By Ben Andoni
Only a few days separate us from May 5th, the date when Albania commemorates the Day of the Martyrs of the Nation. It has become almost routine for political factions to pay tribute separately, turning what should unite into yet another line of division. Although they stem from the same historical roots, the commemoration—often forgotten by the very evening of the same day—mobilizes the media and a range of public figures in a contest to unveil “unknown truths,” while exposing resentment wrapped in a layer of pathos.
Regrettably, even though the Socialist Party continues—albeit increasingly less—to carry and promote the legacy of the War, there is a certain unease surrounding this day. Perhaps for two reasons: first, the possibility that someone might raise an image of Enver Hoxha; second, the looming shadow of the heroes themselves. The latter seems more plausible. In recent days, we have witnessed mockery and empty talk about their lives, along with a troubling relativization of their heroic acts. The only consolation is that this phenomenon is no longer uniquely ours—it is spreading elsewhere, where figures, in the name of superficial omniscience, show anything but respect; worse still, they forget them entirely, neglect their legacy, or, at its lowest, dismiss their acts as trivial and accidental.
For institutions like the Albanian Telegraphic Agency, it would not be difficult to highlight such cases, yet this awareness remains alien to them. A recent example involves Mujo Ulqinaku; similarly, the case of Qemal Stafa is often mishandled—his ideals are no longer emphasized, nor his engagement within communist circles contextualized, nor even the fact that he once expressed respect for figures like Lef Nosi, who would later fall victim to the same ideological comrades.
What pains most in this time is the fate of their families and their isolation. Indeed, this may be one of the greatest tragedies of our heroes. Time has carved their memory mainly through sculptures that have endured and a handful of photographs. While Qemal Stafa’s life allowed for some narrative development due to his active engagement, in Mujo’s case, both the act and the everyday life preceding it are fading, overshadowed by the symbolism of his sacrifice. As his descendants note, these aspects have lost so much weight that tracing them through documents has become increasingly difficult.
Safet Butka, the professor and Albanian nationalist, fared no better. The son of patriot Sali Butka, who organized student protests during the Italian occupation in April 1939 and was interned in Ventotene, Safet would take his own life in 1943. The mockery surrounding his death is grotesque. And when one hears what is said about Mujo—whose story is extraordinary in its simplicity—it sends a chill, for it is one of those rare national moments when a man begins the day as an ordinary individual and ends it as an eternal hero. What shocks is not merely ignorance, but the extent to which values themselves have been distorted.
It is often said—more as oral tradition than documented fact—that the regime was reluctant to declare him a hero. Yet, at a time when Tito had reportedly considered recognizing him within Yugoslavia—since Mujo was born and raised in Ulcinj, then part of the federation—Albanian authorities acted swiftly, proclaiming him a hero in 1969, thirty years later, and without thorough research. Thus, Mujo Cakuli became widely known as Mujo Ulqinaku—a name that, in Durrës, functioned more as a marker of origin than identity.
Qemal Stafa, in a sense, escaped the worst reprisals by dying early among the communist ranks. Today, he is perhaps the “luckiest”—if such a word can be used—resting in the honored section of the Martyrs’ Cemetery. Yet his family endured suspicion, burdened by rumors of betrayal, while the regime imprisoned or executed many of his close associates, creating an atmosphere of fear. The family, however, never abandoned its doubts or its grief.
At Safet Butka’s funeral, journalist Dhimitër Fallo—once a communist, later a prominent figure of Balli Kombëtar—declared:
“An unfortunate event has brought us together today. Safet Butka is no more… Our dear Safet had a moment of weakness, a fatal moment of despair, and ended his life with his own hand.”
With the establishment of the communist regime, the Butka family—women and children—were interned in the barbed-wire camp of Kruja, among the first such camps in Albania, alongside Berat, designated for the families of “enemies.” His wife, burdened with caring for her mother-in-law and four young children, endured a life of hardship. A similar fate befell Hava, the widow of Mujo, who also raised four children under extremely difficult conditions. Ironically, in 1969—the year her husband became a national symbol—she passed away at the age of 59.
“For me, she is the real heroine, the one never mentioned,” recalls Plator Ulqinaku, his nephew, now living in the United States.
Mujo himself was both sublime in his conscious act and tragically absent from its aftermath. According to oral accounts, Italian forces may have taken his body, mistaking him for one of their own due to his uniform. Some soldiers allegedly recognized him and transported the body to a nearby Orthodox church; otherwise, it might have been desecrated.
As for Qemal Stafa, years later, one of the surviving comrades—who would later be persecuted himself—would whisper:
“He couldn’t escape because he was physically weak.”
Yet the narrative of betrayal endured, echoing through the tragic memory of his household.
Safet Butka, the teacher who aligned with none of the political factions, lived by a simple creed:
“We have not taken up arms to kill Albanians. The first and only Albanian I may ever kill is myself.”
And that is precisely what he did. Propaganda later distorted his death with cynical fabrications, claims refuted even by his own comrades.
Mujo’s act, too, bore the weight of inevitability—standing against the impossible. As did Qemal Stafa’s.
And today, in this age of anti-heroes? We seem to compete in how ruthlessly we can “kill” our own heroes—again and again.
This is the worn-out motto of Albania’s supermodernity: the feverish urge of the insignificant to define themselves through the destruction of those who once gave meaning.