Why Yugoslavia Built Alien Monuments to Heal Centuries of Hate? The Secret Story of Belgrade Metro

Why Yugoslavia Built Alien Monuments to Heal Centuries of Hate? The Secret Story of Belgrade Metro

This rare Soviet train, still dressed in 
its original paintwork, had just returned from another time-travel journey through a 
forgotten utopia. In the previous 20 minutes, it went from the post-war rationalist 
dream of a shining modern age to the decadent late capitalism present 
we ended up 80 years later. It passed through a metro station famed for its 
beauty, followed by one notorious for its dread. Crossing the Danube river, the train will 
roll into the countryside, where mysterious alien-shaped slabs of concrete loom over 
the skyline. This is the former Yugoslavia, a land of the cold, unwelcoming, and, at the 
same time, irresistibly enchanting aesthetics. Join me for a ride, and you’ll discover how 
the only politician Stalin ever feared created the most Instagrammable architectural style 
in the world; how monuments meant to unite nations became the backdrop for pop stars and 
paramilitaries; and how war criminals financed public transport construction while governments 
failed. Along the way, we’ll listen to some ’90s Balkan turbofolk music — another very important 
artifact of the era. Are you ready? Let’s go. World War II was brutal in the Balkans. Partisan 
fighting swept throug h nearly every village and cost the region about a million lives. 
When the bloodshed ended, thousands of battlefield monuments were commissioned to 
permanently honor the courage of the soldiers. But… how is this different from any other European 
country? World War II was brutal everywhere, and everywhere people honor their heroes. 
So why is Yugoslavia especially known for its post-war memorials? A few things 
set it apart. When the war ended, Yugoslavia was a still very young federation 
of six republics and twenty ethnic minorities. Orthodox Serbia, Catholic Croatia, muslim 
Bosnia… Some of them had centuries-old conflicts, which made the union quite fragile. For 
example, take this Serbian hit from the 1990s: “They cursed my priest, and I cursed 
their monks,” the singer recalls, referring to his Croatian neighbours. The 
Croats, of course, did not stay silent: These nations have a truly complicated 
relationship. So after World War II, the liberating war that united the new Yugoslavia 
in their fight against the Nazis, the central government generously financed memorials in 
every republic, so each region could see its own sacrifice honored and remember they were 
all on the same team. The new country’s leader, Josip Broz Tito — a communist revolutionary and 
head of that glorious partisan movement — was initially closely aligned with the USSR. The first 
wave of monuments went up in the socialist-realist style common across the Eastern bloc. They were 
perfectly boring bronze sculptures of workers and soldiers, surrounded by marble and granite.

However, the Soviet leader, Joseph Stalin, did not view Tito as an equal. He saw him 
merely as a junior partner, he sought to impose his own economic model on Yugoslavia and 
aimed to prevent Tito from asserting control in neighboring Bulgaria and Albania. Tito, however, 
refused to accept this—and with good reason. Unlike other Soviet Bloc countries, Yugoslavia 
had liberated itself from the Nazis without the assistance of the Red Army, so Tito 
felt like he owed nothing to Stalin. Tensions mounted, and in 1948, just three 
years after the end of World War II, the two seemingly allied socialist 
regimes broke apart for good. Yugoslavia started searching for a new visual 
language to distance itself from the Soviets. Brutalist abstraction was the perfect fit. Raw, 
board-marked concrete (also called béton brut, hence the name, brutalism) was cutting-edge 
technology at the time and signalled an openness to Western avant-gardes. Brutalism wasn’t 
invented by Yugoslavian architects; it originated in post-war England, and it was inspired by the 
works of French architect Le Corbusier. However, while English brutalism was primarily used for 
utilitarian buildings, many of which are now being demolished due to age, it was the Yugoslavs who 
turned ordinary rough concrete into a true art. And yes, this is still a channel about railways; 
stick with me; it’ll all make sense soon. Abstract forms were universal; 
they replaced ethnic symbols and gave each group equal ownership of the 
memorial, preventing anyone’s folklore from overshadowing the others. A starburst 
or stylized petal could belong to everyone. Steel-reinforced concrete was perfect for these 
shapes; sculpting them in stone or bronze would have been nearly impossible. Concrete 
was also locally made and very cheap. Daring young sculptors called their 
memorials “machines for remembering the future.” Their sci-fi shapes encouraged 
visitors to look ahead, not back. This Kozara mountain monument in Bosnia and Herzegovina was 
opened in 1972. It honors the resistance to the brutal Nazi forces offensive of summer of 1942 
in which about 2,500 partisans and some 68,000 civilians were either killed or deported 
to concentration camps. Two decades later, when war again swept the Balkans, the monument 
inspired a new generation of volunteers from the town of Kozarac and the surrounding villages 
to fight for what they believed was right. Meanwhile, Belgrade, the capital city 
of the leading republic of Serbia and the whole of Yugoslavia, was busy 
overhauling its railway junction. Plans included a new railway bridge, 
a semi-underground central station, and a four-kilometre tunnel – replacements for 
the 19th-century network that could no longer handle modern traffic. The work on the tunnel 
and on the passenger stations began in 1989, and it was the worst possible moment to launch 
such an ambitious project. Just two years later, Yugoslavia collapsed into several fragmented 
republics, setting off a series of brutal wars. International sanctions following the Bosnian war, 
for which Serbia was held responsible, heavily affected the economy. They shut off foreign trade, 
finance, and outside technical help. Fortunately, the project could still lean on local labour 
and construction materials. In order to fund it, the government used hyper-inflationary money 
printing. Wages lost value within weeks, so the real cost of labour crumbled — yet crews 
kept reporting for duty because state-owned companies were the only ones still paying. 
Working on “strategic infrastructure” also granted exemption from combat service, giving many 
workers a powerful incentive to stay on the job. For President Slobodan Milošević, the 
project became a badge of prestige, a proof that “Serbia can build even under 
isolation.” The 43-metre-deep Vukov Spomenik station opening on July 7, 1995 was broadcast live 
on state TV. Milošević boasted that the country had delivered “the most modern underground station 
in Europe despite a total international blockade.” He did not explain how he bankrolled such 
a luxurious station in a war-torn country, virtually cut off from the global economy. 
We’ll have to dig into that ourselves. The station looks genuinely impressive, with a 
tastefully decorated vestibule and escalator hall that feel straight out of a Soviet-era metro. 
But instead of the usual Soviet subway trains, you’ll find export-grade Soviet suburban trains — 
narrower-profile units built to the standard 1,435 mm gauge specifically for Yugoslavia. They’re 
tweaked for city service (note the three doors per car), yet spotting these trains running 
underground is still a pretty unusual sight. Every so often, freight trains and regional diesel 
railbuses rumble through the station as well. At the far end of the hall, a relief 
depicts Belgrade in the 15th century. The station quickly became one of 
Belgrade’s most beloved landmarks. Ceca, Serbia’s superstar singer affectionately known 
as the “Serbian Mother,” even featured it in a music video — and that was no coincidence. At 
the time, she was married to Željko Ražnatović, better known as Arkan, another iconic figure of 
the era. He had robbed several banks in Western Europe in the ’70s, escaped prison, returned 
to Yugoslavia, and, when the war broke out, founded the Serb Volunteer Guard — one of 
the most feared and effective paramilitary groups. Arkan even launched his own political 
party and ran in parliamentary elections. Rumor has it that his influence played 
a big role in Ceca’s commercial success. The Vukov Spomenik station was co-financed by 
another of Arkan’s protégés, Dafina Milanović — a businesswoman who, in return for her investment, 
was promised a generous share of the station complex’s retail and office space. The money came 
from the infamous Dafiment bank she was running. In the early ‘90s, the bank offered everyone 
“150 percent interest a month.” Ordinary Serbs, desperate to outpace state-driven hyperinflation, 
entrusted their savings to Dafiment. The bank turned out to be Serbia’s biggest pyramid scheme — 
protected by Arkan, who was an early investor and, unsurprisingly, was given the privilege 
of knowing exactly when to cash out. The pyramid scheme collapsed in 1993, Arkan was 
shot in 2000, and Dafina was put behind bars in 2002. Yet Vukov Spomenik still carries 
passengers every day, giving people hope that Belgrade can one day move beyond a single 
underground railway line to a full-blown metro network. The other stations, however, untainted 
by war criminals’ money, aren’t nearly as fancy. Karađorđev Park station is easily the eeriest 
metro station the world has ever seen. Bare concrete walls, dim lighting, rust streaks, 
and graffiti give it a catacomb-like feel. Amid these tunnels rumble old workhorse trains — 
purely utilitarian and also covered in graffiti. Inside, darkness dominates; half 
the light fixtures are dead. When the train finally bursts back into 
daylight, you breathe a little easier—yes, you made it. Then you can lean out of an open 
window and enjoy the breeze and the view. And so the Belgrade underground railway 
unintentionally continues the proud tradition of Yugoslav Brutalism. The stations are at 
a bare minimum, their structure is visible, each component is doing its one and one only 
honest job. The train all but says, “Look, I’m not some glossy, over-engineered 
Western European unit that feeds braking energy back into the grid. I’m 
proudly an Eastern European machine — I burn that energy through the huge 
brake resistor bank on my roof.” You can’t be indifferent to Yugoslav 
brutalism — you either love it or hate it. Most people see it as nothing more than a rundown 
pile of concrete, covered in graffiti. Others find it fascinating and embark on two-week bus 
tours of war memorials. Why is that? I can’t speak for everyone, but for me, brutalism 
has always been the most straightforward, down-to-earth architectural style. 
You can see exactly how it’s made, you understand it, and you can even imagine 
building something like this yourself. When I was a kid and my father was building 
our summer cottage, I often played with wood, sand, and sometimes even cement. Making 
molds and pouring my own concrete was something I found incredibly fun. What 
I wasn’t so good at was going to school and drawing those silly flowers 
and horses they made us sketch. But with brutalism, ornaments aren’t necessary. 
You just place the building under the sun and let the play of light and shadow do the rest. 
Raw gray concrete looks completely different on a cloudy day, under the harsh midday sun, 
or in the soft glow of a rose-colored sunset. It’s like getting three visually distinct 
buildings (or monuments) for the price of one. That simplicity, that openness, that 
self-reliance—that’s what defines Yugoslavia, and Serbia in particular. 
A country caught between East and West, unwilling to submit to either, boldly said in 
the 1950s: No, East, we don’t need you or your imperial style. We’ll create something great 
on our own. And they did. Forty years later, they turned to the West and said: No, we don’t 
need you either — and then built a Soviet-style metro station just to prove the point.
That boldness — to rely only on yourself, to do what you believe needs to be done, and 
to present the result to the world knowing the reaction will be wildly mixed — that is 
what makes brutalism so compelling. It’s no coincidence that the 20th-anniversary remake of 
one of the iconic ’90s clips, where a kid with a remote control makes people dance in the Helsinki 
metro … was filmed in Vukov Spomenik station! But jokes aside, Belgrade residents truly deserve 
a decent metro system. In 1982, they approved a 2 % tax on all employees’ wages and business income, 
destined for constructing the metro. That same year, however, the project was canceled, but the 
tax remained in place for several more years. What did the government do with all that money? That’s 
an interesting question, and we’ll talk about it in the next video. Subscribe to the channel if 
you haven’t done so yet, and see you again soon!

Hop aboard a rare Soviet train as we travel through time — from the post-war dreams of a united Yugoslavia to the stark realities of today. In this episode, we explore hidden metro stations, haunting monuments, and the raw beauty of Yugoslav brutalism.

👉 Discover how Tito defied Stalin and inspired the world’s most Instagrammable concrete memorials.
👉 Visit Vukov Spomenik — Europe’s deepest station, built during war, sanctions, and pyramid schemes.
👉 See how war criminals, pop stars, and politicians shaped Serbia’s underground rail.
👉 Experience the eerie Karađorđev Park station and the rugged charm of Soviet-built trains.

Along the way, we’ll dive into the region’s turbulent history, its architecture, and the music that defined an era.

🎥 If you’re fascinated by trains, history, architecture, or the forgotten stories of the Balkans — this is for you.

💬 What’s your take on Yugoslav brutalism? Love it or hate it? Let me know in the comments!

🔔 Subscribe for more journeys into the hidden railways and monuments of Eastern Europe.

#Yugoslavia #brutalism #metro

00:00 – Intro
01:28 – WWII memorials in Yugoslavia (Spomeniks)
03:26 – Yugoslavia and USSR relations
04:30 – Why are Spomeniks brutalist?
06:41 – Reconstruction of the Belgrade railway junction during the war
08:08 – The story behind Vukov Spomenik station
09:26 – Ceca, Arkan, and Dafina Milanović
11:55 – Karađorđev Park, the eeriest metro station in the world
13:05 – The Belgrade metro is a brutalist metro

Video courtesies:

SPOMENIKS Yugoslavian Monuments (Cinematic Drone Reel) Lost & Abandoned Socialist Brutalism (Alex Bokov)
Kozara National Park & Monument – Bosnia – Herzegovina – Motorhome – Road Trip – Aspirational (NOT QUITE NORTH – nomadic adventures…)
4K Serbia ｜ Cinematic footage of Spomenik Sloboda ｜ Monument Freedom (
Milos Petrusic)
Tjentište – Dolina Heroja ( Valley Of Heroes – Tjentiste ) Drone , Dron , Bosnia And Herzegovina 4K (eda-Ra)
Jedan Panvoz i dva Vršačka voza i pet BG voza na Pančevačkom Mostu (
David Railfan)
The History of Yugoslavia, Part 1： Origins and Growth (Mac’s World)
Toblerone Building – Brutalist Architecture in Belgrade (Ivan Dean)

Music:

Marc Torch – Deepest Woods
Lepi Mica – Gora Romanija
Experia – In War We Shall Rise
Baja Mali Knindža – Kad Sam Bio Mali
M. P. Thompson – Anica, Kninska kraljica
Martin Landstrom – Cafe de Manha
Rymdklang Soundtracks – Kavorka
DEX 1200 – Sensai Masopi Sky
Roki Vulovic – Peta kozarska brigada
Sonum – Nocturnal Sou
Ceca – Beograd
Svetomir Ilic Siki – Arkanove Delije
Helmut Schenker – Blending Spaces
Mandala Dreams – Solitude Conscience
Roki Vulovic – Spavajte Mirno