The memory of the train

In December 2009, on the eve of Christmas, I embarked on a one-week adventure in Berlin to soak in the festive end-of-year atmosphere. Getting there had its challenges as Kosovo was then under a strict visa regime. Obtaining the visa was difficult, expensive and time consuming.

But why Berlin? Not because I had any relatives or friends there, but because I wanted to challenge myself in a completely new place. I choose Berlin because it is more than just a typical capital city where the state administration, universities and other important institutions are located. 

It brims with history, art and culture, boasting numerous museums, galleries and graffiti — a living testament to the country’s tumultuous past. To navigate the city, I naturally relied on public transport. However, coming from a country like Kosovo, where public transport is limited to buses, the intricate networks of U-Bahn, S-Bahn and Regionalbahn felt like solving a complex puzzle. Deciphering maps, understanding different lines and stations and mastering platform etiquette seemed like navigating a daunting jungle. Among the various modes of transportation, I found trains particularly fascinating and diverse.

Akropolis as a relic

My knowledge of trains primarily stemmed from literature and movies. From Tolstoy’s tragic depiction of Anna Karenina’s journey, to the brief mentions in Anne Frank’s diary and the heroic narrative of Schindler’s list, the investigation of Hercule Poirot in the novel “Murder on the Orient Express” by Agatha Christie. These stories had instilled in my mind a unique perspective on the power of trains to shape destinies and reveal truths hidden in the rhythmic hum of steel wheels.

In the recesses of my memory, there also lingered whispers of a bygone era when a sleek marvel known as the Akropolis Express carried passengers through our region, beginning its service in 1968.

People told how the Akropolis was a symbol of modernity and unity, carrying passengers across different states and destinies to distant places. A marvel of modern engineering, incorporating advanced equipment and sophisticated design, it was jointly operated by the German, Austrian, Yugoslav Federal Railways and the Hellenic State Railways. The route of that very modern train for the time was: Athens, Skopje, Fushë Kosovë, Belgrade, Zagreb, Ljubljana, Vienna and an end in Munich. In addition to Fushë Kosovë, “The train of 1,001 adventures,” as the Akropolis Express was called, also stopped in Mitrovica and Ferizaj. This train stopped running in 1991 when the wars in the former federation of Yugoslavia started.

I was 10 years old at that time and life in Kosovo was becoming increasingly difficult. Few people had the opportunity to travel for fun back then. Nevertheless, no one could quell my imaginary journeys. Like many other children, I fantasized about traveling by train and airplane, visiting the magnificent places I saw on TV. I also dreamed that when I grew up, I would be like Donna, played by Tory Spelling, from the famous “Beverly Hills, 90210” TV series of that time. From there, my fantasies extended to attending a high school with lockers where secret messages from crushes were exchanged, a cafeteria where we could meet those we admired, a lively courtyard and a community of young people living beautifully.

The older I got, the fewer the opportunities. At the age of 15, when I started high school, the schools turned into private houses where we held classes. There was no canteen; there wasn’t even enough food. We went back and forth hungry and on foot, but at least we had crushes. Maybe this was the only thing that brought us closer to the characters of “Beverly Hills, 90210.” This, and the MTV music channel somehow represented normality for my generation.

MTV has played a significant role in shaping our music, especially with the explosion of rap. It not only entertained but also challenged and empowered young people to question authority, embrace diversity and express themselves freely. Living in a police state marked by constant violence, it was natural for us to identify with rap music, which gave voice to the unheard and addressed social issues like poverty and police brutality.

In the ‘90s, along with rappers and other groups from this genre, the group N.W.A released “Fuck tha Police.” The band sparked debates and controversy. The former assistant director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) sent a warning letter to the album’s distributor condemning the violent content of the Straight Outta Compton album, on which this song appeared. My peers and I used to record the songs from TV onto tapes to listen to and scream out the lyrics, full of cursing. They cursed in songs more than my father cursed the system of Slobodan Milošević, the former president of Yugoslavia, accused of war crimes in Kosovo and Bosnia and Herzegovina. For us, this experience was liberating. We sang the chorus of the song “911 Is a Joke” by Public Enemy together: “So get up and get, get down, 911 is a joke in your town.”

Another artist who had a profound influence on me and my generation back then, and whom I still enjoy listening to, is 2Pac. His lyrics tackle themes such as the challenges of growing up in violent environments and ghettos. They conveyed messages of political, economic and racial equality, inspiring us to dream and fight for justice. This genre of music fueled our anger against injustice while also liberating us by offering a way to express our rebellion. Rap music became an integral part of our youth identity.

Driven by the allure of the American dream, despite living in a country at war, I counted down the days until my 18th birthday. Today, I now question my naivety in believing that this milestone would somehow transport me to a better world as if by magic. Fate, however, had other plans. I found myself celebrating this birthday in 1999 in Bllacë, near the Kosovo-Macedonia border, as a refugee. We arrived there by train, part of what was known as the “train exodus to Bllacë.” For me and most of my peers, this was our first train trip.

With sleepless nights, hunger pangs and stained clothes, I looked nothing like Donna from “Beverly Hills, 90210,” and the grim reality was miles away from the imagined joy. However, despite the reality, I still fantasize like Viktor Frankl, psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, who kept the image of his wife alive during the darkest days in Auschwitz, the largest and most infamous Nazi concentration and extermination camp during World War II. I, too, kept alive the image of a more beautiful life in a free country with many lights, places I had seen in the panoramas of the New Year.

I found such a place 18 years later, in Berlin, at the Christmas market at Alexanderplatz. It was filled with small market huts offering mulled wine, roasted almonds and all kinds of Christmas sweets. There was also a skating rink around the Neptune Fountain and a giant Ferris wheel with cabins that offered stunning views of Berlin.

The maze of railway lines was as terrifying as it was magical. At Alexanderplatz underground station in Berlin I boarded the U2 train to Stadtmitte, intending to walk from there to Checkpoint Charlie, the famous border crossing between East and West Berlin. However, something inside me felt an invisible weight, pressing on me. As soon as I entered the train, my breathing got faster and I felt a tightness in my chest and my palms were sweating furiously. My heart was beating so fast it felt like it wanted to break out of my chest. The faces of the other passengers on that train started to blur. I tried to calm myself down and understand what was going on. “It could be fear of the unknown,” I told myself as I tried to enjoy the trip. “Yes, yes… this should be, we don’t have such transport systems in Kosovo, that’s why I feel this way. Take a deep breath, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

The rhythmic screeching of the train wheels made me realize that I had experienced this feeling before. As the train moved, the hazy faces of the passengers around me began to change. Suddenly, those unfamiliar faces took on familiar forms, transforming into the faces I had once seen on the train to Bllacë. This sudden transformation sent me back in time, causing me to feel the same anxiety and fear I experienced during that terrifying journey. Every noise, every movement took me back in time, causing me to relive those difficult moments. As the wheels rolled along the tracks, the faces of the travelers began to regain their true, unfamiliar forms. But the heavy feeling in my chest remained. It was as if I had stepped through a time portal, where the present and the past blended into one reality. It felt like I had gone back to April 1999.

On April 2, 1999, to be exact, Serbian police entered my grandmother’s house in Tophane, where we had gone to take shelter. I had insisted on leaving our home because there were many Serbs in our building and I did not feel comfortable. I begged my father to take us to another neighborhood.

“Mrš išba, idite u Albaniju” (Get out of here, run to Albania), the Serbian police’s harsh orders echoed as they slammed the doors of the houses using their feet and machine gun barrels. We all went outside, gathered together and began walking aimlessly. We saw crowds of people heading towards the train station, so we joined them. Trains, once symbols of freedom, had become instruments of deportation. The platform was a chaotic scene full of disappointed faces, each clearly bearing the weight of shattered dreams. As we boarded the train in silence, we could feel collectively that this could be our last, one-way journey into the unknown.

The trauma of war on the rails

In Berlin, although I was just a passenger, the sound of the train brought the trauma and wounds of war to the surface, which had been dormant until then. Despite being on a modern train in a modern city — an experience that should have been pleasant and exciting — I was faced with a sudden wave of anxiety and fear. It was a vivid reminder that the trauma of war doesn’t fade with time but remains present, ready to emerge at unexpected moments. As Judith Lewis Herman says in her book “Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence — From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror,” “After a traumatic experience, the self-defense system seems to go into a permanent state of alert, as if danger might return at any moment.” According to her, any sudden noise or situation that triggers the traumatic experience can bring back the feeling of fear and immediate danger.

This had happened to me, and a few years later it happened to my husband, also in Berlin. The train announcement system triggered his trauma. “I have the impression that these warnings aren’t for the next stations, but warnings for some tragedy,” he told me. I remembered my experience and realized that I had never asked him where he was during the war. “Were you deported by train during the war?” I asked him. “Yes,” he answered. That was enough for me to fully understand the feeling of his fear.