The following is Nexhmije Hoxha’s preface to her husband’s book of memoirs Years of My Childhood, a forthcoming new translation from the Albanian original by the November 8th Publishing House.
In Place of a Preface
I came to know Gjirokastra not so much through my work-related visits and the trips I made there, as through Enver’s stories in the evenings by the hearth, and through the conversations he would have with his mother while we were eating. Later, we would sit beside her bed or by the fireplace, for old age had taken its toll and confined to one place that woman who had been so industrious and patient, whom life’s hardships had never managed to bend: her husband’s years abroad, the burning of their house, the deaths of her children — experiences so widespread and commonplace in those times.
Comrade Enver had a particular affection for his mother, not only because of the happy memories of his childhood and youth, but also because of all those years of anxiety she endured during the National Liberation War for the sake of her only son, who moved from place to place as an underground activist, constantly risking his life, sentenced to death by the occupiers, or crossing mountains amidst snowstorms and taking shelter in the people’s huts, where he would find nothing more to eat than a piece of maize bread with a little brine. Undoubtedly, at such moments he would remember his mother’s good cooking, the warm round loaf she would place in his bag when sending him off to school or on an outing, and the cheese she would toast for him over the embers on a metal trivet.
These conversations enlivened the family atmosphere and delighted his elderly parents, but they also delighted me, for through them I came to know fragments of my comrade’s life and of the lives of his family and the people among whom he had grown up.
What struck me most then, and continues to strike me today, is that he would initiate these conversations and immerse himself in memories of the past precisely at moments of greatest preoccupation. It mattered little whether he had just come from turbulent meetings during which he had confronted enemies such as Sejfulla Malëshova and Koçi Xoxe and their associates, or Stojnić and Zlatić. As soon as we sat down to eat, he would begin all manner of conversations, especially with his mother. Enver’s father, whom everyone simply called Uncle, would sit and listen, occasionally casting a glance in my direction, shaking his head or pursing his lips as though he wished to say, “Whom does he think he is fooling with all this laughter and merriment?” Uncle and all the other members of the family knew that Enver had a great deal of work to do, that the country was devastated and impoverished, that many people came and went from the house, and that meetings were held there throughout the night, often until dawn. They knew nothing of what was discussed at those meetings, but Uncle had the habit of rising at four in the morning. He would go and light the kitchen stove, prepare his coffee, and then move about the house or the courtyard, depending on the season. Yet he was often surprised, upon waking and leaving his room, to hear voices still coming from the sitting room. When I too emerged, having remained awake waiting for the meeting to end, he would say to me: “My dear daughter-in-law, have they still not finished? What are they doing? Why are they shouting? Are they quarrelling?”
The old man could not understand that it was precisely because his son carried so many burdens that he felt such a need, even if only for a short while, to lock them away and immerse himself in the sweet memories of childhood, as though in a refreshing shower. Then the questions would begin: “Do you remember, Mother, when I went to school for the first time? Do you remember when you made me a ball out of rags? Do you remember when you made me those shoes with wooden soles because I kept wearing them out? Do you remember when I split my head open and you put roasted cheese on the wound? Do you remember when we used to visit my godmother, when we went to see Aunt So-and-so? Do you remember this? Do you remember that?” And so the conversation would continue until we had finished our meal and it was time to leave.
“Ah,” his mother would say, “how could I not remember?” Whenever Enver began asking what had become of this or that elderly woman from Gjirokastra, his mother would reply in her own dialect: “Oh, Enver, whatever are you asking? She passed away years ago.” Yet she knew, house by house, how many children each family had, who had remained in Gjirokastra, who had moved to Tirana and so forth. From time to time his sisters, Haxho and Sano, who lived with us, would also join the conversation, as would the eldest sister, Fahrie, whenever she came to visit.
Enver’s memory is well known, but his mother’s was equally remarkable. He would ask her how many provisions were laid in for the year, especially for the winter, as was customary. And she would enumerate them: how many sacks of maize, how many oka of butter, how many tins of cheese, what kinds of pies, pickles and dried fruits they prepared. Enver would record all this in his mind, or on a tape recorder, like an ethnographer. Then he would ask her about the verses and songs sung in those days, and she would begin recalling them and reciting all manner of examples for us, whether social, patriotic or otherwise.
These conversations did not merely provide Enver with relaxation; they also served as a kind of “restoration” of his memories, which time and the currents of life might have dimmed, just as frescoes fade or as a stone may come loose from an ancient mosaic.
Uncle, who took little interest in these conversations because they were familiar to him and seemed remote, would sit on the other side of the hearth reading those old books printed in Arabic script, their pages yellowed with age. When he grew bored and wished to steer Enver towards other matters, he would say: “Leave those trifles aside and listen to what this philosopher has said,” and would begin reading aloud. Enver would listen for a while out of respect, but eventually he would ask: “Is it a long one? Leave those Islamic philosophies alone, for heaven’s sake. Come on, let us sing a song as they do in Gjirokastra.” And then they would begin, Uncle singing steadily and slowly, with Enver joining in response.
Whenever my mother heard these songs, she would say to Enver:
“You sing well, but not like Avdalli. Still, our songs seem better to me. Aziz Ndreu surpasses Xhevat Avdalli.”
Enver would reply with a laugh:
“What can one do, Mother? Village and trade go together. But I like the songs from your region as well, with the çifteli1 and the lahuta,2 for there is a reason people say, ‘Where are you from? From your wife’s village.’”
Through Enver’s conversations I came to know and love Gjirokastra and its people even more. Whenever I visited, I observed everything attentively and with different eyes, for I knew that upon returning home I would have to pass a demanding “examination” by satisfying as fully as possible his curiosity about every change that had taken place there.
I was not going to repeat the mistake I had made when I first went to Gjirokastra. It was after the Liberation, when I travelled there on official business and to become acquainted with my comrade’s birthplace. Yet during the four days I stayed there, it rained continuously. The damp and cold penetrated to my very bones; torrents swept stones along the streets, and I had to walk carefully lest I stumble or slip. When I returned to Tirana, Enver asked me:
“Well then, what did you think of my Gjirokastra?”
“How shall I put it?” I replied. “It struck me as a gloomy town, all stone…”
He would not let me continue. Offended by what he regarded as a sacrilege against his birthplace, he cut me short:
“So you have no appreciation of beauty! Did you not see with what elegance and skill those houses are built, one above another, clinging to the mountain slope? Did you not sense the pure spirit of its wonderful people — simple, hardworking, good householders, hospitable as few others are…?”
At that point I interrupted him and halted his flow of praise.
“Please,” I said, “I was not speaking about the people. On the contrary, they could not have received me more warmly. Everyone was competing to be the first to invite me for lunch or dinner as the ‘daughter-in-law’ of their son who had come on her first visit.”
In any case, that was how my first lesson in the history of Gjirokastra began. At that time I had not yet heard his conversations about his birthplace and did not fully appreciate the affection and longing he felt for it. During the war we had neither the time nor the inclination for such discussions. Occasionally the subject arose and we would compare our respective native regions, speaking of their customs and shared characteristics. More often than not, the conversation would end playfully, with each of us trying to outdo the other in praising our homeland. “Very well,” he would say, “you people from Dibra are known for cleanliness too, but you have water in abundance. The real achievement is that the people of Gjirokastra, without wells or fountains, maintain exemplary cleanliness by collecting raindrops from the gutters into muslluqe!3 Did you know that?” Indeed, at that time I did not even know what muslluqe were. Whenever I boasted about Skanderbeg — whom, naturally, I liked to associate with the Kastrioti family of Dibra — he would reply: “Leave Skanderbeg aside. Do not go so far back and claim him as your own. I do not deny that you have had brave men, but we too have produced distinguished figures, both of the rifle and of the pen.” And then he would tell me about Çerçiz Topulli, Bajo Topulli, Çajupi and others.
After the death of his parents, I continued to be an attentive listener to the memories he recounted about Gjirokastra and the years of his childhood and youth. I came to know its alleyways and squares, its houses and gardens, as though I myself had lived and played among them. I knew not only the brave Baba Çeno and the formidable godmother, but even how Uncle Halil’s friend, Uncle Fuat Nano, dressed, with his black cloak draped over his shoulders and his white stockings. I knew more about the elderly people of Gjirokastra than about my own grandparents, whom I had never met and about whom no one in my family had ever taken the trouble to tell me.
I marvelled then, and still marvel today, at the close familiarity and connection that the people of Gjirokastra maintain with one another. Though grouped by clans and neighbourhoods, they nevertheless form a single whole: Gjirokastra. The men gathered at Qafa e Pazarit, the women at weddings, family celebrations and social gatherings, while the children and young people met in schools or in the play squares. Even though “wars” sometimes erupted between neighbourhoods, they still could not do without one another.
By the time I knew Enver’s memories by heart, our children had begun to grow up. He started telling them about the town, the members of the household, the school, the excursions and the games (though not about his mischievous exploits, for pedagogy did not permit it). Sometimes the children would come to him almost in tears and complain: “Daddy, Bonia scolded us. She says, ‘What have you turned into, just like so-and-so…’” They would then ask curiously who these people were. Enver would burst out laughing and tell them: “Go and tell Bonia, ‘Don’t scold us like that, because Daddy was very fond of those people.’” Bonia, the caretaker who raised our children, was originally from Shapllo but had married in Hoxhat and knew Gjirokastra well. Whenever the children played wildly, became dirty or tore their clothes and shoes, she would attach to them all manner of local names and nicknames from Gjirokastra.
Enver always travelled to Gjirokastra with great joy and deep emotion. During the first visit he made after the Liberation, in October 1947, he said, among other things:
“The terrible war against the Italian and German occupiers kept me away for a long time from my city, where I was born and raised, where I received my first lessons, where I lived through my childhood with all its joys, sorrows and hopes, where my character and consciousness were formed, and where, like all the ordinary sons of this heroic city, there was implanted in my heart a love for the homeland and for our long-suffering people.”4
Enver visited Gjirokastra several times for Party-wide meetings, yet whenever he went there, he invariably made a point of meeting ordinary people. He would visit them in their homes, stop to speak with them in the streets, or spend hours with them at public gatherings, addressing them in a relaxed manner as though he were sitting in each of their homes. He would remind old comrades of the games they had played together, recall the advice given by their teachers, and speak to elderly women about the sweets or pieces of fruit they had once placed in the palm of his hand.
When we went there together in March 1978, he stood on the balcony of the house and pointed out to me, one by one, the groups of houses renowned for their architectural beauty: those of the Zekate family, the Skënduli family, the Bakiraj family and the Resaj family. He also showed me the houses of friends whom I had by then come to know, as well as the homes of many comrades with whom we had fought during the war and who were now serving in responsible positions in Tirana and throughout the country.
Enver then took me to show me the alleyways and squares where he had played, the bazaar and other places. However, as soon as we stepped outside, so many people gathered in those narrow streets that not only was it impossible to see anything, but no one would allow him to concern himself with me. The people of Gjirokastra — men and women, young and old alike — surrounded him on all sides. We therefore decided to go out at night, around ten o’clock, when people would have returned to their homes and we could walk freely. Yet no sooner had we reached Çerçiz Square and begun heading towards Qafa e Pazarit than we were surrounded by groups of young men and women who had just finished the second work shift and were on their way home. My history lesson came to nothing, but we nevertheless enjoyed ourselves. Enver joked with the young people, asking whose children they were. More often than not, however, he knew their grandparents better than their fathers and would recount some story he remembered about them. He then remarked on how much times had changed. “Today,” he told the young men and women, “you return home together even at night. My mother, by contrast, told me that she had never in her life passed through the bazaar, because even if a woman was completely covered with a veil and not recognisable, the men would still turn their heads away. On the one occasion when she was obliged to pass through, word reached Uncle Halil, who reproached her for it when she returned home.”
What times those were, and what a city! With its own wonders and beauties, its hardships and joys, its struggles for life, for freedom and for learning.
It was in this part of the homeland, among the people of this city, that Enver was born. There he spent his childhood and several years of his youth. It is therefore natural that he should feel a particular affection and longing for it, which prompted him to write these recollections of Gjirokastra and of his childhood years, gathered in this book, whenever he felt the need to revisit cherished memories and find respite. He wrote them at different times, and not with publication in mind, but because I persistently urged him to record them for our children and for the grandchildren who would one day be born.
On the occasion of a family celebration, Enver presented to me and to the children the original manuscripts of this cycle of memoirs, included in this volume, together with those recounting his years at the Lyceum of Korça and the period of his studies and residence abroad. In the note accompanying this gift, he wrote, among other things: “…you asked me to write down some memories of my childhood and youth. Naturally, I could not refuse such a request and so I began these scribblings. They are unfinished, but when I have the time I shall complete them. They are intended only for you and for the children — Ilir, Sokol and Pranvera. They have been written poorly; as you know, the pen moved on without going back to revise or correct anything… This material gift is very modest, whereas the spiritual one is quite different… May we live happily and joyfully with our beloved children, see them married and have many grandchildren. May we remain strong and healthy, so that we may serve with honour and loyalty, until our dying day, the Party and our people, who gave us birth, raised us and made us communist fighters…”
For me and for the children, this was an invaluable gift. It inspired us to love not only Gjirokastra and Korça, where Enver spent his childhood and youth, but also our entire homeland, for whose liberation he and his communist comrades fought together with the people and under the leadership of the Party, and which they now sought to make ever more beautiful, stronger and more prosperous.
The vivid descriptions of Gjirokastra, of its life, history and remarkable architecture, together with the affection, love and respect with which the author recalls and writes about ordinary people — from members of his own family to childhood friends, and from bakers and Gypsy craftsmen to masons and blacksmiths — are all permeated, like a red thread running through the narrative, by the idea that love for one’s homeland is not an abstract notion. It is this land; it is the mountains and plains, the towns and houses; it is these people; it is the past, present and future of our forebears, of ourselves and of the generations yet to come.
Precisely because these memoirs possess such broad resonance, I felt that it would not be right to keep them solely within the family circle. They may bring pleasure to many comrades and friends who are still living, as well as to the children and relatives of those who are no longer with us. Although they are somewhat intimate and familial in character and shed light on a period preceding Comrade Enver’s revolutionary formation, they may also be of interest to a wider audience, helping readers to understand the environment and the people who nurtured and inspired him to embark upon the revolutionary path in the struggle for the people’s freedom and the victory of communism. For this reason, I persuaded Enver and obtained his authorisation for the publication, on the occasion of the seventy-fifth anniversary of his birth, of those sections of this cycle of memoirs that relate to his birthplace, Gjirokastra, where Comrade Enver spent his childhood and early youth (1908–1927).
In this volume, the memoirs have been included as they were given to us, without the possibility of engaging the author in revising or supplementing these materials prior to publication. With his approval, we omitted a few paragraphs of an excessively intimate or family nature, as well as certain episodes from the mischievous adventures of his childhood at home, at play or at school. These were indeed beautifully described, but with such “realism” that teachers and parents might have found themselves obliged to convince children that they ought not to imitate the things Uncle Enver had done in his day. Yet it is well known that children were, are and will always remain children, and will continue to get up to “mischief” at home, at school and in the streets and squares where they play. Comrade Enver approved the removal of those episodes which still make him laugh today, though not without regret. Indeed, he even sought to defend them by arguing that, when he and his companions engaged in such antics, there was no Party, nor any organisation of Young Pioneers, youth groups and the like to guide them.
On the seventy-fifth anniversary of Comrade Enver’s birth, may this publication serve as a gift to the people, for whom he feels boundless love, respect and gratitude, and especially to the people of Gjirokastra — its brave, patriotic and hardworking inhabitants — among whom he was born, grew up and prepared himself for the path of revolution and socialism.
NEXHMIJE HOXHA
July 1983
Notes
1 The çifteli is a traditional Albanian two-stringed folk lute.
2 The lahuta is a traditional Albanian single-string bowed instrument associated with epic folk songs.
3 Muslluqe are rainwater-storage cisterns traditionally used in southern Albanian homes.
4 Enver Hoxha, Vepra, vol. 4 (Shtëpia Botuese “Naim Frashëri,” 1970), 227.