“The heart of this country” as a political document

It says: Baton Haxhiu

In Zurich, Saturday night, darkness did not come from the outside. In Pristina at the stage-up line began as a serious mockery...

Albin, Albin, heart of this place...”

Party Meeting Confession

I don't know what time exactly happened.

Perhaps the moment someone dropped the song at a party meeting.

Maybe when someone else, serious, facing the statesman, said it was a good idea.

Maybe when no one laughed, nobody got red, nobody said stop.

“Albin, Albin, heart of this place...”

And that's not where the satira went. The applause came in.

Because this song didn't happen by accident. She was approved. You heard. Done. It was legitimized.

At a party gathering claiming modernity, rationality and separation from political folklore, a ballad for the living man was approved. And nobody saw the problem.

This is where the darkness begins.

Not to the singer, who doesn't understand what you sing. She does what she's always done.

But in politics that listens to this song and you see yourself inside it.

To the party that thinks the refrain can replace the programme.

The leader who agrees to sing in times of crisis, because the song is softer than the question.

At that moment, politics ceases to be a debate and becomes a ritual.

And every ritual requires worship, not accountability.

This is no longer a matter of taste.

It's a matter of reggression.

Because when a country that is without a functional government, on the eve of the constitutional crisis, with its budget uncertain and paralyzed institutions, chooses to represent itself with a song of praise to the leader, then the word <x0-crisan” is very soft.

There are no more words here.

There's only one repeated refrain and a growing silence.

And in the Balkans, when politics starts to sing, it usually doesn't end well.

2. Confession for Cyril

About a thousand people from the diaspora gathered there as if they had never lived in Zurich. As if they had never seen a city function where the state doesn't need to be sung, where leaders are not called by name and where politics has no refrain.

They knocked on that hall with the trunk of a world Europe has left behind for decades, but we keep it alive with fanaticism.

“Albin, Albin, heart of this place...”

And there was no more irony here. There was only mob.

A thousand people living in one of the most orderly, quiet and fair cities in the world, but at that moment more primitive than the inhabitants of a forgotten village in Kosovo.

Because the forgotten village has an excuse: lack of state.

They don't.

In Zurich, the city where no one needs to sing to the prime minister for public service, was cheered for a living man.

In the city where the law is stronger than the individual, the idea that the individual is the law was applauded.

In the city where institutions function quietly, there were noises as political ideas.

That wasn't homesick. He was a chosen Ranger.

Because these people aren't isolated. They are economically integrated, legally protected, socially secure. They know exactly how a normal society works. And for that very reason, what they did in Cyril is heavier.

It was not ignorance. It was a wish.

The desire to bring with it the nineteenth - century verse world.

The world where the leader is sung so as not to be asked.

The world where the refrain replaces reason.

The world where politics is not institution, but sense.

And there, in that room in Zurich, it was clearly seen that the problem is not that we don't know how to live in democracy.

The problem is many of us don't want to.

Because democracy wants quiet. It requires distance. It's an account.

Worship requires only a loud voice and a closed mind.

That evening, the diaspora did not act as part of a European society.

He acted like a mob.

And crowds don't build states. They just sing it.

So what was seen in Cyril was not a party. It was a warning.

Warning that primitiveness does not disappear with passport.

He just disappears with his mind.

3. Confession for stage-up comedy

Last night, noble Qerkini opened the scene and the public was surprised.

“Albin, Albin the heart of this country”

Stand-up's over. The applause's off. The back was suspended in the air.

In Pristina, meanwhile, there was neither scene nor humor. There are blocked states, government in office, budget in danger and a constitutional crisis that does not need batta.

In Kosovo it is not laughing, time is running out.

The irony is this: in Cyril it was sung for a man, while in Pristina it is silent for a state.

A city works without a sound. The other is choking on the refrain.

And when the lights of the stage went out, and the Gendar Islam's nobleness was thanked, there remained only the line that opened this story as a sign of our dark time.

“Albin, Albin, heart of this place...”

Because when politics turns into a sketch and the crisis in the voice column, the state remains without a sentence.