By: By Preç Zogaj
pectacle is the salt of election campaigns. Without it, they would be schematic, boring. But spectacle must have class—otherwise, it descends into vulgarity.
I’ll never forget a scene from Bill Clinton’s first campaign for President of the United States. He had traveled overnight by train to the birthplace of Elvis Presley, the King of Rock, worshipped like a god. At dawn, he arrived at the station where a large crowd awaited. Clinton stepped off the train like a man enchanted and began to speak: he had traveled through the night with Elvis (dead for fifteen years), they had enjoyed a long talk, and when the time came for Elvis to return to the afterlife, he left behind a message for the people of Tupelo. The message? Vote for Bill Clinton! Enchanted by the tale, the crowd on the platform burst into approving cheers—even though they knew it was pure fantasy, a crafted performance.
There are many such examples of cheerful and entertaining spectacle in electoral campaigns. In our country, Edi Rama stands out in this regard. His ideas with the steering wheel, the tambourine, and his sharp one-liners are memorable.
But there comes a time when a long stay in power starts to dull creativity, to slip into excess—especially when it begins to summon the dead. We saw it this past week at the inauguration of the memorial honoring Gjergj Fishta in Zadrima, Lezha. The project itself was praiseworthy, the atmosphere beautiful, though not as inclusive as the images on screen led me to believe.
Yet Rama’s characteristic self-indulgence didn’t spare us an awkward, not to say crude, scene—with his intent to pull even Gjergj Fishta into the electoral bloc of the government.
He could have made his case—there’s nothing wrong with that, especially if he’s convinced himself that only his government has done the work to restore Fishta’s name and legacy to a pedestal. But he could have at least invented something tasteful. Clinton spoke in the name of Elvis’s ghost himself. Rama, instead, grabbed the famous publisher Frano Kulli—founder of the Fishta institute in Lezha and a talented publicist—and asked him: “Well, who would Fishta vote for?”
That jacket-pulling gesture—instinctive, and thus all the more revealing—was simply… bad. It looked like he was instinctively addressing Fishta himself: So, who are you giving your vote to? As if handing over a legalized property deed. He already knew the answer but wanted the crowd to hear it too: For you! Who else but you!
These may seem like small gestures, but they speak volumes about a high stage of megalomania, a narrow field of vision about life and people, a superficial, decorative relationship with historical figures, and a descent into parasitic, self-indulgent reverie typical of those too comfortable in power.
No, really—who would Homer vote for?
Who would Shakespeare vote for?
What if Jesus had been a woman—how would the world be?
Other countries would be stunned to hear such musings from their top politicians.
If Rama truly knew the works of Fishta and the other greats of the national renaissance, he would understand for himself how his own conduct as Prime Minister aligns—or not—with their visions. Not that we must remain stuck in their era. Politics, like art, inherits and surpasses models. But there is always a foundation of values that connects generations and keeps direction steady.
All statesmen, to varying degrees, have their achievements and works during their time in office. Rama too. Since we’re talking about founding fathers, I imagine they would have praised his ability to mobilize unprecedented international support after the 2019 earthquake—or for turning the country into an almost unimaginable tourist destination compared to ten years ago.
But in politics, good deeds are judged in relation to the bad ones. Often it’s the bad that leaves the lasting mark. Sometimes as a verdict of history. Sometimes as the judgment of current events. Enver Hoxha cannot be lifted by his real achievements over the mountain of crimes committed by his regime. Achievements may be surpassed. Crimes linger in memory, a warning never to be repeated.
Rama’s record bears his own brand of negative milestones, particularly in state-building and elections: The first is promoting crime into power, thus fusing power into crime—with serious and long-term consequences for the country’s development. Could the intellectual and statesmen elite of Albania—Sami Frashëri, Gjergj Fishta, Ismail Qemali, and others—have imagined such a thing?
The second is THE REGISTRY—the encirclement of necessary voters into the pro-government quadrant, managed name by name all year round. I’ve written about this several times. I continue to consider it an anti-democratic investment, going beyond natural political engagement—made possible only by the country’s small population—undermining individual freedom of choice. Even Pietro Quarone, the Italian diplomat in 1930s Albania, wouldn’t have imagined it. “I try to teach Albanians that free elections are a tool to give up power, not to gain it,” he once said.
Meanwhile, Rama remains gripped by the Year Zero syndrome, as if everything begins with him. Even recently in Lezha.
It must be said that after the ’90s, Lezha saw the founding of the “Gjergj Fishta” publishing house, with the stature of a national institute for all things Fishta. A private entity with public function. The creation of Frano Kulli, surrounded by collaborators and supporters—including local PD and PS leaders—who have continuously appreciated and supported it.
Lezha has, for decades, awarded the annual National Literary Prize “Gjergj Fishta.” It was initiated by the County, now carried on by the Municipality—which this year decided to elevate it to new heights. Setting an example not even seen in major municipalities like Tirana.
Lezha is home to the most beautiful monument in Albania dedicated to Gjergj Fishta—erected in 2009 by the talented sculptor Hilmi Kasemi, with support from the then-Democratic Party government. Various studies on Fishta’s multifaceted figure were supported in those years.
Rama has been in power longer, and naturally, he would do more. But imagine if he had stepped down in 2021 after two mandates, like previous governments. He would have left without doing anything for Fishta.
What I mean is: every government does something. That’s how the baton is passed. But there was no need to drag Fishta into the elections in such a banal and arrogant way. The political opposition he already faces is more than enough.
