Because Vidovdan is not a state holiday — it is the Easter of the Serbian being…
Vidovdan is not just a date. It is not just a myth. Nor an epic image of the past. It is a mirror in which Serbia looks itself in the eye — with all its scars, pride, and terrible heritage. It is the day when we lost the most — and gained the most.
When the Serbian saber and the Ottoman dragon crossed paths on the Kosovo field, we lost one fleeting kingdom and gained another, an eternal one.
We have become a people who know what choice is, even when there is none. Losing life for eternity, an earthly kingdom for the sake of a heavenly one, is not a defeat. It is a covenant. And only those who do not understand what freedom is can reduce Vidovdan to defeat.
Vidovdan is not history — it is an image on our face.
It also contains the hand that fell on Miloš when he returned from the Sultan’s tent. It also contains Gavrilo’s shot, which pierced not only the body of the heir to the throne, but also the walls of a false history. It contains 1389, 1914, 1941, and 1999 — and all our Golgothas and all our resurrections.
In Vidovdan there are graves, wills, and oaths. And every time someone tries to take away our right to memory, to language, to Kosovo, to pain — Vidovdan resurrects.
That’s why they are afraid of it.
That’s why they try to drown it in protocol, to reduce it to a memorial service or commemoration. For Kosovo to be a cemetery for us, not a living testament. For Miloš to be a controversial figure, for Gavrilo to be a terrorist, for freedom to be a derogatory word.
But it can’t be.
Because Vidovdan is not a state holiday — it is the Easter of the Serbian being. St. Vitus Day is life and June 28th is his birthday. He is not celebrated — he is lived.
He is not in the speeches of politicians, but in the silence of a mother lighting a candle for her son. In the gaze of an old man who does not forget where his great-grandfather’s grave is. In the “we will not give up” whispered on the barricades, in the song that does not allow us to be silent.
A Serb does not always have to win — but he must be free. And when the media crucifies him, when sanctions tighten his throat, when they tell him that he is a “disruptive factor”, a Serb stands. Not because it is easy for him, but because it is priceless. That is St. Vitus Day.
These are the people who kissed Marko Nikolić’s hand because they saw Karađorđe in him, because they know what freedom is even when it is dressed in a costume. The people know that he is an actor, but he embodies and brings to life the Leader. This is a people who do not forgive betrayal, but know how to suffer while defending with dignity.
St. Vidovdan reminds us:
that freedom is not a gift but a cross,
that there is no Europe without Kosovo,
nor Serbia without memory,
that silence is not peace, but death on credit with our interest.
And therefore, before every St. Vidovdan, let us look ourselves in the eye.
Because the question is not what happened in 1389.
The question is — where will we be when the next St. Vidovdan comes.
And the day of judgment is easier with St. Vidovdan:
“ St. Vidovdan, my eyes see …,” sang Đedo, a black rice monk from Morača and Cetinje.
