Hierarchies of remembrance
Uncovering the lives of Muslim Albanians in the US.
By Shan Karemani — 10/6/2025
Post-9/11 America was a hostile place to grow up Muslim. Islam was seen as a threat, and anyone who looked vaguely Muslim could be targeted. I remember learning about Balbir Singh Sodhi, a Sikh man murdered in Arizona four days after the attacks. He wasn’t Muslim, but was perceived that way. His turban, beard and brown skin were enough. His killing was a reminder that in the eyes of many, religion and race collapsed into one. Even Muslims who could pass as white, like Albanians, were never fully protected.
That was the climate my parents raised us in. Bringing up two Albanian Muslim boys in a country where Islam was treated as public enemy number one, they faced a constant dilemma: whether to raise us as unapologetically Muslim or to protect us by encouraging us to keep that part of ourselves hidden. As Kosovar Albanians born and raised in the U.S., we could often pass as white, that is, until people found out we were Muslim. That’s when we were pushed outside the boundaries of whiteness, albeit with new solidarities opening up.
Some Albanian Muslim families I knew responded to this Islamophobia by raising their children as Catholics or without religion, hoping it would ease their integration. But the tradeoff was dislocation. Many of those children grew up detached from the Albanian language, culture and history. This isn’t to claim that non-Muslim Albanians are any less Albanian, but in my case, holding on to Islam became a way of holding on to my Albanianness.
That personal connection sparked a deeper interest in my roots, which led me to explore the history of Albanians in the U.S. Over time, I noticed that the narratives I came across mainly focused on figures whose religious identities did not reflect my own. The stories centered on people like Fan Noli, a renowned author, bishop and politician, who founded the Albanian Orthodox Church in the U.S., or Faik Konica, a writer, publicist and diplomat, who also held strong anti-religious views.
Noli and Konica were important national figures, of course, but they represented a very particular slice of the Albanian American experience: Christian or secular. Of course, their prominence is also due to their role in Albanian state-building. Both were active in the early 20th century, a period when Albanian statehood was being constructed — Konica advocated for Albania at the 1913 Conference of London, and Noli petitioned U.S. President Woodrow Wilson in 1918 to support Albania’s sovereignty.
Their political work in the U.S. was inseparable from the broader struggle for Albanian independence. But in this piece, I am thinking of them through the lens of Albanian American history, where Christian and secular figures dominate the narrative. Additionally, my research focuses on figures from the first two main waves of Albanian migration to the U.S.; Albanians coming predominantly from Albania, from the late 1800s through 1960.
Albanian migration to the US
Albanian migration to the U.S. occurred in five major waves:
- Late 1800s to 1939, primarily male laborers from Albania.
- 1945 to 1960, mainly anti-communist political exiles from Albania.
- 1960s to early 1980s, from Albanian communities in Yugoslavia.
- Early 1990s, those fleeing Albania’s post-communist upheaval.
- Late 1990s, tens of thousands of Kosovar Albanian refugees.
Within the broader narrative of Albanian American history, the Muslim Albanian experience tends to occupy a more marginal space. For instance, Noli’s founding of the Albanian Orthodox Church in Boston in the early 1900s is widely celebrated, but the Albanian mosque in Maine, established around the same time, formed by an immigrant community, is largely forgotten or unknown.
What about Imam Vehbi Ismaili, who also immigrated to the U.S. to serve the Albanian community, decades later? What about Muharrem Nadji, Salih Myftiu, Isa Hoxha and Baba Rexhepi? Some, like Nadji, are effectively absent from Albanian historiography, while others remain largely unrecognized.
To better understand this absence, I turned to the lives of those who, for far too long, have been overlooked: Muslim Albanians in the U.S. whose stories have seldom been acknowledged.
The forgotten Albanian mosque in Biddeford
From October 2024 to January 2025, PBS, a public broadcaster in the U.S., released a documentary series titled “American Muslims: A History Revealed.” Each of the series’ six episodes focused on a specific aspect of the history of Muslims in the U.S. One episode, titled “Is This One of America’s First Mosques?” highlights a mosque built in 1929 in North Dakota by Syrian immigrants.
In 1915, a group of Albanian immigrants in Maine established one of the earliest known mosques in the U.S. formed entirely by an immigrant community.
While the documentary makes clear that this was one of the earliest mosques in the U.S., I was curious to find out more, so I started digging into the history myself. What I found surprised me: In 1915, a group of Albanian immigrants in Maine also established one of the earliest known mosques in the U.S. formed entirely by an immigrant community. An earlier mosque had been established in New York City in 1912 by the Ottoman government, but was connected to a diplomatic mission, unlike the one established a few years later in Maine.
In the late 19th century, the Pepperell Mills Company in Biddeford, Maine began recruiting Albanian workers, most likely from Albania, to fill skilled positions in textile dyeing and design, due to their familiarity with fabric production. Many arrived alone, leaving their families behind. Like many immigrant laborers of the time, these men arrived with limited financial resources and earned low wages in the mills.
Because many of these Albanian workers were Muslim, they often prayed together. Eventually, on April 5, 1915, they established the National Muhammadan Religious Society of America. This signified the formation of one of the earliest U.S. mosques by an immigrant community, in this case, Muslim Albanians. The mosque no longer operates, and its exact location is unknown.
However, Charles Butler from the Biddeford Historical Society strongly believes that it was in the Pepperell Counting House on Main Street in Biddeford. The building, part of the mill complex where the workers lived and worked, had a spacious meeting room on the second floor. Given the workers’ close ties to the mill and its surrounding facilities, Butler argues that this room would have been a practical and fitting space for the Muslim community to gather for prayer, much like other religious groups that used it over the years.
The Pepperell Counting House still exists at the intersection of Main St. and York St. in Biddeford. I was curious to see what the building looks like today, and came across a video tour showcasing the building as a commercial space for lease. Toward the end, the guide reveals a spacious room on the second floor, the area likely used as a mosque by Muslim Albanians over a century ago.
On the Maine Memory Network, I found an image of the all-Albanian commission of the National Muhammadan Religious Society of America. The photograph features the organization’s six founders, one of whom is Mustafa Fuat Kapshtica, who left Albania for the U.S. in 1913. According to the McArthur Library records, he was born in 1891 near Kapshtica and died in 1982 after changing his name to Henry Kasem and moving to New York.
The deadly 1918-19 influenza pandemic took the lives of many of Biddeford’s residents. According to Harvard University’s Pluralism Project, the local Muslim community secured a section of Woodlawn Cemetery so its members could be buried together, with tombstones facing Mecca. Some are engraved with the crescent and star, while others, like that of Edhem Nexhip (1896-1918), read “Albanian Muhamedan” and “Rofte Atdheu” [long live the homeland].
The Albanian Muslims of Waterbury, Connecticut
Another mosque founded by an immigrant community in the U.S. is believed to have been established in 1919 in Waterbury, Connecticut, also by Albanians. According to Raechel Guest, now director of the Silas Bronson Library in Waterbury, the Albanian Mohammedan Religious Society was formed in the city prior to 1916. Its mission was to explain the religions teachings of “love, brotherhood, peace, love for fatherland, progress and righteousness in full agreement,” as defined by its constitution. It also aimed to print religious and educational books in Albanian, open schools, found mosques, send lecturers to the Albanian communities and help its members as much as possible.
The imam in Waterbury during this period was Mehmet Tosun, who scholar Frances Trix describes as a “personally designated and informally educated leader.” Originally from Albania, Tosun arrived in the U.S. during World War I and registered for the draft. After the war, he returned to Albania for a short time before coming back to the U.S. with his wife, Barije, and their two sons.
This fascinating anecdote serves as a surprising footnote to the legacy of an Albanian imam who, after building one of the earliest Muslim communities in the U.S., also helped nourish generations of local families and even a Hollywood icon from a quiet farm.
According to Sylvia Tosun, a musician who is also Mehmet Tosun’s granddaughter, her grandfather was more than just a religious leader. She describes him as a Dervish and spiritual healer who traveled throughout the Middle East, attracting people who sought both healing and spiritual guidance.
She also recounted how the family’s dairy business intersected with unexpected corners of American life. Among the many households they delivered milk to was the home of the famous actress Marilyn Monroe in Roxbury, Connecticut, during her marriage to playwright Arthur Miller. This fascinating anecdote serves as a surprising footnote to the legacy of an Albanian imam who, after building one of the earliest Muslim communities in the U.S., also helped nourish generations of local families and even a Hollywood icon from a quiet farm.
Today, Waterbury is home to two Albanian mosques: the Hasan Prishtina Albanian American Cultural and Islamic Center and the Albanian American Muslim Community.
Muharrem Nadji’s impact on global Islam
On July 22, 1891, another notable yet almost entirely unknown Muslim Albanian, Muharrem Nadji, came into the world. I hadn’t encountered his name until I began researching Muslim Albanians in the U.S., but his story deserves recognition.
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Nadji was born in the village of Revani, which is now part of Greece and known as Dipotamia, but was once populated by Albanian Muslims. He left Albania in 1914, after Greece had occupied parts of the country. He first went to Argentina, before immigrating to the U.S. in 1917, eventually settling in the small town of Mansfield, Ohio.
There is little information available about Nadji, making it difficult to paint a full picture of his life. However, I found several references to him in the archives of the Mansfield News-Journal. An article from June 8, 1954, titled “He Wants People to ‘Know’ Mohammad,” includes a photograph of him at home, reading the Quran. The feature story was later reprinted in The *Light, an international Muslim magazine published in Pakistan, leading to a flood of letters to Nadji from readers around the world, expressing admiration and curiosity about his mission.
According to the article, Nadji founded the Islamic Center of America in 1927 and operated it at his own expense, using most of his modest income as a steelworker to support it. He dedicated his limited wealth to placing full-page advertisements in the Mansfield News-Journal, where he shared various Islamic texts. He did so seeking to correct American misconceptions about Islam and Muslims. The article quotes him saying, “I have read many college textbooks about the Koran and the teachings of Mohammad. They contain many errors.”
The article explains that when Nadji first moved to Mansfield, he was “seriously considering returning to his native land.” However, around this time, he claimed to have had a vision of the Prophet Muhammad, reminding him that Muslims “have never attempted to teach in America” and that he was needed there. This vision convinced him to stay, and he spent the rest of his life working to spread knowledge about Islam.
He also did not shy away from responding publicly to Islamophobic national media misrepresentations. In 1946, Life magazine published a photo essay titled “Moslem Prayers,” which perpetuated Orientalist tropes about the status of women in Islam.
In response, Nadji challenged Life’s narrative — not to deny gender inequalities in Muslim societies, but to expose the selective framing. He emphasized that practices such as veiling and gender segregation were not exclusive to Islam, and questioned Life’s claim that there were only 209 million Muslims globally, citing data showing 603 million.
In the mid-1950s, Nadji became the official representative of the Lahore Ahmadiyya Movement in the U.S, which promoted what it saw as Islam’s universal message against racism and sectarianism. Given its strong emphasis on anti-racism, the movement resonated with African American communities in the early 20th century.
Given how widely Nadji’s writings circulated in early Black Muslim communities, it's intriguing to think that figures like Malcolm X — a revolutionary Black Muslim leader who challenged white supremacy, colonialism and capitalism — may have encountered Nadji’s ideas.
While reading Patrick Bowen’s “A History of Conversion to Islam in the United States,” I came across a fascinating detail about Nadji’s influence on early African American Muslim communities. In the early 1940s, as the U.S. entered World War II, the FBI investigated African American Muslim groups over suspicions of draft evasion and anti-American sentiment. Among those targeted were Black Sunni leaders like Muhammad Ezaldeen and Sheikh Nasir Ahmad, as well as the Black Muslim organization Moslems of America (MOA).
During its investigations, the FBI found that Nadji’s books and pamphlets were widely read among these communities, with at least one of his works reportedly used at every MOA meeting. Given how widely Nadji’s writings circulated in early Black Muslim communities, it’s intriguing to think that figures like Malcolm X — a revolutionary Black Muslim leader who challenged white supremacy, colonialism and capitalism — may have encountered Nadji’s ideas.
In “The Islamic Review” archives, I managed to get a hold of the January 1961 issue, which includes an obituary for Nadji, who passed away at the age of 68 on July 5, 1960, after a heart attack. The funeral service was conducted by Imam Vehbi Ismaili, the religious leader of Muslim Albanians in the U.S. During the service, Ismaili shared several noteworthy stories about Nadji, allowing us to paint a fuller picture of his life.
Ismaili emphasized how Nadji spent the majority of his earnings on publishing and distributing free Islamic literature, which helped make knowledge about Islam accessible to people around the world. His dedication to the religion was so deep that, as Ismaili noted, “the amount of work that was done for Islam by Nadji alone has not been equaled by any other organization.”
Nadji’s influence went far beyond Ohio. His name was known across continents, with many people believing he was part of a large religious institution or supported by a wealthy benefactor. Ismaili, who visited Nadji’s home just hours before the funeral, went through his mail and found a letter from a man in the Philippines requesting $1,000 from Nadji to build a mosque in his village.
In Nigeria, the Muslim Students Society of Ilobu Branch expressed deep gratitude for the literature Nadji sent them, describing his work as “thought-provoking and knowledge-giving.” In a letter dated May 23, 1960, just weeks before Nadji’s passing, the society’s secretary, Hamid Oyeniyi, wrote to acknowledge receipt of his materials and to encourage him to continue his mission. “May Allah in His infinite majesty guard and help you the more,” the letter concluded.
Ismaili commented to those in attendance at the funeral: “You see, I was not alone in thinking that there was behind Nadji’s many undertakings a great religious organization, or the helpful contributions of a friendly millionaire,” highlighting how people assumed Nadji had significant resources at his disposal, when in reality, he was just a humble, working-class Muslim operating as a one-man organization.
Ismaili concluded his speech with a final detail. He explained that Nadji knew that his end was near. On Nadji’s table, he found a piece of paper dated June 29, 1960, just a week before Nadji’s death. He read it aloud: “In the name of God the Beneficent, the Merciful. God is Guardian of those who believe. The promise of God is at hand. Obey your God and do good deeds if you wish to succeed. Your end is close, it will come swiftly, mercifully, with no troubles. God, with His Majesty, will be generous to you.”
Over 200 people attended his funeral, many of whom were non-Muslims. Ismaili noted that, at the service, “all cried like children for the loss of their dear friend.”
Nadji is buried in the Mansfield Cemetery in Richland County, Ohio. His tombstone features the Shahada, “There is but one God, Muhammad is the messenger of God,” in both English and Arabic. To my surprise, the Find a Grave website features a photo of Nadji, along with an image of his tombstone. This is the only clear picture of him that I was able to find.
Imam Vehbi Ismaili as a leader of Muslim Albanians
Ismaili is a better known Muslim Albanian figure than Nadji, with information about his life more readily available online and in published sources. I first came across his name while reading “Shqiptarët e Amerikës” [Albanians of America] (2003) by Vehbi Bajrami, the source for much of the information that follows.
Ismaili was born in Shkodër in 1919. He studied at madrasas in Kruje and Tirana before moving to Cairo in 1937 to attend Al-Azhar University. At one point, he contemplated returning to Albania, but after the fascist occupation and the rise of the communist regime, his father wrote him a heartfelt letter urging him to stay away. According to Bajrami, the letter read: “As much as I wish to have you near me — no one else wishes it more — but I advise you not to make the mistake of returning to the homeland, for you would be throwing yourself into the fire.” Taking his father’s advice to heart, Ismaili remained in Egypt and continued his studies.
In 1949, Ismaili received a letter from the Albanian-American Muslim Association in Detroit, established in 1917 as a branch of the Muslim society founded by Albanian immigrants in Biddeford, inviting him to become their religious leader. At first, he hesitated, but with encouragement from friends who believed he could do more for his faith and his nation in the U.S., he eventually agreed. That April, he made the journey to Detroit, where a growing community of Muslim Albanians from Albania waited to welcome him.
Ismaili’s arrival was met with criticism from Boston’s leading Albanian newspapers, Dielli and Liria, which had initially supported Enver Hoxha’s totalitarian communist regime, but within a few years became critical of it. According to Bajrami, these papers, under the anti-theistic stance of the Albanian government, resorted to character assassination by labeling Ismaili as an agent of King Zog — portraying the imam as an enemy of the nation. At the time, King Zog, Albania’s former monarch who had ruled with authoritarian powers and aligned with Fascist Italy before fleeing into exile, was vilified by Hoxha’s communist regime as a symbol of betrayal.
Unfazed, Ismaili set out to serve the Albanian community. He initially secured rooms at Detroit’s International Institute for Islamic services and Albanian language classes. But his goal was a permanent mosque, and he traveled across the U.S. and Canada to raise the necessary funds.
Much of the financial support came from Albanians themselves. The Albanian Muslim Women’s Association in Detroit donated $1,400, which would be around $16,000 today. Orthodox Albanians also played an important role in supporting the effort.
During this time, internal divisions within the Albanian Orthodox community were stirring. In 1950, an Albanian envoy of the Greek Patriarchate, Bishop Mark Lipa, arrived in the U.S. and attempted to place Albanian Orthodox churches under Greek ecclesiastical authority.
According to the diary of Qerim Panariti, then editor-in-chief of Dielli, Lipa’s arrival caused deep divisions within Boston’s Albanian community and was viewed as a direct challenge to Noli and the independence of the Albanian Orthodox Church. Ismaili stood firmly in solidarity with Noli, defending the national character of Albanian religious institutions against foreign interference.
Ismaili's work to establish a mosque in Detroit, as well as Noli's defense of Albanian religious independence, highlighted a broader interreligious effort to strengthen Albanian identity in the U.S.
Eventually, on June 6, 1951, the Albanian Muslim Mosque opened its doors to the public. As the community continued to grow, the building could no longer meet the needs of its members. In 1962, it was sold, and the money was used to purchase land for a new and larger mosque. With the help of the broader Albanian community, including a donation of $500 from Noli (over $5,000 today), a new mosque was built from the ground up in Harper Woods, a suburb northeast of Detroit.
Ismaili’s work to establish a mosque in Detroit, as well as Noli’s defense of Albanian religious independence, highlighted a broader interreligious effort to strengthen Albanian identity in the U.S. and resist both Greek ecclesiastical control and political interference from the Hoxha regime.
The new mosque, featuring an Ottoman-style dome and minaret, officially opened on February 23, 1963. Interestingly, the architect, Frank Beymer, was a German American from Ohio who had embraced Islam through Nadji’s efforts. Beymer oversaw the mosque’s construction without compensation. It still serves the community today as the Albanian Islamic Center, led by Imam Shuajb Gërguri.
In a 1994 interview, Ismaili stressed the importance of preserving Albanian language and culture in the diaspora, noting families’ efforts to ensure their children remained connected to their heritage through language lessons at mosques and churches. He also told of 18-year-old Fatmire Sylejmani, who after seeing a call for donations in Rilindja, which was published in Switzerland from 1992 to 1996, organized an event at the Harper Woods mosque that raised over $3,000 for Albanian children in Kosovo, who had been forced into a parallel school system by this time.
Ismaili was also a dedicated writer, authoring over 50 books on religious and literary subjects. His most popular book, “Muhammad, the Last Prophet,” was translated into 25 languages and studied globally. During his time in Cairo, he played a pioneering role in bridging Albanian and Arabic literary traditions. He translated works such as Ernest Koliqi’s “The Golden Cradle,” known for its deep psychological insights and dramatic narrative structure, introducing Albanian literature to the Arab world.
Despite his achievements and the strong community he became a part of in the U.S., Ismaili developed a deep longing for his homeland. Starting in 1962, he repeatedly applied for a visa to visit Albania, but each request was denied. During a conversation with the Muslim Albanian intellectual Mexhid Yvejsi, Ismaili was encouraged to visit Kosovo instead. Yvejsi told him: “Your longing for Albania, for Shkodër, might ease because Kosovo, even though it is under Serbian occupation, is still Albania.”
When Ismaili hesitated at first, Yvejsi suggested he go to Gjakova and visit the home of his father, Hafiz Selim Yvejsi, saying, “From there, all of Kosovo will open its doors to you.” Taking Yvejsi’s advice, Ismaili decided to make the journey. A few days later, he traveled to Kosovo, where he would return two more times between 1970 and 1980. Upon his arrival, he was greeted with warmth and hospitality.
“Kosovo refreshed me, it renewed me,” he later reflected. He described how people welcomed him into their homes with brotherly love, making him feel as though he were in his homeland. “That’s why, whenever I had the chance, in speech or writing, I defended Kosovo and tried to provide support and resources whenever I could.” Ismaili’s commitment to Kosovo remained steadfast; in 1994, the Albanian Islamic Center under his leadership raised $17,200 to support Kosovo during an era of apartheid and repression.
In the meantime, in 1988, after about 50 years — and what was originally intended to be a brief period of study in Cairo — Ismaili had returned to his home in Shkodër, a visit made possible only after the political climate in Albania began to shift following Hoxha’s death in 1985. Naturally, with five decades having passed, many of his family members had passed away. He visited the graves of his parents and one of his brothers, though he could not locate the graves of his other two brothers. According to Bajrami, when Ismaili left Shkodër in 1937, it had 36 mosques. When he returned, he found only the Lead Mosque [Xhamia e Plumbit], built in 1773, in a severely neglected and deteriorated condition.
Ismaili’s spiritual leadership left an especially deep impact on the Albanian diaspora in the U.S. His funeral services, in particular, became part of the community’s collective memory. In October 1949, just months after arriving in Detroit, he traveled to New York City and conducted what is believed to be the first Islamic funeral rites in the Albanian language in the U.S., honoring Mid’hat Frashëri, the son of Abdyl Frashëri, a prominent leader of the League of Prizren who advocated for greater autonomy within the Ottoman Empire and laid the foundation for Albania’s eventual independence.
Nearly 60 years later, those same rites were performed for Ismaili himself following his passing on May 17, 2008, at the age of 88. His funeral was a tribute to a man who had devoted his life to guiding generations of Albanian Americans in both faith and nation.
Ismaili is buried at Knollwood Memorial Park Cemetery in Canton, Michigan. His tombstone is inscribed with the following verse from the Quran: “As to those who believe and do righteous deeds, their home is Paradise, an award for their works (18:107).”
He once reflected, “I don’t know if I’ve done enough for Albanians.” I believe his legacy speaks for itself. His doubts about whether he had done enough are far outweighed by the undeniable impact he had on Albanians worldwide, from Detroit to New York City, Kosovo to Egypt and beyond.
Faith and resistance of Albanian Muslims in New York City
While Hoxha was systematically erasing Albania’s religious heritage, clamping down on all forms of worship and forcefully converting Albania into the world’s first atheist state, Muslim Albanians in New York City were determined to preserve their faith and culture. In 1966, they gathered at the Assembly of the Albanian American Islamic Center, led by Grand Mufti Salih Myftiu, where they laid the groundwork for establishing a mosque.
Myftiu, born in 1891 in Shkodër, came from a deeply religious and patriotic family. Early on, he became active in the movement for Albanian independence and strongly advocated for efforts to translate the Quran into Albanian. During World War II, he opposed Italian fascists, German Nazis and the rise of communism. His armed resistance led to imprisonment by the fascists and continued conflict with the communist regime after the war. Following years of exile in Italy, he immigrated to the U.S. in 1965, where he became a key figure in the Albanian diaspora and helped establish the Albanian American Islamic Center to support both religious and national causes.
After years of effort, the Albanian American Islamic Center’s mosque officially opened on November 12, 1972, in Brooklyn’s Flatbush section. The ceremony was attended by a large number of Albanians, many of whom wore traditional Albanian clothing. As the 80-year-old Myftiu cut the ribbon to officially open the mosque, he did so with the Bismillah, meaning “In the name of God,” as a way to restore religious pride among Albanian exiles at a time when such expressions were prohibited in their homeland.
In a New York Times article covering the event, he was quoted saying, “The reason for building our mosque is to bring the Albanian people together and to show Enver Hoxha that the people still desire to keep their religion alive.”
Imam Isa Hoxha, born on May 25, 1918, in Bytyç, became the mosque’s first imam. Hoxha’s life, similar to that of Myftiu, had been shaped by both his religious upbringing and his involvement in the Albanian nationalist struggle against fascist and Nazi occupiers during World War II. Forced into exile after the rise of communism in Albania, he served Albanian Muslim communities across Europe before settling in the U.S. in 1962.
At the Albanian American Islamic Center, Hoxha continued his mission of both spiritual and national service. In a New York Times article covering the event, he was quoted saying, “The reason for building our mosque is to bring the Albanian people together and to show Enver Hoxha that the people still desire to keep their religion alive.”
Decades later, he was still a fiery figure. In a demonstration in front of the White House on May 10, 1996, calling for U.S. support for Kosovo’s liberation, he proclaimed, “Our voice is that of Albanians burning with longing for the homeland, the voice of the diaspora calling for the liberation of our occupied lands. This voice has not been extinguished for a century in the fight for Albania’s independence, and it will not stop until Kosovo is free and until Albania becomes what the Albanian people themselves desire.”
Myftiu’s and Hoxha’s efforts played an important role in preserving Albanian Muslimness in the U.S. The establishment of the mosque in Brooklyn, followed by another in New Jersey, and the scholarship created in Hoxha’s name to support young Albanian students, are major contributions to the preservation of Albanian Muslim identity in the New York area.
Baba Rexhepi and the Bektashis of Michigan
In the broader story of Albanian Muslims in the U.S., the story of the Bektashis cannot be left out. The Bektashis are followers of a Sufi order within Islam that developed a distinct, liberal and mystical tradition, drawing elements from both Sunni and Shia thought. Once spiritual guides to the Ottoman Janissaries, they lost influence after being disbanded in 1826 and were officially banned by Mustafa Kemal Atatürk in Turkey in 1925. The order then shifted its center to Albania, where it remained an important spiritual force.
One of its most influential figures was Rexhep Beqiri, born in 1901 in Gjirokastër, Albania to a family deeply rooted in the Bektashi tradition. At 21, he took his vows and became Dervish Rexhepi, serving for over two decades as a spiritual leader at his local tekke. But in 1944, as Albania’s civil war turned in favor of the communists, everything changed. A visitor warned him that the new regime planned to capture and kill him for his influence and anti-communist views. “They will torture you and kill you in a most horrible way,” the man said. “Leave.” And so he fled, never being able to see his beloved Albania again.
Dervish Rexhepi spent four years in a refugee camp in Bari, Italy, before moving to Cairo. Amid growing political uncertainty in Egypt, and encouraged by his sister in New York City, he decided to move. In December 1952, he traveled to the U.S. on the MS Saturnia, carrying a suitcase and a spiritual tradition he hoped to keep alive in a new land. Though he was very much against the communists, U.S. officials, blinded by Cold War paranoia at the height of McCarthyism, nearly denied him entry after labeling him a communist without any investigation.
Rexhepi arrived in New York City hoping to open a Bektashi tekke. But according to Frances Trix’s biography of Rexhepi, many Albanians there, influenced by a mix of secular ideals, personal convictions and the pressures of assimilation, kept their distance. While some older Bektashis welcomed him, his presence unsettled others. The Albanian Cultural Center, dominated by communists, blocked his efforts to hold gatherings, fearing the return of spiritual life among the Albanian diaspora.
Sensing the resistance, Rexhepi left New York City and made his way to Detroit. There, he was warmly received. Albanian Muslims and Christians alike welcomed him and several Bektashi families offered their support. On October 24, 1953, 17 Albanian men met at St. Andrew’s Hall and pledged funds to build a tekke. Most were factory workers or small business owners, but they offered a generous amount of money.
The tekke officially opened in Taylor, Michigan, on May 15, 1954, with a large crowd in attendance, including visitors from New York City. With the opening, Rexhepi was promoted to the rank of “baba,” a spiritual leader in the Bektashi order. At the entrance, Baba Rexhepi recited the Fatiha, the opening verse of the Quran, to bless the occasion.
In a speech given 20 years later to mark the anniversary of the tekke’s opening, he reflected on earlier failed attempts to establish a tekke in New York City and the backlash from the Albanian communist regime, which had threatened the families of those who supported the effort. He also recognized the crucial contributions of Albanian women. Among those he named were Hava Seid, Kile Selfo, Fiqiret Myrteza, Shaniko Qyteza, Zejnep Adam, Shazo Ali, Fato Nakoleci and Nekije Peshkopia, whose dedication and labor were essential to making the tekke a reality.
Rexhepi’s role in the community extended beyond his spiritual leadership. His empathy and willingness to help those in need were evident to all. In the mid-1950s, a member of an Italian family living across from the tekke died by suicide. The local Catholic church refused to conduct a burial for someone who had taken their own life. Rexhepi, who spoke fluent Italian due to his time living in Italy as a refugee, agreed without hesitation, composing and performing the service in Italian.
In 1966, he launched Zëri i Bektashizmës — The Voice of Bektashism — a biannual journal explaining the history, principles and mystical philosophy of Bektashism in accessible language. It also welcomed contributions from Albanian intellectuals and called for unity, morality and national pride. Rexhepi wrote most articles himself.
He remained dedicated to his spiritual mission and community until his death in 1995. He passed away in Michigan, far from his native Gjirokastër, leaving behind a small but lasting religious institution that continues to serve Albanian Americans today.
Who gets remembered, and why?
It is striking, and somewhat troubling, that I hadn’t really heard of any of these figures until I began this research. One can understand why certain details may have been lost to time, but it is harder to explain why entire lives and stories, some of them undeniably impactful, remain so peripheral in our national historical consciousness. It is therefore worth asking: how is a person’s historical importance measured?
Noli is widely remembered for his role in Albania’s early state-building, as well as his political, academic and religious work. Ismaili, on the other hand, is far less visible in our collective memory, despite his life’s work sustaining a faith community in exile, supporting Kosovo during its darkest years, helping to rebuild religious life after Hoxha, and teaching generations of Albanian Americans their language, history, and culture. This difference in visibility reflects how historical memory is shaped and whose contributions are highlighted.
The contrast between how people like Noli and Ismaili are remembered reveals more about the hierarchy of remembrance within our historical narratives than it does about who they truly were.
This piece is not about drawing one to one comparisons, but rather about broadening the conversation beyond its narrow confines. We don’t need answers to questions of historical weight in order to appreciate past lives that shaped our communities in different ways. That being said, it is telling that figures tied more closely to state-building — like Noli and Konica — continue to dominate our collective memory, reflecting the hegemony of state-centric narratives in how history is told.
Through my research, I came to see that Muslim Albanian leaders have been among those — along with women, workers, students and more — whose contributions to enriching Albanian lives outside a state-building lens have been overshadowed. The contrast between how people like Noli and Ismaili are remembered reveals more about the hierarchy of remembrance within our historical narratives than it does about who they truly were.
The fact that Nadji is virtually unknown within Albanian circles is difficult to grasp, and worthy of a whole other piece. His contributions were not necessarily national, but were no less significant. His life tells a different story, one in which Islam, rather than his Albanian identity, served as the guiding force.
That these histories remain so underexplored points not only to the limits of Albanian historiography, where Muslim contributions tend to occupy a marginal space, but also to broader issues in the tricky politics of knowledge production. Who decides which lives are remembered, which stories are retold, which legacies are worth preserving and which should be relegated to the dustbin of history?
The more I read and research Albanian history, in this case through the lens of immigration to the U.S., the more it feels like a cracked rearview mirror, showing bits and pieces of the past, but never the whole picture. Some parts are clear, others are missing entirely. Of course, no mirror is perfect, but we should at least try to fix the one we have because whatever is missing from the mirror isn’t simply forgotten — it is made invisible.
Feature Image: via CC.
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