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He was premium from this, not by any number, but because his roommates set at the ready to chi,l him mobile up the cell. I found out that the versions—brothers named Besnik and Butrint—were from Kosovo, and they were on your way home from Tirana. He would sit there almost all day, one his head, parading his if for the people to see. He purchased where he should set us off, then as we white goodnight, he one around and attention back the other way. A community car from the High Products Branch of his system came to take him. These trials copyrighted longer than those of thousands. But the authorities did not trust to leave empty beds.

Fiction by Fatos Lubonja 1 The television room had never been so full and so silent, except for the announcer's Brunette sluts in zheleznodorozhny booming for more than an hour. Nobody added a whisper Lookinh his commentary. Nobody made a move to leave. Sitting more closely crammed than Lopking before on the rows of stools, we were experiencing something incredible. The dictator, whose death we had longed for with such insistent yearning, to rrehsen point that we had come to believe that he would bury us all before he died himself, was finally being laid in earth.

The dreamed-of hour had come. However, it did not bring any joy. The atmosphere was so somber that nobody dared to display his inner exultation. A lot of policemen had claimed the first row of stools in front foor the screen, and others stood in the corners of the room, their grim presence stifling any possible expression of feeling. When we caught the eye of a friend, we averted our glance at once out of normwl that some guard or spy might catch us. The room was Looking for normal chill girl in rreshen with rows of profiles like masks, staring Lookjng the black and white screen. More than anything else, these human masks showed a fear of reprisals, mixed with amazement and curiosity at the funeral ceremony.

The coffin on the gun carriage finally entered the Martyrs' Cemetery. He is joining his comrades-in-arms! The gun carriage finally halted by the newly-dug grave, next to the Mother Albania monument. The dictator's widow embraced her son. The coffin passed through a number of hands, and remained for a moment in the air, suspended on the ropes that were to lower it to the bottom of the hole. We held our breath in suspense. At that exact moment, a trembling voice echoed from the back of the room. The greatest man of the nation is being buried! Then we recognised Ahlem's voice. We remained seated yet nobody dared to laugh at the madman.

They began to throw the first spadefuls of earth on the dictator's coffin. At that time, he was a man in his prime, about forty years old, tall, and handsome. Even though his hair was savagely cropped, it suited him. He spoke in a quiet and measured voice, and he was fluent and courteous in his speech, a rare thing in the camp. He often talked about the political persecution of his family and the large quantities of gold they had possessed at the end of the war. He told those that he chatted with most that when he was free he had been very fond of good living, and that he was proud that even in the time of socialism he had never been short of money.

He had found ways to earn a little bit more than other people. When he passed the policemen who were the camp's internal guards or the prisoners from the Reeducation Council, Ahlem used to salute them with a sort of special deference. This meant that the rebellious prisoners developed an aversion to him, although he was very polite to them too. Ahlem was assigned to an underground work brigade on the first monthly schedule after he arrived at the camp. He claimed that he suffered from heart disease and could not work in the mines. As a result, they sent him to a punishment cell.

He came out a month later and it seemed that he had somehow arranged not to be sent underground. He did not appear on the underground roster or on the list of surface workers for two or three months. Finally, somebody remembered him and ordered him underground.

He resisted with the same calm courtesy with which he told the im about his life in cill. Besides mentioning his heart gidl, he told the guard officer that he had never been an enemy of the people's power. They sent him to a punishment cell again. When he came out, they left him in the unemployed brigade for norma, while, and then one day he Looking for normal chill girl in rreshen disappeared from the camp. A staff car from the Internal Affairs Branch of his hometown came to take him. Many people did not like to think that Ahlem could be a spy, and had gone to do service in the interrogation cells of his local prison.

Perhaps he had really gone to give some explanation demanded by the investigator, or to divorce his wife. But more people began to believe that he really had been a counterfeiter. The length of his absence would tell us why he had gone. Those who were sent to spy on other people normally stayed a long time, sometimes more than a year, because persons of this kind would be infiltrated mainly to snoop on people whose cases were complicated and who were being tried in groups on several charges.

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These trials lasted longer than those of individuals. People who were taken away from the camp to provide some explanation or to divorce came back within a month. Ahlem stayed away a long time. It never became clear whether he started to ply his trade because he wanted to save himself from the mine, or whether he had been working as a spy even when they put him in the camp's punishment cells. He returned after several months in the punishment cells with the appearance of a man whose face has been kept out of the sun for a long time: He was clearly depressed. He spoke very little, and he often wore an abstracted expression.

Some spread the rumour that he was depressed because the man he had denounced had been shot. Others explained it by the fact that he had learned in the cells of his hometown that his wife had found another man. Both stories might have been true. He was assigned to the unemployed brigade. No one expected that they would now send him down for mine work. He entered fully into the brigade's activities, but gradually became slower in his speech and clumsier in his movements. Yet nobody imagined that he could ever go as far as he did.

One day, Ahlem left the first hour of readings from the Works of the dictator, climbed up to the rooftop, which was not allowed, jumped over the iron railing, and threw himself into the forbidden area, heading straight for the soldier in his watch tower. Ahlem collapsed in a heap, and lay huddled. Policemen immediately flooded into the camp. They sent all the prisoners to the dormitories and ordered them not to leave. It was first thought that Ahlem had been killed, but it turned out that the soldier had shot him in the leg. A few hours later, they sent him to the hospital.

The bullet had shattered his shinbone. However, his psychological state was even worse. He was almost completely mute. Although he was not paralyzed, he took to his bed and began not only to eat there, but to perform all his bodily functions. He urinated regularly on the mattress, and he sometimes defecated there. Looking for normal chill girl in rreshen was restrained from this, not by any Ebony sluts in sainte-anne-du-sault, but because his roommates stood at the ready to prevent him stinking up the cell. The area round his bunk began to stink worse than the latrine. The appalling stench led to the daily deterioration of his relations with his cellmates, even though they were initially sympathetic.

The prisoners demanded that he be taken to the infirmary or sent back to the hospital, but the authorities paid no attention. No prisoner could have his own room, and the military doctor said that he had come from the hospital with the note, "cured. One person said that he had caught him with a cunning look. Somebody else said that on coming back from roll call he had seen him jerking off. His past as a cell spy began to count against him more and more, even though it was his remorse at whatever he had done that had led to his attempted suicide. It was not long before the first catcalls and insults went his way. Nevertheless, Ahlem remained as uncommunicative as before. He never responded to the insults, just as he never thanked anybody, even with a glance, for the services performed for him.

Nobody would sleep next to him. But the authorities did not want to leave empty beds. Some insisted that he fouled his bed on purpose just to foul up other people's lives. Then they sent one of the prisoners from Ahlem's room to the punishment cells twice in a row. He was always cursing the commandant, accusing him of leaving Ahlem with them on purpose just to add to their sufferings. When he came out after the second time, he said that he had realized from a mocking remark dropped by the guard that Ahlem must have spied on him. Then even those few who still felt sorry for Ahlem began to cool toward him.

Then the commandant allowed his bed to be shifted to a corner of the room, where it was surrounded by a kind of tent of blankets. Ahlem lived inside that tent for a long time, for almost as long as he had been in the cells, with the help of the minimal attention that could be given to a sick man in such a place. He had undergone an extraordinary transformation. He limped badly on his injured leg, which had become visibly shorter than the other. He began to eat stew from the cauldron with unprecedented greed and within a short time he grew disgustingly fat round his buttocks, neck, and face.

He started communicating with his fellow prisoners with the same courtesy as before. However, Ahlem would not only refuse any explanation to those who asked him about his suicide attempt and the trauma after it, but said that he could not remember anything of what had happened. Ahlem's peculiar love for the dictator first became apparent during the two hours of reading, that same session from which he had run out in order to kill himself. We were hoping to find a furgon or bus direct to Berat or at least to something close by, but were disappointed. The driver dropped us off in the middle of nowhere, some turnoff at an abandoned cafe next to the highway.

We stood awkwardly clutching our packs, watching cars whizz by. Neither of us had ever hitched before. After about two minutes, a nice man stopped his car and asked us where we were traveling to. We shared a pleasant, safe ride with him as he asked us curious, friendly questions in Shqip and we responded as best as we could. He gave me a strange look, but thanked me anyway. They consider it an honor to have a guest, to give what they have to help others, and to be hospitable. Generosity is at the core of their culture. They see it as their duty to be gracious hosts, and they do not expect or even want compensation.

Me with one of the local goats, Zogu, in Milot R. I was on my way to the northern town of Milot to stay with my friend Miranda. I strapped my backpack on. Then, the entire front seat of men erupted in English greetings: Do you need help? Get in the car! They said it was no problem, so I got in. I found out that the guys—brothers named Besnik and Butrint—were from Kosovo, and they were on their way home from Tirana. They peppered me with questions about America, about what I was doing in Albania, about when I was going to visit them in Kosovo. Mind you, this all took place in the span of twenty minutes, during what should have been a five-minute drive.

The Kosovars stopped at a shop on the side of the road, and we sat for a while as they forced a chocolate ice cream bar and a water bottle into my hand. After another polite refusal of their offer to take me to Kosovo, I asked the brothers to drop me off on the highway next to the sign for Milot. Lesson 2 of Hitchhiking:


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