While this article was written in the fall of 2000, it certainly must reflect the experiences and feelings of a multitude of nursing professionals now doing the same type of work in places like Iraq and Afghanistan.
Do you know about all the American boys who were in Kosovo? They were there to protect the peace. They were everywhere! And not just Americans – Peacekeeping Forces from all over the world including Russia, France, Italy, United Kingdom, Sweden and America were stationed in Kosovo. I was there too, celebrating the millennium summer, working as a nurse practitioner in the Balkan War recovery effort.
I was privileged to be working in a Maternal Child Health program in Gjilane, Kosovo. My team consisted of two Albanian general practitioner doctors and two nurses. Together we provided basic reproductive healthcare throughout the Kosovo countryside, in the tiny, sparsely furnished clinics called ambulantas.
I found that summer that the Albanian people were especially fond of the Americans-all Americans! In fact, I was given very special treatment in stores and even on the street just because they recognized me as an American. One storekeeper even had painted in two-foot high letters “THANK YOU AMERICA” across his storefront. Once a shopkeeper insisted that I take a special tape as a gift, "Gratis for Americana." It had music by a local artist. One of my staff translated for me that the songs were all about "The difficult times of my Kosovo." Another day I tried to buy a croissant with a 20DM which is like a $10 bill. The little girl in the shop couldn't make change for it, but she firmly insisted that I take the croissant "Gratis for Americana - Ju lutem!" (Please let me thank you America)
My Kosovar medical staff often told me that they were afraid that when the Peacekeepers left that the fighting would begin again. I was afraid that they were right. But, for now the Peacekeepers remained. No one knows for how long.
In the small city where I worked, it was the American part of the military forces that I saw on every corner. American boys dressed in drab army green or jungle fatigues carried machine guns or other large weapons. I saw them drive about the city streets in armored Hummers armed with machine guns, facing front and back, to guard the street in both directions. Occasionally I saw a Tank with the REALY big guns aimed at me when I passed a convoy on the highway.
Young men with such serious expressions. Even though I knew they were there to protect me, as well as the local people, I felt a quickening of my heart whenever I met one head-on with his gun pointed straight toward me and that stern, serious expression in his eyes. It felt so uneasy to have to trust the judgment of an 18-year-old to know when to, and when not to, use his gun.
One day I walked to what had become my favorite eating-place. It was a tiny little café run by three friendly men. They spoke no English; I spoke no Albanian, so we communicated only by pantomime. I decided that they must be brothers.
One did all the cooking, right in front of the large picture window that looked out over the sidewalk - white beans, mashed potatoes cooked with lots of paprika and cabbage rolls filled with spicy ground meat and rice. One brought me my plate of food and made such a fuss about setting the silverware just right on a tiny paper napkin. The last brother delivered a drink and a towel to dry my hands, after I washed in the sink on the wall in the back of the café. I ate there often and the routine never changed. I was almost always the solitary diner and wondered how they stayed in business.
One afternoon on the way to my café, I passed a parked Hummer on the corner. In the portal cut from the roof of the Hummer stood two young soldiers facing in opposite directions so they could view the street in both directions. Each held a machine gun. As I neared the corner I caught the eye of the young man that faced me, with his gun pointing toward my heart. He was a tall boy, about 18 years old, with solemn brown eyes and dark skin. He looked straight ahead with a stern and serious expression on his face.
I wondered how these young men feel about the big responsibility they had been given. They were all very young men, boys really, in their late teens or early twenties. Living so far away from home and not being allowed by the military to socialize among the local people, they must surely feel lonely.
As I caught the young man's eye, I stopped walking and smiled at him. His expression remained unchanged, still stern, serious and grim. Then I pointed to myself and silently spelled out a single word A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N, smiled and then gave a little wave. His serious posture shifted. A wide grin spread over his face as he gave a small nod in my direction. We had connected. Although far, far away from the “land of the free and the home of the brave, we were on common ground.
(Images provided by Nancy Leigh Harless)
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