Kosovo's identity crisis
Guardian Weekly
"Why do the Serbs keep living in the past? Everyone knows where they ended up with their nationalist policies," says Agim Osmani. A year ago he and his wife, with their six children, bought and rebuilt a house in Caglavica, in the outskirts of Pristina, along the road to Macedonia. Previously it belonged to a Serb, now in Belgrade.
"We are all free to choose. There is plenty of room for everyone," adds Osmani.
In fact, along the 5km stretch between Caglavica and Pristina there is increasingly less room. In just a few years the fields have filled with Albanian-owned warehouses, filling stations and shops. Most of Osmani's neighbours are Serbs, but for how much longer? The average age of Kosovo's 130,000 Serbs is 54, compared with 28 for their 2 million Albanian neighbours.
Stamenko Kovacevic, 82, lives just behind Osmani's house, scraping by on his miserable Elektro Kosova pension. He hopes to end his days in this village of 1,500 people, all Serbs until recently. His children have left the province, which always been one of the poorest parts of the former Yugoslavia.
"Agim takes care of me, he brings me food and takes me to the doctor's," says Kovacevic. But he nevertheless voted "yes" in the referendum, "because it has always been that way".
In the distance the antiquated power station at Obilic belches poisonous smoke. Kovacevic has few illusions about the benefits of the new constitution, hurriedly drafted in Belgrade to replace the 1990 text.
Slobodan Milosevic, the former president of Serbia, was determined to end Kosovo's relative autonomy in a Yugoslav union that was already disintegrating. Fighting in Kosovo only flared up at the end of the 1990s, after Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia. But unlike the former republics which have gained independence - joined by Montenegro a few months ago - the fate of the former autonomous region of Kosovo is still undecided.
Kosovo has its own president, elected parliament and government, which raises taxes in euros. It also has a civil defence corps, more akin to an army than a pioneer group. Not many young Albanians speak Serbo-Croat any longer, as was the case for the previous generation brought up in Tito's Yugoslavia. The number plates on their German saloons and Yugo bangers are all marked KS and none of them are in any doubt about their imminent independence. "Only the Serbs shut their eyes so as not to see the elephant in their sitting room," says Veton Surroi, a Kosovar writer.
Milan Ivanovic, on the other hand, is among those who reject the idea of independence. Seated on the terrace of the Dolce Vita café, in the northern quarter of the divided town of Mitrovica, in northern Kosovo, he persists in maintaining that the province "was, is and always will be Serb. Nor will any Serb leader wreck his political career by abandoning Kosovo". "What is happening at present is temporary. In the medium term Serbia will regain control of Kosovo," he adds. He does not explain how, but then the democratic process is not his cup of tea.
Dr Ivanovic runs the local hospital and chairs the Serb National Council. A radical, with closely cropped hair and a steely gaze, he forecasts more violence: "It's inevitable. The only unknown quantity is its scale. As Serbs we could never accept Kosovo's independence. We will block the roads in the north and stop the Albanians coming here. If need be we'll organise our own referendum to ratify our independence, inside Kosovo. On the other hand, if Kosovo is not granted its independence, the Albanians will be angry because the international community promised it six year ago."
He recalls the rioting in March 2004 and the violence that claimed a dozen lives. Albanian extremists attacked isolated Serb homes and burned Orthodox churches, prompting villagers from around Mitrovica to take refuge in the town. The international community is terrified a similar uprising might engulf the whole of Kosovo - either spontaneously or stirred up by one of the opposing forces.
"We will defend ourselves against any attacks," warns Ivanovic, who has rejected any moves since 1999 that might bridge the gap between the two communities. Here in Mitrovica the health service, schools and university are all an integral part of the Serb system and completely dependent on Belgrade.
"Our politicians are heading for disaster," says Milos, a Serb studying philosophy at the local university. "They adopt an extremist line because they are paid by Belgrade. If things go wrong, they have a fallback solution, but I don't. My future is here," he adds, lowering his voice to express views shared by a silent minority.
Most of the customers at the Dolce Vita are bulky skinheads who claim to be the "guardians of the bridge", a reference to the bridge across the Ibar river that separates the Albanian districts, to the south, from their Serb counterparts, to the north. There has been no communication between the two sides since Nato forces arrived in June 1999.
Milos does not much like the idea of an independent Kosovo. He says: "We have lost touch with our Albanian neighbours, but if we can have reasonable security and autonomy, then perhaps we can live together. I certainly do not fancy the sort of security the 'guardians of the bridge' are offering."
"Fortunately there is little fighting between the two communities now," says Romuald Pilchard, a political adviser to the commander of the KFOR international force deployed since 1999. The presence of 16,000 foreign troops and the setting up of a local police force have helped keep the peace. But other factors are also at work. "Now that they have almost achieved their goal of independence, the Kosovar Albanians are playing it safe. They have nothing to gain from upsetting negotiations on final status," says a European diplomat. "But there is a limit to their patience, and the politicians say it is increasingly hard to keep control of the more unruly elements," he adds. Many think the outburst of violence in 2004 was in fact salutary because it reminded the international community that Kosovo still existed.
During a visit to Paris last month the Kosovar prime minister, Agim Ceku, underlined his people's "concern" at the delay to negotiations. "People are fed up. They get the impression nothing is happening, whereas the situation is dramatic," says Nehad Islami, a moderate Albanian writer. "Almost half the population is unemployed and the others are living below the poverty line. They may blow their top at any time," warns Avni Zogani, of the Cohu! (Wake up!) organisation, which is trying to raise civic awareness among Kosovars.
Albanian politicians are keen to keep things calm but they lack the necessary credibility. "Most of them are corrupt and the political parties all have links of some sort with organised crime, which has infiltrated most official bodies," says Zogani.
He adds: "The public sector is more of a welfare operation, doing favours for specific groups, with 70,000 officials. That is three times more than in Slovenia for a comparable population. Added to which the UN Mission in Kosovo [known as Unmik] people turn a blind eye. They have already packed their bags and do not want any problems. We are increasingly fed up with our politicians but also with the international agencies."
"The only solution is independence, but it is like a lover you've been waiting for too long: part of the charm has gone," says Linda Gusia, a professor of sociology at Pristina University. "Daily life absorbs all our energy. We have no time to think of anything else. We realise that not having an international status is part of the problem, but we also know it will not solve all our woes, as if by magic, particularly the power cuts in the winter."
With a salary of only €150 a month, she has to do several jobs to feed her family. She says: "I feel humiliated at not being able to provide for my children, at not having a passport or being able to buy books on the net, because Kosovo is not a state. It isn't even Kosovo here, it's Unmikistan, and we're trapped."
http://www.guardian.co.uk/guardianweekly/story/0,,1948467,00.html
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