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The late-autumn morning in Nikšić felt heavier than usual as Aco Đukanović arrived at the Basic Court, stepping into a courtroom that would become the latest stage in a long and tangled Montenegrin drama. He is not just any defendant; he is the younger brother of Milo Đukanović, the man who dominated Montenegrin politics for decades as both president and prime minister, a figure who has inspired equal parts loyalty and resentment across the country. But on this morning, Aco was not there to speak for his brother or to offer commentary on the political climate. He was there to fight for his own name, charged with the illegal possession of weapons and explosives, a case he insists is not only weak but deliberately constructed from false foundations. When the hearing ended, he walked out into the open air and faced the assembled journalists with a mixture of weariness and defiance. He wanted people to understand something, and he had chosen his words with care. “I believe you could see for yourself today,” he said. “It would make sense for law students to see how certain things should not be done, how people should not be played with and how they should not be constructed, to see what is applied and what we certainly did not learn in school.” The message was not just about his innocence; it was about the process itself. He invited the public to watch the proceedings closely, to listen to the words spoken in court, to read the reports that underpin the indictment, and to judge for themselves whether this was justice or theater. He thanked journalists for their presence, acknowledging that without witnesses, the courtroom can easily become a closed room where anything can be claimed and little can be challenged.
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At the heart of Đukanović’s defense lies a legal distinction that may seem technical but, in his telling, is the very key to his freedom: the difference between owning weapons and possessing them. He did not hide the fact that he owns firearms. What he rejected, with calm but firm insistence, is the claim that he ever possessed the weapons that appear in the charges against him. “I own weapons, but I don’t have possession,” he explained. “I couldn’t have possession. How can I hold weapons that I didn’t know about? No findings show that I held weapons at any time in my life.” It is a clever line of defense, one that invites legal scholars to nod in agreement while challenging prosecutors to produce evidence of actual control. In his view, the case is built on a dangerous assumption: that a person who owns a property and owns weapons must therefore know about, and be responsible for, every object found in connection with that property or those weapons. But the law, he insisted, demands more than assumption. It demands proof of knowing possession. He appealed directly to legal education, saying, “Whoever attended the Faculty of Law, I’m sure they are educated and know what possession is.” The comment was clearly aimed at the prosecution, suggesting that either they are ignorant of basic legal definitions or they are deliberately ignoring them. He reminded everyone that he has no prior convictions and no record of misdemeanor offenses. His biography, he argued, is not that of someone who would carelessly or knowingly break the law. He is a man who believes in rules, in definitions, in the precise meaning of words. And it is precisely that precision that he feels the state has abandoned. For him, the trial is not about whether weapons were found; it is about whether the law is being followed in the way it should be.
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The most striking moment of the day came during a discussion about bail, a topic that usually passes without emotion. Đukanović had proposed that his bail be revoked, a move that might seem strange for a defendant facing serious charges. But he explained that he has no intention of fleeing, and he wanted the court to recognize that. The prosecutor, Vanja Sinđić, opposed the request, and that opposition clearly angered him. “Imagine how delusional the prosecutor is who opposes the lifting of bail,” he said. “It means he still thinks I’ll run away somewhere.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air before adding, “I won’t leave here for the rest of my life until I solve this. Because they inspired me, we will solve this.” The phrase “they inspired me” was cryptic but powerful. It suggested that the very forces he believes are trying to destroy him have only strengthened his resolve. He is not going to disappear; he is not going to seek refuge abroad or hide behind his brother’s legacy. He is staying in Montenegro, in the public eye, ready to see this case through to the end. The prosecutor’s insistence that he might flee was, in his mind, a sign of how the state views him: as a threat to be contained, not as a citizen entitled to the presumption of innocence. He called the prosecutor’s behavior surprising and unreasonable, but his tone was less one of fear and more one of exasperation. He seemed genuinely baffled that anyone could believe he would throw everything away by running. In that moment, he stepped beyond the role of a criminal defendant and presented himself as a man on a mission, someone who sees this trial not as an obstacle but as an opportunity to prove something larger than the charges themselves. “All forces are weak and nothing, compared to the one who thinks right, and I humbly add and speak,” he concluded, offering a philosophical glimpse into his self-image as a lone voice of reason standing against a powerful but misguided system.
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When reporters asked him to explain his frequent references to a “construction” involving multiple state institutions, Đukanović did not hesitate. He did not name specific individuals, but he made clear that the roots of his indictment lie not in evidence collected from the scene of a crime, but in the written reports of official bodies. “My indictment is based on reports from state bodies,” he said. “The organs of legitimate state power are the police, the army and the security organs. They are the basis of the indictment against me, their reports which are not true. We talked about that at the trial. If you delve into the essence of those reports, you will see that they are not true. If the indictment is based on them, then how can the indictment be true? That is the explanation.” It was a direct and serious accusation: that the country’s security services, military, and police had produced reports that, whether through error or intention, misrepresented the facts and provided a false foundation for criminal prosecution. He did not name the individuals he believes are responsible, saying only that those who lead those bodies and who, in his view, took part in the scheme will eventually be called to testify and explain their actions. His refusal to name names was strategic. He is not interested in personal vendettas; he is interested in exposing a structural failure. He also reminded reporters that he had previously requested that the indictment be made public, so that citizens could read the charges for themselves and see exactly what he is accused of. In a country where trust in institutions is fragile, this demand for transparency is a powerful rhetorical move. He is essentially telling the public: do not take my word for it, do not take the prosecutor’s word, read the documents and decide. His argument is simple: if the reports are false, then the indictment built on them must also be false. It is a logical chain that he believes anyone can follow, provided they are willing to look at the evidence without prejudice.
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The court proceedings have become, for Đukanović, a mirror reflecting what he sees as the deeper problems in Montenegrin justice. He did not try to hide his frustration or his disappointment. “I don’t know where to start, I’ll stay in all of this for too long. I don’t lack inspiration to talk about it, I had a way of seeing it. But the bottom line is that I wanted someone to see this and hear how not to do it, how not to lie,” he told reporters. He seemed exhausted by the length of the process, but also energized by his conviction that he is in the right. He offered a broader critique of a culture that, in his eyes, has become dangerously comfortable with unquestioning obedience to authority. “The awareness has become established that whatever the prosecutor says or the police say must be accepted,” he said. “Well, it didn’t have to be, it didn’t have to be. That’s what I’m talking about. The tendency is visible.” This is not just a personal complaint; it is an argument about how a society treats its citizens. He believes that officials have become accustomed to having their words treated as sacred, and that this has corrupted the search for truth. For him, the law is not a set of words to be recited by clerks; it is a discipline that requires courage, curiosity, and the willingness to question. That is why he wants law students to watch the trial, not as an example of proper procedure, but as a warning about what happens when shortcuts are taken. He is trying to turn his ordeal into a lesson, a case study in how power can be abused when no one dares to ask questions. He insists that his own record is clean, that he has never been convicted or even sanctioned, and that this proves his character. For a man with his last name, he knows the public may be skeptical, but he believes that the truth is on his side, and that in the end, all the reports, all the testimonies, and all the courtroom maneuvers will not be enough to hide what he calls the fundamental lie at the heart of the accusation.
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In the end, Aco Đukanović’s appearance outside the courtroom was less a legal statement and more an appeal to the public to act as witnesses to history. He repeated that he is completely certain he will succeed in proving his claim in every way, and he expressed gratitude to the journalists who are following the case, suggesting that their presence is the only reason the truth has any chance of coming out. “I believe you could see for yourself today,” he said again, as if reassuring both himself and those listening that the evidence of injustice is visible to anyone with open eyes. He has promised not to leave Montenegro for the rest of his life until he “solves this,” a vow that carries a sense of personal honor and stubbornness. He wants to see this through, not just for himself, but for the principle that no citizen should be crushed by the combined weight of false reports from the police, the army, and the security agencies. His family name will follow him wherever he goes, but in this moment, he seems to want to be judged not as Milo’s brother, but as Aco, a man who says he has been wronged and wants the chance to prove it. The weapons charges are the formal subject of the trial, but the real issue, as he frames it, is whether a citizen can stand up against a state that has already decided he is guilty. He has called on the public to take part, to attend the hearings, to follow the news, to ask questions. He has invited legal experts and students to watch and learn. He has placed his fate in the hands of the courts, but also in the court of public opinion. Whether he succeeds in convincing a judge is still uncertain, but one thing is already clear: he will not go quietly. He will continue to speak, to demand transparency, and to assert that the truth, no matter how deeply buried, will eventually rise to the surface. For now, the courtroom in Nikšić has become a stage for his defiance, and he wants everyone watching.