Dua Lipa and her father Dukagjin Lipa, ‘Era’ Sunny Hill Festival, August 2, 2025 Paris, August 3, 2025
In a time when the name Dua Lipa shines on stages around the world, it’s easy to forget that behind every superstar lies a daily story, a human relationship, an intimate root. Her father, Dukagjin Lipa—highly present in her career—is often described as a brilliant manager and strategic architect of her success. Yet, some London newspapers have painted him as a patriarchal figure. But for me, what Dukagjin Lipa embodies is something no one dares to articulate in its full depth—something that sometimes even provokes discomfort: it is the story of an Albanian father who refused to suppress his daughter—and who, through this choice, has revolutionized the very notion of Albanian fatherhood.
Albanians everywhere—whether in Albania, Kosovo, North Macedonia, or in the diaspora—are familiar with a model of fatherhood deeply rooted in the collective consciousness: the father as authority, the “head of the household,” the figure who is supposed to “protect” the daughter—often from herself. From a young age, many Albanian girls are taught that their freedom must be “wisely controlled,” that their voices should be soft, that their bodies do not belong to them, but are part of the family’s honor.
This isn’t just about overt violence (although that exists), but about the structural, everyday violence—the silence, the mistrust, the constant fear: “What will people say?”, “Who saw you?”, “How were you dressed?” In this way, many girls don’t grow—they shrink. They are not raised to become individuals, but figures who serve, who accommodate, who set themselves aside.
Philosophers like Michel Foucault have taught us that power operates not only through prohibition, but also through shaping consciousness. The traditional Albanian father, even when loving, is often the first instance of repression—teaching his daughter that her freedom is dangerous. In this context, Dukagjin Lipa is a beautiful “deviation.” He didn’t stop Dua Lipa—on the contrary, he trusted her, letting her study alone in London at the age of 12, far from family. He didn’t “protect” her from exposure or from her desire to create. He helped her build that path, not as a dictator but as a quiet ally to a freedom that extends beyond his daughter. Today, he is not only a father—he is a co-creator of her free subjectivity.
To be an Albanian father and not be possessive of your daughter is a political act. To not build fences around her dreams, to not turn her body into a moral emblem, to not see her as a reflection of your ego or pride—that is revolutionary. And Dukagjin Lipa has made this revolution—silently, without grand speeches, but with constant dedication.
When you see him next to his daughter at every step, you don’t see a man seeking attention, but a supportive presence—rare in our culture. He doesn’t speak of “protecting his daughter’s honor,” but of helping her be herself, to dare, to be complex, to be beautiful without asking permission.
Dukagjin Lipa is also an artist. And that matters. Because art, unlike power, demands co-creation, it requires space, it requires listening without fearing the other’s chaos. Perhaps that is the secret of his revolutionary fatherhood: he sees his daughter as a creative subject, not an object to control. In this sense, he is a practical philosopher of the everyday. He chooses to be a father as an ethical act, not as a social role. He does not exploit his status—he shares it. And in that sharing, he breaks the traditional mold of Albanian fatherhood.
What is a good father? Not the one who “sacrifices” in silence, but the one who dares to be visible and emotionally present. Not the one who controls, but the one who supports unconditionally. Not the one who teaches his daughter to fear life, but the one who gives her wings to fly.
Dukagjin Lipa’s figure matters because he is an Albanian man, an Albanian father, and a new model who breaks the old patterns without disrespecting them. He does not reject our culture—he transforms it from within, gently, lovingly, and with resolve.
In a society where many men are either authoritarian or emotionally absent, he chooses to be present without overshadowing his daughter. He is there—not as a shadow, but as a mentor. And that is rare.
Dukagjin Lipa is more than the father of a superstar. He is an example for every Albanian man who wants to be a father without repressing his daughter in the name of love.
This model of fatherhood—one that builds without controlling, that supports without obstructing—was even more evident on the stage of the Sonny Hill Festival, where Dukagjin and Dua Lipa performed the song ERA together. It was not just an artistic performance. It was a gesture full of symbolic meaning: a father and a daughter, on stage as equals, united in art, without hierarchy, without emotional censorship. It was a rare, moving, and powerfully emancipatory moment—one that elegantly summed up everything this essay seeks to express.
Watch for yourself: ERA duet at Sonny Hill Festival
Perhaps the greatest cultural change won’t come through laws or reforms, but through how a father sees his daughter. If she is seen as a being with a voice, a body, with choices and the right to make them—then we’ve taken a step toward a free society.
Dukagjin Lipa is not just a father who “allowed” his daughter to pursue her dreams—he is a father who created a space where her dreams were legitimate, heard, and pursued. And in the process, he didn’t just raise a star—he may have inspired a new generation of Albanian fathers. As for those preoccupied with Dua’s wardrobe choices—it would do them well to learn from Dukagjin Lipa.
Sometimes, the deepest revolution happens in silence—in the way a father chooses not to repress his daughter. But albanian patriarchy is afraid of this model; it is afraid of Dukagjin Lipa. Because on that stage, it wasn’t just a song—it was a vision of what fatherhood could become.
*Note
Dua Lipa is an emancipated young woman and a role model. This essay focuses on one specific aspect of her background and is dedicated to the environment that shaped her. Her mother’s role is undoubtedly essential; however, in Albanian culture, it is most often the figure of the father—and patriarchy more broadly—that comes into tension with modern values. As its title suggests, this essay is a reflection, not an exhaustive analysis of Dua Lipa’s world.
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