June 2007
As Frommers had prophesied, there really isn’t a whole lot for the ‘tourist’ to do in Pristina. In the end, however, I wouldn’t have to look far for inspiration or hospitality. I cut across Mother Theresa Boulevard to the parallel street where both the United Nations Interim Administration Mission in Kosovo (UNMIK) and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) hold their offices. Only a couple hundred meters from UNMIK headquarters and above the Youth Center looms a giant photograph of the late Adem Jashari, co-founder of the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA). I entered the security shed outside of UNMIK with little idea of how I would present myself other than as a curious citizen of the United Nations, a rare breed.
The head of the UNMIK Press Office was kind enough to take me to his office for a chat. I entered the facility giddy that I was able to walk among armored KFOR trucks and satellites gathering worldwide intel. (KFOR, short for “Kosovo Force”, is a NATO-led peacekeeping force that has been under UN administration since 1999.) Roger Talbot is an editor of FOCUS, a UNMIK publication that details the latest political, economic, and social developments from around Kosovo. Above all, Mr. Talbot conveyed the lingering uncertainty that governs Kosovo: the yawning gap between Kosovars’ strong desire for independence and their apathetic political participation; the imminent but imprecise date when UNMIK will bequeath the mission to the European Union; the intense skepticism that Kosovar Serbs have about living a life unhindered by prejudice and harassment. For many Kosovars, every effort of imagining a better future is clouded by unrelenting memories of the carnage of 1999. If Kosovars are not convinced that their future paths can converge peacefully instead of eroding each other, then the fledgling state will be left to crumble.
I couldn’t think of an excuse to prolong my stay in the UNMIK compound and reluctantly handed in my visitor’s clearance tag. After asking a security guard for input on my itinerary, I thanked him and crossed the street to mull my options over lunch. I looked up from my menu to see the same man grabbing the seat across from me with a grin, “I’ve got time for a break.”
Andon needed little prompting. In my twenty minutes sipping Fanta with him, he told of the rupture the war caused both personally and nationally. Andon had been working in a hotel in Switzerland when the KLA and Yugoslav Amy began fighting. He rushed home to fill a male figurehead role that many households sorely missed during the war. I listened as Andon recounted in impressive English the incessant terror felt by residents of his town as the Yugoslav Army raided home after home. It could have only been a hearty dose of luck that kept Andon and his family alive. All of this was expressed with a stoicism that belied what he must have felt at the time.
The seeds of the past respectfully sown, Andon turned his attention to his prospects. Working security is among the most profitable trades in Pristina, and my companion had the added bonus of social mobility. In just a few days time, he would be leaving his UNMIK post for a more lucrative security job at the U.S. consulate. “My friends are all jealous,” he chuckled. Indeed. Some 40% of Kosovo’s youth are jobless and the government has tried to stem the growing pessimism with the 11 million-euro Kosovo Youth Action Plan for employment. “Do young people believe the Prime Minister can deliver?” I asked Andon. “They like him a lot; he is a war hero”. Hero for some, wartime nemesis for others. Andon had to get back to work but told me to come find him if I needed anything. I went inside to pay after we had parted ways, only to find that Andon had picked up the tab when I wasn’t looking.
Mitrovica: Bridging the Gap
The latter half of the day took me an hour and a half north to Mitrovicë, or Kosovska Mitrovica, as the Serbs call it. No more poignant a symbol of the conflict exists than the bridge that cuts the Serbian and Albanian halves of the town from each other. The southern bank of the Ibar River is home to some 50,000 Albanians, while 10,000 Serbs are just a stone’s throw to the north. In March 2004, the bridge was the fulcrum of the worst outbreak of violence since the war when two Albanian children drowned in the Ibar. Twenty-eight Kosovars died in the ensuing riots, most of them Albanian. I had used images of the bridge and its daunting sign that reads, “Malicious or provocative behavior shall be repressed immediately” in my documentary and decided to head directly there upon arrival. The bus ride was a spectacle in itself: Albanian-Turkish music blared; schoolchildren were dropped off in empty pastures as part of their commute home; one passenger lit a cigarette with a toddler perched on his knee. I jumped off the bus at Mitrovica and strode towards the bridge in the gathering rain.
My walk to the bridge took me through the Albanian side of town, cutting past the main mosque and a couple of grimy street markets. The rain coated everything with a drab hue. Where Pristina is arbitrary in its reflection of a war torn people, Mitrovicë is a blueprint of division. On one side a mosque, the other a church. On one side the writing in Albanian, the other Cyrillic. On one side a steadier pulse, on the other hypertension underscored by more KFOR troops. KFOR sprawls into all four corners of Kosovo. The Italians operate in the west, the British in the region’s center, including Pristina, the Americans are in the southeast, and the French are in charge of the north, where Mitrovicë lies. Although I was apprehensive walking past the KFOR troops with submachine guns on the bridge, the real tension was on the other side. KFOR trucks can be found at nearly every block; overhead a sign pleaded in English and Cyrillic “In the name of God and justice, do not make our holy land a present to the Albanians!” I entered a military shop where the Serbian owner was speaking French to some KFOR troops. He was trying to persuade them to buy army gear venerating French KFOR’s protection of Kosovo’s Serbs. I wanted to ask residents about life on this side of the Ibar River but the rain ensured that I had little company but the military.
Irked by the lack of a “story”, I trudged back across the river and entered a shop at the bus station to whittle away the minutes before my departure. In a move I had repeated throughout the trip, I was paying for my bottled water with too big of a bill. In a tagline he would repeat throughout our two-hour conversation together, Behar Mataj belted out, “Nix problem!” I offered to get change from somewhere else, but Behar was adamant, “No money? Nix problem! Sit down!”
“American?”
“Yes,” Behar slapped the table with approval and a few others in the coffee shop smiled or cheered. Behar spoke little English but I soon learned by the way others deferred to him that he carried some weight in the neighborhood. He brought his teenage son, Iljaz, over from behind the counter to roughly translate. Why was I here? Is America as prosperous as it sounds? I pulled out a copy of my documentary to answer the first question. Appreciating that I’d made the journey, Bajram tried fervently to use English to get his point across.
“Serbia…mafia…politic…no good…” He went into a tirade without words, his eyes glinting as he turned to his son in frustration. Mr. Mataj had a story to tell, but he couldn’t get it out. ‘Come to my home; I show you”. We ducked the railing at the station and twenty paces later stopped at a plot of weeds next to his home. “My restaurant,” was all he said. According to Mr. Mataj, his restaurant had been razed to the ground by the Serbian police. With it he lost his means of living as well as the roots of his social life. Unable to shake the memory, Behar put on a videotape of one of those lost nights at the restaurant. A band played traditional Albanian music and there was a young Behar, bursting into the foreground with an array of dance moves. I couldn’t suppress a laugh and suddenly we were all laughing at the young Behar losing himself in the music. But Behar knew when to stop laughing. The camera panned away from the band to a group of sinister-looking men sitting in the corner of the restaurant. They all had started out as friends, Behar explained. He singled a couple of them out with disgust. “This man…” Behar paused to make a whispering sound and a meddling gesture, “with Serbia”. These were evidently Albanians who had betrayed him to the Serbian police. Behar then asked his wife to bring him a cache of photographs and documents. One by one he pointed out friends and eventual foes that had served with him in the KLA. The wall was adorned with pictures of Behar proudly wearing his uniform, along with Behar tearfully burying his colleagues. Seeing that he was popular with Mitrovicë Albanians, local and national politicians had all met with Behar. Then, we got to the crux of his angst, the reason the man’s outgoing demeanor had been coated with cynicism since the war. Behar handed me an official UNMIK document that read:
“Mr. Mataj reported an attempt on his life on 07 December 00 at 03:05 am and named two of the suspects in the shooting. This was an attempted Murder case and as such was taken over by the Regional Investigations unit.”I looked up at Behar. His eyes cursed the mistrust that had entered his life that harrowing day. I asked him who the suspects were, but he wanted to move on. He showed me an OSCE document certifying him as a Municipal Election Observer. If there was one thing that I gleaned from Mr. Mataj's words it was his disdain for the corruption that plagued his people (“mafia…politic…problem...you…me…nix problem…friends!”). I told him I was happy that he could fight for his community with ballots instead of bullets. I wrote my gratitude down on paper for his son to translate later, thanked his wife for the tasty Turkish tea, and jogged to the station to flag down the bus that was already rolling out to Pristina.
- Signed: Will Stephens, Station Commander of Mitrovica South Station
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After three hours of dining at one of the best restaurants in Pristina, I had only spent 15 Euros. I looked up from my book to see a familiar face on the other side of the terrace. Prime Minister Agim Çeku had his head cocked as he exhaled on his cigar and listened to the animated restaurant owner tell a story. Just a few hours earlier at the Kosovo History Museum, I was looking at a picture of Çeku planning a guerilla offensive. I asked the waiter to initiate the process of requesting a photo with the prime minister: the waiter asked Çeku’s bodyguard, who shrugged and gestured for the owner. I watched it all unfold and realized how rude it could potentially be. The owner didn’t trouble the PM but instead came over to me and offered: “Americans and Albanians are friends, but for the prime minister this is family time."
As I left the restaurant, I smiled at what could have been my best interview in Kosovo. But what would have I said to him? If not America, if not UNMIK, then surely you, Mr. Prime Minister, must have some indication of where your province is heading. But the ineluctable truth, as it rings out across the minarets of Pristina and along the banks of the Ibar, is that even the skipper doesn’t know what course his ship will sail. What remains refreshingly clear, however, is that it will have to be its own course. No timetable for international recognition will make Kosovo a nation – it will be a nation when Serbs and Albanians can meet each other halfway at the Mitrovicë Bridge and not feel unwelcome when they step foot on the other side. Who knows how far off that is, but for now, it’s hardly a consideration.
“Do you ever go across the bridge?” I asked Iljaz Mataj. He shook his head grimly. Even the open-minded Iljaz could not shake the symbolic power of the bridge.
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