Many might find it difficult to believe that a Muslim-majority country sheltered and saved Jews during World War II; even fewer know that one European country in particular saw a tenfold increase in its Jewish population over the course of the Holocaust.
But such is the story of Albania, a small country in southeast Europe whose unique culture and positioning along the Adriatic and Ionian coasts provided refuge for Jews from persecution throughout the ages.
The ancient history of Jews in the tiny Balkan country is difficult to trace; some historians suggest that it may have been Jewish slaves who arrived on its southern shores in 70 CE, following the destruction of the Second Temple.
Descendants of these Roman captives may have been the ones who built the country’s fourth- or fifth-century synagogue in Onchesmus, the modern-day beach town of Sarandë.
Visitors today can walk through its ruins and observe the remains of a mosaic showing a menorah flanked by a shofar (ram’s horn) and etrog (citron), attesting to the presence of a synagogue.
The little that is known about the Jewish population in Albania over the course of the following thousand-odd years begins to form the dominant attitude of Albania toward its Jews: tolerance for, and integrity toward, a persecuted minority, which the local population never saw as any different from itself.
While small numbers of Jews had arrived in the tiny country throughout the Middle Ages, it was the expulsion of Spanish and Portuguese Jewry from their respective Christian home countries that led to the formation of the first properly documented sizable Jewish communities in Albania.
Vlorë, Berat, Elbasan, and Lezhë gained a merchant class involved in importing items from Europe and exporting spices, leather, velvets, and other exotic goods from the Ottoman Empire, which had completed its occupation of Albania in the first half of the 15th century.
Ottoman records of the Albanian Jewish community
Ottoman records indicate some 2,600 Jews lived in the port city and main municipality of Vlorë in the 16th century, constituting between a third and half of its population.
Wars among the region’s great powers and the ensuing instability caused the Albanian Jewish population to ebb and flow over the centuries. By the 1930s, the national census showed only 204 Jews remained in the country.
With the rise of the Nazi Party in Germany, those Jews who had remained in Germany in 1938 found themselves trapped; the US quota systems restricted Jewish immigration, and European countries had stopped issuing visas to Jews, with the exception of Albania.
History in the 20th century repeated itself: Jews from all over Western Europe, as well as Axis-occupied Eastern Europe, fled to Albania. The country’s borders remained open for Jews to take refuge in its mountainous villages, seaside towns, and city basements.
The most important facet of Albanian culture that obligated and encouraged Albanians to shelter Jews was besa, a word meaning literally “honor” or “pledge.” An Albanian was compelled to accept any passerby who needed their assistance. Once a stranger had come under the Albanian’s roof, their status was elevated above even that of the host’s family.
This tradition of sheltering guests traces its lineage to the Kanun of Lek, Albanian culture’s oldest code of conduct. The Kanun, a set of laws originating in northern Albania, governed all aspects of daily life. Life in the country’s north was exceptionally difficult; the soaring Alpine mountains made traversing the region daunting.
Any travelers attempting to get through its imposing mountain passes were therefore afforded the highest degree of hospitality: if a tribesman of one village couldn’t easily find accommodation in another, it would make crossing the mountain range almost impossible.
The Kanun was initially kept alive by village elders who passed it down orally from one generation to the next. Although it ceased to serve as the basis for the Albanian legal system long ago, its lasting impact on Albanian society persists through the modern era.
Albanian culture frowns on turning away any stranger, no matter their origin. When Jews arrived on Albania’s Adriatic coast, they were greeted by smiling villagers and city dwellers who took them into their homes.
For an Albanian to turn over a Jew to the Nazi regime would entail breaking his besa and bringing disgrace and dishonor upon his entire household.
The stain of such a shameful action could be cleansed only through hakmarrje, a revenge killing that would see the host or his family members killed in retribution.
The reigning ethos governing how to treat guests can be found in an ancient phrase from the Kanun proclaiming that “shtëpia është e zotit dhe mikut” – the house belongs to God and the guest.” In ancient Albanian mythology, wayfarers were seen as gods taking earthly form to test the virtue of prospective hosts.
If an Albanian accepted a guest into his home and provided him with food and accommodation, he would merit a bountiful harvest and good fortunes in the coming year. To turn away a guest meant to turn away divinity and the source of life itself.
So, despite still suffering from malaria and famine, Albanians provided food and shelter to the terrified European Jews who arrived in their underdeveloped country. Many Albanians dressed their Jewish guests in peasant clothing and hid them in plain sight as family members.
Edip Pilku, a young boy when the Germans invaded Albania, related how his family hid a family of Jews in their seaside home in Durrës:
“My mother, Liza Pilku, was German, so the Nazis often visited our seaside home. We introduced the Gerechter family as our relatives from Germany.
Naturally, they were terrified. Once, in Durrës, the Gestapo cordoned off the streets and searched with dogs for Jews. My mother came out of her house and scolded the Gestapo in German. She told them never to come back, to remember that she was German, too. The Gestapo left.”
Loose record-keeping in the early 20th century made a systematic roundup of Jewish Albanians, largely assimilated into broader Albanian culture, almost impossible for the Germans once they completed their occupation of the country.
Albanians resisted when the German government demanded they turn over the European Jewish refugees it knew were being hidden among the local populace.
Instead, Albanians ushered Jews out of the main cities of Durrës, Vlorë, and Tirana into picturesque countryside villages and towns where German forces weren’t stationed and which the Nazis had difficulty penetrating.
Berat, designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2008, served as one major hideout for the Jewish refugees fleeing the Nazi occupiers.
The highly mountainous nature of the city and its labyrinthine back alleys made Berat the perfect place to stow away the country’s Jewish refugees. Today, the city’s Solomon Museum serves as the country’s sole museum of Jewish history, detailing the heroic efforts of locals who concealed Jews in their hillside homes.
While the Germans imposed a puppet Albanian government to cater to Nazi interests, at almost every level of the bureaucracy, Albanian politicians resisted attempts to deport the country’s newfound Jewish inhabitants. Government officials often provided Jews with fake passports and Muslim identities.
Haxhi Dede Reshat Bardhi, the previous head of the Bektashi Muslim sect in Albania, told American photographer and author Norman Gershman that then-prime minister Mehdi Frashëri, also a Bektashi Muslim, gave the order to sect members that “[a]ll Jewish children will sleep with your children; all will eat the same food; all will live as one family.” To turn a Jew over to the Nazis was tantamount to handing one’s own family over to the murderous regime.
ALBANIAN SOCIETY thus stood out as a shining example that has much to teach the rest of the world about the crucial importance of looking past interfaith differences and focusing on our shared humanity.
To an Albanian, it makes little difference if one is Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. In the words of Nadire Proseku, a young man whose family hid three Jews in Tirana during the German occupation: “Why did we do it? We saw the Jews as brothers. As religious but liberal Muslims, we were only doing our duty.”
This is why when the American ambassador to Albania, Henry Bernstein, arrived in the country in 1934, he observed that “[t]here is no trace of any discrimination against Jews in Albania, because Albania happens to be one of the rare lands in Europe today where religious prejudice and hate do not exist, even though Albanians themselves are divided into three faiths.”
Albania’s philosemitism and hospitable culture persist in the 21st century. The country enjoys excellent relations with Israel, one of the few OECD countries not requiring Albanians to obtain a visa for entry.
Tens of thousands of Israelis stream into Albania every year to dip in its pristine turquoise waters and tour the breathtaking countryside, often unaware of the country’s incredible history of protecting their imperiled ancestors.
Albania today remains proud of its unique culture of kindness, integrity, and hospitality. In 2020, the country unveiled a prominent Holocaust memorial at the entrance to Tirana’s Grand Park with an inscription in Hebrew, English, and Albanian, proclaiming that Albanians of all faiths risked their lives to save Jews in their darkest hour.
A famous teaching from the Talmud adorns the memorial: “He who saves one life, it is as if he has saved the entire world.”
The ancient Jewish dictum proclaims the sanctity of all human life. Even one individual has the potential to propagate humanity and save it from destruction.
This shared concern for every human life – regardless of nationality or religious faith – is a sentiment the people of Albania, with their time-honored traditions, have exemplified and implemented undauntedly.
Harel Kopelman is an Israeli-American writer and businessman living in Tirana, Albania. He is the co-founder of Albanian Night, the country’s first-ever ethnocultural center teaching visitors about the country’s intangible cultural heritage via immersive experiences and shows.
