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In the far north of Serbia lies a small and utterly charming town with an almost Disney-like name: Kikinda. This place, unknown to most, becomes the stage each winter for a unique and perhaps inexplicable phenomenon. Hundreds of owls, in a kind of seasonal migration that repeats year after year, arrive to fill the trees in the town center, taking on the appearance of enormous pine cones, adopting them as their home until the end of the cold and harsh winter.
This year, I decided to witness this “miracle” of nature for myself. It is early January, and during these days Serbia is completely wrapped in a thick, dark, and mysterious fog. On the 6th, I set out on my journey, hopeful of finding the owls and experiencing this incredible magic.
The trip is made very difficult by the dense fog, but the sight of trees and plants frozen along the roadside is truly enchanting. After more than two hours behind the wheel, using every bit of concentration possible given the extremely poor visibility, I pass the line marked by the sign “Dobrodošli u Kikindu”—welcome to Kikinda.
A little further on, a terracotta statue created by the local sculptor Jovan Blat, depicting an owl, announces my imminent arrival in the central area of the small Serbian town. Having found a place to park the car and dressed in my warmest layers and thick socks, all that remains is to set out in search of the “owls of Kikinda.” I walk along a street that seems to lead into the heart of this seemingly gentle place, though shaped and inhabited by humans.
As I walk in my boots, the damp, cold day seeps deep into my bones. With a heavy backpack on my shoulders, binoculars around my neck, and a tripod in hand, I wonder where I might possibly find these “magical” creatures, also made famous by the Harry Potter saga. I listen, fascinated by a language that is nothing short of “complex,” to the few people passing by, chatting as they walk, visibly chilled.
The main street is extremely charming, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the small towers—almost like little bell towers—that frame the historic center. I begin wandering around, head tilted upward, searching for any trace of the Asio otus. At a certain point, I glimpse something on the branches of a birch tree, so I move closer to take a better look. Yes… it’s them.
The tree is covered with dozens of owls. I set the tripod down, slip off my backpack, and prepare myself to attempt a few shots. The dense branches make it extremely difficult to find clean, compelling compositions, but by walking back and forth across the empty little square, I begin to photograph this remarkable phenomenon.
The birds appear completely motionless—sometimes perched on a bare birch, sometimes on a massive tree where the interwoven branches create a perfect shelter from the daylight. The shyest ones hide among the thick foliage of tall pines, completely concealed from human eyes.
With a bit of attention, by carefully observing the base of the trees, it is possible to notice the pellets expelled after feeding—an indication that, even if they remain unseen, the branches of the fir trees above, scattered with these traces, are home to dozens of owls and owlets that spend the day resting motionless, their large orange eyes half-closed.
People occasionally pass by me and, seeing me taking photographs, they too raise their heads, trying to understand what I am shooting. Sometimes someone says something to me, but unfortunately, even in the best-case scenario, I can only grasp a few words. One lady, extremely kind, speaking to me in Serbian, makes me understand that there are many more on a tree just a few meters away. I thank her with my best smile and a hesitant “hvala vam puno”—thank you very much.
At one point, three young guys approach me and, in somewhat broken English, ask me a few questions, which I’m more than happy to answer. Eventually, one of them asks where I’m from. When I reply, “I’m from Italy,” he immediately shoots back, making me smile, “God, brother, how are you lost here?”
By now, I’ve been here for several hours and I’m frozen like an icicle. Dusk is slowly falling over Kikinda, and the owls begin to wake. They stir, stretch their wings, and “comb” their feathers with their beaks. One by one, they start emerging from the deepest branches of the pines, moving onto the branches of the nearby trees.
It is now dark, and some of them begin to fly away in search of small prey to feed on.
I stand there like a child, gazing upward, feeling part of this magic—something truly unique in the world. In some years, more than seven hundred owls have been counted among the branches of this Serbian town.
Slowly, I make my way back to the car to return to my accommodation. More than two hours of travel await me, and the thick fog has yet to lift.
Tomorrow in Serbia it will be Christmas—the Orthodox Christmas. Christmas Eve is marked by a truly special tradition. Many people light a fire in front of their homes or along the roadside. A few meters away from the bonfire, they place an old table where you might find a few drinks, some glasses, and the inevitable “rakija,” the Serbian spirit that simply cannot be missing on occasions that truly matter.
Along the road, from time to time, I see some of these fires and the people gathered around them, chatting with a glass in hand—moments of connection and warm conviviality, shared through handshakes, toasts, and embraces.
So, “Srećan Božić”—Merry Christmas—to everyone.
