They came and arrested me in the name of the people. They held me… so it was around 10:00. That day was Relay Day, it passed through Pristina. We had a duty, each of us there, to disrupt it, to mess it up. But they arrested me. […] But then I found out that they had, in the office they had wiretapped me. I didn’t talk in the office because I was aware that I had an office phone, but I would go to the post office for phone calls. I came across a tape and that’s how I found out. Tito was on his deathbed, it was in those, in those Slovenian hospitals and the weather was kind of cold, I don’t know. I talked to him [activist of the underground movement] I asked, ‘What is the weather like there? Is it freezing?’ ‘No, no,’ in Belgrade. I said, ‘It’s freezing in Slovenia, hands and feet are freezing,” you know, because they had amputated [Tito’s limb]. That’s where I found out that I was wiretapped. And then I knew even when they came to wiretap me, you know. I then knew. But they watched me, they were wiretapped.

The treatment was terrible. It was a very humiliating treatment. As you can imagine, let’s say, every time they brought lunch, after two-three minutes they would ask us to give back the portions [of food] we had. Or, this is not something bad to bring up. Even when they sent us to the bathrooms, three-four minutes, ‘Get out, get out, get out!’ Without… we were five-six people, seven in the room, et cetera, et cetera. […] It was terrible, it was difficult, it was, it was a kind of, a kind of extreme insult to our dignity I mean. However, I will say once more, fortunately we managed to preserve our dignity, we didn’t, we didn’t revolt in the sense of reacting without foreseeing the consequences. Each time we reacted by writing complaints and when… with hunger strikes. […] But solitary confinement sometimes is… they say, ‘Sometimes prison is not as difficult as the prisoners,’ because we, I mean since we didn’t get [proper] treatment, it means we had special treatment for the worse, but our status as political prisoners wasn’t recognized. That’s why they put us together with other prisoners, with other felons. I’m not talking about those convicted of murder, still they had a… but with thieves, with rapists, that was exceptionally difficult.

My grandmother received it the worst, and then my mother too. My father took it well, he took it well. Even my wife, compared to what I thought, she took it very well. Actually when they sentenced me to five years, she said, ‘I was relieved when they gave you five years.’ I asked, ‘Why?’ She said, ‘I thought they were releasing you,’ and said, ‘and would label you as a traitor.’ It felt good. […] prior to my sentence being pronounced, I was prepared to be sentenced to up to ten years.  I prepared myself to not mind it up to ten years, above ten years would’ve been more difficult to handle. When they said five, it really felt like they told me I was being released. Because it didn’t seem like a long sentence compared to other friends.

When they released me, they released me the day before. My family didn’t know, my family was expecting me the next day. They [the police] told me, ‘You will be released from prison tomorrow and you will have to take the train.’ I went back and told my friends, I told them this and that. Nazife had the most experience in these matters, because her brothers had been imprisoned before and she got to visit them and deal with blackmail and all that. She said, ‘If you asked me Afide,’ she said, ‘don’t take the train.’ She said, ‘You’re better off to take the bus,’ she said, ‘and follow public roads.’ ‘Alright,’ and that’s what I decided. […] I was released wearing the prison uniform, it was very bad. Gray colored uniform, it was bad. There were some knee high socks and they were kind of loose. There were some shoes, old women used to wear them, I don’t know.

[…] when we entered Merdare everyone started [speaking] in Albanian, the whole bus was with Albanians. A man said, ‘Let’s stop here in Podujevo,’ he said, ‘because it’s far, there are no buses.’ I said, ‘You’re speaking to me in Albanian now, huh? Now you’re speaking,’ I said, ‘it’s not a problem, arriving here is like going home.’ And I came back. Fortunately, I arrived at the bus to the village in time and the first person I saw was my cousin, Islam Topalli, Ylber Topalli’s father. And we went together. He said, ‘Afide,’ he said, ‘don’t go inside right away. I will go in and inform them.’

Samiu [my husband] said, ‘Let Vlora go and stay in Kosovo for about a week.’ And then Vlora was getting ready. Mimoza, my youngest daughter was watching her, she wanted to go too. She said, ‘Kuku,’ and then I said, ‘Mimoza wants to go too,’ he said, ‘Perhaps you want to go too?’ I said, ‘Yes to be honest,’ I said, ‘Sadie told me to go see my mother and she would give me her passport,’ my sister-in-law’s sister, [the sister] of Muhamer’s wife. I said, ‘Lude said she would give me her passport if I wanted to go to Kosovo as well,’ and she went, Geneva is 150 kilometers away from Biel. She went to take Muhamer’s sister-in-law’s passport and we thought of coming to stay here for about a week.

 

When we got on the bus, they said, ‘No,’ they said, ‘go back with this bus,’ for two days. I said, ‘Okay.’ And we got up and came with someone else’s passport. And my mother didn’t know about it at all. So I went. When we went to the village, we arrived at 11 PM, I think it was a Friday, 11 PM. And I covered my head with a blanket so they wouldn’t recognize me (laughs). So the people wouldn’t recognize me, and I went home. […]

 

I stayed that night, and another night I think, and I went back on Monday. I stayed there on Saturday, Sunday and I think I went back on Monday, yes. That’s it. Living abroad is very difficult. […] I would think to myself ‘How?’ The days would seem so long, time went by slowly, like a century.