Grassroots Queer Archiving in the Balkans:

A Conversation with Jelena Vasiljević and Safira Boeder

Author

Neja Berger

Abstract

Based on a conversation with activists and archivists Jelena Vasiljević (Arkadija Archive, Serbia) and Safira Boeder (HomeSpace Arkivi Queer Shqiptar, Albania), the essay examines how grassroots queer archives in the Balkans preserve and reassemble traces of queer life through volunteer labour, oral histories, and emerging regional collaboration networks. It explores tensions between organisations and communities, the contradictions produced by visibility, and the epistemological challenges of translating queer categories and lived experiences across different languages, histories, knowledge systems, and political contexts.

Keywords

Albania, Serbia, Arkadija Archive, HomeSpace, Balkan Network of Queer Archives, memory culture, activism, queer archives.

The Letter Returned to the Sender

“Dear Lepa!

You might be surprised – it’s me, Suzana. I’m also among the founders of Roza klub. How are you, what’s going on? [...]

We’re very interested in collaborating with you. In that sense, our club has Yugoslav ambitions, and we have members from Croatia, Serbia, and even Italy. Dejan from Belgrade recently visited us. He’s the one who wrote a protest letter to the Assembly of the Republic of Serbia. The letter and his address were published in the second issue of Eros. Dejan is planning to form an organisation in Belgrade similar to our Roza klub. I can send you his address if you’re interested in getting in touch with him. We also know Ivana from Belgrade, who wrote a graduate thesis on Homosexual Subculture and Social Repression. (But I don’t think she is a lesbian.) [...]

When we prepare a more detailed programme, we will send it to you right away. And send us any information you think should be published. You can also write to us about whatever else interests you. We’re glad that you contacted us and that you’re interested in cooperating.
Many greetings,
Suzana.” (Tratnik 1990)¹

The words pressed onto paper by a typewriter back in 1990 – sent by Suzana Tratnik from Ljubljana to Lepa Mlađenović in Belgrade – returned thirty-five years later to a place intertwined with their beginnings: the ŠKUC Gallery in Ljubljana. It was within ŠKUC, the student cultural organisation born in 1972, anchored by the gallery space in 1978, that its lesbian section ŠKUC-LL and gay section Magnus founded Roza klub (Pink Club), the subject of Suzana’s letter to Lepa (Velikonja 2024: 69). At the Autumn Film School in October 2025, the letter holds a different status, that of a historical artefact admired by an audience during the Archive as Resistance: Queer Memory and Memory Activism roundtable, with the author of the ‘first’ letter sitting among them. The document is designated as ‘first’ both in its current home – Arkadija Archive: Collection on Arkadija, “First letter–1990.pdf” – and within narratives tracing the origins of the Serbian queer movement. “It started with this very letter”, says Jelena Vasiljević, Serbian LGBTQ+ and feminist activist, member of Rainbow Ignite, and co-founder of one of the archives we had gathered to discuss. Its name – Arkadija Archive – honours the first Serbian queer organisation (Arkadija), founded shortly after the correspondence we revisited, by none other than the letter’s recipient, Lepa (Mlađenović), together with the very same Dejan (Nebrigić), who was “planning to form an organisation in Belgrade similar to our Roza klub”, Rereading the letter at the roundtable in ŠKUC Gallery, therefore, creates an almost poetic layering of space and time, save for the lingering uncertainty over whether “Ivana from Belgrade” was, in fact, a lesbian. Suzana’s hunch was correct, Jelena later tells me, but she has remained an ally of the community to this day.

Geologies of Queer Knowledge

In her lecture, Geologies of Queer Studies: It’s Déjà Vu All Over Again,² Gayle Rubin evokes the cyclical rhythm of queer history – the way certain queer pasts and knowledges are continuously forgotten and then unearthed again. She describes these cycles with a geological metaphor: “In the geologic record, certain strata are fossil rich, partly because of the conditions that produce luxuriant life forms and partly because of the conditions that favor their preservation in fossil form” (Rubin 2011: 354, cited in Marshall, Murphy, and Tortorici 2014: 2). Rubin extends this metaphor to queer knowledges and their dependence on two sets of conditions: the social and political factors that enable an outpouring of queer thought and cultural production, and those that determine whether such production will be preserved or erased. Early Yugoslav queer movements seem to have emerged during a period in which both sets of conditions were sufficiently aligned.

The decriminalisation of homosexuality in parts of Yugoslavia in 1977 – specifically in the republics of Slovenia, Croatia, and Montenegro, as well as in the region of Vojvodina in Serbia – created the first crucial political condition for the emergence of a public queer community (Velikonja and Greif 2012: 50). What followed was a burst of cultural production, organising, and political thought related to queer issues, for the first time beyond completely private spheres. In Slovenia, the entanglement of early queer activists with the alternative art scenes of the 1970s and 1980s led to a broad range of expression. Alongside writing and translating critical theory, the queer movement began to take form through literature, music, theatre, and even film festivals. The first LGBT film festival in Europe did not take place in any of the major cities of the capitalist West, but in Ljubljana, as part of the Magnus festival in 1984. At the same time, the activist community and emerging queer ‘scene’ around it relied on media that are less common today to organise, share information, and circulate ideas, leaving behind printed zines, posters, leaflets, bulletins, and personal correspondence in the form of letters. All this fertile production of ‘queer knowledges’, coupled with the rise of new queer organisations and the variety of formats and materials that could contain their work, has remained, in Rubin’s terms, preserved “in fossil form” (Rubin 2011: 354).

Preservation on its own, however, does not automatically guarantee remembrance. Rubin cautions that “it is up to succeeding generations to ensure that such sedimentary formations are identified, excavated, catalogued, and utilised to produce new knowledge. Unfortunately, because of the lack of durable structural mechanisms to secure the reliable transfer of queer knowledges, they are often instead lost, buried, and forgotten” (Rubin 2011: 354, cited in Marshall, Murphy, and Tortorici 2014). I am only able to recount part of the Slovenian movement’s origin because the movement archived and historicised itself – because Lezbična knjižnica (Lesbian Library)³ in Ljubljana holds a rich collection of materials from this period and because numerous publications exist with the sole purpose of commemorating the work of queer organisations and the formation of the queer scene (e.g. Velikonja and Greif 2012; Velikonja 2024).

Arkadija and HomeSpace: Archives in the Making

Arkadija Archive is another attempt to counteract “the lack of durable structural mechanisms” (Rubin 2011: 354) needed to sustain queer historical memory. It emerged from a desire to preserve the legacies of the pioneers of queer organising in Serbia, Jelena Vasiljević explains at the Autumn Film School 2025 roundtable:

We held a workshop for Pride organisers, and a majority of those who attended were younger people, a lot of trans youth showed up, and I showed them the photographs: when it all started, how it began. When I asked if they knew who the people in the photos were, a room of fifty people fell completely silent. That’s when I realised, we had to act if we wanted to preserve the memory of how it all happened.

Her words make clear that remembrance is not passive: it is a form of labour, woven into processes of historicisation and commemoration, both of which depend on traces from the past. Archives play a crucial role in collecting and safeguarding those traces.

The Serbian movement never “stood on its own”, Jelena explains: “We rose up from the anti-war movement and in connection to other movements in the region” Arkadija was founded in the early 1990s at activist meetings in Belgrade’s Hotel Moskva, where two central figures mentioned in the letter, Lepa and Dejan, were both present. But these beginnings of queer organising already coincided with Yugoslavia’s collapse and the years of nationalist violence that followed. The “protest letter to the Assembly of the Republic of Serbia” mentioned in Suzana’s letter refers to Nebrigić’s open letter condemning the rising nationalism and militarisation under Milošević, written even before the wars broke out (Kalem 2023). Because of these circumstances, Arkadija’s members were heavily, primarily even, involved from the start with the anti-war movement and pacifist feminist organisations like Žene u crnom (Women in Black) and only continued working primarily on queer issues after the war in newly formed organisations such as Labris and Gayten (Savić 2011: 104). The history of Arkadija is, of course, one piece of a much larger story. The 2000s saw many more LGBT+ organisations forming across Serbia. As they stepped into public view, society began to react, at times with approval, but mostly with resistance and violence.

Now both the traces of queer organising in Serbia and mainstream responses to it are gathered in one place: Arkadija Archive, currently housed at Rainbow Ignite. The archive first took shape in 2023 with a call to roughly twenty LGBT+ organisations and initiatives active in Serbia, which contributed large volumes of material. Today, it holds more than 35,000 items: documents, correspondence, photographs, zines, bulletins, press clippings from mainstream media, film tape, cassettes, VHS, DVDs, and even paintings. The collection continues to grow through new donations from personal archives, state and private media archives, and ongoing documentation of queer life and organising as it unfolds today. The archive depends entirely on volunteers who are currently digitising analogue materials, organising and cataloguing, learning about preservation practices, and already thinking ahead to distribution platforms such as a website that could provide researchers with access to their extensive collection. The next step, Jelena tells us, is to gather oral histories through conversations with activists who have been involved over the past forty years, as well as with queer people who were not necessarily connected to LGBT+ organisations.

Oral histories form the foundation of another archival collection in the region that has recently begun taking shape. HomeSpace Arkivi Queer Shqiptar is an Albanian community queer archive, presented at our roundtable by one of its co-founders, Dutch activist and researcher based in Tirana, Safira Boeder: “It began by collecting oral histories and mapping the current state of the queer movement”, which is small but fragmented, nonetheless. “There are activist spaces, community organising, and temporary spaces, but a lot of people feel like they don’t belong, so most of the queer community has migrated.” As Safira was building a collection of oral histories, the organisation Aleanca LGBTI (LGBTI Alliance) had just received the archive of Albania’s first queer organisation from the 1990s, Shoqata Gay Albania (Albanian Gay Society):

It was a group of gay men fighting for their existence, for decriminalisation and for information on and protection from HIV and AIDS. Their archive had travelled around the world with people who had been active and fled in the 1990s and was eventually collected by one of the former leaders, who sent it back to Albania, to Aleanca – the country’s largest queer, lesbian-run organisation.

While homosexuality was decriminalised in parts of Yugoslavia in 1977, enabling a vibrant public queer scene by the 1980s, Enver Hoxha’s regime in Albania adopted a criminal code imposing a ten-year prison sentence for male homosexuality in the same year,⁴ which the state actively enforced (Millona 2024: 29). Shoqata Gay Albania officially formed in 1994, three years after the fall of Hoxha’s regime (which fell six years after his death), with decriminalisation following a year later. Aleanca began its work in 2009, and three years later, Tirana saw its first P(ride) event. But these are only some of the most publicly accessible facts. The whole complexity of queer existence and organising in Albania is largely unknown, and this is precisely what HomeSpace seeks to gather. As Safira explains, “We started dreaming of a museum for queer histories, of creating a space to highlight these stories. But as we started talking about it, we realised there was no collection we could select from, so maybe we should start with an archive first.” Safira first joined forces with Aleanca, and “since then it has kind of snowballed”. Like Arkadija Archive, they are reaching out to all existing queer organisations in the country and are trying to establish the archive as a neutral – or rather, plural – ground where organisations, even if sometimes divided, can contribute to a shared project in everyone’s interest. Their growing collection – currently sustained by volunteer labour – does not have a permanent home yet. Following initial donations, the contents are primarily related to activist work from the 1990s and early 2000s. HomeSpace’s founders envision it as both a queer archive and a queering of conventional archival practice. Beyond collecting documents, narratives, and media records, they aim to create, in Safira’s words, “spaces for reflection, for remembrance” and organise events where community members can use different forms – such as performance, music, video, even the baking of a cake – to (re)create, multiply, and (re)interpret memories of the past.

Both Arkadija Archive and HomeSpace are part of another emerging and rapidly growing formation: the Balkan Network of Queer Archives. The network, like the archives, also “kind of snowballed.” They first met online in September 2024 and are still in the beginning stages, as Jelena explains:

We started a conversation about forming a network of queer archives, and I thought I’d just send a couple of emails to my contacts throughout the region. And I was shocked to see how many people responded and how quickly: like, suddenly, everyone in the Balkans is doing archiving. [...] We want to start by mapping the initiatives and really focus on getting an idea of who is doing what, what methods are used, and which are the common methods and common struggles. Because once we have a better understanding of that, we can organise workshops, exchanges, and targeted support.

The network already spans fourteen countries – well beyond any conventional definition of ‘the Balkans’ – and involves around thirty people: activists, archivists, and researchers working with vastly different approaches and materials – from collecting documents and photographs to working with contemporary dance, music, and theatre performance. “I’m a paper girl”, says Jelena, “I have no idea how to archive contemporary dance; not even sure I understand it […] But that’s why it’s so important we’re sharing experiences and learning from each other.” The network is creating connections across various countries and contexts that may include specific tensions, but, as Jelena explains:

Archives are in a unique position: it’s sometimes easier to connect over things that have already happened. And I think queer solidarity is already quite unique and transnational. We have countries working together within the network that have not worked together before, and that feels special.

Meanwhile, connections are also forming with more established archival networks in Western and Central Europe, which are now ‘discovering the Balkans’ as a region where something specific and important is emerging.

“Wranglings with Absence and Presence”

Both the queer and the archival are structured by “their own distinct habitual wranglings with absence and presence,” write the editors of the special issue of Radical History Review titled Queering Archives: Historical Unraveling in their introduction (Marshall, Murphy, and Tortorici 2014: 1). The queer archive, then, might be described “as a space where one collects or cobbles together historical understandings of sexuality and gender through an appraisal of presences and absences” (ibid.: 2). While grassroots queer archives often start as a way for individual organisations to document their own histories, both Arkadija Archive and HomeSpace aim to create something akin to a meta-archive – encompassing not just different organisations’ materials and accounts but also traces of queer lives that were never involved in organising. “There are already lots of different perspectives within the queer community”, Jelena tells us, “but what we particularly noticed is that we as the activists see one side of events, and the community understands it completely differently.”

There are multiple points of tension in the complex relation between lived experience and institutional structures, between LGBT+ organisations and queer lives more broadly. Organisations usually represent only a slice of the community – historically, those with more economic and cultural capital and generally the least marginalised – and they are mostly accessible in cities. When organisations start operating according to project cycles, grant applications, and funding requirements, they end up adapting to the very system they are supposed to be subverting. “Queer organisation” is a kind of oxymoron: queer is supposed to open “a space for thinking about an open network of minoritarian and non-normative identifications and disidentifications” (Šepetavc 2023: 117). In political terms, it gravitates toward futurity and the potential for complete social transformation (Muñoz 2019). Organisations, on the other hand, must often compress themselves into prevailing normative frameworks where queer subtleties are flattened into measurable categories, and community needs are translated into the bureaucratic language of the very system that queerness inherently seeks to resist.

That said, LGBT+ organisations perform crucial functions and provide essential services for queer individuals: they offer safe spaces, shelters, and refuges; they organise politically for legal protections that literally save lives; they open up space for alternative cultural production and visibility. This tension is not limited to queerness – it shapes the entire history of progressive social movements and stems from a fundamental paradox: the purer critical thought remains, the less valuable it is to those it is supposed to emancipate; as soon as it enacts change and becomes useful, it also becomes contaminated by the system it is attempting to intervene in (Bauman 2012: 43). This tension, often articulated in progressive movements as a conflict between ‘revolutionary’ and ‘reformist’ factions, is a major reason why fragmentation happens – and it is further fuelled by interpersonal dynamics, romantic entanglements and breakups, friendships formed and dissolved.

The archive holds not only tensions between organisations and individual lives, but also tensions among organisations themselves, as they are never a unified front but a constellation of fragmented and continually re-fragmenting groups. This seems to hold across all three ‘scenes’ (Slovenian, Serbian, and Albanian) in which my interlocutors and I are embedded, no matter how small they may be. “There are tons of divisions, which seem to be inherent to queer activism”, Safira explains, referring to her experience in Albania and elsewhere:

People are fighting so hard, but they also have different views, so of course, there are going to be clashes on how to fight this fight. People are also in relationships, they break up, each of them forms a new organisation [...] In a way, as archivists, we are privileged because we can centre the history and say it’s important to collect all the different stories, but there’s also this feeling of vulnerability. [...] I think navigating this requires a lot of care and thought.

The same events can leave different traces in the archive, with new materials complicating established narratives. Jelena explains this in relation to the first Pride parade in Belgrade:

The first challenge is around who actually organised the first parade. It was believed that Labris organised it, but when we collected testimonies, other participants and organisations also claimed they were involved. We decided to gather all the stories and present them in a way that lets people decide for themselves. Then, an 18-millimetre film reel came into our possession, and we digitised it. When I hit play, what unfolded on screen was a completely different parade from the narrative that exists online and in most sources – the bloodshed on Belgrade’s streets. The footage showed a group of lesbians with rainbow flags and balloons, singing and parading through the streets without a care in the world. When they reached Republic Square, you could see a shift in their faces on the recording – obviously, they had just encountered the other side of what was happening – but that is the material we have.

Contradictions of Visibility

Queering the archive is not merely about adding traces of queer lives to an existing framework, but also about examining the systems of classification, value, and historicisation with which archives are bound. It means questioning how archives structure knowledge: what counts as evidence; whose lives and desires get recorded, described, and named; how language and institutional structures shape what becomes historically visible and legitimate. “What we call history becomes history and since this is a naming time, we must be on guard against our own class prejudices and discomforts”, wrote Joan Nestle, co-founder of New York’s Lesbian Herstory Archives, in 1981 (Nestle 1981, cited in Marshall, Murphy, and Tortorici 2014: 3). In a literal sense, we can connect the “naming time” to archival labour – labelling folders and collections, describing archival objects, indexing and categorising, arranging and grouping materials. In the conceptual sense, naming is a kind of platforming, creating tangibility from ephemerality by placing it into a system of readability. Naming and situating experiences in language is an operation that produces legible identities and legible historical narratives. It is both generative and restrictive: it enables recognition while risking the limitation inherent in any fixed category. It cuts parts out of a whole, registering what is left behind as noise.

These tensions connected to visibility, fundamental to archiving and all processes of history-making, arise in our conversation through two sets of questions. The first concerns managing archival materials. What becomes categorised, stored, and legible also becomes manageable and governable. The desire to be included in history is always entangled with the danger that increased visibility brings new possibilities of surveillance, appropriation, and exploitation (cf. Brunow 2018). Jelena describes how they decide what becomes public at Arkadija Archive:

We are constantly thinking about the ethics behind it. With every single artefact – photograph, video, document – we think about whether we might inadvertently out someone… Right now we are mainly sharing materials that are already published on organisations’ websites or in publications where there is clear consent.

For other materials, they are implementing a multi-level access system defined in donor agreements: some materials are held only for preservation, others are accessible only to researchers, still others to community members, and some are suitable for online publication. They are also very cautious about digital technologies and AI: “We are completely against using AI for cataloguing and reading documents because we know the metadata will eventually end up in systems we have no control over,” says Jelena. The question today is not just what to archive, but how, and within which technological and economic frameworks. Though both archives need funding to ensure long-term sustainability, they are careful about possible sources: “There are state grants we could apply for, but we have consciously decided not to risk getting the state involved in the archive’s work”, Jelena explains.

The second set of questions around the contradictions of visibility concerns remembering the past – especially periods predating queer civil movements and organisations – through the lens of the present. The categories we use today – lesbian, gay, queer, trans – were not the words people used to describe themselves, their desires, or their practices. Any attempt to reconstruct queer pasts involves confronting an epistemological tension between what is legible within the current discourse and what ‘actually existed’. Prompted by an audience question about this very tension, Safira cites Piro Rexhepi’s White Enclosures as one of the few works to explore homoerotic practices in Ottoman-era Albania. Rexhepi mentions the figure of the ‘dylber’ (rainbow), which appears in the Ottoman context of the ‘bejtexhinj’ – poets who wrote Albanian verse in Arabic script and often addressed homoerotic themes. ‘Dylber’ referred to young men who were admirers or possibly lovers of these poets. Another study of queer practices in Albania predating organised movements is Kristina Millona’s article on cruising under communism. Millona likewise grapples with questions of language, noting that “shifting terminologies constitute a challenge […] in building bridges between the past and present and linguistically navigating between Albanian and English” (Millona 2024: 26). Her informants tended to describe themselves using the word ‘gay’, but acknowledged they did not use that term during communism. Other words circulated at the time: the legal term ‘pederast’, used by the state; descriptive phrases such as ‘burra që shkojnë me burra’ (men who go with men); and ‘dylber’, carried over from the Ottoman era but reshaped into a new, ambivalent meaning under Hoxha’s regime (Millona 2024: 26). The same terms, then, can acquire different – and at times contradictory – semantic charges across historical eras.

Nestle used “a naming time” to describe the point of conceptual and linguistic formation when new categories settle into language – or when older ones acquire new meanings – but tensions inevitably arise once these categories are projected retroactively onto fragments of the past. A further dissonance emerges when these categories, and the histories and theories produced through their interplay with existing epistemological systems, are used to make sense of queer lives in regions with very different historical and cultural trajectories. Throughout the conversation, we repeatedly found ourselves navigating among multiple lexicons: between queer as an analytical and political framework, and as a translation of global theoretical debates; between LGBT+ and the many other terms used by local movements and communities – each marked by its own internal dilemmas. These linguistic shifts are not mere terminological inconsistencies but reflect the fact that we are continually (re)entering a “naming time”: that these categories are themselves in ongoing processes of formation, translation, and negotiation – between dominant Western theoretical paradigms and local knowledges; between theory and practice; between the archive and the lived experiences it attempts to grasp.

The “wrangling of absence and presence” will inevitably be complex in any archive. The queer archives we discussed at the Archive as Resistance roundtable do not merely seek to fill in existing chronologies but to complicate the very notion of a singular queer history. Arkadija Archive, HomeSpace, and the Balkan Network of Queer Archives demonstrate that community-grown queer archives are not simply acts of a specific organisation’s self-preservation; they are spaces in which queer history is continually reconsidered, rewritten, and questioned. In this context, “the archive as resistance” becomes something tangible: slow, often invisible and unpaid labour – scanning, cataloguing, conducting interviews and correspondence, gathering and organising materials, negotiating access and terminology – so that queer lives do not keep disappearing into footnotes or unlabelled, fading photographs. “The idea is to amplify queer voices, to make history visible, to make it thinkable,” Jelena says. “Perhaps we are just a comma in the sentence – but we are here, present, and we have something to say to the wider society.”

Neja Berger
Faculty of Social Sciences, University of Ljubljana
neja.berger@fdv.uni-lj.si

Bio

Neja Berger is an assistant researcher and PhD candidate at the Social Communication Research Centre, Faculty of Social Sciences, University of Ljubljana with an MA in video and new media art. She is part of the queer radio collective RŠ Pokvirje (Radio Študent) and host of the media theory podcast Tactics&practice (Aksioma, Institute for Contemporary Art Ljubljana).

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Suggested citation

Berger, Neja. 2025. “Grassroots Queer Archiving in the Balkans: A Conversation with Jelena Vasiljević and Safira Boeder”. Queer Memories (ed. Katja Čičigoj and Jasmina Šepetavc). Special issue of Apparatus. Film, Media and Digital Cultures in Central and Eastern Europe 21. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.17892/app.2025.00021.414.

URL: http://www.apparatusjournal.net/

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