February 17, 2026

by AEA in News

Albania’s Solar Gold Rush: Who Profits, Who Pays?

As Albania races to become a net exporter of electricity, dozens of vast solar parks have sprouted almost overnight on fertile farmland and pastures, igniting fierce resistance from local communities. In Fier’s village of Boçovë, a normally quiet farming district near the Seman delta, families woke one day to find heavy machinery digging up fields they had tended for generations. “It turned out a photovoltaic park was being built here, and our lands aren’t ours anymore,” complained Nikoll Ndoi, a local schoolteacher. Ndoi and his neighbours say they gained these plots in the early 1990s under Albania’s land-reform law (Law 7501), but were never issued legal titles and now discover the state has quietly expropriated them for solar panels. More than a dozen families in Boçovë are locked in a fight to reclaim their soil from a new small company, “Brevi Construction”, where it is mentioned in the media that it is affiliated with the family of Pëllumb Salillari. Such clashes are multiplying nationwide as the government greenlights hundreds of megawatts of solar capacity, prompting farmers and herders to denounce an “energy revolution” that is trampling their rights and livelihoods.

Residents of the Levan Administrative Unit protested again in the village of Boçova, after work began on their agricultural lands to install photovoltaic panels by the company “Brevi Construction”, with administrator Afërdita Salillari.

The Albanian government, led by Prime Minister Edi Rama, has made a dramatic pivot from its traditional hydropower surplus to a sun‑driven future. Since 2018, the Council of Ministers approved dozens of solar park projects and the energy regulator (ERE) licensed over 70 private solar companies. The planned PVs are a total of nearly 1,000 MW, about 30% of Albania’s installed capacity and none of it is guaranteed for local use. Instead, most is slated for export to Italy and beyond. Ex-director of Energy Policies at Ministry of Infrastructure and Energy Gjergj Simaku warns this is a “paradox”: Albania could end up exporting clean power while continuing to import fossil‑fuel electricity during winter. Simaku notes that 1 GW projects have no obligation to sell domestically, leaving local grids and consumers sidelined. Notably, Simaku does not address his own role during his long tenure at the Ministry of Infrastructure and Energy, where he was directly involved in shaping and implementing national energy policies. The governance gaps and regulatory weaknesses he now criticizes were also evident during the wave of small hydropower plant licensing over the past decade—a period marked by widespread concessions, limited oversight, and significant social and environmental consequences for local communities. The current tensions surrounding large-scale solar development bear striking similarities to that earlier expansion, raising questions about institutional continuity and accountability in Albania’s energy policymaking.

Municipal Public Assets Leased by Purpose of Use 2015 – 2024 (in hectares)

This policy u‑turn was codified in 2023 when the government amended the renewables law to allow solar farms on any land even vital grazing areas not just barren terrain. Green activists point out that at least half of Albania’s solar license rush is on former public pastures and forests. A recent survey by the All Green Center found many lease auctions were rushed, with no real competition or community input. “Support for green energy must not come at the expense of natural capital,” says environmentalist Ola Mitre. Birding expert Taulant Bino adds that multiple solar projects have been approved piecemeal, ignoring their cumulative impact on biodiversity. In fertile districts like Fier, dozens of solar parks now ring protected river deltas and migratory corridors. Normally one of Europe’s greenest electricity producers (90% hydro), Albania’s renewable expansion is outpacing environmental safeguards.

Locals report no meaningful consultations. In Boçovë, villagers say a developer quietly re‑zoned their family farms (marked on cadastral maps as “arable” or “forest”) into “unused state land” just as construction began. When the community complained to the Cadastre and Agriculture Ministry, nothing was fixed. In Darzezë (nearby Boçovë), elders who believed promised benefits (new roads, lighting) are now “disappointed,” saying “nothing was done, and they even took our water”. The local mayor’s office in Fier readily absolved itself of responsibility: “These projects aren’t licensed by local government,” Fier’s municipal response notes, adding only that it receives property taxes and nothing else. In effect, powerless villagers have found themselves squeezed: the state offers no legal recourse when it simply rents out “public” pastures to private developers.

A protest by residents of the village of Imshte in the Bubullimë unit in Lushnje.

Across the southwest, similar scenes played out. Last month in Imshtë (Lushnjë), about 70 farmers blocked the road to their police station, demanding authorities halt a planned solar park on 100 hectares they have grazed and farmed for 30 years. They accuse a local businessman, Elton Çekrezi, of quietly buying up the plot once officially designated as non‑transferable state land and forming a shell company SunXpower to install PV panels. MP Erion Braçe, who supports the Imshtë community, blasted the episode on social media as a “robbery of public land” by a clandestine “new agha,” warning that his supporters had been threatened during clashes with men bearing weapons. (Çekrezi’s family insists the land was legally bought at auction from former private owners, and they hold cadaster documents dating back to 1945 and 1998.) In Levan (Fier), villagers of Boçovë protested similarly when the company Bervi Construction began clearing fields they had cultivated for “almost 30 years”. Fourteen families, granted plots under the 1990s land law, but their claims were ignored, and now official records abruptly list the land under Brevi’s name. Farmers like Sandër Mujo have even petitioned prosecutors and the anti‑corruption SPAK agency, warning they will resort to self-vendication if the state does not intervene.

In August 2025, around 40 sheep farmers in Çërravë (Pogradec) held a rally after the local council moved to lease their one communal pasture (35.5 ha) to a solar investor. They decried the measure as a “direct violation of our livelihood” and threatened escalating protests if it proceeded. Independent councillor Arbër Male warned that the vote was a foregone conclusion with the beneficiary company “pre‑selected” by insiders. Such frustrations highlight a growing fear: that the clean‑energy drive is being hijacked by politically connected interests at the expense of ordinary Albanians.

A protest in the village of Çërrava, in the municipality of Pogradec

Critics say the evidence of cronyism is hard to dismiss. The Boçovë solar park was nominally awarded to “Albania Solar Power” (a tiny firm with €100,000 capital) owned by businessman Engjëll Agalliu yet locals see it as Pëllumb Salillari’s project in disguise. Likewise, in Imshtë a construction firm once run by Salillari is tied to Çekrezi’s land deal. Journalist investigations have exposed how clusters of permits went to companies tied to a few elite families, often without competitive bidding. (For example, four solar firms controlled by Armand Lilo’s relatives won megawatt‑scale licenses after a brief ministerial review.) The torrent of approvals has largely skipped formal auctions: as energy expert Simaku notes, “auctions have been forgotten; now licenses are given only on the free market, sold to us as if for domestic use but it’s not true”. NGOs also complain that municipalities have merely rubber‑stamped solar leases, lacking clear strategic planning on where solar parks are appropriate. All Green Center warns that so far, zero hectares of new PV forest have a strategic environmental assessment or master plan to guide them.

A protest in the village of Çërrava, in the municipality of Pogradec

Defenders of the solar boom argue Albania urgently needs a new generation after recent blackouts. The government’s National Energy Plan targets 54.4% renewables by 2030, so big solar projects are deemed necessary for “energy sovereignty”. Prime Minister Rama’s infrastructure ministry underscores that thousands of hectares of mostly unproductive land are available for lease; the projects will create green jobs and revenues. Indeed, Albania’s solar push aligns with EU climate goals and avoids new dams (and displacements) for hydropower. Statisticians note that in the past 10 years Albanian municipalities have leased about 6,350 hectares of public land for all purposes, with over a third (2,325 ha) of that just in 2024 mostly for solar parks. In total some 3,750 ha of state land are now contracted for renewable energy projects. Energy Minister Belinda Balluku, who is under investigation by SPAK, insists each plant needed both a Council of Ministers decision and technical approvals and that “everything is lawful, with environmental studies in place,” though she has not publicly addressed the growing protests.

Photovoltaic power plant in Kolonjë, residents in protest

Nevertheless, the ethical question remains stark. Who really benefits from this boom? Many locals answer: not them. Herders point out that solar panels are theoretically compatible with grazing (the technology allows it), yet companies invariably fence off and occupy the land outright. In Kolonjë, villagers say the developer (Turkish firm Fortis Energy & Construction) even redrew cadastral boundaries to claim around 400 hectares of steep pasture and riverbed (“zall”) that herders need for winter grazing. “If they put up panels, our village will have to leave,” one farmer warned, noting the man behind the project quietly acquired neighbouring plots over decades. Such tensions raise hard choices about property rights and the state’s role in declaring some lands sacrosanct for community use or not.

Protest against PV installation by local communities

For now, many communities are calling for moratoria. Simaku and other analysts urge a strategic pause: map out priority corridors for solar (avoiding protected zones), require genuine public auctions and participatory planning, and bind new plants to domestic needs. Environmentalists warn that Albania’s decades‑old tradition of hydropower should not be cynically traded for a different form of energy dependence. “We risk exporting renewable energy and importing coal,” Simaku says. If that happens, the country may have allowed a green transition to line the pockets of the connected few rather than serve its people’s interests.

In the heated debate over Albania’s clean‑energy path, one thing is clear: expansion of renewables cannot be at the unchecked expense of farming communities. Without transparent governance and respect for local livelihoods, each new solar panel risks deepening rural distrust. Some farmers now speak of taking their case all the way to the European courts. Whether Albania’s solar revolution will shine on as a model of sustainability or become a catalyst for social unrest may hinge on whose voices are heeded in the fields, the villagers who till the earth, or the energy “czars” behind the grid.

December 9, 2025

by AEA in News

Tax-Free for a Decade: Albania’s Mountain Incentives Raise EU Red Flags

Albania’s new Law No. 20/2025, popularly branded the “Mountain Package,” is being sold as a long-overdue fix for one of the country’s most stubborn problems: vast stretches of mountainous land occupied for decades without formal title. The state’s answer is dramatic. If you can prove at least 10 years of continuous “non-owner” possession in a designated mountain zone—and you commit to a “sustainable” investment project—the government can transfer state-owned land to you for a symbolic €1, paired with sweeping tax exemptions for up to 10 years. The promise is rural revival. The risk is that Albania may be institutionalizing a legal bargain that rewards whoever gets there first, and whoever knows how to work the system best.

From a formal standpoint, the law is not a legislative accident. It was adopted through parliament under constitutional provisions governing lawmaking and fiscal measures, including the constitutional requirement that taxes and exemptions must be established by law. In other words, the state has tried to give the incentives a proper legal foundation, especially because the benefits are unusually generous.

But legality on paper is not the same as legitimacy in practice—and this law will live or die in the gap between the two.

A law built on a simple trade: title for investment

The law’s engine is straightforward: convert informal possession into formal ownership, but only if it produces development. That development is meant to boost tourism and other economic activity in highland areas and, politically, to signal that the state is finally willing to recognize realities that have existed for generations.

The safeguards look reasonable at first glance. The land must be verified as state property. Parcels with private ownership claims or pending restitution processes are supposed to be excluded. Municipalities and the cadastre are tasked with confirming status, and there is a 45-day public notice period during which third parties can object and present ownership documentation. If a valid claim appears, the transfer should be rejected.

That’s the theory. The real-world question is whether Albania’s institutions—especially at the local level—can enforce these checks consistently, or whether the process becomes another high-value distribution scheme vulnerable to political pressure, nepotism, and quiet dealmaking.

The hidden legal trap: what happens to the “real” owner who shows up late?

The most sensitive weakness is also the most predictable: what happens when a rightful owner (or heirs) surfaces after the 45-day notice window, after a transfer has already been completed? The law leans heavily on notice-and-challenge as its due process firewall. Yet Albania knows its own reality: heirs live abroad, property files are fragmented, and public notices can be easy to miss in practice. A diaspora family might learn years later that land tied to their history was treated as “state land,” sold for €1, and folded into an investment plan.

The law does not clearly spell out a compensation pathway for these post-factum claims. That silence matters because property rights are not only constitutional; they are also protected by the European human-rights framework that Albania is expected to respect. Adverse-possession-type systems can be lawful if they serve a legitimate public interest and follow fair procedures. But the fairness test collapses if the process is realistic only for those who are physically present, locally connected, and able to monitor municipal notices.

If the state transfers land on the assumption it owns it, and later turns out to be wrong, the legal conflict doesn’t evaporate—it shifts into years of litigation, compensation demands, and distrust. The law’s “certainty” could end up creating a new category of uncertainty.

A second legal fault line: bypassing local planning, centralizing power

The law also accelerates development permissions by empowering the National Council of Territory and Water (KKTU) to approve projects even where local spatial plans are missing—or would ordinarily block development. That is not a technical tweak; it is a political reallocation of power from local planning to a centralized body.

Supporters will argue this is necessary because local planning is uneven and often paralyzed. Critics will counter that Albania is substituting one dysfunction for another: replacing local bottlenecks with a national gatekeeper that can override community-level land-use priorities. The more exceptions a system allows, the more valuable the exceptions become—and the more tempting it is to sell influence around them.

The EU problem hiding in plain sight: state aid by another name

Even though Albania is not an EU member, it is trying to align with EU standards. This law is a stress test. The incentives are not modest: land transferred for €1 plus broad tax holidays that reportedly include relief from taxes such as profit tax and even VAT for a decade, capped to a limited pool of beneficiaries.

In EU terms, transferring public assets below market value and granting selective tax advantages is the classic shape of state aid. In an EU member state, measures like these would normally trigger scrutiny, notification requirements, and legal constraints designed to prevent unfair market distortion. Albania may frame the package as regional development—and that objective is common across Europe—but the method is exceptionally blunt. It risks locking Albania into an incentive model that becomes harder to defend the closer accession gets, especially if beneficiaries include large projects or politically exposed investors.

Corruption and financial crime risks: the “perfect storm” combination

Land allocation, construction permitting, and tax breaks in one package is the kind of governance cocktail that invites abuse. The law relies on municipalities to verify who truly qualifies as a long-term possessor. Evidence may include utility bills, tax records, witness statements, and photos; the law even suggests the absence of documentation is not automatically disqualifying if no competing claim emerges. That flexibility is humane in remote areas with weak records—but it is also an open door for fabrication, collusion, and “professional” claims-building.

Then comes the permitting phase, where KKTU approvals can unlock projects that might otherwise be blocked. Any system that can override normal planning rules creates a premium on access.

Finally, there is the money problem. Real estate and construction are globally recognized as high-risk sectors for money laundering. A scheme that enables rapid land regularization, development approvals, and generous tax exemptions can become attractive not just to investors but to capital looking for a clean narrative. The fact that foreign legal entities can participate adds another layer of complexity if beneficial ownership is opaque or due diligence is weak.

Environment: the law says “sustainable,” but the incentives say “build”

The law speaks the language of ecosystem protection and sustainable development, yet it also opens the door to construction on land categories like forests, pastures, and meadows by treating them as transferable under this scheme. If implementation is aggressive, Albania could end up trading its most valuable long-term asset—intact mountain landscapes—for short-term investment headlines.

The law does not explicitly waive environmental assessments, so in principle environmental impact assessments should still apply. But fast-track political projects have a habit of turning legal requirements into box-ticking exercises. Mountain rivers, biodiversity corridors, and protected landscapes are not easily restored once damaged. If Albania is serious about EU alignment, it cannot afford a “development first, assessment later” culture—especially in its most sensitive territories.

What this law really tests

The Mountain Package is not just a development policy; it is a rule-of-law test. It asks whether Albania can run a high-value program transparently, fairly, and cleanly in regions where records are weak and governance is often personal rather than institutional.

If implemented with rigorous verification, public transparency, meaningful avenues for appeal, and strong anti-corruption and AML scrutiny, the law could finally bring order to a chaotic property reality and unlock legitimate investment.

If implemented in the familiar Albanian way—quiet decisions, selective enforcement, and political favoritism—it risks becoming a state-backed mechanism for legalizing land capture, laundering reputations along with money, and permanently scarring the very mountain regions it claims to revive.