The Epistemic Conflict of First and Other Serbia: A Narrative Analysis of Deep Polarisation

In the heart of the Balkans, a nation's identity is often debated through the familiar lens of left versus right, a political map that divides people based on their economic views or their stance on government size. Yet, in Serbia, this standard map fails to capture the true depth of the fracture running through society. Here, the divide is not about tax rates or social programs, but about the very stories a nation tells itself to make sense of its past and its future. Researchers are increasingly turning to a concept called narrative analysis to understand these conflicts. This approach treats a society's shared beliefs not as a simple list of opinions, but as a complex story that gives meaning to daily life, history, and moral choices. When two groups in a country operate on entirely different stories, they often cannot agree on what counts as evidence or truth, because their stories define reality in incompatible ways. Understanding this deep split is crucial, not just for political scientists, but for anyone trying to grasp how a society can remain divided even when its members share the same land and language.

In a recent study, scholars Vladimir Lukic and Lifeng Yang from Jilin International Studies University explore this phenomenon in Serbia, focusing on two opposing camps known as "First Serbia" and "Other Serbia." These terms do not refer to a geographic split between the north and south, but rather to two distinct ways of seeing the world. "Other Serbia" emerged during the violent wars of the 1990s as a movement of intellectuals and activists who opposed nationalism and war, envisioning a country that would embrace universal human rights, democracy, and integration with Europe. In contrast, "First Serbia" represents a traditionalist vision that prioritizes national history, collective memory, and the defense of a distinct Serbian identity against what its proponents see as foreign cultural impositions. The authors argue that the conflict between these two groups is not merely a political argument that can be settled by voting or debate. Instead, it is a deep epistemic disagreement, meaning the two sides disagree on the very rules used to determine what is true, what is valid, and what makes a person a legitimate member of the nation.

To uncover the roots of this stalemate, the researchers did not rely on surveys or statistical models. Instead, they acted as literary detectives, examining the actual texts, speeches, and online posts produced by figures on both sides. They looked at historical writings from the anti-war Belgrade Circle, which coined the term "Other Serbia," and compared them with modern writings from traditionalist critics who often label their opponents as "auto-chauvinists"—people who supposedly hate their own country. The study reveals that these two groups are not just arguing about policies; they are operating within different narrative universes. For the "Other Serbia" camp, legitimacy comes from procedural rules, such as following democratic processes and adhering to international human rights standards. For "First Serbia," legitimacy is drawn from the weight of history, the continuity of the nation's story, and the collective memory of its people. Because each side uses a different source to judge truth, they cannot understand the other's arguments. When "Other Serbia" appeals to universal rights, "First Serbia" hears an alien imposition. When "First Serbia" appeals to historical tradition, "Other Serbia" hears dangerous sentimentality.

This mismatch creates what the authors call an "epistemic closed loop." In this loop, every attempt by one side to prove its point only strengthens the other side's belief that they are wrong. If a traditionalist cites a historical event to justify a stance, a liberal might dismiss it as irrelevant because it doesn't fit their framework of universal rights. Conversely, if a liberal cites a legal principle, a traditionalist might reject it as a foreign tool that ignores local reality. The study shows that this dynamic has turned the terms "First Serbia" and "Other Serbia" into weapons. Figures in the public sphere use these labels to group diverse opponents together and paint them as outsiders or traitors, effectively stripping them of their right to participate in the national conversation. The research highlights that this is not a simple disagreement that can be solved by finding a middle ground or compromising on values, because the two sides do not share a common foundation for what those values even mean.

The authors suggest that the path forward does not lie in forcing one side to adopt the other's story, nor in pretending the conflict does not exist. Instead, they propose a shift in how the two groups interact. Rather than trying to convince the other side to abandon their core beliefs, the goal should be to create a space where both narratives can be understood without being accepted as the only truth. The researchers point to a concept called "trans-narrative dialogue," where participants learn to speak the "second first language" of the other side. This means learning to explain one's own position in a way that makes sense to someone with a different story, without having to change one's own story. They illustrate this with the example of the Irish Citizens' Assembly, a group of randomly selected citizens who were asked to deliberate on difficult issues. In that setting, participants were required to make their reasons understandable to those who disagreed with them, fostering a form of communication that reduced hostility without erasing the deep differences.

Ultimately, the study concludes that the deep polarization in Serbia is a structural problem of storytelling, not just a political one. The conflict persists because the two camps are trapped in separate worlds of meaning, unable to recognize the validity of the other's existence. To move toward a unified society, the authors argue, the nation must stop using the antagonistic labels of "First" and "Other" that reinforce the divide. Instead, it must acknowledge that a single country can hold multiple, conflicting stories at once. By creating conditions where these different stories can be heard and understood, even if they remain in disagreement, Serbia might transform its existential hostility into a manageable, democratic tension. The solution is not to resolve the disagreement, but to change the way the disagreement is conducted, allowing the nation to function even while its people tell different stories about who they are.