Kosova, a dream comes true

I was there. When the Prime Minister of Kosova read the historical declaration of freedom and independence I was there on the streets cheering up, singing until we all lost our voices and waving the flags. I was there, a huge black and red flag draped over my shoulders, protecting me from the freezing temperatures that had not impeded hundred the thousands from pouring over the streets of the youngest capital in the world: Prishtina.
I was there when the border guards wished us happy independence in low voices not to spoil the glory to come in advance. I entered the Kosovar land through the bridge of Kacanik where the hundred flags set on the winter-white background were greeting visitors pouring form Macedonia and Albania. I was there passing through the Ferizaj town banderoles wishing happy independence to all. I was there finally in the heart of everything in Prishtina.
I was there when the deathbed promise of so many fallen fighters of freedom was fulfilled, when the aspiration of a century was accomplished, when the new flag joining the glory of the high skies rose and shone with six stars pointing gladly to the future.
I was there with my co-nationals and many international friends who had come to witness the joy, the solemnity, to report it and document it for all years to come in print, in images, in videos, in their memory and in their deepest feelings. I saw the crowds toast in the streets to the drinks provided for free, I entered the circle of dances whose steps were beating to century old rhythms of Albanian music, I held strong the hands congratulating me, I swam in endless hugs of happiness. I greeted the strangers made dear and precious by the solemnity of the occasion, I enjoyed driving down the sloppy streets of Prishtina in groups of cars honking and displaying Albanian, American, French, British and so many other flags announcing the new birth and thanking all those who made it possible. I was there to clap my hands when the first news of recognition came. My voice trebled when I recounted only bids of this to relatives and friends calling from back home, starved for news and feelings from the heart of the matter though I also followed the celebrations of Tirana whose arms extended to Kosova in an eternal hug of solidarity. I was there as an Albanian.
I sat down and shared the celebratory meal with a Kosovar family of many young men and women whose faces displayed the promise of a better life, a life no longer conditioned from the hindrance of not having their own state, no longer burdened by the dark memories of the past, still challenged by the troubles that the future economic uncertainty will bring. Ready to fight for a better life, for the dignity of a new state whose cost was expensive and paid in blood.
I was there in the afternoon, in the overcrowded halls of hotel Grand where journalist gasped in awe at a group of folklore singers who had come all the way from Vlora, the place when Albanian independence was declared one century ago to bring the spirit of the celebrations an greet their brothers. I was there listening to al of them broadcasting in all the world languages, raising up their satellite dishes to communicate to planet earth that a newborn country was to be welcomed. I was there in the jammed cafes of Pristina where people found little spaces to sit and drink hot teas and their smiles were mingling with the vapors, their tiredness of being alert to all developments being taken over by their enthusiasm. I was there when in bars where people lost themselves in nightlong dances and ceremonies, where waiters wore T-shirts saying ‘Now I have a state.’
I was there when we all told to ourselves how we would recall this happy day to the others back home, to the others in the world, to our children and grandchildren, to all those whom life would bring to our paths. I was there when we chose the keepsakes that would always remind us what happened and what exaltation we all felt. I was there to experience mixed emotions and besides happiness to feel fear, sadness and dilemmas. I was there to be saddened by the televised views from the looting and burning in Belgrade hoping for them to move on form this difficult moment, hoping for peace and tranquility, for responsibility and maturity. I was there watching my pictures from Mitrovica taken a year ago and wondering what would happen to them from now on. I was there to hear the gun shots of celebrations which instilled fear in me
From the moment I decided to go there I knew that this was a journey undertaken to be able to say ‘I was thereŢ I was there when the youngest European baby country was born. I was there and I witnessed the cries of joy after I had lived through some of the labor pains of history.
I was there. And so were Dorarta, Iliri, Bujari, Rezarti, Teuta, Genti, Arber, Albana, Vlora, Saranda, Berati, Shkelzeni, Shkumbini, Qendresa, Shpresa, Dardani and Drini. And thousand of others. We all were there. We cried, we laughed, we sang, we toasted, we vowed to pass this over defying space and time. And that is why I am now telling my story to all of you.
I was there and wherever you were I hope you got to celebrate in a similar fashion.