D.T. was born in a small village in the mountains of southern Serbia, divided by the border with Macedonia. D.T. himself lived in the Serbian part of the village. His background was a mix of nationalities: his four grandparents were (on his fathers side) Hashkalija and Albanian, and (on his mothers) Serbian and Roma. He is an only child, and he has no memories of his mother, who left her husband and child when D.T. was still a baby.
D.T.s father was a farmer, owning land not far from the village, where father and son made a living growing vegetables and crops. They kept a small herd of cows. When he was seven, his father sent him to an Albanian school, where he spent the next six years. His first encounter with ethnic hostility came in 1991, when the Serb authorities closed the school after an incident in which several of the pupils were badly injured in a gas attack.
Rather than moving him to a Serbian school, his father decided to send him to a private Albanian one, which, because of Serb hostility, was held in secret, in peoples houses. The children were asked not to carry schoolbooks or bags or to arrive at the house in groups.
My father told me that if I was stopped by police and questioned, I was to say nothing about the school, D.T. says. I was often stopped, and the police slapped and hit us. In addition, he was bullied by other boys because of his Roma mother. In 1982, at the age of 14, D.T. left school and went to work with his father on the farm. He was given the job of looking after the cows.
Becoming a target
Towards the end of 1996, the Serbian authorities began searching the houses of Albanians, insulting and abusing the inhabitants. They became increasingly intimidating.
They were always armed, and we were very frightened. Then several of the Serb villagers began to threaten us. They used to shoot their guns in the air near to our house, and write slogans like Death to Albanians on our walls. By 1997 they were openly accompanying the police on their searches and came to our houses with guns.
One night in January 1998, while D.T. and his father were sleeping, a group of armed Serb police and villagers broke into their house, and forced them into the street, ordering them to lie on the ground with their hands behind their heads.
They hit us with rifle butts, and kicked us. Our neighbours joined in and spat at us. Then they dragged us over to a police van and took us to the police station. We were not given time to get dressed. At the police station we were separated and I was put into a small, dark, dirty cell without blankets. It was winter and very cold. For the next three days I was interrogated about Albanian weapons and fighters, but I had nothing to tell them. I was shaking all the time because I was so cold and because I thought I was going to be killed.
During questioning, soldiers hit D.T. with their rifle butts and threatened to kill him. At one point they broke his nose and then dislocated both his wrists. I was bleeding and covered in bruises and cuts all over. Then on the third day they let me go, saying that if they picked me up again they would kill me.
He was intensely relieved to find that his father had been released at the same time, though he had been badly cut across his shoulder and was in such pain from his knees, where he had been beaten, that he could not stand up properly. They were too frightened to go to the local hospital, which was staffed by Serbian doctors, so they went home and got hold of some herbal medicines.
For a couple of months, they were left alone. They returned to working on the farm. But then towards the end of March, a new problem developed. Albanians in the Drenica region of Kosovo got together and organised a series of demonstrations against Serbian oppression.
The fact that D.T. and his father refused to play any part caused their Albanian neighbours to attack them as traitors and collaborators. All of us of mixed ethnic origin were now in trouble, says D.T. There was nowhere that we could turn. We kept away from everyone, but we lived in fear. We never knew what each day or night would bring.
Losing father, and homeland
After the Nato bombing of Serbia, in the late spring of 1999, the situation deteriorated still further. Albanian fighters began to engage with Serbian forces. In the village there was much talk among the Albanians of liberation from Serbian rule. With every Albanian victory, the Serbians took reprisals on the Albanian villagers.
In August 2000, D.T.s home was again raided by Serb police and villagers. Once again, they were beaten and taken in a van to the police station.
I was separated from my father and questioned about weapons and fighters. My right wrist was broken again, and I was cut across the back with a knife. Then they broke my collarbone. When they hit me on the back of the head, I fainted. They must have thought I was dead, for I woke up to find myself dumped on the outskirts of the village. A passer-by discovered him and alerted his father, who had been released at the same time. He, too, had been tortured.
There were elections in October 2000 and though D.T.s father decided to vote, he forbade his son from doing so, on the grounds that it was too dangerous. Attacks on Albanians were increasing and father and son now sought refuge in Macedonia with friends. Here they stayed in hiding, waiting to see what would happen next. Soon, the violence spread, and after Albanian fighters became active in Macedonia, it became too risky for them to stay. In August 2001 they decided to go home.
We walked through the mountains and approached the village through the woods. As we grew near, we heard shots. We fled back to Macedonia and spent the next few months wandering from place to place, trying to find somewhere to hide.
By October we were exhausted and again decided to go home. This time, as we approached our house, Serb police appeared. They saw my father and grabbed him. They hadnt seen me as I was walking behind. I fled into the woods and stood watching, terrified, as they beat him and dragged him to a van.
D.T. never saw his father again. He does not know what happened to him. He walked back to Macedonia and made arrangements to leave the country, using money he had saved and borrowing more to join a group of Albanians fleeing the area in search of safety somewhere in Europe. He did not know that the lorry he boarded was bound for the UK until he climbed out and found himself at Dover.
The next day, he applied for refugee status. He suffers from terrible nightmares and is too frightened to sleep without a light, waking every hour or so. His face is grey with exhaustion and he keeps his eyes almost closed because of the shooting pains he still has in his face from the beatings. His first application for asylum has been refused and he is now waiting for the result of his appeal. He suspects, and fears, that his father is dead.
