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phosphorusExcerpt from the book “Forgiveness”, by Sofika Prifti (Kara), a publication of the Institute for Research on Crimes and Consequences of Communism in Tirana, in which the author describes with detail and professional competence the history of one of the most popular tribes, not only in the city of Tirana, Khavaja, but more generally, the Kara tribe, from which emerged not only outstanding patriots and patriots who contributed to the national cause and the freedom of Albania, but also well-known BroadCast Unitedlectuals, graduates in the West, who then returned to serve their motherland, contributing in multiple fields of science and life. But despite the fact that the descendants of the Kara tribe dedicated their lives to the national cause, after the communists came to power at the end of 1944, they were persecuted, imprisoned and exiled, and fierce class war also accompanied them until 1990, when the communist regime began to collapse.
student
I’m going back to 1990-91. After Khavaja, the students of Tirana stood up and started the student movement, for a new life, for a new political system, for a better, brighter future, for freedom and democracy, for freedom of expression, which had been brutally denied for 50 years.
That day, the young man uprooted the bust of the dictator Enver Hoxha and threw it down from the square, not far from the bust of our national hero Skenderbe, with a manly look in his eyes, as if he wanted to say to the dictator:
“For the sake of my country, Albania, and my Albanian people, I have refused all the favors offered to me by the Sultan, and you are insatiable for everything, even the blood of your people and friends!
You want to be Lord of lords, but there is only one God in the whole world! What you seek, you find”! On the day of this unforgettable event, Badi and Hevdetti were having dinner at their aunt’s house in Tirana. They were present when students and freedom-loving people were dismantling the monument to the tyrant Enver, like a broken molar.
There were dozens of citizens from the Khawaja and Bardi tribes! People kept dragging him away like a dead dog. When they got home, they were watching the news. Xhevdet saw himself on TV and shouted in surprise: “Oh! Here I am! I was caught on camera too”!
Unfortunately, he ate some rubber sticks, and the place was swollen and black. But he felt no pain. He felt proud and happy, and could not find words to express the feeling.
“Now, even if I die,” he told me with tears in his eyes, “I have no regrets, because we were burned to death because of that heartless man.” I regret not going to lay a bouquet of flowers on my father’s grave in Australia and telling him:
“Father, you spoke about Albania, you said there was no freedom of speech here, you spoke about human rights, about isolating your country from the world, and therefore, our lives became barren at that time, a thorn in the eyes of the world. A sting in the system. Sleep now in peace, because the man who made you escape, left us like a piece of meat, and it was we who dragged him out of the grave”!
Death of Ijaw
The unfortunate woman, Buddy’s mother, was named Naile, but we all called her Ije, as the Cavaliers called their mothers. Ije’s luck was not good, and her marriage lasted only 11 years, and her husband fled abroad, first to Italy and then to Australia.
It was 1944, and he fled, leaving behind four young sons. In 1939, he left his hometown of Khawaja and went to the city of Fir. Her husband, Musa Cara, was a businessman. However, joining the National Front led him to flee abroad.
If he stayed here, death was waiting for him. It was the first days after the war. The country was ravaged by the war, and everywhere was sitting cross-legged and suffering. The scarcity of fukarallek. was inserted in every fireplace.
Moussa Kalla has always been an advocate of the “National Front”, which the Enver government calls enemies of the people, condemning them whether they are present or not. This is how they treat us. All Moussa Kalla’s assets were confiscated: shops, cars, goods, land for building houses, warehouses, the two-story house was converted into a nursery, the land was divided into several plots, so his children were left with only their fingers in their mouths!
Ija was still very young at that time and faced many difficulties in life with her father-in-law, Uncle Ramin. Nairja brought a large dowry, which was found for those dark and difficult days. Because it is the tradition of Khawaja to give dowry to married girls; they have, they don’t have, they give you dowry, some are more, some are less.
Hard times. The children were still young and were looking for bread to fill their stomachs. Driven by poverty, Ija, with tears streaming down her face, began to sell the dowry that she had embroidered with her own hands with her eyes closed.
As he raised the boys, they went to work, Ijaw married them and thought that was the end of his troubles. But that was when the biggest and most painful troubles began: the arrest and imprisonment of the boys, the exile of the family, occasional provocations, and finally the physical elimination of the two older boys by the people of the communist government of Enwezhan, who squeezed it, gathered it and clenched it into a fist.
It persisted like a mold, but not in spirit. She lost her patience because she knew that although her sons were innocent, she did not fall headfirst on the rock. As the saying goes, “The camel endured for forty years and finally cracked”!
One day, mother Nailja or Ija fell ill with depression. We took him to the hospital. Due to high stress, the 61-year-old had his eyes burst in the hospital, and it was the doctors who did not give proper care. Then Ija went into sclerosis. He didn’t know what he was doing.
But she was well cared for by her granddaughter, Elma, who took very good care of her grandmother. After much pain and humiliation, she died a martyr on January 8, 1993. Apart from illness and pain, Ija did not have any happy days.
Her whole life was black, as they say: “A sheep born black remains black even when it is slaughtered or dies”. This is how Ija died for us, and the poor thing never saw a single white day. Her sons could not do anything for their mother, who had taken so much trouble and made so many sacrifices.
It’s not that they didn’t want to, but they didn’t have the chance to repay her. Ija was escorted to the last apartment with great respect. As a reward for her life full of suffering, she only got a tomb, which was built for her by her nephew Arian Kara. Mother Nairja will never be forgotten!
Second departure
After the doors of the Tirana embassy were blown open, many Albanians, young and old, were trapped inside the embassy walls, waiting to start a new and better life. They took crooked paths and put their heads in bags. After the first exodus ended in March 1991, there was talk of a second exodus.
In fact, we also wanted to escape from the first time we ran away, but Ija’s illness kept us with her for many years because she needed our support for the sacrifices she made to raise four children.
One day we learned that the port would be opened, so we went to Durres. This was the second time we went as a family. This time, Durres was surrounded by Samptists and special forces in space suits. People from many towns and villages came to Durres, eagerly waiting for the port to open.
They sat and waited in a garden near the port like criminals. The Sampustas may have received some order, for then they rushed upon the crowd like wild animals, and the crowd scattered, panic-stricken, and ran in different directions.
I will never forget a young man from Librajde who was sitting on the sidewalk next to a garden eating bread. We lived in that garden too. Sampies came from another way, but when they found themselves right in front of us! We could not move, and he did not run.
They turned to the young man and asked him: “Where are you from?” – “From Librazhdi”, – he answered with his mouth full of bread. “Are you here to escape?” they asked him arrogantly. Apparently they had received the order to kill him, even though they did not receive his answer.
Without thinking, one of them shot him in the head with a Kalash. Blood gushed out instantly, flowing along the sidewalk like water. Seeing one person killed, everyone scattered in fear, their legs aching. This young man had obviously become an example for others to be afraid and flee the port. We were frozen so close to him, our faces were like dead people, and we sat motionless in the flower bed.
“Let it be as it is written by the great God,” I said to myself. Bai muttered to us, “Don’t move!” Our hearts beat violently like little birds for the two young men. (One or two?) They were still young! All life is a hope, and you must live it no matter what happens, good or bad. When the children saw the young men from Librazhidi bleeding, they trembled at the scene they experienced.
Then the executioners left the victims on the ground and came to us and asked us: “Where are you from?” They surrounded us like eggs in the middle of a cake. It was a huge Tromax when you saw the whole family surrounded by “Kalash” barrels.
I couldn’t forget the previous scene, and this time the murderers had guns pointed at us. They had clear orders to shoot. These were the last hours of the red sofa! Six of the seven “heads” were chopped off.
The last one, the seventh “head”, was also giving souls. Baldi answered the phone from Khawaja. “What are you doing here?” they asked again, and Baldi explained: “We came to the hospital and planned to have lunch at my uncle’s house in Kurirat, but we were not allowed to go.
We are waiting for the road to open, that’s why we haven’t taken action. ” “You want to throw it to us”?! – they expressed their doubts. “No, no,” Buddy tried to convince them, “let one of you come and see where we are going. “
My uncle did have his house there but we did not go to him. One of the Samites, whose name was Badr, married his sister in Khawaja near us, and he obviously recognized us but we did not recognize him because he was wearing a mask, and he said to the chief: “Yes, Commander, they are from Khawaja, I know they have a house near my sister”.
He really saved us from them! “Today you also found this day” – the boss said sarcastically. – “We know nothing”, Xhevdeti told him. Then he ordered us to go through the church road, because it was not allowed there. We ran away quickly and disappeared in the crowd!
Later, a few hours later, it was clear that the watchdogs had been ordered to lower their demands, and people poured into the port. The situation calmed down. From time to time you looked at the police or soldiers, and they were also shooting in vain in the air! The crowd prepared a stretcher and carried the body of the young man from Librazd to Durres Avenue.
That day in Durres, the sampists were like the roots of the gram. They appeared and disappeared like magic. They were the sons of those whose power was slipping away from under their feet. Young people, boys, girls and their mothers, fled from this hated power, fled, but they still cried, with tears in their eyes.
Hours, days, weeks passed, and those poor mothers waited anxiously for news of their children, not knowing that some of them became food for the fish at the bottom of the sea, and whose fate was tragic, like a fallen man. Fig seeds, ropes from the ferry! The mothers waited and waited, waiting for news of their children to make their hearts happy, but their tears never dried up, but left traces on their cheeks and hearts. memory
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