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First off, I need to correct a couple of mistakes I made in my previous e-mails. I said that the meeting of Albanian leaders that took place here in Prizren last weekend would help decide the future of Kosova. That is not true. I have since learned that the meeting was not for political leaders, but for Albanian historians and intellectuals. They met to discuss the culture and the past of Kosova, not its future. However, the meeting was considered important because it is the first of its kind in 122 years. While Kosova was under the control of the Serbian government, Kosovars were not permitted to publicly discuss their history.
The meeting was held at a courtyard that I've passed several times on my way to the mountain trails. At one time, the courtyard contained statues of Albanian patriots. The Serbs destroyed those statues during the war. The courtyard also contained small yellow house that was being preserved because an important event in the history of Albania took place there. The Serbs burned it down. Prizren has rebuilt it and the opening ceremony coincided with last weekend's meeting.
I also said that hamburgers are nothing but bread and meat. That is also incorrect. I actually ordered one after I sent the e-mail. It contained tomatoes, shredded cabbage, fresh cucumbers, mayonnaise, and ketchup. I wanted mustard, but they don't seem to know what that is. I would ask them to hold the ketchup, but I'm not up to that kind of challenge. (It is challenging enough in America.) Fortunately, their ketchup is much weaker than ours. It is little more than tomato sauce. They told me I could have an okay burger for 1 DM or a really good burger for 2 DM. Being a wealthy spoiled American, I of course ordered the 2 DM burger. They then told me that because I paid 2 DM, they made it just like McDonald's. I just nodded my head, smiled, and ate my cabbage cucumber burger.
On Friday, the doctors invited us to return to the hospital for another visit. Outside, I noticed that the ambulance still had a flat tire. Now, the Yugo emergency vehicle also had a flat tire. You would think that such a sight would trouble the local populace, but since the hospital contains little more than a stethoscope and a scale, I suppose that having an operational emergency vehicle wouldn't do much to lower your insurance premium. I brought with me from America: a box of cloth bandages, two tubes of Neosporin, a U.S. Army surgical kit, and a First Aid kit. That might be more supplies than the hospital contains. If you have an emergency, rather than looking for the hospital, you'd probably be better off looking for Rick's duffel bag. I can recall very few medical emergencies that could have been alleviated with a scale.
This time, we met with only four doctors. Again, they offered me Turkish coffee. This time I refused. They didn't accept my refusal easily. They brought in a little portable propane burner that they used to make the coffee. We were in a different examination room, but it didn't look any better than the other one. There was a changing curtain, an antiquated sink, a broken desk, and the remains of a few chairs. The doctor in charge sat on a short wooden chair with two naked metal prongs where the back used to be. Of course, there was no equipment. One thing it contained that American examination rooms do not, was an ashtray.
We talked for half an hour. Like an idiot, I tried to explain the American Medicaid system to them. I don't think saying the word "Medicaid" slowly and repeatedly quite did the job. The older doctor did most of the talking. She is from Russia. She moved here after meeting and then marrying a Turkish man in Bulgaria.
During our earlier visit, I had asked her about the prevalence of hepatitis in Prizren. I was a bit concerned, because I had ignored WEI's recommendation to get a shot for hepatitis A before leaving the U.S. She did not understand what I was asking at first, but once it sank in, she leaned back, looked at the ceiling, and said, "Hepatitis! Oh, yes! We have much hepatitis. We have hepatitis A, hepatitis B, hepatitis C, hepatitis D, and hepatitis E. We have five kinds of hepatitis. Yes, yes, we have hepatitis everywhere!" By this point, I had turned white. I could feel a valve slam shut somewhere inside me. No more food would be entering my digestive tract for the remainder of my trip. I had two cookies left that I had brought with me from America. I started wondering how I could ration them through the end of July. I asked her what I should do to protect myself. She shrugged and said that I should wash my hands often and not drink the tap water. The WEI folks had told me the water is perfectly safe, so I had already been chugging it down in my apartment. I'm not a doctor, but I really didn't think that you could get hepatitis from tap water, anyway. I'm still skeptical, but I've started buying bottled water.
After "work", I walked with Ken to his apartment. He lives in an apartment building like mine. Although he claims he lives on the fourth floor, I noticed that we always climb five flights of stairs. There are no lights whatsoever in the stairwell. At a certain point, it becomes pitch black. Other people were scampering up and down the steps like cats, but I was cautiously feeling for each step with my toes. On the inside of the stairwell, there is no handrail, but only little iron nubs sticking up where a handrail used to be. If you forget and reach out, instead of the handrail, you are more likely to feel the bony arm of the grim reaper come to take you home. An image of a Yugo ambulance with a flat tire suddenly flashed through my mind. Nonetheless, the overwhelming stench of urine dissuaded me from hugging the opposite wall.
Having survived the stairs, we reached Ken's apartment. On the door to the apartment next to Ken's, I noticed a letter-sized piece of paper that was white with a green border. There was a picture of a woman in one corner and some print in several languages, but not English. I had seen many of these throughout the city stuck to trees, windows, bulletin boards, etc. I knew that elections are coming up in October, so I assumed they were campaign posters. I asked Ken if that poster meant that his neighbor was running for office. No, he explained, those posters are not of candidates but of dead people. When someone dies, death notices are posted in places where friends and family members are likely to be. He said that the death notice had not been on the door earlier that morning when he left for work. However, he did not recognize the woman in the picture and so was not sure if she had been his neighbor. I noticed that in the picture, the woman was wearing army fatigues and holding a machine gun. I didn't think there had been any combat deaths in quite some time, but as I am learning, this country contains hazards other than flying bullets. There is no telling how many bodies of former building residents are at the bottom of that stairwell.
Ken's apartment is not nearly as nice as mine. It contains a small living room and an even smaller bedroom with a couch that folds out into a bed. The living room also contains a small kitchen sink, refrigerator, and stove. When the door to the bedroom is open, you can't use the sink. To make things worse, the apartment is filled with the landlady's belongings because she claims she has nowhere else to keep them. Most of the closet space is taken up with her clothes. Even the refrigerator is filled with her food, leaving Ken with just enough room for some juice. It's really quite pathetic. Unlike me, Ken is paying rent for his apartment, but he is a very quiet, timid man, and is hesitant to complain.
On Saturday morning, one of the doctors showed up at the WEI office for an English lesson. She told me that she should probably not stay for the whole hour because it was Saturday and she was the only doctor on duty at the hospital. While we were reading the lesson, I kept imagining a man hurriedly pushing another man up to the front of the hospital in a wheelbarrow -- remember the Yugo with a flat tire -- and yelling, "Where'd the doctor go?! This man needs to be weighed right away!"
She was the only student I had on Saturday. At 10:00, I met Festim at my apartment. Festim is Albanian for "festival" or "celebration." Festim is a former WEI student I met earlier in the week. He had taken me to the Internet center and showed me how to reserve a computer. If not for Festim, you might not be reading this e-mail.
He just turned 19, but has the maturity level of a 25-year-old. You'd mature fast too if you went through all that he has gone through during the last two years as the eldest child of a family of seven kids. He invited me to travel to his village on Saturday to meet his family. I happily agreed.
I knew that the Serbian army had burned down his family's home and all that they owned, so I wanted Festim to go to the market with me and help me pick out some food to take to his family, but he was insistent that it wasn't necessary. Across the street from my apartment, we boarded a bus that would take us out to the countryside. The bus fare was only 2 DM apiece. I felt guilty for causing Festim to take the bus all the way into town just to escort me to his village; I could have caught the bus on my own. I tried to pay for my own bus fare and he almost had a nervous fit. He insisted on paying because I was his guest.
Along the way, Festim pointed out the spot where 79 Kosovar civilians were killed. He explained that Serbian soldiers had forced them out of their village and were marching them towards Prizren. A NATO reconnaissance plane flew overhead and spotted the Serbian soldiers but must not have noticed the civilians. The soldiers knew what would happen next, so they dispersed and left the Kosovars just standing there. NATO bombers then hit the site, killing the civilians, but not harming any Serbian soldiers.
We were on the bus for only 20 minutes. We then walked about a mile down a rural road. Along the way, we came upon a rusty pipe sticking out of the ground. Water was coming out. Festim said it came straight from the mountains and that I should try it. "No thank you, Festim."
During most of our walk, Festim told me horror stories from the war. As soon as we entered his village of Leshan, I started seeing the remains of burned out houses. They were all made of brick, so most of the walls were still standing, but they had no roofs or windows. The Serbian soldiers had burned almost every house in the village except for a few that belonged to Serbs. Many of them had bright red roofs, indicating that they had been rebuilt, but others had been abandoned. Everywhere I walked, I could smell burnt wood. On a wall I saw some graffiti left behind by Serbian soldiers. Festim told me that it said that Kosovo is part of Yugoslavia. Another section said that Clinton did "er . . . uh . . something" to Monica.
Festim told me what happened to his village and his family during the war. Leshan did not contain members of the Kosovar Liberation Army. The village leaders told the KLA to not bother the Serbian families living in Leshan and to not do anything else that would cause the Serbian army to seek retribution in Leshan. However, the village on the next hill contained a large number of KLA soldiers. The Serbian soldiers encamped on the opposite hill with the village of Leshan in between them and the KLA. During the night, the Serbian soldiers would retreat and the KLA would control the entire area. But during the day, the Serbs would fire rockets at the KLA camp. Festim's family could stand in their yard and watch the rockets fly over their heads. Festim would time them with his watch. He said that from the time it was fired, it would take 16 seconds for a rocket to reach the KLA hillside. The rocket bombardment continued for two weeks. It wasn't until several months later that they were able to clear the KLA out of the neighboring village. The Serbian army then moved into Leshan. By that time, Leshan had filled with refugees from other villages.
Festim hoped that because his village had protected its Serbian residents from the KLA, they would now protect them from the Serbian army, but Festim's father knew the Serbs would do nothing to help. Festim's family decided to gather with other families at the schoolhouse. Their thinking was that if everyone gathered together in one place, it would be more difficult for the Serbian army to kill them because they would not be able to hide the evidence. If they all stayed in their homes, the soldiers would go door to door shooting them and burning their bodies along with the houses. Approximately 600 people assembled at the schoolhouse. One of the Serbian villagers brought the soldiers there. At gunpoint, they were forced to shout pro-Yugoslavian slogans. Festim assumed that they were all about to be executed, but then a commander appeared and gave the order to march the people out of town and towards Albania. Festim said that as he walked along the road, houses were already burning and he could feel the heat on his body.
Festim's family walked to Prizren and then on to a refugee camp in Albania. They lived in a tent until the Serbian army pulled out of Kosova and they were told it was safe to return to their home. When they returned, they weren't surprised to find their home burned. A small tool shed had been spared, so Festim's mother and two sisters slept there. The rest of the family slept in a tent. They lived like that for several weeks until a relief organization helped them restore their roof.
Along the walk to Festim's house, we passed a memorial for the villagers killed by the Serbian soldiers. They were people who did not go to the schoolhouse, but hid in their homes. There were 19 names on the memorial plack. Three of them had the same last name. They were brothers -- all of them teenagers. I noticed that two people were born in the 1920's. One man was born in 1912. Festim knew most of these people. All of Festim's immediate family survived, but one of his cousins was killed in a nearby village.
I entered Festim's house and met his entire family except for his father, Safet, who arrived later. They offered me Turkish coffee. I had to say "no" three times. (I can see that this is going to be a continuing struggle.) They brought me tea, instead. There was a small couch just big enough for Festim and me. The other kids sat on the floor on foam mats given to them to sleep on by a relief organization. There was also a small dinner table with chairs. The concrete walls were bare except for a small copper etching of an Albanian military leader in history and a poster containing pictures of Tony Blair, Bill Clinton, and Madeline Albright (sp?) along with the words "Thank You!". They had recently been given new windows made of finished pine that looked quite nice and so clashed with the rest of the house. The door was also new. The roof was new, but I could still smell burnt wood. Only half the house had been restored. The other half was a scorched skeleton. The half that they are living in has a crack in one wall running from floor to ceiling. As a result, the relief engineers rate the house as a class 5 structure on a scale of 1 to 5.
Before eating lunch, Festim's sister brought me a wash basin and poured water over my hands from a pitcher. They do not have running water. They only recently had electricity restored. There was a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.
For lunch, we had salad made of shredded cabbage, tomatoes, and cucumbers with oil. The main course was a stew made of ground beef, rice, and potatoes that was quite tasty. There were ample slices of freshly baked bread. There were not enough bowls, so some of the kids were eating from the same ones. For dessert, they gave me something made of rice, milk, and sugar. It was like runny rice pudding. It was good and extremely filling. My fears of hepatitis were running wild, but after all this family had been through, I didn't have the nerve to tell them I wouldn't eat because I was afraid they would poison me.
Safet had arrived in time to eat with us. He is a school teacher making 200 DM ($100) a month. That is the family's only income.
After eating, Safet and Festim took me for a walk in the hills. It was really beautiful. The hillsides were interspersed with half acre fields of wheat and grape vines. The hills are steep enough for Festim to ski in the winter. He pointed out every ski run and every jump. From atop the highest hill, we could see the entire village of Leshan below us. Behind us, we could see the city of Prizren and beyond it, the mountain peaks. Beyond Leshan, we could see other hillsides. Here and there the hillsides would be covered with red speckles. Those were roofs indicating a different village. Festim would point to each one, tell me the name of the village and how many people were killed there. Safet insisted on having his picture taken with me with his village behind us.
We climbed up and down a few more hills, through a peach orchard, across the middle of a wheat field, and then came to another field of grape vines. There were five rows, separated by potato plants. Festim told me the vines belonged to his family. His father bought that piece of ground 20 years ago and planted the vines. I asked if they sell grapes and Festim said no. His family consumes all that they grow. They make their own jam, preserves, and wine from the grapes.
Safet's grapes are very neatly tended. You could take a picture and slap it on the front of a Gallo wine bottle. However, there were several more rows of grapes beyond Safet's that were overgrown with weeds. Festim told me that field belonged to a Serb. He had fled the village before the Albanian Kosovars returned because of fear of retaliation. Now, no one cares for his vines. It really bothered me to see them going to waste and I kept pressing Festim for an explanation of why someone doesn't tend them and pick the grapes. He acted like the Serb's property was of no concern to him. He said that the shepherds and the local children would eat the grapes, but other than that, people will just let them be.
There was a wire fence separating the two grape fields. Festim drew my attention to two plum trees near the end of the fence row. He said that they belonged to his family. One day, he saw the Serb moving the fence so that the plum trees would be on his property. Festim told his father. Safet told him to just forget about it and not cause any trouble. It frustrated Festim to sit by and watch the Serb steal their plum trees. Festim grinned and told me, "But now the Serb is gone, the trees are once again on our side of the fence, and there are no more problems." I didn't know whether Festim realized he had just set forth an allegory for the entire Albanian/Serb conflict, but I didn't bother trying to point it out.
Festim walked with me back to the bus stop and then rode with me in a van back to Prizren. Again, I felt guilty having him pay to travel to Prizren only to turn around and go back, but he insisted. Thankfully, he allowed me to pay for my own fare.
By now you must be thinking that I am an insensitive ugly American for allowing a family of former refugees to pay for me to travel to their home and then feed me. But it gets worse. I invited Festim into my apartment. I then asked him to fiddle with my TV and satellite in an attempt to find CNN. It didn't occur to me what I had done until after he had left. Yes, I had invited a man into my home who has one shirt and is living in a burned-out hovel and complained to him that my satellite dish won't pick up as many channels as I think it should. Before I go home, I think I should try once more to send some groceries to his family. Yes?
Festim has graduated from school and is now desperate to find a way to go to America to attend college. He asked me several times if I knew how he could accomplish this. I didn't have a clue. I knew I would meet people here who would ask for help in getting to America. WEI tells us not to encourage them, because that is not what we are here for. However, I would at least like to be able to give Festim some helpful advice.
Festim has taken a Pascal computer course and now wants to get a degree in computer science. He is EXTREMELY eager. His English is okay and he said he made very good grades in school. I have no idea what to tell him. I know that all colleges in America have foreign students. In fact, Pepperdine has the largest percentage of foreign students of any American college. But I don't know how a foreign student applies, pays tuition, or applies for a student visa. If anybody reading this has any ideas, please let me know.