“I Couldn't Do This to Someone”
June 1999. A small hillside village in southern Kosovo. Its name is Dobrodeljane, and it was home to hundreds of ethnic Albanians. It has been a virtual ghost town since March 25, the day after the NATO air strikes began. Now, nearly a month later, a trickle of families return to claim bodies and possessions. One family claims two bodies—one shot in the head, another with a pitchfork in the gut and a missing leg. Every one of Dobrodeljane's 170 houses has been destroyed or heavily damaged. Most were trashed by police and soldiers, who used them, then looted them and set them ablaze. There is no electricity or water. The shops are empty and stockpiles of food have been burned.
Sadri Sikaqi, sixty-five, and his wife Mihrie, sixty-two, pick over the ruins of their home, which they had rebuilt after their first house was destroyed in a battle between Serbian militiamen and ethnic Albanian guerrillas the previous August. More than a decade of repression has culminated in a three-month killing spree by the Yugoslav army and Serbian security forces. With this has come the expulsion and displacement of more than 855,000 people—most of whom are ethnic Albanians—forced to flee Kosovo in fear of their lives. Today, the immediacy of the threat is over. In its place, though, is the aftertaste of a world gone mad. How do we explain the existence, and persistence, of extraordinary human evil? What type of