Written by Ben Andoni
The idea for this piece was inspired by an article published in Illyria in 1934. Its author was a thirty-year-old man named Tajar Zavalani. For historians, he remains a well-known figure, with all the light and shadows that accompanied his life. He belonged to that generation of cultivated Albanians who, with good reason, questioned whether they truly deserved to be called intellectuals in a country burdened at the time by an extraordinarily high level of illiteracy—and much more besides.
He would die in 1966 in the United Kingdom, blacklisted and unwanted in Albania, despite the fact that the Congress of Monastir had once gathered in his family home, among the many other contributions he tried to offer during his lifetime.
We are now in May 2026, exactly ninety-two years after the publication of that article. Albania has changed enormously, and this is an undeniable fact. Dialectically speaking, it has evolved just as other nations have. The intensity of that development? Could it have been better? That is the question.
Today, whoever travels from Rinas Airport toward the center of Tirana encounters a genuine metropolis filled with high-rise towers, designed in the most contemporary architectural forms and carrying the signatures of internationally renowned architects. One sees the shadows of skyscrapers looming over—and almost cynically mocking—the Tirana of the past. The streets are lined with the world’s most prestigious car brands; elegant designer clothing fills the boulevards; institutions stand proudly displaying not only the national flag, but also that of the European Union. The smoking chimneys of old industry are gone. Yet that, too, is a painful symbol of our economic model, increasingly surrendered to concrete and cheap tourism.
And the daily chronicle? For days now we have been watching the masquerade unfolding within the Democratic Party and the spectacle surrounding the country’s largest opposition force, which still carries the hopes and frustrations of a considerable portion of the population—those who remain in the country and have not yet left for various reasons. Not only are elections absent within the party itself, not only is there a profound inability to grasp political reality while endlessly recycling banal accusations against the government—a government that indeed deserves endless criticism for the way it governs—but they also reveal themselves as equally trapped within the same anaemic socio-political reality.
Sali Berisha, arguably the most consequential figure of Albania’s post-1990 history, in both positive and negative senses, has reduced his political formation into something nearly amorphous, visibly disintegrating before the eyes of Albanians. Countless essays, analyses, public appeals, and criticisms have tried to prevent the party from collapsing into a dead end. Yet what remains visible is a terrifying apathy among its own members when it comes to changing anything.
Those within the party who genuinely desire change are discouraged from the outset because they know precisely how this political structure functions. They give up before even beginning.
“It would be the greatest mistake for a man of action to waste his time thinking about the smallest events that might influence every gesture of his, because in doing so he would lose the opportunity to act,” wrote Zavalani in an essay titled The People and the Intellectuals.
What is astonishing is that after so many consecutive defeats, after this outdated rhetoric, this stagnant organization, and the abandonment of the principles of the Right, everything continues exactly the same way. It is astonishing that the Democratic Party’s structures remain untouched and incapable of inspiring any genuine spirit. And one cannot help but wonder: if they cannot democratize themselves while in opposition, how could they ever democratize the country if they were to govern it?
If this were only a political matter, it could simply be dismissed as Albanian-style politics. But there is also the social dimension.
What happened in recent hours in Durrës, where a repeat offender took the lives of two children, forces us to ask deeper questions. How is it possible that Albanians still do not change, even after such tragedies? Why do we focus solely on the perpetrator—who is, in reality, merely one among many of us—without reflecting upon ourselves? Why does the urban community remain incapable of reacting or organizing itself to demand change? Listen to the cars tearing through the streets of Tirana at night. Listen to the terrifying noise they produce. Observe the everyday lawlessness.
And in all this, what do officials, intellectuals, and institutional leaders do? They remain silent and tolerant. That tolerance can often be translated as pure corruption, because even when no money changes hands, future favors are always expected. And when both society and institutions understand that this way of life is exhausting, why do they still refuse to change? Why do they refuse to act differently?
In short: why are we incapable of changing? Why can we not reform our politics?
“The man of action who knows where he wishes to arrive ensures that the road he has taken is not fundamentally mistaken, and when he sees that facts do not confirm his predictions, he changes tactics without stopping because of what others might say—that he was wrong. He looks toward the goal and respects facts, granting them legitimacy whenever they contradict his desires or projects,” Zavalani wrote, in a criticism directed toward the very class he belonged to.
Just as a century ago, after endless political, economic, and social failures—after accidents, tragedies, and lost lives—nobody in Albania truly seems to care. In a few weeks, another catastrophe will most likely occur. The beginning of the summer season remains among the most worrying periods for Albanians, as the country records staggering numbers of traffic accidents, often caused by people who, in the countries where they now live abroad, would never even dare to behave in such a manner.
And we are not even speaking here about the absence of democracy within the Socialist Party, nor about the language dominating public discourse today, nor about the frequent harshness of Prime Minister Edi Rama. Recent events within the Democratic Party have merely become the latest disappointment in an endless sequence. Bitter episodes involving ballot boxes and internal conflicts circulate endlessly across social media, accompanied by another phenomenon just as troubling: the inability of individuals to confront democratic choices.
What is perhaps most alarming is the constant delegation of blame, the compulsive need to make everyone else responsible. Everyone criticizes. Everyone advises. Yet no one accepts responsibility.
The essence of Zavalani’s argument was simple, yet profound: point the finger at yourself.
At that time, there existed a small circle of educated Albanians, including those abroad who had absorbed elements of Western culture. But the central question remained: why did they not attempt to pull the rest of society out of chaos and darkness?
Exactly as today.
Even those who genuinely attempt to bring change find themselves confronted by institutions that cultivate inequality and impunity. That is why Albania has witnessed hundreds and thousands of victims in conflicts over property.
“The road that must be followed in order to modernize Albania is full of thorns, full of countless difficulties, and demands sacrifice at every moment,” Zavalani wrote in his time.
But is the Albanian of today prepared to make such sacrifices?
No.
The politician still operates with the arrogance of 2008. The police officer violates rights almost instinctively. The bureaucrat makes citizens suffer without the slightest remorse—even younger officials raised supposedly in the spirit of democracy. Look at the cadastre offices. Look at the municipalities. Add to this the frightening greed for wealth among apparatchiks. Look at the young people driving luxury cars from the latest production lines, measuring life not through empathy, but through appearances.
And finally, equally surrendered: intellectuals who flirt with power and chase nothing more than clicks.
“Albanian intellectuals lack either the will or the courage to follow this road, whose destination is uncertain, but they do not wish to admit that they are missing civil courage. So what do they do? They comfort themselves with the typical phrase: ‘Nothing can be done with this people!’” (Ibid.)
That alone says enough.
But the real question remains: what does each one of us do for this country?
(Homo Albanicus)