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The Princess of Kosovo
by Brendan Walsh

Kamanica, Kosovo was a typical Eastern European town with obvious signs of recent tragedy. Most of the town’s population consisted of ethnic Albanian women and children. Countless men from the town had been killed fighting the powerful Serbian Army in the mountains. A lot of the homes had received what the Serbian Army referred to as the “Sarajevo Shake,” a tank round that is blasted directly through the front door. Other houses had received the old fashioned “torch and run” by local Serbian paramilitary groups. Aside from these tragic sights, you’ve got yourself some prime, beautiful real estate. Looking beyond the city and into the green rolling hills with randomly placed farmhouses was a breathtaking sight.

My unit, Charlie Company, had taken over the town’s municipal building, which was located on the main street. Unlike most other structures in Kamanica, this building had been untouched by the war; only a month prior it was occupied by the Serbian mayor and his subordinates. Pictures of the Serbian leader, Slobodan Milosevic, were still present in all of the offices and meeting rooms. Our previous quarters had been a rat-infested warehouse, so the municipal building was a luxury for us.

One evening outside of our quarters, I sat in a sandbagged guard post with Pfc. Anderson, a skinny teenage paratrooper from Kansas. Both of us kept a good watch on the hustle and bustle of Kamanica’s main street. Down the road was Kamanica’s bridge, a “clashing point,” that divided the ethnic Albanian and Serbian population. We would notify the Captain whenever a large group formed around the structure. In turn, he would dispatch a patrol to disperse the gathering.

Standing in front of our post was the usual group of children, most of them standing around watching us admirably or even attempting to sell certain “black market” items. We usually kept the little rascals back at a good distance. None of us wanted to see these kids get hurt, or even killed, if someone decided to take a shot at us.

It was then that I noticed a young girl, who looked to be about eight years old, smiling at me. She was a thin girl with short, brown hair wearing an arm sling. I smiled back and pulled out a bag of M&M’s from my pocket and handed them to her. She shyly accepted the candy with a little giggle and remained across the street watching Pfc. Anderson and me for the rest of the evening. I thought nothing of it.

The days went on and every evening when we assumed our guard post the little girl would be there waving and smiling at us. I would always have something for her, usually a candy bar or a small toy that I had bought from the market. I began to get a little curious about this girl and grew more concerned over the condition of her arm. One day I fetched the company medic, Doc Rise, along with our Albanian translator, Z. The three of us led her into the municipal building hoping Doc Rise could do something for her arm. She spoke to Z for several minutes with little emotion, but I could tell by the look in his eye that it was an emotional conversation. When the little girl finished the story, Z turned to me with a frown and told me that her name was Majlinda. Both of her parents had been murdered during a vicious home invasion. When she ran over to embrace her mother’s body, she was thrown against a wall and sustained a broken arm. After the incident she moved in with her aunt and uncle who lived a few buildings down the road. After receiving a new sling, she wrapped her good arm around me and thanked me in Albanian. My heart broke for the sweet little girl.

The next day, like clockwork, Majlinda was once again standing by our guard post smiling away at us. Noticing the book she was holding, I motioned to her that I would like to take a look at it. It appeared to be an Albanian written fairytale. She pointed to the cover that portrayed a young princess and smiled for a few seconds; then, she pointed to herself. She wanted to become a princess. I handed the book back to her, and she ran along with a group of other young children.

As dusk approached and the sun began to disappear behind the green farming hills in the distance, sudden gunfire erupted down the road by the bridge. My squad was immediately ordered towards the ongoing battle. Serving as the patrol’s point man (the lead man), I walked at a brisk pace toward the sporadic gunfire. I noticed that Majlinda was following us and had quickly caught up with me. I motioned to her to leave, but she continued on with the squad. I began to shout at her, but she just kept smiling at me. I called Z up to the front of the formation. “Z, tell this girl to beat it, will ya!” I shouted at Z in my heavy Boston accent. Z then shouted at Majlinda, and with a hurtful look in her small face, she began to walk back towards Kamanica Center. There was a possibility that we were walking straight into an ambush, and I wasn’t going to risk the chance of her being hurt or killed.

The shooting had stopped minutes before we had arrived on the scene. In the middle of a field was a body of a man in his twenties. He had been shot in his face, which made for a gruesome sight. His jaw was lodged in the back of his skull and a good amount of blood and mucus had been splattered on his white Adidas running suit. His face looked like a mask straight out of a horror movie. An hour later we patrolled back to our quarters with the morbid sight still fresh in our minds, another bloody corpse that will stick with us for the rest of our lives.

In the morning, our squad was tasked out to patrol the market. This was always a potential danger; it was the only time the two ethnic groups came together in conformity. Shootings, stabbings, rocket and grenade attacks occurred frequently in Kosovo’s markets. In one booth, a sparkling blue princess dress caught my attention; I thought it would make a perfect gift for Majlinda. Maybe she could forgive me for snapping at her the previous evening. So for three American dollars, and a few side comments from my squad members, I purchased the dress.

When I handed her the flashy dress, she was ecstatic. From that point on she would only be seen wearing that dress. A week later we got the word that we were to hand Kamanica over to the Russian Army, a mostly pro-Serbian force. The Russians had complained to NATO that they were being shunned and wanted a sector of Kosovo to patrol. Nervous to damage relations with Russia, NATO decided to sacrifice our peacekeeping efforts in Kamanica. The Albanians would once again live out their everyday lives in fear.

When Z told Majlinda the news the night before our departure, she ran off in tears. I wasn’t the only one who felt horrible; she had grown on everybody in the company. The next day after we handed our posts over to a Russian platoon, I began to look up and down the main street for Majlinda. I wanted to wish my tiny princess friend well. She was nowhere to be found, and a deep feeling of disappointment came over me. When the time came to board the trucks, I noticed Majlinda running down the street, weeping and shouting to me in Albanian. When I jumped off the truck, she threw her good arm around me and handed me a picture of herself that included her parents. Majlinda was sitting on her father’s lap and holding hands with her mother, who was seated next to them. Looking at the picture, it was obvious that Majlinda had gotten her big smile from her mother. When I turned it around, in perfectly handwritten English, it read: “THANK YOU FOR MY FREEDOM”

For my remaining time in Kosovo, I often thought about Majlinda. She gave me a meaning to my duty in Kosovo. It was as if she suddenly went from being an actual person to becoming a symbol of the innocent population of Kosovo, especially the children who were forced to grow up in that war-torn environment.

Eight years later, working as a correction officer in Massachusetts, I met a detainee who was being held for a faulty passport who was from Kamanica. Of course, the first person who had come to mind was my little friend, Majlinda. Surprisingly, he claimed that he was good friends with her uncle, the same uncle she had lived with during my stay. He even remembered the princess dress and her disappointment when she outgrew it! He was just as shocked as I was at this coincidence and couldn’t believe that I was the soldier that had given her the dress. He informed me that she was doing very well and was preparing herself for a reputable academy in Italy.

That night when I got home, I took out a smiling picture of Majlinda standing behind some barb wire. I looked at the photograph for a moment and for the first time ever I smiled back.