Kosovo Journal

Singing and dancing again

By Fran Hesser
Special to CNN Interactive

The author is a free-lance writer visiting Kosovo to observe international humanitarian efforts. Look for regular dispatches from her over the next several weeks.

GNJILANE, Kosovo (CNN) -- During a decade of Serbian control, ethnic Albanians in Kosovo were prohibited from celebrating their region's colorful cultural heritage. But a song and dance recital held this week under the watchful eyes of KFOR soldiers reminded us that creativity can flourish even in a war zone, and gave us a glimpse of fervent Albanian patriotism.

We were invited to attend the recital by one of the sponsors. Although we jumped at the chance, we privately wondered about the security of a large gathering of Albanians in the run-down theatre -- despite the presence of peacekeepers from the NATO-led Kosovo Force.

Had we known that just that morning two Serb doctors had been shot outside the Gnjilane hospital, our concerns would have been even more justified. One died, the other was in critical condition.

At 1:30 p.m., for a performance scheduled to begin at 1, we were crowded and pushed inside the theater where there was standing room only. Just then the notoriously inefficient Kosovo power grid went down.

No one panicked in the darkened room. People laughed and flicked on cigarette lighters. Fortunately for everyone, the lights came back on after only a few minutes and remained on for the entire performance.

Singing the old songs

The show began with a moment of silence for Kosovo's recent and past war dead. Then we were treated to a delightful interlude. Singers and dancers performed a show that had flashes of the region's Turkish and Slavic heritages.

At the end, audience members became emotional as they sang several patriotic songs. An old man in the front stood to wave the two-headed eagle flag of Albania.

"We would not have been allowed to sing those songs before," said Vlora, one of our new Albanian friends. Vlora, whose family hid with 40 others in a basement for one month during the war, is a former medical student who now works as an office manager.

A French soldier watches from the top of an armored vehicle as an Serb woman hangs her washing in the ethnically divided town of Mirovica, Kosovo

After the show we were invited to the cast party at a restaurant where our hosts taught us traditional Albanian line dances. We sat away from the plate glass windows to avoid becoming targets.

The party lasted several hours. Many folks in the crowd, including two priests, performed traditional dances. Young adults, though, often abandon tradition to do their own thing, as I have observed in this region so influenced by Western styles. This evening was no different, and several began their version of "dirty dancing." I wondered whether a mosh pit would be next.

A land of contrasts

I admit that the extreme sexuality of the dancers was not what I expected in a Muslim country. But this is a land of contrasts between the young and the old.

Young women here dress very well, albeit in a sexy style with a lot of makeup and long flowing hair. Tight clothes are popular among both young men and women, and black is the color of choice. They are a handsome and attractive people.

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The older generations, and those in rural areas where television and movies have not created a new sense of style, still dress in more traditional clothing. And because of poor medical and dental care, they look old before their time -- especially the women, who typically have many babies in the hope a few will survive.

The women wear long skirts or split-legged wrapped garments called "dymija," with long aprons and kerchiefs. They are almost all heavy. The men, by contrast, are usually thinner and dress in wool pants with black jackets. Many of the older men wear the traditional "Plis," or white Muslim skullcap. The younger men will not wear them.

"I hate them," said our driver Burim, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Burim is in his mid-20s and dresses only in Western styles. Some middle-aged men wear a shorter white cap, which our other driver Sami told us means they have been inside the holiest of mosques.

Does he want to go? "No," Sami said, "I like to drink," which means he has not reached the level of piety needed for admittance.

Absence of women in public

The contrasts here extend to almost every part of society. On the same street drivers may be in a Mercedes Benz or in a horse-drawn cart. Restaurants may serve traditional fare such as porshuta (cabbage bundles), musaka or Western-style hamburgers. Kafe (coffee) shops serve Turkish coffee, Makiato or more Western cappuccinos.

I find the absence of women in public disconcerting. I am stared at by the men on early morning walks not so much for my clothing, which is conservative, but because I am often the only woman on the street.

When my husband and I go to the Saturday morning market, I am the only woman present. Don't women shop here? Lots of women's clothes are for sale. There is also a delightful mix of old and new things to browse.

Young boys hold up chickens and ducks by the feet. Nearby stands offer audiocassettes. Intricate traditional crocheted gold wedding vests are next to designer knock-off jeans.

It is a peaceful scene. When we leave the marketplace, though, we see the same grim reminder that we are in a war zone: a patrol of U.S. soldiers carrying automatic rifles. It is yet another contrast here.