Christmastime in Europe

 

My Return to India

After years of travelling the globe, Mother India was increasing her mysterious nudges telling me that I've avoided her for far too long and a return journey was  overdue. In the past, my travels have been mainly trekking expeditions to mountainous Himalayan regions like West Bengal, Kashmir, Zanskar, Ladakh, Arunachal Pradesh and Sikkim. I decided traversing the lower altitudes of the subcontinent from south to north - Kerala to Rajasthan - would satisfy my wanderlust whilst respecting India's beckoning. After all, she was right, I could no longer deny that I was longing to be cradled and mesmerized by her warmth and magic. 

The lovely, seaside city of Kochi (colonial name, Cochin), in the state of Kerala, is where my trip begins. Vasco da Gama beat me by about 525 years. The Portuguese explorer was the first European to reach India by sea when he set sail from Lisbon and landed near here in 1498. Walking along the shores of the Arabian Sea, I recalled how at age 14, while studying the faraway voyages of the earlier explorers, I had an idea that perhaps one day I too, like Vasco da Gama, would seek adventures by travelling afar.  And so here I am. 

It was in Saint Francis Church in Fort Kochin where Vasco da Gama was first buried in 1524. I say, "first" because his remains were taken back to Portugal in 1539 and where his body rests in Jerónimos Monastery in Lisbon. 

While some scenes, like the giant ancient Chinese fish nets echo back centuries, graffiti in support of Palestine liberation is an expression of a contemporary social justice consciousness. 

After being thrust into the initially overwhelming kaleidoscope that is India, I am always struck how quickly one can shift into the local sensibility. In part the overwhelm is a result of the sudden cultural change that happens because overland travel to India has largely been replaced by the jet airliner. There is no graduated transition to ease the traveller from one world to another. Still, what at first can seem so jarringly different, with just a modicum of openness, flexibility, tolerance of ambiguity, acceptance of differences and genuine interest to learn - very soon becomes "what is" and before long, one smoothy slips into the massive flow of humanity. There is so much here to explore that many trips, if not lifetimes - are needed to grasp, appreciate and understand the beauty and complexity that is India. 

The Taj Mahal is arguable the most visited and therefore most photographed site in all of India. The day I was there, the air quality in Agra had reached an air pollution rating of "Severe". In fact it was the world's most dangerously polluted city in the entire world while I was there. If you wish to see an unobstructed view of the Taj, I'm afraid you'll need to Google it! What you see here, is what I saw, and why I coughed for two weeks after I came home. 

India is deservedly recognized as one of the world's truly sacred destinations. Temples, ashrams, seekers, rituals - the devotional energy of the people is expressed in a myriad of forms. Garlands made of marigold flowers are sold everywhere to be taken to religious shrines on nearly every street corner.  Barefooted, ash covered sadhus walk the streets. Paintings and statues of multiple- armed Hindu divinities are regularly encountered in brightly-coloured billboards or in intricately carved stone temples many thousands of years old. Ganesh - the beloved elephant-headed god of good fortune graces everyday consumer products in supermarkets or smiles back at you from the dashboard of a tuk-tuk (auto rickshaw) as the driver treacherously races along super-crowded narrow streets.

In India, as in neighbouring Nepal, even the casual greeting that people exchange when meeting or parting is a small prayer. It's not, "Hey, Max - howzit goin"? But with palms held together in prayer, and a bow - we say, "Namaste" to one another. "I salute the divine within you." I can't help but wonder, how our social order and inner peace would differ, if we would universally adopt this recognition of one another's Inner Christ or inherent Buddha Nature each time we encountered another person. 

 

A temple monkey enjoys a discarded marigold garland. 

                                                    

                                        

And the next road begins ...  

Handala: The Little Ship that Could

For an earlier generation of children, the classic story known as "The Little Engine that Could"  - about a small train engine that was able to pull a long train over a high mountain pass after its locomotive failed and other, larger engines gave excuses for not attempting the job - was a lesson in the power of optimism, courage and hard work. 

Today's account is not that of this well-known folk tale, but instead is about the real-life little ship, the Handala. But certainly the values of optimism, courage and hard work are equally applicable to the ship and her crew - comprised of human rights activists from around the world sailing in solidarity with Palestine. 

In April of this year, I joined the crew of the Handala for the first leg of her voyage as she set sail from Oslo, Norway. The Handala is an 18 metre former fishing vessel from Norway. It is part of the International Freedom Flotilla Coalition (FFC) that has been sailing ships to challenge Israel's illegal and inhuman blockade of Gaza with successive voyages since 2010. As Handala began sailing For the Children of Gaza in April 2023, this is the second year of this campaign. The aims of our present voyage were two-fold. The intended  final destination was the besieged and occupied Gaza Strip - presently under near constant bombardment as Israel continues its barbaric, genocidal atrocities against a captive civilian population. The little boat and her small  crew aimed high - to challenge and indeed to break the siege of Gaza. Palestinians  residing there have been denied all their human rights and have been forced to live under dangerous, inhumane conditions for far too long by a racist, domineering colonial regime. It is time these abhorrent, illegal, dehumanizing conditions come to an end. What our governments refused to do, the crew of our ship to Gaza was intent on accomplishing.

Along the way, sailing to numerous European ports, the second chief goal of our voyage was for the crew to communicate the message that justice and human rights must be upheld for the people of Palestine - especially during this time of great pain, sorrow and trauma. We demanded an immediate, permanent ceasefire and voiced loud and clearly the obvious imperative to stop the genocide. With these goals in mind, we took part in press conferences, made presentations and participated in large-scale demonstrations in all the cities we visited. 

As children comprise nearly half the population of Gaza, and who because of their fragile, developing minds and bodies are especially vulnerable to suffer life-altering physical and psychological scars from the massive political violence they are endlessly subjected to, the Handala centered its focus on the urgent need to protect Palestinian children. For this reason, the mission for the Handala was named "For the Children of Gaza". Our aims, broadly speaking were thus to facilitate much-needed social and political change by both public education about the plight of children in Gaza, and to insist that our governments uphold their obligations under international law and demand that Israel end it's siege on Gaza. 

2024 saw two international missions of the Freedom Flotilla Coalition. The first and larger project is named, "Break the Siege" and it is the Emergency Humanitarian Aid Mission. Multiple aid vessels with hundreds of human rights observers  carrying 5,000 tons of humanitarian aid were to set sale from Istanbul in April 2024. Unfortunately amidst the deadly siege and ongoing genocide in Gaza, forces backing  Israel and simultaneously in complete disregard of the besieged, bombarded, starving Palestinians prevailed; the ship was not permitted to sail from Turkey to Gaza. Shame!

The second FCC mission was that of the Handala. Her mission, as articulated above  was to highlight the catastrophic impacts of the siege, occupation and genocide on the lives of Palestinian children. Both Missions are part of the long-standing, international maritime campaign whose aim is to deliver aid and challenge Israel's illegal, inhumane and deadly 17 year-long blockade. 

The ship I sailed on is named after Naji Al-Ali's well-known political  cartoon character, Handala. Handala is a ten year-old Palestinian refugee child who always stands with his back to the viewer.  This resilient and resourceful child is representational of all Palestinians who were forcibly displaced by Israel's settler colonial project. This dispossessed, yet determined and feisty child will turn round to face us only when he's finally able to return to the home country he was driven out of. To this day, Palestinian refugees and their descendants are not permitted by Israeli occupation forces to return to the homes they were forcefully expelled from. Jewish colonizers from around the world, on the other hand are not only permitted unfettered access to historic Palestine, but these so-called "settlers" are encouraged with financial incentives to move into illegal, Jewish-only, militarily protected colonies on stolen Palestinian land. Shame!

For me, perhaps the most gratifying and meaningful aspect of our solidarity voyage were the small interactions I had with people who greeted us at the various ports of call. The joy and appreciation they conveyed in response to being unconditionally accepted as precious human beings and whose inherent dignity was upheld and embraced was something I'll never forget. For example, this one episode provided sufficient validation to know just how important our voyage truly was. A group of children came up to me in Bremerhaven, Germany with a bottle filled with messages and drawings they had made and asked us to toss it into the sea as we approach Gaza. They told me how they hoped that children there can understand that they too are loved and not abandoned by the outside world! The innocence and kindness of this lovely solidarity action is inspirational and unforgettable. 

After a large and energetic send-off at the pier in Oslo, we sailed to Gothenburg, Helsinborg and onto Malmö, Sweden. The timing of our arrival in Malmö was especially fruitful as it coincided with the massive public outcry against the organizers of Eurovision for permitting Israel to participate in this year's music contest and festival taking place there at the same time that Israel was slaughtering tens of thousands of innocent people in Gaza. How in the world can an event celebrating dance, music and merriment include members of an apartheid state  perpetrating brutal war crimes? We joined thousands of activists and marched in the streets with our Ship to Gaza flags to lend our voices to the collective outrage. Our energetic celebration of life and liberty vigorously protested the obscenity of associating music with political violence and mass murder. 

An arresting performance greeted our crew at the Malmö dock as we were tying up. A young troupe of Palestinian actors brought to life some of the horrific events unfolding in Gaza, including a recording of a report by the now familiar voice of the young Palestinian videographer and journalist, Bisan Owda, whose personal Instagram reports powerfully document daily life in Gaza. Recently she was nominated for an Emmy Award - despite efforts by a Zionist campaign to have her get barred from the competition for the usual and entirely absurd allegation that reporting crimes against humanity is somehow antisemitic.  One astonishing scene in their performance left me in tears, while at the same time reinforced why our mission is of of such importance, especially at this time of unparalleled urgency. Following a disturbing enactment of an aerial bombardment, we see that a little girl has been killed by an Israeli bomb that shattered her home. Her father, stunned by inconsolable grief, is seen carrying the small body wrapped in a white shroud. The martyred girl's spirit unexpectedly appears to the weeping father and she comforts him saying that here in heaven everything is peaceful and beautiful, that she is not in pain, nor is she afraid. "Please, Papa, don't be sad." 

From Malmö we sailed to Copenhagen, Denmark, where the crew of the Handala were again met by massive, supportive crowds. From Copenhagen to Strande, Germany, we sailed for 23 hours nonstop. This segment included passage through the 98 km Kiel Canal from Strande to Bremerhaven, Germany. It was during this portion of our solidarity voyage that I was given a glimpse into the technical complexities of navigating our ship as I was entrusted to be on watch on the bridge from midnight to 3 in the morning. Luckily, there were few other boats to worry about, the auto-pilot worked flawlessly, and therefore I didn't have to wake-up the captain for any emergency guidance.  

It wasn't until we sailed into Germany that we encountered any hostility and negativity from the authorities. The contrast between the joyous greeting and collective, loving embrace we felt from the people of Bremerhaven, Germany and the rigid police reaction to us was stark and disturbing. The German government has made unconditional support for Israel to be a matter of "Staatsräson" or "reason of state". This rigid, fascistic attitude is central to the country's core identity due to its unresolved collective guilt stemming from the country's genocidal actions against Jews in World War ll. That the same state is now paradoxically giving diplomatic and material support for another genocide - this time committed by Israel, seems not to matter to those in power. We were told that the phrase "From the River to the Sea, Palestine Will be Free" incorporated into a mural on the starboard side of the Handala was strictly illegal in Germany. We were ordered to remove it or risk getting arrested. Explaining that we simply couldn't  paint over the entire side of our ship for a two-day stay in port, we agreed upon a compromise - to cover up the criminalized liberation slogan. In the end, a small victory of sorts was ours in that we covered-up the phrase with a large Palestinian flag! 

Seeing the joy we brought to the local Palestinian community was heartwarming and reciprocal. Being a Palestinian and living under an insanely one-sided, dehumanizing, pro-Zionist political framework, one can easily imagine how happy people were to see us sail into their harbour conveying loving kindness, compassionate acceptance and political solidarity. One evening, the crew left the boat to have dinner in town and I was the only one onboard to tend to Handala. Before long, at least fifty locals came to visit the ship for an impromptu party. The people brought musical instruments and delicious food. We danced. Children sang. We chanted liberation slogans. The spontaneous outpouring of cultural pride and community reminded me once again, that the "little ship that could" was fulfilling her mission in countless, at times entirely unpredictable and happy ways.

I left the ship in Germany after two weeks of sailing in Norway, Sweden, Denmark and Germany. A new crew of beautiful, dedicated, compassionate, peace and justice-driven, Palestine solidarity, human rights activists from nations around the world again came aboard the Handala as she continued to sail to more than twenty-five ports in Europe before reaching Malta. 

Regrettably it was necessary for the Handala to temporarily end her voyage in Malta in late August of 2024. It was felt that the aging fishing vessel was no longer able to safely navigate the treacherous waters between Malta and Gaza. Both 2024 missions of the international Freedom Flotilla Coalition, "For the Children of Gaza" and "Break the Siege" have thus temporarily been delayed before completing their respective missions. This does not at all mean that the "little ship that could" - could not - only that for safety and out of logistic necessity, she and her larger sibling vessels have needed to regroup before heading out again. 

The goal remains - End the Siege on Gaza! Stop the Genocide! Free Palestine! When the time is right, I'm ready to set sail again! 

CLICK TO SEE THE  WAY THIS PIECE WAS PUBLISHED IN MONDOWEISS

Travels in the Western Balkans

It was time to move on from the familiar embrace of Hungary and to explore further afield. Transitioning from home into the unknown, entering that liminal space, is always a curious blend of excitement and trepidation - as we move from certainty and stasis to fluctuation and adventure. 

And thus it was time for a road trip! Given the relentless European summer heatwave, my duffle bag is half empty, music is downloaded, and my nostalgic peanut butter and jam sandwich is ready for the long drive ahead.  

Várpalota, Hungary to Trogir, Croatia (via Zadar, Croatia) is 675 kilometers. Trogir to Split is a short ferry or a 27 km drive away. Trogir is the more tranquil of the two. Both are stunning - architecturally and in terms of landscape. From intensely ornate medieval cathedrals to gorgeous beaches, these two Croatian cities on the Adriatic Sea are superb destinations to explore.  

While the joy of swimming in warm, secluded, protected waters is easy to understand, the grotesque medieval carvings on the 13th century portal of St. Lawrence's  Cathedral in Trogir is baffling. The contrast of the cathedral's sublime, sacred interior spaces with the external deranged iconography is jarring. And maybe that's the very purpose of these otherworldly creatures: leave the external world of materialism, temptation, evil and ego on the outside, as you enter infinite, spiritual space inside the church.                                                                               

I leave Croatia and my travel companions behind to continue my Balkan adventures as a solo traveller -  perhaps travel in its most purest form.  

Arriving late in the evening by bus from Trogir, Croatia to Sarajevo, Bosnia and  Hercegovina wasn't straightforward. The bus terminal was closed, public transport was nowhere to be found, and taxi drivers were wildly negotiating fees at breakneck speed which my sleepy brain was having trouble processing. A persistent yet  amicable driver and I finally connected and we found my hotel in a dark, narrow alleyway next to a river. It was midnight. The very pleasant elderly gentleman who greeted me was the father of the guesthouse owner. As a weary traveller at the end of a long day, I was glad to be embraced by his genuinely warm hospitality.

  

Sarajevo captivated me completely. I simply was incapable of leaving this magical city. Echos reverberating back to its not too distant tragic, genocidal history are undeniably present, yet the city's triumphant and joyous emergence from the collective trauma is hopeful and inspirational - perhaps especially now as we again are confronting these darkest dimensions of humanity. 

One of two hundred Roses of Sarajevo.

They mark a spot where mortar fire killed at least three people during the Siege of Sarajevo between April 5, 1992 to  February 29, 1996, during which nearly 14,000 people were killed, including 5,434 civilians. The fragmentation patterns left by the explosions were later filled in with red resin as memorials to those who lost their lives during the Bosnian War. As I walk about enjoying the city's vibrant post war energy, it feels  important to have these reminders of the pain humanity is capable of perpetrating - as a way of hopefully preventing subsequent atrocities. Sadly, the genocide we see unfolding in Gaza, Palestine these days tells me that we're still not ready to transcend violent tribal attachments. 

                                                              

The unique East meets West vibe of the city - striking me like Budapest meets Istanbul - is a pleasure to explore. In fact  strolling along  Ferhadija Street, one can literally  take a single step and be noticeably transported from a European to an Asian urban landscape, at the point inscribed, "Sarajevo - Meeting of Cultures". 

Taking the Sarajevo Cable car up to Mt. Trebević made for a fine afternoon. Hiking amidst cool, pine fresh trails and the views of the city below are lovely. I had a chance encounter where the forest trail led to a viewpoint from where one could take in the charming urban landscape below. A gentleman slightly limping and accompanied by his daughter were speaking English and I said, "Hello". He recounted how he was a small boy when he was with the first family to be airlifted by the UN out of Sarajevo after his home was amongst those bombed by Bosnian Serbs - from the very surrounding mountains we were now hiking in. It was during the 1992 to 1995 siege of the city that he sustained the leg injury with which he returned to his birthplace for the first time since his childhood rescue. He was one of the 50,000 Sarajevans wounded. More than 10, 500 residents of Sarayevo were killed during that four year period. 

As I am finally getting around to writing this on March 7, 2024 - we enter the fifth month of the genocide in Gaza. I can't help but think of the over 30,000 Palestinians killed by Israeli forces there. The rate and severity of this annihilation is unbearable. Moreover it is totally disheartening and painfully unbelievable how often we need to repeat, "Never again!" The failure of humanity to even call for a ceasefire while 150 Palestinian children are killed every day is a crime so evil that it's unfathomable. The searing, traumatic repercussions of this will haunt us all for generations.  

              

Continuing to hike through the forest, one eventually arrives at the post apocalyptic

scene of the graffiti - covered ruins of the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics bobsled track.

I travelled to Mostar from Sarajevo with a small group organized locally by the excellent outfitter, Meet Bosnia Tours. Mostar is the home of the world renown bridge built originally between 1557 and 1566. It was deliberately destroyed in 1993 during the Bosnian War of 1992 to 1995 during which it's estimated over 100,000 people were killed. 

The 600 year-old Dervish Monastery, Blagaj Tekija just outside Mostar is a sublime and evocative place to reflect on the power of connecting to the sacred whilst reverberations of the terrible history of the region abound. Looking Heaven-wards through tiny, star-shaped, coloured windows, one can perhaps sense the transcendent light which unites all God's creations.

Ever-shifting, strong and contradictory feelings accompanied me throughout my travels in Bosnia & Hercegovina. Waves of sadness, confusion and anger could unexpectedly sweep over me, triggered for instance by a sight of fading graffiti on a war-damaged building.  Alternating emotions of genuine happiness were sparked by pleasant, peaceful and care-free interactions I regularly had with strangers in the streets and in cafés, or during time spent in places of worship. During contemplative periods I had in both a mosque and a cathedral in Sarajevo, I reflected on the messages of peace central to both religions. I thought about how people who had once lived harmoniously together could be manipulated and enraged by extremist political leaders. These warmongering tyrants would exploit ethno-religious differences to further their murderous political agendas. The deadly violence, trauma and destruction finally ended with the Dayton Agreement reached on November 21, 1995 by the presidents of Bosnia, Croatia and Serbia.

From Sarajevo, Bosnia & Hercegovina I travel by bus to Podgorica, capital of Montenegro. With a population of 151,000, Podgorica is compact, easily walkable and totally delightful. In fact the population of the entire country is 167,000. I realize quickly that I must return to Montenegro. My time here was simply not enough to experience all what this land is about. From rugged mountains with mind-bendingly beautiful hiking opportunities, to elegant, walled cities with grand plazas, courtyard cafés and stunning architectural gems, to up-market, sea side villages with ridiculously beautiful mountain views - I was astonished by this tiny country. 

One excellent day trip out of Podgorica consisted of taking local busses to Budva, on to Kotor, and later that night, the bus back to my guesthouse in Podgorica. Walking happily along atmospheric narrow Medieval-era streets, one now finds alongside the many lovely churches, fine Italian seafood restaurants, funky, affordable cafés, friendly neighbourhood bars - and a park for overly pampered stray cats! Adding to the allure of these two nearby cities along the Adriatic, are seaside promenades and nearby jagged mountain vistas. Both are dramatic and delightful places to explore from the capital, Podgorica.    

From the young hotel receptionist, to fellow railroad passengers and in every guidebook and online post, I was told that the Orthodox Christian, Ostrong Monastery had to be visited. It's a truly remarkable place, constructed in 1665 into two giant caves overlooking a cliff face, 900 meters above the Zeta Valley. I join the queue of pilgrims waiting to enter a small, atmospheric shrine where St. Basil's relics are wrapped in fabric and over-looked by a priest. Some tell me that the in fact the miracle of St. Basil is that his body is actually fully preserved under that shrud. What is undeniable, is that one is visiting a revered and holy site. I joined those around me in making the Sign of the Cross, and said a brief prayer, before descending and hiking down the mountain to the train station.  

 

The hike down to the train station quickly turned into an unexpected, at times quite puzzling as the trail was long abandoned and difficult to follow. After the initial, in retrospect, somewhat misleading, confidence-inspiring sign stating "Train" with a red arrow pointing downwards, the terrain quickly became overgrown and with meandering, side tracks that seemed to lead nowhere in particular. An elderly gentleman came by and when awkward yet smiling gesticulations ended, I concluded that I was lost. It was getting dark, and it was doubtful that I would reach the train station in time to catch the next back to Podgorica. I retraced my steps to where I felt somewhat confident I made an incorrect turn. The map apps on my phone were inoperable. 

I finally spot a way marker. It's written in Montenegrin. It occurred to me that using the camera function with Google Translate, I may be able to decipher it. I choose Serbian, and luckily I got back on track and happily worked my way down the steep, wooded trail to the rain station.  As I scramble down to the base of the mountain, I see the graffitied train roaring into the station. I run towards it, but just as quickly as it appeared, the train departs. I sit down, somewhat dejected and say another small prayer. Perhaps St. Basil will come to my aid. Well, a  bedraggled Spanish tango dancer shows up at the station. We happily greet one another, and reralize that our hike down from the monastery to the train station was almost identical. He too got lost, retraced his steps a number of times and took far longer to 

arrive then he had anticipated. Suddenly the uncertainty was replaced by a  happy time sharing travel tales. That another train back to Podgorica was arriving in an hour was a bonus. Thank you, St. Basil!                             

From Pogorica, Montenegro  I traveled by bus to Shkodra, Albania. The record-breaking heatwave was continuing to broil and smother Europe, while at the same time forcing the world to take note and hopefully take action to reverse the climate catastrophe that our collective thoughtless, wasteful behaviour was responsible for. Unable to find my lodging in the extreme heat was not easy. Google Map on my smart phone was useless, as was the map in my guidebook. Asking repeatedly for directions seemed to lead me in circles. As it turned out, the people I asked in the street were generally giving me correct directions, it's just that the building was nondescript with no visible signage or address and I walked by it repeatedly until by good fortune, I asked the baker directly next door, if she knew where the guesthouse was! OK. "All's well that ends well." Thank you, William.

Shkodra is a marvellous city and frustrations surrounding my arrival evaporated quickly. Care-free locals intermingle with happy travellers in busy streets with art galleries, small shops, cafés and outdoor bistros. I especially treasured the easy, tolerant mix of churches and mosques, oftentimes down the street from one another.

  

The lady running the guesthouse mae arrangements for me to travel by mini bus and boat from Shkodra to Valbona to do the Valbona to Theth hike. The ship and drive to Valbona, the day in the  remote mountain village of Valbona, and the astonishingly beautiful hike the following day through the stunning Accursed Mountains  to Theth was truly one of the highlights of my entire journey. But "accursed"? Far from it - the landscape in fact is blessed with eye-popping grandeur.

 

  

Sadly it was time to leave the mountains and continue on to Tirana, the capital of Albania. I had been curious about Albania for many years as for much of the 20th century it was a European country closed to outsiders. In 1946 the People's Republic of Albania was proclaimed and the autocratic/paranoid Enver Hoxha became the tyrannical leader of what became an isolated, totalitarian nation. The population lived in fear of the secret police. Many were tortured and jailed for absurd acts like listening to foreign radio stations. Hoxha was afraid of internal dissent and foreign invasion alike. This led him to install 750,000 concrete bunkers around the country should Albania be invaded. They were never used during his reign. Today many can be found scattered and abandoned around the country, while others have been re-purposed as art museums, tourist attractions, and historic sites. Tirana, like that proverbial phoenix, has risen from the ashes and is in a continual and exciting process of redefining itself as a a vibrant, colourful - literally - modern city where it's inhabitants warmly welcome international travellers. I hope to someday return to Tirana and then travel further afar to explore deeper its charming towns and varied, stunning countryside. Oh how those dramatic mountains beckon. Maybe the daunting name of the range, the Accursed Mountains will help keep the masses away. At least until word gets out, that these dramatic peaks are also known as the Albanian Alps.  

Colourful ultramodern towers and this beautiful Catholic church would have been    inconceivable in Hoxha's Tirana. 

The infamous bunkers - literal externalizations of Hoxha's paranoid delusional inner landscape are everywhere. No longer menacing, a child fearlessly explores a graffitied one in downtown Tirana. 

Bunk'Art is a must-see historic museum and contemporary art gallery converted from a massive, elaborate underground Cold War bunker built for the Communist Party's  political elite in the 1970s. The facility remained a secret throughout its existence. Classless society my ass!
                                               

And by all means - beware of those dangerous, hippy, vagabond enemies of the State!