By Lorik Idrizi
Undoubtedly, a third term is already excessive for any democracy. There is a near-universal consensus that a third mandate for leaders (though not necessarily for parties) brings intoxication and arrogance. Yet, Albania’s opposition over the past decade has merely waited its turn for power, comfortably seated in its zone of passivity. The persistent discourse that “the state is captured and power cannot be changed through the vote” has served as an alibi for the opposition—one that, in fact, has discouraged voters from believing in change through the ballot box and has fed the narrative that we live in a stabilocracy.
And now, it’s 2025—and once again, Rama wins. His fourth term as prime minister, after previous electoral triumphs as mayor. Rama’s continued success on Albania’s political stage cannot be fully understood through classic electoral analysis or statistics alone. It must be seen through the lens of Michel Foucault’s theory of power, which suggests that power is not just repressive—it is productive. It shapes discourse, produces “truth,” and determines how a society perceives itself.
It seems that those Albanians who have remained in Albania see Rama as their only adequate representative. In his first two terms, he symbolized the hope of restoration—of a grand aesthetic and urban revival that communism had destroyed and which the transition had failed to recover. His third term, although marred by corruption scandals and faced with an opposition waiting idly, was still a win. But the fourth term is a different story: these elections were marked by a notable lack of political heat, and enthusiasm was strikingly low for a Mediterranean country like Albania. Rama’s victory was perceived not as a contest won, but as a normalized outcome. This time, the real battle seemed to be about who would occupy the opposition space to challenge Rama in the future.
Again, the third mandate was more than democracy should tolerate. There is broad agreement that the third term often breeds political arrogance. Yet, the Albanian opposition over the past ten years has remained in a state of comfortable inertia. The claim that “the system is rigged and power is untouchable through elections” has become a self-justifying excuse—one that has ultimately driven voters into apathy and convinced them that meaningful change is impossible under current conditions.
This should not have been the case. Kosovo gave us a different example—with Vetëvendosje, a movement that began with passionate idealism and culminated in a landslide electoral victory. Vetëvendosje didn’t just defeat the political opposition; it also shattered the very architecture of an electoral system designed to maintain balance among several political poles. Let us not forget: it managed to overcome two iconic parties—LDK, the emblem of peaceful resistance, and PDK, which carried the legacy of the KLA’s wartime struggle. Regardless of their political sins or ideological leanings, Vetëvendosje prevailed through enthusiasm and a genuinely anti-establishment spirit—first believed by its core, and then by the wider public.
It appears that the opposition in Albania has lost all sense of hope that it can change the power dynamic—and that loss of energy is mirrored in the voters who still yearn for change.