At first sight Belgrade doesn't exactly strike you as a green city. The centre is polluted and characterised by grey soviet-era buildings interspersed by the odd relic from before WWI, during which Belgrade was almost destroyed (only to be destroyed again in WWII and, at least in part, in 1999). Which is not to say it doesn't have a charm of its own, the half derelict older buildings giving way to newer additions or restorations such as the new National Theatre. Its just not something you would necessarily put on a postcard home.
I had been promised, however, that if I ventured just a bit further afield than my little Vracar-Centre ghetto, I would find a wonderful Oasis of greenery in a park called Tasmajdan, which also contains Belgrade's surrogate cathedral, Sveti Marko church. The real cathedral, Sveti Sava, is still being built over a hundred years since it was begun. So last week I took off to find Tasmajdan and Sveti Marko, a decision which turned out to be a good one for many reasons, not least of which because I found lots of inviting looking cafes along the way.
Tasmajdan itself was not looking its best, I assume, because winter has left the trees bare and the paths icy, but I could see how it could be a lush place in summer. I came across a sombre monument to the children killed in the 1999 bombing, and later learned that there was (still is) a children's theatre in Tasmajdan which was bombed by Nato (apparently there were lots of buildings of strategic import in a municipal park). Apart from that there was little to see in the park itself, and strolling around and eyeing off stray dogs got a bit tedious after a while so I sought out Sveti Marko, a church I could hardly miss as its dark black and ochre striped tower looms over the whole of Tasmajdan in its neo-Byzantine glory.
Since living in Russia and Serbia I've developed a bit of a sensory obsession with churches; partly because they provide warmth on long cold days, partly because they are a great way of tracing the history of these deeply orthodox countries (pre-1917, at least), and partly because, despite not being remotely religious, I love their smell, the dim light and the glow of the icons, and the sound of murmuring voices bubbling around. Sveti Marko was usual for a Serbian church in that there are little to no murals on the walls and so it felt a little bare, but there are compensations like the tomb of Stepan Dusan (founder of the great Serbian state in the 14th century) and enough iconic glory to give me a thorough education on Serbian saints and the various ways they died. I walked in in the middle of a service, which didn't seem to bother anyone, and the priest sang away happily as a small cluster of people stood around him with heads bent. No one took any notice of me as I clattered around staring at dark icons, and gazed up at the huge iron candelabra swaying from the ceiling. I snuck out and the huge wooden door creaked behind me, while I stood on the steps and adjusted my eyes to the sunlight, harsh after the soft glow of candles and incense.
Not satiated, I decided it was time for more of a churches binge, and headed off to the Aleksandr Nevsky church, which I've been intending to visit for ages after hearing it was the Russian church (bien sur, Nevsky being the 13th century saviour of the Russian state against the Teutonic Knights - see Eisenstein's awesome film about it for details) and thus hoping to find someone I could practice my Russkii with. I didn't manage that, but the experience was worth it nonetheless, as I saw the most intense (somewhat disturbing) display of Serbia religiosity yet. As I walked up to the church I saw big queues outside and assumed I had come on a festival day and wouldn't get a look inside, only to discover that they were queues to fill your water bottle with the holy water being sold in large kegs on the church steps. I pushed past people and went inside to find the church a hive of activity, about three separate lines to kiss various icons, including one right up the central aisle of the church, apparently leading to an especially holy relic. A black robed priest stood by this one waving an incense ball, and chanting, while the devoted waited patiently for their turn to bestow kisses. Unlike Russia, where almost everyone I saw in churches was pushing 70, these queues ran the whole gamut of ages, with young Serbian women in low cut jeans having to be careful as they bent over to view the icons. After the austerity of Sveti Marko, I was excited to see that the walls of Aleksandr Nevsky were covered in frescos, which apparently were only completed recently but with their layer of incense soot looked suitably ancient. I sat in a dark corner and watched the action, as people swept past me to get to the shop selling beads and mini versions of the icons covering the walls.
From a purely selfish point of view I love these trips to orthodox Churches, which are some of the only places to see anything older than WWII in Serbia. That said, after leaving Aleksandr Nevsky and telling James what I saw I had to admit the heightened emotions of the devoted I saw inside are hardly a good thing, particularly in the Balkans where the Serbian Orthodox Church was heavily involved in the 1991-1993 war, as well as Kosovo and the recent rise in nationalist violence (just see the pre-Srebrenica film of paramilitaries being blessed by bishops and you'll know what I mean). For many Serbs I think the national church is rooted in a past they want to return to (rather than a past they simply want to know about) and so the fierce passion many hold for it is also the passion with which they cling to Kosovo and denounce Bosnian Muslims. The situation in Russia is somewhat different - although the church is resurgent and certainly associated with new nationalist movements, the communist era did a more thorough job of breaking the back of religion there than in Serbia, where Tito never really tried. People talk about the Church in Russia like it is the bloodline of the Motherland, but you never actually see them inside one. In Serbia people's attachment is much more immediate, and thus I think it would be easier to rally people here on religious grounds than in Russia where the nationalism is ultimately still secular.
All of this I guess is a sombre footnote to my wanderings around Belgrade churches, which I won't be giving up despite their possibly nationalistic overtones. As architectural monuments I think they are the best this poor scarred city has, and as historical ones they are richer than the (perpetually shut) National Museum, even if their historical significance is a little too real for many of the people who line up inside them.
