by Jonuz Kola. Translation Petrit Latifi

Summary

In his book “The Fire of the Balkans”, Austrian journalist Louis A. Matzhold describes meeting Baftjar Kollovozi, a tall Albanian kaçak and national hero known as “The Killer of Serbs”. Kollovozi, a tribal captain, claims to have killed 118 Serbs in revenge attacks. He recounts how in 1918 Serbian soldiers attacked his mountain home, slaughtered his livestock, and nearly beat him to death. This sparked his bloody vendetta: he and his men massacred Serbian officials, looted towns including Tetovo and Skopje, and killed dozens in ambushes, cutting off heads and leaving bodies in the streets. Though he has paused due to the King’s orders, he vows the fight will continue until all Albanian land and people are free.

Baftjar Kollovozi — “The Killer of Serbs”.

From the book “The Fire of the Balkans” by Austrian journalist Louis A. Matzhold, pages 41-43.

We meet a tall, slender kaçak with brown skin, whose new rifle and cartridge belt shine in the sunlight. His wonderful teeth gleam as if he had just come from the dentist.

He is Baftjar Kollovozi, who has just descended with his assistant from a mountain gorge.

A national hero of the Albanians. A captain (Kapedan) in his tribe.

Baftjar Kollovozi has so far killed 118 Serbs — not from an airplane, but from the rocks.

A true leader of the Çubas, who appears like a lamb, showing more gentlemanly nature than desire for killing.

“I am glad, chief, to meet you. I have heard a lot about you. They told me that you do not kill for pleasure or greed, but for revenge, out of the bloodiest enmity against the Serbs!”

With a short, almost shy smile, he listened to me as we continued our journey together toward the trading town of Bicaj, almost 20 kilometers from Kukës. We slept together that night — and so I was able to learn more about his life and understand why Baftjar Kollovozi is a national hero, whose name is also borne by an Albanian village.

“It was the year 1918. The victorious Serbs in the World War did not want to leave Northern Albania. I had a hut high up in the mountains, I had cows, calves and sheep and worked hard to protect them.

But in the middle of the night, a dozen Serbian soldiers attacked me. They dragged me out of sleep… I had to surrender my rifle. They killed my dogs, slaughtered the livestock and took the loot with them. They beat me almost to death.

I swore revenge, bloody revenge. I left my house and family and gathered some neighbors who had suffered the same fate.

It was a pleasure for us to massacre the Serbian secretary who had taken over the administration of this area and had robbed us of everything. We did to him what he had done to us and our livestock.

We secretly entered Serbian territory in Tetovo with my comrades, where we killed the mayor and two Serbian soldiers. We looted and robbed everything that could be looted.

Then we went to Skopje, where I targeted a train driver passing by and riddled his skull with bullets. About a hundred gendarmes and Serbian soldiers opposed us. But my twelve rifles and the strong will for revenge and to see Serbian blood flow in all corners of the streets — just as the blood of our calves and sheep had splattered the walls of our houses — enabled us to defeat these superior forces.

We also captured two prisoners, who were not worth even a bullet, so we cut off their heads, just as the Serbs had divided and torn the Albanian region of Kosovo from the body of Albania. Thus, about 60 dead remained scattered on the roads. We lost only three men.

Things got so heated that I didn’t even have time to light a cigarette. But I will not mention other similar clashes. (It wasn’t worth mentioning that he had killed many Serbs).

In Prizren he had killed two engineers, in Brod two gendarmes… and so the list of the killed continued.

“And do you continue the revenge now?” I asked him in a business-like tone.

“Not at the moment, because the King thinks that this would create many international problems for us.

But the account with the Serbs is not closed as long as even one palm of Albanian land and one Albanian brother is still held captive by the Serbs.

I have also noted the ever-increasing murders of our shepherds (by the Serbs) on the Serbian border.

“Where?” I ask.

“In the cartridge belt,” he replies.