A little to celebrate on the 10th anniversary of Independence

First I arrived in Kosovo nearly 20 years ago. In 1999, NATO had intervened in support of ethnic Albanian rebels against Slobodan Milosevich's forces. I came to cover the war eventually.

As NATO bombs fell, Serbian forces launched a campaign of ethnic cleansing that led to nearly one million Kosovo Albanians -- mostly Muslims -- fleeing their homes. The Serb, mostly Christian Orthodox, soon surrendered and withdrew its forces from Kosovo. Later, Kosovo spent nine years under UN control.

Ten years ago, on February 17th, the closed mountainous region of less than two million people declared independence from Serbia. Away from the end of these troubles, independence seems to have brought a host of other problems.

I have repeatedly visited Kosovo since its first arrival in late 1998 on a two-week trip. I returned in February 1999 and settled in Pristina, the capital, until 2005. I usually visit Kosovo once a year, but it happens that even more often.

Being a media editor of conflict, I couldn't help people but see them and their country through the prism of war even now. By driving through the village, I remembered the checkpoints, the refugee ranks, the displaced people seeking security, the thick black smoke that flowed from burning villages.

Everything has changed for this country and these people. When I returned this winter, I was hit by the way that Kosovars ' permanent optimism had turned into despair and disappointment. People seem burdened with humiliation, and also with contempt for government corruption.

By God, if it wasn't for all those people who gave their lives for something like this, I would ask that we go back to where we were before the war, a man told me. We had a better life then; we had more options. ”

What he says is a true heresy in Kosovo, and that's why he didn't want his name to appear in the newspaper because he feared it would be viewed as unpatriotic. Fear is still a fact of life for the majority.

Just days before my arrival, a moderate angry politician, Oliver Ivanovic, was killed on one of the streets of Mitrovica.

Mitrovica remains an icy and divided city. The evil part is scared. One resident described the police as flowers, just for the decoration.

I photographed Mr. Ivanovic many times. He had once led a paramilitary group guarding bridges over the Iber River, which separates the Albanian area from the Serb.

In 2003, I was at a meeting at which US diplomat Richard Holbrooke told Mr. Ivanovic that if he adhered to his radical agenda, “you'll wake up one morning and look in the mirror to realize that the course of history has violated you. ”

Mr. Ivanovic later transformed himself into a more pragmatic politician. Before his death, he had accused local mafia of controlling the city. Many residents believe the mafia works in the name of Serbia's capital, Belgrade, and speculate that Mitrovica will still remain formally divided.

In the rest of Kosovo, the Albanian community with the Serb community co-operates more. But psychic scars are everywhere, even if the country's view has transformed from excellent highways, giant gas pumps [benzina] and malls.

The road from the border with Albania, which runs through the town of Gjakova and Prizren, is in itself a scars, a touching reminder of the massacres of war.

It crosses the mountainous border and was used as a crossroads by the rebels of the Kosovo Liberation Army during the war. The villages on that side have suffered a lot.

I passed through Meya, an Albanian Catholic village, which was where the worst massacre occurred and where 372 young men and boys were taken from refugee columns and killed on the street.

Their troops were missing at the end of the war. Many were found only years later in a mass cemetery in a training field for the Serb special police in Batajnica outside Belgrade.

For many years the site of Marachra near Meya was marked by several simple, Muslim, and Catholic graves mixed together. Now it seems that a permanent memorial will be placed there. A black marble sarcophagus stands at 18 rows of width and 25 length.

The same road leads to Gjakova, now rebuilt after most of the city was destroyed, including the business of Ottoman times. Then it passes to Xerce and Krusha, ruined villages where most men were executed.

According to a 2017 report by the International Committee on Missing Persons, 4,500 people had disappeared during the war, more than 1,600 of whom still remain missing.

In Gjakova, I visited two women, Nusrete Cumnova and Ferdoje Qerkezi. During the war, Mrs. Cumnova had been taken away and his only son had disappeared. Mrs. Kerkez has lost her husband and four sons.

Two of Mrs. Kerkezi's sons have been found since, and have been buried. Her husband and two other boys are still missing.

For these women, time does not move forward. Mrs. Kerkez has turned her home into a museum dedicated to her past.

Up high, their rooms are what they had left behind. Toys, soccer balls, and clothes carefully preserved in plastic.

In another room, there were shelves holding the clothes in which bullets had entered the bodies of her two sons who had found them, as a terrible reminder of the way their life ended.

She does not answer questions about how she feels about the anniversary of Kosovo's independence in a simple word, “Pah, don't herself! ”

While there is great disappointment with the economic and political situation, there are also signs of optimism. Artisically and culturally, Kosovo is prospering.

Kosovo-born artists such as Rita Ora, I want Lipa and Wind Istrefi are regular in international music tours. Clubs, bars and countries where live music is performed in Pristina and where few ethnic borders flourish.

Petrit Halilaj, a young artist, had received the special jury award at Biennalen in Venice last year.

By chance, I had photographed him when he was only 11 years old and was part of the refugee ranks in a country where food was distributed in Kukes, Albania. His experience of war still inspired his artistic work.

On the last day in Kosovo, news was given that Prime Minister Ramush Haradinaj had been denied a visa to Great Britain. The reaction was a great shame because he had been denied visas even to the United States.

Since declaring independence, Kosovo has been recognised by only 111 UN member states [which has 193]. Krucial here is non-recognition by Russia, China, Serbia and the five European Union states.

Kosovo remains the only country in Europe without visa liberalisation, which means it is impossible for its citizens to travel freely. This country has the youngest population in Europe, according to the World Bank, with 70% of people under the age of 35.

“As long as we are isolated in this ghetto, we will have problems,” said Arben Berisha, the Kosovo leader of Arsenal supporters. “We wanted our young people to go out for studies and bring their expertise to Kosovo. ”

Driving the car towards Macedonia to catch a home flight, I entered one of the new highways connecting Kosovo and Albania, and I couldn't help wondering: If the prime minister himself cannot travel wherever he wants, what does that mean for ordinary Kosovars?

Crushed by low wages, unemployment, a stable economy, and the inability to travel where do all these expensive and excellent highways lead?

Translated from Periscope