A small taste of what we’ve seen here from the perspective of one of the many forgotten children of Gjakova:
His eyes were sad when he smiled. Tourists only want photographs of children who smile. The few coins jingling around in his pocket indicated that he had not yet made his quota. He ran his hands along his bruised ribs as he remembered the last time he didn’t make his quota. It was going to be a long night.
As the sun began to sink in the sky, the loudspeakers all around the town began to bellow and wail. He stopped to stare up at the speaker jutting awkwardly from the minaret – modern technology conspicuously clashing with a thousand years of history. The noise pouring out of it was sort of beautiful, but eerie, too. It flooded the city like a tsunami that can’t be escaped. Instinctively, he covered his ears; he’s heard this song a million times before.
Gradually, people began to take to the street. His hand stretched out, face poised in a practiced and pathetic expression, he goes mostly ignored by the crowd. They were all very hungry and mostly focused on the state of their stomachs.
The boy didn’t understand what all the fuss was about- he went all the time without eating all day. They just went one month a year and were rewarded with a feast at the end of it. When it seemed that they had eaten their fill, he had another go at collecting. A few futile minutes later he decides to change locations- another kid must have already worked this street.
As he walked down the road, he recognized many faces. You see a lot of a person’s life when you live in the shadows. Many things they might try to hide from people who mattered. He didn’t understand why the same people who willingly forego a day of perfectly good and attainable food to follow a strict rule would spend many evenings drinking too much and in the beds of many women. How could they leave him to starve and shoo him away as a nuisance during the most holy month of the year? “Religion is confusing,” he thought to himself as he checked his pockets again. He was so close to his quota now. Maybe even close enough to try for home. His ribs ached again. Maybe not.
He turned to see a group of his friends and colleagues playing in the next street over. The urge to play overtook him- he was only eight, after all. He ran over to his friends and they began to laugh as they wrestled and played a game of footie with a discarded water bottle. Maybe he just wouldn’t go home tonight. His parents probably wouldn’t remember anyway.
