My name is Matija Gogić, and this volunteering experience was unlike any other I had before. When I first saw the call for volunteers at the One Stop Centre in Bujanovac, I knew it was a temporary place of shelter for refugees and migrants. I arrived as a volunteer believing I understood at least the basics of their stories, but very quickly I realized how limited, shallow, and often unfairly simplified our outside perspective can be.
Bujanovac is not a place you choose on a map. It is a place you come across when life narrows your horizons and leaves you with only one direction forward. The One Stop Centre is one of many stops along that journey. As you step inside, despite our team’s open and cheerful spirit, the first thing you feel is silence. It is a particular kind of silence—not empty, but heavy, filled with fear, interrupted youth, and hopes hanging by a final thread. It was my first time in such an environment, and I did not know how to approach the people there.
These are people who have crossed continents, left behind homes and friends, and encountered hardships along the way that are difficult for us to imagine. No matter how much we tried not to create distance, that initial surge of emotion inevitably did. It creates an unconscious way of looking at them—one they did not expect when they set out in search of a better future, and one that now follows them along their journey, separating them from their dreams, which are, in truth, very modest.
We were fortunate to be joined by Nemanja Pančić, a photographer whose work has followed the Balkan refugee route, and I had the privilege of traveling with him to Bujanovac. During that time, I listened to Nemanja and the stories of the people he had met.
You quickly learn that your role is not to explain or to rescue. Your role is small, but honest—to make their time there a little easier. To make at least one freshly painted room look more welcoming, because it is a place where they can set their burden down, even if only briefly. To show that in this temporary space, there is still someone who sees them as people. It was precisely this shared experience with Nemanja, along with the energy of our team, that helped me overcome that unintentional but uncomfortable distance.
When you truly meet these people, you begin to understand the strength that lives within them. Even without sharing a common language, we were met with warmth—small sparks that are clearly visible in their eyes. One moment I will always remember is a break in the courtyard of the centre, when we were welcomed with a traditional dance. The absence of costumes, the faint sound of music, the harsh sun and hot concrete could not compete with their enthusiasm. We gladly joined them in the dance, and in return, we taught them our own. This is why volunteering like this matters—not to change their journey, because we cannot, but to understand what they are going through and to help carry their story forward.
As you leave the centre, one thought stays with you long after the doors close behind you: many of them will never reach the place they set out for. When someone moves forward without a certain outcome, it is easy to fall into the feeling that there is nothing left to lose. That feeling is not dangerous because they are bad people, but because the journey has broken them more than anyone can see. The least we can do is not turn away, not create distance, but remain that small, human point of support.
