TIRANA / MONTREAL —  For four weeks this summer, Tirana was more than simply the city where I had come to spend several weeks in Albania. It was the city of a protest that had decided not to leave the square.

Day after day, amid scorching temperatures, on pavement that burned beneath our feet, and through evenings that seemed to offer no relief from the heat, citizens continued to gather.

By the time the protest reached its 75th day, I had spent four full weeks following it from the ground.

As part of Albanian Montreal Press, this time I did not want to observe Albania through a phone screen, through videos circulating on social media, or through television news reports.

I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I wanted to listen to the people.

I wanted to understand whether, behind the placards, the pink flamingos, and the chants, there truly was the desire for change that was being spoken about every day.

Above all, I wanted to understand what Albanian citizens are asking for when they take to the streets and refuse to leave.

A protest that began with nature and grew into a debate about the state

It all began with an issue that, at first glance, appeared local: Zvërnec, Narta, and the protection of one of Albania's most valuable natural areas.

Images from late May, opposition to a tourism development project in southern Albania, and confrontations involving local residents and environmental activists triggered a reaction that quickly moved to Tirana.

The flamingo became its symbol.

Within days, however, it became clear that this was no longer simply a protest about flamingos. It had become a protest about the way decisions are made in Albania.

One of the central points of contention was Law No. 21/2024, which amended the existing legislation governing protected areas. Environmental organizations have called for those amendments to be repealed, arguing that they have opened the door to tourism and infrastructure development in areas that should enjoy special protection.

In June, 96 civil society organizations appealed to the Albanian Parliament, calling for the legal framework to be reviewed and for new developments in protected areas to be suspended until the legislation is aligned with European standards.

But the demands voiced in the streets went further.

Protesters called for the repeal of the amendments introduced by Law No. 21/2024. They opposed what they see as the erosion of protections for environmentally sensitive areas. Opposition was also voiced to the “Mountain Package” and to policies that, according to protesters, risk turning Albania's public and natural assets into privileges for a small circle of investors.

Above all, however, one word began to be heard with increasing frequency:

Accountability.

Accountability for decisions.

For contracts.

For the use of public assets.

For corruption.

For the way the country is governed.

And so, a protest that began over a piece of Albania protected by law gradually raised a much larger question:

Who does Albania belong to, and who should have the right to decide its future?

International analyses have also noted this transformation. What began as opposition to development in Zvërnec and legislation affecting protected natural areas broadened into demands for investigations into corruption, political accountability, and changes to a model of governance that protesters believe is closely tied to oligarchic interests.

…But the real story was the people

During my four weeks at the protest, I saw far more than a list of political demands.

I saw children.

Some carried placards whose meaning they may not yet have fully understood, but their parents had chosen to bring them there.

I saw young people speaking about an Albania where they would like to build their future rather than constantly thinking about a ticket out of the country.

I saw men and women arriving after work.

I saw elderly people sitting on chairs, enduring the relentless Tirana heat simply because they wanted to be there.

Those are the images that have stayed with me most.

A protest can be analyzed politically. It can be measured in numbers. We can debate how many people attended today compared with yesterday. We can count the placards, speeches, incidents, and minutes of television coverage.

But when you stand among the people, a protest takes on an entirely different dimension.

It has faces.

It has voices.

It has stories.

I gave them the microphone

Throughout those four weeks, I interviewed ordinary citizens as well as well-known figures from the media and public life.

At its core, my question was always the same:

Why are you here?

The answers were not always the same.

Some were there for Zvërnec.

Some for nature.

Some because of corruption.

Some because they did not want their children to feel they had no future in Albania.

Some had lost faith in politics.

Others simply wanted those in power to understand that citizens deserve to be heard not only at election time, but also between elections.

There were even citizens who supported development and investment but opposed development within protected areas.

That distinction has also been reflected in reporting on the protests: not everyone opposed investment itself. For many, the red line was where development takes place, how decisions are made, and the lack of transparency surrounding them.

That diversity of perspectives was perhaps the most fascinating part of my work.

Because this protest did not have just one face.

The placards that spoke louder than speeches

At a protest, placards are perhaps the shortest editorials ever written.

Few words. A powerful message.

Among them, one idea stood out:

It became one of the movement's defining slogans and was widely reported by international media.

But there was also irony, anger, humour, disappointment, and hope.

And everywhere, there was the flamingo.

A bird that, until recently, for most people was simply part of the beauty of Albania's lagoons had suddenly become a political and civic symbol.

The pink flamingo began appearing on placards, T-shirts, toys, drawings, and social media posts.

In a way, there was something striking about it: a protest confronting such serious issues had chosen a fragile creature as its symbol.

Perhaps that was precisely the point.

There are things that, if we do not protect them today, may no longer be there tomorrow.

The heat did not drive them away

July in Tirana is unforgiving.

There were days when the temperature seemed to have emptied the entire city.

Yet people continued to appear in front of the Prime Minister's Office.

Some days there were more.

Some days fewer.

And this is something that should be acknowledged honestly: the protest did not draw the same number of people every evening, nor did it maintain the same level of intensity every day.

But its continuity was significant in itself.

Even when the cameras left, someone remained.

Even when the protest was no longer the day's leading news story, people continued to gather.

Even when the initial enthusiasm had faded, a core group of citizens refused to consider the story over.

That persistence is perhaps what distinguished this protest most from many other demonstrations Albania has witnessed.

I did not go there to tell Albanians what

they should think

I live in Canada.

For years, I have followed developments in Albania as a diaspora journalist, and through Albanian Montreal Press, I have reported on Albanians both inside and outside the country.

But this time, I wanted something different.

I did not want to watch the protest from Montreal and form an opinion from thousands of kilometres away.

So I went there.

And I stayed for four weeks.

Not to tell Albanians what they should think, but to listen to what they actually think.

For me, as a journalist, that distinction matters.

Journalism should not go to a protest simply to find voices that fit a predetermined narrative.

It should go there to observe.

To ask questions.

To listen.

To what we agree with, and to what we do not.

Will this protest change Albania?

After four weeks on the ground, I cannot offer an absolute answer.

Perhaps no one can.

The impact of a protest cannot be measured solely by whether it brings down a government, repeals a law, or stops a project.

Sometimes change begins much earlier.

It begins when a citizen who remained silent yesterday takes the microphone today.

When a 20-year-old decides not to leave the country without first trying to change it.

When a parent brings a child to the square to teach them that the right to question those in power should never be a privilege.

When an elderly person, under the scorching July sun, sits in front of the Prime Minister's Office and says:

In its early days, the protest sought to save a protected natural area.

Seventy-five days later, the question had become much bigger:

What kind of Albania do we want to protect?

I witnessed this protest up close for four weeks.

I photographed.

I filmed.

I interviewed.

I listened.

I debated.

I saw enthusiasm, anger, exhaustion, humour, disappointment, and hope.

And I returned to Canada with hours of footage, countless photographs, and many human stories.

But above all, I returned with one conviction:

The Albania that demands accountability exists.

We can debate how large that movement is.

We may not agree with every one of its demands.

We can debate its methods, its politics, and the alternatives it proposes.

But we cannot pretend we did not see it.

Because for 75 days, it was there.

On the boulevard.

Under the sun.

With a placard in hand.

With a pink flamingo.

And with a question that every democratic government should be prepared to hear:

To whom should those in power be accountable, if not to the people?

Blerina Ruka is the Editor-in-Chief of Albanian Montreal Press and Whoman Canada Magazine, with a background in journalism, media, and strategic communications. She also serves as Director of Communications & Public Relations at The Artistè Foundation, where she leads media engagement, storytelling, and communications initiatives.