Polyparty-ism - Search for Common Ground

among or towards others.
Someone who has suffered from
borders is surely the first who would
want them to disappear. Captured by
worldwide and native thoughts about
the myth and the reality of borders
and left as the last from my family,
whose members crossed the border a
long time ago, I was one of the last
inheritors of both the good news and
the bad. And the bad news was
already coming from the other side
of the invisible and painful border of
the lake, between my native town
Pogradec (considered the idee fixe
for exchange) and Macedonia.
Not long ago, the notice of the
death of my father's sister Fatmira
("good fortune") arrived. What an
irony, what fate, when she, the proud
old lady, experienced all the
tragedies of my family's leaving, all
the family separations justified by an
appeal to better fortune. And so she
would come, the poor thing, the last
one left from my family on the other
side of the border, she came to all
happy events, funerals, mostly to this
side of the border. She came to
soothe our family's pains, to bring
compassion, and she didn't have time
or a desire to speak about her own
troubles. And so great those troubles
were, they couldn't be greater. After
the war she had been thrown out of
her home and so she had been a tenant
in her own house! She had lived
to see her brother die, who had been
liquidated by Enver's regime,
allegedly for some "English" connection.
Studies in England! What a
severe punishment for crossing the
borders-death!
So now the notice of the death of
Aunt Fatmira, the last from my
father's generation from both sides of
the border, comes to me, being the
oldest and amongst the last. A sad
voice from the other side: "Poor
Fatmira has abandoned us. The funeral
is in Pogradec tomorrow at 11
o'clock." And that was all. Another
call in the history of the sad chronicle
from the other side of the border.
I leave early the next day, with
one of the grandsons, towards the
Albanian-Macedonian border at
Sveti Naum, an issue so important in
the family history. We do not have a
"green card" for the car; due to our
sudden leaving all the formalities
haven't been completed. They show
understanding at both sides of the
border.
The red Rover stops at the
Albanian border. The young border
guard looks at the passport; "We
carry the same last name. We are
family," he says…"You must know
my father. You are here for Aunt
Fatmira's funeral, for sure. Hurry up,
you don't have much time."
"There is always time for death,"
I say to myself, as we descend the
hill towards Pogradec.
I'm arriving on time to see my
Aunt Fatmira, the last from my
father's family tree. Death hasn't
changed her tawny face. The lines of
life are still alive. They tell me that
she had dreamed of my father, her
brother, only a few days ago. She had
been preparing to go. With my
grandson we follow the procession
together with other friends and family.
I see them for the first time; they
see me for the first time. And at a
burial even. They put Aunt Fatmira
in her grave. They cover the grave
with fresh flowers. Our Fatmira is
gone now! Our good luck!
I'm looking for my ancestors'
graves. The close ones. Only a few
have left. One of the older relatives
is next to me: "You can't find the
graves you are looking for. They are
destroyed," he says. "The dead here
have died for a second time."
I was speechless!
We passed by the grave of the
famous lakeside poet Lasgush
Poradeci, one of the greatest poets of
Albanian poetry. He remained proud
and straight, didn't retreat before
Enver's regime, he didn't write a single
syllable in his honour. We bow in
front of his grave. On departure we
receive a gift - Lasgush Poradeci's
booklet about the beginning of
"Albanian schooling in the beginning
of the twentieth century in
Pogradec," published posthumously
by his daughter. They point out that
Fatmira's father and her brother are
among the originators of this schooling.
Our sorrow from the loss of the
late Fatmira and our gladness, the
honour, mix together.
We spend only a little time over
the border. Our relatives from the
funeral accompany us. A close
cousin from Korcha is there also, I
see her for the first time, she sees me
for the first time. And it has been
more then half a century. We hug
each other strongly: "Don't wait for
another funeral to come here. And
you can never be sure about death.
God's will! Here and there! Like
there is no border! But, it is still
inside of us. Some border it is!
Stronger then death itself…"
****
A day over the border! It is as
long as a whole human life. For how
long has that piteous border blocked
sharing among people, among families,
destinies and compatriots of the
same country, the country of life.
We cross back over the Albanian-
Macedonian border. The people on
both sides of the border feel compassion
for pain. They comment: We
have stayed there only for a while!.
They are right. And we hurry to get
back! Hurry! We do not feel comfortable
with the borders! With their
anxiety which they have accumulated
for years, for centuries…
We stop with my grandson at the
Sveti Naum monastery. I recognize
the peacocks in the miraculous landscape.
They raise their feathers. I
notice a white peacock. My grandson
is also confused. The colourful rainbow
is missing. The beauty of varieties.
I look to the other side of the
lake, over the invisible border.
There, in nearby Pogradec, the heart
of Fatmira beats no more.
Over that border…
(The author is a writer)
117
Meetings, not divisions, June 2003