Life in the New: Anniversary

“I know the names of more dogs than people here.”

Filip Jašić is flanked by monumental buildings in Blok 62. He stands calmly with a cigarette in his hand. He has just petted a dog and greeted its two-legged owner.

“You can feel a sense of community, especially with other people walking their dogs. You know, ’cause there’s a lot of them.”

A well-groomed Bichon Frisé walks by, seconds later, a short-haired Maltese. Zeus and Kali, the rapper’s Yorkshire Terriers, often serve as an icebreaker, helping him meet neighbors and people in his area for the first time.

He likes Novi Beograd “because it’s flat,” has nature, and neighbors say hi to each other. A cloud of cigarette smoke leaves his mouth. You won’t find a picture of him without his trademark rectangular sunglasses obscuring his face.

Miodrag “Bata” Govedarica is a poet, composer, and singer. He is also a father, grandfather, and widower. He moved to Novi Beograd forty years ago and has lived in an apartment on the fifth floor of Blok 7A ever since.

“I had two sons then. I came here with them and my wife,” he tells of his relocation from the city center to Novi Beograd. “This apartment was small even for a family of four, but we liked it here; we had a nice life and never had a feeling of narrowness.”

Rajić wears two glasses on top of each other, makeshift bifocals, and he barely takes his eyes away from the drill.

Rajić has been in the upholstery business for 50 years. He used to work for a private owner in the old part of Belgrade and started his own business out of the garage after he retired.

“This job is not something that has been passed down in generations,” he says from his worktable, “I learned this on my own accord.”

“A benefit is a fantastic view over Belgrade,” Juliana says, “and you can’t see what your neighbors are up to.”

The all-woman household of three generations Kušević lives on the seventh floor of the 30-story residential part of the building.

“This is the better side; you get the sun from the east. It wakes you up, and in the afternoon, you have your peace.”

BASTA
I love Serbia a lot! We, people from the other side of the Drina River, have always said that Serbia is our mother, which is true. She has accepted us, but my heart remains in Lika, where I was born. Still, I feel well here. People love me, respect me.

DEJAN
He has found himself here.

VIKTOR
There are a lot of shitty people here, too.

BASTA
People are people. Nobody is perfect. And still, nobody is that bad that you can’t cope with them.

Dejan Pljevljakušić glances at the ground-level basketball court below and takes a drag from his cigarette, quickly exhaling the smoke. From the balcony on the seventh floor, he often spots friends from the neighborhood drinking cans of lager and solving world problems while their children play together.

Strictly speaking, they don’t need to have children themselves. The court’s sideline is their evening gathering place, as it has always been. Dejan often participates, and like him, most of his friends grew up in the area and know every nook and cranny between the high-rises and the extensive concrete apartment buildings in Blok 23.

When Mirjana Milenković first moved to Novi Beograd, she felt like she didn’t belong. That was over 50 years ago.

“When I came to Belgrade, it was too big for me, you know? Everything was unfamiliar.”

She offers wine and brings a coffee mug to her lips. The smell of homemade sarma, already devoured, lingers in the room. The fog embraces the rooftops in the gathering night outside, and the snow that fell in cascades the previous days has gradually turned into slush. In contrast to the world outside, Mirjana’s apartment is warm and welcoming.

“Now I’ve gotten used to Novi Beograd. I wouldn’t want to go anywhere else. I’m fine here”.

“This dog hasn’t washed in years.” 

Goran Vuksanović picks up his dog from the scruff of its neck and places it in his lap. 

“… and neither have I. “

Goran is the owner and barkeep of Nana, a traditional kafana. According to pundits, it is the most authentic one remaining in the entire Novi Beograd.

“Here, people confess to doing wrong. They confess when they feel sorry, when something bad occurs in their life, or when a child or grandchild is born. Most confessions come when they get drunk, and you hear them calling in for another round when they don’t have money to pay, asking može – could we? to have another two or three drinks.”

“I believe that everyone loves their area, but this is mine, and for me, it’s the best place that I know,” Damir Ibišbegović says about Blok 37. 

In the neighborhood, people have everything they need for their first 14-15 years, including kindergartens and schools. “We have maybe 10-15 buildings in the blok, and all the people that I went to kindergarten and elementary school with live five minutes away from me. So it’s pretty easy to find people to hang out with, do some sports with and just chill with,” he says, admitting he had to swap basketball with table tennis due to a knee injury.

Standing on the rooftop of a 14-story residential block in Blok 63, the horizon is mainly layers upon layers of parks, recreational spots, and more buildings.

Apartment buildings reach towards the sky, low-rise slot casinos and shopping malls are sporadically spread around in the landscape, and there is a mash of concrete and greenery as far as the eye can see. The sky is blue, veiled only by a smog-like haze, not enough to shut out the face-melting sun. Fourteen stories down, even the doves have sought cover in the shade of the trees.

“He was the crazy one during the 1999 bombings. He was insane! He went up here!” Ana Popović says of her father, Zoran, looking out on the horizon. “I was scared only once,” he says, “when I saw this anti-aircraft artillery shoot one of those Tomahawk missiles.”

“This is my kingdom!”

Petar Bošković has barely planted his feet on the ground after getting out of his red Jeep, which has just put its four-wheel drive to good use on a stretch of dirt road. Taxi drivers are not happy when they must venture out here.

His kingdom is a floating house permanently anchored to the Sava riverbank on Ada Ciganlija, an island transformed into an artificial peninsula in the late fifties. Since then, it has been a favorite leisure location for Belgraders lucky enough to own a spot at the riverbed.

Petar is one of these, and for the past thirty years, the red houseboat has served as his home away from home. “When you come to the river, negative energy goes away.”

“We’ll make this disappear,” Jelena says, quickly interrupted by Bojan: “Then we will eat cake.”

Lunch is finished in the Ševa household, a ritual they share with Bojan Ševa’s father every Sunday.

“Now you will see something unusual,” Jelena Ševa says as Bojan tries to turn down the sound system’s volume, accidentally turning it up. Jelena removes the tablecloth from the modular table. In a matter of minutes, the table, which just seated five people, has been folded like a Transformer car into a compact coffee table.