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Kosovar war refugee searches for strength

A rough hand pulled Mirsade Bejiqi's scarf from her head, and a mane of thick, dark hair fell around her shoulders. The masked soldiers touched and caressed the young Albanian girl but with none of the tenderness of the girl's family that had escaped the building. Serbian soldiers kept Mirsade in suspense in a cold, dark basement.

"I thought they would rape me and then kill me with knives," Mirsade said, remembering the blood on her captors' uniforms.

She was wearing a heart necklace her mother had given her. "I had always wanted a necklace," Mirsade said. A soldier ripped it from her neck, broke the heart and dangled it in front of four other armed men.

That was enough.

Mirsade bolted from the dingy basement and ran up the stairs. The doors remained open after her family's desperate flight from the 13-story apartment building just an hour before.

Under winter's drizzle, Mirsade ran.

"I didn't know which way to go. The only thing I thought about was a bullet going into my back," she said. "I thought they'd shoot me."

Life in Prishtina

Growing up in the city of Prishtina, Kosovo, Mirsade lived in poverty. She slept in the kitchen of her family's one-bedroom home with her younger brothers, Ilir and Driton. "We had meat once a month, just a few bites," Mirsade said. "And I remember not having shoes." But she thought she had everything.

Though many young girls in Kosovo married at 15 or 16, Mirsade wanted to complete her education more than anything. "I wanted to be that perfect child for my family," she said, "but I thought my future was more than getting locked into a house and having a bunch of kids." She attended a public school, but after Serbian forces closed all Albanian schools in 1989, she met secretly with other Albanian students in private homes. Mirsade finished her high school education in cold concrete houses, some with no windows. "I stood for myself," Mirsade said. "I was strong. I was different than other girls."

Disputed Homeland

The conflict between ethnic Albanians in Kosovo and the Serbians had escalated since its beginning in 1989 when Serb President Slobodan Milosovic took control of Serbia. Before that time, Kosovo had been an autonomous region, but with the rise of Milosovic prompting Serb nationalism, Kosovar Albanians lost many of the freedoms they had previously enjoyed.

"They took everything," Mirsade said. "Even the stores--they made them change the names from Albanian names to Serbian names. They wanted it to look like no Albanians lived there."

Mirsade hated Milosovic with a passion. She wanted to join the Kosovo Liberation Army and fight for Albanians in Kosovo. The KLA, an Albanian guerrilla movement, entered the conflict in 1996 in response to Milosovic's oppressive measures. But for Mirsade, strength meant doing something different from joining the army.

Her warfare meant finding a job and paying for her education. After three months of searching, Mirsade found a job at Arda Inn, a busy pizza restaurant. Working seven days a week from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. with a midday break for school, Mirsade saved money and helped her family pay for food, electricity and other bills.

As the days wore on, Mirsade grew tired of the rigorous schedule. She enjoyed working at the restaurant, but with increasing Serbian conflicts, her home life became more stressful. Some days Ilir and Driton came home bruised from beatings by the Serbian police.

"At work, it was a different world,"

Mirsade said. "At home I had to deal with the problems of everyone. I was a shoulder for a lot of crying."

In the city of Prishtina, the strife between the Serbian police and ethnic Albanians intensified. Police stopped Mirsade daily, demanding to know where she was going and what she was up to. The strain of Serb oppression wore on Mirsade. She left Arda Inn each night, fearing she would be raped or killed. "It was hard to get up in the morning," she said. Her life at that time seemed like the same day lived over and over again --for two years.

Until 1999, NATO had tried to non-violently restore peace to the area. But during that spring, NATO resorted to military action.

On the night NATO began bombing Serbian outposts, Mirsade's family and many others hid in the basement of an apartment building in downtown Prishtina.

The coughing, mumbled prayers and rumbling gunfire echoed throughout the cold, dark basement.

After Mirsade and the others huddled together 10 days in the dark basement, Serb forces discovered the hideaway. The Serbs released everyone but Mirsade until she, too, broke free of their grasp.

Now, running through the empty streets of Prishtina, Mirsade didn't know where to go.

After a desperate hour of searching, she saw large groups of people walking toward the train station. As mandated by police, they were leaving their homes, Prishtina and Kosovo.

Mirsade rejoined her family at the station and boarded a train for Macedonia.

Wishing for Death

Before admittance into Macedonia, refugees stayed in a neutral zone on the border between Kosovo and Macedonia. Mirsade subsisted there for five days with thousands of other refugees. "It was like hell," she said. She sat in the middle of a field in the softening mud while the rain poured around her. Lying down, she hoped closing her eyes would bring death just one step closer.

The next five weeks were not much better. In a Macedonian refugee camp, Mirsade worked night and day with a UN relief organization, caring for the sick and injured.

Finally, the clouds broke, and salvation seemed near.

A list came to her camp. The U.S. government had randomly selected refugees to come to the United States. Looking down the document, Mirsade came to her name. Bejiqi. Freedom at last! "We just wanted to run away," she said. "If I stayed one more week, I think I would have gone crazy."

A New Life

After a long flight from Skopje, Macedonia, Mirsade's plane touched down at Fort Dix, N.J. The plane carried the hopes and dreams of a lucky few, the first group of Kosovar Albanian refugees to arrive in the United States.

On the military base, Mirsade and her family received food, clean clothes and a place to stay. After a month-and-a-half without bathing, Mirsade walked nimbly into the communal shower. "Oh, warm water, warm water!" she exclaimed.

After several weeks on the military base in New Jersey, the Bejiqi family moved to Boise, Idaho, or "potato city" as it came to be known. Working there in a refugee agency, Mirsade found a new life, a normal life.

In August of 1999, she faxed an application to an East Coast-based refugee organization looking for bright, college-minded young people. Within 10 days, she was awarded a five-year scholarship to George Fox University in Newberg, Ore.

Finally, she had an opportunity to go to a real college, not hidden from the government or in a stone cold building. Though her parents expressed some objections, Mirsade knew now was the time to do what she had always wanted, to be strong, to get her education, to maybe someday be able to take care of her family.
Moving On

Although she found separation difficult, Mirsade moved into the dorm five days after her acceptance to George Fox. Other students at the school know little about the traumatic years preceding her arrival. They only know her as an outgoing international student with passion and undying determination.

When people asked her where she was from, Mirsade would tell them and receive the response, "Cool!"

But "war is not cool!" Mirsade said.

Mirsade still has nightmares about the war, and she still has intense anger toward the Serbs. But she is moving on. "It's my life," she said. "I cannot just ignore it. It's gonna be a part of me forever."