that now – 15 years later – I would have approached that

topic somewhat differently, especially the analytical part…so as I worked
on the chapter, I tried to link interview excerpts with theory while strug-
gling to avoid writing a new text. (Sanja)
Maja describes a similar experience:
Now the stuff we wrote about is ten, fifteen years away, I reached addi-
tional distance due to the fact that I have lived abroad for years. Apart
from distance, the most important question for me was how to place
one’s own insight as objectively, that is as critically but sympathetically as
possible, while at the same time remaining invested. (Maja)
It is interesting to see what happens with interviews and empirical data

as well as how the researcher’s perspective matures through time. We are
glad to have in our book also that kind of ‘theory’ which experiments
with time and repositions older data in new circumstances in which
those ‘past’ voices are still present as subjects, as activists involved in our
ongoing struggles.
Writing in co-authorship was also an aspect that many authors com-
mented upon offering us an insight into the dynamics of ‘collective’
work that is normally stimulating and enriching.
Since I procrastinated so much with making this text (there were two
attempts earlier but I did not manage), it occurred to me that the most
feasible thing might be to work with a co-author who would place my
initial intentions ‘out of joint’ – simply by the means of there being two
of us. (Maja)
What made it interesting and inspiring was a diversity of ideas and

thoughts both of us came up with and integrated into the text. (Marina)
207
Solidarity and the need to meet tight deadlines gave another dimension
to the joint enterprise of Teja and Maja:
However, this work was sometimes coupled with urge or anxiety due
to other engagements. I felt real sister*hood when my co-author was
really open to my time and working constraints and accepted them with
patience and love. In spite of similar political viewpoints, our different
theoretical, practical, and generational background definitely led to richer
analysis in conclusions. (Teja)
Working on ‘political’ texts gave our co-authors an opportunity to enjoy

the overlap over their ideological positions and attitudes:
We knew each other’s political presuppositions beforehand, those matters

were debated rather quickly as we were on the same page. What we saw
as a really special chance was to theorise and to express our mutual frus-
tration with the self-historicising types of activism which are especially
bothering in small environments like Slovenia. It is hard to resist, I mean
the self-historicising, as I was just about to write: we are probably the first
authors in Slovenia to write about this. (Maja)
What adequately describes the efforts of lesbian activism in space of

former Yugoslavia, which occurs between invisibility and continuous
action, is the awareness and strength of the activists who see themselves
in these processes as significant subjects:
Lesbians uncompromisingly were changing heteronormative patterns of

behaviour, not hesitating to take over risk. (Lejla, personal communica-
tion, December 2017)
At the end, we believe together with our respondents and friends, that
lesbians continue their struggle, changing themselves, building on old
victories and winning some new and unexpected spaces, and perhaps
also common—Yugoslav—spaces:
I was lucky to have been able to break that silence early on and come out
to myself as a lesbian in my teenage years. This however did not happen
208
M. Radoman
in a vacuum: thanks to the efforts and struggles of the earlier generations

of activists who started the Yugoslav and later Croatian LGBT movement
so I could be as out as I am today. This meant that there was some dis-
course on homosexuality in the media while I was growing up in the late
1990s and the early 2000s, which was rarely the case in the early post-war
years in Croatia, where silence and shame were the name of the game.
Thanks to the Pride marches that happened every year in the centre of
Zagreb ever since 2002, when I was 10 years old; queer people who were
out and loud about it and the Internet, which helped me connect with
other queers and learn about our identities; I was able to turn my new-
found lesbian identity into a political one. (Marta)
Having in mind that the herstory of the lesbian movement in the

post-Yugoslav space is so poorly documented, that some women who
have been there from the beginning are still active today, but many are
not—our collection starts a narrative about their complex and interest-
ing engagement and will hopefully serve as a source of inspiration for
future writing on this topic. There may be in our accounts new perspec-
tives, new directions for all of us who are here now, living our lesbian
realities and taking part in our ongoing, everyday struggles.
Notes
1. Similar to the word ‘faggot’ (peder), but also different in the sense that
homosexual men would more likely refer to themselves as ‘gay’ (gej),
circumventing thus in their self-identification some of the homophobic
charge contained in the word ‘faggot’.
2. Croatia is fighting homophobia and especially transphobia in the edu-
cation system. The problem is that even in lower grades children are so
introduced into a heteronormative way of thinking (male and female
sports, before and after puberty) that it is later difficult to come up with
a ‘corrective’ (Zelić 2016, online).
3. Institutional barriers to LGBT partnerships have not changed much
in the last few decades. In 2002, the position of lesbians and gays was
found to be bad in all the countries of former Yugoslavia, with the
exception of Slovenia: ‘No state has an anti-discriminatory article in its
209
Constitution that explicitly refers to sexual orientation as one of the cri-

teria of discrimination. Secondly, no state allows the possibility of legal
regulation of same-sex partnerships. These facts have consequences, a
greater social vulnerability of the lesbian and gay population, and greater
exposure to violence, stigmatisation, and social isolation’ (Labris novine
2002, online).
4. When we ask the question regarding the difference between male-male
and female-female sex, one should remember the heteronormative per-
ception that the only ‘real’ sex is one in which there is a penetrative
intercourse i.e. something that men ‘do’ to women (Weeks et al. 2001).
This perception ‘takes away’ the legitimacy of the relationship between
two women, because it implies that if lesbians do not possess a penis,
there is an absence of sex (Weeks et al. 2001). Richardson (1992, as cited
in Weeks et al. 2001, p. 138) suggests that as a consequence, women do
not have access to a language that can be used to describe, discuss, and
negotiate sex: ‘although there are numerous terms to describe sex from
male perspectives, there are far less to describe sex from female perspec-
tives, and even fewer from the perspective of sex between women’.
5. An important recent activist victory concerns Marta’s partner Mima
Simić, who sued Željka Markić, the leader of the conservative and hom-
ophobic non-government organisation In the Name of the Family, for
defamation (Voxfeminae 2018). This victory is significant because Željka
Markić is at the helm of the organisation which promotes marriage as
exclusively a union between a man and a woman (Voxfeminae 2018).
6. According to Kuljić, ‘contemporary ideological jargon (the general ref-
erence to the rule of law, the division of power and democracy) is often
successful at blurring deeper goals of political movements and makes it
difficult to recognise their basic orientation. Right-wing extremism also
successfully adapts to current political rhetoric and manifests itself in dif-
ferent, often hidden ways, and almost as a rule denies any connection
with unpopular fascism’ (Kuljić 2002, p. 124).
7. The way in which we perceive and talk about violence against non-
heterosexual people/lesbians speaks volumes about our political orienta-
tions. Regionally known dramatist Olga Dimitrijević always emphasises
her queer, feminist, and left-wing position when criticising the existing
concept of Pride Parade in Belgrade:‘Violence is enormous, legal rights
are minimal, and rarely applied, fear is also very present. To me, it is a
terrible problem that one Pride is openly flirting with nationalism, and
210
M. Radoman
the other, considered the main Belgrade Pride, has openly proclaimed
the death of politics. This year, there was almost no political banner or
message, and the speech was held by a man from Amsterdam’s Pride
who complained to us that they didn’t have a prime minister at Pride
Parade or a lesbian prime minister. Nothing, nothing about the fight…’
(Dimitrijević 2017, online). When it comes to Ana Brnabić (see Bilić,
introduction to this volume), my opinion is that Brnabić’s appointment
will probably contribute to the visibility of lesbian identity among the
general public (at least at the symbolic level), but this choice should not
be viewed separately from political motivations, intentions, and above
all, nationalist and neoliberal politics that are there behind it.
8. Women in Black’s webpage: http://zeneucrnom.org/index.php?lang=en
(retrieved on February 5, 2018).
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Epilogue: Collecting Fragments—Towards
(Post-)Yugoslav Activist Archives
Bojan Bilić
In Night Soldiers, a novel which meticulously reconstructs the atmos-

phere of Europe at the verge of being plunged into the Second World
War, Alan Furst (2009) attributes to Leon Trotsky the famous saying:
“You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you”. Those
of us who lived through the (post-)Yugoslav 1990s know what it means
to become an object of war’s interest. Even if a war, as was my privi-
leged case, enters into your life only “laterally”—through whispers of
your worried parents, commotions of your neighbours, or new terrified
classmates who stay for a few weeks before moving on to other coun-
tries and sometimes even continents—it nevertheless fills all of life’s
pores: hardly anything manages to flee from its implacably totalising
logic. War is in its nature omnipresent: it spreads like a fluid, seeps into
all social relations, and drives a wedge between colleagues, friends, sib-
lings, children and parents, marital partners… war destroys external and
internal worlds, it cuts through the hemispheres of the brain, it splinters
the chambers of the heart…1
B. Bilić (*) 
216
B. Bilić
As a manifestation of unharnessed evil, war obscures justice and side-

lines law to give the stage to the corrupt who are eager to benefit from
the proliferating shortcuts that lead to fame and wealth. War confronts
us with those willing to “take advantage” of an “opportunity”, those
who, up to then silent and reserved, “suddenly begin to walk upright,
whose bodies become, in their new visibility, important and pow-
erful” (Kašić 2012, p. 270). Beyond destroying life in its purely, pre-
ciously biological substance, war shatters the moral values upon which
sociability thrives. Its dehumanising machinery pulls the social struc-
ture out from under our feet, detaching our biographies from their
spatial anchors2 and leaving us suspended in midair, fragmented and
confused.3
Repeated encounters with death and suffering that we—as (former)
Yugoslavs—have experienced over the last three decades strip ethical
dilemmas of theoretical speculation and pose them in front of our eyes
with a new, particular urgency. Political projects that seminate destruc-
tion while instrumentalising our intimate history/herstory and a ten-
tative sense of cultural, linguistic, or even ethnic belonging, demand
a response and stimulate new forms of being together. Fragile opposi-
tional currents inevitably emerge and start moving in various directions
in an effort to resist the impoverishment of language and thought, and
counter warmongers’ longing for “purity” and only one, prescribed,
“our” “truth”. An expression of courage and a message of life, activism
stems from the emotional crucible in which shock, anger, frustration,
fear, and love are all entwined. It draws from this affective well to bring
relief, provide shelter, and preserve vestiges of civility and collectivity
from which better futures will hopefully sprout. At the heart of activist
mission intersect myriad of ways of recognising the other as nothing less
than a fellow human.
However, as dissenters, heretics, rebels, sceptics operating (and not
necessarily co-operating) on the margins of history, activists are rarely
concerned with or capable of documenting the present. Also, there is no
or little space for them in official, “clean,” and often disturbingly linear
narratives of national victorious pasts and supposedly millennial com-
mon dreams. The fact that activist engagement as a “life-changing jour-
ney” (Janković 2012, p. 226) usually makes an indelible biographical
Epilogue: Collecting Fragments—Towards …
217
impact, does not render it less porous. Given that it clashes with the
domineering “masters of oblivion” (Ugrešić 1998, p. 6), activism can
hardly be more than an ephemeral practice—with time many of its pro-
tagonists, achievements, visions, and artefacts slip through our fingers
like sand.
This epilogue stands at the end of our fourth collective volume on
the politics of activism in the (post-)Yugoslav space (Bilić and Janković
2012a; Bilić 2016; Bilić and Kajinić 2016a). Over the last six years,
more than 50 authors have come together to form an affective-epistemic
community which has documented, analysed, and perhaps offered new
perspectives for inclusion-oriented/left-wing activist initiatives in the
post-Yugoslav countries. Even though the unfortunate fall of Yugoslavia
requires a theoretical reaction commensurate with its depth—already
testified to by hundreds of books that have been written about it—the
rate with which this group has grown both horizontally and vertically
has by far exceeded my expectations. This convergence, however fleet-
ing or profound individual encounters within it may have been, is a
resource for responding to a traumatic experience that we share.
Privileges and Pains of Survival

Our books first and foremost show that the privilege of survival does
not come without a price tag: it carries the burden of remembering
and leads to the urgency of (illusory) understanding. For me as some-
one who is often drawn to re-living the death of Yugoslavia both psy-
chically and professionally, there is hardly a more poignant account of
its devastating impact than the incomplete paper of the Belgrade-based
Yugoslav/Croatian/Serbian sociologist Silvano Bolčić. Engaging with the
reasons for which Yugoslav sociology failed to give a clearer indication
of the forthcoming “internal war”, Bolčić (1992, p. 24) abandons writ-
ing and leaves his paper unfinished upon learning that his son Ninoslav
“stepped out of life”. Afflicted with the overwhelming loss of a child,
Bolčić nevertheless summons the strength to say:
218
B. Bilić
Due to certain “personal circumstances”, this paper will stay unintention-

ally, “unnaturally” and unprofessionally interrupted. However, the reason
for this interruption at least partially has to do with the issue of war that I
have addressed on the preceding pages. This “time of war”, prepared and
transferred into our homes in the summer of 1991, took in the winter of
the same year my son Ninoslav “abroad” and was then complicit in his
tragic and irreversible stepping out of life on 12 August 1992. His “time
of war” thus came to an end. […] I faced the question: should this paper
be subsequently, or for that matter ever, completed and published. I car-
ried in me the initial motives for writing as well as the scarce conviction
that there still was both a need for and a meaning in publishing this “soci-
ological essay” about the war in Yugoslavia that I had started last summer.
I have decided to publish it in this incomplete form in the memory of my
Ninoslav. I am not sure about the validity of this act or of such an ending
of a professional text. I am perhaps inserting a personal moment there
where it by no means belongs. Nevertheless, I am taking this liberty and
all the risks that go with it, because I want to show the pain I feel for the
tragic loss of my son and to say how sad I am because I, either as a father
or a “sociologist”, did not manage to do anything to prevent that omi-
nous “time of war” from coming to Yugoslavia which all of us, Nino, me
and my family could not see in any other way but as our country. Now,
so pensive, I am looking at the immense sky in which all of our questions
and answers disappear and I wonder: why did all of this happen? I know
that this question is not only mine.
Like any trauma, the dissolution of Yugoslavia is a recurring event for

and in those of us who lived through it—it looks incredibly recent, asks
for attention, wants to be talked about, absorbed, and—alas—inte-
grated. Hardly any present-day development in regional politics can
be explained without a reference to it.4 Hardly could a pleasant child-
hood—perhaps, mostly Adriatic—memory be evoked without a painful
realisation that our space was destroyed in bloodshed and that an alter-
native to it was surely possible. How could one today walk down the
streets of Srebrenica, Sarajevo, Vukovar, Dubrovnik, Prishtina, or even
Belgrade without noticing bullet holes, destroyed buildings, wounds,
and exhaustion? How could one take a look at the Mostar Bridge with-
out being reminded by its shiny and uncannily smooth new stone of the
219
incomprehensible evil that went into the destruction of the old one?5
Ethnocratic noise unleashed through the disappearance of Yugoslavia
still reverberates in its successor states and successor generations. It
seems impossible to come up with incentives that would make so many
of those Krleža-esque (1938/2012) “model-patriots” (uzor-rodoljub)
abandon their lucrative duties: they prefer to stay freezed in a speech-
less intermezzo—like the Bosnian and Herzegovinian anthem without
words—and keep us in it.6
However, the need to live, think, and speak through, in the aftermath,
and in spite of gruesome political violence has made many of us who
have gathered in these volumes—social scientists. We have entered into
sociology and its proximate disciplines not necessarily because we were
in search of a life-long profession—although that may not be immedi-
ately visible to many of our colleagues positioned in Western European
and US American centres of academic excellence. How many times
have I over the years in frustratingly impersonal conferences that repro-
duce hierarchies of the world heard my former fellow Yugoslavs talk
about their own country/ies and struggling to envelop agonising expe-
riences in academic lexicons that would attenuate their affective charge
and make them join the group of “objective” scholars? They wanted to
talk of loss, but they ended up talking about democratisation.
Rather than led by professional concerns, we entered into the social
sciences because we could not have done otherwise. It would have been
a luxury to work on anything else when our communities are so deeply
wounded through an eruption of death, hatred, and evil that is inevi-
tably accompanied and sustained by ignorance. Our books show how
much we yearn for intimacy, pleasure, and knowledge, and for sociolog-
ical interventions that would dissolve identitarian reifications with lethal
potentials. In all of these four volumes, we have relied on concepts like
on pillars, survival scaffoldings that give our scholarly and personal fem-
inist engagement therapeutic dimensions. War was surely not given to
us like a “theoretical issue which we can now explore peacefully, with-
out misery or desperation” (Golubović 1992, p. 5). It intruded and still
intrudes into our realities, homes, families, loves with a force that recal-
ibrates moral standards, increases tolerance thresholds, and perpetually
silences voices of reason, compassion, and co/existence. That is why
220
B. Bilić
many of us have approached the social sciences in a way in which an

exhausted pilgrim hopes to find relief upon stepping into a long-awaited
temple.
What is more, along with a relatively unimpaired/functioning body,
the privilege of survival grants to its holders a specific epistemic position.7
A huge number of those who may have been born in the same room,
but in different state formations over decades or even centuries cannot
but afford an insight into—or at least stimulate curiosity about—the
seismic nature of semi-peripheral spaces. By virtue of contingency rather
than by will, one is from very early on exposed to the fragility of institu-
tions and can witness both the labour that goes into the establishment
of social order as well as the velocity with which it is periodically unwo-
ven. Life itself offers a daily lecture in social constructionism by unveil-
ing the mechanisms of history and providing an often intellectually and
emotionally overwhelming encounter with social change.
In this regard, the fall of Yugoslavia cannot be reduced to a mere dis-
appearance of a state that left in its wake numerous border disputes: on
a more profound level this event constitutes an ideological turning point
that rocked the foundations of the socialist regime, undid, and pro-
scribed many of its achievements to clear the way for the ascendance
of neoliberal capitalism. Such social earthquakes that are felt through
generations not only supply and infrequently impose rules that attempt
to redefine how we are to relate to each other, but they also constitute
fertile ground for intellectual projects and conceptual advances that can
go way beyond the borders of the Yugoslav space (Blagojević and Yair
2010). We have worked on our volumes also because we believe that
developments occurring in semi-peripheral spaces are not irrelevant for
the politics of the “centre”, but that insights drawn from them may have
broader political implications.
Post-Yugoslav societies are an excellent place to interrogate the con-

cepts of European and Western modernity. [I]t [is] an important strat-
egy to resist studying or analysing the Balkans against a set of supposed
“European” norms. […] the gap between such “norms” and what is hap-
pening on the ground [is] a fruitful place to begin to theorise socially
productive forms of practice that are otherwise glossed as failure, apathy,
221
anti-politics and corruption. If we understand that the contradictions

and tensions embedded within contemporary European imaginaries are
being worked out at Europe’s Balkan margins, the study of post-Yugoslav
societies may have something to teach us about democratic, capitalist
and nationalist forms as such, and not just about their “Balkan” versions.
(Gilbert et al. 2008, p. 11)
However, many of those who came to take a look at the convoluted

ruins of Yugoslavia were not messengers of peace. Our experience and
our lives all of a sudden found themselves in the midst of an academic/
political market-place in which our losses are repeatedly and never con-
clusively measured, identities set in stone, guilts attributed and revoked,
and scholarly merchandise sold at high prices. How painful can it be
to hear that the promising and beautiful cities of your childhood, sites
of interrupted futures, have been not only increasingly referred to but
actually turned into “laboratories of citizenship”, platforms for politi-
cal, economic, and social experimenting that are hardly ever sufficiently
sensible to affective vibrations which have for long resisted forces of
destruction (see Bilić and Stubbs 2016). As Svetlana Slapšak (2012, p.
40; see also Bilić and Kajinić 2016b) says, there is
a certain international shadow – a colonial attitude [which] consisted

of grabbing, banalising the “hot” topics, treating them with sometimes
open ignorance and disrespect for local sources, sometimes with arbitrary
and shallow and/or unreliable choice of local data. And on top of all this,
this colonial situation was often served and helped to grow by the locals,
ready to display the attitude of the colonised. This is a very serious prob-
lem in the region, because the “wisdom of the colonised” is effective –
almost deadly – in restoring conservative “values” imposed as liberation
from socialist ideological constraints, and imposing nationalist discourses
and practices instead, initialising forced silence and other anthropological
signs of power being distributed through new channels.
It is also with this in mind that we wanted to speak from and offer
our epistemic position(s) to the pool of analyses to which many inter-
national scholars, our friends, and colleagues who came as messengers
of peace, contributed over the years with care and dedication. Ever
222
B. Bilić
since our first volume, we have been led by the idea that de-colonising
efforts are based on cooperation and have to be intimately bound with
local engagement and local knowledge production (Bilić and Janković
2012b). Our texts are evidence of our attempts to recognise and coun-
ter the oppressive force of (cognitive) colonisation which interacts with
our fears and insecurities to inhabit us in the form of self-balkanisation
(Kiossev 2011). Such a system of values traverses us with the intention
of keeping us in a place in which our freedom is constricted and our
possibilities foreclosed.
Writing in English has, thus, hopefully provided us with an oppor-
tunity to avoid ethical compromises that semi-peripheral scholars face
in their desire to let their work surpass national borders (Blagojević
and Yair 2010). In all of our books-archives, we have tried to expose
Yugoslav activist struggles to international audiences, contribute to the
subversion of deeply entrenched paradigms that consistently hinge on
ethnic belonging, and enrich the normative “centres” of scholarship
with a multiplicity of our embodied perspectives (Bilić and Kajinić
2016b; Mizielińska and Kulpa 2013). Our English is not only the
English of professional scholars, but also a language that can speak vol-
umes about demographic dispersions caused by profound social upheav-
als. On the other hand, our policy of translation, the awareness that our
texts need to be accessible in our own languages, has consistently broad-
ened the number of people included in our projects and allowed our
insights to return to the communities from which they stem.8
Soothing Effects of Feminist Friendship

War is a machinery of exclusion. As the most destructive expression
of patriarchal-masculinist violence, war is enabled by, thrives on, and
leaves in its wake potent mechanisms of enemy production. Žarana
Papić (1992, p. 79), a pioneer of Yugoslav feminism, rightly noted
that the results of democratic pluralisation which supposedly took
place in Yugoslavia towards the end of the 1980s were “by no means
pluralist.” They were, rather, celebrations of ethnic belonging which
across the Yugoslav space unravelled socialist legacies and shared
223
scepticism towards women and their political engagement. The first

multiparty elections led to 13% of women members of parliament in
Slovenia, 4.5% in Croatia, 4% in Montenegro, 3.3% in Macedonia,
2.8% in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and the incredible 1.6% in Serbia
(Papić 1992). These figures make it clear that in spite of all of its pro-
gressive legislation, Yugoslav socialism never managed to problematise
entrenched patriarchal patterns which constantly truncated women’s
political subjectivity (see also Bilić, this volume).
Ethnic “others” represent the tip of the militarist iceberg that margin-
alises women and separates “our community” from those who “contam-
inate” it because they cannot be smoothly included in the fundamental
process of national(ist) reproduction. When masculinity becomes one
of the primary principles of political life, an alarm bell rings for those
who are not constitutive parts of the heteronormative canon. In such
circumstances, “lavender scare” looms large on the political horizon and
the homosexual becomes an epitome of treason, a figure that cannot
adequately respond to the challenges of the historical moment.9
It was almost a rule that every politically tolerant current, turned towards
dialogue and understanding, would immediately be “marked” as an
expression of soft, insufficiently tough, and non-male political behaviour
with openly aggressive allusions to the proscribed and “weird” homosex-
uality of its representatives. For the dominant, aggressive, “justly” bellig-
erent and violently virile masculinity, such an allusion was an effective
instrument of political disqualification. (Papić 1992, p. 86)10
Over the last six years, our volumes have captured the emotionally sat-
urated processes through which ethnic “others”, now mostly living in
“their own” post-Yugoslav republics, have been substituted with sexual
“others” living within the borders of the newly formed nation-states.11
The dissolution of Yugoslavia to an important extent coincided with the
intensification of non-heterosexual politics on the global scene as well
as with the expansion of the European Union and its insistence on sex-
ual rights advancement. This is why we paid attention (Bilić 2016) to
the ambivalences with which yesterday’s sexual “outsiders” have not only
been allowed access to the nation, but are also increasingly seen as a
224
B. Bilić
measuring stick of democracy and progress, at the expense of other, still

“unfavourable” “minorities” (Kulpa 2014).12
When engaging with the political and emotional realignments occur-
ring in the Yugoslav space, we have consistently relied on the potential
of feminist theory to make us vigilant about the political developments
that intervene into and try to guide our intimate lives, and protect us
through the politics of feminist solidarity and friendship. We have been
inspired by the legacy of American black people’s struggles against racial
subordination and have drawn upon the intellectual work done by
black feminists to expand our intersectional awareness and politicise our
desires, so that those who are multiply oppressed could emerge in our
texts (Bilić and Kajinić 2016a).
Our survival, our continued resilience, and our continued efforts for
social justice are direct threats and challenges to systemic oppressions. We
must, at all costs, do whatever we can to lift up and protect one another
in our interconnected struggles for liberation. (The Audre Lorde Project
2014, online)
As activist-scholars and scholars-activists, we have wanted our books not

only to reflect and preserve affective dimensions of (transnational) activ-
ist co-operations, but also that the process of their production serves
as an extension and amplification of such activist encounters. We have
been led by a wish to make feminism a greater political force in both
public and academic spheres13 and employ methodological techniques
that would depart from the usual genres of academic collections and do
more justice to the complexity of our embodied experiences.14 Our vol-
umes are an exercise in prefigurative politics: currents of care, commit-
ment, and friendship that stream through all of them are an attempt
to enact political life and collectivity that we desire for ourselves and
would like to transmit to those who are coming after us so that they
can inherit a world better than the one which was given to us.15 “After
everything that has happened here, and in front of what I am afraid is
still to come, the imperative of friendship is our only categorical imper-
ative” (Konstantinović 1997/2011, online).16
225
While broadening our networks, soliciting, and writing our contri-

butions, we have over the years observed a generational shift within
anti-war/feminist/LGBT/queer activist groups in the post-Yugoslav
region. The fragility of activist pasts—the fact that they are scattered in
private archives, partly lost through frequent moving and lack of space,
or left without any material trace—has given our work a dimension of
urgency. As I am completing this epilogue towards the end of December
2017, I have learnt about the death of Sonja Drljević, another pioneer
of Yugoslav feminism (Voxfeminae 2017). This news brings to my mind
the memory of many others who have helped and supported us along
the way, and points to the importance of the words of my friend and
our author Ana Miškovska Kajevska (as cited in Marušić 2015, online;
see also Miškovska Kajevska 2016, 2017):
After finishing my dissertation, I started telling everyone to save their

archives, it has become my political mission to raise consciousness by
saying that information is being lost. Tomorrow someone will ask again
“where have you been, what have you done”. […] I learned feminism
from those women… […] and as a way of thanking my – as I call them
– feminist mothers, I wanted to do my best to rescue at least a part of our
history in my thesis.
Conclusion: Archives—Places of Healing

If we are as a community of authors indeed reflexively committed to
activist research rather than to either activism or merely research on
activism (Bilić and Stubbs 2016), then such a personal/professional—
and inevitably political—orientation presupposes an effort at strik-
ing the right balance between the sometimes reductionist passions of
the activist and the illusorily “impartial” scepticism of the scholar. To
be truly activist, our scholarship must not remain only activist—it has
to be pushed out of activist circles where one is nowadays more at risk
of engaging in self-celebratory practice or dis-engaging from scholarly
analysis. Our books are, rather, meant to act as rhizoid bridges, hybrid
academic/activist mediators between the politically electrified spaces of
226
B. Bilić
activism and the highly heteronormative (and therefore pseudo-de-po-

liticised and even homophobic) milieus of regional academic and polit-
ical institutions which are still suspicious of multidisciplinary feminist
approaches (Kašić 2016) and within which sexuality seems to be an
exclusively private matter.
While no one expects that our books will in the foreseeable future
enter official university curricula in our region, we hope that they make
it a little bit harder to claim that the upsurge of destructive forces which
we ourselves witnessed was not challenged by oppositional currents of
solidarity and support. By documenting courageous activist initiatives,
we testify that they really happened and transform them into a legacy
which can now be transmitted (Cvetkovich 2003). Our books-archives,
in which we have assembled fragments of personal testimonies, docu-
ments, leaflets, fragile activist publications as well as fears, disappoint-
ments, hopes, and joys of activist encounters, are evidence that certain
things were done and certain persons—us included—existed. Perhaps,
the struggles that we try to remember and analyse are not important
to many people, but to those to whom they matter, they do so in par-
ticularly profound ways. Our books show that writing—that specifically
human capacity to inscribe life in and create history/herstory—is by far
the greatest privilege of survival.
However, even if they are now deposited in libraries around the
world in which memory of the humanity is preserved, our volumes-ar-
chives are—like all human enterprises—imperfect, fragile, and radically
incomplete. They need to be cherished and revised and, in spite of our
intentions, cannot possibly give an account of all of those who should
be in them. We have, of course, written in order to make possible books
(Foucault 1971/1944) that will supplement and go beyond our own. In
this regard, we count on the good will of our readers to recognise our
wish to be inclusive to the best of our abilities as well as on the capac-
ity of this wish to placate the frustration of those who perhaps should,
but may not find themselves in our texts as they currently stand. While
working on our volumes, we have been led by the belief that archives
ultimately are—in Joan Nestle’s (Monahan 1978/2010, online) words—
“places of healing”.17 If that is true, then they, along with documents
and feelings of the past, always supply stimuli for further and better
227
academic, activist, life endeavours. Rather than dusty repositories of

bygone times, archives are breathing spaces which contain seeds of the
future.
Notes
1. The cover of the regional (Serbo-Croatian) edition of our volume
on intersectionality and LGBT activist politics (Bilić and Kajinić
2017) shows a severed human heart inserted among dispersed slogans
“Migrants/faggots/lesbians/trans… are the heart of Serbia/Croatia”.
This unsettling representation—which was not favourably received
among all of our authors—inverts and points to the devastating conse-
quences of the widely popular nationalist principle “Kosovo is the heart
of Serbia” (Kosovo je srce Srbije).
2. Writing about Dejan Jović’s book on the myth of the Homeland War in
Croatia, Munjin (2018) mentions that in 1990 there were 4752 name
change requests in this post-Yugoslav republic. The number of these
requests grew to 14,616 in 1992. One could imagine the extent of psy-
chic suffering caused by the impossibility to bear one’s own name.
3. Finishing the acknowledgements section of her monograph on contem-
porary clientelism in Bosnia and Herzegovina, Čarna Brković (2017,
p. xi), our friend and co-author (Kalezić and Brković 2016), says: “My
parents never quite learned how to deal with ambiguities of life in for-
mer Yugoslavia, and I am grateful for that”. Many of us feared that our
parents might learn how to navigate that ambiguity “better”.
4. The disappearance of Yugoslavia and the ruptures, ambiguities, and
hybridities that it provoked are, for example, still alive in the name with
which Macedonia became a member of the United Nations and other
international organisations. “The former Yugoslav republic” has been
there as an unavoidable description of this country since 1993. “They
forcefully put on your shoulders the burden of late Yugoslavia and then
they keep telling you that you should turn to the future”, states Skopje-
based scholar Biljana Vankovska (as cited in Drobnjak 2017, online).
5. Svetlana Slapšak (2017, online), one of the nodal points of (post-)
Yugoslav feminist social history and theory, states: “I remember
how a small group received that news [destruction of the Old Bridge
in Mostar, BB] in our living room, I remember who was there,
228
B. Bilić
I remember that some of us had heart palpitations, that all of us

swore, some got drunk, and we all cried: that’s what happened on the
local-personal level. Symbolically, that was the end of a world, of that
small and unimportant world. Everything else, much bigger and worse,
lasted longer – but that was a symbolical minute, perhaps even less”.
6. On 6 January 2017 a group of Serbian public figures published an
Appeal for Defence of Kosovo and Metohija (Apel 2018, p. 31) in
which they stated: “A frozen conflict (like the one in Cyprus and else-
where) is the only sensible decision”.
7. Blagojević (2009, p. 57) claims that the condition of semi-peripherality
is characterised by the intersection of various oppositions which may
look like a “location of a discursive void”: “white/non-white, European/
noneuropean, postcolonial/nonpostcolonial, citizen/noncitizen, and
gender/nongender”. Increased awareness of our community of authors
that we, as inhabitants of semi-periphery, may not be unproblemati-
cally considered “white Europeans”, made us more sensitive to the ways
in which racist discourses may pervade both activist endeavours and
our own scholarly work. In that regard, some authors raised concerns
about the whiteness of the women represented on this book’s cover. In
spite of our incessant efforts, we did not manage to receive a chapter
about Roma lesbian activists in Serbia. This may well point to the lim-
its of solidarity bridges that can be built over distinctly different social,
political, geographical—or simply personal—positions. For an account
on Roma lesbian women in Serbia, see Kurtić (2013). For a discussion
about the notion of race in the Yugoslav space, see Baker (2018).
8. In our introduction to the volume on intersectionality, we reflect
upon epistemic approaches visible in the region and say: “we insist on
a longer-term ethnographic immersion which presupposes at least an
active interest in, if not a full command of local language(s), critical
engagement with the local knowledge production, theoretical sophis-
tication that appreciates ambiguity and hybridity above and beyond
(Western) normative impositions, methods that tap processes which
do not operate solely at elite level, sensitivity that recognises emotional
burden created by decades of (armed) conflicts, uncertainty and unpre-
dictability as well as a policy of translation that allows sociological and
anthropological accounts to be absorbed by local communities from
which they originate” (Bilić and Kajinić 2016b, p. 6).
229
9. I am here, of course, referring to some of the characteristics of the

dominant discourse which divides the political field into “patriots” and
“traitors”. This is not to imply that there were no prominent women
politicians, women soldiers or non-heterosexual people who supported
the nationalist cause on various sides.
10. One would be hard pressed to find a more explicit example of this
“politics of exclusion” and national fear than the article published in
Slavonski magazin in 1993, entitled “Serbs, leftists, feminists, and
homosexuals are waging a war against war?” See Grakalić (1993).
11. Bosnia and Herzegovina is an exception in this regard. Selmić (2016)
shows that a majority of non-heterosexual people in this post-Yugoslav
republic are reluctant to report their ethnic belonging. See also Selmić
and Bilić (this volume).
12. Ahmed (2015) has argued that love for the nation often disguises hate
towards Others, those who threaten the nation’s supposed health and
purity, turning this hate into the primary organising national affect.
13. Over the last six years, our volumes’ co-editors have always been fem-
inist women scholars/activists: Vesna Janković from Croatia, Sanja
Kajinić from Bosnia and Herzegovina/Croatia, and Marija Radoman
from Montenegro/Serbia. This approach has not only traversed the
post-Yugoslav space, highlighted the presence of women academics in
still patriarchal environments, but it has also enabled us to count on
the co-editors’ specific activist-academic positions in order to continu-
ally broaden the pool of contributors to our books.
14. All of our volumes have an important autoethnographic component,
but this method was particularly explored in, for example, Aleksov
(2012), Mlađenović (2016), Hura (2016), or Bilić and Janković
(2012b).
15. Stubbs (2013, p. 138) captures this already in our first volume (Bilić
and Janković 2012b) when stating: “The book has set a marker for
more research on and by activists in the post-Yugoslav space, building
on the many collaborations, some obvious, others less so”.
16. In many activist accounts (see e.g., Bilić 2012), the dissolution of

Yugoslavia is associated with the inability to rescue friendships. For
example, Biljana Jovanović asks: “How can we remain a whole if we
lose friends?” (as cited in Gudžević 2007, p. 397).
17. “The Archives room is a healing place; it is filled with voices announc-
ing our autonomy and self possession. The roots of the Archives lie in
230
B. Bilić
the silenced voices, the love letters destroyed, the pronouns changed,
the diaries carefully edited, the pictures never taken, the euphemised
distortions that patriarchy would let pass… but I have lived through
the time of wilful deprivation and now it is our time to discover and to
cherish and to preserve” (Monahan 1978/2010, online).
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Index
A Brnabić, Ana 1, 2, 14, 210

Activism. See NGO-isation Brotherhood and Unity 12
professionalisation 155, 166 BUKA (Banja Luka) 167
Anarcho-Queer-Feminist Collective Butler, Judith 16, 147, 157
Rog (Ljubljana) 27
Andonovski, Kočo 118, 124, 125
Anima (Kotor) 135, 143 C
Anti-Fascist Women’s Front 165 Capitalism
Arkadija (Belgrade) 91 neoliberal 3, 10, 40, 43, 198, 220
Association Q (Sarajevo) 168 patriarchal 3, 8, 9, 201
Čaušević, Azra 169

Autonomous Women’s Centre transition to 8
(AWC) (Ljubljana) 30–32, 34,
35, 38, 39 Centre for Civic and Human Rights
(CCHR) (Skopje) 117, 122, 124
Class
B privilege 3
Balkanisation 222 question 5, 6, 10
Belgrade Pride 2, 65–72, 75–77, 79, working 6, 18, 39, 102
81, 82, 123, 198, 210 Coalition SHRMC (Skopje) 118
Bogović, Marija 17 Colonisation. See Balkanisation;
Bošnjak, Emina 167–169, 181, 182 De-colonisation
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2019 235

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-77754-2
236
Index
Conference Drug-ca žena (Belgrade) Foundation Open Society –

11, 165 Macedonia (Skopje) 114, 129
Conservatism 50, 197 Friendship 2, 9, 13, 83, 163, 164,
Council of Women’s Organisations 203, 222, 224, 229
(Skopje) 111
G
D Gay and Lesbian Film Festival
De-colonisation 222 (Ljubljana) 28, 33, 53
Discrimination. See Misogyny Ginova, Biljana 99, 121
racism 15, 47, 137 Gudović, Zoe 104
sexism 93
Dobnikar, Mojca 5, 9, 11, 12, 16,
17, 28–30, 32, 33, 43, 61 H
Do-it-yourself 36 Herstorian 4
Drljević, Sonja 16, 225 Heteronormativity 126, 193, 195,
Đurković, Svetlana 168, 183 204
Homonationalism 2, 14
Homophobia 11, 17, 18, 61, 64, 66,
E 76, 81, 82, 93, 100–102, 104,
EGAL (Skopje) 118, 123, 125 119, 124, 129, 134, 149, 151,
Ehrlemark, Anna 36 157, 164, 167, 170, 175, 181,
Emancipation 2, 4, 9, 10, 41, 43, 190, 191, 193, 194, 198, 208.
128, 134, 157, 170 See also Lesbophobia
Europeanisation 8, 96, 166 Huremović, Lejla 3, 192
F I
Femicide 8, 163 Intersectionality
Feminism -sensitive activism 4
radical 35, 37, 43, 44, 46–48, 53, Iskorak (Zagreb) 63
145, 146, 160, 182, 201 Iveković, Rada 91, 92
trans-exclusionary 146, 201
Yugoslav 4–6, 10–13, 16, 29–33,
61, 83, 88, 93, 127, 165, 176, J
178, 222, 224, 225 Jalušič, Vlasta 19, 28–30, 32, 35, 39,
Foundation CURE (Sarajevo) 171, 40, 43, 44, 54
173 Jovanović, Biljana 34, 229
Index
237
Juventas (Podgorica) 136, 140, M

142–144, 159, 160 Machismo. See Masculinity
Masculinity 8, 90, 223
MASSO (Skopje) 118, 121,
K 123–125
Kasandra (Ljubljana) 30–36, 39–41, Merc, Urška 36, 39, 40
100 Metelkova (Ljubljana) 30–32,
Kontra (Zagreb) 63, 82 35–37, 39, 40, 43, 44, 49
Kosovo 94, 96, 102, 227, 228 Miličević, Jadranka 171, 172
KvirA (Podgorica) 134–136, 140– Milošević, Slobodan 14, 198
144, 146, 148, 150, 152–158 Misogyny 3, 7, 18, 43, 129
Mlađenović, Lepa 3, 5, 8, 11–13, 16,
18, 33, 41, 47, 87, 88, 92–94,
L 99, 100, 122, 165, 169, 174,
Labris (Belgrade) 33, 63, 65, 66, 73, 175, 182, 193, 229
74, 82, 100–102, 190, 194, 209 Mladina(Ljubljana) 16
Lesbian Feminist University Monokel (Ljubljana) 32, 36
(Ljubljana)
Manifesto 16, 42, 45
Lesbian Lilith (Ljubljana) 5, 16, 29 N
Lesbian Week 13, 33, 87–89, Nationalism 8, 17, 18, 92, 93, 101,
99–103, 114, 122, 145 111, 126, 191, 198, 209
Lesbophobia. See Homophobia Nestle, Joan 102, 226
Lesbos Uprise (Ljubljana) 38 NGO-isation 154, 155
Le Zbor (Zagreb) 175, 183
LezFem (Skopje) 111, 115, 119,
121, 124, 126, 127 O
LGBT Forum Progress (Podgorica) Okvir (Sarajevo) 169
136, 139, 159
LGBTI Support Centre (Skopje)
119, 122, 126, 129 P
Lilith (Ljubljana). See Lesbian Lilith Papić, Žarana 222, 223
(Ljubljana) Patriarchy
Ljudjeza.org (Ljubljana & Maribor) gay 7, 9, 46
36, 38 Pirih, Tadeja 41, 43
Lugones, María PitchWise 164, 170–179, 182, 183,
and active subjectivity 38, 41, 51, 52 202
and double consciousness 41 Planinc, Milka 14
and fractured locus 51 Populism 13, 198
238
Index
Post-socialism 190, 192, 193 lesbian 29, 31, 41, 111, 202
Pride March/Parade. See Belgrade Serec, Nataša 31, 35
Pride; Zagreb Pride Simić, Mima 99, 209
Sisterhood 12, 13, 19, 54, 94, 103,
143, 145, 157, 202
Q SKC (Belgrade) 67, 83
Queer Sklevicky, Lydia 6
failure 11 ŠKUC (Ljubljana) 5, 16, 28, 29, 32,
Queer Beograd Collective (Belgrade) 36
104, 158 Slobodna duga (Podgorica) 134
Queer Montenegro (Podgorica) 134, Socialism. See Post-socialism
136, 137, 140, 141, 143, 144, Stonewall riots 8
152, 155, 159 Šušak, Marta 192, 194
Queeroslavia 95, 176
T
R Todorovska, Savka 113, 114, 129
Rajković, Dragana 31, 35, 101 Todosijević, Jelica 90, 97, 98
Red Dawns (Ljubljana) 27, 31, 33, Trans. See Feminism
35–37, 39, 41, 43, 47–49, 53, (trans-exclusionary)
54, 183 activism 51, 53, 169, 200–202
Religion 168, 197 people 194
Research Transparent closet 148, 150, 155,
gay 18, 61, 64, 81, 119, 192, 194, 157, 160
196 Tratnik, Suzana 5, 28, 36, 38, 40,
lesbian 18, 37, 40, 42, 62–64, 199
81, 88, 89, 96, 100, 103, 112, Trpčevska, Gordana 118, 121
119, 134, 168, 189, 192, 194,
196, 198, 203–205
Revolution 10, 18, 128 U
Right-wing groups 198. See also Urošević, Miloš 34, 192, 200
Violence
V
S Violence. See Right-wing groups
Savova, Marija 112, 114 domestic 8, 91, 167
Semi-periphery 228 in same-sex partnership 17
Separatism Vučić, Aleksandar 1, 14
Index
239
W Y
Woman and Society (Belgrade) 6 Yugoslavia
Woman and Society (Zagreb) 6 collapse 12
Women. See Misogyny wars 13, 32, 88, 91, 94, 100, 196,
Albanian 5, 6, 111, 112 218, 222
Roma 5, 6, 228
Women in Black (Belgrade) 93, 200,
210 Z
Women’s Alliance (Skopje) 118, 121, Zagreb Pride 9, 17, 61, 66–69, 71,
125 73–84, 197
Women to Women (Sarajevo) 171 Žmak, Jasna 190

Lesbian Activism

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What are some of the lesbian activist groups mentioned in the document?

What are some of the lesbian activist groups mentioned in the document?

What issues did lesbian activists in the former Yugoslavia work to address?

What issues did lesbian activists in the former Yugoslavia work to address?

Edited by Bojan Bilic * Marija Radoman

ISBN 978-3-319-77753-5 ISBN 978-3-319-77754-2 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018944361

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2019

Cover image: © Denise Crew/Getty

Printed on acid-free paper

A lot of care and support streamed through our electronic correspond-

Introduction: Recovering/Rethinking (Post-)Yugoslav

Yearning for Space, Pleasure, and Knowledge: Autonomous

Cartographies of Fear and Freedom: Lesbian Activists in the

Sisterhood Beyond Borders: Transnational Aspects of

Breaking the Silence: Lesbian Activism in Macedonia 109

Searching for a Lesbian Voice: Non-Heterosexual Women’s

(In)Visible Presences: PitchWise Festival as a Space of

Conclusion: Discovering the Lesbian in Us—On Our

Epilogue: Collecting Fragments—Towards (Post-)Yugoslav

Bojan Bilić is FCT Fellow at the Institute of Social Sciences,

Paula Petričević is a philosopher, feminist, columnist, human rights

In June 2017, halfway through our work on this volume, an unusual

However, in spite of this rather unfortunate habituation, we were nev-

appropriated by nationalist and conservative forces, who can really claim

(Re)Politicising (Post-)Yugoslav Lesbian

During three days of “discussions and laughter” (as cited in Dobnikar

Although we would like our book to inscribe such liberatory gestures

Resisting/Transforming (Gay) Patriarchy

traditions and, by consequence, in the individual consciousness of each

non-heterosexual activist enterprises which one would expect to be

Although it is not easy to empirically “capture” manifestations of struc-

amounts of attention (see Maljković 2016) in spite of consistent lesbian

We have our own experience to testify that women’s emancipation, les-

Yugoslav Space—Lesbian Space

The harrowing abyss that precedes us, the lesbophobia/homopho-

divisions by embracing ethnic, religious, and linguistic diversity, all

in this paradigm without profoundly transforming also the idea of unity:

8. “Blood cell counts” (brojanje krvnih zrnaca) is a metaphor frequently

men who – in control of literacy, publishing, archival preservation, and

become visible” (“lezbejstvo treba da postane vidljivo”) (Dobnikar and

which is important because of a very small number of activists and

Brakus, A. (2015). Tužna priča LGBT aktivizma u Hrvatskoj: Gdje si

Elliot, P. (2008). Shattering illusions: Same-sex domestic violence. Journal of

Marušić, A. (2014). 25 godina lezbijskog pokreta: Polet i aktivistički ‘burn-out’

(Eds.), Intersectionality and LGBT activist politics: Multiple others in Croatia

needed political content—by taking, or more precisely, re-appropriating

Feminist and Lesbian Groups Until 2000

Ljubljana ever! A well-known male journalist from a liberal media journal

Further on Dobnikar explained:

In the 1980s there was a widespread opinion that it is good to do some-

Feminist initiatives were separated from this movement, partially by their

parties, literary evenings, creative workshops in women’s writing, visual

It stayed with me forever how fierce we were at ‘throwing out’ the

Based on this and other similar accounts we confirm that separatism

that can lead not only to independence but to proper autonomy in

post-Yugoslav space (Dobnikar 1996) and Ljubljana´s feminists showed

I keep thinking about how to culturally reintegrate this [Yugoslav] space

A contribution to lesbian visibility during the feminist fight on violence

Feminist and Lesbian Groups Until 2000

Red Dawns: Feminist and Queer Communist

Feminist Encounters in the Streets

The Anarcho-Queer-Feminist Collective at Rog:

Conclusion: Occupation as Liberation

The Context of the Belgrade Pride

The Context of the Zagreb Pride

Mapping at Belgrade and Zagreb Prides

Dealing with the Maps of Fear

Identity and Self-Change at the Belgrade