Creating socialist realist art under communist Albania weighed heavily on the shoulders of artists of the era. Art, in all its forms, is deeply tied to human emotion — but during the dictatorship, sensitivity was punished.

Ermela Teli, who grew up during this period, presented her film “In Socialist Paradise (It Never Rains)” at this year’s International Documentary and Short Film Festival, Dokufest. The film is both a political and personal exploration of what it means to grow up in an extremely censored society. It reveals how the regime used art as a tool for propaganda to control both public and private life through socialist realism, a style made mandatory in Albania from 1952.

This genre aimed to educate people in the spirit of socialism and to consolidate loyalty to the Party of Labor of Albania (PPSH), under the leadership of Enver Hoxha. Literature and art were conceived as “ideological weapons,” glorifying the heroes of socialism – workers, peasants, and partisan fighters – who were depicted as morally and politically pure through artistic creations. The style of artistic expression had to be realistic, simple, and easily understandable, while any form of abstract art was condemned as “decadent,” which here means ‘alien’ to the people.

Meanwhile, in the same social reality — though far removed from the colorful portrayals of art — communist Albania held about 1,400 political prisoners in the notorious Spaç prison, deep in the mountains of Mirdita, near the town of Reps. There, prisoners were forced to work in the mines under inhumane conditions, with meager food and constant violence, aimed not only at breaking them physically but also spiritually. Most had been imprisoned for expressing dissatisfaction with the regime, attempting escape, or being labeled as “class enemies,” making Spaç one of the harshest symbols of communist repression.

Among those prisoners was Teli’s father, whom she visited at the age of five, in 1984 — a visit that left deep scars on her memory and creativity.

K2.0 spoke with Teli to better understand the challenges of finding “blue” emotions in the art of socialist realism. Under the censorship of feelings, Teli traces the ordinary reality, the fragments of nostalgia, and the rain that marked her childhood.

K2.0: What was your journey like in becoming a director, and what fulfilled and challenged you along the way?

Ermela Teli: In high school, I was the only one in my class who did not have a clear idea of my future. I never liked school — it was always a source of anxiety for me. Still, I had a special love for classes in literature.

Later, I began to feel drawn to art and the visual world. At first, I was interested in scenography, but I didn’t know how to interpret this desire in me, having not come from an artistic background. My interests then shifted toward theater. One day, I discovered that the Academy of Arts in Albania — today’s University of Arts — had a theater department, and I decided to prepare for the entrance competition.

During this time, in a store, I happened upon a group who were shooting a film. They offered me a chance to audition for their upcoming film “Tirana, Year Zero.” I went, auditioned, and they told me they wanted me in the cast. When I found myself on set, I thought: “This is what I’ve been looking for.” Klara in “Tirana, Year Zero,” was the only role I truly liked because she portrayed a young, honest girl with dreams — a girl who wanted to escape. She was not a victim, but a character my own age, someone who perfectly fit with what I understood the world to be at that time.

After that first film, I got a few other roles, but they weren’t as strong and came up in films that were very weak. It was the early 2000s, and back then, women in films were almost always portrayed as prostitutes or immigrants.

But you still kept taking other roles?

I was forced to accept them. I told myself: “If you don’t take these roles, you won’t be able to stay on set — especially since you haven’t studied film.” I tried to perform as professionally as I could, but when I watched those films later on, I felt ashamed.

Still, it became a valuable lesson. I came to understand what it means to work with weak characters, with underdeveloped themes, or without a logical and artistic narrative. In the end, this turned into a kind of school for me. I would talk to the directors of photography, observe how the scenes were lit, and study every detail. Then, in 2009, I experienced heartbreak, which I transformed into a silent film. By that time, I could no longer accept roles I did not want. I was ready to make my own films — to build my own reality. That was the beginning of my filmmaking journey.

How did you decide to make a film about the lack of rain in the art of socialist realism?

Since I was a child, rain has been very important to me, because I remember my entire childhood filled with rainy days. It also reminds me of the day I saw my father in prison. Images of the past always come to me with rain. I thought how wonderful it would be if I could see those rainy days reflected somewhere, if perhaps someone else had experienced reality with the same melancholic gaze I did.

But back then, that was a problem — you had to see things the same way as everyone else. You couldn’t see them differently; you couldn’t have a personal perception of reality. Rain, grayness, or darkness in painting were defined as pessimism — and pessimism was forbidden. You had to be happy, part of a happy ideological collective that accepted reality as the state directed it, not as you yourself saw it.

This became a secret of mine. I saw things I couldn’t tell anyone about, because there was an invisible wall between me and the rest. I quickly realized that you couldn’t speak to anyone. No one would explain, because it was forbidden to explain.

After many years, when communism fell, I entered my teenage years. I would tell my family that I remembered seeing my father in prison, but they didn’t believe me. No one had explained why he had been absent from home for so long. I remember returning from prison — we ended up hitchhiking because there was no bus. It was raining heavily. Spaç prison was on a mountain, almost pitch black; it was known as the harshest prison in Albania.

Still from the film “In Socialist Paradise (It Never Rains)”

For a long time, these fragments of memory were not accepted by others — only until after the fall of communism. I was told I couldn’t remember this because I was little. It felt as though I had lived between two different realities — mine and everyone else’s. This was one of the reasons I started searching for personal experiences and images of rain in the art of socialist realism. I hoped that art might hold on to these feelings somewhere, subtle signals, which showed others had seen the past as I had, with melancholy and sadness. I was looking for someone to tell me: “Yes, I saw what you saw too. You weren’t a crazy child.”

Over time, I realized that even people far more mature than I – had difficulty expressing reality as they saw it — but essentially, they had seen it the same way. I wanted to create a documentary to uncover images that were not political, a kind of hidden resistance, yet I couldn’t find them.

Through my research, I came across a study by critic and art historian Gëzim Qëndro, which explored the absence of rain in socialist realist art. This study appears in a chapter of the collection “Socialist Realism as History and Method,” curated by Raino Isto and published by the house Pika pa sajësë. The book is a compilation of essays and studies collected by Isto from various authors. Among them, Qëndro’s chapter, Le surréalisme socialiste. L’autopsie de l’utopie [in English: Socialist Realism. Autopsy of Utopia], became a key reference for me.

The spiritual beauty lies precisely here in the experience of research: an internal image — linked to personal memories and experiences — is reflected upon and studied in depth by another critical eye.

What did you want to convey with the title of the film, “In Socialist Realism (It Never Rains)?”

The entire period of the dictatorship was presented to us as a “paradise,” as the state claimed — we were supposedly very happy, and there were no social or political mistakes made. This “paradise” was, in fact, ironic. I still call it paradise now, but in reality, the phrase “it didn’t rain there” means there was no room for personal experience. In this socialist paradise, you were not allowed to feel. That is what the title aims to reflect.

What kind of rain did you find during your research and while making the film?

The rain I found was political rain. I didn’t find the rain I was truly searching for — the images that were so vivid in my mind. The only rain I found was in Dhimitër Anagnosti’s documentary “Motives from Sunday,” which shows people enjoying their Sundays. In this documentary, there is only one sequence with rain.

The film depicts Tirana in gray tones; the bars are full of men with stern expressions. For me, in that moment, I said: “Thank god”, because this material captured a fragment of ordinary life. The difficulty I had in finding the “ordinary” illustrates just how filtered reality had been.

Rain makes us somehow melancholy, creating a situation where you reflect on your own reality against that of the world outside. Yet, no emotional element of this nature was translated by socialist realism into personal experience. Instead, rain is always used to illustrate revolutionary forces battling nature — rain, snow, or storms — to build the state. In all communist-era films that feature rain, it is portrayed as an adversary: workers or proletarians confronting the rain as if it were the enemy, with man set against nature in a heroic struggle.

How did you select the protagonists of the documentary?

For the documentary, I invited a few people from my own generation, who were born in the 1980s, because I didn’t want to include older scholars with ready-made interpretations. The film had to feature people who do not work with theory, who approach art more subjectively. I wanted protagonists from my generation who lived through both the period before and after the fall of communism. I was interested in exploring whether we, too, are accustomed to seeing the past the way our parents did, justifying it.

How did the process of collecting materials go?

In those years, our personal archives were filmed by my uncle, who was a journalist at Albanian Radio and Television (RTSH). He had a friend with an 8mm camera. Back then, filming was usually done with 18 or 16mm cameras. Using that camera, my uncle recorded family life, the period when my parents were absent, and I was living with my grandparents.

When we first saw those images, the feeling I had was sad, blue. When my family looked over the footage, they worried that we looked poor  — that we weren’t “upper class.” Even today, they ask me: “Why did you use shots where we don’t look good?” This reflects a different kind of insecurity. I focus on spiritual relationships, while others focus on appearances. It shows how far Albanian society is from processing the past — they don’t look at what has happened to the soul, but instead focus on appearances.

When I entered the world of cinema, I thought maybe one day this archive material could be transferred onto the screen. I knew the material off by heart; I had studied the archive thoroughly.

When the Swiss Cultural Fund (SCF) in Albania opened a call for funds, I hesitated to apply, but I received a positive response. I then contacted the Central State Film Archive (CSAFF) about using their materials, and their approach to research was very supportive. The limited budget forced me to use only some of the material, while partially funding the project from my own resources. Otherwise, the research was a passion project.

How real was socialist realism, given that artists produced work based on the reality they knew — that is, the communist reality? Can we say that they expressed what they felt, or what they were supposed to feel?

Still from the film “In Socialist Paradise (It Never Rains)”

The artists were placed in a position that was strictly determined by the state. Within those limits, they tried to use color and shapes in a way that expressed some sort of subjective perspective. But they couldn’t do more than that — otherwise, they risked imprisonment.

Were the artists of social realism sensitive to the colors they used when communicating with different generations?

Absolutely. The artists were very sensitive. They pushed viewers to see things with a different eye. I was drawn to socialist realist art precisely because I sensed these subtle forms of communication.

Was it difficult for you to document the artistic breakthroughs of the artists included in the documentary — before, during, and after the communist period?

It wasn’t difficult, because the fall of communism naturally led toward change. That was a dramaturgical point for me; it opened a new chapter. But even there, I incorporated my personal perspective. For me, the fall of communism didn’t mean that we had entered a democratic society. Albania was still at war; people were being killed. I experienced the fall of communism through the lens of conflict, not liberation. In the film, the personal and historical perspectives are intertwined throughout.

After the film was shown, what were the reactions of the older generations?

The film was first shown at the Central State Film Archive (AQSHF). My father attended the premiere and came out in tears. He told me that for him, only I could have done something so well. People’s reactions varied. Many thanked me for giving the film a more human, non-academic approach. Someone asked why I didn’t make it a purely personal narrative. But for me, it was important to present both realities. I haven’t lived only the personal. Nowadays, it has become almost exotic to produce documentaries focused solely on personal narratives. For me, showing both perspectives was essential because I felt divided. For me, there are two realities: the personal and the collective. These had to coexist in the film because our personal experiences are also fundamentally political.

What does “In Socialist Paradise (It Never Rains)” mean to you on a personal level?

I experience sadness. I fear that things will not change, that truths will remain unsaid or unacknowledged. Some intellectuals who suffered under the dictatorship, like Fatos Lubonja, Maks Velo, or Father Zef Pllumi, have published their stories about their long years in prison. This catharsis should extend to the entirety of Albanian society — but I doubt it will ever happen. That is why I feel a kind of regret for the past, because it is a past that still hurts.

Today, it seems we have inherited a fear of confronting the truth and openly expressing judgments about the political environment Albania has created since the fall of communism. People are afraid to speak their minds, fearing they may jeopardize their jobs or be excluded from the system. Apart from various activists and a few committed intellectuals who are trying to awaken society’s often dormant conscience, it seems this collective trauma will be difficult for Albanian society to fully process. Confronting it is necessary to move forward and prevent a repeat of the abuses experienced during decades of dictatorship.

Feature Image: K2.0

This article has been edited for length and clarity. 

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