Prizren – Monastery of the holy Archangels

it’s only around 3 pm and I’m already in love with Prizren — its sleepy narrow streets and shiny mosques at every corner, its 16th century ottoman bridge and the Gazi Mehmet Pasha hamam, the cobbled Shadervan square and its fountain where teenagers fool around and a couple of old men play backgammon in the sun. I’m fascinated by life here, by the amount of juvenile energy everywhere. half Kosovo’s population is under 25 years old and unless you lock yourself in your hotel room, there isn’t a minute when you won’t notice it, wherever you are.
around 4 and a half, as we’re wandering in the small alleys, the first muezzin begins his call to prayer, soon joined by every minaret and in a few seconds, the whole town is echoing their ritual melodies.

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standing on the ruins of the Kaljaja Fortress perched on Sara Mountain, a few inches away from the precipice, I turn back from the sight of the Saint Saviour church below me and pause to look at everyone’s small silhouette : St?phane at the opposite side, the Bistrica river beneath him, Leila on top of the entrance door, facing the city, Sander on her right, at the farther corner from me and David walking to the back of the fortress. we’re almost alone there now and, each of us gazing in a different direction to embrace the magnificent view, it feels like we’re the last sentinels of our castle.

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her smile is a warning or a punch in the stomach, as it punctuates her chopped sentences. it slices our questions, it closes every door her words just opened, and for more than an hour, we witness the struggle between stories that still need to get out and smiles she turns into stop signs to hide her tears. she will never cry in front of us, but she will be fierce and ironical, vulnerable and strong, bitter and overwhelmed by guilt, cold and looking for approval, disillusioned and torn apart, all at the same time. her smile is a slap on the face, it tries to lock every door her immense sadness opens wide. we leave Caglavica still engulfed by her emotions.

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the afternoon is drawing to an end when we stop the car at the heavily guarded entrance of the Monastery of the Holy Archangels, or more accurately, the entrance of the ruins of the monastery. some ruins actually go back the 17th century and the turkish occupation, but the efforts of reconstruction that began in the nineties and the main aisle have been reduced to ashes by the 2004 riots. As Father Ksenofon speaks, I sometimes let my mind wander to listen to the place. in these dusk hours, the atmosphere couldn’t be more peaceful — here, only the sound of the stream nearby and the birds disturb the contemplative silence. turning back a few times to watch the ruins below me, I catch the sight of the fleeting dark silhouettes of lonely monks walking in the middle of the 700 years old stones, their fluttering black robes give them a surreal look in the declining light. the last seven monks of Prizren seem like ghosts haunting their ruins, but the political conversation we’re having with Father Ksenofon is more than enough to keep my mind anchored to the reality. I finally get up to make some pictures, I don’t need as much to photograph the ancient stones as to be alone for ten minutes. I walk slowly in the short grass, humming the breeze, looking at the ruins of the Bisegrad fortress on the mountain above, pausing to frame my feelings, thoughtful for once about my pictures. the deep melancholy of the ruined monastery stays with me for a long time.

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Yann Tiersen