Balkan blues by Sabine Fischer

Let’s not pretend. Edi Rama’s electoral triumph over Sali Berisha, a man who’s essentially the Balkan embodiment of political necromancy, is being lauded in some corners of Europe as a win for liberal democracy. But that’s like applauding a fireman for heroically spraying perfume on a burning house. Albania, for all the electoral theater, remains a nation tightly gripped by three relentless horsemen: nationalism, corruption, and organized crime. And the fourth, fascism, is already peeking through the curtain, impatiently adjusting its armband.

To understand the hollowness of this so-called victory, one must appreciate the Albanian political stage for what it truly is: not a contest of visions, but a recycling plant for ghosts of political pasts. Edi Rama may paint himself as the progressive artist-politician, Europe’s man in Tirana, fluent in diplomacy and often barefoot in global forums (he seems to believe his feet speak louder than his policies). But strip the modernist vocabulary and Instagram flair, and what’s left is another shrewd Balkan power player who knows precisely how to play the local tune: one part nationalism, two parts patronage, and a generous sprinkle of paranoia.

Sali Berisha, on the other hand, is the gift that refuses to stay returned. Disgraced, sanctioned by the U.S., embraced by the darkest elements of the Trumpist diaspora, he remains a symbol of Albania’s stubborn addiction to political revenants. His defeat isn’t a sign of national maturity; it’s simply the electorate saying, “We’d rather stick with the devil in designer suits than the one holding rallies in Cold War cosplay.”

Let’s talk about the bigger picture.

Albania, for all its declarations of European integration and economic reform, is effectively a state ruled by an oligarchic caste. Corruption isn’t a side effect, it’s the system. From the police to the judiciary, from customs to construction contracts, the under-the-table handshake is the currency of real power. International watchdogs issue reports. Brussels raises eyebrows. Tirana smiles, hosts a conference, prints new banners, and carries on.

The nationalist rhetoric is, unsurprisingly, thriving. Whenever criticism bubbles up, whether from the EU, the media, or the diaspora, Rama and his allies are quick to wrap themselves in the flag, mutter something about foreign plots, and accuse critics of being traitors or Serbian sympathizers. In this narrative, to question is to betray. It's textbook proto-fascism, wrapped in postmodern branding.

And then there’s the mafia, not just as a criminal network, but as a shadow institution embedded in the very fabric of Albanian governance. Drug routes, human trafficking corridors, and money laundering operations flow through the country like an underground river, largely untouched, even protected. Some officials moonlight as facilitators, others as beneficiaries. The occasional high-profile arrest is merely a smokescreen, often sacrificial, offered up to appease foreign partners while the core machinery keeps humming.

The tragedy here isn’t that Albania is failing. It’s that it’s been taught to believe that this is success.

Rama’s defenders, particularly in European diplomatic circles, point to his reforms, infrastructure investments, and cultural ambitions. But one wonders: how many shiny roads and conferences are needed to distract from the rot beneath? The EU accession process drags on like a bureaucratic opera, but the truth is, Brussels has run out of polite synonyms for “we don’t trust your institutions.”

What makes it worse is the hopelessness many Albanians feel. The young flee. The educated resign. The poor are bought. The middle class, increasingly mythical, votes with its feet—through emigration, detachment, or irony. The idea of change has become a punchline in cafés from Tirana to Shkodër.

So no, Rama’s “victory” over Berisha is not a turning point. It’s a rerun. A rerun where the villain gets older and less threatening, the hero gets sleeker and more cynical, and the audience gets smaller and more disillusioned.

Until Albania breaks the cycle of inherited leaders, sacred cows, and performative politics, it will remain trapped in its own myth: the brave little country forever on the cusp of greatness, yet always ruled by its worst instincts.

In the meantime, Rama will continue painting walls and posing for Time magazine. Berisha will plot his next comeback from the shadows. And the mafia? Well, the mafia never loses elections.

Let’s just hope someone, someday, remembers that democracy isn’t just about who wins. It’s about who truly governs and how.