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]

Heading South

It was the first time, since the establishment of Macedonia as an independent state in 1993 that I was stepping onto the territory of this country. In the past, I had visited Kumanovo and Skopje many times, where many of my relatives still live today. However, since the introduction of passport checkpoints, and indeed since the establishment of state borders between Macedonia and Kosovo (after the dissolution of former Yugoslavia), my heart had never urged me to travel to Macedonia again. In these parts, or on these roads, there had never been state borders in history. And strangely, now I was crossing this border in an entirely unimaginable way. Moreover, without a passport. Oh, the irony of time! We were walking very slowly, thoughtfully, in silence. Behind us, the border point of Jazhince was fading further and further away, along with thousands of people stuck there. The heavy evening was beginning to descend upon the world. We were walking on an asphalt road with people, vehicles, taxis, and more. Our brothers who lived here had mobilized on a large scale to welcome us.

Albanian refugees near border town of Blace between Kosovo and Macedonia

Different activists, teams with food and medical supplies, taxis, medical teams, and volunteers looking to shelter us had come from various places. However, the pace of those allowed to cross the border by the Macedonian authorities at this border point was still slow. An ambulance with flashing lights approached the border point. Two young men coming from the opposite side told us that no more than 200-300 meters ahead, buses were waiting to transport us somewhere. We were walking, burdened with the backpacks we had managed to grab in Pristina. Neither my wife nor I had anything to say to each other, but perhaps a slight sense of relief was hovering over us like a laurel wreath.

We were walking very slowly, thoughtfully, in silence. Behind us, the border point of Jazhince was fading further and further away, along with thousands of people stuck there.

Oh, everything was visible to “read” on our faces from afar: we were terribly tired, worn out, and sad. As we walked, my initial idea was to go to my relatives: either in Skopje or Kumanovo. However, now that we had entered Macedonia, I didn’t consider it much of a problem where we would stay or who would take care of us. I didn’t think of going further than Macedonia. We entered, irresistibly, at a half-turn. From there, we saw parked vehicles on both sides of the road, as well as some buses destined to receive the displaced, meaning, to receive us. When we approached the line of buses, we got inside one of them without asking which one was the bus’s destination. There was plenty of room. We sat in the middle, “comfortably” resting our suitcases. We sat somewhat slumped. The twelve or so people that were there had already occupied the front seats. Not a sound could be heard. Everyone was breathing silently. Some had rested their heads against the windows and were looking sadly into the darkness, far beyond the windows. One of the displaced was reading the daily newspaper in Albanian, “Fakti.” Where had he found it? Two or three old men seemed to be trying to close their eyes, undoubtedly trying to momentarily forget the journey of exile and hardship. A man of middle age, who was ardently trying to share his pain with us, was desperately searching for any news on the bus’s radio, turning the radio knob back and forth, not hiding his frustration at not finding any news broadcast. It was either the driver or someone else from the teams that were taking care of us. I leaned against the comfortable seat of the bus, feeling more disheartened and drained than ever in my life.

What had we left behind? Where were we going now, without Kosovo? The “kingdom of sorrow” was squeezing me like the night itself. We were leaving Kosovo behind, wounded and scarred, bleeding and dead, devastated and occupied…

My son Niku, as I often called him, immediately succumbed to a deep sleep. Hope rested her head gently on my left shoulder. Her warm tears soaked into my clothes and touched my cold skin. I didn’t move at all. I was numbed by the boredom and sorrow. I felt terribly broken, physically and mentally shattered to pieces. Everything was understandable. The fragile ease that had filled me when we crossed the border had disappeared from my body. The question crossed my mind: what had we left behind? Where were we going now, without Kosovo? The “kingdom of sorrow” was squeezing me like the night itself. We were leaving Kosovo behind, wounded and scarred, bleeding and dead, devastated and occupied…

Inside the bus was relatively warm. The bus’s window separated the seats, hitting my right arm. I had rested my head against the window, gazing through the half-asleep light at the green meadows stretching horizontally. I was observing the cultivated fields, the green furrows, and some scattered houses at the foot of the mountains, etc. The hills rising just above the fields and meadows, covered with snow, were swallowed by the fog. Absolutely, I wasn’t thinking about the depth of the semi-spring landscape. I thought to myself, “Witnesses to what is happening to us today, will also be these geographical spaces!”

I tried not to think about anything, at least for a few minutes. It was just a futile endeavor. Then I closed my weary and heavy-lidded eyes (with great effort), but I couldn’t keep them closed for more than five or six seconds. I grabbed my thoughts somewhat, gathered my memories, images, events, landscapes, and tried to “lock” them in some corner of my mind for a while, to rest my head, which was pulsating like a Janissary drum in a parade, but it was entirely impossible. My head was exploding with pain, from exhaustion, from the pressure of the road, from sorrow, from the weight of the Serbian knife and bullet, from the years and decades spent under the shadow of violence and war. I was almost suffocating. The head pains, the loss of immunity, the dizziness, the blurry vision, were the result of the physical and spiritual pressure I had experienced, not only in this season but in many past seasons. This pressure had now reached its peak. In vain, since entering the neutral-border zone a while back, I had taken three or four tablets, even though using tablets was not my usual practice. Neither the fluids nor the food I had consumed had refreshed me. I felt utterly shattered. But above all, I had never in my life felt so desperate and saddened for the condition I was experiencing as a human being, as an Albanian. In my own way, I was horrified by this Serbian cruelty that I was personally enduring, and in my own way, I was disoriented by the barbarism that my people were enduring. Well, we had now become the Jews of Europe.

Kosovo at border town of Brace" src="https://sindhcourier.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/11/Albanian-refugees-arriving-from-Pristina-Kosovo-at-border-town-of-Brace-1.jpg" style="height:500px; width:751px" />

Albanian refugees arriving from Pristina, Kosovo at border town of Brace

The bus was gradually filling up. Those who were coming, just like my family and me, were Albanians driven out of their homes and country. Oh, they were displaced, but they were lucky to still be alive. All of us, either could have ended up in chains, or in the other world, or we would be continuing to experience Golgotha at this moment. People were entering the bus on foot, utterly exhausted, bewildered, and discouraged. They entered with worry and fear. As soon as they entered, they slumped into the bus seats. They sat down and relaxed as if in “water” in the bus chairs. Some with families, some individually, they found their way and boarded the bus. Naturally, they boarded with a sense of relief, for the fact of our survival. Thanks be to this salvation!

When the bus was well filled, the evening had settled in. It was five past a quarter. The man who was still trying, for the umpteenth time, to find a radio station to listen to some news, shouted loudly:

-If you don’t have any other destination, stay. If you want to stop in Tetovo or Gostivar, there are no available places for shelter there. We will continue without stopping. Yes, alright, there are other buses, don’t worry. There are. Well, it’s okay, we can also stop if you need it, if you have someone close in Tetovo or Gostivar. No problem. We’ll drop you off. Choose…”  (Continues)

______________________

Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"