Discarded and Invisible

Translation provided by KoSSev

By Tatjana Lazarević

On the first day of the new school year, September 2nd, the Pristina-based TV station Kanal 10 moved its well-known debate show Politiko out of the studio to the bottom of Mitrovica’s promenade. In a nearly five-hour special program from the northern side, on the street which Marko Djurić once dubbed „Mitrovica’s Knez Mihailova,“ journalist Kushtrim Sadiku enthusiastically hosted about ten guests after the summer break.

From police officers, a former minister, council members, and analysts to a parliament member who once stated in Kosovo’s Assembly that he regretted not killing more Serbs during the war and would have made sudžuk (cf. type of sausage) from them, all claimed the show was proof of peace and freedom. The heated debate in Albanian clashed with the sounds of children playing in what might be the only or certainly the most beloved place for children and parents in the only town in Kosovo where Serbs still hold the majority.

The sight of armchairs set up on a dimly lit promenade, occupied by people passionately faking that everything was fine—that Mitrovica was a free town, liberated from criminal groups, and that bridges united people—was in poor taste. How dull it feels to watch television from the perspective of an outsider! Equally uncomfortable was the lack of a view from another angle—a typical Albanian viewer. Do they, just like the Serbs, swallow the bait of a fake dolce vita and get intoxicated with boundless enthusiasm by this endless, increasingly primitive pre-election content?

Television is an illusion. The truth happens behind the camera. In the dark, real life unfolds—both bitter and sweet. Watching colleague Sadiku, I saw that citizens from these dark corners were invisible to them. That’s why I disagree with the flood of comments from my fellow citizens claiming „they came to provoke.“ No, we are the ones who have been written off.

***

„Could you give us a little space?“—this was the response my young colleague received from Kosovo’s Minister of Internal Affairs, Xhelal Sveçla, on August 12th, when she asked about the reason for his visit. Despite her conspicuous politeness and persistence in doing her job, pointing her toward Minister of Justice Albulena Haxhiu, who was part of the ministerial trio that day, a member of Haxhiu’s team, after receiving brief instructions, asked the journalist, „Do you speak Albanian?“ When she responded negatively, Haxhiu briefly and with relief said, „Sorry,“ and continued walking, refusing to give a statement to a Serbian journalist, even in English.

Local Serbian-language media are largely ignored by Kosovo officials, in stark contrast to their fascination with northern Kosovo. In their media appearances—whether through promotional posts and films on social media or through media teams brought in from Pristina or South Mitrovica—they present themselves as hosts of this jewel they are now polishing. Whether showcasing the tourist, cultural-historical, agricultural, or strategic potential of Lake Gazivode, the Rogozna, Bajgora, or Mokra mountain ranges, the Ibar River, the return of Albanians, the reopening of the Ibar Bridge, the arrival of well-known small businesses, post offices, telecommunications operators, or the opening of ministry branches, or simply taking a stroll for coffee or boza, the ministers are touring, proudly celebrating the beauty of this „liberated“ part of their homeland.

Six months before the upcoming elections, it’s not the time for them to speak Serbian or answer questions, unless, by statistical fluke, they are forced to do so to give the impression they’ve conducted „outreach.“ Such media, like the citizens who read them, are as invisible to them as statistical errors.

***

How invisible are the people who live off stipends simply because they are on some list, having lost their physical workplaces?

In the latest synchronized action by the Kosovo Police last Friday, facilities where the remaining Serbian institutions operated were closed in all four northern municipalities, primarily municipal offices, the Office for Kosovo and Metohija, the Pension and Disability Fund, and a public utility company.

The building of the Provisional Municipal Authority in North Mitrovica was closed, a year after similar offices in the other three northern municipalities were seized.

At the same time, offices believed to be the relocated municipal services functioning in recent months were also shut down.

Although they claimed this was not part of the operation, the Kosovo Police also entered the boiler room of the Clinical Hospital Center in North Mitrovica, where they said they found a military jacket, a backpack, several magazines, two knives, and a hunting rifle case.

In searches of eight facilities (excluding the boiler room), in all four municipalities, four were closed—two in North Mitrovica, one in Zvečan, and one in Leposavić. In Zubin Potok, as confirmed by the KP in North Mitrovica, they didn’t find the services they were looking for.

Equipment and documentation, primarily computers, were removed from the sealed buildings, and Serbian state symbols were taken down. A promotional video of the Kosovo Police raiding these facilities was released, set to dramatic music, although they encountered no resistance, with the film showing meticulously organized office spaces. Quickly, signs in three languages, featuring the names of three ministries (in the usual flawed Serbian), were pasted on the sealed buildings.

Similarly, the previous month saw the closure of Serbia’s postal services and the last remaining Serbian financial institutions. Before that, the use of the dinar was banned, vehicles were re-registered from KM to RKS, Serbian driver’s licenses were annulled, and the ban on importing Serbian goods has now been in place for more than a year.

With the withdrawal from Kosovo institutions two years ago and the closure of these Serbian ones—where the majority of employees were ethnic Serbs—estimates suggest tens of thousands of people in the North are now left without their physical workplaces.

***

Pristina’s policy for Serbs in the North is a policy of lists: lists of extremists, lists of terrorists, lists of war criminals, lists of people to be arrested, confiscated lists of employees in parallel institutions, forwarded lists, lists of travelers crossing the border, and lists of pensioners set to be stripped of their double pensions (pending implementation), even though the 100 euros from Kosovo isn’t an earned pension.

Serbia’s policy for Kosovo is also a policy of lists: lists for humanitarian aid, social welfare lists, state child support lists, lists of employees, voter lists, rally lists.

Those whom all regimes in Belgrade have rhetorically designated as defenders of Kosovo, ready to sacrifice their lives, have been turned into a humanitarian category or work-disabled. These are ghettoized people to whom occasional privileges are granted—financial aid, jobs, apartments, or odd jobs—but from whom no professional integrity, responsibility, or societal freedoms are expected.

To be fair, I’ll exclude the government of the late Prime Minister Zoran Djindjić, which didn’t last long enough for me to assess the fruits of his policy for Kosovo.

***

The next time you decide to launch a hate campaign while watching the latest troubles of the Serbs in Kosovo, gleefully spewing clichés like, „What do you want? You voted and rallied for them,“ remember that of the roughly 24,000 votes from Kosovo, about 17,000 were for the SNS. However, this is nothing compared to the more than 1.7 million votes that party received across Serbia. From that perspective, those 17,000 are proportionate to the strength of that largely invisible and written-off population down there.

***

Television is an illusion. The truth happens in the dark spaces behind the scenes.

The author is the editor-in-chief of the KoSSev portal