Храм Свете Петке

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Memorial Church in the Holy place, with a beautiful iconostasis and frescoes, is located between the graves of more than 1,000 to more Serbian sons who put their lives on the freedom of his people

The Temple of St. Petka on the military memorial "Mali Zejtinlik" is a lighthouse for all Serbian victims who laid down in the war of 1990-1995 on the altar of homeland, the most sacred and most valuable thing they had, and these are the lives! In this way, bridging the Serbian nejac from the minded minds. The church was made in the Serbian Byzantine style. Thanks to the charity Zoran Negovanovic, originating from these areas, the temple was painted and painted. The temple was painted by the art workshop Lazarus from Cuprija. It is interesting to see the composition of the Svestenucinik Dabrobosanskih, which is a symbolic connection with the victims at this cemetery ...

I am coming here more and more, he said as he looked down from the white marble cross. And earlier I rarely came, once a year, to suffocation. He was silent for a moment, as if he mustered the strength to say what he wanted. On his face I noticed a slight uncertainty that was quickly blown by the thunderous silence of Little Zeitlinlik. He then put his hand on the cold cruiser and told a story that had been following me for a long time, so I decided to write it down. To stay. - When I was a kid, this cemetery represented to me what I was running away from. I could not accept that my father had died while defending Ilidza. Deep down, I was pushing for loss and I didn't talk to people about it. I didn't have the strength. The words lingered in my throat, tears streaming into my eyes at the thought of mentioning his name. I was sixteen when I first stepped into this place. Before we headed for Romania, I was looking out the window of our new home - it was snowing in Bratunac. In front of me were numerous pictures of the war in Sarajevo. Children who discovered the world under the leaden sky were doomed to fight and to grow up with the suspicion of constantly changing armed guards behind the steelworks and lockets and preparing for new battles. In me, before that first departure for winter suffocation, more than ever, there was a battle between the desire to leave and the fear of encountering my father's grave. Just when desire overpowered fear, I began to think of the unknown fate of human souls taken, and so I went back to the beginning. On the way to Sokoc, I listened to the life stories of displaced Sarajevo people. People inquired about their acquaintances, friends and relatives. They were trying to find out where they were staying, exchanging phone numbers, addresses and greetings. An old man was sitting next to me and my mother, with him a silent grandson. All the way the old man kept repeating the sentence - Romania mountain over the mountains, you are a star among the mountains! Occasionally, with tear-filled eyes, he would look at the boy and caress his head with a trembling hand. From the end of the bus, a weeping voice often came up - My Arso, how mother without you, I only had you ... In the front seat, a woman with a boy and a little girl. She lost her husband and her birth brother, so her boyfriends are her only reason to fight in life. So for the first time on the bus that took us to Little Zeitlinlik, I felt a real closeness to people. I did not know many, moreover, I saw them for the first time, and all were mine because we were connected by a common misfortune, the loss of loved ones and their eternal resting place. On the way to Romania, I realized that my mother and I are not alone and that there are people who can stretch out a friendly palm, hear you and understand you. There was no consolation. We were greeted at Sokolac by the army. An exhilarated recruit from Trebinje with a shovel in his hand, said that all night, he and the locals had been cleaning up trash from the cemetery. Juice drinkers offered teas and kept the frosting warm. Everybody tried their best to welcome us as best we could. At the entrance to the cemetery, her mother, like many women, cried. In order to preserve the weak peace and to show that I was supposedly mature, I tried to divert my thoughts until I looked at the gate that said: “Sleep buds stormy spring, Tear off in a storm and fight! " Then tears slid down my face and nothing could stop them. A soldier named Dusan led us from the gate to his father's grave. We didn't know where he was buried. My father's body was transferred from the family tomb to Mali Zeitilnik by his friend and war buddy in the days of the Sarajevo Serb exodus. Half a year has passed since he died, and my mother and I left Sarajevo with the desire to return one day. We had no idea we were leaving forever. It was, they say, a terrible winter and a deep night when the soldiers lowered him to a crippled cancer. The priest used to sing and sing His Feast. And we ... we couldn't attend his second funeral. As we followed Dusan, I watched the cemetery. It seemed to me that the rows of white crosses were expanding indefinitely, and that somewhere behind the Roman hills, they met with the wives of injured women ...

Honor to the fallen fighters