Baci Fil, NA FAL (Baci Fil, Forgive Us)

A personal narrative about my uncle, Hafir Shala, a Kosovo distinguished physician, a humanitarian and political activist, and above all—a true patriot—who put national interests first not personal ones. 21 years ago, he was arrested, beaten, and tortured by Serbia police, and then disappeared…

If you think I will give up, I’m not. If you think you killed my soul, you not. If you think I will shut up, not even close. 

• Memories: That Day—The Unfortunate Day

There are moments in your life you can never forget, even if you wish to. Those moments are deeply ingrained in our memory; they never fade away, they live in us till the day we die. I always remember the day, that unfortunate day, April 10, 1998. It was a typical Friday afternoon, my sister, Luljeta, and I were sitting in the living room, talking, perhaps, about the latest developments in Kosovo. Serbia—under the Milosevic regime—had deployed its military machine across the territory of Kosovo, killing, slaughtering, and torturing ethnic Albanians.

On late February 1998, Serbia forces had massacred and executed 24 Albanians in Likoshan and Qirez, and days after, they attacked and killed 51 members of Jashari family in Prekaz. Literally, we’re in a state of war. Everyone was asking the same questions: Are we finally heading to a war—we’re told since we’re kids. Are they going to kill us all? It was like a massive cry. “N’ane, where we’re going to hide? Is she going to save us all?! We were 11 kids. My father had fled the country, years earlier, due to political persecution. He got imprisoned twice, tortured and beaten, and occasionally, he managed to escape execution from an Albanian, which happened to be a Serbia collaborator.

While Luljeta and I were talking, we noticed something unusual. A lot of people “flooded” our house. Typically, this happens when somebody dies. Suddenly, we stared at each other: “Something has happened? Where is Baci Fil? Did he come back from work?”—we both asked, simultaneously. Then, a moment of silence. It looked like we knew the answer.

My grandma, Lokja, was there, too, napping. She then woke up, looked her watch, murmured something, and surprisingly asked: “Moj a dini gja, a u ardh Hafiri? Po shkoj po kcyri n’ode.” We didn’t even notice her absence when terrified, she came back. “Valla e paskan marre Hafirin e ju s’po m’kallxoni?!” Then, she continues lamenting: “E mor djali jem, gjith t’kam thane lej k’to pune se me shkaun s’ia ka qite kerkuj.” In the meantime, Dada Shukri, Hafir’s wife, came down after putting her kids asleep. Looking our faces, she asks. “A u ardh Hafiri a hala?” It was a feeling like she knew what had happened and was prepared for the worst her entire life. “E kam dite qe nje dite ka me i ndodh kjo, vec ishalla e kane myte menihere e s’e kane lane gjalle e per gazep.”

(On April 10, 1998, my uncle, Hafir Shala, was arrested by Serbia police en route to Prishtina. Seperated by two other companions, he was taken to the detention center, where he was beaten and tortured. Since then, he disappeared). 

It was a long weekend. We’re waiting, waiting, and waiting—perhaps he would show up, unexpectedly. On Monday, my grandpa, Babushi, went to the police in Prishtina to seek an answer for his son. He did it again and again till Serbia forces blocked almost all roads, putting post-blocks across the territory, and targeting mostly men. One day he would ask me: “Sabahate, a po shkon bre n’Prishtine me vete per Hafirin, nashta ty nuk t’bajne gja?” He naively believed that the Milosevic regime would respect the Geneva Conventions relating to the “protected populations” in armed conflict.

Baci Fil

Then, I start the journey. I routinely go to the police, following up on my uncle’s case. I am usually told: “We don’t know anything about this person.” I reach out to our lawyer. He updates me with the latest. Then, I go to the ICRC. They’re still searching. I start over again until Serbia machinery blocks the entire country.

In the meantime, I read different narratives about my uncle’s whereabouts. A local newspaper reports that international human rights organizations searched all Kosovo prisons and found a person that could possibly be Hafir Shala. He was registered under a different name and gender: Hafize Isuf Shala. Another one brought the testimony of two witnesses, saying they heard him screaming as a result of torture. The international media would frequently interview us at our home. Using connections of some relatives, meanwhile, we reached out to a person—who supposedly knew “dikan nga lart.” By using those channels, he told us that my uncle was alive somewhere in a prison in Kosovo. Another day, our villagers came to our house, happily, chanting: “Doctor is free, Hafiri is free.” We’re just too afraid to believe that.

• Smell the Freedom: But, They’re Not There

We are free, we are, finally, free N’ane. On June 12, 1999, Kosovo liberated from Serbia following a NATO bombing campaign against Serbia. My sister, however, wasn’t there to celebrate “the freedom.” Neither my uncle. “I wish they had lived just one day after the war to breathe the freedom they fought for!” These words would be deeply ingrained into my head ever since. “God, I wished them to live just one day in a free Kosovo, even if they die tomorrow…”

That day, simply, never happened. “Freedom—without them—doesn’t make any sense for us, N’ane. Not anymore.”

Eventually, we returned to our house to find it completely burnt and destroyed. Everything was gone: my childhood memories, hundreds of poetries and proses I had written, including my sister’s belongings except for her photo album and some stuff I had taken with me. The death toll: 13,535 people killed, among them my sister, Luljeta, 21 years old. Following my uncle’s disappearance, she joined the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) and was killed that winter together with her fiancée. 6,024 other individuals went missing, including my uncle. To date, 1,654 remain unaccounted for.

In the aftermath, we start searching for Baci Fil. My grandpa goes to UNMIK and later EULEX, bi-weekly. Each time, he is told the same story: “Investigations are going on. This is a ‘political issue’ whose resolution depends on Serbia’s willingness to cooperate.” I, myself, have continued searching–using both UNMIK and EULEX sources. Occasionally, I met the Deputy/Chief Prosecutor for War Crimes in Serbia, who reminds me that my uncle’s case is a “political issue” and it’s up to the Government of Serbia to find, arrest, and trial perpetrators.

My family’s quest to international mechanisms of justice in Kosovo has yet to receive an answer. 21 years after, I am still struggling to unravel the truth and restoring justice for my uncle. And, I have the same questions, too: “Where is Baci Fil? What had happened to him? What did they do to him? Is he still alive? Please, I need to know: Where is my uncle, don’t you hear me? Of course, you don’t.

My uncle was a distinguished physician and a humanitarian and political activist. He served five years in prison, demanding Kosovo be a Republic within former Yugoslavia. He worked as a doctor at the humanitarian association “Mother Teresa” he opened across the country, providing free health care services for people. I had the chance of my life to work with him. He was, too, one of the doctors to have examined victims and survivors of massacres in Likoshan and Qirez, and against Jashari family. Above all, my uncle was a patriot, a true patriot. He didn’t deserve such an unfortunate ending! He deserves truth and justice. Whoever is involved in his murdering and disappearance must be held accountable for.

To see him again—is my only dream. I hope, I will, one day. 

I remember myself waiting for him every single day at our house’s corner while he was in prison during the 1980s, hoping he would show up, and I would be the first to see him, and run, and tell the others: “Erdh Baci Fil, erdh Baci Fil.” He, eventually, came back one day but only after he served the prison. And, I wasn’t the first to see him coming home. All of these years, I have been seeing the same dream—him opening the door and me running and telling others: “Erdh Baci Fil, erdh Baci Fil.” But, Baci Fil never came back, home.

• Waiting, Waiting, and Waiting…Questions, Questions, Millions of: Will he ever come back, home? 

We’re still here, waiting for him to come back, for the truth to come out, and justice to be served. Babushi is not here, though, to hear the bitter narrative. Because, one day, Babushi got tired of searching and waiting for his son; he got sick and died without ever knowing the truth. My grandma, Lokja, too. Her heart broke that day. Her missing son became an obsession ever since. I hear her saying: “Boll ma kane ba tjerte vec si Hafiri asnja. Ai ma ka da zemren pergjysme, ma ka plase loqken e zemres.”

However, Dada Shukri is around and her only son, Genti, too. They never stopped seeking truth and justice for their beloved one. Dada Shukri never gave up. She became stronger and stronger each and every time she got denied. Her unusual beauty, though, speedily vanished; she got grizzly and older while waiting, waiting, and waiting for her husband to come back.

O you people, don’t you feel her pain, her sorrow, her suffering, her ordeal? Don’t you see her trying to hide her tears while taking care of her kids, feeding, educating, and protecting them, and doing everything that a man does? Do you feel her struggling, her soul silently crying during long, never-ending sleepless nights? Don’t you hear her voice, her plea, her million questions and wonderings: “Where is he? What did they do to him? Is he alive? Did they kill him immediately or tortured and slaughtered him, slowly and painfully? Where is my husband, for the God sake? Don’t you hear her kids asking and asking: “Where is our father? Why don’t you bring him home?”

So many what-s, where-s, why-s, how-s, and who-s. 

• The Feeling of Guilt: Baci Fil, Na Fal

Baci Fil, I know you’re somewhere in the sky, watching us, staring, perhaps laughing at us, better saying feeling sorry for us—how come we became like this, unthankful. We just didn’t have time for you, Baci Fil, perhaps by pursuing our personal interests. Our government, our politicians, meanwhile, were too busy to seek the truth and justice for you. Because, they had to reach a political settlement on Kosovo status, making concessions after concessions, providing extra political rights to Kosovo Serbs—like nowhere to be seen in a democratic world—and again negotiating and renegotiating Kosovo status, making additional concessions, giving territories, and running out their personal and family businesses, becoming rich by using illegal means, buying expensive houses and apartments, educating their kids in the most prestigious universities, and so forth.

Serbia Government, one the other side, has repeatedly refused to cooperate while UNMIK is criticized for having failed to conduct immediate and effective investigations on the missing persons’ issue during its tenure, thus violating human rights of the victims and their families to know the truth. I know for a fact, however, that you don’t intentionally do anything about my uncle—you, you, and you, all of you, hoping one day we’re going to give up. If you think I will give up, I’m not. If you think you killed my soul, you not. If you think I will shut up, not even close. Do I sound like an angry, family member? I am. You must be stupid to think that we’re going to shut up and stay silent forever?

Baci Fil, I hope, one day you will forgive me, you will forgive us. I know, for sure, you’ll do it, although, I, we, don’t deserve your forgiveness. Nothing can take away this feeling of guilt. My soul will never find peace until the day I die. Baci Fil, NA FAL. Baci Fil, NA FAL. You didn’t deserve this unfortunate ending. We, these people, don’t deserve you.