#uae_red_cross

~ Onn Ibrahim, Special Correspondent, Mission of Mercy & Hope

Rrasa e Zagut, Koshare, Kosovo, June 5, 1999 ---- "We had five bullets and we decided that should the Serbs come to get us, I will shoot Ilirina first, and then I will shoot myself," said Dr Time, a medical doctor in the Kosova Liberation Army.

The most vexing question that stared into my psyche is that why in my human condition, I am given food, when my mortality is temporal: “Would I live the next moment after curing my ritual lunch?” This thought escaped me as I thanked this moment when the hosts -- a team of UCK medics -- served me food. Their hospitality to ignore the battle raging outside of my illusory bunker more than outweighed any other concerns: I am their special guest and I don’t even know whether any of these medic soldiers had ever been granted this privilege. I felt guilty and thankful simultaneously and this seemed to overcome my desire for instant physical gratification. I posed this question to my inner psyche who didn’t appear hungry: Is existing for this moment a pleasure or a pain in its own right? The helmet and upright rifle seemed to remind me that life, albeit existence itself, is a strain on the human condition: either we make the best of it, or we shall regret because we missed that one moment in life when we could have made a difference to anything, especially to the Self.

This startling revelation appeared just as I was about to take more photographs of the captured Serb bunker, which now housed a temporary field medical clinic. Inside the bunker, I could hardly see anything, it was pitch dark and it appeared ghostly.

My thoughts dwelt in the present: there was no use thinking of death because death is a morbid conclusion of life. Instead my eyes began to scan the bunker for any sign of anything that would allow me to distract my gloomy thoughts. This tree branch struck me as a masterpiece of art that could be hung in an art gallery. It could be the branch itself as exhibit, or it could be a photograph. The most striking thing about this exhibit are those of the etched words which are then rested upon with a hanging rifle. Does the words mean that there is hope for humanity or does the rifle foreshadow its very own forecast?

I decided to concentrate my attention on Dr Time K (last name withheld for security reasons). "You would pull the trigger?" I asked, almost disbelieving myself for asking the question as it was on hearing Dr Time.

Each moment that is available to you is an opportunity to watch and reflect. When we reflect -- and if we are lucky to be able to reflect because reflection is a conscious decision -- we could start off with existence and ask: “Why am I in this bunker? What is the meaning of my mission? Are the objects hanging and resting against the tree stumps a way of nature telling me that every living thing reaches its end someday, some time, some moment? Am I vulnerable to events? Will I be always afraid of asking because I am not satisfied with what I have watched and experienced so far? What am I looking for? Will I be prepared for what awaits me if I do find out?

"Yes", she said and explained the reason for their desperate action. She said she knew of another medical doctor in a nearby village who was captured by the Serbs and died but not before they had cut off both of his hands and gouged his eyes. "They said to the doctor before they killed him: 'You use your hands to help the injured, you use your eyes to see who you are treating, now we have to punish you because you help them and the KLA and with that they started to chop his hands and gouged his eyes out."

The boots, the gun, the hands, the army uniform, the macaroni box, the aluminum standard army-shaped canister and the helmet held by the unseen soldier: life is delicate; nothing ever should be taken for granted, it is real and surreal at the same time. Why?

We wait for the injured to arrive as the sounds of bullets increased in frequency.

The ray of light that reflected on this soldier-medic’s face equates to a ray of hope that things will go well for the soldiers battling it out at the front-line: one can only hope and pray.

A jerry cooking can is indispensable for a quick chai while waiting for the injured.

Uran Berisha’s gentle smile and universal peace sign.

A UCK medic-soldier as sentry for the bunker.

All waits are ominous: thoughts of what lies ahead occupy these young volunteer medic-soldiers.

It must be painful to hear that, and I can't even begin to imagine the barbarity of the killings. I had heard of terrible accounts of torture and mutilations before when I visited the camps in Kukes but this was different: This involved a doctor who treated patients and sick people. I thought they would be spared. But Dr Time's account of his killing changed all that. She said Serbs considered "humanitarian" workers like her, a doctor, as prized spoils of war, "It's worth more than 10 ordinary Kosovars", she remembers a Serb saying.

The crackle of radio was the first sign of trouble.

Just at that instant, I glanced at Khairil Anuar Khalid, himself a humanitarian worker from Malaysian Relief Agencies based in Sarajevo, Bosnia, did not hear what Dr Time had just said, but I figured he already knew the risks after being a survivor of wars and conflicts as an aid worker for the last 15 years. Anyway, I didn't want to spoil his day as he was busy videotaping the Serb bunker.

The medic team awaiting the latest word from the sergeant on radio with the forward party at the frontlines.

Something happened and everyone is riveted to the Commander Dr Milton Zeneli’s reaction.

But taking your own life. And not before you take somebody else's life. I reminded her that she was a trained doctor, and it was her professional duty to save lives, "not take them, right?" posing the obvious question too her. "My village was under heavy shelling, and we got word that the Serbs were fast gaining ground. At one point, they were about one kilometer away from our clinic, and that's when we decided to kill ourselves," said Dr Time whose answer didn't really answered my question. So, I suppose the reason they wanted to end their lives wasn't so much about the real possibility that they would die a slow and painful death -- but by virtue of being doctors familiar with blood and wounds -- they would rather die in honor instead of seeing their own physique being tormented by their captors in a rather humiliating and despicable way.

A UCK lieutenant, on radio for further instructions on how to bring the injured soldier in from the frontlines.

As if on cue, I thought I caught a glimpse of Dr Time's state of mind when I asked her what she was doing with a pistol, and whether she had ever fired a single shot. "We are soldiers first and medics second," she said. She remembers fighting against the Serbs when she was trying to collect the injured from the front lines. "We had no choice, if we didn't fire back every one of us would be killed anyhow -- including the injured," she said.

Commander Dr Zeneli went out of the bunker to expect the arrival of the first injured soldier.

Commander Dr Zeneli instructing his medic team to be on alert for the first sign of appearance from the forest.

Paramedics carrying the injured soldier.

Ambulance attendants watching the doctor’s actions as patient was brought in.

Patient in a stretcher quickly brought into the bunker.

Bandage to stop internal bleeding.

A bullet went through this patient’s palm.

A quick examination of the bandage performed in the forest by paramedics.

Dr Time said the fighting was bad about two months ago. "Now, we have regained a little ground and can use these bunkers as temporary clinics -- we just give emergency treatment and then we send our fighters to Papaj where we treat them further and then we send them to Baram Curri," the nearest government hospital. She however belabors the inadequate medical facility there -- Baram Curri is northern Albania's only decent government hospital but still woefully short of essential emergency equipment and personnel -- that many times these fighters must be transported to Tirana, about one hour's flight by helicopter.

This patient seemed disoriented and was calmed down before treatment.

A quick jab before treatment with patient reacting.

Dr Ismet carefully peeling the bandages for replacement.

"Helicopters are not easy for us to get as we depend on the charity of The Red Cross to fly our injured. They have been too many cases of our fighters dying while on the way to Tirana or on the way to Baram Curri". Traveling to this medical outpost, just barely two kilometers away from the border of Albania, I could imagine how anyone could "live" through the roads: they were simply impassable except for tough four-wheel military trucks, two of which they captured from the Serbs two weeks before this and now are being used for transporting the injured from the field medical clinics.

I asked how they get their fighters from the front line itself to which she replied with a slight candor: "We go in with bullets blazing past us, and we don't think of our lives at all but the lives of the fighters."

Medics swabbing the wound with iodine.

Does it mean that the fighters' lives are more valuable than yours? I asked. "We are all soldiers so you can see why we don't see ourselves different than them", to which I asked whether it was a bit abnormal that they should want to serve on the front line when they could be at a safer area and requested that they did not interpret my question as sexist.

Dr Time's answer was quick and abrupt. "Women have their advantages over men; besides many of these men here are from our village, they know us, and they trust us," and went on to describe how the villagers often sent them food while they were treating patients in their former villages.

A quick jab before treatment of the wound.

To a question as to whether they had any rest or breaks in their routine, Dr Ilirina H replied that they were on call 24 hours a day and they work 24-hour shifts. "We have a doctor in another area who has asked not to be replaced," she said, "because he wants to go into the next 24-hour shift. Over here, our objective is to help patch those who have been injured quickly and try to stabilize them as much as we can, but without a field ambulance, without a proper medical hospital, we can do only as much professional job as we can administer without losing too many lives."

And indeed, the enthusiasm and dedication which these doctors have put into their job ("It's more than patriotism or humanitarianism", said Dr Ilirina, "it's our desire to free ourselves from Serb rule that drives us relentlessly") was reflected in the soldiers who passed by us. "They are the best hardworking doctors we have here," many of them would openly acknowledge when they see me talking to them.

Dr Time and Dr Ilirina however managed to flee from their village. "But I still have my mother and sisters in Kosova," she said, and asked that her full name not be revealed. "I don't know where they are and I am afraid of their safety," she continued.

Dr Time and Dr Ilirina were two of six doctors I had interviewed during the 24-hour period I was in Papaj and Rrasa. Papaj (pronounced as "Pa-peye") was only about two kilometers from the border to Kosova and Rrasa was about fifteen kilometers from Papaj, deep into enemy territory and is the place where the heaviest fighting between KLA and Yugoslavian Army Serbs were occurring.

Commander Dr Zeneli explaining how the medical box fits into a backpack so it can be brought closer to the soldiers during battle.

There is a total absence of news reports emanating from the area as journalists are usually turned away from the area. Besides, it is a high-risk area with constant bombings and land mines spread over a wide area undetected most of the time.

“Some handy medical supplies”, said Dr Ismet.

During our return journey on our last day, we had to stop at several places and gauged our courage whether to continue. During the night, Serb air forces had dropped "packet" bombs. These were tiny little shiny objects which attracts passersby and especially children. When opened, they will explode. We were stopped at least twice by villagers who pleaded with us not to continue the journey until the Albanian bomb detection specialists came. But Klodiane insisted we took the risk (another story on this follows). How we survived without stepping on any packet mines was simply miraculous!

I was on a personal mission of mercy and hope the idea being that as a Malaysian I had to offer my support in a direct way to the cause of the Kosovars (the people of Kosova). Through a myriad of challenges along the way, I managed to find my way into the hottest fighting area in Albania, somewhere near Tropoje in northern Albania.

Dr Ismet showing the low stock levels of the medical supplies.

From intelligence sources, I discovered that the KLA had built one of two safe "corridors" which will allow them to mount an offense against the Serbs from within Kosova and return to their sanctuary just across the border into Albania. To them, Papaj was their main operational headquarters and it was of no small wonder that while I was in Papaj to get the necessary papers and permission for my stories, no less than six shells landed in my vicinity; the closest one being on the very spot I was sitting and next to the commander's post came minutes later after we had just left -- the fragments almost destroyed another vehicle parked close by which was carrying two Slovenian journalists -- and another one came half an hour later killing one unfortunate lone soldier who was walking the same road and exact spot we were traveling on the way to Papaj.

Dr Ismet demonstrating a collar support and how this was another item the medic team wanted more.

Providence was with us all the way and this I mentioned to Khairil Anuar Khalid of Malaysian Relief Agencies, based in Sarajevo, Bosnia. "It seems like Allah wants us alive, and it must be for a reason". Khairil nodded, in tacit agreement, uncertain that I may have said it prematurely. Because on the next day, when we were to cover our assignments, we had to traverse the same roads, the same risks, another barrage of shells.

Indeed on the first day we got to Pardashe, the second base from Papaj base headquarters, and closer to the first base near Tropoje, we had to show proof of our identity and purpose: the commander escorted us right to Papaj but not before we were shelled not more than 10 meters away from where we were traveling -- in a Jetta Volkswagen driven by Klodiane, an Albanian from Tirana who acted as our driver-translator-guide and of course, bodyguard.

Commander Dr Zeneli opening one of the medical packages.

Klodiane was carrying a TT, a pistol with eight bullets in its magazine; the gun itself was incredibly old, a 1962 model, but deadly because as Klodiane told me, he oils it regularly and is still accurate within five hundred meters. With his Made-in-China black TT tucked securely at his waistline, the commander, upon realizing that we were under fire, shouted, "Speed! Speed!" And for the first time in my life, I could sense fear as danger confronted us.

Discussing with Klodiane about the need for more bandages.

Klodiane shot the car into second gear and within less than a minute had raced the car -- with its tyre about half a foot from the road's edge -- about thirty meters. My heart dropped. "If not the bomb," I said to myself, "these sheer cliffs will kill us anyway".

I suppose that was the first time since I started my trip from Kuala Lumpur International Airport that I felt a surge of adrenaline. In any case, we entered the shadow of a cliff and as we slowly meandered the curve, I thought that it must have been one lucky shave. I began to realize for the first time that this is a dangerous area. It began to dawn on me that I could die in this place. And I had to face my own death; about when I was about to reach my destination, I said to myself. I didn't even have enough time to recite any verses from the Koran at all, I thought.

Commander Dr Zeneli opening one of the medical packages.

I remembered that on the journey towards Tropoje on the second and final day of our assignment, I was crouching on the floor of the Jetta because I was exposed directly to Serb sniper fire: and I couldn't take the risk of being shot while I had to complete authoring my stories and sending my pictures. It was this decision which prompted me to leave one day earlier because I couldn't take another risk of being injured or killed. It was too much for me and I had to come out of this area alive to tell the story.

Prudence was on my side as I later discovered that during the time we were at Papaj, artillery fire was at its highest: at its height while I was interviewing Dr Time and Dr Ilirina near the KLA captured Serb bunker, we counted a frequency of 5 seconds per shell being fired from Serb artillery. As the shells passed overhead, it gave out a stirring swishing sound like a firework on display. Eerie, I thought to myself.

Like Khairil Anuar who has a slightly different mission, we believed we were the first Malaysians to have arrived at the closest point between enemy and friend; two warring parties whose main objective is total annihilation of the other.

Commander Dr Zeneli examining one of the dressing pads that were brought in by Khairul Anuar.

We were lucky to come out of the area alive, but this did not mean we were safe. As soon as we left the vicinity of Papaj, we had to pass through a small opening in the valley between two mountains, and on this stretch of extremely dangerous narrow meandering mountain road, we were suddenly exposed: on the left flank were two mountains perched with heavy Serb artillery its silhouette clearly etched against the wide open blue skies and on our right, loose yellow mountain earth and protrusions of solid granite such that we were totally vulnerable to Serb artillery fire and most frighteningly, Serb sniper fire.

By the time we reached our destination -- a quiet village on the outskirts of Tropoje, we were so relieved and grateful I almost immediately wanted to make prayer to offer thanks to God. Just then, as I removed my shoes, and was about to sit down in the verandah -- Khairil had already found a seat -- I heard a long swishing sound. Bang! Rang the explosion. That was close, I thought to myself while facing Seyed, the owner of the house. Khairil was uttering a few words himself, quite used to the sound of shells passing overhead. And then, another swish and bang! This time the house almost shuddered. I saw a frightful look in Seyed's eyes, this man of 50 years old who was so used to Serbs shelling his village ("What could it be different this time?") "What, I thought! The Serbs are now following us. I didn't even have time to sit down. And there it was. Seyed's concern turned grave. I could sense that this wasn't a typical worried look. I headed quickly into the front room and threw myself on the bed. I told myself, if it was time for me to die, I'd like to die while I was sleeping.

Patient being ferried to the waiting Red Cross truck.

It was a few minutes later before I heard Klodiane and Khairil creep into the room. Thinking I was asleep they spoke among themselves. "The neighbors just told us the explosion was nearby and the shell hit the middle of two houses. Let's look", said Klodiane.

Khairil didn't follow them. I found out later that evening when I woke up for prayers that a Serb shell had indeed careened through the clean mountain air and hit their village puncturing a huge gap on where it landed: precisely between two farmhouses and about eight hundred meters from our house. Was this a bad omen? Was this a signal for us to pack our bags like Dr Time and Dr Ilirina? Was this the ghost of Serb cruelty and tyranny? I would never know. All I know was that I had the most frightful sleep in my life, and I never did go to Papaj again the following day, even though we had a special pass.

Into the ambulance to Papaj and from there to Tirana by helicopter.

I remembered feeling scared -- "Did they know about us coming and wanted to get us?" -- and just before I went to sleep, I did ask Klodiane whether he could bring in his Kalashnikovs, or Kalash as they are called here. It was merely a false sense of security; a self-pretense of trying to feel safe and secure, Kalashes were no match for Serb shells such that their bronze casings make beautiful flower jugs in Bosnian homes -- but being a first timer in the war zone, I was naturally fearful.

A thumbs up from Dr Ismet of his recovering patient.

All Klodiane did was bring in his TT, muttering "It's okay!" I suppose it's okay for him as he was used to gun fires when Tirana experienced a civil war about two years ago but for me, with two days of shells raining around us, the sound or mortar fire, the rap-tap-tap-tap of a typical Kalash shot, and the sight of blood as the shot fighters were carried onto stretchers: This was quite overwhelming and I had to summon strength through whatever little iman that I have with me.

The thought of a Serb lurking in the shadows didn't alleviate my tension, and I knew my nervousness was also compounded by images of Serb butchery and the too many close misses which we experienced, including the last one where we thought we could be safe from.

I knew that it was time for me to leave Tropoje. We packed our bags early the next morning and hit the road to catch the only ferry out of Tropoje at Fierze where the streams reflected waters of turquoise color -- the color of water in heaven I thought -- and we shot off en route to Tirana.

A handshake from two brave doctors, Commander Dr Zeneli and Dr Ismet just before we made our way back to Papaj, the garrison base.

But not before we glanced over our shoulder to see the crater made from the shelling the previous evening. And Khairil, as usual, made my day. He said in a monotonous tone: "Did you know an artillery shell can travel as far as 30 or 40 kilometers?" Oh well, I said to myself, if I were to die even while we try to make it out to Fierze, about twelve kilometers away, then I guess let it be then. How can I ever escape them? With that it was plain "tawakallah!" (My life and fate rests in Your Hands and Protection, God!).

Too close for comfort? Dr Time and Dr Ilirina knows the feeling. They are still there. Fighting their worst fears and fighting for time. These courageous fighter doctors from Kosova.

End.

Postscript and notes to stories, post-Kosova 1999 project.

Authoring stories is a risky business.

Some historians believe that stories are the dominance of those who win power. They select the narrative for future generations to judge.

I have long suspected that many stories in the past cannot be verified conclusively by experts. We have, for example, an absence of authentic oral history that changes each time the narrator presents their story. In most instances, it depends on the narrator's subjectivity as they interpret what transmission occurred in the past.

Even religious texts fall under the category of inaccuracies. Therefore, there is an urgent need to review all religious texts. However, this may be impossible as all believers cannot believe in a script or message that is not divine.

Against this backdrop, the assignment in Kosova took upon a multitude of challenges; primarily, because I had no training in being an embedded war journalist, and second, the preparations needed to jump into the targeted area were fraught with dangers, as I was surreptitiously smuggled to evade NATO forces.

A view of the UAE Refugee Centre from the window cockpit of the UNHCR on my return trip.

I could not hold the excitement of adventure, and with spiritual forces as my firm guide, I grabbed the opportunity.

Goodbye Kosova The mountains that divide Kosova and Albania.

Past narratives have always been controversial.

In this assignment, my focus was on immediacy.

My heart became the instinct for reporting, and even as I didn't have the chance to research or fact-check at that moment, I knew the better of me -- the conscience and searing over-logic -- caused me to write instinctively even if it may be slightly inaccurate then.

I do not follow the customary practice of believing what other people say or letting them persuade me with their books.

I have been a skeptic because facts and reality many times do not match as claimed.

In hindsight however, during the assignment, I realized that quick and straightforward notes in my reporter’s notebook proved critical.

Post-Kosovo June 1999, the world's media has since shifted dramatically, and in place, we debut social media reporters.

In this context, the role of traditional media agencies and their operatives has altered immensely.

Enter the disinformation/misinformation and controversial/confusing age, and propaganda is heightened at levels never experienced in the world's media reporting industry.

Symbols sometimes depict the world in a kind of reality that only means something to the holder, believer, follower, faithful’s and fated.

It is now riskier and more unprecedented by itself to investigate any truths.

Saying goodbye at Baram Curri, near the border of Albania and Kosovo.

Onn Ibrahim, The Kosova Assignment ~ Mission of Hope & Mercy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eFkmRp_G2uo

Note: For reasons of practicality, I have used English either as UK English or US English interchageably. I have also used interchageably the term Kosovo, Kosova and Kosovar to denote perceived nationalities and individuals as per the context in the stories and the effects I wish readers to interpret themselves.

Side story: A day in the life of a humanitarian relief agent

Khairul Anuar of Malaysian Relief Agency continues his work from the UAE Refugee Centre. In today’s assignment, his task is to deliver and co-ordinate with other relief organisations, including the UAE Red Cross, to three designated places.

Khairul Anuar’s team for the day. It includes military personnel from UAE, volunteer Albanians who are residents of the UAE Refugee Centre, UAE Red Cross and other volunteers from different relief agencies.

In the first place of drop off, a UAE military personnel pushes an electricity cable that was hindering the movement of the military truck carrying the shipment of food and other essentials for the refugees here.

One of the relief volunteers -- a charitable Islamic organisation from Saudi Arabia -- sits atop one of the military food relief trucks of the UAE.

A truck backs up into a storeroom while being monitored by a UAE military personnel.

It was already midday when we arrived so the sheer sun created sharp shadows as some of the residents watched on.

Unloading from the truck with the assistance of volunteer relief agents.

Some of the volunteers have never done this work before but they were willing to help; it was heavy work.

It is backbreaking work but the spirits and morale were high; as high as the midday and unrelenting sun as the sharp shadows show.

Some of the volunteer agents engaging with the residents to determine the location of earmarked families who will get their allocated rations.

Each relief agent representing their own organisation discussing with the local refugee residents. In the foreground is Khairul Anuar of Malaysian Relief Agency.

In this photo of a UAE personnel engaging in a friendly gesture with local residents, it wasn’t difficult to ascertain that this group of people were from one family tree; their features were so distinct they could have been forever-twins. I liked especially their ginger expressions which -- to me -- showed how people are impervious to difficulties when good news, such as food relief, comes to their doorstep.

Food rationing begins.

Sugar is an important food item on the emergency food relief but each family gets a quota to be fair to the greater number of families in the locality.

Some local residents -- refugees from Kosovo as well as Albanian residents -- came to watch the activity of the aid relief agents.

Some of the Kosovar refugee children came with pots to collect their rations while another one, a Kosovar women had already gotten her rations.

Khairul Anuar pointing a Kosovar refugee mother who had just received a donation toward the camera. Poses like this are an essential part of all relief organisations who depend on charity and donations to get their supply.

Another donation received by a Kosovar refugee mother carrying her child. I was impressed with the lady’s nail polish which were emerald blue and I thought that it is always fortuitous to dress well as it is an encouraging sign of hope. On the right are the relief agents busily attending to their tasks followed by children of the area. The six young trees also caught my attention and I was wondering what species they were as they were planted neatly.

While I was filming, the elders joined in, and I took another shot of this family.

Just before we left to the second location, some of the aid relief agents requested a group shot with the local refugees. In the photo is also two UAE military personnel. The strong shadows beneath their eyes belie a strong spirit of endurance that I found intriguing.

The second stop, I was impressed with this photo. First, the group of people showed ethnicity that could have come from anywhere in our planet. Second, the activity of discussion including the gestures, and finally, the shades of sunlight that filtered through the deciduous trees creating patterns on anatomies suggests that life is kaleidoscopic and colourful. I love this picture. It shows our humanity at play.

Discussion with Kosovar refugees ensured. There was active interest on how the relief food aid would be distributed. Paperwork plus some last minute judgement meant that sometimes the organisers had to make adjustments to their food allocation.

A line of dispatch was formed to transfer the relief aid to a spot where it would be handed to an appointed head of the group. Most of the boys from this group of refugees volunteered promptly.

One of the co-coordinators of an Islamic relief organisation standing by to watch the dynamic activity of the teenage boys transferring aid out of the trucks.

The line of aid: Kosovar refugee teenage boys carrying the packages.

A shot of where the Kosovo refugees’ camping area.

Khairul Anuar recording the activity of aid relief effort. On his left, is the Adjutant of UAE, the military officer responsible for our affairs (he looked after myself, Khairul Anuar, Rejab - bodyguard, and Klodiane - driver).

Khairul Anuar giving instructions in broken Albanian language (he knows a little bit of Serbian language but is fluent in Russian language) about how to collect their packages.

An unnamed Islamic charity co-coordinator assisting with the relief effort in progress using sign language.

Some Kosovar children having a chat with a UAE military officer.

The parcel from Malaysia Relief Centre, an NGO from ABIM which is Malaysia’s Islamic youth organisation, being distributed to Kosovar refugees.

A recipient of the parcel from Malaysia Relief Centre reading the label.

As more Kosova refugees came, Khairul Anuar eventually had to take leave because he had to make his last drop of the day, the third location.

Arriving at the third and last location of the day, we were already greeted by a large crowd who had heard about our coming.

The relief parcels were quickly loaded into platforms of a mobile carriage and the plan was to distribute the parcels according to the priority set by the local Kosova representative. This was arranged earlier by Khairul Anuar who had a day earlier, discussed with the Sallahaj family he first made contact at the UAE Refugee Centre. It was easier to work with people you were already acquainted.

Khairul Anuar getting off the UAE military aid relief supply truck. I was fascinated with this scene. Against the minaret overshadowing the activity, I saw a generic identity; people were lost in their own interests, national garments were covered over by practical ones, accessories such as a military inducted cap and a relief emblem cap took on a different meaning, and of course, the sweat on the backs of these people -- refugees, aid agents, locals and just boys -- spellbound me to one distinct human connection: connection across compassion.

There were a lot of Kosovar refugee children and teenagers.

I saw some Kosova women and it was rare among the crowds presently there so I took a shot.

As I moved my camera toward one of the trucks because I saw Klodiane perched at the open side, I noticed more Kosovar children who were hoping they could get a hand-out (but they couldn’t, of course) and seemed to notice three flags fluttering in the background: the UCK red flag with the black crest, the multicoloured Albanian flag with the different coloured bands, and the European Union flag with its distinct blue.

Crowds were still expecting to collect the parcels from the truck but this was not possible as the plan was to ship it to the storeroom nearby. Meanwhile, I noticed the gentle and sloping mountains of the Albanian skyline: The Accursed Mountains. It all seemed blue when mixed with the garments of the Kosovars and even compared well with the blue band of the relief aid agent in the truck.

The crowds followed the drop-off point: the storage area.

Khairul Anuar near the drop-off point seen here after conferring with the Ameer (Arabic for leader of the group) and a UAE military escort.

There was full of expectations as the canvas covers were drawn up.

Transfer of the parcels taking place.

The pace was hurried as the team didn’t want to have the crowd to wait long.

Anxious crowds wait expectantly while the UAE Red Cross representative came to inspect the progress of the transfer. I noticed the windows of the apartment: They looked the same but what is profession of each dweller? Could they be the same or different?

A view outside of the load entering the storeroom facility.

A view of the UAE relief supply trucks waiting their turn to unload their cargo.

More crowds gathered outside but as the parcels were offloaded, there was gradually an air of excitement surrounding them.

The aid team of the day.

Muhammad, the UAE’s Adjutant carrying a Kosovar child refugee as we were about to leave the place.

Khairul Anuar of Malaysia Relief Centre posing with his group of Kosova refugees before saying farewell.