Some days it was a joy to visit Jetimorija, but other days were akin to torture. The sad stories of loss upon loss left me feeling hopeless, just like the refugees. There was a melancholy feeling to Jetimorija, and if I spent too much time there in one day, I was overcome by it.  There were times when I could not communicate even the simplest of desires or questions, and I felt distant from my subjects despite my greatest efforts.

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One of my worst days was when I got sick with the stomach flu. Perhaps it was the foreign cuisine or the stress of traveling, but I couldn’t keep anything down and the pain left me bedridden. I spent the day on a fold-out couch in the drafty orphanage. I remember wanting to vomit after watching a bug crawl across my arm.

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I was in Mevlude’s room, and she did the best she could to care for me, but I craved the company of my own mother- the familiarity of American life. I wanted some antacid and an Advil instead of the nameless white pill I ended up swallowing. But I did what I always do in these types of situations- stick it out until it got better. And it did; I did, but it sure wasn’t easy. I remember visiting an internet cafe, and scrolling through Facebook updates from my friends back home. They all had jobs in offices with professional titles and salaries. I felt as if everyone I knew had merged seamlessly into adulthood while I was stuck in limbo, albeit pursuing my dream.

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Nowhere in “Inside These Walls” do I mention the sacrifices it took, not only to get to Kosovo, but to endure it. Looking back on my journey, I can say with certainty that it was difficult, but also that it was entirely worthwhile.

 

My exit from the country presented its own set of challenges. My flight home was out of Belgrade, Serbia - a 6 hour bus ride away from Mitrovica. Snow covered the mountains and our bus got stuck for nearly an hour in the ice. After the driver and his men dug us out, the swaying motion of the bus soon lulled me to sleep. When I awoke, a Serbian border officer had stepped on board and had begun collecting the passengers’ passports. I handed mine over after removing my pink passport cover. It had kittens printed on it, and this particular officer didn’t seem the type to find that amusing. I watched as he exited the bus and cross the street to the police car to check the documents.

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The border itself wasn’t much; just a two-lane highway in the mountains of Kosovo; two guards and their vehicle being the only signs that official business was underway. The Serbian guard re-boarded the bus and called out “Angleski!”. He meant me. I didn’t know what was going on, and hesitated for a moment before grabbing my backpack and carry-on. Two Serbian girls were trying to translate for me, but I didn’t understand what they were trying to say. I had to leave because I was American? Was something wrong with my passport? I questioned the guard, but he spoke next to no English.

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The next thing I knew, he was tossing my suitcase off the bus and waving the bus onward. I watched from the side of the road as it continued on without me. The Serbian girls stared out from the window with look of sympathy on their faces. Or perhaps, confusion? I stomped across the street and demanded the officers return my passport. I was angry and cold and tired and I wanted to go home. They did not understand “home” or the gesture I made with my hands to look like a plane.

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One officer started sketching out a map on a scrap of paper. He drew Kosovo, Serbia and Macedonia. He pointed to the Kosovo stamp on my passport. “Kosovo no good,” he said, and circled Macedonia with his pen. I had to go through Macedonia first. Apparently, Serbia did not recognize Kosovo as a country. My passport was invalid. I grabbed my passport and put my kitten cover back on. I lit a cigarette, and dragged my belongings away from the guards. I waited for a taxi to come.

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After 30 minutes, I had seen only five cars and none of them were headed towards Mitrovica. The sun was falling fast and it was growing increasingly colder. I had no cell phone, no means of transport, and I was nearly four hours’ drive from Mitro. I pulled my suitcase up the dirt road to Mitrovica and cried. I walked for an hour, all the way contemplating a plan for survival. I could make a bed out of the contents of my suitcase. I could hike up to one of the houses on the mountain. I could hitchhike back to Mitrovica. The latter seemed like the best option and I kept my eyes out for a vehicle with a family inside. Supply trucks and men with leering gazes were all that passed me. I walked on.

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Half and hour later I heard the distinctive low rumble of a bus engine. On the front dash was a sign that read “Beograd - Mitrovica.” I ran to the middle of the road and held my arms out and the bus pulled over. I gave the driver all the dinars I had in my pocket and hopped on. It was a long, bumpy ride, but I was thankful to be there. I slept, and woke, and slept again. Soon enough, I was back where I started.

 

The next day, I traveled to Belgrade via Macedonia and even made my flight on time. It was a harrowing experience that gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, “political tension.” I was lucky to have made it back to Mitrovica, and luckier still to make my flight back home. Kosovo is a place that holds many memories for me. Not all of them are documented, but the ones with no pictures attached are perhaps the ones I will remember most. It’s what you do when no one’s watching that makes you who you are, after all.