Five years ago, while researching the massacre of April 27, 1999 in Mejë and Korenicë, many survivors told me about a Catholic priest who had led displaced residents to Albania, away from the Serbian-Yugoslav police and military forces. They all said that the priest no longer lived in Kosovo and that they had lost contact with him.
At the end of April, I revisited the area together with German journalist Michael Martens, who — after reading my book “Massacres in Kosovo 1998–1999,” published last year — decided to write an article about the massacre in Mejë and Korenicë for the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Once again, the residents’ words were the same: extraordinary praise for the priest. But this time, I insisted on learning his full name and finding his contact information.
The priest in question is Father Marjan Lorenci, born on September 10, 1970, in the village of Stublëll, Viti. He completed his primary education in his hometown, his secondary education in Skopje and Subotica and pursued theology and philosophy studies in Sarajevo (Bosnia) and Samobor (Croatia). He was ordained as a deacon in Sarajevo in 1996 and, a year later, as a priest in Gjakova, where he served for a decade. After his time in Gjakova, he continued his mission for about ten years in Germany, before transferring to Switzerland, where he still serves today.
During the 1998–1999 Kosovo war, Father Marjan Lorenci, a Franciscan priest at the Church of St. Anthony in Gjakova, dressed in his friar’s robe, cared for and protected both Catholic and Muslim residents of the city. During the NATO bombing of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY), he kept a diary, which was later published in 2008 by the Gjon Nikollë Kazazi Literary Club of Gjakova in a book titled “The Great Franciscans and the Franciscan Father Marjan Lorenci – The People’s Friar.”
According to recent conversations I had with him, and as described in his diary, when the NATO bombing began, Yugoslav Army officer Dragan Mićunović ordered the leaders of the Franciscan Assembly to vacate their building so that Yugoslav military forces could be stationed there. All clergy and sisters left — except for Lorenci, who, despite numerous pleas and prayers, refused to leave under any circumstances. In his diary, he recounts the touching moment when he addressed the faithful:
“You are my life. You are asking me to leave this place. That will never happen. You must go, because soldiers, paramilitaries and policemen will come to the Church Assembly… In short, we will face criminals who will wreak havoc. Therefore, I ask you to seek refuge in the villages, wherever you can…”
Lorenci’s account reveals not only moments of determination and courage, but also of profound fear. As he stood alone in the church, praying to God to have mercy on his defenseless fellow citizens — while NATO bombed the Yugoslav Army barracks near the church in Gjakova — he experienced one of his most difficult spiritual trials. In his diary, he writes: “I want to be honest. Since I was the only one there, I was overcome by a great fear that I had never experienced before.”
Throughout the bombings, Father Lorenci did not remain confined to the church. Instead, he visited Catholic Albanians in the villages around Gjakova, offering help and hope. During these journeys, he was repeatedly stopped, insulted, threatened, mistreated and even severely tortured by members of the Serbian and Yugoslav forces. On one occasion, a Serbian civilian cameraman filmed his torture — an apparent attempt to humiliate him.
The defining moment of Father Marjan Lorenci’s courage and selflessness came on April 27, 1999 — the very day of the massacre in Mejë and Korenicë. According to the Humanitarian Law Center, Serbian-Yugoslav forces killed a total of 368 unarmed Albanian civilians that day, most of them Catholics. Women, children and elderly people from Mejë, Korenicë and nearby villages were deported toward Gjakova, en route to Albania. When Lorenci learned that the deportees had been stopped in the City Park in Gjakova, he rushed to meet them and tried to find them shelter. There, he was confronted by members of the Serbian forces, who shouted at him, insulted him and threatened to shoot him. He responded firmly: “Here I am. Go on — kill me!”
Another painful and difficult moment — when the friar once again chose to remain with his fellow citizens despite the danger — occurred as he was leading deportees toward Albania. A Serbian cameraman was filming the scene, intending to use the footage as “evidence” that Albanians were fleeing NATO bombings. Along the way, in the village of Bishtazhin, Serbian forces stopped the column and separated 17 young men, accusing them of being “terrorists.” The column consisted mainly of women, children and the elderly — exhausted and terrified. Lorenci stepped forward and confronted the Serbian forces, declaring emphatically: “If these are terrorists, then I am the chief terrorist!”
He offered to take the place of the young men, but the Serbian forces threatened to open fire on everyone if the column did not move on without them. To prevent a massacre, Father Lorenci led the group forward, his eyes turned toward the sky, praying for God’s help. He accompanied the exiles as far as Prizren — before returning to Gjakova, to be with his people once more.
In his memoirs, Father Lorenci also recalls moments when desperate mothers offered him money, pleading with him to save their sons. Though he never accepted it, he saw in these gestures a powerful testament to a mother’s willingness to do anything to protect their child.
What he told them is not only part of Lorenci’s personal memory — it is echoed in the accounts of those who survived and lived through those horrors: agronomist Marjan Marku, whose two brothers, Milan and Gjovalin, were massacred by Serbian forces in Mejë; poet Engjëll Berisha, whose brothers, Daniel and Kola, were executed in Korenicë alongside several other family members; and lawyer Arben Kqira, whose father was killed in Mejë. There are many others who not only bear witness to the friar’s courage but remember him as a beacon of light in that time of darkness. The friar wasn’t just a witness to the tragedy — he was the only one who stood up to it.
Father Marjan himself offers three reasons why he believes he survived without being killed by Serbian forces: “First, they thought I was crazy, even though I moved everywhere wearing the friar’s robe. Second, the tears of the mothers, falling like rain from the sky, kept me alive. And third — the greatest reason — the blessing of the Almighty God, who blinded their eyes so they could not see me.”
Ultimately, Father Marjan Lorenci stands as an extraordinary figure of courage, dedication and humanity during the war in Kosovo. He is a singular and unforgettable hero of that time.
At first, as I read and listened to the stories of survivors in Mejë and Korenicë about Father Marjan Lorenci, I thought that Kosovo’s local and central institutions — the Municipality of Gjakova and the Presidency of Kosovo — should honor him with a medal for extraordinary courage in service to the people of this region. But perhaps there is no need. Lorenci has already received the highest honor a cleric could hope for: the title of People’s Friar. This recognition was given to him by the Catholic community of Gjakova itself, whose members, in their memories and conversations, speak of him with deep admiration — and compare their feelings for him to those they hold for Jesus Christ.
Feature image: Atdhe Mulla / K2.0
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