By Ben Andoni
The one thing we most often feel and touch in our governance these past years is the laughter of those in power. They walk out smiling from SPAK, just as they do from an economic conference or some high-level event, beaming even while speaking about the most complex issues. Former Prime Minister Berisha smiles even when uttering the bitterest truths—his grin eagerly echoed by his MPs and party loyalists. The same goes for the Socialist Party, where Rama’s smile stretches from Tirana to every international summit and panel he graces, convinced that humor and the grotesque can explain our time. He trades jokes with prime ministers who laugh wholeheartedly, chuckles with citizens and farmers alike, and paints a picture of a country where order, peace, democracy, and normality reign—a veritable paradise on earth.
Rama’s ministers imitate his laughter and theatrical enthusiasm to the point of parody, until they face the inferno of criticism or the silence of submission before their leader in party assemblies—becoming mute cogs in a well-rehearsed performance. Few seem to see the abyss widening beneath our feet, carved by the decay of democracy and a life stripped of purpose. French President Macron, who himself faces a turbulent situation at home, was pragmatic when he recently warned: “We must not be naïve. We are turning against ourselves. We doubt our democracy… We see everywhere that something is happening to its very structure. Democratic debate is turning into a debate of hatred.” These words could just as easily describe us, where hatred and emptiness have long replaced substance.
In truth, laughter has long abandoned ordinary Albanians. What remains is a bitter smirk, born of the endless absurdities that define our daily lives. Distrust, resentment, the lack of answers even to simple questions, and growing dissatisfaction have not only crippled our political system but burdened it with insoluble social problems. The picture is grim: the number of higher education students has plummeted dramatically—from around 117,000 in 2016 to just 86,900 in 2024—laying bare our demographic decline, low birth rates, and relentless youth emigration (Monitor, 2025). INSTAT, however questionable its credibility, reports that as of January 1, 2025, Albania’s population fell by 1.2% in a single year—29,000 fewer people—bringing the total to around 2.3 million.
Those who truly know Albania understand the depth of poverty, how people live in the country’s margins—or even a few kilometers outside Tirana’s glow; how social policies fail to make any real impact; how the economic and financial void deepens while the government caters to the wealthy and the so-called “strategic investors.” The terrifying figures on the criminal economy, and the growing mountain of judicial cases, make the fight against illicit money almost futile. Justice itself has become a disappointment—bogged down in files and lacking integrity. The middle class struggles desperately to maintain a normal standard of living, balancing job insecurity with the need to stay on the right side of bureaucracy and “the boss.”
In this vicious circle—where meritocracy and moral standards have all but vanished—the only thing that seems to matter is political correctness and staying within the shadow of The One. This symbolic title—“The One”—flows from the top, the Prime Minister himself, down to the smaller “Ones” who control the machinery of the state, perpetuating the same authoritarian dynamic. Everything is centralized, monitored, and subordinated.
And so, in our time, all that remains is to laugh. But even that laughter often sticks in the throat, for democratic principles now feel like abstractions. The very idea that democracy is the most suitable form of governance seems meaningless against the chaos of daily Albanian life—where insult, violence, lack of ethics, nepotism, and informality have become the norm, and where public space itself feels poisoned, filled with senseless aggression.
The year 2025 was once imagined as the milestone for the Western Balkans’ entry into the EU. Yet Albania, along with Montenegro and Serbia, remains far from that horizon, despite the new target of 2030.
That alone might make one laugh—at least at the empty promises of politicians. And so, humor has become our survival instinct, a way to escape the suffocating stress of this reality—a phenomenon even studied by neuroscience and psychiatry. These disciplines define two types of unconscious defense mechanisms: “mature” and “immature.” Humor and sublimation belong to the mature; self-harm, hypochondria, and neurotic behavior to the immature. Mark Twain put it best, though life often disappointed him: “The human race has one truly effective weapon, and that is laughter.”
But when laughter comes from the people, it carries a bitter taste. For power, laughter becomes a symbol of control—a tool of corruption and manipulation. And as for our leaders—Rama and Berisha now locked in a grotesque contest for public mockery—one is reminded of Dario Fo’s words: “Laughter, if expressed truthfully, can become the grave of those in power—especially when they seek to destroy those who make others laugh.”
Beautiful, but perilous—because time has shown that the first victim is always the satirist, the one who dares to break the conformist spell of life. In Albania’s case, that victim is the ordinary citizen. And so, to borrow a line Fo himself once forgot to cite:
“Beware when power laughs—for it is showing you the teeth it will soon use to devour you.”
Bitter, raw, and all too true—for Albania, in 2025 and beyond.