When Caesar hides behind God

Alfred Lela

Every time Albania confronts Nature—or what are referred to as “acts of God”—it loses. And this happens regardless of political alignment: whether one supports the government or opposes it. It is precisely here that the biblical principle applies: “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and unto God what is God’s.” This is the fairest measure for apportioning responsibility for the water catastrophe into which the country has sunk.

That is to say: to distinguish where the power of Nature ends—against which human beings have their limits—and where the shortcomings, negligence, and incompetence of Caesar begin.
In our case, 'Caesar' is the man at the head of the executive power: Edi Rama.

Starting from the end, it is enough to look at the floods of these days and the Prime Minister’s reaction to understand that we are dealing either with a man whose fuse has blown, or with someone who lives in a parallel reality, or with a ruler who simply does not care anymore—embodying that Tirana archetype of shamelessness: “I have no shame; there’s nothing you can do to me.”

The Prime Minister’s public stance—toward Nature, toward people submerged up to their chests along with their homes, and toward critics and the opposition alike—can be summed up in a primitive formula: “God is to blame. The people are to blame. The opposition is to blame.”

Not a single grain of self-reflection.
Not a single thread of responsibility.
Not a single sign of self-criticism.

This case lies at the very edge of logical absurdity. To illustrate his own innocence, Rama habitually compares himself to other countries: “these things happen elsewhere too.” Yesterday, in an Andreottian moment—they blame me even for the Punic Wars—he said he could not understand why they do not also hold him responsible for floods in Italy or Montenegro. In other words, floods happen there too.

Yes—but:
First, you are the Prime Minister of Albania.
Second, citizens want to know what is happening around them—where they live, where their families, neighborhoods, cities, and state are affected. This is why international news appears at the end of newscasts, except in spectacular cases with global impact.
Third, because the taxpayer demands the return of his tax precisely on days like these. This is why taxes are paid every day. This is the essence of the democratic relationship between government and citizen: services in exchange for taxes.

Fourth, no one blames “Caesar” for failing to stop the rain. Citizens react to the absence of Caesar’s hand on the shoulder of those affected: to the lack of means to fight fires, to rescue those trapped under rubble, to compensate for damage caused by floods.

Because people see and hear. They see the Prime Minister speaking about satellites, drones, artificial intelligence, and multi-hundred-million-euro projects for total surveillance. And they rightly ask:
why are these funds not used for real safety, for emergency capacity, for a state that does not put out fires with tree branches and does not dig earthquake rubble with pickaxes?

Citizens ask of “Caesar” not miracles, but his duty. And whether he plays the fool or plays the incompetent, he is in breach of the contract with citizens.

Rama does not recognize this contract—because he himself has broken it. The contract is broken the moment the tax collector takes your tax and uses it to buy the very citizen who paid it. When party operatives arrive with bags of cash. When the Prime Minister arrives with a “pension bonus.” When fines are forgiven in the middle of an election campaign.

This is not charity.
It is bribery with your own money.

This is the double taxation system built by Edi Rama: he raises taxes to buy votes, and buys votes in order to raise taxes. And the duty to govern a safe country, with a cabinet that assumes responsibility, he replaces with monologues on Facebook and Instagram.

This is why, every time Albania confronts Nature, it loses.
Because “Caesar” long ago abandoned his duty—and chose to play God.