Sebahate J. Shala
WHEN all this is over, I will go out and celebrate freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom II. I will honor it. I will appreciate it. I will cherish it. I will savor it. I will hold it dearly. I will enjoy the beauty of simple things and do things I haven’t done before. Stare at the sun. Look the stillness of the river. Waves of the sea. Smell the cherry blossom trees. The scent of the flower. Take pleasure in Mother Nature. And walk, walk, walk, walk throughout New York City. Enjoy its beautifulness. Its noisiness. Its crowdedness. Then close my eyes. Jump. Open my arms. And scream: “I Am Free. I Am Free. I Am Free.”
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I AM the oldest child of eleven children of father Jahir and mother Naza—born two years after Kosovo was granted autonomy (1974). I grew up with images showing demonstrations of Albanians demanding Kosovo be a republic within former Yugoslavia (1981). I watched on the TV the revocation of Kosovo autonomy in 1989. As a teenager, I marched in rallies and protests to oppose Serbia violent campaign against ethnic Albanians launched in 1990s. I witnessed war in my early adulthood. The killing of my sister and thousands of Albanians. And breathed freedom in summer 1999. And, I experienced the declaration of Kosovo independence in 2008. All these in thirty-two years life. Feels like a century.
I AM a child who lived the darkest and the brightest moments that its homeland went through—from oppression to war to liberation to independence. I belong to the most unfortunate and the luckiest generation of the nation. I had seen demonstrations, imprisonments, raids, beatings, terror, tortures, wounding, slaughtering, massacres, and killings. I have lived enough as to tell.
I ALWAYS dreamt about freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from slavery. Freedom from political oppression. Freedom from Serbia. Freedom for the sake of Freedom. I imagined the day when we, Albanians, would be free and independent as all other people in the planet. The day when we would attain our political and social rights. The day when we would regain our personal freedoms and liberties, we would be free to express our opinions, our thoughts, to assemble, and to move freely throughout the country without being threatened for life. I imagined that day every day.
I IMAGINED the day when my father would go to work without fear he might be arrested, beaten or tortured just because he sought his political and social rights be protected as guaranteed by the Constitution. That my uncle wouldn’t be jailed just for demanding Kosovo be a republic equal to other federal units. I imagined the day when my sister and I would go to school without fearing we would be stopped, controlled, groped and physically abused by the police. I imagined the day when all people in the world would be free. Free from fear. I imagined that day every day.
I WOULD wake up and sleep thinking of freedom. Especially during the war. “God, when we’re going to be free. When we’re going to be free from Serbia. When this war will be over. I want to be free. I want to be free.” Freedom became an obsession. A distant dream. An unreachable goal. Unattainable. Untouchable. The world was too busy to hear my plea, my call, my quest for freedom.
I SHOULDN’T have been angry why the world abandoned us while our fellows at the other side didn’t solidarize with us. Not far from the war zone where people were dying and fighting for their lives, 47 kilometers away in the capital city of Prishtina, our compatriots were doing just fine. Like nothing was going on in the other part of Kosovo, Drenica region. Crowds in cafeteria. Laughing. Talking. Listening music. A different world. Two different realties. We lived in separate realities. It was painful. Unfair.
I KEPT thinking and questioning and wondering why we, Albanians, were being denied freedom while others not. Why we, Albanians, were suffering from repression and violence? Why we were living under the fear and terror just because we were Albanians. Why we were always on the run? Out of our houses. Hiding in the mountain. In the forest. In the valleys. Why we, Albanians, were in war?
THERE is nothing worse than remembering freedom in slavery. Nothing more painful than remembering happiness in sadness. Nothing more distressing and tormenting than running out of your houses and hiding in the mountains yet and over again. Nothing more painful than dreaming about freedom and wake up in captivity. Nothing more than…
Freedom…
ABRAHAM Lincoln, the 16th president, abolished slavery. Woodrow Wilson, the 28th, proposed the right to national self-determination. Franklin D. Roosevelt, the 32nd, introduced Four Freedoms: “The fourth is freedom from fear […] means […] that no nation will be in a position to commit an act of physical aggression against any neighbor—anywhere in the world.” Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream: to attain freedom, justice and equality in America—not only for Black people but for all Americans. These are the dreams rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day…
“IN the truest sense,” freedom, as Roosevelt said, “cannot be bestowed; it must be achieved.” For to be free, according to Nelson Mandela, is not merely to cast off one’s chains but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others. For Bob Marley, it’s “better to die fighting for freedom then be a prisoner all the days of your life.” Freedom.
END
War and Peace 