Written by: Xhelal Neziri
In the parliamentary building where the group of MPs from the party he led was housed, there were three offices. In the first office sat the secretary—an older woman, almost the only person in the parliamentary administration who maintained friendly relations with journalists. To the left was the room where the party’s MPs stayed, and to the right, the office of the parliamentary group coordinator and party leader.
That day, the offices were almost empty. The smiling face of the secretary appeared before us, as always. She shrugged her shoulders, as if apologizing that no one had shown up to work that day. But before she could speak, I noticed the door to the right—half-forgotten, half-open. From where we stood, we could see the leader of the PDP, Imer Imeri, immersed in an analysis of the historical events unfolding in the country.
It was mid-August 2001, when Macedonia stood on the brink of collapse due to the armed conflict between the Albanian guerrillas—demanding equality—and government forces defending the unitary state. Just two days after the signing of the Ohrid Agreement, which ended hostilities and brought peace to the country, Imeri had returned to his parliamentary office. He had instructed the secretary not to receive any visitors or transfer any calls—not even the most important ones from foreign diplomats. But the door left ajar had made it impossible for the secretary to claim no one was there.
In a low voice, we asked if we could enter Imeri’s office to get a statement about the outcome of the Ohrid negotiations. With a glance towards the leader’s office door, she signaled we could go in. When I knocked, it seemed to break his concentration. He turned toward the door and saw that it was already open. I stood there with two colleagues, waiting for him to receive us. He waved us inside.
After a brief greeting, he took his glasses from the empty desk and we began our conversation. He agreed to speak about the outcome of the negotiations, calling them successful. Yet, after the formal talk was over, he said with unusual sincerity for a politician that the agreement reached did not match the investment made. But, he added, they had agreed to maintain a united front—spreading the optimism that everyone had emerged a winner from the deal.
Disillusioned with politics and dissatisfied with his own engagement, in May 2002, Imeri tendered his irrevocable resignation from the leadership of the PDP. He withdrew completely from political and public life.
On August 13, 2006, Ali Ahmeti’s DUI organized the now-traditional cocktail reception to mark the fifth anniversary of the Ohrid Agreement. This party, born from the structures of the Albanian guerrilla (NLA), was at the height of its popularity. Ahmeti was seen by most ethnic Albanians as the savior who had led them from darkness into light. I still had the image of Imeri before me—sitting at his desk, lost in evaluation and analysis, his face heavy with disappointment, glimpsed through that half-open office door in parliament.
This image pushed me to seek an open interview with him—one where things could finally be said without fear of shattering the fragile peace. In September that year, we were preparing the first issue of the weekly Nacional. We agreed to launch the project only if Imeri would agree to speak openly after all this time.
Though long absent from the political stage, his figure remained tied to a historic moment. He was still one of the five signatories of the Ohrid Agreement. He accepted without hesitation, inviting us to Čegran, near Gostivar, to the village clinic. We weren’t sure if he lived nearby or if the meeting would be in one of the village cafés where he had been born and raised.
We arrived early and were surprised to find him in the clinic corridor, advising his patients. Under the white coat of a doctor, he seemed calmer, freed from the burden of a politician’s suit. He was glad to see us again. Five years had passed, and much had changed. As we entered the examination room—his actual workplace—he explained that after resigning as party leader, he had returned to medicine.
This modest man, five years later, was ready to reveal the secrets of the Ohrid talks. He spoke calmly as he recalled many moments in the negotiation process, not hesitating to admit that for a long time this “burden” had gnawed at him from within.
“I want to speak—to ease my soul,” he said, gazing out the clinic window toward a park where schoolchildren sat on benches.
Every word seemed a release, his face settling peacefully into the landscape of his birthplace, Čegran.
“The Ohrid Agreement was a compromise that ended the conflict and bloodshed. It also ensured an advancement of Albanian rights. But the pressure from the internationals was immense for us to make compromises and put our signatures there. These were painful compromises, but we were forced to make them because, as the Albanian side, we lacked real political and national unity. This meant that the powerful card we held in our hand was spent without the proper price. To get to a point where you can sit and talk with someone about advancing rights, great work and effort are needed. What happened during and after the talks—that’s another matter entirely.”
When asked why he thought they had burned their “powerful card” during negotiations, and whether a stronger position could have been secured, Imeri explained:
“The first draft of the agreement was written by the internationals. It was far more advanced than what we have now. The Macedonian side resisted strongly. The Albanians fell prey to that resistance, yielding and agreeing to reduce and ‘improve’ the draft until it became what we have today. In the Constitution, the Albanian language is official—but tied with a rope, meaning a separate law had to be passed. That was our mistake. If it’s official, there’s no need to add anything. The Constitution stands above all laws. Five years have passed, and even with the law, it still hasn’t been fully regulated.”
He had insisted that the Albanian language be directly enshrined in the Constitution without needing a separate law. But the talks in Ohrid were structured so that parties met only in plenary sessions, while internationals held separate meetings with each side. When they saw common ground, they brought the sides together to exchange arguments—though in the end, it was the internationals who decided. If there was no agreement on a point, they simply moved on, never to return to it.
Imeri admitted this still gnawed at his conscience. The unresolved issues—especially language rights, police reforms, and the University of Tetova—remained his deepest regrets. Pressure from Europe and America had been far heavier on the Albanian side. And when the time came to sign, he initially recoiled, fearing the historical responsibility. It was only after consulting with Albanian leaders from Macedonia, Kosovo, and Albania—including Ali Ahmeti, who told him, “Sign, old man—we’ll share the responsibility together”—that he agreed.
When I asked if rejecting international pressure could have brought more gains, he replied:
“If we had angered international diplomacy, if we had ignored NATO’s military power, we wouldn’t even have the minor victory we achieved with the Ohrid Agreement.”
Even so, he believed the agreement had structural flaws—weak guarantees, easy loopholes for the Macedonian side, and compromises made even after signing.
By the end of the interview, Imeri sighed with relief:
“I carried this as a burden. Now I’ll be at peace. I’ve unloaded a heavy weight.”
Two years later, news came of his death. Almost none of the leaders of the Albanian political sphere sent condolences. The media gave little space to the passing of this quiet leader with a clear conscience. He died as a doctor, devoted to his patients—not as a politician burdened with historical guilt.
Taken from the book “The Times of Eclipses” by Xhelal Neziri, published in 2017