'The First Of Many' LGBTI Pride in Bosnia & Herzegovina 2019

In early September, last year, I participated in the most inspiring, courageous and progressive event I have ever been a part of during my whole activist life. This event was the first LGBTI Pride March in Bosnia & Herzegovina.

My presence in Sarajevo was only the second time I had marched for LGBTI rights in the Western Balkans. Before then it was in Podgorica, and subsequently in the inaugural Dyke March in Tirana. They were also the first pride marches for me where violence or attacks were a real possibility. I was out of my comfort zone.

Why, I hear you ask, would you want to go? Well, on the activist side, I am a member of Rainbow Rose, a social democrat LGBTI campaign and advocacy group, which seeks to further LGBTI rights across Europe. My task is to focus this work on the Western Balkans, working with our Party of European Socialist sister parties and LGBTI NGOs to achieve that. On a personal level, I am privileged to have come out and grown up in the UK during a time of fundamental social and political change concerning LGBTI rights. Activists before me, from the 1950s onwards, had put the case for change forward, and marched in their thousands so that people like me can be seen and counted. I wanted to support my LGBTI community in a country that pressures them into hiding their identity.

So, with Rainbow Rose, I organised a small delegation to support the organisers of the first pride. For four days I would be in Sarajevo, meeting with SDP BiH members and NGO activists, and participating in the march.

However, my initial apprehension about visiting Sarajevo and being explicitly ‘gay’ was first tested during my flight. I had taken a now familiar route whereby I had to transfer in Vienna. On this occasion, unlike earlier in the year, I had time to switch flights in less of a rush. I sat by the window next to a married couple in their 50s. I glanced over as they were both looking at the wife’s phone. It was a post on Facebook that they were looking at. It showed a mathematical equation containing screws and nuts. A screw and a screw equalled a big red cross. The same result was given for two nuts together. However, a big green tick was the result when a screw and a nut were added together. The couple chuckled at the message it promoted.

I do not know whether they laughed because they agreed with its message, or because of the absurdity of the picture and its meaning, but I felt very uncomfortable sat next to them for the next hour. I made sure not to play any film or programme on my laptop with an LGBTI theme, nor take out my paperwork for the visit. Neither did I challenge them. I didn’t want my cherished opinion of Sarajevo to be dinted by any anti-LGBTI sentiment or aggression.

So, it was with these emotions that I disembarked the plane and left the airport. A sweeping and crashing thunderstorm that roared overhead, a mere 15 minutes after landing, was somewhat ominous.

However, my perception and expectations ahead of the march began to take a turn for the better. That evening, I read up that we may have to call at a police station to register our stay. As we were heading out anyway, we found one local station and went in. A few police officers were heading out, and a couple were in a side room having a conversation, guns and batons clipped to their sides. I gesticulated that we needed attention, and an officer came out. I started speaking English, so he called over a colleague. I explained that were in an apartment for a few days, and that we had come to register our stay. He looked a little bemused and rhetorically asked that if we were wanting to the pay the city tax, then offered that we didn’t have to. Caught a little off guard, I continued that we were just here until Monday and that I read we needed to register. It was at this point, and out of nowhere, he said in a functional manner “Are you here for the march?”. I must have immediately blushed, but Joseph who I was with, with almost precise comedy timing and a hue of innocence, said “What?”. The officer, perhaps blushing himself for speaking out of turn, said “Let me see your passports” and rather quickly said we did not need to register, and hoped we had a pleasant trip. All I could do was scream in relief once we reached around the corner of the building.

Yet, despite my own fear of being ‘outed’ in a police station and presuming things may have taken a sour turn, this was a small acknowledgement that the march had indeed seeped in to the public consciousness; even if it was only because this officer would be patrolling the march. The next day, another small incident allowed me to move towards cautious optimism for the march.

Once my core delegation was complete, with Jose arriving the following day, we decided to take a trip up Trebević, the location of the 1984 Winter Olympic bobsled course. A steep walk to the base station, led to a very enjoyable ride on the newly re-opened cable car system with incredible views. There were a number of fellow tourists, but not overbearing. We walked along the old bobsled track, with its abundance of graffiti. As the four of us walked along, Jose and Joseph spoke in Spanish. It was during this conversation that one guy in a group of three interjected as he walked past. He was curious as to where my friends came from, and they had a brief conversation about Spain. The conclusion to this was that the passer-by asked if we would be attending the pride march tomorrow. My heart sank, accepting that in all of the places, we would have to be called out for being gay on a quiet mountain side. Jose almost flirtingly replied “Of course”, and with that came a positive acknowledgement from the guy that he would see us there. Amazing.

Another small, whispered comment was made to Jose once we left a restaurant the day before the march. During the dinner, Julie Ward, former Labour MEP for the North West of England, regaled to us her story of getting a taxi from Sarajevo airport to her hotel, where she candidly told the driver that she was here for the march. His reply was one of enthusiasm, and a discussion ensued of the benefits of the march. After eating, as we departed, one of the waiters caught Jose and said “Good luck for tomorrow”. At a bar later on, where we met other social democrats who had come to march, one of them overheard locals discussing the march tomorrow. I asked in what way were they discussing it, positively or negatively. He said more ‘matter of fact-ly’.

Evidently, this was a much talked about event and one that hadn’t rallied the mass opposition that some of their number had hoped. There was a rally a few days before the march, where the religious participants, rather foolishly, used balloons in the colour of the Trans flag to try and make a point about boys, girls and families being harmed by such a display of queerness. Another protest was planned on the day itself.

Sunday had arrived, and there was a sense of occasion about the main event. We followed the strict directions, as agreed by the pride organisers and police, as to where we needed to enter and what we were allowed to bring in. The police operation was firm but very professional – at the start and throughout. Those familiar with Sarajevo will know how one minute you are walking down tightknit roads and side streets, hidden by the towering 18^th century buildings in this part of town; only to then be on an open plaza or river embankment in full view of the hillsides. We met our fuller delegation in the square in front of the Sarajevo Youth Theatre, to have a coffee and do formal photos of our attendance.

I watched as people funnelled through security, a few not heeding the warning to not wear LGBTI regalia until through security. Many were in groups, but others came as couples or by themselves. Many were evidently heterosexual, which was heartening to see. But once through security, the colours began to bloom. On flags and banners, on t-shirts, on people’s faces with paint or glitter. Where we were, we could hear the thud of drums not too far away, and the echo of a voice on a loudhailer. On the square where we were, the sound of whoops and squeals reverberated every time a planned rendezvous had been accomplished.

We then made our way to the main street, a minute’s walk away. The security cordon stretched between the Eternal Flame Memorial and the Central Bank, on the main westbound road from the Old Town called ‘Marshal Tito’. We turned the corner and saw a sizeable gathering that must have numbered over the expected turnout of a thousand already. We were 45 minutes away from the start. I managed to say a hello to a few activists I knew, before finding a spot to situate ourselves. Someone asked if I could say a piece to camera to say why I was here, and why it was important. I duly obliged.

As more people began to fill our space, the atmosphere became electric. Drums were banging, whistles were blowing, and a wave of chanting flowed over the crowd. Rainbow flags were furiously brandished, and placards with an array of messages were jumping up and down overhead. The crowd was well over two thousand by now.

And then all of a sudden, with a cacophony of whoops and wails, we were off. And it couldn’t have been more peaceful, felt more liberating, nor garnered as much positive support than if you wished it. At first, there were no passers-by on the street along which we walked, but you could see faces in the windows of the apartments above. Only the odd face here and there, expressing curiosity. But then I noticed a young family, outside on the balcony, and they were waving. We then approached a modern mall, which had a roof terrace. It was packed with people watching. But that was it; neither cheering or heckling. Just observing. The crowd waived cheerily at them.

And as we went along, we kept seeing more faces in windows, and then people waving back. The scene that was often repeated, and which I got real emotion from, was seeing older women in their 60s and 70s, waving and clapping alone from their windows. What I took from that, and this is only a theoretical proposition with no anecdotal evidence, was they were expressing nostalgia for a time when everyone was equal, and understood having lives with and through hardship. I took their support to be one of compassion and understanding. It was just a feeling, but one that carried me all the way along the march.

We walked past aging mosques, the Presidential Office, many a war-torn building, but never any hatred. The only signs of dissent were the appearance of buses used to block the main roads into the city that crossed our route. And even then, you couldn’t see protestors. As we approached the Parliament area, a raucous cheer went up, as people in front of us turned 90 degrees to the right to look back at something. As I reached that point, I saw an elegantly dressed woman in her 70s or 80s, in a ground floor window. She had jet black hair, a black top and a large white beaded necklace. She was blowing kisses to us all. My heart lifted.

Meanwhile, as I was marching, I made a comment about someone’s t-shirt that had a sheep on it and mentioned Wales. Two women in their 50s next to me exclaimed “We’ve been to Wales!”. It turned out; they were from Sarajevo and had studied in Aberystwyth University for a number of years. We had a lovely chat about the film Pride.

The march then poured into an area where the two main roads merged, and opened out to a large expanse where the Parliament was situated. Those familiar with the siege of Sarajevo will recall many a photo or video footage of people hiding or running across this area, under the threat of sniper fire. I felt our presence now was also an act of reclaiming this space from the past. Opposite the parliament building on two sides were modern shopping malls. The terraces were again packed with observers.

The pride organisers stood upon some steps and made proclamatory speeches. My colleague, Dajana Bakic, started off proceedings. This was followed by a local artist singing two songs. One, I was told, was a Yugoslav anti-fascist song, which the crowd sung with gusto. The other was Bella Ciao, the Italian peasant song turned revolutionary anthem. Overall, the blend of LGBTI and anti-fascism proved a dynamic match, rousing a nostalgic call to arms akin to ‘Brotherhood and Unity’ but for modern times.

As proceedings ended, people sought friends who they missed during the march and caught up. Others were reeling from the high of the first LGBTI march in Bosnia & Herzegovina. Many were invited to a reception in the nearby Museum, our delegation included. This was set up to ensure a safe space following the march, should protestors try and attack people as they left. Buses were parked nearby for those to travel home, if they came from places like Banja Luka or Belgrade. At the museum, we met acquaintances old and new, and chatted with the Spanish and British Ambassadors, who were very pleasant indeed. A thunderstorm left as quickly as it arrived, but brought the reception to a natural end. Our delegation went its separate ways, but those staying for another day returned to the apartment. 

That evening, we reunited with our friend from the bobsled track on Trebević, as we were invited to a house party hosted by his friend. The evening was spent making new friends and drinking copious amounts of homemade rakija. The next day, we visited the grocery shop downstairs. In the magazine racks, I noticed one publication that had a rainbow flag on it. Inside was a 4-page article on LGBTI pride, with pictures taken of that summer’s Europride in Vienna. The magazine happened to be the most popular women’s weekly magazine in Bosnia & Herzegovina. No wonder public awareness was so high.

And so, that was my pride in Sarajevo. My departure was filled with a lot more optimism than when I arrived, and it taught me an important lesson. Don’t just count those who show opposition, and then let that skew your judgement and preconceptions of a place or people. Allow for the positive shows of support to boost your hopes for the event, and indeed the future. Also, don’t discount those who show indifference as being negative by default. The law of averages would indicate that they are neither agitated nor motivated – it’s just not a priority for them.

Until the next Bosnia & Herzegovina Pride!

Sandra the Suzuki - 7th August 2017

I woke up to my alarm with a very foggy head. Lack of sleep and the red wine hangover were not a nice combination. I quietly changed, so as not to disturb John, and then went downstairs for breakfast. It was just after 9:30am, and I had planned to call the car company before the original pick up time. I hovered over the food choices at the buffet, opting for bread and spread with coffee and juice. I connected to the Wi-Fi, looked for the phone number and made the call. They were happy enough for us to arrive later, so I ended the call and proceeded to eat and read the news on my phone. The breakfast room had only the tail end of the breakfast crowd, some mulling over their day ahead sipping their second or third coffee. The staff were a little less diligent in their cleaning as they may have been an hour earlier.

I returned to our room, and slowly woke John up. It was now around 11am, and we needed to travel part way across the city to get to the car hire place. We both showered and changed, still snoozy from the past 16 hours of mayhem, and checked out of the hotel. I was keen on getting that hotel receipt for Wizz Air to refund. The receptionist was chirpy, happily inviting us back again soon.

We then clunked our large suitcase over and around the roadworks outside, and onward to the main boulevard. We approached a tram stop that followed the curved road south, then west, towards the Danube. We scrambled for tickets to get on the approaching tram, but a lack of confidence in what we were buying saw us consult over the options again, and wait for the next tram. We boarded the modern tram that came next - others we had seen being somewhat older – and stood the 5 stops it took us to the foot of the bridge that spanned the Danube to the south of the centre. Grand buildings of Imperial style and faded grandeur lined the route. Many had shops or bars on their ground level, with accommodation or offices rising above them to 6 or 7 storeys. The tramlines ran down the middle, with two or three lanes of traffic either side, complete with pedestrian walkways sliced between them all.

Once off, we took a side street that was less broad but still very much a thoroughfare to the neighbourhood. Trees lined the pavements, adding to the shaded nature of the street; a nice rest from the already rising morning heat. We dropped into a bakery so John could get some breaded items for his breakfast, and then continued for 5 minutes before turning right onto yet another smaller side street. On the ground floor of a newly built apartment block was our car rental place. After waiting for 15 minutes for the client ahead of us to be sorted, we were served. We had a small but sporty Suzuki that we name Sandra for the entirety of the journey. After ‘papping’ John in the driver seat, we entered our directions into the in-built sat nav and departed.

Now, one thing to probably check before you depart in a car with in-built sat nav in a foreign country, is that the language is set to English. We learned that quickly, having to interpret the visual guidance without audio, as we navigated wide boulevards with tramlines intersecting, on our rush out of the city. Despite that, John did a Class A job of getting us out and on to the ease of open motorway. We dared not tamper with the sat nav, lest we lose our way or focus. And so, the rest of the journey to Novi Sad was conducted in Hungarian.

There was no drawn out departure from the city. It was an abrupt transition from urban concentration to rural expanse. The journey was uneventful in itself, no topographical or architectural points to note. The Danube and Tisza rivers helped produce the flat Great Hungarian Plain. Agriculture thrived in this environment, and its richness is one of the reasons why it has been hotly contested in the past. Miles upon miles of fields and farms were what lay either side of us.

Conversations rang of expectations for the days ahead, and more concrete plans for the afternoon and evening before us. John firmly placed beer as one of those priorities. My Spotify playlist made for motivational listening in the background, a mix of indie and pop hits of the 90s and Noughties. We stopped just before the border to top up the car with petrol, stretch our legs, and grab a coffee. Minutes after pulling back out on to the motorway, we were at the border. I had anticipated that it would be rather busy, as it was a major artery between two countries, and the border of the EU. However, only three cars were in front of us on the Hungarian side, which was repeated as we crossed no man’s land to the Serbian checkpoint.

Again, the monotony of the vista resumed. The odd village was passed, but never a city. Szeged and Subotica, on either side of the border, were 20 or so kilometres away from the motorway. In Serbia, though, we had to pay at tolls to use the motorways. To be fair, there were only two occasions that we had to pass through a tollgate, and we could pay the £2.50 fees with card, so the passage was cheap and easy.

As we approached Novi Sad from the north, hills began to emerge out of the horizon. You could imagine this being a part of the Hungarian state, as it once was, if you married geography to state boundaries. Yet, since the creation of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes following World War I, this territory lies firmly in Serbia; albeit in an autonomous province called Vojvodina. A majority Serb population lives alongside a sizeable Hungarian population. This is noted in the bilingual road signs we passed. Smatterings of other groups live here too – Vlachs, Romanians, Croats and so on. Back further, Germans of Saxon descent lived in the area that had periods within both the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Empires – and formed the Military Frontier of the latter. Furthermore, Vojvodina is also comprised of three partial geographic areas in the region. The Backa, which has a corresponding region in Hungary; the Banat, which has a corresponding region in Romania; and the Srijem, a wedge of land south of the Danube but north of the Sava, which extends into Croatia.

I was reeling all these facts off to John along the way, before we slipped off the motorway. We travelled along an approach road into the city, and this was clearly the neighbourhood where the Gypsy community lived. On the outskirts, it lacked any visible state support for better infrastructure or a cleaner environment. It is a similar case across Eastern Europe, and we come up for scrutiny too.

We came to the central part now, and turned towards the works site for the building of the new bridge across the Danube. It did not look like it had moved any further forward from when we were here the previous year. We drove along the riverside for 100 yards, and then turned right into a concrete housing estate. We parked up, faced the heat of the mid-afternoon, and trundled our luggage to the front door.

The mother or neighbour of the owner came to meet us, and gave us our keys. We could see the Danube from the window, at an angle, and the place was basic but clean. Its main value was that it was a 5-minute walk to the centre of the old town. We left immediately after I made a call to my mother, to tell her about our fraught overnight journey, and went straight to a bar on the shopping street. We visited the same place we ate at last year. John got his promised beer.

We mulled food options elsewhere, but settled on where we were. So, after eating, we had a proper walk around the city. The main, open expanse at one end of the shopping street was quiet, as the searing heat kept people in the shade. Parked on a pavement was a water tanker providing free water to passers-by.

We looped around the old city centre, taking in the brutal National Theatre, and the back streets with their cafes and shops. We found a snug bar with a patio area out back and had a couple of beers. Dusk approached before we left, and we were starting to feel tired. So, we walked back via the river to look at the Fortress. We had an early night, so we could be fresh for Belgrade the next day.

A Delayed Start - 6th August 2017

Oh Luton. How you build up such great expectations for a departure, purely by default, and then spectacularly dash them with such élan.

We began our journey, John and I, by taking the Thameslink from central London to Luton Parkway. A standard activity with cans of vodka-mixer added to liven things up. This was the second trip we were taking to south-east Europe, albeit with a shortened length of two weeks. This time we decided to ditch public transport and hire a car for the two weeks. No backpacks and buses for us. This trip would be air-con heavy, and Spotify playlists all the way (‘CEE Drive Time’ on Spotify, for anyone interested). The added freedom allowed us to stop en route between our destinations, to my excitement but John’s chagrin.

We would be starting and ending in Budapest, somewhere John had been to recently, but I had never been. Images in my mind of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy merged with the trappings of being the second Imperial city of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Our route would take us to Novi Sad, Belgrade, Zagreb via Vukovar and Jasenovac, Rovinj, and then Ljubljana. We would mostly be touring the southern part of the Lands of the Crown of St Stephen, as they were know towards the end of Austria-Hungary; this area also formed part of the Military Frontier at other times, as a bulwark against the Ottoman Empire.

We arrived at the airport and proceeded to the executive lounge. As it was daytime and we planned to arrive in good time, we thought we would treat ourselves to food and drink before we board. And this we did, whilst charging our phones and finishing off last minute work/personal admin. I sank the best part of a bottle of red wine, soaked up by some pasta and nachos. John was on a similar track. With our gate being called after a short delay, we departed, said our goodbyes to the maître de, and walked to our gate. We queued up, as usual, and watched as a Wizz Air plane arrived at our gate, ending its previous journey, and witness its passengers disembark.

This is when the confusion began. This was clearly our plane. It was in our gate, and the people in our queue should be boarding it. However, after an hour with no updates and no progression on boarding, we had an announcement to say that our flight would be further delayed, and that another gate full of passengers would be boarding our plane, heading to Cluj-Napoca. We were told to go away and listen for further announcements. Incredible! We could not get back in to the lounge, so instead we sat at the bar in the main departure hall.

After another round of drinks and snacks, John went to the gate to find out more information. He was none the wiser. At this juncture, a guy who was sat next to us began chatting to us. He was a young lad currently living in Budapest, but hailed from Debrecen. We chatted about the delay, and what we were doing on our travels. I mentioned to him the EU compensation scheme, which he did not know about, so that lifted spirits somewhat.

After another hour I decided I would go down to the gate. There was a bit of commotion as the Wizz Air staff had begun to handout vouchers for food and drink, as the delay was ongoing. No announcement of this was made, of course. When I approached one person, she bluntly announced that I was drunk and should mind myself. I said it’s a bit of a cheek to hand out a voucher for food and drink to the value of £3.50 when all the restaurants and shops had now closed, apart from one bar and a Starbucks. I grabbed my two vouchers as a consolation prize, and returned to John. We carried on chatting to our new friend, keeping to soft drinks now following my caution. 5 hours after our scheduled departure, we finally had a call to go to our gate. It was just past 11pm, with a scheduled take off of 12:10am. After much huffing and puffing we boarded, and arranged to meet our new friend in Budapest at the end of our trip.

We arrived to a quiet Budapest airport just after 3am. As there was no public transport with any sort of frequency, we decided to get a taxi and claim it back from the airline. I had tried to message the hostel we planned to stay at, to say that we would be extremely delayed. I had received no response, so assumed it would be OK to check in at 4am.

We were dropped off on a main boulevard, which was wet from either a recent rain shower or street cleaners, and approached an apartment block of faded grandeur and tried to get in. We buzzed and phoned the hostel numerous times but could not get in. Tired and frustrated, we began to march down the road, as we saw a couple of international looking hotels to try and get a room at, our luggage dragging through the puddles behind us. The first two were booked up, but the second recommended a hotel around the corner, aptly called Soho Hotel. We entered and thankfully they had space. I felt rather queasy when John paid €99 for basically 6 hours in a hotel. But we both needed a shower and a lie down, and that is exactly what we did. I said that I would wake up a little earlier and call the car hire company to tell them that we would now be picking the car up after 12pm, rather than 10am as planned, so John could get some extra sleep. He was the nominated driver for the first stretch on the road trip. 5am we finally went to sleep. What a way to start!

Thoughts on Bought & Sold: Living and losing the Good Life in Socialist Yugoslavia by Patrick Patterson

The ‘Yugoslav Dream’ is the novel concept this book centres on, with the snappy by-line of ‘Living and losing the Good Life in Socialist Yugoslavia’ competently underscoring how the story is to unfold. A country believed to have been definitively behind the Iron Curtain, might make many people baulk at the initial idea that a socialist country run by a Communist Party could in any way have possessed a consumerist ‘Dream’, when these ‘Dreams’ are the by-product of capitalism. Patrick Patterson’s narrative evades choosing either a simple chronology, or an analysis by theme. Instead, by a combination of both, and through elevating key actors, processes or events, he traces the main points in the development and practice of consumerism in Socialist Yugoslavia.

Patterson initially details the material strife many Yugoslavs had to endure in the immediate post-war period. And from the comfort of 2019 you could think this a bleak description reserved only for this part of the world. But one needs to recall that not all was good in the West either. We in the UK did not come out of the war as a consumer society of abundance, rationing being the order of the day. And we suffered less damage to our infrastructure than Yugoslavia during the occupation, civil war, and then retreat.

During this immediate post-war period, the initiation and growth of the theory and practice of advertising and consumerism emerged; primarily from Western influences in the post World War Two era, with little, if any of it, having come from the small, domestic sector prior to the war. However, there had to have been favourable economic, social and political circumstances for it to take hold, resist suppression, and grow in Socialist Yugoslavia. The move in the 1950s away from Stalinist economic orthodoxy to a novel Yugoslav ‘self-management’ structure, allowed for more freedom to produce goods and saw the emergence of a ‘market’ mechanism to Yugoslavia. This was the key economic move.

Advertisers emerged out of ‘in-house’ advertising departments of large, mostly industrial, businesses into ‘bureaus’ themselves, and kept pushing, ever so softly, at the outer parameters of appropriate behaviour and acceptability. The profession had perennially been viewed suspiciously by the regime, to greater or lesser extent over the period. How consumerism presented itself also evolved too, for example magazines departing from hard news to lifestyle content. Furthermore, Gastarbeiters, and those living close to Italy and Austria, were already experiencing consumerism, just not in Yugoslavia. Advertisers saw and filled the domestic void when the opportunity arose.

Different ideological arguments over consumerism emerged over the period of Socialist Yugoslavia, both critical and supportive; and Patterson describes how officials, agencies, or the consumers themselves, stood by or participated as consumerism grew. One example he provides is that advertisers decided to make their profession ‘rational’ and ‘scientific’ in its practice, so that it fit into Marxist philosophy. Initially, this was through the content of adverts by providing basic facts about products and from where they could be bought. But opponents argued that adverts played on a ‘false need’, a new ‘opium of the masses’ as Patterson asserts. Even he concludes that the content of the adverts were not socialist. But they were advertising in socialism. Thus it was the environment in which they operated that had an impact on its functioning, its content, and it being ‘socialist’.

But why did the regime just not ban advertising? Especially if it was deemed to have emanated from capitalist practices. Tito’s concern was how people earned money, not how they spent it. With no opportunities to invest, Yugoslavs spent it on goods instead – either in the country or on shopping trips to Italy or Austria. Opposition from orthodox Marxist, ‘Praxis’ theorists wanted a return to Stalinist economics, and blamed the regime for wanting to impose market mechanisms, with the by-product being consumerism and (in their view) a more individualistic society. Instead, the regime saw this as an attack on its delivery of the uniquely Yugoslav self-management economy. Hence orthodoxy was suppressed, not consumerism. Fundamentally, Patterson believes that the regime wanted the positive political capital that it received from consumers enjoying the good life.

And from this good life emerged a New Class, one not highlighting ethnic differences, but a genuinely Yugoslav experience. Instead, it was a cultural class, defined by the ambition for the good life and material goods. Yet, if it was a cultural class, Patterson does not delve into the social side that consumerism and the need for material goods also created. Only passing references are made to shopping, but they are devoid of a more anthropological observation of how people spent their time shopping, and for goods other than mechanical for the home. Were people convinced to buy good foods, coffee, alcohol, cigarettes, clothes; and what about entertainment venues, such as restaurants, cinemas and theatres? The sites where one consumes these goods are outside of the house, and would have benefitted from the extra income people had to spend. This would make for intriguing reading, but inevitably may only be an observation seen in urban settings.

But the good life did not, ultimately, last. And neither did Yugoslavia as a state. Failings in the self-management system, with bonuses being awarded and not kept for investment; republican squabbling about the allocation of incomes and their distribution; and a borrowing binge used to fund a spending binge; as well as other factors – all contributed to the good life being constrained then reversed. But beyond the wars, Yugoslav consumerism lives in the culture of the people in the successor states, possessed in the persistent Yugo-nostalgia that is still evident. It remains in the minds of those who experienced the ‘good life’, members of the cultural ‘New Class’, now lamenting for it; and has emerged in the generation born since the recent wars free from the ‘lived’ experience of communism.

I would suggest this book to those who want to get a deeper understanding of how consumerism grew, as a by-product of self-management. It is a complex read, and at points you feel you have to ‘wade’ through it. But it does open up the possibility that Yugoslavia was in fact different to other Iron Curtain countries, and that a good life could to be had.