My Dog Days of Tirana, Part 3 — Meet Maria, Patron Saint to Tirana’s Most Vulnerable
It was scorching hot. The mid-afternoon sun was unforgiving, yet my husband and a couple amazingly selfless Albanian men kept working, determined to get a new dog house built in Maria’s field before nightfall.
We’d been here only an hour, and yet I could feel the backs of my calves burning and was startled to observe that I was no longer even sweating — moisture was literally evaporating as it broke through my skin.
Maria looked at me. Perhaps sensing I was going to drop if I didn’t find shade, or maybe curious to know why I, an American expat, would have volunteered our 4th of July Saturday to come help a poor stranger and her cause, she paused in her supervision of the construction.
“Vuoi vedere?” She asked. I nodded, “Sí.”
We were off, six or seven dogs in tow, to tour her home and shelter. What I saw and learned that afternoon made me want to wrap my arms around her in gratitude and love, and has had me return to visit her twice more already.
Through a hodgepodge of Italian and broken English, Maria shared her story as we walked. Ten years ago, abandoned by her partner in a country that was not her own, Maria took a road very seldom traveled in Tirana and opened her heart to the neediest, most desperate and unloved animals that crossed her path. Rather than returning to her home country of Switzerland, she used whatever means she had to stay in Tirana and start giving shelter to just a few of the thousands of injured and stray dogs that cling to life here. That few quickly multiplied as animals found their way to her in every condition imaginable.
Over the last ten years, Maria has sheltered approximately 15,000 animals. Currently, she is caring for 75 cats, 180 dogs, 5 chickens, 4 donkeys and 1 horse. Yet, her house is a small, simple cement-block structure on rugged farmland, far out from Tirana’s borders. All but two rooms are dedicated for her animals.
Her large garden has been divided into numerous pens, each housing several dogs. She is organized, and groups the animals based on temperament, age, and health status. She has a quarantine area and a dedicated veterinarian who monitors every single animal. The animals are vaccinated, treated for injuries and illness, sterilized, and well fed. Some of them are fortunate to have sympathetic people sponsoring their care (for as little as 5 euro a month), and Maria is actively trying to adopt out many of them, having successfully placed over 6000 in new homes since she started.
Her creed is simple and unwavering — all animals have a right to live and be loved. And, she does love them despite what it has cost her personally. It’s etched in her face and lights up her eyes as they run to her. They all know her, listen to her, and amazingly, she knows each and every one of her animals by name.
Her creed, however, is not shared by many here. The adversity, and at times outright violent opposition that she has faced simply because she dares to love the most vulnerable and helpless creatures here is ghastly. She has had her home and shelter burned to the ground; she’s been held down with a knife at her throat and forced to watch her animals killed; and she’s been physically beaten. Her efforts to legally organize her shelter were opposed at every turn, and she has committed her entire pension to support her efforts compelling her, quite literally, to live among the animals she houses. Confronting death threats, she had to relocate every year for the first seven years, and ultimately fled the city neighborhoods for the quiet, remote countryside.
Maria can no longer sleep without the lights on, still haunted by the meaningless violence she has suffered. She now only leaves the confines of her shelter to save an animal or pay a house call after an adoption. When she does, she is always accompanied by her one fiercely loyal friend and protector, Molla Klodjan — an Albanian man who returned after 15 years abroad to support Maria and her work, in stark contrast to the majority of his countrymen.
We returned to the field to check on the doghouse. She settled a debate about how to construct the roof, speaking in Italian to her friend, who spoke in Albanian to another worker, who translated in some English, German, and animated body language to my husband, with me looking on in astonished admiration at this mixing pot of effort unfolding before my eyes.
These men, from entirely different walks of life, cultures, and continents, were all swinging hammers, discussing in multiple languages whether to plumb the frame, and rather seamlessly accomplishing a common goal together despite the obstacles.
Leaving them to continue, we retreated into her kitchen and Buddy (a 6 month old, abandoned yellow Labrador) and Nora (a spry, elderly abandoned Terrier mix) sat at our feet as Maria took a long drag of iced tea. A thin stream of smoke from the Marlboro Red in her fingers circled up and around her head as she continued her story.
“They knocked out my teeth,” she said softly. “Then, they set fire to everything. It was only three days before we were finished building yet another new shelter in Sauk.”
I choked back my gasp. “I had no money,” she said. “A dentist friend felt bad and gifted me new teeth.”
“Then, when I start to rebuild again, I was told about threats on my life. So we came out here and now I don’t leave.”
I watched her finish her cigarette in silence, and then asked her permission to share her story. She agreed and we walked back out into the field. I spent the rest of the day humbled by this woman’s sacrifices, watching her play gleefully with Pokie, Buddy, Sonny, and the rest.
The new dog pen was finished before sunset, and my husband and I returned the next day to help the last of my three puppy charges settle in to their new home with Maria.
Many people have asked me, the last few months, how I could keep going — trying to foster and place the almost twenty stray puppies that wandered into my life. My response is always the same: they are innocents and I could not bear the alternative, could you? But, my efforts pale in comparison to Maria’s. She is a true patron saint of Tirana’s unwanted animals. To my mind, her love and charity for these creatures embodies in great measure one of the beliefs that Albania’s most revered public figure, Mother Teresa, preached: “In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love.” Perhaps there is hope, with Molla Klodjan as an example, that someday more here will be heartened to live this belief.
Please consider supporting Maria Medina’s efforts in some small measure. You can visit Maria’s Facebook page or her website, http://tierhilfetirana.wix.com/tierhilfe-tirana, if you are interested in directly sponsoring an animal, adopting, or making a donation. If the language barrier is difficult, I will also funnel any contributions that are made to my GoFundMe page to Maria and will coordinate international cat or dog adoptions from Maria’s shelter to the U.S.
