"Merdita. That's all I can say in Albanian. Could I buy something here?" every morning an elderly gentlemen asks in several stores in Pristina. Esad Jusufi has been living in Pristina for more than thirty years. He is not an ethnic Albanian and does not speak Albanian. Currently he is paying for this sin by suffering daily humiliation. If lucky, he is not chased away. In most cases, he is thrown out of the store as soon as he starts speaking in the Serb language after saying "Merdita".
"It's even good now. In two-three stores they almost always let him buy something," says his wife, who carries an even heavier burden. She is a Serb.
"I am afraid. Of course I am afraid. But you must not show fear. That can be deadly here," Sonja slowly responds. She is nervous. She lights one cigarette after another. Still, she does not hesitate while talking: "That is my choice. I've decided to stay and I shall stay here."
She and her family receive daily threats. Two adult daughters do not make the situation any easier. They are also in Pristina. They do not want to leave for Belgrade although they have many relatives and friends there.
The reason they feel uncomfortable in Belgrade is similar to the pressure in Pristina. In Belgrade, they are Jusufi [an Albanian surname; Esad Jusufi is most likely a Goran, a Serb speaking Muslim]. They say that their friends and relatives are not the problem. The most recent trip to Belgrade was very unpleasant.
"You are Albanians," concluded the policeman at a checkpoint between Kosovo and Serbia. Later harassment at Police checkpoints was probably routine for the policemen. It wasn't routine for Sonja's daughters.
"While the Serbs were in Pristina we would take the name Jusufi off the door of our apartment and put up my surname, Nikolic. Now we have taken that one off and put Jusufi back on the door," Sonja relates, as an anecdote.
She says she is afraid for her husband. The corners of his mouth have become hard, she says.
"He has never carried a weapon, but daily humiliation has left a deep mark on him. I think that right now he would be capable of killing anyone knocking on the door".
His parents have also had their fill of troubles. Assailants have broken into the house of his father, also Esad. They put a gun against his head and tried to force him to admit that he was a Serb. Esad senior is eighty.
Children: According to Sonja, danger in the streets of Pristina does not come from adults, but mostly from children.
"Children are the worst," she whispers, immediately loosing traces of good mood that appeared while she talked about her daughters.
No wonder. A ten-year-old child demanded to see identification papers from her father-in-law. He had to obey. One never knows who's behind the child. Her mother fared even worse. She was stoned two months ago. He hasn't been outside her house since then.
In the apartment, while showing photos, Sonja again appears to be in the good mood. Solders who provide our escort are, however, not in a good mood at all. They are afraid. "Speak English, please," requested an Italian escort, afraid that a Serb word may escape in a conversation with Sonja, out in the street. That would mean a verdict. Both for us and them.
However, Sonja is already used to the street. As soon as she steps out she is totally transformed. Not even a trace of sorrow and fear. A hat, sun glasses, a mobile phone.
"You must look like a foreigner and must not be afraid," she repeats. "They immediately sense fear".
She claims that she made a definite decision to stay when she was afraid the most. "Friends" gave her a call and gave her friendly advice to leave Kosovo. Otherwise...
"I was terrified. I wouldn't dare step outside the apartment. And then something broke inside. I've even started going out at night."
The going out consists of a visit to the bar named "Kuki", run by two British subjects.
"That is the local 'Casablanca'. It is a heaven for all non-Albanians. Of course, all conversation is in English."
Her theory, which makes her feel secure at night, is a bit strange: "Who would expect that there are Serbs crazy enough to walk around Pristina after dark?"
The Jusufi family shares their apartment building with ethnic Albanians. "Our neighbors are good. They do not bother us".
The remaining one hundred Serb families live in a "colony" guarded by the British. Entrance to the "colony" is not allowed.
"We do not want to draw attention," explains the officer in charge of the security.
KFOR avoids every risk.
Escape from market: The market in Pristina is a forbidden zone even for KFOR. Sonja also does not go there.
"You never know who can stick a knife in your back in the crowd. We simply do not go there," says one of the Italian soldiers.
In the end they accept to take us there for a few minutes. Enough.
Stench, filth, too loud Albanian music, several stalls and hundreds of foreign currency dealers, are the basic characteristics of the market.
It is not advisable to linger. As soon as the KFOR vehicle slows down, a group of dealers slowly approaches. Reactions to a camera are recognizable in any language. Fortunately, our driver uses his roots from Milan and experience to quickly leave the market through an unbelievable traffic jam.
A further drive through the city brings up similar pictures.
The city itself is almost as dirty as the market. Garbage in the streets can be measured in tons.
There are no signs in the Serb language. Cafes, pizza restaurants and restaurants have been set up in every available space. They are decorated without skill, but with a lot of enthusiasm. Former Jugobanka branch has been turned into a pizza restaurant. Above the entrance, there are still a few letters that point out the previous function of the space. Apartments at corners of the buildings are also trendy. They are being turned into offices.
Permits are not necessary. There are no driving permits either. Most of cars have no number plates.
While we are going around, Sonja explains where we are and it is noticeable that she is slowly loosing her guise of a foreigner in the streets of Pristina. Her voice is getting increasingly quiet and then she slips a Serb word. She jumps as if she were hit by lightning.
"Sorry," she says quietly, lowering her head.
She did not wait for an admonishing stare of a soldier.
"Mud, mud, mud. I've never seen this much mud," rages an Italian soldier from our escort. He requested to be sent home: "I won't make it here until April. I'll drown in mud, and people here are also strange."
Almost everyone swears while walking through the camp. In front of the entrance to the main building, there are buckets with water and brushes: to wash ones boots before going inside.
The camp employs many Albanians. Most of them probably recall their days from the Yugoslav People's Army.
It was almost nostalgic to watch them washing military vehicles, clean mud ad infinitum and pour food in the restaurant.
The cooks are, of course, KFOR's. Nevertheless, although this is a KFOR's restaurant, the Serb language is not allowed here either.
"Write a different name," an Italian squeezed through his teeth while we were signing in for lunch.
Thus, that day Johnatan Lewis, a journalist with "Daily Sun", had a lunch in the Film Town.
A sign in the Latin alphabet for a car service "Auto Servis" on one of the houses in a nameless village is a sufficient indicator. The sign has been shot. A dot above I indicates an entrance to the zone with different grammatical rules.