A haven for abused women in Kosovo

Her father, an alcoholic, allowed her to attend school for only two
years and would forbid her from leaving the house even to meet a male
cousin. When his abusiveness escalated, finally culminating in the death
of her mother, she went to the only place where she knew she would be
safe.

She went to Liria.

Kosovo’s only women’s shelter, founded in 1999, is symbolic of the
sweeping cultural and social changes brought on by the presence of KFOR,
the international peacekeeping force that arrived at the end of Kosovo’s
civil war. But pervasive traditionalist thinking about women’s rights and
a lack of support from local officials has made it difficult for the Liria
Center for the Protection and Rehabilitation of Women – based here in
Gjilan, Kosovo – to prosper.

“This is a challenge for them,” says Nazife Jonuzi, director of the
center, speaking of Kosovar men. “I don’t think they accept change that
easily.” While the US has treated domestic violence as a criminal offense
for more than two decades, in Kosovo it is still considered by many to be
a private affair that must remain within the family.

Liria’s assistant director, Shahadije Rexhepi, even goes so far as to
say that “according to our unwritten laws it’s not very tragic for women
to be beaten by a husband or brother.” Such attitudes threaten not only
the lives of Kosovar women, but also the work that is being done to
protect them.

“I was looking for a way to help the position of women and give them
more rights,” Ms. Jonuzi says, explaining why she and several other women
founded Liria. “We didn’t even know shelters should exist because no one
dealt with this issue.”

But KFOR’s arrival in 1999 brought Western values and standards to
Kosovo society. Women, once expected to stay home and raise children, were
hired to work on American and European military bases; the Westerners
treated them with respect and the local men who worked alongside them were
expected to hold their female counterparts in similar esteem; women were
encouraged to enter local government; and young girls became an increasing
presence in schools. But in the small towns and villages such as
Fatmire’s, in northeastern Kosovo, “traditional thinking” still holds
sway.

“I had family problems because my daddy was a troublemaker in the
house,” continues Fatmire, who asked that her last name and hometown not
be used, for safety reasons. She describes through a translator how her
father, coming home drunk, would beat her and her family.

“I had a lot of reasons to leave my house. My dad was an alcoholic, he
used to drink a lot, he used to beat me a lot. Not just me but my brother
and sister, too,” she adds. This pattern of violence lasted for several
years before her mother decided to seek shelter at Liria, leaving
17-year-old Fatmire to care for her younger siblings.

Though ending an abusive relationship can be difficult for any woman,
it can be particularly hard in Kosovo. A woman who leaves her husband is
often ostracized by her community – and more important, by her family –
leaving her few options when she leaves the shelter.

Fatmire’s father, however, wanted her mother to come home. Together
with the local municipality’s Center for Social Welfare, he worked to
persuade her mother to return home. He would stop drinking, she was
promised. He would stop beating her and their children, he swore.

Three weeks later, Fatmire’s father killed her mother as she watched.
Now he is in prison, her younger brother and sister are in the care of the
municipality, and she has come to the only place that her mother found
safety.

Funded initially by international nongovernmental organizations, Liria
is now supposed to be funded jointly by the Austrian Ministry of Foreign
Affairs and the local municipality, according to the shelter and KFOR. But
while the municipality, which declined requests for comment, agreed to
provide an equal share of the funding (it has already provided a building
free of charge), it has so far refused to dispense any money to Liria.
Austrians are waiting to see what happens before contributing what they
promised. Caught in the middle are Liria and its women.

“There is a need here in Kosovo for a place for women to go for help,”
says Maj. Oran Roberts, a chaplain from Oroville, Calif. He’s here with
the California National Guard, whose troops make regular donations to
Liria out of their own pockets. “I’m not in the position to make demands
on the municipality, I’m here only to let them know what I’ve observed and
to encourage them to continue providing support for these women,” he says.
Besides the basics like fuel oil and money to pay for electricity, Liria’s
building also needs repairs: broken pipes, bulging walls, and sewage
backup in the basement all need attention.

“What we have refrained from doing are things that the municipality
should be doing,” Maj. Roberts adds. “If you’re advocating for local
government and providing advice and consultation, you don’t jump in and do
it for them.”