In the Balkan state of Montenegro, public land is being turned over to luxury hotels and megaports for yachts. In a new agreement, investors from the United Arab Emirates will be able to bypass legislation and carve up the country as they please.
On Europe’s Balkan periphery, there is constant dispute over what space this region truly belongs to. It’s neither quite the West nor truly the East — let alone part of the Global South. In times of war, economic recession, and globalization, the Balkans are rarely mentioned: a “desert of post-socialism” left off the map.
A steady flow of neocolonial projects continues in the Balkans, often cast as an “unfinished capitalist transition.” The most recent example: an agreement signed between Montenegro and the United Arab Emirates (UAE). This deal grants extraordinary privileges to the investor, including the ability to bypass national legislations and to basically pick a piece of land they can privatize.
The tragicomedy of parliamentary democracy reached new heights when Montenegro’s government approved the act via legislators’ WhatsApp group. The message was sent by Prime Minister Milojko Spajić, a crypto evangelist and ex–Goldman Sachs analyst.
After that, Spajić triggered the urgent procedure in the Assembly to ratify the two agreements with the UAE: one on economic cooperation and the other on cooperation in tourism and real estate development. The Assembly passed them, after a debate that ended after 1 a.m. Following a public outcry due to blatant corruption, the appropriation of land, and the potential devastating environmental impact, President Jakov Milatović returned the controversial agreement to the Assembly unsigned, meaning a second vote is imminent.
The Agreement on Cooperation in Tourism and Real Estate Development is seen as especially problematic. It states that any contracts and further agreements with UAE investors are exempted from both countries’ legislation on public procurement and tendering. To put it simply: a UAE investor can choose any mountain, beach, or the land near any river or lake, and together with the Montenegrin government do whatever they want with it — even if that means expropriation, devastation, or the creation of a fancy apartheid-style resort for the oligarchy.
In this move, the ruling coalition clearly broke the Aarhus Convention, which guarantees the public’s rights of access to information, as well as public participation in the government decision-making on matters concerning the local, national, and transborder environment. Not only that, but it bypassed a whole bunch of basic bourgeois laws and directives: the National Strategy for Sustainable Development, the Spatial Planning Strategy, the Nature Protection Act, and the Environmental Impact Assessment Act. All of this in a state whose constitution declares it “democratic, social and ecological.”
Later it emerged that the government had already struck an agreement with the investor, Mohamed Alabbar, well before the formal agreement with the UAE. The legal framework wasn’t written to regulate the project — it was written to accommodate it. Evidence shows that by March 11, weeks before the public had any knowledge of the deal, Alabbar had already won bids to lease sections of the beach. The official signing came later, on March 28, and ratification was voted in (for the first time) on April 23. It’s hard to overstate just how rigged this was: secretive, rushed, and with zero public oversight.
The end goal? A ninety-nine-year takeover of Velika Plaža (Long Beach) — the longest beach in Montenegro, at around twelve kilometers, and one of the last wild coastlines in this part of Europe, protected under national law since the days of socialist Yugoslavia.
Prime Minister Spajić claimed the investor would receive the land for free but would bring €35 billion in investments. This absurd figure increased the already considerable suspicion over his statements. It seemingly paved the way for the standard practice of using power in Montenegro to corrupt ends: “give away” a public piece of land to investors for free and get your cut in the process.
According to Alabbar, who received substantial media coverage in Montenegro, his intention is to build a port for megayachts, an airport, shopping malls, luxury hotels, and most important: apartments for sale. Lots of them. Alabbar is known as an oligarch who builds “cities within cities” on the periphery, using initial capital from selling not-yet-built apartments to the rich. Previous projects revealed this as a common money-laundering scheme for big business owners and politicians. It’s the same scheme that failed to take off in Zagreb and Budapest, where initial agreements with authorities collapsed under public outrage over corruption and lack of transparency.
However, if the investor’s name sounds familiar, it’s likely because of the Belgrade Waterfront. The infamous deal between Serbian president Aleksandar Vučić and Alabbar sparked protests, mass organizing, and eventually the rise of Serbia’s first left-leaning movement party, Don’t Let Belgrade Drown, now the Green-Left Front. Despite years of public opposition and fierce resistance, the project went ahead and stands today as a concrete monument to authoritarian urbanism and financial opacity.
Eleven years later, after the Serbian government gave away 1.77 square kilometers of prime land for free, it owns just 32 percent of the project and has received only €9.7 million in dividends to the country’s budget.
The Montenegrin government is now using the same playbook for our coastline, but what is proposed for Velika Plaža looks even more sinister and ecologically disastrous.
Long Beach, also surrounded by the Bojana River Delta and the Solana Ulcinj, forms one of the most important ecological zones in the Balkans. It hosts numerous endangered plant and animal species, particularly migratory birds that rely on this rare ecosystem as a nesting ground. Preserving this space is vital for ecological balance, water quality, soil protection, and climate resilience.
To give a sense of what’s at stake: out of the forty-eight endangered bird species on Montenegro’s Red List of Birds, as many as thirty-five species — that is, 73 percent — are found in the Bojana Delta area and would be directly threatened by this project, representing an immeasurable negative impact and loss. Isn’t it ironic how those who built their entire careers critiquing the failures of “actually existing socialism” now find themselves killing birds — not out of misapprehension for food security, but for the speculative profits of oligarchs?
Besides the birds and plants, another victim of speculative profits would be the city itself. Coastal dunes, in Montenegro found only in this area, are directly endangered by this project. They are characterized by rich and unique biodiversity and serve as habitats for numerous protected species, but on another note provide coastal protection against storms, thus saving Ulcinj from floods and erosion.
What does Montenegro actually offer its people through projects like this? Nothing but the chance to serve drinks, clean hotel rooms, and manage check-ins for the rich. It’s the standard menu for every semiperipheral state trapped in a never-ending “capitalist transition.”
Meanwhile, the European Commission issued a lukewarm statement of concern. In Montenegro — an ever-yearning candidate for EU membership — this gave pro-European NGOs and opposition politicians the chance to say, “We told you so.” However, the letter from Marta Kos, who is European commissioner for enlargement, reveals what they’re really worried about: not the destruction of Ulcinj, but protecting the sanctity of “fair competition” — ensuring that every big player gets their turn to plunder.
We can’t rely on the EU to be our savior. The real story is this: the people rose up. And in Montenegro, that doesn’t happen often. A group of ideologically diverse activists, scientists, writers, journalists and NGOs came together and made a loose “coalition.”
While the government shifts narratives daily — inflating or deflating investment figures, promising “state co-investment,” or, together with the investor, even proposing to relocate the project due to strong opposition — people on the ground are organizing. In the media, in parliament, and in the streets, they are exposing the farce and providing information to the general public.
Now two paths are emerging. The first is the familiar NGO anti-corruption route — calling for transparency, fair competition, and “fair investors” instead of shady ones. In other words, business as usual, just with smoother PR. This dangerous logic is omnipresent, masquerading as pragmatic and nonideological. But it’s just another form of neocolonial growth, one that welcomes an investor who follows rigged rules with a red carpet. I often joke that “European values” exist only in the minds of Montenegrins — a kind of collective hallucination, shaped by longing for a better future, out of the fear of sliding toward the situation of Serbia and Russia, and not out of the experience of EU benevolence. Many NGOs, caught between material incentives and their relationships with embassies and officials, lack the political clarity to see through the mirage and realize that the EU is just ensuring its market dominance and not our freedom.
Yet there’s still hope. I believe that people will eventually realize that, to paraphrase Mikhail Bakunin, the stick hurts the same whether it is wrapped in the UAE flag or painted in blue with yellow stars on it.
The second path is grassroots: a bottom-up, anti-capitalist, anti-colonial resistance rooted in the working class and locals from Ulcinj. It rejects back-room deals with politicians or international donors. Less about career NGOs, more about self-organizing, direct action, civil disobedience, and public forums. A strategy that doesn’t demand better investors but rejects their very premise. A strategy that refuses to exchange Velika Plaža for another Dubai on the Adriatic.
These two paths aren’t just about how we fight this battle — they carve out the only real choice left to us: either we defend this sublime space and everyone who depends on it, or we spend the next decade debating which flavor of oppressor we prefer. The time is running out. The last grains of the hourglass are slipping into the sands of Long Beach, where the desert of postsocialism meets the mirage of “development.” In a liminal space, between post and pre, asking to yet again become a front line of resistance and possibility.
This post was originally published on Jacobin.