By P. Benedict Kiely When I was a young boy of about fourteen or fifteen, I used to amuse myself late at night in my bedroom in England by gently turning the dial on the shortwave section of my radio until I tuned in to the faint, chirping transmissions of Radio Tirana. It was the end of the 1970s, and Albania was a mysterious and almost impossible place to visit. The transmissions, with a signal that came and went, spoke of decadent Western cap…
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By P. Benedict Kiely When I was a young boy of about fourteen or fifteen, I used to amuse myself late at night in my bedroom in England by gently turning the dial on the shortwave section of my radio until I tuned in to the faint, chirping transmissions of Radio Tirana. It was the end of the 1970s, and Albania was a mysterious and almost impossible place to visit. The transmissions, with a signal that came and went, spoke of decadent Western cap…