 |
| A young Kosovar's image is framed in a destroyed building.
|
It was 5:15 a.m. and the city of Pristina was quiet accept for the occasional KFOR patrol vehicle. The sun was still moments from coming up. I was shaking off the grogginess from my sendoff the previous night. The Kosovar tradition is to bestow a big red blanket and flag as gifts and spend a late night of dancing to say falminderet -- thank you -- to those who have helped. We were a well-practiced group in this tradition given frequent staff changes, and I was emotional with my own fare-thee-wells to the group. My stay in Kosovo had been a seminal experience.
This morning though, I was up and concentrating on getting my bike in good order. I had taken up cycling as way of exercise and beating the choking traffic of the capital, and I had enjoyed it tremendously. On a whim, and a dare from colleagues, I had committed myself to peddling the 50 miles from Pristina to Skopje. It's not really far, it's mostly downhill and, if I could beat the traffic, it would be an enjoyable ride.
 |
| A group of Kosovar women.
|
I arranged to have my gear go down with the shuttle driver Ilir, who turned out to be a true friend, periodically checking my progress along our mutual route. So after a quick loop through the town center, noting a couple more new shops and newsstands, it was down the now-familiar highway to the south. The flags still flew atop the gas station which was now working properly when it could find fuel to sell. The small Serb community south of the city was getting smaller still. In spite of the KFOR protection, it was still suffering from retribution house burnings and evictions. The conflict continued and, even on this miniature scale, had a profound impact on its victims. I could not help but think the whole time about how difficult it was for the people of the province.
I continued south, passing Ferizaj and Kacanik and entering the canyon that drops the road down to the border crossing. Much as it was on my arrival, the countryside this morning was picturesque with the river and forest around it. But again, the mine tape on the roadsides focused my attention on the reality of my passage, the reality of Kosovo's times.
By 9 a.m. the border crossing was crowded and disorderly with traffic. Not having a vehicle to register helped, and I was stamped back into Macedonia and quickly off to Skopje across the flat river valley land. I slowly passed the remains of the former refugee camp of Stenkovec II. At the height of the crisis in May, it had been shelter for 30,000 Kosovar Albanians fleeing the fighting, and a transit station for many more. On that day, it housed a few hundred Kosovar Romas, ostracized in the liberated province as alleged collaborators against the Albanians. The realization that peace would take time, that healing would require much work and forgiveness, that reconstruction of houses and schools was probably the easy part, struck me full force this morning.
I arrived at the CARE offices in Skopje and did a quick clean up and re-ordering of my bags. Then it was off to the airport and the flight back to the U.S. I knew I would continue serving the effort from my new location at our headquarters in Atlanta. I even looked forward to it. But I knew that although my day-to-day part was concluded, I would be taking that Kosovo blanket and a whole lot more back with me.
Epilogue