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]
It’s not said in vain: even in great misfortune, a person has a little luck. If one should truly believe in fate. When we arrived at the station, there was a bus, a mixture of colors in its upper parts, covered in dust and people on its lower parts. It had license plates from Mitrovica, indicating it had come from that city. A bit further on the bus, there were three or four armed police with Kalashnikovs. And further still, four or five regular soldiers. Three or four people were standing at the open door of the bus. They were speaking, of course, in Serbian. I intervened in their conversation and explained our situation, although “our situation” didn’t require much explanation. After a moment of hesitation, one of them said we could board. In advance, I made a deal with the one playing the role of the conductor. I paid 100 German marks for the three of us. The bus was packed to the brim. However, we managed to get in.
The destination of this bus was the border with Macedonia. Inside the bus, there were mostly women and children of various ages and perhaps ten or twelve middle-aged men. The bus was following a special route along the border with two clear objectives: to expel as many Albanian residents as possible from Kosovo and to profit as much as possible from our tragedy.
– We’re heading toward the border, but please understand, we don’t know how far we’ll get, the person who was presumably the conductor, a Serbian man in his fifties, addressed us loudly. So, the journey was both secure and uncertain.
The bus was following a special route along the border with two clear objectives: to expel as many Albanian residents as possible from Kosovo and to profit as much as possible from our tragedy.
– We’ll try to get you to the border (do granice), but they might turn us back as soon as we leave Pristina, or they might send us to Ferizaj. Maybe,” he continued, always trying to sound somewhat courteous. He clutched a leather wallet filled with money close to his chest, as if guarding it from someone who might snatch it at any moment. As we set off, he confirmed our journey towards the border as if he were a tour guide, while the bus driver had already started the engine. But, more than anything, it felt like I was on a “charnel house cicerone” tour.
At around 10:00, we set off, slowly but surely. No one was speaking. The noise of the bus grew louder in proportion to its position on the road, much like its speed. We all felt this suffocating noise deep within us, like the sound of death for the living. Honestly, no one was sure if we were heading towards the border or something else. And who could blame them? How could we trust it? They might send us to some camp, liquidate us on the way, or imprison us, etc. In the meantime, the bus turned towards Ferizaj. It neither hesitated nor stopped anywhere. We passed slowly over the hill towards Veternik, heading towards the southern part of the capital. We were traveling towards the border with Macedonia.
The noise of the bus grew louder in proportion to its position on the road, much like its speed. We all felt this suffocating noise deep within us, like the sound of death for the living.
Pristina was falling behind us. It was left behind like a ghost town, like a cemetery in a coma: neither alive nor dead. Then, I remembered two long-forgotten stories: the rumors from five or six years ago about how Albania was preparing camps in the northern part of the country (around Kukës) for the possible arrival of Kosovar refugees and the “Gligorov Corridor.”
My blood boiled. My vision darkened! Cold sweat covered my forehead. I was traveling with my wife, with Niki, and with all the displaced people on this bus, to enter the “Gligorov Corridor,” to join the “turbulent river of deportation,” and we didn’t know where it would take us.
Out of immense sorrow, I couldn’t think of anything else. I absentmindedly gazed out of the bus windows. On both sides (left and right), along the road we were now traveling on, between the Serbian- inhabited villages, “oases” of armed Serbian forces were visible, mostly regular soldiers, and here and there, masked police. They were likely trying to hide from the strikes of NATO aircraft, as they appeared in small groups and were on the move. They were also traveling in a few vehicles, keeping their distance. On one hand, they were trying to create the impression that they were in control of the situation and the terrain, and on the other hand, they were trying to avoid as many NATO airstrikes as possible.
Pristina was falling behind us. It was left behind like a ghost town, like a cemetery in a coma: neither alive nor dead.
When we passed the Serbian villages in the surroundings of Pristina (Çagllavica, Gračanica, Laplje Selo), the road was completely open, with no civilian vehicles moving. There were no military vehicles, military trucks, tanks, etc. in sight. No one, in fact. Darkness had covered everything. Burned houses, billowing with smoke from the inside, seemed like remnants of another world, perhaps more melancholy. Villages in the Lipljan, Janjevo, and Štimlje regions responded under smoky canopies, with most of them left at the mercy of Serbian forces. Occasionally, above the Kosovo plains, flocks of birds flew erratically, seemingly troubled and, without a doubt, sad. The sky appeared to have drawn closer to the earth to touch it with a “distant and unknown love,” but in reality, it was completely covered in dense clouds. The peaks of the high mountains Sharri, Carralevo, and Zhegoc were nowhere to be seen. They had receded into the distance. Instead of revealing a springtime landscape, a mortar landscape had settled over Kosovo. Oh, it wasn’t a time after the battle; it was a time of battle.
Some citizens were captured by Serbian forces in the late hours and found massacred after two or three days. Some had disappeared without a trace.
After about half an hour of nerve-wracking travel, we passed the cold periphery of Ferizaj. I’m not exactly sure, but perhaps around the 50th kilometer of the Pristina-Hani i Elezit highway, the bus turned left. It seemed to be ascending towards the rugged slopes of the familiar Sharri Mountains. Slowly, we were approaching the border between Kosovo and Macedonia. No one, or very few, had uttered a word during the journey. Even if someone had tried to say something, their words, before leaving their mouths and reaching the ears of others, had been chewed multiple times between their teeth, partly due to fear and partly due to exhaustion and sorrow. So, if it weren’t for the voices of the small children that occasionally disrupted the silence, everyone would have questioned whether this bus was carrying living people or, God forbid, corpses. A serene image, a profound natural quietness, was noticeable outside the bus, although the densely populated villages in the southwest of Ferizaj and Kaçanik didn’t seem entirely abandoned. Here and there, scared and disoriented animals roamed aimlessly, while chickens scattered around houses in search of food. Smoke rose sporadically. It was said that few people had left Ferizaj, and in recent days, gruesome crimes had increased even here, especially within the city. Some citizens were captured by Serbian forces in the late hours and found massacred after two or three days. Some had disappeared without a trace.
The bus was winding its way through the slopes eagerly. The old Sharri Mountain appeared calm, almost asleep. It was still covered in the cold winter’s shroud. There was no movement anywhere. As we climbed the rugged mountain slopes, it became clear that we were indeed heading towards the border, more precisely the Jazhince border crossing. Spring had not yet arrived in these parts. Everything was in shades of gray. The morning’s dampness was hidden beneath the thick veil of fog that seemed to challenge the spring sun in small clusters. “Snow patches” could be seen here and there. Signs of war were present in this area too: burned and shelled houses appeared sporadically in the neighborhoods nestled on the hilly terrain. (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, Part-22,
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[The book ‘In the Kingdom of Death’ is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]
