Kacanik, KOSOVO – A plume of smoke hangs over our table in the corner of a dark, shabby café in this rugged town in southern Kosovo. The lanky 19-year-old sitting next to me is chain-smoking through half a pack of L&Ms, his hands trembling as he recalls how he joined one of the world's most brutal militant Islamist groups.
Through his neatly trimmed beard, Adem, who asks me not to use his real name for fear of arrest, says he had never even left Kosovo. But two years ago, he found himself on the perilous and far-off Turkey-Syria border -- a major entry point for foreigners seeking to join the ranks of Islamic State (IS).
He was taken by IS recruiters to a Turkish village, where he waited to be smuggled into a war zone. After a two-week training camp in the Syrian city of Raqqa, the de facto capital of the Syrian and Iraqi territory that the group calls its "caliphate," he would be assigned to a fighting unit.
Hours before the recruiters were to sneak him across the border, however, Adem turned back and made his way home.
"I realized that what was going on in Syria had nothing to do with Islam," says Adem, who keeps looking over his shoulder as if he might be found out at any moment by Kosovar authorities. He looks like any other teenager, in skinny jeans and a silver chain hanging over his T-shirt.
The government estimates that more than 300 Kosovars have traveled to the Middle East to wage jihad, or Islamic holy war. That makes this predominately Muslim country of under 2 million people, which unilaterally declared its independence from Serbia in 2008, Europe's biggest contributor per capita of IS foot soldiers.
Kacanik in particular has gained a reputation as the jihadist capital of the Balkans. In the past three years, at least 24 men from its population of 30,000 have left to fight for extremist groups like IS or Al-Qaeda in Syria and Iraq.
Adem's own path toward radicalization began when he received a Facebook invitation to attend a sermon hosted by an imam from a nearby town. He says he was "curious" about Islam. For the next five months, Adem attended sermons and Koran classes at a makeshift mosque where he and other young men lived.
The sermons were organized by Rinia Islame (Islamic Youth in Albanian), an Islamic charity operating in Kacanik. It is one among dozens of secretive organizations funded by Saudi Arabia and other Persian Gulf states that promote an extreme version of Islam. The groups are accused of brainwashing youth and recruiting them for extremist causes abroad.
Adem says the sermons he attended were "very strict and harsh." "They told us not to shake hands with women and don't go to cafes or bars," he says.
There are indeed mounting outward signs of Islamic fundamentalism in Kacanik, where it is no longer uncommon to see women in Islamic veils or men with untrimmed beards and calf-length trousers, none of which has much real tradition in the country.
As Adem tells it, the sermons worked their way up from Koran lessons, to the meaning of jihad, to the conflicts in Syria and Iraq.
"My family doesn't practice religion very much," says Adem, who lives with his parents and two sisters in a crammed flat in Kacanik. "Only my grandfather and I."
He says his family picked up on signs that he was becoming radicalized. "They said that if I want to practice religion, I can do it -- I can pray -- but not become a radical."
The sermons attended by Adem were given by Zeqirja Qazimi, a notorious imam who was jailed for 10 years on May 20 after he and six associates were convicted for fighting for IS militants in Syria from 2012 to 2014 and for trying to gather IS recruits.
"Imam Zekerija Qazimi came from Gjilan," says Adem, referring to a town in eastern Kosovo. "He was telling us about jihad."
Qazimi also posted a video on YouTube in which he said that the "blood of infidels is the best drink for us." Local media reported that Qazimi was responsible for recruiting 11 Kosovar fighters to IS; three were said to have been killed in Syria.
When I ask whether Adem has been threatened since turning his back on the extremists who radicalized him, his answer belies the bloodthirsty reputation of a group that routinely kills captives en masse and is said to ruthlessly execute suspected traitors. "I've never felt danger," he says. "It was my decision."
The Middle Eastern-funded charities have penetrated poor, rural communities like Kacanik that have been neglected by the government and where unemployment is around 40 percent, making young men easy targets for indoctrination.
The Islamic charities often run schools, dormitories, and welfare programs. But they also push a hard-line agenda that appears to have gained at least a minor foothold in Kacanik.
Adem believes the Arab-funded charities targeted poor families, and often single mothers. He says in exchange for attending the sermons, the charity would give students accommodations, expense money, and new clothes and shoes.
"There were many people who attended the sermons," says Adem, who had just finished high school and was jobless when he started attending the classes. "There were people in poor economic conditions."
"These charities were not registered and they worked with certain radical individuals and they have manipulated the poor," says Kacanik Mayor Besim Ilazi.
Ilazi, a tall, balding man, points at derelict buildings and defunct factories at the foot of the green hills around Kacanik and adds, "The economy is the main reason why some people joined."
Locals also point to the town's proximity to Macedonia as one of the reasons Kacanik has become such a hotbed for radicalism. Macedonia is a short 30-minute drive away, and locals say hard-line ethnic Albanian preachers often visit Kosovar communities to deliver sermons.
In late 2014, Kosovar officials closed 14 charities -- including the one that provided religious classes to Adem -- when they were suspected of having ties to Islamic extremist groups. Under a new law, Kosovo can jail citizens for up to 15 years if they participate in foreign wars.
Kosovo authorities say around 50 homegrown jihadists have been killed in fighting in Syria and Iraq, and around 120 have returned to Kosovo. More than 100 people in Kosovo have been arrested or are under investigation for recruiting or fighting abroad on behalf of IS.
Ilazi insists the government crackdown has largely driven Kacanik's radical fringe out of the town. But he also acknowledges that some extremists have simply gone underground and continue to operate in "private houses."
Locals talk of cabins in the woods where the extremists hold meetings and sermons. One local points to a rocky hill in the distance. "Over there is where they meet at night," he says, talking on condition of anonymity. "No one can go there because they have armed guards."
"The radicals were allowed to operate freely for too long."Florim Neziraj, head of the Islamic Community of Kosovo in Kacanik
Adem, sipping Turkish coffee from a tiny cup, says that several months after attending religious classes some of the young men "left and never came back," referring to locals who went to Syria to fight.
"We were in a small place and we heard everything," says Adem. "Yes, there were people who went to Syria. I saw them leave Kacanik."
Florim Neziraj is the head of the local branch of the Islamic Community of Kosovo, the main officially sanctioned Islamic organization in the country. The young, ginger-haired imam has been leading efforts to prevent young men from joining radical Islamic groups.
"Those who have gone to Syria are often very young," says Neziraj, who is wearing a tight navy suit and sporting a trimmed beard. "They come from the best families in Kacanik. You couldn't say anything bad about them. We saw no signs of radicalization. They were manipulated and fell victim to certain individuals."
Neziraj argues that blame must be apportioned to the government, which he says "neglected the problem" of radicalization. "The radicals were allowed to operate freely for too long," he adds.
Kosovo has traditionally been a secular state with a liberal Muslim population, with bars on the same street as mosques. But less tolerant voices have flourished, including among the radical Islamic charities, which have thrived since arriving after the war ended in Kosovo in 1999.
Neziraj says many such charities came under the guise of "humanitarian organizations," often building schools and hospitals. But he says these charities were often bent on "indoctrinating the youth."
He fears it might be too late to tackle spreading radicalism.
One product of the radicalization in Kacanik is Lavdrim Muhaxheri, a 25-year-old IS recruiter who fights in Syria. He has been described as one of IS's top leaders.
Last year, Muhaxheri sent shockwaves around Kosovo when he posted photos on Facebook of himself beheading a prisoner in Syria. Another post purportedly showed him executing a Syrian man with a rocket-propelled grenade.
Adem is reluctant to talk about Kacanik's most notorious former resident, but admits he saw Muhaxheri attending the local mosque for prayers, saying he looked "normal."
He says Muhaxheri's path is a lesson for young men in Kacanik thinking of fighting in Syria.
"I live a normal life again, but I'm one of the lucky ones," Adem tells me between cigarettes in the café, where he now works as a waiter. "Not everyone who takes the wrong path can find their way again."
But for the older tombs, he said, "I think the bones should stay in their graves."