January 1, 2026, Renewal without noise!

By Kristina Nano

Chairwoman, LRE - Rinisja (Renewal Movement)

The year we left behind left a bitter mark, our voices wore thin, and responsibility slipped into the shadows.

Words were spoken and not kept.

Promises were made and never became work.

Squares flared and hope dimmed, while everyday life stayed on the same track, pay that runs out before the month does, a line that never ends, a child growing up with the word “leaving” as an ordinary option.

On this first day, I won’t begin with ornament.

I’ll begin with something small that every ordinary person knows, the queue ticket.

A thin slip of paper with a number on it.

It has no party. No flag. No screen.

But it carries a weight no speech can overpower. It tells you whether the state recognizes you as a person, or moves you along as a number.

When the line is respected and the answer arrives, dignity holds.

When the line becomes a game and the answer becomes “come back tomorrow,” a person is stripped of dignity, and a country loses its soul without making a sound.

We are far from power. Far from parliament.

Far from patronage networks and microphones.

That does not make us large in the eyes of the cameras; it leaves us exposed.

And when you are exposed, your words have nowhere to hide: they are either true, or they will shame you.

That is why January 1 allows no pretense.

We have no reason to act as though we are a force of the system, or part of its game.

We stand on the margins where work is done without applause.

We stand with people who do not ask for heroics, but for one simple thing, not to be humiliated.

A service desk that speaks to you like a human being.

A rule that is not broken by “the strong.”

An answer that arrives in writing, not in dismissal.

We face a country tempted to turn crisis into habit.

This government, whenever justice touches it, turns language into a shield and treats concern for integrity as an “attack.”

Meanwhile, the old opposition seeks collapse in the rhythm of the square, week after week, call after call, declaring each one the last moment.

On another square, Lapaj has chosen a long presence in front of the Prime Minister’s Office. Shehaj holds his own protests. Qori his.

Different squares, different visions, one long race to be the loudest.

And Rama, even after December 21, keeps turning everything into a story, explaining, soothing, postponing.

Let me say this without ornament, these are three wheels that keep the country turning in circles.

Rama as a model of prolongation.

Berisha as a model of comeback-by-shouting.

And “the new ones” who risk living off heat, rather than building.

We refuse all three, not out of spite, but out of protection for an Albania that must return to order.

We oppose Edi Rama’s model.

Without equivocation.

Not to become harsher than he is, but to refuse an Albania where trust dissolves and people learn to rely on chance, not on law.

But we also oppose a kind of opposition that feeds on eruptions and leaves society more exhausted than it found it.

Because our country has no shortage of nerve. It has a shortage of direction.

Protest is a right.

That cannot be disputed.

But when protest becomes the only way of being opposition, it begins producing a quiet harm: it turns the citizen into set-dressing.

And a citizen used as set-dressing, sooner or later, becomes a citizen who withdraws.

I see this in a scene that never makes it into the headlines from the squares.

A mother with her child’s bag on her arm, the queue ticket in her hand.

The number on that paper blurs in her damp palm.

The child tugs her sleeve and asks: “Mom, when does it end?”

She doesn’t know what to answer, because she isn’t waiting only for a document, she is waiting for a state that answers her directly.

And in that moment she understands that the deepest humiliation is not the delay. It is the uncertainty.

That is the hidden tax of this country.

And here our difference begins, without false pride and without boasting, we have no alibi.

We have nowhere to hide our mistakes behind a crowd.

We have nowhere to sell words as merchandise.

Either we become useful, or we become another voice that dries up.

That is why the Dignitarian Right, for us, is not a label. It is a discipline of public life.

Pro-life and pro-family, not as a banner, but as the foundation of social order.

Pro-work and pro-property, because without them, freedom becomes a slogan.

Pro-West and pro-friendship with the United States, not as ornament, but as a measure, equal law, institutions that do not bend, an economy that rewards effort, not connection.

Our Neo-Albanianism is simple, roots without folklore, openness without servility, nation without clan-rule.

And our Stewardefiance, plain civic stewardship, is just as simple, protect without humiliating, oppose without burning, build without boasting.

This is not poetry.

It is economics.

An economy cannot endure political hysteria: when the square ignites without measure, fear stiffens the market, when uncertainty settles in like weather, the worker loses days and the small entrepreneur postpones decisions, then the family loses its plan, and in the end the country loses, it loses a son, it loses a daughter, it loses a life that no speech can bring back.

So 2026, for us, is not a year of announced triumphs.

It is a year of measured growth, more ground work, longer conversations, more unseen labor, fewer gestures that crave light.

We have no reason to promise that we will “take the country” quickly, that would be a lie.

We promise something harder, to grow without becoming like those we oppose.

Not to use the citizen as scenery. Not to turn anger into merchandise.

Not to sell principle for a moment of attention.

Time has its own law, it exhausts the role, and it tests the character.

We may be small in numbers, but that does not allow us to be small in conduct.

And whenever temptation calls us to become just another voice in the contest, we will return to that simple object, the queue ticket.

Because that is where you measure whether politics has meaning, in the line, in the kept word, in the respected person.

We need a conscience that cannot be bought, not a voice that can be sold.

Happy New Year 2026.

And let us say it as a compass-sentence, without ornament:

A state begins the day a person is no longer treated as a number.

Kristina Nano

Chairwoman, LRE - Rinisja