Kosovo Journal

Even snow does not cover war's ugliness

A damaged building in Vucitrn, a city northwest of Pristina, is a daily reminder of some of the fiercest fighting between the Kosovo Liberation Army and Serb forces

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) -- My first impression of Kosovo is mostly one of sadness at what hatred and war can do.

The debris of war litters the beautiful mountainsides. Bombed factories, burned houses, overturned, gutted vehicles and piles of garbage are everywhere. Even snow does not cover the ugliness.

The infrastructure of Kosovo has collapsed, leaving people fighting to survive, robbing them of the necessities -- especially jobs. Almost everything must be shipped in, and truck routes are uncertain.

The region's ancient power plants fail daily. Many were held together on a shoestring even before hostilities erupted between Serbs and Albanians.

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In the small town of Gnjilane, where I am staying southeast of the provincial capital of Pristina, the electricity is supposed to rotate on for two hours then off for four. Even this rudimentary system does not work often.

People here learned quickly to carry flashlights with them to avoid being stuck in the dark. Restaurants offer only foods they can cook on a wood grill when the power fails.

No one bats an eye when the lights go out. They just reach for their "mini-mag lights," set them on the table and continue their conversations. The noise and smell of generators fill the town.

The town's water pumps are supposed to work but fail almost as often as the power. Other sanitary services, such as garbage pickup, have mostly been abandoned. Once the responsibility of the Serbian government, trash pickup now is occasionally performed by men pulling farm wagons with small tractors.

Playground danger: land mines

In Pristina, I saw children playing atop mounds of garbage covered with snow. On the other side of the street was a large park with a charming gazebo, but the children could not play there because of the danger of land mines.

Land mines are a danger everywhere. Our driver warned us not to go off the road for any reason. And, if hostilities should break out again -- a major fear -- we were told to stick to the roads or at least to plowed fields. Those plots left fallow by farmers are suspected of containing land mines.

Security dominates daily life. My first lesson begins immediately upon landing at the airport in Skopje, Macedonia's capital.

I see several military helicopters. Armed guards are everywhere. But the realization of the scope of the military here really hits home when I try to cross the border into Kosovo. It used to be simple to cross the border, I am told, taking only minutes for a passport check. Now it takes hours or days.

Tractor-trailer trucks are parked alongside the road for several miles. The drivers sleep and eat in their vehicles, waiting for the chance to deliver their loads to Kosovo or to Serbia. Their chances come infrequently, and usually at night. Military convoys take precedence, followed by civilian vehicles and buses.

Most locals do not try to drive over the border. They take buses as far as possible, then walk through the checkpoints, their heavy belongings hauled by enterprising young boys with wheelbarrows. At the other end they board another bus to finish their journeys.

Military personnel are everywhere in Kosovo. These are KFOR soldiers in Mitrovica

Soldiers of KFOR (the NATO-led Kosovo Force) are everywhere. They glare at me when I try to take photographs of children selling cigarettes. The soldiers, wearing bulletproof vests and carrying automatic rifles, motion for me to put the camera away. I do not argue.

Learning to read the landscape

When our lane finally gets a chance to move, the scene resembles the start of a race. Everyone hurries to get their vehicles onto the lane left open for traffic.

The other lane is crowded with trucks from Kosovo awaiting their chance to go south to Macedonia. The drivers are so erratic, I feel as if we are playing Russian roulette with all the chambers of the pistol loaded.

As we get our first glimpse of the snow-covered countryside of Kosovo, our driver points out a fresh cemetery on the right. He explains in halting English that this is a memorial for the new war heroes.

Farther on, we see burned-out homes -- first we pass Albanian homes destroyed by Serbs, then Serb homes destroyed in retribution by Albanians.

The next day, driving to Pristina, we see several military posts situated in or around warehouses or in factories bombed during the NATO air strikes in spring 1999.

There is not much military presence in the Albanian villages, but KFOR soldiers guard the entrances to the Serb towns. Some Albanians want retribution. The peacekeepers do what they can to keep the two groups apart.

I quickly learn to identify the Serb villages, not only because of the KFOR soldiers, but also because of the pigs grazing in the yards. The Albanian Muslims do not pasture hogs.