Dream Day
The Closing Tuesday is such a graceful sunny day! It is always cheery in our small country, but the Sun had a different approach that day. We could feel an invisible mild hand giving a pat on our shoulders. A warm inner peace was enclosing our purpose, and joyful greetings from other pilgrims in the traffic were a pleasant thing to hear. Usually, Albanians are hot-blooded people, but nerves were out of the traffic’s frustration that day. We could behave well and be friendly on religious holidays. We were trying, at least.
My mother, a fanatic Catholic, never missed any year of respecting her religious culture. My father, a traditional Muslim man, was highly keen on rigorously implementing his customs. I couldn’t put them on balance. They are so distinctive and graceful in their beliefs that it would be hard for anybody to take a settlement. My parents were continuously glorifying holidays, and to me, honestly, it made no difference. All I wanted were colorful eastern eggs and roasted lamb.
Visiting St. Anthony’s Sanctuary in Lac for twelve sacred Tuesdays meant a reliable ritual for wealthier days in our families. I will never forget older people whispering in hushed murmurs of their prayers while touching the saint’s statue. I’m labeling some more senior women as mad because they have pushed me away countless times. The visitors, including my parents, used to touch the saint’s statue with their kid’s tank tops or husband’s wallets for higher salubrious benefits and prosperity. On the 12th Tuesday in June, we have always spent the night at the sanctuary. A humble church and a large white cross are placed on the top above the Franciscan monastery. As the leading Catholic pilgrimage heart in the country, this center becomes highly crowded by natives and foreigners. Standing amazingly proud of our cultural heritage, Albanian Orthodox, Catholics, and Muslims gather to attend these special days. About one million pilgrims come to Lac every year in June, and yes, correctly. My family is regularly somewhere in that one million.
One of my beloved memory was crossing a steep road from the village, touching the stones on which the saint used to walk and lighting candles on them. Since my parents got old and I got lazy, now that’s a habit we’re not practicing anymore, but I still love candles. Lighting small red candles and putting them closer to each other truly enlightens my heart. I’ve always waited for at least one hour until all my candles got melted so my wishes would come true. It sounds childish, but it wasn’t the only thing I couldn’t stop doing as a kid.
My curiosity about hundreds of stories narrated by the Priest was never going to fade away. I listened to the third story of a paralytic man who came to the Church and prayed desperately to Saint Anthony. He was so persuasive into attending the rituals that subsequently, on the 12th day, he woke up walking to the abbey with his legs. Surprisingly, he was standing healthy, strong, and happier than ever, of being regarded by a miracle. Furthermore, someone got awakened from a coma, someone else got out of prison, and I felt my body was falling unconsciously with a tremendous blocking headache. All I could overhear was my mother’s frightening outcry and an ambulance’s alarm getting closer. I couldn’t define what was going on because a gracious spirit embraced my body. It seemed as my head was burning on an invisible fire. I didn’t want to hear any more screams, screeches, or people’s shadows all over me. Particularly those slaps that were hitting my face demanding me to wake up. I was awake, although I was not responding. I was descending into a nightmare. It wasn’t my nighttime, but my tiredness was urgently begging for unusual rest. As a divine presence was forcing me to let myself go,
I couldn’t say no. In the end, I felt I was gone.
Day 1. Before ’67s.
I was awkwardly staring myself at Cathedral’s Entrance, known as the “The Great Church.” I would recognize it a thousand times. Breathing, relieved, I felt safe. I was probably close to my grandparent’s house in Shkoder. That’s what I was assuming, but I don’t know how I landed here. The Church was looking old. As old as antiquity, it unfolds.
St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Shkoder has an extraordinary survival history. The Cathedral resided within the walls of Rozafa castle when the Ottoman conquest of the town turned it into a Mosque. Hundreds of years later, the Catholic Community formally advised the Sultan to build the Cathedral. After seven years, the construction began. The building combated the devastation of the Balkan wars, earthquakes, and the communist dictatorship. The Great Church is in the city’s heart, very close to the pedestrian area, one of the most frequented expanses by locals and foreign tourists.
Still, I don’t know how I popped up in here. Thanks to frequent vacations at my parent’s birthplace, I remember their residences. I noticed that everyone was dressing in old outfits. Additionally, they had a strange behavior of being way too disciplined. They are always funny, joyful, and talkative. That did not happen at the avenue I was walking.
I could hear Imam’s voice from the Lead Mosque. Getting closer to them, I could realize it was Friday. Jemaah is the prayer that Muslims perform in the congregation every Friday instead of the noon prayer. Whoever knows Muslim rites acknowledges you should never interrupt such a divine time, so I changed my direction and kept marching until I arrived at my mother’s house. No one opened the door. Checking from the window, I saw my mother crying. She was so beautiful and anxious sitting on the couch attending a family court. Grandpa had discovered my mother’s love relationship with my father. He was strictly forbidding her from seeing him again. As a dedicated Catholic Priest, he was feeling betrayed by his daughter. Grandma augmented his statements as a disgrace for their beliefs. Catholicism got a significant reputation thanks to Venetian Trading Agreements, while Islamism from the Ottoman Empire as invaders of Albania for 500 years. Catholics continuously felt superior despite these cultural differences since their families were primarily associated with the city’s aristocracy.
Shkoder is one of those cities that we genuinely believe is a cradle of culture. It was shocking to find out about the cold war before the ’67s. Catholics and Muslims breathed unitedly in such a humble city, and their temples were not even further than 300 meters, but they wanted each other as far away as possible. My parents had confessed to me the challenges of building a life together, but I’d never guess their distinctive faiths would have been their most prominent obstacle.
Nowadays, both devotees get along so amazingly that it’s almost impossible to believe there were ever these complex judgments against families. I can confess countless occurrences in Albania where we truly respect, love, and appreciate each other’s beliefs and customs. Observing my mother at a young age made me realize I was traveling back in time, so nobody caught my knocks. I was a wandering soul uncovering a history I wasn’t knowledgeable of and neither curious about, but there was something I didn’t know. Something bigger than me! It was about time to succeed in the assigned mission that hit me on a sacred day.
Day 2.
2.1 Communism Dictatorship
My parent’s love story was the fairytale I was elected to look at. After several failed temptations to walk in the house, I paused out in the backyard. It was approximately midnight when mom escaped from her room’s window as a frightened Albanian Juliette. She stopped in front of her house, forming the cross, praying for her parent’s sanity, and then left for many years without looking back. Of course, I did follow her to my father’s house. His family embraced the young love birds with one condition. They had to disappear from Shkoder!
After following their run for a while, the last thing I remember was falling as a child. Maybe I didn’t fall, but I definitely couldn’t answer what was going on. I became a ghost repeatedly taking invisible commands of traveling in time, moments, and situations that I had no idea existed from the previous happenings. I didn’t even know my parents had lived in many cities. Now that I remember several talks of my father with his companions at our small private cafeteria in the capital, I should have figured out that a track driver travels a lot. My curiosity’s senses openly admit spying on him with his tasks, but I had never realized he dragged down my mother to any of his job assignments. Calculating things, I believe my mother must be one of the most popular math teachers in the country. While I was settling missing puzzles of past times with what I know from the present, I suddenly looked at my father hugging and comforting my mother holding a letter. I couldn’t read it, but I could understand that both of my grandparents got executed.
In a heartbeat, I was experiencing real-life situations from a cold, religious war, where everything was shining on the surface, to the darkest period Albanians have ever experienced. We are still going through the consequences of a communist dictatorship, estimated as one of the most severe and repressive ones in Eastern Europe.
Following World War II, Albania became a Stalinist land until independence after 1990. Our small humble state became the first approved atheist country in the world in 1967. The dictator ordered all churches and mosques destroyed or rebuilt into sports arenas, warehouses, or other secular facilities. He shut the borders entirely. And till Communism collapsed in 1990, it was unthinkable to occur any public expressions of faith. State Security was the foremost institution to check the ideological accuracy of party members and citizens. The State Party took total control of the economy and revoked civil liberties. In 1967, the Communist Party outlawed all religious activity in Albania.
2.2 Secret Devotees
Still, there was something even more powerful and radiant than this authoritarian Regime that blackened us for 40 years. It was faith! Albanians never lost their anticipation and inheritances. We are widely known for our loyalty and tenacity to protect our ancient origins as one of the oldest people in the Balkans, so this is what ensued after theological restrictions.
Albanian families kept standing stubborn about practicing their traditions. Utterly secretive, trying to stay alive from that dark force shadowing their lives, most people sought to pursue their moral principles and cultural heritage. One of the principal sections of any country’s culture commences with religion. We can promptly classify someone’s beliefs if we know their roots. Culture, origins, and religion can get stringently correlated that sometimes, they resemble a colorful braid on the world’s vision. I firmly believe that’s what Albanians were trying to do. To outlast authentic in their way. We are not different from any other nation, but we did not have equal growth opportunities. We have been through troublesome circumstances of forces almost close to disappearing us as humans. Albanians for 40 years couldn’t turn to a Church or a Mosque, but they could create wooden crosses and read individual religious volumes.
The Regime imprisoned my grandparents, aunts, and uncles, so my parents kept being rigidly observed by state officers, deemed among us as dictator’s spies. Before the blackout, what seemed to divide these people became the preeminent force in many families.
Albanians learned to pray in silence. They used to guard each other’s back while associates practiced their corresponding rituals. My parents comprehended each other’s customs that mom never cooked pork while dad became a real chef of Christmas wafers.
It didn’t weigh anymore if someone was Catholic, Muslim, Orthodox, Bektashis, etcetera. All that mattered was God in the universality of his divine forms. Albanians had nowhere to count on, so God got intensified as their only authentic hope!
2.2.1 Religious Artifacts
As a wandering soul, all I could do was ghost my parents. It was almost midnight when my mother brushed her hair under soft candlelight. They were hiding, although nothing could fade her beauty. She was gorgeous, concerned, and bright as a 19-year-old miss still unbroken from difficulties that an Albanian’s life had to handle those hard times. My father was fixing his tie, and for the very first time, I’d think he was nearly as good-looking as her. Their eye contact at the mirror trembled the hell out of me. My dad kissed her hand, whispering it would be okay. She turned to hug him as if it was about the last time. I didn’t know where they were going, but that hug made me cry emotionally.
While chasing them, all I could think about was a straightforward question. Why?
They could obey the system and spend a lovely, safe, and cozy life in their small apartment. Why did they have to attend that ceremony? Whatever was going on, I didn’t care. Although I was marching just a few meters after them, I didn’t want them to go. We were in Voskopoje, the ancient city of twenty-six churches. They got located along the trade way from Venice to Constantinople in southeastern Albania. It became an essential religious hub in the seventeenth and eighteenth centenaries. When the Ottoman Empire ruled the Balkans, the town was a significant heart of Christianity. Only five of the churches outlasted damage. My parents walked at St. Nicholas one, a humble yet lovely small church. Well, at least, anything that got left from ruins.
At Christmas, everyone tried to get gathered in silence. Inside the small ruined Church, lots of devotees were practicing the rituals. They used to light up the candles to turn them off again. Susurrated praises. Hidden agents at any place. Everyone was praying and listening to the Priest’s speech. He took the risk of wearing his forbidden mantle and expressing faith for the enlightenment of his people in those dark times, standing for hope at the birth of Jesus.
I could identify several of my parent’s friends. And most of them were Muslims. That’s what the Regime was implying: Embracing everyone in the name of God!
In the name of the Regime, there was only God to the atheist agents who attacked! The State Security did a quick action! Officers were shooting, arresting, and beating to death everyone they could. Whoever deceased was luckier than those who got arrested, tortured, and imprisoned for years. The first time I felt fortunate about being a spirit. My parents could escape thanks to the hidden corner where they were praying. I followed them until my ghosting couldn’t handle it any longer. I was running not to miss them, but evidently, they were in a hurry to save their lives, and nothing could be more substantial than their mission.
After the terrifying sights of the burnt Church, I was wandering, lost, and worried without a purpose. A soul might cry despite not having a physical face, and yes. I was sobbing. I was feeling guilty, although nothing happened because of me. I was feeling burnt with the hope and faith of those beloved devotees. Those people didn’t do anything wrong, but yet they were aching! Madly, honestly, deeply hurt, I tried to light up a candle upon those ruins for the severe lack of optimism among people on Christmas.
I saw that daylight so many men sneaking into the wrecks. One of them was my father. I wish I had never witnessed what he did. I thought he had an unconventional perception of life, but it was such a disappointment. He had enough! Seemingly, he would attempt to abandon the country. I could never blame him for aspiring a better life where fundamental necessities and the freedom of faith did not mean a condemnation of death.
He was taking unique original paintings left unburnt or not broken altogether. Those remaining churches were close to each other, and domed basilicas originated in the post-Byzantine style. The covered ceiling and walls of all five churches with frescoes represented religious and biblical scenes in vibrant appearance. In all that cover of 4,000 square meters of decorated surfaces, I don’t want to count how many Albanian men did steal relics, preserve them and sell them to relocate overseas from that filthy noir system. I am incredibly sorry to testify to whatever poverty urges people to do. So instantly, I suppose I agree why we believe the folkloric quotes:
‘If you think he is a good man, you should watch him being poor!’
2.2.2 Silent Ordinances
My mother resembled a bright yet frightened Goddess. I was watching her at the altar, and indeed made my heart cry. My parents got married by documents, but they never had sacred matrimony. Furthermore, that opportunity went down infinitely since mom would have wanted her father’s blessings. My father was eternally next to her, but he was not a Catholic man, so his likelihoods of being a Godfather were quite impossible. And as you can imagine, I didn’t get baptized because he never gave up on his faith, and nobody asked me what I wanted to do, probably because they didn’t want to impose my faith.
A classical Catholic ritual ceremony is a combined and formal process. A Catholic baptism casts upon a pattern of core theological faiths that make the christening tradition of absolute greatness to both the infant and the parents. A continuous ritual procedure happens during a child’s Baptism, which usually lasts about 20 to 30 minutes. Firstly the Priest welcomes the parents and child, apprehends the child’s name, and performs the sign of the cross on the child’s head. Then he submits extracts and benedictions for the child and his parents to anoint the child with oil. The Priest continues by blessing the water, asking the parents to disown sin, and christens the child with several water droplets across the forehead. The cleric anoints the baby with oil from his crown while the child gets clothed in a christening vestment or white garment. That is where a family member or godparent lights a candle to signify enlightenment. The Priest pronounces the Lord’s Benediction and baptizes the child.
One of the crucial characteristics of Catholic Baptism is the godparents elected by the child’s parents. Godparents represent a central role in caring for their godchild’s spiritual and physical prosperity. Both godparents are appointed to accomplish this position in the infant’s life, so a part of the baptism rite will center these two people. Well, my focus was only one of them, my mother. Any person whom the infant’s parents decide may be allowed this role. And who would have been a more suitable fit than the daughter of a reverend?
As awkward as it sounds, I felt frightened to death, although my soul was already distant from my body. Delegates from the State Security could pop up at any minute. Yet, my parents assisted these silent ordinances of both religions, considering them as it was their occasion. My father had designed the infant’s golden necklace and bracelets with his own hands. It was weird to witness him making such contributions, marking the cross and infant’s initials, but that’s what his wife’s religious tradition required. They were so integrated that her respect became his way of honoring too. At the baptism ceremony, it was expected from the godparents to appear with precious gold jewelry and a substantial joyous party afterward.
At the end of the ceremony, all I could detect were beautiful ladies hiding their best dresses under heavy coats, getting into their cars, and quickly disappearing as soon as possible from the rubbles of the Church. I hoped that the Priest had changed his clothes and hidden his mantle before another intervention would have marked another date of imprisonment, family persecution, or death.
The next day, I was rambling around the house like a tired ghost. I could sense some light footsteps coming after me. Before getting the chance to turn around and see, this young kid was running in the house, furiously traversing my nomad shade. Yes, okay. That was me! I have always been a tricky little boy.
Therefore, I saw myself as a five-year-old kid, and I could scent a nostalgic smell from the kitchen. I could sense my mother’s hair mixed with fresh lavender and crispy homemade pie. I believe my mother had that indescribable classy attitude of an impressive housewife who would make any meal delicious because she prepared it with her caring hands. She was literary glowing while whispering Islamic prayers nearby the oven. I remember those amusing, glad moments as utter satisfaction for being born into an enchanting family.
Sultan Nowruz will outlive a unique date in the calendar forever throughout Islamic doctrine. The birthday of Imam Ali, the son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, persuades this celebration for the Bektashis to a marked and sanctified day of the year. March 22 represented when one of the most exceptional saints of all time and the head of the twelve Imams was born. The representation of a new day, full of sunshine and eternal love, has progressed with this date, the stream idea of life reborn from the love of the Creator. The day springs with the best wishes for prosperity, well-being, harmony, and love. That is why Muslims celebrate on that date the upcoming of abundance, or otherwise the Summer Day.
This celebration is also an official holiday in our country, one of the most meaningful holidays of the Sufi Muslim Group every year. Moreover, when the government forbade devotion in 1967, Albanian Muslims also conducted religious ceremonies secretly: Sultan Nowruz, Ashura, and Bayram in their homes. Sultiash is the unusual cake of this holiday because it consists of milk, a representation of mother’s milk, rice, which signifies grains, wealth, and sorbet. It does not imply the Korban is composed of because it depends on people’s economic possibilities. The significant obligation is to serve Korban, pie, cakes in the house or the village, and the children rotate them in the wheat plots to bring abundance. Thousands of pilgrims visit (Sah-Ree-Sahl-tick) Sarisalltik’s mystic cave during these holidays, climbing the mountain to the cavern with a spiritual approach. This pilgrimage is one of the numerous legitimate sacred areas in the Balkans that welcomes devotees of all faiths, signifying religious tolerance on Sufis culture.
On this occasion, the Bektashis prepare the typical dishes that would be pie with 12 assorted kinds of herbs (spinach, sorrel, parsley, cabbage leaves, fennel, leek leaves, labor, onion, rice, etcetera.). The earth’s plants symbolize the new life that blossoms in spring and prosperity. A coin gets inserted inside the pie. Already baked, the pie gets apportioned by the housewife into pieces. Continuously, she provides to each family member a slice of the pie. The fortunate one who finds the coin will live a prosperous year. Like a playful kid, I was keeping my eyes closed, hiding after her cooking apron.
-“Whose part is this?”-she questioned curiously.
-“Yours”- answered quickly. She made her initials with a knife at a small triangle section at the chopped crispy herbal pie. She continued asking for the rest of the pieces. I assumed I handled God’s duty by assigning each of us the chance of living a lucky year. My dad regularly ate the house slice and neighbors one. He is a pie lover like most Albanian men. I was giggling, homesick since that was a tradition I didn’t practice after my 20’s. All that was missing was my father coming back home and enjoying all the religious recipes mom had prepared for Nowruz’s Ceremony. I don’t know how, but I’ve always got the coin named randomly at my slice of the pie. I suppose mom knew how to make me believe there was some magic in me!
2.2.3 Final Countdown
I was losing my persistence. What was the meaning of being in a coma? I was in charge of what? I could have just asked my parents and learned about their glorious, harrowing love story. Why did I have to haunt all those weird situations? I’ve had enough! I ached to go backward, but I didn’t remember how. I felt like God was ruling to communicate a mysterious message by locking me inside its old shelves with past-time archivist tapes. All I wanted was to wake up. So I did!
Sweating in that midday in August 1989, I moved out of the house and started touring in the streets. As a punished ghost in time, that’s where I spotted a new target.
The First Directorate of State Security carried a report for the First Secretary of the Central Committee. It was a biographical record commonly made for a remarkable case, such as the visit of Anjeza Bojaxhiu, one of the few personalities encircled with a red line by the dictatorship. Some movement was going on, whispering her name in the streets, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Till that moment, she had made several written appeals to the Albanian authorities, but Mother Teresa was forbidden to come into the country. Her request was formally conveyed to the Albanian Embassy in Rome: “…to kiss the Albanian land before I die….”
Subsequently to the dictator’s death in 1985, in the general context of a “new era” in international associations and within the framework of a regulated opening of Albania, her first visit to the homeland was made possible. The state structures of the time perceived this visit as an exceptional opportunity to be used politically as evidence for upholding human rights in Albania.
The state succeeded in dominating media communication, daily journals, state radio, and television, seeking to portray Mother Teresa’s visit as a routine appointment, giving no echo at all, not even her history, profile, biography, or worldwide charity activities. Nevertheless, many people in the street bent to caress her hand, uttering greetings of love and respect. People were conscious of who was arising, despite stringent restrictions of information. Considering that the theory and practice of theological devoutness came to pass legally banned, her activity got recognized as international compassion, where there was no mention of faith in God!
Watching her gave me the thrills of a divine presence. Saint Teresa is an extraordinary example of unceasing the mission of charity. She is an unforgettable witness of love by founding its concrete expression in the continuous service to the world’s most impoverished and most abandoned people. I was walking just in front of her, and I couldn’t stop staring at her bent body, noble wrinkles close to those shiny eyes that reflected her adorable humble personality.
Mother Teresa was walking towards a crowded avenue to attend senior leaders of the Albanian state. Admittedly I was invading the privacy of that political cliché gathering from the window. She communicated the will to build in Albania the next center with her sisters of the Charity Mission and implement spiritual wealth and attention to the elderly. The leader declined this request because this occupation was carried out free of charge by Albania’s state structures of education and administration. I wish I could have the chance to punch him in the face. Mr. Alia wasn’t more reliable than the prior commander, but he had to affirm some tolerations since major influential countries decisively determined to wipe Communism off the Balkans.
I was walking back home when I heard from a few meters of distance my father’s mess destroying everything in the house. He had invested all his savings at a pyramidal group and lost everything instead of a fantastic jackpot. What could we possibly expect? Most of our people were not qualified to succeed in the future where capitalization was knocking.
We didn’t know how to handle liberty.
After the death of Enver Hoxha in 1985, his replacement, Ramiz Alia, tried to preserve the formation of the existing order, but at the same time, attempted to implement improvements to revitalize the declining economy. In response to resolving civic activism and agitation against the government, Ramiz Alia returned to Albanians the freedom to travel abroad, weakened the executive powers of the Security, approved some models of an open economy, and restored religious liberties. Gradually, the absolute control of the state over Albanian society got weakened. Albanian advancement towards democratic reformation enabled Albanian participation in the Conference on Security and Co-operation in Europe, finalizing the macabre Albanian isolation. Albanians had lost too many virtues, but there was something bright in that system. The unfriendly conflict between different religious divisions was over. Albanians acquired how to love and respect each other’s beliefs. The fortunate end of communist tyranny to Albanian society, winning a holy war after the ’67, lead to the confusion of the freedom of choice.
Day 3. After the ’90s.
Do you know how much does this sort of vegetative calling persists? Because I am nevertheless a spirit, and that’s not how I perceive myself for the next couple of years. My parents were moving again, and I was squatting in the backseat. I could do anything this time, and they wouldn’t yell at me. Being invisible is fun and tiring at the same time.
I have no idea whereby the hell I jumped out of the auto. Maybe I was still God’s puppet, or my crazy mind of dropping patience began to run involuntary actions. Once out of their car, I started marching again. It was practically impossible to move on. I have never seen Tirana as crowded as that day. It must have been around the year 1991 where the elections finished 40 years of communist rule. The anti-communist demonstrations that began in December 1990 by the student mobility would culminate in the demolition of the tyrant’s statue, located in the center of the capital. I assume I was about to faint because of the rocks, curses, and clamors of the people against his statue. Attending the dictator’s statue destruction made me look above and thank God for not having existed in that era.
It was over for Albanians. Now the most consequential struggle was to catch the world’s rhythm. The latter half was a swift turnover of leaders and prime ministers. After the collapse of Autocracy and establishing a democratic system, there was a necessity for equity, justice revival, and societal reconciliation.
I struggled to find a door back at my body. I didn’t know where I was going, but I ran far away from the crowd throughout the statue. I kept running until I slipped. Usually, I don’t fall these multiple times in my physical life, where I walk with visible legs. I was in the backyard of an old dwelling. A creepy one, honestly. Being a spirit made me feel brave enough to invade inside. What welcomed me were damaged interior walls and burnt furniture. It was impressive to see so many bookshelves damaged and burnt. Intellectual people were executed because of were worthy in the community. Beneath Autocracy, valid people are the ones who make no difference from sheep. I heard a chair crackling, so I went to chase someone else again.
I saw an exhausted man wearing his mantle, kissing it, and embracing two old books down in the basement. He was crying with happiness. Close to his Bible, there stood his diary. And a friend was knocking just behind me. He got closer, asking him how he was feeling. Maybe it was the first time an Albanian could freely question how he was feeling.
I had the honor to see Father Zef Pllumi. One of the most well-known Franciscan priests and memoirists worldwide. His family was persecuted and did not live because of the tortures. Besides discovering this sad, unfortunate tragedy, I couldn’t stop staring at was his readings at particular sections in the sacred book. His friend was more confused than me when the father granted him his diary of miseries in jail. After 26 years in communist prisons, he published “Live to tell,” an authentic narrative of religious abuse in Albania, “The Great Franciscans,” and “The Book of Memories.” He saved notes every day so he would never lose confidence, concentration, and the only thing it was left reliable in him, his consciousness.
From 59,009 interned people in concentration campgrounds, 7,022 tombs during internment, 34,135 detained as political prisoners, 984 fell in regime prisons, 6,027 executed during the communist state, and about 6,000 disappeared bodies, one of the clerics who made it out alive with a precious inheritance of his writings, was Father Zef Pllumi. He served as a reverend at the Church of Saint Anthony in the capital. He attended Mother Teresa when she visited Albania for the second time to stabilize the new humanitarian hubs.
September 5 is the day of her consecration, wherein a noble celebration in St. Peter’s Square in the Vatican happened that Pope Francis acknowledged her two miracles. According to legend, throughout a train trip to India, she felt a call from Jesus to heed the poor. She founded the Missionaries of Charity to serve all the weak people, which she completed continuously till the end of her life.
Mother Teresa is truly an inspirational saint. I waited for them to go out of the cellar, and as a sneaky ghost, I started to read his diary. I couldn’t imagine any further the pains of academics and clerics during that horrible period of tyranny. I noticed that the father left the Bible open. It seemed like a lightning message to me, so I moved on to read. I could sense my body having complications to breathing and standing upright while I stopped reading at the Old Testament, the third chapter of Ecclesiastes:
“Everything exists in its cycle. Each circumstance features a time beneath the heaven, a moment to tear and a moment to sew, an opportunity to be silent, and a chance to speak.”
Awakening Day
I started to feel the heavyweight of my body. Still, I couldn’t do any reaction. Do you know those long nights where you sleep early and wake up the following day as if you come from a different dimension? Exactly! I’ve handled that in hundreds of hangovers, but none could compare to the one I was experiencing. I was in a complex universe, and my sleep paralysis was not getting over. All my eyes could see was the white scratched ceiling in the hospital room. My sensations rose to get back, and presumably, I had quite a few days without having a shower. That wasn’t very pleasant, nor comfortable. My facial muscles began to have involuntary gestures, and my eyes were still practicing their blinks. As soon as my eyesight became clear, I examined to move my arms, legs, and back. Thank God I could sense them completely, so insensibility was not an option. In a bit, I assumed I misremembered how it feels to have a body with parts to command. My lips felt too dry. Mistakably, I had slept with my mouth opened, even a slightly little bit. It used to be a senseless personal fixation. After an extended silent analysis of feeling my body again, I could slowly move my neck and look at the glass window. It’s widely believed that happiness and indescribable positive emotions happen when tears fall from the right eye. Just what I was feeling!
I must admit I felt incredibly proud watching my parents, family friends. I could notice that some of them were holding golden necklaces with small crosses, joining hands, closing their eyes, and murmuring prayers on their Catholic way. Also, Dad and his companions had their hands opened with heads up towards the sky as Muslims invocate. I would bet on the matter that he probably had done Korban to consecrate a life for mine. Their spiritual understanding made my heart cry and swipe a smile with emotional tears. That was a compelling, noble, deep, and impressive appearance that hit me with the final explanation about my journey in time.
Dad shouts delight when he bent his head down, wiped his eyes, and saw me awake staring at all of them. I got pretty used to the experience of being a ghost earlier, so I was implementing it in this instant of being back to consciousness. First, the nurse and the doctor arrived furiously. My parents got in rapidly after them. The rest of our friends were shocked, but still, they managed to step into the room, looking surprised at me as a reborn. The doctor asked too many questions to understand if I had any provisional damages.
I was smirking while I was keeping a secret between God and me. He didn’t seek my death because of a cerebral hemorrhage out of a sudden. He craved to communicate with me in His ways a few powerful messages. While everyone was hugging and caressing my face, hands, and hair, I was still pulling myself together. Their voices got distant again, but I wasn’t falling asleep this time. I was conceiving.
There was this mysterious sound echoing in my mind. The last words I read from the Bible were above any other voice in the room, like a cold bright bridge connecting my mission to my present. Just as if they were God’s Words, those sentences stood for pressuring the answer I got during vegetative conditions.
Everything exists in its cycle:
Was that a cycle? It’s an antecedent story that will always stay in the generation’s memories, mentality, and poverty. Luckily, I remember everything that happened, so all the traveling in the past will be worth it. The efforts I attested will live endlessly within my subconscious as if I genuinely had lived them on my own. So the initial statement is that thank God I wasn’t going to die as an ignorant who was not aware of his country’s history, culture, and religion.
Each circumstance features a time beneath heaven:
I never imagined I would ever enclose this, but yes! Albania’s most severe Communist Tyranny did a pretty remarkable thing: it improved people’s welcoming society, worship, and reverence by cutting their differences such as religion or origins. In Communism’s past, everyone was equal, and socialism’s policies got rigorously applied. So Albanians learned how to embrace each other and respect every potential faith honestly and fondly. Forced to be atheists, Albanians affirmed all religions as a unique way of believing, reflecting only one mutual God. What hit me like a flashback from the New Testament was the most meaningful verse for my journey:
“Do not follow any longer the pattern of this world. Instead, be molded by the renewing of your mind.”
A moment to tear and a moment to sew:
I could listen to my parents’ voices calling my name. I was alive, conscious in the present. I don’t know why I wasn’t capable of speaking. After all, they had been through a lot, and both of them had my immense admiration. I concluded that God fancied this couple to get married as their religious tradition claimed. Muslim’s sacraments consist of a simplistic celebration at Mosque, pursuing a party where men and women celebrate. For my mother, getting married at the Church would glorify her most significant challenge in life. She was the only survivor of her persecuted family. It was time for me to dress up, get the car keys and drive them to the Great Church, where mom served as a young lady following her father. God put me in charge to sew what tyranny had torn apart, to give my mother what she deserved after all her countless sacrifices. I was back in life with the duty to complete my parent’s religious marriage.
An opportunity to be silent and a chance to speak:
I felt embraced by the warmness of unconditional love towards me. We have so many blessings in our lives, but seldom we’re in a hurry to take a taxi instead of feeling grateful. My life mattered. I had existed as a pagan man admiring every sacred ceremony until God decided to teach me that everyone has one way of glorifying his name. We can pray in various forms, unusual places, anywhere at any moment, and he will listen to our devotions. We can, and we should respect each other’s beliefs and rites, but we should embrace our theological individualism. Forced to be silent, Albanians found a way to speak through their hushed actions. I had the opportunity to be quiet and quietly travel in the past, inspecting what God found appropriate I ought to know. Presently I have the chance to express myself. I was making a choice. I had to take a settlement!
As the doctor was staring concerned, my mother’s left hand caressing my face and her golden cruciform necklace around her elegant neckline was a clear vision of my solution. God sends his presence in many forms, and as an only son, I firmly believe my mother was his most reliable appearance. I was belatedly satisfied, fortunate, and eager to become a Devoted Catholic. At my last concepts as a bewildered man, I took my chance to speak in the present for my future:
-Baptize me, mom!