I remember Rugova, a taste of mountain air and wild trees, a scent of home amidst the rubble of burnt houses making up war-torn Peja at the turn of the millennium. It was our escape, up the winding road where logging trucks would barely squeeze by passing cars, millimeters to spare between steel, rock, or cliffs. Up past the waterfalls cascading down from high rocks, under and through the tunnels that man had carved in the the mountain, like a bullet shot through flesh, up past the homes with outhouses hanging directly over the river. We would drive up and up, following the river until it became smaller and cleaner, finally arriving in Boge, a little village nestled into the arms of the Rugova mountains.
I remember the traditional dances during the summer festival up in Boge, the sun piercing down and causing sweat to form small beads on my upper lip while men wrapped in white turbans and woven shirts, decorated with red, yellow, and green embroidery, danced to the ancient wailing and beating of the drum. The Albanian songs rose into the hot summer day, crying out into the wind, imploring with its quivering tone, asking to be remembered throughout the ages.