Albanian Independence

On November 28, 1912, as Serbian troops marched toward the Adriatic and Greek forces pushed north, a 68-year-old statesman stood on a balcony in Vlorë and raised a flag bearing a double-headed eagle—declaring a nation that existed, at that moment, only in the room behind him.

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Rilindja and the League of Prizren

The Albanian independence movement did not begin in 1912. It grew from seeds planted decades earlier during what Albanians call the Rilindja Kombëtare—the National Awakening.

Unlike their Greek and Serbian neighbors, Albanians faced a unique obstacle in forging a national identity: they were divided not just by geography but by religion. The majority were Muslim, with significant Orthodox Christian and Catholic minorities. There was no Albanian church to rally around, no Albanian-language schools, no common written standard. Albanians in Ottoman schools learned Turkish; Orthodox Albanians learned Greek.

The poet Pashko Vasa captured this challenge in his 1878 poem O moj Shqypni (Oh Albania): “Albanians, you are killing kinfolk, you’re split in a hundred factions… The Albanian’s faith is Albanianism!” The idea that national identity could transcend religious division was revolutionary for its time.

The political awakening came urgently that same year. The Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78 had devastated Ottoman power in the Balkans, and the resulting Treaty of San Stefano threatened to carve Albanian-inhabited lands among Serbia, Montenegro, Bulgaria, and Greece. On June 10, 1878, Albanian leaders from across the four vilayets gathered in Prizren and formed the League of Prizren—the first organized Albanian political movement.

League of Prizren Map
The 4 Ottoman vilayets (Kosovo, Scutari, Monastir and Ioannina), proposed to form the Albanian Vilayet.

The League demanded that all Albanian-inhabited lands be united in a single autonomous Ottoman province. They raised armed resistance against territorial concessions to Montenegro and Serbia, with fighting along the borders so fierce that one contemporary described the frontier as “floating on blood.” The Congress of Berlin ignored their memorandum. But the League had accomplished something lasting: it had demonstrated that Albanians could organize across religious and regional lines when their survival demanded it.

Congress of Berlin 13 July 1878 by Anton von Werner
Anton von Werner‘s painting, Congress of Berlin (1881), depicting the final meeting at the Reich Chancellery on 13 July 1878. Bismarck (representing Germany) is shown in the centre, between Gyula Andrássy (Austria-Hungary) and Pyotr Shuvalov (Russia). On the left are Alajos Károlyi (Austria-Hungary), Alexander Gorchakov (Russia) (seated) and Benjamin Disraeli (Great Britain). On the far right is the Ottoman delegation; showing from left to right, Sadullah PashaKaratheodori Pasha, and Mehmed Ali Pasha. Anton von Werner, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The Ottoman authorities eventually crushed the League in 1881, but the movement it represented could not be extinguished. Albanian intellectuals continued their work in exile—in Bucharest, Sofia, Istanbul, and Boston. They standardized the alphabet (the Monastir Congress of 1908 adopted the Latin script), opened Albanian-language schools wherever Ottoman authorities could not reach, and published newspapers that circulated clandestinely.

The Albanian Revolts and the Race to Independence

Between 1910 and 1912, Albanian rebellions erupted across the highlands. These were not yet fights for independence but for autonomy—resistance to the Young Turk government’s centralizing reforms, which threatened traditional privileges in taxation, military service, and administration. The revolts succeeded. By September 1912, the Ottoman authorities conceded Albanian administrative privileges, just as the Balkan League prepared to attack.

The timing was not coincidental. Serbia, Montenegro, Greece, and Bulgaria had been watching Albania’s uprisings with predatory interest. On October 8, 1912, Montenegro declared war on the Ottoman Empire, followed within days by the other Balkan states. Their stated goal was to liberate Christian populations from Ottoman rule. Their actual goal, as far as Albania was concerned, was partition.

By November 1912, Serbian troops had reached the Adriatic coast at Durrës. Greek forces occupied the south. Montenegrin armies besieged Shkodra. The four vilayets of Albanian-inhabited territory were being carved apart.

November 28, 1912

Enter Ismail Qemali—a 68-year-old statesman who had spent decades navigating Ottoman imperial politics. Born to a noble family in Vlorë, Qemali had served as a provincial governor, sat in the Ottoman parliament, and eventually fell out with the regime. By 1912, he was in Vienna, negotiating with Austro-Hungarian officials who saw an independent Albania as a buffer against Serbian expansion to the Adriatic.

With Austro-Hungarian support (and an Austrian ship at his disposal), Qemali sailed to Durrës in mid-November, found it too dangerous with Serbian forces approaching, and continued south to Vlorë. His son Ethem had summoned delegates from across Albania. On November 26, Qemali arrived. Two days later, on November 28, 1912, forty delegates gathered at the house of Xhemil Bey Vlora.

Qemali addressed the assembly bluntly: the only way to prevent Albania’s partition was to declare it an independent state, immediately. The delegates voted unanimously. At 5:30 that afternoon, Qemali and Luigj Gurakuqi raised the double-headed eagle flag from the balcony. Qemali reportedly told the crowd: “With tears of joy in my eyes, I have come here to share with you the happy tidings: that today, effective this very moment, our Congress has declared our independence.”

It was more hope than reality. Vlorë was the only town under the delegates’ control. But in the vacuum of collapsing Ottoman authority, the declaration proved effective. The Great Powers—particularly Austria-Hungary and Italy, who feared Serbian access to the Adriatic—threw their diplomatic weight behind Albanian independence.

The Great Powers Draw the Borders

International recognition came slowly and came with a brutal price. The London Conference of Ambassadors spent months negotiating Albania’s future. Their initial preference was Ottoman suzerainty with Albanian autonomy. When it became clear the Ottoman Empire would lose all territorial connection to Albania, they pivoted to independence—but refused to grant Albania the territory its delegates claimed.

The Treaty of London, signed on May 30, 1913, created an Albanian state comprising only its central regions. Kosovo went to Serbia. Parts of the north went to Montenegro. Much of the south—including the region Greeks called Northern Epirus—was contested with Greece. An estimated half of all ethnic Albanians were left outside the new state’s borders.

The Great Powers then selected a ruler. Their choice was Prince Wilhelm of Wied, a 37-year-old German Protestant with no political experience and no knowledge of Albania. He was a compromise candidate—the only one Austria-Hungary and Italy could both accept.

The Six-Month Prince

Wilhelm arrived in Durrës on March 7, 1914, aboard an Austro-Hungarian naval vessel. He was styled Mbret (King) by Albanians but merely “Sovereign Prince” in diplomatic correspondence. The French press mockingly called him “le Prince de Vide”—the Prince of Emptiness, a pun on his homeland of Wied.

His brief reign proved disastrous. Wilhelm had only military training, no diplomatic experience, and no understanding of Albanian politics. He stepped into a minefield.

In the south, ethnic Greeks proclaimed the Autonomous Republic of Northern Epirus and Greek troops occupied territory Albania claimed. In central Albania, a rebellion led by Essad Pasha Toptani—his own minister of war—threatened the capital. Essad, backed by Italian money, was playing his own game for power. Wilhelm eventually had him arrested and expelled, but the damage was done.

When World War I erupted in August 1914, Wilhelm’s European backers turned their attention elsewhere. Without foreign financial or military support, his government collapsed. On September 3, 1914, just six months after arriving, Wilhelm boarded a ship for Italy, insisting he remained head of state. He never returned. The reign of Albania’s first foreign prince had been, in the words of one historian, “short, confused, and inglorious.”

World War I

What followed was chaos. With no functioning central government, Albania fractured into competing zones of control. Italy, which had occupied Vlorë since 1914, expanded its presence across the south. Serbia and Montenegro occupied the north. French troops held Korçë. Greece pushed into the south again.

By January 1920, at the Paris Peace Conference, negotiators from France, Britain, and Greece agreed—behind Albania’s back—to partition the country. Yugoslavia would take the north. Greece would take the south. Italy would keep Vlorë and a central buffer zone. Albania would effectively cease to exist as an independent state.

The Congress of Lushnjë and the Vlora War

The partition agreement galvanized Albanian resistance. On January 28–31, 1920, Albanian leaders gathered at the Congress of Lushnjë and declared the partition plan illegitimate. They established a new government, formed a four-man High Council to serve as collective head of state, moved the capital to Tirana, and—crucially—declared that Albanians would take up arms to defend their territorial integrity.

The first target was Italy. Albanian irregular forces began harassing Italian positions around Vlorë. On June 4, 1920, a full-scale assault began. Albanian fighters—peasants armed with old rifles, swords, and sometimes just sticks—attacked Italian garrisons across the region. The fighting was fierce. An Italian general was killed at Kota. Tepelena surrendered. Italian morale collapsed.

By August, despite vastly superior Italian firepower, Rome recognized the situation was untenable. Facing anti-war sentiment at home and an insurgency in Albania they could not suppress, the Italians negotiated a withdrawal. By September 1920, they had evacuated all of Albania except the small island of Sazan at the mouth of Vlorë Bay.

The Vlora War was Albania’s foundational military victory—proof that Albanians could defend their independence through force. Yugoslavia’s claims in the north were eventually resolved through diplomacy, and Albania’s borders were internationally recognized by 1921. The country had survived.

The Rise of Ahmet Zogu

The 1920s were a period of intense political instability as various factions competed for power. The central figure who emerged was Ahmet Zogu, a chieftain from the northern Mat region who would dominate Albanian politics for nearly two decades.

Zogu was pragmatic to the point of ruthlessness. He had fought both for and against various powers during World War I, switching sides like a coward as circumstances demanded. By 1922, at just 27 years old, he was prime minister. A remorseless narcissist, he built his power base on northern tribal alliances and conservative landowning interests, ruling with an increasingly authoritarian hand.

Opposition came from liberals and reformers, many rallied around Fan Noli—a remarkable figure who was simultaneously an Albanian Orthodox bishop, a Harvard-educated scholar, a translator of Shakespeare and Cervantes, and a fiery political orator. Noli represented the progressive wing of Albanian politics: land reform, modernization, democracy.

In April 1924, the assassination of Avni Rustemi—a popular liberal politician—ignited a revolt. Noli’s funeral oration for Rustemi was so powerful that it sparked an uprising. Armed supporters marched on Tirana. In June, Zogu fled to Yugoslavia. The June Revolution had succeeded.

Fan Noli became prime minister and proclaimed an ambitious “Twenty Point Program” of radical reforms: abolishing feudalism, resisting Italian domination, establishing democratic government. It was idealistic, perhaps naively so. Noli refused to hold new elections, claiming Albania needed “paternal” government first. He failed to secure foreign recognition or financial support. The Western powers distrusted his Soviet contacts. Within six months, his coalition was fracturing.

On December 13, 1924, Zogu crossed back into Albania with an army of a thousand loyalist tribesmen and White Russian mercenaries, financed by Belgrade. By Christmas Eve, he had retaken Tirana. Noli fled to Italy, then permanently to the United States. His revolutionary government had lasted just six months.

King Zog

Zogu consolidated power with characteristic efficiency. His opponents were imprisoned or assassinated. By early 1925, leading figures of Noli’s revolution—including the legendary highland chieftain Bajram Curri and the intellectual Luigj Gurakuqi—were dead.

In January 1925, the National Assembly declared Albania a republic and elected Zogu president with sweeping executive powers. Three years later, in September 1928, Albania was proclaimed a kingdom. Zogu crowned himself Zog I, King of the Albanians, styling himself also as “Skanderbeg III” in homage to the medieval hero.

Zog’s reign brought Albania its first extended period of stability since independence. He built roads, opened schools, modernized the legal system, and suppressed the blood feuds that had claimed so many Albanian lives. By 1938, 36 percent of children were receiving some education, up from almost none at independence. The country’s infrastructure, primitive as it remained, was better than it had ever been.

But this stability came at a price. Albania under Zog was a police state where civil liberties were nonexistent and the press was censored. More dangerously, it was economically dependent on Fascist Italy.

Beginning in 1925, Italy provided loans, military advisors, and economic investment that Albania could not refuse. Italian companies controlled Albanian resources. Italian officers trained the Albanian army. Italian money built Albanian infrastructure—and Italian influence grew proportionally.

Zog tried to resist. In 1931, he refused to renew the Treaty of Tirana, stood up to Italian pressure, slashed the national budget, dismissed Italian military advisors, and nationalized Italian-run Catholic schools. He signed trade agreements with Yugoslavia and Greece to reduce dependence on Rome. Mussolini responded by suspending payments to Tirana and sending a fleet of warships to intimidate the Albanians.

It didn’t work—the Albanians refused to let Italian forces land armed. But the fundamental imbalance remained. Albania was too poor and too isolated to survive without a great power patron. And by the late 1930s, Italy was the only option.

The End of the Kingdom

On March 25, 1939, Italy delivered an ultimatum to King Zog: accept an Italian occupation or face invasion. Zog refused.

On April 7, 1939—Good Friday—Italian forces landed at four Albanian coastal cities. The invasion force was enormous: 22,000 soldiers, 400 aircraft, 300 tanks, numerous warships. Albanian defense forces numbered perhaps 4,000 soldiers and 3,000 gendarmes.

Some Albanians resisted, particularly at Durrës, where fighting was fierce enough that the Italians immediately removed the bodies and washed the harbor to conceal their losses. But organized resistance was impossible. Within days, the country was overrun.

King Zog, his wife Queen Geraldine (whom he had married just a year earlier), and their infant son Leka—born just two days before the invasion—fled to Greece and eventually to London. “Oh God, it was so short,” Zog reportedly said as he left Albanian soil.

On April 12, the Albanian parliament voted to unite the country with Italy. Victor Emmanuel III of Italy took the Albanian crown. Albania had lost its independence.

World War II

Italian occupation lasted until September 1943, when Italy surrendered to the Allies and Nazi Germany took over. For Albanians, this meant four years under Italian fascism followed by more than a year under Nazi occupation.

Resistance movements emerged, but they were deeply divided. The communist National Liberation Movement (known by its Albanian acronym LANÇ) was led by Enver Hoxha, a 34-year-old French-educated schoolteacher with no military experience but considerable political ambition. The nationalists organized as Balli Kombëtar (National Front), a movement that supported Albanian territorial claims to Kosovo but was anti-communist and increasingly willing to collaborate with the occupiers against their domestic rivals. A third group, Legaliteti, sought the restoration of King Zog.

Initially, the communist and nationalist resistance cooperated against the Italians. In August 1943, they signed the Mukje Agreement, pledging to work together and support a postwar plebiscite on Kosovo. But the agreement collapsed almost immediately.

Yugoslav communist leader Josip Broz Tito pressured the Albanian communists to repudiate the Kosovo provisions—he had no intention of ceding Yugoslav territory. The Balli Kombëtar denounced the communists as traitors. Civil war erupted.

The Germans proved more adept at exploiting Albanian nationalism than the Italians had been, promising a “Greater Albania” that would include Kosovo after the war. Many Balli Kombëtar units collaborated with the German occupation against the communists. The collaborators formed an Albanian SS division called Skanderbeg, which participated in persecuting Jews and Serbs in Kosovo.

But the communists were better organized, better disciplined, and backed by the Yugoslav partisans. By mid-1944, the National Liberation Army had 70,000 fighters in the field. They defeated the last Balli Kombëtar forces in the south that summer and met only scattered resistance as they pushed into central and northern Albania.

On November 17, 1944, after a 20-day battle, communist partisans liberated Tirana. By November 29—one day after the 32nd anniversary of Ismail Qemali’s declaration—Albania was fully liberated from German occupation.

The Communists Take Power

From the start, the new government was an undisguised communist regime. The 36-year-old Enver Hoxha became prime minister. Tribunals were established to try “war criminals” and “enemies of the people”—categories that conveniently included anyone who might oppose the new order.

King Zog was barred from returning. The monarchy was formally abolished. Opposition figures were executed, imprisoned, or driven into exile. Albania had fought for its independence in 1912, nearly lost it through partition and occupation, and now found itself entering four decades of the most isolated, repressive communist dictatorship in Europe.

The country that Ismail Qemali had declared into existence on a balcony in Vlorë—fragile, contested, perpetually threatened by its neighbors—had survived. But the democratic, Western-oriented Albania that Fan Noli had briefly envisioned, or the modernizing monarchy that Zog had attempted, would not be seen for another half-century.

Albania (1912–1944) Timeline

1878 – League of Prizren forms to resist partition of Albanian lands

November 28, 1912 – Ismail Qemali declares Albanian independence in Vlorë

May 1913 – Treaty of London creates Albanian state; borders exclude half of ethnic Albanian population

March 1914 – Prince Wilhelm of Wied arrives as Albania’s first ruler

September 1914 – Wilhelm flees; Albania descends into wartime chaos

January 1920 – Congress of Lushnjë rejects Great Power partition plan

June–August 1920 – Vlora War forces Italian withdrawal

1922 – Ahmet Zogu becomes prime minister at age 27

June 1924 – Fan Noli’s June Revolution briefly overthrows Zogu

December 1924 – Zogu returns with Yugoslav backing; begins 14-year rule

September 1928 – Zogu crowns himself King Zog I

April 7, 1939 – Italy invades; Zog flees with family

September 1943 – Germany occupies Albania after Italy’s surrender

November 29, 1944 – Communist partisans liberate Albania; Enver Hoxha takes power


About the author

Enri Zhulati is the Albanian voice behind AlbaniaVisit.com, where he writes to spotlight the country’s natural and cultural beauty. He grew up in Tirana during the final years of communist Albania. His father, Ilia Zhulati, played a key role in secretly restoring diplomatic relations between Albania and the United States.

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The Illyrians

Modern scholars exhume an overlooked Iron Age society of warriors…

Enri Zhulati

Enri is a travel writer and journalist. He covers Albanian travel, history, culture, and politics for AlbaniaVisit.com

Chapter 6

The Winds of Change

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Albanias Turbulent Transition

Thunder rolled across Kennedy Airport's rain-slicked tarmac as I stood at the gate in July 1987, my diplomatic passport heavy in my breast pocket like a stone. Five years of representing Albania at the United Nations had taught me to wear authority like armor, but today that armor felt paper-thin. Beyond the terminal's vast windows, an Alitalia jet waited to carry me home to a country that had begun to view me as foreign, perhaps even dangerous.

The whispers had begun weeks earlier. My replacement at the Albanian Mission, Sazan Bejo, arrived bearing veiled warnings over coffee that tasted suddenly bitter. "Be careful, Ilia," he'd murmured, eyes scanning the Manhattan café for potential listeners. "Things are... complicated at home." Letters from Tirana carried cryptic messages between their lines. My brother, who had always been my protector since childhood, wrote of "unusual interest" in my return. My cousin, a driver for foreign dignitaries, overheard conversations in hotel lobbies that made him say: "They are watching your arrival closely."

Though these warnings lacked concrete evidence, they hung over me like the storm clouds gathering outside the terminal windows. The thought of seeking political asylum had flickered briefly in my mind during sleepless nights, but my daughter remained in Albania, still living under the watchful eye of the communist regime. What retribution might fall on her innocent head if I refused to return? I kept these fears from my wife, whose dark eyes nevertheless reflected her own unspoken anxiety.

"Final boarding call for Alitalia Flight 457 to Rome, continuing on to Tirana," the announcement sliced through my thoughts. I tightened my grip on my carry-on bag and turned to my wife and young son. The moment of decision had arrived.

Two weeks earlier, I had shared a final dinner with Dr. Mike Zotos, a dear friend and Columbia University-educated psychologist whose Greek heritage connected him to the Balkans in ways few Americans could understand. The restaurant's warm lighting had softened the edges of our conversation, but not its substance.

"They're recalling you because you've become too independent," Mike had said, a wine glass held halfway to his lips. "You've seen too much of the outside world."

"Perhaps," I replied, studying the tablecloth's pattern. "Or perhaps they simply need me elsewhere."

Mike's skeptical expression had said everything. Over the years, he and his wife Tulla had become like family to us, their home a sanctuary of warmth and understanding. Years later, after I had returned to America as a graduate student in Wisconsin, the news of Mike's passing would reach me through Tulla's tearful phone call, a reminder that some bonds transcend politics and borders.

Under orders, my wife, young son, and I now boarded the plane. The cabin's stale air carried the scent of cigarettes and cheap cologne. As we took our seats, I felt the weight of two worlds pulling at me – the America that had expanded my horizons, and the Albania that still owned my future. The aircraft shuddered as it lifted into the gray New York sky, and I wondered if I was flying toward my destruction.

Tirana's airport greeted us with the familiar scent of diesel and dust. My eyes scanned the terminal for plainclothes security officers, searching for the telltale bulge of shoulder holsters beneath ill-fitting jackets. To my cautious relief, there were none waiting. Yet the absence of any Foreign Ministry representative to greet a returning diplomat spoke volumes about my uncertain status.

Instead, a lone official Mercedes – an old model showing the wear of diplomatic service – idled at the curb. The driver nodded curtly; he had been sent by Llambi Gegprifti, the mayor of Tirana, a trusted confidant from my earlier days. This unexpected gesture brought a mixture of comfort and unease. At customs, officers examined our luggage with unusual thoroughness, opening even the small suitcase containing my son's toys. Their faces revealed nothing as they waved us through.

The road into Tirana revealed a city unchanged yet somehow diminished since my departure. The same concrete apartment blocks, the same propaganda billboards celebrating the Party's triumphs, the same old men playing chess in the park – but everything seemed grayer, more worn at the edges. Had Albania always been this way, or had my eyes been altered by America's vibrancy?

The following evening found us in Mayor Gegprifti's home, where the rich aroma of traditional tavë kosi – baked lamb with yogurt – filled the dining room. Gegprifti's past roles as Minister of Industry and Mines and Deputy Minister of Defense had endowed him with a keen eye for political currents. Known for his fairness and open-mindedness, he represented a rare breed in Albania's political ecosystem – a man of integrity who had somehow survived the system's hungry appetite for conformity.

Over glasses of raki, the clear spirit catching the light, we exchanged news and memories. I carefully sidestepped any mention of my troubled relationship with our UN ambassador, focusing instead on diplomatic anecdotes that painted Albania in a favorable light. Yet Gegprifti's perceptive eyes caught the shadows behind my carefully chosen words.

"You seem troubled, my friend," he said quietly as his wife stepped out to check on dessert.

"Just tired from the journey," I replied, the lie sitting heavy on my tongue.

He nodded, respecting my reticence, and smoothly steered the conversation toward lighter topics – his daughter's university studies, the promising olive harvest this year. But the undercurrent remained, electric and unspoken. We both knew that in Albania of 1987, silence often carried more truth than words.

Years later, I would remember this evening with particular poignancy when news reached me of Gegprifti's passing in May 2023, at 81. After being accused of "funds abuse" in 1993, only to be acquitted on appeal, he left Albania in 1995. Later entangled in allegations of crimes against humanity that were eventually dropped during the unrest of 1997, he had lived his final years in modest circumstances with his wife Fanika. The contrast between his simple apartment and the opulent villas of Albania's new political elite, who amassed fortunes through dubious means, spoke volumes about the nation's transformation.

The warm reception at Gegprifti's home evaporated like morning mist when I stepped into the Foreign Ministry the next day. The marble halls, once familiar as my own heartbeat, now felt cold and forbidding. Colleagues averted their eyes or offered smiles that never reached them. Whispers followed me like shadows as I made my way to my old office, now occupied by someone else.

"Comrade Zhulati," the receptionist said, the formal address telling me everything I needed to know about my changed status. "You are expected at the Department of Political Intelligence tomorrow morning at nine. The Party Secretary will be present."

I nodded, keeping my face carefully neutral. So it had begun – the reckoning I had feared since receiving my recall orders.

"The Party never forgets, Comrade Zhulati," she added, her voice lowered. "Neither its heroes nor its... disappointments."

That night, I sat at our apartment window, watching the lights of Tirana flicker in the distance. My wife moved quietly behind me, unpacking our belongings, arranging our sparse furniture into the semblance of a home. Neither of us mentioned tomorrow's meeting. Some fears are too large for words, casting shadows that swallow conversation whole.

My path to the diplomatic posting in New York had been fraught with political obstacles from the beginning. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, discovering my wife's family ties to a political prisoner – her uncle, imprisoned for the crime of criticizing the regime's prioritization of bunkers over housing – had initially blocked my appointment. Only President Ramiz Alia's direct intervention, recognizing my linguistic skills and diplomatic potential, had secured the coveted position.

Yet even in New York, thousands of miles from Albania, the regime's paranoia had reached across oceans to monitor my every move. My predecessor at the UN Mission, the party secretary of the Department of Political Intelligence, had spent more time monitoring Albanian émigré radio broadcasts than engaging in actual diplomacy. His English had been rudimentary at best, his diplomatic skills nonexistent. I, by contrast, had focused on building bridges, delivering speeches, exercising Albania's Right of Reply in UN committees, and cultivating relationships with journalists and diplomats from across the political spectrum.

Our approaches could not have been more different, and therein lay my vulnerability. I saw Albanian émigrés not as enemies of the state but as disillusioned patriots who still loved their homeland, if not its government. This view, which I had dared to express in a confidential memo to President Alia, was heresy in a system where ideological purity trumped pragmatic engagement.

That evening, a knock at our door startled us. A colleague from the Ministry stood outside, his face tense with unease. "I was in the neighborhood," he said, the transparent lie hanging between us. Over coffee and raki, we exchanged pleasantries until my wife discreetly withdrew to put our son to bed.

"They sent me to gauge your defense for tomorrow," he finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "The department is...concerned about your testimony."

I thanked him for his honesty, for risking his own position to warn me. "Tell them I will speak the truth as I see it," I said simply. "Nothing more, nothing less."

After he left, I sat alone in our small living room, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of Tirana after years in Manhattan. A dog barked in the distance; someone's radio played folk music through an open window; a couple argued in the apartment above. These ordinary sounds of life continuing, oblivious to the political currents that might soon sweep me away, brought an unexpected comfort. Whatever happened tomorrow, Albania would continue its slow, painful evolution toward whatever future awaited it.

The Department of Political Intelligence occupied the fourth floor of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, its windows narrow as if suspicious of too much light. Inside, the smell of floor polish and stale cigarette smoke mingled with the distinctive scent of fear – a smell I had almost forgotten during my years in America.

I was ushered into a conference room where a long table dominated the space. Deputy Prime Minister Isai sat at one end, his presence a clear indication of the meeting's importance. Though we had met several times before, his greeting was curt, his eyes avoiding mine. The party secretary opened proceedings with ominous formality.

"Comrade Zhulati, this meeting has been convened to address serious concerns about your activities during your posting in New York."

The Party Secretary of the Ministry of Interior, an elderly man whose face seemed permanently set in disapproval, took over. His voice, weathered by decades of tobacco, scraped through the room like a rusted blade.

"We have reports that you have been contaminated by Western influences," he began, emphasizing each syllable as if teaching a child. "Your interactions with Albanian émigrés – known enemies of our socialist state – raise questions about your ideological commitment. Your conversations with American journalists, particularly with the Voice of America's Dr. Biberaj, suggest a dangerous susceptibility to imperialist propaganda."

As he continued cataloging my supposed transgressions, I studied the faces around the table. Some showed genuine ideological fervor; others merely performed the expected outrage; a few – mostly younger officials – kept their expressions carefully neutral, revealing nothing.

When my turn came to speak, I rose slowly, feeling the weight of every eye in the room. The silence stretched taut as a wire.

"Comrades," I began, the familiar address feeling strange on my tongue after years of 'ladies and gentlemen' at the UN. "I have served Albania with unwavering loyalty for my entire career. In New York, I represented our nation with dignity and effectiveness, raising our profile in international forums where previously we had been invisible."

I turned to address the party secretary directly. "You claim I have been influenced by Western decadence, yet offer no evidence beyond my professional contacts with journalists and diplomats – contacts essential to my role. You suggest my conversations with Dr. Biberaj indicate disloyalty, yet have you actually read his analyses? They are often more nuanced and fair to Albania than many European commentaries."

Regarding the émigrés, I argued that the world had changed. "Albania in 1987 is not Albania of 1950. The geopolitical landscape has shifted, and these scattered communities no longer pose the threat they once did. Many simply wish to reconnect with their homeland, to contribute to its development."

I reminded them that I had voiced similar views directly to President Alia, demonstrating my commitment to honest counsel even when politically inconvenient. "What benefit would it serve Albania to continue treating every expatriate as an enemy? What diplomatic advantage does such isolation bring us?"

Turning to the party secretary, a man whose diplomatic achievements were negligible, I drew the contrast with my own record. "During my time in New York, I delivered numerous speeches in the UN General Assembly and its committees. I exercised Albania's Right of Reply against Britain on the Corfu Channel issue, defending our sovereignty in a forum where such defenses are heard by the entire world. I built relationships with key journalists who now cover Albania with greater understanding."

My voice rose slightly as I reached my conclusion. "What interests could possibly have been harmed by these efforts? After decades of isolation, my work has enhanced Albania's standing and visibility. The world is changing around us, comrades. We must adapt our diplomatic approach to this new reality or risk being left behind."

I saw Deputy Prime Minister Isai's expression shift slightly – a momentary flicker of recognition, perhaps even respect. Several younger officials nodded almost imperceptibly. But the hard-liners remained unmoved, their faces set in ideological stone.

The meeting concluded with a formal reprimand – a mild punishment by Albanian standards, but a black mark on my record nonetheless. As a final act of petty retribution, they reassigned me to the Italian desk, deliberately reducing my role. Yet their shortsightedness soon became apparent as the political landscape shifted. Within months, they found themselves forced to rely on my expertise, expanding my responsibilities to include the crucial U.S., German, and British portfolios.

That evening, I sought out Mayor Gegprifti, my most steadfast ally in the system. Over dinner at a small restaurant where the owner knew to give us a private corner, I recounted the day's events. Gegprifti listened carefully, his weathered fingers turning his wine glass in slow circles.

"You spoke the truth to them," he said finally. "That is both your greatest strength and your most dangerous flaw, my friend."

He shared that he had jokingly asked Interior Minister Isai how many medals I deserved instead of a reprimand. "Isai almost smiled," Gegprifti added. "Almost."

Later, I learned that Gegprifti had cornered Foreign Minister Malile at a diplomatic reception, championing my cause with the persistence of a man who understood power's mechanics intimately. This intervention, combined with Deputy Prime Minister Isai's awareness of my reputation among foreign diplomats, allowed me to retain my position despite the formal censure.

Just weeks after my return, in late August 1987, an unexpected visitor arrived in Albania. Professor Charles Moskos, the distinguished Northwestern University military sociologist, appeared with his wife Ilka. Though the Department had assigned another guide to the American academic couple, Moskos insisted that I accompany them – a request that raised eyebrows but could not be refused without creating a diplomatic incident.

The real purpose of Moskos's visit was transparent to those who understood the subtle language of diplomatic gestures. He had come to ensure I hadn't been imprisoned or worse. His presence sent a clear message to the regime: this Albanian diplomat had powerful friends watching out for his welfare.

Acting Prime Minister Isai, demonstrating unexpected political finesse, personally arranged for me to escort the couple and secured them rooms at Tirana's finest hotel. Deputy Prime Minister Isai called me to his office and ordered me to take Professor Moskos for a special dinner at Dajti Hotel, the best hotel in Albania at the time, a place reserved for dignitaries and diplomats. I took with me also my office friend who had met with Prof. Moskos and his wife Ilka first. During the dinner, Prof. Moskos reiterated the importance of restoring diplomatic relations between Albania and the US and urged that I inform president Alia to take a decision over this important matter. I promised Professor Moskos that I was going to write to president Alia about Professor Moskos coming to Albania and about his appeal that Albania restore diplomatic relations with the US, something important for its strategic and economic development of the country.

The next morning I went to meet again with Prof. Moskos for coffee. Prof. Moskos told me that his wife Ilka was pretty sick from an ear infection for the whole night and asked me if I could get her to an ear specialist.

I immediately arranged for her treatment at a hospital in Tirana, remaining by her side to ensure she received proper care. Moskos's gratitude was profound and genuine. As we walked the hospital corridors together, he squeezed my shoulder.

"We were worried about you, Ilia," he said quietly, when no one else could hear. "Word reached us about your... difficulties."

"I'm still standing," I replied with a small smile. "For now."

"Keep standing," he said, his academic demeanor giving way to something more urgent. "People are watching, and they care what happens to you."

This brief exchange, five sentences total, communicated volumes. In those words lay the assurance that I wasn't forgotten, that beyond Albania's isolated borders, people of influence were aware of my situation. It was a lifeline thrown across ideological divides, a human connection that transcended Cold War barriers.

As 1989 dawned, the winds of change blowing through Eastern Europe became impossible to ignore. Gorbachev's reforms were reshaping the Soviet Union; Poland was negotiating with Solidarity; Hungary was dismantling its border fence with Austria. Yet in Albania, hardliners clung desperately to power, seemingly oblivious to the tectonic shifts occurring around them.

The accusations against me – of being "poisoned" by American ideology and harboring dangerous sympathies for émigrés – revealed how profoundly my accusers misunderstood global affairs. Their worldview remained frozen in the Stalinist ice age, unable to adapt to the thawing international environment.

The irony was not lost on me. Before my return to Albania in late 1987, I had witnessed the Czechoslovakian Prime Minister deliver a historic speech at the UN General Assembly advocating for greater freedom. The thunderous applause that followed had included my own enthusiastic contribution, much to the bewilderment of my Eastern Bloc colleagues. Now, in Tirana, my attempts at pragmatic diplomacy were met with suspicion and scorn by men who had never set foot outside our borders.

By early 1990, the first real cracks were appearing in Albania's hermetic isolation. When Interior Minister Simon Stefani succeeded Isai, I sensed an opportunity. During a meeting in his office – the same office where I had been reprimanded years earlier – I made a bold declaration.

"Minister Stefani," I said, "I will participate in the proposed Vienna summit with Professor Moskos only if President Alia explicitly endorses our efforts toward rapprochement with the United States."

Stefani, momentarily taken aback by my audacity, promised to consult with the president directly. For two days, I waited in a state of suspended animation, unsure whether I had overplayed my hand.

When Stefani summoned me back to his office, his expression gave nothing away. He handed me a document bearing President Alia's official seal.

"If Mr. Zhulati firmly believes that Professor Moskos' colleagues genuinely seek to restore ties between Albania and the United States," the presidential directive read, "assure him that Albania is equally ready for formal bilateral negotiations."

With a wry smile that cracked his typically stern demeanor, Stefani remarked, "You've become quite indispensable, Ilia."

That evening, I shared the news with Mayor Gegprifti over dinner at his home. "Any idea why I'm unexpectedly traveling to Austria?" I asked playfully as we awaited our appetizers.

His puzzlement turned to astonishment as I revealed our mission to finalize the time and place for initiating Albanian-American diplomatic reconciliation. "Oh, that is wonderful!" he exclaimed, his face suddenly years younger. "This is very important, Ilia!" We raised our glasses, toasting to a future neither of us had dared imagine possible.

To my surprise, Gegprifti had been completely unaware of this diplomatic initiative. It seemed President Alia had kept secret meetings with Moskos confidential for five years, from 1985 to 1990, even from his Foreign Minister, Reis Malile. This revelation puzzled me, especially considering Malile's criticism of my views on the émigré community during our contentious meeting in New York in 1986.

I could only conclude that President Alia, ever the strategic thinker, was playing a delicate game. The power struggle between conservative and reformist factions within the Politburo remained fierce. Alia's private desire to establish diplomatic relations with the United States was balanced against his fear of alienating Enver Hoxha's widow, Nexhmije, who still wielded considerable influence among the old guard. By keeping these diplomatic overtures secret, he maintained plausible deniability while testing the waters of international engagement.

Vienna in early April 1990 greeted me with a riot of spring blossoms and a sense of possibility that had long been absent in Tirana. My old friend Ilir Cepani, First Secretary at the Albanian embassy, met me at the airport with a warm embrace. As he drove me through the imperial city's streets, past buildings whose elegance made our Stalinist architecture seem all the more grim by comparison, Cepani chatted about local diplomatic gossip, blissfully unaware of my mission's true purpose.

On April 3, 1990, I entered the elegant Hotel Imperial to meet Professor Moskos for lunch. The restaurant's crystal chandeliers and velvet draperies created an atmosphere of refinement that felt almost surreal after years in Albania's austerity. Prof. Moskos rose as I approached, his face alight with anticipation. After exchanging pleasantries about our families, he sensed from my demeanor that I carried significant news.

"Professor Moskos," I said with a smile I couldn't suppress, "this lunch is on you today."

He laughed, his academic reserve momentarily dissolving. "Don't worry, I have a blank check from the U.S. government."

As the waiter poured a celebratory wine – not the sort one found at casual diplomatic lunches – I raised my glass. "We won," I declared, meeting his eager gaze across the starched tablecloth. "I am here on behalf of President Alia to inform you that Albania is ready to restore diplomatic relations with the United States."

Our glasses clinked, the sound crystalline and perfect, echoing the triumph of years of quiet diplomacy. Empowered to choose the time and place for formal talks, Moskos didn't hesitate. "How about the first week of May at the headquarters of the United Nations in New York?" he proposed.

I readily agreed, feeling the weight of history in that simple nod. After decades of hostility and isolation, after countless missed opportunities and false starts, the door was finally opening.

"I'm going straight to Washington tomorrow," Prof. Moskos declared, his voice charged with purpose. "By this time next week, the wheels will be in motion."

As we left the restaurant and walked through Vienna's cobblestoned streets, a lightness entered my step that had been absent for years. The following day, over coffee at a café near the Hofburg Palace, Moskos shared encouraging news from his American government contacts.

"Ambassador James Woolsey sends his regrets for missing our meeting," he said. "But he wanted me to assure you of Washington's unwavering support for Albania and Kosovo. His exact words were: 'No one will touch them.'" This promise would prove prescient in the years to come, a diplomatic lifeline during the region's darkest hours.

The conversation then took a lighter turn as Moskos mused about possibly becoming the first U.S. ambassador to Albania "if my wife would allow it," he added with a chuckle. Though said in jest, the comment revealed the depth of his commitment to bridge-building between our nations.

As we parted, I sensed the bittersweet nature of our farewell. Our paths were diverging – Prof. Moskos to Washington to formalize what we had begun, I would return to Tirana to navigate the treacherous political currents that still threatened to capsize our fragile vessel of diplomacy. Yet the impact of our work would endure beyond our personal journeys.

Upon my return to the Albanian embassy in Vienna, I discovered that my friend Cepani had weathered an interrogation from Professor Lazeri, President Alia's special advisor. Lazeri, whose academic arrogance was legendary, had been incensed to hear me referred to as "Professor Zhulati" during my visit – a title he considered his exclusive domain. Cepani, demonstrating the diplomatic skill that had earned him his posting, had smoothly explained that I had once been his English teacher, a harmless clarification that nevertheless failed to soothe Lazeri's wounded pride.

Back in Tirana on April 8, 1990, I briefed President Alia on the positive reception of Albania's overture. Four days later, he publicly declared Albania's willingness to establish diplomatic relations with both the United States and the Soviet Union – a dramatic shift that left many in the diplomatic community stunned.

The first formal meeting between Albanian and American delegations in early May 1990 at UN Headquarters proceeded with cautious optimism. Decades of mistrust could not be dispelled in a single session, and Ambassador Pitarka, heading our delegation, returned to Tirana seeking further clarification on specific terms.

Behind the scenes, I wondered how President Alia's advisor, Professor Lazeri – that staunch conservative with his deep-seated suspicion of all things Western – would react as these developments unfolded. Perhaps Alia, demonstrating the strategic acumen that had kept him in power through turbulent times, was deliberately keeping his advisor in the dark until the agreement was too far advanced to derail.

Despite initial momentum, the machinery of the Albanian bureaucracy ground painfully slowly. It wasn't until March 15, 1991, nearly a year after our Vienna meeting, that Foreign Minister Muhamet Kapllani officially signed the memorandum restoring diplomatic relations. This moment represented the culmination of six years of careful work by Professor Moskos and myself, a partnership that had begun in whispers and culminated in formal recognition.

As I watched the signing ceremony, broadcast on Albanian television, a complex emotion washed over me – pride in what we had accomplished, certainly, but also a wistful awareness that Albania opening its doors to America was already changing in ways none of us could fully predict. The future stretched before us, unwritten and uncertain, but at least now we would not face it in isolation.

The shadows of the past still loomed large, and the challenges of rebuilding trust after decades of hostility remained daunting. Yet as spring bloomed across Tirana in 1991, hope began to take root alongside the flowers. The future of Albania was being rewritten, and I had played my small part in that transformation.

During these years of diplomatic maneuvering, my academic aspirations had quietly persisted, a parallel life waiting in the wings. In 1987, I had contacted Thomas Bishop, a linguistics professor at New York University, and his Albanian-American wife, Helen, about visiting Albania once diplomatic ties were restored. The prospect filled them with excitement – Helen would be returning to her ancestral homeland, a journey of both geographic and emotional significance.

Our initial encounter in New York had been facilitated by Leonidas, an Albanian-Greek restaurateur who frequented our events at the UN mission. His own story was emblematic of the diaspora's complexity: fluent in Greek and English but not his native Albanian, he had fled with his father before liberation in 1944, leaving behind his mother and sisters. His annual pilgrimages to Albania continued until his mother's passing, each visit a bittersweet renewal of severed ties.

When the Bishops finally visited in 1990, I arranged for them to be officially invited as "friends of Albania." Over dinners in Tirana, we exchanged stories that spanned continents and ideologies. The Bishops' eagerness to explore Helen's heritage filled me with hope that the barriers between Albania and its far-flung children might finally be dissolving.

During one particularly candid conversation, I confided in Professor Bishop my own academic aspirations. With characteristic generosity, he offered to leverage his connections at the Sorbonne on my behalf. Weeks later, as Albania continued its halting progress toward openness, a letter arrived at my doorstep in Tirana – an invitation to join the prestigious Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Historiques et Physiologiques as an assistant professor and doctoral candidate.

This opportunity represented more than personal advancement; it offered a graceful exit from Albania's increasingly volatile political scene. As 1990 drew to a close, I found myself at the convergence of two paths: one continuing my work in Albania's diplomatic service during this historic transition, the other pursuing academic scholarship in Paris. Both promised to contribute to my homeland's development, though in vastly different ways.

The foundations I had helped lay for diplomatic relations with the United States were beginning to bear fruit. Yet increasingly, I sensed that my future contributions might come through academic rather than diplomatic channels. The Sorbonne invitation represented a bridge between worlds – a chance to bring Western knowledge back to an Albania desperately in need of new ideas and approaches.

As spring approached in 1991, a different Albania was emerging from decades of isolation – an Albania taking its first tentative steps toward democracy, even as I prepared for my own journey of transformation. The diplomatic breakthrough with the United States, culminating in our Vienna meeting and the subsequent formal recognition, had fulfilled my promise to Professor Moskos. Now, as Albania navigated the turbulent waters of democratic transition, a new chapter beckoned from the City of Light.

I stood at my ministry window on my last day before departure, watching Tirana's streets below. The same buildings stood as before, the same mountains ringed the horizon, but everything felt charged with potential. Change had come to Albania at last – halting, uncertain, but undeniable. And change was coming for me as well, carrying me toward Paris and whatever future awaited beyond.

[End of Chapter 6]

 

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