“This is exactly the route I used to take to get to my grandmother’s house,” explains 45-year-old Svetoslav Aleksandrov, as he straddles the thickets that still prevent access to the disused railway tracks running through the district of Krasna Polyana. “In the 90s, the city was so chaotic that these side roads seemed to me to be a haven of peace, a refuge,” he continues.

Aleksandrov has a plan to transform this residential area to the west of Sofia into a “32-kilometre cycle and pedestrian ring road linking all the major parks, densely populated districts, and numerous sports and cultural facilities”. And yet, the landscapes we pass through still oscillate between impenetrable woods and wastelands, punctuated occasionally by an abandoned football pitch and informal shops set up in shacks.

Krasna Polyana and other districts of Bulgaria’s capital could easily disconcert Western European tourists if they decided to explore further than the historic centre. They might note similarities with some of Berlin’s residential areas, with their mix of socialist housing estates, large, detached houses with gardens, abandoned infrastructure, and numerous green spaces – some of them unusual. But it is surely the blatant lack of maintenance of the public roads and architectural heritage that will surprise them first. This dilapidation contrasts with the many brand-new buildings, which have no connection with their surroundings.

While Sofia was never under Austro-Hungarian rule, it inherited a high standard of urban planning based on the Viennese model, with numerous parks. This feature was maintained and further developed during the socialist period, when three large parks – the North, West, and South parks – and many green spaces were created. The end of socialism marked a turning point: a building frenzy took hold of the city, along with the development of a mobility model based on the car. But now Aleksandrov and other Bulgarians of his generation are determined to reverse this trend.

Disaffected but not disempowered

“When I was studying architecture in Wuppertal, I saw a cycle path being created in place of an abandoned railway line, Nordbahntrasse. I immediately thought of Sofia and the path I used as a child. In 2018, the town hall showed an interest in our idea, but hasn’t done much since. If we want to make it happen, we’ll have to rely on our resources and perseverance,” explains Aleksandrov.

Born into a family of architects, the man behind the Green Line project is an original Sofian. However, like many others of his generation, Aleksandrov left to study abroad, planning to settle in a country where salaries would be higher than back home. After working for a few years in Germany, however, he decided to return to his native country. Shortly after, he launched the Green Line project with a university friend, refusing the apathy that social science researchers say characterises his generation.

Bulgaria’s transition generation is a population that finds pragmatic solutions to its problems, without relying on anyone for help

Bulgarian political scientist Louisa Slavkova defines the “transition generation” as one marked by a lack of confidence in collective initiatives and political involvement. According to Slavkova, this is because they witnessed the collapse of a totalitarian regime and that of the economy. “While their parents had to reinvent themselves, at an age when life prospects are generally stable, the transition generation was born, and grew up, in a time of constant transformation.” As a result, it is also a population that finds pragmatic solutions to its problems, without relying on anyone for help, Slavkova observes.

Martin Yankov, a 34-year-old urban planner who founded the NGO Kolektivat (“The Collective”), also seems to fit this description. After studying in London, he chose to move back to Sofia and became the driving force behind a project that has gathered huge public success: The Rivers of the City. The initiative has even been emulated and exported to other towns in Bulgaria.

With characteristic confidence, Yankov explains: “When I came back to Sofia, I felt it was imperative to create a structure that would be able to coordinate the emerging initiatives and bring to fruition the urban planning projects that I felt were important.” While Kolektivat cooperates with the town council, it develops its projects “independently, with diversified funding, including private funding,” Yankov adds.

Unlike Paris or London, the Bulgarian capital does not have a major river running through it, but it is irrigated by many small rivers that trickle down from Vitosha, the 2300-metre-high peak overlooking the city. Urban planners have described these streams as Sofia’s airways, offsetting the polluted air that regularly accumulates in the city and remains trapped by the surrounding mountains. These channels act as corridors, bringing fresh mountain air into the valley. However, today these 100-kilometre-long streams and the surrounding greenery are largely neglected. Yankov’s idea is to revitalise and protect this ecosystem.

“Every year since 2020, we’ve been cleaning up and developing a different section of these canals, where we offer cultural and educational activities, all free of charge and open to families,” explains Martin. And he remains cautiously optimistic about the future: “I’m convinced that we’ll manage to preserve the whole thing, but it’s going to take a long time because it’s a very large-scale project. It will probably take about ten years, but I’m not worried because we’ll still be here to support the project.”

By establishing itself as a functional and unifying entity, Kolektivat has become a key player in the city; so much so that the Sofia City Council has granted them the emblematic premises that once belonged to the agency that managed public transport. Located in the city centre at the top of a tower built in the 1950s, the NGO’s offices boast a striking panoramic view of Sofia. When I ask him if he would like to get involved in politics and perhaps become the next mayor of Sofia, Yankov replies with a smile: “The city council has officially committed itself to preserving and developing these waterways, and it facilitates our events from a logistical point of view, but that’s all. I have no interest in politics, and even less in its dirty games.”

“We will stand our ground”

Aneliya K., another Sofia resident, also has little faith in institutional politics. This 37-year-old woman is part of a collective fighting to preserve the city’s last natural wetland: the Boyana marsh. I met her in a quiet café in the neighbourhood, where she told me more about her background: “I grew up in the area. In the 1990s, my family tried their luck abroad, so I moved house several times during my teenage years. I studied business in London, where I met my husband, who became a lawyer. We lived quite well in England, but something was missing. After the Covid-19 pandemic, we decided to move back to Sofia. Naturally, we moved to Boyana, where my family had already come back.”

As we make our way through the district towards the marsh, we pass by scattered clusters of buildings that look as if they have sprung out of the ground at random. The asphalt suddenly gives way to dirt tracks and wasteland. Aneliya, who asked not to disclose her family name, explains that “Boyana used to be a district of villas on the slopes of Vitosha, but since the 2000s it has become a much sought-after area for the nouveau riche. It’s a hodgepodge of buildings with no planning, and no infrastructure, no roads, no car parks, no schools, no sewers, and no green spaces.”

We get out of the car that Aneliya has parked in a dirt car park. In front of us is a breathtaking view of Sofia. Behind us, the forests of Vitosha seem very close. We climb over some hastily erected fences to get to the marsh, which turns out to be a wild area of only 1.5 hectares. Despite its modest size, the wetland is home to the city’s greatest biodiversity. When the communist era ended and the government started restituting nationalised property, this land, which was once pastureland, was bought up by property developers.

When I ask my guide about the abandoned safety cabins surrounding the marsh, she tells me that “in 2021, we joined a movement of residents that were trying to stop the backhoe loaders from destroying the marsh. The press covered the story, and the work was frozen for a while. But the owners fenced off the site and installed security guards. It was so ridiculous that they only stayed for a few weeks.”

As we observe the damage inflicted by the machines on part of the marsh, Aneliya recounts how residents set up an NGO to preserve the marsh and turn it into a nature park. They took the owners to court to have the wetland classified as a protected area, but so far they haven’t succeeded. “We are up against some of Bulgaria’s biggest construction companies, which have strong political connections. But we will continue our fight, and have appealed. We will stand our ground, even without the help of the town hall or the state,” she explains. Today, Aneliya does the rounds of local schools to raise awareness of environmental issues among the younger generation.

Nikola Bonchev’s story is also linked to the neighbourhood of Boyana, where his grandmother tended a vegetable garden that fed the whole family during the 1990s. After studying history in Vienna, he returned to Sofia in 2013, when the country was facing a wave of social protests against corruption and high living costs. Bonchev got involved in the activities of an anarchist social centre where they led a reflection on self-sufficiency and the right to land. “That’s when I remembered the family vegetable garden,” he tells me, rolling a cigarette. “Our workshops on urban gardening were so successful that we started looking for land for a bigger collective project. Even the town hall had to face up to the popularity of our initiative. We ended up with a large plot of land on the edge of the Drujba district, which used to belong to the organisation that ran the town’s markets during socialism.”

Drujba is one of Sofia’s largest districts. With its socialist buildings stretching as far as the eye can see, it marks the eastern border of the city. The plot is located on what looks like a wasteland on the banks of the river Iskar. On one side are the buildings, while on the other stands a thermal power plant whose tall, red-striped chimneys dominate the landscape. But as soon as you walk through the door, you are greeted by the sight of a magnificent urban garden. At the end of May, the tomato and pepper plants, important ingredients in the local cuisine, are only just beginning to grow. For the moment, it’s the strawberries, green salads, and aromatic herbs that are being harvested. The fruit trees in blossom – mainly cherry, apple, and plum – will soon be delighting the children.

As we chat with a family offering us strawberries and mint, Nikola explains with undisguised pride: “This vegetable garden is run by over 80 people, many of whom live in the neighbourhood. The members of A Garden for Drujba, as the project is called, eat what they grow. We’re only at the beginning of the season, but in summer the place is wonderful. There is no centralised organisation, which disconcerted some users at first who were used to the structures of the Communist era. But today, this horizontality has strengthened the bond that people have with the place.”

Bulgarian society was exposed to a harsh communist regime that opposed private property in both the city and the countryside. Since the fall of communism, private property has become sacrosanct to the point where it is almost impossible to question, even when it runs counter to the collective interest. The socialist experience has also fostered a certain mistrust of collective initiatives, which are often perceived as a waste of time or attempts at manipulation.

Since the fall of communism, private property has become sacrosanct to the point where it is almost impossible to question, even when it runs counter to the collective interest.

The power of ecology

The projects run by these dynamic players in Bulgarian civil society have one thing in common: they reinvent green spaces, acknowledging their central role in urban policy. While they are returning to more horizontal forms of collective organisation, some of them also draw from the toolbox of capitalism, such as seeking private funding and sponsors, or running professional communication campaigns in both Bulgarian and English.

In Bulgaria, ecological struggles have always been at the heart of movements against authoritarianism and corruption. In 1989, an ecological movement precipitated the end of the People’s Republic of Bulgaria after a wave of demonstrations against serious chlorine pollution in the Ruse region. More recently, the anti-corruption protests of 2020-2021 began with activists opposing illegal construction in a protected area on the Black Sea coast. It’s hardly surprising that civil society is now asserting itself through ecology.

Slava Savova, 40, studied architecture in Glasgow and worked in several countries before returning to Bulgaria. She is developing artistic projects, notably on the issue of post-industrial heritage. Savova first became interested in the former Kremikovtsi iron ore mine somewhat by chance: “I like hiking around Sofia, and that’s how I discovered that the open-cast mine had become a big lake. I thought it was a very interesting place, so I applied for project funding to develop a project here and started visiting more often as it’s accessible by bus from the city centre.”

Today, Savova is dreaming of a nature refuge that would combine the preservation of its environment with the acknowledgement of Kremikovtsi’s industrial and human heritage. Alongside an exhibition that she has presented in the small town’s cultural centre, she is organising guided tours around the site: “Today the mine has become the deepest lake in Bulgaria, fed by underground water sources. It has become a place of great biodiversity, as it is located at the foot of the Stara Planina mountain range.”

We walked for almost two hours, without being able to circle the whole lake. In early spring, the surrounding area is dotted with colourful little flowers, and the lake attracts many nesting birds. Draught horses graze freely on the hillsides, which also contributes to the charm of the place. In the 1990s, the miners had a small chapel built on the heights overlooking the site, at the foot of the Stara Planina. From there, you can see the whole region, the city of Sofia, and Vitosha mountain.

Like many other post-industrial areas in Bulgaria, Kremikovtsi – once home to the largest steel complex in the country, employing thousands of people – was privatised after the end of the socialist period and later liquidated. For years, the area remained associated with heavy pollution and difficult living conditions. “Most of the miners I interviewed are very proud of their heritage,” explains Savova as we return to the village. “I would very much like to see this place preserved, but we are only at the beginning of the process, which must necessarily be initiated by the local community”

Savova is aware of the projects led by Aleksandrov, Yankov, and others from the transition generation, even though she doesn’t know them personally. “I am not surprised that these people studied and lived abroad. They know that change is possible.” However, she still finds it challenging to forge alliances and build a more cohesive civil society front. “Yet together we would surely be stronger.”