Some events stay with you not because of spectacle, but because they remind you of something essential. The rap concert at Pomorandža in Podgorica Center, led by my friend Mijat Bojović – Majdžet, was one of those moments. It wasn’t just a concert. It was a reminder of how much courage it takes to create, and how deeply culture depends on community.
Pomorandža is not a polished institution or a distant cultural monument. It is a space built and maintained by people who believe that culture should be lived, not just consumed. Those of us who run it together know how fragile such spaces are — how easily they can disappear if no one is willing to take responsibility. That night, Pomorandža felt full in every sense: full of sound, movement, tension, support, and mutual recognition.
Watching Mijat on stage was inspiring not because of performance alone, but because of what it represented. Standing in front of people and claiming space for your work takes courage, especially in an environment where alternative culture is often overlooked or undervalued. There is a particular kind of bravery in continuing to create even when visibility is limited and support is inconsistent. That courage was tangible in the room.
But the real strength of the night didn’t come from one person alone. It came from the collective effort behind it. Friends organizing, setting up equipment, handling logistics, welcoming people, staying until the very end. This is how culture survives here — not through large budgets or institutional guarantees, but through trust, commitment, and people willing to show up for each other. Community is not an abstract idea; it is practical, demanding, and often exhausting. And yet, it is the most reliable foundation we have.
What stood out most was the sense of shared ownership. The audience wasn’t passive. People weren’t there just to watch something happen; they were part of it. There was an unspoken understanding that this space exists because everyone present contributes to it simply by being there, by caring, by respecting the effort behind it. That kind of atmosphere doesn’t happen by accident. It grows slowly, through consistency and mutual support.
Courage, in this context, isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s the decision to keep going. To keep organizing events even when turnout is uncertain. To keep creating even when recognition is slow. To keep opening doors and inviting people in, knowing that not every night will succeed. The concert at Pomorandža was a quiet but powerful example of that kind of courage — the kind rooted in persistence rather than confidence.
In a city like Podgorica, where cultural initiatives often rely on personal energy rather than systemic support, spaces like Pomorandža are vital. They allow experimentation, honesty, and growth. They offer a platform for voices that don’t fit neatly into mainstream expectations. And perhaps most importantly, they create a sense of belonging — a reminder that no one is building alone.
By the end of the night, there was a feeling of exhaustion mixed with clarity. Not the kind that drains you, but the kind that confirms why the effort matters. Events like this don’t just fill an evening; they strengthen the invisible network that keeps a cultural scene alive. They remind us that courage is contagious, and that community, once built, becomes a source of momentum.
The concert ended, the lights went up, and people slowly left the space. But what remained was something more lasting than sound — a renewed belief in the value of showing up, supporting each other, and continuing to build, even when it’s difficult. In that sense, the night at Pomorandža wasn’t just an event. It was proof that community, when held together by courage, can create something meaningful — again and again
