When asked about early elections, Berisha said that they would be held in 2000 as planned.
I often think of the years 1990-1991, because some people say that we are doing exactly what the PD did at that time. The PD brought down the communist government after destabilizing Albania for a whole year, at a heavy cost to the country. Now too there is an economic and political crisis, and we are fanning the flames. Another similarity is the regime’s fear of the crimes it has committed. Then, the communists’ knowledge of their crimes increased their fear of leaving power. Now too, the government appears frightened of losing power, although it is not burdened by crimes of the same severity. But there is also a substantial difference. At that time Ramiz Alia made it obvious that he wanted to make a soft landing and leave the political scene. But Berisha insists on keeping his plane in the air, although there is every sign that its engines have broken down and we are all going to crash.
19th February
Today Sabri Godo’s Republican Party announced its departure from the coalition government. The Christian Democrats, who are with Berisha, also called for Meksi’s resignation and called on all the right-wing parties to create a genuine democratic forum. But the strongest blow to Berisha came from within. A group of fourteen members of the PD’s National Council, mainly former ministers, submitted a nine-point petition calling for the resignation of the Meksi government and the formation of a government of national salvation. They called on Berisha to dissociate himself from the political parties, play a conciliatory role, and guarantee inter-party debate. The signatories included former deputy Prime Minister Dashamir Shehi. But according to them, only the Democratic Party should form the Salvation Government.
There is not a word about the responsibilities they bear or their acts of violence. They are abandoning a sinking ship. Others jumped overboard as soon as they saw the ship entering stormy waters, and some were made to walk the plank. But these are abandoning ship because they have taken what they can and now they don’t want to drown with Berisha.
‘These has-beens are unhappy at losing their jobs,’ Berisha replied. Perhaps he is right, but when he fails to sit down with his own party to discuss an option that is entirely in the party’s favour, what kind of dialogue can he conduct with us? Clearly he will continue to rely on force.
Chapter XXI
20th February
Qorri was re-reading an article he had started a long time ago but left unfinished. He had thought of publishing it on the anniversary of the overthrow of the statue of Hoxha, the former dictator. It began with an episode from history that he had read before the dictator’s monument was toppled, and which had haunted him incessantly in prison, like an impossible dream.
‘The colossal statue of Serapis in Alexandria was the object of a religious cult. A huge number of metal plates had been skilfully joined to create this magnificent figure of the god. The appearance of the seated Serapis, holding a sceptre in his left hand, was very like the familiar aspect of Zeus. The superstition among the people was that if anybody dared insult the majesty of this god, heaven and earth would revert instantly to primal chaos.
‘A brave Christian soldier, emboldened by his faith and armed with a mighty sword, climbed the steps. The crowd awaited the outcome of his challenge in terror. The soldier struck Serapis’ face with a powerful blow, and the metal plates forming his cheeks fell to the ground. There was no sound of thunder and the earth and sky remained peacefully in place. The soldier struck a second and third time. The huge idol toppled over and shattered. Then its limbs were dragged with contempt through the streets of Alexandria...’
After this introduction, Qorri described what had happened about two thousand years later, on 20th February 1991 in Tirana.
‘A vast crowd of excited people had gathered since morning on the hills of Student City, where the halls of residence were, to support the eight hundred students who were on hunger strike, demanding the removal of the name of the dictator Enver Hoxha from their university.
The regime, burdened by its crimes and exhausted by the ruined economy, felt impotent. The assembled crowds sensed this, and decided to accomplish themselves what the supine members of the Politburo could no longer find the strength to do. Someone gave a sign: if they won’t remove his name, we’ll pull down his monument. The crowd poured downhill into the centre of Tirana, where the nine-metre high statue of Hoxha stood.
‘Events developed fast. At first no one dared approach the monument, not just because riot police were protecting it but because of the dictator’s terrifying aura. A helicopter circled above the crowd, sending continuous reports to the leadership. The crowd was so huge that any military intervention would lead to a massacre. Slowly, the bravest overcame the barrier of fear that was stronger than the cordon of police, climbed onto the pedestal of the monument and threw a rope round Enver Hoxha’s neck. At five past two, they pulled the rope and the bronze monument tottered and fell. The crowd’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. People kissed and hugged even the police and the riot squads that had vainly tried to restrain their frenzied desire for liberty. The statue was desecrated, urinated on, hacked to pieces, and hauled to the place history had reserved for it in scenes that expressed people’s boundless hatred and alienation under the dictator’s cruel tyranny.
‘Never before had all Albanians, from the most wretched poor to the most sophisticated intellectuals, felt so united and happy. The young men who had hung the noose round the monument and defiled it were united in spirit with the rest who were gathered round, but whose culture and self-restraint did not allow them to join in.
‘It was as if the sun of freedom above Albania had come out from behind a fifty-year eclipse and now blazed forth its life-giving rays. The clouds of hatred, division and poverty seemed to have vanished from the sky. What would come next didn’t matter. This was a moment of eternity. The future lay waiting on the far horizon, but at that moment it was like a fluffy little white cloud to which nobody paid any attention.’
Qorri was astonished at the pathos in what he had written. He hardly recognized himself in this article. Had he since matured as a writer, or was he then merely reflecting the spirit of the times? Or could he not tell the difference? He had experienced that day from his prison cell. The prisoners yearned to be rid of the shadow of this dictator. Albanians outside the barbed wire were itching to flee abroad. Many people passed a sleepless night reliving the fall of the statue as they had seen it on television. This day would endure in their memory as the high point of their lives. Now this summit seemed to have receded into the far distance and was surrounded by black clouds.
What had happened to the Albanians now, after only six years? That little white cloud of the future that once floated gently and benignly on the horizon had drawn nearer and grown larger and blacker until it filled the entire sky. Storms were on the way. The anniversary of the overthrow of Enver Hoxha’s statue found the Albanians more bitterly divided than ever before, and using the memory of this day only as a weapon against one another.
Qorri was puzzled as to how this great day lost its lustre so quickly. Of course, the tribulations of daily life were enough to overshadow even the most glorious memories. But that was not all. Perhaps, Qorri thought, truly great days are when foundations are laid, not when something is demolished. Christians celebrate the birth of Christ, not the downfall of paganism. Perhaps that was the trouble. The day had not really laid the foundations of freedom, and history had not produced any true victors. The bravest of the crowd who had surrounded the monument and thrown the rope had known only that single day’s triumph. They had remained anonymous. Those who had risen to power were neither demolition men nor builders, but merely collaborators with the regime to whom fell the task of clearing away the debris before it crumbled and crushed them. There were rumours later on that even the overthrow of the monument had been planned, and that the screws on the pedestal had been loosened by the agents of the regime itself, which was why it had fallen s
o easily.
Qorri saw now that he would never finish this piece. He shut down his computer and went out for a coffee.
***
The Forum had applied to hold another protest rally on Scanderbeg Square on 20th February. This time, it was hard to imagine Berisha denying permission. On the 16th, the Tirana branch of the Democratic Party had applied to hold a peaceful rally at one o’clock either on Scanderbeg Square or opposite the University. According to the Interior Ministry spokesman, the rally was to mark ‘the anniversary of the overthrow of the symbol of communism, Enver Hoxha’s monument.’ The police refused to allow this assembly on Scanderbeg Square, supposedly because of the traffic and associated problems, but approved the square in front of the University. Perhaps they might give a square to the Forum too, but not the central one.
And so, as they expected, the government allowed the Forum a rally on the field of Ali Demi.
‘Finally the government has allowed a rally of the opposition on Ali Demi field on 20th February, an important date in the struggle of the Albanian people against dictatorship. The Forum for Democracy invites you all to Ali Demi field. Let us protest together against the destructive policies of neo-dictatorship which have led the country to political and economic collapse.’
‘Everybody to Ali Demi field at 14.30! Support the peaceful anti-government protests and the demands of the Forum for Democracy!’
Meanwhile, Rilindja Demokratike announced, ‘Everyone to University Square to mark the Day of the Overthrow of the Symbol of Dictatorship!’
***
Qorri had never before faced such a sea of humanity. The football field, the surrounding area and even the neighbouring apartment blocks were crammed with people singing and shouting slogans.
‘Seize your guns, boys, death or freedom,’ was the first song.
Suddenly, instead of enthusiasm, a sensation of powerlessness in front of this great mass of people overwhelmed him. He felt that deep down this came from his own inability to communicate with them. It was not clear to him why this should be so, whether it was his lack of experience or because this kind of oratory was foreign to his nature. He usually preferred one-to-one discussions, conversations that went to the heart of an argument. He felt that the greater the number of participants, the shallower a discussion became. He had of necessity got used to round tables and discussion panels, but these didn’t involve much applause. Here he faced an ocean of excited people, who needed less to communicate than to celebrate. It was a savage kind of festival, in which individual participants felt powerful precisely because they were part of a great multitude. The people there were drunk on the freedom they had gained from joining together. They had never felt as powerful as at that moment.
Another slogan burst out ‘Vlora, Vlora’; ‘Vlora, Vlora’, and then came ‘Berisha needs a length of rope.’
It was possible that every person who had lost their money was there. The wildest among them had no doubt been beaten by Berisha’s police at the impromptu protests at the gates of the pyramids’ offices. Qorri hoped that this swarm of people also included some who were there because of the violation of their freedom, so recently won, and some who had helped to topple the dictator’s statue six years before.
They were all looking towards a small rostrum on which the Forum’s leaders were placed. It was as if their presence was required merely as symbols, and because without them the crowd would remain amorphous. Qorri remembered someone saying that without leaders there is no critical mass, and it is a critical mass that produces a leader. But he found it difficult to see himself through the eyes of this crowd and thought that from their point of view he cut a very small figure. The road towards freedom, for which he was struggling, led out of the crowded field, after these people dispersed and became individuals again.
Below the rostrum some television cameras focused on the Forum leaders and turned now and again towards the field.
The speeches were soon over. After all, the point of the rally was to show the massive support for the Forum. But that wasn’t why crowd had come together. A voice rose from the throng ‘To the Square! The Square!’ With the energy of thousands of people united as never before, the crowd felt ready to conquer Scanderbeg Square. In their previous attempts, they had not been able to muster such a large number. Now they felt nothing could stop them. They wanted confrontation, and slogans could be heard that sounded like ‘Freedom or death!’ Yet they were also waiting for an order, an instruction from the rostrum, which did not come. For good or ill, the Forum’s leaders were unwilling. They knew that the police, who had barely allowed people to gather on the Ali Demi field, would not allow them to seize the square.
At this point Qorri saw that this mass of people was now in control of events. They were a raging ocean of humanity on which he and the other leaders of the Forum were a few wretched skiffs bobbing on the surface, struggling to pull their oars and exploit this energy for their own purposes. They wanted to distinguish themselves from this mass and rise above it, but the crowd strove to absorb them and make them its head, using them to direct its own energies. Perhaps the crowd knew instinctively the best place to strike. But it was unable to carry responsibility. Someone had to act as its head.
But the connection between the Forum leaders and this crowd was not of this kind. Looking back on this day, Qorri would wonder what might have happened if the Forum’s leaders had been as courageous as the crowd. Maybe blood would have been spilt at the square, but this bloodshed might have prevented even more later on.
***
Descending the steps of the rostrum, Qorri was surrounded by protesters. Some became his self-appointed bodyguards, some wanted to talk to him about their worries, and others just to see him.
At that moment the crowd parted to make way for a man rushing towards him with outstretched arms.
‘Fatos! Fatos!’ he cried, clasping him in a tight embrace. Qorri didn’t recognize him.
‘Don’t you know who I am? How can you not recognize me? I’m Gjergj.’
Qorri finally saw who he was and fell speechless with disbelief. This was ‘lame Gjergj’, one of the most detested guards of the prison camp at Spaç, who had once beaten him and punched him with his fists. A shadow of seriousness and confusion fell across the man’s face. Qorri did not say a word. It did not seem the right moment to make judgments, in the midst of the crowd, and after that embrace. He walked away silently, feeling that this encounter had alienated him even further from the people. What had emboldened this torturer to come up and embrace him? Was it just that he now thought they were on the same side? Or did he think that that they had lived together under the same sky of Spaç, and the distinction between torturer and victim struck him as unimportant? A mounting anger rose within Qorri. Whatever this embrace meant, it was not repentance. If Gjergj had felt the slightest remorse for the work he had done, he would not have greeted him like that. The embrace showed that he had not felt a moment’s regret.
Gonxhja interrupted his reflections. They would have to hurry. He had made an appointment with Charles Walsh of USAID after the rally, and Charles was waiting for him in a jeep parked off the main road. Qorri and Gonxhja climbed quickly into the back. Walsh was in front beside the driver. They noticed that a car had set off just behind them – obviously following them.
‘Congratulations,’ Walsh said. ‘It was incredible. All those people.’
At the first turn, they realized that the car behind them must be the SHIK. Walsh told his driver to take some sudden turnings in the narrow lanes. But their pursuers clung to them, so Walsh directed the driver into the street behind the embassy where nobody could follow them. This street was blocked at one end for security reasons and only cars on embassy business could enter. Their pursuers vanished, perhaps thinking they were entering the embassy. Then the jeep made a U-turn and headed for the nearby Café des Artistes. They recovered their breath in the leafy courtyard of the café. There were few customers, and nobody suspiciou
s came in after them.
Walsh was about forty, tall and with curly blond hair, now slightly thinning. His manner was always restrained, but open and friendly. Qorri had only met him once some time ago, when he had talked about the dangers of the pyramid schemes. ‘Don’t you understand you’re heading for disaster?’ he had said. Everyone was sure that Walsh was the CIA’s number-one man in Albania. Qorri had interpreted his concern over the pyramids as the anxiety of the U.S. intelligence services over a phenomenon that posed a danger to the whole of the Balkans. He was fully convinced that Walsh had given Gumbel the information for his bombshell in The Independent.
Walsh had watched the end of the rally, surprised and thrilled at the large crowds. Qorri understood from his first words that he was among the few foreigners who were persuaded that Berisha must be removed from power, as the main source of the evil. So the conversation naturally concentrated on how this could be achieved.
‘The trouble is,’ Qorri said, ‘that he’s like a terrorist holding hostages and saying as he points a gun at them, “If you don’t do what I say, I’ll kill them all.” How can we get the gun out of his hand before he can do any harm?’
The False Apocalypse Page 12
