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]
Behxhet Vrënezi
He was the Veleshta group’s point person who decided where we would end up. We were going with them; there was no other way. We were heading to Veleshta, all of us. After a short break, eating some food, we set off. We would find shelter there. I didn’t know where this village was, but the bus moved in the western direction of the city. When we arrived in Veleshta, hundreds of residents had come out to welcome us in the village square. When the buses stopped, it was clear that the square was filled with people. It seemed like no one was left in their homes. We (I would understand later) were the first refugees from Kosovo to arrive here. Various types of food, humanitarian teams, medical teams, young and old, men, women, and children were mobilized to welcome us. Someone even remembered to bring a flag.
We disembarked slowly from the buses, realizing that our journey was ending here. Veleshta residents swarmed around us, some welcoming and wishing us well, some offering food, and others helping us disembark along with the children and the luggage we had managed to bring with us. As I greeted them, it felt like I was meeting people I had known for years, and only time and place had separated us. Yet, in reality, I was greeting people I had never seen before in my life, and they hadn’t seen me either.
Veleshta was on its feet. There was an indescribable atmosphere in the square, a mixture of emotions and brotherly love. Looking deeply into the crowd in the square, I understood one final truth: that my Homeland, seized by the Serbs, is just a part of the body, while my Homeland, which cannot be seized by anyone, is something else. Something more than the body, more than geography, more than pain and tears.
After a while, we were divided into groups and sent to locations where we would be accommodated with local families. One group, including me along with Shpresa and Niku, was sent to the mosque building. Representatives of Veleshta families who had volunteered to take us in were already waiting for us. There were about seven or eight hosts.
I felt deeply saddened, melancholic, with my memory threatened by the waves of a bloodstained ocean, an ocean created by the Serbs to drown in its depths (together with our origin) communities and peoples, societies and states, eras and countries
– Take these, there are six of them, said the man standing in front of me, who appeared to be the youngest but probably the leader.
– I’ll take them, Kadri, why not?” he replied without hesitation.
-That’s right, good. Thank you!”Kadri said, jotting something down in a thick notebook he held with great dedication. The Veleshta resident, who simply couldn’t contain his joy like a child, lifted himself up as he was taking us, and we got up without speaking, following him.
The elderly Veleshta resident, as he led us away, also grabbed a couple of our suitcases and headed towards the large door of the mosque.
Behxhet was his name, Behxhet Vrënezi. He was short, stocky, and had a face full of wrinkles, and from a distance, it seemed like he had already surpassed his sixties. With a closer look, his demeanor reflected the profile of a reserved, wise, and decent man. Enveloped in his own personal world, he stood before us (in fact, before me) with care and in complete silence. He hadn’t spoken a word except when he greeted us. We were a group of six (two married couples with one child each) who would be staying with him.
Behxhet was walking ahead. We followed his steps, trailing behind like ducklings. Slightly stooped with a white headscarf, Xha Behxhet walked as if he had just been relieved of a heavy burden. He seemed to be floating. The six of us were following him silently. Silence was our “gold.” We walked slowly, moving along a road paved with asphalt (the mosque was deep within the village-community). From the depths of the sky, the dim light of a few stars that managed to accompany us to Xha Behxhet’s house was reaching us.
I felt drowned, head and foot, not in the realms of the real world but in the realms of the absurd world.
I felt like I wasn’t going anywhere to seek shelter, but rather on a challenging, delicate mission along the ancient historical road, the “Via Egnatia.” No, it was a spring night at the turn of the twentieth century, a moonless night in Veleshta. The all-encompassing pilgrim of darkness was reigning everywhere. Like never before in my life, this “nightly pilgrimage” was giving me an inexplicable feeling. Perhaps it was providing me with some physical and spiritual comfort because, at that moment, I truly wished that no one alive would see me. And I didn’t want to see anyone either. I wanted to be alone. Completely alone, perhaps in some Mongolian wilderness. Or I wanted to be on a distant island in the middle of the sea, like Robinson Crusoe. I felt lost, empty. I felt drowned, head and foot, not in the realms of the real world but in the realms of the absurd world. Although this was a unique moment, our arrival in the Struga region, the physical and mental balance within my body appeared in irrational dimensions. Something like “lucid intervals” was constantly encircling and squeezing not only my body but also my spirit. I feared that I might lose consciousness, that my strength might fail me, that I might collapse without reason. And consciously, I tried my best to maintain the physical and spiritual balance. I clenched my teeth, the muscles in my legs, my fists. I prayed incessantly not to lose my mind, especially.
Undoubtedly, I was trying to do all this without anyone noticing, without anyone, especially my wife, noticing. We were walking along a paved road, dimly lit, in a part of Veleshta. We were walking without much noise. The two babies we had with us were asleep. We were exhausted, utterly drained, barely able to stand on our feet. My wife, Shpresa, while walking lightly as if she was hiding from someone, was wiping away her silent tears. I felt deeply saddened, melancholic, with my memory threatened by the waves of a bloodstained ocean, an ocean created by the Serbs to drown in its depths (together with our origin) communities and peoples, societies and states, eras and countries, and of course, anyone who dared to face them. With unrestrained and uncontrolled joy, the Serbs had dreamt (awaiting throughout the centuries) that in this ocean, the Albanians would be the first to be thrown, along with all the others. And, if possible, all of them.
We found ourselves back in the square. In fact, we arrived where we had disembarked, about half an hour earlier. The square was relatively spacious, surrounded by two or three-story houses. It was shining with neon lights. In the middle of it, there were two large linden trees, as if nothing had happened. When the old man stopped in front of a three-story house on the western side of the square and cheerfully opened the iron gate of the house, I remember he said in a manly voice, “Welcome!”
Between his light but ancient words and the creaking of the iron gate of the house, I remembered Fan Noli’s immortal saying: “Live, oh, live, and the Albanian does not die!” Cold, icy tears welled up in my eyes. (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, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27,
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[The book ‘In the Kingdom of Death’ is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]
