FROM AL-JAZEERA!

A refugee tale: Memoirs of a European refugee

Eki Rrahmani fled Kosovo in an oil tanker, but what will become of this century's refugees, he asks.

Eki Rrahmani | 25 Sep 2015 09:14 GMT | Magazine, War & Conflict, Kosovo, Human Rights, Humanitarian crises


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Kosovar Albanians flee Pristina in 1999 [Afrim Hajrullahu]


As the Ottoman Empire dissolved and the First and Second World Wars came to an end, Kosovo was swallowed up and turned into a province of Marshall Tito's Yugoslavia. The Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, to be precise, at your service, since 1963. In Marxist terms, it was a rather marvellous idea. In Groucho Marx terms, well, it was more like: I refuse to join any club that wants me as a member.

Although a communist autocracy, Yugoslavia was the most 'liberal' in the Eastern Bloc. Its subjects weren't really supposed to comprehend the word 'dictator', and its iron-fisted ruler, Comrade Tito, was the darling of the sanctimonious West. Communism Lite was at play here and even Sophia Loren and Richard Burton were happy to grace its shores, bedazzled by the shimmering blue of the Adriatic and the affluence and generosity of their host.

A decade later, in 1973, just after The Dark Side of the Moon was released and George Foreman beat Joe Frazier to become the world heavyweight boxing champion, Kosovo had slightly more modest ambitions. It was destined to be my birthplace. Yet another ethnic Albanian child who would do little to imbalance the Slavic push that gathered on the margins of Kosovo and boxed us in, while wanting to squeeze us out.


Then, in 1979, I became a 'Tito's Pioneer', as we were called after pledging our allegiance to Marshall Tito in primary school. That was also the year in which Tito made his last ever visit to Pristina, my beloved hometown.

We wore red Tito's Pioneers scarves across our shoulders and our best smiles on our faces that day, as we duly lined the roads to welcome our Supreme Leader.


Tito waved from his Mercedes-Benz 600 with a smugness he was neither able nor willing to conceal. The joy of the common people was tangible and the entire affair so spectacular that it must have turned Kim Il-sung and Leonid Brezhnev avocado-green with envy.


The place where I grew up seemed, at least on the surface, harmonious and serene. But there were those among us who were aware that the whole thing was simmering inside.

The first eruption came in April 1981. In my hometown.

Tito had finally proven that he was not immortal, and less than a year after his death, Kosovar Albanian students took to the streets, fists in the air, demanding no more and no less than equal rights to those of the other nations that had created the Federation of Yugoslavia. Our people were essentially demanding that Kosovo become a republic.

But history would show this to be a perilous and almost impossible mission to bring to fulfilment.

Childhood cut short


Our house was on the north-eastern hills overlooking the entire city of Pristina.

My younger brother and I took turns at watching the Yugoslav Special Forces dispense brutality all over the place. The tear gas almost came through our old set of binoculars as we witnessed Albanian students bludgeoned on every corner of our capital. I'm still not convinced that our tears were induced by that remote tear gas, but who knows? In any case, it left an indelible mark on my brother and me.

Long after the protests had finished, my brother remained scared of the Special Forces. Every time he saw them, the hair on his arms stood up stiff like a regimental salutation. When they appeared on the news, he would run behind the sofa and hide, staying stock-still until someone changed the channel. I wanted to name him 'hedgehog' but thought it a bit too cruel. And iniquitous too, considering that my own hairs would come through my shirt as if trying to abandon ship. I didn't tell anyone about that.

From that day on, politics became a big part of our lives; the six o'clock news an event to stare at with eyes wide open, ears pricked and no sound uttered - a national sport for everybody, regardless of age.


The news told us what we had already known from a different perspective. The demonstrations were crushed. A great number of people had been killed. Hundreds were injured and thousands imprisoned. A foreboding new era had arrived. Nothing would be the same after this. The trust between the Albanian majority and the Serbian minority in Kosovo had vanished overnight, and with every day, the 'us and them' chorus grew louder - and nastier.

Milosevic ate my homework


Slobodan Milosevic delivers his speech at the Cultural Centre in 1987


April, 1987.

I was at my grandmother's place, just outside Pristina, riding my brand new Yugoslav-made Pony bike, when I noticed that a crowd had gathered and was moving towards the centre of town, where a cordon of police awaited them.


A local Albanian man stopped me. The Serbs were angry, he said, I had better go home. I cycled past the crowd and to my grandparents' house. On the way, I passed the Cultural Centre, where people were throwing stones at the police. The policemen raised their batons and plowed into the mass. A tall man came out of the building, followed by a small crowd. "No one will dare beat you ever again," he told those gathered.



The notebook became clammy in my hands, until Milosevic jumped out of the TV, snatched it and gobbled it whole. It wasn't the only thing he would devour.




A few minutes later he climbed onto the top floor of the Centre in order to make himself heard.

The six o'clock news revealed that the man who had so adeptly climbed a building and delivered a speech before a euphoric crowd was Slobodan Milosevic. It was the first time I had heard of him. But the concern on the faces of the adults who gathered at my granny's home told me something was wrong. Milosevic's speech affected them in a way that suggested things would never be the same again. I could almost smell the stench of dark days to come.

That evening, I sat listening to the adults exchange worried thoughts. They were so deep in conversation that none of them noticed that the kids were still awake.

I was supposed to do my homework, but the notebook became clammy in my hands until Milosevic jumped out of the TV, snatched it and gobbled it whole. It wasn't the only thing he would devour.

The fall of communism

1989.

Events across Europe unfolded. We followed every development, keenly; through television, newspapers and our brothers and sisters who worked abroad and diligently sent remittances, information and words of comfort home.

The fall of the Berlin Wall. The Death of Ceausescu. McDonalds opening in Moscow.Things were happening. The steady collapse of communism throughout Europe inspired us and gave us, the youth, a clear objective. We wanted freedom – freedom to think and to breathe, to be treated as human beings, at least.

Eastern Europe was moving hurriedly on. But Milosevic was taking us in the opposite direction, revoking the autonomy of Kosovo, dismissing all Albanians from work in public sector posts, banning university and high school education in our native language and preventing us from attending classes in public school buildings. He was gradually establishing apartheid.

He tightened his grip using the Special Forces and the Yugoslav Army. The director-general of RTB (Radio Televizija Beograd) was behind him with all the necessary propaganda. Subsequently, RTB, RTNS (Radio Televizija Novi Sad) and RTP (Radio Televizioni i Prishtinës) were merged into a centralised Serb State Television RTS (Radio Televizija Serbija), which would do wonders for the enlightenment of the Serb people, who were convinced that they were the victims here.


Stones in our hearts

This was not on. It was about time that the Albanian students took to the streets. I was a tall 16-year-old, and instead of watching the students from my balcony, I joined in.

The march started peacefully. I remember walking through the streets of my hometown with firm steps, calling for equality, justice and freedom and thinking to myself: I am a grown up now, and I am demanding what is rightly mine.


But my contentment didn't last long. The Serbian Special Forces descended. Skirmishes ensued. And we soon found ourselves replying to tear gas with stones. When they began to use live ammunition, we fled. There was more shooting, more tear gas, more howling, more screaming. It was sheer mayhem.

People shouted at me from the distance: "Get away. Leg it, the police are coming. Run."


I watched them take their lives into their hands, stumbling, running blindly, and jumping into the white mist as if hiding beneath a duvet.




I could just about make out the black wall: a police cordon approaching, unearthly gas masks covering countless faces. They were getting closer and closer .... Then out of the ethereal haze, a little voice. A kid, no older than six. He held out an onion




I vividly remember the moment the tear gas hit me. I couldn't breathe. My movements were limited to a wobble. The ghosts of death started to whisper in my ear. A final sway slammed me down. I had hot rods in my eyes and my body was stuck in neutral; I was paralysed with fear. Eventually, I turned and looked up. I could just about make out the black wall: a police cordon approaching, unearthly gas masks covering countless faces. They were getting closer and closer, only about 100 metres away now. Fortunately, the world moved in slow motion.

Then out of the ethereal haze, a little voice. Then a shape. A kid, no older than six. He held out an onion.

An onion?


I looked back again. The police were only 50 metres away and were getting closer.

I’m done, I thought to myself. Goodbye cruel world, I've had it.


And yet, the kid remained by my side.


Who is this kid with the face of an angel, just standing here, his legs apart like a fearless nobleman in a duel, holding an onion?


Am I hallucinating because of the gas? I wondered.


Then through the screams I heard a voice shouting and getting louder:

"The onion. Take the bloody onion and eat it. Eat it!"


A second felt expandable. I could see the hand of a clock cascading: bang, bang, bang. The police were close now, their stomping feet in time with the seconds. I took the onion and took a bite.


I don't know who first discovered this, but it works. After a bite or two you can feel the blood rush through your veins. You can breathe. You can move.


And without giving it much thought, out of honour or duty, an instinct that fills you with the conviction that you are right propels you forward and you shout with all your might:


Kosova Republikë!

Kosova Republikë!

Kosova Republikë!

And then you leg it.

You run and run until you reach the brothers and sisters who want the same thing as you, until you reach out and feel the tenacity in their arms and shoulders and neck and sweat and tears, as someone leans with her back on yours and you feel each other's heavy heartbeat while your eyes scan for danger from all sides, until you feel you are in this together. All of you. Every single one of you. Together as one.

And then you start all over again – throwing stones, screaming away the injustice, blaring with the ache that has settled in your heart like a stone. The burden of lost childhood. You take that stone and clench it in your hand and you raise it and aim.

Police on the ground. Police in the air. Shooting at you from the safety of helicopters.

You see young boys and girls getting shot at, injured left, right and centre, but suddenly fear dissipates. You become immersed in pride, into one purpose, and your resolve grows greater. You're in the right, you’re fighting for freedom and nothing can stop you. You are untouchable. You are invincible. You stand in front of the police cordons and the Pinzgauer's like they were flakes of snow, comforted by the coldness of the stone you're holding in your hand.

As the stone gets warmer and the blood is spilled you let it go. The boy or the girl next to you is lying dead in the street. It could have been you, but it doesn't matter; in a way it is you. Some part of you. It has left forever but it will never leave your thoughts. Your anguish. Your dreams.

Nine people were killed that day. God knows how many were injured. We carried on with our demonstration until late at night.


The Special Forces laid siege to the area and cornered us in the Kodra e Trimave, the neighbourhood aptly called the Hill of the Brave.

For some, the stones of the cemetery hill had become their bed. Heroes. For an eternity.

I made it home, somehow, at dawn. Worry had devastated my mother.

I felt guilty for causing her such grief, but still, all I could say to her was: "Did we make it in the foreign news?"


The world had to know our plight. If the free world saw what was happening then someone, somewhere, would do something to help.


My mother took me into her arms and said: "The world means nothing to me if I lose you."


The warmth in her embrace would mean nothing to me either, if I lost faith in humanity.



Demonstrations in which the author participated in Pristina in 1989 [Afrim Hajrulahu]