From Ali Buzra
Part Forty
– LIFE UNDER PRESSURE AND SUFFERING –
(APPRAISALS, COMMENTS, NARRATIONS)
Memorie.al / At the request and wish of the author, Ali Buzra, as his first editor and reader, I will briefly share with you what I experienced in this encounter with this book, which is his second (after the book Gizaveshi në vite) and which naturally delineates his writing style. The sincerity and frankness of the narration, the simple and unadorned language, the accuracy and precision of the episodes, or the absence of an elaborative, deliberately contrived imagination or its non‑exploitation, I believe have served the author positively, who comes to the reader in his original form, inviting us to at least become acquainted with unknown human fates and pains, whether by chance or not, leaving us to reflect as a beginning of awareness towards a catharsis so necessary for the Albanian conscience.
Bedri Kaza
Continued from the previous issue
Lately, Ganiu had been working in transporting fuel for agricultural machinery with his mule. This opportunity was given to him by the former chairman of the cooperative, Ramiz Albrahimi. Ramizi was a very capable organiser. He did not involve himself much with politics, but he valued correctness and order in work. Ganiu embodied these qualities in the most perfect way. He was a lively worker. He would get up in the middle of the night and supply the tractors in all sectors, going to every plot. However, they did not leave him in peace. One day, the Secretary of the Party Bureau asked Ramizi why he kept a kulak in charge of the fuel.
“I’m not enrolling him in the Party,” he replied, “He does the work, that’s why I keep him.” Ramizi was also a member of the District Party Bureau and had support. Immediately after Ramiz Albrahimi was removed as chairman of the cooperative, Ganiu was dismissed from his job as fuel supplier for the tractors. The new chairman of the agricultural cooperative who replaced Ramizi ordered his immediate dismissal from work. Meanwhile, they also tried to take away the jerrycans he used for transport, which he had procured himself. Despite the insistence of the cooperative’s officials, Ganiu did not hand them over.
He married his eldest son, Hyqmeti, to the daughter of Sali Hoxha from Rrajca, who had been sentenced to 22 years in prison, accused of agitation and propaganda. He had no choice; no one in the village would give him a bride. He married one of his daughters to Bexhet Gurra, the grandson of Daut Gurra, in Dragostunjë, while he gave two others to the Blloshmi clan in Bërzeshtë. “We were worse off than the internees in Belsh, and also than the kulaks of Vilani,” says Xhemali. “They were all together and could visit each other, while we had nowhere to go.”
In 1985, Ganiu and Xhemali submitted a request to the chairman of the Democratic Front in the village to be accepted into the organisation, with the aim of having the kulak title removed from them. “We would not have taken it badly if he had told us he couldn’t do it,” they recount. “But he set a condition: that we separate ourselves from Nebiu, who was still serving his sentence.” Today, anyone might say: How can you ask a son to abandon his father, or a brother his brother, just to get the Democratic Front membership card, especially when he was in prison and needed support?
The problems for kulak families were manifold. Obstacles would arise for any work they started. With work, sacrifice and savings, Gani Dosku began building a new house, as the old one was very cramped. He hired three master builders from the village. As soon as they started work, pressure was put on them for working on the kulak’s house. Harun Muça, one of the master builders who had started working there, was told that his son, Muhameti, would be dismissed from his teaching job. Ganiu went to the Internal Affairs Department.
There he met the local operative and told him that he had started building his house and that pressure was being put on the builders. “Now, either I have to remain without a house, or I have to flee, like my brother did,” he said to the State Security operative. After 2‑3 days, the operative called him and told him to find builders from another village. He was forced to search village after village. His house was built by Mustafa Shera, Rakip Qeti and Neshat Zika from Prevall. Fortunately, the three aforementioned were skilled stonemasons. However, when it came to putting the roof on, the timber had been cut with permission in a place called “Dushk‑Trashë”, above the “Balca” neighbourhood. The timber had to be carried by hand and required many people.
He couldn’t hire anyone from the village, as that might cause them problems. So he transported it with some men who came from kulak families of other villages. What else could the poor kulaks do! Everything was against them. When he married his daughter to the Blloshmi family in Bërzeshtë, Ganiu spoke to a driver from a state enterprise to take her as a passenger in a “Zis”‑type vehicle. Ganiu and Xhemali recount countless instances of the restrictions they faced. “We couldn’t even go to our sister’s funeral here in the neighbourhood,” says Ganiu, “as a result of the extraordinary pressure put on her family regarding us.”
Another problem was that young kulaks were not accepted into the Youth Organisation. Similarly to the Front, when a youth meeting was held, they were forced to leave, with their heads bowed. Since I have the chance to write, I will mention how it became possible for Gani Dosku’s son, Hyqmeti, to be accepted into the youth organisation. During the years of the dictatorship, we teachers were assigned duties in the Front organisation, the Youth, the Trade Unions, the Women’s organisation, etc. In this way, we performed social duties, propagating the Party line. In the meetings we organised with the people, we worked on themes and held discussions with a completely political content, which directly highlighted the leading role of the Party in all aspects of the country’s life. This work was mostly done by us local teachers, as we knew the village and was resident there.
As far as I remember, it was 1981. After several years of work in other villages, such as Prevall, Kostenjë and Qarrishtë, in 1978 I came to work closer to my home village, Gizavesh. In a meeting organised at the cooperative centre, I was elected – or rather, I was appointed – Secretary of the Youth Committee of the Dorëz United Cooperative, which included the villages of Dorëz, Gizavesh, Librazhd‑Katund and Qarrishtë. The First Secretary of the District Youth Committee was present at this meeting. I was 25 years old. I realised from the very introduction that the delegate had his eye on me. Not only was I young, but also a local. To tell the truth, this person would become the key to my success in life, because two years later he gave me the opportunity to continue higher studies in the History‑Geography department. Until that time, I only had Pedagogical High School and had not been given the chance to pursue higher education.
After about a month, he called me to Librazhd and told me that a one‑year philosophy course, oriented towards youth leaders, had been set up in Durrës. Four people were selected, including me. Applicants needed to have completed secondary school. “You meet this criterion best,” he told me, “because you also have Pedagogical High School. If you wish, we will send you,” he concluded. “I accept,” I said. And so it was done. On this course there were about 100 trainees from all districts of the country. From Librazhd were Bajram Çoço from Katjel, Zyba Hysa from the Hotolisht area, Xhevrie Poçi from Bërzeshta, and me. There we were paid a salary, housed in one of the beach hotel buildings, and the conditions were good. Students with pedagogical education were few, as most were youth activists with agricultural training. We from Librazhd held the record because three of us had pedagogical education. A good number of the students were organised as party members or candidates, while from us Librazhd people, none were organised in the Party.
The curriculum aimed to study and master topics on the History of the Party of Labour of Albania, Marxist‑Leninist doctrine consisting of topics on Dialectical and Historical Materialism, Political Economy of Socialism and Capitalism, as well as topics on organisational leadership work with the masses. We finished the course in June 1979, after completing 10 days of practical work in the districts. In the group I was part of, the leader was a woman named Polikseni Shope from Poliçan in Gjirokastër. She was of Greek nationality from the minority and stood out for her extraordinary correctness and sincerity. She embodied the highest social and human virtues I have ever known. We did our practical training in the Kukës district. After the practical, we were given diplomas and returned to our respective districts. In August, I started working again as a teacher, this time not in my village but in Librazhd‑Katund, teaching language and literature.
On 3 January 1980, I was appointed and began working as an instructor in the Librazhd District Youth Committee. The Secretary of the basic Party organisation in the village was our family friend and relative by marriage, Halil Koçi, who provided my character reference without any negative nuance. Initially, I covered the schools sector, together with Zenep Luka, a journalist by profession. Later, I was assigned to cover the cooperative youth sector at district level. At first it seemed like a desirable job, but over time I saw the poison within it. After three years I requested a transfer and returned to education, while I was finishing my higher studies at the Gjirokastër Higher Pedagogical Institute.
During my three years working at the Youth Committee, I mostly went to and from Librazhd on foot. Often I would take the shortcut via Kodra e Madhe, passing in front of Gani Dosku’s house. We would greet each other on the road, because he was transporting fuel with his mule, and on occasion we would exchange cigarettes. During our communication, he was very correct, not at all provocative; although he had only primary education, he was a skilled speaker. One day, he told me he had a problem and hoped I could solve it for him. “Go ahead!” I said. “You know how it is with our families,” he continued. “We have not been given Democratic Front cards; we remain isolated. For now, we have no hope. My older brother, Feriti, has fled, and we have no contact with him, and last year Nebiu was also sentenced.” “I don’t deal with the Front, but with the youth,” I said. “Precisely, that’s what I want to talk about,” he replied. At that moment I thought to myself, “Why did I have to mention the youth?” – But it was too late to take it back.
On the other hand, looking at him, I noticed that he was quite clever, because he had quickly steered me where he wanted. “I have my eldest son, Hyqmeti,” he continued, “who is not a member of the youth organisation, so I am turning to you, if you can, to help me get him accepted into the youth, so that he doesn’t remain isolated from his brigade comrades!” I listened and watched him attentively. Before me stood a needy but dignified man. In his eyes one could easily discern compassion for his son, a sense of justification; yet he did not feel guilty, nor did he ask me to sacrifice myself. Besides these, something else came to my mind: my maternal grandfather had been a close friend of his father, Maliq Dosku. We both knew this, but he did not mention it.
I also recalled an incident from many years earlier, when I was about 7‑8 years old. While passing along that road with my father, my aunt and my sick mother, who was to be taken to the Librazhd hospital, Nebiu brought out his mule with a blanket thrown over the packsaddle, which we used for the journey there and back. For all these reasons, I wanted to help him, but it was not easy. In about two years of working there, I had not encountered such a case. At the same time, I could not act alone, and I did not know what attitude my colleagues there would take; perhaps the District Party Committee also needed to be informed. I was thinking about these things while he spoke. After he finished, I remained silent for a few seconds, with my head bowed. “Don’t feel uncomfortable,” he continued, “if it’s a problem, I’ll bear the discomfort, as I always have.” Lifting my gaze and looking him in the eye, I said: “Listen, Gani! Don’t think I don’t know that we are old friends. My grandfather, Abdulla Hunçi, and your father, Maliq Dosku, were very close. I will try to help, but you understand that not everything depends on me.” “I know,” he said, “do what you can. I want to see you as you are, and where you are.” That was, in broad terms, the roadside conversation with the man labelled a kulak, Gani Dosku, from the village of Dorëz.
I decided to do everything possible. At the Youth course we had studied much of the Party of Labour’s literature, through the so‑called works of Enver Hoxha. I tried to recall details about the class struggle, which we had studied as a priority. I remembered that somewhere it spoke about young people coming from kulak backgrounds, but I could not recall the details. Any thought or decision had to be backed by the sayings of Enver Hoxha; otherwise it could cost you your life. In my library I had almost all of his works, as well as other documents of the PPSh, and the “classics” – as the books of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin were called at the time. I also had an alphabetical index of the works. I searched it and quickly found the relevant paragraph. It stated that in special cases, young people from kulak families could be accepted into the youth organisation, with the aim that the children would oppose their parents regarding the past. First, I discussed it with a friend of mine who held an important position in Librazhd, but he cut me short: “Ali, don’t get involved with kulaks, or you’ll create trouble for yourself.” I saw that there was no point in pursuing it with him.
A few days later I contacted the First Secretary of the Youth in his office, who was my direct superior. I told him that a parent, a kulak from Dorëz, had asked me to accept his 19‑ or 20‑year‑old son into the youth. He asked me for details. I explained that the boy’s paternal grandfather had died in prison, but the body had been allowed to be retrieved; one of his uncles had fled, while another had been sentenced for agitation and propaganda. “And the boy’s mother’s side, what are they like?” he asked me. “With many problems,” I said, telling him about the Eminaj family: imprisoned, fled, and recently all interned. After thinking for a moment – apparently because of the extremely complicated circumstances – he asked me on what basis I would justify accepting him into the youth organisation. I showed him, and we both carefully read the fragment in Enver Hoxha’s work for which I had noted the page number. “Well then, alright,” he said, “but you will ask the parent that the son first come to the local youth labour campaign in Librazhd.”
I left the head’s office feeling a special sense of satisfaction. Now I hoped the matter would be resolved. After work, I set off for home, passing along the road in front of Ganiu’s house. I walked slowly, but saw no one outside. I thought of calling out, but going into the house was out of the question, so I gave up. I met Ganiu on the road two or three days later, when he was getting fuel at the fuel depot in Krastë, above the motor road. As soon as he saw me he sensed I had something, and came down to the road. “I’ve discussed it,” I told him without giving details, “but if you want, your son should come for two months to the local labour campaign.” He was overjoyed. “Even four months if necessary,” he replied. “No,” I said, “the campaign lasts two months.”
I should mention that the most difficult task for us employees of the Youth Committee apparatus was fulfilling the quotas of young workers for the local labour campaign. This was because it was two months of work on the hills of Spathar or Dragostunjë, whereas the national campaign was one month in the south of the country, where young people went more willingly, also to see the sights. Yet the kulak was willing to send his son even for four months! Not because it was economically better, or because he wanted him to work for no pay, but because he did not want to see his child separated from his friends and neighbours of the neighbourhood or village. At the beginning of the following month, Hyqmet Dosku reported to the youth labour campaign barracks, which were located above the train station in Librazhd. The campaign commander was Hyqmet Shalja, a friend of ours from Dorëz, who showed no animosity towards this social stratum; on the contrary, his heart was with them. Ganiu’s son worked for two months in the campaign, exceeding the daily norm each day, earning several “shock‑worker” awards. He was physically strong and had been instructed not to let us down.
After the campaign ended, we would complete the Youth document for Hyqmeti, which I thought I would give to him at the brigade in the village where he worked. While I was morally prepared to do this, the First Secretary of the Youth called me into his office. “Sit down!” he said, and handed me a double sheet of ordinary notebook paper, handwritten. He himself was dealing with an official document in front of him, and told me to read the letter. I turned to the end to see who had written it, but the letter was anonymous. I remember the first lines began with my name: “Ali Buzra, instructor at the District Youth Committee, will accept into the youth organisation Hyqmet Dosku …” etc. It then listed the latter’s biography in detail. It was four pages of writing. The letter accused us of softening the class struggle, etc. Although the wording was ordinary, the content was clear. I was completely taken aback.
I started to go over some fragments a second time, but I almost became completely distracted. This was a time when arrests and sentences, even death sentences, of people from the top of the state down to the grassroots had created confusion, distrust and fear. My thoughts became tangled; I forgot I was in my superior’s office – and in that period superiors enjoyed a particular authority. The Secretary had finished reading the material he had and was looking at me. He evidently noticed my state and said with a laugh: “Have you read it?” “Yes,” I said, half‑voiced, also surprised by his calmness. “Why are you worried? What is written there, we already know. You didn’t keep it hidden, and we decided to do it. Issue him the membership card!” he said. / Memorie.al
