In the beginning, there was a lack.
“Albanian Women Writers 1954–1990,” the monograph by scholar Meliza Krasniqi emerges from the long and systematic absence of women’s voices in Albanian literary history. Conceived as both an act of remembrance and offering critical justice, the work offers a focused and chronological treatment of a series of authors from Albania, Kosovo, North Macedonia and the Albanian diaspora in Italy — placing their creativity, not just their names, at the center.
The structure of the book follows a geographical division, not to fragment literature, but to help readers grasp the complex historical contexts in which these voices were formed — and often silenced.
Krasniqi starts from a gynocritical perspective, drawing on the theory of literary critic Elaine Showalter and the concept of “literary motherhood,” the idea that an author is not just inspired by “literary fathers” but instead have invisible connections with the women who wrote before her, forming a chain of inheritance that is often forgotten or interrupted. This idea, as Krasniqi notes, served as a starting point and not a limitation as she approaches these works as she would any literary text: with attention to style, language, structure, theme and context.
In addition to biographical information, the book offers in-depth critical readings that allow previously unknown authors to emerge as fully realized creative subjects. Through them, the journey of Albanian women in literature is also revealed, from being objects of patriarchal discourse to becoming authors with voice and agency.
The study covers the period from 1954 to 1990. The year 1954 is taken as a starting point because according to Krasniqi’s research — following the publications of politician and writer Musine Kokalari (1939–1944) — no literary books by women were published until the appearance of “The First Step” by Ollga Qano. From that publication and up to the work of academic and poet Edi Shukriu, the book documents the creativity of women writers as well as the ideological, political and cultural barriers that shaped the emergence or disappearance of their voices.
Some of these writers produced children’s literature with strong didactic tones; others explored lyrical poetry, prose, drama, essays, diaries and literary criticism. Some published under their full names, while others used pseudonyms such as Kolombja or Lux Secreta — writing at a time when their voices were not yet accepted. And it is precisely this that makes Krasniqi’s book irreplaceable: it creates a bold and overdue archive that revives what our literature has long neglected.
Krasniqi is a literary scholar and translator. She holds a doctorate in literature and is a senior research associate at the Institute of Albanology in Prishtina. Before her latest monograph — honored with the Ibrahim Rugova literary award for best work in literary criticism and essays — she published the study volumes “Shkreli the poet” (2015), “The work of Kokalari” (2019) and “Criticism and Literature” (2021). As a translator, she has brought into Albanian some of the most important works of modern literary theory, including “Aspects of the Novel” by E. M. Forster and “Narratology” by Mieke Bal. Her translation of David Lodge’s “The Art of Fiction” was awarded the national Pjetër Bogdani Prize in 2022.
Following the publication of her latest work, K2.0 spoke with Krasniqi about how literary history has treated women — and how one determined scholar has set out to rewrite that narrative.
K2.0: The monograph gives the feeling of a silent dialogue with women authors through time. How do you interpret the silence that has long surrounded the presence of women in our literary history?
Meliza Krasniqi: I imagine silence as a long pause in history — not always intentional, but certainly not innocent. It is not merely forgetfulness, but the result of a value system that has kept women authors on the margins for decades, reading them as the exception rather than the norm. With my work on “Albanian Women Writers 1954-1990,” I was struck by how many women have been present in published literature — in magazines, anthologies, even textbooks — yet without ever forming a “tradition” of their own. It’s as if literary history has constructed an unbroken narrative for men, while for women it has offered only disconnected fragments — voices that were never linked together.
You mentioned that women were present but read as exceptions, unable to create a line of their own. Was there a moment when, as a reader or as a woman, you felt the absence of this line?
I asked myself that question early on, when I was still in school: “Don’t women write?” It was an innocent question. In the textbooks and anthologies we were assigned to read, women’s voices were almost entirely absent. Apart from [the poet] Adelina Mamaqi, I don’t recall encountering anyone else. And this absence wasn’t just statistical — it shaped the way I imagined literature, authorship and even the role of women in art.
At the time, I didn’t yet think of it as an institutional void, but as a strange sense that something was missing. Only later, through academic training and deeper reading, did I understand that this was not a “natural” absence, but a structure built on exclusion. That realization led me to transform my initial question, one that has followed me for years, into a concrete and sustained project — the monograph “Albanian Women Writers 1954-1990.”
Has there been a tension between the desire to give voice to what has been historically silenced and the need to evaluate women’s literature by the same criteria? Such as originality, thematic strength and imagery that we apply to any genuine literary work?
Yes, that tension has been constant and, in some ways, necessary. Initially, I was driven by a desire to give voice to what had been silenced, a form of belated literary justice. But during my research, I realized that if I focused solely on gender as a critical category, I risked narrowing the very authors I was trying to bring out of the margins.
I felt the need to approach each author’s work as I would any other: to analyze structure, style, rhythm, imagery and narrative — beyond gender, though never denying it.
So, for me, the balance wasn’t between sensitivity and objectivity, but between two modes of reading: one that listens to what is said in silence and another that tests the work by the standards of literature as art. In this sense, Showalter served as a starting point but not a limitation. Because sometimes, the best way to give women a voice is to read their voice not as an exception, but as literature — in all the richness the word implies.
You mentioned that Showalter was a starting point, but not a limit. Why did you feel the need to expand that framework? I’m wondering — what would we have lost if the book had been built solely around gender as a criterion?
If I had built the book solely on gender principles, I would have risked reducing women’s literature to a kind of social or ideological testimony — a literature by women and for women but not necessarily seen or evaluated as literature. The stylistic nuances, narrative innovations and aesthetic treatments that many of these authors offer, often transcending the limitations of their time and ideological context, would have been overlooked.
Rather than being read as creators of distinct artistic worlds, they would be seen only through the lens of their identity as women. And that too would be a form of marginalization — more subtle, perhaps, but equally dangerous. Albanian women’s literature holds value not just because it is written by women, but because of how it processes experience, language and form. And these very elements would be lost if viewed exclusively through a gendered lens.
How important is it to you that this monograph be an act of justice and not just an act of literary documentation? And is it possible for an act of justice to remain critically objective?
For me, this monograph is as much an act of justice as it is an act of academic work. When literary history has excluded a significant number of authors solely because of their gender, the very decision to bring them back into focus cannot be neutral — it is a conscious intervention in the canonical narrative.
But doing justice does not mean abandoning critical objectivity. On the contrary, in this context justice demands even greater rigor — deeper analysis with more careful distinctions between literary value and social context. I was aware from the beginning that the attention given to these authors should not turn into idealization or one-sided interpretation. Their literature deserves to be read by the same standards we apply to any other work — precisely in order to treat it as equal. So yes, it is possible for an act of justice to remain critically objective. It requires a willingness to embrace complexity: to recognize women writers as women, as historical subjects but also as creators of form, rhythm and meaning. Only then does justice cease to be a compromise and become a new dimension of reading.
You emphasize that literary justice does not mean compromising critical assessment. On the contrary, it requires even greater rigor. But in a field where the standards themselves have been historically constructed by a predominantly male critique, how have you defined literary quality?
This is one of the most complex and honest questions I asked myself throughout the entire process. In a context where the criteria for “literary quality” has historically been shaped by a predominantly male critical tradition — one often indifferent to women’s experiences — the very notion of quality demands reconsideration.
For me, literary quality cannot remain a static concept. It is not measured solely by stylistic mastery or formal construction, but also by a work’s capacity to articulate silenced experiences, to break with established forms and to open new windows for interpretation. This does not mean relativizing everything, but rather recognizing that the criteria themselves are products of history — and must engage in dialogue with the very content they have traditionally excluded.
In this monograph, I have included authors who may not be considered “great” by traditional standards, but who have played a fundamental role in articulating women’s voices — whether through naïve, experimental or transitional forms. I made exceptions only when the absence of literary aesthetics was evident even beyond gender or historical context. This has been my effort to strike a balance: to rewrite literary history without sacrificing standards — but also without uncritically accepting the norms that history has established as absolute.
Given that many of these voices have been left out of literary history, was it important for you to bring them back into a line of continuity? I’m thinking of the idea of “literary motherhood” — an invisible line connecting figures like Elena Gjika and Musine Kokalari with later women writers. Does that line exist today or are we still writing in isolation?
The concept of literary motherhood is essential to the way I constructed this monograph — not as a linear genealogical line, but as a network of invisible connections. It’s a space where women write with someone behind them, even in their complete absence, a figure who proves that it is possible to write. Elena Gjika [world-class writer, publicist and scientist] and Musine Kokalari are present not only for their historical or literary significance, but for the role they play as foundational figures in a creative consciousness that later develops in different forms.
Unfortunately, many contemporary authors still do not feel part of this lineage. They continue to write in isolation, often without a sense of continuity. This isn’t due to the absence of earlier figures, but rather a lack of recognition and engagement with them — a gap inherited from a tradition that failed to archive, analyze or elevate them as points of reference.
For this reason, the construction of this line — of this symbolic motherhood — is more than an act of documentation; it is an effort to create a sense of belonging, to revive an interrupted dialogue that now needs to be resumed. Because when a new author sees herself in relation to those who came before her, she writes less in solitude and more in continuity.
In this context of loneliness, another detail in the monograph intrigued me: the choice of women writers to use pseudonyms. Do you see this as an act of survival in a system that did not accept them — or perhaps even as a way to silently challenge it?
For women, pseudonyms have been both a shield and a key — a shield to protect themselves in a world that didn’t accept them as authors, but also a key to enter that world with a new voice: perhaps freer, more ironic, more courageous. In some cases, pseudonyms are a painful compromise and in others, a strategic play with the norms of the time. When a woman chooses to write under a pseudonym, she isn’t simply hiding — she is choosing to be heard, even if her voice must come through a name that is not her own. And that makes the pseudonym a double act: one of survival and one of challenge.
If Musine Kokalari had not been persecuted, how do you think the course of Albanian literature would have changed — not only for her, but for the women writers who followed? Do you believe her absence as an active voice also impacted the collective self-confidence of women authors?
If Musine Kokalari had not been persecuted, Albanian literature would have seen a different kind of beginning for women writers — not as an interrupted voice but one that could create continuity. She was not only the first woman writer, but also an intellectual who viewed literature as a tool of citizenship, as a moral and emancipatory commitment. Her absence as an active voice affected not only the development of her own work, but also became a silent void in the collective memory of women writers — a missing reference point that could have inspired confidence and continuity.
I believe that many women who wrote later, even without explicitly saying so, felt that absence: not only as the loss of a role model, but as a reminder that writing can come at a cost. And this had a profound impact on their self-confidence, turning creativity into a step that had to be taken cautiously, sometimes even fearfully. If that light hadn’t been extinguished so early, perhaps women would have written more often, more freely and with greater conviction that their voices belonged in literary history.
If you had the opportunity to choose one of the writers and speak with her today, who would it be?
Without a doubt, I would choose Musine Kokalari. Not only to ask her the questions that history never had the chance to ask, but to listen to her at a time when she could finally speak without fear of consequences. I would want to know how she imagined freedom beyond the pages of books, what hopes she held for women’s literature and how she would narrate her loneliness — not as a tragedy, but as resilience. I imagine she would begin the conversation with a quiet smile and end it with a sentence we’d spend years trying to decipher.
This article has been edited for length and clarity. The conversation was conducted in Albanian.
Feature image: Photo collage by Liridon Qorraj
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