The Final Letter of a Kosova Albanian Martyr: Remembering Muharrem Vuthaj
Author: Andina Pepshi
The freedom Kosova enjoys is easy to take for granted. The general comfort and safety that now define daily life rarely announce themselves to those long accustomed to such luxuries; they become visible only in their absence. It is among the generations which remember what it means to be deprived of dignity that we must look for a fuller understanding. For Albanians living under Yugoslav repression, many of the freedoms that now seem ordinary were distant aspirations secured through extraordinary courage, sacrifice – and ultimately, thousands of lives.
We know these rights were fought for. We commemorate the men and women behind that struggle, and the landscape itself has become a testament to their sacrifice. In almost every village and city center, there is a monument in stone accompanied by a Kosova Liberation Army (KLA/UÇK) flag or a street bearing a martyr's name. The value of these memorials is undeniable, yet they often preserve remarkably little of the individuals themselves: a name, a patronymic, a date of birth and death, often the battle in which they fell alongside the designation Dëshmor i Kombit – Martyr of the Nation. We get a picture of their ultimate sacrifice but not their stories, what they believed and endured, whom they loved or their vision for a free Kosova.
There are thousands of stories that risk receding from living memory with every passing generation. These memories, properly remembered and honored, can awaken something deeper in our collective consciousness and help recover the human meaning behind the names engraved in stone. Preserving the memory of this difficult yet crucial chapter in Albanian history means we cannot allow the lives of those who came before us to fade into abstraction.
Our often superficial veneration of martyrs, coupled with the lacking support many veterans struggle with, leaves the unsettling impression that we have preserved the general memory of sacrifice better than the lives who made it happen. Among the thousands of stories that risk being forgotten, however, one has survived.
Muharrem Vuthaj was a husband and loving father to ten children from the village of Vrella in Istog. Prior to joining the KLA, – he worked as a guard in the prisons of Peja, Gurrakoc and Dubrava, where he came into close contact with young Albanian political prisoners.
In 1986, the Yugoslav State Security Service (UDBA) was carrying out a campaign of intense repression in Kosova, including by imprisoning thousands of Albanians. That year, Xhemail Blakaj, a young Albanian from Muharrem's own village, was tortured to death in UDBA custody. Muharrem was among the only seven attendees at Xhemail’s funeral. When Yugoslav police questioned him about attending, Muharrem initially denied it, until they revealed a photograph taken secretly at the funeral. This attendance led to the loss of his employment and brought intensified surveillance by the Yugoslav security apparatus. For his family, however, the significance of this event lies in his choice to honor his compatriot despite knowing what it might cost him.
With ten children to provide for, Muharrem needed to secure new employment quickly. He worked in Germany for a period and also went into the highlands for seasonal labor, tending to livestock and working the pastures, as families in his region traditionally did.
Yet hearing his daughter Lulaverja speak, you do not get the image of years defined solely by hardship. She remembers a man who nobly carried the responsibility of providing for his children. When I visited Lulaverja and her husband Nezir Zogaj in the village of Kaliqan in Istog, I began to understand Muharrem through the intimacies of his family life – descriptions which have since stuck with me.
Muharrem joined the KLA in June 1998, as the resistance force was establishing itself in the Dukagjin region. He became a member of the 133rd Brigade, named in honor of Adrian Krasniqi, best remembered as the first man to fall in a KLA uniform. He brought the training he had acquired as a prison guard and used that knowledge to train fellow fighters. His son Lulëzim also joined, and by the spring of 1999, father and son were fighting alongside men from their village.
On April 12, 1999, Serbian forces launched a major attack across Istog, in the villages Vrella and Banja. Fourteen KLA fighters were killed, including Muharrem’s fellow villagers Nezir Mujaj, Smajl Fetahaj and Skënder Maraj. Muharrem himself was severely wounded but survived the battle, beginning what would become the final three weeks of his life.
Shot in both legs and right shoulder, he laid among slain fellow fighters, while Serbian forces advanced from village to village, burning homes and searching for remaining civilians. There was nowhere for Muharrem to find refuge or recovery. For nearly three weeks, deprived of much-needed medical treatment, he remained in hiding as war raged on around him.
The 133rd Brigade soon realized that Muharrem was missing. His fellow fighters began searching for Muharrem, coming close enough that he could hear them. But Muharrem feared that answering would expose his position to the Serbian forces moving through the area. During those brutal weeks, he had no way of knowing whether his family was safe, whether his brothers-in-arms knew he was alive or if he would see the end of the war. His wounds remained untreated and his attempts to move through the surrounding countryside were constrained by the presence of Serbian forces.
As his strength gradually failed him, Muharrem began to write, recording everything he could remember, though it was evidently difficult to reach full clarity given his state. When the ink in his pen ran out, he lit a thorn and continued writing with its ashes. He recounted the battle in which he was injured, the men who had fallen around him and the desperate measures he took to survive. In places, the letter becomes difficult to follow, its meaning occasionally unclear or fragmented. This is unsurprising given the condition in which he was writing: gravely wounded, without food or medicine, and nearing the end of his strength. Yet his thoughts did not remain fixed on his own fate. Again and again, they returned to those he feared leaving behind.
He succumbed to his injuries on May 4, 1999, on his own property. His body was found over a month later, on June 16, by fellow fighters Verim Blakaj and Ramadan Dreshaj as well as his son-in-law, Nezir Zogaj. Over the years, his children continued returning to their father’s deathplace. The circumstances of his passing had never made sense to them, as he was not one to vanish in those circumstances without an explanation. Eventually, his daughter Lulaverja recounts noticing a leather watch strap hanging from the wall of the stable. When they pulled it, the strap gave way, revealing the hollow brick where Muharrem had hidden his final belongings. Inside, they found the letter he wrote in his final days, along with his watch, which he left for his son Lulëzim, and the ring he left for his son Kadri.
What follows is Muharrem Vuthaj’s final letter. It is difficult to read without oneself confronting the physical tribulation he endured those final days: the cold, the hunger, the wounds, the fear of being discovered, the exhaustion. Yet what is remarkable about these parting words is that they are not marked by despair. They turn repeatedly towards those who will live on after him. Muharrem’s words fulfill something that monuments alone cannot. The testimony returns the martyr to us as a man, a warrior filled with vigor and hope; something more than a name.
Please find the full letter below.
"I write this letter after 20 days in the pozllam¹, as I could no longer remain in the room. The cross draft of air would not let me; the cold wind blew in every direction. God only knows, for I have three wounds that are not healing. I am treating the wounds with chicken lung, as I have butchered one. It came into my hands on its own, otherwise I would not have been able to catch it. The Serbs are coming and going, and many times they have passed through Selaman’s garden and by the fountain toward the meadow of the Salihqerimi family. I am simply preparing myself to die.
Beginning on the day I was wounded, I slept two nights in Derrpa. As far as I can tell, Nezir Mujaj was killed near me. With Binak Shabani’s son, I spent the whole night making our way towards Isa Zeqiri’s meadow. In the morning, the boy set off toward the Shabandeli family, intending to come out near Studenica. I told him, “I beg you, tell someone that I am stranded here,” and there I remained for two nights and two days. I then struggled to make my way to Fusha e Verrit2 to drink water. Crawling and dragging myself through the night, I reached water in the morning.
I spent two nights in the mountains of the Hasanisufi family, thinking that perhaps someone might be moving through the highland pastures. Then, I set off for home. I thought about entering it during the night somehow, saying to myself: “Even if I die, I hold no regrets; at least let me not die in the mountains.” I struggled all day until I reached the mountains of the Veseli family, where I slept for one night. From there, I went down to Fusha e Verrit. Binak Rama³ was lying there dead, a single bullet in his head. I set off for home from the vineyards of the Veseli family and barely arrived at around three o’clock in the morning. I could see the Serb guards, but I managed to get through.
Once I arrived, I had no way of entering [the house]. The chetniks4 had burned everything to ashes save for a single blanket that remained outside. I spent about a week with that blanket, dragging myself around as best I could with it. Afterwards, I decided to go to the home of Muhamet Rexhepi. I barely managed to get there. My knees swelled throughout the night – I suffered more from my knees than from my wounds. There I began to rest, but I kept thinking that [the Serbs] might come and burn everything at any moment.
One day, some goats entered the courtyard, yet I was unaware that they had come in. I barely managed to get them back out. I butchered one of them, thinking that I might be able to eat a little bit of it. I butchered it at the threshold of the house, just as it was beginning to enter Muhamet’s room, where the stove was. However, I was unable to try [the meat]. In the end, I said, “Well, may God accept it as sacrifice,” and threw it over the door into the garden.
The following day, two more [goats] entered the courtyard. When I looked down from Rifat’s attic, I thought I should go and close the door so that the scoundrels5 would not enter, as the goats were making noise. I went out, wanting to scare the goats away, when I suddenly heard soldiers entering the home of Rifat. There were four of them.
Just as I managed to get into the room, the soldiers came into the hallway and straight out into the courtyard. “A patriot, we are going to catch this patriot,” they said, referring to the goats. They caught one of the goats and left, but kept loitering about, so I decided to take some things and return to my own home. I took some clothes, a jambuli6, a blanket, and a small quilt. I tied them together and, dragging myself along, barely managed to reach the pozllam by morning. I am here now, surviving. I can hardly comprehend how exhausted I have become. My wounds are not healing. Though, as long as I know that my daughters, sons, grandsons and granddaughters are well, I fret not.
Nurije7, do not be upset. Give the children courage. I send well-wishes to Xufa8. Tell her not to weep for me, as I have always said to her: “If it comes to dying, let it be for freedom.” Believe me, I have paid my price, and have paid it well. All of this burning; all these weapons firing. I will not abandon my home. I send greetings to all of you, those in the diaspora and those here alike, as I am dying for Kosova, for the fatherland, for liberty, and for the future of [Kosova’s] children. My soul does not grieve at all, no more than a blade of grass. Here, I will die. Here, generation after generation. Here I was. Here I will remain. Here are the lands of my ancestors. Here I will die in my home, in Kosova. I will never flee it. Kosova is our home.
Just make sure that you are convinced that, while I am alive, no one messes with me, because I have the means. Once I die, then it will be difficult [to defend myself]. I have killed one at the door, and there are ten others further ahead.
I send greetings to Musa, Nezir, Riza, Salih and each of their families.9 All of them are good in-laws. I greet you with immense respect, honorable family. I also greet those far from the fatherland with the whole of my heart, soul and longing. Do not weep for me, as I have given my life for liberty. Liberty cannot be won without blood. I am wounded in both legs and my right shoulder. For the last 48 hours since I have been here, I have neither eaten nor drank; without aid from anyone. The Serbs have been moving around me; I simply could not detect them, because I had paid my price [for freedom].
A few birds have come to sing above me and by the minute I headed alone towards death. I leave my watch to Lulëzim,10 and my ring to Kadri.11 To whoever comes into possession of [this letter], do not weep for me. I can barely write, as cramps have taken hold of my hands. All night, I walked on my knees from Derrpa all the way to the water in Fusha e Verrit. It has been 60 hours without eating. If I had someone to take me away, I would heal, as I used to be strong. I cannot believe my current condition.
My soul does not ache, as the Serbs have not captured me. Ten meters away from them, I had a machine gun and emptied it [firing at] them – they fell to the ground, thirty of them. Afterwards, I heard them being taken away in a car.
I have fallen for liberty, may the youth cherish it.
Muharrem Vuthaj
The village of Vrella, Istog"
[1] Pozllam is a regional term used in western Kosova for a traditional auxiliary structure within a household compound, generally associated with livestock and agricultural activities.
[2] This specific field is located near the village of Vrella in the municipality of Istog.
[3] Binak Rama’s body was never found.
[4] Ç/Qetnik, or Chetnik in English, were originally a Serbian nationalist movement active in World War II. The term has historically been used to refer to ethnic Serb paramilitary detachments. In the Kosova War, it denoted irregular forces involved in massacres of Kosova Albanian civilians.
[5] In some contexts, the original Albanian word viranat can be used to refer to a damned person, scoundrel or rascal. Muharrem uses it to refer to Serb soldiers.
[6] Jambuli refers to a traditional, thick, heavy blanket made from sheep’s wool. It is also known as jamballë or xhamballë.
[7] Nurije, Muharrem Vuthaj’s wife.
[8] Xufa, Muharrem Vuthaj’s sister.
[9] Muharrem Vuthaj’s four sons-in-law.
[10] Lulëzim, Muharrem Vuthaj’s eldest son.
[11] Kadri, Muharrem Vuthaj’s second-oldest son.
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