Notes from the Field Archives

Notes from the Field: Crnojević’s Shelves. Exploratory research in the archives of Montenegro

As people in the past lived out their lives, did they realize the ways in which they would help create the archive of the future? Did the owner of a particular stack of newspapers deliberately label it “Borba Zagreb 1949” to preserve a record of the League of Communists of Yugoslavia’s official gazette from that year, or was the note atop the pile simply an act of routine organization? How does an archive—filled with countless documents chronicling the lives of so many—capture the beauty and complexity of the human experience? These questions swirled in my mind as I explored the halls of the Đurđe Crnojević National Library of Montenegro, or the Nacionalna biblioteka Crne Gore, “Đurđe Crnojević,” this past summer, an experience I later reflected upon in Notes from the Field: Crnojević’s Shelves.

In a short time, the library’s massive collection and meticulously cataloged documents led me to experience firsthand the reason why an archive can become such a cherished part of a people’s cultural identity. At the Đurđe Crnojević National Library, it was the always friendly, knowledgeable, and extraordinarily diligent curators of the collections who formed the heart of the historization process, shaping the archive as a reflection of collective lived experience. My time in Montenegro also taught me the significance an archive plays preserving and defending a people’s history—serving as a fortress wall, safeguarding it against forces that would see their history either destroyed or delegitimized.

The bloody history of archives in former Yugoslavia

A little over 30 years ago, in a territory once unified as the Socialist Federated Republic of Yugoslavia, a devastating wave of violence swept across the region. Nationalist politicians and warmongers ignited a series of wars fueled by ethnic and religious divisions, ultimately leading to the country’s destruction. During these Yugoslav Wars of Succession, nationalist state-building projects sought to create ethnically “pure” nation states, resulting in widespread violence, ethnic cleansing, and the delegitimization of history. This is on clear display in the case of Bosnia and Herzegovina. During the three-and-a-half-year long siege of the country’s capital, Sarajevo, Serbian-backed forces relentlessly terrorized the civilian population, attacking the city with artillery and sniper fire. Their goal was to force the coalition of Bosnian Muslim and Croat forces to surrender the city.

This image was taken during the war in 1992 in Sarajevo in the partially destroyed National Library. The cello player is local musician Vedran Smailović, who often came to play for free at different funerals during the siege despite the fact that funerals were often targetted by Serb forces. (Mikhail Evstafiev) — *This image was taken during the war in 1992 in Sarajevo in the partially destroyed National Library. The cellist is local musician Vedran Smailović. (Mikhail Evstafiev). Source: Wikimedia Commons*

On the night of September 25, 1992, Bosnian Serb guns deliberately fired incendiary shells upon the National Library of Bosnia, affectionately known as the Vijećnica, with the intent to destroy a rich archive of the Bosnian peoples. A former city hall built in the time of the Austro-Hungarian empire, the Moorish-style building housed over 1,500,000 volumes and 150,000 old manuscripts, all of which were devoured by the flames. Naza Tanović-Miller, a university professor who wrote about her experiences during the siege, described the scene of horror as the cultural symbol of her people was destroyed, “Our treasure was burning. The Bosnian past was burning… The shelling never stopped for three days. Burned pages and pieces of paper were flying in the front and back of our house… I collected a few ashes and held them gently in my hand. All of Sarajevo cried.”

Coming to Montenegro

Thirty-two years later, at the start of summer 2024, I found myself preparing to explore a key regional archive for the first time in my academic career. While I am no stranger to the Balkans—I have lived and studied in the territory of former Yugoslavia several times before—this was my first visit to Montenegro. When in the Balkans, however, the memory of the wars are never far from my mind, especially the story of the Vijećnica and its brutal destruction.

Image of Montenegro landscape — *Image taken by the author.*

My journey into the Montenegrin archives emerged from a research project I had been developing in the spring of 2024. The project’s central question examines how Yugoslav perception of gender—amongst both women and men—changed after Tito’s Partisans’ victory in World War II. Specifically, I am investigating how the socialist revolution changed wider views of gender and gender roles in the newly formed socialist Yugoslavia. In what ways did the socialist revolution inspire hope and progressive change for women, even if those changes were eventually hindered by patriarchal paternalism?

Picture of author's notes and a coffee. — *Image taken by the author.*

Picture of author's material and notes in the archive's reading room — *Image taken by the author.*

My research led me to Ana Antić’s fascinating article entitled “The New Socialist Citizen and ‘Forgetting’ Authoritarianism”, which analyzed how new schools of psychiatric thought and practice in socialist Yugoslavia sought to apply the ideals of the revolution by expanding access to mental health services. Antić’s work, in turn, led me to the writings of various Yugoslav psychologists who worked with Partisan veterans afflicted with what they coined, “Partisan neurosis”—a form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that afflicted soldiers after the war. I stumbled upon a fascinating discussion about these post-war psychologists, who implemented new psychoanalytical techniques designed to bring about a new Yugoslav socialism, including its goal of decolonization and solidarity within the Non-Aligned Movement solidarity.

However, there was a crucial gap in this literature. I discovered that no one seemed to analyze the complex dynamics of gender in this post-war, post-revolutionary socialist period. I felt excited realizing that my project could fit in the discussion by bringing a gendered analysis to the same discussions of this time period between 1945 and 1960. But in order to fill this gap and conduct a meaningful gender analysis, I needed firsthand access to the original sources and writings of these Yugoslav doctors and socialist theorists.

Exploring the Archive

View of The Nacionalna biblioteka Crne Gore, “Đurđe Crnojević”. Image owned by author. — *The Nacionalna biblioteka Crne Gore, “Đurđe Crnojević”. Image taken by the author.*

Spending time in Montenegro, you quickly become aware of the long struggle of its people to preserve their political and cultural independence. In 2006, Montenegro rallied its domestic and diasporic population to vote in a referendum for independence from the state union of Serbia and Montenegro, which had succeeded Yugoslavia. With a narrow 55.5% majority, they won their independence. However, recent development—particularly in Cetinje, home to both the National Library and Archives of Montenegro—have recently renewed calls to action to defend their sovereignty and cultural identity. These calls to action stem from concerns over potential absorption into a ‘Greater Serbian’ sphere of influence, highlighting the ongoing tension between national self-determination and regional political dynamics.

Image of index cards at archive. — *Image taken by the author.*

Between 2020 to 2022, protests erupted across Montenegro in response to the government announcing changes to citizenship, which the opposition claimed would enable the creeping ‘Serbianization’ of the country. Protests were refueled in August 2021 over what Dr. Šušanj described as the subtle colonization of Montenegro by the Serbian Orthodox Church, one that intended to eliminate the existence of a separate Montenegrin ethnic and religious identity. Protesters resisted the enthronement of the Serbian Orthodox Metropolitan Joanikije Mićović by setting up boulder and tire barricades in and around Cetinje in an attempt to block the ceremony from taking place. Youth leaders like Peđa Vušurović argued that by allowing the Serbian Orthodox Church to strengthen its grip around cherished Montenegrin historical sights—such as St. Peter’s chair in the Cetinje Monastery, a symbol of Montenegrin spiritual, state, and national freedom—risked subsuming Montenegrin identity and history within a larger sphere of Serbian world.

Images of protesters clashing with police, strangled by clouds of tear gas as their tire barricades burned behind them, taught me a great deal about the people of Montenegro. This rang especially true in my mind as the scars from the 1990s remain ever present, and the scourge of divisive nationalism still runs rampant through the other Ex-Yugoslav states. I will never forget the feeling in the pit of my stomach in June 2021 when I saw a banner celebrating convicted war criminal Ratko Mladić, the “Butcher of Bosnia”, as a Serbian hero draped over the Novi Sad football stadium.

Poster celebrating local heroes. — *Image taken by the author.*

Even today, Montenegro celebrates its anti-fascist past. In contrast to other former Yugoslav states, like Croatia, which have explicitly worked to denounce and destroy their connections to Yugoslavia and it’s anti-fascist monuments, history, and in some cases cemeteries, the opposite is true in Cetinje. In 2024, the country commemorated the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Cetinje from fascist occupation. Near the main square, a large banner honored female Partisan fighters from the 1st Battalion of the 4th Proletarian Brigade, and the famous Orden Grada Heroja, or the Order of the People’s Hero. This prestigious Yugoslav military decoration recognized acts of bravery during both peace and wartime, designating recipients as “people’s heroes” of Yugoslavia. Throughout my time in Montenegro, I encountered numerous Yugoslav plaques celebrating local heroes in every city and neighborhood, and statues honoring the anti-fascist resistance movement and its icons were consistently cared for and preserved. Some, as in the case of famous martyr Ljubo Čupić in the city of Nikšić, still had fresh flowers woven into the statue.

Moving forward

By the end of my time in Cetinje, I realized that my original research goals had not been fully met. I had expected to find a more overt discussion of socialist ideals with these new Yugoslav psychologists. In reality, the picture that emerged was slightly different. However, thanks to the many lessons taught to me by Crnojević’s library and the resilient people of Montenegro, I now have a new direction with which to progress my project on gender in the post-war socialist space. With the addition of various literature sources, I plan to use what I found in the archives to further explore my questions. I also hope to return to Montenegro many more times in the years to come.

David Castillo is a doctoral student at the University of Texas at Austin, focusing on the former communist Yugoslavia and its successor states. His research explores the links between inter-communal violence, toxic masculinity, gender dynamics, propaganda, and mass manipulation. With academic foundations from the University of Texas at El Paso and Indiana University, David combines cultural history with international politics. Drawing from his experience in the region, he aims to compare post-Yugoslav masculinity shaped by the 1990s wars with Chicano/a/e ‘Machismo’ in Mexican-American borderlands, investigating how violence becomes integral to both identities.

The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Notes from the Field: The Murder of Boris Nemtsov

“Really! They have not even buried him yet!” This was my in-laws’ reaction to the two-hour, primetime special on Boris Nemtsov’s love life that aired the Sunday after his assassination. Nemtsov’s reputation as a “ladies man” was never a secret, but tarnishing his name just days after his death was too much, even for some people who disliked his politics.

Support_of_prisoners_of_the_Bolotnaya_square_case_(21_February_2014)_(Boris_Nemtsov) — Boris Nemtsov, murdered in central Moscow on February 27, 2015, at a demonstration protesting the arrest of anti-Putin protestors

When investigative journalist Anna Politkovskaya was murdered in front of her Moscow building on October 7, 2006, I was shocked. I had read her work, discussed her in classes, and was even familiar with the street where she lived. However, discussions of the crime with Russian students and friends usually required me to explain what her work was about and why people in the West found her criticism of the war in Chechnya so compelling. Dozens of other Russian journalists and political activists have been murdered over the last decade, but the murder of Nemtsov is different.

“HEROES DO NOT DIE.” Demonstration on March 1, 2015 mourning the murder of Boris Nemtsov

When I came upon the news of Nemtsov’s murder two Friday nights ago, I immediately handed the iPad to my wife, and her jaw dropped. That Saturday morning, there was a pervasive shock — on Russian social media and in the state-run and independent media — because everyone knew Nemtsov. His political career in the 1990s included a post as Deputy Prime Minister in 1998 under Boris Yeltsin, and, before that, as Governor of the Nizhny Novgorod where he led agricultural and economic reforms. However, his liberalism often clashed with the former communist party members who made up much of the Russian government. More importantly, as corruption blossomed in the new Russian economy, he relentlessly attacked the perpetrators. His political career imploded because his idealism and activism had no place in the status quo Vladimir Putin created between society, the oligarchs and the state after 2000.

“FOR HONEST ELECTIONS.” Boris Nemtsov (far right) at a demonstration in December 2011 protesting widespread corruption in recent elections

This is another reason why the murder shocked many Russians. Many people were perfectly happy to leave behind the idealistic politics and the mobster-political violence of the 1990s for Vladimir Putin’s Russia, which brought relative economic stability after the “wild” 1990s, even if it certainly did not ensure democracy. The fear of losing pensions or homes, as often happened in the 1990s, was and is much greater than the fear of authoritarian government. When Russian TV airs iconic 1990s mob movies such as Aleksei Balabanov’s Brother, people acknowledge the film’s greatness, but they are relieved that period of Russian history is behind them.

Sergei Bodrov in Aleksei Balabanov's film, "Brother" — Sergei Bodrov in Aleksei Balabanov’s film, “Brother” (2000).

Moreover, perhaps more important than the symbolism of an opposition politician being murdered on the steps of Russian power, is what the public spaces around the Kremlin and in Central Moscow have come to represent for modern Muscovites. The Moscow city government, urban planners, and young activist politicians have spent the better part of the last decade transforming central Moscow into a more pedestrian friendly and livable urban space. Gorky Park has become a hipster paradise with hammocks, yoga, WIFI, and coffee shops. Many of the central streets (including the one Nemtsov strolled down on the night of his death) have been closed to traffic and lined with cafes. Red Square itself and the surrounding new pedestrian zones host numerous festivals and markets. This popular space to unwind has now become the scene of a brutal political murder.

Finally, with the war in Ukraine, Russian TV has been inundated with scenes of terrible and graphic violence, but the violence was quite far from Moscow. Now, with this backdrop, there is a sense that the inter-Slavic bloodletting that has been so far mostly confined to the Donbas could be reaching out to touch the Russian capital.

Even on my Facebook feed there were people who believed he got what he deserved. Still, the most common response I heard over the last week was of a dreaded return to the 1990s, when Russians, both politically important and ordinary citizens, did not feel safe in their homes, finances, jobs or city.

More by Andy Straw on Not Even Past

“The Tatars of Crimea: Ethnic Cleansing and Why History Matters“

“The 1980 Olympics and my Family“

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The views and opinions expressed in this article or video are those of the individual author(s) or presenter(s) and do not necessarily reflect the policy or views of the editors at Not Even Past, the UT Department of History, the University of Texas at Austin, or the UT System Board of Regents. Not Even Past is an online public history magazine rather than a peer-reviewed academic journal. While we make efforts to ensure that factual information in articles was obtained from reliable sources, Not Even Past is not responsible for any errors or omissions.

Notes From the Field: Trinity College, Cambridge and the Accidents of Research

You never know. You might be out jogging when your best idea slips into your head. Or one of those random archival documents that you don’t even remember copying turns out to have a key piece of evidence scribbled nearly illegibly along a crumpled margin. Renowned historian Eric Foner just published a book based on a happenstance comment from a student about a rare document she saw in the Columbia University archive.

I was reminded of the accidents of research recently as I was dining at High Table in Trinity College, University of Cambridge. I am fortunate to have a visiting scholarship here this semester to finish a book on the great Russian cinema pioneer, Sergei Eisenstein, and his film about the sixteenth-century tsar, Ivan the Terrible.

Eisenstein's working script for "Ivan the Terrible," with production notes in his hand. — Eisenstein’s working script for “Ivan the Terrible,” with production notes in his hand.

And yes, the Trinity dining hall looks just like the one at Hogwarts, with long tables and benches for students running the length of the hall and a more formal High Table along the width. It does, however, have only an ordinary, though impossibly high, ceiling made of wooden beams rather than one that reflects the weather, and while there are plenty of candles, they don’t float in the air. And then there’s Henry VIII. A large copy of Hans Holbein’s famous portrait of Henry, who founded Trinity, watches over diners, as imperious as ever, from above High Table at the end of the hall.

Henry VIII, by Hans Eworth, after Hans Holbein, the Younger

What’s the connection between the accidents of research, a Soviet film about a bloody tyrant of the past –- a film that was commissioned by Joseph Stalin, bloody tyrant of the then-present — and Trinity High Table?

In 1947, when Eisenstein was reflecting back on Ivan the Terrible, which he had recently finished, analyzing the way he tried to convey ideas by triggering all the viewer’s senses, he chose to talk about an unforgettable scene, in which Ivan is mourning his murdered wife, Anastasia, and questioning his own political ambitions. Eisenstein emphasizes Ivan’s doubts and despair by placing him in a dark, shadowy chamber lighted by tall black candles and by using disorienting camera movements and jarring editing. He further conveys Ivan’s inner divisions with sound. From one corner, a priest reads a psalm about isolation, doubt, and loss of faith, while from the other, Ivan’s deputy reads a list of the royal servitors who have abandoned or betrayed the tsar. After listening for a while to this gloomy polyphony and slumping in various anguished positions all around his wife’s casket, Ivan suddenly leaps up. With his energy and determination returning, he reasserts his commitment to seize absolute power and found the modern Russian state: magnificent and ominous at the same time. It’s a powerful scene, where the resolution of Ivan’s inner conflict is made that much more impressive by the wracking pain of the divisions that preceded it.

Writing later about the sensory impact of the scene, Eisenstein suddenly recalled this:

“It was Cambridge.
In 1930.
In Trinity College.
In the huge Tudor dining hall….
On that memorable evening of the late dinner in Cambridge, the voice of the rector [reading a prayer in Latin before the meal] was repeated in response by the voice of the vice-rector.
Candles. Vaults. Two old men’s voices resounding in the boundlessness of the dark hall.
The strange text of the prayer.
The gray heads of the two old men.
The black university gowns. Night all around.
I thought about all this least of all when I was writing the scene of Ivan over the coffin of Anastasia in the screenplay of Ivan.
But now I think this episode of the film is definitely connected with the vivid impressions of that evening long ago in prewar England.”

I had a much more convivial and probably less dramatic dinner than Eisenstein seems to have had.

But you never know.

With thanks to my colleagues, Dominic Lieven and Emma Widdis.

The quoted passage is from Sergei Eisenstein, Nonindifferent Nature. Translated by Herbert Marshall (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 311.

You can watch the scene from Ivan the Terrible here: Ivan Grozny (1:19:39)

Photo of the script is from Ivan the Terrible: A Screenplay by Sergei M. Eisenstein, transl. Ivor Montagu and Herbert Marshall (New York, 1962), p. 308.

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