My photographic dyslexia means that I returned from a trip to the Balkans this summer with a gigabyte’s worth of blurry, impotent photographs of the stunning buildings I saw. I’m not going to burden some data centre’s real estate with extraneous bits, but I’ve stolen a shot of one of the most remarkable pieces of architecture I encounted from the hive mind.
Suspended in a more pristine moment than its current graffiti-sloshed state, this is Tirana’s Hoxha Pyramid (sadly, not named for the Albanian exchange student from season 1 of The Simpsons, but his namesake, the erstwhile communist dictator, Enver Hoxha). A true palimpsest, the pyramid’s architectural vestiges belie multiple existences: first as a museum serving Hoxha’s cult of personality, next a conference centre, then a NATO base. In its current life it is a playground for skaters and the gangs of teenagers who hike up its slopes to take in the Tirana skyline from its flat apex.
The role of memory in public architecture is potent across Balkan states. Edificial war wounds are sported like emblems in cities like Sarajevo and Belgrade, where identities are still very much constructed by the vicissitudes of conflict, and historical narratives still jostle for dominance. Hoxha Pyramid may be demolished to make way for the new Albanian houses of parliament. This would be a pity - alongside the retrofitted nuclear bunkers that infamously dot the country’s roadsides, the civic occupation of this folly transforms it into a talisman of Tirana’s victory over authoritarianism.















