Ив Энцлер - Strongmen - Trump / Modi / Erdoğan / Putin / Duterte

Because secretly the liberalatte believed that to truly revolt against the virus would alienate the people in the middle, and they were most concerned about losing their positions and power and comfort, they learned how to mute their outrage, sorrow and reactions and by doing so normalized the virus which allowed it to spread wider and deeper.

Then, of course, there were those who served in the court of the orange man. They had contracted the virus and most definitely understood the devastating impact of the virus, and secretly despised the orange octopi pig, but somehow through their malevolence attempted to use the pathogen to their own end. Rather than trying to protect their fellow citizens and stop the deadly virus or disrobe the orange haired emperor, they rode his mad sickness like a wild horse gaining every benefit they could. While the population was being deported, banned, attacked, starved, refused medical treatment, lied to, forced to have babies, run over by cars, shot by police and white supremacists, abandoned, and forced to drink poisoned water after a storm, they moved to get as much money, land, drilling rights, private airplane trips, island vacations, monument parks, tax cuts for themselves as they possibly could. They were called virus bankers.

The malady spread deeper and deeper throughout the land. Crops withered. Fires burned. Storms raged. Animals disappeared. Hate festered and hate crimes escalated.

Generals were hired to police the orange idiot and contain the sickness, but they quickly fell by the wayside, becoming apologists for the plague and its host, losing their integrity and minds. They, of course, had latent aspects of the virus embedded in their own consciousness and began to sound more insane and demented than the tubby lout they were monitoring.

Psychiatrists and psychologists broke protocol and issued warnings to the public that a malignant normality was spreading through the land and that the orange man was insane, living in his own reality, that the people would be unable to manage the crises that would eventually face the most powerful man in the world.

There were many brave determined people who did not have the virus but suffered from its consequences and they rose in the millions in the streets, in the Congress, at airports to prevent the virus from completely ruining their lives. Initially, they were not able to prevent the virus, but their on-going activity kept them from being contaminated themselves.

Committees were formed to investigate the multiple crimes and offenses of the orange fool and the sick people around him.

Some in the press became almost obsessed with reporting on the viscous pestilence almost to the point of orange madness.

Lawyers pressed hundreds of legal cases. Bacteriologists developed sprays and poisons. Pharmacologists harnessed new antibiotics and mood-altering drugs.

Many in the land became hopeless, depressed, suicidal, homicidal, disassociated, hostile, alcoholic. Those who could afford it went shopping or fled to other countries. But the virus followed them there as it had taken hold in new forms and had possessed leaders far and wide.

Arguments raged about methods and tactics of approaching the plague and the orange emperor. The strident ones believed that only complete annihilation would rid the world of the illness. The non-violent practitioners and faith leaders called for empathy and the need for reconciliation, understanding, and healing. They believed if they could unlock the roots of the virus, it could be released from the collective cells. They held vigils and prayer ceremonies and developed spiritual antidotes.

Witches made potions from strands of orange hair and spittle and did ongoing hexes.

But still the virus raged deeper and deeper. The orange followers became so toxic that, although they could feel the impact, they were unable to admit that their jobs, homes, air, water, health care, were being systematically destroyed by their fearless leader. The genocidal narcissist began to prepare them for nuclear Armageddon. This shockingly felt more relieving than the opioids they were addicted to, and less expensive.

The land of violent amnesia and rapacious dreams was nearing its end.

Then something wondrous and surprising began to happen.

The seers, the mystics, the sexual explorers, the artists, the exiles, began to do what they had wanted to do all along, but were now free to do with the end of the world in sight.

They made each other laugh and rubbed and healed each other with special oils and rituals and prayers. They lay with each other and shared their dreams. They listened to each other’s stories and made amends and reparations. They learned to read the stars and listen to the wind. They rediscovered ecstasy and poetry and purpose. They grieved for the world and held each other as they wept. They wrapped themselves around trees and bowed down to the rivers. They spent their days dancing and massaging each other. They foraged for food and fed each other. They stopped competing and striving.

Every day was filled with extraordinary acts of kindness. And a warm and delicious energy began to rise. It was liquid like honey and its pull was irresistible. One by one people began to join them. Even those who thought they didn’t know how to dance suddenly heard and moved to new rhythms. Even those afraid to touch or be touched found themselves lathering on oils. And a new world began to grow. It was magical and even work seemed like play.

The orange moron became louder and more hysterical but the people could no longer hear him as the radiant music was sweeping across the land. And as his idolaters were transformed into revellers and there was no one to admire or worship him, the people of the land watched with horror and awe as the gross sac of the vile emperor’s body began to wither like a deflated orange ball.

And so the moral of the story and the lesson from the orange idiot is to keep your souls clean. Viruses are always lurking but they cannot thrive where the people have washed their past darkness and have fortified themselves with solidarity, imagination, and love.

BABUR STANDS GUARD at dawn outside the newly constructed Taj Mahal in Agra. He dreams of flying palanquins, which he calls aeroplats . Babur is with his co-guard Humayun. They are characters in a play I directed in early 2017 called Guards at the Taj by Rajiv Joseph. At some point in the play, Babur and Humayun realize that they have a terrible task ahead of them. As menial guards, they must implement the fierce royal decree that says that after the Taj Mahal has been built all those who built it—the twenty thousand labourers, the masons, and even the architect—must have their hands chopped off. This Babur and Humayun do.

Babur dreams that his beloved aeroplats are weapons of destruction in the hands of the enemies of Hindustan. He imagines that they are used by the enemy to attack his country. When the aeroplats fly over Hindustan, they identify it by the shining Taj Mahal. They decide to destroy the mausoleum. The emperor, recognizing the enemy’s plan, tells his army to take hold of a large black cloth, run fast enough so that the cloth billows, and then cover the Taj Mahal beneath the cloth. The men—including Babur—run to the cloth, but when they reach it, they realize that most of them cannot hold the cloth. They have no hands. Thus, they stand mute, witnessing the destruction of the Taj Mahal.

“Development” is the Taj Mahal that was sold to the people of India in the 2014 elections. Hindutva is the sword that is now chopping off the hands of the people of this country. We now live en masse within this strange twist of fate in Babur’s dream. But this is a twist of fate that has a terrible history. The history requires a mirror. The citizens of our country will find that they are partly responsible for our present. We have been complacent. We have not held our representatives accountable. We have kept silent and happily lived on the blinkered dreams our leader threw over us for the past seventy years. We have no hands to hold the cloth. We are spectators to the destruction of our Taj Mahal.