Belongings that were lost during the war
May they take the darkness with them.
By Aurela Kadriu | 30 September, 2024
I can recall the engravings on my mother’s gold ring with a red stone, even though I don’t remember ever having seen it. In our many conversations about the war, especially in the first decade after it ended, when power outages were common and Kosovars were learning to live in freedom, she often talked about this ring.
In mid-March 1999, just days before the NATO bombings began on March 24, my 34-year-old mother, 38-year-old father, one-year-old twin brother, and my sisters, aged four and five, left our top-floor apartment in a seven-story building in central Podujevo. At that time, it was probably the tallest building in the city, before the construction boom.
There was no plan for our journey. We hastily packed our belongings, overwhelmed by fear, terror and a glimmer of hope for survival. Even in the face of daily threats, the living cling to hope. From our seventh-floor apartment window, we could see the city’s post office building, one of the highest points and where Yugoslav army soldiers were stationed during the war.
When we returned in late spring, after Kosovo’s liberation, our home was completely destroyed. Our valuables, including the red stone ring, had been stolen. The post office was still visible from our apartment, and a sense of terror remained, as if the soldiers might reappear at any moment.
I lived this story and many others about the war, but I didn’t experience them firsthand. As a baby during the war, I was protected, but growing up after it ended, I was no longer shielded. The war was still present everywhere. It was present in the city, where many places became forbidden for us children — we couldn’t play in the nursery or on what we called “the big grass” because they used to tell us there were mines. At school, we were constantly reminded of our survival. Every year on School Day, we commemorated May 25 as the birthday of renaissance figure Naim Frashëri, after whom our school was named. However, this day also served as a reminder that it once marked Youth Day and the birthday of Josip Broz Tito, the former president of Yugoslavia.
We became the children in our parents’ stories about those who starved during the war. We are the children in tales of those too heavy to be carried up mountains in the rain and cold, without food or water. We are the children described in the accounts of dozens of children and mothers who slept on classroom floors, waiting for the next escape. We are the children in stories who couldn’t stop crying at checkpoints, where tears could lead to execution. We are the children in stories of mothers shielding their children from bullets with their bodies. We are the children in stories that begin with, “the war did not spare even women, the elderly, and children.” We became the focal point of many stories we couldn’t remember. We are the children who were not spared by the war. We were just children. Our parents were only human.
A lot has changed in these 25 years. Freedom arrived, but without my mother’s red stone ring. We had to start from scratch, once again.
Among the dominant narratives about the war, thousands of stories about lost or stolen belongings and dreams are often overlooked. Even in freedom, there is limited space to share such stories. Below are some of those stories — memories of items lost or stolen during the war in Kosovo. This is a rough documentation of their connections to these objects and the stories behind them. It’s an attempt to shift the focus from documenting grand survival stories to the smaller ones — like Genci’s computer, Bernard’s notebook, Mirishaha’s cup and toy puppy, Nora’s suitcase with doll dresses, Dardan’s school bag, Adrian’s bicycle and Lena’s toy deer.
My red bicycle
Adrian Bytyqi, 32, political scientist
Prizren
The red bike was originally my brother’s. I was the younger sibling, so it was a hand-me-down bike, which was understandable given the circumstances. Agroni, my brother, is three years older than me. He used the bike first, and then, when I was a little older and ready for a bike, it was passed down to me. I think I have my first memory of “freedom” from that bike, moving faster than usual, faster than I could on my own. I don’t remember the exact year — it was before the war, maybe in ’97. We were in the Bazhdarhane neighborhood in Prizren, at my grandfather’s house on my father’s side. One of my aunt’s sons, Noli, the oldest of us, taught us how to ride the bike. I got on, pedaled, and steered while he held me on the back of the saddle, keeping me stable. There was a very long road, maybe 800 meters, from the top of the neighborhood to the bottom.
I was riding the bike and was completely absorbed in the moment. I looked around and saw Noli in the distance, realizing that no one was holding me. In that instant, two thoughts crossed my mind. First, I panicked and thought, “Holy shit, I’m riding the bike by myself.” The second impulse was to maintain my balance, but as soon as I understood what was happening, I started to wobble. I made it to the end of the neighborhood and began heading towards the market, knowing that someone there would help me if needed. I remember bumping into the stalls selling plastic balls, priced at maybe two marks. They were blue, orange and red. After the war we used to call them “one and a half euros” balls.
Even though I was scared, it didn’t compare to the pride I felt when I had been riding by myself for such a long time. We’re talking about 200-300 meters, which felt like a vast distance to me as a small child. This distance seemed much farther from my perspective at that time because the world felt bigger when I was younger. I understand this now. When I visit that neighborhood today, with my current height of 1.80 meters, I can see that the market was right there. It doesn’t even take 30 seconds to walk that distance.
During the war, we lived in an apartment in Prizren’s Lakuriq neighborhood, near the Mati Logoreci school, formerly known as 17 November. I don’t remember exactly when the bicycle was stolen, but I found out afterward. They told me that during the war, people entered and ransacked the house in Bazhdarhane, taking the bicycles and many other things. Among the stolen items were my bicycle and a cradle. I don’t remember the cradle, but when I asked my mother, she mentioned it. I have very few memories from this period. My memories are like sequences, like photographs.
I don’t know exactly when the conversation about the lost bike took place; it probably happened sometime after the war. As a child, I was on the periphery of receiving information. Although I think my parents were relatively transparent about what was happening around us, they still tried to protect us. I don’t remember when it was, but I know it didn’t leave much of an impression on me because it was a strange time. Despite their efforts to shield us, there were days when I couldn’t go outside and days when we had to put cardboard on the windows to prevent any light from escaping. We kept the lights off. We weren’t completely unaware of the dangers outside. So, perhaps I didn’t have the time or attention to think much about the bike.
My room
Genc Salihu, 43, artist
Prishtina
I had a room where I collected everything — lots of CDs, books and musical instruments. Since they took all of it away, I no longer save or collect anything. Physical objects just don’t matter to me anymore, whereas it was quite the opposite back then. This is likely a result of that trauma.
In that room there were many things, but if I had to choose one, it would be the computer where I kept everything I wrote. It held my earliest attempts at writing, including a finished novel of around 230 pages. In a way, I’m relieved it no longer exists. It would be embarrassing to read what I wrote when I was 16. The story was somewhat of a copy of Franz Kafka’s “The Castle.”
We had this computer in our apartment in Prishtina’s Bregu i Diellit neighborhood, in the white blocks of flats. It contained a lot of poems and song lyrics. It was a large computer, and instead of Word, it used Northern Commander, or something with a similar name.
I shared the room with my younger brothers, and I used to be very meticulous about how I organized and preserved my archive. Now, I don’t even use folders on my computer, my approach has changed completely. I believe this shift is a result of the trauma. When I returned, I noticed right away that I was no longer careful. Until then, I used to write on scraps of paper and on other things, and I didn’t even have a notebook. My mother used to collect and save what I wrote. I’ve noticed that I’ve become indifferent to clothes and other belongings as well.
The same applied to music. It was very important to me to have original CDs and I did everything I could to have people abroad bring me authentic ones. I refused to buy counterfeit CDs. I didn’t want any fakes, as I was quite fanatical about it. After the theft of the computer, I lost interest in having original items. I’ve never bought anything of value again or felt the need to keep things.
When I returned, I didn’t think much about the computer, as everything was overshadowed by the euphoria of being able to return and Kosovo’s liberation. It was an incredibly powerful feeling — one of the most intense experiences of my life.
My suitcase of doll dresses
Nora Prekazi Hoti, 38, ethnologist
Mitrovica
We lost all our belongings because our home burned down. I was 13 years old during the war. What particularly troubles me today is that we lost all our pictures completely. We were chased out of the house on the second day of the bombings because my house was between two Yugoslav barracks. As a result, the whole neighborhood was cleared due to the movement of tanks. We had to move from house to house, and wherever we went, they chased us as a family. We ended up at my grandfather’s house in the north, near the Ibri bridge. That period was one of the most traumatic times of my life; I still see that apartment in my dreams. Eventually, we fled Kosovo and went to Montenegro. We stayed in Ulcinj. When we returned, the whole neighborhood was destroyed. About 8,000 houses were burned in Mitrovica and our neighborhood alone had around 400 burned houses.
I remember I had a small suitcase with Smurfs on it — from “The Smurfs” movie. At that time, I also got some doll dresses which I kept in that suitcase, looking after it dearly. I remember it as something very cute from my childhood.
When I became a mother, I realized how much I wanted my daughter to also have one similar, maybe because it brought back so many memories. I haven’t played with dolls since I was 13 years, but I know that suitcase was a memory from my childhood home. I kept that suitcase until the end, even though I no longer played with dolls.
As the war approached, I had posters of Leonardo DiCaprio, the Backstreet Boys, and so on, because I was already a teenager and “Titanic” was very popular. There were two worlds for me — childhood and early adolescence.
Doll dresses are a very important part of my story. I have been sewing dresses over the years. A friend of my mother’s, who was also a professor like her, was a seamstress as well because in the ‘90s everyone had to have a second job to survive. She provided me with all the materials. I had three Barbies, with movable legs and arms — it was a great privilege to have them. These Barbies had special items in their suitcases. My suitcase was very special. No other child had one like it, and it was my pride and joy, which I kept until the end. By the time I was 12 or 13 years old, I was already involved in music and movies and had moved on from that world.
When I was 12 years old, it was very fashionable to wear overalls. It was trendy to go to the space near the Ibar river in overalls, along with roller skates and BMX bikes. Then, my room changed as I began to shape a new identity as an adult. It was also the time when Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” was popular. Now, I can’t decide which era is more important to me, as both are significant parts of my life that the war took away from me.
We lost everything — our whole life, I could say.
My notebook
Bernard Berisha, 39, economist
Prizren
A bookstore opened in the Ortakolli neighborhood at the Violdona bakery in Prizren. I don’t remember the name of the bookstore, but it was interesting. At that time, “Titanic” with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet was a hit, and the bookstore had black-and-white photos of them, which they gave to us. We colored them in ourselves. I also bought a notebook that had a lock from that bookstore — imagine, a notebook with a lock! This was not the same type of notebook you took to school to write in, but it was more like a diary. We used to show it off to everyone, because these notebooks were trendy back then. Whenever one was mentioned, we used to say to each-other “See, I have one too!”
In ’99, I was 14 years old. During the war, or the bombings, I was 13. At least three or four days after the bombings began, we made two attempts to flee, one of which was to Macedonia. We first went to Reçan, a place that today has many restaurants, and spent one night there. Then we left for Bllacë, heading towards Brezovica, with the intention of reaching Skopje. However, we didn’t make it. They sent us back because it was too dangerous, as they were bombing the convoys. The border there was sometimes open, sometimes closed. The second attempt was much later, this time to Albania.
When I returned home, I couldn’t find the notebook. I had it until the bombing started. I’m not sure exactly when I lost it, it could have been in Reçan. I might have left it there. It’s also possible that it was lost during our second attempt to flee to Albania. Maybe I left it behind during the week we stayed at my aunt’s. I only realized I had lost it once the war had started. At that time, there was so much confusion. It was hard to think clearly and understand what was happening.
I remembered what I wrote there, and I wished, “Hope no one reads it!” I don’t remember if I wrote my first and last name on it or not, but I know that many things were written there. The things that happened to me… Back then, I remember I had a crush on a girl, and I wrote a lot about her. I also had the lyrics of rap songs, which I think I know by heart even today. Yes, I know I said, “I wish I hadn’t written my name!” Because I used to think, what if I wrote my name and someone read it — it would have been a nightmare for me.
My cup
Mirishahe Syla, 31, development worker
Lipjan
We bought the cups shortly before the war started. At that time, colored plastic cups were in fashion. There were three cups in different colors. We were three sisters: the oldest, myself and the youngest, who was three years old. At that time, we were with our mother as our father was in Germany. Our uncle, who took care of us, brought us these cups. I remember that the cups had a kind of netted cover, and I think it was a trend for children to have these cups in the neighborhood. I went outside to show the other kids that I had one too.
I vividly remember the excitement we felt as we struggled to remove the netted cover, which was difficult to open. We couldn’t wait to pick out our favorite colors. I think there was a yellow, a green and a pink one. We each chose a color, and I ended up with the pink one. The cup also had a carrier to hold it which was also pink and made of plastic.
When we left the house, we converted the tractor’s trailer into a makeshift home using sheets of plastic. We packed all our belongings, believing we would end up in the mountains and use the trailer as a house to sleep in. However, we ended up taking the train to Tetovo. Once on the train, we left the tractor with someone else to return it, we left it to a relative who stayed behind and did not go to Tetovo.
When they stopped us at the border, we had to get off and board other buses that took us to Tetovo or wherever they were going. I realized that we probably left the cup in the tractor’s trailer, as we forgot most of our belongings there. As soon as I got on the train, I remembered that I didn’t have my cup with me. I used it frequently at that time. I asked my mother and she reminded me that I had searched for it when they took us to a refugee camp in Tetovo. At the camp, they provided us with milk and other essentials, and my mother confirmed that I looked for my cup to drink the milk.
When we arrived, they moved us from one place to another. We went to Tetovo to see my mother’s relatives, only to find out that they had been moved to another camp. There, a lot of aid had arrived in big trucks. But by the time we got there, all the aid had already been distributed. There were only two items left, and we didn’t receive any food or other supplies. Instead, they gave my sister and me two toys, a blue puppy for me and a brown monkey for her. We loved those toys and the camp workers, who were smiling and hugging us.
They were very interesting to us, I think because they were wearing uniforms or something, but it was fascinating to see them. On the way, I lost the blue puppy. I remember when they told us that we could go back, and I remember them saying, “They have already bombed there; it’s good for us to return!” We didn’t understand what that meant at the time. We returned in a small truck, crossed the border and came back to Kosovo. I must have lost the blue puppy somewhere on the way back, as I know that by the time we got home, I no longer had it.
My school bag
Dardan Hoti, 35, journalist
Krushë e Madhe, Rahovec
During the war, the only possession I had with me was the school bag my mother had bought me. She always bought us our school supplies. Inside that bag were items that I often remember fondly. My uncle, who was the only one in our family to study abroad, had brought back a set of aluminum compasses. Whenever I used them at school, the other children were envious because I was the only one who had such a set. When we had to flee our home during the war, the bag was the only thing I managed to take with me, and it contained that precious set of compasses.
Before I fled with part of my family, KLA soldiers came to our house in Krushë during the night. My mother and the other women cooked for them, and the soldiers washed, changed, and continued to move on to other places. I remember that one of the soldiers, who I knew was from the Drenica area, gave me a bullet. My cousin took the bullet, emptied it, made a hole in it, and put it on a black twine for me to wear around my neck. As the war escalated, I was told to remove it because it was considered provocative. I then put it in my bag.
Half of the family left the house and went to Mamusha near Prizren, while the other half stayed behind. My sister and mother remained at home to cook and prepare meals for the soldiers and other people who came by. About 10-15 of us were packed into a tractor and I took my bag with me. We spent a week in Mamusha before moving to Albania. It was very crowded, as there were 40-50 other refugees in the same place and I couldn’t find my bag. I searched for it a lot.
My uncle’s wife, father and others also helped me search for it. I still had the bullet with me, but I was told to get rid of it. I hid it in a hole in a wall. Despite our efforts, I couldn’t find the bag. I was devastated, not only for the lost bag but also because I was worried about my family. For 10 days, we had no information about my mother, sister and whether they were alive. I cried a lot for that bag.
When we returned to Kosovo from Albania after the bombings and got settled, I began searching for my bag and the bullet again. A few months later, we went back to Mamusha and I retraced my steps, hoping I might have left them somewhere. My mother also asked the other families who had stayed there during the war, but I still couldn’t find either the bag or the bullet. Even though I went back to the wall where I had hidden the bullet, it was gone.
Now, when I think about the war, what stands out most is that I never found those lost items. The bag had a small toy monkey hanging from a chain, and even when we were in Albania for two or three weeks and started going to school there, I often thought about it…
My toy deer
Albulena Kryeziu Bokshi, 37, actress
Gjakova
The toy deer was originally my sister’s. A relative from the Netherlands brought it for us. It was a rubber toy, made of hard plastic, and was brown, hazel. It was quite big, and both my sister and I played with it until we grew up, around ’95-’96.
It was a multifunctional prop. Sometimes we used it as a chair, sometimes as a piano and sometimes I even sat on it. It had many uses and was my favorite toy that my sister had. I miss it today because it was an inseparable part of our childhood. My sister passed it on to me, and I passed it on to my cousin, and there the cycle stopped.
It was a very sturdy, special and beautiful toy. Sometimes, we would use it as a horse, because as a child your imagination runs wild. I often took it and sat with another chair and pretended the deer’s back was a piano keyboard. When we pretended to ride horses, imitating cowboy movies, the deer turned into a horse. We’d put a hat on and it turned into a horse. It was my favorite toy and my sister loved it just as much.
Then we gave it to my cousin and the deer stayed at my uncle’s house until 1999. In the meantime, we lived in the area of Çabrati in Gjakova, which was an area of fighting.
After NATO bombed on March 24, [1999], the militia drove us from our house the next day. First, we went to my grandfather’s house, to my uncle’s place. From there, the militia and paramilitaries drove us away from there as well. We resisted and didn’t want to leave Kosovo or go to Albania, but the entire convoy was led by paramilitary forces determined to drive us out of Kosovo. As a child, the idea of escaping the war seemed better to me. I didn’t have the same concern then about protecting our homeland, I just knew from television that there was no war in Albania. At 12 years old, I wasn’t quite a child, but I still didn’t fully understand what war meant.
When we fled from the war, we did not take the toy deer with us. During the war, my uncle’s house was raided by Serb forces. When we returned, we couldn’t find it.
This article has been edited for length and clarity. The conversations were conducted in Albanian.
Ilustrations and feature image: Altin Ibrahimi / K2.0.
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