The American Visa

By Shefqet Meko

This is the gripping tale of an Albanian living in an isolated society that once teemed with hope after the collapse of communism. While most Albanians sought their dreams by emigrating to other countries like Greece, Italy, Germany, the UK, and the US, Artan Pojani had a different vision. He yearned to be of value to his family and community, even amidst the challenges of a rough childhood, losing his father in a coal mine accident, and facing the burden of tribal rules that forced his mother into marriage with Artan's uncle. The humiliation of this situation lingered throughout his life, yet Artan found solace and success as a math teacher and eventually as a beekeeping entrepreneur.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shefqat Meko
• Release date: Jan 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224709632

Book preview

The American Visa

A novel

by Shefqet Meko

Copyright © 2023 Shefqet Meko

ISBN 1962874699

ISBN 978-1962874694

Original title Viza Amerikane

Translated from Albanian Language by Jon Meko

Editor Josh Baker

English Language Consultant Amanda Ziebell

Front book cover designed by Arbër Meko

Published by Penguin Book Writers

All Rights Reserved. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is strictly prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

All reasonable attempts have been made to verify the accuracy of the information provided in this publication. Nevertheless, the author assumes no responsibility for any errors and/or omissions

DEDICATION

To all unknown victims whose fate have been hijacked by human traffickers and fraudsters. Freedom is a fundamental belief that everyone deserves justice and triumph of the truth.

INTRODUCTION

The American Visa is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents within are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, or actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER I

Artan Pojani emerged from the American Embassy in Tirana, his face beaded with sweat and disappointment etched into his features. His request for a tourist visa had been rejected without explanation, leaving him feeling shocked and betrayed. The embassy staff had behaved unlike the America he revered; they had acted like cowboys. He had never imagined that he would be considered non-grata in the United States, especially since thousands of his fellow countrymen had emigrated there.

Emotionally shattered and feeling like a tightly compressed spring ready to burst. Artan Pojani struggled to hold back his anger and the urge to shout, Why me? He knew that in diplomatic circles, any outburst or shout was often interpreted as a threat or act of terror. He tried to calm himself, biting down on his own frustration as he tightly clutched his passport, now lacking the coveted visa.

Unable to control his shaking body and unsteady steps, Artan accepted the offer of a bystander to show him the exit door. He couldn't lift his head up; if he had, he would have seen the road of Elbasan in front of him, his eyes fixed on the ground. He was careful not to stray from the sidewalk, fearful of becoming a victim of a black-windowed car on the road. Pojani didn't want to die without learning the reason for the American refusal of his visa. He knew that if something were to happen to him, the media in Tirana would sensationalize the story, claiming that he had committed suicide by throwing himself under the wheels of an Italian Ferrari. His dream of a family visit to the great land of freedom had been shattered.

As he walked on Elbasani Street, shops all around were equipped with big TV screens broadcasting live news. Artan knew visual media had a powerful influence over the masses. He felt threatened by the violent imagery on colorful screens all around the city. Artan felt as though these screens were consuming anyone who believed in them. He spoke aloud to them, saying, Not with me! I don't believe you, and I doubt everything you throw into the market of crowds stuffed with your lies. You can't fool me. The screens, which had become prevalent in Tirana and throughout Albania, just as they had in America and the West, evoked fear in him. He remembered a philosophy exam from his past when a teacher had asked him, Why is bourgeois-revisionist media demagogy? Artan answered fearlessly, Because there is no ideological and revolutionary foundation to serve the proletarian masses, and received an A. Now, he was experiencing the ideological-free chaos of being undesirable in America, and the high wall surrounding the Embassy of largest country in the West seemed to him like a lifeless rock, lacking spirit, feeling, and logic. His greatest dream of visiting America with his family had been shattered, and his most serious life project was failing. In these moments of loneliness, he felt as though he was paying for his self-confidence, retreating into the world of his dreams like a butterfly in its shell. He couldn't understand why he, unlike so many others, was not worth even a short visit to America.

Pojani couldn't explain to his wife and two children, who were eagerly waiting for the interview day, why his request for a tourist visa had been denied. He had put their passports in the inner pocket of his jacket as if to hide them away forever. He didn't know how he would break the news to them. He was the one who had raised their hopes, having resisted their requests to leave Albania for years, waiting for this moment to make his first trip abroad to America, a place he had always called the great dream of his life.

When the children asked when they would leave the country, he calmly replied, You will go somewhere as tourists, but not to our neighbors in the Balkans or Europe. They are like us. We will go to another continent where everything is different. It is a place where a person feels as they are. Believe me! And if you like, I want you to study there, beyond the Atlantic. It is my promise.

The children believed him, and when their classmates asked why they still had all the money and hadn't left the country yet, they replied, Our father has another plan, and one day we will go abroad too, but as tourists and far away. We will sleep in hotels, not at our cousin's house. Now, with the denial of their visas, he wasn't sure how he would keep his promise to his children.

It was a long wait. Artan Pojani had blindly trusted in his dream of visiting America as a tourist. He had always proudly told others that the country was open and welcoming to people like him - those who loved their country, worked hard, and created value and wealth through honest labor. In his view, America was the greatest country in the world, one that rewarded hard work and offered endless opportunities for success. However, despite his tireless efforts over the past decade, Artan's visa application had been rejected. He couldn't understand how he could be deemed non grata in the country he loved so much.

For a long time, Artan Pojani had dreamed of a happy trip to America. In his imagination, he and his companions would visit New York and other historically rich states on the East Coast, touring the Capitol and even taking a walk inside the White House. They would then spend a few days in the American West, specifically California and other states in the western region, and visit Hollywood. Artan had gotten his first taste of America by reading the books of Jack London. He believed that, even though work remained work, as London wrote, things should have changed by now. Artan was not short on money; he was one of the quiet millionaires who used their profits not just for personal enjoyment, but to continue and strengthen their businesses. In his view, the open market and free society of America were a gift that did not put the fish in the frying pan, but rather inspired him with ideas and freedom to become a professional fisherman.

While many Albanians sought happiness and healing outside their country's borders, Artan Pojani acted differently. He didn't go anywhere - instead, he stayed in his hometown as a testament to the idea that countries are made by those who love and stay with them, not by those who scorn and abandon them. He laughed at the tales of longing, patriotism, and love in letters and rhymed verses that were transmitted on television by those who had fled, flown, or left the country.

Artan Pojani stood out as a unique figure amidst the chaotic aftermath of communism in Albania. In a society where opportunism and shamelessness had taken center stage, becoming the traits celebrated in leaders and heroes, Artan held steadfast to his principles. He believed in the value of hard work over empty complaints, and he championed understanding instead of hatred and divisive rhetoric.

Reflecting on the tumultuous history of Albania, Artan couldn't help but wonder how they had reached this point. The communist regime had aimed to mold the new man, but it was precisely this new man who had eventually risen to dismantle the regime. Fatigue, despair, and a sense of defeat washed over him as he considered the highs and lows of Albanian history.

Artan was unlike those who had climbed to positions of power, using their influence to sow discord. He was a man of integrity, proud of his identity and his accomplishments. His true passion lay in beekeeping, a tradition passed down from his grandfather. While he had initially trained as a mathematics teacher, the world of bees had captured his heart, becoming a symphony of buzzing life and an endless dance of numbers.

Over the years, Artan had become the most prominent honey producer in the region, earning the respect of consumers far and wide. While many dreamed of leaving Albania, he found solace and purpose in tending to his beloved bees. Together with his wife, they devoted themselves to this endeavor, becoming the most dedicated beekeeping couple in the area.

Artan had received invitations to join various beekeeping associations, but he declined them all. For him, the most enriching schools were found in books, screens, and, more recently, YouTube videos. These were the platforms where he could immerse himself for hours, his personal university of choice. In tandem with hope, Artan and his wife had built a flourishing empire. Nestled on the lower slopes of Dry Mountain, he had established the largest bee farm in the Balkans. Bees traversed fields and gentle hills, carrying the fragrant essence of flowers back to their hives, where they transformed it into honey.

For Artan, the bees were his ultimate patriots. They remained within the confines of their territory, never crossing borders, only venturing west of Dry Mountain. Each morning, as he checked on the hives, Artan felt an indescribable happiness. The rhythmic hum of activity emanating from the hives resembled the orchestrated movements of a loyal and dedicated army, unlike The Dead Army portrayed by Kadare. Artan saw them as a vibrant, energetic force without generals, priests, weapons, or bombers—just millions of diligent insects, fulfilling their duties diligently day after day. These bees are the epitome of loyalty. They are more patriotic than any Albanian and more sociable than Americans. They never betray the field of flowers; you can count on them here, every day and for eternity. Even when they venture out, driven by biological instincts, they never stray far, always seeking a new shelter nearby, Artan mused to himself.

He had never envisioned that his desperate departure from the embassy of a great nation would culminate in such a disheartening outcome. Artan had never set foot in any other embassy, harboring no aspiration to seek refuge anywhere other than in America. He had nurtured the belief that it was time to test his luck, yet he emerged from the embassy with a spirit as hollow as he had anticipated to soar, akin to bees departing their hives. There must be some misunderstanding. I deserve the American way of life. It's my turn to take a breather for two weeks, when the whole world is scrambling for opportunities. But why the heck don't they want me? What have we done to them, and why am I left in the dark? Artan pondered in frustration. His affection for America was unwavering.

Memories of his grandfather flooded his mind. Evenings after his grandfather's laborious work as a gardener, he would consume a simple meal of bread and then sit beside the radio. The volume would be lowered, and the whispering waves played multiple times, but his grandfather would say, Go play outside, son! I'll share stories when the time is right. As a child, Artan never discovered what his grandfather heard on the radio. It was only as he grew older that he realized his grandfather had been listening to forbidden news from the communist regime. In those times, Radio-Tirana, the voice of communist propaganda, was the sole source of information.

Cold sweat trickled down Artan’s face, and he lacked anything to wipe it away with his trembling hands. His footsteps had taken him to a spot near the square opposite Tirana's main university building. He had ascended the concrete steps, perched on an elevated platform, and with his arms tightly crossed over his chest, he found himself at a loss. Seated on a white marble block, memories of his school years resurfaced. It was his misfortune that America had never favored him. Nearly everyone he knew had journeyed to that land—childhood friends, classmates, and a significant portion of his village. Countless communist families, clans, former officials of bygone eras, ex-spies, and military officers had found their way there.

America is a matter of luck. You can't battle with luck, a voice had declared. And so it was. Artan had not been favored by luck. In those early years when the Green Card visa lotteries were decided by the drawing of pieces of paper, he had made several attempts, yet no letter had arrived in response—only deafening silence. When the time came for the names of the winners to be announced, Pogradec resonated with excitement, but his name was conspicuously absent. It was a common belief throughout Albania that Korçars and Pogradecs were America's darlings, but they were not dreamers. He had rolled the dice multiple times and was weary. Take matters into your own hands! he remembered his grandfather's counsel. And that's precisely what he did. He contemplated what he could do for himself.

It was an arduous journey, but he persevered. While many were leaving the country, be it by road, boat, or rubber dinghy, he chose to remain in the place of his birth. His grandfather's words echoed in his mind: Yes, even if you have a pocket full of money, America is everywhere.

His grandfather had raised him after his father's untimely demise in the mines as a miner. He could barely recollect his father, but he knew that a block of black coal had claimed his life and that he had been laid to rest in the coal mine, along with the coal fragments, as they couldn't be separated. It was the most profound loss of his childhood, a moment that had accompanied him throughout his life—a pinnacle of sorrow, pain, and hope intertwined in the enigmatic theater of fate. But this experience had forged his resilience. He aspired to become the man of the house, but it was precisely when he felt the time had come to support his mother and younger sister that the unthinkable occurred. His mother was coerced into marrying his uncle, who had remained a bachelor, unearthing an emotional chasm that could never be bridged. It was the compulsion of tradition, the grip of the clan, the authority of so-called honor—an unwritten decree in his village, for which there seemed to be no alternative. From that moment onward, he never exchanged a word with his uncle. He could hardly wait to mature and depart from home. His mother attempted to explain and justify her actions, but he turned his back on her and departed, wandering the village's paths, venting his frustration in the surrounding hills. On one occasion, he even scaled Dry Mountain and slumbered among the rocky cliffs, cloaked by shrubbery, almost howling so loudly that the mountain seemed to respond to his anguish. Why must this dark destiny befall me? he pondered.

At that tender age, he discovered solace from the myriad troubles that plagued him through the world of books. He frequented the Culture Center in the village and immersed himself in reading, using it as a means to escape the hardships of life that surrounded him. These readings seemed to beckon him toward an alternative existence, one from which he had anticipated the pinnacle of his journey to America. However, that dream had now been abruptly extinguished. Why has misfortune chosen me? This question reverberated in his mind...

Seated before the university building, memories of his school years flooded back. He had specialized in mathematics, and numbers held an immense significance in his life. He recollected the sleepless nights leading up to exams, the anxiety surrounding thesis papers and grades, the morning rituals with a cup of tea, and the frantic rush to lecture halls. It was a beautiful period that refused to fade from his dreams, even as the years rolled on. Gazing out from the Great Boulevard, his gaze fell upon the imposing Skanderbeg monument. He turned away from it just as he had turned his back on America. He couldn't comprehend any connection between the return of the national hero and America. Skanderbeg was the sole national hero in Albania who remained untarnished, while all the others had fallen prey to envy and disgrace. Every last one of them.

Right there on that square, amid an unprecedented crowd welcoming someone arriving from across the Atlantic, he reminisced about a time when he had been among those