I don't know what date it is today, but it is not important. I know it is springtime and that, since the first of March, everything in Kosovo has changed.

It isn't possible to meet with people because when dark comes down in the streets of Pristina, nothing moves any more. Although we talk to some of our neighbors, it seems as if we aren't talking to anybody, as if we aren't seeing them and they aren't seeing us.All of us are pale and filled with fear for our loved ones in Drenica. Since the second of March, Dren-ica has been on fire. More then 20 people were killed, among them women and children, and yet we have been accused of terrorism! A pregnant woman is brutally killed - and then she is called a terrorist.

I read the papers all day and watch the news on foreign TV - I can't wait until evening to watch the news on TV Albania. When it's over, there is silence in the room.

I can still see the pictures of the massacred population of Drenica. On the second of March, there was a peaceful protest, at which more than 300,000 people expressed their pain and their solidarity with the population of Drenica. It was supposed to start at 10 p.m., but my dad, my mum and I went out a little after 9. The streets were quiet, and everything seemed normal, with a few policemen around and people going to work.

I began to get nervous - maybe people had got scared and weren't going to come. But as rivers of people began to flow into Mother Teresa Square, I realized I was wrong. In under a minute I was surrounded by hundreds of thousands of Albanians. We were all so quiet and proud. My mum was holding my hand, and the people around me were holding on to each other in a sign of unity. I'd never felt like this before.

I tried to get up on my toes to see ahead. There wasn't an end in sight. The white caps of old people filled my view, and I could hear clapping, getting closer and closer, until it was almost deafening. I was so excited, I could hardly breathe.

The crowd on the other side was holding up banners against the violence. The policemen were trying to stop the crowds getting together. They were armed and they were warning us to behave or they'd intervene. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Then the policeman who had issued the warning gave the order to attack. I could hear the noise of police sticks landing on bodies. My mum was gripping my hand so tight it hurt, and I almost choked from the dust and the terror.

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A policeman got in front of us. You could see hate in his eyes. He lifted his hand, hit me . . . then stopped. I ran away. I didn't tell my mum at first; it didn't hurt.

I saw terror on the streets. Two people were holding a young man in their arms, asking for help. A few steps away, the police beat a man mercilessly, then left him bleeding on the street. A car appeared out of nowhere and ran into the crowd. A man and woman flew up into the air and fell back, unconscious, their bones broken.

The next day, even though the city seemed quiet, on the west of Pristina, the villages of Drenica faced another terror when their houses were mown down by tanks. Women and children were trying to evacuate through the mountains, traveling all night and day.

In my city, on my street and in my house, there is a cold and fearful atmosphere. While I watch CNN, I want to scream to the world the one and only truth there is: People are dying in Kosovo!

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