I was born in 1993 in Ludwigshafen am Rhein, Germany. Although I have fond childhood memories, I can’t help but notice that whenever Germans are asked on Facebook to name their least attractive city, Ludwigshafen is often a strong contender. However, as a student of politics, I take pride in being born in the same place as Helmut Kohl.

My parents were part of the mass exodus following the fall of communism in Albania, often referred to as the “North Korea of Europe.” As the country’s borders opened, they, like many others, were finally able to see beyond the confines of their isolated homeland.

In the 1990s, an estimated one million people left the country, nearly half of the population. The images from those days are heart-wrenching, though they remain unfamiliar to most younger generations, despite not being far in the past. Many dreamt of reaching the West, seeking freedom and prosperity, with the majority settling in Greece and Italy.

For my father, however, the destination was clear from his teenage years: the land of the Kaiser, Franz Beckenbauer.
Yes, I’m not kidding, but let me explain.

During Albania's communist era, the country was isolated, and foreign radio or TV broadcasts were banned. Still, many in the major cities managed to secretly follow international sports tournaments or music festivals (San Remo for example). To this day, Albania has yet to qualify for the World Cup, but over the years, Albanians have developed a deep affection for various national soccer teams, remaining loyal to their chosen fandoms. My father was just 14 when West Germany won the World Cup, defeating the Netherlands led by Cruyff. It was then that the "pretty defender" became the legendary Kaiser of German soccer—and the Kaiser of my father’s heart. (I say “pretty” intentionally because there’s something about the relationship men have with their favorite soccer players—almost like a platonic, or sometimes even homoerotic, admiration, especially living in a country where they risked their lives to watch porn from pirated Yugoslav TV waves.)

Germany was my father’s destiny, and the name Franz was almost my own—imagine Franz Alibali... It was almost perfect, but then I was supposed to be named Jurgen, after Klinsmann. However, both names were already taken by two of his friends for their sons. So, when I was born, my father was still uncertain about my name. But the fog cleared because Boris Becker was playing a tennis match on that day. So yeah, I was named after freaking Boris Becker.
Now, when I tell this story to guests, I usually throw in a very politically incorrect joke. But since I hope one day Boris Becker will be my guest in Albania, I’ll keep that joke to myself—for now.

A brief overview; Until 1967, most people in Albania were given religious names that reflected their faith. Although religious leaders had faced persecution and violence since the early days of communism after WWII, it wasn’t until 1967 that Albania declared itself the world’s first atheist state. Religion, along with all religious practices, was completely banned. Churches and mosques were either destroyed or repurposed, and children could no longer be given religious names. Instead, names had to align with the country’s new ideological direction, leading to the adoption of typical proto-Illyrian-Albanian names like Arben, Ilir, Teuta, and Entela.

As the Iron Curtain began to crumble, the tide shifted, and people’s names became anything but traditionally Albanian. Tired of the oppressive propaganda, many parents opted for names like Boris, Gerald, Kevin, Antonio, Mario (yes, like Super Mario), or even Chuck—Chuck Norris, that is. Okay, to be honest, I don’t know an Albanian named Chuck, but I do know an Albanian named Reagan, and I can easily say that Ronald Reagan is the Chuck Norris of old-school American conservatives— he didn’t just fight for freedom, he did it with a cowboy hat too. Sorry, that’s just me. I tend to go off on tangents, especially when I’m writing. It only gets worse when I’m speaking.

On a side note, I want to briefly explain: Albanians from regions like Kosovo and North Macedonia have had different political and administrative experiences, leading to contrasting mentalities. For example, Albanians from Kosovo, oppressed under Serbian rule, developed a strong sense of patriotism, often reflected in more traditional Albanian names as acts of defiance. In contrast, communist Albania, isolated under a paranoid dictator, shoved state-imposed patriotism down citizens' throats, which, in turn, led many to reject it and embrace Western cosmopolitanism instead.

So, that’s the story of how I came to be named Boris—an undeniably uncommon name in Albania. In fact, having a Slavic name sometimes raises eyebrows, particularly among Albanian nationalists outside the country. To them, I might even seem like a suspicious character. Being accused of espionage for an "enemy" country would certainly add a plot twist to my life, making it more book-worthy. But, as I keep insisting, my story isn’t worth a book… yet.

So, there’s the answer to why Boris. Through stories like these, I hope not only to make my guests smile or get to know me better but to offer a glimpse into Albania’s unique and complex history. My aim is that when you leave, you’ll better understand why this small, enigmatic country feels both so close and so far away.