From behind the gray stucco apartment buildings I heard the bell. There was a shiver in the air and suddenly there they were. An unbelievable band of Chetniks, complete with mustaches, beards, bell and cross, grenades and camouflage wear. I could not trust my eyes, almost had to pinch myself at the sight of the Duke, the warlord of Grbavica, and his tribe in full Chetnik apparel carrying in rotation this enormous wooden Orthodox cross up the hill that led out of Grbavica towards what was going to be the border between Islamic Bosnia and "Chetnikland." They were walking slowly, sternly, oblivious to the world around, engrossed in an austere ritual, beads of sweat breaking over their hairy faces. Four at a time would carry the bell that an old toothless man would rhythmically sound in a trance-inducing fashion. As they reached the top of the hill crossing over the international markers I felt it best to stop photographing and watch them disappear towards the horizon on a road that seemed to lead them mythically to a different and purer time in their savage, fated history.