War is capricious, its effects seemingly random. A bomb lands on one man's house, but his neighbour is spared. A drunken soldier kills on a whim, his bullets fired with no pattern into the hearts of innocents.
Nobody knows this roll of the dice better than the 101 Kosovar refugees who have just returned home from Ireland. Some have returned to find that loved ones have died or their homes have been destroyed.
For others, this weekend was marked by joyful reunions and impromptu parties. Nearly everyone has lost possessions, but what is this in a war where thousands have died?
Murtez Demiri is one of those who have drawn the short straw. After three months in Kildare, he has returned to find his four-storey farmhouse in the village of Pasiak in south-eastern Kosovo standing erect and tall like that of his neighbours'.
But this is only because concrete and steel do not yield to the arsonists' torch. Of Murtez's family homestead, of his life before the war, nothing else remains. His house has no door, no windows, not even window-frames.
The roof is gone. Scorch marks trail up the walls. Inside, there is nothing but rubble, smashed red roof tiles and crumbled plaster. The family slippers lie charred on the floor, an old suitcase rests open and empty.
This is the work of Serbs. The wheelbarrow they used to loot the house lies upturned in the rubble. A pile of crockery lies smashed on an upper floor.
Murtez and his family of eight came back because they were homesick for this land of easy hills and prairies. On the flight home, he played happily with his grandchild, not knowing what the news would be. "Maybe if I knew what had happened, I would have stayed longer."
For now, his family is staying with relatives. Twenty-four people crowd into a house nearby intended for eight. Murtez doesn't know yet whether he will rebuild but the family will manage, he insists.
Virtually all of those who returned from Ireland last Friday are from Pristina and the southeast of Kosovo, which suffered less in the war than other parts. The prospects for refugees from the west are likely to be even more grim.
Cernice, another farming village in the south-east, seems deserted when we drive through it at the weekend. The mosque has been burned and the word `Serbia' is painted on its front wall. Two young boys dressed only in nappies and boots play in the midday heat. A pig roots for food in the street.
In a house at the end of town, the Zeqiri family has gathered around their latest addition, Mergim, who was born in Tralee three weeks ago. The precious first-born boy has come home.
Mergim's mother, Florije, fled to Macedonia earlier this year. War and pregnancy do not mix. Florije feared for her safety, her life and the welfare of her child away from a hospital.
Mezgjid, her husband, was away at the time and came home to find his wife gone. For months, he heard nothing. He fled himself. Serb paramilitaries forced the remaining inhabitants to form in a line and walk the gauntlet of jeers and kicks. Serb neighbours set up a toll-block and demanded money, gold or jewellery before they could leave.
Back in Killarney, Florije didn't know whether her husband was dead or alive. Then, two weeks ago, the family got word that Florije was in Ireland. Phone contact was made and Mezgjid learned he had become a father just the day before.
This is one of the happy stories. The couple were reunited on Friday after Mezgjid spent two nail-biting days waiting for his wife in the local town.
There are bullet-marks on the walls. The Serbs plundered the contents of their house. But for now at least, the American tanks rumble by and this family is reunited and safe. The pear tree drips with fruit and tobacco is hanging to dry by the barn, but there is no other indication how the Zeqiris will survive economically.
Of the families we visited, the Baftieris have fared best. They spent three months in a converted convent in Millstreet, Co Cork, but now five of them have returned to their home village of Malishev.
Their farmhouse stands intact by the side of the road. Except for one brother-in-law who was killed during the war, all family members are safe and accounted for.
But the Serbs were here too. They took the washing machine, the television, the fridge, anything that moved. An outsized ghettoblaster brought from Ireland fills the empty room where we are received with cups of Coca-Cola.
In a back-room, Nuria Baftieri (90) lies in a coma, unaware that she has been returned to her homeland. In the desperation of their flight from the Serbs, Nuria was placed in a stretcher and dragged by tractor over the mountains to safety in Macedonia.
"It was her wish to die in the house of her family," says her daughter-in-law Fatime. "That is why we have returned."
This family is already making the necessary adjustment to outwit war and poverty. Three sons have remained in Millstreet, where they have found work in a joinery factory. Their remittances will keep the family afloat. The local Serb population has fled to village strongholds, one only 3km away. But it is the Serbs who are on the defensive now and the Baftieris feel safe. "The Americans will look after us now," says Fatime.