I have never heard anyone talk about Albanophilia, but somehow, the term makes sense. I mean, if you like this Albanian, you should be called an Albanophile (-phil: Gr. antecedent, "to like").
I know many Albanians who should be called that because they love Albanians to the extreme. And, after all, what's there not to like? Most Albanians are friendly, lively, talkative and quite opinionated, not to mention the natural trait of attraction, something inexplicable (Albanians who may not be that attractive have ways of becoming attractive by using simple words...sound familiar?)...I say Albanians, but these are general terms. I am sure upon reading this you will think of how this applies to most people. Except that today, I want to focus on my Friday night, when, for the first time in a long time, I felt a moment of bliss.
No, it's not men that I wish to write about today. In my blog title, I am searching for "other important things" among Mr.Man, Mr.Right or Mr.Whatever, and this is one of those "other" important things.
Arjana (not her real name) is a mother of two, a woman from Albania who portrays the character of a strong-willed Albanian woman. Here eyebrows are crooked in the middle and, if she didn't smile at times to neutralize the paranoia her onlookers are filled with, you'd think she is angry at you. Five years ago, Arjana sold everything she had in Albania and decided she would come to Canada, the place everyone in Albania dreamt of going. The rumours of good jobs, clean environment, safe surroundings for families with children and inexpensive property had so invaded Arjana's everyday thinking, one day, she and her husband applied to come to Canada through a skilled worker immigration program. The process took close to two years.
When the family arrived in Canada, everything seemed perfect...until they started looking for jobs. Arjana had been a teacher in Albania and now has to retrain. For the last three years, Arjana's self-confidence level has been going lower and lower every year. The more she is learning French, the more she is realizing how far she is from ever living her dream of teaching again, this time in Canada.
I met Arjana in my intensive French grammar course, where a Russian friend sitting next to me introduced us. She is the first Albanian person I met in Montreal and as such, is a treasured friend. There is something to be said about people who speak your mother tongue in a place where everyone else speaks another language. Despite any differences between us, language and culture seems to unify us two and though I've pondered on it and how strange it is, I've concluded that it is a matter of psychology. First point is that Arjana speaks Albanian. The second is that I miss Kosova, where Albanian is spoken. Therefore, speaking with Arjana is like having a taste of Kosova. It is much more complex than this, the relationship between two albanophones (or any -phones, for that matter), but for now, I feel it is the formula that helps me explain my thoughts in the simplest way (perhaps not the clearest, but simplest).
I am invited to Arjana's for a quick get together before we go to the International Women's Day dinner and gala organized by the Albanian Association in Montreal. At Arjana's house, her former French teacher is having Turkish coffee and conversing with Arjana about living in Montreal and Arjana's neighbourhood, near metro Parc. Apparently, some of Arjana's Albanian friends told her she should move, as she lives in a poor area of town. "So what," she says "if I live in a poor area of town? I am not rich. Besides, people here are nice. Everyone seems to speak bad about Pakistani Montrealers, but they, too, came here for the same reason I did. So someday, their offspring may have a future.What do you think, Helene?" ...Helene goes on about something that makes me gasp. She says how Arjana really should consider moving, as her students keep talking about there being "cockroaches" in the houses of this neighbourhood, and sometimes even streets. Arjana is surprised to hear this from her former teacher and quickly changes the subject to "So, Helene, when are you coming to Albania with me?"
Arjana misses Albania, too, just like I miss Kosova at times: "I'm here for my children, so someday, they may have what I did not have," says Arjana, as she shows Helene and I postcards of Durrësi, her hometown in Albania. She says she misses the salty air of Durrës, the warm breeeze coming from the Adriatic sea, the view of palm trees from her home. It's not that she doesn't visit Durrës. Every year, Arjana and her family visit Albania for months, in an attempt to get enough of the air, warmth and scenery to live with for the rest of the year. Yet, as soon as she comes back to her home in Montreal, Arjana knows it is all back to normal again. The months spent in Arbëria were just a dream that she awakens from every fall. Money or not, rich or poor, the family spends thousands on the summer trips to Albania. If it weren't for these months of time spent in Albanian surroundings, they couldn't survive in Montreal.
Arjana's husband, a professor in Albania, took up woodworking and is now working as a carpenter. He looks tired and serious. every now and then, a modest smile comes out of him, as if he, just like his wife, wanted to show that he is not always as solemn as he may appear. The couple's two sons have already achieved a great deal in the few years they've been here. They both speak fluent Albanian and Italian, including English and French. The older son is a 14-year old soccer champion playing in a competitive high school soccer team. The medals he won are showcased near the fireplace in the living room, so everyone knows how good he is and how proud his parents are of him. The younger son wants to follow in his brother's footsteps, but he has his own plans in mind: To become a tennis champion someday. With this kind of thinking, I am confident he will be much more than that... It is inspiring to see how their parents' depression doesn't affect these teenagers. They keep on planning for the future, perhaps because their future is the only thing that now and then makes their parents give off a hint of a smile and warmth.
Now, we have our drinks and we're getting ready to get in the van, when, inside the car, I meet Lana, a woman in her sixties whose primary concern seems to be, well, her well-being and her looks. Lana is also from Albania, though from Korça, a southern Albanian town I would have loved to visit (all these Ottoman-style wooden houses everywhere in town...such a historic city...plus, near the sea!). You know how in every novel, movie and comedy, there is an older woman, who is, at times, too honest, to the point that she offends people, but we forgive her anyway because she is in her sixties? Well, that's Lana. As we introduce ourselves, she says: "You're Kosovar? I love Kosovars. My daughter married one of them. Come have coffee at my house anytime!" Lana sits in front of the van and tells Arjana's husband which direction he should take to get to our destination tonight. At one point, we all get lost because Lana gave us wrong directions (she considers herself all-knowing because she's lived in Montreal for eight years now). Finally, we make it to the Lebanese restaurant we have our banquet in. Once we get to our table, Lana decides it's not up to par with her standards because it puts us at the centre of everyone's attention and view, so we end up in one of the room's corner tables. Great. Thanks, Lana.
At the table (fits 16), I meet another group of people, friends of Arjana's who came to Montreal at the same time as the family. The man sitting opposite me is unshaved, bald and probably in his thirties. I say the latter to emphasize the fact that this man is in his mid-thirties. I notice him playing under the table and I start to wonder why he is wiggling his hands under there...A few seconds later, when he pulls up a bottle of clear brandy, I realize he was opening the bottle. As he looks around for any waiters, he whispers "It's REAL Albanian brandy, REAL ALBANIAN GRAPE brandy. We'll have some fun tonight, eh?" He starts to pour onto glasses and when he reaches mine, I tell him I don't drink. "Why, you Muslim or something?" I tell him that yes, I don't drink. Arjana's husband turns my way and says, as he laughs "hahaha, Muslim? Me, too!" and he drinks the contents of the big glass in one gulp. Many Albanians from Albania, under the influence of 50 years of strict secularist socialism, have never gone back to practicing Islam and though they are aware their parents and grandparents may have been Muslims, for them, it's only a heritage moment, something you mention in passing, or something that comes useful when you need your prayers answered.
This gets me thinking on how in Albanian culture (in Kosova, Macedonia, Montenegro, Albania, parts of Serbia and diaspora), it is the fact that you are Albanian that unites you with another Albanian. What religion you are is often, if not always irrelevant because for many Albanians, being Albanian IS almost a religion.
Lana gets something out of her purse and what strikes me as a water bottle at first is a quick change of mind, as I smell the homemade, 30% alcohol brandy. She passes it on to the others on the table and points at me when she says "try it! I made it! Don't you worry about poisoning! I made it at home"...I won't have her brandy, but is the fact that she made brandy in her own home supposed to make me feel better about drinking it? Who knows what she was doing while prepping it. I smile and wave away, while I pour water from the pitcher. Five minutes away, she will see me and feel amazed, thinking that I drink brandy like water.
A belly dancer is the entertainment of the evening, aside from live Albanian music. Amused by her oriental moves, little children gather around and start imitating her dances. The adults join in and a senior, bearded man looking like Santa, dances with the belly dancer. I laugh and wonder how somehow, silly little things like this man's dancing and those childrens' moves are making this evening uniquely entertaining.
I meet a couple of Kosovar Albanians at the banquet and somehow, it's almost like talking to old friends. We don't have a good discussion or talk long, and I'm sure they were probably surprised why I approached them and asked them "are you from Kosova?", but I don't really care. I get their numbers and promise to call them soon, which I will do. I later keep returning to their table for short, quiet encounters, where they say nothing because they don't know why I just came to their table and I say nothing because really, what COULD I say?I ask them if they keep up with the current situation in Kosova, to which they add that no, they rarely check the news to see what is happening "over there". I am surprised to hear this. They mention how they like Montreal and they enjoy living in the city.
Live music comes on and it's our turn to dance. We dance away to traditional Albanian tunes as we hold hands and spin in a circle. I don't know the steps to the dances, and most of the time, a child is bumping into me as he/she runs around, but suddenly, I feel home. I haven't felt that way in a long long time. I look around the happy people I see and the music I hear and though it's so silly, the dance circle is so uneven, I don't know any of the steps to the dances, the singer sounds terrible, I feel at peace. The hot guy holding my hand is not afraid I'm going to put moves on him (Albanians generally are very physical), the woman right next to me is singing along with the terrible singing done by a drunk Korçan. This is the moment of bliss I've waited for for so long...It's perfect.
I can't say I'm an exclusive Albanophiliac because besides Albanians, I seem to have an affinity with pretty much the world, but there is something closer to my heart and soul when it comes to getting in touch with Albanians.
One of the important things in my search is the feeling of being in a place where I will feel like I belong the way I never did before. Last night was one of those nights....I feel last night, for all it was, so accomplished. I feel complete in a way.
Labels: albanian, Kosova, Montreal
