Krujë and Skenderbeg

In Albanians’ sense of their history, a uniquely significant position is occupied by Skenderbeg, the preeminent national hero. His statue stands in prominent places in capital cities around the Albanian-inhabited areas of the Balkans, in Tirana, Prishtina and Skopje, and elsewhere. It is hard to think of a European country where a single historical figure holds such an important place in the national consciousness. For a small nation, ruled and dominated by others more powerful for much of their history, often seen as occupying a peripheral region, isolated from the main currents of European history, the memory of Skenderbeg is an affirmation for Albanians of their self-worth. They too produced a great hero, who played a significant role in the affairs of the continent. Despite their frequent disappointments, the example of Skenderbeg continues to provide inspiration.

Statue of Skenderbeg, Tirana

Born Gjergj Kastrioti, Skenderbeg was the name given him by the Turks, meaning in Turkish, roughly, Lord Alexander, it is presumed after Alexander the Great, a reference to his prowess as a military commander. Skenderbeg lived in the 15t Century, when the Ottomans were extending and consolidating their rule in the Balkans. Following his father’s submission to the empire, Skenderbeg served with distinction as a soldier of the Sultan before turning to rebellion. Instrumental in forming the League of Lezhë, a town in northern Albania, then under Venetian rule, for two decades Skenderbeg led Albanian resistance to the Ottomans from a base in his hilltop redoubt of Krujë, not far from Tirana. He led a guerrilla campaign and withstood sieges, putting off the extension of Ottoman rule until after his death.

Today, Krujë is a pleasant little town, with a small Ottoman-style bazaar, now mainly given over to selling tourist souvenirs. The fortress’s defensive value was appreciated also by the Turks, and much of what one sees today dates from the Ottoman period rather than from Skenderbeg’s time. Particularly fine is a beautifully maintained 18th-century house inside the castle walls, which had once accommodated the Ottoman commander of the fortress. The original decoration, including ornate wooden ceilings and simple yet exquisite murals, is a striking example of Ottoman style. Unlike the open verandas of the houses in Berat and Gjirokaster, here the gallery is enclosed by a tightly latticed wooden screen, through which the occupants could see out, but outsiders could not see in. Did this perhaps reflect the practice of a stricter version of Islam, with its preoccupation with hiding a house’s womenfolk away from view? Displayed photographs of the bazaar from the beginning of the 20th century showed women completely covered, burka-like.

18th-century house, Krujë castle

The castle contains the Skenderbeg Museum, opened in 1980s. The Hoxha regime eagerly tapped into the cult of Skenderbeg. A 1970 novel by the great Albanian writer Ismail Kadare, ‘The Seige’, described an Ottoman siege of an unnamed Albanian fortress in Skenderbeg’s time. The book was published in the aftermath of the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. Hoxha’s rule had nothing in common with the suppressed Prague Spring, except that Hoxha feared Albania might face a similar fate. The clampdown on the Prague Spring sparked heightened paranoia in the Albanian regime, which responded by building the thousands of defensive bunkers that once peppered the Albanian countryside. Kadare’s novel portrayed a defiant Albania, led by Skenderbeg, standing up to and defying the mighty Ottomans. Of course, Albania ultimately succumbed, albeit after Skenderbeg’s death, and in that sense the book’s message for the 20th Century was ambiguous.

The museum contains surviving documents signed by Skenderbeg, his correspondence with European rulers. Skenderbeg was lionised in much of Europe for his feat of withstanding, with few resources or men, the Ottoman Empire for so long, as a defender of Christendom and of European civilisation. However, many of the exhibits appear to have more to do with ‘creating’ history rather than recording it. Concrete knowledge of Skenderbeg and others involved in the resistance is limited, lost in the mists of time, and certainly many of the pictures and busts of people from that time are based on imagination. Such embellishment, selectiveness and fabrication is a feature of many Albanian museums. Perhaps it reflects a need for a small nation to give itself a history of which it could be more proud. But Skenderbeg’s story was remarkable enough without the need for embellishment. A (much embellished) history of Skenderbeg was written by Marin Barleti at the beginning of the 16th century, and was subsequently translated into several languages. Not a peripheral state, Albania under Skenderbeg was at the forefront of the defence of Europe.

The mountains of northern Albania

A hundred years ago, when Edith Durham travelled through the mountains of northern Albania, the world she described in her book, ‘High Albania’, was one in which there were no roads, just tracks, some of which could not be passed on horseback, let alone by any kind of vehicle. It was a world in which only the priests could read or write. And though the Catholic mountain people were devoted to the symbols of their Church, it was the Kanun – code – of Lek Dukagjin that held sway over their lives, and the honour code of the blood feud, which substituted for the lack of any effective state institutions.

This remarkable Edwardian woman dragged herself up mountain passes and along cliff ledges; she ate and slept in the primitive houses of the region, listening to the stories of the men, and sometimes women (for she generally ate with the men, not the women, who grubbed up the leftover scraps of the men, and were treated as little more than chattels, their role to bear male children and serve the family of their in-laws). Hospitality was sacred for the mountain people, and, though often poor, they gave her the best that they could.

Valbona

So much has changed now. The valley of the Valbona, close to Bajram Curri, a mainly Moslem region, is now a national park. It is rapidly being developed for tourism, mainly for visitors from Albania and nearby Kosovo, as well as a smattering of westerners. Wooden hotels and restaurants in a style that looks more like Scandinavia than the Balkans are being erected by families with the right political connections in Bajram Curri (construction in Albania depends on political patronage). The scent of money and opportunity is in the air Many of the traditional stone houses have been left to fall into decay, as have the barracks for an abandoned military base, placed here due to the proximity of the Yugoslav (now Montenegrin) border. The natural beauty of the place is spectacular, the mountains rising up on all sides. Driving into the valley, the villages of stone houses dotted around the verdant slopes have great charm.

The day we visited, a minor American film star of partly Albanian descent, Eliza Dushku (she was in ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’), was in the region, as part of a tour of Albania to help promote tourism. We saw her greeted by the head of Valbona commune together with a troop of traditional Tropoje dancers. She gamesomely joined in the fun, while the cameras whirred. Valbona is going to be developed further. One can only hope that it will be done with sensitivity and respect for the nature and the local traditions and styles.

Theth

Just across a mountain pass from Valbona is the valley of Theth, a Catholic area, also a national park. Part of Shkoder region, Theth can only be reached from Valbona by a tough climb over the mountains. The only road is from Shkoder, which in its higher reaches becomes a rocky track, unsuitable for vehicles less robust than a four-by-four or the sturdy little furgons (minivans) that push their way up, although some adventurous cyclists make the journey too.

Edith Durham was much taken with Theth, which she described as “a grandly wild spot”. She wrote of the valley that “great isolated boulders are scattered over it, on which stand kullas.” A kulla is the traditional tower that was the home and castle of mountain families, with tiny slit windows from which it could be defended from enemies. In such homes extended families lived in Durham’s time, and owed absolute obedience to the head of the household, the house lord. Many older houses remain. Some have been abandoned, but others have been renovated, some with red corrugated iron roofs in place of the traditional stone ones. The little church at one end of the valley has been restored. Durham would have been heartened by the fact that a school now stands in the heart of the village.

Not far from the church stands a traditional lock-out kulla, where men once took refuge to escape from blood feuds. Even now, as a tourist attraction, it seems a bleak and forbidding place. When Durham visited, the mountain tribes were in a state of near-constant feud, with their neighbours and within the tribe itself. The writer Ismail Kadare wrote about one such tower in his novel ‘Broken April’. Blood feuds have made a comeback since the end of communist rule, though mercifully not on their previous, all-pervasive scale. Travelling through Valbona, our local driver pointed out two houses whose occupants were in feud with a nearby family. Two people had been killed already. The men of the two houses dared not go out except at night, and the police apparently stayed clear of the matter. Most local people, he averred, still approved of revenge killings. The primitive call of honour continued to exert a pull in the villages.

Lock-out kulla, Theth

Many of the houses in Theth now take in guests. The conditions can be fairly basic. The village has for some time been without an electricity supply. At the place I stayed, a generator was switched on for a couple of hours in the evening. Hot water for washing came in a bucket that could be ladled over the body for a primitive shower. But this is nothing compared to the conditions experienced by Edith Durham on her travels, where the living area of a house frequently consisted of one large room, where she slept with all the family, and on occasion animals as well. Nevertheless, the warmth and hospitality with which she was everywhere received delighted her.

Nowadays, the guesthouses in Theth are commercial operations. The hosts have satellite television, and some of them speak English. But some of the spirit and charm Durham witnessed remains. Most of the food served is local produce, including home-baked bread, wine, butter, honey, and utterly delicious fig jam. Homemade fig jam featured on the breakfast menu in most of the places I stayed in Albania. It was wonderful. One still has the feeling of staying with a family, from the old lady, with her hair dyed jet black and worn long, topped by a light scarf, in the local style, who smiled benevolently at her guests (when not shooing away the hens or the family cow from the front of the house), to the little children who ran around throughout the day, and greeted me each morning and evening, telling me their names.

Theth too is surely going to experience further tourist development, including a tarmacked road that will bring in greater numbers of visitors, a reliable electricity supply, new hotels, shops etc. The wilderness that Durham wrote about is being overtaken by the modern world. As with Valbona, one hopes it will be done sensitively. Perhaps, away from these national parks, some unfrequented, more truly wild places will remain for a time.