Who speaks through monuments?
In the summer of 2015, a makeshift memorial appeared in front of the Serbian National Assembly in Belgrade. Made of banners, photographs, slogans, and later increasingly graphic images, the monument became known as the “Serbian Wailing Wall.” It was not an official state memorial, nor did it have the permanent, material solidity or aesthetic authority usually associated with monuments. Yet its position directly in front of parliament gave it a powerful political presence. Dedicated to Serb victims of the Kosovo war, NATO bombing, and other conflicts of the 1990s, the “Wailing Wall” raised a difficult question: how are victims commemorated in a society internationally recognized primarily through the figure of the perpetrator?
The monument was made and placed by an organization called “The Association of Families of Kidnapped and Killed in Kosovo and Metohija.” On July 8, 2015, Serbian dailies reported that the activists of this organization showcased a banner (Figure 1) outside the National Assembly, advocating for an official state monument dedicated to the victims of Kosovo Liberation Army and NATO. While it was initially suggested that the banner, in the form of a makeshift monument, would remain in front of the Assembly only until July 15 that year, its presence extended until July 11, 2019.
Figure 1 – The first Wailing Wall, July 8, 2015, Photo by TANJUG, Zoran Žestić, source: N1info.rs
The monument functioned as a mobile installation, journeying through several locations in Belgrade. Tracing its path provides insights into the evolution of Serbia’s relationship with its victims, particularly following the re-installation of the 1990s populist elites in power. Initially, in August 2014, a large banner displaying images of Serbian victims from the Kosovo war was attached to a private fence opposite the Special Court for War Crimes in Belgrade. A representative of the “Association of Families of Kidnapped and Killed in Kosovo and Metohija” (in the further text The Association) conveyed that this “Wailing Wall” was part of a campaign called “Seeking Justice for Serbian Victims – Denied the right to live, give us the right to truth and justice.” This initiative aimed to spotlight the elusive quest for justice for over 2,500 Serbs kidnapped and killed over the preceding 16 years (News Agency Srna 2014). This banner-cum-monument stood in opposition to the state court that, among its various responsibilities, addressed war crimes perpetrated by Serbian soldiers during the Yugoslav wars.
The Association perceived this institution as one that foregrounded Serbian perpetrators, thereby overshadowing Serbian victims in the face of justice. Nonetheless, the geographical placement of both the court and the monument, situated away from the city’s heart, meant their dialogue was largely insulated from the broader populace. In the global moral economy of victimhood, the commemoration of the victims in society who have been labeled perpetrators by the wider international community becomes a challenging endeavor. Victims frequently find themselves marginalized within official narratives, relegated to the private sphere and individual commemorative practices. The choice to position the initial “Wailing Wall” on a private fence directly opposite a state institution exemplifies this dynamic.
With the relocation of the Wailing Wall from its initial peripheral position to the city center, a noticeable shift in the treatment of victims became apparent. In its early stages, the banners of the “Wailing Wall” across the court primarily used the Serbian language, calling on those within society to recognize Serbian victims. Over time, the monument moved to the city center, and the inscriptions gradually transitioned to English, bearing messages such as “US, NATO – Why do you protect war criminals?” “Albanian KLA are terrorists,” and “Srebrenica was not a genocide,” among other statements (Figure 2). Initially, the banners only displayed portraits of the victims. However, subsequent versions began to incorporate more graphic content, showcasing disturbing imagery of dismembered bodies, mutilated remains, and other visceral representations of violence and devastation.
Figure 2 – The Wailing Wall in English, spring 2018. Photo by: Stefan Stojanović, source mondo.rs
In the process of translating the messages on this temporary private memorial, I see an important switch of roles in the dialogue between The Association and the Serbian State. Originally erected with Serbian-language banners, the memorial’s focus was on the internal dialogue and urging the state, or the court across which it was hanging, to acknowledge the suffering of Serbian victims. However, as time passed and the monument gained prominence in the city center, the language of the banners shifted to English, resonating with the broader international community. This transformation signified a decision to take the monument’s message beyond domestic borders and communicate directly with the international audience. By using English, a wider range of stakeholders could receive the message, including foreign tourists, diplomats, and international observers. But an important question arises from this linguistic transformation: who voices the sentiments of the “Wailing Wall?” Who is the voice behind it?
At first glance, the spatial orientation of the “Wailing Wall” does not appear to communicate with the state but rather to articulate the messages on its behalf. While the first wall was positioned across the Special Court and was spatially in dialogue with the building across, its incarnation in the center of the city stood with its back turned to the National Assembly as if it were addressing the public on behalf of the parliament. The transition from the portrait/ID photos of the victims to the explicit imagery of mutilated bodies and severed limbs served to engage a stronger emotional response and provide visual evidence of Serbian suffering.
I refer to this alternative monument as the “state’s acousmetre,” drawing from sound theorist Michel Chion’s concept of the acousmetre, a voice in films without an apparent source. But why would the Serbian State in 2015 require such an acousmetre? Addressing Serbian victims of the Yugoslav wars has been both sensitive and often overshadowed by the international focus on Serbian perpetrators and their internationally recognized war crimes. The re-emergent elites recognized political capital in highlighting Serbian victims, a trope that predominantly emanated from unofficial commemorative practices. This neglected narrative of Serbian victims presented a ripe platform upon which the populist elites could immediately establish their memory politics. Yet, their 1990s nationalist legacy made it challenging to turn their backs on the liberal TJ regime and singularly address the victims. Importantly, they remained committed to EU accession, which necessitated collaboration with the ICTY through politics of conditionality.
The “Serbian Wailing Wall” assumed the role of the state’s acousmetre, using English language and visceral imagery to indirectly echo the state’s sentiments, framing the narrative to resonate with the international community. The “state’s acousmetre” can be interpreted as a broader political maneuver to curate memory politics and public sentiment. It further allowed the State to invisibly control the discourse surrounding the issues of the Serbian victims, presenting a carefully crafted message to both domestic and international audiences. It facilitated a spotlight on Serbian victimhood while subtly obfuscating its perpetrator role in the past. Additionally, the use of the acousmetre allowed the State to shift the responsibility for conveying specific messages to an independent and seemingly grassroots initiative. Finally, the monument’s informality, manifested through its cheap appearance and temporary nature, further contributes to the State’s ability to disassociate itself from the monument’s demands. The frequent replacement of content and vulnerability of the elements reinforced the appearance of an independent grassroots effort rather than a state-endorsed initiative. It enabled the State to avoid direct engagement with sensitive issues while still advancing its interests and concerns through the monument.
Chion argued that, in the movies, once the acousmetre shows its bodily existence, it loses its power and ubiquity: “Embodying the voice is a sort of symbolic act, dooming the acousmetre to the fate of ordinary mortals” (Chion 1999, 27). However, contrasting this cinematic premise with the events in Serbia, the de-acousmatization tells a different tale. In 2017, the Wailing Wall faced vandalism during an anti-government demonstration. Subsequently, the director of The Association, in an interview with the right-wing portal “Srbin.info,” revealed that the State, meaning political elites in power, financed its restoration (SRBIN info 2017). Contrary to Chion’s theory, in the Serbian context, the unveiling of the true entity behind the “Wailing Wall’s” voice did not signify a loss of power. On the contrary, it seemed indicative of the populist elite’s growing confidence and strength, allowing it to overcome their controversial roles in the 1990s wars, announcing the centralization of Serbian victims in official memory politics.
References:
Chion, Michel. 1999. The Voice in Cinema. Columbia University Press.
News Agency Srna. 2014. “‘Srpski zid plača’ ispred Specijalnog suda u Beogradu [Serbian Weiling Wall in front of the Special Court in Belgrade].” Nezavisne novine, Nezavisne.com Nezavisne novine, August 25. https://www.nezavisne.com/novosti/ex-yu/Srpski-zid-placa-ispred-Specijalnog-suda-u-Beogradu/259800.
SRBIN info. 2017. “Simo Spasić: Država je donirala novac za obnovu „Srpskog zida plača“ [Simo Spasić: The State Donated Money for the Reconstruction of the ’Serbian Wailing Wall].” Text. SRBIN.info, April 16. World. https://srbin.info/politika/simo-spasic-drzava-je-donirala-novac-za-obnovu-srpskog-zida-placa/.