Ramush Haradinaj kommt frei
Erstellt von Mbreti Bardhyl, 08.05.2012, 23:23 Uhr · 139 Antworten · 10.620 Aufrufe
Warum nicht... Mir hat er ja nichts getan..
Zitat von AulOn
hat er dass den? keine ahnung ich würde gern wissen ob er das wirklich hat.... es gibt keine 1000 zivile serbische opfer im kosovo laut eurer aussagen entfallen diese alle immer auf diese 3-4 albanischen "terroristen" es ist einfach nur lächerlich.... das auf der anderen seite über 10.000 albaner gestorben sind und zwar zivile und weitere tausende vermisst werden vergesst ihr immer... hier existiert also ein verhältnis von 1/10 .......
Zitat von Synonym
und ihr serben, mein freund habt wenns um kriegsverbrecher geht nichts zu sagen , da kann ich nur karadzic und mladic nennen.... denn wenn es wenigstens so wäre als wärt ihr nun zum guten bekehrt worden und ihr seid wirklich auf der suche nach frieden und aufklärung der ganzen gräueltaten , dann hättet ihr diese schwanzlutscher gleich rausgerückt.... aber allein die tatsache dass es gegenden gibt bei denen diese männer als helden verehrt werden ... nunja....
deutschland hat auch riesen bockmist gebaut aber die leute verehren hitler nicht als helden heute (ausgeschlossen die 1-2% extremisten)
Dem ist nichts mehr hinzuzufügen !
Zitat von Mahangsh
den freispruch dieses monsters kann man fast mit einem eventuellen freispruch von mladic gleichsetzen. dieser mann hat auf grausamsterweise serben aber auch albaner bis zum tot quälen lassen, zudem soll er boss einer grossen kriminälen organisation sein. den haag sollte sich schämen! fuj
Herr Kollege er hat keine Ziwilisten getötet,er hat nur gegen die verfickten cetniks gekämpft
Zitat von Milanche
Schön und gut, nur wo sind die Beweise dafür?
Zitat von Milanche
DEINE FREUNDE SIND NICHT IMMER SO, WIE SIE SCHEINEN
Du denkst, du kennst deine Leute, und dann plötzlich werden sie nach Den Haag geschickt und dort des Massenmords beschuldigt. Das ist einem Kumpel von mir passiert. Ramush Haradinaj war nicht das, was man einen engen Freund nennt, aber wir fühlten uns über unsere gemeinsame Liebe zum Sport verbunden. Zugegeben, genoss Ramush die Prügeleien genauso wie die Ballführung, aber letztendlich war er unser archetypischer, liebenswürdiger Mann fürs Harte. Seine angenehme Erscheinung gab den Bedienungen gut Trinkgeld und beherrschte sogar gehobenen Smalltalk. Worauf ich hinaus will ist, dass wenn Ramusch die Scheiße aus einem herausprügelt, man vermutlich nicht aufsteht, sich den Staub abklopft und und einfach geht. Gut, zumindest habe ich nicht drei Pints voller Blut für einen Dummkopf verloren. Jedenfalls ist er der ehemalige Premierminister des Kosovos und ich lernte ihn kennen, als ich dort war. So war es also, als ich heute die Zeitung öffnete, nur eine kleine Überraschung herauszufinden, dass er wegen Mord an 37 Leuten und deren anschließender Beseitigung in einem stillgelegten Kanal vor Gericht stand.
dass wenn Ramusch die Scheiße aus einem herausprügelt, man vermutlich nicht aufsteht, sich den Staub abklopft und und einfach geht.
Kennt jemand das hier?
Ein Artikel aus der Vanity Fair (Dezember 2008) zu Ramush Haradinaj:
House of War
After Ramush Haradinaj led Kosovo’s bloody fight for independence from Serbia, becoming provisional prime minister, he was tried for war crimes by the U.N. tribunal in The Hague. In a clash of 21st-century justice and 15th-century laws, Haradinaj came out the winner.
The head of the household has the right to occupy the chief place in the house, to possess his own weapons, to control the earnings of those who live in the house, to buy, sell, and alter the land, to give and take loans and enter into guarantees, to construct houses, to assign those in the house to work for free, to possess wine or raki, to punish those who live in the house when they do not behave in the interest of the household. —From the laws of the Kanun of Lekë Dukagjin (Kosovo, 15th century).
In the category of life’s little curiosities, consider the experience of the Austrian engineer who took the aisle seat directly in front of mine in the economy section of Austrian Airlines Flight 372—a small airliner that was loading before takeoff last spring for the morning’s run from Amsterdam to Vienna. The engineer had a thin, moralistic face, and short, gelled hair. He sat very straight with his head bent slightly forward, reading some industry paper and exuding rigidity even from behind. He wore an immaculate white shirt, cuffed around the wrists. The window seat beside him was empty, and surely he hoped to keep it that way. But after a while, among all the inbound passengers of the ordinary sort who fly in the mornings between European capitals, an exception advanced up the aisle and stopped with an apologetic smile to indicate the empty seat. He had the body of a wrestler, and a long thick face, with a mouth slightly open and a protruding lower lip. He wore a blue suit with an open-necked shirt. It was Ramush Haradinaj, an ethnic Albanian and guerrilla commander in the Kosovo war, who the previous day, after three years of process, had been acquitted of war crimes at the United Nations tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, in The Hague.
I knew something of him already—and indeed had booked this flight on the chance that he would be on it. He grew up a country boy in the traditionally rebellious West of Kosovo, as the oldest son of an important Albanian family. Like most Albanian families, his was nominally Muslim, but secular in fact. Haradinaj did well in school, but was viewed as a potential troublemaker by the dominant Serbs, and was barred from attending university. After a one-year stint in the Yugoslav Army, he joined the diaspora in Switzerland and France, where he worked as a manual laborer and nightclub bouncer. During that time he trained for war, competing in marathons, developing contacts, and learning martial arts. He claims to have swum once for 27 hours in the open sea just to prove that he could. Upon his return to the Balkans, around 1995, he began systematically to run guns across the mountains from Albania into Kosovo. After the war started in earnest, he earned the name Rambo for his stubbornness in battle against the Serbs. Picture a blood-drenched fighter holding his ground with a machine gun in each hand. He was wounded many times. He killed a lot of people. Perhaps more than anyone else, he was responsible for provoking Serbia into the campaign of ethnic cleansing which led to the nato intervention of 1999 and the separation of Kosovo from Serbia’s grasp. Later he started a political party and briefly served as the protectorate’s provisional prime minister before being forced to resign because of the war-crimes indictment. To my surprise now, he was unaccompanied in the airplane. He had no handlers, no family, no guards. He slid a small suitcase into the overhead bin.
In the name Haradinaj, the j functions as an i. In Ramush the u functions as a double o. When crowds in Kosovo get excited, they chant “Ra-moosh! Ra-moosh! Ra-moosh!” with equal emphasis on the two syllables. They fire shots into the sky. Single shots. Multiple shots. Ripples from Czech machine pistols. Bursts from Albanian Kalashnikovs. Gunfire is a Balkan language used to express all manner of moods. When love is the emotion conveyed, it can deafen you if you get too close. When vengeance is the message, it can tear you apart. I do not mean to be judgmental, and easily acknowledge that civilized Austria by contrast is a record-holder in genocide. But Austrian airliners at least are quiet. From my seat I said, “Congratulations, Mr. Haradinaj.” We shook hands. He did not know me. The engineer did not know him. He stood to allow Haradinaj to slip into the window seat, then buckled himself in again and resumed his stiff-necked reading. Haradinaj removed his jacket with surprising grace for a man of his build, and began to poke text messages into a mobile phone. He kept at it after the flight attendant ordered the passengers to switch off their electronic devices. Why this restriction? Not for safety, as is claimed, but for lack of official approval. No dogs off leash, no campfires on the beach. I watched the engineer grow upset with Haradinaj’s appalling noncompliance. He refrained from comment, but kept glancing over, as if he could no longer concentrate on his reading.
The takeoff eased the pressure on his soul. Haradinaj stowed his phone for the flight, and gazed out the window as the airplane climbed eastward over Holland. Soon clouds obscured the view. The engineer had gone back to his reading when Haradinaj turned to him and struck up a conversation in fluent English. He was disarmingly open. He said, “I’ve been in United Nations detention in The Hague for a war-crimes trial, but I was acquitted, and now I’m going home to Kosovo. It’s a good day. Yesterday was a good day. I have to change airplanes in Vienna. What about you?” The engineer eyed him doubtfully. Kosovo? He had heard of it. The conversation might have ended there, but Haradinaj opened the in-flight magazine to the route map of Europe and pointed to Kosovo—a country so small that its name could not be contained within the boundaries shown. We have more than two million people, Haradinaj said. Ninety percent are Albanian like me. Ten percent are Serbs. Some are Roma. The groups don’t mix—a problem from the war—and this must change. We have a parliament. Our capital is Priština. It has good cafés. I was the prime minister once. Our government offices have been supervised by the United Nations, but just recently we declared sovereignty. Some countries have recognized us, and the European Union is stepping in now to help. We do not have an army. We are protected by nato troops. There is a lot of building to be done. Unemployment is 50 percent. We need to improve education. The market is so-so. We have agriculture. We need investments.
“Are there tourists?” the engineer figured to ask.
“Not yet,” Haradinaj said. He seemed to think the engineer might pioneer the trade. He said, “We have good wine.” He seemed to be speaking the truth as he perceived it. He did not mention the fact that despite a huge influx of foreign funds and advisers Kosovo is a place mostly untouched by the mechanisms of formal government, and controlled beneath the surface by a system of patronage and understandings outside of the law. In that sense it is like many other countries in the world—societies where, for all the vaunted globalization of our age, traditional ways continue to function and are woven into the fabric of progress. What does “modernity” even mean? Kosovo’s economy is largely underground. Fifty percent unemployment? More like 50 percent black marketeering, smuggling, and tax evasion. But there was perhaps no contradiction in Haradinaj’s mind. Kosovo has hardly any street crime. It has affordable restaurants and bucolic valleys. It has a ski resort in the mountains where a visitor would never have to wait in line. There are plenty of beautiful women there, but the country is so calm that the engineer might even bring his wife.
It’s complicated. Kosovo is calm but tense. In dispatches from the international officials in Priština, that is the language most often used. However self-justifying the description may be, it is not entirely wrong. Haradinaj is the embodiment. United Nations prosecutors in The Hague accused him of having organized the slaughter of civilians during the war. Innocent Serbs and suspected Albanian collaborators. Mothers, children, simple farmers. Christ, like pigs in a ditch. He has always denied it. After the war his power was sectarian and based on the fighting he had done, but he shifted with the times to oppose further Albanian-on-Serb violence. In March 2005, when the legacy of war returned to claim him, he became the only sitting prime minister in history to surrender to international justice. Paradoxically, on the eve of his departure, high-ranking international officials attended his farewell dinner. By all accounts it was a fond and teary-eyed affair. The head of the U.N. mission expressed faith in Haradinaj’s future, and called him “a close partner and friend.” If the official went too far, as critics said, it was because Kosovo was tense. Haradinaj was going to be missed not merely because he spoke the language of good government (everyone does), or even because he was an extraordinarily effective executive (though this is the reason given), but because outside of the ordinary channels he was able to handle his own people, however that is done.
To the engineer on the airplane he said, “May I ask you something? How old are you?”
“We are the same age! I am 39!”
What a coincidence. Again, it’s complicated. His mouth hangs open, but no one should doubt that Haradinaj is smart. Experience has shown that he can be brutal, but the mere potential now serves him in peace. He is unassuming, but as the supremely self-confident can be. Toward the end of the flight, having engaged his seatmate without much trying, he jotted down his coordinates and invited him to visit his house, in Priština. He clearly meant it, too. Welcome to this side of Ramush Haradinaj. There are several others.
On the tarmac in Vienna the Austrian police whisked him away, as much to protect him on Austrian soil as to ensure his quick departure on the next flight for Kosovo. I took the same flight, two hours south from Vienna, with a detour around Serbia to avoid interception. Haradinaj sat in the front of the airplane, now wearing a tie. We swept over the ragged farmland southwest of Priština—a plain littered with unfinished brick houses built with money sent home from abroad—and landed at the capital’s airport, where a crowd of about 2,000 waited to welcome Haradinaj under the black-eagle banners of the former Kosovo Liberation Army. nato soldiers watched from the side. One of Haradinaj’s staff spotted me, and hustled me into a small office building for a formal introduction. As we shook hands, Haradinaj said, “You were on the airplane this morning in Amsterdam.”
“And at the trial yesterday in The Hague.”
He said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”
Accompanied by a crush of guards and hangers-on, we emerged into the sunlight of Kosovo. The crowd chanted “Ra-moosh!” Haradinaj raised a hand in greeting. I found a place in the back of a Mercedes in his 10-car convoy, which went careening down the airport road toward the city center, aggressively pushing other traffic out of the way in a manner dear to American security types—who indeed had given this team its training. The driving struck a discordant note in an otherwise reasonable return, and it hinted at bullying by Haradinaj’s entourage, whether uncontrolled or by design. Priština is a city of a half-million that functions like a smaller place. Later I learned that the style of Haradinaj’s arrival did not sit well with many residents there, and that some observed it with dread. The same can be said of his house. It is a large, round-roofed structure that stands on a hill facetiously known as Mount Olympus, and can be seen from much of the city, where its opulence speaks to the spoils of war.
The convoy delivered us there directly. Haradinaj sat in a spacious salon receiving a line of sycophants and friends. Television crews came in and did what television crews do. Eventually the scene quieted. Haradinaj is married to a woman from an elite Priština family, a news anchor on national television, who has borne him two children. The young family had been in The Hague for the verdict, but had missed a flight and was delayed for a day in Vienna. Haradinaj stripped off his tie, pushed his sleeves back, and sat into the night with a couple of advisers, discussing the next day’s events over cigarettes and raki. He planned a pilgrimage to the war—a ceremonial return to the scenes of Albanian sacrifice, and to his seat of power in the rural West, where he would end the day at the family’s compound, paying respects to his father. For the moment it did not matter to him that Kosovar Serbs were hunkered down in their enclaves in fear and anger. He realized that for the Albanians in the majority—even his rivals and those nervous about his return—the verdict in The Hague was seen as a vindication of their conduct in the war. Of course, it was not intended as such. Seen from The Hague the verdict was precisely as narrow as the prosecution’s charges, which were weakened by a lack of forthright witnesses, and pertained only to one man. Haradinaj understood this full well. But he also understood that identity for his people is collective—that the insult to one becomes the shame of many—and that having salvaged his honor in The Hague he had no choice but to share the honor upon his return home.
Blood for Blood
Home for Haradinaj is a plateau called Dukagjin, in extreme western Kosovo, along the mountains of northern Albania, to which culturally it is very similar. It contains perhaps a hundred villages and a few large towns, along with a few—now very few—communities of Serbs. The Albanians are divided into clans and closely knit farming families, among whom the Haradinajs have long stood out. These rural families have never fully submitted to the powers that have claimed the region over time—most recently the Communists, the nationalist Serbs, and the technocrats of the United Nations. Instead, they have largely governed themselves by homegrown rules—a code known as the Kanun, which emphasizes the sanctity of land, blood, and honor. The Kanun serves as a constructive guide to village life, spelling out public and private responsibilities, and, for most infractions, specifying sanctions that are mild. In the case of violent crimes, however, it contains a curious twist: dishonor is believed to lie not with the perpetrator of the crime but with the victim—and indeed with the victim’s entire family. It is said that the family’s blood has been stolen. The family must then reclaim its blood by committing an equal act of violence against any male member of the original perpetrator’s family. This is known in the Kanun as the principle of blood for blood. Given the asymmetries and misinterpretations that inevitably occur, it has led to multi-generational feuds, and vendettas that blossom out of control.
According to the British historian Noel Malcolm, an argument in 19th-century Albania over four rounds of ammunition brought about the destruction of 1,218 houses and the deaths of 132 men. The Kanun does provide for voluntary reconciliation, but by the fall of the Ottoman Empire, in the early 20th century, nearly one-fifth of adult-male deaths in the Albanian highlands resulted from blood-feud murders. Nearby, in a single area of western Kosovo where 50,000 people lived, the toll amounted to 600 men a year. These were extremes which later subsided, but the feuds endured even under the imposed solidarity of Communist rule—to the extent that during the 1990s an Albanian nationalist using the mechanisms of the Kanun organized mass ceremonies in which tens of thousands of Kosovars were able to renounce their blood claims against others. A large percentage of the rural population was involved. The harmony that resulted was a short-lived affair, and now even under the enlightened rule of Europe and the United Nations, and in a society that is rapidly modernizing, blood feuds again are on the rise. Such is the reality of Kosovo. In perpetuity its Albanian peasants have lived under the threat of violent death. The need for protection led to a unique architecture still much in evidence on the plateau today: tall fortified farmhouses known as kulas (meaning towers), which are built of heavy stone, largely without windows, and with gun slits on the upper floors. It’s obvious that too much could be made of this. The Kanun reflects the lives of a hard people as much as it forms them. Nonetheless, the fact remains that the Kosovo war was sparked and fought not by the urban sophisticates of Priština but by the tough country boys of places like Dukagjin. They had been insulted by Slobodan Milošević, Serbia’s president, and assaulted by his police. As much as a modern struggle for liberation, this war was their blood feud with the Serbs, and required by honor. The intervention on the Albanian side by American F-16s did not relieve them of the obligation.
Haradinaj’s father knew that the fight was coming and would not spare his sons. He is the hereditary patriarch of a region—a stoic, hooknosed farmer named Hilmi, who is white-haired at 65 now, and has long been sought out for his generosity and advice. His village is called Gllogjan. It is a cluster of stone and brick houses, 20 minutes off a main road, on a rolling plain of fields and forests. About 2,000 people live there. The Haradinaj compound stands apart from the village proper but within the village bounds. Ramush grew up there with special responsibilities as the oldest of the boys. When he was 13, in 1981, he witnessed violent demonstrations during which Albanians were beaten by the police, and after which one of his cousins was sentenced to prison for 15 years. Blood for insult. In his teenage mind Ramush declared war on the Yugoslav state. To people unfamiliar with the backcountry of Kosovo, the idea would have seemed ludicrous at the time. Even in the early 1990s, more than 10 years later, it would have been easy to dismiss the man. By appearance he was a migrant laborer with a Rambo fantasy, practicing kung fu in Swiss gyms and indulging in ineffectual surveillance missions through the Balkan mountains.
House of War | Politics | Vanity Fair
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Ramush Haradinaj alias Rambo kommt frei
Ich wünsche ihm alles Gute.
Zitat von Mbreti Bardhyl
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