When you say the word "Kosovo," what are the first associations that come into your mind?

Albanians - refugees. Serbs - people causing Albanians to be refugees.

In the late 90's, those would be fair associations to make. When the issue of Kosovo's autonomy -- which it retained during the days of Yugoslavia, and lost when Slobo came to power -- was not included in the peace deal reached to end the war in Bosnia, a ticking time bomb was set into place in this southern region of Serbia. The Albanian resistance, the Kosova Liberation Army (KLA), was not going to be any kind of match for Serbian artillery. But it wasn't like KLA leaders were about to adopt a page from Mahatma Ghandi, either.

The tit-for-TAT tactics used by the Serbian army in response to the Albanian insurgency during the war there in 1999 was anything but fair. Was it an attempt at "genocide?" I don't even know what the word means, to be honest. I've read arguments both ways. What is clear is this, though: Belgrade's objective in Kosovo did not involve a future plan of integration and reconciliation with their former neighbors.

We've all heard about Serbia's role in the violence that has racked Kosovo since the 90's. What we haven't heard as much about is what happened in March 2004.



These Serbian churches -- all across Kosovo -- didn't destroy themselves.


And the barbed wire wasn't put up to try and convince Serbs to convert to Islam and visit a mosque, instead.


I had a similar feeling in Prizren, Prishtina and Peja that I had in Mostar, where the boulevard that serves as the former front line between Bosniaks and Bosnian Croats is peppered with still-destroyed buildings, over 11 years after the war ended.

There is something spooky about places like Mostar and Prizren. They've seen their bad days, and they're back on their feet -- a good thing. Outdoor cafe's are full of life, people are wearing designer clothes, laughter permeates the air, teenage girls giggle and flirt with teenage boys -- but something is not right.

It's hard to forget about the past when you've got a shell of a building that reminds you of the bad times standing in the middle of the town square. Whether it's a structure destroyed by Croat or Muslim rockets in Bosnia, or a church burned by an Albanian mob in Kosovo, these very visible reminders of how thin the line between life and death can be are what make the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.


Prizren, especially, was unsettling. I first heard of it from a Serbian girl I met in Belgrade, after all. All I could think about when I saw the ravaged churches in Teodora's home town was whether she had ever been inside that building before the troubles began.


In the main square, up the hill the overlooks the city, on the other side of the river that runs through the town -- Prizren probably wasn't a very fun place to be for a Serbian Orthodox priest three years ago.

Or, for a person living in the Serbian part of town.


The point is this: In trying to explain the Balkans to someone who doesn't have a clue, it isn't a one-minute conversation that can cut it. Situations like these -- in Croatia, in Bosnia, in Kosovo -- are never as cut and dry as Croats, Bosniaks, Serbs and Albanians often try to make them seem. Some people from the former Yugoslavia will admit this fact, but I never cease to be amazed at the number who can't grasp the concept of "who feels it, knows it, Lord."

Culpability is a relative term. It cannot be applied like a blanket. Sure, the boyfriend may take most of the blame as a covers-stealer, but usually, the girl will have at least a little bit of that quilt touching her body, too.

The Balkans can teach you a lot about the human condition. Maybe that is why I never left.