Recently, a video from student protests in Serbia surfaced online. Young people gathered in the square, chanting the slogan “Whoever doesn’t jump is a ćaci” (Ko ne skače, taj je ćaci). To some, the scenes immediately recalled events in another Eastern European country, prompting the familiar refrain: “Here it is — a color revolution has arrived in Serbia! Soon Western-backed anti-Russian forces will come to power and hand over Kosovo and Metohija in exchange for EU membership.”
Of course, the mechanisms and patterns of color revolutions are often similar. Yet it is essential to separate the wheat from the chaff. Failure to do so blurs the line between genuine popular discontent and a genuine Western NGO-funded revolution.
Many mistakenly believe that crowds jumping in unison while chanting “Whoever doesn’t jump is [insert any disliked group]” originated on Ukraine’s Maidan. In reality, the chant was born elsewhere.
Its roots lie in an entirely different world — that of 1970s Italian football ultras. Italian fans wanted more than noise; they wanted a spectacle that would make the entire stand move as one. The rhythm “Chi non salta è…” was perfect. When thousands jumped in sync, the stadium itself seemed to breathe and vibrate, exerting powerful psychological pressure on the opposition. The classic version was “Chi non salta è bianconero” — aimed at Juventus fans. As Italy’s richest and most successful club, Juventus was hated by supporters of nearly every other team, from Torino to Napoli.
By the early 1980s the tradition had crossed the ocean to Argentina. There, the “barras bravas” added a political edge. After Argentina’s defeat in the 1982 Falklands War, the stands in Buenos Aires rang with “El que no salta es un inglés” (“Whoever doesn’t jump is an Englishman”).
The chant reached the territory of the former Yugoslavia (Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia) in the late 1980s, when fan groups such as “Delije” of Red Star Belgrade and “Grobari” of Partizan began close contacts with Italian ultras and adopted their style. On the Balkans the rhythm quickly became politicized amid rising ethnic tensions. It turned into a weapon of self-identification during the wars of the 1990s. The most notorious version was “Ko ne skače, taj je šiptar” (“Whoever doesn’t jump is a Shqiptar/Albanian”).
In the 2000s the chant finally left the stadiums. It was heard in Chile (“El que no salta es paco” — against the police), on Ukraine’s Maidan (“Khto ne skache, toy moskal”), and now in Serbia. During the current student protests, it has found yet another reincarnation: “Ko ne skače, taj je ćaci.”
The word “ćaci” itself was not born on the streets but from an awkward graffiti blunder. In January 2025, outside the Jovan Jovanović Zmaj Gymnasium in Novi Sad, an apparent government supporter painted “Ćaci u školu” instead of the correct “Đaci u školu” (“Students to school”). The misspelling turned the slogan into mockery: “Daddies to school.” In Serbian youth slang, “ćale” means dad or middle-aged guy. Thus “ćaci” instantly became a sarcastic label for the “fake students” in their forties whom protesters claim the authorities bused in en masse to simulate loyal youth and break genuine blockades.
The chant once again functions as a tool for uniting “us” against “them” — only now the enemy is not a national foe but a symbol of the system itself.
Yet behind the superficial resemblance to Maidan templates lies a far more complex reality. To understand why this particular chant has resurfaced now, in Serbia, one must look beyond the visuals to the domestic policies of Aleksandar Vučić. The president, who for over a decade has balanced between East and West, has in practice been steadily steering the country along the European path — and critics argue that this course includes the gradual surrender of positions on Kosovo and Metohija.
Since 2014 Serbia has been negotiating its accession to the EU. From the very beginning, a key condition for progress has been the “normalization dialogue” with Pristina. In April 2013, under EU auspices, the First Agreement of Principles Governing the Normalisation of Relations (the Brussels Agreement) was signed. Belgrade undertook to integrate northern Kosovo into the legal and institutional system of the territory, dismantle parallel Serbian structures, and accept de facto Pristina jurisdiction over these areas in exchange for advancement in the accession chapters.
In March 2023 in Ohrid, the parties verbally agreed on the “Agreement on the path to normalisation” and its Implementation Annex. Although Vučić stressed that he had signed nothing, the EU officially regards the deal as accepted and has integrated it into the negotiating process — particularly into Chapter 35 on Kosovo. Under the document, Serbia undertakes not to block Kosovo’s membership in international organizations, to recognize its documents and symbols, and to create conditions for self-governance of the Serbian community. The European Union has explicitly stated that fulfillment of these points will form part of the accession track for both sides.
Vučić himself has repeatedly confirmed that normalization is a condition for further progress toward the EU. In early December 2023 he stated directly that the Ohrid Agreement could be incorporated into the negotiating framework as an obligation under Chapter 35. At the same time, no formal recognition of Kosovo’s independence has occurred — Vučić continues to declare that “Kosovo is Serbia.” Critics, including the Serbian Orthodox Church, describe this as classic “constructive ambiguity”: gradual concessions disguised as “normalization” that in practice erode sovereignty over the historic cradle of Serbian statehood.
It is here that the deepest cause of the protest discontent lies. The students and young people chanting in the squares have grown up in a country where the “European choice” has long been official dogma. Yet the price of that choice is not abstract reforms but concrete territorial compromises that many see as a betrayal of national interests. Add to this chronic problems with corruption, media concentration, pressure on independent voices, and economic dependence on Western investment, and the picture becomes clearer. These protests do not resemble a classic color revolution with a clear external sponsor and a ready-made opposition leader waiting in the wings. Rather, they represent an organic outburst of fatigue with a system that promises Europe but demands in return something that for many Serbs remains sacred.
The difference from genuine color-revolution scenarios is straightforward: there, protests served as a tool for elite change under external direction. Here, we see a society trying on its own to decide whether the European perspective is worth the loss of Kosovo and Metohija. Vučić skillfully exploits this dilemma: he remains the “guarantor of stability” for the West and the “defender of Serbdom” for his supporters. Yet the rhythm of “Ko ne skače…” reminds us that even the oldest chants can become a mirror for new contradictions. And in that mirror is reflected not only the past of the ultras, but also the future of an entire country that is still searching for the direction in which to jump.
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