By Sokol Parruca
Part Eight
– Rare testimonies of the well-known jurist Sokol Parruca, about the icons of Shkodra football over the years, such as; Halepiani, Hasa, Rragami, Rakiqi, Bizi, Dani, Zhega, etc., artists like Vasija, Tërshana, Aliaj, Ljarja, etc., as well as other emblematic characters of that city, etc. –
Memorie.al / It is difficult to write about the former football players of the “Vllaznia” team of Shkodra over the years, without being a football scholar and specialist, but I am jotting down impressions about those I knew, touched, and saw, about the coaches of the age groups, without pretending to say everything they deserve. And undoubtedly, I judge that it is impossible not to mention Ernest Halepiani. I was about 9 years old, I don’t remember which neighborhood friend I went with for the first time to the “Parku i Pionierëve” (Pioneers’ Park), near the former “11 Janari” school, to start training in the sport of football. There, the coach for children was a short man, hair with small curls, with a face that shone with kindness.
Continued from the previous issue
THE PLACARDS
That day, as a learning practice, they had plantings in the school plots, which was located in Perash, at Bal Rroji’s house. With them, they had some placards, which would be needed to mark the plot number and the type of seed they would plant. They went on time, waited and waited, but the teacher didn’t come. Then, he, Agim Medja, Mehdi Dragovi, and Fuati, decided to return to school. The placards remained in their hands.
At that moment, it came to his mind, like a vision, all those scenes he saw on television. Appeared before his eyes, that crowd of people shouting who were holding placards, on which was written; “PA PUNË” (UNEMPLOYED/ WITHOUT WORK). He didn’t know why this thing had focused on him, perhaps because every evening such scenes were reflected in the news and the announcer repeated that thousands and thousands of unemployed people in Western countries were protesting. He didn’t know, nor could he know the motive of these revolted people; simply, the placards with the writing “Pa punë” had become fixed in his mind.
Engulfed in these thoughts, he says to Agim:
– “You have beautiful handwriting, write ‘PA PUNË’ on these placards we have.”
So he did, with calligraphic writing, he wrote on each one “PA PUNË” and all four had a placard each, which they held high. They walked like that, carefree, with a kind of pleasure, like any free student during school time who isn’t having class. Passersby smiled at them as they saw them.
They crossed the alley and as soon as they entered the main road, next to the “Kinezëve” (Chinese) building or near the “Rinia” pastry shop, an elderly person rushed down from his bicycle, gathered the placards, took the boys, and he didn’t know how so quickly the employees of the Internal Affairs Department came, whom he recognized by face, as he lived nearby.
They separated each one into separate rooms. There was no teacher, only them and the Sigurimi (State Security) employees. He was being questioned by two people. He could follow their lecture, although some unfamiliar words hindered him, which they pronounced and re-pronounced who knows how many times with such persistence, as well as some habits and some thought processes that he didn’t understand.
However, they only terrified and frightened him, stimulated his mind and set it in motion. He was too young to assess the importance and seriousness of what he had done.
But from the way the Sigurimi employees were behaving, how they were questioning him, how they communicated by radio with their bosses, the questions: “Who taught you”, “who came up with the idea”, were becoming more and more insistent and over time took on the form of aggressiveness, with openly brutal nuances.
He understood that something serious had happened, so he decided to remain silent. The question; “who taught you”… “whooo”… sounded like an endless prolonged threat. Their voice was resonant, determined. Their eyes reddened with anger and the lines of their faces had hardened. It seemed to him, as if the angle of their jaws had taken on another distorting form, and their chins, from the shouting, had a far-threatening appearance. At the same time, it seemed to him, as if a strong wave of manliness was bursting from within him and spilling over his entire being.
He glanced again, for a moment, over their faces and saw that their necks and veins were swollen with rage. He didn’t know what was happening with his friends, who surely were also experiencing this exhausting psychological violence. He was convinced about Agim and Mehdi that they wouldn’t tell. They were his most trusted friends, proven. He forgot about himself, he felt sorry for them, that they were being tortured without any fault.
Unlike him, Mehdi and Agim had never experienced anyone shouting at them, they were that good and gentle. While now they were under this pressure and in a difficult position because of his fault.
The thread of his thoughts was interrupted by shouting:
– “Get up,” – he heard the roar of one of them. With great difficulty he got up and stood like that, with short pants and arms hanging, with a petrified face, waiting for what would happen. Immediately the door opened and in the doorway appeared, like victors, the other two Sigurimi agents, holding Fuati by the hand.
– “Speak,” – they told Fuati. – “Was it Sokoli (Sokol Parruca), who came up with the idea and told Agim, you write, because you have beautiful handwriting, on the placards ‘pa punë’? Is that how it is”? – He addressed him.
– “Yes,” – he said in a faint voice, head bowed.
– “Whose son are you”?
He says his father’s name in a voice as if stammering, so much so that even he himself couldn’t hear it. But, the hearing senses of the Sigurimi employees were highly developed, due to their profession. They, simultaneously surprised, asked:
– “Of the Chairman” (Bilal Parruca, Sokol’s father, at that time Chairman of the Executive Committee of the Shkodra district)!?
He remained silent, didn’t dare speak, his head bowed even lower, barely holding himself up, as if heavy weights had been placed on him, pushing him down and further down. They communicated something on the radio, snorted with all their rage, and left, leaving behind the traces of terror they had inflicted on these four 12-year-old children. Memorie.al
Continued in the next issue
