Fehmi Ajvazi, an eminent author from Kosovo, has shared his book ‘In the Kingdom of Death’ published in Albanian in 2012 in Pristina, and in Romanian in 2019, and was translated from Albanian to English 

Fehmi Ajvazi author

[In March 1999, the Serbian regime blanketed Kosovo with a contingent of 120,000 regular police, military, and civilian paramilitary forces. Just about two weeks before NATO’s intervention in Kosovo began, the region was surrounded on all sides, while pockets of the interior (villages and towns) were hit with arrests, liquidations, and massacres. Kosovo became a reservation. A kingdom called the “Kingdom of Death” established authority everywhere! However, some areas were controlled by insurgent liberation forces, and in some places, Serbian forces couldn’t penetrate. Well, the hatred between Serbs and Albanians was the same, but the bullets were the same too: they brought death to everyone, and it was no problem for the “bullet” whether the target was Albanian or Serbian. I mean, the forces of the Kosovo Liberation Army held some territory and kept it free! But about ten days before NATO planes launched their attack in their battle for Kosovo, Albanian insurgents managed to have the world’s most powerful force as their ally: the NATO alliance. However, no one had managed to master a pact with death. Just a few days before March 24th, the “Lady of Death” was the ruler of Kosovo, in reality, she was the ruler of the Albanian citizens of this extremely small territory! And for the third time in history, the state of Serbia wanted nothing more and nothing less than: the ethnic cleansing of Kosovo. Over 1 million residents before March 24, 1999, challenged “this kingdom” by saying, “Here we are, your power is not the power of God!” I had decided to stay, not to leave. I was a journalist, but also a creator. And so, I had no idea what dilemmas lay in this direction, despite the open threats from the Serbs, and I knew well that they would try to wash their hands of us like Pontius Pilate! Regardless of every situation and circumstance, I sacrificed to be a witness to a time and a history without parallel! Yes, a witness…! And everything I have said and written about literary-historical conditions is in this book – a testimony. Therefore, this book is a source and my personal experience of a time I pray will never be repeated – anywhere. Just as I pray for the souls of those who did not come out alive in this “kingdom of death” in the third millennium! Read the truth about Kosovo…  Author]

Motives from Hell

March 24th was the third day of spring. The arrival of spring in our regions is always slow, delayed, entangled with snow, rain, mist, and mud. Oh, our lands are rugged, a large part of these areas are rocky, challenging, mountainous. The climate is also unpredictable, far from stable. As warm as the sun is in the morning, it starts raining or snowing at noon, and then the sun returns. Then it gets cold again. It starts to blow, to rain, to rule the cold. Everyone says that Pristina collects “three seasons” in one day. Winters, especially in Kosovo, are almost polar. Stubborn snow, not rarely, tries to keep its icy presence until late. The cold, frequent gusts of wind also challenge spring, as the elders say, until after Saint George’s Day.

Deportees from Kosovo to the neutral zone of border with Macedonia – 1999. Photo provided by the author

Late arrivals of spring are therefore understandable. However, what is crucial is that spring is one of the most beautiful seasons. It is the season of queens. Have you noticed: as soon as the sun’s rays begin to intensify, the snow starts melting. The southern winds, which dominate over the northern ones in the spring season, give the earth a heavenly breath. The warmth, though spreading slowly, breathes life into every being on and beneath the earth. The birds, among the first, joyfully sing their songs. Some white flowers here and there, which we call snowdrops, burst through the anxious soil among the first, and then the greenery thickens. Occasionally, snowdrops, violets, and rare flowers appear to give color to the season.

Like in a battle of countless legions, the “spring offensive” pushes the winter season to kneel unconditionally. Then, the birds of warm regions come.

Then, in succession, like a gathering of brides who assemble in women’s councils, pear blossoms, cherry blossoms, apple blossoms, etc., burst into bloom. Nature dresses in various vegetation, as in another world. Spring slowly gains power. The sun, as the days pass, warms more and more. Like in a battle of countless legions, the “spring offensive” pushes the winter season to kneel unconditionally. Then, the birds of warm regions come. The migratory bird – cuckoo (nightingale), arrives first. One by one, rainbow birds, swallows, sparrows, etc., come. Unlike the birds, as heavy as the weight of fog (our place has a lot of fog) and the heavy weight of sleep and wounds, the mountains and people shake off the burden from their shoulders, not without pride, of the winter season.

The mountains start to “chase away” the snow, and people start moving and revitalizing: they begin to work the land, open gardens, hold weddings (Albanians hold weddings almost every time in spring and autumn), lay the foundations of new houses, etc. Life takes on a different form…

The Lord of War

Everything appears to be overturned, trampled, desecrated, and wretched. March (as in legends) has been coming to Kosovo for some time now with signs ranging from the most delicate to the most inexorable, from the most unfathomable. There is no code in this world that can contain the “decoding formula” of all the temporal-historical events happening in Kosovo and around it for the past few years. And there is no one who knows how to “read” the catalog of events and processes that have occurred so far, let alone the future of this small country.

In March 1998, we entered into war with Serbia, a war that is still ongoing as I write these lines.

In the distant month of March 1981, large-scale political demonstrations erupted in Pristina that not only shook the former state of Yugoslavia but also the entire socialist camp. In March 1989, Kosovo lost its autonomy. And Kosovo rose in large protests and demonstrations that were ruthlessly suppressed. Meanwhile, since March 1990, the disturbances in Kosovo became harsh. Hundreds of thousands were constantly imprisoned, hundreds were wounded, and tens and hundreds were killed. In this same month, toxic-military poisons were thrown into primary and secondary schools in Kosovo, poisoning about 8,000 students.

Kosovo deportees – Photo provided by the author

In March 1998, we entered into war with Serbia, a war that is still ongoing as I write these lines. In the early days of March (1998), the famous Battle of Jashari took place in Prekaz, in which the legendary Commander of the KLA, Adem Jashari, fell heroically. In this month, in fact, yesterday, NATO bombings also began. Coincidence, or what?

A Phone Call from afar

On this ominous day, the children are trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy. Somewhat anxious and not entirely understanding what has happened and what is happening around them, they are gradually filling the void, the graveyard amidst the densely packed buildings of the “Sun Hill” neighborhood. Their childlike voices echo everywhere, dispersing through the corners of the buildings, the streets, the courtyards around. In this way, our children, here in the capital, are the first responders to the unfolding situation. Oh, the state of affairs on the 24th day.

The spring day, with a bit of radiant sun, has brought rhythms of joy to their eyes. The phone rings. It’s the first call after the events of the 24th day. Taking the phone cautiously, somewhat reluctantly but also with heightened curiosity to understand as quickly as possible who it is, in fact, whose call this first one is after the commencement of the bombardments. It’s Sami, my brother. He’s calling from Geneva. He has been living and working there for about ten years, along with his wife and their young daughter, Dalina.

-Hello, his voice is heard. The familiar international word “hello,” pronounced by his distant voice, is composed only of tremors that seem otherworldly. Well, it implies everything.

– Speak, speak, I reply.

– Are you all right over there? He says with a half-voice?

– Yes… alive and well, I reply, slightly intentionally.

– Why, what are you thinking? What did you think over there in Europe?

We both laugh, while he sighs like a frustrated child. From there, his sigh comes across like a breeze with a twist. Surely, I understand he is saddened, disheartened by the scale of the events that have followed. It’s not his fault. I reply to him “harshly-proudly,” not to boast but to alleviate the normal fear, sadness, and worry, to the extent that, if my emotions don’t betray me, the voice and words won’t either.

– War has these things. Don’t worry; things will get better, I tell him afterward, with a calm tone and comforting words.

-I’ve had the phone on since morning, couldn’t get through to you. We’ve been playing mind games, brother. Well, how was it, what happened, didn’t it?” he asks with a voice that conveys deep sorrow. I carefully try to explain everything I can and know, avoiding in any way to make it clear that we are too frightened, without giving signs that would imply we are in great danger, in a hopeless situation, etc. In fact, I try to preemptively and carefully avoid going into details. I know it’s difficult to provide him with a “real mirror” for the events happening in Kosovo right now, events that the whole world is grappling with. It’s challenging to convince him in advance that “it will be alright, and all of this will pass quickly.” We, here in Kosovo, can’t fully comprehend what has happened and what will happen in the coming days, let alone someone who isn’t here.

Listen, brother, let Serbia also understand what war means, what bombs are, what fires, corpses, and graves are.

– We haven’t slept all night; we’ve been very worried about you. So, how did you manage, was it severe? He continues to ask. I explain without exaggeration and with consideration that we haven’t slept either due to worry, especially due to the powerful explosions. However, it’s those crises that have shaken Serbia. I tell him that I don’t really know what happened in the capital and beyond because there’s no information.

– For now, we don’t even know how to find out; the important thing is that the bombings have started. As for the rest, only God knows.

Listen, brother, let Serbia also understand what war means, what bombs are, what fires, corpses, and graves are. Then I tell him about some speculative information regarding the targeted areas in Pristina and its surroundings, along with other information from the media. I urge him not to worry. I tell him to let others in Geneva know that the main thing is that “the bombings have started,” and the rest will follow.

-For now, no one can help us. You understand? Only God can.

– Yes, yes, it’s like that, he replies.

– We don’t know how events will unfold, Sami. I can’t guarantee that anyone knows right now how things will go. Maybe the enraged Serbian cow will calm down after this, or maybe it will become even wilder.

Deportation of Albanian population – Spring 1999. Photo provided by the author

We continue the conversation with the “formula of love, consolation, understanding, and trust,” like the two brothers we are. Both of us need to hear each other as often as possible through the working phone. We need to talk, to be informed, to console each other, like never before in our lives. Why? Because the truth is that we, here in Kosovo, are in undeniable danger. Both of us know this, even though we both try to avoid this image and realization. But the truth is that everyone here in Kosovo, all without exception, is surrounded from all sides and is under the threat of Serbian knives and bullets.

After we finish our first conversation after the bombings started, we leave it that we’ll keep in touch at all times. Surprisingly, the phone lines haven’t been cut for us. He puts down the receiver. He lights a cigarette. With my wife, who has turned pale as a lemon, partly out of fear and partly due to sleep deprivation, we make an effort to prepare something to eat. Who’s hungry right now? Our “lunch preparation” at the moment is more of a ritual. I go to the bathroom to fill some plastic bottles with water, just in case they run out. Upstairs, I pour a bit of water into our only glass. Then, I brew Ceylon tea. We speak little. Even these few words we exchange feel like we’re in a contest. Time has completely stopped. It doesn’t move, like a stone. Carefully, along with my wife, we shake a not-so-large piece of furniture and barricade the kitchen window that faces the street. We want to avoid being seen from the road, especially at night, as it could be fatal. The city is filled with armed Serbs. They move through the darkness like wolves. There are also snipers on the rooftops, at intersections, on balconies, and so on. The shadow of death is everywhere and ever-present.