TAKING TO THE STREETS

Fate sometimes provides by taking away. For six years, Zoran Djindjic backed nearly every idea, every group and every trend that might lessen the absolute hold on power enjoyed by his country's imperious, corrupt and autocratic President, Slobodan Milosevic. But the despotic leader stood unbowed and seemingly unconquerable. Relentless in his quest, Djindjic decided to run for mayor of Serbia's capital, Belgrade. Three weeks ago, to the astonishment of many observers, he won. Then, to no one's real surprise, Milosevic reacted to his party's stunning defeat by ordering the courts to annul the election, in which 14 other city halls were also taken by opposition politicians. For Djindjic, the move to crush his victory at last gave him his moment.

Tens of thousands of students, intellectuals and elderly citizens had poured into the streets of downtown Belgrade to celebrate their election victory when, on Nov. 21, the court rulings turned their joy to outrage. In an afternoon ritual that showed no sign of abating, they pelted Milosevic's ministries with snowballs, eggs and paper airplanes while serenading his government's empty office windows with catcalls, whistles, kazoos and jeers. Prominent among them was Djindjic, 44, his charisma, intellect and charm suddenly allowed full play in what had become not only a Serbian theater but also a world forum. Foreigners were even learning to pronounce his name (the dj sounds like the g in ginger). By last week the remarkable display had some crowd watchers looking for signs of similarity with the Tiananmen Square protests and with earlier successful popular uprisings in central and eastern Europe.

Now unmistakable in his black turtleneck and soft tweed jacket, the former university professor had been until recently but one among many voices in the cacophonous crowd of Zajedno (Together), a coalition whose members were united only by their opposition to Milosevic. Zajedno's potpourri included everything from strident Serb nationalists whose hard-line politics are as autocratic as Milosevic's, to liberals infatuated with Western democracy. Plagued by disunity, backstabbing and factional feuds, Zajedno's concatenation of conflicting groups could barely agree on who was in charge, much less what policies to pursue. Now the huge rallies have given them at least a physical pursuit, even if a unifying philosophy is still a distant dream.

"Anyone in politics must have his priorities," Djindjic told TIME last week. "My priority is to have support in Serbia. The other is to have support in the West." An impish smile spread across his face. "Sometimes," he added, "these priorities conflict."

For the moment, however, there are the protests. Over the past three weeks, the demonstrators seemed to be simultaneously flinging a gauntlet in the face of a hated regime and giddily indulging in a long-overdue chance to lampoon it. They banged spoons on plates to emphasize the depth of Serbia's economic malaise. They marched in front of the state-run TV network holding their noses "because the lies stink so much." They sprayed parliament with detergent (to symbolize the need to clean up corruption). Even as the winter weather turned from surly to mean, the crowd's numbers--and boldness--burgeoned with each passing day.