Ruin can be borne with a stoic shrug, our nerves numb to its pain. But insult stings beneath the skin— stirs a thirst for the rush of revenge simmers poison in the gut of the body politic. It takes a wounded people to seek a strongman. A people stung bitter to delight in the gladiatorial release of vicarious might. The state becomes the circus and we clamor for open conflict’s clang. All the world’s a video game and we chose Mortal Kombat. To cheer the thunder of a Chavez, chuckle at Duterte’s dirty mouth, soak up the swagger of a show run by Trump, the brashness of a Bolsonaro. How were the ratings on Caeser’s dramatic demise? It’s not the whirling lies we’ll sacrifice democracy for on an altar of entertainment: it’s so much more. What makes us vote for a luchador? What purse do we ask as a prize? Just this. This one subtle, sadistic rise: to see them squirm while the whole world burns. For the look in our enemies’ eyes.
Originally published in A Book of Lamentations