klipper noe fra Los Angeles Times av Paul Watson
Knut Rognes
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Monday, May 17, 1999
DISPATCH FROM KOSOVO
In One Village, Albanian Men Are Everywhere
By PAUL WATSON, Times Staff Writer
VETLJE, Yugoslavia--Something strange is going on in this Kosovo Albanian
village in what was once a hard-line guerrilla stronghold, where NATO
accuses Serbs of committing genocide.
An estimated 15,000 displaced ethnic Albanians live in and around
Svetlje, in northern Kosovo, and hundreds of young men are everywhere,
strolling along the dirt roads or lying on the grass on a spring day.
So many fighting-age men in a region where the Kosovo Liberation Army
fought some of its fiercest battles against Serbian forces are a challenge
to the black-and-white versions of what is happening here.
By their own accounts, the men are not living in a concentration camp,
nor being forced to labor for the police or army, nor serving as human
shields for Serbs.
Instead, they are waiting with their families for permission to follow
thousands who have risked going back home to nearby villages because they
do not want to give up and leave Kosovo, a province of Serbia, the main
Yugoslav republic.
"We wanted to stay here where we were born," Skender Velia, 39, said
through a translator. "Those who wanted to go through Macedonia and on to
Europe have already left. We did not want to follow."
A foreign journalist spent two hours in Svetlje over the weekend, his
second visit in less than a week, without a police or military escort or a
Serbian official to monitor what was seen or said.
The closest Serbian security forces were two policemen sitting at a
checkpoint half a mile up the dirt road, who weren't pleased to see so many
refugees moving back into the Podujevo area.
Just as NATO accuses Yugoslav forces of using ethnic Albanian refugees
as "human shields," the Serbs say KLA fighters hide among ethnic Albanian
civilians to carry out "terrorist attacks."
But Velia and other ethnic Albanians interviewed in Svetlje said they
haven't had any problems with Serbian police since the police allowed them
to come back.
"For the month that we've been here, the police have come only to sell
cigarettes, but there hasn't been any harassment," Velia said.
That isn't what North Atlantic Treaty Organization Secretary-General
Javier Solana believes is happening in Kosovo.
Solana told BBC television Sunday that he expected much more evidence
of "ethnic cleansing" in the province to emerge once the war is over. "You
don't see males in their 30s to 60s," he said.
And on CBS-TV's "Face the Nation" on Sunday, Defense Secretary William
S. Cohen said that as many as 100,000 ethnic Albanian men of fighting age
have vanished in Kosovo and may have been killed by Serbian forces.
The claims and counterclaims are only part of the tangled web that
threatens to trap NATO after nearly two months of bombing intended to make
peace here.
Kosovo Albanians continue to flee Yugoslavia, often with detailed
accounts of atrocities by Serbian security forces or paramilitaries.
Yet thousands of other ethnic Albanians are coming out of hiding in
forests and in the mountains, hungry and frightened, and either going back
home or waiting for police permission to do so.
While Serbian police seize the identity documents of Kosovo Albanians
crossing the border into Albania or Macedonia, government officials in
Pristina, Kosovo's provincial capital, issue new identity cards to ethnic
Albanians still here.
The Kosovo Democratic Initiative, an ethnic Albanian political party
opposed to the KLA's fight for independence, is distributing relief aid,
offering membership cards and gathering the names of Serbs accused of
committing atrocities.
"As an Albanian, I am convinced that the Serbian government and
security forces are not committing any kind of genocide," Fatmir Seholi,
the party's spokesman, said in an interview Sunday.
"But in a war, even innocent people die," Seholi said. "In every war,
there are those who want to profit. Here there is a minority of people who
wanted to steal, but that's not genocide. These are only crimes."
As an Albanian, Seholi also knows the risks of questioning claims that
Yugoslavia's leaders, police and military are committing crimes against
humanity in Kosovo.
His father, Malic Seholi, was killed Jan. 9, 1997, apparently for
being too cooperative with Serbian authorities. The KLA later claimed
responsibility for the slaying in a statement published in Bujku, a local
Albanian-language newspaper, his son said.
There are pressures to toe the party line in villages like Svetlje
too, where a man who overheard Velia speaking with a Serbian correspondent
for Agence France-Presse told him to stop.
"Don't talk to the Serbs," the man said angrily in Albanian. "They are
to blame for everything that is happening."
Velia, his wife, Hajiri, their three children and his mother, Farita,
56, were among as many as 100,000 Kosovo Albanians who fled the northern
city of Podujevo in the early days of NATO's air war.
Some said Serbs drove them from their homes, while others said they
were simply scared and left on their own. But they all ended up moving from
one village to another, trying to escape fighting between KLA guerrillas
and Serbian security forces.
Now they must live with another danger--the NATO bombs that fall ever
closer to Svetlje as the alliance intensifies its attacks on Yugoslav
forces across Kosovo.
Last week, a bomb exploded just 200 yards from the five-room school
that houses about 60 refugees. The explosion killed an ethnic Albanian man
named Bashota, who was about 22 years old and from nearby Lapastica, Velia
said.
When the foreign visitor asked Velia whether he thought NATO's bombing
was helping or hurting, he shifted at the wooden desk where he was sitting
in one of the school's classrooms.
"My blood is the same as yours," he said. "I just want the situation
stabilized. People are not very interested in what is going on with big
[political] discussions here and there. They are just interested in going
home."
Despite the mass exodus of Kosovo Albanians during the NATO bombing,
several hundred thousand remain in the province, many of them still hiding
without proper food, medicine and shelter.
After waves of looting, arson, killings and other attacks turned many
of Kosovo's cities into virtual ghost towns, the government took steps to
restore order, and ethnic Albanians began to move back, often under police
protection.
Of an estimated 100,000 people living in Pristina, roughly 80,000 are
ethnic Albanians and a quarter of those are displaced people from the
Podujevo area living with relatives, friends or in abandoned homes, Seholi
said.
An additional 32,000 ethnic Albanians are living in and around
Podujevo itself, he added.
A total of 120,000 ethnic Albanians are waiting to return to their
homes in four areas--near Podujevo, Pristina, Stimlje and Prizren--while
350,000 more have proper homes, Seholi estimated.
Home for Zajda Hasani, 76, and 10 others in her family is a classroom
and an adjoining storage room, where the shelves are stacked with books by
writers such as Twain and Tolstoy.
"I have no problems at all," Hasani said between long draws on a
cigarette. "I'm relaxed."
In Svetlje, the biggest problem is getting enough to eat. None of the
foreign relief agencies delivering food to refugees outside Kosovo has been
able to come to feed those ethnic Albanians left behind.
Agencies such as the Office of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees
are negotiating with Yugoslav authorities about security guarantees and
other matters as a prelude to resuming work in Kosovo.
On Friday, the International Committee of the Red Cross sent a
four-truck convoy carrying medicine, food and other relief, the first
shipment since NATO launched the air war March 24.
It wasn't nearly enough to feed the tens of thousands who are going
hungry. The last aid Velia's family received was from the Yugoslav Red
Cross, which gave them 4 1/2 pounds of flour and some yeast a month ago.
Like many of the children in Svetlje, Velia's 7-month-old daughter,
Erinisa, is sick. The baby has received four injections but needs six more.
Her mother has to line up with other refugees at the edge of Podujevo
for police permission to enter the town and visit the hospital.
The refugees have started a small, roadside market in Svetlje that
sells pasta, coffee, onions, rubber sandals, cigarettes and a few other
assorted items. But in the absence of any jobs, few people can afford to
buy much.
"The entire day, we just sit here or walk and wander around," Velia
said. Although no one in Svetlje has been forced to work for the police or
military, "Who knows what may happen tomorrow?" he added.
Just a few minutes' walk away, there was a horrible reminder of just
how uncertain the future is.
It was a human skull, partly charred by fire. It lay in the grass
outside a one-story building where refugees once were sheltered in about
half a dozen rooms that were previously municipal offices.
The floors were covered with hay, where families slept, and the
clothes and other belongings they left behind were scattered everywhere.
A single, burned corpse lay in the middle of one room, not proof of
genocide, but a hint of the dark mystery that is Kosovo.
* * *
All of Paul Watson's dispatches from Kosovo are available on The
Times' Web site at http://www.latimes.com/dispatch.
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