For Ismail Qerimi there are two types of book: One you sell, the other you read. At the moment he does neither, though he is not complaining. By the general standard of suffering caused by the war in Kosovo, Ismail knows he was lucky: He only lost his home, his business and 6,000 books collected over a lifetime.

"I have my wife and my children and it's better to have your family than 100 houses," he says, sitting in the single room the five of them share, in the former Ursuline convent in Waterford which is now home to 129 Kosovan refugees. His current circumstances, however, leave him plenty of time to ponder on the active, fulfilled life he once had. "To be honest, at the moment I am lost in time. I don't know what is my next step. I don't know what to do."

He still has a small, precious collection of about 50 books, but he can't bring himself to read them. "When I was at home I couldn't sleep unless I read a minimum of 40 pages. I was always fighting with my wife because I had the light on and of course she wanted to sleep."

Before the war, Ismail was a bookshop owner and had a stake in a successful publishing business. He travelled to international book fairs in Frankfurt and Geneva, sharing a stand with other Albanians from Kosovo and Albania proper.

Conversing with other publishers was never a problem - he speaks six languages - and they were always exceptionally pleased to see an Albanian presence. "In Frankfurt you had thousands of publishers from all over the world and it was an opportunity to see what Irish, English, German and other books looked like."

He paid the police, he recalls, to allow him bring his books abroad. "I was always in danger. If the police found books in my car they could beat me. . . in the shop I could openly sell only the books which were permitted."

As Ismail talks, his wife, Florije, serves Turkish coffee and home-made kifle (miniature bread rolls) and listens intently, although her English is not as good as his. Their children Loran (6) and twins Labinot and Drenushe (5) play cheerfully in the background. The presence of a stranger in the room gives a new dimension to their games and eye contact is made at every opportunity.

The brightly-coloured room has three beds and has been decorated for their benefit, with teddy bears, dolls and paintings done by the children adorning the walls. Although he has fallen out of the habit of reading, Ismail fingers a copy of Angela's Ashes which he plans to start. His interest in books began at the age of 12 when he helped out in his uncle's bookshop. His father also brought books home from the publishing company he ran.

It was at the same age Ismail became aware of the antagonism between Serbs and Albanians. "Until I was 12, I went to a Serb school. I was the only Albanian in the class and I still speak Serbian better than most Serbs," he says.

Everything changed in 1968 when Albanians in Kosovo staged a political protest, which included withdrawing their children from school. "I didn't go for a week and when I went back to school nobody spoke to me because I was Albanian. They called me a `dirty Albanian' and when I told my teacher he said `I'm sorry, don't get me wrong, but you are'.".

"I was 12 years old when I learned how much the Serbs hated us. That was some experience."

He switched to an Albanian school but continued to enjoy a relatively privileged upbringing. His father was a prominent politician and one-time Mayor of Viti as well as a member of the Kosovan parliament which formed part of the Yugoslav federation.

After graduating from university with a degree in economics, he worked in local government, heading a department set up to develop local enterprise, until the Serbian purge against Albanian workers in 1990. After a few years selling tractor and car engines, he decided to combine his economic skills with the passion for books sparked by the early days in his uncle's shop.

He opened a bookshop and formed a partnership with Kosovo's first private publisher, Abdulla Zeneli. The business brought him into frequent contact with Albanian intellectuals like the writers Father Lush Gjergji and Bashkim Shehu, the son of the former Albanian prime minister, Mehmet Shehu, who was executed by the dictator, Enver Hoxha.

It also gave him sufficient income to build a two-storey, six-bedroom house in Viti. "In Kosovo we like big houses," he says, "we like to have more space." The last time Ismail saw his home intact was the day the NATO bombing in Kosovo began. The family packed everything they could fit into their BMW and headed for Macedonia.

The Kosovo Liberation Army was not active in the area so remaining was not an option, he says. So he would have stayed and fought? "Oh yes, no hesitation," he replies. "It's not easy to leave your house and your country and to be a refugee. It's the worst thing in the world."

Returning to Kosovo recently on an Irish Government-sponsored trip to enable programme refugees to ascertain the feasibility or otherwise of returning home, he found a burnt-out shell where his house had stood. "I couldn't stay and look for more than five minutes. It was terrible to see."

The 6,000 books he had kept in his home were his personal collection; the books he had for sale, in another location, were also gone. His brother took photographs of the house which Ismail brought back to Florije and the children. When he takes them out to show, Loran points out where his bedroom used to be.

The dramatic change in circumstances has left Ismail deeply frustrated, although he repeatedly stresses his gratitude to the Irish Government and people for what they have done for his family. "In Ireland we feel really good. Maybe our conditions are not similar to what we had but you offered us what you had to offer and we can't ask for more."

Life would be a little easier, however, if the ban on overnight stays at the refugee centres was lifted. Ismail's mother and brother live at the centre in Tralee, Co Kerry, but family members must find and pay for their own accommodation when they visit each other.

Longer-term security could also be offered. The Government has not yet told the Kosovans who were evacuated from Macedonia last year whether they will be able to stay beyond June, when their one-year "temporary protection" visas expire. A Department of Foreign Affairs spokesman said consultations were taking place on the matter with the UNHCR.

Returning in the foreseeable future is not an option for Ismail, who may enrol for a master's degree course at Waterford Institute of Technology this year. There is no prospect, he believes, of being able to restart his business in the prevailing conditions in Kosovo.

He is certain, however, that one day he will go home. "I have to because of my children. They have to grow up in their own country."