MODERN ALBANIA.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 158, 6 July 1935, Page 8 (Supplement)

MODERN ALBANIA.

KING ZOG'S QUAINT LAND.

THE HOLY DERVISHES. BEKTASHI HOSPITALITY. "Although there was no definite confirmation of the reports of revolution in Albania, the gravity of the situation was proved by the fact that it was impossible to get into telephonic communication with Tirana last night," was the solemn pronouncement recently of a news agency which ought to have known better. For it is impossible on any night to get into telephone communication with Tirana—there is no international telephone cable in Albania. Telephones there are, but, with the exception of the gendarmerie special lilies for communication between towys* they are so bad that an infuriated diplomat in Durazzo recently took a pair of garden scissors and cut off the connection from his house, saying it was tetter to be isolated than to have a telephone so erratic is to produce end iess confusion. In Tirana, the c.pital, the telephone service is delightfully personal. There is no branch exchange, there are 110 numbers. You simply ask for "Osman Mati" and replace the receiver. In a moment the bell riligs and you have Osman Mati—cr not. Quite -frequently not. A Backward Nation. It is impossible not to sympathise with this little nation, backward and poverty stricken —among the so-called "Court Camarilla" around King Zog are men unable to read or write—in its painful efforts to change from purely Oriental to modern European ways, ihe people's pride in progress made is great; their sensitiveness to observation of backwardness considerable. Albania can offer "something different" to the jaded tourist, for whom novelty is more important than physical comfort. Wo were sitting one evening in the Cafe Skanderbeg in Kruja—a rough wooden shanty in which the welcome aroma of Turkish coffee, the smell of olivewood burning in the stove and the smoke of a hanging oil lamp combined with the glow of charcoal burners standing about perilously enough 011 the wooden floor, helped to thaw our blood, frozen by the icy winds without. For Kruja—equidistant from Albania's capital; Tirana, and its port, Durazzo— lies at the foot of winter's snow, halfway up the bleak and craggy mountain on which in the fifteenth century the national hero, Skander Beg, for twenty years held the Turks at bay. It is to liis throne —after a lapse of nearly 400 years, during which the Albanian nation lay crushed beneath the heel of the Turk—that King Zog has succeeded. To his crown—the famous Iron Crown of Skander Beg—King Zog has, however, not succeeded, arid by his own choice is uncrowned. The Iron Crown of Skander Beg lies in the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, and the Austrian authorities have refused to return it to Albania. King Zog declines to be crowned with any other. "Come," said my Albanian friend, "let us call on tlie Holy Dervishes of the Bektashi on the way home. They will be proud to give a foreigner coffee and cigarettes." Visions of wild men of the Sudan, not conceivable in connection with hospitable cigarettes and coffee, rose before me. "Dervishes ?" "Yes. but not fanatics; far from it," my friend smiled back. "The best and gentlest men of the Mohanimedan "world."

Twenty minutes later our car drew up outside the gates of the Tege, or monastery, of the Bektashi. At the ]ieal of a bell the-gates were opened by the porter, an old bearded man in a fez and a long white coat, who carried a lantern. Seven bearded men—the Dervishes themselves—crossed the dark courtyard, also carrying lanterns, and bade us enter. Inside they came forward gravely, courteously, one by one,

and, hand on heart, bowed low and wel coined us in Allah's name before shak ing handsi

We entered a little unheated room, n sort of Oriental version of an English country parlour, and sat on the still chairs. The head of the Bektashi was not more than 25, but, like the others, bearded. The Acme of Politeness. They placcd before us a spoonful of pomegranate jelly, a cup of Turkish coffee and a glass of raki, the fiery white spirit distilled in Albania from grapes. 011 hearing that I was an American writer, the senior rose and made a speech of welcome. "Might my cherished pen," he concluded, "be inspired by the source of universal righteousness to write kindly of Albania' and of its king"—lie- motioned to an alarmingly coloured print of King Zog—"and to strengthen the traditional friendship between mighty 'America and little Albania." The Bektashi were the secret centre of resistance to the Turks. They protected political refugees against the police, concocted plans and hid ammunition. The soft-eyed young Dervish told, in a voice which matched his eyes, something of their little-known creed. The Bektashi, he said, have no temples built with hands and pray in no mosque. Followers of Mohammed, they honour more highly his son-in-law, Ali, and are disliked by the orthodox Mussulman as heretics. Their faith, as he outlined it, seemed to be composed of Pantheism and primitive Communism. The Bektashi, he added, have twelve such -"monasteries" as this in Albania, each with its seven Dervishes; its priests are vowed to celibacy, but not to fasting or other humiliation of the flesh. They * have no private property, but "hold all things in common." A Gospel of Good Works. They preach a gospel of work, of good works and of contemplation of good; set prayers and priestly ceremonial they reject. They till the soil of their property, purchased with the gifts of past disciples, and share its produce with those who claim a share. Upstairs the Dervishes showed their simple living room, warmed by a cheerful wood fire, with mattresses and cheap Oriental Tugs on the floor. Everything was spotlessly clean. Yet with all their simplicity they welcome modern life —a portable typewriter, a camera and field glasses were pointed out with the same pride as they showed in displaying the forty sets of bedding they keep always ready for guests. Gravely and kindly they all conducted us back to our car. In the eyes of every one was the same trusting naive look of a very gentle child and 011 all their lips the same pleasant smile. My last picture of the Bektashi was of seven kindly men, bearded, befezzed and black-gowned, salaaming in the light of lanterns.—G. E. Gedye, in the "New York Times."