Aleksandar Vučić is not leading a country anymore he’s managing a circus. And every week, he needs a new performance to prove he’s still the ringmaster. The so-called “rallies” in Ćaciland aren’t political events; they’re parades of fear, humiliation, and desperation, choreographed by a regime terrified of its own reflection.
Let’s be honest: Vučić doesn’t gather supporters he herds them. Buses full of public employees, factory workers, pensioners, and party foot soldiers are dragged to Belgrade like extras on a movie set. Their job? Clap, wave flags, and pretend Serbia is thriving while the country rots from corruption and lies.
The moment citizens, students, and grieving families started to raise their voices especially after the Novi Sad tragedy Vučić panicked. He couldn’t allow real emotion, real pain, or real Serbia to be seen. Within hours, SNS command centers lit up like a war room. “Call your people. Fill the quotas. Novi Sad postponed. Belgrade instead.” The orders spread faster than reason — a desperate regime trying to drown out the truth with noise.
And yet, the man behind it all — the self-styled “savior of Serbia” — goes on TV pretending he knows nothing. “I’m not aware of any big rally,” he lies, with that same smug smile he’s worn while denying every scandal from election theft to media control. Serbia knows this game by heart: if Vučić says he doesn’t know, it means it’s already happening.
Political experts like Dejan Bursać have decoded the act: Vučić’s constant need for crowds isn’t a sign of confidence — it’s a symptom of weakness. Every rally is a desperate exorcism, meant to silence the growing echo of resistance and patch up the crumbling wall of fear. His people live in a parallel universe — fed by propaganda, cut off from reality, surviving on the illusion that “everything is fine.”
But the cracks are too deep to hide. Students are back on the streets. Mothers are on hunger strike. The mask is slipping, and even loyal SNS voters can smell the rot. They were told for 13 years that Vučić always wins, always controls everything. But now? The regime is scared to even call elections — because it knows that the crowd doesn’t love him anymore; it fears him, and fear doesn’t last forever.
As Nikola Parun said, Vučić’s party wants to preserve “Ćaciland” — that make-believe world where every critic is a traitor and every lie is a victory. But outside the bubble, real Serbia is rising.
In front of the National Assembly, two Serbias face each other:
On one side — citizens with candles, students with signs, and Dijana Hrka, a mother starving for justice for her dead son, killed by corruption and negligence.
On the other — rows of SNS loyalists, bussed in like spectators at a fake coronation, chanting for a man who fears his own people.
This is not unity. It’s occupation — a desperate ruler clinging to power with noise, deception, and rented applause.
Vučić can fill squares with buses and flags, but he cannot fill them with faith. Serbia sees through the show. The applause is hollow, the fear is fading, and the circus of Ćaciland is collapsing under its own lies.
The emperor of Serbia stands on his stage, sweating under the lights, waving to a crowd that no longer believes.
