Improvised chalk, a wooden board instead of a blackboard, and half-broken chairs.

Drenica, 1998. Someone was trying to keep the Albanian language alive while the situation worsened due to the regime of Slobodan Milošević.

Amid the sound of gunfire that could be heard from time to time, some teachers continued to hold lessons. When classes could not be conducted in schools, houses were used instead.

During shelling, students took shelter by ducking under school desks, and on the torn pages of half-burned notebooks, they drew pictures of destroyed houses. A testament to those days, when first-grade students learned their first letters amidst fear for their lives, is a diary from that year, preserved by former teachers.

In makeshift classrooms, with around 30 students—some sitting, others standing—teachers from the elementary school "2 Korriku" in Tice conducted lessons for about a month in two private homes since the school building was a target of Serbian army attacks.

Former teacher Abdullah Qorraj recalls that around 260 students attended classes in these two private homes.

He recounts how the few remaining school desks served as shields for students and teachers when gunfire erupted.

"The classes ranged from first to eighth grade—there was no ninth grade. Each class had over 30 students because we also included children from other villages. Lessons in these two buildings lasted from May 25th until June 17th—a total of about 27 days. Each lesson lasted around 25 minutes, no more, because of the conditions. There were eight classes, so lessons had to be conducted quickly for the next group to continue. We brought in school desks, chairs, blackboards, and chalk. The students were not fully equipped with textbooks—some had them, some didn’t. Out of fear, some students might have come to school without books because after hearing shelling the day before, they didn’t know if they would return home the next day. Whenever there was heavy shelling, all the students hid under their desks in fear—not just them but even the teachers," Qorraj recalls.

The veteran teacher Abdullah Qorraj highlights that Beqir Mehmeti and Selim Smajli, fellow villagers, voluntarily opened their homes so that children could continue their education, even during the war.

"The 1997/98 school year was marked by difficulties because, on November 27, 1997, teacher Halit Geci was killed in the school of Llausha. From that date, schooling became difficult in all schools in the Skenderaj municipality. On February 27, 1998, after the attacks on Qirez and Likoshan, schooling was halted by order of the Municipal Council of Education (KKA). It remained suspended for some time throughout Skenderaj, but it resumed three days later. Later, the KKA decided that classes would continue in private homes. This was the second location, in addition to Beqir Mehmeti’s house. The students of Tice School resumed lessons on May 20, 1998, in the homes of Beqir Mehmeti and Selim Smajli, who generously allowed us to bring the students into their homes," says Qorraj.

Meanwhile, teacher Sokol Zeneli recalls moments when first-grade children would start crying and asking to go home to their parents after hearing the sounds of gunfire.

He remembers how students asked him about the legendary commander Adem Jashari after hearing that he had been killed.

"When there was shelling or gunfire, they were afraid of what might happen to their families. First-grade students would say, 'Teacher, can we go home? Can we stop the lesson in case something happens to my mom or dad?' I had mixed emotions and felt terrible. We couldn’t tell the students in advance when classes would be interrupted; they only knew through their parents. The uncertainty of what would happen the next day was always there. According to my records, I had 29 students registered in my class," says Zeneli.

Teacher Sokol Zeneli, who was then teaching his second generation of students, describes the miserable conditions in which lessons were held during the war.

"Even in the school building, conditions were poor—starting with the lack of teaching materials. But here, in these private homes, conditions were even worse. Thanks to our strong will and the urgency of war, we felt it was our duty to hold lessons despite the situation. As a first-grade teacher, together with my colleagues and the school principal, we had to improvise. The chairs were makeshift, some were broken. The blackboard was just a piece of wood. We barely had any chalk. Some students sat; others stood. That’s how we conducted lessons," says Zeneli.

Meanwhile, Jahë Jusufi, the former principal of "2 Korriku" School (now named after the martyr Ismet Uka), shares a story that illustrates the hardships of that time. He recalls how one teacher ended a lesson when he heard the sound of sheep bells outside, a sound that replaced the absence of a school bell.

With whatever he could find, the veteran educator collected bits of chalk and glued them together, as even chalk was scarce in those dire conditions.

"I worked here and in Likoc. At that time, we had nothing—not even chalk. One unique moment was when I gathered small pieces of chalk, glued them together, and made a usable piece to take to '2 Korriku' School in Ticë. Another unforgettable moment was in the school tents we used. One day, teacher Ismet Hamitaj was holding a class, and suddenly, someone let their livestock roam near the area. A sheep with a bell passed by, and hearing the sound, the teacher dismissed the students. I asked him, 'Ismet, what happened? Why did you dismiss the class?' He replied, 'The bell rang.' He had mistaken the sheep’s bell for a school bell. That was all we had—because the Serbian forces had taken our school bell," says Jusufi.

Some of the students from this school were later killed by Serbian forces during the last war in Kosovo.

/ Z. Zeneli