FEAR is coursing through Kosovo as never before. Down the hill come a group of 16 Albanian women and children, in flight - literally running. Jumping out of the car we wave our arms shouting at them to stop. The women back off, terrified, pulling their children with them. They are wide-eyed, fear is etched on their faces. They think we are going to shoot them.
They're from the village of Citak, close to Albanian rebel-held territory. It has received a weekend visit from the Serbian police. They stammer that they hid in their cellars, men were tied up, beaten . . . killed. Their story is unclear, confused. Only the terror is unmistakable.
Twenty miles away, plumes of smoke are rising above the village of Dolovo, only for a moment could one mistake them for anything else; smoke signals. Here, when houses burn, their grey plumes swirl thick and high, they score the skyline with their bloody message . . . they are the signals of ethnic war that can be seen for miles around. Seen and understood. In the neighbouring village of Drenovac, Serbs stand by the road and flash victory salutes.
An ordinary car packed with armed men with short haircuts and Kalashnikovs speeds past a police checkpoint, hooting and cheering.
But, make no mistake, this is not Bosnia, not yet. Houses are burning, not whole villages. In the words of one diplomat: ''It's low-level terror, too much and it would get into Western papers, which is exactly what they don't want.''
In Pristina, the provincial capital, Serbs are feeling far from confident though. Those who live in outlying areas are moving into the city centre to stay with friends and family. They feel safer clustered around the concrete symbol of Serbian power, especially the army and police headquarters. Serbia's southern province is slipping into full-scale war. But still, under American pressure, both sides have begun to talk; from now on it will be like this, fighting and talking.
On Friday, Yugoslav President Slobodan Milosevic received the pacifist Albanian leader, Ibrahim Rugova. Now Serbian television shows the clip over and over again: Milosevic says something, we cannot hear what, and Rugova doubles over with laughter. It is not a scene that has gone down well among Albanians. After all, says one politician, while Rugova laughs: ''Half of Kosovo is bleeding.''
A source in Belgrade says: ''He was laughing because he was nervous, all the Albanian delegation were. And there was Milosevic like some great crocodile. They were frightened of him.'' Next Friday, Albanian and Serb delegations are due to meet to begin serious talks. No-one seems to know who will be in the delegations or exactly what they will talk about. The Albanians want independence for Kosovo, whose population is
90% Albanian; the Serbs say they cannot have it.
Blerim Shala is a member of the Group of 15, (G15) a team chosen by Mr Rugova to advise on talks. Considering he is the group's spokesman, he has remarkably little to say, simply: ''Confusion rules.'' Kosovo's Albanian politicians are angry with Rugova. He is not telling them what is happening. He is not telling his people what
is happening.
One member of the G15, who asks for anonymity, says: ''I could resign, then I would have a clear conscience, but of course I still would not be
able to sleep at night. Resigning would be to play the Serbian game: divide and rule.''
On the border of Kosovo and Serbia proper, Serbian police have begun to turn back food and supplies which are destined for Albanian private shops. So, panic is setting in, stocks are being hoarded. The Serb message is clear: ''If you want international sanctions on Serbia - have a dose of your own medicine.''
In the centre of the rebel-held Drenica triangle lies the Serbian monastery of Devic. On Sunday there was only one ageing nun in residence. Driving there makes your flesh crawl. It is inexplicable, this feeling
of being watched.
You just have to hope that ''they'' are watching you through their binoculars, not their gunsights. The nun says she is far too old to be frightened. Driving back down the hill ''they'' are waiting. Two large cars packed with uniformed guerrillas, members of the Kosovo Liberation Army.
A thirtysomething commander, speaking impeccable English, checks our documents. ''What were you doing at the monastery? What did the nun say?''
He will not give his name. He says if we come back we should just ask ''for the one with the beard''. He is hardly enthused by the talks. ''We're not interested in them.'' We point out that the Americans have said Kosovo cannot be independent. ''And they said none of the six republics of former Yugoslavia could be independent either,'' he replies. ''They'll come round.''
Over the weekend Serb students in the Technical Faculty of Pristina University refused an order to leave. Under an agreement brokered by a Vatican organisation, they were supposed to hand the building over to Albanian students who have their own parallel education system. They talked tough. But their words were hollow. For years they have known that they would be betrayed.
And betrayal is, after all, at the very heart of the Serbian myth of Kosovo. It goes like this: their prince rides out to fight the Turks at Kosovo Fields. But he is betrayed by one of his own. ''The Kingdom of Heaven,'' says the Prince, ''is better than a kingdom on earth.''
On Sunday night, the police came and turfed the students out. So yesterday they fought their very own battle of Kosovo. With rocks and clubs, and under a skull and crossbones flag, they clashed with Albanian students. Shots rang out and then the police intervened.
Then the Serbs began to march through the city streets. They were screaming obscenities at their very own traitor - Slobodan Milosevic.
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