Rendering unto Caesar

UNLIKE many of Europe's cultural treasures, the monastery of Decani—a lovely mix of Romanesque architecture and Byzantine art—faces little risk from changes in the physical environment. In this wooded valley at the foot of a forbidding mountain, there is no ecological challenge comparable to the acid rain that erodes cathedrals in Cologne and Cracow.

Yet the 30 Serbian monks who man this 700-year-old redoubt face far more lethal dangers than that. Having suffered several mortar attacks since Kosovo became an international protectorate in 1999, the community's survival hangs by a thread; its sole guarantors are the Italian troops who patrol the unruly region in armoured cars. Take that guard away, and this medieval fortress would almost certainly suffer the fate of the 35 religious buildings that were damaged or wrecked by mobs during the two days of rioting, against Serbs and other non-Albanians, which shook the province last year.


So Decani's Father Sava Janjic, an internet-dextrous cleric known as the cyber-monk, is one of the many people who are watching nervously as the western powers that oversee Kosovo prepare for talks on the future of the province. The emotional stakes in Kosovo's bid for independence—massively backed by the ethnic Albanian majority—rose this week after the Kosovars' veteran leader, Ibrahim Rugova, said he had lung cancer.

“Whatever is decided about Kosovo's status, there will be a need for an international security force to guard places like this,” says Father Sava. He suggests that the care of Decani and other historic sites in Kosovo might be entrusted to an international body like the Council of Europe. “Above all, we don't want to be used by any side to stake out territory,” he insists.

Avoiding that danger—the use of holy sites and symbols to justify territorial claims—will be easier said than done. In several parts of the southern Balkans, religion, politics and diplomacy have recently become entangled in a messy way.

In Macedonia, a notionally religious dispute (pitting one Slavic Orthodox church against another) has led to a straining of ties with Serbia, with bizarre results. For example, a Serbian minister says he has held back two passenger aircraft which Serbia rents out to the Macedonian national airline—in part, at least, because of the general downturn in relations. The dispute has come to a head following the jailing in Skopje of a bishop, Jovan Vraniskovski—who is either (depending on your viewpoint) a pro-Serbian troublemaker who has sold out the Macedonian cause, or the only Orthodox prelate in the land whose office is valid in the eyes of the rest of the eastern Christian world.

How can a country that aspires to join the European Union go locking up clerics? In church matters, as in regional politics, Macedonia's Slavic majority feels it has struggled hard (and so far, unsuccessfully) to gain due recognition from its Balkan neighbours—each of which rests its position on passionately held views of history. And to cut a long, Byzantine story short, Macedonia's Orthodox church has been out of step with the rest of eastern Christendom since 1967, when (as part of communist Yugoslavia's political intrigues) it broke free from its Serb overlords.

Under Orthodox procedures, a national church usually gains independence by negotiation with its erstwhile masters. Bishop Jovan's camp says it is not against Macedonian self-government—but it must be negotiated, not asserted unilaterally. The first step should be reconciliation with Serbia. But to many people in Skopje (including those with zero interest in religion) this stance means betrayal of a country that is fighting an unequal battle to win the world's respect. “People feel their national identity is under attack,” says Ana Petruseva of the Balkans Investigative Reporting Network, a news service.

That is the background to the authorities' egregious treatment of Bishop Jovan. On July 27th, he was sentenced to at least 18 months in jail for “instigating national and religious hatred”. His dastardly crimes include printing calendars that reflect his view of church affairs, under which his authority is legitimate and that of his critics is not. The Supreme Court in Skopje may yet release him; but Bishop Jovan also faces separate charges of embezzling funds.

Meanwhile his opponents feel they are the victims. “It is not Jovan we are up against, but greater Serbian chauvinism,” laments Bishop Naum, a leading figure in the Macedonian church, reflecting the common view that the whole affair is a product of tricks hatched in Belgrade. His suspicions do not end there. He reckons that by meddling in Macedonian church politics, Serbia's authorities—both political and religious—are gearing up for a bigger contest in Montenegro, where a vote on independence may be held next year.

Bishop Naum may be exaggerating the tension in Montenegro, but his suspicions are not wholly absurd. As the “state union” between Serbia and Montenegro gets looser, the Serbian Orthodox church, and the federal army, are among the few agencies that straddle the two entities; and they co-operate. In July, the army sent helicopters to erect a small Orthodox church on Montenegro's Mount Rumija. To backers of independence, this act seemed like a provocation, organised from Belgrade.

Father Velibor Dzomic, a Serbian Orthodox priest in Podgorica, the Montenegrin capital, disagrees: he says all his church wants is equality under the law—and protection from a new Montenegrin Orthodox church that challenges its status.

Even as they proclaim their love of Serbia, some priests in Montenegro give the impression that they are hedging their political bets and preparing for the day when Montenegro's ties with Belgrade are broken. Could this be so? “Our first concern”, insists Father Velibor, “is the kingdom of heaven.” If only that were always true.