Kosova at Eighteen: Small State, Big Democracy

Alfred Lela

Kosova is new in everything, except its aspirations. As it marks today the anniversary of February 17, eighteen years ago, when Hashim Thaçi proclaimed in the Assembly hall the independent and democratic state, the youngest country in Europe has much to note.

Above all, what one analyst has called “the smallest state with the biggest democracy in the Balkans,” an expression in which there is no wordplay at all.

The republic of fewer than two million inhabitants, part of whom belong to ethnic communities other than the Albanian majority, in less than two decades of political and institutional life defined by electoral cycles, has become an example for a region where elections remain the Achilles’ heel.

In an almost “Scandinavian” ritual, Kosova holds elections, closes voting at the scheduled hour, produces results by midnight, and by the next morning, winners and losers have exchanged congratulations, remaining opponents while recognizing the foundation of democracy: without free elections, opponents become enemies.

Strikingly, for our peninsula, where electoral confrontations drag on endlessly, in Kosova, when results are inconclusive or open to doubt, new elections are simply held.

Even dramatic events, such as the arrest of leading figures of the political wing of the former Kosovo Liberation Army, which weighed heavily on Pristina’s political landscape, did not undermine the electoral process. Though wounded, not only politically but at the very heart of its founding myth, Kosova continues to look forward without forgetting how much of its origin is tied to struggle, sacrifice, and survival.

This phoenix-like spirit rising from the ashes of history can be seen not only in elections but also in football. Even though Kosova has provided Albania with some of its most talented players in recent decades, it has managed to build a national team with dignity, now hoping through playoff matches to take a place at the World Cup.

The beauty of this journey stands on its own.

Kosova today is a serious country, a republic standing on its own feet, a state sitting at the table of nations like Cinderella who has finally found the shoe history once stole from her.

Nowhere is the Republic more serious than in its high political representation, embodied in the figures of Vjosa Osmani and Albin Kurti.

At Davos, beside President Trump, President Osmani made every Albanian proud — with the composure of a woman who knows her place, the elegance of a stateswoman worthy of the country she represents, and above all, the self-confidence of someone who knows she represents the best of her people, whose codes say that both men and women must carry themselves with dignity. Unlike many Balkan leaders who often display excessive deference toward leaders of great powers, especially Americans, Osmani seemed calm and assured, flowing with the strength and grace of the river she carries in her name, Vjosa.

As for Albin Kurti, it can be said briefly that he has lived the central maxim of Vetëvendosje: “you must not steal your own house.” This may explain why, in confrontations with the great powers, he appears untroubled — and, some say, stubborn for a leader of a small country. They may look down on Kosova for its size, but regarding the stature of character, they have little to say. A man who does not steal from his own house or his own people honors both himself and Kosova.

This is Kosova today — the same Kosova whose possible union with Albania was once met with unease in Tirana. History, however, has changed direction.

Be that as it may, we wish the “most beautiful eighteen-year-old of them all” many millennia of life.