Dec 8, 2011
It is CHRISTMAS not just a Holiday….
Jul 12, 2011
Albania’s long wait in the delivery room
By Merita B.McCormack
Washington DC
I have been wondering for sometime now, as to what motivates some very smart, extremely patriotic, energetic Albanian youngsters, who live both in Albania and overseas, to have such a zest and fervor to fight at every instance the argument that the current Albanian Socialists are to be identified with the Communists of 1941 and beyond.
This I have noticed while I have been expressing my thoughts and have received comments. Nothing unusual for any one who wants to say what he/she thinks, and I have been met with some brilliant minds, but to oppose basically everything I write pertaining to Communism and some even trying to convince me, with what they believe, is somehow puzzling as to why.This has subsequently has motivated me to research further as to what is behind all the fervor and zest that seem to have engulfed some young people to have such a determination for the matter and here it is what I have concluded:
These beautiful people were born in the early 90s or mid to late 80's...that in itself explains a lot.... these people were being raised in transitional times, when the transition from Communism to the supposedly Democratic system in Albania has brought much suffering and much pain to the nation. They were born and raised in very difficult times. They were born with the supposed fall of Communism and as many other youngsters, they are experiencing the labor pain. Something is being delivered. And that is the Dawn of the New Era, which will finally mark the death of Communism.
Hence I understand this generation's frustration and pain, the disappointment and the ideals and I hope we have many youngsters like that, who voice their concerns and hope for the best, expecting the best.
Yet I, as the rest of my generation, for the sake of the coming generations, have to testify to the history that is not being written yet and these young people don't know much about. We can't build upon broken structures, we can't raise walls without proper foundations and we must do a deep and thorough clean up. We must remove the pus from the deep wounds, and that will continue to be still a very painful process.
When I was a teen and witnessed history being made, and saw what no eye should see, heard what no ear should hear and felt what no body should feel, the Albania we all know today was a different world some twenty five or more years ago.
Unfortunately, friends, we did see Devil being pleased in Albania. God was not sought , invited or embraced. For fifty years Albania agonized as an atheist state.
Having said that, there are so many who can testify to this, but unfortunately not many are writing and speaking about it.
A partial history is being told through the mouths and through very few daring souls like Fr. Zef Pllumi with the book "Live to Tell" or Leka Tasi with "Grabjani Rreze Kodrave" (Grabjan –The village on the Hills Side)”
There is not yet, as far as I know, an institutionalized effort on behalf of Albania as a nation, to write the Communist history of my nation and tell it as it was, a history from which we all can learn from or can testify to.
Arguing with some young men and women born in the 90s , is like talking with my American born teens who have no idea as to what really happened in the sixties and seventies in Albania when we grew up godless and almost died of starvation many times, when my mother lived for a full year (1948) on boiled potatoes while going through puberty. To the nation, religion was banned. To my mom’s family many other horrible things were done. Her family was wealthy before Communism hence they were given the infamous title “Kulak” –banning them from Society's life in general. After many of the close family's men defected Albania, the roller coaster of a very difficult life on Earth, due to human persecution, which had already began in 1945, took a very difficult course and we all, the respective generations, can testify with our own witnessing. The beautiful houses and material possessions were taken away by the government and my mom's family was left with nothing, barely some personal belongings, when her cousin-who couldn't defect as he was only fifteen years old and away from home on forced labor camp, on that September night, was jailed several times for agitation and propaganda,-which he had no idea what that was about,- when my great uncle was insulted and called names in front of the whole village as a kulak and a reactionary as he used to own a lot of land and a lot of livestock, when my mom's home was turn into the socialist state owned cooperative's depot and her living room turned into the village's soviet type cooperative ‘s blacksmith's place; when the head of village council looked lustfully upon the young girls of the family and told them to pull the transportations carts, just like an ox and horse does- he had joked- to bring their personal belongings to a mountain mad hut where my mom and her young siblings spent several years with nine other people-kulaks as well- in a single room, when the communist comrade got his burning cigarette out of his mouth and put it over the face of my great aunt and asked her to tell where her husband and sons were,(they defected Albania)- otherwise her eyesight would be gone by being burnt with the hot ash of that cigarette- when my grandfather died, and as the casket was transported to be put in the final resting place, the head of the village council ordered the cultural centre clerk of the socialist cooperative the following: " Play Loud Revolutionary Music and make sure is being heard. The reactionaries are dead, hurray"!
I will never forget the wedding of a loved one and other loved ones couldn't come. My family could not be together as some people were not happy to mix with kulaks. I will never forget the tears of my mother, covering the Devoll region's land everyday when her children, myself and my two brothers, could not get permission to go to the local high school as we had the "bad anti -communist biography", or when my brother was kicked out of school after three days of starting as apparently he was the “wrong” person to be sent there for an education apparently not being from a communist family , or when, my older brother was sent to serve in the army for three years in a terrible place and conditions, and as he was never permitted to get an education....
I will never forget what my grandmother witnessed when the wives of communists, on a mission to psychologically insult the non and anti-communists, were yelling and calling in the streets of the village, at our house's door, to go and see the dead man who was hanged... (he was my father's cousin who tried to escape Albania, was caught at the border, was hanged and his dead body was dragged in the streets...)
This is very little of what my experience of many years in Communism have to tell, or nothing to what other people have gone through, but is just an illustration of what is “the missing link” and is not for the purpose of complaint, neither to seek revenge, but once these are written, are acknowledged, are taught as true and real happenings, and most importantly those who committed the crimes truly apologize and repent, Albania will continue to be in the delivery room for a long time and we will continue to hear more and more crying babies...as the mother will be too sick to nurture and the doctors will be coming and going without much result of aid from the delivery room or other "hospitals"
The past needs to be examined and seriously considered as both the source of that suffering and also the source and means of a national healing. Unless Albania sees the past and heals it, nothing much will change even with the new elections at the door. Albania needs to be its own doctor and also seek real and effective help from friends; Every Albanian has his/her own part to do to speed the delivery and healing. Healing begins with acknowledging the wrong, feeling and showing true sorrow for it and resolve to stay away from the evil ways. Let's hope every Albanian and the whole society does so!
September 2010 (revised June 20 2013)
The author Merita B.McCormack serves as Washington DC VATRA Chapter President.
Apr 18, 2011
The Lilac Flowers-based on true stories from Communist Albania
For all my friends and cousins in Albania, whom I spent my unforgettable childhood years with.
When Mira and her husband decided to settle in the area where they live now, the first thing she admired in the front yard were the lilac trees surrounding the house. They face the sun all day long and they bloom at the end of April and beginning of May. The trees were spread out nicely and some of them were pretty high. Mira had always fancied the lilac trees. Perhaps it was the color, perhaps the aroma, perhaps the height of the trees, frankly she did not know what triggered her attraction to the lilac, but it had always been one of her favorite flowers.She often remembered her home in Albania, she recalls the back yard, which saw the sun all day long. There was a big lilac tree planted against the wall in the back of the house.. It was the tallest lilac tree in the village and the first one to bloom. Mira was her parent’s only daughter and she had the enjoyment of cutting the first bunch of flowers and making a big bouquet to put in the house’s entrance hall. The aroma was so nice, so delightful. Every one entering that hall would comment on the welcoming lilac aroma. Many neighbors and cousins envied Mira’s lilac bouquet and Mira surely felt very proud.Although she was but a little girl, still at elementary school, she now remembers some of her bitter childhood moments related to the first lilac flower bloom in her home in Albania.* * *Mira’s lilac bloomed the last week of April every year. Mira’s teachers knew about it and they always sent her home to get a bouquet for the classroom, and on May fifth they repeatedly asked Mira to ask her mother or grandmother to send a big bouquet of lilac flowers to school, to put them on wreaths which were to be placed by the monument in the village center, a lapidary put up in memory of three partisans, members of Communist party of Albania or its sympathizers, from the village killed during the War.May fifth was Communist Martyrs’ Day in Albania, and during the ceremony 8 year old children who were called “fatosa”, were to be accepted in the ranks of “pioneers” a higher organization, one other division of hierarchy which separated the masses of Albanian people.The teachers sent Mira home to collect the lilac flowers, and at that precise moment feelings and emotions started to stir up inside her soul The first one was Mira’s pride, having the first lilac flower tree bloom and having these flowers decorate the wreaths, being seen by so many people and honoring the Martyrs, the other feeling was bitterness, the feeling of exclusion. Bitterness was because of the fact that although Mira was the best student in the class she was never allowed to be a “roje nderi” (a honor guard) at the monument. A few selected pupils had that honor. Mira was engulfed with these feelings, traveling to and from home carrying the flowers.She never understood until she grew up, why she was never allowed to participate in these observances , why she was not allowed to honor the martyrs or to read the oath to the young children entering the higher ranks. Her father used to say, unfairly Mira thought, “It’s not your turn, to carry those duties”. Mira was always confused and astonished to see students who barely passed the class to have the chance of standing guard at the monument during the ceremonies. That wasn’t fair, she always thought, but never found the right answer as to why she or her brothers were not allowed to perform that honor.Mira always thought and expected some kind of reward for doing so well at school but nothing like that had happened to her so far. She never quite understood her father’s statement “Mira it is not your turn dear”.Confused and convinced that she would never be able to be included Mira provided the flowers with hope, but every May fifth found her heart broken. She felt unable to honor the partisans on that day especially since her cousins from her mom’s village visited too. Their village had been anticommunist and had only “ballists” during the war. Ballists were never remembered as fallen martyrs, on the contrary they were forgotten, hence no monuments to fallen martyrs there. So every May fifth school children would come and pay tribute and respect to the three partisans in Mira’s village.Mira’s father was aware of her distress and tried to help her by saying “You are included, honey, you see, your flowers are there!”“Look” the mother would add “everything is green and the beautiful lilac is yours! Be happy for that!”This somehow helped Mira feel better, but she always wanted to go to the bottom of the problem: why she was excluded…Mira was not the only one excluded, so many more children from the school were not integrated in the honor ceremonies. Only those whose families related by blood to the partisans were allowed. Those with ballists in the family were brutally barred and stereotyped. Children belonging to the latter class did not discuss among them any such things. Mira was always told by her parents not to talk about it. “It is not a big deal” they had told her and her brother, but Mira wanted to know more.Mariana was Mira’s best friend and coincidentally she missed the ceremonies every may fifth pretending she was sick. Her parents did not let her attend any events on that day. Mariana’s grandfather had been a political prisoner and had died in jail because he had fostered diversants.That was May Fifth for Mira and some of her friends…The evening of the very same day was quite different! Every year Mira made a big bouquet of Lilac flowers and brought it to the only Uncle she had. It was his birthday and Mira loved family celebrations. It was fun, she always got something special in those celebrations and could wait no longer until the day went by and evening with the special “tri-eggs cake” came. Grandmother always cooked the same cake for Mira’s Uncle and all was warm and nice in the house. They closed the doors, listened to folk music and always stayed up late celebrating.The colors were not any more political in the house.There in the household everyone was treated fairly and everyone was happy. This had always made Mira’s mood change and forget about the rest of the day. Every year May Fifth repeated itself in the same way.Lilac flowers were needed again the next day. May sixth was Saint George’s feast. Then, the only unofficial religious day, which the authorities overlooked. All women visited the graveyard. All tombs were decorated with flowers, the dead were all the same. No distinction there, no matter whose family they came from, the dead were buried in rows… they were not discriminated anymore. Crowds of the living were different. They visited according to clans and very much separated from each other. Mira always visited the village graveyard with her Grandmother, Mother and Aunties. She recalled when old ladies used to sit down and murmured prayers in secret as they were not supposed to pray for the dead. “The dead are gone and there is no God”. God was the forbidden word. Albania was supposed to be an atheist country and practicing religion was a crime. A crime to pray at the tomb of the dead! A crime to say a prayer for peace! A crime to mention God’s name, and astonishingly a day before, there was said: “Eternal be the memory of the fallen”.What a contradiction Mira thought…if the dead are gone forever as the government people and teachers proclaimed, then what is to remain on this earth for them or in their memory. A lot of confusion reigned in the young girl’s mind but she had to go with the crowd. That was what her father had said “Walk with the crowd and don’t separate, otherwise your wings will be cut off…”What wings Mira wondered??? She never understood her father then!While prayer was forbidden, loud wailing and crying was allowed. It was like “a choir of crows there”, Mira’s dad had said. Women used to scream while weeping for the dead, as they let it all out, with swollen eyes and runny noises. After a good cry, they returned to their homes.Mira always got scared from this part of St. George’s feast. The whole village was crying out loud for the dead, every year on the very same day. If you ever visited a place on that day, you could easily tell where the graveyard was, without seeing it. The crying came as a scaring noise and the mixing of voices reminded Mira of the scariest movies she had ever seen. She did not like that day. It was so sad; it reminded her of the death, of the end of life. She did not know about God. He did not exist there, in the Albanian Land God was No One. Mira was told at school you die and you’re done with the world.That was scary and Mira did not want to accept it. She felt she had a purpose to be here on earth but she could not figure it out by herself. Grandmother often mentioned there is God but Mira’s teacher had ruled out God’s existence. There was no soul. There was only the body. The world is material. This was explained so scientifically at school that Mira had begun to think “Grandmother is wrong”.God was a thing that was part of old thinking. God is nothing. Life is on earth and when it ends, it really does end. And this was terrifying but that was what they were told at school and that was supposed to be true.Mira was torn between what grandmother had said and what was written in her books. She had learnt a few prayers, but was told to say them only in secret and in silence.In the end she was happy to do her job, prepare the flowers and after school visit the graveyard. On the way back Mira and her friends would taste all the cookies prepared for that day. They used to have dozens of them as each family prepared them and gave them as a gesture of charity, but Mira never analyzed deeply the true meaning of that tradition. She was lost at the end of the day in the beauty of the surrounding flowers in that first week of May. Although the trauma was repeating itself each year, at the moment of time she paid attention to the beauty of flowers without paying attention to the messages her sub conscience was receiving….When communism fell, after the wire removal, she met God and understood her purpose in life. Mira understood her father’s efforts to keep a balance between what the government was teaching through moral-politic education and the true morale, God and everything else.That must had been very hard for faithful and religious people whose right to practice religion was brutally taken away from them and was considered a political crime.What a difficult task Mira thought as she remembered her parents, what an emotional and psychological stress they carried along with the heavy load of bringing up their children in the poorest country of the continent. She tried to understand the burden they carried over their shoulders but all she could do now was help them understand how appreciative their children were and express gratitude to them, she hoped to help heal the hearts of a lost generation, as she named it that of her parents…They had had an optimistic childhood, hoping that after the war things would turn out for the best, but their life turned upside down, fed with the worst ideology ever seen in the world, suppressed and tyrannized, killed and thrown away, their generation was forbidden freedom of thought and speech, was punished for believing in God, was totally thrown at the doors of starvation, it was the generation that needed another lifetime to heal.* * *These thoughts were going through Mira’s head in her new country, in her own home, among her own lilac flowers. She had so many flowers now and so did the neighbors around her. None envied her lilac and Mira did not mind it anymore. There was no body to take her lilacs away and use them for any political purposes. There was no oath to be taken to enter a higher political organization rank. Everything was free and felt free. She appreciated that freedom more than anyone else around. There was not a party secretary to ignore here or look angry at her, clearly excluding from the rest. They were daughters and sons of the communists, who verbally insulted her daily reminding her she did not belong to their class. That had come to an end now.Mira a mother herself, was far away from that time, and knew that the memories were only memories. They were not there to haunt her, but just a reminder to appreciate the equality and the freedom, to enjoy the present and to respect others. She enjoyed every flower and she observed her daughter Sarah, in the garden. Sarah liked the lilacs just like Mira as a little girl. She looked at them, smelled them and gently cut a few of them and smiling approached Mira who was sitting in the sun.“Mommy, here you are, a few lilac flowers for you”
“Are these the same as those in Albania Mom” she asked?“Oh sweet heart, thank you”, Mira said as she hugged her daughter and received the flowers, “Yes dear, yes, they are, exactly the same flower… Flowers are the same everywhere in the world, but only here we have plenty, plenty of them and everything else”
“Mom I made a big bouquet” Sarah continued, “Can I put them in the front porch to have the house smell lilac all over…”“Oh yeah honey” Mira said, “Please do it…”As Sarah went to take care of the flowers Mira started to think: “May be one day I will tell her about my lilac.” She hoped not to mention too much of May fifth and sixth to her…It was enough, to have her heart broken as a child. She wanted her children to grow without the fear and the exclusion Mira went through and she hurried to join her daughter in fixing the flowers together, and to enjoy the spring in the yard, in the home and in the hearts of everyone. It was about time…
Oct 31, 2009
The true meaning of Halloween
Celebrating Halloween, All Saints |
Halloween (October 31) and All Saints Day (November 1) Halloween's roots lie in an ancient pagan festival for the dead. While this autumn feast can be used for evil purposes, our culture celebrates it as an innocent night of begging and fun. We who believe in the light of the world can use it to celebrate the Light. "Hallow" means holy and the word Halloween refers to the night before the feast of all holies, or All Saints Day. Emphasize all things good, joyful and pure. Let your children know that they are "children of the light" called to walk in the light. * Costume Box Get a head start on Halloween preparations by spending an afternoon gathering dress-up goodies for your trick-or-treaters. Put old, funny-looking clothing, wigs, makeup, whatever you find in a box. On the day of Halloween get out your box and let children create their own characters. Encourage them to be funny and outrageous. * Halloween Party As an alternative to letting your children go begging, try hosting a party for your children and their friends. Give each child an empty bag. Let the party goers earn their treats by performing nice tricks for the adults. Be sure to provide lots of nutritious snacks for the bags as well as a few sweet surprises. Carve pumpkins, bob for apples, have a bonfire, enjoy the beauty of the autumn night without worrying about your children's safety. * Family Saints Since this is the night before All Saints Day, it is a great idea to explore the family saints. Let your children find out who their patron saints are and why they are so honored. They may even choose to dress up like St. Joan of Arc, St. George the Dragon Slayer or St. Francis of Assisi. They could have fun letting their friends guess who they are by giving clues about their saint's life...for a treat of course! * Pumpkin Farm Visit Take a trip to a pumpkin farm or country market to pick out the family pumpkin. Take along a loaf of pumpkin bread (see recipe following) and a jug of apple cider. When you get home with the family pumpkin(s), ask everyone to draw faces on paper. Let the family vote on the winning face(s) before the carving begins. Pumpkin Bread 1-2/3 cup flour 1-1/4 cup sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg 1/4 teaspoon salt 2 eggs 1/2 cup vegetable oil 1/3 cup water (or less) 1/2 cup chopped nuts 1 cup pumpkin Mix dry ingredients; add nuts. Mix in egg, oil, water and pumpkin. Stir until blended. Bake in a greased loaf pan (9" x 5" or 10" x 4") 60 to 70 minutes in a 350-degree oven. * Candle Blessing Whenever an opportunity arises to combine the sacred and the secular to enrich your students' faith, take advantage of it. Halloween provides just such an opportunity. Children have horrible, unspoken fears about "things that go bump in the night." This occasion is a perfect time to teach the simple gospel truth that the light does indeed outshine the darkness. Ask each child to bring a candle to class. Clean out the inside of a large pumpkin. Carve a smiling face on the pumpkin. Talk about the joy of laughing together. Tell students that smiles, laughter and joy are simple gifts that God gives us to erase sadness and fear. Ask them how they feel when they see a scary pumpkin. How do they feel when they look at this smiling one? Decide together which one is the most like God. Then share with the class the wonder that each of us has within us the power to be a light just like Jesus. We become a light that can erase hatred, evil, pain and sadness. The light in us is just like Jesus' light. Put a large candle in your smiling jack-o-lantern. Darken the room if possible. Watch the flame as it fills the pumpkin and lights the room. Notice how much more intense the smile becomes with the light shining through. Ask children to hold their candles in front of them while you say this blessing: God who created pumpkins and people, bless our beautiful Halloween light. This light reminds us that Jesus is the light of the world. Jesus shines through the darkness and turns the night into day, sadness into joy, hate into love and tears into smiles. Bless the candles that we hold. Let them be a reminder that we are your candles lighting up the smiles and hearts of our friends and family. Bless the happy pumpkins we will carve for our candles, that everyone who sees them might never be afraid of the darkness because your wonderful light is with us. You might close this prayer service with a rendition of "This Little Light of Mine" or another hymn about light. * All Saints Festival Another enjoyable exercise for the school setting is to hold an All Saints festival for children and their families on the occasion of Halloween. Each class designs a fund-raising booth for the festival. Activities such as a ring toss, a fishing pond, "guess your weight" and so on are typical of this festival. The money raised could be sent to a favorite mission or charity. Conclude the festival with an outdoor parade in which all students dress up like their favorite saints and "parade" around the school neighborhood. |
Oct 16, 2009
Albanian author and former Diplomat , Mr.Pellumb Kulla's Speech at Library of Congress, Wash DC-October 9th 2009
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Washington D.C. October 9, 2009
Library of Congress
Good afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen:
- Thank you Mr. Harris for the introduction.
- I feel both happy and privileged to be here today. Thank you very much for coming!
- First, I would like to take the opportunity to express my gratitude to Mr. Grant Harris, Head of the European Reading Room, for the invitation to speak before you today, and for taking care of the details of this meeting.
- I am very happy to learn from Mr. Harris that several of my books are part of the Albanian Language Table, maintained by the European Division of the Library of Congress. That makes me feel truly honored.
- In fact, the topic of this talk today appears often in my writings published previously in those books, especially on an essay published in 2001.
- I am sure you all have a general idea what living under a Communist Dictatorship feels like.
- One can say there was no freedom of speech, but one could never capture what that meant—well, anyway, not better than a clandestine Albanian joke, like the one where…
§ two friends, both of them security guards, chat while standing guard outside the Party headquarters. “My dear friend--says one to the other-- I wonder sometimes, what is your opinion of our leader, Enver Hoxha?” The other hesitates a while and then answers: “You know… I have, the same opinion you have, I am sure.” “ Oh, really?” says the first guard, “If you have the same opinion I do, I’ll lock you up!”
- One can also recite the familiar list of shortages that plagued communist economies: like, lack of meat, milk, eggs, or toilet paper… But the unhappy truth was more palpable in a story like the one where…
§ a military instructor lectured to the students, explaining the destructive force of a modern nuclear bomb which burns to ashes only the humans but leaves untouched the buildings and everything inside them. “Imagine- he says – if the Americans manage to drop that bomb here in Tirana, that grocery store you see across the street will remain completely intact. But the grocer will certainly pulverize and disappear.” “Well, then what about in our case?—asks one of the students—What kind of bombs are the Americans throwing on us right now? that the grocers are completely intact, and the groceries from the shelves are the only thing disappearing?”
- Not only those who have learned about the horrors of communism through history books, but also those who have experienced first hand the repressiveness of a communist regime, have started to doubt whether people actually laughed in those austere times as they lived in total lack of freedom of speech, of thought, of movement, half-starved, repressed by the most humorless regimes on the planet.
- It occurs to me that when imagining those of us who lived the dark age of communism, your ordinary Westerner--who has an array of digital encyclopedias and information at his fingertips--often helps himself in black and white superficialities, imagining only people that live under the fear of the dictatorial repressive machine and who are only preoccupied with the pains of daily survival. What’s imagined is a total sadness and desperation.
- But we laughed…. We really did! A lot.
- In fact, I believe that nowadays in Albania, people don’t laugh as much as we--the repressed--did under Communism.
- At first blush, this may sound like a favorable testimony for communism in the grand tribunal of history. But it is not.
- Our laughter wasn’t due to lack of awareness of how hard we had it. And it wasn’t nonchalance either!
- To be fair, the laughter was due to the communist repression, but not out of duty to comply with the supreme command that the citizens had to appear happy.
- The Albanian dictatorship was indeed ruthless, cruel, bloody-handed, unpitying and dehumanizing, but it was also grotesque.
- We lived in total isolation from the world. In fact, were there a Guinness Book of Records for countries, Albania may have even gotten a little mention—as the country that was encircled by barbed wire along its entire border. Literally! The entire border! These were networks of barbed wires that would rise to about 7 feet above the ground. The official propaganda maintained that the surrounding of the entire country was in no way meant to keep Albanians from getting out, as much as it was to prevent Albania’s enemies from coming in. At the time, there was only one person on the globe that could jump slightly more than 7 feet and cross that barbed wire border. That was the American Olympic athlete, John Thomas, who had just broken the jump record. (John never showed up though. Some of us waited… )
- The dictatorships may survive for decades but it is the grotesqueness in them that makes them fragile and the people’s hopes to get rid of them, more attainable.
- In the essay I mentioned, published in 2001, I discuss both, the official, “licensed” humor and the forbidden humor that spread from mouth to mouth and penetrated society to such degree that made light not only of the everyday drabness of the Albanian life, but also of the people’s darkest hour, from the interrogation rooms to the torture chambers of the State Secret Service.
- I also wrote about what it meant to be a writer, especially a satirist in those times. There was no writer that could ever sit on his desk and not feel the inevitable presence of the Ubiquitous State Censor. This was the monster that ordered the cruel persecution of writers and artists, and who had the power to seal their fate forever by sending them to exile, prison, or the gallows.
- The humor writer, however, -- the satirist working through official channels,-- enjoyed a little bit more space than writers of other genres. By its nature, satire targets all shortcomings and failings; ridicules characters, praxis, and everyday phenomena. The system itself was interested to a certain degree, to encourage certain “licensed” kinds of criticism.
- But the humor writer would also find himself in an absurd and precarious position. He could target all but the system and its wardens. There was no need for directives and guidelines in this respect. We knew what could not be touched.
- This meant that there was a limit as to how sharp satire could be. Although we were able to create interesting comic plays, short stories, sketches, and caricature, and although comedy enjoyed tremendous popularity due to an amazing crop of talented actors and directors, there was something serious missing.
- We were not able to speak of the deeper truths of the Albanian reality. Nevertheless, in that surreal environment we were the manufacturers of humor, and yet, we ourselves, were comical subjects.
- For example: you write a short play and you are very happy with the way it turned out. You feel as if you have hit the magical chord. The play is sharp and funny. And although you wouldn’t want to change a word, the first night after you finished it, you can’t sleep because you are terrified that the allegory is probably way too obvious, and if they get it, very bad things may happen.
- After having obfuscated the allegory as much as you could you go back and read it again the second night. The cover up is so apt that no one will get the real message. But you can’t sleep that night either, because you are now convinced that what was sharp and brilliant has now become dull and pointless. And so on… night after night, with every paragraph you write.
- In the eighties, I wrote a short play, the inspiration for which had come from my personal experiences in my twenties. I used to work in a faraway industrial yard that was secluded, and nestled between mountains. In the little cafeteria that was meant to serve snacks and drinks for the workers, there was a head counterman that had become notorious for skimming off the portions of sausage or salsa dipping, or for under-pouring liquor. If anyone complained about the portions, or petitioned to the administration to discipline the counterman, his two assistants—that looked like two bouncers out of a Charlie Chaplin silent movie—would simply show up and beat the heck out of the complainer. Gradually, a state of terror had been created in the cafeteria. So whenever the head counterman asked me or my friends whether everything was OK with our food or drinks, we’d rush to tell him that every thing was perfect. In fact, just to make sure, we had the urge to tell him every day that in that little cafeteria, we felt true happiness.
- I wrote this story as a screenplay for a TV comedy. I certainly exaggerated certain aspects for artistic effect. For example, I had two actors ordering brandy, and with each round, their portion became smaller and smaller until, in the last round the bartender simply served them two empty glasses. They looked at the glasses and without uttering a word of protest, they propose a toast and raise the empty glasses to their lips.
- After the comedy aired, I was a bit surprised to have two unknown men run up to me and try to hug me—their breath smelling a little bit of alcohol. They congratulated me on my tremendous courage for publicly denouncing the situation of terror in the nation and for blasting the government!
- Look, I said. There is absolutely nothing against the government there. You misunderstood it!
- Had they not been so drunk, they would not have dared keep me there to try and convince me that they knew that cafeteria was nothing but Albania, the terrorized and obedient customers were no one else but the Albanian people, the bouncers were the State Secret Police, and the counterman was, well, Enver Hoxha… They said they admired my courage. I told them repeatedly, I did not need any courage to write that piece, because I meant nothing of the kind. In fact, they were the courageous ones, for daring to have those thoughts, and they were the ones that should be careful.
- It is really a precarious and yet ridiculous position to find yourself in as a satirist, when you want the audience to get the allegory, to properly understand the symbols, to draw the parallels, to make the right connections, and yet, you tremble at the thought that they understood it perfectly!
- But there is one thing to be noted here: there was such a sterility of real, unpoliticized Albanian art and culture, that the situation had shaped and cultivated an Albanian spectator and reader with an overexcited and rich imagination, with a nose for self-ironizing and political allefory. They only needed a little spark in order to flare up their own sense of humor, creating or spreading mouth to mouth the forbidden jokes, those that send one to the gallows, contributing thus anonymously to that body of folk anti-communist jokes of the Eastern Block -- the mutating viruses to which the communist state never developed the right antibodies.
- In the late 70-ties, I ran across a French publication of a book titled: “World Encyclopedia of Anecdotes”. Reading through the anthology, I noticed that the jokes that originated in countries or communities that had seen the most brutal repression and persecution, like the Jews, the Afrikaans, and Europeans under the Nazi or Communist rule, had a distinct quality to them, conveying a sense of humor that was allegorical, dark, and surreal which raised them to the level of pure art. These jokes were funny primarily on an intellectual, historical level, rather than laugh-out-loud hilarious, and all the more satisfying precisely for that reason.
- It seemed as if terror and brutality, by stripping people off their rights and liberties, contributed, paradoxically, to the development of an oral culture of satire, and made the world culturally all the richer because of it.
- Another thing that I noticed later on by reading various anthologies of political anecdotes from former communist countries such as Czechoslovakia, or Romania, is that many of them I had heard in Albania in the eighties, circulating clandestinely from mouth to mouth, and told as if they were pure Albanian-made. It seems like it takes similar social and economic conditions, similar violations of human rights for the clandestine humor to be easily veiled in ethnic clothing and comfortably parade as locally grown.
- However, reading these familiar forbidden jokes in New York in the late nineties, I realized they did not affect me the same way they did thirty years ago, in Tirana. Back home, under communism, the humor felt sharp, witty, imaginative, funny… Here, the books of communist jokes stood idly on my desk, like mines with de-activated dètonators. Their effect was, in a substantial part, due to the danger they possessed for those who told them, as well as, paradoxically, for those who happened to hear them. Their true life was underground.
- When it comes to the performers of comedy, the Albanians owe the deepest gratitude to Skender Sallaku, who was a comic virtuoso, a serious actor, and a real thinker. I dedicated an entire book to analyzing the work of this man, who was as colorful a character offstage as he was onstage.
- Sallaku, however, enjoyed a massive popularity, a very unique position as a comic. He was beloved by communists and anti-communists alike, by political prisoners and persecutors, truck drivers and Politburo members. Very often, clandestine jokes doing the circles of the crowds who whispered them one to another would be attributed to him. Sallaku was absolutely fearless, and even ended up telling one to the face of the Dictator himself. Hoxha spared him, perhaps wanting to appear as a person with a sense of humor, or perhaps to follow the centuries-old tradition of the powerful monarchs who never beheaded their court jester for going a little too far with their act.
- But other joke-tellers were arrested and sent to prison, never to be seen again. Sallaku, is credited with being the author of a joke that dealt with the scenario of a jokester’s arrest:
o A judge hears loud laughing behind the door of a colleague’s chamber. He enters the room only to find the other judge convulsed in laughter. - What’s so funny? - he asked -- I just heard the funniest joke of my life- said the judge. -- Tell it to me! – became curious the other. -- Are you crazy? I just sentenced someone to eight years for doing just that!
- The justice system and law enforcements were the natural target of clandestine joke-tellers.
o - Hey bro- says one inmate to the other in a Tirana prison. – For how long did they sentence you? – Ten years! –says the other. - And how long have you done so far? – Fifteen. – How long do you think you have left then? – Twenty!
- And of course, the quest for an alternative reality, free of propaganda and communist clichés, was ever present in the humor of the underground. Like the story where…
o A little kid gets lost at the beach and is later found by a public safety officer. – I can’t find my mom and dad anywhere! - says the child, tears in his eyes. – Don’t cry- says the officer—we will make an announcement and call for them by radio. First, we’ll try the public announcement radio here at the beach, and if that doesn’t work, we will issue an announcement through Tirana Radio. – But my mom and dad never listen to Tirana Radio! – says the child with panic. --Can’t you try the Voice of America instead? That’s all they listen to.
- That there were so many laughable phenomena during the years of dictatorship, it was neither our merit, nor our fault. But the ability to see them and point them out was certainly due to the depth of our collective humanity, and to the invincibility of our spirit. Because when desperation wins you over, and hope alone is unable to lift your spirit, you no longer laugh. You cannot see the ridiculous, the grotesque.
- That’s why it is emblematic in this respect, to close my talk telling you what an imprisoned Albanian catholic priest said once. He shared a prison cell with many other political prisoners. Every night at 2am, a loud alarm would sound. The prison guards set it off every night as a form of collective torture for the inmates. Father Peter Meshkalla, woke up along with all the others, but instead of protesting like the rest of the inmates, he just simply sighed loudly: “Ah, this alarm! When will they start letting us really enjoy our time in prison?
Thank you very much for your attention.
May 9, 2009
Gezuar Diten e Nenes-Happy Mother's Day!
Nga Merita Bajraktari McCormack
Duke uruar te gjitha nenave qe lexojne kete mesazh: "Gezuar diten tuaj speciale, Gezuar Diten e Nenes", deshiroj te ndaj me ju pak histori, te cilen e pergatita ne gjuhen shqipe, nga gjuha angleze, marre nga faqja "HolidayNet" dhe e solla posacerisht per kete dite speciale qe festohet ne maj te cdo viti!
Zoti bekfofte cdo nene. Ne kete dite te shenuar une me respekt e dashuri nderoj Nenen time, me te dashuren, me te emblen, me te vecanten,me specialen dhe te gjitha Nenat qe i falin kaq shume njerezimit e jetes...
me dashuri Merita.
Festimet me te hershme te "Dites se Nenes" mund te gjurmohen qe ne festimet pranverore te Greqise se Lashte per te nderuar Rhea-n, qe ishte "Nena e gjithe Perendive"
Gjate viteve 1600 Anglezet festonin nje dite te caktuar, te quajtur "E diela Amesore", qe festohej te Dielen e 4-t te Agjerimit per Pashke (Lent-Kreshme).
Kjo dite festohej per te nderuar te gjitha Nenat e Anglise.Gjate kesaj periudhe te varferit ishin sherbetore te te pasurve ne Angli. Te gjitha punet ishin larg shtepive te banimit, dhe keta punetore, duhej te jetonin me punedhenesit e tyre, te cileve ju sherbenin. Keshtu kjo dite, kjo e Diel speciale ju jepej pushim sherbetoreve, dhe ata shkonin ne shtepite e tyre per te qene prane Nenave te tyre. Bile gatuhej dhe nje lloj keku special,qe quhej "Keku Amesor" per kete dite qe cohej si dhurate per te shtuar atmosferen festive.
Pasi Krishterimi u shpernda me gjere ne Europe, kjo dite u shnderrua nga nderimi i Nenes ne nderimin e Kishes, si Ame, per te gjithe, si fuqia shpirterore e cila i dha njerezimit jete dhe i mbronte nga te ligat. Me kalimin e kohes pra u shkrine ne nje e Diela Amesore me Festivalin Kishtar. Njerezit nderonin Nenat e tyre biologjike si dhe Kishen.
Ne Shtetet e Bashkuara, "Dita e Nenes", u propozua ne fillim nga vitin 1872 nga Julia Ward Howe si nje dite qe i dedikohej paqes. Ajo mbante konferenca te organizuara ne Boston , per kete qellim, cdo vit .
Ne vitin 1907 Ana Jarvis, nga Filadelfia, , filloi nje fushate te gjere per te vendosur nje feste kombetare per nenat, ne nje dite te caktuar. Ajo nuk ju nda kishes ku shkonte e ema e saj, ne West Virginia, te festonte Diten e Nenes ne ate dite qe perkonte me pervjetorin e vdekjes se saj, dhe keshtu ndodhi, pikerisht te Dielen e dyte te muajit Maj. Keshtu, jo vetem qe u festua, por ne vitin e dyte, ajo dite u festua edhe ne Filadelfia.
Znj. Jarvis dhe mbeshtetesit e saj filluan t'ju shkruajne letra te gjithe prifterinjve dhe predikuesve, njerezve te biznesit, politikaneve etj, duke ju shpjeguar dhe kerkuar per te vendosur nje dite Kombetare per te festuar nderuar Nenat. Kjo perpjekje doli e sukseshme dhe ne vitin 1911 "Dita e Nenave" u festua pothuajse ne cdo shtet te SHBA-ve . Ne vitin 1914 , presidenti Woodrow Wilson, e shpalli "Diten e Nenes" feste kombetare, e cila do festohej te Dielen e Dyte te muajit Maj cdo vit.
Ndersa shume vende ne bote kane dite te tjera te caktuara per te Nderuar Nenat, shtetet si Danimarka , Finlanda, Italia, Turqia, Australia, dhe Belgjika e festojne kete dite, pikerisht ne te Dielen e dyte te Majit cdo vit.
