These past few weeks have felt like a blur — a mix of late nights, long to-do lists, and a lot of moments that have pushed me far outside my comfort zone. Between wrapping up my exhibition project and jumping into a new project with my local organization, the pace has been nonstop. But somehow, in all the chaos, I’ve found time to reflect on what it is I am doing here.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to help the local church here prepare for its 40th anniversary — a milestone that holds deep meaning, especially considering the nation of Kosovo just celebrated its 17th. I was asked to design a commemorative book that would document the church’s history. It began with digitizing decades of photos and documents — a time-consuming process, but a meaningful one. These weren’t just documents, they were memories. Ones that had survived war, displacement, and the test of time. Holding these photos in my hands reminded me why I started this journey in the first place: to help preserve the stories that matter.

Working on this project has given me more than just a breather from the unknowns of my own work. It’s reminded me of what I do know. It’s given me a space to use my skills confidently while still contributing to something bigger than myself. And through it, I’ve found new material that’s helped inform my exhibition as well as hold a place in it. I now have access to old news clippings, photographs, and timelines that capture the strength and sacrifice of this community. An opportunity that I never expected to happen.

Still, I’ll be honest, a lot of this journey has felt like walking into the dark with only a small flashlight. There’s been no professor grading me, no project partner to bounce ideas off of, and no clear roadmap laid out. It’s just been me — writing, filming, editing, interviewing — and hoping I’m doing it all justice. There have been countless moments where I’ve been hit with waves of self-doubt, of imposter syndrome, of wondering if I’m capable of capturing something so layered and important.

For a long time, I avoided writing about that part. I felt guilty making this project about my experience when the whole reason I’m here is to spotlight the voices of others. I felt guilty because so many people put their trust in me, and I was scared that any sign of weakness would put doubt in their heads as well as mine. But I think the truth is, is that this is a part of the story I am telling. We are all faced with the unknown. Whether that’s in our work, our country’s future, or our personal lives. But we must step into it nonetheless. 

There have been days when my fears screamed louder than my confidence — fears that I would fail, that I wouldn’t be enough, that I would let people down. But every time I’ve felt that fear and still shown up — whether that’s conducting an interview, navigating cultural barriers, or simply eating alone at a restaurant — I’ve proven to myself that I can. I am not faced with the same things that my interview candidates are, which has only fueled my ability to face unknowns in my own life and project. 

My project is far from over, with a whole new set of challenges waiting for me when my time finishes up at the end of the month and I head home to build this exhibition. However, I am ready to step into the unknown and truly see what is waiting for me at the end of this experience, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the time that I have had here in Kosovo.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve had the privilege to sit down with people and ask some really big, and sometimes really hard, questions. Questions about what it was like during the war, what they think of Kosovo today, and what they hope for in the future. These conversations haven’t always been easy — for some, it brings up painful memories, for others, it’s a reminder of how uncertain things still feel. And yet, each time I’ve asked someone to share their story, I’ve received the same unwavering response: “Anything for my country.” That phrase has really stuck with me. One of the things I’ve been especially curious about is how people my age — or even younger — connect to this history they didn’t personally live through. I’ve heard a range of answers, but one theme keeps coming back: it’s not about feeling weighed down by the past, it’s about feeling a responsibility to honor it. To do something with it. To help build something better because of it.

As I have begun brainstorming titles for my exhibition, I have been exploring various words to capture the complex story I wish to tell. The word forge has fascinated me. It shows up in so many different places — from blacksmithing to art — but two definitions in particular have really stuck with me. The first is to move forward slowly and steadily. The second is to move ahead with a sudden burst of speed and strength. They’re kind of opposites when you think about it — one is all about patience, the other about power — but both are about movement, about progress. That dual meaning feels like the perfect way to describe what I’ve been learning here in Kosovo. It’s a place that’s rebuilding brick by brick, conversation by conversation — but at the same time, when you zoom out and see how far it’s come in just 25 years, it’s honestly breathtaking. That’s why I’ve titled this exhibition Forging a Nation: Stories of Conflict, Resilience, and Identity. It captures both sides of the story — the steady climb and the sudden leaps forward.

Now, I’m getting ready to move into the next part of this project — the part where I start translating these stories and themes into visuals. That means creating photography, design, and media that reflects the complexity, strength, and emotion I’ve been lucky enough to witness in every interview. It’s a little intimidating, to be honest, but also exciting. This work isn’t just about putting images on walls — it’s about capturing lived experiences and finding a way to share them in a way that feels honest, personal, and human. I want the people who see this exhibition to feel something. To feel what I’ve felt here — that resilience isn’t always loud, that progress comes in many forms, and that stories, when shared, really do have the power to forge something new.

When I was little, one of my favorite things to do was sift through the bins of our family photographs. I’d sit with my mom and sisters, sorting baby pictures into piles, laughing at the hairstyles of the ’80s, and freaking out at photos of my parents with exes I’m happy they didn’t end up with. These moments always ended the same way—me noticing that my pile of baby pictures was noticeably smaller than my two older sisters’ and therefore throwing a fit. Still, those times remain some of my most cherished memories. Family photographs are more than just pictures; they are powerful markers of our identity and belonging. They tell stories we may have forgotten, bring loved ones back into the present, and offer glimpses into lives we didn’t get to experience firsthand.

So, when I began conceptualizing this exhibition, I knew that photography would play a crucial role in the telling of this story. I began researching photographic practices specific to Kosovo and came across an academic article by Zanita Halimi titled “Photographic Practices among Albanian Families in Kosovo.” The piece explores the ways families sought to preserve their photos during the 1998–99 Kosovo War, offering insight into the emotional and historical weight that images can carry. 

Halimi outlines three categories of preservation practices during the diaspora. The first being families who had no time to take photos with them due to the urgency of fleeing for their lives. The second group is those families who brought their photos with them despite warnings that soldiers might destroy them. And the third includes families who chose to hide their photos before deportation–burying them in hopes that, no matter what happened, someone would one day find them and know who had lived there, what they looked like, and what had been lost.

During one of my recent interviews, I discovered a fourth category—families who chose not to leave at all because of their photographs. The participant shared with me that she was just seven years old when the war reached her small town of Vushtrri. Soldiers gave her neighborhood a single hour to evacuate, warning that anyone who stayed would be killed. Her family, however, made the impossible choice to stay behind, for one reason: they couldn’t bear to leave behind the only photograph they had of her older brother, who had fled the country before the war began.

“My mom only had one photo of him, but the frame couldn’t fit in a suitcase. I think it’s so dumb—that’s the reason we stayed. But we didn’t go out. So every single second, every single day, we were just waiting for the soldiers to come and kill us. The town was empty. It was just our family, and the horses, sheep, and cows that people set free.”

This story stopped me in my tracks. It reminded me that photographs aren’t just keepsakes. They’re fragments of people’s lives, holding emotions and memories too sacred to be left behind. They are proof of existence: of who we were, who we loved, and who we continue to carry with us. Photographs can open doors, bridge generations, and breathe life into stories that history books may overlook. But they can also represent something much deeper: the lengths we’ll go to protect our identity, preserve our legacy, and ensure that, no matter what happens, someone remembers we were here.

“We built, and we tried, and we learned. I think if you think about the fact that only 25 years ago this place was burnt to the ground and destroyed, and if you come to see what it is now, you don’t need to talk about the progress, it’s right there, it’s in your face, you see it.” -Interview Participant

Progress is often challenging to recognize, especially when striving towards something greater. When we focus on our aspirations—on where we hope to be—it can be hard to acknowledge the steps we’ve already taken. We see the distance that remains rather than the ground we’ve covered. While it is vital to keep looking forward, it is equally important to reflect on how far we have come.

Kosovo is no exception. As I began interviewing my first participants, I noticed various perspectives on the country’s progress. Some emphasized the challenges ahead, while others spoke with pride about how much has been accomplished in such a short time. What struck me most about the quote above is its assertion that progress in Kosovo is not just something to be discussed—it is something you see, something you experience. It is woven into everyday life. It’s in the bustling streets right before Iftar, in the kids walking to school early in the morning, and in the new coffee shops opening on every corner. Too often, we think of progress as something monumental, a stark contrast between past and present. But in reality, progress is usually found in the small, steady changes that accumulate over time. What makes Kosovo’s transformation so remarkable is that it is both. It is the rebuilding of a nation from ruins, but it is also the quiet, persistent steps forward—conversations that spark change, communities that grow stronger, and a generation that refuses to be defined by the past.

As I continue gathering interviews and insights, I am also entering the creative phase of this project, considering how these stories can be brought to life visually for those who will experience the exhibition. This process is anything but linear. Each new perspective challenges my initial ideas, forcing me to rethink and refine. And I love that. I love the moment when an idea is completely scrapped because it means something better is on the horizon. Progress, after all, is not just about moving forward—it’s about being willing to adapt, to start over, and to create something stronger than before.

I am someone who likes to be prepared. I do my research beforehand, I come in with a plan A, plan B, and sometimes even a plan C. So entering this next chapter in my life was no different. Before leaving for my trip, I wanted to learn what information was already out there on the story I wanted to share. So, I scoured the library’s databases for peer-reviewed, academic journals that highlighted areas of interest for my exhibition. I delved into research on resilience and post-traumatic growth in Kosovo, the educational success of college students, debates surrounding political recognition, photographic practices during the war, and the significance of local sculptures. Like I said, I like to be prepared. However, I made it my goal to throw all of it out the window the second I got to Kosovo. 

Research is invaluable, but it rarely tells the whole story. While I wanted to be prepared, I did not want to go into this experience thinking I already understood Kosovo and its people. So I made it my priority in my first month to strictly observe. I prioritized building relationships with locals, hearing their lived experiences, and immersing myself in the narratives they are already telling. I’ve engaged in meaningful conversations with trusted community members, visited exhibitions by Kosovar artists, and read both fiction and historical accounts that offer cultural insights beyond data points and analysis. Through this process, I have refined my approach, identifying the themes that need deeper exploration through formal interviews and recognizing where my exhibition can add to the broader conversation.

The exhibitions I’ve visited here have been powerful and deeply moving, each dedicated to preserving the memory of the war. While they were all incredible, I wish to highlight two of them. Reporting House commemorates the 25th anniversary of the war, showcasing the media coverage in Kosovo during the conflict. 36 Hours was a particularly impactful installation, depicting the Night of Fires—the tragic event on March 5–7, 1998, that marked the beginning of the Kosovo War and saw the loss of 59 members of the Jashari family (a commander in the Kosovo Liberation Army) at the hands of the Serbian Army. These exhibitions have been profoundly inspiring, illustrating not only the hardship endured but also the incredible resilience of a nation that has rebuilt itself in just over two decades.

However, in nearly every exhibition I’ve encountered, the focus remains on the past—on the pain, the war, and the struggle for recognition. These stories are essential, but they are not the only stories Kosovo has to tell. As I transition into the next phase of my project, I want to shift the focus forward. My exhibition will highlight the people of today—the students, artists, entrepreneurs, and leaders shaping Kosovo’s future. It will celebrate progress, hope, and the vision of a country that refuses to be defined solely by its past. Because while history must never be forgotten, the future is still being written.

By now, I think I’m on version eight of this blog post. Every time I sit down to write, the words never seem quite right to capture my time in Pristina so far. How do I decide what’s important to share and what isn’t? I’ve been here just over three weeks. At first, everything felt significant—the way I set up my room, discovering my go-to coffee shops, and refining my very limited Albanian skills. But now, those details feel significantly less important. As I dive deeper into my project, I’m learning more about the inner workings of this growing country. I’m listening to people’s stories, documenting monumental national events, and immersing myself in local history books and renowned Albanian novels. The more I learn, the more I realize just how deep this story runs—and I can’t help but worry that I won’t have enough time to experience and share everything I want to with you all.

February 9th marked Kosovo’s parliamentary election day—a monumental event for any democratic nation. It’s a day when citizens take control of their country’s future, deciding what they want for the next four years. For some, it brings feelings of hope, determination, and optimism. For others, it stirs discouragement, frustration, or even fear. Having gone through this process in my own country just a few months ago, I was eager to learn how it unfolds here in Kosovo. What stood out to me was that, despite election day being on the 9th, as I write this on the 24th, a winner has yet to be announced. In Kosovo, a party must secure over 50% of the assembly to form a government. With the current Prime Minister’s party holding only 40.83%, they must form a coalition with another party to reach a majority—otherwise, a stalemate could force the country into a revote. Right now, the government is in limbo, and uncertainty hangs over the people of Kosovo.

A little over a week later, on February 17th, Kosovo celebrated its 17th Independence Day—a day filled with national pride and celebration that echoed through the streets of Pristina. The occasion was marked by a display of military strength and cultural appreciation, with folk music concerts and patriotic gatherings bringing people together. What stood out to me most, however, were the many flags raised in honor of this milestone. The Kosovo flag was not the only one soaring through the air; alongside it flew the American flag, the Albanian flag, and the UÇK flag. Each flag served as a tribute—not just to the nation’s independence, but to the sacrifices that made it possible, sacrifices that still feel fresh in the memories of many.

As I’ve mentioned in previous blog posts, my greatest fear for this project is simplification. The deeper I dive into my research, the more I realize how interconnected everything is—and the harder it becomes to decide which aspects to highlight in my exhibition. How do I focus on specific issues when they are all so intrinsically linked?Every time I learn about one thing, I leave with even more questions. My desire to understand keeps growing, so for now, I’m taking it slow—allowing myself the space to pause, ask questions, and explore different facets of this intricate nation. I believe this approach will help me present a more holistic and meaningful story to my audience back home.

The days leading up to my departure have been bittersweet. While they have been filled with exciting milestones, they have also carried moments of sorrow. One of the main reasons I chose to embark on this journey was the opportunity for growth—growth in my career, my understanding of myself, and my perspective on the world. However, welcoming new experiences, perspectives, and people also means saying goodbye to the ones that have brought me so much comfort over the past few years.

Growth rarely happens when we stay within our comfort zones; it comes when we embrace the discomfort of the unknown. So that is what I am choosing to do. I am embracing the sorrowful moments of saying goodbye to my friends, my family, and even the version of myself I have known for so long—because I know that through this, I can grow into who I am meant to become.

One of my favorite parts of my preparation period has been the time spent back home with my family. From small design projects with my mom to discussing qualitative research methodologies with my dad, this project feels like a member of our family—one we all want to help grow and see flourish. Sharing this journey with my family has been incredibly meaningful. My parents made getting my education possible, and being able to showcase the skills I’ve developed because of their support has been one of the greatest feelings.

The next chapter of my story is beginning, bringing with it reflections on the chapters I have already closed and the people who have helped me write them along the way. As I embark on this new adventure, I want to take a moment to thank everyone who has supported me and helped me get to where I am today. You are just as much a part of the telling of this story as I am because you have given me the strength and opportunity to use my voice to amplify others. From the bottom of my heart, thank you—I couldn’t be here without you.

Let this next chapter begin!

The story I am about to tell is a complex one. It’s not a story confined to history books but one that lives and breathes among us. It is a story that continues to unfold in classrooms, around family dinner tables, and in the aisles of grocery stores. It is the story of a people with a pain-filled past—a past that remains palpable today, affecting individuals on both sides of the border. This pain lingers in news stories, casual conversations, comment sections, even within family relationships. While this pain persists, it is not the whole story. Can we acknowledge the people of the present without mentioning the people of the past? Why does it sometimes feel that giving one person the opportunity to share their story means taking away that same opportunity from someone else? Is it true? Does amplifying one voice silence another?

Telling a story like this carries risks. The one I fear most is simplification. In middle school math, we were taught that the first step in solving a problem is to simplify it. This approach works in equations and even in challenges we face in day-to-day life. But when applied to a story like this, simplification feels more like erasing someone’s perspective, allowing someone’s story to go unheard. I believe this hesitation is not a weakness but instead a strength. The story I aim to tell is about real people, and therefore must be handled with care and intentionality. I hope to carry this hesitation with me as a reminder of the weight of these narratives and the responsibility they demand.

The pain of the past was neither the beginning nor the end of this story. This theme is not unique to this narrative—it is a part of all of our stories. Pain transcends borders, race, and religion, reminding us that we all participate in the act of moving forward, every single day. Whether we like it or not, we are all active participants in the creation of tomorrow.   

As a young adult, I am on a journey of self-discovery, just like so many others my age. I am at a point where I get to decide the kind of future I want for myself and what I want my story to say. So much of who we are is shaped by the world around us. What strikes me as unique about the story I’m about to share is that people my age in Kosovo are on a similar journey—finding their identity in a region marked by uncertainty and conflicting perspectives. How do you develop a sense of self with people still questioning whether your existence should be recognized? 

My generation in Kosovo is not only shaping their own identities but also helping to build a nation. This is the story I wish to tell: a story of people who continue writing their stories despite carrying the weight of the past. It is a lesson I hope to learn along the way, and one I believe we can all learn from. As humans, we share countless commonalities, yet it is often easier to focus on what divides us. As I embark on this journey, I will keep asking: how can we create a future that celebrates these shared experiences without ignoring the pain caused by our differences in the past?