{"id":64693,"date":"2021-07-07T12:17:41","date_gmt":"2021-07-07T10:17:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/kosovotwopointzero.com\/?p=64693"},"modified":"2021-12-30T09:14:34","modified_gmt":"2021-12-30T08:14:34","slug":"hows-life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/hows-life\/","title":{"rendered":"How\u2019s life?"},"content":{"rendered":"\t\t<div data-elementor-type=\"wp-post\" data-elementor-id=\"64693\" class=\"elementor elementor-64693\" data-elementor-post-type=\"post\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-f366afb elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"f366afb\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-22c0a55\" data-id=\"22c0a55\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-fdc01c5 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"fdc01c5\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<h4><b>To kick off our &#8216;LIFE&#8217; media carnival, K2.0 editors reflect on body, place and voice.<\/b><\/h4>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-af5921b elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"af5921b\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-f514c84\" data-id=\"f514c84\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-7dbe404 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"7dbe404\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<audio style=\"width: 300px;\" preload=\"metadata\" controls=\"controls\" target=\"_blank\">\n<source src=\"https:\/\/media.blubrry.com\/test12332\/content.blubrry.com\/test12332\/KS20_Hows_life_prezantim_hapja_7_Korrik_2021.mp3\" type=\"audio\/mpeg\" \/>\nYour browser does not support the audio element.\n<\/audio>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-0acaccf elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"0acaccf\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-12636a6\" data-id=\"12636a6\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-19a2880 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"19a2880\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #808080;\"><em>By Besa Luci<\/em><\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-92af084 elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"92af084\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-fe486c2\" data-id=\"fe486c2\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-5551147 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"5551147\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The majority of discussions we end up engaging in center around some aspect of \u201clife.\u201d Life\u2019s qualities; life\u2019s possibilities; life\u2019s expectations; life\u2019s difficulties; life\u2019s uncertainties; life\u2019s injustices; life\u2019s alternatives.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">At its essence, life is the one fundamental thing<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> that people everywhere share, and struggle over. It is an obvious but important reminder of connectedness, and one that became particularly visible over the course of the past 18 months as the pandemic joined all in a global discussion over the grave toll COVID-19 had taken over people\u2019s health and welfare.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Amidst recurring forms of quarantines and lockdowns affecting people\u2019s mobility and livelihoods; the subsequent global economic fallout with the most dire impact on those already vulnerable and fragile; ongoing political turmoils or clampdowns by power elites seeking to profit from the crisis; and death often becoming a mere faceless statistic that barely begins to tell the tale of political failure and mismanagement \u2014 it has been life, that in one way or another, has been at the center of it all.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Yet, how we talk of the different facets of what constitutes life is telling of which experiences and what narratives are deemed to warrant merit and whose struggles end up being disregarded, ignored, or belittled.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It raises the question of worth, and one important venue where such deliberations occur is within the media itself. Life, though maybe not always mentioned as such, is continuously at the center of journalistic exploration. And those writing the stories of it end up making decisions that can affect what we know, see, read or understand of society around us.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p>\u00a0<\/p><h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>Confronting LIFE<\/b><\/h4><p>\u00a0<\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"letter-spacing: -0.1px;\">This is one of the reasons that at K2.0 we chose LIFE as the theme of the second edition of our annual Media Carnival.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Following a prolonged period when one of the most recurring questions seems to have been \u201cwhen will life return to normal?\u201d it seemed only fitting to question not only what constitutes life itself for different people and communities, but also to challenge the idea of a return to the way things were before. Because, the longing for a return to \u201cnormality\u201d is something that has often been challenged or rejected, particularly when considering that \u201cnormality\u201d does not equate with wellbeing for so many, and was not necessarily something to be upheld to begin with.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It has been said many times, but it requires repeating because it continues to hold true \u2014 the pandemic ended up exposing the vast structural and systematic inequalities both globally and more locally.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is reflected on so many levels: the sl<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">ow vaccine rollout to poorer countries, with the initial hoarding and vaccine nationalism by richer countries; the economic relief packages that favored conglomerates over small businesses, or owners over workers; the continued disregard toward migrants as \u201cthe other\u201d not meritting attention, even in light of a global crisis that was supposed to have triggered some form of compassion; the apparent cultu<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">ral acceptance that women continue to end up being killed at the hands of patriarchy; the political attempts to control and regulate the bodies of \u201cothers\u201d when they are deemed \u201cdifferent\u201d; the continuous disregard for how damage being caused to our common place, the environment, is sold off as a promising venture for employment, all on the back of individual profit and self-interest.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Different versions of such stories end up in the media. However, rarely with the sense of urgency or resoluteness they require. Rejecting a complete return to the pre-pandemic realities could become the framework through which a re-imagining of life is envisioned, and fought for.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>\u00a0<\/b><\/p><h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>Body, Place, Voice<\/b><\/h4><div><b>\u00a0<\/b><\/div><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Which leads us to \u201cHow\u2019s Life?\u201d \u2014 the question K2.0 is posing, with the aim of remembering, rebelling against and reimagining everything around us.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And we\u2019re doing so by focusing on \u201cBody, Place and Voice,\u201d as three subjects where struggles for control, dominance and power particularl<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">y manifest themselves.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>Body<\/b><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, which besides its commonly referred to biological existence, is socially and politically all too often treated as an object in need of regulation. Bodies are prescribed a sex, gender, race, ethnicity and other traits, and scorned when viewed through values others attach to them \u2014 in constant attempts to manage. Meanwhile, liberty over one\u2019s own choice or self-identification needs to be continuously negotiated and fought for.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>Place<\/b><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, a venue for exploring not only one\u2019s sense of belonging, rejection or expulsion, but also how such sentiments are an intricate part of politically and economically driven projects to determine our existence: who has access to a place to call home, and at what cost? Who can participate in the making of a city, town or village, and to what extent? Who can engage in the fight against the destruction of the environment, as home, all around us, and how safely?<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And ultimately, <\/span><b>Voice<\/b><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, which comes down to recognizing, using and not compromising one\u2019s agency, particularly when facing <\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">forces<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> that seek to silence or delegitimize criticism. Because each story, experience or viewpoint that is non-conforming is a voice that warrants recognition.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">In all three of these subjects, the media and the choices we make over what issues receive prominence, which experiences are recorded,<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> and how we engage in depicting them and defining the contexts within which they are situated are crucial and require continuous self-scrutiny.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">That is why, as part of our four-day media carnival, we have put together a program of exceptional and inspiring voices that will share their questioning, challenging and rethinking of how we talk about and experience body, place and voice.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">In order to kick us off, the following section offers a collection of reflections and perspectives by some of us at K2.0, exploring personal encounters and confrontations with how questions over body, place and voice are intertwined in much of our daily lives. <\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-42beb5d elementor-section-full_width elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"42beb5d\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-a678736\" data-id=\"a678736\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-63f8850 elementor-widget elementor-widget-image\" data-id=\"63f8850\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"image.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<img width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" src=\"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/Aulona-Text_003-copy.jpg\" class=\"attachment-full size-full wp-image-64691\" alt=\"\" loading=\"lazy\" \/>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-5002081 elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"5002081\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-50 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-381979f\" data-id=\"381979f\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-05e40f9 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"05e40f9\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<p style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>\u00a0<\/b><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>A story of pain<\/b><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #808080;\"><em>By Aulon\u00eb Kadriu<\/em><\/span><\/p><p>\u00a0<\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201c<\/span><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She is the day transcending night\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Interrupted. Me and Her. And this is a story of pain.<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cShe is the thousand winds that blow<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She is the diamond glints in snow<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She is the sunlight on ripened grain,<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She is the gentle, autumn rain.<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As I awake with morning\u2019s hush,<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She is the swift, up-flinging rush<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Of quiet birds in circling flight,<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She is the day transcending night.<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Do not stand<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">By her grave, and cry\u2014<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She is not there,<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She did not die.\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She did not die. He killed her.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Adapted from Mary Elizabeth Frye&#8217;s \u201cDo not stand at my grave and weep\u201d<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-50 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-f2bcef3\" data-id=\"f2bcef3\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-240c4da elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"240c4da\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>BODY GONE, BODY ALTERED<\/b><\/h4><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #808080;\"><em>By Aulon\u00eb Kadriu<\/em><\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #808080;\"><em>\u00a0<\/em><\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">In a vain attempt to maintain my body, I went swimming that day. The very day she died. Pointless, I later realized. Pointless is the word to depict my frivolous fight to maintain, while she was fighting to survive. To maintain and to survive. <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">To be <\/span><\/i><b><i>and<\/i><\/b><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> not to be.<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Me being and her not being. I chose to maintain; she never chose to fight to survive. Of all the battles one chooses to fight, I am sure as hell basic survival is not one.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">While my body was overcoming the water, soaked in an illusion of freedom, she did not stand a chance. I was staying above the water, while a storm came her way. She was deprived of control. Paralyzed, she was being pulled under. Eventually, she sank.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">He, the unendurable weight pulling her down. She, yet another martyr in an uncalled-for battle. He had already killed her. I just had no idea. Not just yet. Living in a thwarted pursuit of freedom, with brief glimpses of happiness, little did I know that the world was crumbling. Shattered into sharp pieces that hadn\u2019t reached me just yet. The storm had arrived. Breathing in, breathing out, little did I know that she had been killed and I was alive and that this fact would become the very weight that lured me to the bottom.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I had to keep swimming. I had to choose to keep my head above the water. Choice was a luxury to her. I had to keep my head above the water so that, perhaps, one day choice will come cheaper.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My body quivered. Powerless. But I was alive. She was not. She was violated. Dead. In a box. Mine was in shock. He took her life and shifted mine, from miles and miles apart. She was gone. In a blink of an eye. In a gunshot. In a second. Here we were. Two bodies in orbit distorted by the whims of a man. One alive, one dead. Two bodies. One forced to die. One forced to live questioning her very existence.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">When one has an out-of-body experience, the patterns of this world come into question. The body I try to preserve and secure, in a world that is so eager to own it, had shifted. Forever. Shifted, so as to not be held back by patterns anymore. My body will prevail. In a new world shaped by bodies like mine. Bodies like hers. Shaped by bodies that won\u2019t be owned. For the bodies we lost.<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-1cb0d2a elementor-section-full_width elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"1cb0d2a\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-1ea7dcd\" data-id=\"1ea7dcd\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-1ad4683 elementor-widget elementor-widget-image\" data-id=\"1ad4683\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"image.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<img width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" src=\"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/Life-Multimedia_Nidzara-story.jpg\" class=\"attachment-full size-full wp-image-64688\" alt=\"\" loading=\"lazy\" \/>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-bdbbcb4 elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"bdbbcb4\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-3da0691\" data-id=\"3da0691\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-24df7d4 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"24df7d4\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>Walking for a different life<\/b><\/h4><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #808080;\"><em>By Nidzara Ahmetasevic<\/em><\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It took him five years and ten months to come from India to Spain, to see his brother. Most of that time, G. walked, except from India to Turkey.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">When he got to Turkey he started north, walking toward Greece. It took him six days. Once in Greece, in the EU, he was hoping the journey was over, and he would have a chance to start a life, find work, get status\u2026 Nothing happened for two years. Then G. decided to continue toward Spain where his brother lives.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">From Greece he walked to North Macedonia, then Serbia, and then, across the river, to Bosnia and Herzegovina where he got stuck until mid-June this year. During that time, 21 times he tried the <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">game<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, a risky journey across the green borders to the EU.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">While in the Balkans, he was pushed back by different police forces, mostly from the EU side, endlessly, stopped by walls, wires, police dogs, beaten so many times that it became normal. All that time, he was deprived of basic rights. Often also of food and water.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Finally, in mid-June, G. decided to try one last <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">game<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. If he fails, he will go back to India. The game lasted 18 days and took him across three countries. And finally \u2014 standing on his own feet, but feeling like bear food because his shoes had fallen apart at some point\u2014 he reached Italy, and soon continued towards Spain.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The game is over for G., and now he has a chance to start a new life. <\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\">G. is one of many people who walked across the Balkans in order to reach a place where they will be safe and get a chance for a better life. Their feet are carrying the stories of a life in a world of closed borders, a world where we are not equal. It is a world where for some of us to just meet with a family member who lives in another country, we are required to go through a <i>game<\/i> in which our lives are tokens for somebody else to play with.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Since the Balkan route became a main migratory route toward northern and western Europe in 2015, everyday people are walking in their attempt to reach the European dream. They are coming from Afghanistan, Eritrea, Syria, Palestine, Nigeria, Congo, China, Turkey, Libya\u2026\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">They walk across the fields, forests, mountains, rivers&#8230; Sometimes over 16 hours in a day.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Their feet become like open wounds.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">At some stages of the journey, they meet people who help them, sometimes giving them new shoes, sometimes first aid, sometimes just a smile and a piece of food. Those who help often feel as helpless as those who are walking, both faced with the cruel policy of closed borders.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">&#8220;It hurts,&#8221; are the words often repeated by people who are walking. It refers not only to the physical pain, but the pain that will stay inside of them for a very long time, a reminder of fortress Europe, which is often stronger than what their bodies can endure.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Their lives and freedoms are controlled by the privileged, those who can go wherever they want, who walk only if and when they like. They live in the borderless world, and believe they are the only ones who have a right to that kind of freedom. They ask for \u201chumanitarian corridors,\u201d they create refugee camps that look like detention centers, they collect old shoes and clothes and bring them to those who are deprived of life and basic freedoms.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u201cMy legs hurt, but I know it will go away,\u201d young Y. told me when we met in Sarajevo after he had been pushed back from the EU for the 5th time. He tried to enter the EU from Romania, but\u00a0 the police stopped him, and then tried to break his bones. After being pushed back, Serbian police continued the ugly task of sending the message that migrants and refugees are not welcome in the EU.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">He will try again from Bosnia to Croatia.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">&#8220;It hurts, sister, but I am tired. I need nothing. I just need to go. Just it,&#8221; he wrote to me in his broken English.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Their wounded feet are like images of a new Europe, the one we are living in today. Images of the nightmare which lasts for too long.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-55a11eb elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"55a11eb\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-515b10e\" data-id=\"515b10e\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-2304e24 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"2304e24\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>A PLACE SHE NEVER HAD, A PLACE I NEED TO FIND<\/b><\/h4><p>\u00a0<\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I went home, a safe place she did not have. A safe place she didn\u2019t get to at least die in. She was far away from both, from home and from not dying. She, like many other women, never got a taste of comfort anywhere. They live \u2013 if and when they get to live \u2013 displaced.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There might be better places to die, but there aren&#8217;t better places to be killed.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was killed out of place. In an illegal place. From a living body, a hopeful voice, she became a murdered migrant woman in a heartbeat. Tables turned. A hopeless intersection. Once again displaced. Eternally and repeatedly executed. In a world that hastily chases the news, and that just as hastily forgets, she was no news. In a world eager for scandal, her death failed to even scandalize. In a world thirsty for tales of blood, hers was unwanted.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Not quite enough for the headlines there. Not quite enough for the headlines here. And I had to find a place in me, for her to rest peacefully. And a place in the world that did not spare a minute of tranquility for her. A place where she is a body, a voice.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was no news. She became the frontpage of my life, its headlines, its definition.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was meant to be. That might have been the case for every other death I have witnessed in my life. We learn to practice life; we even call it an art. But one can never practice death. While we cannot learn the unlearnable, what has never been shown to us, we learn to be prepared. To live our lives, knowing that death will be an occasional yet constant encounter. While you can never be well prepared for life, one is even less prepared for death. Yet people do everything humanly possible to ease the pain of permanent loss that comes with death.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But she was not meant to die. What happens when someone who has lived inhumanely is killed inhumanely. Those of us left in the killing&#8217;s wake, is there any way of coming out of it whole?<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I say yes. Reluctantly so, but yes. But you have to come to terms with the interruption. Because murder is not like death. It disrupts. Interrupts. And you have to plug back into life.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">You are never the same after someone you loved is killed. After someone you knew is killed. An acquaintance. Someone whose name you saw on your phone contacts list, even. Someone who sent you an email, even once. It becomes impossible to speak about life without the conversation slipping to death, the one process you cannot undergo twice. You cannot have a bad death once, and plan a better one later. The one irreversible process.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I too, foolishly believing I had mastered the art of life, thinking life was an art to begin with, always thought that loss has a pattern. Pain. Grief. Healing. Pulling yourself together. Living. And I thought death was out there. Not here. This is the first shock. Her killing changed all the patterns of death. If death ever seemed linear, yours had an insane amplitude. Waves. Curves. Restless movement. Up and down. Up and down. Her death alienated me from my own language. My bodily reactions. My habits. I have not faced it on my own terms. She did not die on her own terms.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She died on a man\u2019s terms. He chose the course of life for her. For me.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Language rejects her death. Death and her name cannot be in one sentence. Which is why she is anonymous today. She is anonymous because she is not the only one. She is anonymous because there are so many names. She is anonymous because she is so present. She did not die. She was killed.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-a57e196 elementor-section-full_width elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"a57e196\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-dc4f795\" data-id=\"dc4f795\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-a6a1e7b elementor-widget elementor-widget-image\" data-id=\"a6a1e7b\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"image.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<img width=\"2000\" height=\"1500\" src=\"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/Jack-Butcher_multimedia-Story.jpg\" class=\"attachment-full size-full wp-image-64685\" alt=\"\" loading=\"lazy\" \/>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-523ce47 elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"523ce47\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-fb8d62c\" data-id=\"fb8d62c\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-40fe87d elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"40fe87d\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>From one home to another(\u2019s)<\/b><\/h4><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #808080;\"><em>By Jack Butcher<\/em><\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My decision to leave Prishtina had caught me somewhat by surprise.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Forced into a choice between being indefinitely locked down alone in the city that had captured my heart five years earlier and heading for a faraway village from a former and increasingly distant life, it hadn\u2019t been my first instinct.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I\u2019d had no thoughts of leaving as Kosovo\u2019s <\/span><a href=\"https:\/\/kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/two-cases-of-covid-19-confirmed-in-kosovo\/\" target=\"_blank\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">first cases of COVID-19<\/span><\/a><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> were announced on that Friday 13 as I sat with colleagues working late in the office to get the story out. And I still hadn\u2019t considered it the next day as we trawled through the swathe of imposing <\/span><a href=\"https:\/\/kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/kosovo-government-announces-covid-19-lockdown\/\" target=\"_blank\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">new restrictions brought in overnight<\/span><\/a><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> that limited almost every area of citizens\u2019 lives.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But after some frantic \u2014 and rather emotional \u2014 phone calls with family members back in the UK after they\u2019d got wind of the lockdown and imminent border closure, I found the tug of my roots to be overwhelming during a moment of such global uncertainty.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">With hours to go until the borders slammed shut and with airlines rapidly cancelling flights, I desperately threw what I could of my life into a backpack and, in the dead of night, headed to the airport. A few hours later, still in shock, I huddled into a plane seat on the last flight out of Kosovo and watched the bright lights of my adopted home disappear beneath me \u2014 unsure when I would be able to return.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And so here I was, amongst the rolling foothills of a remote and rugged National Park, in the quaint English hamlet that I had grown up in but that I hadn\u2019t called home for over a decade. The familiar sounds of <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">tallava<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> or hip-hop leaking unabashed from the built-up traffic was replaced by the occasional hum of a neighbour\u2019s lawnmower somewhere down the valley; the rhythm of the call to prayer in the old part of the city replaced by the chatter of songbirds seeking food for their young.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I spent much of that spring in denial, telling few people of my knee-jerk decision to desert; the less people who knew, the easier it was to will myself back into my abandoned home. So as if to assuage my guilt at having left at the first sign of crisis, I threw myself into every aspect of lockdown life back in Prishtina, from closely scrutinizing the latest pandemic-related restrictions to hosting online parties for my friends.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Part of that also meant diving even deeper than ever into my work as an editor at K2.0.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Now, as my colleagues and I scrabbled to make sense of what the overnight upheaval meant for workers, single mothers and individuals already struggling with their mental health, we also found ourselves covering a simultaneous political crisis. With citizens trapped in their apartments and impotent to act, shady dealings by local actors coupled with the last flings of desperation from the Trump administration in the U.S. <\/span><a href=\"https:\/\/kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/kosovo-government-falls-in-midst-of-covid-19-crisis\/\" target=\"_blank\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">unceremoniously brought down<\/span><\/a><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> Kosovo\u2019s newly elected \u201cGovernment of Hope.\u201d<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The anger, incredulity and deep sense of injustice I shared with my friends and colleagues in Kosovo was hard to reconcile with the sedate and tranquil world I was physically inhabiting. In my room, in video calls, I talked of government collapse and constitutional coups, while outside my window primrose bulbs or the closure of the local caf<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">\u00e9<\/span><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> were discussed over freshly baked brownies.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There may have been the occasional chatter about <\/span><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theguardian.com\/world\/2021\/feb\/14\/boris-johnson-getting-covid-you-dont-realise-what-state-youre-in\" target=\"_blank\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">PM Boris Johnson\u2019s health<\/span><\/a><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> or another <\/span><a href=\"https:\/\/www.reuters.com\/article\/us-health-coronavirus-britain-procuremen-idINKBN2AJ1KF\" target=\"_blank\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">dodgy emergency contract<\/span><\/a><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> issued to a mate of a minister, and the ever-present post-Brexit fallout inevitably hovered somewhere beneath the surface. But for the most part I blanked out this noise, considering it small fry compared to the far more pressing issues back home in Kosovo.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I insisted that my friends in Prishtina take me out \u2014 via their phones \u2014 onto their balconies each evening to join the nightly protests as citizens bashed pots, pans or anything they could get their hands on to register their opposition to the underhand wrestling of power. Meanwhile, once a week, I would step outside onto the front drive alongside all the neighbours to politely clap for the UK\u2019s beleaguered health workers as the number of cases, deaths and hospitalisations continued to rise at an alarming rate.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">In those moments of prescribed national solidarity, it was hard not to resent the people around me, lining the sides of a street made up largely of detached houses and bungalows, all nicely spaced by over-attended gardens. We may have all been facing the same pandemic, but what did they know about the existential fears facing those close to me but now indefinitely cut off on the other side of the continent? The pandemic may have introduced uncertainty into these neighbours\u2019 lives, but what was a little uncertainty amongst such apparent luxury?<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My rejection of my surroundings extended to the beauty of the unassuming natural environment all around me. How could a place that cared so little about the rest of the world deserve to be so breathtakingly perfect with its ancient meandering lanes, abundance of spring flowers and lush greenery as far as the eye can see? How could a place bursting with perennial life be so detached from those who truly valued what it meant to be alive?<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Unwilling to accept the cushy local conformity and unable to do nothing in the face of injustice, I resorted to a late night action to try and shake things up. I had done my best to preserve my energy in the early months of the pandemic in the UK by holding my tongue as the Conservative government badly mismanaged its response by firstly ignoring the threat, then playing it down before finally bumbling into a series of chaotic and often disastrous actions. But after a <\/span><a href=\"https:\/\/www.chicagotribune.com\/coronavirus\/ct-nw-dominic-cummings-coronavirus-boris-johnson-20200525-p4nvgot44zcknnbm6f4uadskmi-story.html\" target=\"_blank\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">particularly galling example<\/span><\/a><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> of cronyism, hypocrisy and dishonesty, I made my own poster with challenging statements about \u201ctruth,\u201d \u201ctrust\u201d and \u201cdemocracy\u201d and crept out after dark to anonymously pin up copies around the village.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And yet over time, as I passed my poster slowly fading in the phone box window on my daily walk, I came to feel a sense of unease about it. Not that my feelings behind the issues it protested had changed \u2014 they hadn\u2019t. But in a small and tight-knit community such as this, where issues of \u201ctruth\u201d and \u201ctrust\u201d were lived experiences that bonded people together from all walks of life, I questioned whether this was really the right way to use my voice.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I had learnt through my job following protests, talks and discussions that principled defiance has its place. But as I gradually came to engage with the surprisingly diverse range of neighbours around me, I remembered that dialogue and compassion are equally important in affecting change \u2014 without these, we become trapped within our own bubbles and fail to see that the vast majority are doing what they can in their own way.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I\u2019d been adamant when I first arrived back that the village of my childhood had nothing left to teach me. Yet, in its own unique way, each home leaves its mark.<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-4c247f7 elementor-section-full_width elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"4c247f7\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-6848085\" data-id=\"6848085\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-6ca2e49 elementor-widget elementor-widget-image\" data-id=\"6ca2e49\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"image.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<img width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" src=\"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/Bronwyn-Story-Multimedia-copy.jpg\" class=\"attachment-full size-full wp-image-64682\" alt=\"\" loading=\"lazy\" \/>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-92f6bcc elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"92f6bcc\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-64a9407\" data-id=\"64a9407\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-1ba9d3d elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"1ba9d3d\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><b>What I learned from teaching girls how to fight<\/b><\/h4><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #808080;\"><em>By Bronwyn Jones<\/em><\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I can tell you exactly why many people don\u2019t want women playing sports: because it is a fuel rod for her rage. A rage of joy, anger and power. We are mocked for this in almost every other aspect of our lives. But in sport, she gets to feel stronger, more capable, more clever; she gets to fight and feel the joy of winning and the shit of losing \u2014 she gets to be herself. And the male world doesn\u2019t matter. Her body is suddenly hers alone. It is not there for others&#8217; judgment, gaze or control, but only for herself and her own happiness.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">We separate boys from girls at some point in sport not because the girls \u201caren\u2019t good enough\u201d or \u201cnot strong enough\u201d but because natural physical differences create a need for categories. People like to claim this categorical difference makes a difference in quality. But this is only so they can keep women and girls out of sport and control our bodies.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Everything can change when a boy looks at a girl he has been playing alongside for years and says, \u201cI\u2019m bigger and stronger than you.\u201d Or when the boys foul her, or they won\u2019t pass the ball to her they are making sure that she knows she isn\u2019t supposed to be there. And we ask ourselves, who raises boys like this? To be abusive and police women\u2019s bodies and freedom? Even when they are barely in their teens? All of us do, one way or the other.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The thing is \u2014 and this is something a lot of people don\u2019t get \u2014 there is not much difference between the bodies of young boys and girls. And while strength and speed are important, so are skills, smarts and technique. Sport is 90% in your mind. So when we sit there assuming that male bodies are better than female bodies, that\u2019s on us.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I thought the young generation would no longer have to deal with this, and that girls would no longer have to battle boys. But a while ago I saw it happen again.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I\u2019ve been teaching kids rugby for a few years now. As is normal everywhere in the rugby world, I teach girls and boys together until tackling starts. It\u2019s only when we hit each other that we separate.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Segregating the children before tackling begins would be for me an admission of the failure to teach the value of equality. It would mean I failed to make sure that all of the kids come up together as equals, and that girls know they have a place in sport too.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I worried about the girls leaving sports during their adolescence. Girls come under pressure during these years, pressure to be considered attractive, available or proper. These pressures can lead young women to suddenly drop sport. Because the girl who every boy wants to fuck isn\u2019t fighting on the pitch.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">So the pressure is on, especially in Kosovo, where for all its prowess and pride in sport, little is invested in the grassroots (where all those champions begin) and even less in girls.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Knowing all this, I thought I was ready to teach my girls to rage against this and channel it into their sport, to demand equality with the boys.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But in the end, I failed. I gave the girls my pep talk and told them to hold their space and be strong, that they are the best. I told the boys that their abusiveness was shameful and lectured them on sportsmanship. But in the end I separated the boys from the girls so the girls no longer had to hear how they aren\u2019t good enough, when more often than not, they were better.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">How can we talk about progress when young girls are still being told the same thing I was once told?\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">We can\u2019t say we have progressed anywhere because our progress is temporal and limited \u2014\u00a0 only some women get to fret about the glass ceiling. But even that privilege can just as easily be rolled back. Put aside the online activism, the advanced academic discourse or Women&#8217;s Day marches; women are still in the same place we have always been. We fool ourselves but we don\u2019t fool the world.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-a7b738b elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"a7b738b\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-78d1724\" data-id=\"78d1724\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-1b532b8 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"1b532b8\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<h4 style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\"><b>VOICE MUTED, VOICE SHIFTED<\/b><\/span><\/h4><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">What infuriates me is that she was trying to live better. She was almost there. Just as everyone is always trying, almost there, trying as long as one lives.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">And while she was trying, she was shut down. Unplugged. Disconnected. Muted. Muted as if she was a noisy TV in a quiet place. Someone else called the shots. Not God. I wish it had been God, or something else. A car crash. An incurable disease. And that has to be the worst curse, begging for a different death, without the chance for a different life.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">But I can still choose life, a choice she was deprived of, along with her body, place and voice.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Her body taken, mine altered. Her place lost, mine distorted. Her voice muted, mine to be found again. Pain. Pain. Pain. Pain in a dance with rage. But first, pain. She was killed. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep on swimming, until the storm clears. And if it doesn&#8217;t, I&#8217;ll build a new sun. One that warms us all.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Breathe in, breathe out. Ground. Let pain in. Open that can of worms, once and for all. Let it in, and let it out. Let pain dance with rage. But don\u2019t join the choreography. Be the killjoy when there is no joy, there is nothing to be happy about. Let pain in. Don\u2019t dance.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">We won\u2019t dance a dance orchestrated by someone else. We will not dance in a distorted world that expects us to dance while exploiting our bodies. Forcing us to dance. Forcing us out of our bodies, voices, places. We won\u2019t dance.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">We will shut the music down.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">So my voice speaking her name can be heard.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">So my voice speaking her name disturbs the lightness of those that kill and those that witness in silence.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">So my voice speaking her name can once and for all\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Disrupt.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Shift.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">A reality taken for granted.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">So my voice speaking her name<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Can reach her,\u00a0<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">underground.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Her body.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Her place.<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Her voice.<\/span><\/p><p>\u00a0<\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">So my voice can be heard.<\/span><\/p><p>\u00a0<\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">Loudly.<\/span><\/p><p>\u00a0<\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400; color: #ffffff;\">So my voice echoes<\/span><\/p><p style=\"text-align: left;\"><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">And remains unforgotten. Unforgettable.<\/span> <\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t<section class=\"elementor-section elementor-top-section elementor-element elementor-element-eaf2081 elementor-section-boxed elementor-section-height-default elementor-section-height-default\" data-id=\"eaf2081\" data-element_type=\"section\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-container elementor-column-gap-default\">\n\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-column elementor-col-100 elementor-top-column elementor-element elementor-element-f84c91e\" data-id=\"f84c91e\" data-element_type=\"column\">\n\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-wrap elementor-element-populated\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-element elementor-element-08df943 elementor-widget elementor-widget-text-editor\" data-id=\"08df943\" data-element_type=\"widget\" data-widget_type=\"text-editor.default\">\n\t\t\t\t<div class=\"elementor-widget-container\">\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<p><b>Authors:\u00a0<\/b><\/p><p>Besa Luci<br \/>Aulon\u00eb Kadriu<br \/>Nidzara Ahmetasevic<br \/>Jack Butcher<br \/>Bronwyn Jones<\/p><p><strong>Editing:<\/strong><\/p><p>Daniel Petrick<\/p><p><strong>Photography:<\/strong><\/p><p>Atdhe Mulla<\/p><p><strong>Feature Video:\u00a0<\/strong><\/p><p>Agon Dana<\/p><p><strong>Typography &amp; Illustration:<\/strong><\/p><p>Arrita Katona<\/p><p><strong>Production:<\/strong><\/p><p>Dibran Sejdiu<\/p><p><strong>Sound Mix:<\/strong><\/p><p>Studio 11<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t<\/section>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>To kick off our &#8216;LIFE&#8217; media carnival, K2.0 editors reflect on body, place and voice. Your browser does not support&#8230;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":260,"featured_media":64721,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[972],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/64693"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/260"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=64693"}],"version-history":[{"count":55,"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/64693\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":69370,"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/64693\/revisions\/69370"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/64721"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=64693"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=64693"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/archive.kosovotwopointzero.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=64693"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}