Two centuries ago was born Pashko Vasa, the ideologue of the Albanian National Awakening.

On this occasion, the Municipality of Shkodër, the city’s Public Library, and other institutions have prepared activities dedicated to the poet, publicist, and Renaissance figure.

In the morning, homage was paid at the Martyrs’ Cemetery and at his bust in Shkodër. Later today, a Scientific Conference on the life and work of Pashko Vasa will be held at the Pashko Vasa house-museum.

The distinguished activist of the National Awakening was born in Shkodër on September 17, 1825, and passed away in Beirut on June 29, 1892.

He received his early education in his hometown and later worked as a secretary at the British Consulate in Shkodër. Between 1878 and 1882, Pashko Vasa was a key figure of the Committee of Istanbul, which worked to defend the rights of Albanians. In 1879, he was among the most active members of the “Society for the Publication of Albanian Letters.” He authored several works addressing the Albanian alphabet and language learning, including ‘The Latin Alphabet Applied to the Albanian Language’ (Constantinople, 1878) and ‘Albanian Grammar for Use by Those Who Wish to Learn This Language Without a Teacher’ (London, 1887).

Pashko Vasa holds a special place in the history of Albanian literature. He is the author of the well-known poem “Moj Shqypni, e mjera Shqypni” [O Albania, O poor Albania] (1880).

He died in Lebanon on June 29, 1892. His remains were brought back to Albania in 1978 and rest in Shkodër.

O Albania, O poor Albania!

Who hath struck thee upon thy crown with gloom?

Once didst thou bear a weighty, noble fame,

And men of thine own soil proclaimed thee Mother.

Thou hadst abundance, blessings manifold,

Fair valleys rich, and youths of dauntless frame,

Fertile plains, and pastures stretching wide,

With shining arms, with rifles poised for fight,

With gallant men, and women of high heart—

Among all nations, thou wert fairest still.

When cracked the musket like the thunder’s roar,

The Albanian eagle, lord of battle soared;

Born for the fight and in the fight he fell,

Yet never chained, his honor none could quell.

When he, the Albanian, bound his solemn vow,

It shook all Rumelia to its marrow;

Through fiercest wars, his visage ever pure,

And honor, like the snow, unblemished stayed.

But tell me now, poor Albania, how art thou?

Like some great oak uprooted from the earth,

The world tramples thee beneath its careless tread,

And no sweet word of comfort meets thine ear.

Once decked in snowy mountains, flowered plains,

Now ragged, worn, thy name and fame destroyed;

Thou hast undone thyself for shameful guile.

O Albanians, brothers, ye contend and fight,

Scattered in bands a hundredfold,

Some claim faith, some law; one: “I am Turk,”

Another: “Latin,” some: “Greek,” some: “Slav”—

Yet all are brothers still, alas! in woe!

Priests and mullahs have led thee far astray,

To strip thee bare and leave thee destitute.

A stranger comes and lodges in thy hearth,

Shaming thee with thy wives and sisters dear;

For paltry gain, thou dost forget thy vow,

Becoming servant to a foreign hand,

One who knows not thy tongue, nor shares thy blood.

Cry out, O swords, O rifles of thy sires!

The Albanian is trapped, a bird ensnared!

Cry, valiant men, cry with us in lament,

For Albania lies fallen, face to earth.

No bread remains, nor meat to warm the soul,

No hearth-fire glows, no pine, nor gentle light;

No blood upon the cheek, no honor left,

Yet she lies prostrate, shattered, broken down!

Gather your women, gather now your song,

With those bright eyes that know both grief and tears,

Come mourn, O mourn poor Albania,

Left barren of her name and noble worth;

She stands like woman without husband dear,

Like mother who hath borne no sons to guard her.

Who would leave her thus, this seed of valor,

Now fallen low, to die beneath strange feet?

Shall we abandon this our cherished mother?

No! Never! None may seize her; all shall quake

Before her darkened face, her fallen majesty.

Ere Albania be lost unto despair,

Let valor rise, with rifle in the hand!

Awake, O Albanians, rise from sleep,

As brothers, bind yourselves in one firm oath;

Look not to mosque or church: Albanian faith

Is Albanian soil, Albanian blood, Albanian law.

From Tivar to Preveza shines the sun,

O’er lands bequeathed to us by honored sires;

Let none lay hand upon them, for they are ours,

To love as men who died in ages past,

And let no quarrel stain us ‘fore the Lord above.

– Pashko Vasa (1880) –

/a.p./