Belgrade doesn’t do subtle. It doesn’t whisper — it shouts, swears, sings, and sometimes burns. And nowhere is that noise louder than the stretch of land where two footballing fortresses face off like loaded guns. Red Star’s Marakana, legendary and unhinged. Partizan’s Stadion JNA, haunted and rusting. Two stadiums separated by 900 meters of bad blood and Balkan history — and united by a hatred that never sleeps.

In this series, Guirec Munier dives straight into the heart of Serbia’s Eternal Derby — not on match day, but in the raw stillness that lingers between the violence. You’ll see walls crumbling under the weight of memory and myth. You’ll meet tanks, saints, war criminals, ultras, ghosts, and the smell of smoke that never quite leaves.

This isn’t just football — it’s folklore with flares, history with fists. The Marakana might vibrate with madness, but the Stadion JNA hums with ghosts. Welcome to Belgrade, where sport is war by other means, and the pitch is just the calm between storms.

Photographs and text by Guirec Munier

Ah Rio… The fine sand of Ipanema, the Cariocas playing beach soccer until nightfall, the sky and the ocean merging together until the horizon is no longer visible, the Maracanã…

No, no, no, wait, not this Maracanã, the other Marakana. The one in the Balkans. Opened thirteen years after the titanic Brazilian stadium, it received its nickname a year later when its final capacity was increased to 110,000 spectators. Officially named Stadion Crvene zvezde from 1963 to 2014 and then Stadion Rajko Mitić, no one in Serbia refers to these names on a daily basis. The Marakana is also called the “epicenter of madness” by the locals.

Built in Dedinje, the poshest neighbourhood in Belgrade, you first have to take an uphill street to reach the Marakana. Built in a hollow, one could never imagine that the stadium in front of us has a capacity of just over 51,000 spectators. The walls are decrepit and covered with street art and graffiti in honor of the Delije (the ultra collective of Red Star Belgrade), Ratko Mladić (war criminal convicted of war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide and commander-in-chief of the Bosnian Serb Army), Dragan Vasiljković (war criminal convicted of war crimes and former commander of a Serbian paramilitary unit) and Darko Pančev and Dragiša Binić (heroes of the victorious epic at the 1991 European Cup) or in protest against UEFA, guilty of complicity in terrorism according to the Delije, because the governing body of European football has integrated Kosovo while Serbia doesn’t recognize the independence of Kosovo.

To complete the picture, about twenty meters from the Delije North Stand, a T-54 tank proudly sits on the esplanade. Installed by the club in August 2019 to boost the troops before the Champions League play-off round against YB, the tank’s presence is hardly surprising today given the omnipresent nationalist imagery at the Marakana, while it would seem completely incongruous anywhere else. With the Wars in the Balkans still fresh in people’s minds, Zvezda’s initiative aroused outrage among Croatians, to no avail. In 2019, the tank’s barrel was facing southwest. It’s now facing northwest, towards the neighboring Stadion Partizana and Croatia. Unofficially, this is anything but a coincidence.

Entry to the Marakana is through the top of the stands, and it’s only then that one becomes aware of the stadium’s capacity. From this vantage point, above the North Stand, two distinctive features stand out: the “Delije” inscription on the seats, a rare feature since sponsors are usually the ones featured, and the Church of Saint Sava, a symbol of Belgrade’s spiritual heart. Below, an athletics track encircles the pitch. Its function is more to secure the perimeter of the pitch than to host a hypothetical competition.

But what would the legend of the Marakana be without its legendary tunnel? Often described by opposing teams visiting the Marakana, the sensations fluctuate between fear, stress, dread, and anxiety. The hundred meters separating the paddock where the changing rooms are located and the pitch can be anxiety-inducing. One must imagine a long white tunnel with crumbling walls covered in Cyrillic graffiti, inside which the dull din generated by several thousand Delije located just above, whose frenzy makes the walls vibrate, mixes with the insistent stares of the riot police. The skull, symbol of the Chetniks, closes the ordeal. Sensitive souls should refrain. Since 2016, the tunnel walls have unfortunately been covered with street art and the ground with artificial turf at the request of UEFA.

Just a ten-minute walk away, Stadion Partizana (still called Stadion JNA by locals) exudes experience and breathes the authenticity of football of yesteryear. Founded by the Yugoslav National Army in the aftermath of the war, Partizan Belgrade was named in honor of the Partisans, the communist military formation that fought against fascism during World War II in Yugoslavia. Nowadays, with their arch-rivals soon to win eight league titles, Partizan’s crno-beli are living in the shadow of Red Star Belgrade’s crveno-beli. And this downgrade is also palpable at Stadion Partizana. It’s hard to believe it meets UEFA stadium standards. Eaten away by rust, weakened reinforced concrete, peeling paint, and portraits of prematurely deceased Grobari (ultra group) members, time seems suspended in the past. A past where Partizan Belgrade came within a whisker of becoming the first Yugoslav club to win the European Cup. A past immortalized on a stadium wall where the eleven starting players, the Partizan’s Babies, are painted in black and white. A past where Partizan and Zvezda shared the stadium during the construction of the Marakana. A past where the Busby Babes played their last match at the Stadion JNA a few hours before the Munich air disaster.

Today, with its average attendance of 3,700 spectators per match, the Stadion Partizana sounds hollow. Even more so than the Marakana and its 8,800 spectators. Except for the Eternal derbies, the Super Liga Srbij doesn’t transcend crowds. Much less so than a friendly match between Partizan and their spiritual brothers CSKA Moscow, which attracted over 14,000 spectators on March 23. The famous Orthodox brotherhood unites around shared values: religion, ethnicity, and unbreakable historical ties between Serbia and Russia. A brotherhood that is similarly evident between Red Star Belgrade and Spartak Moscow. In the immediate vicinity of the Stadion Partizana, this attachment is symbolised by numerous works of street art honouring CSKA Moscow.

Dilapidated for some, great classified growths for others, the Marakana and the Stadion Partizana hold stories rich in symbolism and emotion and crystallise many fantasies. What Happens in Belgrade, Stays in Belgrade.

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