When the acting director of the Anti-Money Laundering Directorate stepped off the tram near Beograđanka that morning, heading up Resavska Street to work (he was, after all, just a civil servant—not some municipal cop who’d ride a Range Rover), he certainly didn’t plan to explain the obvious: that the sky is blue, the next two weeks were critical, and that in dear Serbia, institutions simply do their jobs. Surely everyone understands that. No one had called him that morning—not from Kneza Miloša, certainly not from Nemanjina, and least of all from Andrićev Venac—to consult about some hypothetical list of alleged criminals, who might be on it, or whether such a list even existed!
After all, you can’t pressure a man who spent eleven years building the foundations of the Security-Intelligence Agency as its star operative to creatively reinterpret strict international anti-money laundering and counter-terrorism financing standards to suit the current political moment. Surely this acting director—with his terrifying title—wasn’t awarded our largest intelligence agency’s annual prize three times just for—what was it again?—pleasing his superiors.
And besides, his credentials were impeccable: 1. Top of his class in elementary school; 2. Best student all four years of high school; 3. One of the top graduates of his generation; 4. State scholarship recipient; 5. And so on. (All proudly listed in his official biography on the Ministry of Finance’s website. The author of this text, also a multiple Vukovac laureate, briefly considered adding his own diplomas to his foundation’s website. We overachievers understand each other—we know the professional credibility this brings.)
“I can’t disclose details—it’s a confidential process—but not everyone mentioned in the media is under review,” the acting director clarified.
Of course the list of journalists and NGOs under financial scrutiny exists, he admitted—but it’s incomplete. Any well-meaning reader would nod: Obviously! In a democracy, lists aren’t compiled to order! The benevolent citizen thinks, What matters is that “institutions do their jobs” by the letter of the law. Surely, whispers the optimist clinging to Serbia’s frail rule of law, no state-mandated list could actually be about spin—let alone, heaven forbid, scheming, intimidation, or other extrajudicial mischief.
Yet many on the list were shocked, worried, or downright terrified. Unbelievable! On Twitter, a colleague from a prominent civil society group lamented how she’d wasted her youth helping the Directorate draft the very standards now used to target her. Hoisted by her own petard. On cable TV, a respected investigative journalist compared the list to mafia hit lists—ironic, given his decades of preaching transparency. The usual experts—those “philanthropists” who abolished donation taxes, raised tax-free scholarships, and during the pandemic collected millions in donations (even arranging for free supermarket surplus to feed the hungry)—now found themselves listed alongside alleged terrorists. Enough terrorizing us with the truth!
Had the acting director’s minister (and his superiors) really not orchestrated this? Of course not. And naturally, no coordinated counter-narrative emerged to defend the list: “Four government ministers were also scrutinized—proof no one’s untouchable!” the acting director insisted. “People, even ministers get audited. If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to fear!” his boss echoed.
This disjointed messaging never, of course, dominated front pages or prime-time news. It wasn’t hammered home in a hundred breaking news segments. Nor was it defended by one listed NGO—conveniently close to the list’s architects—whose inclusion lent the illusion of objectivity.
And the real narrative commander-in-chief? “Of course” he hadn’t planned to comment. Why would he? This isn’t some dead-end of European democracy and human rights! Here, institutions just—do their jobs.
“Of course not.”