Rafaela Prifti/
100 vjetori i lindjes së albanologut Peter R. Prifti (Nëntor 24, 1924 – Gusht 17, 2024) është momenti më i mirë për t’i sjellë lexuesit disa nga perlat e letërsisë shqipe, të cilat ai i ka përkthyer në anglisht për t’i dhënë jehonë ndërkombëtare poemave si O Moj Shypni e Mjera Shqypni, Anës Lumenjve, Kthimi i Skënderbeut në Krujë.
Peter erdhi në Amerikë në vitin 1940 ku e prisnin babai Ralph dhe vëllai i tij i madh Paul. U diplomua nga Universiteti i shtetit të Pensilvanisë në 1949 dhe mori Master Degree në Degën e Filozofisë nga Universiteti i Pensilvanisë në 1955. Për disa vite ishte drejtori i Albanian Radio Program në Filadelfi
Federata Pan Shqiptare e Amerikës Vatra e angazhoi në 1958 si bashkë-editor të gazetës Dielli dhe një vit më vonë sekretar të saj nën Presidencën e Nderit të Fan Nolit. Gjatë gjithë jetës së tij, Peter e ka quajtur punën në Vatër “një përvojë shumë të çmuar”.
Nga 1961-1976 Peter punoi në MIT (Massachusetts Institute of Technology), qendër akademike e njohur për studimet ndërkombëtare. Dy vjet më pas ai botoi librin Socialist Albania Since 1944 (Shqipëria Socialiste nga viti 1944) një vepër e shumëlavdëruar nga shtypi botëror dhe rrethet akademike. Në vitin 1976, Katedra e Gjuhësisë e Universitetit të Kalifornisë në San Diego, e cila nisi projektin për studimin e gjuhës shqipe e ftoi Peterin si bashkëpunëtor shkencor.
Nga viti 1968, në përgjigje të lëvizjes Kosova Republikë, Peter Prifti u angazhua për mbrojtjen e të drejtave të shqiptarëve me të gjitha format e aktivizmit qytetar e intelektual. Esetë, analizat historike si edhe një pjesë e korrespondencës së periudhës 30 vjeçare u botuan në librin Confrontation in Kosova 1999. Shumë vepra të tij Remote Albania – The Politics of Isolation, Land of Albanians – A Crossroad of Pride and Pain kanë shkrime e studime akademike të fushës politike, historike, fetare, kulturore, të kërkuara nga revistat shkencore dhe enciklopedi prestigjioze, nga gazetat amerikane dhe shtypi botëror.
Peter Prifti është etaloni i akademikut të studimeve shqipe në Amerikë dhe në botë për aftësinë ekzaminuese dhe rigorozitetin shkencor dhe patosin atdhetar.
Disa Krijime Klasike të Përkthyera nga Peter R. Prifti
The Return of Geoge Castrioti to Croya – An essay by Fan S. Noli
Translated by Peter R. Prifti
Hundreds of years ago, when Albania gave birth only to brave warriors and lions, in the Castle of the Casritis in the renowned city of Croya, there sat by the fireplace in a Venetian armchair, a noble woman – whte-haired, dressed in black, her face drawn, dry, and lined with sorrow. The image of a sublime saint that suffers and struggles, but does not speak of it.
It was Princess Voisavë, the widow of John Castrioti, and mother of Scanderbeg. Outside the fierce north wind of Albania’s mountain raded, whisted madly though chiks and crags, and whipped up the swollen white-crested waves of the Adriatic Sea that crashed with montrous fury. The dry roks resounded and thundered as they were whiplashed by the wind. The city of Croya seemed barren. Over the castle there waved the Turkish flag.
Silence reigned inside the castle , the silence of the grave. Nothing stirs there. Those who reside there do no speak and they walk slowly on their toes, as if there were a wake in the house. The while –haired lady dressed in black draws nearer and nearer to the fire to warm herself, but in vain. Her heart was frozen. Because her house is without a man, without a master. All four of her sons were taken hostage by the Sultan thirty years earlier. Three of them were poisened to death, and nobody knows whether the fourth is alive or dead, yet, even if he lives, will he ever return? Does he still remember his mother, his father, Croya, Albania?
For he was but a child when they tore him away from her arms. And so Princess Voisavë weeps and prays to god, hands clasped and broken–hearted. “Three of them you took to punish me for my sins; grant me the fourth one! Do not take him form me, o lord’ do not shut down our house!”
On the wall, above the hearth, there hung an ancient sword that a man today cannot lift even with both hands.
It was the sword of the Castriotis, worn by the warriorsof that distinguished family for generations. The Turks invaded and plundered the castle, but left the sword alone, as none was able to use it. The wretched Voisavë looks up often at that sword, and her eyes fill up with tears. A mother weeps for her son, and a sword cries out for a man! What happended to that boy? Where is that brave warrior? How long will the hated flag of the foreing tyrantt wave over the Croya castle? How long must a mother wait for her son. Croya for its lord! Albania for its father, the world for the warrior that has no peer?
But suddenly the door opens and in comes a graceful warrior, noble and majestic, hawk-nosed, falcon-eyes, with a long, curly beard, dressed in armor and armed to the teeth, the living statue of Mars. Vaisavë turns and looks at him, tries to get up but remins frozen in place because of this unexpected sight. She rubs her yees, to make sure she is not dremaming. The warrior who just came in is exactly like her husband, John Castrioti, only younger, more handsome, and taller.
“You are not e specter of phantom that comes to decive a poor old woman, a forsaken wretch, then you munst be my son, you are my George. Speak! Speak! Do not torture me!”
But the warrior cannot speak. He who did not bat an eye when arrows and shells fell upon him like hail, and all around him there lay hundreds of dead and wounded, weeps now like a child, falls down on his knees, kisses the hand of the honored princess, but the tears choke him and he is unable to say “I am!” but the mother understood. She recognized him by the look in his eye, by his face, by his conduct. Later she and Albania and the world got to know him better by his deeds. He was most certainly George Castrioti, Prince of Croya, Count of Mat and Lord of Dibër, whom the sulltan called Scandebeg, and the Pope called King of Albania and Macedonia.
After receiving the blessing of his mother and becoming twice as strong as before, he seized the sword that hung on the wall as if it were feather-light, girthed himself with it, then took off for the castle mounted on a horse.
Croya, which heretofore seemed barren, begins to stir and come to life. Men, women and children, are gathered in the town square. A few of them, merry like guests at a wedding, are singing; others weep. But all have their eyes fixed on the summit of the castle, and presently they shout and applaud. For the foreign flag has been taken down, and in its place there now waves the flag of Albania. It is for that flag that the people are rejoicing, and the bells are ringing, and the guns are booming. History inscribes in golden letters the deeds that were done under that flag, under that great captain.
Albania’s mountains, hills and stones resound with them. And old men relate them in stories and legends, as they sit around the hearth in winter time
Thus was raised in 1443, in the month of November, in the ancient capital of Albania, the red flag with the double-headed black eagle.
Speech of Ismail Qemal on November 28th, 1912
Translated by Peter R. Prifti
Albanian brothers!
Oh, how happy I feel today, seeing so many Albanian men gathered here in Vlore and awaiting with curiosity and impatience the results of this meeting of historic importance for the fate of our beloved fatherland
With great joy and tears in my eyes from longing. I come here before you to cheer you with the great news that this say, this very minute, the Congress has proclaimed the independence of Albania, notifying the entire world of this action and entrusting me with the leadership of the provisional goverment of freeAlbania.
I feel as I am dreaming, seeing this great change in our country which suffered and was bled white during five hundred years of Turkish domination, and which in recent times was on the verge of giving up its ghost forever, of collapsing and being wiped off the face of the earth; such was the condition of the Albania that in times past shone with the unmatched bravery of its sons, and which, at a time when turkish occupation posed a threat to Europe, under the intrepid leadership of its immortal Skenderbeu, became the impregnable iron gate to the furious attacks of the fiercest Sultans Turkey ever had.
But thanks to God, with the labor, valor and unmatched daring of Albania ranks, the deprivation and sufferings of our Fatherland have come to an end, because from this day forward we are FREE, INDEPENDENT and SOVEREIGN, therefore rejoice and be happy!
To reach this bright and great day, we were helped by the blood of our martyrs and the worthy labors of our patriots and of all the comrads who took part in these meeting and all of you, whose hearts are now pounding with great emotion; yet: the meeting, in deference to my advanced age, entrusted me with the raising of our sacred national emblem, our honored and cherished flag.
(The moment the Flag is raised, the crowd breaks out in loud applause and cheers, shouting “Long live the Flag! Long live the free Albania!)
Here, then is OUR FLAG! Red and with a black doulbe-headed eagle in the middle. And now, all together, as a single and inseparable body, let us work to defend, to advance and to civilize, as is fitting our FREE Fatherland.
In conclusion, it remains for me only to address a prayer to the Great lord, that, together with the blessings which I beseech Him to bestow upon us, we may be worthy of this day, and that from this day on I might be the first martyr of the Fatherland, just as I had the honor and was destined to be the first one to kiss our flag and to cause it to wave in liberty in our Free Fatherland.
Long live the Flag! Long live Albania!
Source: Ismail Qemali: Jeta dhe Vepra by Skender Luarasi. Tiranë 1962 pp 74-76, June 1981
A Sanderbeg’s Speech to the Warriors and People of Croya by Marin Barleti
Translated by Peter R. Prifti
Brave captains and warriors: The sight before my eyes is neither new nor unexpected. I have known it in my heart. And that knowledge filled me with hope very time I recalled with longing the age-old hospitality of our people, and your extraordinary sevices to my father, John. Nor do I boast when I say that truly not once in my life did I doubt that this goal, this love of the fatherland that I cherished in my heart, was also shared by you.
You, too, cherished those desires, those sentiments for liberty that were ever with me.
Often you pleaded with me, when I was a captive of the Tyrant (Sulltan), to embark on this venture. I recall now with pleasure and with pride your affectionate pleas and your readiness to join me. Yet, each time I sent you back home grief-stricken, without any real hope, and without a clear sign as to my intentions. You thought perhaps that I had forsaken the fatherland, liberty, and honor. But htere is no doubt, citizens, that I kept silent and feigned a sickly humility, as much for my sake as for yours. Because the situation was such that it called for action rather than words. While you, on the other hand, needed to be restrained rather than incited.
I confess that I concealed my plans, and said not a word to you about my desires throughout that period. But not because I doubted your loyalty, or because I did not know your soul. For, after all it was you who took the intiative to inform me of your intentions at such a perilous time. No, the reason was that I feared the frailty of mortal men, and the impulsiveness of man which causes them to be hasty in everything they do. And where liberty is concerned it makes them reckless and uncontrollable, heedless and defiant of all rules. And so it happens that if there is but the slightest chance to gain liberty, or even to attempt to gain it, then a thousand swords will not suffice to turn them away from their goal. Nor a thousand perils, nor the undoubted danger to property and life, no, not even certain death.
But a job that is badly begun bears no fruit. It leads to nothing but the most miserable death, or a slavery worse than before. And every hope for the future flies away, and the chance that slips through the fingers once, never returns. This work is begun once and for all, and if it does not succeed, the chance to start over again disappears forever. That is why – and I speak frankly – I was not sure that I myself was going to be a part of this plan. I feared that my toungue, or the walls of my house, might betray me. I have Hamza, my nephew, as my witness. He, who later became the chief backer of the plan and my comrade-in-struggle, plus a few others, with whose loyal and eager help we are carrying out this plan. For though we were all living together and sharing our meals, and furthermore were united in heart and spirit, yet not one of them had any notion that I still remembered the fathereland. No, not until the was with Hungary. Only then, when it was possible to speak without fear of punishmet, did anyone hear me speak as a free man and as a Christian.
Yu could have found another freedom-loving warrior to fulfill your goals and aspirations. Because this land has not lacked for brilliant warriors. Nevertheless, it please you – perhaps because God so willed – that I should be the instrument of your liberty, even at this late date, rather than other men. Or even that you yourself should win your own libery. As strong men raised in freedom, you endured for a long time the barbarian’s yoke, and never lost hope of seeing me again. But why do you insist that I should claim the unlawful title of liberator? I did not bring you liberty, I found it here. The moment I set foot on this soil, the moment you heard my name, you rushed to meet me, and competed with one another to welcome me. Just as you would have done if your parents, brotheres and sons had risen from the grave, or if God had descended here from the sky. You have outdone me, you have tied my hands, you have so overwhelmed me with your lavish services and joyful cordiality, that you have made me at once a free man and your captive, too.
It was not I who delivere this city to you. Rather, it was you who delivered it to me. It was not I who brought you arms, for I found you armed. I have seen the face of liberty everywhere among you; in your hearts, in you faces, in your swords and spears. And, peerless guardians that your are, you handed over to me, with steadfast care and loyalty, the roal scepter which my father had bequeathed me, and which you safeguarded for me to this day. With your tireless toil and struggle, and without any bloodshed, you have made me once again the Lord of the Kingdom of my forefathers.
Forward now, that we may, with the help of God, take possession of the rest of the country. The greatest part of the job is already done. The city and province of Croya already won. Dibër and people in other regions have joined us. The face of the enemy has disappeared from the plains. Only the cities remain to be captured. And their situation is precarious, for they are all surrounded by us.
The besieged were taken by surprise, and the only thing left to them are the bare walls. When I consider the matter in this light, I feel hopeful. But when I take into account the difficulties these terrain’s present, and the troops stationed in them by the Tyrant, then it appears that we will have to be very shrewd, or very persisten. But we shall judge of these matters better when we are there on the spot, face to face with the enemy, and holding the sword in our scorching right hand, rather than speculate now from afar.
Let us set out, then, without hesitation. And everywhere let us act with the courage of victors. Fate will aid us in our efforts, the same fate that until now has never deserted us, but has favored us in every venture. Even so we must begin with Petrela, not because that castle is more vulnerable than others in terms of its position or its natural defenses, but because it is closest to Croya. I believe that we shall find ample evidence there of fear among the Turks, since they witnessed both your bravery here in Croya and the misfortune that befell them. They may well be close to panic, as a result. But if not, then we will launch a stubborn campaign.
One thing only we must bear well in mind and never forget: if we are unable to attain our goal, then none of us shoud return home alive. The victory we seek will begin with the battle for Petrela. And to win that battle we must use every possible device: toil, patience, the sword, gold and silver. If God wills that we must take the town by force, then we must be merciless toward stubborn defenders. We must attain victory even if we have to resort to the most uncommon means, so that we may break the will to resist of other enemy forces. But if the garrison should surrender the town, and we take possession of it without bloodshed, then we must all act with great discretion, both publicly and privately, in order to induce others to surrender as well.”
Hearing this speech, Scanderbeg’s warriors understood well his sagacity, and praised him for it.
