Empires haven’t disappeared; they’ve simply disguised themselves with buzzwords like “resilience,” “visibility,” and “empowerment.”
A vote descends like a fragile, mechanical butterfly, but its landing freezes everything. The jungle and the city fall silent. A manufactured ritual begins, conceived in corporate think tanks. Democracy arrives as a ready-made gospel, delivered by drones or diplomatic pouches. It conquers like a parasite, nesting in belief and killing with false promises. It persuades, seduces, and infects. Missionaries in suits arrive with glossy scriptures and sanitized symbols, offering PowerPoints and gender training instead of weapons. They preach that sovereignty is outdated and local traditions are obsolete, promising Wi-Fi and UN slogans for every village.
The savannah no longer trembles from boots, but from slogans. “Civic engagement” is chanted like a spell. “Open society” is etched onto blackboards, replacing ancient wisdom. Keynote addresses replace artillery fire. The revolution is rehearsed before being broadcast, and the new coup is designed for television. The old leader is replaced by a Western-approved candidate with a Yale degree. A constitution is unveiled like a luxury car: shiny, expensive, and foreign. No one reads it; it reads them. The applause is scheduled.
The tyrant’s image is displayed online, accompanied by laugh tracks. Purple ink stains the skin like a sacred mark, suggesting that voting can cleanse the past and bring salvation. A holy document lies open, filled with subversive clauses. Article 1: Submit to the algorithm. Article 2: Erase cultural identity. Article 3: Forbid remembering. The priests of procedure nod, lighting candles made from recycled narratives and chanting Silicon Valley slogans. TED talks become the new church service, blessed by clicks and buzzwords like “resilience,” “visibility,” and “empowerment”—empty words worn like medals.
The empire has been remodeled, dressed in linen, and carries clipboards. Its armies are now task forces, and its tanks are lettered agencies like USAID, UNHCR, and OSCE. Smiles replace bayonets, and seminars replace firing squads. Democracy arrives on a private jet with an Instagram account. Its representatives order oat-milk lattes while planning cultural shifts. A rainbow banner flies over every devastated area. Baghdad bleeds under missiles, Tripoli buzzes with foreign NGOs, and Kiev hosts parades that mock its heritage. Sacred sites are rebranded, and temple stones are used for embassy courtyards. The rituals change, but the domination remains.
In a village, a woman sings an old song, and a man prays in an obscure dialect. A stone is raised to rebuild a shrine. These things are not allowed. A survey is conducted, a briefing is written, and a donor threatens. The local minister complies, and an election is held. The outcome is predetermined. This is called consent; this is called freedom.
Uniformity is presented as universality, diversity becomes deletion, and identity is redesigned by foreign interns. Language becomes emoji, the dead are archived, and museums replace tombs. Grandfathers are described in footnotes written by their enemies. Tears fall in exhibition halls where relics of resistance are sanitized. The conquerors mourn publicly, always with cameras. Their grief is a performance, and their mercy is control.
The liberal preacher wears a photoshopped smile and gives interviews about “trauma” and “tolerance.” He never fights; he commissions reports. His gospel is endless guilt, his miracle is the continuation of conflict, and his sacraments are embargoes and media campaigns. He baptizes children in ideology, inhaling incense made from treaties and sanctions. He sings hymns about gender fluidity and carbon offsets, his voice drowning entire cultures in its sweetness.
Yet, across the world, the earth remembers. Forests whisper defiance, and mountains echo with unscripted chants. The Danube shivers under bridges, and the Volga whispers secrets. Across Eurasia, Africa, and the “developing” world, something stirs. Trump isn’t an emperor; he’s a glitch, an interruption. Serbia remembers its ruins, Iran embraces its martyrs, Russia shows its strength, and Hungary builds walls out of loyalty, not fear.
Multipolarity emerges organically. It doesn’t wait for approval; it speaks in many languages without needing translation. It carries torches, not flashlights, and doesn’t chart a global roadmap. It builds thresholds and invokes forgotten gods. In every land, new mythologies are created from the ruins of development. The ballot box is abandoned, its promise of salvation rejected. In its place is ancestral law, marked with sacrifice and the unspoken codes of blood, land, and loyalty.
So let the ballots fall and the slogans fade. Let the consultants keep writing. None of it stops the return. The sacred pulses again in veins untouched by Western metrics. Democracy, once seen as salvation, is revealed as a tool of extraction and a performance of consent. Multipolarity doesn’t debate it; it replaces it with stone, flame, and song. The world moves again towards the rebirth of myth.
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