From SAMI REPISHTI
Part Thirty-Two
Sami Repishti: – In Albania, the communist crime of the past is neither documented nor punished; there has been no “spiritual cleansing”, no conscious confession and denunciation of ordinary communist criminals! –
‘Under the Shadow of Rozafa’
Memorie.al/ During the 1930s and 1940s of the last century, with the unstoppable onslaught of fascism and communism descending upon Europe, sooner or later upon the entire world, “fate” also seized the Albanian nation by the throat. Like all the young, I too found myself at a crossroads where a stance had to be taken, even at the risk of life. Then I said “no” to dictatorship, took the path that had no end, a sailor on a wide sea without shores. The rebellious act that nearly killed me liberated me at the same time. I am an eyewitness to life in the fascist and communist hell in Albania, not as a “politician” or “personality” of Albanian macro-politics, but as a student, as a young man who became aware of my role, in that time and that place, out of love for homeland and desire for freedom; simply, as a young man with a pronounced sensitivity, faithful to myself, to a life with dignity.
Continued from the previous issue
My condition took on a tragic character! Every day more and more I was aware of the fear of arrest, imprisonment, or execution. The more this awareness grew, the greater was the spirit of revolt, the urgency to explode, and the passion to break through the thick walls of the “prison” that surrounded me. The spirit that drove me to action demanded the exploitation of every possible opportunity, and the creation of new conditions, suitable for a heroic act, beyond the ordinary, into the privileged zone of those who despise death, knowing well its inevitability. The memories of the past were indelible and unbearable. The daily scenes were unacceptable. Violence reigned everywhere. I observed everything carefully, like an “outsider” who refuses to join the general dance, an “outsider” who watches and records.
In my mind, past events circled around with a strange accuracy. The condemnation of the present was complete, absolute, permanent, and the absence of any dilemma was the greatest certainty for inner peace, the greatest gift I could hope for. I was free to act! Each passing day increased impatience, and a kind of uncontrollable nervousness began to dominate determination, to remain calm. Evenings at home became torture.
In the presence of my mother, sister, and brother, every night, during and after dinner, these innocent and noble creatures, which had done so much for me, faced the idea of my possible escape. As if I saw them again, just as ten years earlier, loaded onto Security trucks, with a bundle of clothes on their backs, forcibly thrown out of the ancestral home, and directed toward deportation camps, where evil fate had gathered thousands of innocent Albanians for long decades.
The three unfortunates would pay dearly for the act of the brother who risked his life for freedom. This confrontation exhausted me greatly; the night hours passed without sleep, while the fatigue from daily work weakened my strength. The decision to escape also created an uncontrollable euphoria that transformed me into a judge of the stance of comrades who accepted submission and life under communism as their unchangeable fate.
I did not have the courage to speak, to grab them by the jacket, to shake them from the lethargy that had weakened them and the fear that had withered them. Unjustly, I condemned these comrades, whose suffering was in it one of the reasons for my restless revolt. Constantly, I felt an inner urge to challenge the suffocating fear and the massive indifference of my workmates.
A knock at the door. It was evening, and tired from the day’s work, I was working undisturbed on an old couch. The knock interrupted my thoughts. I got up lazily and headed to the door, with some understandable concern. It was an old prison friend, close to my companion. He refused to come in. Nervous and in a half-voice, he said: “Today I met M. in the market…! He told me that a week from today, on August 22nd, at four in the afternoon, he will wait for you in the park in front of the stadium”! Before I could answer, he added: “I have a weapon for you,” and reached out his hand.
Then he threw himself around my neck and embraced me with tears in his eyes. “Good luck,” he said. I did not say a word. He left without hearing my thanks. I watched him until he disappeared into the darkness. Again, another comrade risking his life to help another. The manly solidarity of the oppressed! This spirit of brotherhood was inexplicable in words, but undoubtedly, it was the closest, noblest, and most meaningful bond between two human beings.
It alleviates loneliness, heals despair, faces danger, even that of death, with the sublimity that only human beings possess. “Good luck, also to you, o brother, who remain behind and face a life full of surprises…! And thank you for the gift of unconditional companionship you give me today”! I whispered to myself. But he had gone. In my hand I had a loaded revolver and two hand grenades. The cold metal sent shivers through my body.
I looked at it! “This weapon,” I said to myself, “could be the instrument of my death”! I was young, and I loved life. I was young, and I feared death. But I was determined to seek a free life, not to accept long years of humiliation, enslavement, and torture in prison and forced labor camps…! Another decisive step on my path. I put the “material” in my pocket and, without being noticed by the family, hid it in a safe hole.
I couldn’t stand still. Then, the indescribable joy that the acquired weapons brought me covered me. I dared not show it. Without arousing suspicion, I sat back on the couch, but my mind remained on the hidden weapons. They were my shield, and as if they guaranteed my crossing of the border without danger. Then, a strange idea came to me! In case of danger, would I be able to defend myself with a weapon I had never used? And if the presence of border guards was so threatening that it left me no time to use the weapon, would I have the courage, at the last moment, to commit suicide, so as not to end up in prisons and concentration camps forever?! Strangely, the second question found an answer without hesitation: Yes! I understood that I was completely determined not to surrender alive. Death in the attempt, or even suicide, was more acceptable, and this feeling assured me that a life under the conditions created in my country was unacceptable, as meaningless as death, and a liberating act.
The risk of escape was very serious, and the victims killed or caught by the police were many. The dead were dragged along, or brought into the city on carts, and the corpses were placed on the sidewalks of the center, and thus bloodied, were viewed by the terrified masses. It was a terror tactic of the Security. Sometimes, the guards or fanatical communists kicked or spat on them, as proof of their hatred for the “enemy” who raised his head against the “people’s power”.
It was evidence of the contempt for human life! Nothing frightened me anymore! It was Sunday. I decided to walk through the city streets, thinking that this was the last chance for me. I knew few residents, and at least those who knew me. Ten years in prison and self-isolation after leaving prison had had their effect. I felt like a displaced person, a “stranger,” in my own hometown. But for me, this state was welcome.
My departure would be less painful. In the midst of this emotional confusion I had fallen into, the sight of Rozafa Castle began to impose itself, and an uncontrollable desire pushed me toward this fortress, which had always ignited my youthful imagination. The castle walls stood unshaken, a symbol of the border that the enemy cannot cross, an invincible defense of Albanian originality, like the wall of a single cell, where only the Albanian stands fearless and free.
From the outside, I felt the desire to spend entire hours in that thousand-year-old fortress, which defied even the inhuman present, imagining myself free from the other world, as a being that instinctively feels the need to renew the moments of the ancestors’ freedom…! From the inside, I observed with pain in my heart that nothing changed in the world of the Illyrian ramparts. This permanence of the castle was, in truth, extinguished life.
There, nothing moved, nothing lived in that space that enveloped like the imposing width of a cathedral during a requiem mass. This lack of life in the castle, at a moment when I was preparing for the complete change of my life, frightened me at first. Later, it began to irritate me and disgust me little by little, until it brought me to the point of uncontrollable explosion.
Without thinking further, I angrily grabbed a large stone that had fallen from the surrounding walls, and with all the strength of my arms, I smashed it against a pile of fallen stones where I had sat several times before, releasing all my rage together. Then, I fully savored the scattering of the pile and the great joy of liberation that the sound of the stones rolling down created for me.
The destruction of the previous view, its change into a new one that bore the stamp of my work, pleased me even more. The hope that change carried within itself the nucleus of creation, of the new that replaced it, filled me with a delight that miraculously changed my pessimistic spiritual predisposition! Around me, again calm. Nothing moved. Here there were no eyes to see me, no ears to hear me. I was alone, separated from others, from the wide mass of fellow travelers who went back and forth on the road below the castle, without raising their heads high toward the ramparts that dominate the place with their royal appearance of a three-thousand-year-old past.
Then, the feeling of detachment, both from the castle and from the mass, reached the point of full maturity. Again I felt foreign in my own land. Spiritually, I was prepared for escape! Descending from this temple that I would not see again, I began the farewell monologue. “I will keep the memory of the past,” I said, “without imposing on myself the limitations that Rozafa suggests to me. Let the castle be contemplated as the thought and work of the time that created and built it. Then, I will find the reason for its existence, sufficient data to place it on the shelves of historical material, as a still-strong shadow of a time that passed away long ago.
But voluntarily become its slave? Ah, no! That I don’t even think about! To carry on my shoulders a weight that crushes me does not seem right to me. Head high, chest open, with light feet and arms, I want to be a free man of the days I live. I have a role to play, a duty to fulfill: forging my own fate with my own hands, in a world that is every day more and freer…”! O centuries-old castle of Rozafa! I thank you for the grandeur of the place where you stand, because upon your ruins, you allow me to see better around me, to see my path more clearly, to observe more carefully the fate of my perishable being!
The next day, I went to work as usual. Nothing had changed during those two days in the world around me. But in my inner world, a bomb had exploded and its repercussions had radically transformed me. Despite efforts to control every word and every movement that might arouse even the slightest suspicion, I was unable to prevent emotional tremors that now and then burst out violently. At work, I became active with an enthusiasm that could not be contained. I started talking more than usual, joking with friends, whistling and even singing, in a low voice, the songs I remembered.
My comrades laughed, and I with them. It was an atmosphere pregnant with the expectation of good news. Something big, wonderful, extraordinary appeared on the horizon. In the distance, the mountain of Rumia e Krajes was visible. There, beyond the horizon, was the other world, outside the prison that crushed me, was the promise of a better life, was the freedom I had sought since my school days, when we fought the occupier and nurtured the hope of freedom. There, beyond the horizon, was my bright future, waiting for me with open arms. At least, that’s what I thought those days, pregnant with the expectation of good news.
Evenings at home became more painful every day. As soon as I returned, I carefully checked the hidden weapons, making sure they were untouched or accidentally discovered by my mother. Then, after the usual embraces and cleaning, dinner was served. In order not to disturb the others with my usual silence, I began to talk almost incessantly about the day’s work. Mother was pleased, and it was clear that she was happy that I was opening up in conversation. Everything seemed calm, orderly, and even pleasant in this family persecuted day and night.
After dinner, I tried to pass the time reading, which in reality was long trains of thought about the new adventure being prepared and my future and that of the family, until sleep overtook me. One day later, I felt a strong need to visit my father’s grave, in the cemetery not far from my workplace. My father, as a devout believer, had accepted without resistance the “kismet” that tormented him as the “will of the Great God”! It seemed to me that in his inner self there were no dilemmas. Peaceful by nature, he lived a life based on religious principles and the centuries-old traditions of our city; he was a perfect traditionalist!
When I found myself before his grave, kneeling from longing and respect for his memory, I could not understand how he did not revolt against the suffering and poverty that tormented him so much, especially in the last years of his life, how he remained faithful to the submissive fatalism of Islam! Suffering and inner peace: there was no room for revolt. And now, his son knelt before the grave, but with the spirit of revolt that he nurtured during resistance against the foreigner, during long imprisonment, and that now pushed him to abandon his family and risk his life by escaping to a foreign land, full of surprises and unknowns… like an adventurer!
“This is how you wanted me, faithful to myself,” I said in a low voice. “Today, I am here before your grave, to show you that I am setting out on my second adventure…! From you I learned to fight for just principles that demand suffering and sacrifice. Mother will suffer and die alone! Will she forgive me for the kick I have given her? I have a heavy conscience…! Please, father, pray for me! And when the lonely mother comes here to water the flowers on the anniversary of your death, she will pull out the weeds, as every year, and then she will lean one hand on this low, silent grave of yours, and wiping the never-ending tears, she will repeat as always: ‘Why did you leave me alone, husband… when the children are growing up and I needed you more than ever’?!”
“She will then begin to complain about my departure and the new sufferings that the departure will bring…! At that moment, please father, raise your voice louder than the dead, so that she can hear, and say that you are pleased that I am as you wanted me, honest with myself. Only then, in the distant land where I will spend my countless old days, will my troubled heart be calmed. Goodbye, father, and rest in peace”! The contrast of the philosophy of life between father and son was complete! If cataclysms had not fallen upon our country, would I have been like him?
Submissive to fate, without asking, calm, living and dying, just like the day we were born? If the answer is “yes,” then how should I understand the cataclysm that fell upon our heads?! Blessing or curse of fate?! In that state of complete, all-encompassing, uncompromising mobilization I found myself in, the catalyst was my best ally, was the most faithful companion on the road, and was the irresistible storm that pushed me toward new horizons, where untarnished freedom nourished the spirit of the free individual. The cataclysm that fell upon my head, just like the fear of forgotten death, had revived me!
XXXI
August 22, 1959 – The fatal day was dawning for me! What will be our fate today, o young Albanian, who grew up on the nourishment of love for homeland and compatriots, who have been so severely despised for decades, and who today still laments, why are you forced to kick away everything and everyone, in search of a free life, a world that does not suffocate you, and a society that does not hate you and does not oppress you when you do not fit the iron mold that leaves no room for development? The heavy, sleepless night, full of frightening hallucinations, exhausted me immensely. I needed rest, energy.
Sometimes, I seemed to see myself killed, full of gunshot wounds, bloodied and dragged through the city streets, exposed to the public who were to be terrified by such sights. Other times, I seemed to have freed myself from the iron shackles of the red and bloody regime, and free, still young and full of will, I lived without fear in unknown cities, spoke with enthusiasm and prepared my future, full of promises, especially my interrupted education. Even in this state of fantasy, schooling remained the main goal!
I must learn more, rise higher, and understand better…! Such ideas filled me with joy, I felt as if I were flying, until I realized that I was still at home and that the adventure awaiting me was before me, with all its accompanying risks…! Thus exhausted, I went to work. It was Saturday, and we worked on a “unique schedule,” from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon, without a break. During work, I was half-confused, silent, slow, and full of fear. The hours passed slowly and impatience grew constantly. My workmates did not disturb me. Sometimes, I thought that their presence kept my mind sane, and that loneliness, in those moments, would have driven me mad.
I was on the verge of a nervous crisis that could destroy all my efforts to escape. The melody of the tool that followed me every day in my work centers – the melting furnaces of our energies – had been lost. The tool helps build the workshop. But the moments of appeasement that constructive work often gave us, I no longer find today. The familiar sound of the pickaxe seemed to me that of the gravedigger, which I heard whenever I accompanied dead comrades to their final resting place… a sound that others, whenever the day comes, will hear near my grave, perhaps soon, in the “Rrmaj” of my neighborhood. The taste of death and its presence surrounded me that sunny August day…!
With the end of the work schedule, I left immediately. At four in the afternoon, I was to meet my companion in the park in front of the stadium. Would I be lucky that all this activity would pass without catching the Security’s eye? What if the Security was aware and arrested me in flagrante?! “Impossible!” I said to myself. “Only three of us know, and three prison friends, loyal. Impossible!”
With this certainty within me, at the appointed hour, I was in the park. After a few minutes, which for me were as long as a century, my companion came. We did not greet each other. We walked together, briefly. Without gestures, he informed me that on the eastern bank of the Buna River, about twenty minutes’ walk from the Drin Bridge, the path along the river led to a place from which three poplar trees could be seen on the other bank.
“There the river is narrowest to cross,” he told me. “As soon as it gets dark, I will be there, and from time to time, I will light my lighter. The flame will light and go out, three times in a row. Then, you cross the river. I will wait for you, and we head toward the border…!” – “Good,” I said. And I added: “I have a revolver and two hand grenades…! And you?” – “I also have a revolver… just for myself”!… – he replied. Our armament was not for resistance, even less for an offensive action. A strange feeling came over me, strong, irresistible. It was the fear of being caught along the way. I fell silent! My companion noticed this sudden silence, looked me straight in the eye, and asked me: – “Are you sure you will undertake this dangerous journey?! If you wish…”! He did not finish the sentence. I stood frozen.
Then, in a half-voice, I replied: – “No! I am not turning back. At eight o’clock I will be at the appointed place, and I will swim across the river. Wait for me…”! And after a short silence, I continued: – “I am determined not to surrender alive…! But, if in case of danger I do not find enough courage to resist, and possibly kill myself, then I want you to assure me that you will do it…! Please, promise me, now, before we leave…”! He turned pale. He looked me straight in the eye, understood my determination, and without averting his gaze, replied: – “I don’t think we will face such a danger… but I understand.” –
Then, lowering his head, he added: “I will not surrender alive either… nor you,” and extending his hand to me, he added: “I give you my word”! I squeezed that manly hand that agreed to kill me… and strangely, I felt calm! In this solemn moment, where life and death hang only on a banal and uncontrollable combination of surrounding events, a great desire came over me, to throw myself around his neck and embrace this hero who, not only risked his own life for a comrade, but also understood my spiritual state so well that he agreed to take upon himself the unbearable burden of the killer. O solidarity of the oppressed! You are the noblest seal of our human race…!
To kill a close comrade, regardless of circumstances, must be the most unacceptable act for any sound mind and clear conscience. But when such a tragedy occurs, and the act of killing appears as the highest degree of solidarity for the comrade, then the judgment of the committed “crime” enters the superhuman realm, where it is no longer judged. A life of unbearable and permanent suffering is not life. Death with dignity is more acceptable. Otherwise… the heroes we adore and that enrich the mediocrity of our lives would have died in bed, like worms trampled underfoot…! Thanks to these peaks of human history, we speak today of the glory of human being, with a kind of pride that overcomes the feeling of powerlessness and limitations of life on earth…!
Another decisive step for the escape was taken. There was no way back. Only forward! At home, my mother and sister prepared the delayed lunch. I was hungry, but without appetite. I began to eat with my head down. I could not look at the faces of those I would kick away that night, and the thought of internment in deportation camps tortured me beyond measure. No one knew my plan.
– “Tonight I will go to a village not far from the city,” I said without raising my head. – “We have a roof to finish… it’s private work, well paid,” I continued without conviction. – “I’ll be back on Monday.” My mother answered immediately: – “Why don’t you rest tomorrow?! You are tired… six days a week… we’ll manage as we can…! Stay and rest…”! – “I can’t,” I said. – “I gave my word to my comrades.” Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue
