On March 17, 2004, mass pogroms ensued in Kosovo, and the victims were the sacred shrines and the people whose ancestors lived and worked for many centuries on this land.
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“Hurry up! Why are you taking so long? You know I’ve come here against orders,” says the frightened driver of the UN car that brought us to the church. His colleague, an American policeman for the UN forces, killed an Albanian while rescuing priest Miroslav Popadic from his burning house. Forgotten by both the ecclesiastical and secular authorities for years, this remarkable man supported and consoled his flock. He would gather the stones near the church walls that the Albanians would throw at him and the church. He wore a whistle and signal horn around his neck. He was obliged to do so by KFOR—he was supposed defend himself from attackers by making noise. The parish house where he used to live was burned, while he was waiting in the basement for whichever would reach him first—the fire, or the police.
Never in the history of the Serbian Orthodox Church have more holy shrines suffered damage and destruction, so quickly and so massively, as on the days of March 17–18, 2004. Ethnic elemental forces literally “purged” the churches—famous frescoes perished, a huge number of priceless icons ended up in the black market, libraries with irreplaceable books were destroyed, and church bells ended their days in the hands of metal brokers… Clean-ups of destroyed sites were organized in the presence of international associations, and whatever was left was taken away. The Serbs are losing what little is needed to keep them going here. There will never be a list made of what has been destroyed, and an essential part of our life has been dealt a devastating blow.
“I put on a white shirt and prepared myself to meet death, schoolteacher Mitra Relic told us about “her March 17”. She was the only teacher of the evicted Priština University still living in her own city. She completely ignored all advice and did not answer the telephone in order to conceal her location. She watched as the wave of violence came nearer and nearer. Several hundred meters from the “JU-program” the only building where mainly Serbs lived was dramatically evacuated. Apartments began to burn, and the building was destroyed. Soldiers armed to the teeth literally carried Mitra out of the building and placed her in the center for those evicted from Priština, Obilić, Kosovo Field, and other places.
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“All the while they were beating me, my cat was there next to me. He did not abandon me. I don’t know where he is now, maybe he is looking for me,” repeats schoolteacher Dobril Dolasevic. She is sitting on a soldier’s cot; on a towel near her is the book, Last Love in Constantinople.
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The mightiest countries of the international community that had not expressed their opinion on Kosovo’s independence before March 17, decided afterward to recognize Kosovo as independent.
In Prizren today there are eighteen Serbs left. They no longer believe in any authorities; they have experienced all forms of humiliation, and know that only the holy sites—the restoration of churches—can return hope in a normal life.
Seven years later—March 17 of this year (2011)—two young Serbian priests (together with their families) are serving once again in Priština. Beyond the wall that separates two worlds, in the yard of the restored church of St. Nicholas in Priština, the priests’ children play blissfully, far away from any evil.