In Serbia, A Toxic Mix Of Nationalism And Animal Rights

By Aleks Eror

BELGRADE -- In a gruesome social media video, a dog fight is taking place in what appears to be an open-air basketball court. Two pit-bull-like dogs are set against each other by a group of young men, who surround the battling animals in a circle. One dog quickly overpowers the other, digging its teeth into the upper lip of its opponent's snout, prompting squeals of agony.

The scene then cuts to smartphone footage that follows another group of young men walking through a dimly lit street in dark clothing, their identities obscured by caps and the shadows of the night. They knock on the door of a rural house, where one of the alleged perpetrators from the video answers.

"We've come to see Bojan," the ringleader of the group says sternly.

"That's me," comes Bojan's meek reply.

"What's this video?" the ringleader asks as he shows Bojan his phone, the agonized yelps of the fighting dogs blaring out from its tinny speakers. With his shoulders hunched and a cartoonish expression of dread, the scrawny 18-year-old looks glumly at his visitor as the man tells him menacingly: "Look, you can see for yourself how many of us there are…. Now, listen kid, I'm going to tell you what to say and you're going to repeat it…. 'I'm really sorry, I apologize for organizing dog fights. I'll never own a dog again and this will never happen again.'" Bojan, obediently, repeats his line.

The video was recorded and posted online by a group that calls itself Levijatan (Leviathan) and became popular in 2017, when its heavily tattooed, muscle-bound members began to capture the attention of the Serbian media with their "reeducation" videos. Levijatan could best be described as a cross between Britain's fascist National Front and the People For The Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), a U.S.-based animal rights group that is known for its provocative media campaigns.

"Levijatan isn't just a movement, it's an idea that you live by 24 hours a day," says Pavle Bihali, the 40-year-old founder and figurehead of the group, as he leans back into a gray armchair in Levijatan's spacious office in downtown Belgrade. Sprayed onto the wall is a stencil of convicted war criminal commander Ratko Mladic alongside a tag that reads "Smrt svima osim psima!" ("Death to everyone except dogs!") A laundry rack stands nearby and there are piles of clothing on the floor of an adjacent room.

A former child actor who is best known for playing the role of a prepubescent bully in the famed 1990s TV series, Happy People, Bihali is now one of the most controversial figures in Serbian public life. Sporting a shaved head and the bulging trap muscles of a comic book character, Bihali's face wears a near-permanent scowl that sometimes breaks into a fleeting smirk. Yet despite his meathead exterior, Bihali uses razor-sharp wit to devastating effect when he launches brutal put-downs against his opponents.

Founded in 2015, Levijatan takes its name from Thomas Hobbes' landmark work of political philosophy. In his magnum opus, Hobbes argues that the natural state of the world is one of chaos, a "war of all against all." For Hobbes, to escape this chaos, humans must make a political choice, a compromise, to sacrifice a degree of personal agency to the state, which is given the authority to set common rules for society to live by and the power to enforce them.

Levijatan first came to notoriety when it began posting confessional videos on social media in which distressed individuals apologized on camera for being cruel to animals. They would be told to state their first and last names, their age and place of residence, before promising to never repeat such behavior again. Levijatan would sometimes confiscate their pets and take them to a veterinarian to get medical treatment before rehoming them. The group's social media feeds are full of graphic videos of wounded animals that it says it has "saved" and nursed back to health.

"We typically do this to individuals who we know are unlikely to be prosecuted," says Bihali. "Put simply, we take it upon ourselves to mark them out because the law doesn't want to or is unable to…. We blur their face [if it's a minor] but we record their name and surname so people know that they ripped off a kitty's ear or broke its leg and this is an entirely legitimate tool that should also be applied to pedophiles, rapists, and sadists. It's benign, totally benign."

Levijatan's dedicated following has been crucial to its success. According to members of the group, when Levijatan receives a tip-off, the group asks for video evidence, which it then posts on social media with an appeal for more information. After a new incident, some "10, 15, 20 people" usually reach out to the group, which then attempts to corroborate the information to see if the allegations stack up. Once they're satisfied, Levijatan members then pay the alleged perpetrators a visit and either give them a stern warning or collect further evidence that they then hand over to police.

Many others have accused the group of going much further, using violence to intimidate and punish, claims that Bihail firmly denies. "Genuinely, we don't use violence because there's no need," he says with a cocky bluntness. "What are you going to do? There's 50 of us and you're going to fight? Even a Kalashnikov wouldn't help you there." A former Levijatan member RFE/RL spoke to backed up Bihali's denial of violence in almost identical terms.

While Bihali often claims that Levijatan hasn't ever received a single criminal charge against any of its members, in 2020, a group activist was sentenced to four months in prison, plus another 11 months under house arrest, for assaulting a man who had posted an insulting comment about Bihali on social media.

Law-Trampling Vigilantism

In many ways, Levijatan's law-trampling vigilantism is symptomatic of the wider state of Serbia. Where other postcommunist states like Hungary and Poland have drifted toward nationalist populism, Serbia's political system is more akin to the type of gangster capitalism seen in postcommunist Russia: corruption is widespread, rule of law is weak, and in a country where the president's ties to hooligan groups are an open secret, aggression and force often win out over dialogue and compromise. In Serbia, critics of all political stripes say that the law rarely applies to those with muscle and strong political connections. Political apathy and disillusionment have replaced the democratic optimism that followed the 2000 revolution that ousted Slobodan Milosevic.

Bihali says that his movement exists to correct the injustices created by state dysfunction and a deeply flawed legal system. He doesn't just see animals as "vulnerable," but also women and children, anyone the group deems as having been insufficiently protected by the state. "Levijatan as an idea and phenomenon is essential," he says. "Particularly in countries that…strive to be normal societies. In order to be a normal society, we must warn the authorities and the state about things that are wrong."

Bihali quotes the late Serbian criminologist Zlatko Nikolic when explaining Levijatan's core mission. "A reaction within so-called civil society that manifests when the state fails to respond to the expectations of taxpayers and citizens and the issues that trouble them," says Bihali. "Very simple. That's Levijatan."

Bihali, whose great-grandfather and namesake was a prominent Jewish intellectual, describes himself as an extreme-right nationalist, although he is frequently accused of being a neo-Nazi.

On his right forearm, Bihali has a tattoo identical to the SS skull and crossbones, although he says that it is actually the skull of Adam from Christian iconography. In Levijatan's office, there are at least four Celtic crosses on the walls, plus one on Bihali's phone in the distinct black, white, and red of the Nazi Party. Even though he admits that they are a Nazi symbol, he says that the Celtic crosses can have multiple meanings.

"It existed so long before Hitler that it's insane to even discuss it," he says. "The Celtic cross is for me a symbol of preserving faith, preserving the nation, and preserving strength -- particularly strength -- and preserving one's Caucasian race or skin color. But not in a racist sense like, 'I hate black people' or something. No, I simply want our race to survive. I really don't see anything controversial in that, truly." (Bihali has expressed an admiration for national socialism, but says that it was ruined by Adolf Hitler.)

While to many, far-right politics and animal rights activism might make uncomfortable bedfellows, Bihali has said they dovetail perfectly. In previous interviews, he has cited the Macdonald Triad -- a psychological paradigm that states that harming animals is a potential indicator of sociopathy -- when explaining why his men target perpetrators of animal cruelty. The perpetrators, Bihali reasons, could go on to target women and children, who as the standard-bearers of the Serbian nation he has a patriotic duty to protect.

***

Some 95 kilometers south of Belgrade, on the outskirts of the town of Cumic, sits the largest dog shelter in the country. Located on a muddy mound of desolate land, the shelter sits next to a narrow road that winds through the mountainous terrain of central Serbia. Encircled by a vast fence, countless dogs roam freely across the land, which is littered with small wooden kennels. It almost looks like a refugee camp for dogs.

Dejan Gacic is overseeing the delivery of bales of dry hay and large sacks of high-quality German dog food. A portly 50-year-old man who emits a fatigued world-weariness, Gacic tells me that it costs 6,000 euros ($6,811) per week to simply feed the dogs in his care. Although the conditions at the shelter are fairly spartan, the 15 or so dogs that gather at the padlocked iron gate appear happy and friendly, jostling to greet visitors.

Gacic is the owner of the Vucjak Shelter (Vucjak means German shepherd in Serbian), Serbia's largest shelter for abandoned and stray dogs. In operation since 1997, Vucjak was founded by Gacic and his late mother, who simply started taking in abandoned dogs from the street and housing them in her home. Now the shelter has around 1,200 dogs (although Gacic isn't sure of the exact number) and has attracted international attention from animal lovers around the world.

For more than two decades, the shelter operated without incident. But then, one night in June 2021, the facility was raided by armed police in bulletproof vests and balaclavas. Video footage from the operation looks a lot like what you would expect from a bust against a major drugs cartel.

In a video released by Serbia's Interior Ministry, Gacic is held at gunpoint in his office before being pushed to the floor and handcuffed. After his arrest, Levijatan went live on Facebook and Bihali said that they had uncovered video evidence that animals were being neglected and abused at the shelter and had passed it on to police. According to Levijatan, Gacic, who was detained for 13 days, was letting the "dogs die in cannibalism, their own excrement, disease, [and] feeding themselves by eating their own offspring."

The videos obtained by Levijatan show sick and wounded dogs and the corpses of deceased ones scattered across the muddy, hilly terrain on which the shelter sits. Filmed by two of the shelter's former employees, Bihali says that the videos were sent to him out of genuine concern for animal welfare. Gacic, however, says that another employee told him that the pair who filmed the videos promised her money if she would speak out against Gacic on camera, which she refused.

While Gacic admits that sometimes dogs on his extensive property do die from fights or disease and that it can sometimes take several days to notice their wounds or remains due to their sheer numbers, he says that the scenes in the incriminating videos were selectively filmed to create a slanted image of conditions there.

Gacic says that he knows exactly why Levijatan targeted him. It's well known, he says, that his shelter receives donations from abroad -- which averaged at some $45,000 per month before the June raid -- and he believes that Levijatan's true intention was to force him out, take over the shelter, and then profit from the foreign money.

"I know that their goal was the donations, what else could it be?" an agitated Dacic says. "If they had honest intentions, they would've come down here first to ask questions: 'Hey, people, we have some information that things aren't how they should be. Could we come inside to have a look and see what's up?' Anybody can take a look around, just as you did. But nobody ever asked about the well-being of the dogs. To this day, nobody is interested in those dogs."

"But [Bihali] doesn't realize something," he adds. "If you ruin this [shelter], if you ruin [the lives of] these animals, it doesn't mean that anybody will send you donations because they can see that you're insane. Nazi tattoos, constantly scowling, driving around in a Porsche and now he's some kind of defender of animals? Sell one of your Rolexes, open a small kennel, and show everybody how it's done."

Bihali is well-known for living a lavish lifestyle and his penchant for gleaming Rolex watches and driving high-end sports cars has been extensively documented by local tabloids, fueling suspicions that he is directly benefiting from the donations Levijatan receives. (When asked about his supposed riches, Bihali says that he comes from a wealthy family and spent many years managing casinos when he was younger, which he describes as a highly lucrative line of work.)

While no animals have been removed from the shelter, Gacic has been charged with abusing, neglecting, and killing animals and could face up to three years in prison. He denies all charges and has plenty of local support. Several days after his arrest, supporters of the shelter gathered in nearby Kragujevac and spoke to the media, attesting to his good character. Not a single state or law enforcement employee, he says, has set foot on his property since he was released from custody. At the end of the interview on the damp soil in front of the shelter, Gacic is still bitter and fuming about Bihali. "I haven't encountered a bigger evil than that man," he says.

An Emotive Issue

Animal welfare is a very emotive issue in Serbia. Countless strays roam the streets of towns and cities across the country, with an estimated 20,000 stray dogs in Belgrade alone. Social-media feeds are full of lost pets and animals that need new homes. Stories of abuse and neglect are sadly common. An ineffectual justice system affords insufficient protection for human beings, let alone animals, which means that abusers frequently go unpunished.

While for Levijatan's critics, they're lawless thugs who have appointed themselves judge, jury, and executioner, for their supporters, they're performing a genuine public service and compensating for the dysfunction of the state.

Undoubtedly, Levijatan has saved many animals. One dog that the group rescued was found with an ax wound to its head and a number of videos on Levijatan's social-media feeds document how it was nursed back to health. Bihali says that the group has saved several hundred animals, although others say those numbers are inflated.

Under Bihali's leadership, Levijatan has built a large and devoted following. The group has some 355,000 fans on Facebook and Instagram and some Serbian celebrities have expressed their support publicly. Levijatan has even grown into something approaching a subculture, with supporters wearing the group's merchandise and some even getting the distinctive brass-knuckle-paw logo tattooed onto their bodies.

With their large and loyal fan base, Levijatan has flirted with politics. In 2020, the group became a registered political party and Bihali stood as a candidate in that year's parliamentary elections, which were boycotted by most opposition parties in protest against what they said were unfair electoral conditions.

Of the 21 parties that stood in those elections, Levijatan finished in 16th place after taking 0.7 percent of the overall vote. Only three parties succeeded in clearing the 3 percent threshold to enter parliament, the main two being the culturally conservative and nationalistic giants that have dominated Serbian politics this century: President Aleksandar Vucic's ruling Serbian Progressive Party (SNS), which secured 60 percent of the vote, and Milosevic's former party, the Socialist Party of Serbia, which finished in second place.

With the centrist opposition fragmented after descending into infighting, far-right groups like Levijatan, which have been a mainstay of street politics since the fall of the Milosevic regime, have grown and multiplied in recent years. Aside from the ever-present football ultras, the most dominant group at any given time tends to change. In the early 2000s, it was the clerico-fascists of Obraz (Honor) and then, later, the 1389 Movement, a youth group similar to the Nashi movement in Russia.

These days, the landscape is more fractured, with groups like Levijatan, Srpska Desnica (The Serbian Right), and Srbska Cast (Serbian Honor) being among the better-known. Many far-right groups in Serbia were formed as a backlash to the emerging liberal civil society that followed the deposition of Milosevic and most share the same beliefs: a refusal to recognize the independence of Kosovo; an opposition to progressive principles such as LGBT rights; and the propagation of "traditional values," such as the patriarchal family structure and Orthodox Christianity.

Levijatan is no different. It has organized protests outside refugee camps and Bihali talks about The Great Replacement Theory, an idea popular in far-right circles that "white" Europeans are being replaced by non-Europeans. But Levijatan's strong sense of visual branding and Bihali's sharp media instincts have made it the most prominent of such groups active today. To the politically naïve, animal rights has proven to be a powerful gateway drug.

Bihali has previously said that he considers the Greek far-right party, Golden Dawn, to be a model he aspires to, in terms of a fringe grouping that successfully moved into national politics. He wants to do the same, he says, because he "can't resolve systemic issues outside the system."

A History Of Violence

31-year-old Boris Knezevic is a seasoned far-right activist and his warm demeanor belies a long record of criminal violence. Knezevic was a member of Levijatan between 2020 and 2021 and was the member who spent four months in prison for assault. At his home in the central Serbian city of Kragujevac, where he's currently under house arrest, warm slippers are offered, and drinks and snacks are arranged on the coffee table. The sparse living room is decorated with memorabilia honoring the Chetniks, a force of royalist and Serbian nationalist guerrillas who fought across the Balkans during World War II.

Knezevic says that he was drawn to Levijatan's nationalist politics and concern for animal welfare but grew disillusioned when he realized that it was all a facade. Bihali only cares about his own "self-interest," he says, namely the donations that the group receives and the ego-stroking publicity that he gains from Levijatan's public profile.

Levijatan makes frequent appeals to the public for donations, which Bihali insists are exclusively spent on the group's operations and the cost of caring for abused animals. Bihali says the amount of donations fluctuates, but they typically receive between 600 euros ($687) and 1,500 euros ($1,718) a month -- 2,000 in the best-case scenario.

According to Knezevic, the amount of donations Levijatan receives is in reality much higher. He says that the group received 9 million Serbian dinars ($87,000) in donations in 2020, which comes out to $7,250 a month, substantially higher than Bihali's estimate. The largest donations, Knezevic says, are directed to Bihali's private account, while smaller donations are split across two Levijatan-linked accounts named Foundation Movement Levijatan and Movement Levijatan Serbia.

Knezevic backs up these claims by providing screenshots of the details of the two Levijatan accounts, which include bank account numbers, Bihali's full name of "Pavle Bihali-Gavrin," and his national ID number.

Bihali declined to comment on Knezevic's specific allegations, but called his former group member a "Turk" (a common nationalist slur in Serbia) and a liar. (The pair have been engaged in a bitter feud ever since Knezevic quit the group in August 2021.) While Bihali plays down Knezevic's involvement, Knezevic points to many WhatsApp messages, allegedly from Bihali, where he refers to him as his "brother" and emphasizes his importance to the movement.

***

Levijatan's office is located in a grand, pre-World War II building just a few doors away from the headquarters of Serbia's biggest newspaper, Politika. Fascist and nationalist insignia decorate its dark gray walls. In one corner, a collection of bats with Celtic crosses scrawled onto them in black marker lean up against the wall, while a large hunting knife and several batons are laid out on a side table next to them. In the opposite corner of the room, sits an upright piano. When quizzed about the piano, Bihali looks toward the instrument with a slight smile and explains wistfully that he was taught to play when he was a child.

With their Nazi tattoos and bully-boy tactics, it is easy to write off Levijatan as just another fringe group with little public support or influence. The truth, however, is likely a little more complicated.

There have long been suspicions that Levijatan -- along with similar groups -- are actively nurtured by the Serbian state. They are used as puppets, experts argue, to help covertly shape societal discourse and deflect anger that would otherwise be directed at government failures. And by taking part in the democratically flawed 2020 elections, Levijatan helped give both the vote itself and the ruling party a degree of legitimacy -- there was at least the appearance of competition on a level-playing field.

The Serbian state has a long history of collaborating with the criminal underworld that dates back to the Yugoslav era and then, in the 1990s, its co-option of football ultras. Bihali denies that he has any secret government ties, a claim backed by Knezevic. "If he does have any state connections, I wouldn't have been in prison. That means that he's not their man," Knezevic says. "If he does have any ties, they're minor ones. Or he didn't want to go out of his way [to use them]."

"The authoritarian-mafiosi regime of Aleksandar Vucic uses far-right groups...to discipline political opponents," says Jovo Bakic, a sociologist and founder of the Party of the Radical Left, via e-mail. "In fact, several far-right groups, such as Levijatan or Srpska Desnica, are completely in the service of the regime…. The current regime uses right-wing groups when it is necessary to divert the focus from important events in the country and from the difficult life that the people of Serbia face every day."

"Predators, rapists, pedophiles…they go where they know they won't find any sort of resistance," says Bihali. "We're the resistance. And that's why I’m sure that a Levijatan is needed in every country in transition, because we protect this sort of peace for those who can't always rely on the police or the state."

While Levijatan claims to oppose the dysfunction and lawlessness of the state, it is really just a symptom of it -- and its actions further perpetuate those systemic morbidities. In Hobbesian terms, Levijatan is perhaps more indicative of the chaotic "state of nature" rather than the political and civil society that is supposed to follow.

At his home in central Serbia, surrounded by nationalist memorabilia, former Levijatan member Knezevic says that Bihali's entry into national politics is just another money-grabbing scam. A series of messages that Bihali allegedly sent Knezevic on August 2, 2021, viewed by RFE/RL on his phone, show Bihali to have written "we'll all make an earning" and "101 percent." Several messages later he adds: "With entry into KG (politics in Kragujevac), which is almost agreed, you're set because you have a board allowance of 35,000-40,000 dinars ($338-387) per person that goes to us" and "three positions 120,000."

In addition to viewing the messages on Knezevic's phone, RFE/RL was also sent screenshots and a scrolling video capture of the entire conversation between Knezevic and Bihali. The messages came from the same phone number RFE/RL had used to contact Bihali.