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
[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]
Some of the neighbors seemed to be trying to stay in Pristina for as long as possible, despite the apparent risks. Fahrushi, a neighbor of ours, said as he was about to leave, that for now, he would go to another neighborhood, to a relative of his. Dozens of residents were moving towards the city center. We walked slowly, in amazement. We had no specific destination. People were coming like a river. When we passed by the “Oasis” self-service restaurant, I remembered that just a bit further down, three or four quarters away, Rrahmani, a relative of my wife, lived. Since the day was still early, we decided to turn back to him and see if he was still there.
No people, no stray dogs, not even the blackbirds remained in Pristina. They had all hidden, vanished. In reality, they had left to hide somewhere.
Xha Rrahmani opened the door for us hesitantly. When he recognized us, he invited us in. He was alone. The other members of his family had left. Rrahmani himself had decided not to abandon his home as long as possible. Among other things, he told us that we could stay freely with him. However, as we talked with him and analyzed the situation together, we understood to some extent that there was “no place” because, if not today, then tomorrow, Serbian forces would come to this part of the “Sun Hill” neighborhood as well and expel us again. Why would we go through the same torture again?
We came out onto the street. At the Oasis self-service restaurant, people were flowing like a river on the main road. We sat down on a concrete staircase by the side of the road. I lit a cigarette. There was a hint of spring in the air. We were just three people on the right side of the road leading to the city center: me, Shpresa, and Etnik. Where were we going to go? We had only two options: either join the crowd that had formed a long line and was moving slowly towards the city center or decide to stay somewhere in Pristina. Shpresa stood in front of me, undoubtedly bewildered. Etnik was calm. I watched the column of people with a heightened distraction, always thinking about what to do. The column seemed like a silhouette in the half-moon night, even though they were only about 7-8 meters away from me. Neither I nor my wife could make a decision about joining them, both because of the general danger and because of the fear for our little Niku. Continuing on an unclear path was not an option either, as safety was nonexistent.
Should we head in the direction of the train station in Fushe Kosove? Although Fushe Kosove was a recognizable point for many, there were rumors of chaos that reigned day and night at this station and significant insecurity. In fact, going to this gathering point, it was said, could be as bad as falling into the butcher’s clutches. We stayed in the street without a clear plan on where to go. We shouldn’t prolong our stay on the street either, as it carried its own special risks. Groups of uniformed people were moving everywhere, and snipers were positioned in the buildings. They could kill you on a whim. All Serbs were armed. We were standing in the street, alone. Three people. None of my family or Shpresa’s family were with us. Everybody preferred to move together, to be with each other, in groups, with family, neighbors, etc.
In fact, going to this gathering point, it was said, could be as bad as falling into the butcher’s clutches. We stayed in the street without a clear plan on where to go.
By chance, or rather instinctively, we thought about going to the family of a friend who lived nearby in the “Zone Center” neighborhood. We decided to approach his apartment and see if anyone was there. Otherwise, we would head to the border without wasting time. We had no other choice. We hurriedly climbed the cold concrete stairs. I carried one suitcase on my shoulder while holding Niku in my hand. Shpresa was submerged in silence. We walked on the left side of the road leading to “Ismail Qemali” elementary school. At the street corner, facing the school, I turned left. This meant that I was not dividing my mind about whether we should go straight to the city center or toward the train station in Dragodan or Fushe Kosove.
On foot, we reached the entrance of M.’s apartment. “Oh, did they expel you too? That’s bad!” M. said, opening the door and welcoming us with warm words: “Welcome…”! In this family, we stayed until Saturday. We stayed as if we were in our own home. On Saturday, April 3rd, we decided to leave Pristina together with M.’s eldest son, his wife, and their young son. Why…? Serbian expulsion and death squads had begun to encircle even the “Zone Center” neighborhood. It was this part of the capital’s turn to be cleansed of the Albanian population.
The Prelude to Departure
The day began with a cold breath and a light drizzle. The rain was icy and all too familiar to be despised. The streets and alleys of the capital city, without exception, appeared desolate. No people, no vitality, no semblance of normality. The shops were closed, and the garbage had taken control, just like the Serbs. The narrow morning sun rays pierced through the asphalt soaked with the spills of petroleum derivatives from armored police and military vehicles, creating a reflective black shimmer that hurt the eyes. The petroleum derivatives mixed with the spring raindrops, creating this “black shimmer,” darker than the comets’ tails lost in the cosmos.
Nevertheless, a few sun rays were managing to break through the thick clouds above Pristina. Those rays were falling painfully onto the grimy asphalt. No people, no stray dogs, not even the blackbirds remained in Pristina. They had all hidden, vanished. In reality, they had left to hide somewhere. Except for groups of armed police, soldiers, and crazed paramilitaries, who had taken control of all the intersections, ready for action. A heterogeneous column of people was slithering slowly past the Radio Pristina building, heading towards the “Dardania” neighborhood, likely on its way to Fushë Kosova. Others were wandering aimlessly, here and there, not knowing where they were going. More or less like us.
We walked in silence, quietly. My objective was the bus station. I had more or less decided this based on the notion of fate since the day had just begun, and maybe, by chance, we’d find a connection heading towards the border, either to Macedonia or Albania.
Even the leaves and stones were no longer in their rightful place. The bones of the dead were not resting peacefully among the graves.
In the “Dardania” neighborhood, we turned towards the bus station. A relatively young woman, perhaps with her mother and a small child, asked us where she could find the column of people leaving the city. In essence, where they should meet others who were departing in a group. I explained to her where she should go. Etnik, as in his short life in this harsh world, for his parents and his people, was crying. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Strangely, as soon as we stepped out onto the street, he had started crying. Oh, how we missed his mother’s breast milk. But while his milk was for an infant, our time had turned into tears and screams. Joy and sorrow had washed away the seasons, the land, the people, the birds. Even the leaves and stones were no longer in their rightful place. The bones of the dead were not resting peacefully among the graves. (Continues)
Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21,
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[The book ‘In the Kingdom of Death’ is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]
Read: Tale of a Heart Shaped like a Stone – A Bouquet of Poems from Kosovo
