SÜDOSTEUROPA; 43. Jhg., 9-10/1994

Lucian Kim1

The Free Press in the New

Of all the former communist countries in Europe (with the exception of war- torn Bosnia), Albania is the furthest from European integration. With industrial production at a complete standstill, its economy is a shambles. Furthermore, political isolation and oppression have dominated the country's modem history: four centuries of Turkish rule; a short-lived monarchy in the 1920s; consecutive Italian and German military occupations; forty years of iron-fisted Stalinism. Although a democratically elected government has been in power for more than two years, the country still functions without a new constitution. Critics charge that the government is taking advantage of this legal ambiguity for its own political purposes. The Press Law guarantees freedom of the press, yet forbids journalists from revealing "state secrets." While Albania's newspapers have more liberty than ever before, many journalists still complain about less obvious forms of censorship. As Albanian society lumbers toward Europe, the independent press is struggling to participate in the crucial process of democratization.

1 Frrok £upi's life as a journalist illustrates the politically charged nature of the Albanian press both during communist rule and afterwards. The silver-haired newspaperman with the becoming smile began his journalistic career in the early 1970s at Bashkimi (Unite). The paper was the daily of the Democratic Front, the political organization to which nearly all Albanians belonged. After six years, £upi was assigned to Zeri i Popullit (Voice of the People), the official organ of the ruling Party of Labor. At the time, the newspaper represented the highest professional standard of Albanian journalism, but its writers were given little opportunity to stray from the Stalinist party line of First Secretary . Skillful journalists learned "to write between the lines" and to use metaphors beyond the comprehension of the censors. Gripped with a paranoia of a foreign invasion, Hoxha littered the countryside with thousands of helmet-shaped bunkers; he declared that the West "would never come to Albania." Not able to criticize Hoxha's smugness directly, £upi instead wrote a story on the hydroelectric plant at Fierza. When the dam was first constructed, Hoxha had pompously proclaimed that the land flooded behind it "would never be seen

1 Lucian Kim, Bonn Free Press in Albania 571 again." During the drought of 1982, however, the artificial lake dried up and the once submerged town appeared again. In his sixth year at Zeri i Popullit, £upi wrote several stories that attempted to portray the real problems of Albanian life. In March 1985, following the appearance of an article critical of the bureaucracy, Hoxha personally intervened by ordering an investigation of £upi and the suspension of his writing. Later that year, £upi was convicted and sent to a copper mine in northern Albania for "re-education." Five years later, £upi was released and given a low position as journalist in the Ministry of Culture. In November 1990, the first anti-communist student demonstrations began in . Ramiz Alia, who became First Secretary of the Party of Labor after Hoxha's death in 1985, sent , a party functionary and Hoxha’s personal doctor, to negotiate with the protesting students. Berisha quickly understood that Albania’s days as Eastern Europe's last communist stronghold were numbered and resigned from the Party of Labor. He subsequently was chosen as leader of the newly formed Democratic Party, which in January 1991 began publishing the first opposition newspaper in seventy years. As one of the founding members of (Rebirth of Democracy), £upi became its first editor-in- chief. After four decades of communist tyranny and isolation from the outside world, Albanian intellectuals felt optimistic for the first time. In March 1991, the Party of Labor won the first free parliamentary elections; a few months later the party split into the Socialist Party and the now defunct Communist Party. Alia, who had in the meantime resigned from the Party of Labor, was elected president by the new Parliament. Only seven months after the founding of the Democratic Party, £upi's relation with Berisha soured. £upi complained that he could not take orders on what to write and accused the party of operating along old communist lines. When he rejected offers of high government and party positions in return for obedience, £upi was fired as Rilindja Demokratike's editor-in-chief. In an interview with Swedish Radio, £upi stated that the Democratic Party was "going the same road in the same wagon" as the communists, only the horse they were whipping was Hoxha. A small independent weekly by the name of Koha Jone (Our Time) published the interview; an astounding 30 000 reprints of that particular issue were sold. In March 1992, parliamentary elections were held once again, and this time the Democratic Party took power. Alia resigned under pressure, and after vesting the president's office with greater powers, the Parliament elected Berisha to a five-year term as president. £upi's fortunes, on the other hand, took a turn for the worse. First he was unemployed, then he found a job as director of the International Center of Culture (housed in the former Hoxha Museum). On July 5, 1992, the Attorney General, an acquaintance, warned £upi that he would be arrested the next day. That same night, £upi fled with his family to Greece, where he at first applied for political asylum. In the coming months, £upi took a human rights course in Holland and wrote for a European Community journal in 572 Lucian Kim

Brussels. Finally, in February 1993, it was safe for the £upis to return to Tirana, as Berisha had become "preoccupied" with new political opponents. £upi began writing regularly for Koha Jone as head of its political section. Upon his return, £upi learned that he was under state investigation. Although he had won a six-month scholarship to study ancient Greek philosophy at the University of Athens, £upi was not allowed to go abroad, and even trips within Albania required official permission. In July 1993, the travel ban was lifted, but the State Attorney's office advised £upi to be "careful" of his movements and phone calls. Even now, the journalist's phone is tapped, and agents of SHIK (National Information Service) loiter outside his home. "They know my steps," he says with a sigh. "Psychological violence is worse than physical."

2 Early in 1991, Koha Jone began appearing as a local weekly in the town of Lezhe. When the Lezhe print shop broke down some months later, Nikoll Lesi and Aleksander Frangaj, the paper's founders, decided to continue printing in Tirana. Unexpectedly, the paper sold in the capital as well, and after the publication of £upi's famous interview, Koha Jones success as the leading independent paper was assured. Soon after the Democratic Party came to power in 1992, seven journalists from Rilindja Demokratike made a declaration that the Democratic Party's press was not free — three writers stepped over to Koha Jone. Demand for the paper increased progressively, until it began appearing six times a week last January. Staffed primarily by reporters in their twenties and thirties, Koha Jone has a respectable circulation of 15-20 000. Probably the most well-known — and controversial — Albanian journalist is Martin Leka, the 34 year old assistant editor of Koha Jone. In January 1994, he wrote an article about the Minister of Defense's secret order requiring officers to surrender their arms before going home, a violation of existing Albanian law. With the permission of the Ministry of Defense, the Public Prosecutor began an investigation of Leka. His home was searched, and 10 days after the article's appearance, he and Alexander Frangaj, the paper's editor-in-chief, were arrested for endangering national security. Despite both national and international outcry, Leka and Frangaj spent 25 days in a dank prison, awaiting their first trial. Leka was sentenced to one- and-a-half years, while Frangaj was set free. A month later, when Leka appealed the ruling, he was charged under Article 20 of the Press Law, which prohibits the publication of state secrets. The appeal court upheld the previous ruling on Leka and sentenced Frangaj to 5 months in prison. Only after continued international protests did President Berisha finally pardon Leka, Frangaj and other jailed journalists in May 1994. Not surprisingly, three weeks later the Supreme Court ruled that both journalists were not guilty. Free Press in Albania 573

Nevertheless, Leka concedes that in a general sense, freedom of the press exists in Albania, as guaranteed under the Press Law. However, he finds that certain restrictions cause journalists to practice self-censorship. Andrea Stefani, 35, the economic writer for (Albanian Newspaper), also complains about self-censorship and the government's control of information. The soft-spoken but articulate journalist is proud of the respect his paper wins from all political factions. As a subsidiary of the southern Italian Gazzetta del Mezzogiorno, the newspaper existed shortly during Mussolini's occupation of Albania. Today the lopsided cooperation has been revived: the Italians not only finance and print Gazeta Shqiptare, but also fly it in from Bari every day. Four Albanian journalists and their Italian editor-in-chief fight the clock to put out the daily with a circulation of 8 000. Stefani feels that the Press Law makes it extremely difficult for journalists to collect information from different government institutions. Bureaucrats can decide what is a "state secret," since no clear criteria exist to define it. As a specialist on the economy, Stefani cannot even eke out information on IMF credits, monetary policy or basic economic indicators from the Ministry of Finance or the Bank of Albania. In Stefani's view, the government is avoiding an open debate on the catastrophic state of the economy by limiting access to data. "It is undemocratic not to publish information on the economy," he grumbles indignantly. "The economy doesn't belong to the government but to the people." Furthermore, Stefani believes that with a lack of reliable information, the chances that journalists will "make mistakes" increase. And when newspapers err, the government is entitled to punish editors with stiff fines. Gazeta Shqiptare thus maintains a higher ground that rarely touches on political commentary. Other newspapers have easily identifiable political agendas. Zeri i Popullit, the former communist daily, is now the official organ of the Socialist Party. Founded in 1942 as part of the resistance movement, the newspaper remains Albania's oldest and largest with a circulation of 40 000. Thoma Gellgi, the 33 year old editor-in-chief, describes how Zeri i Popullit's staff "metamorphasized" since 1991 into a group of progressive journalists with an average age of 25. Gellgi claims that "95 percent" of the writers are not members of the Socialist Party and that the staff is completely free of former communists. When asked if the Socialist Party finances the newspaper, the heavy, dark editor boasts confidently: "no, Zeri i Popullit finances the party." As the main opposition party, the Socialists now appear most likely to defeat the Democrats in the 1996 elections. Gellgi booms argumentatively that under the current government, "there is absolutely no freedom of the press." For fear of breaking the "fascist" Press Law, he even has had to reject articles for publication. Edi Paloka, 28, joined the Democratic Party as a student protester; today he is a member of the party's executive council and the assistant editor of Rilindja Demokratike, the party's official organ. Paloka bristles at 574 Lucian Kim

insinuations that the Albanian press is somehow not completely free. The Press Law, modeled after a similar law from the German state of Baden- Württemberg, is necessary exactly because "responsibility doesn't exist in Albania." With some 200 papers now being published in the country, journalists "write everything — even what they're not supposed to."

3 When Albanian journalists are not pondering over what may constitute a state secret, they are confronted with the serious business of running a newspaper. Blendi Fevziu, 25, is the affable editor-in-chief of Aleanca, the paper of the one-year old opposition party, Democratic Alliance. For him, there are two major problems that beset the Albanian press today — printing and distribution. Printing has become expensive, as all paper and ink are imported at world prices. In addition, the government levies heavy taxes on newspapers: 30% customs duty on paper, 15% circulation tax, 15% tax on advertising, 20% tax on honoraria. Distribution, which is run by a state- owned company, is also difficult. More than 65 percent of Albania’s three million inhabitants live in the countryside; few newspapers ever reach the hinterland, and sales agents often wait months to make payments. Like Frrok £upi, the poet Ilirian Zhupa was one of the original founders of Rilindja Demokratike. By December 1991 he also had become disillusioned, criticizing the Democratic Party's tendency to portray itself as a heroic movement. "A democratic society doesn't need heroes," he wrote, and went off to start his own newspaper. Today he is editor of the independent bi­ weekly Populli Po (People Yes), as well as vice chairman of the Albanian Helsinki Committee. Chainsmoking his way through the interview, Zhupa rattles off a list of taxes, finally arriving at a total of 105 percent tax for newspapers. As Zhupa sees it, instead of imprisoning journalists, the government has now embarked on a strategy of taxation and fines. For three days in August 1994, all the major independent Albanian newspapers went on strike to call attention to this "economic censorship." As a result, the vice Minister of Finance met with the striking editors to discuss possible tax reductions. Edi Paloka, of Rilindja Demokratike, would like to remind other journalists that a newspaper is a business and warrants some kind of tax. "No one says you must open a newspaper if you don't have the money," he adds. Of all the newspapers, only Zeri i Popullit and Koha Jone make a clear profit; the others break even at best. Dita Informacion (Information of the Day) is another independent bi-weekly with a similar circulation as Populli Po — about 7 000. The paper actually makes financial losses, and if the editor's brother were not a therapist in Germany, no one could cover the difference. A correspondent for Deutsche Welle, Apollon Ba9e voluntarily writes political and economic analyses for Dita Informacion. "What can a newspaper do with two or three journalists?" he asks in despair. Free Press in Albania 575

4 Ba§e sums up the ambivalence of many Albanian journalists: "The future of the press depends on the future of Albania. The glass is both half full and half empty." He calculates that if a retired worker were to buy Koha Jone (the most expensive paper, about $ 0.25) every day, he would spend one third of his pension for the newspaper alone. The cold reality of the market economy has also brought positive changes, however. In 1991, the International Media Fund donated a modem printing house to the seven newspapers that were then in the opposition. When the Democratic Party took power the next year, Rilindja Demokratike became the voice of the ruling party and dominated the printing house's board of directors. Only several months ago, the free market won over politics when the rival paper Koha Jone began printing there as well. For potential readers, paying for a newspaper is not always the only problem. Few papers are obtainable in rural areas, and illiteracy is already creeping to the 5 percent mark. Ba£e understands that in Albania, like anywhere else, "the king of the mass media is television." Many foreign broadcasts are now available to Albanian spectators, but the single Albanian channel is firmly in state control. "We are not looking for the destabilization of the government or any provocations," a journalist at Radio-TV Albania says mechanically. Blendi Fevziu of Aleanca believes that the government's "economic barricades" will ultimately leave only two or three independent papers operating by the end of 1994. In theory, newspapers require subsidies from large companies. But with the lack of any domestic industrial production, no one is capable of financing a newspaper. Even Koha Jone, which is financially sound, could be crippled by a couple of hefty fines for uncovering "state secrets." Ilirian Zhupa, the editor of Populli Po, feels that the future of Albania's press depends more on external factors. He warns that the opposition is in danger, and that the international community is giving neither enough attention nor enough concrete assistance to Albanian journalists. Martin Leka, who went to prison for what he wrote, sounds more optimistic about the future. According to him, the independent press will persevere because of the large "intellectual force" that is prepared to defend it. Leka considers newspaper strikes as a particularly useful instrument of self- defense. "Things will improve," says Andrea Stefani of Gazeta Shqiptare hopefully. In the last few months, several stories critical of the government have appeared without any reaction from officials. For example, when Koha Jone recently published an article from the Croatian press, which implicated the Albanian government in breaking the embargo to rump Yugoslavia, no "repercussions" were felt. "The free press is being created now," Stefani concludes. "It is very difficult to stop, as it is an integral part of Albania's democratization."