I tried to go to Kosovo to establish a statue to commemorate

The words of Ivica Dacic — “I tried to go to Kosovo to establish a statue to commemorate those who died during the wars, and to discuss moving on, so we could move into a new era. But I was banned from there.” — are heavy with sorrow and truth. They remind us that the path from bloodshed to reconciliation is never smooth, and that even acts meant to honor the fallen and heal wounds may be resisted. Here lies an ancient paradox: the human heart craves remembrance, yet remembrance can also reawaken the fire of old divisions. To speak of a new era is noble, but to cross into it requires courage, humility, and the willingness of both sides to walk together.

The desire to build a statue is not merely the desire to shape stone. It is the desire to give permanence to memory, to ensure that those who perished in the chaos of wars are not forgotten. Monuments stand as silent teachers to future generations, saying, “Remember, lest this suffering come again.” Dacic’s attempt to commemorate the dead was also a plea for moving on, for transforming grief into renewal. Yet the resistance he encountered reveals how deep the scars remain, how remembrance itself can be seen not as unity but as division when trust has not yet been restored.

History offers us many examples of this struggle. After the American Civil War, monuments were raised across the land, but often they became symbols of division rather than reconciliation. For some, they honored the dead; for others, they glorified a painful past. In truth, the statue alone could not heal — only when hearts were ready for forgiveness and dignity could the nation begin to walk into a new era. Dacic’s experience in Kosovo mirrors this lesson: symbols are powerful, but without shared understanding, they can deepen wounds instead of healing them.

The ancient Greeks knew this truth as well. After the Peloponnesian War, Athens and Sparta lay in ruins of spirit and trust. The victors wanted to build monuments to their triumph, but the losers saw only reminders of humiliation. Peace came not through marble or bronze, but through the slow work of rebuilding trust, trade, and dialogue. In this way, the new era was not born of stone alone, but of human character and mutual endurance.

Dacic’s words reveal the tragic tension of human reconciliation. He speaks of moving on, of leaving behind the shadow of war, yet he acknowledges the barriers that remain. To be banned from honoring the dead is to face the harsh truth that reconciliation cannot be imposed; it must be accepted on both sides. The lesson is that peace requires not only monuments but dialogue, not only symbols but genuine acts of humility and justice. Without these, even the noblest gesture may be misunderstood.

The lesson for us is clear: when seeking to heal divisions, do not be surprised when wounds resist closure. The work of moving on is slow and often painful. True healing requires patience, truth-telling, and the willingness to see the humanity even in those who were once enemies. Monuments, statues, and ceremonies can play their part, but they must be accompanied by the deeper labor of building trust, fostering empathy, and creating a shared vision of the future.

Practical wisdom follows. In our own lives, when conflict arises, do not rush to build monuments of words or gestures without first cultivating understanding. Seek first to listen, then to honor the truth of the other, and only then to build together symbols of unity. When you are rejected, as Dacic was banned, do not despair; see it as a reminder that healing is not instant, but requires time and persistence. Keep striving for reconciliation, even when it seems impossible, for the dawn of a new era comes only through steadfast hearts.

Thus, Dacic’s words endure as both lament and lesson: to move into a new era, we must honor the past without being enslaved by it. We must build not only statues of stone, but monuments of trust, courage, and shared humanity. The path is long, but it is the only path by which enemies can one day walk together as neighbors. And so we must remember, we must forgive, and above all, we must endure until peace itself becomes the truest monument of all.