The World Is Abandoning Survivors of Conflict-Related Sexual Violence—We Must Not Look Away
The brutal war in Kosovo from 1998 through 1999 left a trail of devastation, but for me, a young woman in Kosovo, its flames ignited a commitment that had been simmering for years.
My path toward advocacy was set in motion long before the war.
As a young woman in 1989, I witnessed the abolishment of Kosovo’s autonomy, stripping Kosovo Albanians like my family of fundamental rights, including the right to work and access education. We were living in apartheid-like conditions, with Kosovo Albanians forced into segregated second-class neighborhoods. Like many others, I was denied the opportunity to study in my homeland and, in 1993, I had to enroll instead in college in Tirana, Albania. In 1999, my family left our home on Dedë Gjo Luli Street in the city of Gjilan to escape the injustice. Despite the displacement, my resolve to serve my people never wavered.
By the spring of 1998, with Kosovo engulfed in war, I found myself among the refugees who had fled the violence, sitting for many days on the grass outside refugee tents in camps like Kukes, hearing their stories of displacement, violence, and trauma. There, my life’s purpose crystallized. I will never forget the first woman who told me about the the immense physical and psychological wounds of war she carried, like so many others, as a survivor of wartime sexual violence, known as conflict-related sexual violence. Hearing their stories strengthened my determination to fight for justice, dignity, and healing.
Their suffering was invisible, their voices hushed as they spoke in a shame-based society unwilling to recognize their torment. In the silence, I heard a call to action. This is where my journey began, going to the Faculty of Medicine in Tirana to become a physician and then an advocate, a fighter, and a witness to their truth.
When the war ended in June 1999, the focus of Kosovo’s leaders turned to rebuilding its shattered infrastructure, but the deep scars left on its people remained unaddressed. Rape had been used as a weapon of war, with thousands of women, and also men, targeted in a campaign meant to terrorize and dehumanize. Yet, these survivors were met with rejection rather than support. Society saw them not as victims, but as bearers of shame.
In 1999, I founded the Kosova Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims in an building on Dubrovnik Street in Pristina, 50 kilometers, or about 30 miles, from where my family had fled Kosovo years earlier. We had a vision that extended beyond medical assistance. We pioneered psychosocial support for our clients, something unheard of in Kosovo at the time. We provided therapy, legal aid, and, above all, a safe space where survivors could reclaim their dignity. We provided survivors a holistic remedy for their needs under one roof.
The battle was not just about providing quality care. It was about changing mindsets.
For years, we challenged the entrenched stigma that isolated survivors. I sat with them in the kitchens of their homes, listening to stories they had never dared to speak aloud. Many of their families had cast them aside, left alone to raise children born of rape and forced into exile by the weight of their own trauma. Each story reaffirmed my conviction: Kosovo could never truly heal until it acknowledged the suffering of these women and men.
Breaking barriers to justice and the fight against impunity
Recognition was not immediate. The public institutions, hesitant to acknowledge survivors of conflict-related sexual violence, kept them in the shadows. But we refused to accept the shaming. At the Kosova Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims, we launched advocacy campaigns, mobilized communities and pressured policymakers to reform antiquated laws that stigmatized the victims of sexual assault.
In 2014, after years of our tireless effort, Kosovo’s government finally legally recognized survivors of conflict-related sexual violence as civilian war victims, granting them the right to reparations. Until then, government agencies had excluded survivors of conflict-related sexual violence from statutory benefits as civilian war victims. This was a monumental victory, and it was only the beginning.
As the first organization to exclusively document crimes of conflict-related sexual violence, we played a crucial role in bringing these atrocities to light, from conducting the first national research study on wartime rape survivors in 2006, to the documentation that supported the recognition of survivors under the Law on Civilian Victims of War in 2014, and the case files that contributed to the first successful prosecution of conflict-related sexual violence in Kosovo in 2022, ensuring that survivors’ voices were heard and their experiences acknowledged. Yet, despite the new legal framework, survivors continued to face barriers in accessing justice. Bureaucracy, re-traumatization through legal procedures, and a lingering culture of shame meant that many still hesitated to come forward.
We pushed further, training lawyers in trauma-informed best practices, so we protected survivors and ensured that the system worked for them, not against them. We trained judges, lawyers, and law enforcement on the complexities of trauma, ensuring that they meet survivors with compassion rather than skepticism.
One of the most significant milestones in our fight for justice came in 2021 when Kosovo prosecutors secured their first conviction for conflict-related sexual violence. For the first time, a perpetrator was held accountable in court, setting a precedent for future cases. This victory was not just legal, it was symbolic. It told survivors that their suffering mattered, that their voices were finally being heard.
Our work is far from over. Perpetrators still walk free, and justice for many survivors remains elusive. The international community must not turn away, it must recognize that the scars of sexual violence do not fade with time.
True peace is not just the absence of war, it is the presence of justice.
Intergenerational trauma and the next battle
As we did our work, a new reality became clear: the trauma of sexual violence was not confined to those who endured it firsthand. Their children, families, and wider communities bore the weight of the trauma that survivors carried. In 2022, the Kosova Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims conducted the country’s first study on intergenerational trauma, revealing how the pain of the past shapes the lives of the present. This research led to groundbreaking family therapy programs, ensuring that healing extended beyond the individual survivor.
Mental health care in post-conflict societies is often overlooked, but we have proven that it is essential. We have shown that addressing trauma does not weaken a nation, it strengthens it. Kosovo is not just a land of war stories, it is a land of resilience, and its people deserve to be whole again.
Our work has extended far beyond Kosovo’s borders. Through our publications, protocols, and guidelines on conflict-related sexual violence, we have contributed to the global discourse on trauma-informed care, legal frameworks, and survivor-centered justice. International organizations, from Ukraine to Iraq, have sought out our expertise, shaping best practices and policies that influence post-conflict rehabilitation efforts worldwide. By sharing our knowledge, we ensure that the lessons learned from Kosovo’s struggle help other leaders in other nations confront their own histories of sexual violence in war.
While much of my journey has been shaped by the aftermath of war and the stories of survivors of conflict-related sexual violence, I’ve also been deeply moved by the quiet, often hidden suffering of children affected by sexual violence in times of peace. In Kosovo and beyond, even without the presence of conflict, many children face abuse and exploitation, often in silence.
Through the Kosova Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims, we’ve extended psychosocial and legal support to reach these children and their families, walking beside them as they navigate trauma, fear and the long road to healing. We work hand in hand with child protection services to respond in times of crisis and create safer environments where children can feel seen, heard, and safe. For me, protecting children is not just a professional duty, it’s a moral calling. Whether in war or peace, every child deserves to grow up free from violence.
A Nobel Peace Prize nomination and the road ahead
Not long ago, I was surprised to learn that I had been nominated for the 2025 Nobel Peace Prize for this work, and my thoughts immediately turned to the women I have stood beside for more than two decades. This honor belongs to every survivor who has fought to reclaim her life, to every activist who has demanded justice, and to every person who has refused to look away.
This nomination is a message to the world: the fight against wartime sexual violence is not over. The international community has a moral duty to ensure that justice is not a privilege, but a right. Survivors must be recognized not as victims, but as agents of change and pillars of strength who have endured the worst and still demand the best for their futures.
I call upon global leaders, human rights organizations, civil societies, and citizens to stand with us and war rape survivors. Kosovo’s struggle is not unique. Conflict-related sexual violence is a weapon of war in conflicts around the world. We must break the cycle of impunity that allows perpetrators to escape legal justice. We must provide survivors with the support they need. And we must never forget that silence is complicity.
My journey began in the ashes of war, among the voices of those who had lost everything. Today, those voices are rising—in Kosovo and across the world. They are demanding acknowledgment, accountability, and change.
I will continue to stand with them, not because it is easy, but because it is necessary.
Through Kosova Rehabilitation Center for Torture Victims, we’ve worked for over two decades to build a strong system of psychosocial and legal support for survivors silenced during war and those whose suffering continues in its aftermath. These programs, rooted in trust and built with care over 25 years, are now under threat. The sudden cuts to USAID funding have set off a domino effect, jeopardizing the continuity of services that thousands rely on. At the same time, we are witnessing a global shift in priorities, with increased investment in militarization and security at the expense of human rights. For survivors and other vulnerable groups, these aren’t just programs, they are the only safe spaces they have and they cannot afford to be forgotten. Losing them would not only undo years of progress, but also risk re-traumatizing the very people we’ve fought so hard to support. We owe them more than silence. We owe them continuity, protection and dignity.
Justice is not an abstract ideal, it is the foundation upon which true peace is built. As long as there are survivors seeking recognition, as long as there are perpetrators walking free, our work is not done.
We are not just fighting for the past, we are shaping the future. A future where no survivor is forgotten, where no crime is ignored, and where dignity triumphs over silence. Survivors have an ongoing need for psychosocial services because the trauma they have endured can only be mitigated with healing and treatment.
This is my life’s work. And I will continue it from where our voices rise at our base on Hamëz Jashari Street.