Teal Walls and Homemade Feta Cheese
BY Nevila Meshi
I always woke up to screaming. Not just any screaming, but toddlers screeching like wild animals, who were all fighting over the last piece of homemade feta cheese that my grandmother prepared for every meal. Every time I hear them, I feel the urge to point out that there is never a ‘last piece’ of cheese in this house. It never occurred to them that a new plate of feta cheese always made its way to the table at the next meal. Part of me was always convinced that they barbarically fought over the food out of boredom. My grandmother spends ten months out of the year preparing and portioning out her produce, dairy, and livestock in order to feed over eighteen people for two months. There was a separate hut outside of the house that stored everything my grandma made herself like cheese, pickles and butter to name a few. Though it seems excessive, my mother is one of eight, and all of her siblings decided that it would be best for their children to spend summer at their childhood home. It was a well planned event. My mother would start buying gifts for relatives during Black Friday only for them to sit in a suitcase until we went to Albania in July. Despite how much of a big deal this trip was for my relatives, I was never that excited.
Since I was an infant, two months out of the year were spent in Has, a small village in Northern Albania. The trips served as a way to remind me of where I came from and what my life would be like if my parents didn’t immigrate to the United States. A life filled with haystacks, sheep and chickens rather than the city life I had grown accustomed to. Going back to Albania was the highlight of my parents’ year even though they left it soon after I was born. The question as to why they left, even though they had a strong connection to their homeland, loomed in my mind every time I saw that small two-story brick house. Though I never thought that the house would be able to give me the answer.
Walking around Has always felt like I was in a completely different world. The roads were made of different colored stones, many shades of brown and red, showing the different times the residents have had to repair it. The road was subjected to frequent repairs since everyone’s farmstock would run over it every morning and night. The younger kids would cheer on the cows and sheep running down the roads as if it was a competition while my mom would be screaming at everyone to stay back before they got caught in a stampede. After the numerous loud morning rituals, I would wait a couple of hours before walking outside since the animals usually “marked their territory” while running towards the fields. Uphill from my grandma’s house was the main service road, which had only a building (though it ran for five miles): a cafe/corner store that gave me all the ice cream I wanted for five cents. The structure was made from a light oak wood and looked like it could crumble to pieces if a storm hit. Though every year, I would be shocked to find it still standing.
Given the environment, I had to find random ways to keep myself occupied while staying in Has. That included just about anything from talking my grandpa’s ear off to chasing chickens around the courtyard. Staying inside was almost never an option because of how overwhelming it could be. Including my brother and I, ten kids had to share a room on the first floor, while the adults were scattered around the rest of the house. My dad and uncles stayed with my grandpa upstairs while my mom, aunts and grandmother slept in the living room. My mom’s childhood bedroom was the first door to the right from the front entrance and it was nearly impossible to tell that it used to be a child’s bedroom. All of the walls were textured, unintentionally of course, and were painted the most horrid shade of teal. There was a queen size bed in the center of the room and a twin-size bed in the corner. The twin bed was reserved for the babies of the family who could all fit on it while my grandma decided who slept on the queen to avoid any fighting. Since two beds weren’t enough for all of us, mattresses were placed all over the floor. You couldn’t walk into the room without stubbing your toe on a suitcase or tripping over one of the mattresses. Even though makeshift beds and rugs covered the floor, you could still see the black stone that was underneath it all.
Eighteen people sharing this small two-bedroom home for a two month period seems horrific and if you had asked me when I was ten years old, I would have agreed. My parents and aunts were accustomed to this sort of environment but the majority of them chose to raise families outside of Has to either bigger cities in Southern Albania or outside the country entirely. And yet, they still always believed that it would be best for all of us to go to my grandmother’s house every year as a way to remember where we came from. None of the children in the house saw it as a meaningful cultural experience however. It was a time for the adults to socialize and reminisce on their own memories here while the rest of us tried to keep ourselves occupied without breaking anything. My grandma soon discovered that the only way to keep us from tearing the house down was through her cooking. She cooked anything from Burek to Baklava and even the pickiest eaters in my family ate whatever she had prepared. When we weren’t in Has, my mom would constantly try to recreate her recipes, though her success rate was low. Her food proved to be a solution to everything. When we were fighting over the remote to the black and white TV in the house, my grandma would simply have to threaten to feed our breakfast to the chickens outside. Or when one of us fell down the steep hill the house stood on, fresh burek made the bruises more bearable.
I was fourteen the last time I visited my grandparents. I got out of the car with my little brother, Edvin, who was going on and on about how our cousin still owes him money from last summer. This made the walk up the stone road with suitcases even more unbearable. When I opened the gate to the property, it was quiet. My grandma stood in front of the house, as she always did, ready to tell us about the food she prepared. I figured everyone was just taking a midday nap, it was the only logical explanation for the almost uncomfortable silence. Everything in the house looked the same. The first fridge in the hallway, the second under the stairs, bottles of ice defrosting at the edge of the staircase for us to drink, each thing was in its place. But then, I walked into that painfully teal bedroom, to find only two of my baby cousins sleeping on the twin bed while my aunt cleaned. I stood in the doorway confused. Where are Deni and Aba, my cousins who I looked up to as older sisters? Where was Olti, who never said no to finishing all the food left on the table? Where was Ari, who told stories of her father’s travels through Greece. Then, it dawned on me. Each cousin who had an important role in my summers here are miles away and have moved on to the next chapter of their lives.
It’s ironic really, my grandparents had to relive what they experienced with their own children all over again with their grandchildren. That house will always be home to my mom and her siblings; however, a small village with only a few service buildings, is not the ideal place to raise children. This isn’t only seen in small villages like Has. Some of my cousins were raised in Tirana, Albania’s capital city and still decided to leave for countries in the West. My grandparents didn’t mind their kids moving to countries far away from Albania, just as long as they brought us back to see them. The summer trips are what kept that house alive for so many years. But now, much like Albania itself, the house is nearly vacant. All that is left is an older generation who have lived there too long to consider moving anywhere else.
My parents are a prime example of this. My mom went to a specialized high school in Has and when she graduated she was able to get a job as an elementary school teacher. While my father graduated from the only university Albania had during his time, on a full scholarship and worked at a bank. But my dad ended up losing his job due to the government’s switch in political parties and was unable to find another one. With that, they weren’t able to properly prepare for the baby they had on the way. This was the final straw for my mom. In hopes of finding new opportunities for our family, she applied to become a citizen of the United States and my dad followed her soon after. Albania, to my parents, will always be home, but as my mother would put it, “my home has failed me.” This sentiment was strong with my parents’ generation and has grown stronger with those in mine.
According to Dennis Tahiri, Albania is turning into a country of “gray hair,” with the youth leaving for other countries. In 2021, alone, over forty-two thousand migrants left Albania for countries out West (Tahiri). I’ve seen posts about it on social media almost daily. Migrants sharing their stories on how they were able to leave and what pushed them to do so. A lot of them had similar stories to my parents. My grandparents’ house is haunted by nostalgia, haunted by two generations. One generation called this place their home for most of their young lives and were determined to make their kids a part of it too. And the other being those kids, who, even though they were forced to spend their summers there, also considered the house as a second home. But now, without everyone else around, it didn’t feel like home to me. The mattresses my cousins used to share were collecting dust in the corner. The only suitcases in the room were my own. The only noises that kept me company were from the chickens that would randomly ram themselves into the front door. There was no screaming, no laughing and no arguing over the last piece of feta cheese on the table.
That house is valuable but not for the reason you think. It’s a house that is able to tell the story of the country it stands in. It’s beautiful on the surface with the landscaping, the smells of food, animals roaming around and kids playing. But when you look deeper, you find a generation of people who love their home but crave something more. Many of them decide to leave to live in other countries. When they had kids, they always brought them back to let them in on what their lives used to be. Albania’s airports are only ever packed during the summers, where parents who left to raise their children elsewhere would bring them back to make sure they connect with the place they once called home. But when these kids grow up, they don’t come back. It’s the sad reality for many countries like Albania. It seems to only be beautiful in childhood, when you are young and have no responsibilities. When reality hits you, you tend to see the cracks on the walls, the dim lighting and most noticeably, the silence.
Works Cited
Tahiri, Dennis. “‘The Future Rises in the West’, the Departure of the Youth Is ‘Graying’
“Albania.” Albanian Center for Quality Journalism, 30 Sept. 2022, https://www.acqj.al/en/the-future-rises-in-the-west-the-departure-of-the-youth-is-graying-albania/.
About the Author
Nevila Meshi is a sophomore at Fordham and intends to double major in English and Political Science. It is her professional aspiration to attend law school and specialize in immigration law with the intention of providing support and legal counsel for immigrants like herself. Her hobbies include reading, museums, and travel.