by Rifat Muriqi. Translation Petrit Latifi

Summary

This text is a personal tribute to Mehmet Kadri Tufaj, portraying his life, character, and courage during a time of political repression in Yugoslavia. After his father died from Serbian torture, Mehmet assumed responsibility for his family at a young age, living with dignity and pride despite hardship. The narrative highlights deep bonds of friendship and solidarity, as well as an act of open resistance—singing patriotic songs despite the presence of informants. A violent police attack exposes widespread betrayal, even among teachers. The story honors Mehmet’s bravery, integrity, and unwavering resistance to oppression.

“A Short Story About My Friend MEHMET KADRI TUFAJ
May he rest in peace

Listen, son of the teacher, and do not forget: Metushi speaks only once.
This Mehmet who passed away yesterday was the son of Kadri Malsori. That is what he called himself, and that is what we called him. They say that Kadri fled from across the Albanian border, a border violently imposed by the Serbs, and crossed to this side to save his life. It is said that Mehmet was born in my family’s barn, which was large, almost the size of a house.

Mehmet lived his life too quickly and too briefly, even from childhood, because after his father died as a result of Serbian torture, he had to roll up his sleeves and provide for his family. He struggled against poverty in order to preserve the pride inherited from his parent.

I was young—much younger than he was—but because he had been born on my land, he treated me like family. In fact, we and Mehmet’s family were one family, and there was no child of ours who did not have a friend from his family. And so it has remained to this day.

Of all the experiences we shared, I want to tell one story.

These were the turbulent years after the death of the satrap Tito, years when the disintegration of Yugoslavia had begun. We did not stop working, in every possible way, to help that collapse. One night, Mehmet, Ymer, Haxhi, Zymer, and several other friends and I were drinking at the Peja Spa Hotel. Not only were we drinking, but we were also singing patriotic songs.

Once or twice I told Mehmet that there could be informants present. He replied, “That’s exactly what I want—to find them and throw them out into the open like rats.”

We sang loudly, and no one else among the guests dared to open their mouth. But when the force of the song no longer sufficed, as soon as he threw the first glass and broke it, about twenty men in civilian clothes and several police officers with batons jumped on us. Among those informers were teachers and school professors from Istog, and they began beating us brutally.

And so, the son of the teacher—when a few days later I met Mehmet again—we laughed, and he said to me:
“Eh, Metush, it was worth the trouble just to expose all the informants of the Peja Spa.”

May he rest in peace.“