The Mother Teresa Society. Volunteer Work for the Kosovo‑Albanian ‘Parallel Structures’ in the 1990s

A Focus on Individual Volunteering Experiences

My analysis of the activities of the MTS and its volunteers relies on eight semi-directive qualitative interviews, conducted between 2004 and 2018 in Albanian and English by myself and by researchers of the Kosovo Oral History Project, on documents published by the MTS as well as on a comprehensive collection of press articles from the early 1990s, compiled by the director of the Health Service of the MTS.^[10] The MTS is not understood as a homogeneous actor. I therefore present its activities not only from the point of view of the Society’s leaders, but also from the point of view of two volunteers. The semi-directive qualitative interviews quoted in this article include: three interviews I conducted in Prishtina with Zef Shala, who started as a volunteer and later became the Financial Manager and then Executive Director of the MTS; two interviews with Father Lush Gjergji, the first President of the MTS, carried out in Prishtina by the Kosovo Oral History Project; two interviews I conducted over the phone in Prishtina/Paris with Mihane Nartilë Salihu-Bala and with Hëna Bajrami (name changed), who volunteered for the MTS in the first half of the 1990s; one interview carried out by the Kosovo Oral History Project with Mihane Salihu-Bala in Prishtina. In addition to these interviews, I have had extensive informal exchanges with Mihane, who I met at an academic conference in Prishtina in October 2017,^[11] and with Hëna, with whom I worked in Prishtina in 2006–2007.

There is a very significant time gap between the interviews conducted in 2004 and in 2018. In 2004, memories of the war were still fresh and the political situation was tense after the violent riots of March 2004, targeting Kosovo-Serbs. In 2018, Kosovo celebrated the tenth anniversary of its independence, while still being in political deadlock and in conflict with Serbia. Mihane’s and Hëna’s memories of the 1990s could be influenced by the political situation in 2018, which might explain some particularly enthusiastic statements about volunteering in the 1990s. However, on the whole, their interpretations seem consistent with memories other Kosovars informally shared with me in 2004 and 2006–2008, while I was living and working in Kosovo.

Two Volunteer Trajectories and Day-to-Day Work Experiences

Mihane, born in 1973, and Hëna, born in 1975, are relatively typical of the MTS volunteers of the 1990s. Their two individual trajectories and day-to-day work experiences shed new light on what it meant to be a volunteer in the early 1990s. Both are Kosovo-Albanian women with a Muslim background,^[12] born and raised in cities. Both come from households that, while not affluent, were better off than the majority of the population: Hëna’s mother was a housewife; her father had worked as a manual labourer in Germany and came home to Kosovo to retire. The family lived on his German pension. Mihane’s mother was a housewife; her father was a railway technician and worked as a train driver and later as a night guard for railway depots.

Although the MTS had both male and female volunteers of all ages, many volunteers were female students like them. Hëna graduated from a secondary-level vocational education school in Prizren specializing in medicine, and then in 1994, worked as a nurse for the MTS health centre in Prizren’s Arbana neighbourhood for a year. She was nineteen years old. ‘A friend had told me about it, she called me on New Year’s Eve. A friend of her mother had told her about it. I accepted immediately.’ Hëna worked every day, either the morning shift starting at 8 a. m. or the afternoon shift. She had to make a five to ten minute bus journey to get to the health centre. While some bus companies had agreed to let MTS volunteers travel free of charge, she could not always wait for the free bus, so sometimes she paid her bus ticket in order to get to work on time. In the health centre she worked with about twenty other people: four male generalist doctors—some of whom had been her teachers at her vocational education school—, two or three nurses with previous experience who were slightly older, and more than ten young colleagues, some of them her friends from school. The nurses were mostly women. They all worked for free, including the doctors. All were Kosovo-Albanian, from Prizren and the surrounding villages; all had at least a secondary school leaving certificate. The patients were Albanians, Roma, Turks; no Serb families came for appointments. Hëna describes her voluntary engagement in the following way:

‘I worked for Mother Teresa. It was humanitarian work. We worked with a lot of joy, we did not even think that we were working for free, and we were not tired, we worked a lot, a lot, a lot, and there were lots of patients, because the medication was also for free. This was why many came, they came also from the Roma [communities], and also from the Turkish community in Prizren, and everyone came, not just Albanians. And there was a lot of work.’^[13]

Mihane came into contact with the MTS through her work in the fight against illiteracy: after graduating from a vocational secondary school in 1991, she gave classes to young women in her neighbourhood. She then started to work voluntarily for the MTS in the neighbourhood of Kodra e Trimave in Prishtina as a ‘data collector’. She describes her experience:

‘Together with a friend of mine, of my age, we went to every house in my neighbourhood, from door to door, with these survey sheets, to ask how many family members they had, how many children, how many of them were in school, how many were under a year old, how many pregnant women there were, and these data were sent to the MTS, where they processed them in order to paint a picture of the situation on the ground.’^[14]

In 1993–94, Mihane worked on identifying people who needed humanitarian aid: she helped to identify those who needed food, medication, or help for recently born babies. In 1993, the MTS supplied basic food supplies to 50,000 families or about 250,000 people.^[15] As Mihane had started studying in 1992, she worked mainly on weekends. She used her family’s landline to make calls for people who urgently needed a doctor, and she showed doctors and nurses how to find different houses in her neighbourhood, as there was no address system.

The Kosovo-Albanian ‘Parallel Structures’ as a Response to the Revocation of Kosovo’s Autonomy

Under the 1974 constitution, Kosovo was an autonomous province of Serbia and a constituent unit of the Yugoslav federation. Although not a republic, Kosovo was directly represented on Yugoslavia’s main federal bodies and enjoyed a high degree of self-government.^[16] After the death of Tito in 1980, against the backdrop of economic downturn, relations between Kosovo-Serbs and Kosovo-Albanians grew tense. The March 1981 protests in Kosovo were fuelled by dissatisfaction with the socio-economic situation, by demands for the status of a republic and/or for secession. Their violent repression first by local police and then by special police units from other parts of Yugoslavia unleashed ‘what might be called a culture war’ between Kosovo-Albanian and (Kosovo-)Serb politicians, intellectuals, academics, and journalists, who exploited national symbols and myths.^[17] This was the context of the rise to power of Slobodan Milošević, who was named President of the League of Communists of Serbia in 1987.^[18]

In spring 1989, Kosovo’s autonomous status was abolished and Kosovar political institutions were dissolved, prompting Kosovo-wide protests. Between 1990 and 1992, Serbia adopted ‘several hundred new laws and decrees’ which centralized all authority in Belgrade.^[19] Through the Law on Actions of Republican Bodies in Special Circumstances and the Law on Labour Relations in Special Circumstances, the Serbian authorities could intervene in the decisions of all institutions and enterprises in Kosovo, once the Serbian Parliament had declared that Kosovo was subject to special—emergency—circumstances.^[20] Based on these laws, ‘temporary measures’, according to Belgrade—or ‘forced’, ‘violent’ measures, according to Kosovo-Albanians—were implemented, leading to the dismissal or resignation of most Kosovo-Albanians in managerial positions in the public sector and in public companies.^[21] Public companies and the media were taken over by their Serbian counterparts. In a second step, Kosovo-Albanian employees were dismissed, often for refusing to sign loyalty oaths to the Serbian government.^[22]

In response, Kosovo-Albanians created ‘parallel structures’ based on the 1974 Kosovo constitution and the pre-1989 laws. These ‘parallel structures’, created mainly between 1990 and 1992, did not form a coherent system, but rather a ‘national movement’ of non-violent civil resistance, organized around the LDK.^[23] The Kosovo-Albanian members of the Kosovo Assembly—closed by the Serbian authorities in June 1990—convened in July 1990 to declare Kosovo a Republic within the Yugoslav Federation. In September of the same year, they adopted a ‘Constitution of the Republic of Kosovo’. In 1991 the majority of Kosovo-Albanians voted for the independence of the ‘Republic of Kosovo’ in a referendum considered illegal by Serbia. In 1992 ‘parallel’ elections were won by the LDK, and Ibrahim Rugova, a writer, professor of Albanian literature, and former member of the League of Communists of Yugoslavia, was elected President of Kosovo.^[24]

The LDK had already been founded in December 1989 by an assembly of Kosovo-Albanian writers and intellectuals who drew on the former Communist Party structures, on mass organizations, such as the Socialist Alliance of Working People, on village organizations, and on traditional clan structures.^[25] In this regard, Stève Duchêne wonders whether the LDK should be described as a ‘social movement’ rather than as a political party.^[26]

The ‘parallel structures’ included, among others, the ‘parallel’ Assembly and its parliamentary commissions, the Presidency, with its offices in the headquarters of the Kosovo Writers’ Union, and a government in exile, led by LDK secretary-general Bujar Bukoshi, who coordinated the work of six ministers and also acted as foreign minister, representing Kosovo abroad and mobilizing funds from the Kosovo-Albanian diaspora.^[27] The activities of the ‘parallel structures’ were financed by contributions from Kosovo-Albanian individuals and businesses. In Kosovo, the contributions varied depending on socio-professional category, while members of the Kosovo-Albanian diaspora were requested to contribute 3 % of their income.^[28] Most of the funds were spent on education, as the teachers in the ‘parallel system’ were paid—albeit very low—salaries; the remainder paid for social activities, such as healthcare.^[29]

The ‘parallel structures’ were also referred to as a ‘parallel state’ or ‘shadow state’; however, they were ‘not a state in the traditional, Weberian sense’, but rather a ‘national movement’, ‘a loose conglomeration of educational and cultural institutions, health services, social assistance networks, political parties, local financial councils, and a government-in-exile’.^[30] Besnik Pula regards the ‘parallel structures’ as part of the ‘Albanian movement’, a contentious movement ‘which included virtually all of Kosovo’s Albanian community’.^[31]

In the Kosovo of the 1990s, the boundaries between ‘non-state’ and ‘state’ were in a state of flux and a constant subject of negotiation among Kosovo-Albanian actors and with the Serbian authorities. The ‘parallel structures’ were largely improvised, as the example of the ‘parallel education system’ shows. When secondary schools were closed to Kosovo-Albanian children in the autumn of 1991, teachers began to ‘spontaneously get together in flats on the initiative of parents’. What became the ‘parallel education system’, the ‘pillar of institutionalized life in Kosovo’,^[32] started as a ‘completely “instinctive” form of self-organization’.^[33]

The Mother Teresa Society. Providing Alternative Healthcare Services

The healthcare sector in Kosovo was particularly affected by the ‘emergency measures’ taken by the Serbian government. Between August 1990 and early 1991, Kosovo-Albanians working at the Prishtina Medical Faculty and in faculty clinics were dismissed via a decision based on the so-called ‘temporary measures’.^[34] Out of 8,547 Kosovo-Albanian healthcare workers employed in fifty-seven public hospitals and clinics, 1,855 were dismissed in 1990–1991, including 403 of 1,897 physicians.^[35] The dismissals represented only a fifth of Kosovo-Albanian healthcare professionals, but were mainly concentrated in Prishtina, and thus particularly visible.^[36] Kosovo-Albanian perceptions of public healthcare were tainted with distrust, magnified by the lack of Albanian-speaking doctors in certain public clinics. Unproven rumours about Albanian children being poisoned circulated among Kosovo-Albanians in spring 1990.^[37]

Doctors who had lost their public sector employment received patients in private homes.^[38] However, in a context of massive unemployment, many Kosovo-Albanians lacked the documents giving them access to free medical care in state institutions^[39] and could not afford to pay for medical treatment.^[40] Kosovo-Albanians thus turned to health centres which were set up by the MTS in private houses throughout Kosovo and which provided free services—with support from individuals, from the ‘parallel’ Central Financial Council, and from international donors. Over the course of the 1990s, a network of ninety-six health centres was created in twenty-five municipalities. The largest medical centre, named Nëna (‘Mother’), was opened in Prishtina. The MTS provided free health services, free medication, hygiene products, formula milk, and food for those in most need. About 90 % of the beneficiaries were Kosovo-Albanians. Over 7,000 unpaid volunteers, including nurses and doctors, supported the activities of the MTS in the 1990s.^[41]

In various types of publication, the MTS is referred to as a charity providing health services. Articles in Albanian-language newspapers, such as the dailies Bujku or Zëri, mainly describe the medical activities of the MTS.^[42] Researchers focus on the number of doctors working for the MTS and the number of health centres it opened. Although they acknowledge an involvement of the MTS with the ‘parallel structures’, they present the work of the MTS as ‘charity’ or ‘humanitarian’ work. Denisa Kostovicova remarks that the ‘parallel health system’ never ‘took off as a system’, as it was limited to ‘private practices and charities’.^[43] Howard Clark presents the ‘humanitarian’ MTS as having been ‘set up independently of any political party’ and as a ‘remarkable success story of self-organisation and solidarity’.^[44] The International Crisis Group (ICG) describes the MTS as ‘[t]he main institution in the parallel health system’.^[45] For Tim Judah, quoting the ICG, the MTS was ‘the mainstay’ of ‘what was to become an alternative health system in Kosovo’.^[46] As a welfare association, the MTS is not considered to be a potential political actor, but rather an apolitical ‘service provider’^[47] which ‘filled the gap’^[48] in Kosovo’s health system, which had been deeply impacted by the dismissal of Kosovo-Albanian health workers.

MTS’ humanitarian status was instrumental in requesting support from international donors^[49] and also eased the relationship with the Serbian authorities. The MTS had reached agreements with the government and hospitals in Belgrade, which regularly controlled the quality of medication and equipment. Zef Shala believes it suited the Serbian authorities that the MTS provided free health services to the population.^[50] However, relations with the Serbian authorities were not always harmonious: there were cases of confiscation of medication and of medical records; MTS health centres were occasionally denied working permits or closed down.^[51]

Supporting the ‘Parallel Structures’

The focus on the food aid and health services provided by the MTS conceals the involvement of the Society in political negotiations and decisions. The MTS founders participated in the activities of the ‘parallel structures’ by providing information on household composition, on the needs of the population, and on the human rights situation. The Society’s connection to the Catholic Church, to international organizations, and to international non-governmental organizations (NGOs) also lent its representatives a particular weight within the ‘parallel structures’.

The founders of the MTS saw the Society as a solution not only to the complicated healthcare situation, but also to the general political context. Father Gjergji links the foundation of the Society to the ‘necessity’ of self-organizing after the Serbian measures led to the dismissal of Kosovo-Albanians from public employment:

‘The foundation of the Mother Teresa association was a necessity. […] one group of intellectuals thought it out, talked about it and said “One hundred and fifty thousand people are unemployed because they did not accept Serbia as their country and Milošević as their head of state.” And then they wanted to self-organize.’^[52]

The MTS had close links with the LDK. Some of the founding members of the LDK were among the initiators of the MTS. On the municipal level, the MTS benefited from the LDK’s local networks. Just a few months after its foundation, the LDK claimed to have more than 500,000 members,^[53] and in 1991, not even two years later, it reported having approximately 700,000 members.^[54] Reminiscent of Communist Party and LDK structures, the MTS had forty-four branches in Kosovo’s municipalities and 636 sub-branches in the main villages.^[55] Mihane highlights the granularity of the Society’s structure: ‘In every town, in every village there was a centre, in every neighbourhood even. The Mother Teresa Society was not only a humanitarian association; it was a kind of governmental system in itself.’^[56]

Apart from providing food aid and healthcare, the MTS disseminated information on the human rights situation in Kosovo via its branches abroad, and also via the international organizations and associations that supported its activities. On the municipal level, the MTS branches co-operated closely with the Council for the Defence of Human Rights and Freedoms (CDHRF), founded in Prishtina in 1989.^[57]

Both the CDHRF and the MTS were involved in the Youth Action for the Pardon of Murders, Injuries, and Disputes, an organization initiated in 1990 by former political prisoners and student activists of the People’s Movement for a Republic of Kosovo, founded after the Kosovo-wide protests of 1981. Led by Anton Çetta, LDK and MTS founding member, the Youth Action later became the Movement for Nationwide Reconciliation. Volunteers and members of councils of elders visited families all over Kosovo in order to convince them to forgive their enemies and to break with the tradition of blood feud. The reconciliation movement was a highly political enterprise, whose motivation was to allow Albanians to join forces against the Serbs.^[58] Father Gjergji, head of the MTS, played an active role in reconciliation meetings across the country.^[59]

At the central level in Prishtina, the MTS actively participated in the ‘parallel structures’ through its membership in the Emergency Council, which was created by the LDK government in exile.^[60] Its members were representatives of the LDK government in exile, political parties, the Post-Pessimists youth association, the Independent Union of Students of the University of Prishtina, different forums and associations, the MTS, the Council for the Defence of Human Rights and Freedoms, and the religious communities. The Emergency Council met regularly and supplied the LDK Kosovo Information Centre with information, which the latter then disseminated internationally. The Emergency Council members also coordinated concrete action on the ground, for example the distribution of food and other goods. The MTS contributed with precise local information and an assessment of humanitarian and health needs. According to Mihane, the MTS had data about ‘every family’, it was ‘a kind of registration office’, and thus a ‘starting point for every activity which was planned and programmed’.^[61] In its communication materials, the MTS expresses its pride regarding its close involvement with the ‘parallel structures’:

‘From 1990 up to year 1998 MTS acted as the Ministry of Social Welfare by provision of humanitarian assistance, Ministry of Health by creating a chain of 96 mobile clinics and Maternity and Ministry of Education by supporting the educational system and provision of basic conditions.’^[62]

Through its involvement in human rights monitoring, mediation, and reconciliation activities, the MTS played a role which can be characterized as political, as it contributed to the Kosovo-Albanian resistance against the Serbian regime. With precise population data, it helped the LDK and the ‘parallel structures’ in their emergency planning and decision-making during a strategic period.

Drawing on a Dense Network of International Connections

The MTS’ international connections enabled it to publicize its political work beyond Kosovo’s borders. While, in the 1990s, the activities of the MTS were focused on Kosovo, it was well connected with the international community, with international Catholic associations, but also with the United Nations and non-faith based organizations. Its status as a ‘humanitarian’ society made it easy to secure partnerships with international associations and inter-governmental organizations. Moreover, the symbolism of Nobel Peace Prize winner Mother Teresa and the association’s link with the Catholic Church had a reassuring effect on the international audience.

In the 1990s, the MTS co-operated with fifty-five different international donors. Médecins Sans Frontières and Catholic Relief Services helped to establish and run MTS’ network of health centres and provided medication and medical equipment.^[63] The co-operation with international associations and organizations not only involved financial or in-kind donations, but also two-way exchanges of information, know-how, and human resources. The office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), for example, made use of MTS’ logistical capacity and warehouses. MTS volunteers helped to unload and distribute humanitarian aid and prepared lists of beneficiaries for the UNHCR.^[64]

MTS’ cooperation with international associations and intergovernmental organizations eased the Society’s relationship with the Serbian authorities. Indeed, the MTS received international shipments of the medical supplies and medication that were lacking in public hospitals, such as insulin for example. Most of these shipments came through Belgrade and required import authorization from the Serbian authorities, who probably appreciated the MTS’ readiness to share its supplies with public clinics^[65] and to treat ‘a growing number’ of Kosovo-Serbs in its health centres. Indeed, thanks to the MTS’ international connections, its centres were better stocked with medicine than public clinics.^[66]

Working closely with international organizations, the MTS became an ambassador, disseminating the Kosovo-Albanian view on the sociopolitical situation in Kosovo. In the 1990s, the MTS distributed information on human rights violations to its external branches in countries with an important Kosovo-Albanian diaspora, such as Switzerland, Germany, Austria, Italy, Denmark, the Netherlands, Sweden, Croatia, and Macedonia. Through these branches, the MTS also raised funds for its activities in Kosovo.^[67]

The Benefits of Being Seen as a Catholic Organization

The MTS had its roots in the intellectual circles of Kosovo’s Albanian Catholic minority, with that minority representing about 2 % of the Kosovar population.^[68] Among the founders of the MTS were Father Zef Gashi, then a vicar in Prishtina, Father Gjergji, then a vicar in Ferizaj and later Vicar General of Kosovo, and Catholic intellectuals, such as Anton Çetta, professor at the University of Prishtina and at the time Director of the Department of Folklore at the Albanological Institute of Prishtina, Engjëll Sedaj, professor of Latin and Ancient Greek at the University of Prishtina, and his brother Franklin Sedaj, a lawyer.

The Society has never had any formal link with Anjezë Gonxhe Bojaxhiu, known to the world as Mother Teresa, a Catholic nun of Albanian origin, born in Skopje (today North Macedonia, then the Ottoman Empire) in 1910 to Albanian parents. Nor was the MTS linked to the congregation Mother Teresa founded in Calcutta in 1950, dedicated to helping the poor. However, by the end of the 1980s, Father Gjergji had met Mother Teresa several times and had already published two monographs on her life and work.^[69] He was well aware of the symbolic meaning of founding the Kosovar MTS eighty years after the birth of Mother Teresa and forty years after the foundation of her congregation, the Missionaries of Charity—a symbolism which would appeal to the international community, especially in Catholic circles. In the 1990s, religious communities played an important role in humanitarian aid: both the Catholic and the Protestant communities were part of the Emergency Council. The contributions of the international Catholic community were channelled through the MTS.^[70]

The Catholic background of the MTS helped it to gain recognition not only internationally, but also locally. Kosovo-Albanians value the role played by the Catholic Church in advancing the Albanian national cause in the 19^th and 20^th centuries.^[71] After the Second World War, particularly in Albania, the Catholic Church was associated with opposition to the regime.^[72] Although socialist Yugoslavia was relatively liberal towards religious communities in the 1970s and 1980s, here too the state’s relationship with the Catholic Church could be tense at times.^[73] In the 1990s, the Catholic Church was very positive towards the Kosovar blood feud reconciliation movement. The MTS was thus well respected amongst a predominantly Muslim Kosovo-Albanian population.

Religious differences, which had been the primary source of identification in the Ottoman Empire for several centuries, were still noticeable in Kosovo in the 1990s. According to Hëna, most of the MTS leaders were Catholic, while the employees or volunteers were Muslim.^[74] However, ‘since the end of the nineteenth century there have been continuous attempts to neutralize the cultural and political legacies of these religious cleavages’, which were ‘superseded’ by national issues.^[75] The debate on the relationship between Albanian national and religious identity regained traction in the 1990s, with three main positions being taken, according to Nathalie Clayer: while the ‘Occidentalists’—among them Rugova, Father Gjergji, and the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare—saw Albanian culture as inextricably linked to Catholicism and advocated looking westwards for international recognition and support, the ‘Muslim nationalists’ favoured cooperation with the Muslim world and insisted on the influence of Islam on Albanian identity.^[76] The MTS leaders and volunteers I interviewed apparently adhered to a third, ‘multi-religious’ interpretation, advocated by liberal Albanian intellectuals such as Shkëlzen Maliqi, who considered the peaceful coexistence of different religions to be characteristic of Albanian society and promoted an Albanian ‘ecumenism’.^[77] Indeed, my interviewees all downplayed the importance of religious backgrounds.^[78] Mihane stressed that ‘in the 1990s, there were only Albanians, no Catholics or Muslims’ and that the MTS was ‘part of the identity of the people’ (i. e. the Kosovo-Albanians). Hëna described how ‘[o]ne time they sent us to church, and once a priest came to a dinner they organized at a school, and he held a lecture, but we did not give importance to the aspect of faith [italics J. N.]’.

The MTS made medical treatment and food available to all religious communities and ethnic groups. While the majority of patients treated in the MTS health centres and receiving humanitarian aid packages were Kosovo-Albanians, humanitarian help and medication such as insulin were also provided to Roma Ashkali Egyptians, Turks, Bosniaks, and to Kosovo-Serbs, including in isolated villages.^[79]

In Permanent Negotiation with State Institutions

The activities of the MTS can be described as political in the sense that the Society participated in developing and publicizing collective claims related to the healthcare and human rights situation in Kosovo. I use a broadly defined concept of ‘politics’ and ‘political’, such as the one proposed by Albert Ogien and Sandra Laugier: ‘politics’ (in French le politique, literally ‘the political’) includes all processes ‘through which questions of collective interest emerge, are debated and become public issues, issues which a society (or part of a society or even a group of individuals) considers worth resolving’.^[80]

This broad concept of ‘politics’ is inspired by the writings of Claude Lefort and Jacques Rancière, both of whom understand politics not as a form of state or as a ‘sector’ of social life, but as a principle governing the relations men and women cultivate with the world.^[81] Lefort insists on individual and collective claims in a public space constantly in the making.^[82] Similarly, Rancière underlines that the intrinsic link between politics and democracy becomes apparent in the contestations and constant transformation of routines, of privileges, or powers.^[83]

The MTS was involved in defining and debating questions of collective interest. For the ‘parallel structures’ and for international organizations, the Society defined who were the ‘poor’ and ‘needy’. It designed a methodology comprising door-to-door visits and questionnaires to collect data on the health situation and the needs of the population. It also compiled lists of medication and medical equipment that were in short supply for international donors and gathered information on human rights violations.

The MTS actively challenged and transformed the status quo. Through its privileged connections with international organizations and the Catholic Church—connections which were facilitated by its status as ‘humanitarian’ association—the MTS participated in attracting international attention and aid to Kosovo.

Recent scholarship on Southeastern Europe shows that associations and their volunteers often ‘actively interact with the political context, and are not only passively affected by it, but also contribute to shaping it’.^[84] This applies not only to associations and movements which explicitly position themselves as challengers of state policies,^[85] but also to associations involved in welfare like the MTS, or in other fields not commonly associated with politics, such as education, sports, or fire prevention.^[86] The boundaries between the state and associations are thus ‘fluctuating’ and ‘permanently being renegotiated’:^[87] associations are constantly redefining their relationship with the state ‘from cooperation, to opposition, to co-optation’;^[88] some associations are so close to the state that they can be classified as ‘semi-state’ or ‘quasi-state’ institutions.^[89] While the semantic, legal, and operative boundaries between state and family/market prove ‘necessary and helpful in analytical terms’, they ‘have however proven to be quite porous in historical practice’.^[90]

Indeed, in Kosovo the boundaries between state and ‘non-state’ were not always clear-cut in the 1990s, and the relations between the MTS and state institutions also fluctuated. The MTS was permanently in the process of negotiating its relationship with the Serbian authorities, on the one hand, and with the actors of the ‘parallel system’, on the other.

Volunteering in Kosovo in the 1990s as an Individual Coping Strategy in a Context of Crisis

In the 1990s, most Kosovo-Albanians were out of work, particularly those with a university education. Volunteering was a way for an individual to continue leading an active life and not lose touch with their professional field. Doctors, teachers, economists, accountants, and others continued to practice their profession as unpaid ‘volunteers’. Most of the doctors and nurses working for the MTS had lost their jobs in the public health sector. Kosovo-Albanian medical students, studying in the ‘parallel education system’, volunteered for the MTS to get practical medical experience.^[91] Other students volunteered for the MTS between 1990 and 1992 to bridge the gap between completing school and starting university, something they could not yet do because the ‘parallel education system’ was still being set up. As Mihane explains, ‘[i]t was one of the possible strategies to cope with a difficult reality’, with a ‘chaotic situation’. Moreover, volunteers received both material and immaterial benefits. Volunteering was therefore a way to make a living:

‘In the 1990s, the whole population was involved in a kind of “voluntary activism”, they were without work, without income; the only way to survive was to trade something on the market, to work with foreign currencies, that is converting money, or to become involved in a humanitarian association, like the Mother Teresa Society.’^[92]

In fact, volunteers for the MTS who worked for a whole day or over a longer time period received food packages. Mihane describes this as ‘a kind of moral compensation’, thus highlighting how the material compensation of the food packages was accompanied by a moral component. All MTS volunteers were supported by the community in the sense that people hired them for small paid activities, like fruit picking, or informed them about paid job opportunities.^[93]

Moreover, Mihane and Hëna increased their social and relational capital: they gained acceptance and recognition in their neighbourhood. As (relatively) young women they obtained permission to go out, to ‘do something’, and to meet with a variety of people. In a context where people were suffering from ‘a general sense of depression’,^[94] the social aspect of volunteering was important: ‘One way of surviving was working as a volunteer for the Mother Teresa Society […]: in this way, people filled their day, they used the time volunteering to go out of the house, to meet with different people, to have discussions.’^[95]

Both Hëna and Mihane were trusted by people in their neighbourhoods: people who did ‘not necessarily open their door to those working for political parties’ (Mihane) or who ‘did not trust us [initially] because we were very young’ (Hëna), ultimately trusted them because they were MTS volunteers.

Volunteering as an Activity Encouraged by Society

In addition to individual material and immaterial benefits, volunteering clearly had social and economic value for the Kosovo-Albanian community. The Kosovo-Albanian ‘parallel system’ of the 1990s was totally dependent on ‘voluntary’ contributions: on ‘voluntary’ work, on the one hand, and on ‘voluntary’ financial contributions, on the other. However, how ‘voluntary’ were these contributions really? The ‘parallel structures’ were financed by contributions from Kosovo-Albanian individuals and businesses. Contribution to these funds was voluntary in the sense that there were no institutional enforcement measures— at least until 1995—and that contributions remained ‘a matter of conscience’.^[96] However, there was considerable social control, since those who refused to pay were publicly exposed in the press.^[97]

The social pressure to become involved in voluntary work was probably less important than the social pressure to contribute to the ‘parallel’ budget. Volunteering for an association such as the MTS was rather an individual choice, but one that was encouraged by society. Friends motivated Mihane and Hëna to volunteer; their families provided them with an environment which encouraged their engagement. The examples of Mihane and Hëna confirm the hypothesis that the experience of volunteering is transmitted across generations.^[98] Mihane’s voluntary engagement with the Movement for Reconciliation in 1990–91 started ‘through social and family ties’. When her family got involved in the events of the 1980s, she was present, too. She explains that ‘we grew up with protests’, and that although very young she took part in the protests of the 1980s.^[99] Hëna’s parents made part of their house available for the ‘parallel education system’: one of the classes of the Prizren medical vocational education school —the school Hëna graduated from—was always held at their home.

Volunteering for the MTS had clear material and social benefits and was encouraged by friends and relatives. It could thus be understood as a coping strategy in a time of crisis, a strategy to secure food, employment, and social recognition.^[100] According to Asef Bayat ‘much of the resistance literature confuses what one might consider to be coping strategies […] and effective participation or subversion of domination’.^[101] However, as John Wilson argues, the benefits alone are not enough to explain why people volunteer, even if they increase the probability of volunteer engagement. How people see themselves and their role in the community, whether they ‘think of themselves as the kind of person who helps others’, seems more relevant for explaining why people become involved in volunteering.^[102]

Volunteering as an Individual Duty towards the Community

Volunteering for the MTS was considered, by the leaders and volunteers alike, to be a ‘necessity’ and an ‘obligation’: a duty towards the community. According to Father Gjergji, ‘[t]he foundation of the Mother Teresa association was a necessity’ in the context of mass dismissals of Kosovo-Albanians.^[103] Mihane links her voluntary engagement to the political context and the protests at the end of the 1980s: ‘[…] in the 1980s, especially in 1986–87–88, we grew up with protests. […] That was the starting point for my “activization”’ (in Albanian: aktivizimi im, a play on words based on a mix of the words activist/aktivist and the verb to activate/aktivizoj).^[104] Hëna expresses patriotic feelings when she talks about the obligation she fulfilled towards the Kosovo-Albanian community: ‘I am very proud that I worked [for the MTS]. I fulfilled an obligation […] towards the people.’ She adds that ‘the situation was such that you felt obliged to make your own contribution’. She makes clear that there was no cost–benefit analysis underlying this contribution; on the contrary, in her eyes her contribution had more value because it was selfless: ‘We worked with a lot of joy, we did not even think about the fact that we were working for free.’ She adds: ‘Not even for one second […] did we think “hey, we are working for free and we are working ourselves to death”, […] we worked as if we were earning a salary of a thousand euros.’^[105] She also tells me that she could have worked ‘for money’ in a medical practice, but that she chose to work ‘for free’ in order to help her people (people in the sense of the Kosovo-Albanian people). She consciously chose unpaid, difficult work. In all the interviews conducted with leaders and volunteers of the MTS, they associate volunteering with self-help, self-organization, and survival, not only their own, but the survival of the whole community. According to Mihane, ‘[i]n the 1990s my activism was a question of individual, mental, societal, physical, spiritual survival.’^[106]

Volunteering has frequently been associated with crisis situations, as these tend to trigger a sense of purpose, of mission; they also tend to prompt patriotic responses and thus contribute to state and nation building.^[107] The interviews with the MTS leaders and volunteers clearly show that the crisis situation following the mass dismissals and the exclusion of Kosovo-Albanians from political, social, and economic life was no exception: While the interviewees saw their work for MTS as a personal ‘obligation’, they also seemed to be moved by a sense of duty towards their community and the nascent Kosovo-Albanian ‘parallel state’.

Volunteering as ‘Everyday Activism’

Volunteering for ‘survival’ does not necessarily bring about change and may result in preserving the status quo; however, it seems to have had a transformational impact on Hëna and Mihane’s lives. Volunteering allowed Mihane to express her ‘rebellious spirit’ and to satisfy her aspiration ‘to change something’, for herself and for others:

‘A rebellious spirit is part of the character of people, I am one of [those who have it in their character]; there was a will to do something, a necessity, actually, to do something different, maybe to become a better person, [and] to improve the chaotic situation in which you live, simply to go forward. […] Maybe… a will to do something, to change something.’^[108]

Being volunteers allowed Hëna and Mihane to escape—and to act upon—existing social hierarchies and gender conventions. As Sevdije Ahmeti points out, in the context of mass dismissals of Kosovo-Albanians in the 1990s, husbands and fathers became used to seeing their wives and daughters at home, women were ‘increasingly under the control [of their husbands and parents]’.^[109] Hëna’s parents were initially opposed to her going out to work in the clinic as they were afraid she might put herself in danger. Young women were mainly expected to stay at home and ‘knit pullovers’, according to Mihane, while, as volunteers, they were allowed to go out.^[110]

Apart from making a statement by going out of the house and participating in the activities of the MTS, both Hëna and Mihane showed their counterparts that, as young women, they could be trusted. Hëna and Mihane were given leeway to complete their missions, and both felt they were entrusted with significant responsibilities. This explains why, according to Mihane, her voluntary engagement in the 1990s helped her to grow up and to ‘build’ herself as a woman.^[111] Indeed, the MTS heavily relied on local volunteers and their sense of initiative. It has many traits of the type of association which Nina Eliasoph characterizes as ‘empowerment’ organizations: ^[112] the MTS was inclusive, involved volunteers from all age groups and social strata, though not from all ethnic groups. It empowered aid recipients by encouraging them to participate.^[113]

Despite the leeway they were given, Hëna and Mihane were involved in rather simple ‘everyday’ tasks: for Hëna, this comprised helping to examine patients, handing out medication, giving injections; and for Mihane, listing households’ needs. They were entrusted with simple tasks because they were young, and probably also because they were women. Indeed, as Hëna pointed out and as can be seen from press articles, the coordinators and representatives of the MTS were mostly men.^[114] Nevertheless, although their voluntary activities were discreet and on a small scale, Hëna and Mihane made regular, intentional contributions to a wider project of social and political relevance. They were ‘everyday activists’; their activism took place outside the political arena, but was intrinsically political in the sense that it was linked to a claim, a contestation, and a desire for change.^[115]

I borrow and adapt the concept of ‘everyday activism’ from a study by Piotr Goldstein on bookshop cafés in the Serbian town of Novi Sad between 2010 and 2015, owned by ‘activist citizens’ who are changing their local reality through ‘discreet, everyday activism’.^[116] Although the bookshop cafés operate as for-profit businesses, they give a preference to ‘hard-to-sell’ high-quality books with the ambition of ‘creating taste’ in the local community. Goldstein combines the idea of discreet, unnoticed, but impactful everyday actions with Engin Isin’s concept of ‘activist citizens’, who ‘make claims to justice’, ‘break habitus and act in a way that disrupts already defined orders, practices and statuses’. ^[117]

Defining MTS volunteers as ‘everyday activists’ puts them in the foreground as individuals and shines a spotlight on their personal convictions and motivations. The concept neither minimizes the involvement of the individual actors, nor does it create an artificial dichotomy between ‘big’ and ‘small politics’, as for example in James Scott’s ‘infrapolitics’ or in Jeffrey Goldfarb’s ‘politics of small things’.^[118]

Although Goldstein looks at ‘everyday activism’ outside formal associations or movements, I think the concept can also be productively applied to volunteer activities within a formal association such as the MTS. Like Goldstein’s ‘everyday activists’ in Novi Sad bookstores, the volunteers for the MTS—be they doctors, nurses, or students—had a choice between voluntary work with the MTS or paid work at private health centres. They were driven by a desire to change their reality and the life of their community, not only by providing health services, but by showing that a different model, an ‘alternative reality’ was possible, based on solidarity and self-organization.

The MTS volunteers’ ‘everyday activism’ set an example and acted as a ‘catalyser for other activisms’.^[119] Hëna attended ‘all student demonstrations’ in the 1990s.^[120] During the war, while working for the Spanish section of Médecins Sans Frontières in Albania as a translator, she offered voluntary support to set up a health centre for refugees. Mihane, who described herself as a ‘volunteer activist’ in her neighbourhood,^[121] became the only female member of the leadership of the Independent Union of Students of the University of Prishtina and was at the political forefront of youth action from 1996 onwards. She also volunteered for Women in Black and for Albanian Youth Action, a local youth organization linked to the Catholic Church.