On April 30, 2011, the world bid farewell to one of the most profound voices in literature—Ernesto Sábato, the Argentine writer and essayist of Arbëreshë descent (Albanian). Known for his introspective novels and deep moral reflections, Sábato left behind a legacy marked not only by literary brilliance but also by moments of heartfelt human connection—one of which took place in Albania.
By Visar Zhiti
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| Ernesto Sábato in the right in Albania and on the left is Visar Zhiti, Albania, 1995 |
In 1995, despite being physically worn and emotionally drained, Ernesto Sábato made the journey to Albania to receive the prestigious Kadare Prize. It was the first time the prize was awarded, and Sábato felt compelled to honor the "poor and heroic" country of his ancestors. His experience in Tirana became one of the most moving episodes of his life.
“I was exhausted,” Sábato later wrote in his final book Before the End, “but I went there to pay respect to that poor and heroic land, which for the first time was awarding me this prize. In the city of Tirana, I received the most emotional honors of my life.”
He was deeply touched by the Albanian people, a nation still scarred by decades of brutal dictatorship. "Faces marked by suffering, grim bunkers left behind by a paranoid regime," he noted, yet amidst that desolation, he found warmth, reverence, and an almost regal welcome. “They received me like a protector, like a king, like their beloved son.”
At the award ceremony, the Argentinian author was gifted something deeply symbolic—an urn filled with soil from his mother’s birthplace, presented by the Albanian writer Visar Zhiti. Zhiti, a former political prisoner, shared how he had secretly copied excerpts of Camus and Sábato’s own work, particularly the passage “Dear and Distant Boy” from The Angel of Darkness, into a small notebook while in prison. Those words had given him strength to survive the darkness of his confinement.
“I was shaken and moved,” wrote Sábato, “that my words had served that hero, one of the many who live in that country, still fighting.”
The following day, they were seen off with music and flowers. The emotional weight of the experience was so intense that Sábato fainted at the Vienna airport. “Only after several hours could we leave for Madrid,” he recalled.
Back home, mourning the recent death of his son Jorge, Sábato reflected on the pain and nobility he had witnessed in Albania. “I think of those mothers who have seen their sons die in the most barbaric ways and still manage to be so full of spirit,” he wrote. In solitude, he pondered, “What kind of God hides behind such suffering?”
Ernesto Sábato's visit to Albania was more than a ceremonial trip—it was a spiritual pilgrimage. In that small, battered country, he found a mirror to the suffering and resilience of humanity, and in return, Albania found in him a voice of dignity, remembrance, and compassion.
His legacy continues to echo through his words, which, as in the case of Visar Zhiti, have been a lifeline in the darkest of times.
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