By SAMI REPISHTI
Part thirty-three
Sami Repishti: – In Albania, the communist crime of the past has not been documented and 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 fascist and communist storm descending upon Europe, sooner or later over the entire world, “fate” also seized the Albanian nation by the throat. Like all young people, 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, I took the road that had no end, a sailor on a wide sea without shores. The rebellious act that almost killed me, at the same time liberated me. I am an eyewitness to life in the fascist and communist hell in Albania, not as a “politician”, a “personality” of Albanian macro-politics, but as a student, as a young man who became aware of my role, in that time and in that place, out of love for homeland and desire for freedom; simply, as a young man with a marked sensibility, faithful to myself, to a life with dignity.
Continued from the previous issue
Driven mad by such thoughts, I walked without stopping in the set direction. It was approaching seven in the evening. The road continued along the lake, around the Rozafa fortress, to the bridge that crosses the Drin, turning south along the Buna River. At that hour, the fortress’s shadow had grown long, over the Ajasme neighborhood and the “spahij fields,” which I knew well. In the distance, the Lead Mosque was visible. A magical pull pushed me to gaze at the castle walls, and it seemed as if they looked back at me with displeasure and reproached me: “Leave, leave from me, my son, who does not accept my thousand-year rule. Leave to the world beyond, where I will not see you again…! But you will feel deeply the longing that has tormented your compatriots, still bound to me. Nevertheless, if it is freedom that has triumphed over my centuries-old magic, enjoy it fully, with your entire chest filled by its inspiration. And do not complain when, at the peak of the joy you hope awaits you, a deep, painful wiping away will bring your thoughts back to me, to these forgotten ramparts. Then, more than ever, you will truly understand how heavily I weigh on your heart, which does not accept separation, more than my extinguishing…”!
But the captivating attraction of the walled Rozafa within the fortress was fading in me. What remained deep was Mother Rozafa, wife, alive,… a breast for a tender infant…! Rozafa who should have lived, even if the fortress were never built; Rozafa, the human above dead land, not under the weight of lifeless rock that kills! On the right, the Buna flowed calmly, nothing disturbed it. The heavy shadow of Tarabosh covered Rozafa, as if wanting to protect her. This majestic mountain cared for the peace of thousands of victims and armies folded on its banks, sleeping under the hell of night, lifeless and forgotten, without trace or sign, on its barren and shadow-heavy slopes.
Crossing the bridge, I took the road along the river which, after a few minutes, would end at the designated place. Dusk was approaching! I looked with a certain admiration at the flowing water. The Buna moved away in a zigzag line, as if showing the way out of the fortress’s circle, this thousand-year prison, determined to reach the open sea, without shores, outside the siege, among others and in a free world, with others…!
It was eight in the evening. The spreading black shadow of dusk hindered the clear view of the other bank. But I discerned from afar the long shadows of three large poplars. They were a good sign for orientation. They reigned over the half-bare surrounding field. I continued the journey, with great care, greeting passers-by in a friendly manner, arousing no suspicion. At the designated point, I left the road, jumped over a fence, and found myself by the riverbank. On the other side, the flame of a lighter appeared, lighting and extinguishing three times in a row. “Everything is in order!” I said to myself.
I took the two hand grenades and the revolver, threw down the saw, the water level, and the pickaxe, wrapped the weapons in the raincoat so they wouldn’t get wet, and with an unbelievable calm, I began crossing the river without making noise. By now, nothing stopped me. An uncontrollable inner push dominated me! A few minutes later, I found myself on the other side of the river, in the “forbidden zone” for circulation without Security authorization. My companion gave me his hand. I came up onto the bank.
After a brief embrace, I took out the weapons, gave him one hand grenade, and both of us armed, we set off for the final stage of our adventure. My companion seemed calm, and this gave me courage. “We have three kilometers to the border,” he told me. “There are border guards, dogs, mines, barbed wire, sometimes electrified…! But the most dangerous are the ‘volunteer’ villagers, armed by the Security, who know all the paths well…”! Armed villagers… reminded me of hunters running after rabbits…!
These perverted creatures were ready to run after those seeking freedom, to catch them, to hand them over to the Security, to kill them…! Unbelievable! How low man descends; and yet, I was accompanied by another villager, a hero, who risked his own and his family’s life to save mine. This is Man! I held the weapon in one hand, ready to use it. The absurd idea that this destructive instrument could end my life tormented me greatly. But at this moment, I accepted it without hesitation, as a means of protection from new and unacceptable sufferings.
I walked behind my companion, carefully, without a word, communicating with gestures, through tall cornfields, away from village houses and the main road. In the quiet of the night, the barking of dogs and the rhythmic tam-tams of tin cans could be heard, which locals use to scare off wild boars, damaging the planted fields. From the fields, we entered forests with short trees and bushes that made noise. Several times we followed a path without a trail, because the Security placed dry branches that cracked when stepped on and could attract the attention of the guards, and… the “volunteers”!
My companion stopped and signaled for me to sit down. In front of us was a stone wall. It was the village road. From afar, the steps of the border guards approached three soldiers, two with long rifles and one with a submachine gun. They had no dog with them. We were lucky. “The dog is a big problem,” whispered my companion with a smile. As the guards passed, crawling, we crossed the village road and entered a dense forest. “One hundred meters from the border… then we have the fence, the barbed wire, and possibly the mined zone…! This is the last and most dangerous part…”, my companion told me.
Both of us were completely mobilized, physically and emotionally, to cross the final obstacle. Without speaking, we embraced each other with heart’s passion and tears in our eyes. It was the final moment. “This is no time for tears!” he reproached me. We began to walk crouching, so as not to be seen and not to make unnecessary noise. Every minute was an hour, and although the border fence was clearly visible, we did not dare to run and cross to the other side.
There was a possibility of facing hidden guards who would wait for us with submachine guns, or stepping on landmines. Nothing! Another three steps. Nothing! When we approached the fence, my companion seemed to look for something, moved around, and returned with a wooden fork. He showed me that I had to go under the thorns of the fence and under the barbed wire, on my belly, without moving a single stone. In that part, the border was the bed of a dry stream during summer.
With his fork, he skillfully lifted the thorns and wire. I lay flat on the ground and began to crawl, carefully, without disturbing any stone. When I came out on the other side, he lowered the barbed wire and thorns as he had found them, waved his hand, and left without a word. I was in the “neutral zone”. Next to me, I saw a white concrete pyramid. On one side were the black letters RPSH (Socialist People’s Republic of Albania); on the other, SFRJ (Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia). I took the decisive step. Outside Albania, outside danger? I couldn’t believe it.
XXXII
August 23, 1959. – Yugoslavia! I cast my eyes toward my land and that of my ancestors for the last time. It was still night, and Albanian land was covered in complete darkness. My Albania was there, next to me, and yet so far from me. Little by little, I began to realize the act of escape and its weight. My whole life had passed in that land to which I now turned my back, driven by a greater need, more necessary than patriotism. It was the thirst for freedom, the most precious gift offered to me, which determined my thought and the direction of my action.
In this privileged moment of life, which I had achieved at the risk of death, I became even more convinced that my true homeland was freedom, and that an Albania without freedom was simply desolation. The sun of the new day shone over a foreign and unknown land. I headed toward the Yugoslav border post with a sense of fear, given my illegal status. I presented myself as a political refugee from Albania. I handed over my weapons. The guard escorted me inside. An officer greeted me in Serbian. Together with an armed Albanian-speaking soldier, they escorted me to a small stone building used as a temporary prison: a single room with a small window with crossed bars. I went inside.
From outside, he locked the door with a key and left without speaking. Only in the cell, tired from the journey, hunger, sleeplessness, and the psychological shock of the danger during the journey, did my heart give way. My eyes filled with tears. They were not tears of joy. Far from home, far from homeland! With a heavy heart, I was unable to taste the joy of the liberating act that opened new horizons in life. I felt a certain shame when I thought that I had turned my back on everything that was dear to me. Nevertheless, I was living the brightest moment of my life.
A whole world, a new world stretched before me, a new life promising for me. “Free, brother! Free, do you hear?” I uttered involuntarily. “But you, perhaps you don’t understand me, oh wretched one! Because you don’t yet know what freedom is, brother, for which you have sacrificed yourself so many times, and which you still haven’t won…”! As the first surge passed, I approached the window without glass. Outside, the wide fertile field was visible, planted with corn and full of trees. It was a rare beauty, that sunny Sunday. The bells of grazing livestock could be heard.
From below came the voices of the inhabitants of the nearby village. They all spoke Albanian about daily work in their fields. How different from the Albanian village, just a few meters beyond, where the peasant owner and the shepherd had been turned into laborers, slaves of the cooperative, broken by force and controlled by the Party and the police. I could not stand any longer. I sat on the floor, leaned my head against the wall, and fell into a deep sleep.
When I woke up, it was after lunch. In a corner of the room, I saw a piece of bread and a bowl of drinking water. I had no desire to eat. In those difficult hours, my mind and heart had turned toward Shkodra and the family home, to my house where my mother, sister, and brother were waiting for my return from the village. The next day, I was supposed to go to work. But their waiting this time would be very long. When night fell, the waiting would turn into anxiety and fear, growing every hour that passed without news from me. The thought of the “great surprise” that would shock them tormented me greatly.
The fear that they would be sent again to the deportation camps of Berat and Tepelena, where they had already spent some of the most difficult years of their lives, tortured me and did not leave me at peace. I began to recall family scenes from my past, elementary school, high school years, and first engagements in the movement against the occupier, unrestrained enthusiasm, my quarrels and efforts to change the situation in the country…!
Then, the endless hours, days, and months in the State Security appeared before me, my tortures and those of my comrades, the banal, absurd, unjust punishment, and finally the prisons and camps of forced labor extermination. Everything appeared as in a film, a fabric of different colors and forms that took on meaning in themselves. Despite occasional interruptions, their continuity seemed complete.
It was the mad world in which I had lived for decades, especially all the years of my youth, “of the burned generation” in the fire of war and the bloody events that followed. As a political refugee, I should have felt safe. But I was in Yugoslavia, another communist country, which had turned back hundreds of anti-communists who, like me, had faced the risk of death to escape. Today, those unfortunates were in prisons, again sentenced to life imprisonment, if not execution. Would the Yugoslav authorities turn back the student who defended Kosovo’s right to self-determination? The very idea of such a possibility made me tremble. The tired and frightened faces of my youth comrades and of our shared sufferings paraded like hallucinatory images, one after the other, then all together, different but with a common feature.
They had the expression of bewilderment and the desire to ask: “What has happened to us? What will our future be?”! To their questions, I found no answer except hope…, a weak weapon in confronting criminal elements blinded by the magic of uncontrolled power. It seemed to me that every exit was closed, every act had lost its meaning, and thought no longer counted. It seemed to me that Albania was sunk in the abyss of a dark night, a night three times cruel and endless. And yet, deep inside, I was convinced that to the question; “Do you wish to live again in that country?” I would answer: “Yes”!
Because in that country I had seen the light and spent my whole life. Because there I had witnessed the presence of man crushed by a blind fate and suffering with dignity, because in that country, the common, stoic oppression and suffering made me brother to others, because in that country I nurtured my ideal, which inspired me and awakened the necessary hope to live one day as a human being, with faith, honor, and manliness, and it was that country that my ideal and my hope called Homeland..!
I heard military steps approaching. The door opened! An officer and two armed Yugoslav soldiers entered.
– “Govorish srpski?” – asked the officer in his language.
– “No,” – I said in my language.
– “Po russki?” – he continued.
– “No,” – I repeated.
Somewhat offended, I addressed them:
– “Parlez-vous français?”
– “No!”
– “Parla italiano?”
– “No!”
– “Do you speak English?”
– “No!”
Clearly, we were members of two different worlds. Angry, the Yugoslav officer ordered me to stand up. – “Idemo!” – he said in a heavy tone. – “Come with us!” – translated the Yugoslav soldier, with his rifle…! Along the way, a feeling of sadness gripped me. I was forced to leave my homeland, that of my ancestors, the land I loved as much as my life.
And I would do the impossible, I promised myself, to return again, if not physically, at least in the minds of those who live there, and I hope also in their hearts. In the loneliness of the Yugoslav experience, this unbreakable bond with my compatriots awakened in me the hope of returning to a free homeland, one day that I wished not to be far away…! /Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue
