Pride & Shame
Albanians, in my experience, are a proud nationality. Their rich traditions and cultural heritage are still very much alive day to day, and whilst this might be showing signs of dwindling for those in “Gen Z”, broadly speaking Albania retains a vibrant sense of national identity – a source of great pride for many.
Yet there has long been a sense of something that lurks beneath the surface which is increasingly drawn out by national and international coverage of Albania and Albanians: shame. As a Brit with an (disheartening) interest in global politics, as well as a keener engagement with Albania, it’s been impossible to not take note of how Albanians have been portrayed in the (British, in particular) press.
Illegal crossings of the English Channel to the UK dominated all major UK mainstream news outlets earlier this year, with little nuance – aside from the occasional piece on how Albania ought to be next on everyone’s travel list. Yet even this was used to fuel the misinformation and stigma: “if Albania is such a great destination to visit, why are so many of their people entering the UK illegally?”
This is nothing new for Albanians, who have often been seen as a nuisance to their immediate European neighbours. Albanians have been travelling to Italy and Greece for employments for decades and, as far as I can tell, work incredibly hard when they get there. However, there remains a prejudice against this gem in the Western Balkans, one rooted in ignorance and fearmongering[1].
Whilst there is often an innate sense of pride in being Albanian, there remains an imposed sense of shame as to how they are viewed by much of the rest of Europe.
This relationship of pride and shame is familiar to another group. LGBTQ+ people have always had to overcome societal and cultural shame to find pride in our identities. In fact, the event colloquially known as “Pride” has often been used as a tool to quieten that shame, to speak publicly and loudly championing the beauty of diverse sexualities and gender identities in protest, art, and music.
It struck me recently, as rather ironic that there is profound connection of experience between Albanians and LGBTQ+ people. Of course, there are queer Albanians – a growing number of which are speaking up and out in a culture that remains patriarchal and closed to different models of family and relationships. Yet the profound dichotomy of pride and shame as experienced by both Albanians and LGBTQ+ people perhaps offers an insight not yet explored before, bridging a gap that exists between the socially conservative Albanian majority, and the progressive voices of LGBTQ+ people and their allies.
In May I was able to attend my first Pride march in Tirana. Despite having had a long connection with the country for years, this was the first time I was able to be in the city at the same time as this increasingly visible event. It struck me as everything that many Western European Pride marches no longer are: a strong demonstration of pride and protest – a march in the very real sense of the word, seeking equity and justice.
Supported by Albanians and foreigners living in and visiting Tirana, this short march walked through the centre of the city, drawing the attention of passers-by, as well as the ire of many motorists as the roads were temporarily closed to let us pass. The call to action this time focussed on the healthcare needs of transgender people living in Albania, with a speech from activist and Founder of ALEANCA, Xheni Karaj, given outside of the Prime Minister’s office[2]. There also followed a moving few words from the lesbian mother of twins who is unable to register their birth (they are now toddlers) with the municipality as the government does not recognise the parental rights of both mothers.
It was indeed a proud occasion, with rainbow flags, streamers and placards all speaking to a sense of strength, commitment, and a delight in identities that are so often misunderstood, condemned, and forced to hide away. It’s easy for me to then draw parallels with the pride in the Albanian national flag, the traditional (popullore) music you hear in restaurants, cars, and people’s homes – regardless of the age of those listening, and the need for Albanians to often hide who they are. I’m reminded of the time my husband and I hired a removal company to help us move flats in London – I heard them speak Albanian, yet they were adamant they were Greek. Of course, they could well have been raised in Greece to Albanian parents, yet it struck me as telling that though they spoke in Albanian, they chose to hide that aspect of their identity.
As LGBTQ+ Albanians continue to seek out their rights and protect the two or three times marginalised in their communities, and as Albania more broadly takes a role in the pan-European stage, it might be time for two identities long at odds to better understand the experience of the other.
I look forward to a time when there is a sense of pride out and visible, without the accompanying shame in the shadows for all those who are marginalised for who they are, who they love, or where they were born.
[1] Of course, It is not true to say that illegal immigration of Albanians to the UK and other countries is not happening, however I believe it is clear that the vilification of Albanians in the media serves a broader immigration narrative.
[2] There is clearly not complete alignment on the goals of the LGBTQ+ movement in Albania, as you’d expect with any diverse group of people regardless of where they are in the world. When I met with a student of medicine last week to discuss his views on life as an LGBTQ+ young person in Albania, the classic age divide in activism became apparent once again. Differing values, the dichotomy of action versus “just living our lives”, the desire for more work to be done in other ways, all came to the surface. I remember being that 20-something, irritated by those older who didn’t see things the way I did – how times have changed.