Teuta Mema: The Ambassador
| E Diel, 08.07.2012, 07:01 AM |

 

Ambassador Agim Nesho

The Ambassador

By Teuta Mema

In the marble hall, in the crystal building near the Hudson River bank, Manhattan, New York, a U.N. conference on the vulnerability of women and children took place. Founded after World War two, the UN seeks to encourage peace between nations and foster international cooperation on pressing global issues. Representatives from six continents lectured, recounting stories from all around the world. A large portion of the participants described the morbid sufferings of women and children, but free Western nations, like the United Sates, gave positive accounts. The discussion stretched past the meeting, into corridors, and behold in one corner, some shake hands with the Ambassador of a tiny country. His speech impressed them, a small nation, straight out of communism, in a short period of time, has been able to secure the safe treatment of women and children. The cases the Ambassador provided intrigued the audience, so the discussion outside of the meeting centered on those.

…It was winter; the wind slashed the freezing rain onto a woman’s youthful face and onto the small daughter holding her hand. The woman silently cried, her child wailed, the two sobbed and the cold rain swirled their tears, showering their soft faces in the dark night, dark like the land, communist Albania. The bare land, its undergrowths strangled in the iron palm of the Stalin Replica, was suffocated in heavy air of terror. Dictator Enver Hoxha killed thousands and thousands of innocent people and in the end, his devoted comrades in arms.

“Go to hell! You, daughter of an enemy of the Party! You and your creature, your creature! It is not mine! It cannot be mine! It is your monster! Enemies!”

“Please, do not throw us out on this winter’s night; the Party will re-evaluate! My father is not an enemy. My father is a doctor.”

“No, away you! The little devil is not mine!” He closed the door, leaving his wife, Liliana Ziçishti and daughter, Julka Nesho to the downpour…

The ambassador declared how he personally adored his family. A woman was by his side. He presented her to the surrounding delegates, as they shook her hand. They passed her around, a dance of greetings, her silver dress, flashing about them. Politicians eagerly spoke with her about her home, and raised glittering crystal glasses to the marble heights, cheers to Albania, Albania’s families. This time the new wife was different. She was loved by the party.

Translated from The Albanian by Hilda M. Xhepa



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