Irish soldiers have to walk a delicate line in patrolling divided areas, writes Daniel McLaughlinin Kosovo
FROM ON top of “Uxo Hill”, the geography of the massacre is stark.
The Kosovo Albanian village of Sllovi is spread out below, between the Serb settlement of Dobrotin two kilometres to the west, and a line of low,wooded slopes that rise gently to the east.
On April 14th, 1999, Serb paramilitaries, police and regular soldiers arrived from the direction of Dobrotin and, according to residents of Sllovi, said that they would use the village to hide their tanks from the Nato air strikes that had begun three weeks before. Uxo Hill gets its nickname from the Nato cluster bombs – “unexploded ordnance” – that littered these slopes after the war.
The killing began the next day, when the new arrivals looted and burned Albanian houses, and shot dead anyone who got in their way or refused to leave their family home. And it continued the following day, when Serbs gunned down Albanians who had fled their village and sought safety in the nearby hills.
Thirty-five Albanians were murdered during those two spring days, as in the sky over Yugoslavia Nato aircraft sought to bomb Slobodan Milosevic’s forces out of Kosovo and end their crackdown on its separatist rebels, an onslaught that killed some 10,000 people and forced hundreds of thousands from their homes.
The bodies of some of those killed lie in Sllovi’s graveyard. Those who were killed on the hillside were never found, and locals believe their corpses were moved by Serbs to cover up their crimes. They also believe that some of those Serbs, neighbours turned killers, now live just down the road in villages like Dobrotin and, further on, in Lipjan and Gracanica.
This is the divided territory, and poisonous history, now navigated by Irish troops based in Lipjan as part of Kosovo’s 14,500-strong, Nato-led peacekeeping force.
“About 4,000 Kosovo Albanians live in Sllovi now. Every family lost someone or knows someone who died in the massacre. It’s a very hard situation,” says Pádraig Duggan from Thurles, Co Tipperary, one of 236 Irish Defence Force personnel in Kosovo, most of them from the Athlone-based Western Brigade.
About one million people live in the region that falls under the responsibility of Irish troops. Of them, less than 4,500 are Serbs, about 1,700 of whom live in Dobrotin, a Serb island in a sea of Albanian villages with vivid memories of the events of 1999: “It’s pretty calm, but our patrols are vital,” says Lieut Duggan.
In Sllovi, a renovated school stands opposite the ruined Orthodox church and the jagged stumps of Serb homes that were razed in reprisal attacks after the war.
“Before ’99, Albanians and Serbs lived well together here. I had lots of Serb friends. But Milosevic’s nationalism changed all that,” said Qazim Salhu (34), the head teacher of the village school.
“I was lucky and managed to escape the massacre. But five members of my family died. Now things are getting better, but it will take a long time to get back to how we were.”
A year after Kosovo finally declared independence from Serbia, following nine years of United Nations administration, Albanians are celebrating their sovereignty while coming to terms with the slow pace of change.
“We’ve been waiting centuries for independence. But we realise that things are not yet perfect. There have been no real improvements in the economy and this could cause frustration and problems.”
Lieut Duggan says Sllovi is better off than much of the region overseen by Irish troops: unemployment is only about 50 per cent rather than 70 to 75 per cent; teachers at Salhu’s school make €240 a month.
The story is even grimmer down the short road to Dobrotin.
“Kosovo’s government has done nothing for Serbs,” says the head of the village, Zivojin Nicic, in a cottage guarded by two snarling Rottweilers and a pair of crouching marble lions.
“We get some money from Belgrade but without it we would starve.
“People here have crops and a few cows, but that is it. How can a family of six survive on €100 a month?”
“Can Serbs go and sell their produce in Pristina?” Nicic asks with a sharp nod towards Kosovo’s capital, 30km away. “No – it’s too dangerous. When our livestock or cars or tractors are stolen, the Kosovo police do nothing to help us. Serbs have no rights here now. Only Kfor protects us.”
Irish troops maintain a prominent presence across the area, patrolling on foot, in jeeps and in imposing Mowag armoured personnel carriers. Community liaison teams, meanwhile, gather intelligence and gauge the mood around the region in meetings with local police and political and civil society leaders.
Ireland’s Kfor contingent also helps implement infrastructure programmes funded by Irish Aid and with cash raised by the soldiers themselves: the troops currently stationed at Camp Clarke in Lipjan have raised €20,000 for local projects since arriving in Kosovo last October.
“People here know that Ireland is going through its own peace process,” says Comdt Rory McCorley from Co Kildare. “Ireland has shown that it can be done, and that gives us credibility here.”
Kosovo Albanians look forward to the day when the world’s youngest state will be stable enough to say goodbye to its international peacekeepers.
But that day is dreaded by Nicic and many of his fellow Serbs.
“If things continue as they are, there will be no Serbs in Kosovo in 10 years,” he says.
“When the first Kfor convoy leaves, we will be right behind them.”