The memory of ordinary, everyday intercultural or interreligious relationships, in brief 

Serbs and Albanians lived together here – friends, cooperating in work – through thick and thin, until the armed conflict of 1999.

The context in which these relationships made a difference at the time

In this village, as in many villages settled by Christians and Muslims in the region, multicultural and interfaith relationships were just a part of ordinary life. 

What has happened since, which makes the memory valuable 

In 1999, the Serbs were forced out and fled. Continued obstacles to their return, or the return of their property, dovetail with narratives of the past which explain the separation of the population in terms of their criminal behaviour, and the development of hostility breaking the trust between them. And yet, the memories of their common life remain important. Momčilo Kostić – a refugee who resettled in Trstenik, Serbia, spoke of it in this way (Agathe Mora, The Fates Behind the Numbers, p. 52):

I was born in Kosovo, in Novo Selo, municipality

of Vučitrn. We moved in 1963 with

all my elders to a village close to Vrnjačka

Banja, because at the time there was great pressure

from the Albanian people, notably from

their leaders, to move us out as soon as possible.

My father was a literate man; he foresaw that

something might happen in the future. He gathered

us all and we sold that part of the property

to buy something here closer to Vrnjačka

Banja, and we kept on living here. The situation

became increasingly hard to control, especially

since 1974 when the Albanians were officially

given a Province with all the powers—police,

court, all the bodies of a state. And then in 1999

it happened precisely as my elders foresaw. We

had, of course, good Albanian friends whom

we cooperated with and talked, but it’s much

harder now.

The land I claim… It’s my dedovina.

Maybe it’s worthless

now. But I’m tied to it because

it’s dedovina; all that my grandfather,

through work, through sweat,

earned. Those were the old ways of

farming. Digging by hand, sowing,

it binds a man—he left his sweat on

that property. I remember when I

was 12, 13 years old I used to farm

it, I worked it. That’s the main reason

why I feel tied to it. The money may

be the least important. But it hurts.

It pains every person—where he was

born, that’s homeland. It’s a piece of

soil he will never forget. This [pointing

to his heart] is the only thing that

knows how it is!

I would go back if the conditions were

created, but I would be torn apart.

My head would be with the children

here, and I would be there with my

body. That’s no life. My children don’t

even know where I was born. Neither

can they get work down there. What

ties them there? The house, the cemetery,

is destroyed, the property is

taken away, there are no churches. I

went there once, in 2006. Everything

has been ploughed up, everything was

destroyed, so I got lost in my own village;

I could not tell where the house

I was born in was. That’s why I don’t

have the desire to go there and get

stressed out.

How might the memory be used in bringing people together in practice now? 

The Memory Bank project would like to know if learning about the common, multicultural life of villages like this can be of use in your context, bringing students together, or promoting community-based initiatives that can be informed or inspired by the cooperative life of Vrnjacka Banja and its neighbourhood before 1999.

Additional context/Some additional reading

Agathe C. Mora, The Fates Behind the Numbers, 2013, p. 52.