I usually get very excited when talking about my hometown, Peja. Depending on who’s asking, I might even launch into a passionate defense, because Peja, like many places in Kosovo, often faces misunderstandings and stereotypes. But in this article, I’m taking a different approach. No defensiveness, no tourist-brochure energy – just a perspective that uncovers the deeper layers beneath Peja’s surface, beyond its natural beauty.
If I can manage.
Peja is surrounded by breathtaking mountains, the kind that make you stop mid-sentence on your way out of the door. And yet, many people who grow up in postcard-worthy places often forget how lucky we are to live here. With around 80,000 residents, the municipality of Peja somehow still feels like a place with only 80 people, constantly looping around the same places. Gossip here spreads faster than a bullet at a village wedding – loud, fast, and sometimes unnecessary. It’s part of the rhythm of small-town life, endearing and exhausting all at once. That’s why, for now, I’d rather focus on the spaces, the culture, and the surprising moments that make Peja feel like more than just another dot on the map.
Landscapes That Stay With You
Peja lies at the edge of western Kosova, embraced by the Rugova Mountains and threaded by the Lumbardhi River. This stunning landscape often leaves tourists in awe, capturing its beauty in photographs.
Liqenati, Rugovë (Credits: instagram @visitkosova)
Kosovo may lack a coastline, but the people of Peja never run out of creativity. Like any inventive community, they crafted their own version of a seaside escape. Just before the Rugova Mountains begin to rise, there’s a spot among sharp curves and steep cliffs where locals flock all summer long. We call it “Sharra”, and it’s our substitute for the sea: without waves, but complete with a river and plenty of plastic chairs.
It’s a picturesque heaven. The water sparkles between the rocky formations, the scent of pine mingles with grilled qebapa, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as if time stands still. Families lay out their blankets, friends take game cards, and someone’s cousin always claims to know the “best” spot by the water. It’s vibrant, filled with life, and quintessentially – summer.
Yet, beneath all that charm, Peja’s green side faces a persistent problem that grows harder to ignore with each passing year: the litter. People arrive with bags brimming with food, drinks, and disposable utensils, but when they leave, too much of it lingers behind. It’s not that people don’t cherish this place, they do. But sometimes, to truly love something means to care for it, which includes hauling your own trash back up the hill.
Sharra by night
Between History and Survival
Peja is a city of deep historical layers, with a heritage shaped by the Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman, and Yugoslav eras. At its heart lies the Old Bazaar (Çarshia e Gjatë), which was carefully rebuilt in its traditional Ottoman style after being destroyed during the Kosovo War. As you walk its streets, you’ll see the enduring traditions of its merchants, from the renowned local jewelers to the shopkeepers who still share tea on wooden stools. The city is a powerful testament to resilience. Many families in Peja live with the memory of loved ones lost or homes damaged during the conflict. Despite this pain, they still rebuilt their homes brick by brick – a symbol of hope and survival that mirrors the spirit of the entire city.
The Old Bazaar – Where LV clocks meet çiftelis – authenticity guaranteed (sort of) (Photo credits – KultPlus)
What We Have, and What We Don’t
Peja is known for its beer, Birra Peja, and yes, it’s genuinely good. People are proud of it. You’ll find it in sleek bars in Pristina, gas stations off the highway, and even tucked onto shelves in Albanian-run shops in the diaspora. It’s not just a drink: it’s a quiet symbol of home.
But the pride doesn’t stop there. It’s in the white cheese from the village, the honey with its rich, floral sweetness, the suxhuk that leaves a little oil and a lot of flavor on your hands, and the homemade ajvar, prepared in backyards with just enough to bottle and share at long family lunches. It’s pride in things that grow from the land and still taste like it.
Flija, a traditional dish of Kosovo
In recent years, Peja has also started to flex its culture a bit more. More festivals are being organized, some small, some ambitious, but none more impressive than Anibar, Kosovo’s only animation festival. That’s right: the only one. And somehow, it’s in Peja. Every summer, international guests show up expecting animation production, but stay for the mountains, the grilled corn, and that unnameable, unbottled thing about Peja, a vibe that’s hard to fake and harder to leave behind. Anibar brings energy, conversation, and a rare glimpse of what this city could be if creativity had a bigger stage and if more people embraced its possibilities.
But for everything Peja has, there’s still a lot it’s waiting for: a job market that doesn’t rely on who you know. A healthcare system that doesn’t make you cross your fingers before walking into a clinic. An arts scene that survives past festival week, filled with people who don’t just visit the culture, but live it. A reason for young people to stay that isn’t built on guilt, clean air, or family ties. Student scholarships. We have nature, but not enough opportunity. We have tradition, but not enough infrastructure. It’s a strange kind of wealth, one made of scenery, memory, and a persistent kind of poverty.
If You Come Here
If you ever come to Peja, don’t just stick to the tourist spots. Go to the little neighborhood shop, not the shiny chain stores. The one where, back in the day, you could walk out with a pack of gum and a promise to pay later. Visit the cinema that’s never full. Walk past the schools that are too full. Talk to people and listen to their unique accents and how they get creative with nicknames.
And if you see someone like me, someone who is living here, know that we’re still figuring out what that means. We love this city. We’re proud of it. Sometimes, we’re deeply frustrated by it.
But we’re still here. And maybe, that’s enough for now.
The title “Peja, The Dragonhearted” is inspired by the Albanian song “Peja Ime” by Ramadan Krasniqi, where “zemër dragoi” (dragon heart) is a poetic tribute to the city’s enduring spirit, beauty, and resilience.
Featured image: Arti Vokshi
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