Petkovic: We Remember So It Won’t Happen Again

Twenty-one years have passed since March 17, 2004, the day when everything Serbian in Kosovo and Metohija burned in a senseless act of hatred by those who, even today, wish nothing good for Serbs in this region.

During those days of madness, in a crime without punishment that has lasted for over two decades, the images of the cross being broken on the Church of St. Elijah in Podujevo—now a symbol of that horrific wave of violence—remain vivid. The wounds of the families of those who perished, including Borivoje Spasojevic, Jana Tucev, Borko and Dobri Stolic, Dragan Nedeljkovic, Zlatibor Trajkovic, Anka Peric, Boban Peric, and Nenad Vesic, are still fresh. Their only "crime" was being Serbian.

On that fateful March 17 and in the days that followed, Serbs in Kosovo and Metohija learned in the most brutal way that hatred and evil are indiscriminate—they do not care about one's character but only about one’s name and surname. In the incomprehensible violence of March 2004, people were targeted simply because of their identity—because they crossed themselves, celebrated their patron saint’s day, and spoke a different language from those committing the violence. The sheer scale of the attacks made it clear that this was not a spontaneous outburst but rather the result of decades of nurtured and cultivated hatred, seemingly fueled by external influences.

Let us go back to 2004 and the events leading up to the March pogrom against Serbs in Kosovo and Metohija. At that time, Serbs in our southern province lived in enclaves, in ghettos, surrounded by hostility. Atrocities such as the terrorist attack on a Nis Express bus near Podujevo, the massacre of harvesters in Staro Gracko, and the murder and wounding of Serbian children in Gorazdevac were recent history. Serbian children often had to attend school under KFOR escort, Serbian monasteries and churches were guarded by international troops, and in urban areas south of the Ibar River, Serbs lived virtually under house arrest, unable to step outside for fear of violence. Given this reality, was the March pogrom foreseeable?

Today, with the benefit of historical distance, we can say that all signs pointed to the impending catastrophe. Yet, what happened was worse than anyone could have imagined—nine Serbs were brutally murdered, hundreds were injured, and over 4,000 of our compatriots were expelled. Six Serbian towns and nine villages were ethnically cleansed, 935 Serbian homes were destroyed, burned, or damaged, as well as dozens of public buildings, schools, and hospitals. Additionally, 35 churches and monasteries of the Serbian Orthodox Church were desecrated or destroyed.

The history of the March Pogrom is well known to Serbs. Today, we know exactly what happened minute by minute after the drowning of Albanian boys near the village of Cabra—an event for which Albanian extremists falsely and immediately blamed local Serbs, a claim later disproven by an investigation. We understand the mechanisms that created the mass hysteria, and we know that this was not a spontaneous reaction but an organized campaign led by political activists and terrorists from the so-called KLA. We also know that none of the organizers or instigators have been prosecuted, just as we know that the violence that began on March 17 unfolded before the eyes and in the presence of international security forces.

We insist that this chapter of history never fades into oblivion. The memory of the murdered, the hundreds wounded, the thousands displaced, the burned houses, churches, and monasteries does not allow it. But above all, we have no right to forget—so that such evil never happens again.

For years, the Serbian people have lived under the shadow of violence, coming from the same extremist and chauvinistic political structures that orchestrated the March pogrom. This threat is no longer concealed. What is Albin Kurti’s violence against the Serbian people if not a continuation of the pogrom by other means? The extremists in Pristina no longer resort to lynching mobs; instead, they have legalized violence. Today, it is not carried out by a frenzied crowd but by bullies in police uniforms, political and judicial institutions, and the so-called Greater Albanian elite.

The lawlessness we witnessed in March 2004 has now become official policy in Pristina, and this seems not to bother members of the international community, for whom Albin Kurti remains a legitimate interlocutor. Kurti would love to see another pogrom, but his ambitions have grown—he now dreams of seeing Serbs expelled not just from Kosovo and Metohija but from Belgrade and beyond.

However, something has fundamentally changed in the meantime. In 2004, Serbia was caught off guard. In Belgrade, those in power at the time watched in disbelief and helplessness as civilization collapsed in Kosovo and Metohija, responding with nothing more than a statement. Today, we no longer harbor illusions that the innocent and the righteous will be spared—events worldwide, including in Kosovo and Metohija, have proven otherwise.

Serbia will never again naively cover its eyes like a frightened child, hoping that the storm will pass. Today, not only do we have no illusions, but we also have the capability and determination to protect our people under the leadership of President Aleksandar Vucic. We will not allow another pogrom or exodus of Serbs. Let Kurti and all those who dream of seeing Serbs in refugee columns hear this clearly: it will never happen.

And just as the miraculous fresco of the Mother of God of Ljevisa in Prizren survived despite the most sinister attempts to burn and desecrate the Church of the Virgin of Ljevisa, so too does the faithful Serbian people continue to live in Kosovo and Metohija. Our churches, our monasteries, and the Diocese of Raska and Prizren endure despite all challenges. And they will continue to do so—with the unwavering support of their one and only homeland, Serbia.

Written for Politika by Petar Petkovic, Director of the Office for Kosovo and Metohija