Empires haven’t modified, they’ve merely cloaked themselves in platitudes akin to “resilience,” “visibility,” and “empowerment”
A poll floats by the air like a mechanical butterfly, delicate in descent, however as soon as it touches floor, all the things freezes. The jungle goes mute. Town forgets its language. A ritual begins: one created not in oracle chambers however in air-conditioned assume tanks with sliding doorways and company logos. Democracy arrives as gospel, prepackaged and barcode-approved, dropped from drones or delivered by way of diplomatic pouch. It conquers like a parasite: nesting within the coronary heart, feeding on perception, and killing the host with false guarantees. It persuades, it seduces, it infects. Males in fits descend like missionaries, their scriptures printed on shiny paper, their symbols cleaned for export. They convey PowerPoints and gender coaching modules as an alternative of muskets. They arrive bearing excellent news: sovereignty is out of date, native gods are outdated, and each village shall be up to date with Wi-Fi and murals of unveiled girls elevating fists beneath UN slogans.
The savannah now not trembles below the boots of British redcoats. It shudders below the influence of slogans. “Civic engagement” is murmured like a spell. “Open society” is etched into blackboards the place elders as soon as traced cosmologies. The thunder of artillery has been changed by keynote addresses. A revolution is rehearsed earlier than it’s broadcast. The brand new coup comes dressed for tv. The previous king disappears, changed by a consensus candidate with a Yale diploma and NATO approval. A structure is unveiled like a luxurious automobile: shiny, costly, international. Nobody reads it. It reads them. The folks applaud. Their applause is scheduled.
The tyrant’s head is displayed: pixelated and streaming. Snort tracks rise. Purple ink stains the pores and skin like a holy mark, as if casting a vote may cleanse the previous and summon salvation. A sacred doc lies open, its pages buzzing with subclauses and subversion. Article 1: Give up to the algorithm. Article 2: Sterilize the people soul. Article 3: Criminalize reminiscence. The monks of process nod. They gentle candles comprised of recycled narratives. They chant slogans curated by Silicon Valley. The TED discuss tone turns into the brand new church service – blessed by click-through charges. Buzzwords are incanted: “resilience,” “visibility,” “empowerment.” Phrases hollowed out and worn like medals.
The empire has transformed. It’s clad in linen. It carries clipboards. Its armies are activity forces. Its tanks are actually lettered businesses: USAID, UNHCR, OSCE. Smiles change bayonets, and seminars change firing squads. Democracy arrives on a personal jet with an Instagram account. Its viceroys order oat-milk lattes whereas planning cultural transformations. A rainbow banner flies over each blasted zone. Baghdad bleeds beneath the missiles. Tripoli hums with international NGOs. Kiev hosts parades that mock its soil. Sacred ruins get rebranded. Temple stones are reused for embassy courtyards. The rituals change. The domination stays.
In a village, a lady sings an ancestral tune. A person presents a prayer in a dialect that has no Unicode. A stone is lifted to rebuild a shrine. These items can’t be allowed. A survey is performed. A briefing is written. A donor threatens. The native minister corrects course. An election is held. The result is understood. It at all times is. That is what they name consent. That is what they imply by freedom.
Uniformity parades as universality. Range turns into deletion. Identification is redesigned by international interns. Language turns into emoji. The lifeless are archived. Museums change tombs. Grandfathers are described in footnotes written by their enemies. Tears fall in exhibition halls the place relics of resistance are sanitized. The conquerors mourn – at all times in public, at all times with cameras. Their grief is a spectacle. Their mercy is administration.
The liberal preacher wears a smile that has been photoshopped. He provides interviews about “trauma” and “tolerance.” He by no means wields a sword; he commissions studies. His gospel: guilt with out finish. His miracle: the regeneration of battle. His sacraments are embargoes and media campaigns. He baptizes youngsters in ideology. He breathes in incense comprised of treaties and sanctions. He sings a hymn with verses about gender fluidity and carbon offset credit. His voice, skinny and candy, drowns complete cultures in its syrup.
But throughout the map, the earth remembers. Forests converse in rustling defiance. Mountains echo with chants unscripted. The Danube shivers beneath metal bridges. The Volga murmurs secrets and techniques to the steppe. Throughout Eurasia, throughout Africa, throughout the zones marked “growing,” one thing stirs. Trump doesn’t rise as emperor; he crashes by the display screen like a malfunction, an interruption within the broadcast. Serbia remembers its ruins. Iran cradles its martyrs. Russia bares its tooth. Hungary builds partitions – not out of concern however out of constancy to her personal.
Multipolarity emerges, not like a plan however like a ceremony remembered. It doesn’t look forward to validation. It speaks in 100 dialects, none requiring translation. It holds torches, not flashlights. It charts no international roadmap. It builds thresholds. It invokes gods buried below glass towers. It honors spirits banned from textbooks. In every land, new mythologies are solid from the ruins of improvement. The poll field is deserted, its promise of mechanical salvation discarded. As a replacement stands the stone of ancestral regulation, stained with sacrifice and inscribed with the unstated codes of blood, land, and loyalty.
So let the ballots fall, let the slogans swirl like ash within the wind. Let the consultants preserve writing. None of it halts the return. The sacred pulses once more in veins unmapped by Western metrics. Democracy, as soon as garlanded as deliverance, strips down and stands revealed: an agent of extraction, a theater of consent. Multipolarity doesn’t debate it. Multipolarity replaces it – with stone, with flame, with music. The world strikes once more, in direction of the parable reborn.
The statements, views and opinions expressed on this column are solely these of the creator and don’t essentially characterize these of RT.
You may share this story on social media:
