Mother Albania

Listen first. Up here, at the edge of Tirana, the noise of the city drops away. You may hear wind moving through the pines, a few birds, perhaps the scrape of shoes on the stone steps behind you. The air feels a little cooler than in the streets below. In front of you, a woman of stone stands high above the rows of graves. She does not look down at you. She looks out, over the city, toward the mountains.

This is Mother Albania. She stands at the heart of the National Martyrs' Cemetery, on a hill above the capital. The figure is a symbol, not a portrait of any real person. She represents the nation itself, keeping watch over the people who died for it. In one hand she holds a laurel wreath, an old sign of honour and victory. In the other, raised high, she holds a star. That star is the key to understanding this place.

The statue was unveiled in 1971. Albania was then one of the most closed countries in Europe, ruled by the communist leader Enver Hoxha. The star in her hand is the five-pointed star of that era. It honoured the partisans, the communist-led fighters of the Second World War. So this monument carries two meanings at once. It is a memorial to the dead. It is also a statement from a political system that no longer exists.

The figure is usually described as roughly twelve metres tall. From the foot of the plinth, she feels even larger. Notice how the sculptors gave her a long, flowing robe. The folds fall in heavy, simple lines. There is no fussy detail here. This style is typical of socialist realism, the official art style of communist states. It favoured strong, clear forms that anyone could read from a distance, and heroic figures with calm, determined faces.

Here is a detail many visitors miss. One of the sculptors credited with this work was Kristaq Rama. He was an important Albanian sculptor of the communist period. His son, Edi Rama, later became mayor of Tirana and then the prime minister of Albania. So the hand that shaped this symbol of the old regime belongs to the family of a leader in the new, democratic country. The statue was a team effort, and other sculptors worked alongside him.

Now look at the ground around the statue. The cemetery holds the graves of many partisans who died fighting the Italian and German occupation during the Second World War. Albania was liberated in November 1944. For the communist state that followed, these fighters became founding heroes. Their graves sit in ordered rows, often on terraces that step down the hillside. The layout is formal and quiet. It asks you to slow down as you walk.

The second surprise concerns Enver Hoxha himself. When he died in 1985, he was buried here, close to the statue, in a place of honour. The communist system collapsed in the early 1990s. Soon after, in 1992, his remains were removed from this cemetery. He was reburied in an ordinary public cemetery elsewhere in Tirana. Other leading figures of the regime were also moved. The hill changed meaning, even though the statue stayed exactly where she was.

Think about what that means. Many countries in Eastern Europe pulled down their communist monuments after 1989. Statues of leaders were broken up or moved to parks on the edge of town. Mother Albania survived. Part of the reason is simple. She is not a political leader. She is a mother, a figure of grief and pride. Albanians could remove the dictator from her side and still keep her as a memorial to the war dead.

Today the cemetery is still used for official ceremonies. Foreign leaders and heads of state often lay wreaths here on visits to Albania. On national days, you may see flowers at the foot of the plinth, or soldiers in dress uniform. On most other days, the hill is very calm. You may share it with a few walkers, a family visiting a grave, or a gardener working along the paths. It does not feel like a tourist site. It feels like a place of memory.

Turn around and look at the view. From this hill, Tirana spreads out across the valley below. On a clear day, you can see the line of the mountains around the city, including the long ridge of Dajti to the east. The capital you see now has grown fast since the 1990s. New towers and brightly painted buildings rise where low houses once stood. The statue faces a city that her makers could hardly have imagined.

Take a moment to study her face. The expression is serious and still. She is not smiling, and she is not weeping. Socialist realist sculptors liked this balance. They wanted grief to look like strength. Walk slowly around the base and watch how her outline changes. From the side, the raised arm and the star cut a sharp line against the sky. From directly in front, she becomes a solid, vertical mass, almost like a column.

Light changes this place a great deal. In the middle of the day, the sun is strong and flat, and the stone can look pale and hard. In the late afternoon, the light comes in lower. Shadows fall into the folds of the robe, and the figure gains depth. The pines around the cemetery also turn darker, which makes the statue stand out more clearly. If you can choose your time, the softer light is kinder to her.

As you prepare to leave, look once more at the star in her hand. It was raised to celebrate one vision of the future. That vision ended, and the country chose another path. Yet the people buried on this hill were real. They were young men and women who fought in a terrible war. Mother Albania still watches over them, above a city that keeps changing. Walk down the steps slowly... and listen to the noise of Tirana come back to you.