Perlepnica is the place I returned to at least once a year, every year of my life. The place where my grandparents raised eight children. The house where every summer held the greatest fun of my childhood.
A place where fruit and vegetables grow. Where the river runs, the hill rises, the mountain stands, the lake lies, and animals are part of everyday life. I knew nothing like it from St. Gallen.
But Perlepnica is also the place where the burned house stands. The place where I was confronted with something my other world could not understand, something my friends and classmates in Switzerland had no words for.
Perlepnica is a gateway to something bigger than a place. It is where I can breathe freely, where I can catch my breath. A small village: a village where people know each other, and where people respect each other.
It is a place where heroes are born. My great-grandfather was an activist as early as 1944, resisting the Serbian regime: Yugoslavia by name at the time, Serbia in effect. My grandfather, an orphan and a relentless worker, did everything together with my grandmother so their eight children would have a better future. He did not let them grow up as farmers, as was typical in the village. He sent them to study, to the capital.
Perlepnica is where my father was born. His story carries its own page: my father.
And Perlepnica is the place where, for the first time, I felt love beyond my own family, because there I could be exactly who I am. Fisnik Salihu, son of Naim Salihu. A legend.
Photographs to follow.
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