The policeman says through clenched teeth: "Good day", takes my ID card and runs it through the system. He passes on, and the lady next to me says: "This guy is nice for sure, some people won't even say good morning". We enter Jarinje, and then through Lešak, Leposavić, Zvečan and, finally, Kosovska Mitrovica.
The taxi ride to the hotel is 200 dinars. "A taxi is cheap here, you can go anywhere with 200 dinars. Until recently it was 150, but now it has become more expensive", I learned later from a friend.
I quickly leave my things and go to the local coffee shop. "Please, what is the password for the internet?" I ask the waiter as he downs an extended espresso without milk. I am roaming, and like every Serb, I am afraid of running up a large phone bill. The waiter tells me the code and drops the bill, which is a whole euro. I announce to him that a friend will arrive in the meantime.
I'm trying to scroll through the news, but the Internet from the cafe is down. It rarely works, the signal is weak, so even WiFi usually doesn't help.
I am photographing the Monument to Prince Lazar, which is in front of me. Everyone does that when they arrive in Kosovska Mitrovica, including me. It goes through my head: "What a cliché, Milice". From my left, the view goes towards the headquarters of the Serbian List. Behind me is the bridge over the Ibro, guarded by an Italian police vehicle.
Children are running on the promenade, selling bracelets, riding roller skates. Neighbors stop to greet each other. It's Saturday afternoon. Even if it's not the weekend, when it's sunny, say the people of Mitrovica, coffee is drunk on the promenade around two o'clock in the afternoon. I caught myself looking at my watch so I wouldn't miss my coffee on the boardwalk. And I drank it all the time, sometimes with a book, sometimes with friends, colleagues and acquaintances.
At one of the first coffees, I got the phone number of a lawyer, along with the sentence: "May it be found for you, you can see what is happening here to the journalists".
There is almost always an abandoned dog lying next to the cafe. There are many of them in Mitrovica. Each pack has its own part of the city, and there is a fight if a dog approaches "someone else's territory". There are most of them around the bridge.
My friend is coming, I haven't seen her in years. During the conversation, he explains to me: "People here don't feel like citizens because they don't decide on anything. Neither Belgrade nor Pristina ask them for anything." He lights a cigarette while trying to call the waiter.
We talk about how my trip went, so I joke that without the "Lola" radio in Kolaša's transport, my arrival in Mitrovica makes no sense. I tell her that a lady on the bus told me that "Mitrovica has two streets, but the people of Mitrovica breathe with one lung."
It suits me that the spirit of the city has been lost over time, there are fewer and fewer people, young people are only looking at how to move on. "It's not the city I remember as a child. People said what they thought, they were free. It's already different now," he tells me.
I ask her what is different, and she answers - fear.
Fear and blackmail are perhaps the two most common words I heard while staying in Mitrovica.
I spent Holy Week in Mitrovica and went home just before Easter. Until Maundy Thursday afternoon, I thought the city was alive only here and there. And then the people of Mitrovica came from other cities and the cafes became crowded both during the day and in the evening. I met many people who came from Belgrade. They come home less and less, they say, because "what are they doing there". I remember the waiter from the hotel who jokingly told me: "People from here either go to Belgrade or to 'aps', there is no third".
All this reminded me of my Parish. I wonder - did the students arrive, did the city "come alive" for us, did they gather at Salet's cafe.
Whenever I come to Mitrovica, something new awaits me. The torn and faded Serbian flags that I saw along the Mitrovica promenade in November were not there in February. Numerous institutions that functioned in the Serbian system were sealed. Young people were arrested. There were also protests, and I was at those in April. Many things could be enumerated.
What is constant is the immediacy of the people of Mitrovica. Whenever I passed through the streets, at least one stranger wished me "good day". It's like being at home!
Small things are missing, but still so important to people, like, for example, Serbian newspapers. Whenever I go to Mitrovica, I always bring a copy for colleagues and friends.
"Oh, where did you get the newspaper from?" asks the waiter at the local pastry shop. As if apologizing, I replied that I had brought them from Belgrade. And he, as if consoling himself, says: "It doesn't matter, at least today everything is on the Internet."
However, despite going there, one thing does not change - the people of Mitrovica and the belief that I will return to them soon, who persevere and take care of each other even under not easy living conditions. Because if neither Belgrade nor Pristina will take care of it, they themselves have to as much as they can.
