Today, a guy was shot behind my hotel.
I was lying in bed when I heard a pop. It was dull like a muffled fire cracker. Suddenly, there was a cry. The cry became a wail. I quickly got up.
I opened the curtain. Right at the end of the alley, a large man with broad shoulders and curly hair was clutching his left thigh. He was barely supported by a friend. Two other men were being fended off. From my vantage point, the injured man seems to be in tremendous pain. Seconds later, a car pulls up and he is whisked away. I pray it is to a hospital. Shortly after, the two aggressors leave.
Five minutes goes by. The police arrive. Someone must have called them. They cordon off the area and start to question people. A crowd begins to gather. The narrow alley becomes a crime scene.
Just when I was about to write that Pristina was as safe as can be, it strikes me how arrogant that statement is. Looking around at a skyline devoid of skyscrapers, you tend to forget that Pristina is still a city. Like most cities, there is a dark underbelly. The yellow police line is a coarse reminder to that.
I close the curtain.