Crossing the Bridge, the "Reconciler," & the History of Blood Feuds

A gutting lesson in the repercussions of my actions: "As Americans traipsing around the city with a camera, I’m informed, we are being closely watched by more than ten secret police forces..."

Having spent most of our short visit in Mitrovica with the Albanian community, we want to venture to the other side of the bridge to hear the Serbian sides of the story. Julia is not comfortable with this and tells we should not cross the bridge. The four of us, having spent only two weeks in Kosova, agree in private that Julia might have unreasonable, biased fears based on what she has heard from her friends, having never engaged with the Serbian community, and only speaking to Albanians on the south side of the bridge. 

Armed with our camera equipment, passports, and very little cultural sensitivity, we make arrangements to interview some of the locals working at the UN in Mitrovica. Since none of our Albanian friends could cross the bridge, Melina, a Serbian women who works at the UN, offers to set up a whirlwind of interviews in one day. 

Melina translates for a friend of hers, a morose man, whom we ask about the job of “bridge watchers,” a term from the war when the bridge was the assigned boundary of the two sides. He proudly acknowledges that he had done the job: It was necessary to keep track of those crossing, he explains, to maintain order during that time. He claims that it is no longer done, even though we have recently heard stories of both Serbs and Albanians who had crossed the bridge, and when they returned to “their” side, had been beaten as traitors. According to most people’s memory, during the war the bridge watchers were armed, and acted as snipers. 

We walk away from meeting the bridge watcher in silence. Blood on his hands, one of us said, and in a divided city recovering from the horrors of war, it is possible.

We stop for a break for tea at Melina’s apartment. Light and airy, we sit on western-style couches and chairs and drink the customary cups of tea with her mother and young daughter, who is very excited to meet us. Melina gives us directions for our next interview, a man she promises speaks flawless English, and heads back to work. 

We find our way to the man’s office, a small stone building off a quiet, hilly street. His receptionist announces our arrival, and we are ushered into his office. A tall handsome man with thick salt and pepper hair greets us. He sits behind a large desk, two flags crossed behind him, one representing Serbia, the other Kosova. As Ted and Isaac set up the cameras, I chat easily with him, taking one of the wild grapes he offers from the bowl on his desk.

Isaac and Ted announce they are ready to roll, and I begin with questions about the divisions in the city, and the potential for reconciliation. The conversation flows with ease; we could not script better answers from this local leader, from his own personal desire to coach a mixed-ethnicity basketball team once again, to his greater vision for a Truth and Reconciliation Council (TRC) to take place, much like the one in South Africa. He explains briefly about how the TRC in South Africa offered amnesty to those who confessed their crimes, and as long as perpetrators of crimes confessed fully, and the confession met the requirements of the council, they would be granted amnesty. It was also to help bring closure to those who had lost loved ones, to confront and hear confession from the killers. He has hopes to oversee a similar council in Mitrovica.

We leave with his business card in hand, emblazoned with the UN logo and designation as a member of the Serbian National Council. As we balance camera equipment on our shoulders for our walk down the hill toward the river, we agree that the interview could not have gone better. He was so well spoken, and clearly focused on reconciliation. 

The French UN troops watch us closely as we cross the bridge back to the south side; the security alert has been heightened after gunfire at the American base a few towns away. We are not allowed to photograph anything that has been deemed a “culturally sensitive icon,” including the bridge, and thus far have been very stealthy about our pictures. Seth, who had not gone to the Serbian side with us, bounds up to meet us, lifting his SLR with telephoto lens up to his eye to snap a photo of us crossing the bridge.