- When a state refuses to protect its people—wherever they may be—it is not the enemy that triumphs.
It is the nation itself that dies: slowly, coldly, and by its own hand.
And so, in this strange Balkan theater—half tragedy, half farce—the Albanians of Preševo, Medveđa, and Bujanovac have become characters whom everyone claims to see and protect, yet whom no one truly sees or protects, just as the Arvanites of Greece and the Chams of Epirus-Albania were not protected before them.
They are the audience in a play where everyone else has been given a voice.
Meanwhile, in Tirana, the government continues its noble tradition of Socialist–Slavic–Patriotic Somnambulism—sleepwalking on the old faith of Slavic anti-Albanian communism, speaking proudly about nothing while achieving nothing through action.
And the media?
Oh, the media.
They pirouette like well-groomed harem dancers, spinning in perfect synchronization around the Sultan’s throne, careful not to tread on any Serbian toes—or Serbian stilettos.
These are not journalists.
They are ornaments of prostitution holding microphones.
The only investigative skill they possess is discerning which camera angle best flatters the Sultan’s profile—or, more precisely, from which direction to perform their devotional service upon him.
And the public broadcaster? Albanian media?
A temple of neutrality so pure, so immaculate, so untouched by national concerns—like a virgin prostitute—that one wonders whether it is secretly broadcasting from the Slavic–Sultanian harem in Belgrade.
Perhaps they are confused.
Perhaps their eyes are dazzled by the dizzying sums of Vlach–Serbian money.
Perhaps they are simply waiting for permission from sniper Vučić’s press office to suppress what the U.S. Congress has already shouted loudly across the world.
And the government?
It behaves like a nervous servant at an 18th-century Serbian royal banquet:
“Your Majesty Vučić, is everything to your liking?
The Albanians? Oh yes, of course—
we’ve kept them under the table.
Please, continue your dinner.”
This is diplomacy, Renaissance-style:
a velvet glove covering a murderous hand.
All the while, the Council of Europe writes reports;
the U.S. Congress holds hearings;
international experts speak.
Everyone seems to be doing Albania’s job—
except Albania.
But fear not!
The Sultan of Surrel will return from his Surrelian-Sultanian odyssey with new stories, new selfies, and new metaphors about global Sorosian peace—because nothing consoles a neglected population like a well-lit photo shoot in Surrel’s Russo-Serbo-Babilonian aesthetic.
And what of the Albanians of Preševo, Medveđa, and Bujanovac?
They remain uninvited guests at their own national table—
waiting patiently for a state that remembers them,
for institutions that recognize them,
for a media that dares to speak their name without first checking whether Belgrade approves.
Until then, the Serbo-Surrelian Sultanate dances,
the Sultan of Surrel travels,
and the valley—Albanians beneath the Serbian axe of Damocles—waits.
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