To avoid Serbian airspace, we approached Pristina from the south west. Supple clouds were juxtaposed against the rugged, Accursed mountains. After nearly two days of travel, the captain reminded me that in 10 minutes I’d be in Kosovo.
The airport was simple: one room, white washed walls, two large, pixelated portraits of a famous, bearded general from the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA), a couple of wo/manned pass control booths and a sign pointing to the exit. Above the baggage carousel was a mural to remind me to invest my money in Kosovo. For those interested, the mural pointed out that Kosovo has the “lowest costs within the Euro currency zone” (does Kosovo count as the Euro Zone?); “the youngest population in Europe” (wars will do that); “a readily available and motivated workforce" (60% unemployment will make people available); and "very low taxes" (I have no commentary for this one, they just have low taxes).
I walked out of the baggage area into the parking lot to find a State Department employee and their driver waiting for me. After throwing my bags in the car, we immediately headed to coffee kitty corner from the airport. The café was reminiscent of Armenia: large, red Coca-Cola umbrellas, concrete flower pots that could double as barricades, and everyone was smoking.
The State Department employee is a Kosovar woman—I'll call her Roza—from the divided northern city of Mitrovica. The driver is also from Kosovo. After discussing the driver’s (and country’s) interest in basketball and how young I am, I started speaking with Roza about the state of things. We discussed the Fulbright program, the work the State Department is doing, and life in the city. I asked about the ongoing turmoil between Kosovo and Serbia, especially in light of the new Serbian prime minister.
She nearly spat at the thought that any Serbian leader was less nationalistic or radical than any other in regards to Kosovo’s status. She then began to talk about her time and experiences in the 90s. She said, “There were three bad days: the day the Serbs tried to take my daughter (she was two at the time); the day they tried to take my son (he was 12); and the day they took my husband.”
There are some stories that are so extreme that empathy simply can’t do needed emotional justice. I sat shocked, both because of her story and her openness with a foreigner she met literally moments ago.
“April 18, 1999,” she continued, “The Serbs showed up, forced us out of our homes and made us walk to Albania, because we were ‘terrorists.’” On foot, with three children, her and her Albanian neighbors walked through a cold spring to an abandoned town that had been ravaged by the war. With no food or potable water, these Albanian refugees waited there six days, only to be told to turn back to Mitrovica. The KLA had limited the Serb’s march towards Albania.
So, they walked back to their homes. Upon arrival, they found everything razed and burnt to the ground. The few buildings that were left partially standing were used as temporary shelter. With no food, but a very good grasp of Serbian, Roza walked into Northern (ie. Serb) Mitrovica to negotiate for food. In the front yard of her now destroyed house, she pitched a borrowed tent and for the next year would raise her family there.
During this time, her daughter struggled with the absence of her father. Her mom told her that if she talked to the stars, they could relay the message to him. Time passed, and every night her daughter fell asleep speaking to the sky. With no response, her daughter grew worried—Roza at this point had assumed the worst. Roza told her daughter that she needed to be patient, as the stars moved slowly. Again, there was little I could add to this story, but listen.
Before we picked up another American at the airport, she finished her story. Her husband did make it back, and the Serbs never did take possession of her children. Like a confounded character in a Sartre play, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "We were lucky."
I have done a lot of reading over the past six years about this country, and none of it had prepared me for hearing these stories from those whom lived them. Roza wished she had written her memoirs directly after the war, because now, she says, the memories are too disturbing and need to be left in the past. As she put it, “I saw things” as her voice and eyes trailed away from the present to a dark and unforgettable memory she didn’t care to share.
Fifteen months ago, I wrote the initial post that gave birth to this site and my sortie into the rule of law. At my most prophetic, I said about my impending time in Armenia: “Law school, now two-thirds done, has often been a systematic approach to what I don't want my career to be. Forever fascinated with judiciaries, policy, and post-Soviet nations, I hope this job will offer me a possible glimpse into my post-school future.”
Now, I sit in a hotel room in downtown Pristina, the window is open to the balcony. Turkish music is wafting up from the streets as I peer out to five or six minarets and some questionable wiring on a tilted telephone pole. I’ve made it to Kosovo. I’ve followed my interest in the rule of law, and I couldn’t be more excited. However, even though my stars aligned in getting me here; nothing prepared me for what I heard today. Without question, this coming year is going to be a multidimensional learning experience.
Welcome to Kosovo.
The airport was simple: one room, white washed walls, two large, pixelated portraits of a famous, bearded general from the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA), a couple of wo/manned pass control booths and a sign pointing to the exit. Above the baggage carousel was a mural to remind me to invest my money in Kosovo. For those interested, the mural pointed out that Kosovo has the “lowest costs within the Euro currency zone” (does Kosovo count as the Euro Zone?); “the youngest population in Europe” (wars will do that); “a readily available and motivated workforce" (60% unemployment will make people available); and "very low taxes" (I have no commentary for this one, they just have low taxes).
I walked out of the baggage area into the parking lot to find a State Department employee and their driver waiting for me. After throwing my bags in the car, we immediately headed to coffee kitty corner from the airport. The café was reminiscent of Armenia: large, red Coca-Cola umbrellas, concrete flower pots that could double as barricades, and everyone was smoking.
The State Department employee is a Kosovar woman—I'll call her Roza—from the divided northern city of Mitrovica. The driver is also from Kosovo. After discussing the driver’s (and country’s) interest in basketball and how young I am, I started speaking with Roza about the state of things. We discussed the Fulbright program, the work the State Department is doing, and life in the city. I asked about the ongoing turmoil between Kosovo and Serbia, especially in light of the new Serbian prime minister.
She nearly spat at the thought that any Serbian leader was less nationalistic or radical than any other in regards to Kosovo’s status. She then began to talk about her time and experiences in the 90s. She said, “There were three bad days: the day the Serbs tried to take my daughter (she was two at the time); the day they tried to take my son (he was 12); and the day they took my husband.”
There are some stories that are so extreme that empathy simply can’t do needed emotional justice. I sat shocked, both because of her story and her openness with a foreigner she met literally moments ago.
“April 18, 1999,” she continued, “The Serbs showed up, forced us out of our homes and made us walk to Albania, because we were ‘terrorists.’” On foot, with three children, her and her Albanian neighbors walked through a cold spring to an abandoned town that had been ravaged by the war. With no food or potable water, these Albanian refugees waited there six days, only to be told to turn back to Mitrovica. The KLA had limited the Serb’s march towards Albania.
So, they walked back to their homes. Upon arrival, they found everything razed and burnt to the ground. The few buildings that were left partially standing were used as temporary shelter. With no food, but a very good grasp of Serbian, Roza walked into Northern (ie. Serb) Mitrovica to negotiate for food. In the front yard of her now destroyed house, she pitched a borrowed tent and for the next year would raise her family there.
During this time, her daughter struggled with the absence of her father. Her mom told her that if she talked to the stars, they could relay the message to him. Time passed, and every night her daughter fell asleep speaking to the sky. With no response, her daughter grew worried—Roza at this point had assumed the worst. Roza told her daughter that she needed to be patient, as the stars moved slowly. Again, there was little I could add to this story, but listen.
Before we picked up another American at the airport, she finished her story. Her husband did make it back, and the Serbs never did take possession of her children. Like a confounded character in a Sartre play, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "We were lucky."
I have done a lot of reading over the past six years about this country, and none of it had prepared me for hearing these stories from those whom lived them. Roza wished she had written her memoirs directly after the war, because now, she says, the memories are too disturbing and need to be left in the past. As she put it, “I saw things” as her voice and eyes trailed away from the present to a dark and unforgettable memory she didn’t care to share.
Fifteen months ago, I wrote the initial post that gave birth to this site and my sortie into the rule of law. At my most prophetic, I said about my impending time in Armenia: “Law school, now two-thirds done, has often been a systematic approach to what I don't want my career to be. Forever fascinated with judiciaries, policy, and post-Soviet nations, I hope this job will offer me a possible glimpse into my post-school future.”
Now, I sit in a hotel room in downtown Pristina, the window is open to the balcony. Turkish music is wafting up from the streets as I peer out to five or six minarets and some questionable wiring on a tilted telephone pole. I’ve made it to Kosovo. I’ve followed my interest in the rule of law, and I couldn’t be more excited. However, even though my stars aligned in getting me here; nothing prepared me for what I heard today. Without question, this coming year is going to be a multidimensional learning experience.
Welcome to Kosovo.
