Dilaver Premti

Every three weeks my mother would travel 500 kilometers, to Zejman Prison; five or six of these kilometers were spent walking, loaded down with food for her husband. She would travel all night in the truck of our friend Skënder Bodo and because of her delicate constitution, suffered from motion sickness. She had to sneak out of her house barefoot, because in that hostile environment, everyone was a spy, and who knows what they would have told the authorities about us, the “enemies of the people,” and these midnight journeys?

One time my mother took my older son Costa (Constantitino, named for his grandfather) with her to the prison. My father said, after kissing him, “Let him stay in front of me for a while, so that one day, when he is older, he will remember me.”

Vlora: Dilaver Premti

My father admired Dilaveri because of his energy and his strong character. During conversation with him, one is struck by his goodness, accompanied by his soft and melodic voice. In his blood runs the spirit of Rrapo Meto, his father, who is now part of Albania’s history.