From Shpend Sollaku Noé/
Memorie.al/ Are Albanians a people or a crowd? If a community of people has lived on the same land since antiquity, speaks the same language from then on; on that language has laid the foundations of its distinct cultural edifice, easily distinguishable from others, and has especially managed to have a collective consciousness; then this community can be called a people. Throughout times continuing to this day, this community has had the tendency to unite in an ethnic state: the place where the people gather and are politically and economically protected by their ethnic borders. At the foundation of this state lies the historical memory of its people.
How are Albanians presented when viewed through this lens?
In these few lines, one cannot claim even a small revision of the history of the Albanian popular psychology. These are opinions, and as such, they are subject to the chatter of social networks or even official media. How have Albanians behaved throughout history? As a people? As a crowd? What have they accepted as undeniable and what have they continuously put into question? What have they quickly forgotten, and what do they partially remember?
Here, I will not distinguish between the behavior of the common man, who calls himself a people, according to the behavior of his leaders over the years, according to the logic: “good leaders – good peoples; bad leaders – bad peoples.” After all, this people has deserved all those types of leaders, for even if they did not choose them, they have endured them, accepted them, and submitted to them. At least for a period of time. For most of several decades. With every right to declare themselves as a good people or a bad people.
According to this reasoning, our people have continually exalted and denied themselves. By exalting the newly arrived leader and denying the overthrown leaders. By mixing up their own history. In terms of their ancientness – poorly documented, highly turbid, without seeking further information, without delving into studies – this people still remains a hostage to opinions. Even when the opportunities to document are abundant, for instance, regarding their Renaissance, in the field of Independence, and even more so during the infamous communist period, this people still behaves like a crowd: it instinctively submits to the newly risen leader.
By instinctively performing the first thing, kneeling before him. This happens even when someone attempts to keep alive in memory, especially the tragedies, which should not be erased from its memory in any way. And there is no greater tragedy that should not be forgotten than that of communist repression, which resulted in bloodshed, forced labor, countless imprisonments lasting a lifetime, and internments lasting even after death, of people and families numbered at least in six figures; which stripped them of thought and injected the DNA of the slave, even in the remaining part of the Albanians.
Few are those who have properly raised their voices against the erasure of the chilling testimonies of the dictatorship. Many, unfortunately, are interested in the destruction of these testimonies, starting from all those who have been at the helm of the Albanians since the years after 1990. I do not call this the post-communist period, because, in reality, if communism fell as an economic system, it continues to reign in Albania as a way of thinking and acting. Otherwise, it is impossible to explain the current political developments and the current Albanian social fabric. It is also impossible to explain the attitude toward preserving the most tangible testimonies of repression: those irreplaceable ones, the internment camps.
And there is no place in the world more concentrated for them than Lushnja. Driven by the idea of understanding their real situation, a few weeks ago I visited those camps that, in my opinion, are the most representative in that painful myzeqar archipelago: Savra, Gradishta, and Çermë Camp.
Savra, the lingering despair…!
Upon entering there, your ears are immediately filled with music from Përmeti or Skrapari. The radios or stereos are turned up to the max, as if they are competing with each other. A normal appearance. With normal people, who confuse our car with that of some official, who knows how long it has been since he returned there. They come outside and begin to voice their complaints. When we tell them who we are and why we have come, they lower their eyes to the ground. They explain where the road we seek is located, but no one offers to be a “guide,” even after the promise of a small reward, which here perhaps means half a pension for those fortunate enough to enjoy it. They return to their homes, turning up the volume of the music even more. As if using it as a “tobe estagfurllah” against us, whom they consider ghost hunters. And the ghosts here should be found in abundance.
Because there have been many unavenged dead, who left this world desperate and without recompense. Like those we are going to awaken, as unusual tourists of crime. A young man, who explains to us that he was not interned here but knows that area well, spontaneously offers to help as we head toward the block of the interned. His name is Gëzim Halili. He stayed with us throughout the entire time of the investigation, frequently asking others about the information we sought. Fragmented information, reluctantly given by people fearful of awakening the ghosts. Or from the anger of the current leader, who, like his predecessors, has never wanted to confront them.
The road of the barracks has a new name, “Thoma Papano,” a name that disturbs the peace of the ghosts even more, denied as human beings during their lives, condemned even after internment to remain ghosts. I try to gather in the air their unease. And I hear their voice. Soft, yet sharp and revolting: “This name you see on our street is nothing for us. Only a few distinguished surnames have suffered on this road.” And then they start to list them: Deda, Hoxha, Markagjoni, Dine, Dukagjini, Kupi, Spahiu, Bajraktari, Mulleti, Mirakaj, Radi, Kolgjini, Plaku, Kulla…! There have been many, but we are ghosts, and we are held captive by this long list. Ah, add the surname Laholli here… add Kokali… add…!
Officially, there were seven barracks, three on one side and four on the other. But in each of them, up to sixteen families lived continuously. The most famous? Number seven, where the long-suffering Ahmet Kolgjini got married, where one of the most prominent Çamer figures, Rexho Plaku, also passed away; where Anton Dukagjini also perished, where Vehip Hoxha, the Mirakajs, and many others lived, changed over the years, according to the bloodthirsty desires of the most zealous of the dictatorship. Some came back from long imprisonments, some returned after their time in chains, following a fatal rite. In the corner, “The Mad Orlando,” a work by Ludovico Ariosto from 1532, was also translated, by master Guljelm Deda – awarded posthumously in 2014. We take a look at the barracks, or rather what remains of them.
Because there can only be talk of remnants. Most, especially the uninhabited ones, are in their last gasp. And it is a miracle that they still stand, thanks to their stubbornness and their thirst to testify. But less than a strong wind, maybe even an earthquake, would suffice to flatten them. Even those few that are still inhabited do not appear healthy: they are occupied by new people so poor that they cannot even repair them. Not to mention someone’s constructions among them, which would be hard to uproot if… if…! This condition remains until the edge of the former “Block” of the interned, where there once were shared toilets, flattened since their foundations. They too have turned into ghosts, longing to testify to something.
Çermë – the hidden shame
Of all the internment camps, perhaps less has been written about Çermë. Perhaps because there were not many true barracks there, which had long been abandoned (there were only three, built a long time ago, after the drying of Tërbufi, amidst the mud, like a shelter for… soldiers), but so-called houses, generally covered with tiles. Perhaps because, seemingly, being closer to the road to Divjakë, it was more visible to the public eye. Perhaps…?! Even though to the west of it, there was a frightening guardhouse, tall, where even the crawling of bears found it hard to escape its gaze. With all this resemblance, it was no less terrifying, not only for the oppression of the freedom of interned families, not only for the shameful unmasking and countless beatings by the State Security forces…!
Officially, it was named Çermë-Sector No. 2, but in reality, it has always been called “Camp” by the surrounding residents. There, families of interned intellectuals lived side by side with illiterate, ignorant collaborators of the Security; Kosovo emigrants treated as Yugoslavs, facing communists who, even after imprisonments, continued to love communism; polyglots heard near prostitutes! Many were the interned individuals, fewer were the interned families, sent there to be monitored more closely, not only by those who made the appeals, but also by undeclared collaborators of the State Security.
I worked as a teacher in the Çermë-Shkumbin high school and I knew many of the internees personally, especially their sons, who studied in our school. There were many of them, and entire books would not suffice to describe their suffering, insecurity, the permanent fear in their eyes, even though they were often smarter and more prepared than their peers without a “stain” on their biographies. The list of those who suffered the worst internment in this camp is extensive: The family of Sefer Mujo – with Bajame, Fatmiri, Eqeremi, Novruzi, their wives and children; The family of Daut Sokoli – with Xhemila, Kujtimi, Ritvani, their wives and children; The family of Islam Dobra – with Xhemila, the two sons Muhamet and Shefqet, their wives and children. All of these families had their heads of household fleeing abroad and their sons imprisoned.
Further, we remember the unfortunate family, Islami with Hajdari, Nadire, Klement, Isabel, and Zamira, who later escaped to America; The family of Rrok Pjetri – Nënë Nusha, Pjetri, Frani, Lazri, Lina, their wives, children; The family of Odise Tsollos – a Greek minority, with his wife and two sons; The family of Theodhori File – his wife and three children; The Kau family – with the wise elder Xhemali, Deja, Paqo, their son’s wife, Shefqet Kau, a political prisoner, and their children, Sajmiri and Flamuri; The Gjuta family – with Zaim, Huma, Agim, Avni, their wife and children; The family of Gani Kodra – with Ikbale, two sons, a daughter with two children; The family of the internationally recognized polyglot, Mit’hat Aranitasi; The family of the poet and distinguished intellectual, Ahmet Kolgjini, the family of…, the family of…! All the families mentioned above had at least one member of the family imprisoned politically.
The list can be extended with “Kosovars” Hashim Toplica – 36 years in prison, Nazmi Berisha – 20 years in prison, author of a memoir about his imprisonments; then with other families from Kosovo: Mehaj, Prekllukaj, Çelaj, Hasa, or even with those from “locals”: Bratko, Hoxha, Alla, Bezati, Kurti, etc., who, although officially not interned and not subjected to appeals, unmaskings, or beatings, did not live any better than their “fellow campers.” From time to time, others recorded their suffering there as well, who are less remembered, like some Stavri, whose last name is not recalled, but especially remembered as a former partisan who suffered countless beatings from one unmasking to another. This character reminds me of another minority from the “Teqe” neighborhood in Lushnja, who only suffered after someone had asked him, “What does work say”? he had replied: “Work is much, shit is a lot!”
All of this comes to mind as I visit what remains of the former Camp, as here too, just like in Savra, we can speak of remnants. What we see from the former residences of the internees can be categorized into two groups: one consists of the most ruined ones, often turned into silage warehouses or stables; the other includes those that are better maintained, depending on the resources of the new inhabitants. The former residence of the Kolgjini family, for example, had not suffered destruction, partly due to the care or means of its owners, who came from Mokra. There were worse cases: The Dobra family home, among others, had been turned into someone’s stable and had begun to collapse. The house of the Islam family, on the other hand, had undergone minor changes but was in a miserable state. While we were photographing this house, someone approached us and, without introducing himself, told us he had been present when, after Isabel, Klement, and Zamira’s escape, the police had raided their home.
Among other things, they had found around 800,000 old lek, as well as photos of three generations, carefully preserved. “We left them in place,” he told us. “We didn’t take anything with us.” It seemed he was telling the truth. In fact, whether from that money or the photos, the Islam family later could not recover anything. It was heartbreaking, primarily over the loss of familial affections. Nevertheless, what struck me the most, especially after the destruction of historical testimonies, was the ongoing preservation, not only in popular consciousness, of the name of this former hell: “Camp.” It was even written in an almost official designation: “Health Center, Çermë-Camp.” Did this designation escape censorship? By chance? Intentionally?!
Gradishta: a geyser of moans
In terms of its expanse, but especially because of the large number of individuals who passed through the sieve of internments here since 1969 onward, Gradishta may also hold a record, as sad as it is tragic. A typical “gulag,” built in the midst of mud, often by the internees themselves, without sewage for wastewater (there were open pits waiting for a cart to be cleaned, often mixed with the wash water from the internees, and these flowed through shallow channels between the barracks, but also along the narrow path separating the two main blocks of residences), without running water (it was rationed, brought by tank trucks; only later was a common fountain installed, at which elbows, quarrels, and provocations often crowded the line, to divide the condemned).
The list of names of prominent families brought here, reposted elsewhere, or returned again, is extensive. With few exceptions, they are nearly the same as those found in other camps, but especially in Savra. Meanwhile, the names that are missing can be found in the sectors of Plug, Gjazë, Çermë-Camp, and Savra. The latter, Savra, had been the area for gathering and distributing “hostile production” and can be considered the mother camp. From there, the settlement of the camps “children” with slaves began. This sadistic “mother” would relocate or return them, depending on the requirements of surveillance, but also based on party needs for labor in agriculture. As soon as we arrived in that area, we sought to know where the camp was. I hadn’t been there since we found ourselves at a democracy rally in early 1991, and I found it difficult to orient myself, also due to the overall degradation of the entire surrounding area.
“Here we are in Ferras,” someone told me, “the name camp doesn’t exist here.” And he tried to explain something to me that I actually already knew. “This place was called Ferras before it took on the name Gradishta-Sector.” Just as the name Savra – Sector, Çermë – Sector (which remains nameless even to this day), Çermë – Sector No. 2, still bearing the name that sends a chill down the spine, “Camp”; just like Sector – Grabian, Sector – Plug, Gjazë, etc.: camouflage of internment locations as sectors of an agricultural enterprise. In the formerly main square of the degraded “sector,” we looked for someone to guide us. “We have the mayor here,” one of the frequenters of the local club chimed in. “He was also interned.” I turned to the group to find him. Someone among them said quietly, “They must be journalists; nothing comes from them.” I introduced myself and asked to speak with the mayor.
He introduced himself coldly. His name was Bajram Koloshi. He was precisely the person who had expressed skepticism about our presence. I told him why I had come there. “Ah, how many journalists and officials have come here, conducted interviews, promised, and then disappeared.” I tried to tell him that I did not belong to those categories, but he had already distanced himself, after telling one of the men present to help us. This time, the “guide” was named Agron Zaçe. Together, we explored the entire area of the barracks for the internees. And I want to say right from the start that the situation in the Gradishta Camp was much worse than in Savra or Çermë-Camp. Here we had transitioned from the misery of the former barracks to total destruction.
Except for one of the barracks, in which the family of Zenel Tërnaku still lived, or some other lodgers, all the others were mere illusions of former homes, now more painful in this new form, like testaments in agony. The deeper you delved into that reality, the more dramatic the environment became. The most disfigured barracks bore the names of Lekë and Mojs Miraka, Xhevdet and Bujar Kaloshi, Thanas Buda, Abdurrahman Kaloshi, Lek Pervizi… Menaj, Kupi, Dosti, Demaj, Herraj… Staravecka, Zevo, Resuli, Bylykbashi…! Everywhere, degradation was the lord of the land: roofs of asbestos falling down, walls of adobe and reeds, from which only the crooked timbers remained, sometimes covered by weeds, sometimes transformed into livestock stables, into warehouses for brambles or jonshe, into dog shelters.
The Violent Monument of Lushnja
That Albanians have a distorted memory is typified by the residents of Lushnja. It cannot be otherwise when they endure, in their main square – every time they celebrate, every time they leave the clubs, or during evening strolls – the tallest monument in this city, that of the seizure of farmers’ lands. They should change their route, but they wander around indifferently; they should vomit before it, but they seem to have strong stomachs; they should have been outraged for a long time; “no limits,” yet they remain silent.
Twenty-three years ago, in the newspapers “Ora e Fjalës” and “Republika,” I suggested sending that monument to the foundry and erecting another in its place, that of the communist genocide. And since nothing has changed since then, I repeat all the reasons I mentioned before: That shameful monument is politically harmful, as it seeks to immortalize the bloodiest and most tragic reforms of Myzeqe. Shamelessly, it has even been called “Our Land.” Whose land? The land of those who took it? The land that was collectivized? The land of those who stripped the farmer to the bone? That does not satisfy hunger even with corn bread?
Having been erected by the communists back then, when they were realizing the bankruptcy of their inhumane order, that is to say very late (in 1987), this monument was understood as their attempt to immortalize themselves. Today, in a true democratic state, it is also dangerous; as long as it stands, it will be a source of political tensions, even though for the moment, they are dormant.
For the above reasons, it is also a historically falsified monument. Try asking the few survivors from the time of collectivization’s how much “joy” they felt when they gifted their lands and livestock! Just browse through the documents left behind in the archives of the dictatorship, read the Albanian press from those years, ask the families of Fuat Kurti, Demir Gubera, Hysen Baho, Mitro Vulo, Hamdi Sefa, Veiz Kurti, Rrap Qerreti, Naum Daja, and Jorgji Daja, who were sentenced to death and had their property confiscated. If these sacrificed lives are not enough for you, we can also offer those of those with life imprisonment…! All because they were declared kulaks for not liking collectivization.
The shameful monument of Lushnja must be sent to the foundry, even though it is not a sculpture with a national base (this term was very much liked by the communists). Aside from the base, the entire complex in the Bronx is made according to Soviet models. (And this is not the only sculpture in Lushnja that suffers from Soviet or Chinese influence, often copied 100% from the “works” of those countries). “Our Land” is also a typical work according to the party’s teachings: “with a spade in one hand and a gun in the other,” or according to the standard idea of the alliance between the “working class” and cooperative peasantry. From an artistic realization perspective, this bronze three-figure mass, with all due respect for the author Perikli Çuli, is exceedingly mediocre; therefore, with its melting, I see not even the smallest loss for national art.
Thus, this monument, so humiliating in substance, artistically mediocre, politically harmful, and historically falsified, must be eradicated from there. What could replace it? With something natural, for which Lushnja should be officially recognized: With a monumental complex dedicated to the communist persecution. And not just that. Lushnja also needs a museum for this unparalleled persecution. Likewise, the internment camps should also be memorialized, wherever they were. While it is not too late, as long as they can still be recovered. Besides being undeniable historical evidence, these village-museums could also be a source of business for the local populations, as they would certainly attract many visitors, both Albanian and foreign.
The current head of government, in his pre-election promises, especially in America, promised to solve many problems for former convicts and political persecuted individuals, even presenting himself as the only one who could solve these problems. Without any preconceived notions from others, he has the opportunity to confirm these promises. He should declare a national competition for the theme of the new monument in Lushnja and try to support it with funds. If assistance is sought, even from former persecuted individuals, whether in Albania or the diaspora, I am sure their commitment will not be lacking. National memory must be recovered, while it is still not completely extinguished. Regardless of the parties we think we represent. So that we do not continue to remain a half people, constantly disgracing our most important parts. To become a true, complete nation, recognizing in the leader all of ourselves, not just a limb of it./Memorie.al
