In April 2025, Ramadan Nishori became the first man to publicly acknowledge that he had been raped during the 1998–1999 war in Kosovo. His testimony came seven years after Vasfije Krasniqi Goodman became the first woman in Kosovo to publicly speak about her experience of conflict-related sexual violence (CRSV), planting the seed of a long-overdue reckoning.
Survivors in Kosovo had surely spoken in confidences, in circles of trust, but Vasfije stepped into the public eye: she summoned everyone to bear witness. Defying denial and shame, she helped unearth a new language of recognition and repair. Vasfije, and those who followed her, affirmed: it happened, we survived, and now all of us must face it.
Ramadan’s public testimony is part of a growing genealogy of strength and care. It was Vasfije’s words that inspired him to reach out, first to her, and later to the Kosova Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims (KRCT), where he began receiving psychological support. Through KRCT, he initially shared his story anonymously in the 2021 book “Beyond pain, towards courage: Stories about the trauma of sexual violence in war,” co-published with Pro Peace. Four years later, he chose to reveal his identity to the world. Since then, his truth-telling has encouraged other men, silent for nearly three decades, to come forward and seek the help they had long denied themselves.
This symbolic connection between survivors is no coincidence. On April 14, 2025, exactly 26 years after Krasniqi Goodman’s assault, Nishori stated: “The shame is not ours, the shame is theirs [the perpetrators’],” echoing the words of rape survivor Gisèle Pelicot that had resonated worldwide not a year earlier: “Shame must change sides.” Time and again, it is the human, emotional, and political bonds between survivors that pierce the heavy blanket of silence surrounding sexual violence, woven from patriarchal logic.
The logic of patriarchy, of gendered dominance, does not see bodies as belonging to the people who live in them, but as vessels of collective meaning, tied to societal norms and symbols they are expected to carry and protect. In this worldview, it is not the violator’s body that is marked by shame, but the violated one. And when the violated body is male, the shame society projects onto him becomes almost impossible to bear; even the man who intervened to prevent a second assault on Nishori urges him to stay silent. It is this weight of stigma and expectation that kept Nishori silent for so long. And it delayed a man’s public testimony about wartime sexual violence in Kosovo by seven years after a woman first spoke out.
True healing begins by breaking these rigid categories. Ramadan Nishori is not only a survivor of sexual violence. His story is layered, complex, and raw. It bears the marks of deprivation, dehumanization, and dispossession, both before and after the war, at the hands of more than one source. The expectations placed on him (by others and by himself) in connection with, but also independent from, the violence he was subjected to, pushed him down.
In recent weeks, debate has flared over imprecise numbers and terminology in documenting war crimes and narrating the Kosovo war. It was sparked by an exhibition in central Prishtina showing 1998–99 massacres across Kosovo, including the Dubrava Prison massacre, which Ramadan endured and survived. More than a demand for accuracy, his testimony directs us back to the body, to his body. It asks us to stay with his gestures, to listen, to let his words speak his experience, to resist the pull of reducing stories to statistics or folding small stories into grand histories.
Ramadan’s story is first and foremost the story of Ramadan, the person. Now de-anonymized with his consent, his testimony offers a portrait of a boy, and then a man, who endured what no child or adult ever should. And yet it also reveals someone who, after it all, found the strength to reconnect with others and with himself, and to claim a dignity alongside trauma and victimhood. The man who spoke out in April 2025 is not broken. He is whole. A man who has reclaimed his ability to perceive, define, and narrate publicly and unashamedly who he is.
In the closing lines of his testimony, Ramadan speaks of a fear that still follows him and a piece of advice he wants to share. We are grateful that his fears did not come true and that, in the end, he found the strength to truly listen to his own words.
Living conditions during my childhood were tough, as they were for everyone during the occupation. My father was the sole breadwinner, supporting our entire family on a modest salary: seven children, four boys and three girls, along with our mother.
My late grandfather was involved in politics and took part in the early resistance movements against the Yugoslav regime. He was also a highly skilled gunsmith; they say Tito once held a rifle that my grandfather had made.
The Yugoslav regime came after him three or four times. Each time he built a rifle, they would come and confiscate it. But he would tell them, “You can take it away, but you can’t take away my knowledge. I’ll make another one, and you can’t stop me.” My father, on the other hand, never got involved in politics.
My grandfather and father were both deeply religious. My grandfather was also an imam, though never a strict one. God rest his soul! He wasn’t like some of the more rigid imams today, who can be quite prejudiced. I was under ten when I heard him say, “Women must be able to wear trousers!” At the time, no women wore them. People would often question him: “How can you, an imam, say such a thing?” And he would reply, “If I have the right to wear trousers, then so should they.” He was very open-minded, and everyone loved him.
Mine was a childhood without a TV, radio, or anything at all. Until after the war, we had nothing. The Serbian regime and the former Yugoslav regime punished us because of my grandfather’s activism. They confiscated all of his land and forced him to live up in the mountains, in a house standing alone in the middle of a valley. Our home was kilometers away from the nearest village. From there, all you could see was the sky and the forest.
My father left for Slovenia when I was 11. We could have had electricity like everyone else at the time, but the Serbian regime never allowed it. After my father emigrated, our living conditions improved slightly. He brought us a TV, but we rarely used it; only when we had enough gasoline to run the generator.
My father was always a strong advocate for education, even before the war, at a time when it wasn’t common for boys and girls to walk alone together. He had been an excellent student, but my grandfather wouldn’t let him continue his studies. The regime also stood in the way, as they were persecuting our family.
Nevertheless, my father would always tell my sisters, “If you want to go to school, go ahead. I’ll support you all the way. And if you fall in love with a boy while you’re there, just tell me. It’s not a problem. I’ll check him out, and everything will be fine.” Even back then, he was remarkably tolerant.
He is still alive today, and he still cannot stand injustice. He always treated his daughters and sons equally. I remember him telling one of my sisters, “If you don’t want to go to school, that’s your choice. I won’t arrange a marriage or engagement without you meeting the man first.” And he kept his word: he did not marry his daughters without their linking and consent.
When I was 11, I somehow became the one responsible for the family. My grandfather had passed away the year before, and then my father left, so as the eldest son, the responsibility fell on me to look after my brothers and sisters. One of my sisters was older than me, but I was the oldest boy, and in our family, that meant taking charge.
It was incredibly difficult to manage at that age. If I told someone today that I was responsible for my family at 11, they probably wouldn’t believe it. But I had no choice. I had to gather wood for the winter on my own, carrying it on my shoulders, all by myself, with great effort.
I had a very close relationship with my brothers and sisters, especially with my older sister. She was like a brother to me; just two years older, always by my side. Whenever I went to the forest to cut wood, she came with me. If I needed to go to the village or fix a fence, she was there. She was my right hand back then, and she still is. I have three brothers and two other sisters, but she and I were inseparable, at least until she got married. Even now, I feel a stronger bond with her than with any of my other siblings.
Because our family was constantly under police surveillance, no one dared to help us. The Serbian regime had made sure the whole village was afraid; people were warned and watched, and most chose to stay away.
When a family commits to a certain path, the children often follow. This was the reality we grew up in. We had little choice. In the early days of the movement, as the army began to take shape, our house became a place they returned to again and again. With only one road in and out, it offered a kind of safety they couldn’t find elsewhere.
Back then, if you told someone the Liberation Army was already active in Kosovo, they wouldn’t have believed you. But as early as 1994, they were regularly coming to our house. They usually arrived at night so the children wouldn’t see them. Their movements were limited, but because our home was close to the forest, it was easy for them to come and go. They often stayed for days at a time, sleeping in the guest room. My uncle was among them.
I did well in school. I started primary school at eight. A bit later than most, since I was the eldest son and the winters were harsh. Many of our teachers were former political prisoners, and like others in their position, they were still being persecuted. Even as a child, I served as their liaison. Starting when I was just 11, I became their secret messenger, delivering letters back and forth. I had to. My father was away, and we were on our own.
After finishing eighth grade, I started secondary school in electrotechnics. I had a few friends, but not many. Most kids my age hung out in larger groups, while ours was small and kept to itself. We didn’t go out or play much with others.
I only made it through the first year. When the second year began in September, the police started searching for us because of some pamphlets we had distributed. Only two weeks into the school year, and we had no choice but to stop going to school. After that, I spent my days in the forest, taking care of the cattle, and at the house. We were safe there, because it was deep in the mountains.
I had a close bond with my uncles from an early age. One of them, late Kadri, my mother’s brother, was active in the early stages of the national movement and always kept in touch with us. Eventually, I joined the movement myself. I rarely went out to the market or anywhere else. My older sister usually took care of everything outside the house and looked after us, at least until she got married.
Our father supported us a lot from Slovenia. He would visit from time to time, but every time he came, he faced mistreatment. Before each visit, my uncle [my father’s brother] had to go to the police station to notify them, telling them exactly when my father would arrive and how long he planned to stay. Only after the police gave official permission could my father enter. It was always my uncle or my brother who took care of these visits to the police station; I never dared to go myself. I was too afraid.
I became more deeply involved with the army. I had been with them since I was 11, and when the war started, I was fully committed. But today, I feel so disappointed. I don’t regret what I did for my country. We owed it everything. What hurts is seeing how our people have abandoned the values we fought for, cheapening the meaning of our struggle. I never imagined it would end like this.
The war started for me in 1995, on a freezing winter day. I was visiting my cousins, who usually lived in Switzerland but had come home for a visit. We stayed with them because their home had electricity, a TV, and better living conditions. Out of the blue, the Serbian police showed up and took one of my cousins away. Within seconds, I slipped out through a back window. I was always ready to run. After that, running became my life, until the day they finally caught me and sent me to prison.
They took my cousin to the police station, claiming he owed an unpaid traffic fine. But that was just a cover. They knew he and his brother were working in Switzerland and wanted to extort them. They beat him and treated him cruelly, constantly demanding weapons. The police worked with local informants who would tip them off, saying, “That one has money, ask him for weapons.” But my cousins had nothing to do with any of that. They were completely innocent, yet they were beaten, harassed, and robbed.
It was my responsibility to carry weapons for the KLA. Even though I was still very young, I made the trip to Albania seven times. I also carried important documents. Back then, hardly anyone knew what the KLA was. It wasn’t until later, when they started appearing in public wearing masks, that people began to know who they were.
We went wherever they needed us. Because I was so young, no one ever suspected I was involved. I looked like just another kid. But no matter my age, I always did what was asked of me.
When the war officially broke out in 1998, I was at home. We were always there. A few months earlier, in December ’97, the KLA had asked if they could use one of our two houses. We agreed. From that moment on, our main house essentially became a KLA base, even before the battle for the Llapushnik Gorge.
My family moved to my uncle’s place in Negrovc. I visited them often: my mother, my brothers, and my little sister. But life there was tough. The house was overcrowded, and the conditions were far from easy. In the end, I had to find them another place. They couldn’t stay there any longer.
Fortunately, my mother is still with us, though these days she’s very tired and struggles with high blood pressure. She’s played a huge role in my life. I grew up with her as both mother and father. I’ve always tried to give her the respect she deserves.
She was strict in every way, especially when it came to money. During the day, she was too busy to keep track of the finances, so she’d do it at night. Counting every cent, meticulously. She never finished school, but she always knew exactly where every bit of money went.
She went through so much because of me. I joined the army when I was still very young, and she stood by me through everything… day and night. Maybe I didn’t truly value her while I was still free, but everything changed when I ended up in prison. That period took a heavy toll on her.
In 1998, as the army launched the offensive to take control of the Llapushnik Gorge, my mother and the others were visiting my uncle. When I arrived at his house, a soldier who would later become a martyr pulled me aside and said, “We need you much more without a uniform than with one.” I took many risks during that time, traveling to Prishtina several times to collect money and bring supplies for the fighters. I was a civilian; no uniform, no weapon on my shoulder. My job was to deliver money and letters to Adem Demaçi and the army.
In ’98, during the Llapushnik Gorge offensive in July, Ymer Elshani, a comrade, urged me, “Go to your family in Negrovc, at your uncle’s place!” I hesitated and said, “But it’s the same danger here and there.” He insisted, “The situation is bad. You need to be with your uncle, with your family.” I replied, “I’m safer here than at my uncle’s.” But he was firm: “Listen, you must go to your family.”
After the Llapushnik Gorge fell and Serbian forces moved in, I stayed at my uncle’s place in Negrovc. We remained there until late September of ’98, when the village came under military attack on the 25th, 26th, and 27th. On the 27th, I was caught by the Serbian army and police and imprisoned.
They brought us to the police station in Drenas. In the yard, there were garages already filled with men who had been arrested before us. Around 2 or 3 in the afternoon, they started calling us in one by one to run tests, checking with paraffin gloves if we had fired weapons or handled gunpowder. Each of us had to go in alone.
My turn came around midnight. I remember it clearly; it was raining outside, and from inside the building, you could hear screaming. I could tell all kinds of torture were taking place behind those walls.
They brought me in and took the paraffin sample. While I was waiting to be interrogated, two police officers suddenly grabbed me and dragged me into the bathroom. I tried to resist. I was screaming and shouting while one of them held me down, forcing my head forward. The other pulled out a knife to cut through my belt and trousers. That’s when the first officer raped me.
I don’t know their names, but I’d recognize their faces if I ever saw them again. Sadly, Hamze Hajra is no longer alive; he would have known who they were. He was working as a translator at the police station back then. While I was screaming and fighting them off, it was Hamze who heard me and saved me. The first officer had already done what he intended to do, but Hamze kicked the door open before the second could do the same. He pulled me out.
After that, they didn’t even bother to interrogate me. They didn’t take me to the questioning room like the others. Hamze got me out.
That wasn’t the end of it. The others were coming out of their interrogations beaten and bruised, but I wasn't. People kept asking, “What happened to you? Why did they beat us, but not you?” I couldn’t tell them the truth. When Hamze pulled me out of that bathroom, he told me, “Don’t speak of this to anyone.” And I didn’t. Not to anyone, except my cousin. I told him.
That night, we stayed at the police station, hungry and thirsty. The only water we had came from raindrops leaking from the roof. That’s what we drank.
The next morning, they added my name to a list. Along with others, I was loaded onto one of two buses headed for the prison in Prishtina. It was 28 September ‘98. That’s when a new kind of abuse began. The kind only the Ministry of the Interior, the SUP, knew how to carry out.
They interrogated us for three days straight. I spent 48 hours tied up, facing an endless stream of questions about the KLA. But they weren’t really after answers. They already had them. They had photos of the fighters, photos of every soldier. If someone had been killed, their image was marked with an X. It wasn’t about information. They just wanted to hurt me.
They tortured us in every way imaginable. They pushed needles under our fingernails to make us talk. They kept asking about everyone: Azem Syla, Ymer Elshani, etc., the entire KLA leadership, demanding to know where they were hiding. I didn’t eat or drink the entire time. But in moments like that, food doesn’t even cross your mind. You can survive without eating. It’s the thirst that breaks you.
They kept me tied to a radiator. In the middle of the room sat a small table, and on it, a 1.5-liter plastic water bottle. One of the officers kept throwing it at me. My hands were tied, so I’d flinch, try to move, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t meant to hit me. It was meant to break me. I was only 18.
After 48 hours, the officers switched shifts, but by then I could barely speak. My tongue had swollen so much I could barely whisper, “I can’t talk if you don’t give me water.” The bottle was still right there in front of me. Seeing it, so close but out of reach, that was worse than dying. One of the officers finally untied one of my hands. I grabbed the bottle, drank some water, and immediately blacked out. I don’t remember anything after that. When I came to my senses, I was still in that same room.
They had brutalized me. I was beaten, broken. At one point, they took a freshly boiled egg, still hot, and pressed it hard into my armpit. I remember thinking, “Why don’t they just kill me? It would be better than this.”
Then the trial process began. The investigating judge was Danica Marinković. She told me, “From today on, you’ll be safe. Once you stand before a judge, you’ll be protected.” But she was wrong.
I’ve never been the type to stay quiet, and maybe that made things worse for me. I’ve always been stubborn, never one to back down. I was the same in front of the judge, the same during the SUP interrogations, and the same in court with Judge Dragoljub Zdravković. I never played their game.
At first, during the first six or seven months, the rape barely crossed my mind; just another memory lost in the fog of everything else. But as time passed and the abuse piled on, it forced its way back.
I spent six months in prison in Prishtina, enduring abuse that’s beyond imagination. Then they transferred us to Lipjan. There was this unwritten rule; whenever you were moved from one prison to another, you’d be beaten so badly that it’s hard to even put into words. I was still in Lipjan when the NATO bombing began.
The years haven’t eased the pain; they’ve only deepened it. A stray word, a certain look, a moment at home, and I spiral, convinced they know: “They’ve found out!” It’s a weight I’ve never been able to set down.
From Lipjan, they moved us to Dubrava. There, we were given more bread, and it became clear they had emptied the prison of regular inmates. The place had been turned into a military base. When we arrived, every cell door was covered in marks, the metal full of stab holes from knives. One by one, they brought in the political prisoners: Ukshin Hoti, Avni Klinaku, Nait Hasani, Bislim Zogu, and Enver Dugolli from Sremska Mitrovica; they were all there. I had the chance to speak with Ukshin, Nait, and Avni while we were in Dubrava. I would later see Avni again in prison in Nish, after the Dubrava massacre.
It was Sunday, May 16, 1999, a date I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday, when Ukshin Hoti was released, along with two other men whose names I can no longer recall.
Just three days later, on May 19, the prison was bombed for the first time. The first strike hit only one pavilion. Amid the chaos, we managed to break down the doors and run outside. Even the guards were running. That day, there was just one strike and one person killed: a man from Ferizaj who had been locked in solitary confinement. A section of the ceiling collapsed on him.
The next day, May 20, the bombing continued. This time, the second pavilion was hit, not the part we were in.
May 21 was the worst of all. The bombing lasted the entire day. Not a single building in Dubrava prison was spared. We smashed through the doors again and ran. We were standing by the kitchen when the bombardment began. The first explosion hit the heating system. The second shell came down on the kitchen itself. From there, we made our way to the sports field, outside, where the massacre occurred.
That night, we slept out on the sports field. It was too dangerous to stay indoors. We brought what we could: thin mattresses and blankets from our beds, and tried to rest. But the noise and the tension lasted the entire night. All night, we listened to voices in the dark, people whispering and shifting around. Some were saying, “Serbia is done for.” Then, just after dawn, a voice called out from one of the guard towers. A man with a megaphone shouted: “Line up! You’re being counted and moved. It’s not safe here anymore.”
As soon as we lined up on the sports field, they opened fire with Kalashnikovs, snipers, and even hand grenades. More than 20 years later, I still don’t know how I made it out alive.
There was a small slope that gave us just enough cover from the bullets. I remember crouching there, praying. Not to survive, but for it all to end. When a soul is taken is something only God can decide. And in that moment, I was begging Him to take mine. Over and over, I kept repeating the same words: “Take my soul, God. Don’t let me live.”
It wasn’t just the gunfire or the fear of dying. It was the weight I was carrying inside. The thought that someone might one day find out what had happened to me… that was what truly terrified me. Living with that felt impossible.
We spent another four days there, hiding wherever we could. Sometimes it was the kitchen basement, sometimes the sports field, even the sewer shafts, which were just big enough to crawl into, about two meters wide and two meters deep. We knew that even the slightest movement could get us killed. Any sign of life, and a sniper would take aim and pull the trigger.
We spent our final day holed up in the kitchen basement, consumed by the fear that any second, they might come in and finish us off. By that point, I didn’t care anymore. I kept praying, “God, let a bullet hit me, anything to stop this pain.” My throat felt like it was closing in on itself. The memories, everything I’d been through, were choking me. But nothing happened. No one came. God didn’t let it end, and somehow I’m still here.
We hid through the night, and by the next day, the forces that had bombed Dubrava finally moved in. They came shouting, ‘Surrender!’ But we were unarmed and powerless prisoners. What was there to surrender? Still, they stormed in, throwing hand grenades into the sewer shafts and the kitchen basement, both packed with people hiding inside.
Not long after, the regular army showed up. We could tell the difference. They were younger than the paramilitaries and reservists, who were mostly older men. For over half an hour, they exchanged gunfire. At one point, someone shouted, “Do you want me to cut your head off? I’ve got a quick hand!” The chaos broke out because the Serbian prisoners had also been armed and uniformed to take part in the killings. We know exactly who they are. We have their names, their photos, everything.
Once the shooting stopped, the regular army took over. A high-ranking soldier shouted, “Nobody fire another bullet!” Then he said, “We’re the regular army. Don’t even think about escaping over the walls. Anyone who gets near NATO will be killed.” And then he added, “We’re in danger too. There’s nothing we can do.”
We went out and started gathering the wounded. There were more than 300 people injured in the cruelest ways. We also collected the bodies of the dead. For each one, we wrote down their name and surname on a piece of paper, folded it into a plastic bag, and placed it with the body for identification. It was the best we could do.
It was May, and the temperatures were high. As the hours passed, the bodies began to decompose. We tried to cover them, but the smell quickly became unbearable. We were starving. Little by little, we grew numb. We couldn’t tell the difference anymore: living or dying, it didn’t matter.
Four more days passed before they transferred us back to Lipjan prison, where we stayed for another three weeks. On the night of June 9, they tied our hands with ropes so tight that some prisoners fell ill. We remained like that until the following day, when they finally untied us. On June 10, 1999, they put us on a “Nish Express” and took us to the prison in Nish. I remember it like it was yesterday. Despite everything I’d been through, I still hadn’t been convicted. It was only once we arrived in Nish that we were brought before a judge and sentenced.
Even after the war ended, the abuse didn’t stop. As long as the Milošević regime stayed in power, Albanians continued to face relentless mistreatment. It wasn’t until the regime fell in October 2000, and Milošević’s arrest in 2001, that things finally began to ease. The abuse ended, especially after the Red Cross and other international organizations began visiting the prisons. From that point on, we were no longer mistreated. We just had to serve out the sentences imposed on us. In fact, the guards at Nish even preferred being assigned to us, since we shared the good cigarettes our families sent from home.
My mother came all the way to Nish prison to see me, but the journey made her carsick. She had an IV in her arm. She traveled in the same car as Enver Dugolli and Bislim Zogu’s mothers, all of them together, just to visit us. When they arrived, the guards demanded that we speak to them in Serbian. But how could we? My mother had barely gone to school and didn’t understand a word of Serbian. I begged them: “I need to speak to her in Albanian; she won’t understand what happened to me otherwise.” But they refused. We were excited for their visit, but we chose not to meet them. It was better not to see them than to try to speak in a language that none of them knew. Our mothers had never learned Serbian. None of the women in our family did.
We reached out to a lawyer who specialized in human rights in Serbia. I don’t remember his name, but he was Albanian. He visited us, and we made it clear that if we were allowed visitors, we should be able to speak in our native language, since our mothers didn’t understand any other. Eventually, they agreed to this.
When my mother came to visit the second time, she was with my fiancée, whom I had gotten engaged to before I was imprisoned. They were treated terribly. My mother didn’t understand the rules; she didn’t know she wasn’t allowed to give me anything and that we were only supposed to talk. Since I’d always been fond of watches, she took off her own and tried to give it to me when she saw I didn’t have one. The guards quickly stopped her. That day, my visit was interrupted three times, and I ended up spending more time explaining the situation to the guards than actually talking with my mother.
I feel sorry for her. She went through so much because of me. Every time she came to Nish, she’d show up at the prison with an IV in her arm. The car rides made her so sick. We tried everything to ease it, but nothing worked.
My fiancée came with my mother every time. We got engaged in 1997, and she was always there to help my mother. Her father was very supportive of her in that.
In 2000, the Serbian prisoners started demanding amnesty. They destroyed property and set parts of the prison on fire, sparking massive riots. We stayed locked in our cells. The first floor held inmates convicted of ordinary crimes, while we were on the upper floors. 145 prisoners from Gjakova, known as the “Gjakova group,” were on the second floor, and we were on the third. Afraid of the chaos outside, we barricaded our doors.
The standoff lasted ten days. During that time, Natasa Kandić and Flora Brovina came to visit us. Flora had been released from prison just a few weeks earlier, maybe a month, though I can’t remember exactly.
Then, in June 2001, we received word from the court that the Serbian Parliament had adopted an amnesty law, following international pressure. I got a letter informing me that I would be released.
I had been sentenced for organizing meetings aimed at separating Kosovo from Yugoslavia and creating a Greater Albania. Accused of traveling to Albania, carrying weapons, and planning how to make it happen. We were charged under Articles 125 and 136, both related to terrorism.
The Red Cross picked us up on a Friday. Since KFOR wasn’t allowing anyone near the border, they took me to Prishtina instead. My whole family was waiting for me there; it was shocking. When I had been arrested, everyone was still small. Now they looked grown, all of them.
Going home was pure joy. My father came from Switzerland a week later, since he hadn’t been able to come sooner. He stayed for a week and kept saying, “I’ll go back to Switzerland for a month, then return and organize a big wedding for my eldest son.” But my in-laws and everyone else convinced him: “We’ll take care of it, you can go.” He didn’t have much time to stay anyway.
I got married a month after I was released. We were celebrating, and I didn’t really have time to process everything I’d been through.
When my daughter was born, things felt a little lighter. But as the years went by, instead of healing, it got harder. I lived in constant fear that someone might find out. Always under pressure, always carrying guilt, always afraid the past would resurface. Even now, when I hear relatives talking, my mind immediately goes to: “They know. They’re talking about me.” That fear still haunts me. It hasn’t faded, it’s only grown heavier with time.
Two years later, our son was born. From 2004 to 2010, we had no children. In 2010, we had our second son. Since July 2002, we’ve lived in a rented house in Fushë Kosova. I moved there to stay as far away as possible, just in case the truth ever came out.
When we first moved, my daughter was only two or three months old. I remember spending four days and nights surviving off one small pan of food, barely getting by. But my wife never gave up. That’s just who she is.
We’d visit my in-laws, and they’d ask, “How are things going?” She’d smile and say, “Everything’s good, we’re doing well.” But the truth was, we barely had food at home. I hadn’t been out of prison for long, and finding work was nearly impossible. I had left my home and for 18 years, with no job, living in rented places, not because of any conflict with my family, but because I was scared. Scared that someone might find out.
Back then, the Kosova Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims was near the Students’ Canteen. I went there four or five times, but each time I only made it as far as the German Eye Clinic on the way to the Center. I always turned back before reaching it. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to anyone. But when the law for status recognition was finally adopted, I returned. And this time, I followed through.
It took a year from when we applied to when our status was granted. But now, things are much easier.
The biggest relief for me came when I finally told my wife, before my status was recognized. I never imagined she would be so supportive, but that’s exactly how she responded. I’m incredibly grateful for it. She has helped me more than I can put into words. Every time we talk, she tells me, “That’s in the past now. Focus on the present, think positively, think about children, and look to the future.” She does everything she can to help me move forward, but I know this is something that will never fully go away. It stays with me, deep in my heart. My wife understands that, yet she’s always by my side, offering support. She’s my rock, my right hand.
Still, I think about it all the time. I often ask her, “What if the children find out?” And she reassures me, “No one will find out.” Her support means everything, but my biggest fear remains: what if they discover the truth tomorrow? What then? Maybe nothing will happen, but a man always fears the worst.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, and one message I want to share, it’s this: don’t carry your pain alone. I did for years, and it nearly broke me. I wish I had opened up to my wife sooner; the relief I felt after finally speaking was incredible. Talk to someone you trust.
For people like us, these worries don’t just disappear. We carry them with us to the grave. But sharing them makes the burden easier to bear. Since I came here, at KRCT, and opened up to both you [my therapist] and my wife, I finally feel lighter.
This article contains an edited version of the testimony originally published under the pseudonym “Luli” in the book “Beyond pain, towards courage: Stories about the trauma of sexual violence in war,” co-published by KRCT and Pro Peace. To read the full publication, click here.
Editing: Luca Tesei Li Bassi/Pro Peace
Images: Luca Tesei Li Bassi/Pro Peace
Review and deanonymising: Korab Krasniqi/Pro Peace
Interviewer: Selvi Izeti/KRCT
Interview length: 99:32 min
Interview conducted: September 2021
The inteview was written for a regional platform on Dealing with the Past. For more information please visit the Column section of DwP website.