From Shkëlqim Abazi
Part fifty-six
S P A Ç I
The Grave of the Living
Tirana, 2018
(My Memoirs and those of others)
Memorie.al / Now in old age, I feel obliged to confess my truth, just as I lived it. To speak of the modest men, who never boasted of their deeds, and of others whom the regime silenced and buried in the nameless pits? In no case do I take upon myself to usurp the monopoly of truth or to claim laurels for an event where I was accidentally present, although I wholeheartedly tried to help my friends even slightly, who tactfully and kindly avoided me: “Brother, open your eyes… don’t get involved… you only have two months and a little left!” A worry that clung to me like an amulet, from the morning of May 21, 22, and 23, 1974, and even followed me in the months that followed, until I was released. Nevertheless, everything I saw and heard those three days, I would not want to take to the grave.
Continued from the previous issue
“Meanwhile, the policemen, scared to death, appeared before me, although they were the most correct ones, and the procedure at the connecting gate was impossible to bypass; at that moment, I agreed with the doctor and the poet: Yes, in the valley of Spaç, in the corner where: ‘God’s Emissary had closed his eyes when passing by and pretended not to notice, designating it a prison for TITANS,’ the final act of the macabre tragedy was being played out, the curtain of which would only fall after ‘Hades’ had filled the kingdom with human corpses!
‘May God not fulfill the prophecy of the doctor and the poet,’ I prayed and waited for the worst to follow.
The Second Day, May 22nd
Somewhere past midnight, sleep finally caught up with me, when I was startled by some prolonged bursts (of gunfire), followed by enthusiastic shouts: ‘Long live the flag of Skanderbeg and Ismail Qemali!’ ‘Down with Communism!’ etc.
The patriotic song ‘Come, gather here, here, together with us.’ ‘For enough of slavery, oh wretched Albania, oh boys grab the rifles, either death or freedom,’ was accompanied by endless cheering. Meanwhile, the gunshots increased; besides the automatics, the ‘cola’ (sound) of light machine guns also roared.
A darkening curtain was visible at Ali Tromba’s window, as he whispered quietly with Fiqiri Muha.
‘What is happening, friends?’ I interrupted them without addressing anyone specifically.
‘Cover your head and sleep!’ Fiqiri cut me off.
‘Open the window, you’re suffocating us!’ I pleaded, because the stench of the tightly sealed rags was unbearable.
‘What a fool you are, boy, close your mouth, you only have two months left,’ Ali snapped at me. My mind was shattered by the bursts of gunfire and the clatter of clogs on the floor above.
I went outside. On the balcony, the sky was growing lighter; apparently, the communists feared some aggression from outside the fence, or some foreign invasion, so they urgently brought in the Special Forces, who lit the sky with tracer bullets.
In front of the appeal stairs, a fire was rumbling. Several dozen people were singing patriotic songs, while under the flames, half of Marx’s face grinned, the beard of Engels, the bald head of Lenin, and Stalin’s mustache, around which the quotes of Mao and Enver writhed. Three or four people continued to tear down the emulation stand with picks and crowbars; others fueled the fire with placards, regulations, and fascicles of Marxist works. From what I saw, they had broken into Robert Morava’s library, where they were stealing books, tearing them into fascicles, and tossing them into the fire, accompanying the act with pathetic speeches.
In the light of the flames, two men were acting as medics.
‘Were you shot, Qemal?’ they were treating Qemal Demiri.
‘No, I cut my hand on the glass of the stand,’ he replied.
‘Are you badly hurt?’ I noticed the bloody stain over the white bandage.
‘I don’t think so!’ jumped in one of the men acting as a medic.
Meanwhile, on the terrace, the orators continued their Pindaric speeches: Skënder Daja, Dervish Bejko, Bashkim Fishta, Elez Hoxha, Luan Burimi, etc., who replaced each other and evoked the poignant moments of history, praised the heroes who had sacrificed themselves in defense of national freedom, counted the victims of the communist regime, spoke about the miserable economy that plagued the entire people, and concluded by calling on the soldiers and police to join the holy crusade against the usurpers of freedom.
How interesting Freedom is! It equips you with wings and makes you an orator! This had to happen for me to make the major discovery: my friends of five years must have been unmatched in the art of rhetoric! Right under the shadow of thousands of gun barrels that threatened us with certain death, they became Demosthenes and Cicero, far surpassing today’s novices, who ramble endlessly in party squabbles! I remember them with nostalgia and feel proud that they were my co-sufferers, and at the same time, I curse the cruel fate and the savage regime, even God, who did not protect those heroic men with pure dreams like a teardrop!
‘And you, here?’ the loud tone brought me back to the grim reality.
Sami Dangëllia and Zef Ashta stood before me, perhaps returning from an inspection, or from the baths.
‘Well, well, this one doesn’t get the message! Get inside, cover your head, and let me not see you outside, do you understand or not!’ Sami aggressively warned me.
‘Be careful, dear friend, you only have a little time left,’ Zefi admonished more softly.
I didn’t reply, but headed towards the building. On the landing of the second floor, a prolonged cheer invited me: ‘Long live the flag of Skanderbeg and Ismail Qemali!’ ‘Down with Communism!’ ‘Long live Freedom!’
I went upstairs. In the eastern corner of the terrace, a red flag with the double-headed eagle was waving, while Shuaip Ibrahimi and Ndrec Çoku stood guard of honor.
‘Oh Flag of blood, Oh Flag of eagle! Oh place and hearth, Oh mother and father!
Soaked with tears, burned with flame, the red Flag, the black Flag…!’
Bedri Çoku thundered, while the others followed solemnly, and when he finished, they burst into: ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ and ‘Long live the flag of Skanderbeg and Ismail Qemali!’ ‘Down with Communism!’ ‘Long lives Freedom!’ etc.
The emotion gave me chills; I froze ready among the men who choked up with tears, their eyes on the symbol of the nation! Immediately, Gëzim Medolli took Bedriu’s place and sang the ‘Flag Anthem,’ in the Asdrenian version: ‘Around our Flag we stand united, / with one wish and one aim. / Swearing to it, all of us, / to bind our faith for salvation. / brave, man is called and honored, / Who became a sacrifice for the Homeland, / Forever he will be remembered / On earth, beneath the earth, like a saint.’
The attendees followed it until the end, and then burst into ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ and ‘Long live the flag of Skanderbeg and Ismail Qemali!’ ‘Down with Communism!’ ‘Long live Freedom!’ as the mouth of Gurth-Spaç carried the echoes of seven hundred voices, up to Munella and Kalimash and down the valley of Fani, all the way to Mat. When the crowd fell silent, my professor, Hodo Sokoli, the namesake nephew of the famous Hodo Beg, stepped out. He positioned himself under the corners of the flag between Shuaip and Ndreca and recited the Fishtian hymn:
‘Like the Wing of God’s Angel / The Flag of Albania waves / And calls the sons of Kastrioti / To gather together, in the army ranks / Strike, Tosks, strike, Ghegs! / like two bolts of lightning that burn as they pass! / Either victorious or all martyrs, / Braves, inside! With hands! With hands! / Hurrah boys, eh, may good fortune be yours! / Today or never to die for the Homeland! / Our Flag, which set forth: Help us, God, / for Homeland and Faith! / Strike, Tosks, strike, Ghegs! / Like two bolts of lightning that burn as they pass! / Either victorious or all martyrs, / Braves, inside! With hands! With hands!’
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” “Long live the flag of Skanderbeg and Ismail Qemali!” “Down with Communism! Long live Freedom!” The ovations came from the mouth of the “Tomb of the Enemies” and appealed to the people to rise up and unite against the communist plague that had been gnawing at their bones for thirty years. The image before me brought me back five years, to the barracks of Reps.
It was November 28, 1968, Independence Day. The elderly appeared before me, bowing and kneeling before the miniature Flag (a man from Korça had painted a starless eagle on a minimal-sized red cloth and nailed it above my bed), caressing the eagle, kissing its corners, and weeping, then wishing: “Happy Flag Day in Free Albania, without communists!” and sobbing.
Naturally, I was young at the time and in prison, I did not perceive the Flag phenomenon in its full complexity, nor could I judge the veneration of the elders for the symbol of the Nation; in fact, I admit that a thread of doubt arose in me about their sincerity. Five years of ‘tempering’ in the forge of socialist oppression and ‘training’ through the circles of communist hell were enough for me to fully justify the pride of those and these men, who were willingly sacrificing their lives under the shadow of the symbol.
Usually, poignant events leave deep impressions, but it is rare for all feelings to melt into one, intertwining hatred, will, courage, fear, compassion, and even desire. The Spaç Revolt was conceived by hatred for communism; the will of the idealists transformed it into an Uprising; it reached its climax with the courage of men who, although they feared the end and the violence that would follow, pitied the lives of their co-sufferers more than their own, yet were driven by the hope that through self-sacrifice, they would keep the future’s candle alive.
Perhaps with their deeds, they did not overshadow the heroes of legends, but they enriched history with a unique fact and added a bright page to the Nation’s diary, in whose pantheon their names are written in letters of gold! The more time passes, the more magnificent the epic seems, like a mountain that looks taller from a distance!
The First Martyr
But who were the ideators and protagonists of the Flag, and what happened after the major act? Over the course of years and decades, truths and fabrications have been told by people who were present and others who only heard about it; without depriving anyone of the right to judge the facts from the perspective they desire, I invite them to refer to the truth as an untouchable criterion.
Since 1969, in the morgue of Reps, the lifeless eyes of Jorgji Kote, the minority elder, have haunted my dreams and wakefulness, pleading: “Speak, son, tell the world the troubles your eyes are seeing!” and my silent answer: “Yes, I will speak, Barba Jorgji, only if I don’t come out alive!” Now, after five decades, the faint voice booms like an imperative cry and disrupt my peaceful sleep: “What are you waiting for, why don’t you speak, or will you take it to the grave?”
“I am speaking, Barba Jorgji, I am fulfilling the pledge, albeit late!” I answer with my heart in my hand.
Now in my old age, I feel obliged to tell my truth, exactly as I lived it. To speak of the modest men who never boasted of their deeds, and of others, whom the regime silenced and buried in nameless pits. In no case do I presume to usurp the monopoly of truth, or to claim the laurels for an event where I was accidentally present, even though I wholeheartedly strove to help my friends, who tactfully and kindly avoided me: “Brother, keep your eyes open… you only have two months and a little left,” a worry that clung to me like an amulet from the morning of the 21st, 22nd, and 23rd, and even followed me in the months to come until my release. Nevertheless, I would not want to take to the grave all that I saw and heard those three days.
The Truth about the Flag
On the upper balcony, I met my friends: Murat Marta, Neim Pashaj, Feti Kumaraku, Mersin Vlashi, Rexhep Lazri, Nrec Çoku, Gëzim Medolli, Gjet Kadeli, Paulin Vata, Muharrem Dyli, Marash Gjoka, etc., whom I cannot recall, from whom I heard what I will lay out below:
A group of three consisting of Feti Kumaraku, Murat Marta, and Neim Pashaj, (they were the first, although this idea might have occurred to many others, later they were joined by Rexhep Lazri, Mersin Vlashi, Ndrec Çoku, Gjet Kadeli, Bedri Çoku, etc., this is corroborated by the fact that the group of five was arrested four days later, (surely after the spy ‘worked’!) were discussing how to give the revolt political color, to turn it into a popular uprising. During the debates, the idea of the Flag was born.
‘We must equip ourselves with stones, bricks, stakes, and crowbars, let us storm the guard posts to arm ourselves, in order to start the uprising,’ Murat, who had failed in an escape attempt from the Laç camp years ago, had expressed. Fetiu had also agreed with this opinion, but had added:
‘Agreed, but we must avoid adventures that have terrible consequences. During the attempt to breach the perimeter, the soldiers will shoot and may kill innocent people. Who will bear the responsibility for the loss of lives?’ he had expressed doubt. ‘My conscience cannot bear this burden! Therefore, let us organize the seven hundred men who are here, address the command, and force them to release us, because we are innocent.
First, unity is necessary, and then we will ask the soldiers and police for cooperation, if we succeed. But the symbol of unity is the National Flag! It gathers us without regional, religious, or political distinctions,’ Neimi had concluded, adding: ‘We need the Flag, and then the call for unity!’
This suggestion was accepted as the most reasonable. And they began searching for a red cloth. Initially, Fetiu proposed the covering of his quilt, but when he started tearing it, it turned out that it was indeed red but was crisscrossed with white threads throughout. They gave up on Fetiu’s cloth and rushed to Rexhep Lazri’s window, where a red curtain, used for darkening, was hanging.
Once the cloth was secured, a painter was needed to draw the double-headed eagle. There were plenty of them in the prisons, as there were many other craftsmen, but a trusted and reliable person was required who would perform it with devotion. They pointed to Mersin Vlashi, who answered the call with pleasure.
Ndrec Çoku somehow obtained a box of semi-dried paint from Robert Morava’s library, placed it between his legs, and began dissolving it with a softener.”
“‘What are you doing over there, Ndrec?’ the comrades teased him.
‘I’m mixing the halva (sweet dessert) for Enver!’ the anti-communist Ndrec replied, laughing, and from that moment on, they nicknamed him ‘Ndrec the Flag,’ a title he strove to uphold with honor and sublime sacrifices.
While Mersini painted the eagle on the stretched cloth, Gjet Kadeli prepared the flagpole and planted it in the right corner of the terrace, facing the central square.
The appearance of the symbol of the nation, liberated from communist hierarchy after thirty years, was greeted with extraordinary enthusiasm.
The moments when Ali’s trumpet and Vaçe Zela’s guitar, in the hands of Gëzim Çela, accompanied the singers who sang the National Anthem at attention, will remain indelible in everyone’s memory! Seven hundred souls became witnesses to the waving of the Flag in the mouth of Gurth-Spaç, which simultaneously became the target of the bullets of the ignorant, who only recognized the symbol – the red star of Moscow and Belgrade.
While the convicts made themselves a shield, those sworn on the Flag desecrated their oath, pouring torrent after torrent of bullets and turning it into rags, riddled with holes!
Thus, the Flag became the first martyr!
When we saw the Flag tattered, our hearts sank, but the surrounding forces had neither hearts nor brains, because their brains had been washed and crammed full of Marxist nonsense, and in place of hearts, they had sewn the party’s star, for which they were willing to kill their own father if he were found inside the barbed wires! Even today, I don’t know if the desecrators of the Flag have repented?
I met three such people in different circumstances. The first showed no sign of remorse, even feeling guilty that he hadn’t killed all of us. The second was too devilish to decipher. While the third was a simple, kind religious man, who could be molded like plasticine. I will refer to my meeting with them and my uncensored thoughts.
The first, Mersin Bardhyli from Uznova, Berat, a total ignoramus with only seven grades of schooling, was so brainwashed that he openly boasted about his deeds, even claiming the missing reward for those ‘heroics’!
After his release from the army, I was ‘appointed’ to the olive groves in the most distant brigade, where I did the most routine work. The employees there bowed their heads because they were either politically ‘tainted,’ or peasants who welcomed state work, or young people brought for internships after the eight-year school, or soldiers returned from service, who were being prepared as specialists (spies) for other enterprises. Mersini was one of these, but he had been stuck for two years because he lacked the zeal to continue night school.
Annoyed with the enterprise leaders who didn’t want to recognize his contributions to the defense of socialism against external and especially internal enemies, he complained during a meeting:
‘Hey comrades (to the sector manager, the bureau secretary, the foreman), how did you leave me with a pickaxe and a shovel, me, a Party man, when you made all the kulaks (wealthy peasants) pruners? The Party trusted me, gave me an automatic rifle, and sent me to guard the enemies in Spaç prison, where I fought them hand-to-hand during the revolt, broke their bones, and crippled them, for which I was decorated and rewarded with a fifteen-day leave, while you left me a simple worker…!’
The complaint was taken into consideration. After a few days, they brought him to learn a craft, although he never became a good pruner, because he used the axe like a lumberjack. Poor Mersin was so thick that everyone made fun of him, but cautiously, because he would inform on them for sport. I was one of the few who didn’t tease him. For this, he respected me, without knowing who I was. During the lunch break, he would sit next to me, lay out his bread bag, and start idle conversations.
One day the conversation turned to military service, and that was all he needed to launch into his boasts: ‘I was an exemplary soldier and highly valued by my superiors,’ he began.
‘Where did you complete your military service?’ I prompted him.
‘In the Ministry of Internal Affairs, Unit 303…!’
‘Where is this unit located?’
‘In Spaç of Mirdita.’
‘Near Rrëshen?’ I pretended ignorance.
‘No, about a two-hour drive.’
‘Aha, near Rubik?’
‘Oh-oh, almost in Orosh, between the mountains of Munella and Kalimashi!’
‘What were you doing in such remote areas?’ I feigned interest.
‘We were guarding political prisoners.’
‘They sent them that close to the border?!’
‘Man, have you really not heard of Spaç of Mirdita and the copper and pyrite mines?’
‘Of course, I know there are mines in Mirdita, but I didn’t know there was also a political prison.’
‘Oh-hoo-aa, they gathered the most dangerous enemies of Albania there!’
‘And you guarded them?!’
‘Yes. They trained us for three months in Diko Zeqo’s unit, whoever passed the test was sent there, the others were left guarding dogs at Rrapi i Treshit.’
‘You must have passed the test among the first, right?’ I encouraged him.
‘Pop-pop, look at these muscles!’ He rolled up his sleeve; when he clenched his arm, the muscles swelled like lumps. ‘See how strong I am?’ he boasted and continued: ‘They made us wrestlers and boxers and divided up among the political prisons, while the others were sent to plant and uproot potatoes.’
‘And then?’
‘What then?’
‘I mean, how was your military service?’
‘A-ah, like a king, eats, drink, and fun! We had a high standard, you old man, we were the most privileged in the Ministry of Internal Affairs!’
‘Meaning, you were treated specially from the others?’
‘Man, they wouldn’t send you there unless you were a distinguished athlete!’
I let him vent, then I provoked him about his duty in the unit, his relationships with colleagues, and whether he had contact with the convicts, because I wanted to observe the prisons through the eyes of a soldier, to learn how he regarded the Spaç revolt and to draw a conclusion about how they had been instrumentalized and beast-like. Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue“
