Day one of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) organized repatriation of Kosovar refugees in Albania. At 10:00 AM, I boarded a UNHCR helicopter in Tirana to travel to Kukes, near the Kosovo border. Twenty minutes later I disembarked from the Swiss Army chopper, crossed the dirt landing pad, and was met by a CARE colleague, Fitim Drejta. Although pleased to see me safely on ground, he was clearly anxious to begin our drive — we were to travel to see his family and home in Pristina, Kosovo.

From Kukes, we wound our way north through the mountains to the Morini border crossing. The volume of traffic was surprisingly light for the main route into Kosovo. I wondered if, despite UNHCR’s best intentions for an organized movement, many of the Kosovar refugees had already made their way home. The few vehicles we encountered were overloaded cars and slow-moving tractors with trailers in tow. Children smiled and waved to us from their perches atop mattresses, storage boxes and other supplies.

We had been advised to watch for an assembly point for humanitarian aid vehicles traveling into Kosovo. The German military responsible for security at the border would create periodic breaks in traffic to allow aid workers to pass through. In Albania, the standard aid vehicle is a white pick-up truck or utility vehicle (we were in a white Toyota Hylux) and easily distinguishable from the small cars and old Mercedes common in the Balkans. Fortunately, traffic did not warrant a convoy and we quickly proceeded through the Albanian and then Kosovo checkpoints.

In less than an hour, we had crossed into previously forbidden territory. Potential hazards included landmines, booby traps, and retaliation crimes. The effects of the war were apparent: two decapitated horses lay on the roadside, and burnt buildings dotted the landscape. Fitim pointed to a row of identical homes — the estates of seven Kosovar brothers — all destroyed with countless bullet holes blistering the walls, fire damage and collapsed roofs. Further on, he identified a ruined house where, as a sound technician, he had provided the music for a wedding.

Fitim spoke with passion about the history of Kosovo, the strengths of Tito’s regime, and how Milosevic’s reign of terror would not break deep-rooted Kosovar pride. Even the threat of jail for wearing the colors of the Albanian flag (red and black) did not quell ethnic pride. I learned that it was this same pride, combined with anger and helplessness, that first drew Fitim to Albania in March and toward the ultimate sacrifice to help his people — enlisting with the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA). I was aghast and dismayed. How could this outwardly compassionate, intelligent, and sensitive man join a group of terrorists? His response: "I had to help my people and the pacifist way was not producing results."

But, as fate would have it, Fitim would not have the chance to join the KLA. He first entered Albania with the Italian Civil Services (he took a 3-month leave of absence from his lucrative computer job in Milan Italy) serving as an interpreter. A CARE worker subsequently encouraged him to channel his energies into a more positive mode of assistance and, shortly thereafter, the CARE team in Kukes had its newest member. When we first met in early June, Fitim had just extended his leave of absence for another three months.

The closest city to the Albanian border, Prizren, was a model of Kosovo resilience and perseverance: shops, vendors and fruit markets were hubs of activity. Small winding streets and bridges — akin to Amsterdam — were jammed with cars, pedestrians, and military vehicles. And, there was no apparent scarcity of food — fresh produce and slaughtered chickens, pigs and cows were for sale in the markets. It was hard to imagine that a few weeks earlier, Prizren was amid the worst humanitarian crisis in Europe since World War II.

We were barely into Pristina when we saw two CARE vehicles parked at a café. In jubilation, we met former CARE Albania staffers who had been reassigned to Kosovo and a colleague from Atlanta. After a month of endless work in an inhospitable country, I wept with joy at seeing a familiar face from home.

The gray and dreary weather accented the ugliness of war in Kosovo. Under communist rule, Pristina was rebuilt in concrete lacking attention to detail and architectural creativity. Over 10 years of hostilities between the Serbs and ethnic Albanians had taken its toll with shuttered and decrepit buildings, and this final conflict had reduced many areas to squalor. The first apartment building we visited had stark, gray halls littered with graffiti, broken bottles and random trash. Clearly dismayed at the wreckage, Fitim explained that his family resided in this building while they rented out their other flat in the center of the city. While no one from Fitim’s family answered our call, neighbors appeared from their flats and excitedly welcomed him home.

As we climbed into the car, Fitim told me that these neighbors were all Serbs. I was shocked — did I expect them to have a giant "S" stamped on their foreheads? They were as warm and welcoming as good neighbors should be. I learned that their companionship was limited over the years. As Serbs strengthened their rule and ostracized Kosovars, it became extremely difficult to maintain cross-ethnic friendships. One day last year, a neighbor came to Fitim’s mother in tears — she would lose her job if she continued to befriend any ethnic Albanians.

At the second apartment building (again vandalized) we learned from the British military patrol that Serbian residents were being terrorized and there was a need for extra security. We rushed up three flights of stairs in hopes the family would be at this flat. In an instant, the buzzer was pushed, the door flew open and Fitim was embracing his father. A happy close to the endless days and months of worry about his father’s safety. A sister, Fatlinda, and her two young children were also at the flat. Fitim had visited his mother and his sisters while they were refugees in Macedonia, but there was nothing more beautiful than the reunion in Pristina. Fitim’s youngest sister and Fatlinda’s husband were still in Macedonia working for humanitarian aid agencies but would be returning home within the next few days.

I learned that the family had hid in the apartment for five days before paying a large sum of money to join a convoy to Macedonia. Mr. Drejta remained in hiding in Pristina for seven weeks. The rest of the family departed late one night with the few possessions that fit in the car. In Macedonia, they stayed in a friend’s flat until two days before our visit.

The refugee movement was particularly difficult for Mrs. Drejta, who had a stroke a few years earlier and was partially paralyzed. A former schoolteacher, she was terminated when Serbs felt that ethnic Albanians should not be in the workforce. Similarly, Mr. Drejta had lost his job to the Serbs. He began a successful private business as a sound engineer but his equipment was stolen during the war. Miraculously, this was the only significant loss that the family endured. Even the extended family throughout Kosovo was safe and suffering only minor property damage. How blessed they were not to have lost loved ones in this senseless war.

Fatlinda’s pharmacy, adjacent to her house, was left untouched and was already stocked and operational. Many other business owners were not so fortunate. One street, normally bustling with cafes and specialty shops, was completely obliterated. A NATO bomb? Serbian destruction? KLA retaliation? There was no obvious sign.

That night, I slept peacefully. With the British Army patrolling the streets, all was calm and quiet (in contrast to the regular shootings and packs of howling dogs in Albania). I wondered how long this peace would last. Could Kosovo truly rebuild itself within the confines of the Yugoslavian government? How long before we could understand the atrocities that took place and persecute those responsible for war crimes?

As we drove toward Albania the following morning, I felt that Fitim’s optimism was contagious. The people I met at the camps and Fitim’s family all shared common traits: pride, resilience, and a positive outlook. If they — people who had lost so much in the past months and years — could believe in the future, then certainly I could too. One day soon, I hope to return to a peaceful and prosperous Kosovo.