One of the reasons I love to write: sometimes I find more fact in fiction than invective and rants supposedly express ‘truth.’

  Once upon a nightmare there was a leader of a country who prepared the biggest grave ever for all who opposed him. He, his associates and his supporters kept making the grave bigger and wider. They even threw some of their former supporters and associates into the grave because they dared to criticize some actions, some behavior. Of course reporters who displeased him were shoved in, as well as inconvenient politicians. He sought help from anyone, any group no matter how vile or villainous, who would encourage those already in the grave to turn on each other. He cheered them on as they marched through the streets insulting all who weren’t them. When they perpetrated horrible acts he was slow, at best, meek and weak at condemning their blood drenched behavior, if he did at all.
 Of course those who mostly agreed with the leader who objected to his methods, or thought they should follow what was left of rule of law, were pushed in too.
 The people were angry but focused more on their disagreements. They argued about how to climb out, who should lead the climb, where to climb and who should be left behind because they had to be terrible, unredeemable people, who just weren’t good enough, pure enough. As accusations flew they gathered in separate groups, suspicious of each other. They got so mad at each other they even used the same accusations yelled down into the pit by his supporters and enablers no matter how absurd. There were oceans of suspicion, a plethora of paranoia. The leader and his enablers were equal opportunity fomenters of rage, anger and division… agitating one side then turning to agitate the other.
 There had been plenty of institutions meant to protect the people, protect sacred documents, but they too were tossed in. They too turned on each other.
 The grave was dug. The leader, his supporters and enablers kept standing and yelling antagonizing words at the people in the grave, creating as much suspicion as possible: all intended to divide, create more hate. And it worked.
 The people in the pit continued to toss dirt on each other. Some pointed at each other and said, “Maybe if he wins you’ll learn next time,” as the hole filled. Not that that had ever worked before. People stopped talking to each other and then stopped talking at all. When the election came around the leader was essentially a dictator and the election was really no election at all.
 There was no more Republic.
 There were no more democratic elements except façades.
 There was no freedom.
 The grave was full. The critics for all the real power they could have had if they had worked together were affectively silenced.
 For this is the way freedom dies
 For this is the way freedom dies.
 We fill our own grave.

                                                 -30-
 Inspection is a column that has been written by Ken Carman for over 40 years. Inspection is dedicated to looking at odd angles, under all the rocks, and into the unseen cracks and crevasses, that constitute the issues and philosophical constructs of our day: places few think, or even dare, to venture.
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Ken Carman and Cartenual Productions
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