Great Cause

I recently received an e-mail from a woman named Rachel, a student in the UK who recently returned from an Oxfam trip. She is know part of an organization that is raising money to build a bridge for Ura e Shtrenjt in northern Albania. You can read more about the project here where there is all the information you'll need to help out.

I hope you can all try the best you can to donate.

Paçi Faqen e Bardh

This past Saturday, my family celebrated the life and death of a cousin’s wife in the traditional way, with a hater. A hater is the post-burial ritual held by Catholic Northern Albanians. Muslims might also have this practice, but I’m not sure.

Shortly after a burial, the family of the deceased will make it known when the hater will be and prepare their home or, as has been done in recent times, make arrangements for the hater to be held in a Church space. The family will be dressed entirely in black to symbolize their mourning. This also serves a practical purpose: for visitors who are not acquainted with the entire family, they will know who is in mourning by what they are wearing. So when a family arrives to pay their respects, they know whose hand to shake and what to say.

Arriving at a hater, a family will arrange themselves before entering. The oldest male first in line, the youngest female last. They are greeted by a line of men from the family, and possibly some close women, also lined up in order of importance, the zoti shpis (or head of the family), followed by his brothers, sons and cousins. When they greet the first person (men shake hands with their left hand on their stomachs—is this a vestige of days when men carried revolvers in their belts?), they will say “Kjoft levdua Krishti” (Christ be praised), to which the family representative will say “Gjithmonë e jetës” (Forever and ever). So far, this is general practice for anytime visitors come to a house. For a hater, however, there are special greetings. A visitor will say “Zoti dhash kivet” (God give you strength), to which the family member will respond “Paç kivet” (May you have strength).

When they sit down (in order of clan, age, honor), the men are poured glasses of raki and each person is immediately brought a coffee. At the beginning of their raki, the oldest man will start with blessings and condolences, such as “Past Krishti en Pariz” (May Christ keep him/her in paradise), to which a family member will respond, “Krishti t’ndimoft” (May Christ help you). The men down the line will repeat the same blessings, or permutations of the same blessings until the last person. As they finish their drink/coffee, they will repeat this same ritual. Throughout this time, people will be talking about anything really, sometimes about the deceased, but the mood is calm. When they are ready to leave, the family will line up again to shake their hands and exchange condolences again. A family member might initiate the condolences, saying "Paçi faqën e bardh" (May you have a clean face).

At a hater, the traditional roles of men and women are somewhat altered. For most events, the men will entertain the guests by sitting with them and talking, and the women will not only prepare food and drinks, but serve the company as well. At a hater, the women of the family mostly stay away from the company, preparing the food and drinks. Some older women, or a few designated women might be selected to sit with the women who come to pay their respects, and one woman might be designated to pour glasses or water for those who want. The youngest males usually do the running around, liaisons between the women upstairs and the men downstairs. They will also go around and offer cigarettes to the guest.

The food and drink at a hater is also different. Usually, a host will pride themselves on an elaborate display of meze, with copious amounts of food. At a hater, however, Albanian sheep’s milk cheese is the only food served (with the possible addition of black olives). At least among Albanians in America, there are no sodas offered, but only raki rrushit and black coffee (Turkish coffee).

Although it was an occasion of death, I enjoyed the ritual, ceremony, and tradition of the hater. It is a reminder of origins and customs of days not gone by just yet, and about the culture of honor so engrained in my people.

If you’re reading and also have interesting mourning rituals, please feel free to post.

A bit back, David in Albania posted an interesting perspective on death notices in Albania. This is what Lula's said. Pay special attention to whom the notice is for (well, I'll just tell you, "miqtë dhe qytetarët," friends and people of city):

Me zemër të pikëlluar lajmërojmë miqtë dhe qytetarët se me datën 14.07.2006., u vdiq në moshen 73 vjeçare Lula Nikiq (e lindur Shkreli). Ngushëllimet i pranojmë në fashatin Zogaj. Varrimi i të ndjerës bëhet me 16.07.2006. në varrëzat familjare te kisha në Zogaj. Funerali niset nga Zogajt në oren 14:00. Të pikëlluarit, djemtë Kosta dhe Zefi, vajza Dila, nuset Zllata dhe Maria, nipat dhe stërnipat si dhe mbarë farëfisi Nikiq dhe Shkreli.

(With a mournful heart we inform our friends and fellow citizens of the city that on July 14, 2006, Lula Nikic (born Shkreli) died at 73 years old. We are receiving condolences in the village of Zogaj. The departed will be buried on July 16, 2006, at our family graves at the church in Zogaj. The funeral will leave from Zogaj at 2:00 p.m. The mourners, sons Kosto and Zef, daughter Dila, daughters-in-law Zllata and Maria, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and grand-nieces and nephews as well as the entire Nikic and Shkreli clans.)

Snip snip

Thanks to Free Kosova and my dad (nipi i Nikolle Markut) for bringing this article on synet to my attention.

My joke of the day:

They cut off his "p."

Land Without Justice

Tonight I finished Land Without Justice by Milovan Djilas. It's the first of a two-book autobiography detailing his childhood in Kolasin and Berane, Montenegro, as Montenegro loses its independence for the first time to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, and ends with how he came to be a communist.

For me, some of the most interesting parts were the ethnographic details, as I tried to imagine the country my great-grandfather grew up in (my grandfather can't remember the excitement, having been born in 1944). To think of the hamlets that turned into cities, the peasantry that turned into bourgoisie, and the practices that have left remnants of an honor-obsessed, clan culture that still attempts to exist today.

I also liked reading about the interactions between Montenegrins and Albanians at the time, and reading Djilas' musings on Albanians. Obviously, his point of view was a bit tainted by his allegiance to and fall from the Party, but it was interesting nonetheless.

In one regard, Djilas showed the contempt that some showed Albanians. He describes how his father would taunt his mother by accusing her of being an Albanian (she was of the Radenovic clan from the village of Meteh in Plav). The mother would deny this, and Djilas says "the Radenovici were Serbs from time immemorial." I suppose in these untamed mountains, especially in Plav-Guci, cultural identity is fluid, Djilas was known to say "The hardest thing about being a communist is trying to predict the past."

Interestingly enough, though, Djilas also mentions his father's run-in with Albanian leader Isa Boletini (who famously said, "Unë jam mirë kur asht' mirë Shqipnia"):

"The battle with Iso's irregulars did not last long, despite the Albanians' wild heroism. The blow struck down both the leader and his most devoted followers. Iso's immediate entourage was wiped out to a man, and the rest scattered. Iso Boljetini himself was killed. But he had fought fiercely and long when he was left alone on the open road. Wounded, he rose to his knees and, though too weak to hold a rifle, he fired a pistol, at least to take a life in exchange for his own. Father hurried toward him, and the wild Albanian leaned his pistol on his left arm. He did not have time to fire, however. A soldier had him in his sights and--he fell. Father ran up, and Iso glanced at him with big bloody eyes, said something in his own language, which Father did not understand, and breathed his last. Father took his large Mauser, with its silver-mounted handle, and kept it as his most prized souvenir.

It was little wonder that we children mourned for Iso Boljetini. Father mourned him too, though he was proud that his group had felled him. It was a special kind of sorrow, rather than admiration, for a fearless hero of wild Albania who had fought to the end on a bare field and empty road, neither begging nor forgiving, upright and without protection. There was this admiration in our sorrow, too. If one has to die, it would be good to fall like Iso Boljetini. Let it be remembered, at least by those who have seen and heard it."

The description is intense and the glimpse at the heroism of the day is invigorating. Many crimes were committed in the past few decades supposedly in the same spirit, but I don't think it is so. These kinds of deaths were different. I know the "old lie," "dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," but that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm not glorifying violence, but the honor in the violence that these men were forced to commit for the sake of their emerging homelands. You can disagree with me, but I think the children and father's mourning for Isa Boletini shows a great respect for conviction.

In the end, Djilas mentions his family's move to the mostly-Muslim town of Bijelo Polje before he went to university in Belgrade, and the adversity that the former land-owners (Muslims) expressed in their songs and dirges. "But this did not concern me then," Djilas says. "I was preparing myself for a new world, with my eyes already open to comprehend it and with a troubled soul, fearful of becoming lost in it."

In the next and final volume, Memoir of a Revolutionary, Djilas describes his rise and fall in the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia as his "poetic passion was in conflict with his revolutionary discipline." Stay tuned.

Politics as Usual

I just got this e-mail from Joe DioGuardi, now at the Albanian-American Civic League:

"Dear Friend,

At the urging of the Albanian American Civic League, the U.S. Senate conducted hearings in 1991 and 1998 about the dire situation facing Albanians in Kosova. Former Congressman Joe DioGuardi was the first to challenge U.S. failed foreign policy on Southeast Europe at the February 1991 hearing. At the May 1998 hearing, DioGuardi called for NATO, led by the United States, to stop Milosevic’s ethnic cleansing campaign before it was too late. Please click here to view selected segments from these historic hearings. Sincerely,

Joe DioGuardi, President
Shirley Cloyes DioGuardi, Balkan Affairs Adviser"

I can definitely appreciate the AACL, but these clips are from over six years ago; makes me wonder what he's after...

Also, the Honorable Mr. DioGuardi should update his picture.

National Psyche or Political Psychosis?

For you non-Albanian speakers, Dori at Peshku Pa Ujë calls to our attention some developments regarding the Serbian ultra-nationalist party, the Serbian Radical Party (Srpska radikalna stranka), which is the largest bloc in the Serbian Parliament:

The first is a B92 story on statements made by Tomislav Nikolic on force being a last resort in retaining Kosovo. He acknowledges diplomacy as being the primary means of negotiation, but says that Kosovo's final status should include autonomy in all respects, falling short of a "military of its own." In a response, Dusan Petrovic, who looks kind of like a sheep in wolf's clothing (scary beard!) of the Democratic Party (Demokratska stranka), says "Nikolić has no moral leg to stand on when it comes to making decisions that influence the fate of the Serbian nation."

Hey, at least they recognize his outlandishness, but sometimes I wonder if they only speak against the SRS for the sake of gaining Western favor. I guess that's my cynical side; I don't believe it, and would like to believe that SRS members of a dying breed, but I guess I wont know until I visit Belgrade. Would anyone like to buy my ticket?

Dori also mentions an incident last month involving an ethnic Croat member of Serbian parliament being called Ustashe by a member of the SRS. The SETimes story says that this event might lead to a banning of the SRS on grounds of "inciting ethnic, racial and religious intolerance."

Not only is it childish to call people names and curse people in government settings (can anyone say "Dick Cheney"), but it's scary to think that these kinds of insults are still being thrown at each other. When will they learn?!

I also don't think banning the party is the solution, although I can't think of a better one. I mean, they are a party that represents a certain constituency, but then again, so were the Nazis...

Can any of you living in Serbia give some picture of what the general mood is regarding the SRS there? Then again, "general mood," "national psyche": of what importance are these things, really?

Bg Anon had something really intelligent to say about this in his post a few months back on the Montenegrin referendum:

"Above all (and repeat this again and again, I do) people are (or should be) concerned with their own futures. That means a persons priority is having a job, being well paid, having a decent health service, that their children are attending good schools and so on."

I think if the politicians had these same priorities, we wouldn't have had the turmoil of the early '90s. Maybe that's simplistic of me.

In hopeful news, LlTako cited a report on Peshku Pa Ujë that shows some positive evolution in Serbia:

"A survey reported by the Belgrade press last week showed that Serbs would vote for E.U. membership by 59 to 12 percent, while a plurality believe independence is the most realistic solution for Kosovo."

Approaches to Death

David in Albania brings up an interesting comparison between death in Albania and death in the United States.

In 2004, I took a writing seminar at BU called "Approaches to Death" with Professor David Green. One of our textbooks was "On Death and Dying" by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, who died only a few months after I took the class. The part that rung most true to me, and was reminded of when reading one of the reviews was this assertment of Kubler-Ross': "The more we are making advancements in science, the more we seem to fear and deny the reality of death." I think that is the difference between the Albanian (as well as other more clan-oriented cultures) and American approaches to death.

In America, we have handed over our concept of death to the million-dollar funeral industry. Bodies are taken care of far from the sight of the average person, and presented with make-up, wigs, all kinds of aesthetic changes to make us more comfortable with the fact of death. We pay thousands of dollars for expensive, impenetrable caskets, embalming, etc. Why? After all, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, no?

A week ago, my father flew to Ulqini (Ulcinj, Montenegro) for the funeral of my grandfather's first cousin's wife. She was one of the last old people still living in Montenegro on my father's side of the family. If you ask me, my dad went back to say goodbye to a little part of his childhood. He was there for only three days, but came back energized, not by the funeral per se, but by the very human ritual, as well as its connection to the land and the people. Distant cousins, from Italy, Albania, the US, as well as some slavicized cousins from all the way in Belgrade, came to mourn.

In any case, the body was not embalmed, but refrigerated because of the hot temperatures as it sat in the middle of Zefi Gjonit's livingroom in the village of Zogaj. Science is not a part of this funeral, and really, not a part of the way of life here or in the neighboring city. Chairs lined the room and people sat, talking, in the presence of the dead. Those who heard about the death, through notice, or word of mouth, come to the house, give their respects to the family members lined up to receive them ("Zoti llash kivet," "Past' Dritë"), then views the body, pray, talk, ritualize this death in the way our people "always" have.

I think the posting of death notices puts into the public sphere what Americans choose to do in obituaries. But I think the Albanian custom says, "this is the community member we have lost, come take part in these mourning rituals that are part of our heritage as Albanians."

As Bytyqis mentioned in his comment to David, Albanians also employ professional mourners, vajtarë, who keen at funerals. The dirge, or vajtim, is dramatic, sad, and reminds mourners of the connection between the living and the dead. And because it is an old tradition, it also ties this death with the generations preceeding and the ancestors that were remembered in the same way.

Saturday will be the hatër for Lula Gjonit in New York. I'll add an update on what that was like this weekend.

Mjaft! Padituni

I knew somebody from Mjaft! would come out with a response to A.A. Gill's article on Albania, The Land that Time Forgot.

In a press release from July 25th, Mjaft! London has written to The Sunday Times demanding an apology and the right of reply. Naturally, Mjaft! London's primary concern is UK-Albanian relations. They are most offended by Gill's assertment that most Albanians abroad are involved in illegal activities. Mjaft! London seems to have taken this pretty personally. They also say Gill was deliberately aiming to "damage the business and trade relations between the UK and Albania." The letter also calls the writing "amatoresque," which I disagree with.

Though the article was intensely flammatory and controversial--chalking Mother Theresa's mission up to "helping people die" is fairly offensive to me, not only as a Catholic, but also as a human being--I couldn't help but laugh at a few places. Surely, contrary to what Mjaft! London says, much of Gill's observation is, in a sense, true (although, I dare him to find a Southeast European country that is clean, developed, and fashionable). His history is fine and he does mention, albeit in a condescending tone, the issues that probably make sense to most Tirana natives. And I must admit it was well-written. Finally, Gill does not have an obligation to help the image of Albania.

But why--aside from an Ann Coulter-esque desire for infamy--does A.A. Gill choose to make such glaring statements?

Although I laughed to myself a few times while reading the piece, when I finished, I felt sad. Not only is there so much more to Albania and Tirana than Gill, makes it seem, but his article is also defeatist. This is an attitude that Albanians know well. After decades of brutal dictatorship, centuries of being bullied, years of being duped when they thought they were finally in the clear, the Albanians, for the most part, are apathetic. They have resigned themselves to defeat. There is no hope. Similarly, Gill seems to think his article is the punction mark (a period) at the end of a long sentence of shame and decay. How can he hope to enjoy a city and country with his attitude? If all Albanians were like Gill, it would be an even sadder state of affairs.

And that is why, though their letter wasn't perfect, I can't help but commend Mjaft! London for their effort. Had Gill done his research, he would have discovered that Mjaft!, the very organization that responded to him, is a driving force for change in Albanian--a "levizje" in the very literal sense of the word. People are mobilizing, the youth is speaking out--things are getting done. And guess what? All without Gill's help. I had the pleasure of working with Erion Veliaj, founder of Mjaft! two summers ago and I must say, if he were able to parlay his role in Mjaft! into a role in the government, he could do a great deal of good.

But before I get too carried away, let me not forget; I have a message for Gill too:

Përshëndetje nga Shqiptaria!

Update: Gazeta Panorama today published a humorous response to Gill, imitating his style in a criticism of his homeland. My favorite part:

"Ka ngjashmërira mes Anglisë dhe Shqipërisë?! A ka?! Me t’u ngjeth mishi. Ja disa: Edhe njëra edhe tjetra, si kurrkund, e kanë jugun më të zhvilluar se veriun; Secila e ka nga një llokëm jashtë trungut, Anglia Irlandën, Shqipëria Kosovën; Si Anglia, si Shqipëria akuzohen se bëjnë ç’u thotë Amerika; Të dyja kanë probleme me Evropën; Individët e të dy vendeve, të gjithë Gjeni’ të hileve, intrigave, bizantinizmit.

Anglia dhe Shqipëria?! Dy Mami’ të mira që presin foshnja çyryk."

The Last of a Generation

Tom Pjetër Gjoni, b. 1908

On the night they stuck him in the dirt, people came from all sides of the mountains
to hear the story of the man who cut to size the roof beams of the church in Shtoj.
Toma was known for building roofs, she sang.

The mourner said he liked to talk of the days when men carried pistols in their belts
and took vendetta for offenses to honor, wiping their faces clean with blood.
Toma once cut his prize calf for his guests to eat, she sang.

Olive oil merchants at bazaar once knew they could not cheat Tom Pjetri.
“Make sure they are full, may I glimpse Holy Saint Nicholas.”
Toma was the first Shtojak to read the Bible, she sang.

He said goodbye forever to the daughter he grew like the stalks of corn in this village
when he gave her to a schoolteacher who took her to live in the city.
Toma’s children will never return to this land, she sang.

The following winter he carved the cypress coffin and dug a grave
for the dying wife he took when they were only fourteen.
Toma never beat or bound Pashka, she sang.

He did not touch the earth again or plant a seed,
Leaving weeds to cover the black soil wet with the sweat of his fathers.
Toma could pull a plow over two fields with his bare hands, she sang.

He still woke up with the sun to put on wool socks and walk his cows,
leaning his body against chipped plaster walls to light a cigarette.
Toma kept his tobacco knife clean and sharp and wrapped in silk, she sang.

At night, when the old hunting dogs had gone to sleep, he played his çifteli
for his exiled sons in America, singing the songs his uncle taught him.
Toma voice carried in the wind to all the neighboring villages, she sang.

He woke up one night and walked to the window to watch his moonlit grape vine
collapse on the patio. His knuckles tightened white and dropped his walking stick.
Toma was known for building roofs, she sang.

Nicholas Nikic 1.6.2006

Uspomena

This poem was inspired by a photograph I found of my grandfather in a Yugoslav batna mornarica uniform that he had sent to his family as a young man while at sea. I believe the inscription on the back began, "Ja uspomene i duge..."

On a Ship in the Adriatic

I shake with cold, this ship sets heaving sails.
Finding paths paved with unknown stones, it sails.
It sails, the blood horizon melts to sea.

I shake with drink, this ship nears foreign rocks.
From beating drums and drunken jigs, it rocks.
It rocks, the angry waves lash my window.

I shake with prayer, this ship is old and drips.
Under boots the ceiling shakes, it drips.
It drips, the leaking rain anoints my head.

Come here by me and kiss these eyes that cry.
At night I see no stars. There is no sky.

Nicholas Nikic 12.12.2005

Solitude

I am driving through the southern mountains of Montenegro one August night in 2005 to get to the region's annual Albanian folk festival being held in a remote village called Vitoja. When you're driving through town, a friend told me when I asked for directions earlier, you'll see the church on the right. The shops are closed, the church lights are off, and no one is on the street. Stay to the left at the fork and keep going until you see lights, he said. Fifteen minutes later, as I find myself in a large valley surrounded by mountains, I call him again, making sure I hadn't botched these simple directions. Keep going, he told me, you'll pass through Mali Hotit, the Hoti Mountains, and the road will tighten.

Mali Hotit, I repeat in my mind, the mountains that were bloodied by hundreds of years of battles with the Turks and Slavs. Over these mountains rode Ded Gjo Luli, the hero I have heard about in songs since I was born, leading the tribes of Malsia to battle and heroic death against the Ottoman Sultan and Montenegrin Krajli. Across these mountains rang out gunshots, booming canons and the shrill cries of dying soldiers. These are the mountains that echoed back the beating of drums and the voices of sentries sending news from peak to peak. Tonight they are silent. And as I pull over onto the side of the road to remember this moment of solitude, I hear only the grinding of the tires as I slow down and a few pebbles bounce against the belly of the 1993 Opel I rented for my two week vacation in the place of my father’s birth.

*

The word solitude comes from the Latin solus, an adjective meaning alone or only, which formed the noun solitudo, which came to mean want. Loneliness is a word often associated with solitude, and although they share a common root, their meanings have come to differ considerably in the minds of most English speakers. While solitude connotes peace, calm and tranquility, the word loneliness has come to mean isolation, emptiness, and boredom. Solitude and loneliness have often been the focus of great works of literature and art. While loneliness is often a sign of depression, a frightening chance to look inward at oneself when one is not inspired, but scared, solitude affords the sentient man or woman the opportunity to think on his or her own terms. It is a moment or two of being alone, when one may choose to look out of the fourth floor window of a walk-up in Boston and watch people walk by, even though there is a stack of bills on the nightstand.

The Belgian born poet May Sarton once remarked, “Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.” Perhaps this is true because loneliness is not usually a choice that a person makes. I am lonely when I am bored, when all I have the energy to do is turn on the television and stare. I cannot sleep when I am lonely, even when there is nothing else to do. I cannot write or get work done when I am lonely, perhaps because I can find no peace. Being struck with a bout of loneliness is like being forced to look at a person who you pass on the street in winter and feel sorry for because they are cold and that person is you.

But solitude in today’s world (and it probably has been so for one of Alexander’s troops or Elizabeth’s maids) is a clean, strong breeze blowing through a musty apartment. Papers are scattered and curtains fly, but there is a sense in that apartment of freshness—there is a new beginning there. Solitude affords the time to choose surroundings, choose thoughts, impulses, insights, choose what will help a person feel close to himself, comfortable with himself, feel the pulse of his or her life and feel the history of that life and its future. Whether it is found in a park with ambient little league noise, on a rocking subway, or while pulled over on a country road in Southeastern Europe, solitude is the wall across a gorge that we can yell at, waiting patiently for what the callback has to say. And for anyone who has ever listened for an echo, we know the words that bounce back are the same, but they are still unfamiliar—they are changed, new.

Though the contents of the mind are often muddy, even in moments of solitude, the opportunity to heighten one’s senses can also provide a stillness that enables a way of looking at the world through snapshots. T.S. Eliot spoke in his Four Quartets of the “still point,” the “occupation of the saint,” the gift of a flash of silence in which there is understanding. Early in his career, still a young writer walking the crowded streets of Boston, Eliot wrote about a spiritual experience that struck him during a moment of clarity. Eliot called this moment “the ultimate hour / When life is justified,” and says that the peace was so true it was terrifying. In his solitude, Eliot was able to grab hold of himself through “the garrulous waves of life.” “There is nothing else beside,” he says.

*

I have been sitting in my car for a quarter hour looking out at the mountains and breathing the cold air. Summer nights are colder in the mountains, I notice, and wish I could shake grandfather, demanding why he ever left this place in search of America. I dream I am a soldier roaring in the face of my enemy, pouring out my soul with each shot of my rifle, defending my blood-soaked homeland, defending my God, defending the history I have found in this place. In these moments of quiet, I can’t help but smile and am glad no one is sitting here with me to watch me hold back tears of heavy emotion I cannot explain. I have not learned anything new in these few minutes, but I know something new. Centuries of history pass in a flash of solitude and I have a context. There is nothing else beside.