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OP-ED

Today at the Central Committee of the Cubans of Renaissance

Politiko 2026-03-09 16:56:35
Today at the Central Committee of the Cubans of Renaissance

Alfred Lela

In the meeting hall of the Socialist Party’s parliamentary group today, the old shadow of the Central Committee of the Party of Labour of Albania had fallen once again. Anyone who has seen footage of Enver Hoxha presiding over the final meetings of the Central Committee could not fail to notice that the dictator’s complexion was crossed by an ominous gray — a foreboding shade, a sign of doom rising from the depths of a future without a future and from a past filled with shadows and ghosts.

The same shadow seemed to have enveloped Edi Rama today. A gray fog and portent — the kind Kadare or Shakespeare deepen in their Elsinorean atmospheres — a cold, cracked marble sarcophagus, a statue rolling its mechanical eyes like a mythological owl, an expensive suit from which the body had escaped in search of freedom, a Cheops speaking to mummies dead while still alive. For nothing more than decomposed bodies of ideas and spirits were his MPs today.

In that fair of dead souls, the Albania of Year Zero paraded today — the Albania that Edi Rama had launched with dynamite and “you haven’t seen anything yet,” blowing up apartment blocks, the destinies of political opponents, and even the fates of the unfortunate who died in prison for an unpaid electricity bill. And upon those ruins, the Edi-who-once-dazzled-Paris erected hundreds of towers of a dictatorial grimace, of his own Putinist art deco.

It always takes Literature to explain events like today’s meeting in the Central Committee of the Brigants of the “Renaissance,” chaired by Edi Rama. Political analysis cannot grasp the full irrational totality that inspires madness. In the animal farm where all are equal — but some are more equal than others — what is required is an Orwellian projection more than a Churchillian solution.

It is both fantastic and terrifying at the same time to witness how Edi Rama, much like Enver Hoxha before him, has entered the funereal phase of governance. A cold zone where death speaks and where all measurements are taken with its yardstick. This is not the death that comes with a scythe, but political death — whose shadow is even darker, whose stench is more suffocating, and which always begins with that gray of the communist terrifying polyester—time had poured it today across Edi Rama’s face like a cement shroud fallen from Charlie’s factories, polluting the outskirts of Fushë-Kruja.

In the Central Committee, no one is condemned anymore. The purge has already run its course with comrades Ilir, Vangjush, Sajmir, Lefter, Alqi, and a few others. Alas!

The mummies must not fall into the sleep of death. Whether the system collapses or survives, it demands new scapegoats. Some — but not all — are more equal than others. In this count, that criterion is fulfilled only by Edi and Bela.

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