Shaban and the Albanian Muslim Community: Reimagining Our Humanity

Albania left me with a lot to reflect on, especially on the roles of nationalism and secularism in identity. Pictured: the son of an Albanian Muslim righteous gentile.

I asked my grandma, uncle and dad once if they felt most American, Jewish or Persian. My dad said American, and my grandma said Persian, and I was disappointed in both of their answers. “Jewish” seemed like the only right answer, the only possible one. Maybe it was because it sounded most noble to me. The Chabad rabbi in Bel Air once gave a speech about how when a Jew is born, he is, before anything else, a Jew. I don’t know why that stuck with me, because I don’t necessarily agree with it (we are all human after all?), but it definitely impressed upon me the idea that the Jewish people are a family, and while dispersed, Judaism is the connection that underlies any difference. Maybe it was because when I first heard my grandma’s response, it was hard for me to believe that she’d relate more to a Persian Muslim than an American Jew. And I thought that was problematic because I saw external culture as a means of deteriorating the Jewish people’s distinctiveness. That’s how I had been taught to view external culture in relation to the Jewish people’s narrative: as a force that our existence constantly needs to fight against.

Albania offered a paradigm that challenged everything I thought I knew about national identity. It made me consider, for the first time, that national and cultural pride (totally disconnected from Judaism) can actually save Judaism. A greater humanity may not underlie our distinctive identities, but our distinctive identities may be what enable us to embrace a greater humanity.

What are you saying Kayla?

Albania is the only country in the EU whose national religion is Islam. We visited a Bektashi building (the guides were careful to not call it a mosque, which had its own separate space) in Tirana. Bektashism broke away from Shiite Islam and is now considered its own sect. Its heavily influenced by Sufism (Islamic mysticism), and holds some Christian influences (Muhammad and Ali form a trinity with G-d; Bektashis drink wine and rakhi -- even though alcohol is haram in mainstream Islam; they hold ritual meals and confessions). Shaban, a member of the community, said they drink and sometimes smoke inside the building. They’ve modified the number of times they pray in one day. Names of prophets were written in Latin, which is especially uncommon; any kind of Muslim text -- even the prophets’ names -- are supposed to be written in Arabic.

It’s not just Bektashis who don’t follow sharia law in Albania. Sharia doesn’t have much of a strong following in any of the Muslim sects in Albania. Wahhabism (stringent Sunni orthodoxy demanding a return to traditional practices of the Quaran) is not preached, but feared here. This was interesting to learn. I had been sitting in the equivalent of a “Reform” mosque.

Shaban referred to himself as a sherbator, a public servant. But it seemed to me like he was more focussed on serving people, and less on serving G-d. “Why do you even need Islam?” “What purpose does religion serve in your life?” Why does your service have to involve G-d? Can’t you do the same service without it being in God’s name?” I asked Shaban these questions. At the same time, I was asking myself the same questions: I’m not a particularly religious person (though I’m trying to slowly up my level of observance), but I am a proud Jew. Why do I need Judaism and the framework of religion to live a meaningful, good, wholesome life? What role does religion serve in my own life?

His service is “not about religion,” the translator said. “It’s not for religious dogma.” God isn’t supposed to distance you but connect you to people.

Most Albanians aren’t religious. This applies for all people -- not just Muslims. Perhaps Albania’s heavy secularism is sheerly a product of the Communist Party’s rule. It successfully disconnected many people from religious thought and practice, although Shaban had a different experience. He briefly talked to me about how he’d secretly fast during Ramadan in school, and how his dad had to lie to his teachers when they inquired about his weak state in class -- which is pretty amazing and a strong testament to individual identity.

But even before the war, Albania wasn’t very religious. When a British Zionist traveled to Albania in 1935 to see whether the country could serve as a Jewish national home, a government minister told him, "In Albania religious intolerance is quite unknown...The Albanian Muslims of today are no fanatics." And on one of our first nights in Tirana, a few of my friends had stumbled upon the shop of an orthodox Jewish man, and when they asked him what he was doing in Albania, a country with an almost nonexistent Jewish population, he confirmed the British Zionist’s observations: Albania is peaceful. There is religious diversity, but no religious war.

What am I supposed to make of secularism or nationalism then? How am I supposed to approach Jerusalem’s religious diversity? What can combat its religious strife?

The only part of sharia that Albanian Muslims may follow is hakmarje (blood feuds), which I think says more about the importance of Albania’s nationalist code of honor (called "Besa”) than a high regard for sharia itself. Besa has bound Albanians together through a deep sense of social responsibility. Albanians place Besa before any religious text; they see themselves as Albanians before Muslims or Jews or Christians.

One night, in a reflection group, I said that Albania makes me believe that one can’t fully be themselves when interacting with the other. When you try to live with different people, you also become different, either by recognizing or trying to reconcile with difference. Your identity expands past yourself. Your experience is encompassed and informed by the experience of others.

Coexistence creates more than just a meeting point for two worlds to meet, or for cultures to fuse, or for people to secularize. I made the point that when meeting with the other, you are no longer truly yourself; you have to give up parts of yourself. I meant that in the sense of cultural/religious preservation. But my mind has changed now. Because what I said implies cultural loss/loss of identity. I now think it’s difficult to be yourself in interacting with the other just because one gains a greater sense of self-consciousness, not self-loss. Being cognisant of the other means occupying a space encompassing two people, not a space that forces the two to lose parts of themselves, although that may result.

Before leaving the country, we visited the home of a Muslim Albanian, and met his wife and sister. The man’s father had saved a Jew, Abraham, during the Holocaust. Abraham lived with the man’s father for a few years, and they became great friends. The father later received honorable recognitions from various foundations and was recognised as “Righteous Among the Nations” by Yad Vashem.

All 54 of us crowded into their little courtyard, filled with tangerine trees, whose trunks were short and whose leaves weaved a dense, shady canopy abundant with sweet low-hanging fruits. We ate tangerines and took turns entering their home to look at the awards and old newspapers from the war, and to see where Abraham slept.

We sang the Jewish song “כל העולם כלו” in their courtyard together before departing. Song moves me, but I didn’t find the song fitting for the moment. The song describes the world as a very narrow bridge. And Jay talked about how this family had proved it. The idea of a narrow bridge is frightening -- not comforting -- to me. If the connections that bind us are narrow, if we are so focussed on connecting through commonality, whether that commonality be singular Jewish culture, or some great, wide-sweeping sense of humanity that I’m starting to believe doesn’t really exist, then we will limit the potential of our interactions and understandings.

What made the Albanian Muslims -- and Albania as a whole -- so incredible is that they recognise it’s not the world, but the concept of identity that is narrow in scope.

Listen to the story of the righteous Albanian gentiles who saved Abraham here:

*Skip to 7:30 to hear our group singing

https://audiomack.com/song/kayla-1583/shaban-albania-translated-by-tony-m4a

Listen to my brief talk with Shaban in the Bektashi community building here:

https://audiomack.com/song/kayla-1583/shaban-albania-translated-by-tony-m4a