I was sixteen, and I thought I was fearless. It would take me years to understand there was nothing fearless about me.

Surviving a war isn’t like pressing pause on life and then resuming once it is over. War changes everything.

There is the time before September 1991, in which I lived, and the time after that September, in which I have been dying.

I didn’t understand the vastness of the consequences of war.

Before we can consciously make decisions, we are already part of stories that began long before us.

Zgjim Zyba’s exhibition touches on the concepts of memory and manhood in war.

What Kosovo’s political prisoners and bacteria can teach us about connection and resistance.

Musliu and Ypi’s memoirs disrupt hegemonic readings of the Balkans’ violent transformations across the 1990s.

In Kosovo, preserving the history of exchange among communities is an act of anti-ethnonationalist resistance and hope.

I cannot undo the scattering of our generation across Serbia, Germany and beyond. But I can remember, and I can write.

Through my mother’s experiences, I’ve come to realize that the burden of a disrupted life is quite heavy.