A fellow called me from Belgrade. Judging by his voice, he was on the young side. Expecting another call, I picked up the phone, which I rarely do if I do not recognize the number. He told me his name and said that there would be a meeting on June 4 to celebrate the student uprising in Belgrade forty years ago. He mentioned the names of several organizers of the gathering, all of whom I knew well. “I got goosebumps all over my body,” I told him at once. “All I wanted was to let you know about the whole thing,” he laughed, “but I will soon send you the invitation by electronic mail.” Travel and lodging expenses will be covered for some fifty invitees, he mentioned. I promised to come if at all possible. “As you can imagine,” I added, “1968 means a great deal to me…” My voice trailed off at this point. Although I hate to travel, next week I may indeed hug my old mates. After all these years, I may not recognize any of them, but the old spirit will be there, I am quite sure. And there will be goosebumps all around.

Addendum I (May 28, 2008)

In the end I decided not to go to Belgrade next week. Too many schedule conflicts to resolve in too little time. But I sent this piece to the fellow who called me, together with my request to share it with the organizers of the gathering. I also promised to come to Belgrade on June 4, 2018. The fiftieth anniversary of the Belgrade uprising I cannot possibly miss. In fact, it is already in my calendar, so as to avoid possible schedule conflicts in ten years’ time.

Addendum II (June 4, 2008)

It is no great surprise that Belgrade comes to me quite often ever since I woke up this morning. Not today’s Belgrade, where I could have been as I write these words, but that of 1968. One memory that pops up every now and then is of a large slogan I wrote in red paint on white cloth together with Milan Brkić, my closest friend at the time and a fellow student of architecture: “Don’t trust the press!” We hung it on the balcony of the university headquarters, which we took over for the ten days of the uprising. This was the first slogan hung anywhere on the building, too. It must have been the second day of the uprising, and the first day of newspaper lies about it. After forty years, I still do not trust the press or any other media, albeit for a different reason than before. Back then, the press had to toe the line drawn by those in power; today, it has to toe the line drawn by the hoi polloi. The latter is perhaps even worse.