By Miodrag Marinković
A foreign diplomat, whose name I cannot disclose for obvious reasons, once told me a story from last year’s Vidovdan. After Kosovo authorities banned the display of the Serbian flag, he requested a meeting with a senior official to point out the contradiction between that decision and laws allowing the use of national symbols.
The official listened carefully—only to respond with a familiar set of arguments: that displaying another country’s flag is illegal, that it fuels ethnic tensions, and that institutions are committed to upholding the rule of law. All of this while sitting in front of the Albanian flag.
This story captures the essence of the problem. It is not about individual hypocrisy, but about how the system functions. Selective application of the law and arbitrary interpretation have become a recognizable pattern under the political movement led by Albin Kurti—where national political goals are presented as rule of law.
Numerous examples illustrate this approach: legal action against a mayor over a Christmas greeting, the removal of religious and national symbols, and even the detention of children for wearing clothing with religious insignia. In such cases, the law is not a principle but a tool, adjusted to serve political aims.
The latest example can be seen in statements by Kosovo officials marking the anniversary of the 2004 unrest in Kosovo. Rather than acknowledging well-documented facts, political leaders have resorted to relativization and selective interpretation.
Such narratives are not new. Even at the time, and in the years that followed, the violence was often downplayed or reinterpreted in nationalist discourse. While unacceptable, this is not entirely surprising—conflicts almost always produce competing narratives.
What matters, however, is the institutional response.
Accountability and maturity do not emerge on their own; they require deliberate and responsible policymaking. This is precisely where a significant shift has occurred.
In the past, Kosovo’s political leaders—if not always consistently—at least maintained a minimum level of institutional responsibility when addressing these events.
Former Prime Minister Bajram Rexhepi publicly condemned the violence, as did former President Hashim Thaçi. Even when there was no clear condemnation, there was at least restraint.
Today, even that minimum has been abandoned. Instead of institutional responsibility, political populism dominates, offering a selective reading of facts and history, reshaped into narratives that serve political legitimacy. In this pattern, ethnic interest becomes institutionalized policy—shifting Kosovo from a civic framework toward a predominantly Albanian national one.
The key questions are why this is happening and where it leads.
The first is more straightforward. Why does March 17 remain so important? On that day in 2004, in full view of the international community, Kosovo witnessed widespread ethnic violence against Serbs: churches were burned, thousands displaced, people killed and injured, and hundreds of homes destroyed.
Speculating about causes is unnecessary—the consequences reveal the motive. This violence occurred five years after the war, at a time when Serbs no longer posed a security threat and when Albanians already held effective control.
In that moment, the violence shattered the simplified narrative of the conflict and the earlier dichotomy of “good Albanians” and “bad Serbs” in the eyes of the international community. That perception remains a form of political capital for today’s leadership, which is why the events of March 17 continue to be reinterpreted and relativized.
As for where such policies lead, there is little doubt for Kosovo Serbs. Populism in divided societies provides fertile ground for political mobilization—and it is precisely on that ground that the ruling movement has built and maintained its power.
The result is continued pressure on the Serbian community. We are already witnessing trends where identity is increasingly criminalized, symbols are pushed out of public space, expressions of belonging are treated as security concerns, and administrative and legal mechanisms are used to limit fundamental rights.
Kosovo is gradually becoming a hostile environment for Serbs—a place where survival is conditioned on the suppression of national identity.
I do not remember where I first read the thought, but it has stayed with me: flags hurt the most when they lie on the ground.
When a community’s identity is denied or suppressed, it ceases to be a matter of symbolism and becomes a fundamental question of dignity—both personal and collective. And ultimately, it raises the question: is life here still possible, or must it be sought elsewhere?
That will be the defining challenge in the years ahead.
All opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of KoSSev. KoSSev is not the author of this text.
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