Interviewed by: Violeta Murati
Second part
Memorie.al / A rare novel, a historical narrative from the dictatorship of how a teenage girl experienced persecution. Alma Gjurgji, in the book “Severed Arms”, recently published by the Institute for the Study of Crimes and Consequences of Communism, has told in literary form about the terrible stories of persecution in the dictatorship…! If the “novel” fulfills its mission, soon this book will also be shown in the cinema, by the director Besnik Bisha
Continues from last issue
Ms. Alma, such a memory, detailed descriptions of every moment of life in the dictatorship, in addition to anthropology of how it managed to denigrate man, in contrast to the “formation of the new man”, seems to have left a strong impression on you. You stop telling the story at the age of 15, what were the struggles?
I remembered a saying of the great writer, Fyodor Dostoyevsky: “…No one can say that he has lived, if he does not have a story to tell…”, but my memories and experiences go beyond that.
I think that traumas and unusual events leave an indelible mark on the lives of each of us. Describing a life filled with pain, deprivation, exclusion, poverty, perplexity, fear has certainly not been easy at all.
On the other hand, the communist propaganda trumpeted with glorious notes, the supremacy of the dictatorship of the proletariat and the class war, which in itself meant terror, whipping, denigration, murder. The unprecedented war was extended to all levels.
Everyone lived in the panic of uncertainty from any possible denunciation, which could come from anyone. Although the narration of my memories stops at the age of 15, the full story of the persecution does not end there.
It was followed by the terrible confrontation of the slave labor of agriculture, the shocking treatment of the village leaders, the threats of the security operatives to crash behind the bars of the prison, and many others.
Although the story I described in the book stops in 1972, permanently, it continued as such until 1991, the year when the communist regime fell.
Year 1972. Talk about a flu epidemic, when many deaths from this cause were hidden. What event was this, how do you remember it?
…It was 1972. Although the winds of liberalism were blowing on the horizon, time was against me. In November of that year, there was a devastating flu epidemic. Every day I saw obituaries fill the obituaries and hearses pass before my eyes. The number of victims was never known, as the communist propaganda machine never published such realities.
My grandmother became seriously ill, and under these circumstances, my mother arrived in Tirana with her brother and sister. After a few days, they also fell ill. I was left alone to serve the four sick. The house turned into a hospital. I couldn’t make it. I was only 14 years old.
As if all this was not enough, I also had to put up with the “tenant” who was enthusiastic about finding the door without a latch and we were forced to listen to his unbalanced monologues, until after midnight. I sent an urgent telegram to Dad, who managed to get permission to come. He arrived in Tirana after three days. Despite all the medication they were taking, there was no sign of improvement for my patients.
One morning, the grandmother felt worse than usual. He could not breathe and his feet were ice cold. In a low voice, she invited me to sit next to her on the bed. That strong woman, who had never spoken to me about death, felt very close to her. With eyes extinguished as never before, he told me that he felt that he was leaving this world, with a very big pledge in his heart, which was our expulsion…!
…After a few minutes she passed away. There on my chest, I felt her head drop. He closed his eyes, never to open them again. The doctors took me away from there and tied his chin. After a few minutes, they left, comforting Dad and me. I had frozen.
I could not believe that my grandmother had left me alone, on our journey together. She was no longer alive. I had no tears. It seemed to me that the person experiencing this misfortune was not me, but someone else…!
…I kissed her one last time on her icy forehead. She didn’t feel my kiss. Grandma was no more. He had gone somewhere far away, never to return. After her burial, the relatives left for their homes, while I threw myself into the arms of despair and cried and cried, for hours…
Let’s take a moment, when you confess about a drafting topic, where you had to express yourself about the wonders of socialist construction…! You hesitated, of course?
I remember this moment like this, in my book: […] “The exams were approaching and I was completely focused on preparing as best as possible. With Rita by my side, this was easier, as we supported each other.
Friends and classmates had more or less decided how they would continue their studies. Their parents had begun efforts to secure the desired school, while I did not have the courage to think about what awaited me.
Everything was so bleak. Especially in recent months, some of the teachers openly expressed their regret for the impossibility of being equal to others. They tried to say some encouraging words to me, but to no avail.
They had nothing in their hands to change my predetermined fate. The exam days arrived. I was well prepared and performed brilliantly.
I had a kind of dilemma, for the written literature exam. It was a themed design, related to the wonders of Albanian socialism. I had to write about something that had nothing to do with what I felt and thought a living hypocrisy. It was like going up against me.
I tried very hard. However, I did manage to throw some nice words into those lines. In my perception, the whole content of what I had written was pathetic and lifeless. I got the maximum rating. I wasn’t at all sure if I deserved it. Apparently, the literature teacher understood my emptiness.
She knew very well the relationship that my family had with dictatorship and socialism. The end of exam season was liberating for everyone. No matter how prepared you are, appearing in front of a committee that wants to explore your years of knowledge is very stressful. We organized a small farewell party.
Life paths inevitably diverged. Everyone would take their own direction. Only I did not have the right to dream and express myself, about my perspective. It was so exciting and sad at the same time. I foresaw that many of them, I would never have the chance to meet again…!
…Within a few minutes, many beautiful and sad situations that had accompanied my childhood came back to me. If I stayed a little longer, I was ready to burst into tears and I had no one nearby to wipe my tears. After checking the doors once more, I hastened to leave, so as not to miss the train. As never before, it was not overloaded with travelers.
I sat in a booth, near the window. Nature had helped me grow physically very quickly. I looked much bigger than I really was. This had created the “comfort” imposed on me to travel alone. Across from me, there was an elderly couple sitting, who fortunately did not pay any attention to me. They were quite busy, with their conversations.
I didn’t care what they were talking about. I was too busy with my reflections. In the last few days, I had experienced many emotions, which were based on saying goodbye. Situations began to confuse me with each other. I was losing. I fell asleep…!
You have experienced the closing of doors, and when the teacher slapped the expression in your face: learn as much as you want, you will end up in the pit…! Sounds like it’s still ringing in your ears, doesn’t it? Are these episodes painful?!
Of course, I could never forget these dramatic and murderous episodes of a child’s innocent dreams. That of the teacher, it was like a criminal prophecy that followed me every step of the way…! Two years later, my parents were able to get me out of exile.
For a period of 4 years, I lived with my elderly grandmother, left alone in our house, in Tirana. But she also passed away, leaving me completely hopeless, in the desperate journey towards education. After that, I also remember with sadness the expulsion from the technical high school of Tirana, after the end of the first year…!
….September came again very quickly and I had to return to Tirana, to continue the second year of school. This time I was accompanied by my brother, who had grown, even taller than me. I didn’t have the point of enthusiasm that I was going back to school. I had a bad feeling. Every year the registration had to be reconfirmed. I entered the school to perform this procedure.
The courtyard was full of students, who had come for the same reason. The lesson started two days later. With quick steps, I avoided meeting either. With a kind of uncertainty and shyness, I entered the building of the electrical branch.
I hurried up the stairs and noticed that the door to the principal’s office, on the second floor, was half open. He was a physics and mathematics teacher, with undisputed authority. I knocked lightly.
The director invited me into the office, but at the same time I noticed that his face broke down. After asking me how I had spent the holidays, clearly putting them in difficulty, he told me that he was obliged to inform me that I could no longer continue school there. He continued with comforting words, that I was young and should not be discouraged, that life would offer me other opportunities.
Although for a moment I was numb, indeed for me, it was the end of an anxiety, I had sensed it, I had expected an end of that nature. Accustomed to such blows and pressures, I immediately tried to collect myself and asked him in a low voice; who was the cause of this exception?!
And the answer, which may sound very strange and almost unbelievable, was this: “…You didn’t have to take tithes in lessons, someone recognized you from the photo on the honor board, and we received strict orders not to continue here.” !
There was no room for any comment. With a broken heart I shook his hand and said goodbye at the same time. In fact, I never had the chance to meet this professor again, that I read his regret of being forced to throw a 15-year-old student on the street, who had “dared” to get maximum evaluations in the lessons. With the same impulse, in order not to meet anyone, I quickly left that school, never to return…!
…It was all over. I was finally returning to the exile village, to serve the pre-ordained sentence for the grandfather I had never known. I would work alongside my parents, already beaten down by years of slave labor, in those barren hills.
I had tried a few of them in the summer months, but full-time and definitely, it was something else. I would face the arrogant brigadiers, who would insult and denigrate me; I would face the rejection of many villagers, of a new “enemy” in their bosom.
I would face hunger, thirst, fear of the snakes I encounter everywhere. I would face extremely long working hours, in the rain, in the frost or in the scorching heat. I knew all this. But there were also things that I still did not imagine.
Little did I know that at the age of 17, I would be risking prison after rotting some tomato roots due to overwatering? Some of the villagers would accuse me of being a saboteur, while someone else had done the irrigation.
I could not imagine that for years, I would work in a greenhouse with tomatoes, where the temperature reached more than 50 degrees, where dehydration and thirst were more than torture…!
…The train whistled toward the road of no return. His siren sounded to me like the desperate song of an owl. Like never before, I remembered my childhood teacher and her dire prediction: “Learn as much as you want, the pickaxe is waiting for you.” He had been right. Her criminal prophecy had been fulfilled. Memorie.al
