On November 2, 1919, on p. 4, the “L’Action française” published the letter of the Frenchwoman Eléonore De Villa (wife of Nuri Bej Villa) who wrote of the Greek crimes in Albania, which Aurenc Bebja, via the “Dars” Blog (Klos), Mat – Albania”, brought it to the Albanian public, titled “Albanians persecuted by the Greeks”. She writes:
“It is a very precious picture of the life and struggles of the nations in Eastern Europe. We see that the persecuted there very often turn into persecutors (rapists). The Greeks have reason to complain about the Turks and Bulgarians, but they do not behave better with the Albanians. And why shouldn’t the Albanians also have the right to self-determination as they requested at the Peace Conference? “As the French prepare to leave Korça, a charming Albanian town surrounded by colorful hills, I am filled with anxiety at the idea that this noble and unfortunate little country will once again fall into the hands of the Greeks.
I was in Frashër in 1914, when the great powers forced the Hellenes to evacuate Southern Albania, which in French is called Epirus. We had harbored hundreds of them who seemed to have a disinterested sympathy with us; they cheered the bey with a furious “zito” as they left our hospitable house and we finally recognized the Albanian independence we unanimously desired. This happiness lasted only three days. These were three days of enthusiasm for the entire Albanian population, regardless of different religions.
When a detachment arrived at our house, at the head of which was flying the red Albanian flag with the double-headed eagle, the emotion was great and we shed tears. These days passed in perfect harmony, an event that united the Catholic mirdiards with the Muslims of the North and the Orthodox with the Muslims of the South. Afterwards, the disobedient Greeks did not evacuate Leskovik, and we learned that they had disguised themselves as Epirotes, that is, after wearing the peasant’s costume, they turned against us. Our unfortunate soldiers, surprised in the design of their organization and deprived of a suitable road to Durrës, could not resist and were massacred.
Our house was built for more than five centuries on a mountain called Vilë (Villa). From there, one morning, we saw a huge fire coming from one of the neighboring villages. No doubt the Greeks set fire to it, and, to confirm this fact, the shells proved it to us by falling a few meters from us. Bey, my father-in-law, stoically ordered us to get ready. What a sad departure! I had an eleven-month-old child whom I held tightly in my arms, and who made me forget all the possessions we left behind and which would probably disappear forever. It was midnight. Not even the light of the moon to light our way, when masters and servants, each taking what he had dearest, we crossed the great court of the noble house.
No one spoke, everyone’s throat full of silent sobs. The shells had stopped falling. I unconsciously followed the line of people, clutching my treasure (her baby) in my arms. The forward guards, laden with their weapons, led the way, following these little winding paths accustomed only to the step of goats in which the chasms border. After two hours of walking, ruined, my arms numb from my adorable burden, I sat down on a large rock, exhausted. A guard put his rifle on his right shoulder and took my son by his left arm.
“I do this because you are French,” he told me, “our customs, for us mountain warriors, do not lend themselves well to this kind of sport.” I thanked him and we continued walking for hours through the bushes, ducking into holes we couldn’t see. At last the dawn appeared, revealing the misery of hundreds of people, some of whom were looking at us with bruised eyes from a night of terror, others speaking in low voices, praying to God! Everyone stood up when they saw the bey walking with a determined step and followed him instinctively. It was a whole people, Christians and Muslims, even gypsies.
At the gates of a tekke (bektashi monastery), the dervishes, dressed in their large white robes covered with long coats and wearing a large white plis (celle), waited for us standing in a posture of pious, with folded hands. Big tears flowed down their chins and, without being able to utter a word, they put us in the teke. Only curses were pronounced on this Greek people who plundered, destroyed, killed women, children, old men, to exterminate an old and noble Latin race!
I can still see under the arm of the watchman crossing the river, my baby, whose eyes turned to me, pleading; A current was so strong that it was difficult to stand. I sighed when he was on the other side of the bank and then it was my turn. I also see an unfortunate villager who wanted to pass with her two children. The youngest escaped and, taken by the current, disappeared. The unfortunate woman wept like a madwoman, embracing the other child amid these terrible waves, no longer knowing how to go forward or backward; the guards came hastily to the rescue, for the band of scoundrels continued to pursue us.
During the more than ten days that this exodus lasted, the same tragic scenes unfolded before my eyes as a civilized woman who could bring no help. We arrived at a high mountain covered with snow and called Tomorica, we saw a gigantic fire, the smoke of which was forming thick ashes above our heads and still with red flames. It was Frashëri that was burning, the residence of the ancestors of the bey for five centuries… Still pursued, we arrived at Korça, then at Svirna (Zvirina), our property, where we stayed for a few weeks to rest.
Then, one day, more fires broke out in the surrounding villages and we had to flee again. The Greeks could not get enough. Assad did not send any help. Our soldiers were without ammunition, only their chests could be generous, in vain. We left again, as always, until we crossed the border. The Greeks were our masters then. Finally, God had mercy on the Albanian nation; In 1917, France sent French troops to Korça to save it, and French, already widespread in Albania, became the first language there, that of the civilized and savior country. At the moment, more than three thousand students sing “La Marseillaise” and ask France for moral help. Please, no Greek, annihilation is preferred! I appeal, as a suffering Frenchwoman, to the noble, glorious and victorious France, always first for equality!”
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