Memoirs of Albanian women

Hatixhe

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'One red thread backwards... two black threads on the other side...'- going through the boring motions of threading a needle for embroidery and rocking my baby sister to sleep, the last thought on my mind that of my engagement, an event I expected to take place in the far future, when suddenly I hear my nana summoning me: 'Hatixhe! Hatixhe!'. Afraid that she was going to wake the toddler, after all the difficulties I had gone through to put her to sleep, I stood up and hurried out to the balcony. The sight of her red rimmed eyes broke my heart and made me apprehensive. I only had to look a bit further in the garden to stare at my baba's hanged head and the presence of my two elder uncles to confirm my suspicion that something terrible must have happened. 'What in the name of God has happened?'- I cried, chilled to the bone, thinking the worst. I found myself engulfed in my nana's hug. 'Hush now'- she tells me. 'Go inside for engaged girls are not supposed to hang out outside and be seen by the neighbors'.
I went inside meekly replaying her words over and over in my head. Engaged girls...engaged girls... as in betrothed... me betrothed. I was to be married. I, Hatixhe Gashi, 16 years old, was going to be a wife in a few months. I was going to have extra responsibilities and cook and wash for someone else rather than my dear family. I was going to live somewhere else. I was going to be a mother rather than be mothered. And that's when it hit me. No more liberty to speak my mind, no more late night talks with my sisters to my heart's content, no more family meals, no more sleeping in a room full of girls to gossip with and fantasize. I would sleep in a room with a boy...a man. What man? What was his name? Where was he from? Was he older, younger, cruel, nice, handsome, ugly? And most importantly: was his mother going to hate me?  
These thoughts kept me weeping in bed until the late hours. Sometimes they were tears of fear of the unknown and other times tears of joy. All girls dreamed of becoming brides one day. After all, as little girls, we had often played 'families' and I had been a pretend wife sometimes. I could see myself taking that stiff pose as a bride, beautiful and graceful. Making coffee for the guests of my husband's house, washing and cleaning the house and being praised for my cooking skills. 
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I had been taught well by my nana. I was not going to embarrass her, and my baba's name was not going to get blackened because of me. I was going to perform all my duties and I was going to get endorsed in my husband's eyes for it. 
Most importantly, I was going to give birth to healthy sons. Yes, sons. Because my nana had always been picked on for having given birth to 6 daughters and had barely managed to produce a weakling boy to carry on the family name. I had learned my lesson. So, sons it is. 
Dreaming of playing brides on the days to come, becoming a responsible adult, a man's wife and cuddling my baby boys in my arms is how I fell asleep. 
It is such a blessing to be young and naive! Such a blessing, I tell you! Because, as God is my witness, I never for a second thought of what being a wife would actually entail. Never thought of the hardships of living in a big house with fifty family members who were not my family members. Never thought of the demands of a thirty-one-year-old man on my young body in the bedroom. Nor did I think of the responsibility of feeding fifty people. Or the fact that my young body was not used to the labors that were part of the country life. Did I mention that I was a city girl who was promised to a man who lived in the village?!
They tell me things are going well. I mean, my life has changed so much that I do not have a recall of the person I was before I got married. I remember dreaming about such things like marriage and reading about them. The books left you a better taste of the institution of marriage then the reality. Or were the books about love? Are they not supposed to be the same thing?  What do I know?! I am only a child. No, no. I am a bride, a wife. I have been a wife for a week now. Trust me, you do not forget the moment you go through the change from being a child to becoming a wife. I recall every second, even though sometimes I wish I could lose some glimpses of that night.  Particularly the pain. I was not expecting it. Nobody had told me anything. 
I mean there I was, waiting for the groom to get in the bedroom I had been pushed into. Trying not to hyperventilate. Trying to guess what was going to happen next. He was taking too long. Why was he taking so long? I was getting very nervous. Trying to calm myself, I counted the nails that were hammered in the wooden walls and floor. I do not remember how many times I
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counted the nails but I do remember how many there were. Seventy-five was the exact number of them. 
While I was counting them, for what felt like the hundredth time, and a hundred years later, a man came in. No words were said. He spread a small rug, knelt and started praying. I thought he was my father-in-law and praying in the couple's room was a custom he had to go through. I had met to my cousin's father-in-law and this man was probably the same age. A bit overweight, black suit, black hat, and a grandfather kind of pocket watch that hung from his suit and touched the floor whenever the man bent forward to put his forehead on the floor. As I was staring at the door, waiting for my husband to arrive, the man that had been praying, folded the piece of rug he had put his knees on, and moved towards me. I found out that his name was Asllan and that I should quit staring at the door because my husband was actually in the room. 
Anyway, I must stop wishing for the impossible. It is 4:30 a.m. and I must be up and about. There are many mouths to feed in this house. Then, I must dust, do the washing up by the river, hang out the washing...the list is endless. This is my life now. I will get used to it. My nana did. Every woman has done so, why should I be any different?! 
There...one chore down, so many to go. I will be praised for this bread and for my cooking and that will make my husband proud. He is not a bad man. I would even say he is quite considerate, taking into account the fact that he comes from a village. He does not beat me. He does not raise his voice to me. I have heard there are much worse husbands. I could even come to respect him and then he will respect me when I give him sons. Yes, yes, all is good. No need to wish for the impossible. 
The first year of marriage is said to be the hardest. Until the couple gets used to each other's habits. I had to get used to all his family members. Fifty-six people and their habits. Different customs, different clothes and an alien family hierarchy. My father and mother in-law had died but there were the sisters-in-law from hell to take their place. Oh, the evilness!!! 
I remember that first week when it was my turn to bake for the 'clan'. I woke up really early and set off to make the dough and then bake it. It crumbled, hahhahahha! It's alright now, I can laugh about it. But back then it was no laughing matter. My sisters-in-law took the bread and went to show it to everyone in the neighborhood, proclaiming 'This is what our bride from the city has
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made us!' It was one of those humiliating things people did back then to pull rank on you, to show you who the boss was. I was so humiliated. I just wanted to curl in a ball and die. I didn't want to complain to my husband about it because he already had too much on his plate. But he had heard of it and came to talk to me. He was so sweet and considerate. I think that was the moment I started caring for him. 
From there it went on, one humiliating act after another to the point that I wasn't allowed to wear a watch, since only the eldest family member wore one, and that happened to be my brother-in-law. I cried every single day throughout my first year. Every single day! I cried when I went to the river to wash the clothes, I cried when I had to wake up inhumanly early to bake, I cried when I was offended by my in-laws and had to keep my mouth shut, I cried when I went to visit my family in the city and then I had to return back to my husband's family (I couldn't think of them as my family). But you see, in life you have to take the good with the bad. Yes, it was hard but I got stronger, I learned how to do things and how to behave to 'survive' in that house. And the relationship with my husband was really good. I learned to respect his word for he was a wise man and, on the other hand, he offered me kindness and always took my wishes into account. We enjoyed each-other's company and a strong bond started forming to the point that I would miss him when I went to visit my family. Even when I gave birth and our first two children were girls, he was pleased and never said anything hurtful. Of course, then I had two sons in a row so I made up for it. We had six children and I believe we were happy despite the circumstances and the harsh life. He died a few years ago. It was one of the saddest periods of my life. Sadder than when I got married, certainly. Sadder than that time he was almost killed during the war. But he went in peace. Surrounded by his children and all his grandchildren.
Move along now child. Perralla n'shkalle, dukati n'balle!1

1 An Albanian phrase to end a fairytale.