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]

After more than an hour of travel, the bus was approaching the border. This was, in fact, the “southern border” of Kosovo, a border that had not existed until a few years ago. The bus continued to move laboriously, as if burdened by the weight of the mountains we were passing through. It seemed like it didn’t desire this road, a road that had become like a scar on the body of an old forest, a road from which thousands of ethnic Albanians from Kosovo were being forcibly deported, to be cast away into the unknown vastness of the world.

Deep within the mountains, groups of Serbian paramilitaries with Taliban-style beards, death squads, regular soldiers, and police were appearing on both sides. After several days of intense fighting with UÇK units and the start of NATO bombings, they all looked as if they were trapped in mud. No, they looked like wild beasts, their “dens” covered in the dust of death.

They were not stopping the bus. Some of them even waved. They moved as if mesmerized, almost suffocated. Although they were armed with various weapons (knives, automatic rifles, hand grenades, mortars), the “unyielding Serbian pride” did not show in their eyes. It did not shine. Instead, they moved like mummies. Like zombies. I had the impression that they felt somewhat secure because they were in this mountainous camouflage terrain, under the “dominion” of the thick branches and centuries-old leaves of the Sharri Mountains. Consequently, they were quite confident. They did not expose themselves to the bombs and rockets of NATO aircraft, unlike their colleagues stationed in other regions, say, flatlands or foothills.

Deep within the mountains, groups of Serbian paramilitaries with Taliban-style beards, death squads, regular soldiers, and police were appearing on both sides.

Indeed, these seemed like they were placed in some pre-prepared bunker. But the “security” derived from the mountains made them somewhat conscious of the situation and the position Serbia had found itself in, and, of course, themselves. Precisely this “condition and position,” which perhaps was constantly provoking their frustrated consciousness, made them appear somewhat cautious, halted, if not frightened, in our presence.

They felt (it seemed to me) that they were on foreign soil. Their desperate looks and slow (insecure) movements did not portray a group of people armed with all the means of war, but rather a group of snakes that would end up in a noose within a few hours. Maybe they had orders not to act aggressively and not to obstruct the penetration line? Or maybe it was both fear and despair, as well as politics and the unhindered deportation of Albanian residents. Who knows?

Laden with the few possessions we had brought with us, we set off on foot toward the border. Everywhere, on both sides of the road, there were crowds of people—children, women, men, and the elderly.

The bus, too, was moving heavily along the narrow and winding strip of asphalt that traversed the high slopes of the Sharri Mountains. A little before reaching the plateau, where the state border extended, a long column of vehicles filled with people had come to a halt along the road, unable to move. The end of the column likely reached the border. The road, already quite narrow, was almost blocked. The bus advanced with difficulty. The driver, an aging Serb, after acknowledging the Serbian forces with a raised hand, continued forward. This bus, it seemed, was no stranger to this route, heavily laden with countless Albanians of all ages, being deported beyond the border. It was understandable: apart from deportation, there was also a profitable chain business taking place. The order through which my wife, Etnik and I were passing was like something from a bygone era. The column, stretching for several kilometers, consisted of hundreds of diverse vehicles (bearing various license plates), had been waiting for days on this mountainous road. These vehicles were packed with people, primarily with family members who had been displaced and were patiently awaiting their turn to cross the border. Perhaps two or three kilometers before reaching the border, our bus came to a halt. It could no longer proceed. All of us, the passengers, disembarked. Laden with the few possessions we had brought with us, we set off on foot toward the border. Everywhere, on both sides of the road, there were crowds of people—children, women, men, and the elderly. Undoubtedly, there were also numerous stranded vehicles that couldn’t move any further, some abandoned completely.

It was cold. The long wait for days had not only physically worn people down and broken their spirits but also left them despondent.

Among the vehicle column, some of my neighbors from the neighborhood had also been stranded for two days and two nights, attempting to cross the border in some way. We walked onward, slowly. Gradually, we approached the border. A border that this side, this people, had never recognized before. Isolated neighborhoods and a village with a few houses (possibly Glloboçica) lay silently. In the middle of the flatland stood the symbolic point of the Serbian-Macedonian border. Then, a bit further, there was a long valley and true chaos: hundreds of thousands of people gathered in the middle of the border line (in the neutral zone), along with dozens and hundreds of cars, small trucks, and tractors. The crowd looked from afar as if they were disoriented, bewildered, and drenched under the drizzle mixed with snow, falling almost as if in mockery, as if in shame. It was cold. The long wait for days had not only physically worn people down and broken their spirits but also left them despondent.

Photo courtesy: Flickr

Yet, in such high mountain terrain, at this time (neither winter nor spring), you couldn’t expect anything else but cold, rain, and snow. People were standing outside. They had no place to shield their heads. There were thousands of them. Few were those who had managed to enter the neutral zone with their vehicles. Many others had abandoned their vehicles, leaving them by the roadside because the Serbian soldiers, and even the Macedonians, wouldn’t allow them to cross the border with vehicles. And indeed, everywhere you looked, there were dozens and hundreds of abandoned vehicles.

We approached the border. To be more precise, we approached the point controlled by the Serbs. The Serbs didn’t prolong the process: without any formalities, we crossed into the demarcation zone. There, standing on his feet, on the threshold of an almost improvised shelter, a Serbian policeman with a small notebook in hand counted, making a mark on the white pages of the notebook, for each person who crossed to the other side: over there, in the direction of the Macedonian border point. Other police officers were merely observing.

The Neutral Zone

I cannot remember the exact time, but on the first Saturday of April 1999, my wife, our son Etnik, and I found ourselves on the somber path of displacement. We were roughly navigating the pre-announced labyrinth of “Gligorov’s Corridor.” When we crossed the Serbian border point, our psycho-physical transformation entered another phase, indicating a moment when we were also entering the “Serbian kingdom” of death! Of course, all of us were entering a realm of physical and spiritual relief. Now, we wouldn’t be as threatened by death. This feeling, somewhat concealed within ourselves, somewhat shameful, somewhat painful, but undoubtedly somewhat relieving, must have been shared by everyone who had gathered in the neutral zone, facing the Macedonian border point.

We approached the crowd, which was situated between the zones of the two borders. The first person I recognized among the thousands was someone I knew well. I had worked with him for several years, and I considered him very sincere, well-educated, and with a strong moral and intellectual foundation. This was Mr. Gani Ademi, the secretary of the student newspaper at the University of Prishtina, “Bota e Re,” where I had worked for about four years alongside him. During this time, in the 1990s, as a journalist, I had not only experienced the best days of a journalist’s life but also the most unforgettable days of a journalist’s work. Ah, those were the years when the international political transition was happening in the East: the international communist system was collapsing, and the world was emerging from the complexities of the Cold War. It was also the years when Yugoslavia, the state in which we lived, disintegrated, and the Albanian people of Kosovo were massively pursuing the path to freedom, independence, and democracy.

Gani Ademi was from the village of Dobrashec, in the Gllogoc region. As he noticed me approaching him, his eyes filled with tears amid the thousands of faces. I knew him well. He embraced me tightly and began to cry uncontrollably. He couldn’t contain himself. An entire sea of anger and pain, an entire sea of memories and worries, had gathered in his heart, and this turbulent sea had exhausted and overwhelmed him. It had been two days since he had left Prishtina. Yet, he hadn’t been able to cross the border. They hadn’t allowed him, he told me. His wife and children had been allowed to cross. Shortly afterward, I also met Ibrahim Berisha, a well-known Prishtina journalist and writer, who was struggling with a plastic sheet over his head, trying to shield himself from the cold rain that was falling as if in defiance. I greeted him warmly and enthusiastically, of course, in such difficult circumstances that no one could have imagined. Ibrahim appeared calm, self-controlled, taking everything that was happening as something that shouldn’t seem strange to anyone, as it was being done by the Serbs and not by someone else. Certainly, such things (according to him) shouldn’t appear “strange” at all to the Albanians. I think he was right. (Continues)

______________________

Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"