War Diary: We Children of Kosovo, We Children of the War

By Qendrese Halili

This book is Dedicated to all of Kosovo`s children, who, in way or another, survived the war, torture, and, what is most difficult, death in the eyes of God. I`m not more than you are. I`m here from you and for you. Our roots have the same blood, pain, and language!
The time has come for your voice, along with mine, to be heard, and there is no one to deny this
We children of Kosovo
We children of the war.

In that very close moment, I stopped in the street, crying with my head towards the sky, praying. Something inside me spoke:

Look, feel and remember everything, because one day, when you grow up, you have to be able to tell this story to the World.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524691912

Qendrese Halili

I am Qëndresë. My name is a word that means resistance in Albanian—also perseverance and stamina. It is not a child’s name, a feminine one, or that of a flower. Nevertheless, the beauty and the meaning of my name exceed that of a flower’s name. It has achieved its independence! I was born in the most beautiful place in the world: Ferizaj, Kosovo! In addition to my being born, a time of hope for my family and for Kosovo was also born, even though my name is Qëndresë and not Hope. The house where my father and his father before him were born has resisted all wars, all thunder, and all earthquakes, and that same resistance is what my father hoped I would inherit. I am Qëndresë! Qëndresë! How could I not love my name? It is neither a feminine name nor that of a flower. The name is ancient but born to a child. Oh, my, childhood, I thought I had concealed you in a diary. I thought I had escaped you. Maybe I thought so because I was unlike the children of the free world—without fear and war. My childhood is a grief for which there is no forgetting or escaping. No one is capable of escaping his or her childhood! On the contrary, people escape from all ages, and they hide in the ones that should have been most beautiful—those of their childhood—but not me. I cannot escape and hide out in my childhood. My childhood was war-torn, blood-filled, violent, sorrowful, fearful, murderous, hateful, and uncertain. It was full of tears, sadness, and anxiety. All of my childhood would be heavy, far too heavy, even for the world’s shoulders. Nevertheless, my childhood has something surprisingly special, despite all of the sufferings that have yet to be—and who knows when they shall be—revealed to you. You, who have not been born and I have not birthed yet, will have something special: the diary of my childhood, which I have yet to complete, and which I will never complete; the diary of my childhood, which never grew; the diary of flowers, which never bloomed; the diary of hopes, which were never realized; the diary of all of my peers, whose childhoods, like mine, were stolen from the war and whose lives were taken as well. I am only twenty-six years old today, and I still need to create a new childhood—a different childhood from the one I suffered. Where can I do so? How? With what words, hopes, and dreams? They’re not enough! My twenty-six years of life lack the first ten! War lived the ten years that I lost. War took my first ten steps and not my feet. Yet it often feels like I am an elderly woman of war, telling stories of the sufferings of a childhood never lived. We are the next children in line. We are the children of war!

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© 2017 Qëndresë Halili. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/24/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9192-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9190-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9191-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017907589

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The original title was Shqip Gëzuar, Lirinë Vendi Im It was published for the first time in Kosovo in 2009 as a gift to my homeland for freedom, martyrs, and all children of the Kosovo War!

Contents

A Few Days after the Spring Day

Twelve Days as a Refugee

April 1999

We Are in Kosovo, My Kosovo! This Is My Land!

About the Author

Author and Biography: QËNDRESË HALILI

Book Editing in Albanian: ELINDA MARKU

Book Editing in English: AUTHORHOUSE PUBLISHING

Linguistic Analysis in Albanian: PJETËR JAKU,

KUVENDI MAGAZINE

Book Cover Design: SHKËLZEN REXHA

Original Title in Albanian: GËZUAR, LIRINË VENDI IM

2009 Ferizaj, Kosovo

Original Title in English: WAR DIARY: WE CHILDREN OF KOSOVO

WE CHILDREN OF THE WAR

This book is dedicated to all of Kosovo’s children, who, in one way or another, survived the war, torture, and, what is most difficult, death in the eyes of God. I’m not more than you are. I’m here from you and for you. Our roots have the same blood, pain, and language! The time has come for your voice, along with mine, to be heard, and there is no one to deny this …

We Children of Kosovo…

We Children of the War.

photo001.jpg

In that very close moment, I stopped in the street, crying with my head towards the sky, praying. Something inside me spoke:

Look, feel and remember everything, because one day, when you grow up, you have to be able to tell this story to the World

Today, I have completed my mission to this point. War Diary belongs to the World…

Qëndresë Halili

Children invent freedom, adults invent prisons.

—Elinda Marku

photo002.jpgphoto003.jpg

In this picture, you can see children celebrating the liberation of Kosovo! Photo by Shkelzen Rexha, an artist and photographer, Gjakova, Kosovo, June 1999

This Diary has the power to save the world from wars.

-Shkëlzen Rexha

A Few Days after the Spring Day

March 1999

Even today, there is darkness in my village. Even today, I am part of this scary darkness, which does not let me be comfortable in my sleep, dreams, toys, or childhood.

I’m in my house, which I don’t recognize anymore. Joy will never exist in my house, nor will happiness or hope. My house cannot exist without these things—just like nature, people, and the rest of the world!

Dead silence is everywhere and in all of our faces. Perhaps even the belief of God is dead!

My heart is closed like a bird in a cage. I have heard from my father that birds should always be free to fly.

I cry wholeheartedly with my soul. I do not know what war means.

I am just a child. I want my childhood. I love toys. I love friends. I love school. I love freedom. I love family. I love all the children of the world.

My mother is crying. My father is crying. My sister is crying. My brothers are crying. My neighborhood is crying. My village is crying. My friends are crying. Kosovo is crying. The people are crying. The sky is crying. The earth is crying. The world is crying.

I do not want to cry. I know that children should not cry. People should not cry and neither should the earth nor the heavens, the sun, or the world—because it’s not good to cry.

For a moment, someone is knocking at the door (who I never saw his face) and we all stand to our feet. I close my eyes. I do not want to see anything bad. My body trembles, and I am so cold. I also close my ears, and my head is covered with my hair. I want nothing more than to sleep and to wake up one year later, after the war is over. But how can I sleep?

War is the same as fear. Both bring trouble to the human being.

God, I am very scared. In that little close moment, I start crying and praying, "Please God, do something for me. Do something for us."

War! War! War! I hear too many voices. I am scared even more. I close my eyes even more. I buckle my head with both hands, and I do not want to be here. I do not want to exist anymore.

All of them are going back and forth and are whispering slowly, "We have to