[h2]Chicago, USA, 1953[/h2]
Gabriella shivered slightly as she opened the door to her house. After a quick internal dialogue as whether or not to take off her jacket, she favored keeping it on, only to catch sight of her husband. 

“John, there you are!” she spoke loudly, John nearly dropping the papers he was holding, quickly meeting his wife's gaze. 

It had been 3 years since the couple had gotten married. Seemingly little happened in the lives of John and Gabriella Pashaj. And yet Gabriella stood in the doorway, brow furrowed at her husband with a stern expression. 

“Gabby, I need to tend to the restaurant's paperwork...”

“John, he has to go.”

John anxiously placed his hands over his head, twisting to the side to avoid making eye contact with his wife.

“I can't just throw him out, he's family. I'm afraid if I send him back he's going to do something stupid.”

Gabriella huffed loudly, provoking her husband to sternly demand she not do so.

“A year and a half, John. A year and a half and he's been nothing but trouble the entire time he's been here. He clearly has no intentions of leaving and living on his own, and I don't want him around when we have children of our own!”

“Family is important to him. You know that.”

“You're important to him. Maybe. He hates me, you know he does. He says horrible things about me, even about you for marrying me.”

John sighed, yet Gabriella persisted.

“He's told me he considers you only half of his family since you changed your name.”

John winced at that. It was never clear to him why it mattered if his name was spelled John or Gjon. John empathized with his wife's complaints, indeed his cousin's perverse, far right beliefs were becoming a problem for him as well.

Gabriella's expression changed, almost to that of someone pleading. 

No words had to be said, John nodded at her and made his way down the hall.

Three firm knocks at the door. Ahmet knew exactly who it was that was there. 

“Hyni!” meaning “come in” in Albanian.

The creek of the door coincided with John's entrance into his younger cousin's room. Ahmet had taken up residence in John and Gabriella's home around the time he turned 18, at the request of his mother, who wanted him to leave Albania. Albania, she said, was a dying country, and her son would have more opportunity in the west. There was some luck that a family member had married an American. The US had far more chances than Albania, the woman thought.

Ahmet's room was unlike that of any 18-year-old John had ever seen before.

“The Quran again, Ahmet?”

Ahmet nodded, gently placing the book onto the holder in front of him. “You should read it more, Gjon. It would do you some good.”

Ahmet stretched himself out, an audible crack coming from his back as he did so, standing himself up to meet his cousin's gaze. Not much was in the room, save for his bed and a shelf filled with books concerning Islamic concepts, most of them in either Albanian or Turkish. With little more than a sparsely read Quran, John could hardly claim the same devotion as Ahmet. 

In fact, it seemed like at time's religion dominated all of Ahmet's thoughts and desires. He certainly wasn't associating himself with any other young men his age. Gabriella often noted how starnge it was that he just sat in his room, writing all day. Writing what exactly? He refused to show anyone. It had to be released on the right day, he said. 

“We need to talk Ahmet”

Ahmet chuckled a bit. “I know she wants me gone, Gjon. That's no surprise. But you can be sure to tell her that I will be leaving of my own accord.”

“What?”

“I'm leaving. I can't stand it in this country.” Ahmet placed a hand on his cousin's shoulder. “I need to be back in Albania. Albanian's belong in Albania. That is our home, not this place.”

John just lifted his cousin's hand off of him, glaring at him. “And what are you going to do in Albania that you can't do here?”

“Live a good, proper life. Not like the way people live here.”

“You're crazy, Ahmet. You idolize that place, as if you'll end up anything more than a farmer. You act like you're Skanderbeg himself, a regular Gjergj Kastrioti for a new era.” John slipped into a small rant. “For one thing, the countries at war!”

“Yes, and I plan to go back and fight the Greeks like I should.”

John simply looked off to the side for a second. “I don't get you, Ahmet. Really I don't.”

Ahmet nodded, “I appreciate your help, Gjon, but I need to go back. I want nothing more than for you to leave that woman and come back to Albania with me, but I know that will not be the case.”

“I can't stop you, I know that. But know that if you need anything, I will help you.”

Ahmet nodded. “Thank you, I will remember that.”

[h2]Korytsa, North Epirus Autonomous Region, Greece, 1960[/h2]
[i]Every nation is entitled to a piece of land of their own. The Albanian should not be ruled by the Greek or the Serbian any more than the Ukrainian should have their lives dictated by the Russian, or the Somali's destiny be under the control of the Habesha. The Empire is truly the greatest abomination of humanity. It takes a corrupted man to willingly deprive an entire nation of their freedom, leading to the death of their identity, language, way of life, their religion. There is little more in this world more disgusting than the empire. Thus, it is natural that nationalism was to come about. Any sane man would do anything to be free of the yoke of foreign oppression. Indeed, it is not just the right, but the obligation of any people who find themselves under the yoke of imperialism, to fight to break free of the chains of the oppressor, whether he may try to exert his influence in the form of military, political, or even cultural domination. Thus when one looks to Albania, let him not disregard us as irrelevant. If a man says, “Why should I care, I have no ties to Albania.” let him know that we are but an example, and that this could be any nation. 

The Right of the Nation-State
“Gjergj Kastrioti”
[/i]

“What is Luigi's Place?”

Ahmet spoke up, not once turning away from his yet incomplete book. “Question, Andrej. How do you keep the state off of your trail when you're bringing in large amounts of money. Larger than what your employment should allow?”

It had been some time since Andrej had spoken directly to his partner. The hulking, dark-haired Albanian had spent a great deal of time in Central America, as well as in much of Western Europe and the United States, negotiating and organizing drug trades and trafficking. Ahmet preferred not to get his hands dirty in “haraam” work. Even if that haraam work was what was making his little venture profitable. 

“My cousin Gjon has a thriving business going on in America. Some fast food place, they sell cheap Italian food, and it's been growing through the midwest, so it's a good place to hide a few hundred thousand a month.”

Andrej nodded. Of course it was that. 

“So how's this going to go down?”

Ahmet glanced over his shoulder at Andrej, giving a short chuckle as he turned himself around. 

“Xhamile's in Germany, so we go in and get her out. The Greeks know we are serious and willing to fight now, so we have to get the ball rolling on this. I want you and Muhammat to go to Frankfurt, and bring Xhamile back to Albania. I will be taking the rest of us to Skodra. You bring her there, and we can get the rest of this going.”

Ahmet simply returned to penning his book as his associates left. With any luck, he could begin distributing it soon.