By Irena Beqiraj
THE END OF VUČIĆ, THE WARNING BELL OF POWER CAUGHT IN ITS OWN TRAP!
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It is true that leaders are shaped by their background, character and experiences, just as it is equally true that culture and history shape the way nations accept, adore or topple their leaders.
But Aleksandar Vučić’s defeat, following Viktor Orbán’s, highlights a paradox we often overlook when analyzing the power of autocrats and their inglorious downfall.
To survive, autocrats must maintain delicate balances, the source of both their power and their fragility.
Vučić and Rama are known for concentrating all powers in their own hands. But such absolute power does not come free. The bill is paid through an economy distorted by cronyism, an administration filled with loyalists, subjugated institutions, dependent media and parties where independent thinking is treated as an act of hostility.
To control everything, Vučić, like Rama, weakened everything, presenting themselves as the only ones capable of governing what they themselves had weakened.
Rama and Vučić have followed the same political playbook: like circus performers, they have walked the tightrope of power, holding in their hands the balancing pole of the popular-leader image.
Look closely: both have criticized Europe to justify delays in the integration process and appeal to their supporters’ pride, while taking care not to anger the EU enough to upset their calculations. They have handed out economic favors to secure support and loyalty, while leaving enough of the economy standing to have something to distribute tomorrow. They have discredited the media while buying them off, but not so thoroughly that the public would stop believing even the government’s praise. They have weakened their opponents, but not so much that they would unite everyone against them.
Nevertheless, the most sophisticated instrument of their survival remains the cultivation of a perception of boundless popularity.
In this respect, Rama takes first place, having invested no small amount of artistic talent. We have seen him sing tallava, dance like Silva the bear, crack jokes, improvise comedy shows and speak “knee to knee” and “eye to eye” with the people. He boycotts Parliament, where he should be held to account, while the stage for his cynical monologues is where he has received applause—and that stage has always suited him better.
In his political comedy, the roles are carefully assigned. There is one author of successes: the Prime Minister. Failures have an army of culprits, starting with his closest associates, ministers, directors and subordinates. When a road is inaugurated, the PM takes the credit. When it collapses, the designer is to blame. When the economy grows, it is thanks to his vision. When citizens complain about the cost of living, the blame shifts to global inflation.
He has used his subordinates mercilessly as shock absorbers for public anger. Sometimes they are sacrificed, sometimes replaced, and sometimes left to fight among themselves, while Rama remains untouched by the chaos he himself has created.
But this skill, too, has an irreparable flaw: you cannot be the author of every success indefinitely and the innocent spectator of every failure.
And so Vučić’s defeat is the warning bell for Tirana’s tightrope walker, who may control the political circus, choose the orchestra, command the spectators and order the applause, but cannot order the tightrope not to snap.
And when the tightrope snaps, applause can no longer keep him in the air.
