At first glance, Mitrovica looks like an unremarkable post-industrial mining town. A cloud of smoke hovers over a sprawl of dusty roads dotted with Yugoslav-era apartment blocks and an unattractive monument to local zinc miners, both Serb and Albanian, who battled against the Nazis during World War II.

Today, the city is divided by a river and a bridge, symbols of the ethnic strife that exploded in violence in 1999 and again in 2004, driving Mitrovica's Albanians to the south and Serbs to the north of the Ibar River.

The final talks between Kosovo and Serbia aimed at determining the province’s status broke down last month. But Kosovo leaders, including current Prime Minister Hashim Thaci - a former rebel fighter - say they are determined to declare independence with or without Serbia's agreement. If that happens, observers fear that Kosovo's 120,000-strong Serb minority (about 7 percent of the population), which boycotted the breakaway province's parliamentary elections earlier this month, may attempt to secede. Is it possible to bridge Kosovo's ethnic divide?

Mitrovica North

Nestled on the hilltop on the north side of Mitrovica sits an imposing Orthodox church, built in 2005 after the one on the southern side was torched during March 2004 riots. Here, they speak Serbian and use the same telephone system, flag and vehicle license plates as Serbia.

On Kralja Petra, the main artery, a string of prefabricated kiosks sells everything from clothes and mobile phones to farm produce. The kiosks accept dinars, not euros, Kosovo's official currency. The worn-down buildings flanking the street are plastered with images of well-known radical Serb politicians and "don't let go of Kosovo" posters written in Cyrillic.

The roar of fuel-powered generators can be heard above the beeping of cars and pedestrian traffic. Young female students travel in packs, waving at acquaintances. Like in any small town, everyone seems to know each other. Outsiders don't go unnoticed. Occasionally, like a scene from an epic movie, French peacekeeping KFOR troops, under the NATO-led mission, patrol the streets on foot or armored vehicles.

After four months of unsuccessful diplomatic negotiations to determine Kosovo's final status, Belgrade and Pristina remain entrenched in their positions. Kosovo Albanians, who make up 90 percent of the province's population of 2 million, insist on full independence from Serbia, while Belgrade says it can only offer broad autonomy.

Despite the fact that Serbian governance is virtually non-existent since Kosovo became a de-facto protectorate of the United Nations Interim Administration Mission in Kosovo (UNMIK) and KFOR eight years ago, northern Mitrovica, along with three adjoining predominantly Serb enclaves, has threatened to secede should Kosovo become independent.

Inside the Dolce Vita café, through a fog of cigarette smoke and against the pounding of pop music, Mila Todorovic, a Serbian language high school teacher, talks about the last time she saw her neighbor, an Albanian who moved to the capital Pristina after the war.

"We hugged and cried because we realized that she's living with her people and I'm with mine. I don't think it's possible for us [Serbs and Albanians] to live together," she says, pausing to stir her cappuccino. "It requires time, forgiving and forgetting. I don't blame the Albanians or the Serbs," she says while answering her cell phone, ringing to the tune of Enrique Iglesias' latest hit. "I prefer to remain part of Serbia, but most of all, I just want to live a normal life, to have electricity and water to wash my face in the mornings."

Todorovic's immediate concerns about independence are the possible influx of new internally displaced persons from other Serb populated enclaves in the south. "The city is overcrowded, people are poor, living on small pensions, no jobs, and we don't even have enough power or water; it will be a disaster."

She says her salary is better than some, but it's not enough to allow her to indulge in life's pleasures. "I miss going to the theatre, concerts, art galleries… There's no cultural life here."

Todorovic's 400 euro monthly salary is almost double what an Albanian teacher would make in the south, a bitter point of contention between both sides. According to OSCE reports, Serb civil servants working for government or public institutions benefit from "double" wages.

Ethnic Serbs working for the government receive a kosovski dodatak, a stipend introduced by Milosevic after the war as an incentive for Serbs to remain in Kosovo, and salaries from the Serbian and Pristina budgets. Serbs fear the effect independence would have on such benefits.

Since 1999, a steady stream of international NGOs have flooded into this war-torn region to conduct all manner of institution building, poverty alleviation, and reconstruction programs.

These days, most aid donors try to encourage co-existence by making their funds contingent on initiatives that bring together different ethnic groups to work on solutions to common problems.

One such group is Omladine Jazas-A (Youth Association for the Prevention of HIV/AIDs), which works in partnership with other Albanian associations on AIDS education, prevention and awareness campaigns. Natasha Bulatovic, a program coordinator, says she and her colleagues travel occasionally to Pristina to attend workshops and conferences and learn from other groups.

"We have a good working cooperation with Albanians -- we share ideas, strategies and lessons learned -- but we never socialize, discuss politics or the past," says Bulatovic. "Plus, we always travel with an international organization, because we're afraid of driving with our Serbian license plates or going alone. We can't speak Albanian, and we communicate with them in English, or via translators."

Bulatovic, who also studies journalism, says that colleges and universities in the north have inadequate facilities. The former police station, razed during NATO's bombing campaign, has been transformed into Mitrovica's University: a complex of recently renovated barracks into which the language, philosophy, education and communication faculties are crammed. The hallway is crowded with students as Bulatovic waits patiently to enter a room.

"I only have lessons twice a month, and we always have to fight to get a classroom because there's not enough space for us all," she complains. Natasha's professors are either refugees who fled to the north from other towns in Kosovo, or Belgrade residents who travel down twice a month to lecture.

"I will graduate, eventually, but I don't want to work here because everything is politicised," says the 22-year old who eventually hopes to get a job in public relations. "I can't talk or write about the truth because there's too much pressure and the salaries are low. I hope to go to Belgrade or abroad."

Mitrovica South

The minarets of a cream-colored Mosque tower over southern Mitrovica's main pedestrian street, lined with trendy cafes and small shops. The Albanian flag, a black eagle against a red field, and banners depicting Kosovo's Albanian political hopefuls line the two-lane Mother Teresa Street. Meanwhile, piles of garbage litter the boardwalks and giant potholes make walking an obstacle course.

"I've never been to the north, if I went it would probably be a problem," says Osman, a young Albanian who works as a mini-van driver and in a good month makes 80 euros. "I might get beaten up or, worse, killed."

But Faik, who's originally from the north, speaks Serbian and stays in touch with Serbian friends via the Internet, says "we avoid talking about politics or independence, because we can't influence it. I think we should be independent because it doesn't make sense for a minority to rule us. But we discuss music, computer games and dream about going to the Montenegrin coast on holidays," he says as he sends a text message to someone on his mobile. The infamously expensive Kosovo phone monopoly, Vala, operates here, and making a call to a Serb cell number is equivalent to an international call.

"The main bridge in Mitrovica is the only one I can think of that symbolises division rather than linkage. It's a physical and emotional border. Not one you can easily cross, unless you have something serious to do, be it business or an emergency," says Biljana Todorovic, a Serb from Novi Sad, Serbia, who's been living in Mitrovica for the past eight years.

She crosses it on a daily basis. Although she lives in the north, her office is in the south, in the so called "confidence zone," an area created by the United Nations to facilitate inter-ethnic dialogue.

Todorovic works as a peace consultant for a German NGO promoting conflict resolution across Kosovo. She shares an office with her Albanian colleague on the fourth floor of the "NGO House," which accommodates several local and international NGOs that for the most part are multi-ethnically staffed.

Her organization supports the "Pro-Peace" platform, a 12-member strong alliance of multi-ethnic groups that jointly work on dialogue, peace building and reconciliation.

"When we get together, we open up sensitive topics that are necessary to break the barriers, like history, religion, language, education, etc. And as you can imagine, these turn into very heated debates. For example, the Kosovar Albanians consider [the] entry of UNMIK and KFOR in 1999 liberation, while the Serbs think it's an occupation," she explains. "But, after we close shop, we have lots of fun and it's an opportunity for them to mix."

Flora Beka, a psychologist working part time for a women's organization, says that political rhetoric on both sides has contributed to a lack of interaction and exposure that has only served to deepen the divide between Serbs and Albanians. The two groups have had little contact with each other in the last eight years, despite the international community's best efforts.

She claims they share more in common than they realize. "An average family, be it Albanians, Serbs or any other ethnic group struggles to put food on the table, buy wood for heating, clothes for the kids, and other basics to guarantee a normal life," Beka says.

As in the north, the meager economy in the south is driven by international handouts, small retail shops, cabs, and cafes. Other sources of income are agriculture, remittances from the Albanian Diaspora and rent paid by foreigners.

Besa Sylemani says that her family is able to survive thanks to the money her brother sends from Germany. "He's also renting his house to expats working for the U.N., so at least he can support his family." She hopes "the international community stays after independence because that will guarantee jobs for us, or else, I might join my brother."

When asked about her opinion of the Serbs, she says, "I don't know them, nor understand their language…But this year, when we celebrated Earth Day and did a clean-up of the river together with a school from the north, I noticed that they wear the same clothes, and enjoy the same food as we do: pizza!"

Sitting at Café Club drinking a macchiato, Ahmet, a young Democratic Party of Kosovo supporter, describes himself as a beer-drinking non-practicing Muslim who celebrates Ramadan because "it's a family tradition." For him, independence is about something more basic: identity. "I don't want to be called a Kosovar Albanian, but a Kosovar, and I want a real passport, not an UNMIK document," he protests, in reference to the UN documents issued to Albanians that are valid for two year and do triple duty as passports, identification cards and driver's licenses.

Hope for the Future?

Even with the threat of partition looming, NGO worker Todorovic is optimistic about the future. "Perhaps many Serbs will immigrate to Serbia, but I think the majority will remain in Kosovo because of lack of economic prospects in Serbia. How are they going to survive? Are they [the Serbian government] going to support them?"

She believes "independence is inevitable" and her recipe for future co-existence is "to create employment for young people, give them something to do, so that they don't invest their negative energy in violence."

With an average age of 25 years, Kosovo has the youngest population on the European continent, and the unofficial unemployment rate is as high as 70 percent, making its youth easy targets for radical groups.

A violent history, separate languages and religions, and political differences are not easy issues to overcome. And staggering unemployment, overpopulation, low salaries, and poor infrastructure make life difficult for both Kosovo's Serbs and Albanians.

Still, as they sit in cafés, listen to pop music, and text message their friends, young people from both sides of this divided city seem remarkably similar. Against the intractability of Kosovo's political and ethnic divisions, such similarities may seem trivial, but perhaps they are a start to building the trust necessary for future generations to coexist.