| CAMPING IN KOSOVO
Imagine this: America invades a Muslim country to
drive out a repressive regime and the Muslims love us forever after, and
even name their most important street after a US President.
Welcome to Kosovo.
It’s what Iraq was supposed to be.
BORDER CROSSING
I bought my bus ticket to Prishtina, Kosovo’s capital.
I knew it’s an ugly city, but I was more interested in meeting the
people than seeing the sights.
At the heavily fortified border, I saw tons of United
Nations vehicles and personnel. The border guard glanced at my American
passport and gave it back to me. That’s a good sign, I thought. Maybe
they like us.
JUST ENGLISH
I normally like to learn and speak the local language,
but here I decided I would only speak English. Why? I read a book about
Kosovo which told of one case when an ethnic Albanian asked a young
Bulgarian UN worker in Serbian for the time. The Bulgarian politely
replied in Serbian, thinking he was talking with a Serb. The Albanian
thought he had found a real Serb, so he took out a gun and shot him
dead.
So English only, I thought. No Albanian and no
Serbian. “Just English” was my mantra.
I’m used to traveling throughout Eastern Europe
feeling illiterate. I pass endless signs that say things in a language I
don’t know. But for some odd reason I could read nearly all the signs in
Kosovo. I could easily understand store signs, billboards, and menus. I
guess it helped that they were all in English.
With all the relief workers and NATO soldiers running
around, it makes sense that most signs are in English. After all,
they’re the best customers with lots of Euros to spend.
Yes, although Kosovo is still officially part of
Serbia (and is being administered by the UN), it doesn’t use the Serbian
Dinar. They use the Euro, just like Montenegro, which is also part of
Serbia. It’s rare to find a country that has two official currencies.
Can you imagine if you had to change your dollars when
you went to the East Coast of the US? One country, two currencies.
Balkan logic.
A POLICE STATE
When I stepped out the bus I was nervous. I was in
Kosovo. It’s been nasty and dangerous here for the last five years.
But 60 seconds wouldn’t pass before I saw a UN
vehicle, a police SUV, a military vehicle, or uniformed security guard
on the street. The tight security was most impressive. And the cost of
it was most depressing. I’m helping foot the bill, so I guess I should
be glad that I’m benefiting from it.
BILL CLINTON BLVD
As I walked into the center of Prishtina I couldn’t
believe what I saw: a massive picture of Bill Clinton smiling and waving
at me.
It is 6 stories high. Next to the picture it read in
huge letters, “Welcome to Bill Clinton Boulevard!”
I blinked a few times and took another look. The
picture was still there. I checked my medications.
Another block I saw a new building called Hotel
Victory. What was most distinctive of this hotel is that it had a small
replica (7 meters / 25 feet tall) of the Statue of Liberty.
Is it possible that the Kosovars like us that much or
is this “imperialistic” America imposing its icons on this Muslim
region?
CRASHING A KOSOVO PARTY
Albanian music was blaring just a few blocks from the
Prishtina’s city center. About 100 people were having a party. A few
were well dressed, but many where in jeans and nice shirts. The food
smelled good. “Time to meet the locals,” I thought.
I boldly plunged in with my big backpack, T-shirt, and
jeans. Although I got a few curious looks, I eventually started talking
with the Kosovars.
The party was for RTK (Radio Television of Kosovo)
employees. I told a couple that I was from America. They smiled and
offered to go sit somewhere and talk.
“Who do you consider your allies in the region? Your
best friends?” I asked.
The woman said, “America!”
“Why?”
“Because they helped us.”
“Why did we help you?” I pressed.
“Because I think America understands what it means to
be human.”
“Would you say that most Albanians in Kosovo like
America?” I asked.
“Yes! We love America and are very grateful.”
Now I started to get curious. “You’re Muslim, right?”
She nodded. “Why do you think that Muslims here in Kosovo love Americans
so much and see us as liberators, but that many Muslims in Iraq hate
us?”
A gnarled expression swept across her face. “What?
Muslims don’t hate America! Don’t equate Muslims with those terrorists!
We’re not terrorists! Those terrorists in Iraq aren’t Muslims!”
I calmed her down, afraid that she might blow herself
up.
She enthusiastically offered to introduce me to Fatmir
Bajrami, a Cameraman Supervisor for the station. He is an Albanian who
has been married to a French woman for 24 years in Kosovo. Albanians
don’t like the French because they side with the Serbs frequently. But
she’s survived.
I drank some orange Fanta and ate lots of hamburgers
and sausages while I waited for Fatmir. Can’t find pork anywhere in
Kosovo.
BALKAN HISTORY, KOSOVO VERSION
Fatmir had tan skin, gray hair, and dark intelligent
eyes. He had filmed Nixon, Reagan, Bush, and Clinton. He had traveled
the world. I hoped he would fill the gaps in my knowledge.
Although he spoke English well, his French was a bit
stronger so we spoke in French.
“What does Kosovo want?” I asked, “Do you want to
become part of Albania?”
“No,” he said firmly. “We want to be a completely
independent country. We want all Kosovars, not just the ethnic Albanians
who live here, to live in peace as an independent country.”
“Albanians who live in Montenegro, Serbia, and
Macedonia have tensions in each of those countries. Why? Why do
Albanians not like to integrate with the country they are in?”
“You have to understand the history,” he told me.
Oh great. Here we go again. At least he spared me from
regurgitating the glorious Illyrian history.
He drew a map of the Balkans. He showed how Albanians
overflow into Macedonia and Montenegro. Those border towns are primarily
made up of Albanians. He said Kosovo has been over 85% Albanian for
centuries, even under Serbian/Yugoslavian rule.
Serbs would dispute this. After 1913, when Kosovo
became part of Serbia again (after a 500 year break), Serbs started
moving into Kosovo. After WWII Serbs represented almost 50% of Kosovo.
But after WWII, Serbs started moving out and Albanians
started moving in. Although I couldn't find a family with more than 4
kids, it's true that Albanians reproduce faster than anyone else in the
Balkans. Combine that with a steady Serb exodus from the rural province
for more prosperous urban areas of Serbia, and you get today's minority Serb
population in Kosovo.
Fatmir explained, “Albanians live in all these regions
because they used to be part of Albania prior to the First Balkan War of
1912. After that war, parts of Albania were divided among the victors.”
“So they don’t integrate because they feel like it’s
their land that’s getting occupied?”
He nodded.
“What do you think of the Serbians?”
“Well, they’re descendents of slaves. They came out of
Russia and are still trying to live on this land.”
Boy, I’m glad a Serb didn’t overhear that comment. He
implied that Albanians are the natives and the Serbs are immigrants
still disoriented in this land. Ouch.
Serbs have been here for over a thousand years. At
what point are you a native and no longer an immigrant? And why should
that matter anyway?
I saved my best question for last. “Do you think those
regions in Montenegro and Macedonia, which have heavy Albanian
representation, will become independent or part of Albania/Kosovo?”
He ominously said, “No… not yet. Maybe later.”
Shivers went down my spine.
Some anti-Albanians say that Albanians have a grand
multigenerational plan to reestablish their “Greater Albania.” Talking
with Fatmir I began to see that some Albanians do indeed have this
dream.
TRAIL MAGIC IN KOSOVO
With my stomach full of meat and Fanta, I grabbed a
bus to Prizren, the most picturesque town in Kosovo.
I told the bus driver before I bordered that I only
had dollars and no Euros because all the banks were closed on Sunday. He
patted me on the back and said, “No problem, my friend!”
“My friend?” No Eastern European bus driver has been
that cheerful. He said it such a way that implied that I wouldn’t have
to pay.
The bus was one of the nicest in Eastern Europe. Your
tax dollars at work. It had a TV which displayed a scantily clad female
dancing. No singing. Just gyrating. Are we in an Islamic country or not?
I asked the guy who sat in front of me if he spoke
English. He did. I asked if I could sit next to him and talk. He
enthusiastically agreed.
When the ticket collector came by I mentally prepared
to explain in simple English why I didn’t have Euros. Then I heard
Shpejtim, my neighbor, say “Dy,” which is the Albanian word for “two.”
“Wait, wait…” I said, “Here take $5, don’t pay for
me.” He didn’t even know that I didn’t have Euros. He was paying for my
$3 Euro ride (which isn’t cheap for Kosovo) regardless of what I said.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“Because I will never, ever forget what you Americans
did for us. I am very grateful. You saved us,” he said with deep
sincerity.
Shpejtim fled to Switzerland when the war broke out
and is still working there. His generosity, friendliness, and good sense
of humor were overwhelming. Good, that will allow me to ask tough
questions.
“Why don’t you wear a white hat?” I asked.
He laughed. “Only old, traditional Albanians wear that
hat. It means nothing. You don’t have to wear it. It’s like people from
Texas wearing a cowboy hat. It’s not religious, it’s just fashion. But
young people don’t wear it. It’s no big deal.”
“When you immigrate to America,” I explained, “You must learn
English. Forget about creating Spanish only public schools,
for example. English is our language and it’s what helps keep us
together. Why do Albanians insist on having Albanian schools in
Macedonia and Montenegro?”
“Why not?” he retorted. “When I am a minority in a
country, like Switzerland, I learn the language. I speak German well.
Nobody wants to have an Albanian school there. All Albanians who live
there learn the local language, of course. But once we’re over 50% of a
country, why shouldn’t we have schools, especially in areas where our
representation tops 85%?”
Good point. Look at Switzerland, after all. One small
country, three official languages. Living in peace. Well, sort of.
Shpejtim told me, “When I go to the French part of
Switzerland, I know they also speak German, but they don’t want to speak
German with anyone. So I have to speak to them in English, even though
it’s not very good. Why? Why do they not want to speak German and
instead talk in English? Why? I don’t understand.”
Maybe because German just sounds bad, I thought.
Shpejtim also spoke Serbian because Kosovo was under
Serbian rule for so long, so he speaks four languages. His intelligent
answers made me think deeply.
Kosovo has made me ask myself, “What is a nation?”
Why can’t Macedonia, Montenegro, or Serbia have
regions that speak Albanian anyway? Who says a nation must have just one
language and culture? Plenty of nations function with more than one
language:
- Finland’s west coast speaks Swedish. All Finns must
learn Swedish as a second language.
- Canada’s Quebec speaks French (and almost declared independence over
it a few years ago).
- Spain’s Catalan region doesn’t use Spanish as its first language.
- India has a billion languages.
Albanians have a point. Who says everyone in Macedonia
has to speak Macedonian? Why can’t Albanians and Macedonians co-exist
side-by-side in peace? Why do Macedonians make such a big deal about it?
It’s just a language.
KOSOVO ISN’T UNIQUE
As hard as it was for me to understand the Balkans,
Fatmir suggested that the problem isn’t unique:
- England has its trouble with Northern Ireland.
- Spain has the separatists Basques.
- Mexico has Chiapas revolutionaries.
- Russia has Chechen rebels.
- China has Tibet that wants independence.
- Africa is just one big mess.
Throughout the world ethnic minorities that may have
different languages or customs than the majority fight for
representation or liberty. This is especially true when the majority
makes the minority feel like 2nd class citizens.
STAYING WITH A KOSOVO FAMILY
Shpejtim asked if I had a hotel reservation. I didn’t,
because I wanted to camp in Kosovo.
“Stay with my family! I’ll take you to my house, and
if it’s OK, then you stay. If you don’t like, then you can go. No
problem!”
I can’t resist staying with a local when I get a
chance.
My meat orgy was still in my stomach, when Shpejtim’s
mom fed me more fresh tomatoes, goulash soup, and a succulent dumpling.
It was all delicious and his family was delightful.
And then the power went out.
Within seconds they brought out candles and electric
lanterns. “How often does this happen?” I asked.
“A couple of times a day,” they shrugged.
Indeed, the cities of Kosovo are extremely loud. This
is mostly because all the stores have small Honda gas powered generators
running on the sidewalk. Since they’re one after another, the whining
decibel level is quite high.
I asked about a dozen people in Kosovo how many kids
per family they had to see if they really did have huge families. The
common answer was 2-3 kids for city folk and 3-4 kids those in the
countryside. They might have 10-12 in a household, but it’s because
they’re living with grandparents and other relatives, which is common in
non-western countries.
I am deeply grateful of Shpejtim and his family. He
confirmed that Albanians truly do have incredibly big hearts.
But also Shpejtim gave me hope for the Balkans. His
ability to speak rationally and calmly about this difficult subject was
refreshing. Moreover, he never condemned all Serbs or Macedonians. He
always emphasized that a minority of each of those groups cause most of
the problems. Likewise, he admitted that Albanians aren’t perfect
either. If more in the Balkans can learn Shpejtim’s ability to forgive
and his desire to move on, then there is hope.
INTERROGATING GERMANS IN KOSOVO
Prizren is a nice town with a river slicing through it
and hill rising above the city. As in everywhere in Kosovo, people were
building new structures everywhere. So I was surprised when I saw that a
certain section in Prizen right next to the river on a hill was in
shambles. The fire scars and collapsed roofs testified to the war.
But with all the construction going on, you’d think
they would rebuild this nice neighborhood that has a perfect location.
As I approached I saw a sign “WARNING: KFOR Zone. Use of weapons
permitted.”
KFOR stands for Kosovo FORce. It’s the NATO
peacekeeping force.
The sign implied that you may be shot on sight.
So I went for a stroll through the destroyed
neighborhood.
It finally dawned on me why the Albanians hadn’t
rebuilt this. This must have been a Serbian neighborhood. Duh!
I took pictures of the kitchens in shambles. The
broken windows. The overgrown gardens. Dilapidated living rooms. It was
sad to think that Serbs, most who were completely innocent, once lived
in these houses along these narrow quaint streets. Their homes were
destroyed simply because they were born in the wrong region.
I later learned that a few months ago (March 2004)
angry Albanians sought revenge and went on a rampage through Serb
neighborhoods. Albanians also destroyed nearly every Orthodox Church
they could, brick by brick.
I saw an Orthodox Church high on the hill, partially
destroyed, and protected by a KFOR troops.
I carefully stepped over shattered glass and fragments
of metal and wood throughout the street. I wondered if some Serbs or
Albanians planted mines here to discourage what I was doing.
Then suddenly a man in camouflage appeared with a
massive automatic rifle in his arms.
I smiled, feeling quite vulnerable.
“Hallo,” he said. “Sprechenzi deutsch?” he asked.
“Enshuldigun, ich spreche kine deutsche,” I answered.
Which I think means, “I surrender, mighty Nazi!”
The man had the German flag on his KFOR uniform. He
was pretty scrawny and had shaded glasses. He was a geeky German with a
really big gun. He didn’t speak English, but he pointed to my camera and
shook his head.
Oh great! I could use my favorite German word, “Das
ist VERBOTEN?”
“Jah,” he nodded.
I showed him the three pictures I took on of the KFOR
area with my digital camera and asked, “Verboten?” He said “Jah” to
everyone. I deleted all three. He seemed happy, but still didn’t smile.
He escorted me to the church on the hill. There was a
bunker made out of sandbags and barbed wire all around the church.
Germans were standing guard totting huge automatic machine guns.
I asked to talk to a soldier who could speak English.
A man whose belly indicated he had drunken a few too many German beers
came over.
Since I was talking to a German, I got straight to the
point, “Who do you think should be blamed more for all the atrocities in
Kosovo, the Serbs or the Albanians?”
He took a step back, looked at the horizon and said,
“I think it’s the Albanians.”
He had only been there six months and would be there
another six, so he missed out on all the stealing, raping, and killings
that the Serbs did before. But I wanted him to elaborate.
“For example,” he continued, “The Albanians broke into
a Serbian doctor’s house, made him watch as they murdered his wife and
all three of his kids. Today this doctor is insane. He babbles and has
completely lost his mind.”
“How long will we stay here?”
“20 years,” he said with his thick German accent. “I’m
serious. I think they want us to stay. We build roads and houses for
them. And it’s all free for them. Provide free security. But they’re
crazy.”
“Why?” I wondered.
“We’ll build five houses for the Serbs and a gang of
Albanians will come and burn them down. Then we’ll build five houses for
the Albanians and a gang of Serbs will come and destroy those houses.”
He sighed, “I don’t understand these people.”
“What about this Serb neighborhood, are the Serbs
going to try to live here again?” I asked.
“Yes. I don’t understand them. Their neighbors burnt
down their houses, but they say, it’s my house and I want to live
there." He continued, "If I come to America and people say, ‘Fuck you
German,’ I’ll leave and go somewhere else. But these Serbs insist on
living here. I just don’t understand these people.” He shook his head.
“Is it worth it to walk to the top of this hill?” I
asked him.
“Yeah, you will see an old fort and a good view. But if you
come here at 10PM or so, you’ll see at least 50 young kids marching up
the hill to…” he thrust his hips out.
“I see,” I understood, “Not very Muslim of them is
it?”
He smiled. Before heading up the hill I asked, “Do you
foresee more problems?”
“Yes, we’re waiting for the October 22 election in
Kosovo. We expect violence.”
I felt bad for these poor Germans. They’re so orderly
and civilized. And they must live in this mess. What goes through their
head when they look at the chaos here?
TRAPPED IN KOSOVO
I tried to leave, but the bus never showed up. While I
was waiting I talked with an ethnic Albanian who was born and raised in
Macedonia. The Macedonian regions of Tetovo and Gostivar are 80%
Albanian. The entire country is 35-45% Albanian, depending on who is
counting. Most ethnic Albanians round up and say that half of Macedonia
is Albanian.
“It’s terrible that the Macedonians don’t make any
effort to learn Albanian,” he told me.
“Why should they?” I asked. “You’re all living in
Macedonia after all, not Albania.”
“But we make up a large percentage of the region.”
“OK,” I told him, “Let’s say a bunch of Kenyans move
to your country and become a pretty significant part of the population
in a region. What would you
say if they tell you, ‘Hey buddy, you should learn to speak some
Kenyan!’”
“But that’s different,” he said, “This isn’t their
native land. Albanians have lived in this region before it was
Macedonia.”
“Do you know who owned California before the Yankees?
Mexicans. But no Mexican who comes to California today would dare tell
an American that he should learn to speak Spanish. The Mexican knows
that he is in the United States and it’s his responsibility to learn
English, not our responsibility to learn Spanish.”
He was speechless and then said he was going to look
into where the bus might be. I don't think he liked me because I never
saw him again.
Given all my tough questions throughout the Balkans
it’s amazing that I haven’t offended more people or been ethnically
cleansed.
CAMPING IN KOSOVO
Since I missed my bus, it was a perfect opportunity to
join my fellow Americans and set up camp in Kosovo.
I was disappointed that the bus didn't come when it was
supposed to, so I didn't want to contribute money to the overpriced hotels.
Since there is a ton of construction throughout Kosovo, it was easy to
find a place that was under construction. I walked up to the 3rd floor and
became the first person to sleep in this apartment. Although I could
have had nightmares about a lunatic Serb or Albanian finding me there
and cleansing me, I slept like a baby.
MY WISH COMES TRUE
The Balkans is incredibly complicated. Trying to
understand this place makes my little head hurt.
In an effort to understand the people who live here,
I've tried to imagine the same thing happening in the United States. The
closest analogy is the influx of Mexicans. I wanted to talk to a real
Mexican living in the US and ask him if many Mexicans could identify
with the Albanians.
My dream came true just as I was leaving Kosovo. On
the bus to Macedonia I sat next to a stocky, tan skinned, 50ish man with
slicked back black hair. He lives in south Texas and was born in Mexico.
He has six children. His Spanish accent was obvious when he spoke.
Although he spoke English well, we switched to Spanish. I had a
fascinating conversation with him.
“Do you think the situation with Mexican Americans is
similar to the one here in the Balkans?” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Why not?”
“There’s just too much hate here. The hate is so
deep.”
“Do any of your Mexican friends wish that there were
Spanish-only public schools in America?”
“No, we just want to come and work in America,” he
told me.
“The Mexican population in the US is exploding. If
they get critical mass, do you think that they would ever want to
separate from the US, like the Albanians in Macedonia, Serbia, and
Montenegro?”
“No, Mexicans have no interest in that.” He continued,
“I don’t understand these Kosovars. They don’t learn from others and
have no interest in assimilating. I'm looking forward to going home."
IT'S NICE TO BE LOVED AGAIN
Throughout Eastern Europe, I've gotten some pretty
lukewarm responses when I tell them that I'm from the USA. One mother at
a Zagreb train station said, "San Francisco? Oh. America. I hate
Americans. And I hate your President."
Yeah, it was a pleasant conversation.
But in Kosovo everyone gave me wide smiles and their
eyes twinkled with delight. I realize that it's only because we defended
them, but I don't care. It feels good that at least one part of the
world that loves Americans.
KOSOVO’S FUTURE
Throughout the Balkans I asked people how things were
going. Most people in Montenegro, for example, said that things were
getting worse and they had little hope. Kosovars, on the other hand,
were consistently optimistic about the future. The sad irony is that
they’re both wrong.
Montenegro and Kosovo are both small areas, but
Montenegro has a rich coastline that it can exploit like Croatia. Kosovo
has almost nothing. No manufacturing, no major food export, no financial
center, no capital markets, nothing.
I looked out of my bus window and wondered:
- Who will invest in Kosovo? The risk is so high and
the reward is so low.
- Who will trade with Kosovo? Its neighbors who hate them?
- What will happen when NATO pulls out and stops giving them free money?
Their fragile economy will collapse.
Eventually they will realize that they need to join
forces with Albania to complete the dream of a Greater Albania. Although
that change could happen peacefully, few major changes in the Balkans
ever do.
WHO’S RIGHT?
After visiting Kosovo, the Balkan puzzle was complete.
Although I kind of understand this complex region, the
solutions are still not obvious.
Like the Jews and Arabs, the folks who live in the
Balkans dwell on the past and refuse to forgive and move on. Similarly,
both sides are so inflexible and unwilling to compromise.
Ethnic Albanians need to learn to integrate in
whatever nation they live in. Meanwhile, those governments need to make
the Albanians feel like equal citizens.
However, it's unlikely that this will happen. Those
who dream of a Greater Albania will forge ahead until their dream is
complete. As long as Albanians feel oppressed, those revolutionaries
will continue to have followers.
MY CELL PHONE GETS STOLEN
Someone stole my cell phone. It might have fallen off
my hip belt on the bus from Kosovo to Macedonia. Someone might have
swiped it then. Or a thief might have pilfered it off my hip as I was
getting off the bus.
The biggest pain is re-entering all those cell phone
numbers.
My watch and camcorder broke. My cell phone gone.
Random clothes abandoned. My heart stayed in Kotor, Montenegro. I think
I will leave my brain in Bulgaria.
NEXTALE: BRAVING BULGARIA
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