THE BEST ALBANIAN WRITER IS NOT DECLARED BY NEWSPAPERS — BUT BY TIME, READERS, AND EVIDENCE… OR ARE WE IN COMMUNISM?
Written by Flamur Buçpapaj
I was reading online when once again I saw a major Albanian transitional-era newspaper, a newspaper that once burned Albania with propaganda, hatred, and north–south division, once again proclaiming “the most sold and most read Albanian writer.” Naturally, not Kadare, not an author tested by time and global literary criticism, but a self-proclaimed bestseller, a kind of modern Don Quixote who today says “I have sold 100,000 copies,” tomorrow “we have written 100 books as a clan,” and the day after is declared by his friends as “the genius of the nation.”
But since we are talking about books and records, let me also recall another Albanian writer, our friend Amadeo Baci, who according to Albanian legends has written 600 novels or 60 novels per year. At least he does not shout every day on television, does not boast with propaganda, and is not forcibly declared a national phenomenon. In Albania, the paradox often happens: the one who makes the most noise is declared “the greatest,” while the one who works remains silent in the shadows and is not mentioned.
But to remind this newspaper “panco,” one simple truth must be said: the best or best-selling writer is not determined by newspapers, television studios, or political dinners.
A great writer is proven by facts.
Proven by declared tax invoices. By financial statements of publishing houses. By books that are actually sold in Albania and abroad. By continuous reprints. By full bookstores. By readers lining up for a book. By serious translations into foreign languages. By American and European critics writing about his work. By universities studying him. By time that does not forget him…
A bestseller is not a television word. A bestseller is proof.
But what happened in Albania?
In 1990 I was a student in Shkodër and I had just fully understood what Albanian socialism was. It was a system where not only power was held by a group of communist elders, but where even the best writer, best actor, best painter, and the singer favored by Enver Hoxha were all appointed. The people only had to say “amen.”
And we said amen, because we had come out of an Ottoman and dictatorial system, poor and without a democratic culture. Fear had become a way of life.
At that time, I risked my life by leading demonstrations and hunger strikes at the University of Shkodër. Meanwhile, others who did not even speak to us on the street continued communist “orgies,” received top grades, and kept their heads down to preserve privileges. Later they became MPs of the Democratic Party, ministers, etc.
I was imprisoned. And if communism had continued, today I might have ended up in Spaç prison.
When democracy arrived, we were truly happy. My friends and I believed Albania would change. We contributed with our souls. We believed in freedom, meritocracy, the democratic state, and free speech.
But the Albanian transition quickly deteriorated.
The Democratic Party was reversed because perhaps it was designed that way. Many former spies, secretaries, and people of the old system returned with new democratic suits. The old elites did not disappear — they simply changed flags.
I remember the Democratic Alliance. It presented itself as a modern and intellectual force, but very quickly it took political, media, and economic power. They became ministers, presidents, media owners, builders, road contractors, and television bosses. A group of former secret police minds that knew exactly how propaganda power works. They captured everything.
They used to protest against RTSH when my brother was director. They wrote as if a crime against humanity was happening there. But once they came to power, they looted RTSH, dismantled it, and created their own national media.
Then the new game began: whoever controls the media also defines the “elite.”
That is how Top Channel, Klan, and an entire media network were built, constantly declaring “the best,” “the greatest,” “the most read.” Always within the same circle of interests, the same platform, and the same mentality inherited from the old system.
Even today, after 35 years, it continues the same way: distributing tenders, appointing people, controlling media, and maintaining cultural and political power. A small, poor, and ridiculous country, emptied by corruption and endless transition.
But the greatest irony is this: most of those who once shouted against “mountain people” now serve power more than the communists of the past.
I remember in 2000 when Albanian radio owners were called together. I had just returned from studying in the United States and believed things had changed. There I met the owner of Radio Koha, then considered the “king” of Albanian radio.
He looked at me and said: “And what are you doing here, Flamur?”
He could not believe that I, an outsider, had created Radio Nacional and was sitting at the same table with the “powerful” of the time.
I smiled. I could have insulted him harshly, but I simply said: “Well, even we the outsiders are making radio.”
He fell silent. He seemed to sense the storm coming.
Later he went bankrupt. And the fruits of that struggle were taken by Klan and Top Channel.
Years later I ran again for director of RTSH. I had information that the winner was already predetermined, but I still believed they would not go that far. Unfortunately, exactly what I had been told happened.
Today RTSH is suffocated daily by incompetence, politics, and clientelist appointments.
I returned to Tirana with novels published in America and Europe, with scientific studies and international experience. In front of me were people without serious education, typical products of the old appointment system.
And then they wonder why Albania has a north–south divide. Why people leave. Why the youth emigrate. Why the country empties every year.
When a country does not respect merit, it drives away its best people.
Nevertheless, I still return to Albania. Because the force of the homeland calls you even when you are disappointed. Even when you are tired. Even when you feel like a stranger in your own country.
But the question still remains:
How is a truly great Albanian writer actually determined?
Not by propaganda. Not by newspapers. Not by television. Not by political friendships.
A great writer is measured by readers, by books, by cultural impact, and by time.
Media fashion dies quickly. Propaganda is forgotten. Inflated names fall.
But real literature survives decades.
Therefore, before someone declares himself “the greatest Albanian writer,” he must show proof. Not noise. Not television studios. Not commissioned articles.
But the book. The reader. The criticism. History.
Because history does not remember those elevated by propaganda.
History remembers only those who survived time.
REMEMBER: every era has its noise and its truth. Noise is easy, fast, and consumable. Truth is slow, often invisible at first, but unchanging in the end. Albania needs less self-declaration and more lasting works. A nation is not built by newspaper headlines, but by the real weight of the culture it produces.
