Author: Lirim Gashi

Today, even in the central news editions of the Radio and Television of Serbia, one can notice something that until yesterday would have seemed almost impossible: The Serbian state in northern Kosovo no longer functions the way it has functioned for years.

And when even RTS — the state television that has reported from the perspective of power for decades and that today operates under the strong political influence of Aleksandar Vučić — begins to admit this, even indirectly, then it is superfluous to ask what the private media think. If this has become obvious on state television, then the situation is even clearer in private media.

Because when state television can no longer hide the consequences of reality, the private media can only argue about what to call that reality.
While the reality is simple: The parallel Serbian state structure in northern Kosovo has disintegrated.

And with it, the various illegal facilities, offices and structures of Serbian politicians and terrorist oligarchs, who for years have lived in the north as if that part of Kosovo were Belgrade’s private property, are disappearing. But, as is almost always the case in the Balkans, they have not been alone.

Behind them have also stood many Albanian politicians and oligarchs of the criminal type, thieves and traitors, ready to defend the interests of Serbia whenever a sufficiently large personal interest appeared on the table. The former behaved as if Kosovo belonged to them.

The latter behaved as if Kosovo belonged to them only when there was something on the table that could be stolen, usurped and plundered.
And then Albin Kurti came. He didn’t just take their offices. He didn’t just close their facilities.

He didn’t just ruin their business schemes.
But he killed their mothers, wives, daughters, aunts, uncles, and everything else, born and unborn, that appears as registered in the civil status registers. He even ruined their belief that a parallel state could be built in the north with the help of some Albanians who had discovered patriotism only after they had discovered profit.

To their bad luck, Kurti ruined the calculations of both sides.
And so began a typical Balkan tragedy. There was no funeral. There were not even three days of mourning. Because for years, many people did not even want to admit that it was a parallel state system.

There were offices, buildings, political structures, oligarchs, smugglers, weapons, money, interests, and an entire industry of people who made sure that the system never ran out of oxygen. Then something terrible happened to all those who were accustomed to that system:
The state came. And the state began to behave like a state.

Weapons confiscation began.
Drug plantations were destroyed.
Smuggling channels were closed.
Human trafficking and prostitution networks were hit.
Machinery and equipment used for the illegal production of cryptocurrencies were confiscated.
Suspicious objects were confiscated or demolished.
Criminal networks were hit.
People suspected of collaborating with hostile secret services were arrested.

And what was even more terrifying for some of them:
The law began to be enforced.
This was the final blow.
Because a thief can handle a policeman.
An oligarch can handle a journalist.
A politician can handle a television station.
But none of them can easily handle a state that starts asking for their documents.
And here begins the Balkan tragicomedy.
Those who for years said:
“The North is special!”
suddenly began to ask:
“What about the law?”
Those who said:
“Don’t touch the north!”
suddenly began to ask:
“Why are you confiscating our weapons?”

Those who had forgotten that the state exists began to complain that the state exists — too much.
This is one of the rarest Balkan phenomena:
a person understands that the state exists precisely when the state begins to hold him accountable.
And, of course, some Albanians were not absent from this story.
Because every illegal system needs two things:
a patron from the outside and
a collaborator from the inside.
The Serbs brought the model.
Some Albanians found the business.
The former thought they were building Serbia in Kosovo.
The latter thought they were building their wealth in the name of Kosovo.

Then Albin Kurti came.
And he asked them a very unpleasant question:
“Where are the permits?”
From that moment on, panic began.
Because when the state asks about permits, many assets start to look like material evidence.
When it asks about weapons, some “patriots” are left without arguments.

When it asks about drugs, some businessmen suddenly lose their economic perspective. When it asks about smuggling, some borders suddenly become much less profitable.

When it confiscates equipment for the production of cryptocurrencies, some “tech investors” discover that their technological project required a lot of energy and extremely little transparency. And when people suspected of criminal activity are arrested or for connections with hostile secret services, some are beginning to discover that the word “patriotism” is not legal immunity.

Therefore, the Serbian state in the north did not die only on the day a sign was removed. It is dying every time an illegal structure is closed.
Every time a weapon is confiscated. Every time a drug plantation is destroyed. Every time a human trafficking network is hit.

Every time a machine for producing cryptocurrency is confiscated.
Every time a smuggler ends up in court. And, above all, every time someone realizes that they cannot be an oligarch, a politician, a smuggler, a patriot and a victim at the same time.

This is what some are not able to cope with. Because when the state starts to function, it does not ask whether the thief is Albanian or Serbian. It does not ask whether Belgrade or a politician from Pristina, Tirana or Mitrovica is behind him. It only asks:
What did you do?
And then:
Where is the evidence?

And this is precisely the most difficult moment for any parallel system:
it does not die when its flag is taken away, but when its immunity is taken away. And perhaps this is precisely the most interesting part:
this change can no longer be hidden even by RTS.
When even the state television of Serbia is forced to show the consequences of the disappearance of Serbian institutions and structures in northern Kosovo, then it becomes clear how far reality has gone.

And what can we say then about the private media?
They only have to decide whether to call this fact a loss, a catastrophe, an occupation or — as usually happens in Balkan politics — a historical misunderstanding. But the name no longer matters.

Because if something can no longer be maintained by force, money, parallel institutions, propaganda and political connections, then only one thing remains: Accept that it is dead — the Serbian state in northern Kosovo, and may its soul go to fresh and dry shit. And with it, the old illusory Balkan world, in which it was possible to build a state for years where the law dared not enter, has begun to die.