Written by Ramiz Behluli. Translation Petrit Latifi

Summary

This story honors Ramiz Behlulis grandfather Ibrahim, his mother’s father, a brave and honorable man. During and after World War II, he hid the patriot Xhafer Zhunica for five years, protecting him from Chetniks and Partisans who were hunting him down. Despite being arrested, tortured, and imprisoned for three months, my grandfather never revealed Xhafer’s whereabouts.

Eventually, Xhafer Zhunica was betrayed by others and killed in a brutal manner. Even afterward, my grandfather was questioned again by the authorities, but his courage and integrity earned him unexpected respect, and he was finally left in peace.

My grandfather Ibrahim is remembered as a man of great values, loyalty, and sacrifice, whose actions saved lives and whose legacy deserves everlasting respect.

“My Grandfather Ibrahim (my mother’s father)

I remember that about six years ago, Aga Ruzhdë (my father) and my mother Refë (now deceased) were guests at my home. I went to the airport to pick them up, and when we arrived at my place, we sat down and started talking. I asked them what they wanted to have for dinner.

My mother was very happy and in good spirits. Jokingly, she said:
“Oh, Ramiz, you’re going to make us leave without even sitting down!”

“No, no,” she said, laughing loudly—and we all laughed together.

Then she told me something:
“Do you know, my son, that my father (your grandfather, Ibrahim) hid Xhafer Zhunica for five years?”

I couldn’t keep quiet, and I asked my grandmother to tell me the whole story.

Xhafer Zhunica, as my grandmother told me, was a great and brave patriot. He had killed many Chetniks. When the Germans withdrew, the Chetniks and Partisans immediately began massacres, and they were searching everywhere for Xhafer Zhunica—dead or alive.

At that time, my grandfather Ibrahim, son of Ali, lived with his family in the mountains, in the village of Zarbincë (municipality of Bujanovac). He sheltered Xhafer Zhunica for five consecutive years. Sometimes he hid him in the house, and sometimes in a hole (a shelter). Once, someone reported him.

My grandfather was taken to the police station in Bujanovac, where he was held for three months. He was mistreated every day. At times, they kept him standing in water up to his neck for hours, day after day, trying to force him to reveal where Xhafer Zhunica was hiding. But he never told them.

When he was finally released, my mother—who was only a child at the time—remembered coming home and sensing that fear had taken over everything.

Some time later, she said that one day, while she was inside the house, the Black Brigades (Chetniks) approached. She saw them through the window. At that moment, Xhafer Zhunica said:
“Oh, Brahim, what trouble have I brought upon you?”

My grandfather replied:
“Now put on your coat, take this bag, throw it over your shoulder, and don’t turn your head back. They will think you are just a simple peasant going out to cut wood. Once you’re out, find your way.”

What is even more tragic is that later on, some acquaintances betrayed Xhafer Zhunica. They informed on him while pretending to host him as a guest. He was put to sleep, his legs were tied, and he was killed. They buried him and placed a dead dog—also strangled—on his head to make the scene look worse.

After some time, my grandfather Ibrahim was summoned again to the police. There was a chief named Kangarash. He asked him:
“Do you know that we killed Xhafer?”

My grandfather replied:
“Yes, I know.”

The chief said:
“Now that we are both here, I want to know—did you shelter him or not?”

My grandfather answered:
“There weren’t two of us. There were three of us.”

The chief asked:
“Three? Who was the third?”

My grandfather pointed to the picture of Tito on the wall and said:
“Him as well.”

The chief then said:
“Do you promise me that you will come to my house?”

My grandfather replied:
“Yes, I promise.”

When he went there, the chief pressed him again and asked:
“Tell me honestly—did you hide Xhafer Zhunica?”

My grandfather answered:
“Yes, for five years.”

The chief then said:
“You also fell into my hands, and you trusted me even though I am a Serb. I once saved you. If you are truly so loyal, go home. I will never call you again—and I will even buy food for your children.”

I was fortunate to have known my grandfather Ibrahim. He was a great man, full of values, especially in his final years. Before his death, he lived in the village of Small Trnovc (Bujanovac).”