This is how war starts. One day you're living your ordinary life, you're planning to go to a party, you're taking your children to school, you're making a dentist appointment. The next thing, the telephones go out, the TVs go out, there's armed men on the street, there's roadblocks. Your life as you know it goes into suspended animation. It stops.
Keshtu fillon lufta. Nje dite je duke jetuar jeten tende te zakonshme, je duke planifikuar te shkosh ne nje feste, je duke shpene femijet ne shkolle, je duke caktuar nje takim tek dentisti. Dhe papritur, telefoni nderpritet, Televizoret po ashtu, ka burra te armatosur neper rruge, ka postoblloqe. Jeta jote papritur kthehet ne nje levizje te pezulluar. Ajo ndalon.
I'm going to steal a story from a friend of mine, a Bosnian friend, about what happened to her, because I think it will illustrate for you exactly what it feels like. She was walking to work one day in April, 1992, in a miniskirt and high heels. She worked in a bank. She was a young mother. She was someone who liked to party. Great person. And suddenly she sees a tank ambling down the main road of Sarajevo knocking everything out of its path. She thinks she's dreaming, but she's not. And she runs as any of us would have done and takes cover, and she hides behind a trash bin, in her high heels and her miniskirt. And as she's hiding there, she's feeling ridiculous, but she's seeing this tank go by with soldiers and people all over the place and chaos and she thinks, "I feel like Alice in Wonderland going down the rabbit hole, down, down, down into chaos, and my life will never be the same again."
Une do vjedh nje histori te nje mikesheje, nje mikeshe nga Bosnia, per ate cka i ndodhi asaj, sepse mendoj se do sjelle tek you ndjenjen e vertete. Ajo ishte duke vajtur ne pune nje dite ne Prill te 1992, e veshur me minifund dhe me taka te larta. Ajo punonte ne nje banke. Ishte nje nene e re. Asaj i pelqenin festat. Njeri shume i mire. Dhe papritur shikon nje tank duke ecur ne rrugen kryesore te Sarajevos duke goditur gjithcka rruge. Ajo mendon se eshte duke enderruar, por nuk ishte. Dhe vrapon ashtu sikurse do bente cdokush nga ne duke u mbrojtur pas nje koshi plehrash, ne takat e saja te larta dhe me minifund. Dhe ndersa fshihej aty, po ndjehesh qesharake, por po shikonte tankun duke kaluar me ushtaret dhe njerez gjithandej ne nje kaos dhe ajo mendon, "Me duket vetja si Liza ne Boten e Cudirave duke hyre ne gropen e lepurit, thelle, thelle, thelle ne kaos, dhe jeta ime nuk do jete kurre e njejta."
A few weeks later, my friend was in a crowd of people pushing with her infant son in her arms to give him to a stranger on a bus, which was one of the last buses leaving Sarajevo to take children out so they could be safe. And she remembers struggling with her mother to the front, crowds and crowds of people, "Take my child! Take my child!" and passing her son to someone through a window. And she didn't see him for years. The siege went on for three and a half years, and it was a siege without water, without power, without electricity, without heat, without food, in the middle of Europe, in the middle of the 20th century.
Pas disa javesh, mikesha ime ishte ne nje grumbull njerezish duke shtyre me djalin e saj foshnje ne krahe per ta dhene ate ne nje te huaj ne autobuz, i cili ishte nje nga te fundit qe po largohej nga Sarajevo i cili nxirrte femijet jashte per te qene te sigurte. Dhe ajo kujton luften me te emen ne rrjeshtin e pare, turma e turma njerezish, "Merr femijen tim! Merr femijen tim!" dhe pasimin e djalit te saj tek dikush nga dritarja. Dhe ajo nuk e pa ate per shume vite. Rrethimi vazhdoi per tre vite e gjysem, nje rrethim pa uje, pa energji, pa elektricitet, pa ngrohtesi, pa ushqim, ne mes te Europes, ne mes te shekullit te 20-te.
I had the honor of being one of those reporters that lived through that siege, and I say I have the honor and the privilege of being there because it's taught me everything, not just about being a reporter, but about being a human being. I learned about compassion. I learned about ordinary people who could be heroes. I learned about sharing. I learned about camaraderie. Most of all, I learned about love. Even in the midst of terrible destruction and death and chaos, I learned how ordinary people could help their neighbors, share food, raise their children, drag someone who's being sniped at from the middle of the road even though you yourself were endangering your life, helping people get into taxis who were injured to try to take them to hospitals.
Kisha nderin te isha nje ata reportere qe jetonin ndermjet atij rrethimi, dhe them qe kam nderin dhe privilegjin qe ndodhesha aty sepse ajo me mesoi gjithcka, jo vetem si nje reportere, por si nje qenie njerezore. Mesova per dhembshurine. Mesova per njerezit e zakonshem, heronjte e mundshem. Mesova per ndarjen. Mesova per bashkejetesen. Por mbi te gjitha mesova per dashurine. Edhe ne mes te shkaterrimit te tmerrshem, vdekjes dhe kaosit, mesova se si njerez te zakonshem mund te ndihmonin miqte e tyre, te ndanin ushqim, te rrisnin femijet e tyre, te terhiqnin dike i cili ishte i qelluar nga mesi i rruges edhe pse ti vete ishte duke rrezikur jeten tende, te ndihmonin njerez te plagosur per ti futur ne nje taxi dhe ti dergonin neper spitale.
I learned so much about myself. Martha Gellhorn, who's one of my heroes, once said, "You can only love one war. The rest is responsibility." I went on to cover many, many, many wars after that, so many that I lost count, but there was nothing like Sarajevo.
Mesova shume per veten time. Martha Gellhorn, e cila eshte nje nga heroinat e mia, dikur ka thene, "Ti mund te duash vetem nje lufte. Te tjerat jane pergjegjesi." Kam vajtur te mbuloj shume e shume lufte pas kesaj, kaq shume sa e kam humbur numerimin, por asnjera nuk krahasohej me Sarajevon.
Last April, I went back to a very strange -- what I called a deranged high school reunion. What it was, was the 20th anniversary of the siege, the beginning of the siege of Sarajevo, and I don't like the word "anniversary," because it sounds like a party, and this was not a party. It was a very somber gathering of the reporters that worked there during the war, humanitarian aid workers, and of course the brave and courageous people of Sarajevo themselves. And the thing that struck me the most, that broke my heart, was walking down the main street of Sarajevo, where my friend Aida saw the tank coming 20 years ago, and in that road were more than 12,000 red chairs, empty, and every single one of them symbolized a person who had died during the siege, just in Sarajevo, not in all of Bosnia, and it stretched from one end of the city to a large part of it, and the saddest for me were the tiny little chairs for the children.
Prillin e kaluar, u ktheva atje ne nje --sic e quajta une takim trondites gjimnazi. Ishte pervjetori i 20te i rrethimit, te fillim rrethimit te Sarajevos, dhe nuk me pelqen fjala "pervjetor", sepse duket si nje feste, dhe kjo nuk ishte nje feste. Ishte nje mbledhje e zymte e reportereve qe punonin atje gjate luftes, punonjes te ndihmave humanitare, dhe sigurisht njerezit e guximshem dhe kurajoze te Sarajevos. Dhe ajo cka me goditi me shume, dhe me theu zemren, ishte ecja ne rrugen kryesore te Sarajevos, aty ku mikesha ime Aida pa tankun para 20 viteve, dhe ne ate rruge kishte me shume se 12.000 karrige te kuqe, bosh, dhe secila nga ato simbolizonte nje person qe kishte vdekur gjate rrethimit, vetem ne Sarajevo, jo ne gjithe Bosnjen, ajo shtrihej nga njeri fund i qytetit ne nje pjese te madhe te saj, me e trishtueshme per mua ishin kariget e vogla per femijet.
I now cover Syria, and I started reporting it because I believed that it needs to be done. I believe a story there has to be told. I see, again, a template of the war in Bosnia. And when I first arrived in Damascus, I saw this strange moment where people didn't seem to believe that war was going to descend, and it was exactly the same in Bosnia and nearly every other country I've seen where war comes. People don't want to believe it's coming, so they don't leave, they don't leave before they can. They don't get their money out. They stay because you want to stay in your home. And then war and chaos descend.
Une tani mbuloj Sirine, dhe nisa ta raportoj ate sepse ndjeva qe duhej bere. Besoj se duhet thene nje histori. Po shoh, perseri nje shabllon te luftes ne Bosnje. Kur arrita fillimisht ne Damascus, Pash kete momentin e cuditshem ku njerezit nuk donin te besonin se lufta do filloje, dhe ishte pikerisht e njejta situate ne Bosnje dhe pak a shume ne cdo shtet qe kam pare duke i ardhur lufta. Njerezit nuk duan te besojne se ajo po vjen, dhe per kete arsye ata nuk largohen, nuk ikin para se te munden. Nuk i nxjerrin parate jashte. Ata qendrojne sepse ti do te qendrosh ne shtepi. Dhe pastaj lufta dhe kaosi zbresin.
Rwanda is a place that haunts me a lot. In 1994, I briefly left Sarajevo to go report the genocide in Rwanda. Between April and August, 1994, one million people were slaughtered. Now if those 12,000 chairs freaked me out with the sheer number, I want you just for a second to think of a million people. And to give you some example, I remember standing and looking down a road as far as I could see, at least a mile, and there were bodies piled twice my height of the dead. And that was just a small percentage of the dead. And there were mothers holding their children who had been caught in their last death throes.
Rwanda eshte nje vend i cili me ka lene shume gjurme. Ne 1994, per nje kohe te shkurter u largova nga Sarajevo per te vajtur dhe raportuar mbi genocidin te Rwanda. Ndermjet Prillit dhe Gushtit, 1994, nje milion njerez u theren. Nese ato 12.000 karrige me frikesonin me numer absolut, Dua thjesht per nje sekond te imagjinoni per nje milion njerez. Dhe per t'ju dhene nje shembull, me kujtohet qe qendroja ne nje rruge dhe shikoja sa me larg te mundesha te pakten nje milje, ku aty kishte trupa te stivosur dy here mbi gjatesine time te pajeteve. Dhe ajo ishte vetem nje perqindje e vogel te pajeteve. Aty kishte nena qe mbanin femijet e tyre te cilat ishin kapur ne grahmen e fundit te vdekjes.
So we learn a lot from war, and I mention Rwanda because it is one place, like South Africa, where nearly 20 years on, there is healing. Fifty-six percent of the parliamentarians are women, which is fantastic, and there's also within the national constitution now, you're actually not allowed to say Hutu or Tutsi. You're not allowed to identify anyone by ethnicity, which is, of course, what started the slaughter in the first place. And an aid worker friend of mine told me the most beautiful story, or I find it beautiful. There was a group of children, mixed Hutus and Tutsis, and a group of women who were adopting them, and they lined up and one was just given to the next. There was no kind of compensation for, you're a Tutsi, you're a Hutu, you might have killed my mother, you might have killed my father. They were just brought together in this kind of reconciliation, and I find this remarkable. So when people ask me how I continue to cover war, and why I continue to do it, this is why.
Pra mesuam shume nga lufta, dhe une permenda Rwanden sepse eshte nje vend, si Afrika e Jugut, kur per gati 20 vite e ne vazhdim, ka sherim. Pesedhjete e gjashte perqind e parlamentareve jane gra, e cila eshte fantastike, gjithashtu ne kushtetutun nacionale sot, nuk te lejohet te thuash Hutu apo Tutsi. Nuk te lejohet te identifikosh dike nga kombesia, e cila eshte, sigurisht, ajo cka e filloi masakren. Nje punonjes i ndihmes, mik i imi, me tregoi historine me te bukur, ose mua me duket e bukur. Ishte nje grup femijesh, te perzier Hutus dhe Tutsis, dhe nje grup grash te cilat po i adoptonin ata. te rrjeshtuar jepeshin njeri pas tjetrit. Nuk kishte asnje lloj kompesimi se ishe nje Tutsi apo nje Hutu, mund te kesh vrare mamane time, mund te kesh vrare vellane tim. Ata ishin afruar ne kete lloj pajtimi, dhe mua me duket e mrekullueshme. Pra kur njerezit me pyesin se si vazhdoj te mbuloj luften, dhe pse vazhdoj ta bej, kjo eshte arsyeja.
When I go back to Syria, next week in fact, what I see is incredibly heroic people, some of them fighting for democracy, for things we take for granted every single day. And that's pretty much why I do it.
Kur kthehem ne Siri, javen tjeter ne fakt, ajo cka shoh, eshte njerez jashtezakonisht te guximshem, disa nga ata luftojne per demokraci, per gjera qe ne i marrim te sigurta cdo dite. Dhe kjo eshte pak a shume arsyeja pse e bej.
In 2004, I had a little baby boy, and I call him my miracle child, because after seeing so much death and destruction and chaos and darkness in my life, this ray of hope was born. And I called him Luca, which means "The bringer of light," because he does bring light to my life. But I'm talking about him because when he was four months old, my foreign editor forced me to go back to Baghdad where I had been reporting all throughout the Saddam regime and during the fall of Baghdad and afterwards, and I remember getting on the plane in tears, crying to be separated from my son, and while I was there, a quite famous Iraqi politician who was a friend of mine said to me, "What are you doing here? Why aren't you home with Luca?" And I said, "Well, I have to see." It was 2004 which was the beginning of the incredibly bloody time in Iraq, "I have to see, I have to see what is happening here. I have to report it." And he said, "Go home, because if you miss his first tooth, if you miss his first step, you'll never forgive yourself. But there will always be another war."
Ne 2004, kisha nje djale te vogel, dhe une e quaj ate femija mrekulli, sepse pasi kam pare kaq shume vdekje shkaterrime, kaos dhe erresire ne jeten time, lindi kjo rreze shprese. Dhe une e quajta ate Luca qe do te thote "Derguesi i drites" sepse ai sjell drite ne jeten time. Por po flas per ate sepse kur ai ishte kater muajsh, redaktori im i huaj me detyroi te kthehesha ne Baghdad aty ku kisha raportuar gjate gjithe regimit te Saddamit dhe gjate renies se Baghdadit dhe me pas, me kujtohet qe hyra ne avion duke qare, qaja sepse po ndahesha nga im bir, dhe ndersa isha aty, nje politikan i famshem Irakian i cili ishte mik i imi me tha, "Cfare po ben ketu? Pse nuk je ne shtepi me Luca?" Dhe une i thash, "E pra, mua me duhet ta shoh." Ishte 2004 qe do te thote ishte fillimi i nje kohe teper te pergjakshme ne Irak, "Me duhet te shoh, me duhet te shoh cfare po ndodh ketu. me duhet te raportoj." Dhe ai me tha. "Kthehu ne shtepi, sepse po e humbe dhembin e tij te pare, po i humbe hapat e tij te para, nuk do e falesh kurre veten. Por do kete perhere nje lufte tjeter."
And there, sadly, will always be wars. And I am deluding myself if I think, as a journalist, as a reporter, as a writer, what I do can stop them. I can't. I'm not Kofi Annan. He can't stop a war. He tried to negotiate Syria and couldn't do it. I'm not a U.N. conflict resolution person. I'm not even a humanitarian aid doctor, and I can't tell you the times of how helpless I've felt to have people dying in front of me, and I couldn't save them. All I am is a witness. My role is to bring a voice to people who are voiceless. A colleague of mine described it as to shine a light in the darkest corners of the world. And that's what I try to do. I'm not always successful, and sometimes it's incredibly frustrating, because you feel like you're writing into a void, or you feel like no one cares. Who cares about Syria? Who cares about Bosnia? Who cares about the Congo, the Ivory Coast, Liberia, Sierra Leone, all of these strings of places that I will remember for the rest of my life? But my métier is to bear witness and that is the crux, the heart of the matter, for us reporters who do this. And all I can really do is hope, not to policymakers or politicians, because as much as I'd like to have faith that they read my words and do something, I don't delude myself.
Dhe atje, fatkeqeshisht, do kete perhere lufte. Dhe do mashtroja veten nese mendoja, si nje gazetare, si nje reportere, si nje shkrimtare, qe ajo cka po bej mund ta ndaloje. Nuk mundem. Une nuk jam Kofi Annan. Ai nuk mund te ndaloje nje lufte. Ai u perpoq te negocioje Sirine por nuk e arriti. Une nuk jam nje person i K.B te zgjidhjen e konflikteve. Une nuk jam as doktoreshe e ndihmes humanitare, dhe nuk mund ti pershkruaj se sa here jam ndjere e paafte te shpetoj njerez qe kane qene duke vdekur para meje. Gjithcka jam, eshte nje deshmitare. Roli im eshte te sjell nje ze tek njerezit qe jane te pa ze. Nje kolegu im e pershkroi ate si te ndezesh nje drite ne cepat me te erret te botes. Dhe kete perpiqem te bej. Nuk jam gjithmone e suksesshme, dhe shpesh here eshte shume frustruese, sepse ndihesh sikur po shkruan ne nje boshllek, ose ndihesh sikur asnjerit nuk i intereson. Kujt i intereson per Sirine? Kujt i intereson per Bosnjen? Kush interesohet per Kongon, per Bregun e Fildishte, Liberine, Sierra Leonen, te gjithe keto vargje vendesh qe une do kujtoj per pjesen tjeter te jetes time? Por profesioni im eshte te mbart deshmite dhe ky eshte thelbi, zemra e ceshtjes, per ne reporteret qe bejme kete. Dhe ajo cka mund te bej eshte te shpresoj, jo te politike beresit ose politikanet, sepse sado te dua te kem besim qe ata te lexojne fjalet e mia dhe bejne dicka, une nuk e mashtroj veten.
But what I do hope is that if you remember anything I said or any of my stories tomorrow morning over breakfast, if you can remember the story of Sarajevo, or the story of Rwanda, then I've done my job.
Por shpresa ime eshte se nese do mbani mend dicka nga ato qe thashe ose kedo nga historite e mia neser gjate mengjesit, nese do kujtoni historine e Sarajevos, ose historine e Ruandes, atehere une e kam kryer punen time.
Thank you very much.
Faleminderit shume.
(Applause)
(Duartrokijte)