Living Red: My father’s life under Hoxha’s Albania (Part 2)
By IEA Education Programmes Manager, Megi Cara
Every year on 8 December, Albanians celebrate Youth Day. On this day in 1990, brave students led protests that ultimately brought an end to the oppressive reign of communism. My father was one of those students and I want to share the rest of his story with you. As in Part 1, for the sake of simplicity, I am retelling his story from his perspective, i.e. in the 1st person singular.
If you recall from the first part, my father and his friends returned to the dormitory after skipping mandatory military training to watch a football game. This is what happens next:
We were exhausted. The moment we entered the canteen, the shouting began: “Here come the enemies of the people!” Interrogations and insults followed: “Where are your rifles? What if the enemy had taken them?” (They were wooden rifles.) We were accused of desertion and cowardice.
A week later, the pedagogical council declared us guilty of “enemy activity.” The punishment? A warning of expulsion and a mandate to work a year in a copper mine before we could take our exams. Despite my 4.0 GPA, I was labelled a revisionist, imperialist, and worse.
I passed the exams. My maths teacher, who became a deputy director of education for the district, recognised my talent and encouraged my ambition to study Mathematics & Physics at the Polytechnic University of Tirana. After all the hardships I endured in high school, I was overjoyed.
However, a few months later, a new policy was implemented that restricted my studies to mining engineering. I was heartbroken, and my sorrow deepened when my father passed away just ten days before my course started. I didn’t want to go, but I had no other choice.
In my first year of university, whispers began circulating about the sharp decline of the economy, and indeed it was true. Quiet dissent against the totalitarian regime grew, especially after the death of the dictator Enver Hoxha. Yet in an isolated country with full government ownership of the media, regime propaganda still had a powerful grip: oblivious to the regime’s failings, many mourned Hoxha with theatrical grief. To revere a dictator, poverty and isolation from the West had to run deep.
Curiosity got the better of me, so I joined the funeral procession. But after about 50 steps, I pretended to faint and slipped out of the line. A few people rushed over to help, but I waved them off, insisting I was fine. Walking away, I felt my hatred for the regime—and the legacy it left behind—burn even stronger.
Poverty had reached absurd levels, yet the ruling elite desperately tried to limit international media exposure. A strong wind was blowing from East Germany, with the fall of the Berlin Wall. By the end of 1989, that wind reached us, sparking revolts across the country.
On the evening of 7 December, during exam season, the lights went out. Several buildings were plunged into darkness, and with the freezing December cold, we desperately asked for the power to be restored so we could study. But nothing changed. Frustrated, we started shouting, “Come gather here, join us!” as part of the city still had electricity. The chant spread quickly as more people joined in, united by common struggles.
What began as a small protest grew into something larger, with leadership formed by students from all the buildings, led by Azem Hajdari. As the movement gained strength, the Republic’s Guard and State Security forces surrounded the ‘Student City’ (university campus). Despite the cold, we refused to go inside – we were too angry to care.
Azem Hajdari took charge of the movement, voicing our demands under the name December 1990 Group. That night, we spotted the Minister of Education, Skënder Gjinushi, trying to address the crowd. He was quickly attacked—his car windows smashed, and he barely escaped. From the rooftops, soldiers watched, ready to act.
Azem, along with a few others, met with local officials around midnight. We waited anxiously. When they returned around 2 a.m., the crowd erupted. Azem told us, “It’s decided. Tomorrow, we’ll form a leadership group, and you’ll choose whether to meet the president here or outside the university.”
The security forces guarding us grew frustrated. One officer, trying to provoke us, shouted, "Someone stole my weapon!" This sparked a violent clash. As they pushed the crowd back, one of my friends, helping a girl who had been trampled in front of me, struck a policeman’s baton in self-defense.
Exhausted, we returned to the Student City and gathered in a cafeteria. We agreed to boycott classes the next day, with students from all faculties meeting at different locations to elect representatives. The plan was to gather on the volleyball and football courts, choose our leaders, and outline our demands. We stayed up all night, preparing for what lay ahead.
Once the delegation was chosen and our demands set, a bus arrived to take the representatives to meet Ramiz Alia at the Palace of Brigades. The regime's plan was clear: stop the boycott and have us present our demands quietly. But we weren’t buying it.
After two or three hours, the bus returned. Our representatives stepped off, their faces grim. Disappointment hung heavy in the air.
On December 8th, Mehmet Elezi, the 1st Secretary of the Central Committee of the Labour Youth, addressed us. We were demanding the removal of Enver Hoxha’s statue from Skanderbeg Square, along with those of Stalin and Lenin. But Elezi’s words were a command: “There is only one place where we will meet the last dictator of Albania—Ramiz Alia.”
We didn’t follow his orders. Instead, we heeded Azem Hajdari’s call and marched to the square. The streets of Tirana swelled with citizens joining us. I will never forget the faces of the mothers
and sisters standing at their windowsills, their voices trembling with fear, “Bravo, but be careful, these people are treacherous.”
Soldiers with rifles lined every rooftop, watching us. The tension was suffocating, but we marched on. It was clear we wouldn’t make it to the square, as the police and military, armed with rubber batons and shovels, blocked our way. After numerous warnings, they began pushing us back violently, striking with their batons as we came within 70 to 100 meters of the square. Despite the violence, we kept pushing for political pluralism, demanding change.
After the student uprising, the revolt spread like wildfire across Albania, with different groups joining in—miners, educators, unions—every minute, every hour, every day. It was impossible to escape; the revolt was in every street, every neighborhood, every home. Even within my family, opinions were split—my brothers clung to the system, while I opposed it. The divisions were so deep that ideologies seemed irreconcilable, with one side demanding change and the other hoping to preserve the status quo. The situation was unpredictable, and it felt like the country teetered on the edge.
Then, on 12 December 1990, the Democratic Party was founded. Though a large part of the population resisted, the movements sweeping through Eastern Europe—and now Albania—caught the attention of both Western Europe and the United States.
Despite the establishment of the Democratic Party and the significant contributions of intellectuals, we were never given the opportunity to engage directly with foreign representatives or experts who could help us understand how a market economy functions. Those who truly grasped the complexities of a market economy and political pluralism had either studied abroad, or dedicated years to researching the topic. As a result, many of us remained at a disadvantage, lacking the knowledge and experience needed to navigate the economic transformations happening around us.
Despite the success of our relentless efforts, I was often struck by the slogan “we (the students) were fellow sufferers but also complicit,” used by the new political figures. To me, this was not just unfair—it was deeply offensive. It dismissed the reality that we had no power to bring about change for so long. We were trapped in a system that systematically oppressed us, leaving us powerless to resist. The ones who truly benefited from this oppressive system—the children of the elite—were the very ones who rose to power, promising a bright democracy for Albania.
As for those who had been part of the oppressive apparatus—the executive committee, or any leadership role within the Party, security forces, or judicial system—they should never have been allowed to hold state positions.
A message to the youth: our future depends on opening our economy—no more closed systems, no more centrally planned economies. I have fought for change, but now it’s your turn to finish what we started. Use the resources at your disposal, demand the freedom of a competitive economy, and protect the sanctity of property rights. The world is waiting for Albania to unlock its true potential, and it is up to you to lead the way. Do not wait for others to create the change you deserve—be the generation that turns this vision into reality.