Trees decorated with hearts in the Albanian capital Tirana on Valentine's Day 2014. Photo: Getty
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No sex please, I’m Albanian: Sworn Virgin by Elvira Dones

Dramatic though the transition from Albania to America has been, Mark faces an even greater change. For 14 years, he has been living as a man – but until the age of 20, he was a girl named Hana. 

Sworn Virgin
Elvira Dones; translated by Clarissa Botsford
And Other Stories, 256pp, £10

On a flight from Albania to Washington in October 2001, two passengers strike up a conversation. One is Patrick O’Connor, an American journalist. The other is Mark Doda, a shepherd from Rrnajë, a village deep in the mountains of Albania, who is leaving his country for the first time in his 34 years. Unusually for a village shepherd, Mark speaks some English and tells his travelling companion that he writes poetry. As they part at the airport, Patrick, intrigued, hands over his card. “Call me whenever you want,” he says. And then, turning for a last farewell: “Use that phone number, really! I’m pretty sure you’ll need it.”

Yet Mark is not arriving in America with nowhere to go. Gathered to meet him are his cousin Lila, her husband, Shtjefën, their 13-year-old daughter, Jonida, and some other former villagers from Rrnajë, now settled in the US. At Lila’s and Shtjefën’s modest apartment in the Washington suburbs, Lila and Mark stay up late, talking about the past.

Dramatic though the transition from Albania to America has been, Mark faces an even greater change. For 14 years, he has been living as a man – but until the age of 20, he was a girl named Hana. The switch of gender was not prompted by Hana’s sexuality but by her family circumstances. Rather than enter an arranged marriage, she chose to follow an ancient Albanian custom and become a sworn virgin.

A sworn virgin, she explains to her astonished niece, who has already noticed that “Uncle Mark” is “the funniest guy I’ve ever met”, is a woman who chooses to live as a man to defend her family’s honour. From the day she puts on male clothing, she is treated by other men as one of them. She drinks, smokes and works like a man – activities forbidden to village women. But the price of a sworn virgin’s masculine freedom is the sacrifice of love, children and companionship. She can never marry and must remain celibate all her life.

At 20, Hana was a student of literature at university in Tirana, where she had been encouraged to go by her uncle Gjergj and her aunt Katrina, who brought her up after the death of her parents in a car crash. When news came that her uncle was sick, she skipped an essential examination to return home. As Gjergj lay mortally ill with cancer, Katrina’s weak heart gave out and Hana felt that she had no choice but to abandon her studies to care for her uncle. Yet she could not remain a single woman. Instead of marrying a man she did not love, she embraced the only freedom available to her, as Mark. Now, transplanted to post-9/11 America, she must learn to become Hana again. And as Patrick O’Connor predicted, she needs to call his number.

In so far as Albanian fiction is at all familiar to a western audience, it is probably from the remarkable writing of Ismail Kadare, who provides an introduction to Elvira Dones’s novel. Dones is a writer and film-maker who defected from communist Albania in 1988; she was convicted of treason in her absence and separated from her young son until the collapse of communism in the country in 1992. In 2007, her film Sworn Virgins won the prize for Best Documentary at the Baltimore Women’s Film Festival.

Her novel, beautifully translated by Clarissa Botsford, explores its subject matter with the authority of a writer who understands what it means to live against your own nature in order to survive. The physical contrasts of Hana’s different worlds – the harsh village life, the exhilaration of university, the strangeness of the Washington suburbs – are described with the same piercing authenticity with which Dones delineates Hana’s inner terrain: her renunciation of her female identity and the halting, painful, joyful recovery of her sense of self. The precision with which her narrative explores its themes of identity, exile and belonging is a vindication of the PEN Writers in Translation Programme, which supported the publication of this tender, funny and arrestingly original novel.

Jane Shilling is a book critic for the Telegraph and the author of two books: The Fox in the Cupboard and The Stranger in the Mirror, a memoir of middle age, published in 2011. She writes on books for the New Statesman. 

This article first appeared in the 04 June 2014 issue of the New Statesman, 100 days to save Great Britain

Pompidou Centre
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Harry Styles: What can three blank Instagram posts tell us about music promotion?

Do the One Direction star’s latest posts tell us about the future of music promotion in the social media age - or take us back to a bygone era?

Yesterday, Harry Styles posted three identical, captionless blank images to Instagram. He offered no explanation on any other social network, and left no clue via location serves or tagged accounts as to what the pictures might mean. There was nothing about any of the individual images that suggested they might have significance beyond their surface existence.

And, predictably, they brought in over a million likes – and thousands of Styles fans decoding them with the forensic dedication of the cast of Silent Witness.

Of course, the Instagrams are deliberately provocative in their vagueness. They reminded me of Robert Rauschenberg’s three-panelled White Painting (1951), or Robert Ryman’s Untitled, three square blank canvases that hang in the Pompidou Centre. The composer John Cage claimed that the significance of Rauschenberg’s White Paintings lay in their status as receptive surfaces that respond to the world around them. The significance of Styles’s Instagrams arguably, too, only gain cultural relevance as his audience engages with them.

So what did fans make of the cryptic posts? Some posited a modelling career announcement would follow, others theorised that it was a nod to a Taylor Swift song “Blank Space”, and that the former couple would soon confirm they were back together. Still more thought this suggested an oncoming solo album launch.

You can understand why a solo album launch would be on the tip of most fans’ tongues. Instagram has become a popular platform for the cryptic musical announcement — In April, Beyoncé teased Lemonade’s world premiere with a short Instagram video – keeping her face, and the significance behind the title Lemonade, hidden.

Creating a void is often seen as the ultimate way to tease fans and whet appetites. In June last year, The 1975 temporarily deleted their Instagram, a key platform in building the band’s grungy, black and white brand, in the lead up to the announcement of their second album, which involved a shift in aesthetic to pastel pinks and bright neons.

The Weekend wiped his, too, just last week – ahead of the release of his new single “Starboy”. Blank Instagrams are popular across the network. Jaden Smith has posted hundreds of them, seemingly with no wider philosophical point behind them, though he did tweet in April last year, “Instagram Is A BlackHole Of Time And Energy.”

The motive behind Harry’s blank posts perhaps seems somewhat anticlimactic – an interview with magazine Another Man, and three covers, with three different hairstyles, to go along with it. But presumably the interview coincides with the promotion of something new – hopefully, something other than his new film Dunkirk and the latest update on his beloved tresses. In fact, those blank Instagrams could lead to a surprisingly traditional form of celebrity announcement – one that surfaces to the world via the print press.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.