Trump's shadow over revolutionary Albania: Protest movement of hundreds of thousands against the government, corruption, and oligarchic power

On foot, by boat, and by buses from Tirana to southern Albania. Hundreds of kilometers and tens of thousands of steps with restless local residents. On the island of Sazan, in the Vlorë region, and in the rare Zvërnec reserve, I am searching for why Albanians are bothered by the construction of luxury resorts for the ultra-rich from the Trump family. This impulse has become a catalyst for a national and social movement against oligarchs and the government. A small Balkan country that survived a brutal communist dictatorship and a tragic transformation is now facing another pivotal moment in modern history. What drives Albanians to change on the eve of joining the European Union?

Night has fallen over the Albanian capital. When I arrive in the center of Tirana, it is half past nine in the evening, but not even the late hour deters thousands of people from protesting against Prime Minister Edi Rama’s government for the 23rd day. The last straw for the protesters was the handover of a precious coastline for the construction of villas and a luxury resort for the ultra-rich – near the southern Albanian city of Vlorë – by Affinity Partners, a company owned by Jared Kushner, the son-in-law of U.S. President Donald Trump. The coast in the Zvërnec area, Sazan Island, and especially Narta Lagoon are habitats for protected animals, mainly flamingos. Unlike other locations in the Mediterranean, this is one of the last places in Europe where these birds live in completely wild, human-unaffected nature, without the need for artificial care or other human assistance. The transfer of this area to the Trump family has become a kind of catalyst for accumulated anger and frustration.

“Albania is not for sale,” the crowd chants. Neither Albanians nor flamingos. The flamingos have become a symbol of this revolt, which quickly earned the nickname Flamingo Revolution. Dozens of protesters, beating drums, hold models of these birds. Thousands more are gathered around them. Today’s regular protest also takes place on Tirana’s Dëshmorët e Kombit Boulevard (Martyrs of the Nation Boulevard), an iconic highway that cuts through the capital.

Hundreds of thousands in the streets and the shadow of the sadistic dictator Enver Hoxha

The route connects two squares. On the north side is Skanderbeg Square. Skanderbeg was a sort of Albanian Svätopluk. Similar to his metaphor with sticks, the Albanian duke united Albanian principalities in the fight against the Ottoman Empire. Even today, his coat of arms – a black double-headed eagle on a red background – which is also the Albanian national flag, floods the city streets. The coat of arms of the defender of Christianity in a country that is predominantly Muslim, yet the coexistence of Muslims and Christians there could serve as a model for many. On the other, southern side, the road leads to Mother Teresa Square, the first Albanian saint. The international airport in Tirana is also named after her, from where I just arrived a few minutes ago.

Two days ago, protesters occupied the entire length of this kilometer-long road, along with dozens to hundreds of meters across the squares mentioned. Local BalkanWeb and the associated News24 news channel, based on drone footage, estimated that between 200,000 and 250,000 people gathered here. Official estimates were lower, but just last weekend, protesters again managed to fill the entire boulevard. Officially, tens of thousands, but in reality perhaps even more. Overall, it can be concluded that over the course of a month of protests, every single day, hundreds of thousands participated. To give an idea, the Tirana region has a population of 800,000, and all of Albania only 2.4 million.

In the shadows of street lamps, I run up to the Pyramid of Tirana. This place was originally a monument and museum dedicated to the communist dictator Enver Hoxha. The brutalist style of the building clearly corresponded with the extraordinary brutality of his regime. It was dominated by a statue of Hoxha built from dozens of tons of expensive white marble, in a country suffering from famine at the time. Although Hoxha was never buried there, it was a monument to his cult, and locals called the Pyramid nothing else but Hoxha’s mausoleum. The communist totalitarian power here collapsed completely only in 1992, making it the last country in the Eastern Bloc to do so.

The Pyramid was long neglected, but a few years ago, the government decided to renovate it, and I can briskly walk along its sides, where stairs are located. Here, supporters of the protests observe the events and join in with chants. From it, I get a bird’s-eye view of the road, where for nearly a month, cars no longer pass in the evening, only a human mass. Chanting, singing, shouting. It is already moving into the city streets. Every night, after a few hours of protest, it departs along a different route. The streets will be busy even after midnight, some participants until early morning.

In the early morning, I see them as I leave my hotel in Blloku – a district that was once forbidden to ordinary Albanians, only the elite of the dictatorial regime lived here. I am visiting Tirana for the second time this year; a few weeks before the first protest, some protesters threw Molotov cocktails into Hoxha’s villa, a place in Blloku that belonged to the family of the most powerful man. Today, it is a center for artists.

Back then, I sat in the glow of the burning spring sun on a deck chair in front of an emptied pool, pondering what it looked like a few weeks ago. The aftermath of the demonstration had already been removed. And what was it like over 40 years ago, when Hoxha sent thousands of people to their deaths from here? Their fates are described in the gripping report book Sladoled sladji od meda (“Mud Sweeter Than Honey”) by Polish journalist Margo Rejmer. “This is the darkest report about a land plagued by terror. About people tortured just because they tried to think at home. About victims who today walk the streets with their executioners and shop in the same store, building their country together,” the book states.

Albanian journalist Blendi Fevziu, in a powerful biography Enver Hoxha – The Iron Fist of Albania, depicts Hoxha’s Albania as a country where the dictator was an absolute master of fear. Paranoia became part of everyday life. It was a country that became a prison for its own people.

Fevziu was at the beginning of the 1990s one of the participants in the revolution that overthrew Hoxha’s government, speaking from a TV studio. These days, he is often among the protesters and expresses sympathy for them. According to him, protests are essential for the soul of the nation. However, the TV station Klan, where he works, is firmly pro-government in its reporting. Connections between power, business, and media are nothing unusual here. Prime Minister Rama and his TV appearances are as commonplace as Trump’s name on American buildings.

Forget the train

Although this protest movement stems from domestic frustration and anger over government corruption, it is also a hotspot of geopolitics. Therefore, I leave the center of Tirana heading southwest across the country.

You can forget the train – the tracks were destroyed during the wild nineties, and some later. Some locals tore them out and ended up in scrap yards, others the natural environment reclaimed. All shared one common denominator: state dysfunction.

For many years, you cannot take a train to Vlorë.

So I head to the bus station. It is also a good example of failure, as the protesters in the streets talk about. The North-South Bus Terminal in the western suburb (named based on the departure directions to the north and south of the country) is basically just a dirty parking lot without platforms, where travelers squeeze between small minibuses – vans – and occasional long-distance buses. The station behind it has been under construction for years. It has been functioning this way for more than a decade. Although Albanian society has made obvious progress and, in the new millennium, is truly a different, more modern country compared to previous years, protesters and locals often repeat the same complaints: everything is overpriced, everything takes a long time. Not to mention the dire economic and social situation of ordinary people.

You find your connection by inspecting dozens of vans with destination signs or by the loud shouts of drivers. “Vlora!,” shouts one of them. Only he knows when it departs. You won’t find a timetable, and Google Maps times are apparently only symbolic. Mine was supposed to leave at five, then at half past five, but according to the driver, “it will go right away.” It left at half past six. Sometimes the van arrives, sometimes not.

From the bus station, that is, from the parking lot, I admire the majestic Dajti Mountain, an inseparable part of the city’s skyline. It is also served by the longest cable car in the Balkans, from which you can see the capital city at a thousand meters above sea level as if on the palm of your hand. It was built twenty years ago; unlike the “bus station,” it is a symbol of the country’s progress.

The sun has long risen, and we pass the traffic peak in Tirana, the lowlands and plains, and hints of the aforementioned majestic mountains. Albania’s natural beauty – from crystal-clear seas and lakes to rocky peaks – is today not only a tourist attraction. The fight to preserve it has become one of the causes of the largest civil movement since the fall of communism.

Modern history of rebellion in the land of flamingos

My steps are directed toward Zvërnec in Vlorë. On the way, we pass Ivanka’s restaurant. I am not sure if the name is just a coincidence, bad advertising, or enthusiasm for controversial development. A few days after returning, I read in the Guardian that it was opened recently, and its owner is a fan not only of Trump supporters but also of Prime Minister Rama. But the overall societal popularity of Edi Rama, the leader of the Albanian socialists, whom critics and protesters accuse of having overly close ties with oligarchs, is unknown. In Albania, preference polls and public opinion surveys are quite rare. Basically, you can only find out about them during the peak of election campaigns. Rama and his party won almost exactly a year ago, with 52 percent. It was his fourth electoral victory; he has been in power for 13 years now.

According to people on the streets, this unlucky thirteen should be a bad omen for him. We cannot rely on exact poll figures, but the anger in the streets is obvious. And while it took decades to overthrow communism, recent history shows that things can change here overnight.

One of the most dramatic revolts in post-communist Europe took place precisely in Albania. It was 1997, and pyramid investment schemes began collapsing across the country. impoverished Albanians often invested their lifelong savings in them. Christopher Jarvis, in a report for the IMF titled The Rise and Fall of Albanian Pyramid Schemes, wrote that up to half of the country’s GDP was lost in these non-banking schemes. The impoverished and the middle class were drained, and Albanian streets erupted in unrest. President Sali Berisha had to flee overnight. But not for long. A few years later, he returned as prime minister. And he remains a prominent figure today. “Rama to jail. Berisha to jail,” the crowd shouts 30 years later. Berisha knows this well; for Rama, such anger and rebellion are new.

I have a vivid memory from 1997 as a teenager: CNN interrupted its broadcast to show footage from Vlorë. The Katër i Radës boat, full of refugees, was leaving, with estimates of up to 140 people. Helpless and exhausted after another social and life catastrophe. The Italians refused to let them into their waters; a smaller vessel was blocked by an Italian military ship, which led to a collision. Today, this is known as the Otranto tragedy, where more than 80 people died, many of them women and children.

It will soon be 35 years since, in Durrës (Drač), near Tirana, twenty thousand impoverished Albanian refugees stormed onto a cargo ship, the Vlora, during the fall of the communist regime. The ship, full of refugees, resembled an anthill. After dozens of hours, it reached Italy, but they were deported back. Today, despite a turbulent history, both countries are among the closest allies. Hundreds of thousands of Albanian emigrants left for Italy after the regime fell. It was and still is their primary refuge, forming the second-largest minority there.

From flamingo lagoon to Trump’s family reserve

Back to the Vlorë region today. The dirt road to the reserve is surrounded by trees and luxurious villas – fruits of the transformation to capitalism. And beach accessory shops. Not a single one lacks an inflatable flamingo. Also fruits, especially here and now, sometimes bordering on militant capitalism. We are in the last area of the old continent where people live completely freely and in wild nature.

We arrive at a wooden bridge, now only for pedestrians, on the other side of the lagoon. Grem, a man in his forties who has lived his whole life in Vlorë, stretches out his hand and points into the distance. “This part belongs to Mr. Kushner,” he says. He points further, where a few kilometers away, flamingos are supposed to feed and bathe. “And there too, it belongs to Mr. Kushner,” he adds with a fixed gaze into the distance. “It’s beautiful here. I often come here with my family; it’s very peaceful, the coast is amazing,” he explains. He definitely does not want to lose this corner of peace and natural beauty. Just like hundreds of thousands of Albanians in Tirana’s streets. For construction work, they have already closed one public beach. Security guards beat up one protester. In retaliation, they vandalized the fencing and construction site beginnings.

I step onto the roughly 300-meter-long wooden bridge. Some pillars, and occasionally a sagging plank, suggest that the best times are behind it. Still, it impresses with its light elegance and monumentality. The views of the landscape, part of which should belong to the son-in-law of the president according to the government’s decision, are breathtaking. Groups of people cross the bridge toward the island, which bears the same name as the coast and the village: Zvërnec. The pine island has been home to a Byzantine monastery for at least 700 years. Although the island, monastery, or bridge are not targets for oligarchic investors, many parts of Zvërnec and the famous flamingo lagoon are.

“Whatever this man touches, he ruins,” Grem says angrily about Trump. And he is even more angry at Prime Minister Rama. He supports the protesters. “I believe we can stop this project,” he says determinedly. But he also says it shouldn’t end there; Albania needs a complete change of its political elite.

It’s time to return to Tirana; the trip takes about three hours. The last minibus is supposed to leave at 4:30 p.m. according to an unreliable schedule, but I want to catch the second evening and night of protests. Tomorrow, I plan to return to this beautiful nature. “Definitely, nothing leaves at 4:30; the last one goes at 4:00,” a local tells me. I take his advice and won’t argue; he knows Balkan transportation quirks better than I know imaginary schedules. In Vlorë, there is no “bus station” at all; each route has its own sign posted somewhere along the road. And each on a different exit road.

My bus has a poetic name: Kastrati. They are not eunuchs or singers. It’s named after the gas station where the minibuses stop. Kastrati is something like the Albanian Slovnaft – at least in terms of dominance in the fuel market. It is their largest distributor and importer of petroleum products in the country. Its owner, Shefqet Kastrati, is among the most prominent Albanian oligarchs. Ties to political elites are routine for them; according to the investigative portal BIRN, they are also involved in the controversial Kushner project. His son Musa Kastrati reportedly accompanied Ivanka Trump around Zvërnec when she was exploring the new Albanian idyll.

In the scorching heat, the scent of pines and the sea in Zvërnec is suddenly replaced by the smell of fuel from Kastrati. But that’s when the minibus takes me back to Tirana.

Day 24 and night of protests – Rama and Trump in a vampire moment

When I arrive at Dëshmorët e Kombit Boulevard around seven in the evening, the organizers are already setting up banners and equipment. A handful of police officers guard the Prime Minister’s residence, and protesters have been building their small improvised tribune right in front of it for the 24th day. “Skenë Krimi” (“Crime Scene”) is written on the tape surrounding the Prime Minister’s residence. It is supplemented by small police beacons, abandoned on the ground in front of three officers. Until now, protests have been almost always peaceful, but during a few incidents, water cannons have been used against protesters.

On the steps of the government building, a few days have been laid out as a symbolic and powerful message of the movement. Shoes. They symbolize hundreds of thousands of Albanians who had to leave the country in search of a better life. Protesters blame the ruling class for this. Albania is experiencing one of the world’s largest depopulation crises. Since the fall of dictatorship, about two million people have left the country, according to the local statistical office. An equal number of people with Albanian citizenship live abroad as in Albania itself. Many of them I also meet among the protesters. The organizers call for their support, and it seems they are coming in thousands.

Slaves and tourists. That’s what Albanians are, a local Albanian acquaintance who emigrated to Slovakia tells me. Slaves are those who stayed in their homeland and sometimes work for symbolic wages – mostly for the state, and tourists are those who had to find a new home abroad.

Above the Prime Minister’s windows, a poster with ten demands from the protesters is also hung. The first is the protection of natural and cultural heritage; others include reform of the constitutional system and elections. Justice, accountability, and transparency refer to corruption accusations that also accompany the Trump family project. And of course healthcare, social security, and economic aid. The poster is in English so that foreign media can notice the message: “People will decide. Our strength is our unity. Together we will change Albania.” The protesters envisage a temporary caretaker government preparing reforms, at least that’s their idea. Critics say the protesters have no program, no leader, no political leverage or representation. They are against the entire parliamentary system. Some protesters mutter in anger, “They’d rather burn him like in Nepal.” And although the gatherings remain more or less peaceful, anger and frustration cut through the crowd like the main traffic artery cuts through Tirana. Spontaneity and apoliticism are part of this movement’s character.

The most common chant from the crowd is: “Rama, step down.” He is not planning to do so yet and defends the criticized projects as an important investment in Albania’s economy and future. He even accused the protesters of “fascist mentality” because they oppose foreign capital. When I walk through the crowd and talk to locals, they tell him that he himself “behaves like a fascist.”

Like many Eastern European politicians, he sees foreign influence behind the uprising. From Greece, which envies Albania’s growing tourism, to Iran, which disapproves of the brotherly ties with Donald Trump. Ironically, this is one of the few revolts that can also be attributed to the United States.

Because the anger erupted precisely after the exposure of the activities of the president’s son-in-law, and at the same time, the United States has historically been popular in this part of the world. It’s due to their help in the transition to democracy, but mainly because of their support for Albanians in the war between Serbia and NATO forces in Kosovo. For example, in a Gallup poll from the end of last year, after the first year of Donald Trump’s administration, Poland (68%) and Albania (64%) were the only NATO countries where the U.S. maintained significant popularity – while in other countries, it declined to historically low levels. But that was before Trump’s military adventures and before Kushner’s project was launched.

Nevertheless, the U.S. remains relatively popular here. Amidst the sea of red and black flags, the American one still occasionally flutters. Albanians, because of the Trump family project, find themselves torn between love for their homeland and America. For now, they have decided that these do not have to oppose each other.

Seventeen-year-old high school student Lusi holds up a picture showing Prime Minister Rama depicted as a vampire biting Donald Trump’s neck. “I like listening to metal, so I made this poster based on the album Bloody Kisses (by American metal band Type O Negative, ed.), but I called it Bloody Corruption,” she describes her poster. She turns it over, and it is inspired by Metallica’s album Master of Puppets. “I renamed it Master of Corruption. It shows Edi Rama, and in the background, all his corrupt friends. Basically, that’s what these protests are about,” she adds. She has been at the demonstration about twenty times, so she has been there almost from the beginning. “The whole country is in crisis. Corruption is everywhere. Not just in politics, but also in schools. And everyone should come here. It concerns all of us,” she says, her youthful courage evident. She is here with her cousin, brother, and 19-year-old cousin Isli – who traveled from northern Italy for the protests. “The Prime Minister has done nothing for our country, only brought it into crisis. We will stay until he leaves office and someone better replaces him,” she declares.

Today, dozens of protesters on the road, which just hours earlier bore witness to the notorious city traffic jams, hold flamingo models in their hands. They march to the rhythm of drums and chant anti-government slogans.

Among them is also 46-year-old Amir Kulla from Tirana, who has been here almost from the first day. “They want to build villas and resorts for extremely rich people. A very, very small minority of the planet’s population. And because of that, they want to destroy the ecosystem. When construction begins, there will be no more flamingos, sea turtles, or birds. All will disappear. We’ve seen it in other parts of Albania. When such brutal development starts, it ends with the destruction of nature,” Amir explains, leaning on a flamingo model. “I think (Jared Kushner) has enough land of his own. Why destroy ours? We are a small country. And if we destroy this lagoon, the flamingos will have nowhere else to rest. It’s the last of its kind in Europe,” he adds.

By the way, besides the fact that Albanian society is strongly pro-Western and pro-American, it is even more pro-European. The Socialists won the elections last year mainly because they promised the country’s accession to the European Union by 2030. It seems this goal might be achieved. Support for EU accession is enormous. According to the Eurobarometer survey from September 2025, it was at 92%. And in the crowd, you can also see the European flag and blue banners with European stars.

The fact that Rama, at a time when hundreds of thousands are rebelling against the entire current political class, is traveling around Europe, raises eyebrows here. Besides meeting European leaders in Gdańsk, Poland, he was also received by French President Emmanuel Macron in Paris. Protesters still await more support from European capitals and Brussels.

Forty-three-year-old Eyi Kociu holds a poster of Rama dressed in women’s clothes next to French President Macron. “Love in the Time of Cholera,” she describes it. When she is not protesting, she guides tourists through Tirana, where she comes from. She has been participating since day one. “It’s disgusting. Not only for me, but also considering Mr. Macron’s position. I wish he wouldn’t meet with him because he doesn’t deserve to be his friend,” she comments on yesterday’s meeting in Paris. When I ask what she would tell Macron, she responds firmly, without a hint of laughter or irony: “I would tell him: keep your distance. It will be better for you. And for Albanians too.”

Blloku, Angel, and Ivanka as Columbus

Shortly before ten, the crowd moves for a regular march through the city streets. “Your end has come,” they tell each other. I march with them for a while, along with police and TV crews. But before midnight, I have to get back to Blloku, as I am leaving for the south of the country early in the morning. Today, Blloku is a pulsating center of nightlife. I again wonder what it was like half a century ago when no ordinary person could just walk in. They would have ended up at the first armed checkpoint, and who knows where next.

In my backpack, I have the book Free, in which author Lea Ypi describes her childhood in this isolated block, in a country that was among the most cut off from Europe, and the transition to a new social system. Near the villa of Prime Minister Mehmet Shehu, the closest associate of Hoxha, I recall another story from inside Blloku. Shehu was a lifelong close ally of the dictator, and despite never opposing him, he paid with his life in 1981. Officially, he committed suicide, but after his death, Hoxha branded him a traitor.

When I again undertake the adventurous Balkan microbus journey in the morning, I replay conversations with the people I met. The crowd was mainly composed of young people and middle-aged individuals. But there were also older ones; some may have lived in Blloku, others could not even approach it.

In a small van heading toward Sazan Island, I remember Ivanka Trump’s fondness for it when she went swimming from her millionaire yacht and “discovered” this natural gem. Albanians know it very well; the “discovery” was more on the side of Ivanka’s millionaire and billionaire friends. She even filmed a video about it.

“She discovered an island that our state has been protecting and managing for many years. She swam to the coast, climbed to the top barefoot, and now wants to own it. Yes, she wants to have it. It’s complete nonsense. I don’t know if I should call it stupidity. It’s something unprecedented. Maybe they have to be Columbus of 2026, discovering islands like this,” I hear the words of 20-year-old Aniel Prengu, a student I met on the way back from the protest.

Trump’s family island

However, Jared Kushner’s fund with Saudi investments was not successful everywhere. When last year he wanted to build a luxury hotel and apartment complex in Belgrade, Serbia (a project also marred by allegations of extensive corruption), it also sparked a wave of mass protests. Trump Tower Belgrade was supposed to be built on the site of the destroyed complex of the former Yugoslav Army General Staff in the center of Belgrade. A memento of bloody Balkan wars, NATO operations. Although this project was ultimately halted, after these and subsequent protests, nothing changed in the country. And Jared Kushner, whose wealth skyrocketed during Donald Trump’s presidency, travels through Moscow and the Middle East. Negotiates deals – whose duration is often as miserable as his real estate projects.

I get into a fast lane, and in a few dozen minutes, I am on Sazan Island, at the border between the Adriatic and Ionian Seas. An island that the Trump family and their oligarchic friends want to claim. Watching the beautiful beaches, I understand why they want it only for themselves. I also cannot resist and dive into the crystal-clear water, home to rare life. The island and surrounding areas are currently accessible to the public; every summer, thousands of people come here. They can only reach it by boat.

The government argues that Jared Kushner will bring elite tourism to the area. He is investing at least four billion euros in a country whose GDP is still only around 27 to 28 billion. However, elite tourism will also mean that ordinary Albanians will no longer see this place.

Not that Albanians don’t want tourists. On the contrary, they know how important tourism is to their economy. They do not want to be an eternal museum of a frightening past. “We don’t want these beauties just for ourselves; we want to show them to you too,” says twenty-year-old Armando during the boat trip to the island. However, the island we are arriving at is also a museum of that heavy past. Covered with thousands of bunkers and tunnels, it once served as a military base for Hoxha’s regime. The regime built nearly 200,000 such bunkers across the country. A military facility employee (it is still under military administration) shows me a strict look on one of the roads: “No further access allowed.”

Half a century ago, thousands of people lived here – soldiers and their families. Their remains are abandoned buildings, rusted metal devices sticking out like a rusty memento in this small port. And of course, remnants of propaganda murals. Now, the elite residents may restore the island again.

“We will force them to cancel the project. We will make the government resign, don’t worry. If not now, then later,” Aniel told me. He was wearing a traditional Albanian plis hat and firmly held a huge Albanian flag in his hands. During the protest, he was one of the most prominent figures. When I left, I asked him what it’s like to have the name “Angel.” “It’s probably fate,” he smiled.

The author is a freelance journalist