Motto: Marginal Note to a Mystery
'Cover up well what you have done
and then live freely as if after
a successful attempt. Your deed
concealed will live on unattended,
will outgrow you, surpass you still,
first imperceptibly, later more and more
like a child weeping, like doom
when the lamb cries out.'
Janos Pilinszky Hungarian poet (1921-1981)
Only the facts of a series of irrevocable baseness, the wounds of the souls and the landscape caused by the mindless destruction remain to mark that all this did really happen, the brutality of it, and it can happen again.
A tribal war, fueled by ethnic hatred, in a so-called civilized, high-tech, computerized world in Europe at the turn of the millennium: an incomprehensible, shameful paradox. The evil genie has been released from the flask: senseless hatred has crushed thousands of lives with unfathomable savagery, masses of defenseless people, their lives utterly destroyed, in the vicious circle of hatred and prejudice.
Did the murderers not perceive, when committing their atrocious deeds, the eternal sorrow that appeared in the desperate, exposed eyes of children watching them go through their brutal motions, killing.
If we really want to know something about this shameful war and its consequences because we do not want to forget this painful part of our history or let it be forgotten, to stop it from happening again we have to look into the eyes of these children and listen to their stories.
The encounter must be radical, free of compromises and any kind of bias. We cannot see this world in colour only in black and white. It is only the children who can see and show its directness in colour with the help of a Super 8 camera. These encounters are not easy, they are painful and cathartic. Dear Violeta, Jelena, Edmond, Valdrin, Miljana and children. I am deeply sorry that we had to meet on your ancient land at the end of the millennium because of these irreversible tragedies. Thank you for your willingness to tell us your stories for sharing your pain. I know: these paths of memories are hard and painful. They are quiet and sad in the hopeless, obscure world of twilight or in the blindingly sharp light of cold objectivity. I know: the memory of the loss of your loved ones will stay with you forever, the wounds are difficult to heal. However, you know and you feel that the only way to stop the pain from multiplying, to stop new tragedies form happening again is to take the road of peace.