We massacre them

(Remembrance of a time that will never happen again)

By: Pjetër Logoreci

Once upon a time, as a 12-year-old student, I returned home to Arra e Madhe, passing through a quiet alley in Shkodra, where Pashko Vasa's house is located. Just like the mystery of the old doors and high walls of this alley, I was also curious about an elderly passerby, with a miserable and tired look, who passed there almost every afternoon.

The old cap fell over his eyes, it did not prevent me from observing the poor man, the features of a noble man, with a sharp face, gray and authoritative eyes, a thick gray mustache, and a nose with a ridge, like mountain vulture...

His body was bald, covered with an old patched coat, his legs were scarred by the old galoshes that dragged him along, two dry hands full of black spots that trembled, 'helping leg from a wooden cane.

My father assures me that this person was Father Mark Harapi, a giant of patriotism, polyglot, philosopher and translator of the work of Alexander Manzoni, who gave his intellectual assistance in special fields of Albanian culture. I apologize that he was "rewarded with 20 years of prison and political exile" and that he survived on the handouts of the citizens of Shkodra.

... but what happened to him, one icy winter day in 1969, the shock and sadness closed my childish mind and heart so that I would never forget it...

In the afternoon of that crystallized day, the old man was walking the last few meters to the door of a kind-hearted family, who, out of mercy, spent his lunch every day for him, when... from the corner of the on the road (at the Gjonje village), a man can be seen. His outfit, the terital overcoat with a belt in the middle, the trousers raised above the ankles and the Chinese-style cap, gave him a funny, but scary look to the security.

After he turned his head back, apparently making sure that he was alone, I ignored my presence, approached the old man and started talking about our anger and anger, with a tone of hatred that makes me shudder more than cold. He vented, cursed and snarled wildly, blocking the victim's way, until he pushed him against the wall... Then, he reached out and grabbed the helpless poor thing from the jacket, brought him closer to the place and spat on his face.

Father Marku, leaning on his cane with difficulty, did not want to face the evil, he tried without hesitation to turn the thorn, and he continued on his way. Security, which felt challenged, with as much power as I had, I kicked the cane at the old man who lost his balance and fell and crashed on the frost of the road, his head dry, which covered you in blood.

Even today, I don't know how my heart didn't break, I remained motionless like a shingle stone, powerless to put my hand on what happened. In the meantime, an old woman who, it seems, had watched everything happen from behind the shutters, offered help to the wounded Father who was pointing with his hand and eyes towards the door of mercy, nearby...