Our Journey, Our Cause
By Cafo Boga
In our journey through life, we meet many people we call friends—but not all of them leave the same mark on us.
Some are just acquaintances. We cross paths, share a few moments, and then they drift away, often never to be heard from again. Others stay a little longer—maybe we work together, share a hobby, or go through a phase of life side by side. These friendships may fade with time, though we might still exchange the occasional message or memory.
But then there’s a third kind of friend—the rare kind.
These are the ones we don’t see every day, sometimes not even for years. And yet, when we do reconnect, it’s as if no time has passed. They remain constant in our lives, not because of frequency, but because of depth. There’s mutual respect, unspoken understanding, and a quiet admiration that doesn’t need words. These are the friends you can call at any hour—for support, advice, or simply to share a laugh. They have a steady strength, a depth of character, and a loyalty that’s hard to find. And maybe, just maybe, it’s the chemistry between you—something unexplainable—that makes the bond so meaningful. You inspire each other. You trust each other. You are proud to call each other a friend.
One of those rare people in my life is Shyqyri—known in the United States as Bruno Selimaj.
Fate brought us together in Italy in 1970, during a critical chapter in our lives as we prepared to emigrate to the United States. While in Italy, I worked pro bono assisting fellow immigrants with registering and preparing necessary documents in their native language. These documents would then be translated into Italian and filed with the appropriate authorities—a modest but meaningful contribution to those navigating the same uncertain road.
Although both Bruno and I were Albanians from Montenegro—then a republic within Yugoslavia—we came from different regions. To my surprise, I had to communicate with him in Serbo-Croatian, as he spoke very little Albanian at the time. That struck me deeply; it reflected the level of cultural assimilation imposed on Albanians by the Yugoslav regime.
We were both, in many ways, victims of a much larger historical injustice—decisions made by the Great Powers of Europe that left half of Albania’s territory in the hands of neighboring states. For those Albanians left outside the official borders, life was never the same. Discrimination was constant and pervasive—in education, employment, and even language. The pressure to assimilate was silent, but unrelenting. As a result, many Albanians, like Bruno and myself, sought a better future elsewhere—with America as the ultimate destination.
My acquaintance with Bruno in Italy was brief, but he left a lasting impression. Even then, I could tell he came from a good family—one that had raised him with values and discipline. He spoke politely, in a quiet, composed voice, saying only what needed to be said. There was a calmness and self-assurance about him that stayed with me.
We were both young men, and eventually we both made it to the United States, each taking different paths. After a short stint working at the then-famous restaurant Brasserie, I chose to continue my education and began working at a bank. Bruno, on the other hand, embarked on an entrepreneurial journey in the food business. He opened his first restaurant, La Triestina, on 34th Street and Lexington Avenue, and later established another on 58th Street, which he named Bruno. Over time, it became an iconic place in New York City.
During those early years, I visited him a few times, but we were both busy building our careers. Even though we didn’t see each other often, the connection remained—quiet, respectful, and enduring. Some friendships are anchored not in time, but in purpose.
Toward the end of 1979, fate once again brought us together—this time to co-produce a television program in the Albanian language. The idea was initiated by the Yugoslav consul in New York, Osman Gashi, an Albanian from Prishtina, Kosovo (Albanian Kosova or Kosovë) who proposed creating a show for the growing Albanian diaspora with support from TV Prishtina. While discussions had begun before my involvement, Bruno was chosen as the sponsor and collaborator. Disagreements had arisen over who should host and produce the program. Eventually, I was recommended—likely by the consul—and once my name was mentioned, everyone agreed.
At the time, I was working for KPMG (then Peat Marwick & Mitchell), where my responsibilities in addition to serving my clients, included business development and community relations. That was likely one of the main reasons I accepted the role. With everything in place, we launched the program on Channel 47, WNJU—now Telemundo. We titled it “Albanian Show -Shkëndija” (meaning The Spark), which was the name of the first Albanian TV program in Kosovo. From the very beginning, it resonated deeply with the community. While most welcomed it, a few expressed concern about our connection with TV Prishtina and the Yugoslav consulate, fearing potential propaganda. I was careful to avoid any political messaging, focusing strictly on news and entertainment for the diaspora. Trust grew quickly, and soon Sunday mornings became something the community eagerly anticipated. Shkëndija aired from 1980 to 1981.
Unfortunately, in 1981, political turmoil erupted in Prishtina. What began on March 11 as a student protest over poor living conditions quickly escalated into mass demonstrations demanding republic status for Kosovo within Yugoslavia. The Yugoslav government responded harshly, deploying police and military forces, arresting thousands, and punishing many with imprisonment or job loss. It was a pivotal moment that awakened national consciousness among Albanians.
Because our program relied on music and materials from TV Prishtina, the authorities soon demanded we change the show’s name. They feared that Shkëndija—“The Spark”—might be seen as encouraging unrest among Albanians abroad. They insisted we rename it The Yugoslav Program in the Albanian Language—a title completely at odds with its spirit and purpose. I refused. In response, the consul was summoned to Washington and given an ultimatum by the Yugoslav Ambassador: either change the name or return home. Under such pressure, Bruno and I decided to resign. The program continued briefly under the new name, but within weeks, it was silenced forever.
From that point on, our bond grew even stronger. I often made an effort to visit his restaurant for lunch or dinner with friends or clients. And once again, fate brought us closer—this time through the growing hostilities and war in Kosovo.
The war began in February 1998, when armed conflict erupted between the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) and Serbian forces. Years of repression and rising calls for independence had reached a breaking point. The violence escalated sharply after the massacre in Prekaz, where Serbian forces killed dozens of ethnic Albanians, including KLA leader Adem Jashari and his family. As the conflict intensified and reports of atrocities emerged, diplomatic efforts failed. On March 24, 1999, NATO launched a 78-day air campaign against Yugoslavia to stop the violence and force a Serbian withdrawal. The war ended on June 10, 1999. Over 13,000 lives were lost, nearly one million Albanians were displaced, and Kosovo was left in ruins. In 2008, it declared independence—a status still contested today by Serbia and its allies.
The events in Kosovo deeply affected every Albanian in the diaspora, regardless of origin. Communities across the United States mobilized—raising funds for the KLA and endangered civilians, lobbying officials, and working with the media to raise awareness. Public knowledge of Kosovo was minimal. I still recall a local mayor telling me, “But I see on TV they’re people like us,” unaware of who Kosovars even were. That moment showed how powerful visibility could be.
Because events moved so fast, there was no time to create a new organization for fundraising. Instead, a dormant one—Kosova Relief Fund (KRF), founded by Dr. Sami Repishti—was reactivated. Bruno closed off part of his restaurant for its operations. After receiving threats, he grew concerned it might be vandalized, so I decided to use the address of LBS Bank in New York, where I was Executive Vice President and Chief Operating Officer. I opened an account under the KRF name and began receiving donations from across the country. We collected over $850,000, which the KRF Board—including Bruno and myself—distributed to those most in need in Kosovo. Our Executive Director, Avni Mustafaj, traveled there personally to ensure proper use of funds. Meanwhile, I arranged for one of the top accounting firms in New York to audit KRF’s books and issue statements until the funds were fully allocated.
Without a doubt, the Albanian American diaspora played a pivotal role in shaping public opinion and influencing U.S. policy. The pressure and advocacy from our community were instrumental in prompting Washington’s involvement and ultimately NATO’s intervention to liberate Kosovo.
Throughout this time, Bruno’s restaurant became an informal headquarters for meetings with U.S. officials. One that stands out was with Ambassador Richard Holbrooke, who asked:
“Gentlemen, what should we do—continue supporting Rugova, who has locked himself away in Prishtina and hasn’t even visited the families in Racak? Or should we reconsider removing the KLA from the terrorist list?”
Our response was unanimous: yes, the KLA must be reconsidered. Holbrooke agreed and promised to meet KLA leaders personally. That meeting helped pave the way for broader U.S. engagement and the formation of the Atlantic Brigade—a symbol of solidarity and determination.
This was just one of hundreds of meetings, lunches, and dinners Bruno hosted during this crucial time. Deeply patriotic yet above politics, his restaurant became known as the “unofficial Albanian embassy.” But I would go further—Bruno was not just a host; he was a man of peace.
What has always stood out about Bruno is his quiet dignity, unwavering integrity, and deep sense of purpose. He leads not with loud declarations, but through consistent action. Whether helping a friend, supporting a national cause, or serving a meal with grace and generosity, he does it with humility and heart. His patriotism is not performative—it is practical, rooted in service and conscience. His presence can steady a room; his few words often carry more weight than many speeches.
Over the years, our friendship has only deepened—not through constant contact, but through shared values. We’ve never needed frequent communication to remain connected. Ours is a friendship built on mutual respect, trust, and a shared understanding of what it means to serve something greater than ourselves. In many ways, our lives have run parallel—two young men who left behind a wounded homeland and built new lives in a foreign land, without ever forgetting where we came from.
Now, as my friend Bruno reflects on his life, I hope he does so with pride. His journey—from an immigrant in a new world to a respected leader, community figure, and symbol of unity—has touched more lives than he likely realizes. For me, it has been one of the quiet honors of my life to call him a friend.
“Try not to become a man of success but rather try to become a man of value.” — Albert Einstein