Behind the Silence: How Serbia’s University Crisis Reflects a Global Fight for Academic Freedom and Institutional Autonomy
In the heart of Belgrade last winter, Milena, a 22-year-old architecture student, wrapped herself in a heavy wool coat and joined thousands of others outside the Parliament building. Snowflakes drifted onto her protest sign, which read in Serbian: “Education is not a luxury. It is our future.” For students like her, the collapse of a concrete canopy at Novi Sad train station in late 2024 was not just a physical disaster. It became a symbol of a deeper structural collapse—one that exposed cracks in Serbia’s higher education system and, more worryingly, in the autonomy of its institutions.
What followed was a series of events that many in the international academic community now see as a cautionary tale. Prolonged student protests and campus blockades spiraled into a standoff between university stakeholders and state authorities. Soon, state funding for universities was cut dramatically. In February 2025, professors' salaries were slashed by half. By April, they had fallen to just 12.5% of their original amount. Overnight, world-class lecturers found themselves unable to pay rent or afford heating, let alone pursue research or attend international conferences. The message was loud and clear: education could be controlled, and autonomy could be compromised when politically convenient.
For international observers, what’s unfolding in Serbia raises serious questions about the fragility of academic institutions under governmental pressure. And while the headlines may focus on Serbia, the implications are far-reaching. Countries across Eastern Europe and even some in Western democracies are grappling with similar tensions. The pursuit of knowledge has always been vulnerable to political winds, but rarely has it felt so acutely personal and immediate.
For parents in the region, these events carry a familiar sting. Jovan, a 52-year-old engineer and father of two university-age children, recalled the 1990s, when sanctions and political instability deeply disrupted daily life and education. He believed those days were long past. “We raised our children with the promise that knowledge was the surest path to a better life,” he said during a small community forum. “Now we must explain to them why their professors are driving taxis to survive, and why research is no longer a priority.”
What makes the situation especially volatile is the new regulation that limits how much time academic staff can dedicate to research. For professors, this is more than a bureaucratic constraint; it’s a direct attack on the very heart of academic identity. Research, after all, is not just a metric for rankings or funding. It is the soul of academia. It drives innovation, informs teaching, and connects universities to global networks of knowledge. Without it, universities become sterile classrooms rather than living ecosystems of intellectual pursuit.
International collaboration has also suffered. European funding agencies and global research institutions are wary of working with institutions in crisis. Serbia’s withdrawal from several academic exchange agreements this spring sent ripples through the continent’s education community. Many Serbian students, once enthusiastic participants in Erasmus+ programs, found their study-abroad placements suspended. Professors due to present at conferences in Paris and Berlin quietly withdrew, citing visa complications and lack of financial support. For a generation that had just begun to feel globally connected, the isolation has been profound.
Meanwhile, university administrators have faced impossible decisions. Should they continue to operate with shrinking funds, or shut down entire departments? Should they allow politically motivated board appointments in hopes of restoring funding, or fight for autonomy and risk closure? Each choice carries weighty consequences—not just for institutions, but for the thousands of students whose futures hang in the balance.
Yet in spite of the bleakness, signs of hope continue to emerge. In Novi Sad, a group of engineering students has begun offering free evening classes to high schoolers whose own teachers are overburdened. In Niš, a retired literature professor has opened her home for weekly philosophy discussions, attracting everyone from first-year students to curious neighbors. These small, grassroots efforts underscore a simple truth: education, at its core, is about community. Even when institutions are threatened, the human drive to learn, teach, and connect endures.
The broader global conversation around academic freedom and institutional autonomy has also intensified. Policy makers in Brussels and Berlin have expressed concern over the Serbian situation, while academic unions across Europe have issued statements of solidarity. But words can only do so much. What Serbian universities need now is sustained international attention, real structural support, and most importantly, time to recover and rebuild.
In affluent Western countries where elite education often comes with a six-figure price tag and plush ivy-covered campuses, it's tempting to view the Serbian crisis as distant. Yet the erosion of academic freedom anywhere sets a dangerous precedent everywhere. If political convenience can override institutional independence in one country, it can happen elsewhere too—and often more quietly.
The stakes are particularly high in an era of rising misinformation, populism, and technological disruption. Universities are among the few remaining spaces where truth can be pursued without agenda, where dissent can be expressed without fear, and where young minds can develop critical thinking skills essential for democratic societies. When these institutions are weakened, the cost is shared by all.
Parents in affluent suburbs of London and New York often ask the same questions as those in Belgrade: Will my child receive an education that prepares them not just for a job, but for life in a complex, interconnected world? Will their professors be supported enough to challenge them intellectually, rather than just deliver pre-scripted lectures? Will research continue to illuminate problems and propose bold solutions in health, technology, and climate? These concerns, once reserved for academic conferences and op-ed pages, are now being voiced in kitchens and classrooms around the world.
Serbia’s story is also a reminder that education systems are inherently human systems. They thrive on trust, relationships, shared purpose, and consistent support. When any of those elements are undermined, the consequences ripple far beyond budget lines and lecture halls. They seep into family decisions, community stability, national innovation, and even international diplomacy.
If there’s a lesson to be learned from Serbia, it’s that universities cannot be treated like factories or political pawns. They are fragile and powerful institutions, deeply tied to national identity, social mobility, and cultural memory. To weaken them is to weaken a country’s ability to envision and build a better future.
For Milena, the protests have become a weekly ritual. She no longer marches alone. Her mother now joins her, carrying hot tea and extra gloves. Her younger brother, still in high school, tags along with a notepad, eager to document everything. “We’re not just fighting for salaries or buildings,” Milena said one evening as chants echoed down the boulevard. “We’re fighting for our right to dream.”
And in that fight, they are far from alone.