By
Grigor Nosi
I would
not choose to write on dark, communist, times, as long as the architects of the
Red Holocaust are not yet punished. Moreover, they arrogantly run the country’s
politics today. But, as I was reading an article on the life of dissident
Klement Islami, the lamenting voice of a young lady from Durres came from deep
inside my soul and woke me up from this mindset. She was pleading, “Doctor, will
you have to amputate my leg? Please doctor, heal me! I am still young!”
It
was 1977, and I was assigned to work at the General Surgery Hospital in Elbasan,
Albania as a medical practitioner. The hospital was recently built, and it
neighbored the Elbasan Psychiatric Hospital. A shallow ditch and a partially
collapsed fence divided the two, huge, buildings. People spoke of the hospital with
a secretive undertone and referred to it as a place of isolation for selected individuals,
enemies of the regime. The word was out that the State Security had
cherry-picked doctors to intentionally abuse the patients who were incarcerated
in that Hell against their will.
“What
is your name?” I asked the young lady who was uncontrollably crying in pain. In
a broken voice, she somberly said, “Zana, Zana Dhroso.” “Stretch out your leg,”
I told her, and I began to probe her red, swollen, and infected knee. Each time
I touched it, she bit her lips, dry and split down the middle due to the various
medications she was taking. “Stay strong,” I said. After I injected a local
anesthesia, I opened the wound and pressed gauze onto it to drain the massive
infection, which had spread all over her knee. Just as I finished cleaning the huge
wound, a weak voice pleaded, “Doctor, are you going to amputate my leg? Please,
do not cut it off! I am young! It’s the second time I have had abscessed wounds.”
“No,” I told her. “Your leg will heal.” Her fragile, long, elegant, fingers
tightened around my hands as a sign of gratitude.
The senior
doctors knew what caused those huge abscessed wounds. I heard that patients brought
to the hospital on court order, were injected with pine resin. The injection
aimed to paralyze them and ensure they were unable to flee from the prison
hospital. I had not previously received the chance to see a case up close or to
treat it. I was then, deeply troubled, and I told my father Doctor Stiliano
Nosi. He sadly confirmed the practice. He was also an acquaintance of Zana’s
father, Doctor Dhroso. My father advised me to especially care for her, and I
did. I treated her even after she was sent back to the Psychiatric Hospital.
One
day on my hospital rounds, I crossed the path separating the two hospitals, and
I saw Zana and her father sitting on the only bench facing the street. Doctor
Dhroso, a nobleman worn down by age and agony for his daughter, addressed me in
a soft, pleading voice. He showered me with blessings to show his gratitude for
his daughter’s medical treatment. His eyes frequently welled up while he patted
Zana’s hands that were shaking uncontrollably. Moved by the image the two, poor
creatures left on me, I searched to find out why the young lady from Durres was
incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital.
***
At a
high school in the city of Durres, a brave act occurred that was never heard before.
A female student took down the portrait of the monstrous, communist, dictator Enver
Hoxha, and she threw it onto the cement floor. The picture broke into pieces in
front of all students. The heroic, young, lady, forgotten by the Post-Communist
era, was Zana Dhroso.
Translated
from The Albanian by Hilda Xhepa
Edited
by Rebekah Roberts
