Pristina, Kosovo

Pristina, Kosovo

I am the only person I know who has been on holiday to Kosovo. I have met people who have been there as NATO military personnel during the war in the 1990s, but no one else I know has visited for pleasure. I’m also the only person I know who has been on holiday to Estonia, but that’s to say that I’m not aware of any friends or relatives who have been there, rather than that no one else I know is likely to have gone there. Tallinn is a former European capital of culture, and its old town is a significant, though overlooked, part of the European cultural tourism circuit. I am getting side-tracked already. The point is that no one goes to Kosovo. And I thought it was about time someone did.

After sleeping uneasily, I awoke at 0215 at the Kosovan border and was pleased to have my passport stamped by the policeman who inspected us. We took some time to negotiate what appeared to be a tricky, though spectacular, descent from the mountains along the border down to the flatter plain below. I wished I could have seen this view during daylight because the twinkling lights spread out before us indicated that there must be a pretty sight with a plethora of quaint villages dotted over the countryside. The bus halted for a time at Peja, but from there I slept until abruptly awoken to find we had reached our final destination.

Mercifully, the bus station was open, and, it being 0410, I settled down spread across three moulded plastic seats and got another couple of hours' rest. I waited until the sun had risen, and then left the station to greet a chilly autumnal morning, which gradually gave way to a sunny and warm day.

Before proceeding with a narrative of what I saw and did in Kosovo, it is essential to summarise the state of affairs that has led to the creation of this partially-recognised nation, simply because the issue of the country’s recent independence from Serbia really pervaded everything within Pristina.

The UK, like most Western powers, sees Kosovo as an independent state, though the issue is far from black and white. The issue arguably goes back to 1389, when the Battle of Kosovo saw the Ottoman Empire, expanding into southeastern Europe, defeat an army of the mediæval Kingdom of Serbia just outside Pristina. Much of Kosovo is a flat plain surrounded by mountains, which made it an important crossroads within the region. Under the Ottoman occupation, which permitted a certain freedom of religion within its conquered lands, ethnic Serbs generally retained their Orthodox Christian identity, whereas the ethnic Albanians living in this region adopted Islam from their occupiers. This created a religious angle to the issue between Albanians and Serbs. However, more fundamental is the centrally important position that the painful memory of the Battle of Kosovo has in the mindset of Serbs. Kosovo fulfils the myth of the lost territory.

Fast forward to the 21^st century, and the post-Second World War incarnation of Yugoslavia was subdivided into six republics: Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia and Slovenia. Each of these was based on a major ethnicity of the country. The Serbian republic also contained two autonomous provinces, Kosovo and Vojvodina. Vojvodina is in the north of Serbia and is a culturally rich, multiethnic region incorporating significant minorities of Hungarians, Croats, Romanians, Slovaks, Germans, Ukrainians and other groups. Kosovo, as already mentioned, is mostly Albanian. The lengthy regime of Tito was tolerant towards the range of ethnic groups that made up Yugoslavia, but in the wake of his death in 1980 (plus economic and other issues), the republics fragmented into divisive politics, of which perhaps the most self-indulgent nationalist was the Serbian leader Slobodan Milošević. A ten-day war in Slovenia precipitated that country’s independence, followed by longer and bloodier conflicts in Croatia and Bosnia, both eventually settled by international resolutions by late 1995. During the 1990s, Kosovo heated up and in February 1998, war erupted between a Kosovan Albanian rebel group called the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) and the Yugoslavian (i.e. Serbian and Montenegrin) military. The KLA is considered a terrorist organisation by the key Western states involved. A refugee crisis ensued, and NATO intervened. Their bombing campaign of Serbia led to a stalemate in which both sides withdrew and Kosovo passed into the control of the UN, its ethnically Albanian parliament then unilaterally declaring independence in February 2008. Kosovo thus emerged from a frozen conflict as a country of questionable legality.

Today’s situation is that Kosovo is a functional parliamentary republic with its capital in Pristina. It is 92% ethnically Albanian and 95% Muslim, although Serbs are a recognised minority group, Serbian is an official language and the country is secular, with a Christian minority. Serbia continues to regard it as an internal province of Serbia, and this can cause passport issues if trying to pass through the northern border (which Serbia sees as internal) without having a Serbian entry stamp. It is recognised by 110 of the 193 UN member states, but this is short of the number it would need to join the UN, and crucially it is unrecognised by two of the five permanent members, Russia and China. The north of the country is still occasionally volatile, and the UK Foreign and Commonwealth Office advised against all but essential travel to the northern border regions at the time of my visit due to the tensions there. Personally, I am not sufficiently informed to cast judgement on who should run Kosovo, but the gradual process of normalisation of relations with Serbia is gaining impetus following the 2013 Brussels Agreement, and the fact that Kosovo has Western backing and is increasingly involved in international organisations (such as the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank and the International Olympic Committee) suggests that there is only one outcome.

National identity is very important in Kosovo, and its flag and colours (and the flags of Albania, the USA and the EU) are visible everywhere. Here, a house in the northern suburbs of Pristina is painted in roughly the design of the Kosovan national flag

Pictures of ethnic Albanians, usually either those who served in the Kosovo Liberation Army or were killed by Yugoslavian/Serb hands, provide regular doses of anti-Serb/pro-Albanian propaganda 

Pristina is not exactly pristine. It is in many places dirty, its streets are uneven, riddled with potholes and away from the centre are in some cases made of loose gravel. The traffic is ghastly and pedestrians often appear to just take their chances and march determinedly over the road without a second thought. I soon came to realise, though, that the frequent beeping of car horns was not so much a symbol of annoyance towards other drivers, but a casual greeting to some friend or other that had been spotted on the pavement or at the wheel of a fellow vehicle.

The charm of the place is undeniable. In the city centre, young people accessorised with iPhones and designer clothes stride past pairs or groups of old men, usually bedecked in knitted jumpers or grubby blazers and adorned with berets or domed white, Middle Eastern looking hats (the Albanian national hat, the plis). These men spend their days sitting around smoking and gossiping and watching the day go by. Everyone strolling along the main pedestrianised street, Bulevardi Nënë Tereza (a reference to Kosovar Albanian Mother Teresa, born in Macedonia) knows someone, and there's a constant and infectious air of meeting and greeting old friends. In the evening, this street only gets busier as it plays host to the korza, an informal occasion in which locals get dressed up in their fine clothing and parade up and down the street or sit and admire the diners in the cafés and restaurants that line the way. Since Kosovo is one of Europe’s poorest countries and many Kosovans struggle to pay for nights out, the korza gives them a means to join in with such socialising at no personal cost.

Nëna Terezë herself. Mother Teresa was a Kosovar Albanian born in 1917 in Skopje, Macedonia (then part of the Ottoman Empire). Her original name gives away her Albanian identity: Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu

Bulevardi Nënë Tereza is a pleasant avenue lined with restaurants, cafés and plenty of places to sit. Throughout the day, it was full of people (often old, or young and likely unemployed), and it was the same story in the evening when the korza takes place

A giant LEGO brick at the north end of Bulevardi Nënë Tereza. No idea why, perhaps symbolising the building blocks of a new nation?

The intensely social nature of the Kosovan people was further apparent at the city’s market, a charmingly ramshackle assortment of fixed shop buildings, car boot sale stalls, and temporary stands under a patchwork canopy of tarpaulins and cloths. In between the uneven rows of vegetable stalls would pass dark, stunted old men, grinning youthfully and greeting dozens of others as they pushed or dragged impractically oversized wooden carts of fruit and other products. There was a fervent burble of excited chitchat going on between the many vendors, and most stalls were unoccupied, with every two or three playing host to several vendors who would sit smoking or drinking strong black coffee, rushing back to their respective stalls when a purchase was to be made.

The market is a chaotic one stop shop selling virtually everything: fruit, vegetables, meat, cheeses, clothes, shoes, household appliances, sports equipment, phones, medicine, and souvenirs. Picture an al fresco Tesco Extra with uneven surfaces, sometimes spiced up by fruit juices or other liquids of more dubious provenance running in the street, loud Albanian music (played on a guitar-like instrument called a çifteli), and regularly having to squeeze past cars or even lorries that drive through the narrow alleys. Several stalls had vast numbers of cigarette packets with health warnings in English and a range of other European languages, almost certainly smuggled into the country from Kosovo’s neighbours. Kosovo’s cigarettes are lower quality than EU standard, so smuggled cigarettes sell for higher prices than those at newspaper stands. Scarfs, hats and especially football shirts in Albanian and Kosovan colours were a prominent feature, along with the kits of notable players such as Arsenal’s Swiss (but ethnically Kosovan) midfielder Granit Xhaka. Football is an important aspect of Kosovan culture, and the country was recently accepted to UEFA and FIFA and played its first World Cup qualifying matches in 2016. Not wanting fresh fruit, and sadly not seeing myself wearing a Kosovo shirt or plis hat in the future, I instead purchased a couple of copper coffee pots, called xhezve in Albanian, in the hope that they might be used, or at the very least, serve as attractive and authentic mementos. Not being overly familiar with Albanian numbers or any of the core vocabulary needed made negotiating the price tricky, but we got there in the end.

Opposite the mosque at the top end of the market is the hexagonal Sahat Kulla (clock tower), built by the Ottomans in the 19th century to tell market stall owners when to close for prayers

Pristina's market

Kosovo and Albania football shirts for sale, plus Arsenal shirts printed with the name of Kosovan Swiss player Granit Xhaka. The lorry on the left is crawling along a narrow road full of pedestrians to get to and from the market

The market offers a wide selection of colourful fresh fruit

Cigarettes for sale, most likely smuggled in from Kosovo's neighbours because locally produced tobacco products are of poor quality

Old men push around rickety carts full of market goods, like this one. They constantly rush to and fro, and do so cheerily, with smiles on their faces and greeting plenty of friends and acquaintances throughout the market streets

Unfortunately, I felt much more out of place here than anywhere else I visited, for two reasons. I speak no Albanian – I learnt the words ‘po’ and ‘jo’ (‘yes’ and ‘no’) but struggled to commit to memory the phrase ‘a flisni anglisht?’ (‘do you speak English?’) because I kept confusing it for another of those essential foreign phrases, ‘më falni’ (‘excuse me’). I did a reasonable job of blending in, in looks at least, to the extent that one young woman at a newspaper kiosk told me I didn’t look like I spoke English when I plaintively asked if she spoke my language. I came across a handful of young people who spoke very good English, but anyone over 25 was almost certain to know no English. Kosovo plainly isn’t built for tourists yet, but that is part of what makes visiting a rich experience. Most of the foreigners here are diplomats and aid workers. I was even asked by the waiter who served me at a restaurant, a man from Mitrovica, ‘why did you come here?’ It was not meant aggressively, but more out of bewilderment that a traveller had chosen to visit his country. After giving my reasons, he further suggested that he thought I was too young to see it, which I found an intriguing assessment, particularly as he was the same age as me.

The elephant in the room was first made apparent to me when I came across Bulevardi Bill Klinton, on which is a three-metre high statue of the former president, a local hero thanks to his policies towards Serbia (then the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia) and Kosovo during the conflict and refugee crisis of the 1990s. (Thank goodness the days of refugee crises in southeast Europe are long behind us!) This was far from the only pointed political statement I came across. Indeed, most of the foreigners I saw were American dignitaries of some sort or other, almost intentionally conspicuous in their smart suits and Aviator sunglasses; it was the same story looking up onto the balcony of a building in a diplomatic quarter that was labelled with a USAid logo. Unsurprisingly though, the majority of the political symbolism was pro-Albanian and anti-Serbian. I would have had to be blind not to spot it, and it ranged from the innocuous, like the ‘blij Shqip’ (‘buy Albanian’) messages painted onto walls, to the firm (‘Kosovo je Albanije’ – ‘Kosovo is Albanian’) and the downright provocative (‘Albania. Fuck Serbia’). Tributes or references to Albanian nationalists and ‘freedom fighters’ abounded, and one of the city’s most notable landmarks is the potent Newborn sculpture, a set of letters each about three metres high that were unveiled on the day of the declaration of independence in February 2008.

Bill Clinton, standing on a corner of Bulevardi Bill Klinton
The writing behind reads 'no negotiation; self-determination'

The Newborn monument

The idea of being newborn did resonate; every receipt I was given prominently featured the Kosovan coat of arms, and there were flags everywhere, although the Albanian flag was seen almost as often and perhaps diluted the message. Is Kosovo really a newborn country, or is it clinging to its Albanian-ness too strongly as a means of distancing itself from Serbia? I did not consider it prudent to ask such forward questions, but it did make me wonder whether beneath all the euphoria of being a functioning state that is de facto largely free from Serbian control, there is another lingering tension about whether it should be a country of its own or whether it is really due for a union with Albania. The matter is far from resolved, not least because Serbia continues to regard Kosovo as its sovereign territory and the international consensus of the most influential parties, arguably the USA and most of its European allies, and Russia, is divided.

One of the most important boosts for international awareness of Kosovo is its diaspora. In particular, it has received a certain element of coverage among football pundits in recent years because of a number of successful exports. There is the aforementioned Granit Xhaka, and his Swiss teammate Xherdan Shaqiri of Stoke City, plus Manchester United’s Belgian striker Adnan Januzaj, along with a list of other less famous players. The Rio 2016 Olympics also produced Majlinda Kelmendi, a household name for a few hours on 7 August when she became the winner of a gold medal in judo, Kosovo’s first of any colour in its debut games as an independent country. However, the most notable Kosovan in popular culture is undoubtedly Rita Sahatçiu, better known as Rita Ora. Born in Pristina but raised in London from the age of one, she is known worldwide as a singer and actress, and in Britain also for her roles as a judge on shows like The Voice and The X Factor. I am not aware enough of her music (possibly not really my style) but she has the status of an honorary ambassador of Kosovo and her charity involvement includes work in Kosovo and with refugees and displaced people like her younger self, and the type of exposure the country gets from such high-profile people will hopefully raise the standing of the story of the country and its inhabitants.

A (small) reference to Rita Ora on the Newborn monument

Perplexingly, when I looked her up
on YouTube, it emerged that Rita Ora's music
cannot be played in Kosovo

Another curiosity:
Apple's weather forecasting doesn't work in Kosovo

This connection between nationality and identity was stronger in Kosovo than anywhere else I have been, most probably as a reinforcement of the fledgling state’s identity as a country in its own right. The most recognisable landmark in Pristina is a case in point. Where many other nations are distinguished by a prominent religious building, castle, skyscraper, parliament building, or even a bridge, Pristina’s – and even Kosovo’s – architectural symbol is the National Library of Kosovo (Biblioteka Kombëtare e Kosovës). Previously based in Kosovo’s former capital Prizren, the National Library building in Pristina opened in 1982 in a design hailed as one of the ugliest in the world. Its bizarre jumble of unevenly arranged deep grey cubic blocks, covered with metal netting and topped off with alien white domes make it resemble some sort of extraterrestrial shantytown. Once more, it is an important tool of Kosovar Albanian nationalism, with a mission to preserve Kosovo’s intellectual history, but also named after the Kosovan Pjetër Bojdani, who wrote the first recorded work in the Albanian language, in 1685. Outside fly the flags of Kosovo, Albania, the USA, the EU and NATO, a common sight in Kosovo.

Kosovo's unusually-shaped National Library (Biblioteka Kombëtare)

Up close, its alien design is even more striking

Flags of Kosovo, Albania, and Kosovo's Western supporters fly in front of the library

Next door is the University of Pristina’s Faculty of Philosophy, and across Bulevardi Xhorxh Bush from these buildings is the Cathedral of Blessed Mother Teresa (Katedralja e së Lumes Nënë Tereza në Pristinë). This is new and still under construction, and somewhat controversial since only around 2% of Kosovans are Catholics. Kosovo’s Muslim majority, like that of Albania and Bosnia, is among the most secular and tolerant of all followers of Islam, but nevertheless, the cathedral disproportionately dominates the skyline. The interior was still a building site, but it was possible to take a lift up the tower. I felt I was taking my life into my own hands a little, as the lift was brand new, its metal doors were streaked with dried on cement, and the frame was still bordered with vacuum-wrapped blue plastic around its edges, as if it had just been taken out of its box and the cathedral was waiting to see if it worked properly before either fully unpacking it or returning it to the shop.

The Catholic cathedral, named after Mother Teresa 

Bulevardi Bill Klinton, one of Pristina's major roads

Bulevardi Xhorxh Bush runs from Bill Klinton into the centre, becoming the pedestrianised Bulevardi Nënë Tereza

Kosovo's distinctive National Library sits in a grassy park. The suburbs of Gjinaj and Taslixhe rise up the hill in the background 

At the top, the stairs within the square tower were sealed off, so I had no choice but to return to ground level by using the lift again. Before that, I had the best view in Pristina completely to myself, and was worth the €1 to go up the tower. To the south and west, the afternoon sun turned Bulevardi Bill Klinton into a golden river, a substitute for Pristina’s lack of a surface waterway. (It used to be served by two rivers, the Vellusha and Prishtevka, but after both were used for years as dumps for human waste, they became too smelly and were covered over). Aside from the cathedral I was in and the library opposite, Pristina has scarcely any landmarks, so instead I took in the odd mixture of high rises and ordinary houses, and with a bit of care could pick out the national stadium. The suburbs rose up around the city in several directions, creating hills of gradually thinning orange and white. I had earlier walked to a couple of these hills to see what I could see from the elevated ground, but the housing developments obstructed any clear view. Nevertheless, it was good to explore beyond the centre and see the neighbourhoods where ordinary people live. I saw a few people walking back from the shops in the city centre, and neighbours socialising in the streets. At one convenience shop, I saw a girl and boy, aged around nine and seven, buy a large bottle of beer, something that is totally inconceivable in most of Europe. The shopkeeper there probably knew the children, knew their parents who would be drinking the alcohol, and trusted that the children would dutifully return it home. Alternatively, it’s possible that the vendor just needed the money, but I favour the former story.

An outer part of the city, the district of Vreshta, seen from the hilly suburb in Pristina's northeast

A Serbian Orthodox church beside the National Library, looking partially constructed but no longer in progress

In the evening, I returned to my hostel to freshen up, and then went out to eat and take in the ambience of a Friday night in Pristina. In international terms, this place is extraordinary. It’s a thoroughly pro-Western accident of history that can probably never become Serbian again (at least, not peacefully), but probably can’t unite with Albania either (at least, not peacefully). Its unusual status means it is an anomaly within Europe, mollycoddled by much of the American sphere but forgotten about by most Western people, rejected by the Russian sphere and thus unlikely to be admitted to the UN. Antipathy to Serbs runs deep, and the injustices of the past – on both sides – cannot be undone. And yet, in an everyday sense, Pristina is so ordinary. Normal people do normal things. I felt like an outsider, but not an unwelcome one. There is occasional civil unrest, but this is directed towards Kosovo’s own government, and away from the border with Serbia, there is no open issue with Serbians and no particular likelihood of war. The question of the legality of the Kosovar Albanians’ presence throughout the country is not for me to answer. (Not least because in Kosovar Albanian Pristina, I saw only one side of the coin). Legally or not, Kosovans are focused on building their country, making money, putting food on the table, and celebrating their culture, their music, their football team. In short, taking part in the same daily rituals that everyone else does. In the context of the devastating war and the refugee crisis in 1998 and 1999, this is a nascent country using its limited means to get itself standing on two legs, progressing an inch at a time. I am full of admiration for its people, and I would like to see more of the country, particularly the western cultural centres of Prizren and Peja, where more of the country’s heritage may be found than in the unstylish but charming sprawl of Pristina. Tomorrow, I would see a little of Kosovo’s countryside before crossing into the final one of the seven states that made up Yugoslavia: Macedonia.

This hill in a diplomatic district west of the centre promised a good, though rather obstructed, view over Pristina