How does it happen that the police — the institution meant to stand as the barrier between citizens and crime — in some cases ends up collaborating with criminal groups themselves? How does the uniform, the symbol of order and security, become a shield for illegality? And above all, is the Saranda case a signal that the state is finally restoring an “iron hand” within the State Police? Is Skënder Hita the leader of the blue uniforms who will carry out a real internal cleansing within the organization he leads?

This is no longer a question raised only in the media or in politics. It is the question citizens ask every time they see an illegal construction rise before the eyes of the police, every time they hear about criminal groups operating freely in tourist areas, or every time they realize that those who are supposed to protect the law are themselves suspected of becoming part of deals against it.

The Saranda case is not simply a story of arrests. It is the reflection of a long-standing institutional deformation. An illegal beach bar was being built in one of the most coveted areas of the Albanian coastline. According to investigators, the project was tied to interests connected to criminal structures and to a dark history of violence, property disputes, and territorial control.

But what is most shocking is not the construction itself, even though it was being built in violation of the law. Albania has seen many illegal constructions before. What is unacceptable is that the police officers whose duty was to stop it had allegedly become its shield. And this is precisely where the real problem of the Albanian state begins: laws in Albania may be broken by citizens, but they must be upheld by institutions. Yet, in this case, the protector of the law is suspected of becoming its greatest violator.

Crime does not become powerful only through money or violence. Crime becomes truly dangerous when it succeeds in buying the silence of institutions. A criminal group may possess money, weapons, and influence, but it needs something even more important: the guarantee that someone inside the state will look the other way. And when that guarantee is provided by a police officer, citizens no longer feel unprotected only from crime, but from the state itself.

This is why many citizens have lost trust in the police over recent years. Because, in many cases, the belief has grown that the law is not enforced equally for everyone. Ordinary constructions are stopped immediately, while projects backed by criminal interests continue undisturbed. Ordinary citizens are fined for minor violations, while organized groups build, seize property, and create entire informal economies before the eyes of institutions.

First comes tolerance. An officer sees a violation and chooses silence. Then silence turns into a relationship. After that comes the bargain. And eventually, the institution itself becomes deformed. The uniform no longer represents the authority of the law, but the protection of criminal interests. This is the most dangerous point a state can reach: the moment when citizens can no longer distinguish where crime ends and the institution begins.

For precisely this reason, the operation in Saranda carries far greater weight than simply the arrest of several police officials. The public witnessed an institutional chain functioning together in the fight against crime and corruption. A citizen’s denunciation was not left to gather dust in a drawer.

The head of AMP and the chief of the blue uniforms, Skënder Hita, demonstrated the force of law enforcement. This was confirmed by Interior Minister Besfort Lamallari, who praised the courage of director Klevis Qose for the immediate intervention following the denunciation. He openly declared that there is no place — and there will be no place — within the State Police for those who side with lawbreakers.

For years, the public has often witnessed a different reflex: protecting insiders, institutional silence, or transfers used as a way to avoid accountability. In many cases, officers involved in scandals were not truly punished, but merely moved from one police station to another. This created a culture of impunity — a culture where the uniform was seen as protection rather than responsibility.

But the Saranda case appears to be sending a different signal: that within the State Police, the fear of the law may finally be returning.

And perhaps this is exactly the “iron hand” citizens have been demanding for years. Not spectacle. Not propaganda. Not harshness toward ordinary citizens. But strength against those who use power and the uniform for criminal interests.

Because a police force does not become weaker when it arrests corrupt officers. On the contrary, it becomes stronger. Institutions do not lose authority when they cleanse themselves. They lose authority when they protect abusers. And if the Albanian state seeks to restore citizens’ trust, the greatest battle is not only against criminal groups. It is against the connections those groups create within institutions themselves.

Saranda showed that this mechanism can be struck. But the real challenge begins now. Because one operation is not enough to change the culture of an entire system. Citizens will believe in the “iron hand” only when they see that there are no untouchable names, protected ranks, or areas where the law does not enter.

In the end, the question is not only whether corrupt police officers will be arrested. The real question is whether the State Police will fully return to the side of the citizens.

Because the most dangerous moment for a society is when citizens begin to fear police collaboration with crime more than crime itself. And the strongest moment for a state is when it decides to strike, without compromise, anyone who uses the uniform against the law.