Albania is going through a deep crisis because it lacks the rule

Host: The square was drenched in the amber light of streetlamps, their halos diffused by a thin mist that carried the smell of smoke, rain, and uncertainty. Torn banners hung limp from nearby poles, still bearing the red and black of Albania’s flag, the double-headed eagle fluttering like a wounded heart. The echoes of chanting had faded, leaving behind the hush that follows conviction — or exhaustion.

Jack sat on the steps of the municipal building, his hands still stained with ink from the sign he had carried all day. Beside him, Jeeny stood wrapped in her coat, a thermos in one hand, her breath visible in the cold night air. The crowd had dispersed, but the tension lingered, like heat trapped beneath the stones.

Host: It was late, but not done — neither the protest, nor the hope that fed it.

Jeeny: quietly, reading from her phone “Edi Rama said, ‘Albania is going through a deep crisis because it lacks the rule of law, an independent judiciary, and freedom of the media. I don’t think if we stop protesting the problem is solved.’”
She put the phone away and looked at Jack. “That doesn’t sound like politics. It sounds like prophecy.”

Jack: without looking up “Or maybe confession.”

Jeeny: “You think he’s right?”

Jack: “About the crisis? Absolutely. About protests solving it? That’s harder.”

Jeeny: “He said stopping doesn’t solve it — that’s not the same as saying it will.”

Jack: nodding slowly “True. But protests without transformation — that’s just noise that makes people feel righteous while nothing moves.”

Jeeny: “And silence? That’s the noise of surrender.”

Host: Her voice carried through the empty square, soft but unyielding. The flag overhead trembled in the wind, like it was listening.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. I came here tonight thinking I’d feel empowered. Instead, I just feel... small. Like we’re screaming at a mountain that’s already decided not to move.”

Jeeny: “Mountains erode, Jack. Not with shouting, maybe — but with persistence. With rain. With time.”

Jack: sighing “So we’re raindrops now?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every system that’s ever claimed permanence has drowned eventually.”

Jack: half-smiling “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but it doesn’t change the fact that power always outlasts outrage.”

Jeeny: “Only when outrage forgets its purpose.”

Host: The church bells from across the river tolled midnight. A stray dog wandered between trash cans, sniffing for warmth. Somewhere in the distance, the faint wail of a siren faded — another night, another wound in the city’s quiet.

Jack: after a long pause “Rama’s talking about law, judges, media — the bones of democracy. But the truth is, those things don’t die overnight. They’re strangled slowly. Paper by paper. Voice by voice.”

Jeeny: “And the world watches it happen because corruption doesn’t make noise — it whispers. It buys silence.”

Jack: “And people let it.”

Jeeny: sitting beside him “No. People survive it. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You’re defending apathy.”

Jeeny: “I’m understanding it. When the cost of speaking is your safety, silence becomes a strategy — until enough people break it together.”

Jack: “And when they do?”

Jeeny: “Then power flinches.”

Host: The lamps flickered, dim for a second, then steadied. Jack’s eyes were fixed on the flag above — the red glowed almost black under the night sky.

Jack: “You think protests actually matter anymore? They’ve turned into theater. Cameras flash, people tweet, governments wait for fatigue to do their work.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even theater can ignite revolutions if the audience starts believing the story again.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing politics.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m humanizing it. We forget that politics isn’t a machine — it’s a mirror. A nation’s corruption is a reflection of its collective compromises.”

Jack: “So you think we’re complicit.”

Jeeny: “We’re always complicit until we act. But the moment we refuse to look away, we begin to rewrite the story.”

Host: The rain began again, light at first, then steadier — washing the graffiti on the walls into thin streaks of red and black. Jeeny pulled her hood up. Jack didn’t move.

Jack: “You really believe protests can fix what’s broken here? A justice system that bends like wire? Journalists disappearing under ‘accidents’? Courts owned by money?”

Jeeny: “No. Protests don’t fix it. They remind us it’s not normal. They stop the rot from becoming invisible.”

Jack: quietly “So it’s about memory.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every march, every banner, every voice says: we see you. And that’s the one thing corruption can’t stand — being seen.”

Host: A group of young people passed by — their faces wet with rain, their voices hoarse but defiant. One of them carried a flag wrapped around his shoulders, like a promise. They nodded to Jack and Jeeny as they went, a silent communion of purpose.

Jeeny: “Look at them. They don’t know if this will work either. But they came anyway. That’s what resistance really is — not certainty, but faith.”

Jack: watching them go “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In the idea that even if we can’t win today, we can’t afford to stop trying.”

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in people.”

Jeeny: “I do. Because people are the only thing that’s ever scared power enough to change.”

Jack: “You think power’s scared now?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “It blinked.”

Host: The rain eased, turning into mist again. The square shimmered — wet stone, torn posters, empty signs, a kind of beauty in the wreckage.

Jack: “You know what I realized tonight? We keep waiting for the government to grow a conscience. But it’s not the government that needs to evolve — it’s us. The citizens. The crowd.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The rule of law, the freedom of the press, the independence of justice — those aren’t gifts the state hands out. They’re habits people refuse to abandon.”

Jack: “So what happens if the people stop protesting?”

Jeeny: “Then truth becomes optional. And once truth is optional, justice is gone.”

Jack: “And after that?”

Jeeny: “After that, history starts repeating itself.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. The flag, heavy with rain, hung still now. The air was cold but alive with something deeper — persistence.

Jack: softly “You know, I think that’s what Rama meant. It’s not just about protests in Albania. It’s about the disease that eats every democracy if no one guards it — complacency.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Corruption’s not born in offices. It’s born in apathy.”

Jack: “And healed in courage.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The first hint of dawn began to stain the horizon, pale and hesitant. The square glowed differently now — same stones, same scars, but a lighter air, as if the night’s doubts had made room for something new.

Jeeny handed Jack the thermos, her breath visible again in the chill.

Jeeny: “Drink. You’ll need your voice again tomorrow.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You think I’ll come back?”

Jeeny: “You already know you will.”

Host: They stood there in silence, watching the light rise over a country both wounded and awake.

And in that moment, Edi Rama’s words became not a headline, but a heartbeat —

that freedom isn’t restored by rest,
that truth doesn’t defend itself,
and that a people who stop protesting
don’t end their struggle —
they end their memory.

Host: And as the sun touched the soaked flag, turning it gold for an instant, Jack whispered —

“Then we don’t stop.”

And Jeeny nodded —
because she already knew.