Kosovo Stories: Wedding bells in former war zone

Raymond Whitaker attends the wedding of his wartime interpreter, Laura, to a British photographer; and wonders whether peace will prevail when the Serbs pay homage to one of their sacred battlegrounds

One of the unacknowledged attractions of covering war zones is freedom from the petty restrictions of normal life. I have known well-oiled journalists to race each other up the wrong side of a motorway, heavy rock blaring from the stereo, safe in the knowledge that no oncoming traffic or Breathalyser-wielding police would spoil the fun (though shrapnel might shred their tyres). Was I involved? No comment.

A bunch of us thought to recapture some of that spirit When we descended on Pristina last weekend for the marriage of Laura, our interpreter and saviour when Kosovo was a war zone par excellence, to Andrew, a British photographer. Since I got her into the translation business, I felt responsible.

Our knowledge of Albanian weddings led us to expect loud music, plenty to drink – though most Kosovar Albanians are Muslim, they have a thoroughly secular approach to alcohol – and lots of gunfire. But Kosovo has been tamed since Nato-led peacekeepers arrived three years ago last week, which is why you hear so little about it these days. Firing a gun in the air can get you 10 years in prison – not that Laura's family would go in for such peasant behaviour anyway.

The drink flowed freely, though, and the Balkan music was suitably ear-shattering. As the dancing started, I reflected that it would have been impossible to foresee this happy outcome three-and-a-half years ago. Then, Laura and I went to one funeral after another, Serbian as well as Albanian.

The Anglo-Albanian character of this event led to further modifications of custom. Normally, the bride's family takes little part in the festivities, since she is regarded as having been carried off by her husband's clan, but we all celebrated together. Nor did Laura's father give Andrew the traditional two bullets: one to shoot his wife if she turned out not to be a virgin, the other for use if she deserted the marital home. (Why isn't one bullet enough? There are no circumstances in which you would expend both.)

The civil wedding was in a hall adorned only with aerial photographs of Pristina, and consisted mainly of reading out large chunks of Yugoslav law, which still applies in these matters. Not much folklore there. But that night we did charge through Pristina in a horn-blaring, flag-waving convoy to carry the bride from her home, as custom demands. We kept our seatbelts done up, though: if the UN police catch you unbelted, you can be fined €50. Kosovo is definitely not what it was.

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Another sign that the province is returning to something approaching normality is that increasing numbers of Serbs are trickling back.

The revenge killings, house burnings and all-round intimidation of Serbs which disfigured K-For's arrival in June 1999 have abated considerably. Far fewer peacekeepers are now needed to guard Serb enclaves from the Albanians; with businesses mushrooming and construction booming under the influence of foreign money, Kosovo looks a lot more attractive than Serbia's derelict economy to many of the 180,000 Serbs who fled there.

A severe test of this new-found tolerance may come later this month, however. On 28 June, 10,000 Serbs want to visit the province to commemorate the battle of Kosovo Polje in 1389. Since they were defeated by the invading Ottoman Turks – and did not get Kosovo back until 1912 – you might think this is a typical example of the Serbs' love of victimhood, but they see the battle as central to their national identity. It will be quite a success for Kosovo's international administrators if the ceremony passes without incident.

Whatever happens, though, the Serbs who gather at the concrete monument to Kosovo Polje are likely to be thinking about more recent defeats. Only 13 years ago a million of them were there to be addressed by a man on the verge of the Yugoslav presidency, Slobodan Milosevic. Now Yugoslavia has fallen apart, and Mr Milosevic cannot attend: he is detained elsewhere.