We arrived in the southern Kosovan town of Prizren on Sunday afternoon. We had driven down from Mitrovica in the north. It’s a relatively short drive, but we were 7 people squashed into a mini-van together with our luggage, camera equipment, a projector screen and an industrial microscope. Having checked into our hotel we went in search of refreshment and when in Kosovo that has to be a macchiato. We found a café offering outside seating in the shade of several established trees, and took out places around two round tables. The river could be heard in the background and along its banks were a number of benches that, at that time of day, were in full sun. On one of the benches sat an elderly gentleman enjoying the autumn warmth sun as he watched the world go by. His world seemed so peaceful, an image I wanted to keep, and so I decided to take a photograph. As I pointed my camera in his direction his gaze met mine and I felt immediately awkward and intrusive. I signaled with raised thumbs as if to say “Is it OK if I take a picture?” He smiled and nodded his head slowly. I again pointed my camera in his direction and took my photograph. It was a brief encounter between two strangers and could easily have ended there, but it felt wrong that we should go our separate ways without having had a more personal interaction.
I wanted to go over and exchange a few words with the gentleman and thank him for allowing me to take his photograph, but I speak no Albanian. So, I asked one of my colleagues to go over with me to act as interpreter.
As we approached the gentleman smiled gently and prepared himself to meet us. We shook hands, sat down and my colleague said a few words to him. He replied, speaking for quite a while without interruption and I was eager to know what he was saying. Eventually he stopped and my colleague began to repeat in English what he had said. It was his story. He was born and raised in Prizren and was a member of the ethnic Turkish minority. His grandfather and father were both born in Turkey but had moved to Kosovo before he was born. After he left school he became a cobbler, which he continued to do until his retirement. “Then”, said my colleague, “he asked me where I had learned to speak such good Turkish.” He too spoke no Albanian.
And there it was - the connection. I’ll never forget him.