On September 17, 1825, Vaso Pasha, also known as Pashko Vasa or Vasa Pash’ Shkodrani, was born in Shkodër. He was a prominent writer, poet, and publicist during the Albanian National Renaissance.

His family, originally from Mirdita, had moved to Shkodër, where his former home is now a museum. After his early education in Shkodër, Pasha worked as a secretary at the British consulate from 1842 to 1847, during which he enhanced his knowledge of Italian, French, Turkish, and Greek.

In 1847, he moved to Italy and actively participated in the Italian revolutionary movements for freedom, serving as an officer in the Civic Cavalry in Bologna.

Between 1878 and 1882, Vasa played a leading role in the Albanian Committee of Istanbul, advocating for the protection of Albania. In 1879, he became a prominent member of the “Society for the Printing of Albanian Letters”.

Pashko Vasa authored numerous political and historical works, defending the right of Albanians to live freely and independently.

From 1883 until his death, Pasha served as the General Governor of Lebanon. He passed away on June 29, 1892, in Beirut. His remains were repatriated to Albania during the communist era.

Oh Albania, Poor Albania

Oh Albania, poor Albania, 

Who has shoved your head in the ashes? 

Once you were a great lady, 

The men of the world called you mother. 

Once you had such goodness and such wealth, 

With fair maidens and youthful men, 

Herds and land, fields and produce, 

With flashing weapons, with Italian rifles, 

With heroic men, with pure women, 

You were the best of companions.

At the rifle’s blast, at lightning’s flash, 

The Albanian was always master 

In battle, and in battle he died 

Leaving never a misdeed behind him. 

Whenever an Albanian swore an oath 

The whole of the Balkans trembled before him, 

Everywhere he charged into savage battle, 

And always did he return a victor.

But today, Albania, tell me, how are you faring now? 

Like an oak tree, felled to the ground! 

The world walks over you, tramples you underfoot, 

And no one has a kind word for you. 

Like the snow-covered mountains, like blooming fields 

You were clothed, today you are in rags. 

Neither your reputation nor your oaths remain, 

You yourself have destroyed them in your own misfortune.

Albanians, you are killing your brothers, 

Into a hundred factions you are divided, 

Some say ‘I believe in God,’ others ‘I in Allah,’ 

Some say ‘I am Turk,’ others ‘I am Latin,’ 

Some ‘I am Greek,’ others ‘I am Slav,’ 

But you are brothers, all of you, my hapless people! 

The priests and the hodjas have deceived you 

To divide you and keep you poor. 

When the foreigner comes, you sit back at the hearth 

As he puts you to shame with your wife and your sister, 

And for how little money you are willing to serve him, 

Forgetting the oaths of your ancestors, 

Making yourselves serfs to the foreigners 

Who have neither your language nor your blood!

Weep, oh swords and rifles, 

The Albanian has been snared like a bird in a trap! 

Weep with us, oh heroes, 

For Albania has fallen with her face in the dirt. 

Neither bread nor meat remain, 

Neither fire in the hearth, nor light, nor pine torch, 

Neither blood in the face, nor honor among friends, 

For she has fallen and is defiled!

Gather round, maidens, gather round, women 

Who with your fair eyes know what weeping is, 

Come, let us lament poor Albania, 

Who is without honor and reputation, 

She has become a widow, a woman with no husband, 

She is like a mother who has never had a son!

Who has the heart to let her die, 

Once such a heroine, and today so weak? 

This beloved mother, are we to abandon her 

To be trampled underfoot by the foreigners?

No, no! No one wishes such shame, 

All dread such misfortune! 

Before Albania is thus forlorn 

Let all our heroes perish with rifle in hand.

Awaken, Albania, wake from your slumber, 

Let us all, as brothers, swear a common oath 

And not look to church or mosque, 

The faith of the Albanian is Albanianism!

From Tivar down to Preveza 

Everywhere let the sun spend its warmth and rays, 

This is our land, left to us by our forefathers, 

Let no one touch us for we are all to die! 

Let us die like men as our forefathers once did 

And not bring shame upon ourselves before God!

-Pashko Vasa – 1880

/a.p./