National Library of Kosovo

Start with the surface right in front of you. A dark metal lattice wraps the walls, like a net thrown over a block of white stone. Look a little higher and the roof breaks into domes. They are small and large, clustered together, catching the light at slightly different angles. On a grey Pristina morning they look like soft bubbles. In strong sun the edges turn sharp and almost mineral. Few buildings anywhere look quite like this one.

This is the National Library of Kosovo, named after Pjetër Bogdani. He was a seventeenth-century Albanian bishop and writer. His best-known work is a theological book called Cuneus Prophetarum, the Band of the Prophets. Scholars count it among the earliest original works of prose written in Albanian. So the building carries the name of someone who helped put Albanian onto the printed page. That is a fitting name for a house of books in a city where language has often been a political question.

The library was designed by the Croatian architect Andrija Mutnjaković. It was completed in the early 1980s, when Kosovo was an autonomous province inside socialist Yugoslavia. That period produced bold public buildings across the federation. Concrete, unusual geometry and big civic ambition were all part of the language of the time. Yugoslav architects often tried to create a modern style that did not simply copy the West or the Soviet bloc. This library is one of the more unusual results of that search.

Here is the first detail many visitors miss. The roof carries ninety-nine domes. The number appears again and again in descriptions of the building. Mutnjaković wanted to draw on the region's past without imitating any single tradition. The domes recall the Byzantine churches and the Ottoman mosques that shaped the Balkans for centuries. The metal grid on the façade recalls a different kind of craft — the patterned screens and filigree work found in local decoration. He combined these old shapes with modern materials.

Take a moment to walk slowly around the building. The domes are not arranged in neat rows. They rise in groups, some tall, some low and wide. This gives the roofline a restless, almost organic shape. From one corner the building looks heavy and closed. From another it looks light, nearly playful. The lattice also changes with your position. Up close it is a simple grid. From a distance it softens the walls and makes them shimmer.

Opinion about the library has always been divided. Over the years it has appeared on several international lists of the world's strangest or least loved buildings. Many architects and residents see it very differently. They value it as a rare and confident piece of late Yugoslav modernism. It is a building that refused to be ordinary. You may already have your own reaction. Both views are common, and both are part of the library's story.

The domes are not only for show. They work as skylights. Natural light falls through them into the reading rooms below. In older libraries, readers often sat by tall windows. Here the light comes from above, spread across the room. If you are able to step inside, look up. The ceiling turns into a field of round openings, each one a pool of daylight. On a clear day it gives the reading halls a calm, even glow.

The library has lived through difficult decades. In the 1990s, tensions in Kosovo grew sharply. Albanian-language education and cultural life faced severe restrictions. Then came the war of 1998 and 1999. Reports from that time describe damage to the library and serious losses to its collections. Many books and documents were lost or scattered. After the war the institution had to rebuild its holdings, and international partners helped with donations and support.

So when you look at the shelves and reading rooms today, you are looking at a recovery. A national library is meant to keep a people's written memory. For Kosovo, which declared independence in 2008, that role carries extra weight. The library collects books, newspapers, manuscripts and other printed material connected to the country. It also serves as a quiet place to study. On weekdays you will often see students coming and going.

That is because the library stands on the edge of the University of Pristina campus. Look around at the surrounding grounds. There are lawns, paths and university buildings, and the atmosphere is more relaxed than in the city centre. Students sit on benches with laptops and coffee. Friends meet at the library steps. This everyday use is easy to overlook, but it matters. The building is not a museum piece. It is still doing the job it was built for.

Now for the second surprise. Very close to the library stands an unfinished Serbian Orthodox church. Its construction began in the 1990s and stopped after the war. The bare brick shell has stood incomplete for many years, and its future has been the subject of long public debate. These two buildings stand only a short walk apart. One expresses an idea of shared Yugoslav modernity. The other stands as a sign of the divisions that followed.

From here, the centre of Pristina is within easy walking distance. The pedestrian boulevard named after Mother Teresa runs through the heart of the city, full of cafés and evening strollers. Pristina is a young city in spirit, with a large student population. You can feel that energy around the campus. In warm weather the area fills with conversation and music from nearby cafés. In winter the domes sometimes hold a light cover of snow, which softens the whole building.

Before you move on, stand still for a moment and look at the roof again. Count a few of the domes, then give up — there are too many to follow. Notice how the metal lattice throws thin shadows across the stone behind it. Listen to the voices of students around you. This building was planned in one country, damaged in a war, and rebuilt in another. Through all of it, people have kept coming here to read.