By: Father Zef Pllumi (part of Rrno just to show me)
I had a few months left to serve my sentence [in Maliqi Swamp], but I was so upset that I doubt if I could make it to the day of release. I remember, I played a game. I had noticed that those soldiers who were in charge of keeping the registers and records were so ignorant that they did not know the difference between the months: December from the eighth (October).
It was a rule that two months before the day of release came, you had to submit a request to the command of the prison where you were active. I made a request to the Prison of Shkodra, they told me that; on the 14th I completed my sentence, they should have released me, regardless of me, I had it on the 14th of December. I read the request to Father Donati and Father Alex. They both yelled at me. You told me; aman, don't ban the navy, they will drown you. But I made them crazy. I started the letter. I am waiting for any answer. Useless. My boredom increased daily. How could you not join me?! I can't say anything worse. The work was done so much: the treatment of the Command was no longer brutal; men were destitute of strength: the Tents of Death were twofold; silos full of sick people. A large part, were those legs and faces.
They were called to work like that. Every morning, there was a furious terror. It was true that after Koçi Xoxe's punishment, the stick and beating were banned, but because, for the sake of trouble, some people had gone too far with the shovels, which had to be tested, as if they could break a man's back!
The dirt, the misery, the flies, the lice, the stinking smell of the swamp, the old stagnant water, even with worms, the bread, if you didn't eat it, as long as you took it in your hand, it was a risk of being stolen, night and day. Those meetings and group discussions were over. I missed you, someone saw your friend, you didn't know where you found him.
One day, a young man was saying to me:
- Do you know the Dunavec channel?
- I don't know if? I fell a martyr there.
- Uu, really, you didn't listen to me working there, we were totally upset. How stupid we were: these are the reindeer's father. There, near Dunavec, is Vloçishti. Last year, I worked there. It was the most horrible camp imaginable. How many have died, among the tortures of work! I saw with my own eyes the Catholic priest, Pope Josif Papamihal, when they covered him alive with mud, right there in the middle of the canal. Many became depressed and could not bear death any longer. My friends, before I went to sleep, came to say goodbye, took my halal and said: "Goodbye to that life!" they were thrown to the fence, to be shot. But even this camp is getting its look: little is changing. Fear that here, too, the throwing between the wires would soon begin. Life can't be endured like this anymore.
I saw that he was desperate. I tried to cheer him up. But what can I give him: I was sorry for you, I just hope that I will get some answer. No answer came. Father Donati, was so badly injured that he could barely stand on his feet. I wrote a letter to Mehmet Shehu, who had taken over the Ministry of the Interior, where he was looking for it, and transferred it to Burrel.
- How, - I said, - to Burrel?! Do you know that there they say that it is written: Burrel, this one entered and did not come out?!
- They told me that for there, that's how it is said, while here, it's not written, but they want it every day, more than there.
After some time, Mehmet Shehu accepted his prayer. But for me, no answer came from Shkodra. Then I threw the last stone. With a letter, I informed that; on the 14th of October, I had the day of release! /Telegraph/
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