Parliament, the political theatre where the citizen pays the bill

By Filip Çakuli

The Albanian Parliament sometimes gives you the impression of a political brothel.

The citizen pays the bill, but does not enter the chamber.

He pays his taxes, pays for the institution’s energy, pays the MPs’ salaries, pays the administration, and even pays for the coffee drunk during the sessions. Only one thing is denied him: taking part in the show.

All that is reserved for him is a television ticket.

And from the screen he watches his representatives do everything except what he voted them in to do.

Instead of lamenting the troubles of their constituencies, they devour one another.

One attacks the other. The other hits back. Then the vocabulary contest begins. Stories, insults, insinuations and banalities are pulled from personal storehouses. The Parliament’s rostrum turns by turns into a political tribune, a boxing ring and a courtyard.

At some point, television should seriously consider a strap at the bottom of the screen:

“WARNING: INAPPROPRIATE LANGUAGE. 18+”

Not because there is some erotic film. It is simply the plenary session. Another warning could even be added:

“Parents are advised not to let children follow the MPs, as they may learn words they have not heard even in their neighbourhood alley. Politics is supposed to be the second-oldest profession after prostitution. I have come to understand that it has a great deal in common with the oldest one.” (Ronald Reagan)

And meanwhile, outside this political brothel, stand the true clients of democracy.

The wage-earner waits for the end of the month, while his wages ran out several days earlier.

The family waits, hoping the landlord will not come for the rent.

But neither of them has a microphone in Parliament.

And the vote, it seems, has a very special function in this system: it serves to open the door of the brothel, after which the citizen is put outside. As Machiavelli defined it, politics has nothing to do with morality.

On one side we have the parade of successes. Everything is historic. Every reform is magnificent. Every statistic is a record. Every project is transformative.

On the other side we have the burial of the country. Everything is a scandal. Everything is corruption. Everything is failure. Albania, according to its opponents, looks like a country that has forgotten to collapse only because it has not yet found the time.

And so one side produces glory, the other produces catastrophe.

From one vessel comes the perfume of success; from the other, the stench of the corpse of failure.

The MPs are busy with one another. And when the arguments run out, the elbowing begins. The rostrum is blocked.

The session is interrupted. The Speaker calls for calm. Nobody calms down. And as Aristotle said, “The characteristics of a popular politician: a dreadful voice, a poor education and vulgar behaviour.”

Then comes the invisible policeman of Albanian democracy: the voting card.

The majority’s cards are raised. And everything ends.

After all that theatre, after all those speeches, after all those insults, after all that spectacle a reality show would envy, democracy is reduced to one elementary question: how many cards do you have?

If you have the numbers, you are right.

If you do not have the numbers, you can shout until tomorrow.

This is perhaps the most grotesque part of the whole story.

Because in a democracy the citizen should be the owner. Here the owner pays the bill, chooses the staff, hands over the keys and then stands outside the door listening to the noise.

Inside, the staff quarrels over the clientele. And in the end it tells the owner: “Do not worry. Everything is being done for you.”

This is the moment when the citizen should check where he left the contract. Because perhaps he voted for a people’s Parliament, while they handed him a political brothel.

He goes on paying the bill himself. “I think politics is far too serious a matter to be left to politicians.” (Charles de Gaulle)