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“During 22 years in prison, I have seen horrors with suicides, like the Dibrani Maliq Skuka in the Rubik camp, who covered himself with a blanket and gouged out his eyes with his nails…”! / The horrors of Enver Hoxha’s dictatorship

“Pasi më shau nga nëna dhe më tha; ‘qen’, Mihallaq Ziçishti u ngrit nga karrigia dhe më ra më grusht në nofull, sa që më theu dhëmballën e, më lau në gjak…”/ Kujtimet e ish-të burgosurit politik, Uran Kalakulla
“Ndërsa, nëndrejtori i Sigurimit, Kadri Ismailati, më bënte presion, hyri brenda hetuesi, Nasho Gjinopulli, i cili dëgjonte ato që i thoshte ‘miu birucës’, Gjergji…”/ Kujtimet e ish-të dënuarit nga Gjermania
“Gjyqi i Bashkim Shehut me gruan e tij, Marjetën u zhvillua në një nga zyrat e burgut dhe kur u lexua kërkesa e saj, për divorcin, Bashkimi tha…”/ Dëshmia e rrallë e Operativit të burgut të Burrelit
“Nga ‘Historia e Sigurimit të Shtetit’, e botuar në vitin 1974, nxirren mjaft të dhëna rreth diktaturës, si… “/ Ana e panjohur e krimeve të regjimit komunist, shqiptaro-jugosllav
“Shoku Enver, ja po e lexoj unë platformën e Sigurimit që Kadriu u’a dha sovjetikëve, me emrat e agjenturës….”/ Diskutimi i Hekuran Isait në mbledhjen e Byrosë, shtator ‘82
“Ishte toger i Sigurimit në Durrës, e dërguan me mision sekret në Greqi dhe s’u kthye më, në ’66-ën na thanë se…”/ Dëshmia e vëllait dhe e “kolegëve” të tij

By Uran Kalakulla

Part Ten

Nazism and Communism

Memorie.al / Nazism lasted 12 years, while Stalinism lasted twice as long. In addition to many common characteristics, there are many differences between them. The hypocrisy and demagogy of Stalinism was of a more subtle nature, which was not based on a program that was openly barbaric, like Hitler’s, but on a socialist, progressive, scientific and popular ideology, in the eyes of the workers; an ideology that was like a convenient and comfortable curtain to lie to the working class, to lull the sharpness of intellectuals and rivals in the struggle for power.

Gjithashtu mund të lexoni

“John Nasse and his gangsters, of the “Free Albania” Committee, are collaborating with the reactionaries and fascists, to overthrow your democratic regime…”/ Noli’s Letters to Enver

“When the camp’s Security operative, Fejzi Liço from Vlorë, addressed Pal Zefi; ‘convicted, come down, throw the lever and come to the dungeon’ Pal said…”! / The unknown story of the Spaç Revolt, May 1973

One of the consequences of this peculiarity of Stalinism is that the entire Soviet people, its best, most capable, hardworking and honest representatives, suffered the most terrible blow. At least 10-15 million Soviets lost their lives in the torture chambers of the KGB, martyred or executed, as well as in the camps of the Gulag and others like them, camps where it was forbidden to correspond (in fact they were prototypes of the Nazi death camps); in the mines in the ice of Norilsk and Vorkuta, where people died from cold, from hunger, from crushing work in countless construction sites, in the exploitation of forests, in the opening of canals and during transportation in lead-lined wagons, or in the flooded barns of the death ships.

                                                         Continued from the previous issue

When he wanted to call me, he often didn’t keep me long. He would stand by the window (which overlooked the street) and, with his back to me, ask me to show or accept what he wanted. And when I was silent or refused, he would say to me, as if gently:

– “Okay, whatever you want, don’t talk, but it’s your fault. We’ll shoot you without a trial. We’ve had enough of you! That’s enough for us. One less enemy, one more victory for the construction of socialism. When you enemies die, Comrade Enver’s neck thickens and his reputation grows. You don’t talk, and my work doesn’t suffer at all. I get my salary and my reward. You lock yourself in the dungeon, while I go out and treat him to cold beer and snacks, how much I enjoy it.”

In the meantime, it seems, he caught sight of a young woman passing by the window below, and then he would burn with lust and vent like a real beast, only with a human appearance:

– “Oh, I’d take you, ram, oh ram! If I were to fight you, if I were to get my hands on you, you wouldn’t even have any name left! I’d thrash you like a wolf, oh ram, oh fat ram!” And, saying this, on the one hand saliva would drip from his mouth and on the other hand he would put his hand in his pocket to suppress his sexual organ, which would certainly be like his own face, like a stick of coal. He probably didn’t suspect that this outburst or venting of sexual feelings would excite me too. But I felt that disgust that every man feels when he sees sexual passion expressed in such a dirty and savage way, just like a beast.

The month of August brought with it much hotter days, which in Shkodra they so beautifully call “djegaguri”, that is, where the African, tropical heat also takes over Albanian citizenship. At such a time, people who can afford it, abandon the cities and rush to the sea, or to the high mountains. The small rooms, like a hut, of Enver Hoxha’s standard socialist apartments, were breathtaking. What about the dungeons of us unfortunates, which were something bigger than a coffin? The concrete terrace, not very thick, with a layer of tar on top, turned into a sack.

And inside, cramped like sardines in a box, how could we possibly feel ourselves? I believe that my reader can well guess, without the need for any great imagination. Especially when the police would not let you stay, at least, in your rowers, naked or just in your pants. Such undressing was not allowed by the “ethics” of the prison! The police could violate this “ethics” only when they locked you in a punitive dungeon in the winter, when it was freezing, especially in the forced labor camps or in the Burrel prison.

Then, to this evil was added the complete lack of water for 48 hours in a row, I believe not intentional, since Durrës, although a coastal city, has had the lack of this primary element for life since then, as it unfortunately continues to have; an inevitable disaster, not so much from God, but from every government that has ruled this deserted country of ours, since Albania became a state or, better, since the wells were closed and replaced with paralytic Albanian taps.

In prison, I have experienced, like many others, the hunger strike. But there was nothing more difficult than the lack of water, not bread. Then I truly understood what the poor wanderers in the deserts must have suffered without water, as I have seen in films with exotic subjects, whether artistic, films or documentaries. Then I was truly convinced that our body, in its largest percentage, consists of water.

Of course, without water, not even a bite of bread can be swallowed, because it remains in the throat. Without water, the mouth and throat dry up. Saliva almost sticks to the jaws; it becomes something like glue. Your breathing becomes heavy, you don’t even need it. Your breath starts to stink, the sweat caused by the heat rapidly depletes; so do the water reserves in your tissues and blood. It burns your skin as if it were acid. Your body becomes numb, your vision darkens. I don’t know how a person can stay in such a state for long. Hunger slowly tires you out, it melts you completely. And you die slowly: a little bit every day. Death comes like a loss, something like an uninvited sleep, now eternal. But thirst, before completely taking your breath, your life, shakes you more fiercely and, when it joins with hunger, then it becomes the main executioner.

On one of those scorching days, I was called to the investigator. I found the “Gorilla” there, already familiar, but he was huddled in a corner and was wrinkled, as if someone had beaten him. At his table, a tall man had taken a seat, with gray hair, cut short, with a long face (as was his body), not very strong, but somewhat thin, with some white eyes, which had a look that was both fierce and penetrating, and which was sitting heavily. I had no idea who he was. Of course, he had to be one of those high-ranking graduates of the army of spies and executioners. One of those who made the law, who divided life with long suffering from a quick death, that is, a long imprisonment from being shot.

– “Hey, how are you, how are you doing?”

– “I am as you see me and I am doing as well as possible. I am out of breath and can hardly speak, because I have 48 hours and no water.”

– “No water! Why”?!

– “I don’t know that”!

– “Well, I’m on the beach on vacation, and I feel hot. That’s how it is with summer.”

– “This is not summer, but it’s sax. And please don’t make me talk because my mouth is getting slobbery.”

– “Go get a glass of water”! – he ordered the “Gorilla”.

He got up quickly and, after a while, brought me a glass of cold water. As if he had performed a miracle. It seemed to me that my body from the inside began to boil or gurgle, as if it were embers that are extinguished with water. I wanted another or, perhaps, a few more glasses, but I restrained myself, because I was ashamed.

“Well, are you better now”?

– “As you order”!

– “You see, the Party has a big heart. I opened my heart to the Party, so that it can ease your suffering”.

I was silent.

– “Did someone beat you”?

– “This one beat me”! – and I pointed my finger at the “Gorilla”.

– “Don’t touch it again, you hear”! – the big guy turned to the little guy, in an ordering tone, looking at him warily. Of course, I understood that all this was an acting game, but I had to pretend that I was giving in to his whim.

“Gorilla” said: – “As you command”! – and lowered his head. And, surprisingly, from that day on, I never saw that disgusting face again. Then, the big guy started asking me about some of my close friends, who were neither part of the group nor knew anything about that job. In fact, he started with my brother and continued with Sherif Delvina, Mërkur Babameto, Petrit Bidoš and many others.

I understood what was wrong with him. He wanted to expand the group as much as possible, that is, to inflate it and, thus, create as much sensation as possible among the people, to receive as much praise as possible from his masters or, from his chief, Enver Hoxha. But, unfortunately for him, this did not work out for me. I categorically refused to say half a word, to their detriment. First, that was the truth and, secondly, even if they took my soul, I would not say a word. I had set myself such a task and that was it. I do not know: out of bravery, out of nobility or out of fear. But such a job was not at all convenient for me either.

The truth is that he did not insist on this direction either. I do not know why. Suddenly he left the other names and focused on a single name, on my old friend since high school, on Fatmir Berati.

– “What about that rat in the dump, that Fatmir Berati, why didn’t you put him in the group?” – this chief investigator addressed me with obvious anger.

– “First of all, sir, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Fatmir. I don’t deny that I had a friend, but I’ve never talked to him politically. For one reason only: in him I saw the most apolitical man I’ve ever known”.

– “Like that”?!

– “Yes! He’s just a diligent teacher, passionate about mathematics and, the whole time, he only talked to me about school; about the types of algebraic exercises, which I neither understood nor wanted to know about at all”.

– “More, stop telling stories! Tell me a little, even if you say it in black, about my father and you will see how much benefit you will have. To free you I will not free you, I will not lie to you, because I will not get my hands dirty anymore, but I swear that you will be sentenced much less, the minimum, only three years and you will not do prison, not even half as much. Just say, at least, two words, because I will fix that dog”!

– “Sir, do you want me to lie to you? On the one hand you say that I tell the truth, and on the other hand, you ask me for untrue things. I cannot lie and this job is over”!

The horseman’s face darkened and those white eyes of his became almost phosphorescent. But surprisingly, he did not push further. Brofi stood up nervously and said to me sternly:

– “You will see how you will suffer. The head does, the head suffers”!

That’s all he said. He gave the order to take me to the dungeon and snapped his neck and ran away, along with the “Gorilla”. The policemen handcuffed me and, holding me by both arms, led me to the dungeon that was as hot as an oven. I didn’t know who he was. And that helped me. I didn’t know that sometimes, in certain situations in life (and in misfortune), they can really be of help. I didn’t know that he was the chief investigator of the State Security Directorate, General Nevzat Haznedari, or, as they have called him today, the “Black General”, for the many crimes he has committed and for his exemplary sadism. That, if I had known, to be honest and not to sell my mind for an act of bravery, maybe I would have saved myself from peeing in my pants.

Later, after I was convicted, I found out that he was Fatmir Berati’s real son-in-law, that is, he had married the older sister of Fatmir’s wife and had tried, in every way, to prevent his sister-in-law, who was a communist, from marrying Fatmir (as a declassed person the latter was). So, he wanted, in every way, to drag her to prison, just because of my word. I am satisfied with myself for one thing: from my fall into the clutches of the Sigurimi and from my long imprisonment, none of my friends and family, even those closest to me, suffered arrests, imprisonments, or deportations. Only my youngest sister, Flutura, who was working as a teacher at the time, was fired.

Moments of Crisis

Only if you are a piece of human-shaped cartilage, you may not experience (even once in your life), a spiritual or nervous crisis, whatever you call it. The pressure of prison is such that the soul gives and gives and, sometimes, explodes. I have seen chilling scenes in prison, in this regard. I have seen young boys, physically and spiritually strong, who would explode in a sudden revolt; either against the guards, or against the prison or camp commander himself. Or who would throw themselves at the throat of a spy, ready to take his soul. They have even killed them. I have also seen cases when, out of despair, one gouged out his own eyes with his nails, in the Rubik prison camp. They called him Maliq Skuka, from Peshkopia.

And he was a man as honest and intelligent as he was funny, very balanced and loving and well-mannered with his friends. But one day, in his bed, he covered himself with a blanket and committed the fatal act. Something terrible to see…! It pained all of us, but now everything was over. He was separated forever from the light and the sky!

I have seen young men kill themselves, by jumping from a height or by rushing to the barbed wire, where the barrage of machine guns would intercept them and leave them in place. This is what happened in the Laç prison camp, for example, with Qerim Çaushi, who threw himself headlong from the terrace of the building where we lived, straight onto the hard ground of the yard. I also saw Hilmi Lama in the Rubik prison camp, break through the fence and machine-gun the guards on the side of the Fani River. I also saw, in the Elbasan prison camp, in the middle of the January snow, Lika from Kruja and Mëhill Gjini from Mirdita, jump over the wire fence and cross over, surprisingly, untouched by a single bullet, when their barrage almost killed us who were in the nearby bunker, and God saved us.

I saw, in the Burrel prison, the brilliant boy Mustafa Bajraktari, hang himself on the bars of the window of the room where he was staying, while all the others had gone out into the yard for airing. And what have my eyes not seen?! The cases I mentioned are only a small part of the tragedies that occurred. Oh, how many such things have happened in the prisons and camps of communism, during 47 years of inhuman communist rule! I myself have experienced such a crisis, perhaps on a smaller scale. Fortunately, it only lasted a few moments and, with willpower, I was able to defeat it.

I was sitting hunched over near the door of dungeon 28. Behind my back, I had that “mouse” in the form of a titmouse, Qani Slatinë. We had no water. “The mouse”, where had he found a gourd of water, which he kept under his pillow. And, as I have said, the heat was suffocating us. I was having a hard time working with “Gorilla” in the investigator. My family had not come to see me for a long time. Let alone food, but I was also short on cigarettes. But what worried me most was the plight (not so much mine), of my family, especially my wife and little son. I had left them in dire straits: without a single lek, without any economic support. My wife was unemployed. When I was there, there were three of us living, only on my salary as a teacher. And she was a complete stranger in Tirana: she knew almost no one, except my people.

Moreover, she was also beautiful, young and stood out for such a quality. And I knew that the Sigurimi tried to degenerate the wives of prisoners, in the vilest ways. Then, weren’t there places full of shameless and dishonest stallions, who could annoy, disturb, threaten her, even if they were pushed by the Sigurimi? I had taken her as my wife with great love and, on top of my love, I also had great pain for her. That poor girl had suffered the olive groves since she was 13 years old, when, first, they imprisoned her brother, Professor Arshi Pipa, and after a few months, they killed her older brother, lawyer Myzafer Pipa, in the investigator’s office, without even going to trial.

She had also been talented, and had learned French and the piano. Excellent in all her school subjects and, until her marriage, she had worked as a manual laborer in the quarry, breaking stones with sledgehammers, in the bricks, in the mats, on the farm in the fall, to peel corn and so on. But what awaited her now? I also thought of my little one, whom God had given me exactly as I had dreamed: beautiful, intelligent, with many premises for art and knowledge, from a very young age. Without them both, I had lost the joy, the meaning, the capital of life. I almost did not cry for my own troubles, but only for their troubles.

And terrible scenes of their persecution flashed through my mind. They dragged them through the mud of Myzeqe, barefoot, dressed in rags, without food, in the rain and cold. They were scenes like in a dream of horror, not in sleep, but with open eyes. And these haunting scenes were not the first time that they flashed before my soul’s eyes. Oh God, what torture! Of course, in this gloom, my old mother, who had raised me with so much effort; my younger sister, who I had almost raised myself; my brother, who was also my companion in thoughts and sufferings, and then the other three sisters. But they were comfortable at home, with their husbands.

So, there at the foot of the stinking door, of the stinking dungeon nt. 28, huddled as I was, with that storm in my soul, I felt a strong dizziness and a tremor that ran through my entire body, from my feet to the top of my head. A strong electric shock. Of course, I did not see myself as I had become in my face and how my eyes flashed, as if they were giving off sparks. But I quickly stood up and I don’t know what gestures I made with my hand, turning to the “mouse” Qani. Then, I noticed that his face had turned into dust from fear. I was shaking from nerves, but it seemed to me that he was shaking harder, from fear.

Then, I told him fiercely to take out the gourd of water and pour it on the back of my head, where I felt that I had the greatest weight of tension. He quickly stood up and poured the water on me as I told him. And, although the water was as warm as piss, I don’t know, but it relieved me quite a bit. After that, I began to collect myself and the tremors seemed to start to ease, to decrease. And I said to myself, of course in my mind:

– “Animal, pull yourself together, where is the mule taking you? Do you want to play around? Do you know whose cry would be such a thing? The cry of your enemies. They would be pleased, because that’s what they want! And then, neither yourself, nor your family, nor the devil will need you. You will become the bane of the world and the misfortune of the family, the eternal oil and its heaviest burden, even if they get you out of prison at all! So pull yourself together, idiot! Grit your teeth and be a man!

I love you like this! Better dead a hundred times than a fool! You set out for great things; these are not what you are suffering now? Didn’t you advise your friends, when you were out, that prison is not a pleasant conversation on the boulevard, but torture, a bullet, a rope”?! Memorie.al

                                                To be continued in the next issue

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