The Dissonance of Quiet
We left Israel during a period of sirens, two wars with Iran, and after more than two years of national trauma. The truth is, we weren't actively looking for a quiet place to move to; one day Etai simply got a job offer in Albania, and that's how we found ourselves here. This offer came in the middle of our lives and was a real opportunity for us to step away for a bit, to a temporary place we could call home. We are veterans of protests – we took an active part in the Kaplan protests long before October 7th, so we know very well what a turbulent country looks like. The move to Albania was the exact opposite of that: we landed in a quiet reality, in a country where we have no part in its protests or politics. But this recent period has proven to me just how fragile reality can be, and made me rethink the dissonance of quiet.
For our first five months here, it was indeed quiet. Even when the "Flamingo Revolution" protests broke out in May, mostly revolving around controversial tourism development plans, we barely felt them in our neighborhood. Occasionally, walking around the city center, we'd pass small groups of protesters without any special drama. But this past October, something changed.
What started as a protest by university and high school students demanding better conditions and education standards quickly ignited into a furious protest against government corruption and Prime Minister Edi Rama, who has been in office for 13 years. The streets literally burned, with severe clashes, stone-throwing, fireworks, and arson.
During most of the violent escalation days, we weren't even here. We flew back to Israel following the sudden passing of my father. After the Shiva, I stayed in Israel with our children who live their student lives there, and Itay returned to Albania for a few days of work, until our originally scheduled flight for the elections in Israel.
On the evening Etai landed in Tirana, he drove our car from the airport toward home. As he approached the large square near our area, the air grew thick and murky. As a pilot by profession, who deeply understands when it makes sense for there to be fog and when it doesn't, Etai knew immediately that something wasn't right. When he looked out the window, the realization that it was choking smoke hit him alongside a surreal, almost apocalyptic sight: the traffic lights were dark and dead, the massive metal fences separating the sidewalk from the road had been violently torn from their place, burning trash cans illuminated the road, and heavy concrete blocks were scattered across the driving lane to block it.
We both returned to Albania almost a week ago, into the remnants of this recent period. As I walk the streets now, my gaze – the gaze of a graphic designer with 30 years of experience – is naturally drawn to the small details, to the open wounds left in the urban space. The photos I took are the silent testimony to the chaos that unfolded here just a moment ago: a white police water cannon waiting tensely on a street corner, a tin pole left orphaned from a torn-off traffic light, and another broken traffic light looking downwards.
A broken, non-functioning traffic light A pole that once held a traffic light A water cannon on standby at a street corner
The public sidewalk is scarred, missing dozens of interlocking stone tiles that were uprooted to be used as weapons. Here and there you can see soot traces around a burnt trash can, charred remains on the road, or a Vodafone branch that was completely vandalized and covered with tarps.
A sidewalk with uprooted tiles A Vodafone branch vandalized and covered up Charred remains on the road Traces of burning on a trash can
Today, our neighborhood is back to running smoothly, but beneath the surface, the tension is definitely felt. This past weekend, another protest was planned in the city center. When we went out, we could see intersections unusually reinforced, with gatherings of armed police officers, water cannons on standby, and people looking like press photographers. We decided to pass and stay home this time. We sat in the living room, heard the distant popping sounds of fireworks – a fairly routine phenomenon here – and spent a quiet evening.
But something in the almost absolute sense of quiet and security that accompanied me when we first arrived here has cracked. There is something very strange about arriving from a stormy and bleeding reality in one country, only to discover you are living adjacent to the explosive reality of another. Accompanying this strangeness is that familiar fear we know so well as Israelis – antisemitic conspiracy theories about the Prime Minister's relations with Israel have already started flooding the networks here, and soon after also led to the temporary closure of the Israeli embassy in Tirana.
A sidewalk from which tiles were torn Remnants of a traffic light Concrete debris next to a soot-covered trash can Signs of an uprooted fence
The realization that even when we are completely out of the story, someone will always find a way to drag us into the list of the guilty, does not let up. All that is left for me to hope is that these protests will calm down, that we can safely continue our relocation just like before, and that we can leave the dissonance of quiet behind us.
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