I spent a quarter of my life without visiting the countries of the European Union or any other continent. Instead, I watched documentaries about those places on weekends, broadcast on our televisions. I obsessively collected and admired photographs of them.

We wandered through embassies, grappling with the preparation of endless documents that caused us unusual nervousness. In 2019, I went through this process myself when I set out to make my way to Germany. The procedures felt excessive for citizens of Kosovo like us, who had been isolated for decades. I needed documents to prove I was a student, my employment status, where I was going, the route I would take, the family that would host me, whether there was space for me and even the size of the house in square meters. At the application center counter, they bombarded me with torturous questions. I felt unequal to the people from abroad who came to Kosovo for leisure. And, of course, we were not equal. We had been waiting since 2008 to travel to EU countries, only for them to make us wait another 16 years.

I wondered if I was too late for this journey — too late to experience the mentality of other cultures and learn from them.

They didn’t grant me a visa, and the waiting continued.

Then, the year 2024 found us once again prepared for something we had been ready for many times before — promises of visa liberalization. This time, it was more than just true; calling it merely true seemed to undermine its significance.

Among the white clouds

In mid-August 2024, I approached the counter with a modest suitcase, as my ticket only allowed a handbag. The agent checked each passenger for the required document — strangely, this time, it was singular: “document.” I carried only my passport, unstamped and untouched by any previous journey.

Walking through the tunnel connecting the airport’s second floor to the plane entrance filled me with an incredible feeling, but I had to pull myself together. I struggled to decipher the number on my ticket, but I hoped for a seat near the plane’s magical windows. My fear of heights had reached its peak — literally. There was nowhere higher to go, damn it.

I took on the role of a neighbor who knows more about others’ issues than his own. I started observing the other passengers. For some, the plane trip seemed routine, offering so much comfort that some even took a nap. Others occupied themselves with books, while a few showed signs of stress.

As soon as the plane took off and left the ground, we lost our balance, our bodies swaying from side to side. A terrifying sensation sent shivers down my spine. I glanced at the other passengers again. Did they feel the same fear? Were they just as uneasy? Were they, too, thinking about death?

These questions tormented me. I desperately wanted reassurance that nothing would go wrong. I thought about cartoons, where a character faints and someone splashes a pan of water in their face to bring them back to clarity. I wished I had that pan of water — not to throw at someone else, but to hurl at myself, brutally and quickly. I needed to snap out of it and accept that turbulence was, in fact, normal.

I landed at the large airport in Düsseldorf, Germany. My sister had given me some advice: when you land, follow where everyone else is going. Following her instructions, I made my way to a village called Geseke, where my sister and her family had lived for nearly 20 years.

The first thing that caught my eye was the old houses, all featuring the same architecture, neatly arranged from top to bottom. Elderly people rode bicycles, their clothing extremely simple. I saw them in the markets, selecting products, checking ingredients and expiration dates. The word “traffic jam” should probably disappear from the German vocabulary; they likely never use it. I didn’t see a single cigarette butt — not a single one. The waste was sorted into three categories: plastic, paper and mixed food items. A machine allowed people to deposit bottles and receive 25 cents for each plastic bottle. Another machine accepted old clothes, sending them to those in need.

I visited Cologne and its cathedral, which took 600 years to build. It was an extraordinary structure. Cologne, though not one of the five largest cities in Germany, was definitely impressive.

As I walked through the large square of this fantastic city, I saw artists standing motionless like sculptures. You couldn’t tell they weren’t real sculptures until they moved and did something that left us completely speechless.

I traveled to Dortmund next.

I tried Chinese food for the first time in Germany. I could eat as much as I wanted, all day long, for a reasonable price. At the end, they served me a fortune cookie with the message, “There will be great changes, but you will be very happy.” To this day, I still hope this message will become reality. 

I returned to Kosovo and found everything where I had left it; only a beautiful break had marked that trip, until the next time. I started to see things differently, both personally and professionally. My path had taken a new direction, and the change had already happened.

Feature Image: Atdhe Mulla / K2.0.

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This blog was published with the financial support of the European Union as part of the project “Diversifying voices in journalism.” Its contents are the sole responsibility of Kosovo 2.0 and do not necessarily reflect the views of the European Union.