Aleksandar Stanković – journalist and host of the cult television show “Sunday at 2”
For Diplomacy & Commerce, the journalist behind one of the region’s most recognisable programmes opens up about journalism, introspection, literature, and human vulnerability
When the camera switches on precisely at two o’clock on a Sunday, and he sits across from his guest, Aleksandar Stanković has, for more than two decades, been conducting conversations that often transcend the format of a traditional television interview.His show “Sunday at 2” has become almost an institution – a space where politics, art, and human destinies not only intersect but are laid bare. Behind his firm, at times incisive, demeanour hides a man who has revealed another side of himself through his writing – one that is fragile, vulnerable, and poetic.In this interview, Stanković speaks about journalism, introspection, and his affection for people, but also about periods of doubt, writing as a form of therapy, and the search for meaning – both in front of and beyond the cameralens.
Journalism is often described as “the first draft of history.” Do you ever feel that, through your programmes, you have at times helped shape the way certain events will be remembered?
I would say that I have. I believe that a journalist participates in shaping collective memory – not by imposing a narrative, but through the way theypose questions and determine the tone of the conversation. A journalist must never become a megaphone for power – whether political or media-related. Our strength lies in the freedom to scrutinise – both ourselves and others.Over the years, I have also realised that the audience has changed. Today, people consume information quickly and superficially, often through short clips on social networks. When I speak with someone, I try to ensure that the audience receives not only facts, but also context – an understanding of human nature and emotion. That is precisely what gives an interview lasting value.It is important to me that the conversation in the studio retains its depth – that it remains a space where one can still think more slowly, more profoundly, and with respect for the interlocutor. That, today, is the greatest luxury of all: to have time for a meaningful and thought-provoking conversation.
What makes a programme long-lasting, and a good interview unforgettable – the authenticity of the questions, the guest’s genuine reactions, or something else entirely?
The longevity of the programme derives from a combination of several factors. Above all, from persistence, perseverance and, I must admit, a little good fortune. I had outstanding colleagues and editors who, in the beginning, protected me from political pressure. Later, the show became something of a “public good.” Whenever there were announcements about its possible cancellation, the public oppositionproved so overwhelming that it never happened.The selectionof guests is also extremely important. I have always invited people who personally interest me – and that can be felt in the conversation. If the guest does not interest me, it is unlikely that they will interest the audience either.
At the beginning, the focus was almost exclusively on politicians – at the time, public discourse was predominantly political. Over the years, I came to realise that politics, although important, is not the only subject that shapes people and society. I began inviting guests with life-affirming stories – those who had survived difficult circumstances, who were engaged in humanitarian work, or whose experiences could inspire others.That was not an impulsive move, but a conscious decision to make “Sunday at 2” a space that offers more than information – a space that awakens empathy, reflection, and dialogue about values. Such guests and their stories often leave a deeper mark than political debates, because the audience recognises their own emotions and struggles within them.Ultimately, every interview becomes a small dialogue about life, values, and the complexity of human condition.
How have you managed to maintain professional distance from politicians, and how important is that to your work?
For a journalist, it is of paramount importance to preserve distance from politicians – not only for reasons of professional ethics, but also for the quality of the conversation itself. If you become too close to them outside the studio, your critical approach can easily be compromised. I decided to view politicians solely as interlocutors within a professional framework. I have never socialised with them privately.That may seem aloof, but in fact it allows for an honest and open conversation – the guest knows that the questions are not motivated by friendship or obligation, but by genuine curiosity. The audience recognises that. People can immediately sense when a journalist is doing their job independently, impartially, and without fear of consequences. That professional distance has become the foundation of my journalistic identity. The rules of professionalism are not a limitation but a guide – they allow you to ask provocative yet fair questions, while preserving authenticity and respect both for the interlocutor and for the audience. Politicians often come with pre-scripted answers. The challenge lies in breaking through that façade and reaching genuine emotion. That is why it is essential to remain calm, ask direct questions, and not allow the conversation to slip into superficiality.
What enables you to approach every new story with the same enthusiasm, despite the countless interviews behind you?
Curiosity is a matter of character – a person either possesses it or does not. I have always been captivated by people: their behaviour, their motives, their reactions in different situations. Every person carries a story, often far more complex than it appears. The longer I do this job, the more clearly I see how fascinating human contradictions are – the ability to be brave and frightened at the same time, sincere yet cautious, proud yet vulnerable.It is precisely these paradoxes that give interviews their depth. Each conversation also serves as a mirror for me – revealing how open I am, how attentively I truly listen. Curiosity, attention to detail, and the ability to recognise nuances in speech and emotion – these are the key skills.The world is full of fascinating stories, and I do not want them ever to bore me. Unpredictability and the possibility of surprise are what keep me alive in this profession. That is what makes interviews unforgettable.
Have you ever had to “save” a programme while the cameras were still rolling? What does that feel like from the inside?
Countless times. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t. There have been situations when the programme simply didn’t turn out well – when I couldn’t keep up with the guest or was “outplayed”. In those moments, your mind races at full speed – you search for a new angle, you try to change the course of the conversation.The most important thing is that the ratio of successful shows is far greater than that of the unsuccessful ones – otherwise, I wouldn’t have been on television for so long. Over time, you learn not to overdramatise. A bad programme is not the end of the world. What matters is believing that the next one can be better.The tension before every new show never disappears. That nervous anticipation keeps me focused and present. If an interview were entirely predictable, it would lose its meaning. I turn that nervous energy into focus and concentration.
Have you ever experienced a moment during an interview that surprised you or altered your perception of the guest?
Often. Like everyone else, I have my own preconceptions – I believe I know who the guest is, and then, as the conversation unfolds, I discover something completely different. My favourite moments are when I realise that someone is a better person than I initially thought. That’s when, as I like to say, I “wag my tail.”I don’t try to pretend to be neutral. Authenticity can be felt. If a guest’s honesty moves me, I don’t hide it. If they disappoint me, that shows as well. It is precisely in those genuine moments that the audience recognises truth.There have been guests with whom I felt a profound connection – open, unreservedindividuals who conceal nothing. With them, the conversation becomes almost therapeutic, both for me and for the audience. Those moments transform the way I perceive people, and the work that I do.
Guests often share deeply personal stories. Where is the boundary between journalistic curiosity and intrusion into privacy?
That is a question every serious journalist must constantly keep in mind. That boundary is not predetermined – it is established in the moment, through the relationship between two people. Over the years, I have developed a kind of invisible ethics: you can sense when someone becomes uncomfortable, when their voice trembles or their gaze drifts away. That is when you know it is time to stop. Not because you are no longer interested, but because you respect the person in front of you.I have never been interested in sensationalism. When someone on the programme speaks to me about loss, illness, or a child they have lost – at that moment, I am no longer a journalist who “must extract a story”. I am simply a human being listening to another human being. And that is the boundary I always strive to honour.
The book “Depra (Depression)” attracted considerable attention. What prompted you to write it, and how do its two parts differ?
The motivation behind “Depra” was, above all, personal. After years of living with depression, I felt the need to speak about it openly and honestly. I did not want sensationalism, but rather something that could help people feel less isolated in their own struggles. I had often noticed that people are afraid to admit their vulnerability, and writing became my way of bringing that taboo subject closer to others. The first part of the book consists of prose entries – diary fragments, reflections, and anecdotes from the moments when the depression was at its worst. There, I wrote about insomnia, the feeling of emptiness, anxiety, the fear of helplessness. Each text was an attempt to understand a state that is difficult to describe in words – the feeling of losing control over yourself, yet still having to go on living. The second part is poetry – verses that convey what often cannot be articulated: sorrow, helplessness, the feeling of isolation, but also the search for meaning, the search for air between dark clouds. Poetry, for me, is a more intimate form of expression, but also a bridge to the reader. I often notice that people recognise their own feelings and thoughts within those verses – something that helps them to express themselves or to seek help.
Your earlier books “One Hundred Faces and Aca” and your poetry collections – how do they connect with “Depra”?
“One Hundred Faces and Aca” is a compilation of anecdotes and stories from my journalistic life – the personalities I encountered, the situations that stayed with me, sometimes humorous, sometimes serious, sometimes absurd. At that time, I was writing about the external world – about the people around me, their reactions, their human weaknesses and strengths. Writing was a way of documenting the world, a kind of humorous or satirical mirror of society.Poetry, however, was a completely different story. There, I delved into myself – into my own world of emotions and introspection. Every collection I published was a small form of therapy, a way of articulating inner processes that I could not express verbally.
How has your long-term work with different people changed you – professionally and personally?
Professionally, I have learnt that flexibility is key. Every guest is different, and every conversation is a new challenge. The true strength of a journalist does not lie in “defeating” the interlocutor, but in drawing out truth and understanding.On a personal level, working with so many different people has taught me empathy, patience, and humility. I have seen how intricate human stories are, and how little we truly know about the struggles of others. Over the years, I have become calmer and less inclined towards provocation. That used to be a trademark of the show, but today I value dialogue more than conflict. My greatest motivation is to discover something new and to create a space where people can be honest and understood. That means encouraging tolerance, empathy, and, ultimately, love. Every conversation gives me an opportunity to broaden that world a little – and to share it with the audience.
What advice would you give to young journalists who aspire to conduct interviews as you do?
First – curiosity and empathy. Second – respect for the interlocutor and for the audience. And third – perseverance and readiness to make mistakes, because no interview is ever perfect.And most importantly – cultivate your own voice and style. Do not imitate others. Find a way for your curiosity and humanity to shine through. Only then will an interview possess true substance, authenticity, and enduring value.