Photos my own, taken in Berat on 2nd and 3rd August in Berat, Albania.
4th August 2024
Following our Peaks of the Balkans hike (a 10+ day walk around the high mountain borders of Albania, Kosovo and Montenegro), Medjool and I are now enjoying being “conventional tourists” – visiting and delighting in the historic, cultural and culinary highlights of this exquisitely charming country, Albania.
Our first stop is in Berat, and we are staying in an Airbnb. Our hostess is a woman I thought might be about my age – perhaps even a little older – though, on second thoughts, perhaps not, because despite her white hair, her skin is fabulous. Smooth, wrinkle-free, flawless. She’s petite, busy as a bee, and the deal with this Airbnb is that we have access to the space downstairs and she lives upstairs. The utterly unreasonably good value rate comes complete with copious breakfast, and for a very reasonable extra fee, she will make dinner and manage our washing. Too much of a good deal, really. I worry if it is not too much for too little. I don’t like imbalance in exchange. It’s not healthy.
Communication is more of a challenge than in many countries I have visited, but Google Translate, which became my most-used app back when my Ukrainian family was living with me, has come back into constant usage. My very rusty Italian also gets a full work-out with those who speak something other than Albanian, if not English. Italy is very close, after all.
I quickly figured out that this woman, V, had two grown up children and three grandchildren, all living in Turkey. A pretty common practice, with relations between Albania and Turkey running so deep. I also learned that V had recently spent considerable time in Turkey, but had recently come back home.
With the aid of Google Translate I ventured a few questions.
“Where do you prefer to be – Turkey or Albania?” Here, Berat.
“And the father of your children…he’s not here…. are you divorced or widowed?” She pointed to the word for widowed – Ve.
“Me too – 2017”. Lots of gesticulating – V too, widowed in 2017.
“Illness or sudden?” Sudden.
Ouch.
Then it was her turn to ask questions through Google Translate.
“How many children do you have?”
Ouch. In this direct line of questioning, only the unvarnished truth is called for.
“I have three children. Two of them are alive today. Our youngest died by suicide. I believe she wanted to be with her father, and she took her life”.
Long pause.
No more words.
A hug.
I showed her some photos of Julia.
She had already shown me photos of her kids and grandchildren, but not of her husband.
I didn’t ask to see any. Something stopped me.
Today, the “Daughter-in-Law of V’s Sister” (DiLoVS) popped over and we had a chat in her fluent and my broken Italian. I asked her some of my nosy-curious questions that had been whirring in the time we have been here. “Do you know if she likes this work? Is it her choice?” The DiLoVS returned my question with a question and asked, guardedly, “How much have you learned about her?” Not a lot – I know she was widowed in 2017, and her kids are grown up and in Turkey, and she recently came back.
And a whole story came out…
Turns out V’s husband died by suicide, unexpectedly, and it was V who found him, here in this house. Her son was still at school. She got him through school and into university then work in Turkey. She was there with him for a few years, then came back here, looked at her house and decided to do something with it to make some money. AirBnb was the obvious solution. And yes – she chose to do it. DiLoVS said, “I think it’s good for her, and it makes her tired”.
I asked V’s age.
57, like me.
I couldn’t know if V realised that I had learned all this information about her. She hadn’t shared it with me directly, and I had no way of knowing if the DiLoVS came clean to her mother-in-law’s sister (MiLS), but I knew it now and couldn’t un-know it.
I feel icky when I know something that hasn’t been shared transparently. And information of this weight and importance? It makes no sense to me not to honour, not to acknowledge it. To just sit on it.
I chose to bring it into the open. I wrote out a long piece on Google Translate for her to read before we had dinner. Something along the lines of:
I learned today that your husband died by suicide. I am so sorry. I am sorry you lost your husband, and I am sorry it was suicide. Suicide is so hard for everyone – for the one who dies, but also the ones left behind. It was my daughter’s way of dying too. There can be so much shame and guilt. I hope you have been well-supported by family and friends.
I had my arm around her shoulder while she read the translation, then took her into my arms and we hugged one another.
And that was it for a while. We moved on to dinner.
Sometimes I feel I need to explain myself to Medjool when I behave like this, when I go so direct, so fast. I know it’s not the norm, even if it is my norm, and I sense he’s got used to it by now. And, in truth, I know I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. But I realise it’s unusual, and so I process my “why” to myself. I don’t want to just become a nosy bugger. I don’t want to be ripping plasters off painful wounds. So here’s why I think I do it:
I have learned something big, and once I know it, I can’t unknow it.
There is already far too much silence around death, dying, suicide, and I don’t want to be part of that club.
Death, Loss, Suicide, Grief – they all need honouring, they need space, breath, witnessing.
Her husband’s absence is hugely present.
After dinner we brought out the Mountain Tea – our staple hot drink in these parts. And for the past hour we have been passing our phones around, Google Translating our stories to one another.
My story not easy to hear.
Her story not easy to hear.
Her husband’s death a messy end to a very complicated life together.
Her life easier now.
I thanked her for the honour of hearing some of her story. I said it wasn’t an easy story, but even when it’s not easy, I find that it’s often easier to talk, to hear, to share anyway.
Her body language and face said it all. She beamed and raised both hands up in front of her as if they, as if she, were floating away. Lighter.
I am so glad that I waded in there with curiosity and, I think, carefully-worded questions.
I learned so much about a woman whose house we have stayed in for the past three days.
I’ve learned about her whys and what fors doing AirBnb.
I’ve learned too that suicide can be a relief.
And thank you, technology and Google Translate, for facilitating our death, grief and loss dialogue, across languages and cultures. These topics seem to be among life’s biggest connection points, helping build relationships and releasing the weight of silence.
Gorica quarter of Berat
