Time to Switch Places

(Extract from the book Torn Hell by Visar Zhiti)

New prisoners were pouring in, yet we were still unacquainted with each other: becoming so was even forbidden. Without others, there is no self. An entire impoverished population, vaguely identically dressed, sheared, famished--so much so that he appears to be you, and you resemble another. No self exists, but a translucent emptiness, copied into 1000 living multiples, 2000, one million, millions… in ancient slavery, you were a slave of 3000 years ago, so long had you served prison time. Among us it was said that astronauts from the depth of the cosmos, from the moon perhaps, were able to distinguish our prisons, caverns, rows of prisoners, a long chain, longer than rivers.  There were prisons nowhere else.

Among the new prisoners unloaded from the next prison truck was a young man with a very whitish face, paler than those of people coming from interrogation cells. A black jacket was still on him, tossed across his shoulders, a blazer with double vents. Maybe it was a sign of the fashion outside…

Take it to the clothing depot, they said, and you will get it back upon release, if … [rotten.] Leave your shoes and pants and put on the prison uniform.

Having done so, he emerged from the mass of surfaced newcomers, silent and slow, with a dignity stemming from such slowness. He started up the road leading to the barbed wires, ignoring the prisoners’ surging anxiety. We fixed our eyes on him. He was confidently mounting uphill, his head held high. “Hey!” voices were heard, “Where are you going? There is no way out there. The soldiers shoot…” 

These cries caught the attention of inside guards, until one surprisingly rushed toward the newcomer, yelling to him, “Stop! The soldiers really do fire! “E-e-e-e-h, convict! Y-o-u-u-u, do not fire!” Without looking back, he kept on, a civilian. He walked into the killing zone, where “Do Not Enter” signs swayed in the wind, like graveyard crosses. At the nearest guard tower, a soldier, as if inside the open head of a wooden monster, was aiming from the fangs with his machine gun. “No!” cried the inside guard, “Do not fire, soldier--I am here, too!”  He reached the new prisoner, grabbed his arms and dragged him. “Turn back,” he yelled, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you crossing into the forbidden zone? Do you want to be killed? Look at your friends--be patient!” The former citizen kept silent. “Are you insane?” 

“As you say,” he nodded, bewildered. Approaching, he looked at us and was more terrified of us than of the guns. He must have pictured himself as one of us.

An obscure sadness overtook me. Was it for myself, or for him who wanted to be killed? I did not dare kill myself. I was not even thinking. What would I kill; we were no longer beings. Then my sadness fell entirely on the newcomer, the unknown newcomer. Better he was killed, to challenge and then to be freed. I was horrified to be thinking this way, so mercilessly about another life. I had no right to wish the death of someone else, even when they wished for mine.

What about our psychologist, if he really was one, if they were allowed, (they were considered Freudians, banned, but perhaps he became a psychologist in prison; there was no opportunity to become one, but raw material was plenty), he reasoned thus: “When the inside guard, a living rubber baton of the dictatorship, dares and saves the life of an enemy, it must mean the dictator is very sick, or dying, or rather he has died, and they are hiding his death, like they did in ancient Chinese dictatorships, where dead emperors led. By saving the life of a prisoner, the class-struggle policeman helps his own later survival, so in a certain way, he prolongs the existence of evil, moreover by denying one’s right to die.” 

“What? Don’t you think the policeman saved the man’s life simply because his humanity compelled him?” 

“No, no, no way. He has saved his skin from imprisonment; time has come to switch places. The police sniffed it out, how could I not sense it?”

Switching places is not change. Can’t there be a society without judges and the judged, without prisons and dictatorship?

Utopia, like communism.

Translated from The Albanian by Hilda M. Xhepa   

Time to trade places

 Visar Zhiti

(Extract from the novel “Torn Hell” by Visar Zhiti)

New prisoners kept coming before we old timers had had a chance to get to know each other, which, by the way, was forbidden. The lack of contact with others lessened one’s self-perception. That poor mass of humanity, seemingly dressed the same, with identical haircuts, equally famished, where another seemed to be you and you someone else; without individuality we were nothing if not empty transparencies, multiplied by a thousand, or two thousand, by a million, by millions.  During the age of slavery, three thousand years ago, this setup would have reduced you to nothing more than a slave due to your long years of imprisonment We whispered among ourselves that cosmonauts could see our jails from afar, from the cosmos, perhaps from the moon, the prison caves, the rows of the condemned, the seemingly endless chain of them, stretching longer than the rivers. There were no prisons anywhere else.

            Among the prisoners emerging one day from the police van was a young man with a face paler than those of others who had survived their interrogation period. Around his shoulders he wore a black jacket with a flap in the back. Perhaps that was the fashion outside. He was told to take it to the clothes depot; he would get it back the day he was discharged (or whatever was left of it). He was also to get rid of his shoes and pants and don the prison uniform.

            When he was done, he emerged from among the new arrivals and silently, slowly, with the dignity of slow motion, he started climbing the path toward the barbed wire fence, disregarding the prisoners’ mounting tension. We had fixed our eyes on him. He walked sure-footed, his head held high. “Hey” – said some voices- “where are you going? There is no exit there. The guards will open fire. . .” These voices caught the attention of the guards inside the compound, where one of them, unexpectedly, rushed toward the newcomer screaming that he stop, as the guards would shoot: “Hey you, prisoneeer! You guards, don’t shoooot.” The prisoner, however, continued walking, without turning his head, with dignity. He entered the killing zone where signs marked “DO NOT ENTER” were buffeted by the wind like crosses in a graveyard. The soldier in the nearest guard tower, like from inside a wooden monster head and from between its teeth, was aiming his automatic rifle in our direction. “No,” yelled the guard from inside the compound, “soldier, don’t fire, I, too, am here.” He reached the recently sentenced man, grabbed him by his arms and pulled him back. “Turn around,” he yelled, “what’s the matter with you? Why are you crossing into the forbidden zone, or are you trying to get killed?” Look at the other inmates, be patient!”  The former citizen did not open his mouth. “Are you insane?” He nodded in agreement. When he came close to us, he looked bewildered, more terrified of us than of the guns. He probably saw himself like one of us.

            I was overcome by sorrow, I didn’t know whether for me or for him who wanted to get killed. I not only did not dare kill myself, but had given up thinking altogether. Besides, whom was I supposed to kill, we were no longer human beings. My sorrow turned completely toward the unknown newcomer. It would have been better for him had he been killed. It would have been over for him and a challenge to the status quo. My very thoughts terrified me, for being so merciless toward another’s life. I had no right to want someone else’s death, even though others felt that way toward me.

            I doubt it that from the very beginning we had a psychologist among us. Had there been one, he would have been rejected as a Freudian. More likely, someone among us could have become a psychologist in prison. Chances were slim but psychological anomalies were all around us. A psychologist could have thought along these lines: “The inside guard, no more than a rubber truncheon for the regime, dares to save an enemy’s life. That must mean that the dictator is very ill, probably in his death throes; he may even be dead. They may be hiding it as in ancient Chinese dictatorships that were ‘led’ by dead emperors. Thus, the policeman of the ‘class warfare’, by saving the life of a prisoner may have been promoting his own future thus extending the life of an evil, even as he prevented death.”

            Why, are you thinking that the policeman did not save the prisoner’s life, just out of human concern . . . ?

            “No, no, no way, he was trying to avoid being arrested. Time has come for us to trade places. How could I miss it if the policeman didn’t?”

            Trading places is not necessarily a change. Can there be no society without condemned individuals, hence without judges, without jails, without prisoners?

Translated from The Albanian by Genc Korça

The Ambassador

By Teuta Mema



In the marble hall, in the crystal building near the Hudson River bank, Manhattan, New York, a U.N. conference on the vulnerability of women and children took place. Founded after World War two, the UN seeks to encourage peace between nations and foster international cooperation on pressing global issues. Representatives from six continents lectured, recounting stories from all around the world. A large portion of the participants described the morbid sufferings of women and children, but free Western nations, like the United Sates, gave positive accounts. The discussion stretched past the meeting, into corridors, and behold in one corner, some shake hands with the Ambassador of a tiny country. His speech impressed them, a small nation, straight out of communism, in a short period of time, has been able to secure the safe treatment of women and children. The cases the Ambassador provided intrigued the audience, so the discussion outside of the meeting centered on those.

Ambassador Agim Nesho




…It was winter; the wind slashed the freezing rain onto a woman’s youthful face and onto the small daughter holding her hand. The woman silently cried, her child wailed, the two sobbed and the cold rain swirled their tears, showering their soft faces in the dark night, dark like the land, communist Albania. The bare land, its undergrowths strangled in the iron palm of the Stalin Replica, was suffocated in heavy air of terror. Dictator Enver Hoxha killed thousands and thousands of innocent people and in the end, his devoted comrades in arms.

“Go to hell! You, daughter of an enemy of the Party! You and your creature, your creature! It is not mine! It cannot be mine! It is your monster! Enemies!”

“Please, do not throw us out on this winter’s night; the Party will re-evaluate! My father is not an enemy. My father is a doctor.”

“No, away you! The little devil is not mine!” He closed the door, leaving his wife, Liliana Ziçishti and daughter, Julka Nesho to the downpour…

The ambassador declared how he personally adored his family. A woman was by his side. He presented her to the surrounding delegates, as they shook her hand. They passed her around, a dance of greetings, her silver dress, flashing about them. Politicians eagerly spoke with her about her home, and raised glittering crystal glasses to the marble heights, cheers to Albania, Albania’s families. This time the new wife was different. She was loved by the party.



Translated from The Albanian by Hilda M. Xhepa