The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel 3. JOURNALIST'S PARADISE ALBANIA, a country about the size of Switzerland, can be simply described as a long, rolling, littoral plain almost entirely shut off from the rest of the world by a lofty wall of mountain ranges in the shape of a crescent with both horns on the Adriatic. It has about a million inhabitants, sharply divided into plainsmen and mountaineers. The latter possess what is probably the purest blood in Europe. They are lineal descendants, without any admixture or infiltration whatever, of those old Illyrian tribes who retired before the Ancient Greeks advancing from the interior of Asia. Turkey held the plain and foothills in her ruinous grip for five hundred years but never succeeded in subduing the mountaineers. Not during recorded history have they ever been completely conquered. Tirana, the capital, lies in almost the exact center of the country. Until recently only a small foothill village, it has been quickly enlarged and become almost characterless. Albania has the good fortune to possess an exceedingly beautiful style of architecture of its own. But King Zog, the mountain chieftain become king, despised and tried to make his people despise everything typically Albanian. So he built up his little capital in nondescript imitation of alien culture. It is hideous, and for the lack of national pride it indicates, pathetic. I was expected and well received by the Government. But I was regarded with mixed feelings. Not being professionally a journalist, I was now to discover the uncertain attitude of the officials of the smaller European states towards the members of that busy guild. They receive them eagerly and they hate them-oh, how they hate them! The sensitiveness of these small countries to even the most evanescent publicity is beyond belief. Many a young man of sufficient aplomb has been able to subsist handsomely for years on the sadly grudged, yet anxiously lavish, hospitality extended to anyone who flourishes the magic credentials of the press. So with every facility courteously placed at my disposal, off I went to photograph Albania! The handsome horsemen in their dress as beautiful and costly as that of any eighteenth-century courtier; the wild nomads, with their flocks and herds; the dances, the weddings far in the mountains. There was and is, believe it or not, no guidebook to Albania in English. Hence, seeing my growing interest, the Albanian Ministry of Information invited me to write one. They placed at my disposal a car, a chauffeur, and an interpreter. I went over every road where it was possible to pass in a car, and then on horseback through the mountains. Everywhere I was met by the local notables. Everything was opened for me, everyone thought up all that could be remembered of ancient tales and curious remains. Almost everywhere I had what I like best of all, a bodyguard of children. I filled notebook after notebook. There is some hope that those notes may have been saved, though the place where they were hidden, in the Serbian mountains, has been much fought over. If they have been lost-well, then I hope I may have the chance to do it all over again. Everywhere I was charmed by the shy but friendly women in bright national dress, always with either a gaily painted wooden cradle or bag of produce on their backs and children at their feet. I was a woman and alone. Surprisingly this was a great advantage, here as in Serbia. Everywhere I was treated with friendly cordiality by both women and men. These are the lands of die-hard suspicion among men, who may approach only members of their own sex and then only with reassuring circumlocutions. But women, although their social and political rights are limited, are absolutely free from molestation: they pass, trusted, where men could never tread. Previous Chapter | Content | Next Chapter The Serbs Chose War, Ruth Mitchel