‘I Grew Up Trying To Explain the Truth About Albania—the Sazan Island Protests Are About So Much More Than Ivanka and Jared’s Resort’

When Ivanka Trump opened up this month about the $1.4 billion resort she and Jared Kushner are building on an island in Albania, she marveled about the "unbelievable" beauty they had witnessed when visiting the site for the first time—while vowing to protect that landscape even as they construct a 10,000-room development atop it.

Yet just hours after her gushing interview about the project, which is being developed on the island of Sazan, the site of a former military weapons base, a very different reality unfolded as thousands of Albanians took to the streets to protest the Trump-Kushner planned resort.

The juxtaposition of Ivanka's picture-perfect description of the development with the photos of its most vehement critics spoke volumes to me. Not just about the resort, or even the island of Sazan, but about the way in which Albania has so long been viewed by the Western world: as a place to be discovered, developed, and defined by outsiders rather than the people who call it home.

For as long as I can remember, Albania felt like a place I was constantly translating—not just linguistically, but culturally. 

To my family, it was home. To many Americans, it was a country they couldn't locate on a map, or understood only through stereotypes. Stuck somewhere between those two realities, I found myself trying to bridge the gap.

My parents left Albania chasing the same thing countless immigrants before them had pursued: the American dream. But the version they found was far less glamorous than the one they imagined from across the Atlantic.

My father spent his days riding a bike to work in the pouring rain, traveling miles to a broken trailer with missing windows, doing whatever he could to build a life from scratch. He arrived in the U.S. with little more than hope, determination, and the belief that sacrifice would eventually lead to something better.

In many ways, it did.

Yet decades later, despite building careers, raising families, paying taxes, and contributing to the country my parents chose as home, they still encounter questions about citizenship. Their accents still invite assumptions.

I learned early on that a second language can become an invisible passport check—prompting assumptions about your citizenship, loyalty, and belonging before you've even finished a sentence. Their Albanian roots often mean that they are treated as something foreign, despite having spent more than half of their lives in America.

Growing up, I watched this contradiction unfold in real time. America was the dream my parents risked everything to pursue, yet it was also a place where they were constantly made to feel like outsiders. 

So, I became an unofficial ambassador for Albania, determined to show people the truth about the country that I had always known as my second home.

I jumped at every opportunity to tell people about its breathtaking coastline, rich history, and resilient people. I wanted Americans to see the Albania I knew—not the one defined by stereotypes.

Albania is no longer Europe's forgotten corner. Social media is flooded with videos comparing its turquoise waters to the Maldives, and foreign investors have started flocking to its coastline, long before Ivanka and Jared earmarked a piece for their project.

The country that many Americans once struggled to place on a map is suddenly being hailed as Europe's next great destination.

And nowhere is that transformation more evident than on Sazan Island.

To many Americans, Sazan is easy to sell. The island sits off Albania's southern coast in crystal-blue waters that rival those found in Greece and Italy.

In glossy renderings and investment pitches, it appears to be the perfect blank canvas for a luxury resort destination.

But to many Albanians, Sazan has never been a blank canvas.

Under Enver Hoxha's 45-year dictatorship, Albania became one of the most isolated and impoverished countries in Europe. Travel was forbidden, religion was suppressed, and an extensive network of informants turned neighbors into the eyes and ears of the state. Bread was rationed, dissent was punished, and more than 170,000 bunkers were built in preparation for invasions that never came.

During that Communist era, Sazan was a restricted military outpost fortified with bunkers, tunnels, and military installations.

Closed to the public, it became a symbol of the isolation that defined the regime. For many Albanians, that history remains inseparable from the island itself.

That is one reason thousands of Albanians have taken to the streets in protest of the proposed luxury development backed by Ivanka and Jared.

Critics fear the project threatens not only the fragile ecosystem surrounding Sazan and nearby habitats that support Albania's iconic flamingo populations, but also the historic legacy embedded within the island itself.

Supporters argue the resort will bring jobs, tourism, and international recognition. They are not wrong.

Albania deserves investment. It deserves recognition. It deserves the opportunity to share its stunning coastline and natural beauty with the world.

But many Albanians believe that development should not come at the cost of memory.

The question is not whether Albania should welcome investment. The question is what kind of investment Albania needs most.

While luxury resorts with every amenity imaginable are being proposed for its coastline, poised to welcome wealthy and privileged visitors from around the globe, the country—and its people—continue to grapple with challenges much closer to home.

Albania still lacks a modern national rail system capable of efficiently connecting much of the country.

Young people continue to leave in search of economic opportunities abroad.

More than three decades after the fall of communism, Albania is still working to overcome the economic scars left by a regime that transformed it into one of Europe's poorest countries.

For many critics, the issue is not about whether money should flow into Albania, but whether that money is being directed toward projects that improve the lives of ordinary citizens.

For generations, Albanians admired America from afar. My parents were among those who crossed an ocean in pursuit of that promise. That is why opposition to projects like Sazan is not rooted in hostility toward foreigners, but concern over who stands to benefit from Albania's future.

I want Americans to visit Albania. I want them to experience the turquoise waters of Ksamil, the cobblestone streets of Gjirokastër, the mountain landscapes surrounding Korçë, and the vibrant energy of Tirana. I want them to fall in love with the country the way I have spent my entire life trying to convince them to.

But I also find myself asking a simple question: When visitors come to Albania, who benefits?

If travelers are drawn to Albania's beauty, why not invest in the people who have protected it for generations?

Across the country, family-owned hotels, guesthouses, restaurants, and businesses built by Albanians have preserved communities long before international investors discovered their value.

For a country shaped by decades of division between those who had access and those who did not, questions of ownership and exclusivity carry particular weight.

During communism, Blloku was reserved for Hoxha and the Communist elite—a privileged world ordinary Albanians could see but never enter.

Today, it is one of Tirana's most vibrant neighborhoods. What was once a symbol of exclusion has been reclaimed and transformed by Albanians into a place of community, culture, and commerce.

To some, Sazan risks becoming the antithesis of what Blloku represents.

The irony is difficult to ignore: an island once defined by isolation could once again become a place ordinary citizens can admire from afar but never truly experience.

My parents left Albania because they believed in the possibility of a better future. Today, as the world discovers the country they left behind, I find myself wrestling with a different question: What happens when a nation that spent decades fighting to be seen suddenly becomes desirable?

For most of my life, I have tried to translate Albania for Americans. Now that the world is finally paying attention, I hope the people who preserved the country through decades of hardship are not left standing on the sidelines of its success.