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]
Another Message
This must be the Promethean people. Perhaps this is the bifurcated people of Abraham. The Albanians are among the oldest in the continent. In our roots, there is a bit of everything: antiquity, Western influence, Eastern influence, and more. To some extent, in our roots, there is also a lot of civilization, culture, Christianity, Islam, and so on. But there is very little ethnic nationalism and much more doctrine of peace, coexistence, tolerance, love, and understanding.
What is fundamental for us as a people is the fact that in our roots, there has never been and there is no place for hatred, pettiness, barbarism, or hegemony. However, historically, we have paid for these myths and sagas directly and at a high cost many times over. Without understanding, support, and love from others around us, often hitting us in the back.
On the contrary, we have been striving for two thousand years for freedom. Within these two millennia, Albania has barely become a piece of land, representing only half of the Albanian people and Albanian territories. And even as such, the existence of Albania has always been unstable, threatened, and desperate. Other parts of the Albanian people and ethnic Albanian territories, such as Kosovo, have been divided, fragmented, divided, and annexed everywhere, through historical stages and processes, by our Balkan neighbors.
As far back as I can remember, we have been continuously struggling in various ways for rights and freedom. Therefore, historically, our past has seen more furrows of war than furrows of peace. Our struggles and wars have been mainly defensive and for survival.
Once, a few years ago, I asked Milazim Krasniqi, a Kosovo writer, what this business of our history and our national freedom was. In reality, from all the things I had learned and heard about our ancient and so troubled history, how was it possible that, throughout this bloody turmoil, we could survive as a people? He answered me very succinctly and precisely: “Perhaps survival is the divine mission of ancient peoples.”
THE FIRST NIGHT WITHOUT KOSOVO
Shelter
As we entered Behxhet Vrenezi’s house, I realized that we were beginning a completely different life, an unimaginable life until the end of this day. In a large, well-furnished room equipped with modern comforts, they were waiting for us: Mendiu (Xha Xheka’s youngest son, as they affectionately called the old man), his wife Areta, and their two little boys, Albion and Fatjani. They were waiting for us because they already knew that their home would have “new residents” from tonight. As we entered and exchanged greetings, perhaps none of us adults were holding it together. A heavy silence, along with tears, enveloped us all like a shroud. We were sitting face to face. They were just watching us. And we – we pretended to be watching them. But among us, there was not recognition or exchange of glances, but rather an indescribable sorrow and pain that reflected in every fiber of our bodies and spirits.
In fact, we had brought with us (unintentionally) the “Kosovar sadness and pain” from afar into the hearts and souls of the people in this house. But the icy and almost deathly silence had to be broken.
– Welcome! they said after a while.
– We’re glad to be here, I think we replied.
Then, the lady of the house, Areta, brought a glass of apple juice and asked us what kind of coffee we drank. Xha Behxheti was watching us intently, jubilantly, and with a proud smile, because he had brought us into his home and had already made friends with us. In a way, he was letting us know that we should feel at ease, even though we didn’t know each other well.
While we were “settling in” at the Vrenezi’s house, coincidentally, the news on RTSH (Albanian Radio Television) began. “Speak up, Mendo!” the old man said.
The silence returned, even more daunting this time, as the screen opened with scenes of war, images of refugees, and stories of bombings. The news anchors’ voices quivered. In all versions, Kosovo was the main Albanian and global event. Kosovo was the main event even in this house, which we had entered not more than 5-6 minutes ago. It was the main event in all of Veleshta, in the entire region of Struga.
When the news ended, which we had watched in shock and breathless, Xha Behxheti told us that “we should feel like we’re in our own homes.” Then came the time for introductions, and the moment when I explained something about the situation we had left behind.
The feeling of losing one’s homeland stung more than anything else I had ever experienced, not just during this day but throughout my life.
In general, words were insufficient. An atmosphere of painful sorrow, despite the comfortable environment and the warm welcome by the Vrenezi family, was present and overwhelming. Sadness and pain continued to dominate within the house, just as they did in our hearts.
A little later, we had dinner, even though none of us were hungry. After that, we went to sleep. Only when I lay down, almost feeling nothing, crushed in every cell of my body, dejected and terribly saddened, did I realize that I had lost my homeland. I had lost everything, from dreams to nightmares. I had lost, in fact, even what constitutes the psycho-physical structure of a human being: genetic, spiritual, historical, cultural, national, and so on.
The feeling of heaviness was as great as the mountains of Korab; in other words, the feeling of losing one’s homeland stung more than anything else I had ever experienced, not just during this day but throughout my life. Above all, the final exhaustion from the storm of war and displacement seemed like nothing compared to the real moment of understanding that I had also lost the status of being a “human being” who has a homeland.
Now, I had no homeland, just like the refugees. Another thing that left me bloodless in my body was my factual comparison, a real-life comparison, with the situation of millions and millions of refugees around the world. Most of them, after being forced to leave their homeland for similar reasons, have never returned, or will never return there.
Don’t write it, God…!
Notes from the Depths of the Night
Everywhere, the abandonment of the hell of war is a deceitful physical image. The time is 10:37 minutes. I can’t sleep, though I’m endlessly tired and exhausted. I am, like never before, in between reality and unreality, perhaps in the zone of clinical death, in other words, maybe I’m in a coma? Who knows, maybe I’m in the “zone” of true death? Who knows!?
Write what can be written. My hand trembles like a leaf. It feels like I’ve come from a crazy battle of war, one that has lasted not for years, but for decades. The rest that night brings (its delirium: sleep) is for me a state mixed with inexplicable nausea, and nothing more. Everything seems finished to me, pushed into ruin, into an irreversible collapse. Time for me, simply, has stopped. It no longer exists. Just like light, breath, life. The day of the “Great Flood” mentioned in the Bible must have been like today. But what path has the decay of Antiquity taken? What did the Inquisition feed on during its time, what did it nourish itself with? Then, what was Kristallnacht…?
“Via Dolorosa,” for us Albanians of Kosovo, is becoming a living hell. It’s becoming a sad eclipse of our broken and burnt spirit. Wounded to death, from everything in this world, I try to, in this deep night like a moat, somewhat divert my mind and my saddened eyes from the “image of Kosovo.” But how can I avoid it? Hope is overtaken by sleep. Then, I turned off the light. I stood in the middle of the darkness like a terrified bird, at the same time trying to find a small thread of hope and to hold onto it, maybe like the man who seeks to hold onto a straw while drowning in the middle of the sea. I tried to close my eyes. In truth, I pretended to be closing them. But in an instant, involuntarily and unwanted, I turned back to imagine the fire, its hidden and submerged core in the realm of crime and death.
Hope is overtaken by sleep. Then, I turned off the light. I stood in the middle of the darkness like a terrified bird
Ah, the long day of April 3rd had been “a long night,” just like in the novel by Fric Zelembit with the same title, which I had read more than twenty years ago. I turned back to imagine it involuntarily, the unimaginable. Beyond my eyes, somewhere in the dark corners of the moonless night, images and scenes of lost and sorrowful people walking on all fours through the blood-soaked land of Kosovo began to appear. They appeared to me from all sides, the hum of sheep’s bells, on the heads of black-clad shamans, like Buddhists, of Serbian paramilitaries, as they followed their prey with the instinct of hungry wolves. They also appeared to me, glaring flashes of sharp knives, the clatter of automatic weapons aimed at defenseless crowds, trapped in front of the bandit’s fortress. A metallic turmoil reached my ears. Icy cold sweat burst from my body. Except for darkness, my tears were touching everything.
Once, later, the vicious circle of sleep had done its thing. Sleep had creeped into Niku first. All the while pretending to be asleep, even Hope (even she) had fallen into its “trap.” The people of Veleshta, too, had eventually relaxed. But the calmness here, now, was noticeably disturbed. As voices gradually faded into the deep darkness of the night, my eyes closed by themselves. Maybe I had fallen asleep. But the lethargy, the anxiety that comes with sleep, had not left me at ease throughout the night. In this lethargy of anxiety, my dreams were drowned. That’s why, when I woke up in the morning (reluctantly), Hope told me that I had risen, quite suddenly, several times during the night (half-asleep and with wide-open eyes), not knowing where I was, always speaking disjointedly, inarticulately, strangely. I had even frightened Etniku. But I couldn’t remember anything. Nothing. (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, Part-28,
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[The book ‘In the Kingdom of Death’ is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]
