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Opinion / Editorial

The voice of conscience ...

The voice of conscience ...

I do not know why that morning I chose the messages on the opening of the mobile phone. My eyes remained busy in a text which kept me nailed a piece once, it was said that it was written in a foreign language. years I lost all my longing; But where did you lose, take Zenel Sina! of old friendship, there is no god who forbids, _the promise came to me inwardly, without thinking twice even though the boys could not wait for the thirtieth of april, to make surprises. 'I was talking about weight and burden; here thirty years ago, when I had finished my postgraduate specialization in literary criticism and, the mediocrity of the time, led me to school director in Velcan, my aggravated psychological condition found the cure, to the support given to me by the warm word of Zenel and how many other Zenel I met in mines, curses, enterprises, fields, filled the pages of the local newspaper Agimi, with reports from their tireless work, gave me only friendship and hope. Without the pure world of these people I do not know where I could have ended up .... I was told three hours a day, to go to school and above all the dream for which I specialized a year after UT was killed. part of power, but not only that, I was not doing any heroism! does the party need such a man ?! I do that road with seventy kg of oak on my back, for thirty lek for the cooperative's livestock, I say; make the day a thousand to the party that finds us work, fills his pocket with money; throws its tails. and how much, along the way, to lead to the village of Velcan, those with the burden that weighed on their backs, I with that in my soul ... One day, sitting on a hill, I followed the line of women with the burden on their backs that rolled like I arrived at Shkumbin. Strangely Shkumbini resembled me with the river Akeront and in front of them the boatman Karonti was driving .. Time ... What time !? I breathed with myself with the spirit held at school. The smiling faces of the students, their caresses with all the delicacy, then the warm meetings with the Zenelis made me forget. Maybe it is the peace with the soul, one more reason, what has made me not to forget those people and to be with Zenel on the day of the wedding of the girl Yllkë with Elson even though the thirtieth of April, is hardly expected of you ... Sorry ! -while I continued to tell the boys about the events of the past, staring at me, with astonishment in their eyes, Reneardi and Taulant, came out with pain: "What a feeling !? And so much story speaks, -the boys supported a voice the decision taken. On the evening of the thirtieth of April, together with his wife Refi, he found us at the bar, with the same name located near Librazhd, along the Shkumbin River. The sounds of music, the open-arms reception of Zenel and his wife Mahije, immediately introduced us to the heated atmosphere of the wedding. I do not know what feeling overwhelmed me !? The wedding decor so carefully curated, those dozens of girls and boys and so many elderly people, who did not get tired of dancing, then the cherry on the cake; The song composed and sung by the bride Yllkë, dedicated to the parents, made the whole hall cry. It was a ballad that was dripping with pain and longing for the parents, who worked in Greece, while they left for work in Italy. Only sister Elona and her husband Elton, were left in Tirana, working as pharmacists. How to change the atmosphere, the microphone of To Yllka, she started the song dedicated to her husband. which he had apparently taken for a lap, to the wedding drummer, as if to add strength to a life-weary mother, but the boys were doing it with their arms. , who danced to the rhythms of Adrasteies's drum. As he jumped and twisted, the full body of Sefer Koran, who behaved like a dancer with a drum hanging on his arm, reminded me of the nineties, then director of the gymnasium in Qukës. It had been a rainy, windy night. to honor how wide and long on the ground. As soon as the work smelled, I ordered teacher Zydina to find their place, because they were made not to eat even dogs. First I was inside the school, where what to taste: Half of the dictator's bust, his ears were carved. "Here is a hand"! .... With this hesitation I walked through the streets of the village. The first person I encountered in front of me was the machinist Fatmir Kryeziu. I confess with my heart in my hand. "Do not worry. My friend tied his head with string. Somehow calmed down, full of confidence in the man who was sprinkling on the besa, you turned to the bust to make medicine, in some dark corner, where even rats could not benefit. Safe from not discovering the mysterious act, he entered the office. As luck would have it, I saw a thin boy, with a waist, dressed in a soldier, enter the door. I spotted Sefer. Valmirë, let her grow up in Italy and, Diana, who came from America, tried to catch the rhythms of the drum, even though they fell for the first time, in the fall of the sticks. A fiery atmosphere which had made room for the double librazhdiote dance, bringing especially the pizzas, which sounded and lifted the legs of the old man, uncle Riza as the hall called him. of Kukës, Dibra. It was such a beautiful mosaic intertwined with musical instruments and DJ, that he was hanging for a whole night, entering the stakes and the day he had fixed through the windows. A moment took me to the veranda outside the bar. Shkumbini's waves under my feet looked as if they were also thrown and twisted, splashing rocks with endless kisses. What a contrast! And Shkumbini is not who he was yesterday, The sound of music has introduced him to the dance of joy, because his people, Noah's Boat has brought them to light and today they are gathered from all over the world, to join the family joy of Zenel, precisely on the shores of Shkumbn, as a challenge to time, to show the time which demands more, much more, more, but which also speaks with so much, for the soul of these people that evil compelled to they took the seas, but their heads are left behind by the homeland, so they do not forget to meet him and share the joys, why not the civilization, where they have built their nest. In the background, accompanied by the low sounds of music, while the rite of separation of the bride and groom with the Zeneli family continues, as I look at the faces of those dozens of boys and girls, who after a time of relaxation in their homeland, rush to catch planes and ferries to find work in places where they have raised their lives, as thoughts pass through my mind: Maybe one day the immigrant of the nineties will be called by the Voice of Conscience to return to his homeland. to raise it to the altar of the world's most advanced democracies. They sacrificed yesterday, today time calls them for an even more sublime sacrifice. the world of civilization .... I am confident. I am fully convinced that it will happen one day, because it happened to me with the Voice of Conscience, although not in these dimensions of desires that I express, but it was still an inner voice that had left its mark over the years,