Officials abandon their offices
Large ceremonies at the International Center of Culture. A procession of thousands of people to Azem’s grave and the site of his murder. Book of mourning with the hero’s activity
AZem’s BLOOD does not turn into water
By A. ALIÇKA
No more than two hours have passed since the killing of Azem Hajdari, and a group of journalists gather in the premises of RD newspaper to follow the press conference of the Chairman of the Democratic Party, Mr. Sali Berisha. In addition to the news arriving in the office, the telephone and the news agencies, the city itself seemed frozen, helping to grasp the heavy magnitude of this unimaginable incident. Later, to escape the anxiety and understand the people, I went out into the city. Not more than 150 meters from the PD headquarters, opposite the crowd of people in mourning, I approached a small flower shop and asked the saleswoman: “What do you think, madam?” She lowered her head and slowly said, “Azem was turning into a legend. This murder will sanctify him.”
And now the streets of Tirana on this autumn morning are filled with people who do not want to believe in his departure, but are doing everything so that by tomorrow they will not let him go. First in Skanderbeg Square, as the rallies continued as usual, one could not help but feel what memories were awakening. Those thousands of people pushing to catch a glimpse of the coffin with Azem’s lifeless body, placed behind a wooden fence next to the Skanderbeg monument, resembled not only the thousands who five years earlier had greeted the first democratic young man to mount the podium with the voice of rebellion, but also people of a more ancient experience. An old woman, dressed in black, tried to speak in a low voice to a photograph of Azem beside the coffin. Further on, mothers and sisters of men killed by the dictatorship cried before him as if before their own son. Somewhere peasants loudly shouted his name, while others raised the victory sign high to greet him. It was clear they were bidding farewell not only to one man. I thought that when everyone’s deity appears to them, at least once in a lifetime, it is sacred and untouchable. The crowd approached him on its knees and in tears, with fear and pain. Azem Hajdari was turning into a myth.
In the premises of the International Center of Culture there was astonishing discipline. It seemed as if the fever of mourning itself had softened all the great emotions. A long protocol with the highest representatives of the state and diplomacy, countless tributes and wreaths of flowers. Many were also those who paused for a moment before his portrait and could not leave without whispering a word or an oath. Everywhere there seemed to be an unusual blend of personal and public mourning. On many faces it was clear that they were escorting both a relative and a symbol at the same time.
Later, in the afternoon, the long procession headed toward the Martyrs’ Cemetery. There was nothing organized noisily; there was only a flow of people walking with determination, with banners, flowers, photographs, and silence. Later the crowd also descended to the site of the murder, where tears mingled with anger. In the evening the city still kept the echo of his name.
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At Azem’s in the International Center of Culture. A procession of thousands of people to Azem’s grave and the site of his murder