KOSOVO 1999

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M I N U T E S T O WA R : Picnic in Hell There are sporadic blackouts of electricity during the day; but mostly we just focus on the work at hand. We have diligently stretched “our star spangled banner” across the wooden slated fl oor and I am shitscared that, (1) the black tape is not going to adhere and curl up its toes like a mafia hit and, (2) that new lettering that we have decided to cut out with white plastic will not be distinct and readable. I realise even if they do not that they have exited one nightmare and they are about to enter another. saw any wildlife, presumably the act of killing them has erased most from the northern mountains of Albania. Mr Josi was quite the opposite. He was a gentle, kind, spirited man with quizzical eyes. He did not support the bombing by NATO, although the Albanian government did. He did not support violence in any way, shape or form. He had a bald head and a funny little wispy moustache and a wrinkled brow. And soon he would become one of our loyal supporters; someone who helped us in all stages of the work. Initially the black plastic tape was applied in strips to conceal the Russian, Serbian and Macedonian texts. Then we had to cut as improvised stencils each of the letters from white plastic and lay them carefully over the offending texts. On the Sunday night, we super glued the letters onto the billboard together. You would think that as an artist I would have been the great graphic designer but under these conditions here searching for materials in a one horse town resources are scarce. But Firouz rescued me from my trembling hand and cut them like paper dolls or origami. He was amazing. It was very difficult to find the appropriate glue and we were continuously experimenting with different ways of sticking on new letters. We have diligently stretched “our star spangled banner” across the wooden slated floor and I am shit-scared that, (1) the black tape is not going to adhere and curl up its toes like a mafia hit and, (2) that new lettering that we have decided to cut out with white plastic will not be distinct and readable. The frightening alternative if the lettering sucks (doesn’t glue or looks sloppy), odd as it might sound, is to return to Tirana and have the computer cut the letters. The difficulty is one simple fact. Having to return to Tirana by that winding kamikaze road is a greater fucking nightmare than this humanitarian camp of homeless or the Serbian gunfire or the pounding NATO bombs. Scouts honour…peace project honour or whatever… There are sporadic blackouts of electricity
M I N U T E S T O WA R : Picnic in Hell ...As dusk begins to commence Firouz explains there is a young lady, a Kosovar refugee camped on the steps of the Cultural Centre, who wishes to come to Australia. I am brought like the pedigree pit bull terrier... Meetings here are departures. Like ricocheting billiard balls we can bounce off one person never to see them again. The family is Leton Lubovci and the place that they lived in was Leborn in Prizren. during the day; but mostly we just focus on the work at hand: stretching the billboard and trying to deal with each problem as it arises by looking at various options of buying different tapes. The telephone rings but we cant get through. We are scheduled to meet with the Director of the Cultural Centre, but alas he is not there. Just a receptionist who chews as she speaks but it seems as if eventually we will meet. As dusk begins to commence Firouz explains there is a young lady, a Kosovar refugee camped on the steps of the Cultural Centre, who wishes to come to Australia. I am brought like the pedigree pit bull terrier at a dog show to be exhibit for inspection and introduced to the family. Everyone is friendly but they are traumatised. This is not a social exchange. Often the protocol is that conversations are addressed through the male representative. Therefore I speak to her brother not her. There could be no formal conversations with the women unless authorised by the male representative. We meet this family, one of the three thousand inhabitants who had escaped Prizren. Whenever they say the name of the town, it sounds like ‘prison’. The family is Leton Lubovci and the place that they lived in was Leborn in Prizren. The other family members are Agnesa Lubovci, Shefart, Albera Lubovci. The mother speaks Turkish. Time and time people are arriving in the town square in lorries, on disabled buses, on crippled tractors, in buggys which are reminiscent of the eighteenth century rather than now. I realise even if they do not that they have exited one nightmare and they are about to enter another. I see the transition. We have to witness each person, each separate group of people arrive who believe this is only a weigh station, and that they can soon return to their homes. But possibly they are feeding off empty hope. Meetings here are departures. Like ricocheting billiard balls we can bounce off one person never to see them again. The Lubovci family speaks English and I gave them my dog-eared Peace Project card with contact details of my address in Australia and I said ‘I will try to help you gain refugee status or any assistance if you require help. I can write to the government. I cannot promise but ring me and tell me what you want to do and I will do my best to put the wheels in motion. That is all I can do.’ We saw them again later that night. Leaving with them we escorted them to one of the small neighbourhood restaurants in search of chicken which I was hoping to buy for them. But the Turkish speaking mother refused to enter the tobacco fumed restaurant because it was full of beer drinking men. This village of Kukes is unlike Gaza, with one bar and a thousand mosques. Here it is one mosque and a thousand bars. When we went to the ‘Chicken Restaurant’ because there are rotating chickens on spits frequented by fat foreigners the mother refused to enter so I bought three greasy chickens in a brown paper bag and returned to give it to them while they waited outside. We returned to the steps
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KOSOVO 1999

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