Slovene Village, located on the outskirts of Gjakove, is a displacement camp. Built by the Slovenian government immediately after the 1999 war, Slovene Village was intended to be temporary housing for people who lost everything. Eight years after the fighting ended, roughly two-dozen families still live in Slovene.
Keith Porter and I first visited Slovene Village in 2002. Residents live in white-rectangular buildings that are no larger than an American semi-trailer truck. At one time there were shared kitchens and outhouses and a large recreation center where Liz held weekly classes for Slovene’s youth.
Slovene was clearly dilapidated age when the group visited in 2005. Liz had warned me ahead of this trip that Slovene was rapidly “falling apart.” I thought I was prepared for the worst, but my audible gasp as we turned into the drive told me and my fellow van passengers that conditions were far worse than I had feared.
Music Among the Rubble
Slovene’s entrance gate and sign are no longer there. The large pile of trash and rubble at the entrance was, unfortunately, familiar. But the overflowing gray dumpster Keith and I saw in 2002 and the group witnessed in 2005 was strangely missing. The outhouses long ago lost their doors, windows, and floors (it is hard to imagine they are still in use). Fire has clearly damaged some houses. Concrete slabs are all that is left of others. The recreation center where we shared so many memories in 2002 and 2005 is now boarded up.
But my despair at the living conditions was quickly replaced with smiles. The camp’s youth greeted us with cheers of joy as our vans pulled to a stop. They were excited to see us, but even more excited to see Liz. It has been several months since she has visited Slovene Village, although her youth volunteers continue to hold weekly classes in the camp when the weather is good.
Weather is crucial during a Slovene visit because the recreation center is now closed. A rocky, weed-infested field adjacent to the camp now serves as the music “classroom.” No one seemed bothered by the less than perfect classroom setting. The Shropshire volunteers and our Muscatine youth launched into a great rendition of “Skip to My Lou” and the Slovene Village youth quickly joined in with such enthusiasm it was sometimes hard for the adults to contain their laughter. In short order, the Slovene youth were signing old favorites including the interactive “Popcorn” song.
If I didn’t already know I was in Kosovo, I could be forgiven for mistaking the scene for the Wesley United Methodist Church music camp. It only continues to prove what I have said before: music and laughter are universal, no matter what language.
Future is Unknown
Slovene Village’s future is more uncertain than ever. Since Keith and I first visited in 2002 there have been numerous reports that the camp would close “soon.” Liz reports the electricity was cut off to the camp for several months after our 2005 visit in an attempt to force residents to leave. Burim, Liz’s Kosovor program coordinator, told me today that residents received a letter in recent days telling them the camp would close in two weeks. Residents have formally appealed to local government officials for more time to find alternative housing. It is unclear whether those appeals will be taken seriously or fall on deaf ears. We may learn more in the coming days. The group is schedule to return to Slovene a few more times before the end of our trip.
Rapid Weather Change
Stifling heat greeted our group as we landed in Pristina yesterday and nightfall did very little to ease the sticky conditions in Gjakove. Our group arrived at Slovene Village armed with sunscreen and extra bottles of water to help ward off another day of hot sun. But within an hour of our arrival a sudden and unexpected thunderstorm began pouring buckets of rain on the anointed classroom field. As the rain pelted the van windows as we pulled away from Slovene Village, I couldn’t help but wonder if the rain was actually tears for the residents who seemingly have nowhere else to go.
Until next time...Kristin McHugh-Johnston
