https://potpuri.org potpuri.org Wed, 30 Apr 2025 11:44:03 +0000 https://potpuri.org en https://potpuri.org/issue-3 Wed, 30 Apr 2025 10:09:48 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/issue-3 https://potpuri.org/The-Rilindja-Galaxy Wed, 30 Apr 2025 10:55:45 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/The-Rilindja-Galaxy The Rilindja Galaxy: A Journey Through Press and Its Role in Shaping Kosovo's National Consciousness Njomza Dragusha ︎english english albanian german Our engagement with the legacy of Rilindja began in 2021, driven by the desire to ground Potpuri within Kosovo’s historical and social context—particularly in a time when no printed press existed in the country. To understand this absence, we had to adopt a very specific method: speaking to people. With no written history of Kosovo’s print media available, oral accounts became our only entry point. Thus, we took on the challenge of documenting this legacy—starting, unavoidably, with Rilindja. <img width="7950" height="3874" width_o="7950" height_o="3874" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/742a66dc0dc87237561b60f4a7c7b0ab0477de8fbbe6c87cb4d91be1deb0b7cb/Ministrite.jpg" data-mid="231749015" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/742a66dc0dc87237561b60f4a7c7b0ab0477de8fbbe6c87cb4d91be1deb0b7cb/Ministrite.jpg" /> What seemed at first like a straightforward path soon revealed itself to be extraordinarily difficult. Everyone seemed to know something. Everyone had something to say. But the sources—like the story itself—were scattered. Doing this work voluntarily and across borders, between Kosovo and Switzerland, added another layer of difficulty. While we always understood the cultural weight of Rilindja, the deeper we went, the more painful the journey became. It became glaringly clear that the institutional neglect of Rilindja’s history is not only irresponsible but dangerous. There is no coherent archive—neither through institutional cooperation nor through public-private collaboration.What seemed at first like a straightforward path soon revealed itself to be extraordinarily difficult. Everyone seemed to know something. Everyone had something to say. But the sources—like the story itself—were scattered. Doing this work voluntarily and across borders, between Kosovo and Switzerland, added another layer of difficulty. While we always understood the cultural weight of Rilindja, the deeper we went, the more painful the journey became. It became glaringly clear that the institutional neglect of Rilindja’s history is not only irresponsible but dangerous. There is no coherent archive—neither through institutional cooperation nor through public-private collaboration. Over the last 20 years, attempts of collaboration around one of Kosovo’s most important cultural institutions have consistently failed. Despite repeated appeals from independent researchers to institutions and political actors, no one has meaningfully acknowledged Rilindja’s legacy. On the contrary, its legacy has been systematically dismantled. The only exception appears to be the National Library of Kosovo, which recently expressed commitment to building a complete digital archive. Still today, Rilindja remains deeply embedded in the memory of generations. Saying the name evokes visceral responses—warmth, familiarity, longing—as if one were invoking a family member. And yet, there is a widespread resignation: because Rilindja lives in our hearts, we act as though that is enough. But it isn’t. With this initiative, Potpuri has taken a first step toward assembling a cohesive—though not yet comprehensive—historical account of Rilindja. Our limited resources prevent a deeper excavation, but we hope to illuminate the urgency of reviving Rilindja as a living, public legacy. For Rilindja is not merely a newspaper—it is, above all, a temporal instrument, a lens through which we can feel time itself. This initiative is only the beginning. Through it, we hope to spark debate and connect those who have long worked—quietly and persistently—to keep Rilindja alive in the cultural pulse of Kosovo, and to pass it on to future generations. Potpuri’s ten-chapter structure offers an accessible yet historically grounded exploration of Rilindja’s development and where it might still be accessed today. We invite you to join our campaign, #WhereIsRilindja, and take part in shaping the conversation around its legacy. Our long-term goal is to bring together literary and publishing experts, as well as former Rilindja workers, to collectively establish a framework for its continuation—regardless of institutional support. This initiative aims to prove that there is, in fact, knowledge, professionalism, and urgency in Kosovo capable of preserving Rilindja—one of the most important legacies of the 20th century. Identity Formation Through Language and PrintThe modern formation of Kosovo is deeply linked to the institutionalization of the Albanian language across Albanian-speaking regions in the Balkans. Until the early 20th century, Kosovo remained under Ottoman rule, during which time Albanian-language education and cultural expression were largely suppressed. The push for Albanian national identity and linguistic unity gained momentum during the Albanian National Awakening (Rilindja Kombëtare Shqiptare), a cultural and political movement that spanned from 1830 to 1912. This movement sought to develop a unified literary language, promote education in Albanian, and foster a distinct national consciousness after centuries of Ottoman domination. A pivotal moment in this process occurred at the Congress of Manastir in 1908, where Albanian leaders officially adopted the Latin alphabet—a crucial decision that helped solidify Albanian linguistic and cultural identity and marked a clear break from Ottoman and other regional influences. Following the Balkan Wars and during World War I, under Austro-Hungarian occupation, Albanian schools were opened in several major centers of Kosovo. These institutions played a significant role in expanding the use of the Albanian language in literature and education, moving beyond the rich tradition of oral folk culture that had long served as one of the main artistic and cultural expressions of the people in the region. At the beginning of the 20th century, most writers in Kosovo still published in Turkish, with only a few choosing to write in Albanian. Among the early figures who did was Haxhi Ymer Lutfi Paçarrizi, a Muslim cleric known for his political and philosophical writings. He published during the 1920s in the Socialist Fexhri (Agimi Socialist) journal based in Skopje. Another important literary figure of this period was Hilmi Maliqi, who wrote in a similar style and is recognized as the father of modern poetry among Kosovar Albanians. His influence extended to his student, Shaip Zurnaxhiu, who also contributed to the early development of Albanian literature in Kosovo. In the 1930s, the first generation of Albanian students in Kosovo began to emerge, many of whom would go on to contribute significantly to Albanian literature and political thought before and after World War II. Among them were Esad Mekuli, Hivzi Sulejmani, Mark Krasniqi, Ramiz Sadiku, and Ali Shukriu. Notably, Mark Krasniqi also wrote in Albanian and served as editor of the student magazine Ylli, which was published at the Catholic Seminary of Prizren from the late 1930s into the early 1940s. <img width="666" height="1056" width_o="666" height_o="1056" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/9b41f75a69f0eb619f21d5f25839f6a1b54b5a7c676dc230921ce6c96df8ce84/Hylli.png" data-mid="231749007" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/666/i/9b41f75a69f0eb619f21d5f25839f6a1b54b5a7c676dc230921ce6c96df8ce84/Hylli.png" /> The development of the Albanian-language press in Kosovo is closely tied to the revolutionary and class liberation movements of the time, particularly through the ideological framework of the Communist Party of Yugoslavia. In 1938, the Provincial Committee of the Party made a significant step by issuing its first proclamation in Albanian, appealing to Albanians, Serbs, and Montenegrins to unite in a shared struggle. However, it was only during the National Liberation War (World War II) and the People’s Revolution that the Albanian-language press in Kosovo truly came into its own. This period saw the emergence of the first tracts, newspapers, and magazines written in Albanian, including Liria, Zani i Popullit, and Zani. The first official publication of the National Liberation War, Liria (Sloboda), began in mid-1942 as an anti-fascist paper carrying the slogan: “The fight against the occupier and his tools is the only way to ensure national freedom.” While communist partisans were the dominant force behind this press, they were not the only movement active in the region. Various Albanian political groups—such as the Second League of Prizren, Balli Kombëtar, and Besa Kombëtare—also resisted fascist occupation, though many opposed the return of Kosovo under Serbian or Yugoslav control. Despite differing ideologies, these groups shared the goal of preventing Kosovo’s reintegration into a centralized Yugoslavia. In contrast, the Yugoslav partisans, through publications like Zani i Popullit (Glas Naroda)—issued in both Albanian and Serbo-Croatian—used language as a strategic tool to promote their political vision. By fostering Albanian-language journalism, they sought not only to mobilize Albanians in the anti-fascist struggle but also to symbolically include them within the communist Yugoslav project. Language became a means of political integration—presented as a guarantee of ethnic equality, even as the underlying goal was to re-establish Yugoslav and Serbian control over the region. By 1943, Zani – Glas continued this publishing legacy until it was replaced in August of that year by a renewed version of Liria, which remained active throughout 1944. These publications—alongside posters, proclamations, bulletins, and other propaganda materials—played a key role in shaping wartime consciousness and promoting the ideology of the partisan movement. As German troops gradually withdrew from the region, Kosovo fell under the control of partisan forces culminating in full occupation by November 1944. This transition reinstated Serbian rule, sparking resistance such as the Drenica Uprising, led by Shaban Polluzha, and events like the Massacre of Tivar. Outside the partisan press, Albanian-language newspapers such as Lidhja e Dytë e Prizrenit and Kosova were also published between 1943 and 1944, reflecting alternative political voices, though little is known about their content today. Consequently, on the initiative of Miladin Popović, who was responsible for the Provincial Committee of the Communist Party of Yugoslavia (KPJ)—a regional branch of the KPJ that operated in Kosovo during and after World War II—the first issue of Rilindja was founded on February 12, 1945, in Prizren, at Gjuro Jakšić Street No. 17. It was established as the Organ of the National Liberation Front, printed in Albanian, alongside Jedinstvo, which was published in Serbo-Croatian. The Birthing of Rilindja&nbsp;The name Rilindja was chosen through collective deliberation during a meeting of political and social leaders at Hotel Jugosllavia in Prishtina. Multiple alternatives were discussed before Rilindja was ultimately selected as the title for Kosovo’s first Albanian-language newspaper in the aftermath of World War II—though it was certainly not the first Albanian newspaper, as it is often inaccurately framed. The directive to publish the paper within a week came shortly after ‘liberation’. Despite lacking trained personnel, proper working conditions, printing machinery, and sufficient Albanian lead type, the instruction was non-negotiable. Milladin Popovici, then secretary of the Regional Committee of the Communist Party of Yugoslavia (PKJ) for Kosovo and Metohija, emphasized that all challenges had to be overcome immediately and that new cadres had to be formed without delay. The Agitprop department of the Regional Committee was assigned to lead the initiative. Kolë Shiroka, Esad Mekuli, and Sokol Dobroshi played central roles in content development, translating texts from Serbo-Croatian into Albanian. News was collected from Yugoslav, Italian, and other wartime fronts through radio broadcasts and prior experience in partisan bulletin production. However, local news from within Kosovo remained scarce due to a lack of field reporters and organized infrastructure. The first issue featured a lead article by Fadil Hoxha titled «T’i përvishemi punës…», a long piece by Esad Mekuli titled « Përshendetjet e popullsisë shqiptare të Kosmotit për përgjegjen burrnore të popujve të Jugosllavisë me rastin e mësymjes së reakcionit kunder marrëveshjes Tito-Shubashiq » an article by Mehmet Hoxha titled « Pushteti popullor », and another contribution by Mekuli—this time under the pseudonym Sat Hoxha—titled « Edhe grueja jonë hec drejt përparimit…» Other reports covered humanitarian efforts, youth mobilization for the National Liberation Army, and the opening of Prishtina’s first public library. Fadil Hoxha’s article delayed the printing of the newspaper due to his involvement against resistance operations in Drenica and elsewhere in Kosovo. On its first issue Rilindja came in total with 14 articles, which did not have any photos or illustrations. With content finalized, the materials were transported to Prizren, where the only Albanian typefaces available were housed at the Shtypshkronja Shtetërore. There, the first issue was printed under the direction of Kolë Lekaj, Skënder Lumezi, Sebë Laci, Beqir Driza, Slobodan Petroviqi, Reshat Arapi, Mile Dishleko, Margarita Mjeda Shukriu, and Kolë Lumezi—among the first generation of graphic workers in postwar Kosovo. Still in partisan uniforms, the team worked entirely by hand using only four boxes of Albanian lead type and two small typewriters. Due to a lack of headline-sized letters, the first two pages were typeset and printed, the type dismantled, and reused for the remaining pages. The letter “Ë” proved particularly difficult and often had to be modified manually. Sebë Laci and Beqir Driza were especially known for their speed and skill in typesetting. Each team member handled multiple roles—editorial, logistical, and technical—to ensure that Rilindja was not only published, but delivered. From content creation to physical distribution, the launch of Rilindja marked a pivotal moment for Albanian-language media in Kosovo. The first issue was printed in 3,000 copies. The Founding Mission of Rilindja After the decision to publish Rilindja, one of the first challenges was the lack of a professional staff. There were no trained journalists for the newspaper; instead, contributors were selected from among cadres already burdened with other responsibilities with the anti-fascist movement. They wrote after hours, often late at night, meeting deadlines on top of their regular political or administrative duties. Despite these constraints, Rilindja was launched. With literacy rates still low in postwar Kosovo, its articles were frequently read aloud in villages and workers’ collectives, serving as collective platforms for information, ideological education, and mobilization. From the outset, the newspaper served as a tool of the socialist state, promoting the vision of the new Yugoslavia—a federation of equal nations and nationalities, free from oppression. It sought to popularize the new people’s government, rooted in the Communist Party, and to consolidate the ideological narrative of the antifascist struggle. Rilindja aligned itself closely with the dominant political agenda. It condemned fascist occupation and consistently framed resistance within the terms of the broader Yugoslav project. In its initial years articles reported on the mobilization of the population, the exposure of collaborators, the disarmament of armed groups, and the seizure of their assets. Alongside this, the newspaper covered topics such as agrarian reform, postwar reconstruction, army provisioning, and assistance to families affected by war—especially the families of fallen partisans and displaced communities. On 29 November 1945, the newspaper marked the proclamation of the Federal People's Republic of Yugoslavia as a pivotal moment. It portrayed the event not only as a state milestone, but as a victory for Rilindja itself—celebrating it as the first time Albanians in Kosovo could participate in a democratic system with formal voting rights.While Rilindja emerged as a symbol of the new political order, its role was not neutral. It was an organ of ideological transmission and a builder of consensus, aligned with the state’s narrative of communist transformation—supporting unity, but often excluding space for dissent or alternative perspectives.What were the three main agendas on the ground? Rilindja’s Fight Against Illiteracy in KosovoIn the aftermath of World War II, Kosovo faced staggering levels of illiteracy—an estimated 90% of its population could neither read nor write. Recognizing this as a major barrier to development, Rilindja became an early and vocal advocate in the national campaign to combat illiteracy. One of the most symbolic steps in this effort came in November 1946, when 5,000 copies of the Albanian Alphabet Book (Abetarja) were published in 58 pages at the state press house (Shtypshkronja Shtetërore). Just two months later, on January 23, 1946, Rilindja published the article “Analfabetizmi asht anmiku i popullit” (“Illiteracy is the enemy of the people”), reporting that over 20,000 people in Kosovo were already enrolled in anti-illiteracy courses. This campaign quickly grew into what became known as the first major wave of educational and cultural mobilization in Kosovo. By the 1949/50 school year, Albanian-language education was being provided in 727 schools, serving 168,996 pupils with the support of 1,095 teachers. Across Kosovo, efforts to eradicate illiteracy were taking place at an unprecedented scale. A total of 2,485 anti-illiteracy courses were running across the province, enrolling more than 52,000 participants—including men and women of all ages, many of whom were picking up a pencil for the first time. Teachers, intellectuals, and volunteers played a central role in this mass educational movement, many of them coming also from Albania. Rilindja actively supported this movement not just through editorial advocacy but by consistently reporting on the progress of literacy courses. Dozens—perhaps even hundreds—of articles covered local efforts, teacher involvement, and community engagement, keeping the campaign in public focus and giving visibility to the work being done in villages and towns alike.Despite the progress, challenges remained, particularly in primary education. In the 1945/46 school year, of the 25,302 enrolled students, only 12,213 completed the year. The following year, 45,692 students were registered, with 26,157 continuing regularly and passing their grade. By 1947/48, out of 51,225 registered, only 17,421 remained enrolled by the end of the first quarter. Rilindja addressed this directly in an article published on April 14, 1948, noting that many Albanian families had not been adequately informed that enrollment alone was not enough—children also had to attend school consistently. <img width="1262" height="790" width_o="1262" height_o="790" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/cc535ab059411db46f48d3eef63c3ed9cc13e70759388f8c14c383d3bb30d0f6/Education.png" data-mid="231749005" border="0" alt="The first students of the Higher Pedagogical School in Prishtina (&quot;Rilindja&quot; dated July 16, 1959)" data-caption="The first students of the Higher Pedagogical School in Prishtina (&quot;Rilindja&quot; dated July 16, 1959)" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/cc535ab059411db46f48d3eef63c3ed9cc13e70759388f8c14c383d3bb30d0f6/Education.png" />The first students of the Higher Pedagogical School in Prishtina ("Rilindja" dated July 16, 1959) A landmark moment in Albanian-language education came in 1958, when the Prishtina High School graduated its first cohort of Albanian students. Of the 24 students, two were female, and the majority came from districts across the province—though none, notably, from Prishtina itself—marking a turning point in the educational emancipation of Albanians in Kosovo. The First Course for Journalists In the summer of 1949, a decision was made by Rilindja to organize the first course for young journalists, particularly those working in the field. Since Prishtina lacked a suitable space and enough staff to lead the course, it was moved to Graçanica. Invitations were sent out in advance, and participants arrived from—some traveling from Gjakova and Prizren, by truck, cart, or other available transport. In Graçanica, the former monks' quarters were used to accommodate them. The course included daily lectures, covering the basic principles of journalism. Over several days, the participants received introductory theoretical training meant to prepare them for work in the press, thus setting the initial ground for journalism to develop in Kosovo. <img src="https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXfFT1za3zYeNp0gpz-k0PzROh-Uq5-hZ9JTXpInjlRDEMuy4AgnweaU9WsmQ4VLpmtZzw6rNC3jOrkrZ8zoCeOvTeCrJ821ElgZT1IzSQtim9UWtw7-kjWvgfiz7wEtOcXRAdeFqw?key=2ZpkeVKoarv2KJzQyUGNFQb9" width="252" height="235" style="font-size: 2.2rem; letter-spacing: 0px; width: 252px; height: 235px;" data-scale="100"> Rilindja and the women The year 1947 was marked by numerous efforts to build a new way of life and reshape social relations among people and communities. One of the most significant movements that year was the campaign to eliminate the use of the veil and to challenge religious practices, particularly in Kosovo and other regions with Muslim populations. On May 29, 1947, Rilindja published a detailed report from a gathering of Kosovo’s Hoxhallars and Shehlers. In a resolution focused on the development of Muslim Albanian women in Kosovo and Metohija, they called on all Muslim Albanians to fully support the unveiling campaign. The resolution urged them to explain to their women how this initiative aligned with national and state interests, and how deeply these interests contrasted with the outdated customs of the past. Through the late 1940s—especially from 1948 to 1950—Rilindja continued to highlight the importance of breaking with backward traditions. It persistently advocated for the eradication of practices such as blood feuds, child marriages, and harmful superstitions, viewing them as major obstacles to progress and social reform. Later, Rilindja continued to place particular focus on the employment of women within its organization. <img width="2467" height="1527" width_o="2467" height_o="1527" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/38dbf4d1b013751a22c829b074c26a37d68ff1a28d6435cc8080925598d8ba3c/Rilindja-collective.png" data-mid="231749010" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/38dbf4d1b013751a22c829b074c26a37d68ff1a28d6435cc8080925598d8ba3c/Rilindja-collective.png" /> The Press Embodied: Self-Organized Rilindja In the beginning, RILINDJA was a four-page newspaper with limited copies, hand-folded in Prizren. The first issue took 72 hours to prepare. Its first sixty issues were printed at the state printing house in Prizren, while issue 61 and subsequent editions were typeset and printed in Prishtina—initially at the Provincial Printing House of the Popular Front, and later within the Rilindja publishing house. Rilindja was initially a weekly newspaper. Until June 27, 1948, it was published in four pages, and then it began to appear twice a week—on Thursdays and Sundays—continuing this format until 1957. Rilindja’s transformation into a self-governing institution reflected the broader political and economic shift in Yugoslavia after its 1948 break from the Soviet Union. Isolated from the Eastern Bloc, Yugoslavia under Tito developed a unique model of decentralized socialism based on workers’ self-management. Within this system, enterprises—including media institutions—were managed by workers' councils, aiming to promote democracy, productivity, and national equality. For Rilindja, this model became central following the passage of the 1950 law that allowed factories and institutions to be transferred to workers’ management. Though political and economic conditions in Kosovo were difficult, Rilindja's staff embraced the model as a means to participate in both production and editorial decision-making. Editors, journalists, and technical staff took part in workplace self-governing bodies, shaping decisions across social, political, and cultural life. The struggle for socialist transformation unfolded under extremely challenging circumstances. In agriculture, for example, efforts to establish cooperatives yielded limited results. Within this context, a quiet yet ongoing conflict emerged between ‘progressive forces advocating self-management and entrenched bureaucratic structures. In such a climate, transforming a newspaper into a meaningful tool of the working class—dedicated to democratization, national equality, and socialist unity—was no easy task. In 1958, Gazeta Rilindja moved to Prishtina, to a building that once served as a district prison. On 29th of November of the same year it was published as a daily newspaper, except on Fridays. Ymer Pula served as director, and Asllan Fazliu as editor-in-chief. Publishing a daily newspaper under these conditions in Kosovo was a bold and difficult endeavor. It was only through the unwavering belief in the necessity and impact of an Albanian-language daily press that the immense personnel, technical, financial, and organizational challenges were overcome. At the time the daily edition was launched, the team reportedly operated with just two or three typewriters. On May 3, 1961, Rilindja began publishing daily, coinciding with Tito’s visit to Kosovo. By 1975, the paper had expanded to 16 pages. Eventually, it grew to 20–24 pages, and occasionally even more. The average daily circulation was approximately 50,000 copies, with festive editions reaching up to 250,000. Initially, under its first statute, six OTHPBs (Basic Organizations of United Work) were established. On May 29, 1979, through a public referendum, workers approved the integration of the commercial-book enterprise "Rilindja" into the broader organization. This brought the total number of OTHPBs within Rilindja to seven.On February 12, 1985, RILINDJA was formally celebrated as the full Publishing-Printing and Graphic Working Organization RILINDJA. Within this working structure, regular activities were carried out by the following seven basic units: OTHPB of the Editorial Board "Rilindja" – political news and daily reportingOTHPB of Journals – publishing cultural, educational, and youth magazines such as Jeta e Re, Pionieri, Kosovarja, Shkëndija, and othersOTHPB of Voice of Youth – focused on political and social issues concerning young peopleOTHPB of the Editorial Board of Publications – focused on books, literature, and translationsOTHPB Typography – the largest unit, managing high-volume and high-quality print productionOTHPB of Wholesale, Retail, Export and Import – distribution of books, textbooks, and supplies through over 40 bookstores in Kosovo and the regionOTHPB Sales and Economic Propaganda – overseeing retail operations and press distribution through more than 350 kiosks All these organizations, through self-governing agreements, formed a working partnership to carry out professional tasks of common interest. This organizational growth was supported by a combination of public funding and increasing self-generated income. Between 1981 and 1984, Rilindja’s revenues more than doubled—from 1.5 billion to nearly 4 billion dinars—reflecting its expanding scope in both journalism and commercial activity. Despite mounting economic pressures, the self-governance model allowed Rilindja to become the most influential Albanian-language media institution in Yugoslavia, deeply embedded in the public sphere and everyday life in Kosovo. RILINDJA initiated and hosted multiple other newspapers and magazines dedicated to culture, literature, arts, education, science, agriculture, children, youth, and women. Among others, these included PËRPARIMІ (Progress), JETA E RE (New Life), FJALA (Word), SHKËNDIJA (Sparkle), ZËRI I RINISË (Voice of Youth), PIONIERI (Pioneer), KOSOVARJA (Kosovo Woman), BAT (Basis of Technical Education), GEP (Pioneers' Newspaper), BUJKU (The Farmer), and the humorous magazine THUMBI (Thorn). Over the years, a significant printing industry also developed alongside RILINDJA. By the mid-1980s, under its umbrella and that of its integrated predecessors, more than 3,200 titles in the Albanian language were published, totaling approximately 13 million printed copies. Parallel to journalistic development, the Working Organization RILINDJA cultivated a robust graphic production capacity. Its printing plant was equipped with advanced machinery and facilities. By the mid-1980s, the organization employed around 1,300 people, nearly half of whom were graphic workers—many of them highly skilled professionals. Through its publishing and graphic output, RILINDJA played a pivotal role in the cultural development of Albanians in Kosovo from the earliest years of postwar reconstruction. <img width="788" height="1068" width_o="788" height_o="1068" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/05ee8d04f82ac6736542b8341f3b0eb88c6ce38f3b132d4a3f8469a87bfc9a0b/statistics.png" data-mid="231749011" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/788/i/05ee8d04f82ac6736542b8341f3b0eb88c6ce38f3b132d4a3f8469a87bfc9a0b/statistics.png" /><img width="1858" height="1230" width_o="1858" height_o="1230" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e7b7e62a8d92e8818d64210790b4162be0766206a415ecc72bae428f8a8d7e10/Palace-of-Press.png" data-mid="231749008" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/e7b7e62a8d92e8818d64210790b4162be0766206a415ecc72bae428f8a8d7e10/Palace-of-Press.png" /> The Construction of the Rilindja Press Palace The idea for a large-scale Press Palace to house Rilindja began in the 1960s, reflecting both the newspaper’s rapid growth and Yugoslavia’s broader investment in modern socialist infrastructure under the "Brotherhood and Unity" campaign and the motto “destroy the old to create the new.” With direct advocacy by Rilindja’s workers at the highest levels of Yugoslav institutions, serious planning began in 1970 with the formation of a special expert group tasked with developing the project and securing financial backing. The foundation stone was laid in 1972, but due to funding shortages, construction paused and resumed in late 1973. The project envisioned a facility that would serve not only the needs of press and publishing but also broader cultural and public functions in Prishtina. It drew inspiration and guidance from major publishing houses across Yugoslavia, including Vjesnik (Zagreb), Borba and Politika (Belgrade), Dnevnik (Novi Sad), and others. The Press Palace was conceived as a long-term investment, envisioned to serve the development of journalism and graphic production in Kosovo for at least the next 50 years. After detailed program reviews and adjustments—including input from leading architects—a revised and approved model was submitted for construction. The building was designed by the renowned Macedonian architect, educator, and author Georgi Konstantinovski (b. July 29, 1930). A graduate of the Faculty of Architecture at the University of. Cyril and Methodius in Skopje (1956), he earned a Master’s degree in Architecture from Yale University in 1965. Known for his early Brutalist work, Konstantinovski completed over 450 architectural and urban design projects, each characterized by a personalized balance of structure, function, and artistic vision. At the time of its construction, the Rilindja building was the tallest structure in Prishtina’s expanding city center. It housed the editorial offices of three newspapers in three languages: Rilindja (Albanian), Jedinstvo (Serbo-Croatian), and Tan (Turkish), symbolizing the multicultural context it served. Konstantinovski was commissioned for the project in 1972, following his acclaimed work on the City Archive and the Goce Delčev student dormitory. He was particularly drawn to the Rilindja project for its vertical scale—a building type he found compelling. His goal was to humanize modernist architecture by taking into account both the scale of the human body and psychological reactions to form and space. In doing so, he distanced himself from the objectivity of Bauhaus functionalism and the International Style, instead pursuing a subjective, experiential approach. The design featured vertically arranged windows set deep into the concrete frame, forming a rhythmic, modular system—rooted not in standard industrial dimensions but in context-specific architectural logic. Konstantinovski believed architecture could serve as a transformative social force. Unlike many of his modernist peers who pursued collective transformation, he sought change through a distinctive personal vocabulary rooted in material honesty and emotional resonance. The building phase advanced significantly in 1974, with the project covering over 50,000 m², spanning a footprint of 120 x 190 meters, and eventually reaching 18 floors (87 meters in height). It became one of the largest and most technologically advanced printing facilities in Yugoslavia. By 1976, Rilindja’s printing and press departments had begun moving in and installing imported graphic equipment. Training skilled workers to operate this modern machinery became a priority for Rilindja. Specialized programs and scholarships were launched in Belgrade, Prishtina, and abroad to develop technical and editorial staff in line with contemporary standards. By March 1978, the editorial tower officially opened, housing all of Rilindja’s departments—editorial offices in Albanian as well as independent editorial units. By 1982, following the integration of its book trade network, Rilindja had expanded its workforce to over 1,200 employees, doubling its numbers from a decade earlier. Financially, Rilindja’s growth was equally impressive. Gross income increased from 83 million dinars in 1972 to over 2 billion dinars by 1982. The total investment in the Press Palace reached 356 million dinars, financed through a combination of bank loans, state support, external sources, and internal contributions from Rilindja’s employees. Nicknamed “a city under one roof,” the Rilindja Press Palace became more than a media hub—it stood as a symbol of Kosovo’s cultural, professional, and industrial modernization. The 1990s: Rilindja under SiegeThe 1990s marked the most repressive and politically violent decade in Rilindja’s history. Once the cornerstone of Albanian-language journalism and publishing in Kosovo, Rilindja became a central target of Serbia’s campaign to suppress Kosovo’s autonomy and dismantle its Albanian-led institutions. Following the revocation of Kosovo’s autonomy in 1989 by Slobodan Milošević and the rise of Serbian nationalism, pressure on Albanian institutions intensified rapidly. On July 2, 1990, under curfew and surrounded by Serbian military forces, 114 Albanian and minority delegates of the Kosovo Assembly issued the Constitutional Declaration of Independence. Rilindja stood firmly with this declaration, both symbolically and editorially. The July 2 edition of Rilindja carried the headline: “The Assembly of Kosovo belongs to the people and decisions can only be made in it according to the will and demands of the people.” The next day, July 3, Rilindja published the article “Kosovo was declared an independent and equal subject in Yugoslavia,” framing the declaration not only as a legal-political act but as an expression of national will. Titles such as “The beginning of tomorrow” and “Only through dialogue for the future Yugoslavia” appeared alongside reports of widespread public support, protests, and union backing. But this editorial stance came at a cost. On July 5, 1990, Serbian forces forcibly shut down Radio Television of Pristina, and within a month, moved to silence Rilindja. On August 8, 1990, Serbian police raided the Press Palace—the towering Rilindja headquarters in Prishtina. A curfew was imposed on the newsroom, and the daily publication was officially banned after its staff rejected Belgrade’s demand to declare the paper the “official organ of the Serbian Parliament.” Rilindja refused. The July 6 editorial, titled “Classic Occupation,” was a bold, public rejection of Serbian attempts to co-opt the newspaper. Editor-in-chief Nazmi Misini and the entire staff stood in defiance—none agreed to serve the occupying authorities. In the wake of the ban, the Rilindja team was expelled from its building, and the institution was stripped of its legal status. But the journalists quickly reorganized. On January 18, 1991, they revived the agricultural weekly Bujku, transforming it into a de facto continuation of Rilindja under a new name to circumvent the ban. Although Bujku was officially licensed, it carried the editorial tone, staff, and spirit of Rilindja. This period also saw further resistance. <img width="1600" height="1084" width_o="1600" height_o="1084" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/890cb1c977a780dfd0800e5856f2cb9a68cf09d6f7f5aef3ee52d07bfbd80f46/Stricke_Picture-from-Ilaz-Bylykbashi.jpeg" data-mid="231749012" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/890cb1c977a780dfd0800e5856f2cb9a68cf09d6f7f5aef3ee52d07bfbd80f46/Stricke_Picture-from-Ilaz-Bylykbashi.jpeg" />Picture from Ilaz Bylykbashi In 1993, after Serbian authorities attempted to rename the Rilindja publishing house to “Panorama” and install a Serbian director, the editorial team organized a hunger strike inside the Press Palace. Led by Adem Demaçi and supported by dozens of journalists, the strike lasted over a week. The hunger strike ended without victory, but the staff continued publishing through the founding of Bujku on January 18, 1991, facing constant censorship, threats, and interruptions. Issues were prepared in private homes and printed clandestinely—even while Serbian snipers fired on the Press Palace. Despite the situation in Kosovo, Rilindja did not cease to exist abroad. In 1992, a team moved to Aarau, Switzerland, where Rilindja in Exile was launched. Closely collaborating with Bujku in Kosovo, the same content was published and distributed. Rilindja in Aarau printed around 12,000 copies daily, which were circulated throughout Europe, the U.S., and Australia. Its purpose was to keep the Albanian diaspora informed about developments in Kosovo and to engage the international community—serving as a vital source of news and advocacy. Rilindja in Aarau continued until 1996. In the meantime Rilindja was operating from Tirana, Albania. Despite these harsh conditions, Rilindja’s team in Kosovo and abroad continued publishing until the final days before NATO’s intervention in March 1999. Rilindja After the Kosovo WarFollowing the end of the war in Kosovo in 1999, the newspaper Rilindja—once the most influential Albanian-language publication in Yugoslavia—briefly resumed its daily publication. It reappeared on June 12, 1999, the same day NATO troops entered Kosovo, marking a symbolic return of a free Albanian press after nearly a decade of violent suppression. However, Rilindja’s post-war revival soon collided with the realities of Kosovo’s economic transition and international administration. Under UNMIK Regulation 1999/1, all public property registered in the name of the former Yugoslav state or its institutions was transferred to international trusteeship. Rilindja, as a socially owned enterprise, came under the management of the newly formed Kosovo Trust Agency (KTA) in 2002, based on UNMIK Regulation 2002/12. The KTA was tasked with administering and ultimately privatizing such enterprises. In practice, however, this internationally led privatization process was fraught with confusion over ownership, legal ambiguity, and exclusion of local stakeholders—including Rilindja’s workers. On February 21, 2002, UNMIK abruptly shut off electricity to the Rilindja Press Palace and sealed the building with iron grilles. Journalists were forcibly expelled, though many refused to resign. The daily newspaper ceased publication, but its editorial team continued producing special and protest issues occasionally—particularly during moments of national significance, like the 2008 declaration of independence of Kosovo. Privatization of Kosovo’s socially owned enterprises became the central economic strategy imposed by UNMIK and the EU's Pillar IV, despite widespread criticism. Decisions were made externally, often without consulting Kosovo’s institutions or public. Rilindja’s case was no exception. The Kosovo Privatization Agency (KPA), which succeeded the KTA in 2008, placed Rilindja’s graphic enterprise into liquidation in 2014, followed by the Rilindja newspaper enterprise (gazeta) in 2017. Rather than revitalizing Kosovo’s publishing infrastructure, this process reduced Rilindja to an administrative file awaiting asset sales and creditor settlements. In the meantime, the Press Palace underwent a radical architectural transformation, converted into a generic government office building—an example of turbo-architecture clad in glass and shine—completely losing the identity of the original structure. As Konstantinovski himself noted during a 2014 visit: "I don’t recognize it anymore." In 2014, the government expropriated the Press Palace to accommodate state institutions, where the following ministries are now located: Ministria e Punëve të Brendshme, Ministria e Drejtësisë, Ministria e Administrimit të Pushtetit Lokal, and Ministria e Mjedisit, Planifikimit Hapësinor dhe Infrastrukturës. By 2022, the building was transferred from the KPA to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. This liquidation process was not a privatization in the traditional sense but rather an administrative closure, during which former employees became creditors with rights to a portion of the assets. Ironically, by 2021, the Kosovo Privatization Agency had moved its offices into the very rooms that once housed Rilindja’s printing presses. While the building was repurposed, Rilindja’s workers were left behind—legally entitled to 20% of the value of the enterprise under privatization law, but still unpaid years after the funds were allocated. Former workers have repeatedly filed lawsuits in the Special Chamber of the Supreme Court to claim their rights, including 20% of the enterprise value and recognition of their work experience during the occupation, during which some now retire on only 100 euros. For many former workers, the battle is not just about legal rights, but about the dignity of an institution that once embodied the collective will of a nation in struggle. Rilindja Under the Responsibility of the Ministry of Culture: Centered around the Founding of the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo The current Minister of Culture, Youth and Sports, Hajrullah Çeku, has initiated and invested more than any other minister in the conservation of heritage—this seems to be a fact. While his cultural strategy emphasizes the establishment of sustainable institutions, this approach, as observed so far, has failed to incorporate a sustainable perspective across the broader social, cultural, architectural and artistic context of Kosovo.An example of such large institutional investment in culture as a sustainable approach was the initiation of Manifesta 14 Prishtina, in collaboration with the Municipality of Prishtina and under the initiative of Yll Rugova, then Director of Culture in Prishtina. The Ministry launched this project as a method for revitalizing urban spaces and supporting the establishment of a Museum of Contemporary Art in Kosovo. However, these visions were short-lived, as the Manifesta Foundation held a stronger and clearer vision of what was needed in Kosovo. The Foundation appropriated the local discourse around public space but failed to deliver any tangible or sustainable results. Instead of supporting the creation of a Museum of Contemporary Art—which arguably would have been within their expertise and could have resulted in something more sustainable—Manifesta 14 Prishtina established the Center for Narrative Practice as an institutional legacy at the premises of the former Hivzi Sylejmani Library. While the center was intended to incorporate literary practices, its broader focus was on an inclusive, interdisciplinary approach to community engagement and artistic expression—reflecting a typical trend of neoliberal artistic organizations in the last decade, particularly in the imperial context of Western organizations operating in Kosovo. The funding of this center—intended to establish a sustainable institution—cost Kosovo hundreds of thousands of euros. After the conclusion of the Manifesta Biennale, various independent individuals from Kosovo’s artistic community, in collaboration with the Ministry of Culture and the Municipality of Prishtina, instrumentalized the initiative and disregarded critical voices that had warned of its unsustainable managerial approach. Barely a year after the Biennale, skepticism surrounding the managing direction of the center proved to be accurate, where the center was closed and remains unfunctional. Following the end of Manifesta 14 Prishtina, Kosovo’s institutions—particularly the Ministry of Culture—appeared to acknowledge that no sustainable outcome would result from the Manifesta 14 Prishtina. Consequently, they shifted their focus to the international visibility Manifesta had given to Kosovo and its perceived impact on the art scene, while remaining diplomatically silent in public. This momentum was used to organize the first public conference announcing the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo—once again initiated and led by Yll Rugova. The event aimed to involve the broader community and the artistic circles connected to Manifesta 14 in an open discussion. Though the initiative was novel in 2022, the conference itself was unstructured and chaotic, offering the illusion of public engagement while, from an external perspective, functioning more as a performance—a spectacle of institutional tokenism. Nevertheless, by October 2023, the Ministry appeared more decisive, through a public event making an announcement that clarified how and by whom the museum would be led. Where they stated: The museum has been an idea initiated 23 years ago, and for the past 17 years, the country has undertaken various initiatives to build it, all of which have failed. The Museum of Contemporary Art is an institution of great importance for the culture of Kosovo, especially for the visual arts. From the earliest initiatives in the 1970s to more recent plans for constructing a new building, the last two decades have been marked by continuous challenges that have prevented the establishment of such an institution. The Initiating Council for the Museum of Contemporary Art was established by decision of Minister Hajrulla Çeku from the Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sports in Pristina on May 31, 2022 (No. 75/2022). Its members include: Yll Rugova (Chair), Petrit Halilaj, Flaka Haliti, Sislej Xhafa, Erëmirë Krasniqi, Zake Prelvukaj, Nita Salihu Hoxha, Valdete Pacolli, and Fisnik Abazi, as the representative of MCYS. Non-voting member: Rozafa Imami (MCYS); Secretary: Arbenita Nuza (MCYS). Yll Rugova further stated that the team has held regular meetings, organized workshops, and worked in teams. As a result, the call for applications for the architectural phase of the building is planned to be announced in June 2024, with construction expected to begin by August 2025. Three locations have been considered for the construction of the Museum of Contemporary Art. In this public announcement, it was stated that the Rilindja ex-printing house remains the most desired location. However, as it was under the ownership of the Ministry of Internal Affairs at the time, the final decision is pending confirmation, said Minister of Culture Hajrulla Çeku in 2023. In December 2023, the Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sports published on its official website the concept document outlining the founding vision for the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo, under the name RILINDJA. Within this concept document, it is stated "After many discussions within the Initiating Council of the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo, with experts in architecture, urban planning, and the fields of art and culture, we have reached the decision that the former Rilindja Printing House will be appropriated as the building for the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo."They also further wrote that ‘’over the past two decades, the former Rilindja printing house has undergone various functional changes that have caused significant structural and façade damage. The new Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo (MABK), planned within this historic building, aims to preserve and critically build upon its legacy as a monument of national importance. As a hybrid institution, MABK will not only collect and exhibit contemporary art but also function as a central hub for the country’s movable cultural heritage—supporting archiving, conservation, staff training, and restoration. Continuing Rilindja’s tradition as a space of intersecting and contested narratives, the museum will serve as a platform for critical reflection through contemporary artistic practices.’’ Whereas for specific collaborations regarding the historical activity of Rilindja, within their concept document they only mention collaborators such as "Arkivi Rilindja" for the infrastructural memory of the museum building. They wrote that ‘’this space will be unlike any other within MABK, clearly indicating at the entrance that it represents a historical reflection of the building. The Rilindja archive collection initiatives will be integrated to create a new synergy in revealing the history of the building and the most important cultural institution that once functioned there.’’ They also mention the initiative "Hapësira" as one that has used the Rilindja premises for organizing rave parties, which they plan to include in the museum's program. However, regarding any public discussion or involvement of individuals and professionals from the literary and publishing community, no direct steps have been taken so far. This includes the initiatives they claim to involve, such as Arkivi Rilindja, whose founder, Ervina Halili, has stated that she was never consulted or contacted by the ministry or any other person involved in the process of selecting Rilindja as the museum’s location. In a personal conversation with the museum’s commissioner, Yll Rugova, I was told that their interest in using Rilindja stems from the desire to prevent the infrastructure from being turned into office spaces again and to ensure it remains accessible to the public. Meanwhile, conversations with private researchers and former Rilindja workers vary. Some researchers express cautious support for the initiative, noting that they would rather see something done—however small—than nothing at all. In contrast, many literary critics, writers, and former Rilindja employees consider the decision to locate the Museum of Contemporary Art in the Rilindja building offensive, particularly because no one from their community was consulted. If any consultation took place, it has not been made publicly accessible. Furthermore, no professionals with expertise in Rilindja’s historical or cultural significance have been included in the museum’s initiating committee. The working group of the concept document of the Museum called as “Contexts of Architecture,” which includes Valdete Pacolli and Sislej Xhafa (with external advisors Yehuda Safran, Alenka Gregorič, Jernej Šipoš, and Boris Matić), does not include anyone with a professional background capable of addressing the implications of placing the Museum of Contemporary Art within the Rilindja premises—especially considering that the state of Kosovo has yet to formally recognize Rilindja’s profound impact on society. When I addressed these concerns to the current museum director, Arlinda Hajrullahu, she stated that the ministry plans to launch a call in February 2025 inviting researchers and architects to document the history of Rilindja’s architecture, she also claimed that the remaining machinery of Rilindja’s printing house will be included within the premises of the museum, with the intention to showcase the existence of Rilindja within the facilities. However, she acknowledged that a deeper investigation into Rilindja’s cultural activity—arguably the oldest such initiative in Kosovo—has not been planned. As of now, this call has not been published in any official page. In the meantime, what has been published is the call for the museum’s logo—an initiative that concluded in controversy, as the selected logo was widely criticized for being plagiarized rather than an original creation. Nevertheless, within this call the ministry has decided not to name the museum after Rilindja, but refer to it as only the Museum of Contemporary Arts of Kosovo. As the former printing annexes of Rilindja—currently vacant later planned to be located to MCAK—are now under the protection of the Ministry of Culture as heritage sites, one must ask: under what pretext is this architectural heritage being claimed? It is deeply dualistic and ironic that while the Ministry declares the architecture of Rilindja to hold inherited value for the state of Kosovo, it simultaneously fails to acknowledge the contradiction: if Rilindja’s architecture is indeed of such significance, then why is the initiative itself not granted the space, resources, and authority—through its own professionals—to determine how its legacy should be preserved and presented to the public? And as the proponents of the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo claim the responsibility to carry out that task on behalf of Rilindja’s dignity, one must ask: how have they granted themselves that authority? Is it not paradoxical—even naïve—to assume that a museum whose historical collection begins only in the 1990s can rightfully represent the literary and cultural legacy of Rilindja, which spans over six decades? Moreover, any discussion of Rilindja’s heritage in relation to the founding of the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo becomes unproductive the moment it devolves into a false binary—debating the legitimacy of one initiative at the expense of the other. The real issue lies elsewhere: the Ministry of Culture has carelessly allowed Rilindja’s legacy to be subsumed into a muddled and incoherent fusion of historical narratives and misaligned professional mandates. In doing so, it has collapsed two profoundly distinct trajectories into a shallow compromise—one seemingly crafted not to honor either, but to deliver just enough symbolic appeasement to deflect responsibility. The Rilindja Press HouseAs no institution has yet been established to archive and document the historical development of the press in Kosovo and its impact on the institutionalization of the Albanian language, a crucial part of the country’s identity remains unacknowledged—namely, the press as a foundational tool in shaping national consciousness. Regardless of its political contradictions and flaws, Rilindja stands as Kosovo’s earliest and most enduring cultural initiative in this regard. As Benedict Anderson famously argued, the formation of any nation-state has been contingent upon the emergence of print capitalism—and similarly, in Kosovo’s case, the idea of the nation would have been unimaginable without Rilindja’s role in sustaining a distinct Albanian national identity. Today, the Rilindja building stands as the epitome of that state formation: wounded, stripped of its aesthetic and material authenticity, yet still symbolically historic. To found the Museum of Contemporary Art on the back of Rilindja’s legacy—without acknowledging its cultural and historical foundation—would constitute the final gesture of institutional negligence. It would mark the moment when Kosovo’s institutions and cultural elite collectively abandoned the linguistic dimension of national identity—the very foundation that enabled the nation-state itself. Instead, what prevails is an escapist modernism, imported from the dominant visual culture of the West and passively adopted across all our institutions: a narrative of progress that erases more than it builds. Instead of remaining silent or passively accepting this reality, we have chosen—despite the limited impact we may have—to act. We have chosen to speak up rather than quietly accept yet another attempt to make us believe that “something is better than nothing.” Both imaginatively and practically, inspired by Ervina Halili’s call for Rilindja to be funded as the Shtëpia e Librit (House of the Book), we at Potpuri claim the former Rilindja printing annexes as the rightful space for a future House of Press—one that bears the name Rilindja and upholds its legacy with dignity and purpose. Where is Rilindja?Here, we have mapped the institutions and independent initiatives that, over the years, have made parts of Rilindja’s legacy accessible to the public—though none offer a complete picture. In line with Potpuri’s mission, we aim to support and/or facilitate future collaborations that could lead to the creation of an initiative dedicated to building a comprehensive, publicly accessible archive of Rilindja’s legacy. The State Agency of Archives of Kosovo The State Archive of Kosovo holds the largest collection of Rilindja publications. The archive is open to the public, and any interested individual can access its holdings. According to the institution, Rilindja remains the most requested and widely used research resource in their collection to this day. Furthermore, the archive has announced plans to undertake a full digitization of the Rilindja newspaper archive in the near future. Below is a list of all Rilindja-related publications for which the archive holds physical copies: Rilindja (1945–1986)Note: The year 1945 is incomplete, but the archive is the only institution that holds the first printed issue of Rilindja.Missing issues: July–November 1967, January–April 1985, June–November 1986.Zëri i Rinisë (1958–1979)Specific volumes only.Përparimi (1946–1970)One volume per year.Missing years: 1949–1955, 1961, 1963–1967.Jeta e Re (1951–1970)Specific volumes.Missing years: 1956–1957.Bota e Re (1970–1970)1971 missing.Shkëndija (1972–1974)One volume per year.Pionieri (1958–1965)One volume per year.Fjala (1968–1972)One volume per year.BAT (1972)One volume.Jedinstvo (1945–1948)Missing: 1950, 1953–1955, 1960, and 1963.National Library of “Pjetër Bogdani” The National Library of Kosovo has thousands of issues in its collection and every day different issues are requested by readers in the User Service Division. To adapt to the needs of today's users, the National Library of Kosovo now offers on the digital platform the digitized newspaper from its first issue to the issue dated March 15, 1983 from the library's collection fund. You can find the digitized newspaper at this link: https://bibliotekadigjitale-ks.org/dashboard Cantonal Library of Aargau Due to Rilindja’s publishing activity between 1992 and 1996 through the Zofingen printing house in Aarau, Switzerland, the Cantonal Library of Aarau has archived nearly all physical issues from this period within its collection. Following a request from Potpuri Collective to the Department of Education, Culture, and Sport of the Canton of Aarau, the Head of Collection and Archive agreed to support the digitization of this collection. In collaboration with Potpuri Collective, the digitization will take place in the Cantonal Library of Aarau and will later be delivered to the National Library of Kosovo to contribute toward the creation of a complete digital archive of Rilindja. Digital Book Platform – FLOSSK The project aimed to digitize the Rilindja newspaper through the digitized book platform books.flossk.org.Within the platform, sporadically scanned copies of Rilindja issues—ranging from 1948 to December 30, 1988—are available online. Similarly, the alternative newspaper known as Bujku, considered a continuation of Rilindja during the 1990s, is also available on the platform, with sporadic scanned copies from January 18, 1991, to December 30, 1998. Independent researchers and private collectors Rilindja remains one of the least researched initiatives in Kosovo, despite being widely referenced by scholars as the only comprehensive archival source documenting a significant span of the country’s history. The primary researcher dedicated to this legacy is Ervina Halili, who leads Arkivi Rilindja (arkivirilindja.com). Through her work—though not yet fully publicly accessible—she has extensively mapped and documented Rilindja’s activities, collecting material across its many dimensions. Notably, she directly intervened to save the last remaining Rilindja printing machines, which the Kosovo Privatization Agency had intended to sell for scrap metal. These machines are now claimed by the Museum of Contemporary Art of Kosovo. To this day, Ervina Halili remains the leading activist and researcher advocating for the recognition of Rilindja’s cultural and social significance in Kosovo.Recently, a research project based on personal interviews with former Rilindja workers was conducted by Elisa Maxhuni and Tringa Sefedini. The interviews were published in the format of a newspaper titled “Radhitje në Plumb, Germë për Germë”, as a tribute to the work and legacy of Rilindja.Many former Rilindja employees and private individuals have preserved sporadic publications and fragments of its legacy—some of whom often appear on television or social media. A public call to gather such materials could still ignite hope for building a richer and more comprehensive archive of Rilindja, especially with the continued support of these individuals.Oral History Kosovo The Oral History Initiative is a collective of researchers from different generations, nationalities, and areas of expertise. Their mission is to document life stories that intersect with the broader history of Kosovo and global events. Uniquely among similar efforts, the initiative has recorded the personal stories from a significant number of interviews with former Rilindja workers and authors, which are available online at oralhistorykosovo.org. Under the campaign #WhereIsRilindja and to follow Potpuri’s work in enriching public knowledge around Rilindja and to stay updated on future developments, we invite you to join us in building a space for discussion, transparency, and inclusion. With this platform, we hope to spark the beginning of a more concrete vision for Rilindja—one that secures its rightful place both publicly and institutionally, and the need to have a coherent archive of Rilindja’s legacy accessible to the public. Here you can follow future developments related to Rilindja. We will annouce all updates through our social media channels as well. Stay tuned! https://potpuri.org/You-re-a-small-little Wed, 30 Apr 2025 10:51:30 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/You-re-a-small-little You're a small little ***** Anastasiia Tatarenko ︎english english albanian german "Are you an artist, Nastya? Or are you just a babysitter and now you're walking up with other immigrants who work in this fancy neighborhood just like you do?” Both. <img width="1280" height="905" width_o="1280" height_o="905" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/006eda902846588d0c91f246b6d1dc34276ced83c827439e7ad36d4ecac09ce0/by-al-lisitzkaya3.jpeg" data-mid="231753480" border="0" alt="Illustrations by al lisitzkaya" data-caption="Illustrations by al lisitzkaya" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/006eda902846588d0c91f246b6d1dc34276ced83c827439e7ad36d4ecac09ce0/by-al-lisitzkaya3.jpeg" /><img width="1280" height="905" width_o="1280" height_o="905" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ca478fa9222a8ede190f697beae08c8cf3d2e178887977550d8297100dd1fff7/by-al-lisitzkaya.jpeg" data-mid="231748978" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/ca478fa9222a8ede190f697beae08c8cf3d2e178887977550d8297100dd1fff7/by-al-lisitzkaya.jpeg" /><img width="1280" height="905" width_o="1280" height_o="905" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/38bef2d4b1148fdbe32248e1dcce74b9b66c4770f47888e3193217279181e83e/by-al-lisitzkaya4.jpeg" data-mid="231753481" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/38bef2d4b1148fdbe32248e1dcce74b9b66c4770f47888e3193217279181e83e/by-al-lisitzkaya4.jpeg" /><img width="1280" height="905" width_o="1280" height_o="905" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/75786df389c0d07ca62a27bfa062778a4fa97b16306ba0267b3b06efd28a0887/by-al-lisitzkaya2.jpeg" data-mid="231753479" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/75786df389c0d07ca62a27bfa062778a4fa97b16306ba0267b3b06efd28a0887/by-al-lisitzkaya2.jpeg" /><img width="1280" height="905" width_o="1280" height_o="905" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3f4c8ed2ba59e0e6c24de2723604add55d471a596345722dffff31a7da47bc33/by-al-lisitzkaya1.jpeg" data-mid="231753478" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3f4c8ed2ba59e0e6c24de2723604add55d471a596345722dffff31a7da47bc33/by-al-lisitzkaya1.jpeg" /> Illustrations by Al Lisitzkaya Here they are, all my girlfriends, getting off bus 605 at the Oberwil Zug Räbmatt stop: a Ukrainian (I accidentally glanced at her phone once), two women I perceive as Asian, a Latin American woman, and me. We pretend not to know each other, even though we've been getting off together at this stop every Wednesday for half a year now. We also board the bus together and of course, recognize each other. Our eyes see this recognition and the subsequent convulsive distancing: I'm not with you, we're not together. We're not the commonplace of "migrant women working in a wealthy residential area of Switzerland, on the outskirts of Zug with a stunning view of the lake." Recently, there was a movie-like robbery in this area. I'm telling you what I heard from my "boss", the mother of the children I babysit. Here’s how it went: Two men in a car with French license plates broke into one of the fancy houses. They didn't expect a teenage girl, the homeowner’s daughter, to be in the house. They tied her up and strapped her to a chair. Meanwhile, their neighbor, who turned out to be a local policeman, heard a strange noise and went to investigate. And despite it being his day off, when he saw that the situation was serious, he decided to try to neutralize them urgently, but he failed and ended up tied up next to the girl. The robbers took the safe and fled the scene. Somehow they managed to escape, even though there was a chase and only one road leading to the village of Oberwile along the lake. I'm trying to imagine what these robbers looked like if they overpowered a policeman, because have you seen Swiss police at all? They all look like a cast for the Avengers there: pumped up, tall, with snow-white smiles, both men and women. I'd say that seeing them, the next frame in your head would be thoughts about porn. I'm not an expert, unfortunately, but isn't this a typical plot, firemen, plumbers, and of course, law enforcement officers? That's exactly what Swiss police look like. But maybe it's because there were two robbers, and our hero was alone. Maybe he didn't see that there were two of them, grabbed one, and then unexpectedly the second one jumped out. Or maybe our policeman was elderly? Maybe it's the police chief, after all, it's a rich neighborhood. I'd like to know what was in that safe. Of course, I could look up information on whether they managed to catch them, but for some reason, I want to think that this movie ended the way adventure films end. For some reason, I want to think that these French robbers are almost Robin Hoods, but that's just because I hate my job and automatically it affects the whole neighborhood. Or maybe these guys were friends of this girl? Maybe she was in on it? Maybe she's still their accomplice and that's how she tricked her parents who deprived her of her Swiss inheritance, with the words "you need to know life." Well, then I would suggest she go as a nanny to two toddlers. That's where she would know life, come to her parents with the words "you were right" and they would hug and cry on each other's shoulders. She wouldn't have had to stage a movie-like robbery. But the nanny to two toddlers in this story is me, and I'm already close to the thought of robbery. Unfortunately, the family I work for is not so fancy and has just moved to this area, so there's unlikely to be a safe with family jewels. But they have a cool coffee machine, it's just a pity that coffee doesn't really go down on workdays. Two cups maximum. It's even a shame that I can't drink enough in advance. My favorite game with the older one is "Mom and Daughter," basically playing house. I'm the daughter, of course. She puts me to bed, reads me a book, strokes my arms and head, saying "sleep-sleep" and these are the sweetest minutes during work. She always wakes me up with the song "Happy Birthday to you" - the second favorite plot now, birthday - and gives me a pretend cake. Yesterday we played twice because the younger one slept for a long time, and we can only play when she's asleep. Oh, sweet minutes on this soft couch. Every time I wonder why I get so tired. Maybe I've long lost objectivity and ten hours once a week with two toddlers rationally seem to me not such a big deal, and I convince myself of this. Or maybe it really is a lot. Recently at a party where we were saying goodbye for six months to a friend who's going to Hong Kong, I chatted with two of his childhood friends. One of them, Caroline or Carola or Corinne, I can't remember now, exclaimed "TEN HOURS?" as if she couldn't believe it, and wouldn’t calm down, even after I said, "JUST ONCE A WEEK". That's what I always tell myself "It's only once a week, so it's nothing." But Caroline-Carola-Corinne was shocked and said something like “TOO MUCH”. Maybe she's right, and it is too much after all. Somewhere after lunch, I often start walking around and chewing the words "you little bitch." Not out loud, of course, my God, of course not. But I feel these words with every cell of my body. Understandably, it's the age, she's testing boundaries, seeing how far she can go with me and what will happen to her for it - three years old, in a word. Sometimes she throws something at me or kicks with her feet, and she always has such an expression on her face and a squint in her eyes that I understand exactly: yes, THIS is happening now. "test-test” Can you hear me? Hello everyone in this house! Now we'll test Nastya's strength! Applause from the teddy bears-dolls and of course my favorite fox! The performance drags on because Nastya can't be provoked (yeah, right! but I'm an actress, don't forget). WE'RE MOVING ON TO CAUSELESS HYSTERIA on Let's count together! One Two Three SCREEEEEAM Great! Mission completed! Thank you all and see you sooooon!" And Nastya will just mutter to herself "You little bitch," maybe clench her jaw even more and give herself space for releasing her emotions, while thinking how difficult it is and how offensive it is that no one gave her such space. Then the older girl will ride away from me on a bicycle far ahead on the road, won't respond, I'll run with the stroller uphill on a winding road because I can't see her turquoise helmet; then I'll finally catch up to her, crying, because she fell and hurt her knee. I'll comfort her, although inside I will hear "you little bitch" again mixed with adrenaline from the fear I experienced for her; then I'll try to explain to her, gently, by no means accusing, that you can't do that; so that in the end, when I'm lacing up my sneakers, finally leaving there, she tells me: "Today was so cool! Let's do it again!" By the way, that's exactly what she said: Let's do it again. “Of course, we'll do it again, darling. What choice do I have?” “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way. When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” Viktor E. Frankl. It's even awkward to quote him here, but in the end, it all comes down to this. I keep thinking about this job, about my tiredness, and how often I think I have no choice. But this last choice can't be taken away from me. So how should I feel about this? Will I last in this job for another year or two? Will even the older one remember me? Will she remember how we made crowns or baked a pie? So far it's hard for me to detach and look from the outside. So far I think that all this work is a long game of survival. Life together with the older girl has united in a coalition of "let's test Nastya's strength" and they're doing very well, honestly. But I'm also Nastya-the-Rock. Do we become strong because we've been through a lot and coped, or on the contrary, does everything heavy we've had to go through make us a little weaker? What reserve of strength and stability is given to us for free? And by the way, what about energy? I have the same questions about energy. Is there a limit? Can you spend it all on nonsense and spend the rest of your life dragging along without strength? Or my favorite question, how much energy can you borrow from your future self? Then, when you need to tighten your belt and pull yourself together and this overcoming goes on and on, and there's no end in sight, that's when all that's left is to take energy and strength from your future self. And now I am that very "future self." And I want to call myself a year ago and say "you little bitch!" DON'T DO IT Just don't do it Don't even think about it! You’re a little bitch You’re small little bitch Nastya https://potpuri.org/Once-a-Diaspora-Kid-always-in-between Wed, 30 Apr 2025 11:44:03 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/Once-a-Diaspora-Kid-always-in-between Once a Diaspora Kid, always in between Besa Ferati ︎english english albanian german Were you a Migros- or Coopkid?I was a Migroskid. Even after all this time, I can still remember the smell of fresh croissants we enjoyed on Saturday mornings. <img width="1748" height="1239" width_o="1748" height_o="1239" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/901047335a70d0432506bbb7c86dbe12747010509c284b371f8c66d2a519df6a/1---Summer-2003_Rorschach.jpg" data-mid="231749820" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/901047335a70d0432506bbb7c86dbe12747010509c284b371f8c66d2a519df6a/1---Summer-2003_Rorschach.jpg" />Dad, my sister and I in Rorschach, Summer 2003 I close my eyes. I hear something. I catch myself smiling. I open my eyes. I wonder – what’s caught my attention? Was it the peaceful stillness, the birds chirping, the kids running around the park, or maybe the group of people playing table tennis? I jump up and walk towards the swing, moving back and forth, lost in a daydream. It’s getting late, so we head home.Mom was preparing a delicious dinner, while Dad was helping my sister and me with our homework. The scent of food filled the house as I packed my backpack, all set for kindergarten the next day. The morning came and I saw my friends and my teachers. It was a sunny day and we had breakfast outside. Our teachers showed us how to carve carrots into crocodile shapes. It was funny, some of the kids started acting like crocodiles and the others like rabbits – I couldn’t stop laughing. <img width="1748" height="1239" width_o="1748" height_o="1239" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/225bd17e69c11efc4567cf7c016958ffa6fecd6533eb8b8662e64c8c9a976666/2---August-2003_Little-me_St.-Gallen.jpg" data-mid="231749821" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/225bd17e69c11efc4567cf7c016958ffa6fecd6533eb8b8662e64c8c9a976666/2---August-2003_Little-me_St.-Gallen.jpg" />Little me playing with dolls in kindergarden, August 2003, St. Gallen It was time to play, so we could pick any activity we wanted. My favorites were the stump game and playing in the sandbox. We roamed around, filled with enthusiasm and curiosity, and each moment brought something new to notice. Our little minds were full of big dreams about the future.&nbsp; Eventually, it was story time. You could see the excitement on our faces as we listened attentively, cherishing every moment. We discovered new words and met fascinating characters, eagerly having discussions about them afterwards. To wrap up the day, we sang, mostly a cappella. And so, until tomorrow again. But this time, tomorrow was unlike any other. I don’t remember a lot, but we were packing up all of our things. Cleaning the apartment and giving away the furniture. Yes, we were leaving Switzerland and starting a new life in Kosovë. But at that time I didn’t understand what was happening. Were we going on a long trip? Are we coming back? Why does this feel like a farewell? The very last night in town was a bittersweet moment. I couldn’t sleep. The room was empty and I got distracted by the lights of the cars reflected on my ceiling. It was quiet. A vivid memory that remained forever. At last, we said our goodbyes to our beloved ones, to my childhood, to my birthplace. But we will see you soon. I won’t disappear. A long road. 24 hours by car. Tired but nonetheless, we finally arrived in Kosovë. The other beloved ones were keenly waiting for us. I met my cousins for the first time, overwhelmed with joy. The house was steaming – there were so many of us, each voice blending into the next, creating a sense of movement and energy. “A ma mirë k’tu a atje?” – literally translated as “Better here or there?” – is the common question asked in every Albanian household to diaspora people. It’s a phrase frequently heard among Kosovars when meeting someone from the community. A tricky question, often used in jest, but with the intention of keeping the atmosphere light and playful. I experienced Prishtina for the first time. It felt beautifully simple, with its solid concrete apartment blocks standing modestly. Each street and corner held a story. People didn't rush through their days; they walked at their own pace, taking the time to stop and chat with neighbors. September starts. First day of school. Everything intrigued me as I wandered around. Making friends came easily, yet there were times I felt out of place. Why was that? Was I pulling away because I felt different – quieter, unfamiliar with this new rhythm? The constant hum of noise, the unwavering energy, and the way people filled every space with life overwhelmed me. What had once felt comfortable now seemed too much. But over time, I began to understand. This was the Balkans. Here, chaos isn’t just the norm, it’s a way of life. It fuels people, gives them character. Not everything has to be in perfect order. In that simplicity, finding calm within the chaos. Years have passed, yet I still don’t know where home is. This relentless need to keep searching for it. I find myself caught between places, trying to find where my soul feels completely at ease. I always knew I had to leave Prishtina. I never quite felt like I belonged there. It held me back, drained my spirit, and didn’t really offer me space where I could truly grow. So I pulled away, becoming a stranger in my own town. It was only a matter of time before I left. I never imagined home could feel so cold, that it could wound me in such a way. Home should be a place of warmth, where people are cherished and cared for. Instead, it became a place that distanced me. <img src="https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXe24Td-jthydaoNpIWSyLSxwJVlVWSIa0S0rg2AHhEZIk796Jmy5-ESADitOUYUaCIbJOqdXSfgh7gj7DZ0f8YT4WXkWNXDMS1Heyps2QjeC_xYA6XwRjIvonQBfwb2YS81ADjutVy_UO7YCUZT3Q?key=G070Ac0QrNwL1Sq19KHMg6gP" width="367" height="246" style="width: 243.516px; height: 163.229px;">Prishtina and I, July 2021, Palace of Youth In the emptiness left behind, I’ve never forgotten Switzerland. I always hoped to find what I was searching for there. After many years, I went back for a year, reunited with the family, and reflected on memories. I came to understand that what I had once lived through was meant to be experienced again. In reconnecting with my past, I felt a sense of nostalgia and a deeper understanding of myself. I revisited places that once held so much meaning: my kindergarten, the park where I spent countless hours, and the city. In doing so, I fell back into my old routine: going to the forest, riding my bike, and having picnics by the lake. <img width="3022" height="3512" width_o="3022" height_o="3512" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f72d6e6ba3ea595c131a131cbd635bb5af9c9a71df2f3a622e49d3a31a7eeb38/St.Gallen-the-forest.jpeg" data-mid="231749824" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f72d6e6ba3ea595c131a131cbd635bb5af9c9a71df2f3a622e49d3a31a7eeb38/St.Gallen-the-forest.jpeg" />Back in St. Gallen – a reunion with my birthplace, September 2022 <img width="3024" height="2918" width_o="3024" height_o="2918" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/aad9afbf443819ceef6363049cc9d39b798013a0d40aa3ef8d14a9311d40367b/St.-Gallen.jpeg" data-mid="231749825" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/aad9afbf443819ceef6363049cc9d39b798013a0d40aa3ef8d14a9311d40367b/St.-Gallen.jpeg" />St. Gallen, December 2022 In parallel, work felt just as welcoming. My co-workers appreciated and embraced me as I was. Their openness made it easy for me to settle in, and I quickly felt like part of the team. With each passing day, I felt more at home, a deep sense of belonging growing within me. My workplace was located on Langstrasse, a neighborhood that served as a meeting point for immigrants. During lunch breaks, I would go out to grab something to eat. It was impossible not to feel the excitement this neighborhood gave you. Hearing salsa music coming from the Latin bars made me feel like I was somewhere in Latin America. Walking further, I could smell Asian spices, which suddenly carried me to the other side of the world. But nothing thrilled me as much as the moment I heard some traditional Albanian music playing. The road led me to an Albanian café. I sat down for a coffee and watched the conversations unfold around me. “Tungjatjeta!” – an old woman greeted me. It means May your life be prolonged. Isn’t that beautiful? Wishing wealth, not in terms of things, but in health, happiness, and good moments. It’s a simple, heartfelt wish with a lot of meaning. I smiled and greeted her back, letting the warmth of the words sink in. I left the café, but the feeling didn’t fade. It stayed with me, in the connection I felt with people who shared the same history. I kept walking and wondered if home really is just about little moments like this – ones that remind you that you are part of something, even if it’s just for a second. It's not just about a place; it’s the feeling of being understood, of finding your rhythm in a world that’s constantly changing. Somewhere where you can be yourself, without the pressure to fit in. It’s the quiet moments that remind you that, no matter where you go, there’s always something familiar waiting for you, something that makes you feel like you belong. So I'm always in between: Home is both here and there. https://potpuri.org/What-s-in-a-name Wed, 30 Apr 2025 10:56:39 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/What-s-in-a-name What's in a name? Name change in immigrant contexts Leonita Catot Galica ︎english english albanian german When Juliet asks Romeo “What’s in a name?”, she laments over how important names are in society despite being impalpable: “it [a name] is nor hand, nor foot, / Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part / Belonging to a man!”. And yet, it is precisely Romeo’s name “Montague” that makes their love impossible for it contains the entire history of their families’ rivalry. <img width="1280" height="707" width_o="1280" height_o="707" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d5ec30af36f6a70e0c72bbee241b6d81a260056f9706ab00b783266bc7f0c05c/Whats-in-a-name.jpeg" data-mid="231753464" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/d5ec30af36f6a70e0c72bbee241b6d81a260056f9706ab00b783266bc7f0c05c/Whats-in-a-name.jpeg" /> This random assortment of letters and sounds which compose our names hold an important place in the constitution of our identity and our position in society. To the question, “who are you?”, the very first thing one is expected to say is their name. More than an individual identification tool, a person’s name is very closely related to their personal and familial history as well as their broader cultural history. It is especially the case in an immigrant context where a person’s name is one of the ways the host society targets them as immigrants/ foreigners and thus marginalises them. Therefore, Shakespeare was not being dramatic when he described names as something that could potentially condemn people. Immigrants are a perfect example of this. People can face xenophobia and racism based on different things: the colour of their skin, their accent, their hair as well as their names if these names indicate an ethnic background which is not western or white. In such scenarios, many immigrants face a great deal of pressure to alter their name. In an American context or a French context (to name countries characterised by a renowned and institutionalised islamophobia), having the name John or Mohammed definitely impacts your quality of life, your position in society, your access to opportunities such as getting a job or a house, etc. In his study with immigrants in Sweden who have changed their muslim name to Swedish-sounding names, Khosravi (2011) describes these new names as “white masks” used to conceal their muslim identity, facilitate their individual integration into society and protect themselves against xenophobia and islamophobia. Khosravi says that “names carry strong ethnic and religious connotations and reveal an individual’s affiliation to a specific group. When a religious or ethnic group is stigmatised, the relationship between names and social stigma becomes explicit.” (2011). In this article, I want to share my family’s history with name changing in France where I was born after my parents left Kosovo in the 90s. Although there are many studies about xenophobia in France, not a lot focus on names and how immigrants can face stigmatisation based on them. In La Sociologie des prénoms (2011), Coulmont states that about 3000 people change their first name every year, 3/4 of them being of foreign origin (I could not find similar statistics about last names). In France, names are more than ever “cultural markers” (Fourquet &amp; Manternach, 2019). We can definitely see that in the speeches of far right personalities who have instrumentalised names to propagate racist and xenophobic ideas. A memorable case was when Eric Zemmour, a very notorious far right personality known for his hateful and ignorant speech, attacked the journalist Hapsatou Sy because of her name on the set of the programme “Les terriens du dimanche” in 2018. After suggesting she should have the (very French sounding) name Corinne, he said: “Your name is an insult to France […] Names represent and embody the history of the country therefore your name is not part of the country’s history whether you like it or not.” To which she replied “You have just insulted me because my name is part of my identity.” In march 2024, he was condemned by the Paris Court of Appeal for “racist abuse” (not for the first time). This is just a striking example of what people of foreign origin can face and this one happened for everyone to see on television. In the everyday lives of minorities, these attacks can take many shapes and forms. Sometimes they are frontal and directly violent like the example we have just seen but they can also be indirect which makes them hard to detect and hard to denounce in court for example. An employer can choose not to give you the job, a landlord can choose not to give you the apartment, you can be laughed at at work, at school, and so on and so forth. No wonder some decide to choose another name, like my parents did. Until recently I never really thought to ask them what made them decide to do that. It was only in 2024 when I moved to Kosovo and made more Albanian friends that I started feeling uncomfortable about the last name on my ID: CATOT. I felt upset and maybe ashamed that I did not have an Albanian last name when both my parents are Albanian from Mitrovicë. I felt like part of my cultural identity was being erased by having a French last name. So I decided to investigate, and by investigate I mean have a very long conversation with my mum on the beach in Albania and record it (talk about ethnographic work huh?).&nbsp; Here’s what she told me. After they arrived in France, my parents got married and both had my father’s last name, Cakiqi. Neither of them thought of changing it but they soon got tired of peoples’ comments. One thing about French people is that they will never try to get the pronunciation of anything that is not French right. So Cakiqi, in everyone’s mouths became “Kakiki”. Their name was butchered all the time and there is very little they could do about it except for correcting the people who would immediately forget and go back to mispronouncing it. Therefore, during the long and fastidious process to get citizenship, when they were asked if they wanted to change their name they considered it. After all, their first child (me) had just been born and the mockery would be something I would have to face too. So they did it. They kept the first two letters “CA” and my mum thought of CATO which kept an Albanian sonority but could at least be pronounceable by French people. They were forced to add a silent “t” at the end so that the name would sound and also look French (God forbid a French word/ name doesn’t end with a silent letter to make it confusing for everyone, am I right?). She also told me the story of a friend of hers that changed her last name as well as her first name when she got French citizenship. From Hyrije, she became Irène. Not only would French people lose their mind because of how unpronounceable it was (really all you need to do is ask and remember — I mean, is it really that hard…?) but they would of course make fun of it. Her case is quite interesting because Hyrije/ Irène had a job which implied wearing a name tag on her all the time. To go back to Shakespeare and his reflection on the abstract and immaterial nature of names, Hyrije’s case represents a contradiction where her name was not just an abstraction but a continuation of her body in the form of a name tag. Her name was quite literally and physically on her. For her and for my parents, changing their names was a way to protect themselves and their family from mockery and xenophobia. Obviously they were also very aware of other forms of discrimination immigrants could face because of their name as it is the case for many other diasporas. Statistics about North African immigrants in France are quite telling. According to the Institut des Politiques Publiques, when applying for a job, a person whose name suggests they are from a North African or Arab country have 31,5% less chances to be hired compared to people with a French name. I feel I am still coming to terms with accepting my “french” last name. Maybe I never will. However I don’t hate it. I hate that any immigrant even has to consider changing such a big part of their identity in the name of integration, or rather assimilation. I also hate the fact that other people from the diaspora might judge this choice and consider that changing one’s name equals forgetting one’s roots. It is not something to be ashamed of and I am very proud of my parents for making a decision that would make their life and their children’s life easier. Changing one’s name is a massive step immigrants take to create a better life for themselves. Although it is the result of societal pressure in a given socio-political context, it is also a display of agency. My parents had to make a choice which they never planned to make. But this last name is a testimony of a struggle, a transition and a powerful choice that many other immigrants make everyday. While my ID reads Leonita Catot, I also chose to reclaim the name Galica as it was the name of my ancestors on my mother’s side. I cherish both names, both imbued with the history and the struggles of the generations before me. Names are constantly erased not only in immigrant contexts but in many other scenarios such as marriage. In many countries, women have to let go of their last name and take their husbands’ which will then be passed on to the children. While it is slowly changing, this patriarchal traditional has erased women’s histories for centuries. A telling example of that is the question “E kujna je?” (Whose (child) are you?) in Albanian to which people are expected to answer with their father’s name. Choosing to take the name Galica is not just about reconnecting with my Albanian roots, it is also a way for me to reclaim my familial heritage on my mother’s side. Names are impalpable and yet they are saturated with meaning. You know so much from a person’s name: where they come from, what they have gone through,… For that reason, names are constantly policed and politicised. They reflect a person’s identity as well as the inequalities present in society. They are a testimony to individual and collective struggles. So, to answer your question Juliet: What’s in a name? Everything. Sometimes they are frontal and directly violent like the example we have just seen but they can also be indirect which makes them hard to detect and hard to denounce in court for example. An employer can choose not to give you the job, a landlord can choose not to give you the apartment, you can be laughed at at work, at school, and so on and so forth. No wonder some decide to choose another name, like my parents did. Until recently I never really thought to ask them what made them decide to do that. It was only in 2024 when I moved to Kosovo and made more Albanian friends that I started feeling uncomfortable about the last name on my ID: CATOT. I felt upset and maybe ashamed that I did not have an Albanian last name when both my parents are Albanian from Mitrovicë. I felt like part of my cultural identity was being erased by having a French last name. So I decided to investigate, and by investigate I mean have a very long conversation with my mum on the beach in Albania and record it (talk about ethnographic work huh?). Here’s what she told me. After they arrived in France, my parents got married and both had my father’s last name, Cakiqi. Neither of them thought of changing it but they soon got tired of peoples’ comments. One thing about French people is that they will never try to get the pronunciation of anything that is not French right. So Cakiqi, in everyone’s mouths became “Kakiki”. Their name was butchered all the time and there is very little they could do about it except for correcting the people who would immediately forget and go back to mispronouncing it. Therefore, during the long and fastidious process to get citizenship, when they were asked if they wanted to change their name they considered it. After all, their first child (me) had just been born and the mockery would be something I would have to face too. So they did it. They kept the first two letters “CA” and my mum thought of CATO which kept an Albanian sonority but could at least be pronounceable by French people. They were forced to add a silent “t” at the end so that the name would sound and also look French (God forbid a French word/ name doesn’t end with a silent letter to make it confusing for everyone, am I right?). She also told me the story of a friend of hers that changed her last name as well as her first name when she got French citizenship. From Hyrije, she became Irène. Not only would French people lose their mind because of how unpronounceable it was (really all you need to do is ask and remember — I mean, is it really that hard…?) but they would of course make fun of it. Her case is quite interesting because Hyrije/ Irène had a job which implied wearing a name tag on her all the time. To go back to Shakespeare and his reflection on the abstract and immaterial nature of names, Hyrije’s case represents a contradiction where her name was not just an abstraction but a continuation of her body in the form of a name tag. Her name was quite literally and physically on her. For her and for my parents, changing their names was a way to protect themselves and their family from mockery and xenophobia. Obviously they were also very aware of other forms of discrimination immigrants could face because of their name as it is the case for many other diasporas. Statistics about North African immigrants in France are quite telling. According to the Institut des Politiques Publiques, when applying for a job, a person whose name suggests they are from a North African or Arab country have 31,5% less chances to be hired compared to people with a French name. I feel I am still coming to terms with accepting my “french” last name. Maybe I never will. However I don’t hate it. I hate that any immigrant even has to consider changing such a big part of their identity in the name of integration, or rather assimilation. massive step immigrants take to create a better life for themselves. Although it is the result of societal pressure in a given socio-political context, it is also a display of agency. My parents had to make a choice which they never planned to make. But this last name is a testimony of a struggle, a transition and a powerful choice that many other immigrants make everyday. While my ID reads Leonita Catot, I also chose to reclaim the name Galica as it was the name of my ancestors on my mother’s side. I cherish both names, both imbued with the history and the struggles of the generations before me. Names are constantly erased not only in immigrant contexts but in many other scenarios such as marriage. In many countries, women have to let go of their last name and take their husbands’ which will then be passed on to the children. While it is slowly changing, this patriarchal traditional has erased women’s histories for centuries. A telling example of that is the question “E kujna je?” (Whose (child) are you?) in Albanian to which people are expected to answer with their father’s name. Choosing to take the name Galica is not just about reconnecting with my Albanian roots, it is also a way for me to reclaim my familial heritage on my mother’s side. https://potpuri.org/The-Rilindja-of-diaspora Tue, 06 Feb 2024 17:26:19 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/The-Rilindja-of-diaspora The RILINDJA of diaspora Njomza Dragusha, Basil Rogger ︎english english albanian german The initiation of Potpuri came in dedication to the revival of printed media in Kosovo, always in reflection to its rich history. Throughout decades Kosovo has been witnessing the birth and the death of various publishing initiatives, be those major newspapers, magazines, printing houses, independent publishing platforms, etc. Nevertheless, in the last decade, Kosovo does not have any printed newspaper, magazine or other similar platform on regular bases. <img width="940" height="870" width_o="940" height_o="870" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6b68ae82991e0bb9ad4ee1329a117322f19e51fdfc8fcf56151e1a3edfad5065/Picture-4.png" data-mid="204018083" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/940/i/6b68ae82991e0bb9ad4ee1329a117322f19e51fdfc8fcf56151e1a3edfad5065/Picture-4.png" /><img width="1250" height="1678" width_o="1250" height_o="1678" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2e86d4cad7f8515d41679be6da88094430f79c2e8897e0bd914c03755e1e2c56/Picture-1.png" data-mid="204271156" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2e86d4cad7f8515d41679be6da88094430f79c2e8897e0bd914c03755e1e2c56/Picture-1.png" /> <img width="850" height="1174" width_o="850" height_o="1174" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/54e37caf4a4db4558e0634260b7d8273655ccf64d1e8b2b953d1051979c2d5a8/Screenshot-2024-02-08-at-11.33.50.png" data-mid="204273649" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/850/i/54e37caf4a4db4558e0634260b7d8273655ccf64d1e8b2b953d1051979c2d5a8/Screenshot-2024-02-08-at-11.33.50.png" /><img width="850" height="1174" width_o="850" height_o="1174" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c5da858cc780525d1dc893d6df1341015ef5021a4ad85214d651a2b199bc5442/Screenshot-2024-02-08-at-11.33.58.png" data-mid="204273650" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/850/i/c5da858cc780525d1dc893d6df1341015ef5021a4ad85214d651a2b199bc5442/Screenshot-2024-02-08-at-11.33.58.png" /> Of course, there are independent platforms which have kept publishing as an existing practice in the context of Kosovo, but unfortunately today almost all informative press in Kosovo operates either through online portals or through TV channels. Our research in this aspect is still new, therefore we do not know the exact reason of this situation, nevertheless we have been gathering reflections and opinions in this aspect and some of the main reasons of such absence of printed press in Koso- vo seems to be the domination of online consumerism, the privatization of media and the absence of a dedicat- ed public willing to pay for printed press. In spite of this situation, our work through Potpuri is in quest to learn from that past and from those people who are continuously giving effort on at least documenting and archiving the rich heritage of printed press in Kosovo. In the summer of 2022 we invited Ervina Halili—an in- dependent writer and committed advocate on the loss of collective heritage of the RILINDJA newspaper—to share with us her work and insight on the printed his- tory of the RILINDJA newspaper in Kosovo. RILINDJA, widely known in Kosovo, was one of the biggest newspapers in Kosovo reaching a capacity of 234,000 copies during holiday seasons due to its de- mand. RILINDJA newspaper was founded in February 1945 in Prizren as the first printed Albanian newspaper in Kosovo. Experiencing quite a steady growth, RILIND- JA has managed for decades to reestablish itself even in the most conflictual times of the history of Kosovo. It started as a weekly newspaper with four pages per issue, to further continue its publishing in Prishtina at the “Provincial of the Popular Front” Publishing House as a daily newspaper with regularity and minor changes. Its major collapse happened on August 8, 1990 as it was permanently banned by the Serbian regime in Kosovo. RILINDJA came back again to the Kosovo market only in 1999 with the end of Kosovo’s war, but what about it between the years 1990 to 1999, where was RILINDJA? During that insightful conversation with Ervina, most of us hear for the first time that there is a deeper con- nection between Kosovo and Switzerland regarding the printed history of newspapers. Ervina shares with us that during the years 1992–1996 RILINDJA was printed in Switzerland. More precisely, during these years it was mainly printed in Switzerland, at the Zofingen printing house. In quest and curiosity in exploring fur- ther this period, Ervina suggests that we talk to Binak Kelmendi, at the time one of the editors of RILINDJA in «the west», as they called it. As we talk, Mr. Kelmendi suggests that we go to visit the Canton’s Library of Aarau to get a close look of those printed editions as they are all archived and accessible at the Library. Off we went to Aarau to see closely, to touch and to dive into RILINDJA during the years of 1992–1996. We take the large collection of RILINDJA into one room and dive into them. As we open one of the codexes, here is RILINDJA—E perditshme inform- ative e pavarur (The Independent daily news), the first issue on the archive is “E Merkure, 28 shkurt 1993” (Wednesday, 28 of February 1993). With its simple blue and white-light-colors RILINDJA comes out with an odor of paper and fresh- ness as if it was never before touched nor read by an- yone. You could clearly see the folding shape of the newspaper as it came directly from the printing press to the library. The quality of the newspapers was high, the smell of the paper is still there saved for a dose of nostalgia to hit hard. In each issue of RILINDJA the first page has a short overview, not always written the exact same but gener- ally referring to the history of the printed medium of RILINDJA: • The first issue of the newspaper RILINDJA was published on February 12, 1945.• Since August 8, 1990, RILINDJA has not been released in Kosovo, because by an arbitrary decision by the Assembly of the Republic of Serbia and with police violence it was banned on August 7, the day when the issue 11,261 was released.• “RILINDJA” newspaper—the foreign publica- tion for our diaspora in the world—began to be pub- lished on May 7, 1992.• In Tirana, the newspaper RILINDJA began to be published on April 18, 1993. Printed between 12–20 pages per daily edition “RILIND- JA” newspaper during 1992–1996 was printed daily six times a week, except Sundays. In these times RILIND- JA newspaper would reach a capacity of 13,000 copies daily, distributed mainly among the albanian speaking diaspora in Europe, in countries such as Switzerland, Germany, Austria and later also in the USA and Belgium. As we understood by its content and the talk we had with Mr. Kelmendi, RILINDJA in the west was a tool and medium of first hand information for the Al- banian diaspora in the west, likewise it became a tool of mobilization for foreign support and acknowledgment of the situation on the ground for Kosovo. Mainly sold through continuous support of its regular subscrib- ers, RILINDJA newspaper was spread around the world through special requests as well. The content structure of the newspaper would almost always be the same with a clear structure (eg. Echoes, Daily Events, Current Affairs, From the For- eign Press, Chronicle, Culture, Fejtoni, Sport, Telex), nevertheless there were simple plays and changes happening from issue to issue, such as children’s sections would be added. Concentrated in text and less in visuals, RILINDJA kept a simplicity which allowed the reader to dive into its content easily. With reading the news being reported, it’s impossible not to see the power and influence of such a newspaper at that time for Kosovo. Often RILINDJA was the only independent platform reporting on Kosovo for the world or better to say the «western world» at that period. The enormous support of the diaspora to finance such an initiative allowed that the public would get informed about what is happening in Kosovo through the eyes of those who were experiencing it.In addition, it would report about various international movements which for years and decades continuously brought attention to the political, social and econom- ical situation of inhabitants of Kosovo. Thus, RILIND- JA was playing a role in the advocacy for freedom and independence for a group of people which had been oppressed to a point where public appearance wasn’t possible to be exercised freely, let alone the right to free speech. Likewise, through its daily activity, RILINDJA in exile—how I sometimes like to call it—would re- spond to the direct needs of the diaspora, be those ways to connect with their family members in Kosovo, ways to support mobilizations in Kosovo, on how to travel to Kosovo or on how to connect to their culture through various events. Not to forget, the situation in Kosovo was still faced with resistance on the ground. With the closure of RILINDJA newspaper in Kosovo on 18th of January 1991 the weekly newspaper “BUJKU” (the Farmer) was published—informing about the latest ‘agricultural de- velopments’ in Kosovo. The team behind BUJKU had multiple journalists which once used to run the inde- pendent RILINDJA. Always an example of resistance and dedication, the daily RILINDJA came back to Koso- vo’s market one day after NATO forces intervened in Kosovo. The historical newspaper came back with the ‘liberation’. RILINDJA existed in Kosovo regularly un- til February 21, 2002 since it was evicted from its pub- lishing house by the UN mission in Kosovo (UNMIK), marking the beginning of the privatization of public and socially-run properties in Kosovo. Even though there have been symbolic appearances of RILINDJA in Koso- vo throughout these years, still twenty years later we can witness that such imperialist privatization practic- es have become the dominant mentality within Kosovar society. As the actions and work of RILINDJA are bigger than the physical newspaper, and since RILINDJA for us is a story of resistance, here too, the team of POTPURI takes the inspiration and the courage to continue this resistance in attempt to bring back printing press as for the diaspora as well as in Kosovo. This article is dedicated to all RILINDJA members who have given us the love for newspapers. Likewise, this article is dedicated to all the memebers of the RILINDJA team in the diaspora who have shown us another side of history through their resistance. https://potpuri.org/Ich-Albaner-Ich-Arbeit Tue, 06 Feb 2024 17:17:14 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/Ich-Albaner-Ich-Arbeit Ich Albaner. Ich Arbeit.&nbsp; Adelina Ismaili ︎german english albanian german Mein Vater ist ein Geschichtenerzähler. Einer der leidenschaftlichsten, die ich kenne. <img width="1395" height="1973" width_o="1395" height_o="1973" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/48249e345c70dbe0d3d390a12ea88e24cd0f8df87aa65e7b9f4cce13696d44df/Foto-Lenzerheide-2.jpg" data-mid="204288760" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/48249e345c70dbe0d3d390a12ea88e24cd0f8df87aa65e7b9f4cce13696d44df/Foto-Lenzerheide-2.jpg" />Mein Vater (links) und sein Freund beim Tanzen von „valle“ (traditioneller albanischer Tanz) in seiner Wohnung in Lenzerheide, 1993<img width="1987" height="1422" width_o="1987" height_o="1422" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f05c3e81547cd4bb530b1909e7fcad55bed10cc5f00b1e7fe87bfef6dba4acfb/Foto-Lenzerheide.jpg" data-mid="204017838" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f05c3e81547cd4bb530b1909e7fcad55bed10cc5f00b1e7fe87bfef6dba4acfb/Foto-Lenzerheide.jpg" /> Mein Vater (links) mit seinem Kindheitsfreund (mitte) und derenMitarbeiterin (rechts) in der Hotelküche, 1990 Ich wuchs mit seinen Geschichten aus seiner Kindheit und seinen Erfahrungen als junger Erwachsener auf, der beschloss, sein Heimatland zu verlassen, um eine neue Chance für seine Zukunft zu suchen. Ich habe im Laufe meines Lebens immer wieder Einzelteile dieser Geschichten gehört und sie immer sehr genossen. Es war mir wichtig, diese Geschichten zu hören und sie weiterzuerzählen. Deshalb beschloss ich, mich mit meinem Vater zusammenzusetzen und ihn gezielt nach seinen Migrationserfahrungen zu fragen. Der folgende Text ist eineZusammenfassung dieses Gesprächs und erzählt die Geschichte eines jungen, entschlossenenMannes, der sich ein Ziel von 11.000 Franken gesetzt und es auf verschiedene Weise übertroffen hat. 1981, im Alter von 17 Jahren, besuchte Qashif Ismaili zusammen mit seinem Bruder während eines Sommerurlaubs zum ersten Mal die Schweiz. Was ihn besonders beeindruckte, war die Tatsache, dass auf der 10-Franken-Note vier Amtssprachen abgebildet waren, was für ihn eine echte Demokratie symbolisierte. Dies war für ihn besonders bemerkenswert, da die vier Sprachen gleichberechtigt waren, anders als in der damaligen jugoslawischen Republik Mazedonien, wo er sich nicht in der Lage fühlte, seine albanische Sprache und Identität frei auszudrücken. 1982 besuchte er in den Sommerferien erneut die Schweiz, dieses Mal auf eigene Faust. Die Zugfahrt von Kumanovo, Mazedonien, führte ihn nach Chur in die Schweiz. Mit 18 Jahren und volljährig,ging er mit seinem Pass und seinen Studentenpapieren direkt zum Migrationsamt. In gebrochenem Deutsch sagte er zu einem Beamten: "Ich Albaner. Ich Arbeit." Sofort fand er eine Stelle, um für die 2,5 Monate während des Sommers zu arbeiten. Als Qashif nach Kumanovo zurückkehrte, teilte ihm sein Vater mit, dass dies seine letzte Reise in die Schweiz sein würde; bis zum Abschluss seiner militärischen Ausbildung dürfe er nicht mehr dorthin reisen. 1987, nach Abschluss seiner militärischen Ausbildung in der Nähe von Belgrad, packte er eine kleine Tasche und kehrte in die Schweiz zurück. Was 1982 als vorübergehender Aufenthalt mit einem Ziel von 11'000 Franken begann, wurde für ihn und seine Familie zu einer zweiten permanenten Heimat. Auf die Frage nach den Gründen für seine Migration nannte mein Vater vor allem politische Aspekte. Er fühlte sich in Jugoslawien in der Entfaltung seiner albanischen Identität eingeschränkt und war von der aktuellen Politik des jugoslawischen Regimes enttäuscht. Er beschreibt, dass er sich wie das schwarze Schaf fühlte. Als sich ihm die Möglichkeit bot, die damalige politische Situation zu verlassen, ergriff er sie. Zweitens spielte auch der wirtschaftliche Faktor eine Rolle, denn die Schwierigkeit, einen Arbeitsplatz zu finden und die finanzielle Stabilität seiner Familie zu sichern, veranlasste ihn, eine Arbeit außerhalb seines Heimatlandes zu suchen. Die Nachfrage nach Arbeitskräften in der Schweiz in den 80er Jahren und die Aussicht auf mehr Freiheit veranlassten meinen Vater zu bleiben. Eine der eindrücklichsten Erinnerungen an seine Migrationserfahrung war 1988 bei einer Gesundheitsuntersuchung. Jede*r Saisonarbeitende musste sich gelegentlich einer Untersuchung unterziehen, bevor man eine Arbeit antreten konnte. Qashif erinnert sich, wie er mit einem Freundan der Check-up Station in Buchs (St. Gallen) anstand. Als der Freund an der Reihe war, stellte man fest, dass er ein Problem mit der Lunge hatte. Ohne weiteren Kommentar konnte er nicht in der Schweiz bleiben, obwohl er ein Jahresarbeitsvisum hatte. Mit den wenigen Deutschkenntnissen, die Qashif besass, mischte er sich ein und bat die Mitarbeiter der Kontrolluntersuchung, den Test zu wiederholen. Nach einigem Zögern machten sie eine zweite Runde, und alle Analysen waren glücklicherweise in Ordnung. Diese Erfahrung hinterließ bei meinem Vater ein ungutes Gefühl. Es fühlte sich für ihn an, als würden die Saisonarbeitenden nicht wie Menschen behandelt werden und im Handumdrehen aus dem Land geworfen werdenkönnen. Eine der vielen positiven Erinnerungen stammt aus dem Jahr 1987, als Qashif einen Arbeitstag verschlief. Als er sich ausgiebig bei seinem Chef entschuldigte, stiess er auf viel Verständnis. "Das kann jedem passieren. Warum bist du gekommen? Du hättest doch mehr schlafen können", hatte der Chef gesagt. Dieser kleine Moment hatte meinen Vater sehr beeindruckt, denn damit hatte er überhaupt nicht gerechnet. Nach verschiedenen Tätigkeiten in der Schweiz hat sich Qashif für die Gastronomie entschieden. Ein Aspekt, den er besonders gerne hervorhebt, ist die albanische Gastfreundschaft. "Als mein Chef sah, wie gastfreundlich ich bin und wie gut meine Arbeit bei den Gästen ankam, hatte er keine andere Wahl, als mich als Kellner arbeiten zu lassen." So wurde er in seinen ersten Jahren in der Schweiz vom Tellerwäscher zum Kellner. Heute, mehr als 30 Jahre später, arbeitet Qashif immer noch in der Gastronomie und führt dies auf die Gastfreundschaft zurück, die "im albanischen Blut liegt“. Eine Herausforderung, vor allem in einem Beruf, der sehr auf Kommunikation beruht, war die Sprachbarriere. Qashif beschreibt es so, als ob man ins kalte Wasser geworfen wird und gezwungen ist, es durch Konfrontation zu lernen. Im Laufe der Jahre war es immer einfacher geworden, Deutsch zu lernen, aber das ging nicht immer ohne Schwierigkeiten ab. Mein Vater beschreibt eine Situation aus dem Jahr 1982 und seinen Chef bei seiner ersten Arbeitsstelle in der Schweiz. Im allerersten Gespräch zwischen ihm und seinem Chef hatte der Arbeitgeber eine deutsche Beschimpfung benutzt, die Qashif nicht verstand. "Ich dachte, er würde mich begrüssen. Ich bemerkte, dass sich seine Frau und seine Tochter schlecht fühlten, und mir wurde klar, dass er mich nicht grüsste, sondern etwas anderes sagte." Als er seine Kollegen fragte, was dieses Wort bedeutete, erfuhr er von der starken Beleidigung. An einem seiner letzten Arbeitstage ging Qashif zu seinem Arbeitgeber und sagte ihm die Beleidigung auf Albanisch zurück. Als der Chef verwirrt dreinschaute und nach der Bedeutung fragte, antwortete Qashif: "Genau das Gleiche, was du mir an meinem ersten Tag gesagt hast." Der Arbeitgeber erkannte die Wirkung seiner Worte und entschuldigte sich bei Qashif für den Vorfall. Heutzutage tun Worte mehr weh, würde mein Vater sagen. Als ich ihn fragte, was er damit meinte und wie es mit seiner Migrationserfahrung zusammenhing, erwähnte er wieder die Sprachbarriere. Als er zum ersten Mal in die Schweiz kam, fühlte er sich nicht wie ein schwarzes Schaf, wie damals in Mazedonien. Doch im Laufe der Jahre, je mehr er die Sprache verstand, desto mehr hörte er auch die negativen Worte. "Damals verstand ich die Sprache nicht so gut, deshalb gingen die schlechten Dinge zum einen Ohr rein und zum anderen wieder raus. Jetzt habe ich das Gefühl, dass ich nur ein Ohr habe. Jetzt bleibt es stecken und es tut weh." Er fühlt sich jetzt manchmal mehr als das schwarze Schaf als am Anfang. Mein Vater bringt zum Ausdruck, dass all die Arbeit, die er in seiner Zeit als Gastarbeiter geleistet hat, nicht gewürdigt wird oder einfach in Vergessenheit gerät. Er hat das Gefühl, dass die Menschen die albanische Gemeinschaft nicht als Teil der Schweizer Gesellschaft akzeptieren. Als neuer Schweizer Bürger sehe er nun beide Seiten, sagt Qashif. Die Herausforderungen der Migration in die Schweiz, obwohl das Land auf neue Arbeitskräfte angewiesen ist, und auch die Angst der Schweizer Gesellschaft, die das Gefühl hat, dass ihnen etwas weggenommen wird. "Aber es wird nichts weggenommen, denn die Leute arbeiten für das, was sie bekommen.“"Hast du etwas, das du der neuen Generation mitteilen möchtest?" frage ich meinen Vater, um unser Gespräch zu beenden. "Lernt und arbeitet. Und niemand wird euch im Weg stehen. Ihr müsst stolz auf euch sein und auf das, was ihr habt. Ihr seid niemandem etwas schuldig, denn ihr seid gleichberechtigt. Aber ihr habt alle Türen und Wege für euch offen." Ein Ratschlag, den ich mein ganzes Leben lang immer wieder gehört hatte, aber dieses Mal erweiterte mein Vater ihn mitdieser bildhaften Beschreibung: "Ihr habt die Autobahn, während wir einen Kanal hatten." https://potpuri.org/Lojnat-e-empatise Wed, 13 Mar 2024 14:54:11 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/Lojnat-e-empatise Lojnat e empatisë Era Qena ︎albanian albanian english german Patetike – mund të gjurmohet më thellë në greqishten e vjetër “Pathetikos” që do të thotë “I aftë për ndjenja, e paraprirë pak nga “patetik” (që ka të njejtin kuptim si kuptimet e para të Patetik, por që duket se ka rrjedhë nga “absurd” ose “Inadekuat”) dhe patetikë. <img width="1600" height="1600" width_o="1600" height_o="1600" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/aa1398047088ec4b90042ff91c8d7af9c7f407d8b5571055609a1ebbaa3fb0a2/IMG_F59A7387F753-1.jpeg" data-mid="207882232" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/aa1398047088ec4b90042ff91c8d7af9c7f407d8b5571055609a1ebbaa3fb0a2/IMG_F59A7387F753-1.jpeg" /><img width="1600" height="1600" width_o="1600" height_o="1600" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1573b27a0e2311b53394acd7b110e0d6e0cb51ea533942dd3b83602f89e8f8c8/IMG_2B7CC67BDB85-1.jpeg" data-mid="207882300" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/1573b27a0e2311b53394acd7b110e0d6e0cb51ea533942dd3b83602f89e8f8c8/IMG_2B7CC67BDB85-1.jpeg" /> Pyetja më patetike që më kanë pytë ndonjëherë (ka ndodhë shpesh) është pyetja “Nëse kishe mujtë me pshtu veç njonin – ama veç njonin prej tyne, a e kishe pshtu ma përpara nji qen, apo nji antar të familjes tonde?” Najherë, kur m’bojnë ksi pytje, mundohna me u tregu e këndshme, tu e kuptu që (najherë) kjo pytje shtrohet si hajgare, tu e ditë njerzt afinitetin që e ndiej ndaj qejve endacakë. Najherë (kur pijavna pak), bohna shumë konfrontative me njerzt që ma bojnë këtë pyetje, e i zgjedhi kafshët. Zakonisht përgjigja e tyne pason si pyetje - “Pse?”. Do edhe m’pysin se a e du familjen tem, ose a nihna që jetët e tyne nuk kanë rëndësi, të cilit koment [najherë] me zemërim i përgjigjna që jetët e tyne kanë rëndësi qaq sa jeta e nji pllumi n’rrugë. Pason shoku dhe kërkesa për me jep shpjegim. E shpjegoj. Shpjegimi jem nuk pranohet. Nuk është njerëzore me vendosë nji njeri me vdekë për me e pshtu nji kafshë, plus, na, si njerz, kemi inteligjencë superiore dhe e kena ndërtu krejt botën, na jetojmë e ndiejmë ma shumë se kafshët rreth nesh. Ato s’kanë kapacitet me racionalizu si na, ato s’ndiejne dashni e nuk krijojnë art. E vetmja arsye pse jetojnë është me i’u shërby njerzve, e me u riprodhu (as na si njerëz nuk e dijmë hala pse kemi nevojë me u riprodhu, shembull: kuptimi i jetës e të tjera). Kemi gjetë mënyra me i përdorë për jetën ma t’mirë që ato munën me e pasë. Njejtë si nji lopë që s’e&nbsp; kupton se çka është lumturia e nuk e ka problem me jetu në nji kafaz të vogël për me e mjelë e mbarësu përjetësisht se osht krejt çka ajo din. Ato s’dijnë ma mirë. Na kemi tendenca me e eksploatu kët’ nocion – që ato s’dijnë ma mirë. Përfundimisht, i kemi jepë vetës të drejtë me i diktu nocionet, normat e lëvizjet e jetës të nji specieje tjetër të gjallë. Mendon që nese vjen puna që njerzt e kanë aftësinë me qenë kaq racional, që me vendosë edhe për kohën e vdekjes së nji qenieje tjetër (jo njeriut [vetëm në këtë rast]), e e kana aftësinë për me çiftëzu, ri-shumu edhe brendu racat sipas nevojave tona. Mendon se e kishim pasë kapacitetin për me dallu se çka është humane, e çka nuk është, edhe sene të ngjashme Përjetë jom tu e lypë nji përgjigje racionale të pyetjes se pse NUK e kemi aftësinë me bashkëjetu me kafshët (qentë endacakë) në një hapsinë urbane (Prishtina). Opinion i njëanshëm në nji botë të njëanshme. E vetmja që nuk është e njëanshme (që vjen prej njëanësisë timë) është fenomeni i antropomorfizimit të gjithçkafit, si nji lloj pandemie. Ne i përkthejmë normat e moralet e brishta njerëzore në veprimet e kafshëve. Jemi pjesë e problemit. Faktikisht, na jemi problemi.Nëse na ndihemi që duhemi me i’u msu fëmijëve në mënyrë të institucionalizume respektin, atëherë duhemi edhe me ju msu çka&nbsp; “sduhet me bo nëpër rrugë”. Shembuj të ksaj jon: me pshty, me gjujtë bërllog, me sulmu njerëz etj. Sepse, kur vjen puna te dhuna kërkush nuk të mson në shkollë qysh duhesh me u sillë me qen endacakë. Problem shoqëror shumë i përhapun që i nënvizon disa prej problemeve kryesore të politikës, e sistemit politik. Ekziston programi i sterilizimit dhe kastrimit të tyre, po ky program u keqpërdorë prej veterinarëve që e kanë gjetë nji mënyrë me përfitu të holla, tu e bo punën kishe jon tu i dokumentu krejt qentë që po i sterlizojnë. E në anën tjetër numri i qenve endacakë vazhdon me u rritë, përmes ksaj edhe dhuna ndaj tyne. Njerz që i përbuzin se është shumë leht me antropomorfizu nji specie që nuk e kupton. Vjen deri te pika ku aktet e dhunës (shembull: situata e fundit që e kam ndëgju ku nji kamarier e ka djegë një qen endacak që po flinte me ujë të vlum) bohën qaq normale, që krejt e mirëkuptojnë përveç ktyne budallve – aktivistave të qenve endacakë. T’cilët refuzojnë me mshelë nji sy e me vazhdu me jetë. Ma e çuditshmja osht vështirësia e njerezve me i kuptu pasojat e veprimeve të tyne. Njerëzit dhe kafshët komunikojnë në mënyra të ndryshme. Edhe pse jon do sene lineare, binare – rrallë ekziston hapsira gri.Nëse e godet nji njeri, dhe e gjun me guri, shumica prej tyne kan me tentu me ta kthy. Po problemi logjik, dështimi i racionales, festa e irracionalitetit ktu ndodhë kur e abuzon nji qen në çfarëdo mënyre (tu e goditë, tu e gjujtë me sene, me ujë të vlum, me fishekzjarre, tu e helmu&nbsp; etj) e ata ta kthejnë e të kafshojnë (nëse sjon të vdekun ose para vdekjes) A duhet me e fajësu qenin? Pse fajësohen ata? A osht se na smujmë me racionalizu jashtë normave tona njerëzore? A osht se nji tufë qensh lehtë munët me na copëtu – e jemi të pafuqishëm fizikisht para tyne nëse na kaplon frika? A osht tuta që na si njerz jemi shumë të dobët e të brishtë n’krahasim me kafshët e për shkak të k’saj s’mrrijmë me e kuptu që nuk i kanë moralet si na? E s’mujmë me i vlerësu përmes peshores t’njejtë si të njerëzve? Nëse nji qen e njekë nji fmi, qeni prapë është në faj se nuk ka menu paraprakisht. Qeni duhet me ditë që është fmi, e fmijtë bojnë gabime. Po, nëse thu që nji fmi osht tu e lëndu nji qen?Prapë. Ti je në gabim. Se s’mundët nji fmi me lëndu nji qen që munët me e lonë po at’ fmi të traumatizum për përjetsisht për shkak të kafshimit. Nëse filloj me i numru, e tregu krejt situatat në të cilat kom qenë për shkak qenve endacakë, ky kish me qenë nji tekst shum i gjatë. Përndryshe, ky tekst rrjedhë prej frustrimeve që mu kanë mledhë për shkak t’padrejtësisë, urrejtjes, e apatisë që e kom ni prej njerzve. Ky problem nuk e ka naj zgjidhje të thjeshtë apo ultra të saktë pasi që osht problem shumë kompleks social e menaxhohet binarisht. Do njerz i dojnë pa faj, të tjertë si dojnë – po ashtu pa faj! Kom pa qen që e kanë pasë penisin e premë, kom përjetu klysha tu dekë në rrugë prej neglzhiencës e apatisë njerzore, qen me lëndime fatale që lihen me deke n’mes t’rrugës. Kom varrosë qej që jon helmu veç pse e kan bezdisë naj njeri të rëndomtë, në nji lagje t’rëndomtë, që ka vendosë që mënyra ma e mirë me u marrë me problemin e tij – osht me i dhonë qenit me hongër ushqim të helmum. Dje, ndëgjova dikond tu e përshkru bashkëjetesënn si ndarje e përbashkët e hapsinës dhe materies. Osht gjithmonë paradoksale kur diçka që duket komplekse osht shumë e thjeshtë edhe e drejtpërdrejt. Po në nji ambient urban të nji vendi ende në zhvillim, i cili mundohet me i mbajtë normat e standardet Europiane™, ven, pa ven e pa kontekst t’përbashkët. Osht shumë e bukur se sa injorant tregohemi kur vjen puna te t’bashkëjetuarit me qentë endacakë në Prishtinë.Për me jep ma shumë kontekst, unë kom lindë e rritë në këtë qytet, dhe nuk kom n’men naj kohë ku k’tu s’ka qenë qentë endacakë. Krejt Kosova osht me ta, ka plane e strategji për me kontrollu popullsinë e tyre n’mënyrë jo të dhunshme, ligje ndalojnë braktisjen e qejve, por nuk respektohen. E institucionet jon t’korruptume, e politikanët koncentrohen veç në imazhin e tyne publik – në vend se me u mundu me zgjedhë konkretisht situatën. Mirëqenia e kafshëve dhe njerëzve sosht në nivel kulminant (edhe pse, sdi a ka me qenë najherë), po fajtorët jon gjithmonë ja qentë, ja njerzt që kujdesen për nevojat e tyne bazike si ushqimi, uji, e vizitat te veterinari. Njerz random n’rruge jon të mbushun me urrejtje. Najherë, nuk mundesh mos me ni keqardhje për k’ta njerz që e kanë hupë empatinë deri n’pikën që vendosin me vepru ndaj një specieje të thjeshtë si me qenë vegël e zgjatun e Djallit. N’vend se me provu me bashkëjetu, e me tentu me e ndërtu së bashku nji të ardhme ma të shëndetshme jemi radikalizu në diçka që s’duhet me qenë radikale. Më kujtohet qysh para 10 vjetve mënyra për me e kontrollu popullsinë e qejve ka qen me i vra me alltia, e pushka n’mes t’natës. E pyetja qëndron gjithmonë e njejta “Pse?”. Pse s’munëmi me kuptu që krejt ky irritim, urrejtje, frikë që ndihet, s’duhet u drejtu te nji kafshë që s’din ma mirë, po te institucionet e korruptume, e te organet mediatike që monetizojnë frikën e ndjenjat e tuja për do pikë ekstra. Pse nuk e mbajmë vetën të përgjegjshëm për çkado që bojmë në raport me ta? Pse osht veq nji linjë e të menduarit për me e rregullu këtë problem? Çka paska ndodhë me njerëzit që kanë jetu në ferma, të rrethum me kafshë? Çka paska ndodhë me neve që nji kohë ja u kena fshi mutin si pjesë e punës, e tash pështirosemi kur na afrohet qeni? Kthehemi te ndarja e përbashkët e hapsinës dhe materies. Hala kom shpresa, edhe kur na doket që s’mujmë mo, na vazhdojmë. Gjithmonë ka pateticizëm kur vjen puna te ekzistenca. Gjithmonë ka pasë, ka edhe ka me pasë tension emocional prej krejt anëve. S’ka naj zgjidhje t’saktë t’veçumë, po ka disa prej tyne. Mënyra ma e mirë për me e frymëzu bashkëjetesën osht tu i nda tregimet e “tjetrit”. “Tjetri” në këtë rast jon qejtë.Antropomorfizimi nuk është armiuk. Armiku është vendi i gabum ku drejtohet urrejtja. Që me inspiru nji ndryshim sado të vogël të kësaj narrative, kom me vazhdu me i nda tregimet e qeve me të cilët kom arritë me bashkëjetu n’rruget e hinta, t’betonume t’Prishtinës. Osht tentativa jem [patetike] për me e ndryshu narrativën e cila shpresoj ka me i shti njerzt me kuptu që qejtë endacakë kanë ndjenjat, dashnitë edhe dashuriçkat e tyne. Nëse dojmë me i trajtu në të njejtën mënyrë qysh i trajtojmë njerëzit - përmes moraleve edhe standardeve njërëzore. Atëherë, duhemi me i tregu edhe tregimet e tyne prej një qasjeje antropocentrike. I vetmi sen që duhëmi me e majtë n’men kolektivisht osht se abuzimi sistematik i tjetrit, e shtyn po at’ tjetrin me t’kafshu. https://potpuri.org/Journeys-of-Care Wed, 07 Feb 2024 09:51:38 +0000 potpuri.org https://potpuri.org/Journeys-of-Care Journeys of Care Women’s Portraits of the Diaspora Working in Care Frédéric Bron, Judith Weidmann The following dialogues took place while walking to spots chosen by the interviewed persons. <img width="4000" height="3000" width_o="4000" height_o="3000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0d43e518d458e42099fbd9d1d1f245871fdb0690aa0a7b329cfb491fb67a0ba6/Bild_TextFrederic-Judith_Bea_Dance_Studio.JPG" data-mid="204071213" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0d43e518d458e42099fbd9d1d1f245871fdb0690aa0a7b329cfb491fb67a0ba6/Bild_TextFrederic-Judith_Bea_Dance_Studio.JPG" /> <img width="3000" height="2250" width_o="3000" height_o="2250" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/aa81bd11fc2a372a24e7099ff488498d6087e3d0c8c9120d19c5bf5bf5740e6f/Bild_Frederic-Judith_Bea.jpg" data-mid="204293493" border="0" data-scale="100" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/aa81bd11fc2a372a24e7099ff488498d6087e3d0c8c9120d19c5bf5bf5740e6f/Bild_Frederic-Judith_Bea.jpg" />Bea Imeri lives in the agglomeration of Zurich in Switzerland. She has family in Kosovo and visits Prishtina frequently. For the maintenance work at ZHdK, she is contracted by Armit AG. Bea It’s 7 am, next to the Zurich University of the Arts (ZHdK) entrance. I linger a little before calling my contact, en- joying the cool morning breeze. Dawn happened just some minutes ago. The days are getting shorter. Again. “Wait, you can’t just walk in. Can I help you?” asks an official-looking person. Do I look out of place? Out of time? “I am just meeting someone,” I explain, not men- tioning that I am an officially inscribed student at ZHdK and would have access anyway. It seems that public build- ings are walked by certain people at this hour of the day. And the official-looking person does not count me as part of those people. Why this distinction? Are there wrong times? Wrong places? I have never entered ZHdK as early as today. But I am working part-time and start some days early as well. I myself experience being part of a working body in uniform. In another part of the city, in another public building where you can’t just walk in early in the morning. Are there other hours? Is this another hour? Is this the hour of the people who take care of maintenance work of public buildings and buildings where nine to five jobs were invented? Even if buildings are not owned by the working body, so at least the hour. The hours. From 6 am to 8.30 am, Let’s call them the hours of Bejaze Imeri and colleagues. Who is Bejaze Imeri?Bea, as Bejaze is called by family and colleagues, has no problems starting the day early. Usually at home with her husband, drinking the first cup of coffee together. Later she drives to ZHdK by car. “I know, it is a luxury,” she whispers, “but I am more flexible; I can take some extra material with me or go shopping for groceries for lunch on the way back.” Because after the two-and-a-half-hours- shift at ZHdK, she will go home. Her home is not a castle. But her family calls it a “five-star-establishment” because of the provided excellent services. She and her husband have three grown-up children. The youngest son still lives at home. He suggested lately that he would take care of the cleaning work at home by outsourcing it to a cleaning service for private homes. But Bea was against it. She loves a clean home, and she loves cleaning. Not only as a professional and paid maintenance worker. Care work is often undervalued. “It is important and honest work.” Later in the day, Bea will be working some other paid hours. Altogether up to fifty percent. She was working more hours only some years ago. Sometimes fulltime. Be- sides running the “five-star-establishment,” giving birth to and raising three children. Her tasks at ZHdK include taking care of seven dance studios and some connected spaces like passages or one physiotherapy practice. “I am frequently stopping students from walking into the studio while I am still at work,” explains Bea. Usually, they show some sympathy and sometimes even apologise. During all her explanatory work, her hands are busy. This wom- an can multitask. And organise. She planned in advance which part of her work was interesting to be shown and started this day extra early, just to have a little more time for the interview. After her manual labour, everything is shiny. The floor, the mirrors, and the piano. The disin- fectant flask is full, and the wastebasket empty. While she gives the last finishing touches in the last studio in line – still on time – an early student sneaks past us into the studio. No word of greetings. Bea casts a last professional glance back into the studio and packs up her trolley while the student starts to occupy the space through move- ments of appropriation. First in a lonely corner and then slowly filling up the whole dance floor, constantly gazing at the self in the shiny mirror. <img width="601" height="892" width_o="601" height_o="892" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/501ba7042ad113744324fe5248aa53ce959d1235ba705b2864ea19e34147ed21/Bild_TextFrederic-Judith_Servete.jpeg" data-mid="204293500" border="0" data-scale="40" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/601/i/501ba7042ad113744324fe5248aa53ce959d1235ba705b2864ea19e34147ed21/Bild_TextFrederic-Judith_Servete.jpeg" /> Servete is a remedial teacher working part-time at a primary school in Küttigen, Switzerland. She has family in Kosovo and grew up in Switzerland. Servete is married, has a two-year-old son, and is expecting another child soon. Servete The walking dialogue with Servete Schneider leads us with crackling steps on a graveled path to a little park. The laughter and ecstatic sound bits from joyfully playing children sometimes blend with our dialogue and builds the background of our topic. Servete used to work as a teacher and, after this experience, decided to change her profession to therapeutic pedagogy. Her aim was to com- mit herself to the aspects of care within the school context, addressing the needs and problems of children and adolescents as well as assisting and valorizing specific so- cial, physical, or emotional capacities. During our conver- sation, Servete offered us an evaluation of her experiences and observations within this domain and beyond it, on a broader societal level. Difficulties of children at school are based on complex settings, it is often not easy to make the specific contribution and influence of the therapeutic pedagogy visible or manifest.The expectations of the child’s surroundings are often high, and schooling success counts as a central element. However, for the well-being of the child, that will lead to accomplishments in school and also to indi- vidual freedom, many other elements come into account. Because Servete’s work is not always measurable within the parameters of the school rating system, it is some- times not acknowledged, even if it leads to an improve- ment in the situation. This brings up the question of how care work could be valued within a system that is aligned with results that are quantitatively measurable. Servete calls for more awareness, empathy, and a more holistic understanding of all the micro-contributions that have an intrinsic efficiency to a positive development of the child beyond a quantifiable recognition. In a meritocracy in which society is achievement-oriented and uses the given parameters that are derived from an economic system based on growth, it is difficult for par- ents to find other mappings than the ones set by school grades in major subjects. The high expectations and the need for participation coming from the parent’s side don’t make it easier to establish alternative evaluation criteria. Although the processes and the system have changed in the last years and parents appreciate the involvement of care work effectuated by social and therapeutic pedago- gy, the classification of major subjects is predominant for parents, because these are the ones more linked to a promise of success in an adult life within a normativity of economic performance orientation. In relation to these thoughts, Servete expresses the wish to develop a more diverse system of values and orientations in which the individual capacities, talents, and char- acteristics of a child can be acknowledged and fostered even if they are not in accordance with established major subjects. It is a way to avoid the perspective of the child as an implicit “project.” There are different knowledge productions and epistemologies along with factual, propositional knowledge and to evaluate them equally is for the benefit of the child. Referring to the situation in Kosovo within this context Servete mentions the general lack of governmental sup- port and financial resources, the difficulties with private initiatives, as well as system-related problems.Efforts to integrate also social and therapeutical aspects are hap- pening, but a general facilitation is needed before individ- ual assistance can be established as part of the educational system. Servete often reflects on how she could actively participate in the development in this domain, and she is looking for the right frame to get from the idea to a realization. The strong desire to give something back, to somehow share the privileges, and to contribute to a sense of equality is palpable in her statements and expressions. “If I’m preoccupied with an issue, I start to reflect, think and talk about it as long as it takes until an action results out of it. It’s always a process of collectivity,” says Servete about her personal strategy to deal with troubling or dif- ficult circumstances. Asked about what she would like to point out concerning the general situation in Pristina, she mentions the heartiness, the creativity, the collective self-organization, and this spirit of optimism against all odds. Impressed by this strength, she wishes: “I hope they can hold on to this attitude and find ways and support to realize this potential.” Collective commitment as resist- ance against resignation is also a great act of care. <img width="2712" height="3711" width_o="2712" height_o="3711" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b8c1bb990890c99dae7db59f367cfc8e2f803a100aa1af7240f5f8ef6337081f/Bild_TextFrederic_Judith_Suzana.jpg" data-mid="204293495" border="0" data-scale="40" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/b8c1bb990890c99dae7db59f367cfc8e2f803a100aa1af7240f5f8ef6337081f/Bild_TextFrederic_Judith_Suzana.jpg" /> Suzana Mersini has an Albanian background. She lives in the wider agglomeration of Zurich in Switzerland and is employed part time as a professional care worker at University Hospital Zurich. Suzana On a sunny summer day, we walk slowly along a lakeside in a nature reserve. The reeds beside the path sway gen- tly by the wind. The water shows a rippling diffraction pattern. An idyllic landscape where there seems to be no need for change. “Because of the pandemic, we discovered this spot and came often here as a family to recover from work-related stress,” explains Suzana Mersini, a part- time employee in a hospital. She speaks of women with an Albanian background as slightly workaholics, always juggling different tasks simultaneously: “It might look as if men were in charge. But in a relationship or a family, it is mostly the woman who takes care, who is the heart and the soul of the institution, keeping it together and gen- tly steering and directing”. Suzana speaks with a friendly smile. Her tender warmth would surely cause the tired wanderer to get rid of the heavy coat, an act that the high wind did not achieve according to the medieval fable. If Suzana detects a decrease in passion in one of her many labours she tries to change herself or her ways. She start- ed working in healthcare as a trainee, slowly climbing the ladder. She didn’t choose a position in the health sector in the first place, but she got pregnant with twin sons rather young and has been looking for a paid job where she could work on weekends while her husband worked weekdays. She just started to continue her education while helping her teenage sons find an apprentice position. How is professional care work within the Swiss health sys- tem acknowledged? The increasing workload and constant shortage of professionals lead to more and more difficult decisions and ethical dilemmata. Professional care work is becoming increasingly inhuman for caretakers as well as for caregivers. And there is no functioning feedback culture. The working individual is excluded from relevant management decisions that influence the daily business but is later confronted with the impact itself. Despite the bad working conditions, Suzana still remains on the job. Maybe because she is a child of survivors: “I see these dif- ficulties. But I can’t quit. Not yet. Caring still remains a passion of mine.”Caring has multifaceted aspects and is relevant in all forms of social interdependencies. Parents might often help their children to find a path into another future. “My parents and we children have different life stories. Remembering the past and knowing where we came from is important. Talking of past conflicts openly might help a future generation not to make similar mistakes.” Maybe not all accomplishments of women of Albanian or- igins are sparkling on a public stage today. Some might twinkle in a little corner. And how do we detect these small twinkles? “Appreciation begins by myself,” explains Suzana referring to the humbleness of Albanian women in particular but also woman in general. And even if the women of the diaspora have accomplished many goals and are working hard, they often care for places and people connected to their origin. They might have become doctors and solicitors but still remember the language and teach their daughters how to bake Fli. And maybe their sons. And therefore, in a further future, fathers might teach their daughters (and their other children) the secrets of the traditional kitchen. And the secrets of cleaning. And how to appreciate and care and share equally all tasks of unpaid and paid labours of love. And we would not mind if the off-springs of Albanian origins were teaching the off-springs of Swiss origins their accomplishments.