FLASH
Shkruar nga Thoma Gëllçi
Once upon a time, the house held the family. Today, the family keeps a picture of the house on their phone. And that's called progress.
I found this photo montage by chance on the Internet, among thousands of images that pass before my eyes without leaving a trace. But this one didn't pass. I stopped. I stood there looking at it for a long time, as if I were browsing not just four photos, but four decades of life. It wasn't just a house aging silently; it was a time staring you straight in the eye. The more I looked at it, the more I realized that the change wasn't just in the walls, the roof, or the grass growing. The change was in the absence, in what was no longer visible in the photo: the people.
If you ask any official, they will tell you with conviction that the village is developing. There are projects, there are colorful signs at the entrance to the road, there are speeches with graphics and 2030 visions. There are strategies for “smart agrotourism” and “value chains”. If I ask the house in the photo, it will tell you something much simpler: “I am falling. The walls are not holding me up, but the people.”
Let's not go too far back in time. In 1996 the yard was full. Children on the grass, adults in chairs, flowers in the windows. The vines produced grapes, the chickens crowed, the rooster had someone to wake up. The house was not new, but it was alive. There was noise, there were small quarrels, there was life. No one talked about "development strategies". The land was simply worked, livestock was kept, the village's produce was grown and consumed on the spot. The cycle was closed and alive.
In 2006, some left. “For a while,” they said. Money started coming in by bank, but people didn’t. Village produce began to dwindle. The land was left without hands, the stables without a voice. Instead of homemade cheese, imported cheese came. Instead of tomatoes from the yard, tomatoes from the truck came. The village began to feed on goods that came from afar, while its own land remained unexplored. The table had fewer dishes. The yard had fewer steps. The house began to understand that silence weighs more than poverty.
In 2016, two chairs remained. Two old men guarding a door that was rarely opened. The children were already talking on the phone. The hug became "hello, how are you?". The grass began to grow more confidently, because there were no more feet to step on it. The cattle were sold, not because they were not needed, but because there was no one to graze them. The birds disappeared one by one. The rooster was left without an audience.
In 2026 the house finally found complete peace. No one bothers it. The vines climbed the wall as if they were new owners. The door was crooked. The roof was worn out. The grass became the most permanent resident of the area. At least it doesn't emigrate.
Meanwhile, the village's produce, which once filled the local market, now comes from imports. Milk comes from across the border, meat comes from the sea, wheat comes by ship. The village consumes foreign goods while its own land remains in forced rest. Statistics may show an increase in consumption, but they do not show the emptying of the yards.
Tourism policies are proclaimed as a salvation. But often they help the development of neighboring countries more than the revival of the village. Buses pass through, vacationers consume the products of neighbors. Our village remains a panoramic photo in a brochure, not a lived destination. Money circulates, but not in the courtyards.
Politicians come, take pictures in front of old walls and talk about “rural revitalization”. The village listens to them calmly. It has heard many words and seen few returns. To pave the roads, people are needed. Politics does not invest where there are no people, because where there are no people, there are no votes. The vote is the most important thing. Emptiness helps abandonment and abandonment feeds emptiness. Along with people, animals, birds, voices disappear. There are no more chickens crowing and the rooster has no one to wake up in the morning.
Today the village has a great advantage: there is no unemployment. Because there are no more people. The problem has been solved in the simplest possible way. This can be reported as a great success of the government: zero unemployment, zero complaints, zero demands.
Once upon a time, the house held the family. Today, the family keeps a picture of the house on their phone. And that's called progress.
The village doesn't ask for much. It doesn't ask for promises, or signs. It asks for footsteps in the yard. Voices in the evening. A door that opens from the inside. Until then, the grass will continue to grow. He's the only one seriously investing there.
Nje shkrim i vërtete shume fshatra te boshatisura nuk ka as pleq. Keqardhje per vendin.