Why Reporting House Still Matters as Serbia Rewrites Its Past

At eleven I watched foreign reporters document our suffering. Decades later, inside Reporting House, I confront how proof, courage, and memory stopped genocide from becoming silence.

I am back in Kosovo again. This time with the weight of return sitting heavier than usual. I had read about Reporting House¹ for years. I knew what it was meant to hold. I knew what it was meant to confront. Yet until now I had never made the time. Not because it was unimportant but because I understood instinctively that it would demand something intimate. This visit would not be casual. It would require me to stand still with memories I have spent much of my life learning how to translate for others.

I was eleven years old when the war broke out in Kosovo. Old enough to understand fear. Young enough to believe that the world might intervene simply because it should. I remember foreign journalists arriving in my neighbourhood. Their cars. Their equipment. Their accents. I remember how my parents spoke to them with urgency and dignity. How stories were told quickly because no one knew how long safety would last. I watched reporters document our lives as they unravelled. At that age I di…