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Ibrahim Rugova, the man who died a hero after spending his life resisting Serb oppression through peaceful means, is unable to rest in peace due to the misuse of his image and legacy in Kosovo’s daily politics.
Last night, Skopje entered a post-modern time warp, which might have put a symbolic end to the transition period. At last, the city – alas, not the rest of the country - has entered the post-modern era of media-tized staging of political operettas. Welcome! We were waiting for you to join.
After the historic NATO Summit in Lisbon was over I came back home with mixed feelings.
A recent Balkan Insight article, reporting Serbian President Boris Tadic’s attendance at the inauguration of Milorad Dodik as the new President of the Bosnian Serb entity, the Republika Srpska, on 15 November 2010, described the two men as “close allies”.
I wanted to write a blog about culture and what we (the people in small towns) are faced with when it comes to culture. After initially wanting to blame authorities and those close to them, I shifted my thinking into blaming myself. I would not worry about these thoughts too much; they are just a reaction-coming-late to the poor election results.
There are situations in this country, I admit, where faced with overbearing bureaucracy, a pig headed doorman or one of Serbia's peculiarly unhelpful band of shop assistants when I am driven to offer up a muttered “t***” and at times I even squeeze out a curt “b******” under my breath as I turn away and consider my next move.
I know… just some six hours of travel - and we were already bored with it!
I remember watching the Farm in Mali Rit as a series when I was a kid. There are sentences and names from it that we still use.
I count the years from the end of one holiday to the beginning of a new one. And, it was as if I knew the year would be a very difficult one, I started planning the 2010 holiday well in advance.
When I arrived in the Trg Susan Sontag, the square in which the theatre sits, I was almost the only person there. In front of the theatre, some technicians were setting up hot-lights and camera equipment, while a handful of curious office workers, presumably journeying home, were milling curiously about; otherwise, though, the place was deserted.
What is clear from their text is that many of my fellow reporters misunderstood the point of the advisory opinion of the International Court of Justice.
We came home after that holiday and I asked my mum to find me an English language teacher. There was this great teacher whom my mum knew from work, Varja, and she took me in.
There is a patch of Europe which has been tussled over for decades between two ethnicities, who look to each other with suspicion and speak in different tongues.At the buffer zone between two mighty empires, this small patch of land is still today the subject of fierce debate on its future status.
The sun was blazing, drenching me in sweat and delighting the mosquitos that had covered my arms and legs in myriad, itching bites. Suddenly, limping, I crested a hill and saw below me an unmistakable sight: the uniform white rows of the cemetery at Potocari, across the road from the old battery factory.
The giraffes were the first to go; it stands to reason, I suppose, that they were least able to find cover. The wolves followed, and the eagles with them; soon, through starvation and sniper fire, only a single brown bear remained of the erstwhile menagerie.
In two high-profile war crimes trials currently ongoing in Pristina, a series of witnesses have retracted previous statements alleging abuse at Kosovo Liberation Army detention centres.