Hope From the Kosovars: WMF Reflections from our May 1999 Albania visit with the Kosovar Refugees
This report details the travel experiences and reflections from our trip to Albania. As I am sure you are well aware, there is a terrible tragedy taking place in the Balkans. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, ethnic pride and nationalism in Europe have resurfaced in bold aggression to reclaim past homelands and to secure ethnic identities.
Old national hatreds have manifested themselves before in Serbia and in Bosnia; again they are surfacing in Serbia's attempts to claim control over the people of Kosovo.
The Serbian government is attempting to wipe out ethnic Albanians in Kosovo by forcing them out of their homes through murder, rape, and destruction of financial records, birth certificates, marriage licenses, and other legal documents so that no future claims by Albanians can be exercised in Kosovo.
This ethnic cleansing has driven many Kosovars into the neighboring countries of Albania (the poorest country in Europe) and Macedonia. At a Pentagon press briefing on Saturday April 10th, the assistant to Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stated that as many as 1.5 million of the 1.8 million ethnic Albanians in Kosovo are displaced within Kosovo and in neighboring countries.
Due to overwhelming poverty, Albania simply does not have the resources and infrastructure to cope with such a burden. What is currently being done for the refugees is hopelessly inadequate. Our hearts go out to these men, women, and children suffering… suffering simply because of their ethnic background.
During May 3-12, 1999 four of us from Word Made Flesh traveled to Albania to get first-hand exposure to the Kosovo refugee crisis in Albania.
Phileena Heuertz, (Director of Child Advocacy), Brent Anderson (Director of Administration), Kyle Schroeder (Board Member), and myself traveled together on a mission of mercy and compassion to see what could be done to help.
Because of the NATO bombing of Serbia, all airspace over the Balkans has been closed to commercial airline use. Therefore, we had to fly into Athens, Greece. From Athens we took a domestic flight to the Greek island of Corfu. From Corfu we traveled by ferry into the southwestern Albanian port town of Saranda.
“It was impossible to overlook the overwhelming sense of dissappointment I saw in the people's eyes” This morning we woke up early in order to get to the port in time for our ferry ride into Albania. It was a very pleasant 90 minute journey across the Ionaian Sea. Once in Albania, we were met by Nicole Thrasher (Pathfinders Missionary) and Tami Drenk (YWAM).
We weren't sure what to expect. Nicole is 26 years old, driven and determined. Tami is 21 years old, enthusiastic, and a much needed support for Nicole. They are both Americans, both overwhelmed and overworked by the refugee crisis, and both extremely self-sacrificing. Saranda is a nice town on the southwestern coast of Albania with a population of 10,000 and over 2,500 Kosovar refugees struggling to make this their temporary home.
Once off the ferry we were up and running. Dropped our back-packs off at the hotel and immediately found ourselves at one of the major Kosovo refugee camps in town.
They called it the “Hotel”. There were more than 600 people (over 400 of them children) packed into an old dilapidated building lacking proper sanitation facilities.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. Many of the Kosovars were outside- children everywhere playing in the grassy slopes and elderly sitting on mats and rugs deep in conversation. Men between the ages of 16-45 were noticeably absent. As we walked into what would be our first exposure to the refugee camps, It was impossible to overlook the overwhelming sense of disappointment I saw in people's eyes.
Elderly men and women lined the way as we walked up the steps to the “Hotel”. An older woman reached out for Phileena and embraced her. Phileena was nearly in tears as this precious woman held her tenderly. She was weak and needed assistance to climb the steps into the camp. Phileena took her by the hand, helping her up the stairs as we entered.
Our first task was to help Nicole and Tami pass shoes out to the families. They had been distributing footwear to each of the families, one floor at a time. Many of the refugees had literally worn large holes in their shoes during the exodus from their homeland into Albania. Again all I could see was disappointment in the eyes of the people.
The shoes were donated from Italy. They were old and used. Many didn't have a match. The sizes were too large or too small for many of the people, and there just wasn't enough for everyone. To make it worse, summer was rapidly approaching and most of the shoes were formal (high heals) or winter shoes. Hardly anything practical was available to these people and those that came first took the best, leaving the pitiful, sad remains for the last families on each floor.
I recalled an article a friend of mine, Shane Clark, had sent me several years ago.
“When faced with an opportunity to give to the poor, sadly we look for our worst and not our best to offer. We empty our closets of the clothes we have 'out-grown', the shoes that have lost their soles, and the ever-popular fly-collared polyester leisure suits we are just sure the poor will love. We then add to this the disregarded cob-web covered treasures found in our attics of excess and we are ready-ready for a garage sale. Here we can make enough money from the best of our worst to purchase something better than our best, sending the lesser to the now vacant attic in preparations for our next garage sale. Those things left over after the sale (the worst of the worst) we are happy to box up for the poor-only if an agency that deals with those people will pick it up at our convenience. Ohhhh… isn't it more blessed to give than to receive”.
After helping with the shoes we went to work on cleaning up the kitchen. The kitchen was an unfinished room. The floor was covered with broken glass from the windows being shot out during the war in 1996. There were piles of stones, rocks, and dust from the building crumbling from the inside out. We took bundles of straw to be used as brooms and shovels to help clean up. As soon as we tried to pitch in, the Kosovars took our tools and wouldn't let us do the work. They wanted to do it for themselves. We tried to help but they insisted. So we spent time playing with the children, learning to count to 10 in the Albanian language, and trying to communicate through their limited and broken English.
While in Saranda we met up with Mick Davie, an Australian filmmaker from National Geographic (to read his dispatches from the field visit http://www.ngnews.com/kosovo/). His words paint the picture so much clearer than I could hope mine would, “Never in my life have I seen such grace in the face of such adversity, or heard laughter like a waterfall tumbling down the steps of a burned-out building, or seen such a warm glow of courage in eyes which may never see home again. Six hundred Kosovar refugees have been crushed into a crumbling hotel. The walls are peeling, the holes are dark, and water from burst pipes covers the floors.” Such a place of contrast. So much beauty yet so much despair. So much grieving amidst so much hope.
After lunch we went back to our hotel and spent a couple hours with a Kosovar refugee, listening to his story. Rexhep, around 33 years old, spoke nearly perfect English. Generously, he sat with us and told us his story. He had been a school teacher in a village near Prizren before the Serbian government closed the Kosovar schools down. The Serbian police came to his town, “It is still like a nightmare. We left 2 minutes before they got
to our house. We saw houses burning. They were killing… 2 minutes and it would have been us.”
He and his family hastily gathered what they could and began a journey that would change their lives forever. At times he had to carry his own mother because she was unable to walk any further. There was an icy stream that he and the other men had to wade through barefoot carrying the women, children, and elderly across in attempts to flee the Serbs. “We were advised to separate and leave our women. I said, 'How could we?' We started to climb a mountain together. They began shelling us. I had never been shelled before, I didn't know how to direct my family. Many did not want to climb. They wanted to hide, hoping they would live.”
Rexhep said that while in the refugee convoy, the Serbian para-military used the refugees as human shields driving along side the lines of people, fully aware NATO wouldn't stop their movement. He shared about times hiding in the forests and hiding in vehicles while in the refugee convoys. The Serbs would single men out from among the refugees and arrest or kill them. “Men were being separated from the women. The pretty women were raped. The Serbs picked the richest and took their cars, jewelry, anything. They took women's clothes off. Horrible things they did.”
He shared stories of children being killed in front of their parents, women being taken from the refugee convoys to be raped-those who resisted were shot on the spot, and shared with us about how everyone's identity documents were taken from them and destroyed. “The soldiers wanted our passports. They didn't allow us to keep anything that would identify us as Kosovars.”
We sat there, visibly moved, not sure what to say and hesitant to ask for any more than he was ready to share.
Sure, we had all heard these same kinds of things on the news, but listening to Rexhep's trembling voice and seeing his teary eyes made this tragedy all the more real to us.
As he shared the horror of his tale he remained positive, “Hope is everything at the moment”… I thought “hope”? Hope for what? To return to homes that have been looted and torn apart? To return to villages that have been burnt to the ground? To return to towns that are scattered with decomposing dead bodies and strewn with landmines? To return to cities that have poisoned water supplies? Hope is all they have at the moment… what kind of hope is it?
Leaving the Balkans I was most impressed with the deep sense of hope the Kosovar people hold on to. I don't know if it's a typical part of their culture or if it's the fruit of their state as a displaced people. Regardless, nearly everyone I spoke to shared with me their hope to return to their homes and their hope for peace.
Rexhep cried because his brother was still missing. He cried when he thought about those who were still left in Kosovo and the stories he's heard about the starvation and suffering others were experiencing. When we gave him money to help his family he cried as he remembered an elderly refugee man who had been trying to sell his wife's wedding ring for money for food… and he told us, with tears in his eyes, he would give the money to that man.
We prayed with Rexhep, praying that God would help find his brother and that the Kosovar people would be able to return home soon.
After our encounter with Rexhep we were all emotionally exhausted. Nicole and Tami came back to the hotel where we were staying and took us to the largest refugee camp in Saranda.
This camp was in an abandoned building still under construction pressed against the sea shore. No windows or doors, just large sheets of clear plastic blowing in the openings that prevented any privacy for the families at this facility. This camp was as crowded as the first with more than 800 people trying to find a “home” in one of the small rooms.
We walked into a large hall where 80 or so women and children were gathered around singing Kosovar patriotic songs about their homeland and about the KLA (Kosovo Liberation Army) who is fighting to free it. Very moving.
Next, we were taken into one of the refugee's rooms: bare walls, a couple beds (not enough for everyone, so most had to sleep on the concrete floors). We listened to the family share about their concern for their children's future. Not a single complaint, just concern for their children.
These refugees had been in Saranda for 4 weeks and seemed much more “settled” than the Kosovars at the “Hotel” (who had been in Saranda for only 2 weeks) They were not as distant and depressed-maybe some of the initial “shock” had worn off.
That night reflecting on our first day in Albania, I didn't know how to sort through the exposure, the stories of horror and pain, and the terrible living conditions of the refugees. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would have been, but at the same time it was worse than I ever could have imagined. The people were resilient- believing in a hope that they would soon be home, not complaining but concerned for their children. They all wanted us to know the truth- that the Serbs in fact were engaged in a torturous and systematic ethnic cleansing of a people now displaced.
From Durres to Tirana, the natural beauty of Albania seemed to fade as the sight of wartime spectacles took control of the scenery.
Early this morning we checked out of our hotel in Saranda and boarded a bus headed north to the capital city of Albania, Tirana. The Albanian countryside was perhaps the most beautiful I had ever seen. Lush, green forests covered the mountains. Small, quaint villages scattered the landscape. Brilliant blue streams wove back and forth throughout the journey. Colorful wild flowers sprinkling the roadside pointing to the heaven of their creative Maker.
After nearly 8 hours on the bus we came to the coastal town, Durres. From Durres into Tirana, the natural beauty of Albania seemed to fade as the sight of wartime spectacles took control of the scenery. The explosions of the NATO bombers breaking the sound barrier as they flew into Serbian airspace was not only heard but felt.
The American Apache combat helicopters flew overhead signaling a sobering reality of the war at hand. Other helicopters airlifting canons and refugee aid cut through the skies with their thundering sounds. The roads were shared with military vehicles (jeeps, personnel trucks, fuel tankers). And many of the NATO forces had set up army bases along the major roads including the Americans, Italians, Germans, and the British. Tirana was a city on alert and the tension could be felt in the air.
We got off the bus at its last stop and a 13 year old Albanian boy wearing a University of Michigan sweatshirt walked straight up to us. “Hi, I'm Arbi”, he said in perfect English, and brought us to his home. He lived in what was considered a “rough” part of town. When we pulled up to the apartment where he and his widowed mother lived, we were met by a Kosovar refugee family huddled against the side of the building. Two children were left with what appeared to be this family's sole remaining possessions neatly stacked under a large rug outside against the wall.
Up several flights of stairs, we finally arrived at what would be our “home” in Tirana. Arbi's mother, though she didn't speak any English, welcomed us with open arms and a beaming smile. Embracing each of us, she kissed our cheeks, as we entered their small, one bedroom apartment. We knew that God had provided a place of peace and rest for us in a city marked by tension and strife.
The place was simple and cozy, similar to the other block housing units I had visited in other former Eastern European Communist countries. Immediately Mrs. Valiej sat us down and prepared a delicious meal of salad, bread, vegetables, and beef for us. We broke bread together with this dear fam
ily getting acquainted over a much appreciated home-cooked meal.
After dinner we took a walk through the center of Tirana. Just outside Arbi's apartment building, a Kosovar family approached us with an address scribbled on a crumbled piece of paper, asking for directions. Recently expelled from Kosovo and desperate, they were on the streets of Tirana looking for help from friends or family in the area. So sad. So hard to put myself in their place.
Families had staked their claim to 8 x 8 square foot sections of the gym floor where they ate, slept, spent their days, and stored all their possessions. Our first stop today was at the AEP, VuSH, and Crisis Center offices. The AEP (the Albanian Encouragement Project) is an umbrella organization for the evangelical ministries and para-church organizations working in the country. The VuSH (the Vellazeria Ungjillore e Shqiperise or the Albanian Evangelical Alliance) serves a similar purpose as the AEP, but exists for the churches of Albania. And the Crisis Center is the joining of the AEP and VuSH to help manage the refugee situation by networking the Albanian churches with foreign and local mission groups, evangelical ministries, and para-church organizations throughout Albania.
We were encouraged to see a sense of cooperation rather than competition as the body of Christ in Albania has come together to address and minister to the needs of the Kosovo refugee crisis in a well-coordinated effort.
Before leaving these offices, we were introduced to a 24 year old Albanian man, Dritan, who would serve as our translator while in Tirana.
Dritan is a confident young man, very quiet, and a little reserved. Currently a medical student at one of the major universities in Albania, Dritan hopes to eventually use his medical training to serve the Lord.
With Dritan, the five of us set out for the Transit Center where the newly arrived refugees in Tirana are registered and sent to camps throughout the country.
The Transit Center is at the Palliti i Sportit, formerly a sports arena. Walking into the parking lot was staggering as the sheer numbers of people assaulted my senses and opened my eyes to the enormity of this crisis. There were as many as 5,000 refugees crowding the floors and bleachers of a dimly-lit, old wooden floored gymnasium. Absolutely no privacy for anyone.
Families had staked their claim to 8 x 8 square foot sections of the gym floor where they ate, slept, spent their days, and stored all their possessions. The conditions were deplorable. Again I was astonished at the number of children, little boys and girls everywhere with very little adult supervision.
Sitting about half way up the bleachers, we made our plan. We decided to interview some of the refugees, giving them a chance to tell their story and to make a plea to the Church in America as to what their needs and prayers were. Our commitment was then to take these stories and requests home with us and share them with whoever would listen.
Dritan and Kyle approached the first of many refugees we would interact with. Her name was Flora. She was 23 years old. She was a Muslim. She had long, dark hair that was pulled back in a hair clip. Her big dark eyes pleaded with us telling a story of pain and hopelessness Her shyness indicated the shame she must have felt as one who was in need. Flora sat with us and as Dritan translated her words, she told us her sad story.
In Kosovo her family seemed to live very comfortably. She had been studying Biology at a local university near Pristina. She was engaged. Her fiancé was in Switzerland and now was unable to contact her.
It all started when the Serbian para-military forces arrived in her village. They were given 2 hours to pack and evacuate their homes. Any valuables, including jewelry was taken from the people, “The Serbs stole from us, taking any money we had. They said if we refused to give them our ID they would kill us.”
Flora and her family, 16 members including aunts and cousins, started their own trail of tears to the Albanian border. “The journey was horrible. There wasn't much food. There were two full days of travel without anything to eat or drink. In the dark I was afraid of the night. We feared young girls being raped. We were afraid they would take our fathers.”
Flora saw a girl in the convoy shot dead on the spot because she wouldn't volunteer her body to the Serbian soldiers. Flora recalls, “On the way through customs a woman that refused to be raped was killed, another was strangled.”
It seemed to get worse and worse, “The Serbs refused to let us bury the bodies of our dead and they wouldn't let us take them with us. Every 100 meters there was a military post… we were never sure what as going to happen to us.”
Flora remained composed as she shared the horrible details of their departure from Kosovo. It was obvious under her quiet restraint was a very hurting and wounded young woman. I wanted her to know it was okay for her to cry… but she had probably already cried enough tears to realize things were not going to change soon enough.
Flora left us with a request, an imploration, a plea, “If you can help us…help us find a way out. No one can live like this…”
After Flora finished sharing her heart, we spoke shortly with her older sister Shala. Shala wouldn't answer any questions, she simply wanted to know if America was so powerful then why were they allowing this tragedy to take place. We all sat there unable to answer her despairing question. Face to face with Kosovars it dawned on me the perception they must have. By not sending in ground troops NATO was not willing to sacrifice the lives of their own. Rather, NATO was willing to continue to sacrifice the lives of the Kosovars.
While we were talking with Flora and Shala several children had gathered around us. The children were also eager to tell their stories.
So sad to hear from such young ones. The stories were laced with brutality and murder. Images children should never be exposed to.
Before leaving the Transit Center we spoke with one more refugee. She was an older woman with tired eyes and deep wrinkles cut in her face. Asebe wore a loose white floral-print blouse, a red sweater vest, a long dress, and a red and navy blue bandanna around her head.
Asebe also lived in a village near Prizren with her family of 6. Her story started much like the others,
“At 1:00 a.m. the soldiers came and drove us out by force. First we went to our neighbors, still the soldiers came and with their guns at our throats forced us to move.”
She spoke very slowly, very deliberately, “The women were divided from the men. My family is all together with the exception of my boy…” Asebe wasn't sure where her son was, very likely another victim of Serbian ethnic cleansing, but she hoped for the best. “I don't know about my boy, he is probably fighting for the KLA.”
There was nothing left for her, “The soldiers all wore masks. They had a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. They asked us to give them whatever we had or they would kill us. I didn't have much. I was afraid. I was going to give them my ring but the soldier didn't want it. He wanted more.” Asebe began crying.
“We want the war to end. We want to go back to our home”. She continued weeping. Asebe embraced each one of us, kissing us on the cheek and holding our face in her hands like a tender mother looking at her own children. She turned and walked away, still crying, with her head down. Our hearts broke with hers.
After several hours of interaction with those at the Transit Center, we were shocked. The tales of injustice and ethnic cleansing were too horrible to believe, but consistently confirmed by each new face and each new story.
Unsure we could handle much more, we took a taxi to the Tent City. The Tent Cit
y is a large lakeside refugee camp in Tirana. As many as 6,000 refugees live there in olive green army tents set up with less than 2 feet between them.
The camp is built on what used to be a large public swimming pool and divided in 3 sections. We walked through the main section of tents to the back corner near the kitchen and sat down on a stone terrace to collect our thoughts.
It was too much to bear. The nightmare begins every time they wake up. In sleep some are able to forget, but when dawn breaks the shocking reality of this tragedy hits them. How many times in my travels have I woken up to find myself startled at the realization that I'm not in my own bed but in a strange land? I can't imagine the disappointment many of the Kosovars feel when they wake up only to be hit with the sobering reality of where they are and what has happened to them. How many have woken up in the camps, sure that all this had been a bad dream, only to realize that they're not at home and this isn't a nightmare but a tragic reality? Our nightmares come to us in our sleep- theirs come when they awake.
At that moment my thoughts were interrupted, an older man was standing outside his tent and Dritan asked if he would be willing to speak to us. The man said something to Dritan in Albanian, and we were told he didn't have much time so it had to be quick.
His name was Halil Fazliu, a soft spoken and gentle man. He was from the city of Peche and had worked as a construction worker at a school before the war in Yugoslavia started.
His family was given 20 minutes to get out of town. They were put on buses that were later stolen by the Serbs. Once the buses were taken, the people were forced to walk to the boarder, carrying everything they had tried to escape with. On the way to Albania, Halil saw 16 dead bodies in a ditch beside the road. Fear, disappointment, frustration.
“I just want to go home…” he was saying as a young woman with light brown hair and a sweet smile came out of Halil's tent. She spoke to Halil in Albanian and then carried bricks over for us to sit down on. Gita was 24 years old, one of Halil's daughters and one of 48 members in his family that was living in this camp.
Others came out and were introduced. Geni, Halil's 33 year old son-in-law and his wife Merita. Valentina, Geni's 16 year old sister also came out and sat with us.
Soon the family in tent #191, 8 Kosovar refugees, were sitting with us sharing their stories. They were all part of the same family and had made the exodus from Peche to Albania together. A middle-class family, they were shocked by the poverty of Europe's poorest country, Albania.
I looked around, a cold rain was falling lightly as children oblivious to their current situation played blissfully around us. Everyone who walked by wore tattered and dirty shoes, deteriorated by miles and miles of walking in columns of refugees. There was a sense of disappointment throughout the camp, but still the people believed they would be home soon. Hope was alive.
Listening to the family tell of their previous life, I felt as though I could relate to them. They were a working middle-class family, displaced and destitute. The stories continued.
Meanwhile, unaware to us, Geni's widowed mother Mrs. Ramadani had been making bread on the small camping stove issued to each of the families. She brought out the soft, warm bread on a plate and served us… We tried to refuse knowing they needed it much more than we did. But she insisted. As we slowly chewed the offering, tears fell down our cheeks.
The love and generosity of this impoverished woman was overwhelming. The hospitality was just beginning. After the bread Valentina prepared piping hot Turkish coffee for us.
Soft bread, hot coffee, salty tears, and warm fellowship.
The cold rain fell harder. They invited us into their tent. As we sat on the cots they used for sleeping, water covered the ground. Ashamed of the inadequacy of their living conditions, they pointed to the leaking sides and laughed. They spoke to us of the injustices within the camp, the promises never fulfilled by the aid organizations, and we yearned to be a voice for this voiceless family.
As evening began to set in we needed to head home. We said our good-byes and thanked them for sharing their time with us. We made plans to see them again tomorrow.
Our first day in the Tent City began what would become a very meaningful relationship with a Muslim family I have grown to love.
I wanted to ask them what they had brought with them, and what they wished they had brought.
Today held a similar agenda to Friday's course of events. We went back to the Transit Center to visit Flora, the children, and Asebe. It was good to recognize some familiar faces, considering that we too were also in a strange land. Good to be able to follow-up to see how they were doing. Good to move on from a more formal setting of the interviews to an informal and personal setting based on the beginnings of a friendship.
We met another child this afternoon. His story contained great fear. His home was bombed by the Serbian air force. He had to hide with his family until it was safe to flee Kosovo. The sadness in his eyes told us more about his plight than did his words.
We then went back to the Tent City to visit our friends. They were waiting for us and immediately brought out a little table Beni, Gita's brother, had made. Everyone sat around the table and Dritan translated for us.
Gita brought out a small photo album. She began flipping through the pages showing us the life she once lived. There were photos of her working in a clothing store. There were wedding pictures of her sister who was still missing in Kosovo. There were shots of her and her friends all dressed up in their formal gowns for a big event. It was almost as if we were looking at the story of our own lives here in the States. All the elements were there: a nice home town, good friends, special family moments, and celebrations worth being remembered.
I was glad that she had somehow thought, in spite of the panic and fear, to pack pictures. Though the longing for her life in Kosovo must have overwhelmed her while she shared the photos with us, the memories seemed to bring her so much joy.
It made me think. If I had but moments to gather whatever I could carry and leave everything else behind, what would I take? What would be on my “evacuation list”?
I wanted to ask them what they had brought with them, and what they wished they had brought. But I wasn't sure this was the time to ask this question nor many of the other questions the Kosovar people can answer for us.
These refugees have suffered. Because of their suffering and their plight they have a lot to give us, a lot to teach to us. During these days in the camps, I often wondered what they wished they would have taken with them.
I try to think about what I would pack up if given 2 hours or 20 minutes to say goodbye to my home and all of my possessions. Initially I would want to gather all my important documents: my marriage certificate, my birth certificate, my passport and drivers license, my bank statements, and my insurance policy number. I'd probably follow that with any valuables and heirlooms- the things that can't be replaced. Of course, I'd have to take my lap-top computer and other electronic devices that I've grown too dependent on. But until I was with this family I don't think that I would necessarily have gathered up things like raincoats, extra shoes, blankets, family photos, drinking water, and first-aid kits.
Thinking about what was important to me back home versus what was important to this family began a purification of the heart that was much-needed in my life.
We finished looking through
the photos and turned our attention on Geni and Merita's 3 year old son. Duly had an ice cream cone and it was melting and dripping everywhere. Geni had to lick around the edge of the cone to keep it from dripping all over Duly's hands.
It was precious to see a father and son enjoying each other as if their lives were perfect. So amazing how a child can remind us of joy even in the most adverse circumstances.
Again Valentina made us stiff cups of Turkish coffee. We spent the rest of the afternoon together over much laughter and a sense of ease. Just like earlier feelings at the Transit Center, it seemed as though our second visit to the Tent City set us apart from the swarms of journalists and reporters that comb their way through the camps.
I felt like we were able to move to deeper level with the family that afternoon. The sharing of memories with them through photos brought us into their lives. Such an honor. It was sad saying good-night that evening as we left, but the real pain for us was yet to come.
Outside, the sun started to crack the cloudy grey sky.
We started our afternoon at the Transit Center to say good-bye to Flora, the children, and Asebe.
Once again it was good to be back in a place where we recognized some of the faces out of the hundreds, the thousands, of dejected and depressed faces. Sitting in the bleachers, we spent some time with Asebe and her granddaughter. As it always seems, time slipped away and we had to say our sad good-byes. We gathered around with several children and prayed for Asebe. Again she began to cry like she did on the first day we met her.
As we walked away, she stood on the balcony waving. Leaving her hurt so badly. We at least knew what our future held, but she would be indefinitely stuck in a strange land longing for her home.
In a reflective state of mind we moved on to the Tent City.
The day before, we had planned on taking the family on a walk around a near-by lake, thinking that a change of scenery would be nice for them. Another disappointment. It had been raining a lot that afternoon and it wasn't letting up. The weather forced us to stay inside the tents, wet floors and all.
Despite the disappointment, the family seemed very glad to have us back in their new home. They had made a great sacrifice for our anticipated visit and bought kiwis and oranges from Turkey. Fresh fruit was an expensive luxury and a lavish gift for this family to offer us. It was hard to receive from them, fully aware that they were in no position to be able to afford such an expense. Slowly and reluctantly we ate the fruit, leaving most behind for them to enjoy once we were gone.
Back in the tent, we shared our own family photos with them. The few we had brought in our wallets were passed around and with lots of laughs and explanations we were able to allow them to enter a small part of our world.
The previous day, Kyle had taken some snapshots of the family, most were of Duly. We had the photos developed at a one-hour processing lab and brought the prints with us. The pictures were beautiful. Despite the terrible living conditions painting a dismal back-drop, the photos reflect happy faces and unspeakable joy. Kyle gave the pictures to the family. They were so happy to have this part of their family's history documented. Geni commented that he wanted these pictures to show Duly the kind of childhood his boy was forced to live.
Outside, the sun started to crack the cloudy grey sky. All around the camp were magnificent misty mountains cradled in low blustery clouds. The camp did have a breath-taking view with the mountains and the lake. The scenery was gorgeous but was easy to miss when pressed against the suffering of the innocent.
When the rain finally stopped falling, we brought a small table outside the tent. Brent had brought a deck of playing cards with him, so we got those out and I taught our friends how to play a variation of the game Patience. It was so much fun! It was refreshing for my soul to see so much laughter and so many smiles. Each person sitting around the table wanted to play a hand. So much fun. If for only the sheer purpose of passing time, I was glad to see them able to occupy their time with something that would take their thoughts off of the misery they found themselves in. We left the cards with them. I wish we had thought of other types of activities we could have shared with them to help pass the time.
After cards, we sat around telling stories of home. Geni drew a map of Kosovo for me and showed me where his home town was. He got another piece of paper out and started to write his home address and phone number in Kosovo. He invited us to visit him once the war was over- as if there would be anything left of his home or his city. That's when the pain returned and began sinking in. Soon we would have to say good-bye, unsure if we would ever see each other again.
The time came for us to depart. We all slowly and reluctantly stood up. Phileena began crying. Then Gita, Merita, Valentina, and the mothers began crying. Dritan asked me to pray. As I prayed I too began crying.
For the first time, I felt as if I could pray with a renewed sense of hope for the Kosovars. As I prayed I felt faith for them that I rarely feel for myself or my own prayers. I prayed that they would sense God's peace and presence. I prayed that they would know His love for them. I prayed, with a proper confidence, that they would be able to return home soon.
After the prayer, nearly everyone in the circle was crying. Mrs. Ramadani (Geni's mother) rushed towards Phileena. Both were weeping, and they embraced. Mrs. Ramadani held Phileena tight and close to herself, and then very discreetly she slipped a gold ring off of her own finger and slid it onto Phileena's finger. Both women began crying harder. By placing the ring on Phileena's finger it was as if she was indicating to Phileena an acceptance and new identity- an identification, that Phileena had become one of her own daughters, part of their family. We began walking out of the camp. As I walked, tears streamed down my cheeks. Halil, the patriarch of the family who had always been very reserved and quiet, put his arm around me and walked with me to the edge of the camp. Tears were also spilling out of his eyes.
With a visible inner strength, Valentina and Gita locked arms with Phileena and walked her to the gate. The 3 girls tried to hold back the tears to make it easier for the other.
As we passed the guards and went through the gates to the other side of reality, the reality outside the camps, we stopped for one last good-bye. Embraces and an awkward silence followed. Then we began to walk away, looking back every few paces to see Halil, Geni, Duly, Gita, and Valentina waving.
That night I went to bed with the booming sounds of thunder and the terrible cracking of lightening. I couldn't sleep. Though I was warm, dry, and in a soft bed I couldn't help but feel the discomfort our friends in tent #191 were feeling. Unable to sleep because of the rain seeping through their tent ceiling, unable to get up and walk around their tent because of the flooded ground, unable to rest because of the cold, I prayed myself to sleep hoping somehow they would be home soon, away from this misery in which they now live.
There is hope for the Kosovars.
These 5 days of reflections are as much as I can recount for you, the reader. As I've sat at this computer, staring at this screen, and re-reading my scribbled notes from my time with the Kosovars, I have felt completely inadequate. It has been 10 days since my return and even now it is emotionally exhausting to re-visit these memories and experiences.
I am acutely aware of the deficiency of my words as I've tried to communicate the circumstances of th
e Kosovars and the pain of leaving them. Sadly, I feel I am unable to describe this reality in an effective way. As I've tried to relate to you the details of this trip I find myself with nothing left to give.
Looking back on my time I am reminded of the Scriptures that read,
“God sets the lonely in families… He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap; He seats them with princes, with the princes of their people” (Psalms 68:6a, 113:7-8).
In a surprising turn of events, our time with the refugees allowed these promises to be fulfilled. Not in the way that I would have imagined, but in the way that is consistent with the upside-down Kingdom to which we belong. The Lord set me in a family of princes and princesses. In my hopelessness He lifted me from the ash heap and gave me hope.
Reflecting on my time with the refugees, especially the family in tent #191, I feel that the exiled people of Kosovo have given me the gift of hope. Hope as we all know is essential to our salvation. It is the hope of the cross, hope in the crucified and risen God that we trust in for our redemption. As I've been a part of this ministry among the poor over the years, I feel like I've lost my sense of hope. Not my faith, but my hope that the suffering peoples of the world have a chance to be freed from their prisons of poverty and oppression. Being with the Kosovars I've seen hope enfleshed in the eyes and tears of the most hopeless. The Kosovars, though they appear to have nothing to give, have given me the gift of hope.
The Kosovars have also taught me of generosity and hospitality. Word Made Flesh to date has raised nearly $18,000 for the refugee relief efforts- an amount to be proud of. But in relation to what the refugees have given me, it's nothing- an amount to be ashamed of. In a tent, with no income and no idea what the future holds, a family spent what little they had to host us- to give us imported fruit and hot coffee. Why does it always seems that those who have the least give the most? Is it that the less we have the more able we are to let go of it? Is it that when everything but our families have been taken from us, we finally learn the true “value” of things? Whatever it is, the Kosovars are a generous people.
We plan on returning. In October, Phileena and I will go back to Albania to visit our friends and follow-up on many of the contacts we made. Our prayer is that the refugees we've met would be home. Two days ago Geni called me to thank us for our time with him. He only had enough money for a 60 second call, but the message was conveyed. We pray that we'll be able to keep in touch with his family so that when we return we can visit them if they are still in Albania.
These 5 days of reflections are as much as I can recount for you, the reader. As I've sat at this computer, staring at this screen, and re-reading my scribbled notes from my time with the Kosovars, I have felt completely inadequate. It has been 10 days since my return and even now it is emotionally exhausting to re-visit these memories and experiences. I am acutely aware of the deficiency of my words as I've tried to communicate the circumstances of the Kosovars and the pain of leaving them. Sadly, I feel I am unable to describe this reality in an effective way. As I've tried to relate to you the details of this trip I find myself with nothing left to give.
Until then, we will pray. The realities of the war in the Balkans forces us to engage the suffering of a people. The injustice must be met with the counter influence of an interceding church. Even today as I write this my heart is heavy for the Kosovars still hiding in the mountains of their homeland; for the young Kosovar girls kidnapped and locked in the Serbian para-military “rape camps”-forced to give their bodies to an army of butchers; for the children separated from their parents; for the wives separated from their husbands; for the Kosovars trapped in Albania and Macedonia longing for their home. We must pray. We must stand with them. We must suffer with them. We need to show them God's love through our sacrifices.
There is hope for the Kosovars
Word Made Flesh has reopened an emergency assistance and relief fund in order to provide continuing support for Kosovo refugees
If you can help, checks made to Word Made Flesh should be sent to:
THE Justice FUND
Word Made Flesh
P.O. Box 7O
Wilmore, KY, 4O39O
A Special Report From Executive Director, Chris Heuertz
These 5 days of reflections are as much as I can recount for you, the reader. As I've sat at this computer, staring at this screen, and re-reading my scribbled notes from my time with the Kosovars, I have felt completely inadequate. It has been 10 days since my return and even now it is emotionally exhausting to re-visit these memories and experiences.
The recent war in the former Yugoslavia (1991-1995) has increased the already-oversized vocabulary of evil with the term “ethnic cleansing.” Ethnic otherness is filth that must be washed away from the ethnic body, pollution that threatens the ecology of the ethnic space. The others will be rounded up in concentration camps, killed and shoved into mass graves, or driven out; monuments of their cultural and religious identity will be destroyed, inscriptions of their collective memories erased; the places of their habitation will be plundered and then burned and bulldozed. For those driven out, no return will be possible. The land will belong exclusively to those who have driven the others out–out of their collective construction of themselves as well as out of the land.
People of pure “blood” and pure “culture” will live in a land that has been cleansed of the others.A company of political, military, and academic “janitors of the ethnic household” will employ their communicational, martial, and intellectual mops, hoses, and scrapers to re-sanitize “the ethnic self and rearrange its proper space. The result: a world without the other. The price: rivers of blood and tears. The gain: except for the bulging pocketbooks of warlords and war profiteers, only losses, on all sides.
Miroslav Volf, an evangelical Croatian theologan. This material was taken from his work, Exclusion and Embrace.