By Ellen X. Oscar
The night before my assigned day (Wednesday 19 June) in Mitrovica was anything but peaceful. Our group of twenty-plus had split between two bare-bones motels in the Serbian-populated north of Kosovo, close to the Serbian border. Our accommodation, seemingly run by a family with young children, offered a candid glimpse into everyday life in this divided region. On our way back from picking up water and snacks, a voice called out "konichiwa" from behind a garden fence, a stark reminder of my visible identity as a Chinese-American from New York.
Seeking solace from the modest furnishings of our motel, we gathered on the terrace to smoke a cigarette and chat about our long journey. The night air was cool, a reprieve from the stifling heat of the day, and our hosts were friendly and curious, their eyes wide with the novelty of having foreign guests. They brought out chairs and even offered to make us coffee, despite the lateness of the hour. Their hospitality was earnest and generous, a stark contrast to the subtle discomfort that had been gnawing at me.
As we politely engaged with our hosts, my mind was partially elsewhere, preoccupied with gaining a Wi-Fi connection for researching our presentations on UNICEF and UNDP for the next day. The tragi-comic situation unfolded when the children began naming us by the countries they thought we were from. Our Italian friend was dubbed "India," our Lithuanian friend "Norway," and I was predictably called "China." When they discovered "India" was actually Senegalese-Italian, they enthusiastically listed off their "favourite black people," (ironically, Rosa Parks and MLK Jr., famous civil rights activists, were among them) adding to the awkwardness.
Despite my insistence that I was American, from New York (notably one of the most diverse places on Earth), they continued their guessing game, refusing to accept my identity. Frustration bubbled up inside me, a familiar feeling of being unseen, of my identity being reduced to a stereotype, or worse, something very far-removed from my own reality. In a bid to end the guessing, I told them I was adopted and couldn’t tell them my birth country, a small lie to halt their persistence. They seemed remorseful, but the damage was done. I retreated to my room, angry and disheartened.
In the dim light of my room, I wrote furiously in my journal, grappling with the realisation that no matter what I do, I cannot escape the color of my skin or the shape of my eyes. People not only disbelieve me but insist on telling me who I am. This encounter mirrored our meeting the following morning with UNMiK in Mitrovica, where the organisers were reticent and evasive, leaving us frustrated and dissatisfied. Despite their emphasis on bringing opposing views together, they offered no real answers, and we left feeling condescended to.
Reflecting on the evening's events throughout the UNMiK meeting, I felt a profound sense of remorse for not being brave enough to continue the conversation the night before. I had stormed off from a difficult encounter, just like the UNMiK seemed to wish they could do. My young conversation partners were likely just curious kids, unfamiliar with someone who looked like me and called themselves "American." It was an opportunity to show them that Americans come in all colors and creeds, but I lacked the patience and courage to engage.
In peacebuilding, recognition is vital for reconciliation, as our professor often reminds us. In this moment, we failed to recognize each other, and it felt like a personal failure of peace on my part. Engaging with those kids might have sparked a hope for better understanding, yet I doubted its fruitfulness. This is the harsh truth of our profession at times — battling with the reality that not every conversation will bear fruit.
As the day unfolded, a glimmer of hope appeared. In a food court, my group and I interviewed a Serbian and an Albanian sharing a meal of hamburger and pizza together. This simple act of coexistence contrasted sharply with the previous night's tension. Their casual interaction was a small, yet powerful, testament to the possibility of peace and understanding... and the all-American meal of pizza and hamburgers.
We returned to Pristina, the city's familiar embrace providing comfort after a day of emotional turmoil. After a lovely meal, we met friends from the city and shared our reflections.
The warmth of their company and the vibrant energy of Pristina reminded me why we were here. This trip is about learning to overcome our shortsightedness and turning unproductive conversations into fruitful ones.
While I struggled with confronting my reality in Mitrovica, the day's end offered a reminder of the potential for understanding and connection. Peacebuilding is not a linear journey but a series of moments, some challenging and others heartening. It is in these moments of struggle and reflection that we find the seeds of peace.
As I lay in bed that night, the echoes of the day's encounters reverberated in my mind. The frustration and anger gradually gave way to a deeper understanding. Peace, I realised, is not an endpoint but a continuous process of engagement and recognition. It requires patience, empathy and the courage to stay in difficult conversations.
The sun of peace may rise slowly, but it begins with the small, often uncomfortable steps we take to bridge the gaps in understanding.
Behind the shadows of identity, there is a light that can illuminate our shared humanity. This journey in Kosovo, with all its challenges, is a testament to that enduring truth.
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