Shqipe Malushi

[Henri]

(Me e pakta qe mund te bej per të)

The City of Dreams

White walls
Made of a thousand skulls
Of the people, whose eyes
Stared in vain for a
Living soul.

The doors, heavy
From the bones
Of the century old beatings
Stood closed
For a long, long time
Before the dead city.

Suddenly a sound of carriages
On the cobblestones
Echoed through
The daylight in birth
As if coming to find
A moment of truth.

A woman in red
With stars on her head
Chased her stallions
Faster and faster
As she entered
The city of dreams.

The doors made of bones
Opened before her
Letting her inside that city
For which she had cried
And called for so long.

She walked around the walls
Touching all the faces
Wiping all their tears
And fears
Of forgotten people
Who waited for eternity?
To hear a lullaby.

Not a sound was heard
As she walked around
Touching the walls
Gently singing
As the city closed its doors
While she called
Oh! My people, Oh! My people.

[Henri]

Kosova: The Ghost Towns


Another Thursday, and my boss has placed yellow flowers on my desk. I was surprised. It felt soothing for a moment, as his words came from his office, "For peace," he said. Then he handed me an envelope from his two boys, nine and three years old. "Here, they send all their savings," he said. "For your children in Kosova. They care." I took the envelope with gratitude and sadness. My children of Kosova, I whispered, who never were beggars. My children of Kosova now need every little helping hand. Oh! How grateful I am for little hands that are reaching out to touch my frightened little children of Kosova.
It's late and my street in New Jersey is empty. The houses have happy faces on my street where comfort smiles through windows of different shapes and sizes. Behind the doors people are resting from the long day of work. I walk slowly looking at these houses, trying to see happy people inside. The sky is filled with stars. I walk slowly trying not to think. Why think? I am numb, I don't feel. My heavy legs drag as if they were of metal. I continue walking toward my home.
Then the voices start pounding from the inside: screaming, crying, weeping. Faces line up one after another. Great grandparents, dead for a long time, are asking me for their graves. Mothers in panic are looking for their children. Everywhere fire, houses are burning. I want the fire to stop. I want the scream to stop. I cry.
Stars are silent. I ask them to stop the pictures, to stop the voices, to stop the cries, but the stars continue to be silent. I walk as if I am dead among the stars of my city. No house smiles back at me. No house comforts me. Am I alive? I ask myself. Is this a dream?
The darkness becomes heavy. I only have two blocks to walk but it seems endless. Nothing moves and spring is in the air. It's warm. The front yards are green. The dogs are barking. I walk and the street keeps stretching ahead of me.
The towns in Kosova come back in my heart. The streets are empty. The dead bodies lie all over the streets facing the ground. Faces with no eyes, some with no hands, no heads, no legs. Chopped to pieces. Stop it, I cry, stop it. But the cry echoes. "I want to live. I want my blood back. I want my life." The dead bodies say. I hear them, I feel them. They are there inside of me, and they ask me for their life back.
The towns have grown quiet, not a living soul anywhere. They are gone, pushed under the gun to leave. Those burned alive are nothing but smoke. I see faces of women whose eyes have turned to stone from the heavy metal rapists. Over their bodies has passed the heavy artillery. Nothing alive is left in them except shame.
"They killed my babies," I hear, "five of them, five of them all at once. Why do I have to live?" They were thirteen and under.
"They cut my friend with a chain saw," G told me. "Piece by piece. And then they raped his eleven-year-old daughter and her mother and burned them alive."
A journalist's voice echoes from a bad connection overseas. "There are two girls, ten and eleven years old. They scratch their faces, pull their hair and cry, endlessly cry. They have been raped but they don't know what that is. 'Big men with guns did something, it hurt,' they say and continue to endlessly cry."
I see the night has fallen in the towns of Kosova. No one moves. It's dark; the windows of the few houses left have sad faces. Behind them perhaps some people are hiding. Frightened eyes are looking toward the door. When will the paramilitary march in, kill, rape, and burn. No one breathes. Again from somewhere children's voices cry in unison. "I want my mother, I want my father, I want my mother."
I walk, and my hands are trembling.
I pass through the towns looking for my people. They are not there. I call them by name, and they are not there. The dead bodies hear me. They ask me to wait, because at midnight they will wake up and walk with me around the towns helping me to find my people. They will call from the graves and from the depths of the heart of the earth. They will call the names of my people and the other men with guns and tanks and masked faces. They will be frightened by the sound of my dead people, and will flee because they cannot carry them in their souls. They always run away after killing, blaming the others. They will flee like wet mice who haven't had enough of eating human flesh, and they will watch my dead people dancing in the middle of the ghost towns. Dancing and singing their songs and calling the names of my people. They will see how strong they are and run away.
Nothing moves in the ghost towns of Kosova; nothing is left there. No pictures of the days when the towns were filled with happy voices of children who knew how to dance and sing. No books left to hear the stories of our grandparents, who taught us how to keep our words of honor and endlessly give to our friends. No clothes with rainbow colors that made our women beautiful like the spring time. No smell of the home made bread that gathered us together to rejoice and celebrate our love. Nothing but smoke, cold and darkness filled with chilling voices of the crying children.
Kosova, my land known for its suffering, a place misused as a cradle of all troubles, was once a place of tradition and my dreams. A place where the mountains reached to the sky and the song of a shepherd echoed all the way down to the towns filled with joy. A place of wild rivers running through the land with the sound of music.
Kosova, once was the most beautiful place on earth, with its fields of red flowers and smiling faces of the people, who used every moment to celebrate life. Children were happy during the summers and winters. Their laughter filled the narrow streets of the cities and people seemed strong. Each house then had a character, a face, and a secret to tell. Each house was filled with people who gathered every evening to tell stories and to dream about the next day, not wondering far beyond their world. The cities were small with brick houses, and each city was known for something special.
Peja, my hometown, was known for strong individuality. For the parties and excitement, and for the bread with grilled sausage at breakfast. Or for the girls singing during the celebration of the spring season.
Gjakova was famous for its weddings and their brides, merchants and intellectuals. Gjakova with ancient cobblestone streets offered a hideaway in another world, so different from other cities, a mysterious world.
Prizren, an antique city, was known for style and afternoon tea, kindness and hospitality, rising like a fortress in the midst of Kosova.
Mitrovica, the city of love, was known for its unity, hospitality and sharing.
Prishtina, was a center for the youth where the university spread its wings to the happy students who learned how to challenge life and build their future. Prishtina was a city filled with theaters, movies and performance places for entertainment. As Kosova grew bigger and bigger, so did my people, so did my people. And many other cities, smaller than those I mentioned above, grew together with their people, holding life for them for decades.
I finally reached my home. It is empty, as if no one alive lives there anymore. I asked the stars tonight as I walked, where are my towns of Kosova. Silence. No answer was heard. I wonder, do stars come out still in Kosova or they have killed them too?

[katana]

KOSOVA: PEOPLE WITH MASKS
By: Shqipe Malushi

Last night I had a dream:

I was in a small village at the bottom of a mountain. It was summer, everything was in bloom. People were in the cornfields and I saw a child who had been left alone in the field playing with matches. The field was set on fire and began to swallow the fields with the people. My whole family was there. They started running. My grandparents, long time dead, were also there among the others, trying to escape. I wanted to jump into the fire but suddenly I realized that they were all dead including my whole family. My grandparents pulled me away from fire and took me with them. As I walked with them I tried to look back, I had never seen a fire like that before it had the color of blood.

I cried, hearing the last screams as my family burned and I watched them burning unable to do anything. Then I walked slowly toward the river, which I had to cross on the other side. The water was crystal blue and cold, the brightest of all the blue colors I had ever seen. I saw that colors changed at the bottom of the river into different shades. The dead people silently began to cross the river.

When we crossed the river we found ourselves on the other side of the mountain which was made of crystal. The crystals were colorful and shining in the sun, blending into each other and reflecting upon the people's faces. So, we all became different colors: blue, green, yellow, purple, pink red, black, brown…And we changed as the mountain changed, becoming beautiful mirages and moving from visible to invisible. Although all looked beautiful this beauty was cold and chilling and no one was breathing.

The fire on the other side of the river continued to burn
everything…It looked far away. I was sitting on the bank of the river, very sad, crying and calling for my mother. My grandmother pulled me by the arm…"Come," she said. "We have to climb the mountain. You can't look back. Please don't look back, that's how it is in every beginning."

"It all burns in the beginning," she said. "It all burns."

It's Sunday morning I woke up dizzy from my dream. The phone rang and it was a long distance call. A voice is calling from the city of Gjakova…"We are trapped" she said…"We can't go out. "We still search for the phones that work in the empty houses so we can call and let people know what's going on. They come in with the masks house by house…We have no food." "How did you get my number?" I asked the women who couldn't talk because she was crying. "Your relative gave me last week and told me to call you."

"How are they?" I asked.

"They are dead." She answered and stopped for a moment. "Soldiers with masks entered their home last week and through them out…Dushi with her mom went to hide in the basement of their neighbors. Forty people were already hiding in that basement. The masks came back and lit the fire. They all burned alive, 42 people, women with children and everyone. Only a five-year-old boy has survived. They send him to the Military hospital in Belgrade. They are all dead. We watch all this from our windows. Do you hear me, hello, hello, hello…." The phone went dead.

My mother's eyes stared at me for an answer…Dushi is dead I said to get it over with and told her the whole story. She started to cry, they were her relatives. I was shaking we took two sedatives each and cried.

I saw before me the faces with masks entering the house with rifles and pushing them to the wall. I saw their fear in their eyes and last hope to hide with the others and survive…Simply survive…I heard their screams from burning in the fire, I heard them in my dream and now I am hearing they crying, crying and not knowing how to get out, where to go…I saw them turning to ashes while people with masks celebrated their victory.

I remembered Dushi she always laughed and invited the family to get together…We teased her for being overweight, but she always said," someone has to carry the world around, and so it is me. I am not overweight I am round like the world" She'd say. She was a beautiful singer…We used to spend weeks together, and her mother would make all kinds of delicious food, home made bread, rice with onions and tomatoes, baked sausage, roasted peppers in cream, sweets…They had a big back yard filled with trees and we would pick fruits and in the evenings we sang till dawn.

We dreamed about being loved, about dancing, about travelling and the weddings. We spent nights sharing stories and secrets…And Dushy's mom would come in late very late to warn us that we were being loud…I was young then only 16 years-old. But I never forgot Dushi who gave us so much love.

The people with masks return to my home, I see them close now, I see them burning everything, all the records, books, archives. They burned my first book that was published in Prishtina only a few months ago. I hear them laughing as they burn people alive. I hear them in stupor how they tell each other "It's almost over we killed them all, no more Albanians."

Then pictures appear where my people are crying…Who are they going to be tomorrow, without their records? They are burned, their houses are burned, and their identity is stripped to the bare bones…Their bodies are ashes.

My mother cries, I look at her with no words to console her…I am angry I want all the people with masks to feel our pain…I scream to God to come down and hear our pain. I pray to God to send back all the shadows of our dead people to face the people with the masks until they will see what they have done. Until they will feel their evil doing. Until they will pay for their actions.

And I hear Dushi's voice and her old mother with loving wrinkled face holding unto each other not knowing where to turn, whom to pray to, how to wipe their tears, how not to be afraid, not knowing how to get out…I see their ashes turning into blue color and coming back to my dream, coloring the mountains and the rivers…I hear their voices saying " Kosova is our land. Don't cry for us, don't look back, continue to sing our songs." But how can I sing when I know they are stealing our songs, our past, and our stories and our lives. And the boy that has survived, when he wakes up in pain from the burns, how is he going to call for his mother in the hands of the enemy…Who is going to tell him the truth and he is only five. Who is going to tell him that his parents are dead, were burned alive by the people with masks…How is he going to grow up looking at his scars, not understanding anything that it was not his fault because the Soldiers with guns and with masks killed everyone from his family…Who is going to love him and will he ever grow up?

Sunday continues to be quiet, the birds are singing outside…My computer is now my best friend…I am afraid of the telephone rings…My phone continues ringing, I am afraid to pick it up…My heart is not big enough to handle all the bad news in one day… I want to open my arms and hug the world, I want to whisper in their ears how beautiful life is, how beautiful were the songs that Dushi sang, how much love our children need, how beautiful are the flowers in Kosova, but I can't open my arms they are frozen.

MY GRANDMA USED TO

My grandma used to hug me in the night
And hold me tight in her arms

My grandma used to smell my skin
As she smelled the flowers.

My grandma used to hide in the attic
And cry alone for hours.

My grandma used to drink her tea
And draw my face in a leaf.

My grandma used to never stop telling
Her tales of a beggar and a prince.

And, I so small as drop of water
Used to fall asleep.

Then my grandma used to gently sing
And I used to dream.