Despised Dictator’s ‘Scary’ Shrine Becomes a Bet on Albania’s Future

TIRANA, Albania — Built in the 1980s to commemorate a dead tyrant in Pharaonic style, the concrete and glass pyramid in the center of Albania’s capital, Tirana, was falling apart by the time engineers and construction workers arrived to rescue it.

The windows were broken. Homeless people were sleeping in its cavernous hall, which was daubed with graffiti and stinking of urine. Empty bottles and syringes littered the floor, which was covered in polished marble when the pyramid — a shrine to Albania’s late communist dictator, Enver Hoxha — first opened in 1988, but had since been stripped bare by vandals and thieves.

“The place was a wreck,” Genci Golemi, the site engineer, recalled of his first visit. “Everything had been stolen.”

Now, after two years of reconstruction work, the building is a glistening temple to Albania’s ambitious hopes for the future.

Throughout this turbulent journey, the Hoxha pyramid loomed over Tirana, slowly decaying and seemingly taunting each new Albanian government with its memories of a Stalinist system that few wanted to bring back but whose replacement had fed so much disappointment.

“The ghost of Hoxha was everywhere and terrifying for everyone,” recalled Frrok Cupi, a journalist who was appointed in 1991 to manage the pyramid, which was supposed to become a cultural center.

One of his first and most daunting tasks, Mr. Cupi said, was to somehow get rid of a 22-ton marble statue of the late dictator in the main hall. Its removal, he believed, offered the only hope of saving the pyramid from angry anti-communist mobs that wanted to destroy the whole building.

The statue was so big and heavy that moving it risked breaking the floor and bringing down the pyramid. The Italian embassy proposed hoisting the statue out through the roof by helicopter. Others suggested cutting it to pieces with a special saw. In the end, Llesh Biba, a young theater director working as a carpenter at the pyramid, set upon Hoxha with a sledgehammer, bashing away with gusto at his head and body.

“It felt great to hit Hoxha,” Mr. Biba, now a sculptor, recalled in an interview in his Tirana studio. “Nobody else dared. They were all worried about saving their own skins.” After finishing his work, however, Mr. Biba checked into a hospital suffering serious lung problems from breathing in shards of marble and dust.

Mr. Biba’s health crisis established what became a long pattern of misfortune associated with a building that, according to Martin Mata, the co-head of the Albanian-American Investment Fund, which helped finance the reconstruction work, “seemed cursed.”

With no money to keep the pyramid operating as a cultural center, authorities turned it into a rental property.

Albania’s first nightclub took space there in the early 1990s. The United States aid agency, USAID, a television station and Pepsi moved into office space in the basement, followed by NATO, which set up an office there during the 1999 war in neighboring Kosovo.

Over the years, the pyramid started falling apart, taken over by squatters and swarming with young people who used its sloping concrete outer walls as slides. Bold plans to give the structure a new purpose came and went, including a failed project promoted by Albania’s former prime minister, Sali Berisha, to turn the pyramid into a new national theater.

By 2010, the pyramid had become such an embarrassing symbol of failure that legislators demanded it be torn down and asked Austrian architects to come up with a plan to build a new parliament building on its land. That effort, too, fizzled.

The current renovation finally broke the streak of failure.

Driving the current effort is Tirana’s mayor, Mr. Veliaj, a close political ally of Albania’s prime minister for the past decade, Edi Rama, a former artist who has won plaudits, even from some political rivals, for shaking off the country’s past reputation for chaos.

The mayor, 43, recalled visiting the pyramid as a schoolboy soon after it opened in 1988 as a lugubrious memorial to Mr. Hoxha. “It was like going to a scary funeral,” he said, describing how a floodlit red star in the roof “looked down on us all like the eye of Big Brother.”

Mr. Maas, the architect, said that in the renovation, he tried to “overcome the past, not destroy it” by preserving the pyramid’s basic structure while opening it up more to sunlight and modernizing the interior to purge it of associations with Albania’s grim past.

In a concession to the happy memories many Tirana residents have of sliding down the pyramid’s slopes, the new design includes a small area for sliding. Most of the outer walls, however, are now covered with steps so that visitors can walk to the top. There is also an elevator.

Not everyone likes the new design. Mr. Biba, who demolished Mr. Hoxha’s marble statue more than 30 years ago, scorned the reconstructed pyramid as a flashy public relations stunt by the prime minister.

But that is a minority view. Mr. Cupi, who, after his cultural center flopped, supported demands that the building be torn down, now praises the redesign as a sign that Albania can overcome its communist ghosts and post-communist demons.

“We all wanted to be part of the West but did not really know what this meant,” he said, “The pyramid has now been totally transformed and that gives me hope for this country.”

Fatjona Mejdini contributed reporting.

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