A memorial to those who founded the National Theatre A fir tree always remains green. As such, it is a symbol of life and rebirth. And there is no more beautiful way to remember an actor or director who is no longer alive than by planting a small fir tree in the courtyard of the National Theatre and placing beside it a metal plaque bearing his name. Such a ceremony was held on Christmas Day at the National Theatre. Mihal Stefa (1902-1980), Loro Kovaçi (1903-1966), Mihal Popi (1909-1979), Pjetër Gjoka (1912-1982), Andrea Malo (1919-1966), Marie Logoreci (1920-1988), Sandër Prosi (1920-1985), Prokop Mima (1920-1986), Andon Pano (1922-1993), Pandi Stilu (1924-1970), Naim Frashëri (1924-1975), Zina Andri (1924-1980), Besim Levonja (1925-1968), Ndrek Luca (1927-1993), Kujtim Spahivogli (1932-1987) and Bexhet Nelku (1937-1970). I have listed these names by age. But something brought them all together on that green lawn in the courtyard of the National Theatre and prompted Neritan Alibali, the director of this institution, to organize such a ceremony. “These people worked for decades at this Theatre and deserved a translation. They were the ones who founded this Theatre. But now they will be close to the National Theatre. And as long as they belong to this Theatre, they do not belong to their families,” Alibali told me. Beneath portraits of these actors and images of their roles, with a video and audio recording playing, their family members held the simple ceremony. For one, a spouse; for another, a sister, a brother or their children. These people are missed by some. But beside them are those who are still alive and remember them—their colleagues. “I planted the fir tree for director Pand Stillu myself, because he was the one who helped me get onto the stage, who helped my career at this Theatre,” says Margarita Xhepa, now 59. In his address, after financially presenting this green memorial—the German Gerhard Hager—Neritan Alibali said: “This memorial is not immortality, but a pantheon where immortality rests. For those who gave the National Theatre their sweat, their work and their art, there may be loss, but there will be no forgetting.” GJERGJ PILIKA

Special report from the hall on the 32nd Festival at RTSH Good heavens, sir, life isn’t so sad after all—so it seems to Zarathustra, when the spectacle of the 32nd Song Festival took place on Albanian Radio and Television. Good heavens, sir, life isn’t so sad after all—so it seems to Zarathustra, when the spectacle of the 32nd Song Festival took place on Albanian Radio and Television, via satellite broadcast. Even the Foreign Office arrived at this deduction—that life in Albania is much more joyful than in grey London, and more joyful than in grey London—and sometimes, when BBC correspondents had imagined that, since this spectacle took place while it was raining in Tirana, I don’t know how to stop crying at the sensation this event caused. Life isn’t sad after all, says Zarathustra, who attended the Festival spectacle in person, although several journalists had urged him not to go, saying he would hear some great deduction. So Zarathustra, who didn’t listen to those newspapers, [unclear] like beautiful drums, were far away, with lifeless eyes like [unclear] of stagnant, foul-smelling pools. How lucky I am! Thus spoke Zarathustra. To tell the truth, I too—although I am not a critic, but have a predisposition to sink into depressions—felt, I can tell you, almost happy, because it was a brilliant spectacle, 100% European, 100% Albanian, 100% national, 100% self-cultivated. Even Vera Grabocka’s “ambassador” felt a little uncomfortable, hemmed in among the diamonds. We can’t say that all the songs were beautiful. Even when the songs weren’t beautiful, the singers were beautiful; the celebration was beautiful, the orchestration was beautiful, the song’s set design was beautiful, the stage design was beautiful, the performance was beautiful. Vaçe Zela, Dhora Leka, Edi Luarasi were beautiful; Enhxi, Rovena, and the Lord among them who made them beautiful; there were unveiled souls, [unclear], miniskirts, furs, hairstyles, perfumes, makeup, beautiful lipstick; there was the presence of singers from Kosovo, Mhria, Gili, Sabri Fejzullai with his beautiful wife; the hall was packed to the brim, nearly drowning, people crowded together like herrings, trembling and giving, songs of love, only for love, for love; there was unrestrained applause, without burning fervor, people liberated, the number 32, which I break down as 3+2=5 and, according to the symbolism of numbers, say that all we’ll have are beautiful days, because we found ourselves among a young, special audience, with an average age of 27, the youngest in Europe, the most optimistic in Europe, who need only one beautiful song, only one beautiful rain, to [unclear] their state, to [unclear] that God has ordained them to be A, like America, Number One. Good heavens, sir. Life isn’t so sad after all, I say. Even though Bosnia is close by. We Albanians have not withdrawn from it at all. We are guilty only toward one another. Only song is enough to contemplate the group PAX, LUX—it brings back to mind all our earlier scenes, which so often left Fishta bewildered. And yet I soon overcame this feeling, pushed along by the enthusiasm of the hall, which was swept up by love, by a super-beauty that is exclusively Albanian, an Albanian beauty incomparable to any other in the world. Photo: Amand Babani

On Wednesday morning, the capital’s madwoman N, wearing an outfit never seen before and her face covered with a carnival mask, walked around Skënderbej Square singing fragments of old carnival songs. Afterwards she climbed the steps of the Palace of Culture, took off her mask and said: - Honored residents of the capital, honored parties, honored people! This is the beginning of the end of 1993. Today is carnival day; you will see a fine show, but rest assured that this year’s real carnival figures will not come out into the square. They won’t come out because you have seen them all year, wherever you have walked and stopped here. Their mask designs are very old. That is one reason they won’t come out. The other reason is that they are overwhelmed with work. Some of them are in Tirana Prison. If they knew, the celebration would be more beautiful, but the prison director can’t give them leave. Comrade Fatos won’t be allowed at this great celebration either. The real carnivals, with their leaders, held the great carnival celebration in Serbia and cannot appear a second time. Long live carnivals with masks and without masks! There is a beautiful carnival for this thing that [unclear] along the coast in Germany. She isn’t coming either! She won’t be at the party. In her place, the head of Kastriot Islami might appear. Who has seen the carnivals of Parliament? Who has heard their motions? Long live carnivals with extremist masks! Long live the newspaper Koha Jonë! Who buys moderate carnival masks? They cost very little, 10 thousand dhrami apiece. They can also be bought with dinars. Long live the State Security, which did not leave us without a carnival! Long live carnivals with political masks, and long live the carnivals that cannot come out into the square today. After these words, followed by a large crowd, madwoman N made two circuits around Skënderbej Square and, shouting “Long live the real carnivals,” disappeared from the capital. The chronicler Namik Hoti and Nertian Ceka Chronicles

Photo: Muharrem Mjeku

Why democracy is bad! - Now we eat white bread (very harmful to our health). - Western countries don’t grant us political asylum. - It’s not clear who is a dissident: the one who insults the government or the one who defends it. - There are no queues in front of shops (I don’t know why I don’t like that). - Listening to “The Voice of America” is no fun at all now... - Our bunkers were left useless... - Many spies have been left without work by “reducing” social tensions. - If it weren’t for pluralism, Namik Hoti wouldn’t be in the opposition (he’d be in power). - We wouldn’t need to pay political prisoners for being imprisoned; they would be executed as multi-agents. - Before, we used to insult one party; now there are so many... - Voting used to be much simpler... - Etc., etc... Arben POPOCI

Greeting cards to several ministers P. 2 Fables, epigrams, humor Interview with Ardian Krasta P. 3 Is the youth optimistic about the present and the future? P. 2–4

How the parties wish one another a Happy New Year

December 30, 1993 HITRA 93