Disclaimer:
The following interview covers topics some readers might find disturbing, such as discussions of mental health and suicide. Reader discretion is advised. Europe and Me would also like to remind people that if you or a loved one is struggling with their mental health, your life is precious and you are loved, and we encourage people to seek help from their loved ones and mental health professionals.
This is not a paid promotion.
The ever-familiar notification for an up-and-coming WhatsApp call breaks the silence of the countryside in Helsinki, where I have spent the last week preparing for a very special interview. The caller is my editor-in-chief, Lind Duraku, sitting in a white-walled room in the city of Prizren in Kosovo, looking happily anxious to talk about his book and decision to return as editor-in-chief of Europe and Me.
Pre-sabbatical, I had met Lindi only briefly. But that same first impression of confidence and professionalism, alongside the passion for writing and storytelling, has not changed. Over the past week and a half, I have spent my time familiarizing myself with Lind—reading his work, articles, and trying to understand how studying Mass Communication and Journalism influenced the way he writes, and how growing up in Kosovo shaped his writing style and expression.
One of the first things Lindi told me about himself and where he grew up was about the Kosovo War. This is no surprise for me; in my process to familiarize myself with Lindi, I also aimed to understand where he comes from, reading and spending time trying to get a base-level understanding of Kosovo as a country and Krushë e Madhe as a city. The Kosovo War occurred between 28 February 1998 and 11 June 1999, fought between the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, which held governmental control over Kosovo before the war, and the Kosovo Albanian separatist militia group known as the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA). The war, like any other, was devastating for the region, leaving a mark that continues to shape the country and its people to this day—reflected in the art, literature, and media coming from the region since the 1990s. One of the first things Lindi tells me is how his village was one of the worst hit by the war. “While I don’t remember anything of the war, we all lived the war. I actively participated in community events organized by my school and village. My first public narration was in kindergarten, where I recited a sad poem dedicated to those we had lost. It was right after the war, in front of what felt like thousands of people” he tells me, sharing stories of destruction, loss of loved ones, and desensitization to war, genocide, and how the business-as-usual mindset has not left our society even 24 years after the end of the Kosovo War.
“The way we write about trauma and loss in this society has lost its humanity in so many ways. Pain has become romanticized, something commercial we sell and see on movie screens with movies like It Ends With Us, where we invite people to wear their florals and bring their girls to watch a ‘fun’ movie about a book that is meant to talk about the impact of the intergenerational effects of domestic violence. How can we continue to live on and produce overtly commercial ‘art’ when a genocide is going on as we speak? I find it so disgusting that we have these big premieres for movies and ‘art’ that use the condition of human suffering—of marginalized people’s suffering, like women, queer people, and other minorities—to make millions, while simultaneously entire lineages are wiped off the face of the earth for what? To make it to the New York Times bestseller list?”
The trauma left by the war is palpable. Its impact and the way it molded history, cultural identity, and how many Kosovars handle grief and trauma in the post-war era are reflected in Lindi’s work in Europe and Me and in his book. Lindi calls himself, first and foremost, a writer—a poet. Throughout his time in Europe and Me, first as a writer and now as our editor, he has focused on the intersections of queerness, the Balkans, and mental health. I worked with him as his editor on a previous article about mental health and gender, learning through him about his passion for speaking up and letting people speak for themselves regarding the complexities of queer and female identities.
”People will tell you to relax, that you’re not going to war – in the words of one of the doctors at the emergency room in Prizren.”
“Queer voices and voices of those struggling with their mental health need to be lifted. While we live in a time where topics like mental health and queerness are discussed more than ever before, they are not being discussed or brought forward by the actual people experiencing them, but by people exploiting them.” His words stopped me, reminding me of conversations I myself had with people about the depiction of queerness and mental health in the media. How queer suffering has become almost romanticized, with books such as A Little Life receiving a lot of criticism for its excessively detailed descriptions of abuse and portrayal of suicide as the only option. Or that it tells the story of the abuse of a gay man, written by a straight woman. I pose this prompt to Lindi:
“Do you think that the suffering and struggling of queer people and people with mental health issues are romanticized?”
“Yes, I think so. I have myself struggled with my mental health quite a lot in my life. I’ve been on medication for around 10 years for it, and it has significantly affected things like my relationships, friendships, and ability to work. Throughout all of this, I noticed that people will often say they’re supportive of others with mental health issues or society likes to portray itself as supportive, but then, when push comes to shove, a lot of people will have questionable, belittling—you name it—opinions and notions of mental health. People will tell you to relax, that you’re not going to war – in the words of one of the doctors at the emergency room in Prizren.”
“Even though therapy and mental health are much more accessible these days and talked about?”
“You know, I think therapy is more accessible, but it does not mean that the help out there is qualified. We are in an epidemic of self-help content—books, Instagram posts, ‘how to cure your depression 101’ posts. Or you have services like BetterHelp, which continue to be exposed for unethical practices and unqualified ‘therapists’ offering people mental health services. And, you know, I think it’s great therapy is more accessible, but it concerns me that it’s more quantity over quality. TikTok is diagnosing you and not a qualified licensed mental health professional, and that’s what I find concerning—that mental health has also become an avenue to capitalize on.”
”Like we should tell stories on behalf of queer people, we shouldn’t exploit the suffering of those with mental health issues or disorders.”
We continued to talk about this dichotomy, how we were seeing ever-capitalized versions of everything. A society supposedly so accepting of mental health issues and queerness, but often only when monetarily beneficial to the recipient or as a distant reality of others. How the narrative of a person with mental health issues, or who is queer, was being told often from the perspectives of others. Those asking you to “wear your florals” and do “girl talks” about shoes on a press tour for books about domestic abuse, while real victims get told in hospitals to relax, that you’re not going to war. Art imitates life, but not those of the author, while platitudes and thoughts and prayers are offered without meaningful action. Why donate to domestic abuse shelters or mental health services when you can say you saved money in a million-dollar movie by wearing your own clothing?
“I think the depiction of suicide as something romantic is so painful. It’s such a final decision to make, and I don’t think people who haven’t had suicidal thoughts will ever understand what it’s like to be gripped by those thoughts. A former friend of mine recently told me that they had no sympathy for people who committed suicide, that they deserved that ending, and that broke my heart in ways it’s hard to describe. It’s difficult how suicide as a ‘consequence’ of mental health struggles is portrayed as somehow the only and a justifiable solution, the best solution, or as someone’s fault. But it is not. It’s neither the best solution nor someone’s fault and should not be portrayed as either, as it removes the agency and personhood of that person and makes them just an entity. Like we should tell stories on behalf of queer people, we shouldn’t exploit the suffering of those with mental health issues or disorders.”
”For me, writing has always been a lifeline.”
Lindi continued to tell me his own stories of mental health struggles, the hospitalizations, lost friends, jobs, and relationships—but also the support he found in his writing and family. How his mother was with him through it all, and the beauty and privilege of the experiences. He showcased honesty and vulnerability that I have not seen in writing and expressions of mental health in a while, demonstrating the light at the end of the tunnel without romanticizing the way there. Acknowledging the struggle with mental health issues, and how it is not something one chooses nor wants to live with, but does because life is worth living.
“For me, writing has always been a lifeline. It has helped me to express myself, to learn things about myself, and to understand the emotions and situations I’m navigating. I like to write when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m eating lunch. You know, I just like to write. My mother used to write diaries I recently found, which I found so funny as I have been keeping a diary for the past few years, which many of those diary entries are what the book consists of. That and short stories, poetry, my own expressions of navigating life, my past, and my present.”
Throughout the interview, we veered in and out, talking about Lindi’s book. He describes the process of writing it and how it brought him solitude and helped with his mental health struggles and work. We talked about his return to Europe and Me as well—about how he keeps finding his way back to Europe and Me and his love for the creative process and the freedom of an independent youth-led magazine. Throughout the interview, it becomes clear that Lindi is indeed a writer and, I’d like to add, a passionate advocate for kind, realistic portrayals of the human condition.
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