In college, I had a 1974 map of Alaska adorn my dorm-room wall. If you looked for my home city of Anchorage, right next to it you would see the “city” of Spenard. In its early history, Spenard was the anti-Anchorage. Today, it keeps its name and unique vibe as an enclave that has been devoured by the greater Anchorage municipality. The people of Spenard keep their identity these days with bumper stickers and t-shirts with their name emblazoned on them. Spenard, in all reality, remains its own community within Anchorage.
It was in Spenard, in late August, where I was invited by a local attorney to meet some of the Albanian Diaspora in Anchorage. All in all, there are about 1,200 ethnic Albanians in the state of Alaska. I was to meet two of them.
I pulled up to the address I was given; it was an Italian restaurant in an otherwise residential neighborhood. I drove past the chain link fence, parked and looked up at a windowless, two-story building. The plastic banner on the side of the building said I was at the right place, however, I was not so sure.
I went to the front door to find it locked. I knocked to no avail. Since I did not see the attorney who had invited me, I was perhaps early. I sat back in my car to wait. A moment later, I heard a door close and a man with a moustache and square shoulders began to approach; he was not smiling.
“Can I help you?” he asked with suspicion.
“Hi, I’m Jason,” as if he would know who I am, “Your lawyer friend sent me?” I reached out my hand to shake his, and his face lit up with a smile that would not leave his lips for the next two and a half hours. This was the place, this was the guy. I was about to get my first personalized lesson about the region I am about to spend the next year in.
For the sake of this story, we can call the Albanian owner of this restaurant Ilir. Ilir has been in Alaska for nearly three decades. Originally an Albanian from Macedonia, he came to America fleeing Serb oppression after Tito’s death. As a student radical in Pristina in the 1980s, he protested against the abhorrent lack of civil and human rights for Albanians in the Yugoslavian states. Under constant threat that Serbs that spoke Albanian would infiltrate his political activities, he was refused entry into the University of Pristina because his primary schooling was done in Albanian and not the Serbo-Croatian language.
By the mid-1980s, he had his fill and with other family members fled to the United States seeking political asylum. First, he was in New Jersey working for a family member. While in the Garden State, his father informed him that he knew a young Albanian girl in Alaska. A one-way ticket was bought, a marriage was arranged, and Ilir never looked back.
Throughout the evening, he brimmed with pride as he recounted the greatest things about the Albanian territories (Albania, Kosovo, and western Macedonia), his home, and the people that come from there. These memories were not without tragedy. He, like everyone in Kosovo, lost family to the brutal oppression and war of the 1990s. However, undeterred, his Italian restaurant proudly sports the Albanian flag; statues and banners of the 15th century, Albanian hero Skanderbeg; and eagles. Initially, I thought the eagle statues were tied to his pride in America—of which he has plenty. The eagle statues were in fact representative of the Albanian eagle, not the American one. Amongst all of this patriotic swag were three different photos of John Belushi. Two of them were of his character from the Blues Brothers, and the other was him, toga clad, from Animal House. John Belushi, I’m told, is America’s most famous Albanian. Eliza Dushku comes in second.
Meandering through a conversation that touches on ethnicity, religion, and politics, we inevitably ran into the topic of war. Ilir talked about how it was for him to be in Alaska, while his extended family back home suffered under Milosevic’s reign. As Ilir and his lawyer talk, it is hinted that Ilir assisted Albanians back home during the war.
This past spring, I read a great book about an Albanian-American roofer in Brooklyn that, with the help of the Albanian community in the U.S., funded the early Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) and humanitarian projects in Kosovo in the mid-90s. This book discussed, amongst other things, gun running of .50 caliber rifles that were legally bought in the U.S. and then shipped to Albania to be given to the KLA in Kosovo. The author of this book specifically pointed out that the guns were being bought, en masse, in states with extra-lax gun laws; Alaska was one of those states.
Armed with this knowledge and a lack of subtlety, I blurted out, “Were you a bundler for the KLA?!” The lawyer quickly stopped Ilir, “Don’t answer that. We don’t actually know who Jason is. Maybe he’s CIA.” The latter part was in jest; however, I did, in fairness, seem suspicious at that moment. I was sitting in a closed, dimly lit Italian restaurant, writing down notes of our conversation on a legal pad. Ilir confirmed that he did raise money for the war effort, but merely for humanitarian functions. He was explicit that he did not raise money or supplies to arm the KLA. If he was active with the Albanian roofer in Brooklyn, I think, like the Italian food Ilir serves in his restaurant, this story should perhaps be taken with a grain of salt.
As the evening continued, Ilir called his uncle who was headed back to Kosovo the next day. Ilir, ever smiling, looks at me and says, “My uncle is exited to meet you. He’ll be here in 10 minutes.” Ilir opened up a brown, plastic bottle of beer. “I’ve just brewed this! I call it ‘Blondie Ale’,” he smirked, “What do you think?!” It was a good, effervescent home-brew. We continued to talk. Every story Ilir told came with him taking a picture off the wall or grabbing a framed certificate from the backroom. He told me that it’s only a matter of time before the Albanian territories become a unified Albanian state. Macedonians should take note of this.
His uncle arrived, also brimming with pride and a smile, and he griped my hand as we were introduced and he did not let go. Informed that I was headed to Kosovo for nine months, he told me he was excited to introduce me to his family, friends, and city. He saw my pad of paper on the bar and grabbed a pen and motioned if it is OK to write. He wrote his name, a six-digit phone number, and an address. He then issued my orders: “You will call this number, and then go to this address. I don’t live there any more, but I will arrive.” Sounding more like a dead drop in a spy novel, than a day of sight seeing, I excitedly accepted. I’m guessing this is what I have to look forward to in Kosovo: uncertainty and cryptic kindness.
Both Ilir and his uncle wrote on other scraps of paper as they both talked over each other. I’m handed bits of paper and cards with names, addresses, and cities on them. I’m told that if I find myself in any of these places to look up these people and they will take care of me. When in doubt, they say about everyone they scribble down, just ask for them on the street; everyone will know them. The Albanian ethnicity, the best I can tell from that night of conversation, is one family. IfCheers was an ethnicity, it would be Albanian.
The conversation continued a little longer. I learned that the uncle was the voice of Radio Kosovo during the 1980s. He still carries his press pass from his time in the Yugoslavian press corps, because when he fled Kosovo that was the only form of picture ID he had. Ilir continued to talk about Kosovo and the region’s history. He casually name-dropped the first president’s name, Rugova, as if he knew him. Of course, that is because he did.
Ilir handed me a stack of his business cards and pointed to his cell number. “If you need anything while you are there, call me. Call me collect. I might not know the person giving you trouble, but I will be able to translate for you. Whatever you need.” I was touched by his generosity. I’d been warned that Albanians are a very generous people; and after 30 years in the States, that still holds true for Ilir and his uncle.
We began to wind up the night around 11 PM. I was confused on how two and half hours with strangers flew by so quickly. We slowly made our way to the parking lot; my pockets were full of business cards and scraps of paper with scribbled addresses. Along the way to the exit, Ilir and his uncle, still proud, still smiling, pointed to pictures of their old home. The moon hung high and bright as we shook hands and bid each other a good night in Spenard, that little enclave in North West Anchorage.
Spenard has not been an independent city for years; however, through creative marketing and a slightly different way of life, it has always had the heart of one. Even far from home, through photographs, memories, and conversations, like ours from that night, it is clear Ilir and his family are keeping their identity alive. That identity, I learned, has the heart of an independent state.
It was in Spenard, in late August, where I was invited by a local attorney to meet some of the Albanian Diaspora in Anchorage. All in all, there are about 1,200 ethnic Albanians in the state of Alaska. I was to meet two of them.
I pulled up to the address I was given; it was an Italian restaurant in an otherwise residential neighborhood. I drove past the chain link fence, parked and looked up at a windowless, two-story building. The plastic banner on the side of the building said I was at the right place, however, I was not so sure.
I went to the front door to find it locked. I knocked to no avail. Since I did not see the attorney who had invited me, I was perhaps early. I sat back in my car to wait. A moment later, I heard a door close and a man with a moustache and square shoulders began to approach; he was not smiling.
“Can I help you?” he asked with suspicion.
“Hi, I’m Jason,” as if he would know who I am, “Your lawyer friend sent me?” I reached out my hand to shake his, and his face lit up with a smile that would not leave his lips for the next two and a half hours. This was the place, this was the guy. I was about to get my first personalized lesson about the region I am about to spend the next year in.
For the sake of this story, we can call the Albanian owner of this restaurant Ilir. Ilir has been in Alaska for nearly three decades. Originally an Albanian from Macedonia, he came to America fleeing Serb oppression after Tito’s death. As a student radical in Pristina in the 1980s, he protested against the abhorrent lack of civil and human rights for Albanians in the Yugoslavian states. Under constant threat that Serbs that spoke Albanian would infiltrate his political activities, he was refused entry into the University of Pristina because his primary schooling was done in Albanian and not the Serbo-Croatian language.
By the mid-1980s, he had his fill and with other family members fled to the United States seeking political asylum. First, he was in New Jersey working for a family member. While in the Garden State, his father informed him that he knew a young Albanian girl in Alaska. A one-way ticket was bought, a marriage was arranged, and Ilir never looked back.
Throughout the evening, he brimmed with pride as he recounted the greatest things about the Albanian territories (Albania, Kosovo, and western Macedonia), his home, and the people that come from there. These memories were not without tragedy. He, like everyone in Kosovo, lost family to the brutal oppression and war of the 1990s. However, undeterred, his Italian restaurant proudly sports the Albanian flag; statues and banners of the 15th century, Albanian hero Skanderbeg; and eagles. Initially, I thought the eagle statues were tied to his pride in America—of which he has plenty. The eagle statues were in fact representative of the Albanian eagle, not the American one. Amongst all of this patriotic swag were three different photos of John Belushi. Two of them were of his character from the Blues Brothers, and the other was him, toga clad, from Animal House. John Belushi, I’m told, is America’s most famous Albanian. Eliza Dushku comes in second.
Meandering through a conversation that touches on ethnicity, religion, and politics, we inevitably ran into the topic of war. Ilir talked about how it was for him to be in Alaska, while his extended family back home suffered under Milosevic’s reign. As Ilir and his lawyer talk, it is hinted that Ilir assisted Albanians back home during the war.
This past spring, I read a great book about an Albanian-American roofer in Brooklyn that, with the help of the Albanian community in the U.S., funded the early Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA) and humanitarian projects in Kosovo in the mid-90s. This book discussed, amongst other things, gun running of .50 caliber rifles that were legally bought in the U.S. and then shipped to Albania to be given to the KLA in Kosovo. The author of this book specifically pointed out that the guns were being bought, en masse, in states with extra-lax gun laws; Alaska was one of those states.
Armed with this knowledge and a lack of subtlety, I blurted out, “Were you a bundler for the KLA?!” The lawyer quickly stopped Ilir, “Don’t answer that. We don’t actually know who Jason is. Maybe he’s CIA.” The latter part was in jest; however, I did, in fairness, seem suspicious at that moment. I was sitting in a closed, dimly lit Italian restaurant, writing down notes of our conversation on a legal pad. Ilir confirmed that he did raise money for the war effort, but merely for humanitarian functions. He was explicit that he did not raise money or supplies to arm the KLA. If he was active with the Albanian roofer in Brooklyn, I think, like the Italian food Ilir serves in his restaurant, this story should perhaps be taken with a grain of salt.
As the evening continued, Ilir called his uncle who was headed back to Kosovo the next day. Ilir, ever smiling, looks at me and says, “My uncle is exited to meet you. He’ll be here in 10 minutes.” Ilir opened up a brown, plastic bottle of beer. “I’ve just brewed this! I call it ‘Blondie Ale’,” he smirked, “What do you think?!” It was a good, effervescent home-brew. We continued to talk. Every story Ilir told came with him taking a picture off the wall or grabbing a framed certificate from the backroom. He told me that it’s only a matter of time before the Albanian territories become a unified Albanian state. Macedonians should take note of this.
His uncle arrived, also brimming with pride and a smile, and he griped my hand as we were introduced and he did not let go. Informed that I was headed to Kosovo for nine months, he told me he was excited to introduce me to his family, friends, and city. He saw my pad of paper on the bar and grabbed a pen and motioned if it is OK to write. He wrote his name, a six-digit phone number, and an address. He then issued my orders: “You will call this number, and then go to this address. I don’t live there any more, but I will arrive.” Sounding more like a dead drop in a spy novel, than a day of sight seeing, I excitedly accepted. I’m guessing this is what I have to look forward to in Kosovo: uncertainty and cryptic kindness.
Both Ilir and his uncle wrote on other scraps of paper as they both talked over each other. I’m handed bits of paper and cards with names, addresses, and cities on them. I’m told that if I find myself in any of these places to look up these people and they will take care of me. When in doubt, they say about everyone they scribble down, just ask for them on the street; everyone will know them. The Albanian ethnicity, the best I can tell from that night of conversation, is one family. IfCheers was an ethnicity, it would be Albanian.
The conversation continued a little longer. I learned that the uncle was the voice of Radio Kosovo during the 1980s. He still carries his press pass from his time in the Yugoslavian press corps, because when he fled Kosovo that was the only form of picture ID he had. Ilir continued to talk about Kosovo and the region’s history. He casually name-dropped the first president’s name, Rugova, as if he knew him. Of course, that is because he did.
Ilir handed me a stack of his business cards and pointed to his cell number. “If you need anything while you are there, call me. Call me collect. I might not know the person giving you trouble, but I will be able to translate for you. Whatever you need.” I was touched by his generosity. I’d been warned that Albanians are a very generous people; and after 30 years in the States, that still holds true for Ilir and his uncle.
We began to wind up the night around 11 PM. I was confused on how two and half hours with strangers flew by so quickly. We slowly made our way to the parking lot; my pockets were full of business cards and scraps of paper with scribbled addresses. Along the way to the exit, Ilir and his uncle, still proud, still smiling, pointed to pictures of their old home. The moon hung high and bright as we shook hands and bid each other a good night in Spenard, that little enclave in North West Anchorage.
Spenard has not been an independent city for years; however, through creative marketing and a slightly different way of life, it has always had the heart of one. Even far from home, through photographs, memories, and conversations, like ours from that night, it is clear Ilir and his family are keeping their identity alive. That identity, I learned, has the heart of an independent state.
