Asylum for certain ...extremes only by Emma Schneider

Naomi Seibt, the self-styled “anti-Greta,” Germany’s 25-year-old far-right activist and social media influencer, has officially asked the United States for political asylum. She claims Germany is persecuting her for her views, saying she’s been spied on by intelligence agencies and left unprotected against alleged death threats from “antifa.” Seibt’s story is being framed, by her and her online followers, as a heroic struggle of an individual being crushed by the heavy hand of liberal Europe. But let’s pause for a moment and ask ourselves are we really ready to welcome a white-hot European nationalist into the bosom of the American dream?

We are talking about someone who openly aligns with the Alternative for Germany (AfD), a party whose rhetoric, at best, flirts with authoritarian nostalgia and, at worst, embraces outright xenophobia. She is a cheerleader for a brand of politics that has terrified minorities, journalists, and civil society in her own country. And yet, here she is, complaining that Germany is somehow the villain because it didn’t throw a police escort at her doorstep or guarantee her safety from counter-protesters. Let me be clear: no one owes Naomi Seibt a medal or a safe passage just because her Twitter followers can’t stomach disagreement.

The larger context here is what should alarm anyone paying attention. This isn’t an isolated incident; it is the opening salvo in a broader campaign to transplant European far-right ideologies directly onto American soil. Trump’s universe, with its idolization of nationalism, cultural grievance, and the cult of victimhood, is ripe for such influence. Enter JD Vance, formerly of Silicon Valley and now the political darling of the MAGA diaspora, who has openly admired elements of European populist movements. In Seibt’s narrative, she is not merely a persecuted activist; she is a symbol. And symbols are dangerous. They allow bad ideas to cross borders, repackaged and sanitized for domestic audiences.

So what is next? Are we going to give political asylum to every European far-right figure who claims they are oppressed by their own governments? What about white South Africans who have built entire campaigns around racial grievance? What about the neo-Nazi networks that have been quietly planning international outreach for years? Are we really going to turn America into a safe haven for every disgruntled extremist with a passport and a camera? If we do, we will have crossed a threshold that is not merely immoral; it is suicidal for the democratic project we claim to uphold.

The irony is deliciously cruel. Here in the United States, far-right activists regularly cry “censorship” and “persecution” whenever their rallies are counter-protested, their social media posts are flagged for hate speech, or their policies are criticized in a democratic forum. They demand the mantle of victimhood, yet they are the very architects of intimidation abroad. Naomi Seibt is asking for asylum because her own country dared to hold her accountable, and the Trump-era MAGA infrastructure is waiting with open arms to validate her grievance. This is not political persecution; this is consequence. But America has a habit of mislabelling consequences as persecution when it suits the narrative of grievance politics.

There is a broader, more dangerous trend here. It is one thing to offer asylum to people genuinely fleeing life-threatening circumstances, journalists, whistleblowers, political dissidents. That is the sacred duty of any nation that claims moral high ground. But when the criteria for asylum become “I am unpopular in my home country and my ideas are controversial,” we have moved from sanctuary to ideological sanctum, a playground for extremists. And if Naomi Seibt gets her wish, we will have established a precedent: if you can brand yourself a far-right provocateur in Europe, you can skip past legal hurdles and land on American soil with an instant fan club.

The implications extend beyond policy into culture and politics. Europe, for all its faults, has spent decades grappling with fascism, Nazism, and the consequences of racial nationalism. The United States, meanwhile, has a fragile tolerance for the ideological export of extremism. We are seeing, right before our eyes, a concerted effort to internationalize the MAGA agenda: “If you like Trump and you hate liberalism, come on over, we’ll give you protection and a platform.” This isn’t hypothetical; it’s the operating manual for global far-right networks. The playbook is simple: manufacture outrage in your home country, claim persecution, and find an American benefactor to legitimize your cause.

And let’s not underestimate the absurdity of it all. Naomi Seibt, the European right-wing influencer crying about death threats, is asking America for protection. America, whose streets have seen violent MAGA rallies and threats against politicians, is now supposed to be the safe harbour for someone who, in another time, might have been just another nationalist troll online. There is a delicious, almost tragic irony here: those who have long decried liberal Europe as soft, as overregulated, as stifling to free speech are now begging for the very thing they claim to defend in their own countries, a protective state willing to shield them from the consequences of their rhetoric.

In short, this is not just about one individual. It is about the principle of political asylum itself. It is about what kind of society we want to be. Do we want a nation that offers sanctuary to those who challenge tyranny, or do we want a nation that offers sanctuary to those who challenge decency? Naomi Seibt’s case is a warning. It is a flashing neon sign that says: if we do not draw a line, if we do not distinguish between the genuinely oppressed and the ideologically aggressive, we will have turned our most sacred protections into marketing tools for extremists.

The United States should reject the idea that political asylum is a playground for grievance politics. We should not be complicit in the internationalization of European far-right extremism. If we hand over sanctuary to people like Seibt, we will have betrayed not only our values but the very concept of asylum itself. There is a reason the system exists: to protect those who cannot protect themselves, not to provide a VIP pass to the ideologically belligerent.

Naomi Seibt wants America to be her shield. She wants Trump’s universe to validate her existence and make her a symbol of anti-European defiance. But America is not a fantasy land for ideological adventurers. It is a nation built on principles, some of which include moral responsibility, rational discernment, and the protection of the genuinely persecuted, not the self-aggrandizing provocateurs of the European far-right. If we do not recognize that, we are inviting chaos, not asylum.

Bylines in blood by Shanna Shepard

Remembrance Day is meant to be quiet. A pause, a collective inhale, a moment to honour the fallen. But this year, as I sip my coffee in a cramped apartment overlooking a city skyline, it tastes bitter with the news of Gaza and Ukraine, and I cannot help but feel the irony: we commemorate journalists by recalling their sacrifices, yet every day, their sacrifices are renewed on our screens, in real time, in the relentless stream of human suffering.

International journalists, those who traverse frontlines, enter war zones, and insist on seeing the world as it is, not as governments wish it to appear, have always lived in a precarious balance. Remembrance Day, in its traditional form, recalls those who have already paid the ultimate price. Yet the wars in Gaza and Ukraine remind us that danger is not a relic; it is perennial. It is the war correspondent’s permanent companion, and for many, it is intimate, inescapable, and visceral.

In Gaza, the echoes of bombs do not merely rupture walls, they fracture the narrative itself. For journalists covering the conflict, every photograph, every interview, every written paragraph carries the weight of moral calculus. To report is to walk a tightrope between truth and propaganda, between bearing witness and becoming a target. The city is not only a warzone but a labyrinth of accountability, of human suffering that refuses to be sanitized. And yet, the journalists persist, risking detention, injury, even death. Remembrance Day should not merely memorialize the ones gone; it should acknowledge the living, those who navigate these mines of both ideology and explosives with pens and cameras as shields.

Ukraine offers a parallel, yet distinct, theater of the journalist’s peril. Here, war is expansive, almost bureaucratic in its violence. The missiles are precise, the lines of conflict drawn in icy fields and shattered cities. Journalists here face not just physical danger, but a political and informational one. To report is to be scrutinized, surveilled, and sometimes vilified for simply stating the visible truth. Remembrance Day, in the shadow of Ukraine, is a reminder that journalism’s greatest threats are not always grenades; sometimes, they are narratives weaponized against the storyteller.

Both theaters illuminate a painful truth, the world does not honour journalists adequately until they are gone. We celebrate them posthumously with solemnity, wreaths, and carefully crafted obituaries, but when alive, they often operate in precarity, unsupported and underappreciated. Remembrance Day should be less about ritualistic nostalgia and more about confronting this ongoing reality. If we are to truly honour journalists, we must examine the structures that leave them vulnerable, the governments that obstruct reporting, the corporations that value click rates over context, and the audiences that consume tragedy without reflection.

Yet, there is another layer to this day, a personal one, often overlooked in the rush of medals and ceremonies. Journalism, especially in conflict, is profoundly human. Each byline represents a mind and a heart grappling with questions no one else can answer: How much suffering should one witness before becoming numb? How does one maintain empathy when tragedy is routine? What does it mean to be impartial in the face of such obvious cruelty? The wars in Gaza and Ukraine are not abstract geopolitical chessboards; they are collections of broken homes, grieving families, and journalists who carry these stories like scars, invisible to the world.

I think of the journalists who go missing, those whose lives vanish behind barbed wire, behind missile smoke, behind the ever-shifting fog of battle. Remembrance Day often invokes heroes; but the reality is more nuanced. Heroism is sometimes mundane, a refusal to be silenced, a commitment to the story, a willingness to write when the world would rather not read. These are acts of quiet courage, performed daily, with no guarantee of recognition. And yet, these are the acts that keep the world tethered to truth.

The modern journalist inhabits a paradox: the more essential their work, the greater their vulnerability. In Gaza, in Ukraine, the press is not just an observer but a participant in moral witness. To see and report is itself an act of bearing responsibility. And in an era of social media outrage, where misinformation travels faster than ambulances, this responsibility is heavier than ever. Remembrance Day must acknowledge that journalism’s dangers are not confined to history; they are current, immediate, and urgent.

So what does it mean, in this era of continuous conflict, to honour journalists? It means more than a moment of silence. It means a recognition that the frontlines are not just distant cities; they are in every newsroom that dares to ask inconvenient questions, in every camera lens that captures the unsanitized truth, in every article that refuses to turn war into spectacle. It is a call to the public, too, to see journalists not as entertainment, not as ephemeral voices, but as chroniclers of our shared humanity, sometimes at the cost of their own lives.

Remembrance Day should remind us that truth is not safe. That the act of reporting war is not neutral. That journalists, living or deceased, deserve more than ceremonial recognition; they deserve protection, respect, and a world willing to bear witness alongside them. In the images of rubble, the cries of the displaced, and the silence of those who have vanished, we see what this day truly commemorates, not just the fallen, but the ongoing courage of those who refuse to look away.

Because in the end, journalism is an act of defiance, and Remembrance Day, if it is to mean anything at all, must honour that defiance. The bylines in blood are not past, they are present. And so long as Gaza burns, so long as Ukraine bleeds, we remember not only those who have died but those who continue, stubbornly, to tell the story.

Usha’s carefully veiled allegiances by Howard Morton

It’s tempting, in a world increasingly hungry for narratives of moral clarity, to cast Usha Vance as a victim: a brilliant, accomplished woman ensnared by the prejudices of a husband whose worldview is as outdated as it is intolerant. We want to believe she suffers silently, negotiating a domestic tightrope between ambition and conformity, between her own intellect and the narrow confines of a patriarchal worldview. And yet, when we look more closely, that neat framing begins to fray. The question isn’t only whether she endures her husband’s racism and prejudices, it’s whether she’s complicit, whether her calm, polished exterior masks a quiet agreement, or even enthusiasm, for the very ideas she appears to outmaneuver.

The temptation to excuse her comes naturally. She is, after all, an immigrant navigating a world that is not hers by birthright. She has learned the art of adaptation with the precision of someone who has had to survive in spaces that are, quite literally, designed to exclude her. Her very presence, her voice, her poise, her success, is an act of defiance. And yet, defiance and alignment are not mutually exclusive. The question that gnaws at the edges of this narrative is whether Usha’s success is built on subtle resistance or whether it has been quietly harmonized with a worldview that she could have rejected but chooses to uphold.

Let’s be honest: we like our stories of oppression wrapped in the comforting veneer of virtue. We want her to be a tragic figure, a woman trapped by circumstances beyond her control, a brilliant mind dimmed by someone else’s narrow vision. But real life, of course, rarely offers such straightforward moral equations. Usha is intelligent. She is resourceful. And she is careful. To dismiss her merely as a victim risks erasing the complexity of her intellect and the possibility that she is an architect of her own survival, even if that survival requires tacit or overt, alignment with beliefs many of us would find repugnant.

It’s easy to imagine her at a dinner party, laughing lightly at a joke that toes the line of racial insensitivity, noting its cleverness while recognizing the discomfort it produces in others. She knows precisely what she is signaling,  loyalty, wit, discretion. And she knows exactly what she is withholding: judgment, outrage, disagreement. In that delicate balance, between the performance of companionship and the silent withholding of censure, Usha’s power is both revealed and concealed. She is neither openly complicit in the way her husband is, nor entirely a passive victim. She occupies a more dangerous space, the kind that demands subtlety and moral calculation in equal measure.

Here lies the uncomfortable truth: Usha’s status as an immigrant, her supposed otherness, does not obligate her to reject her husband’s prejudices. Indeed, it may offer her a social license to adopt them selectively, to cloak them in the sophistication of someone who “understands” both sides of an argument. Her identity as an outsider allows her to speak the language of inclusion while effectively sanctioning exclusion, all with a smile that is impeccably polite. She is, in many ways, the perfect emissary of prejudice, palatable, urbane, impossible to dismiss outright, and therefore more dangerous than a husband whose biases are naked, unvarnished, and easily condemned.

To view Usha solely as a victim risks perpetuating the very stereotype it might seem to challenge: that immigrants, women, or those who straddle cultures are inherently virtuous or morally elevated. Real power often resides in those who understand systems of privilege and can navigate them with precision, and Usha understands. Her intellect, her charm, her cultivated persona are not mere survival tools, they are instruments of influence. And influence, as we all know, does not demand moral purity. Sometimes it demands compromise. Sometimes it demands complicity. Sometimes it demands the quiet perpetuation of ideas that others would loudly denounce.

This is the uncomfortable question for those of us watching from the outside: does she share the same ideas, cloaked in politeness and sophistication, the ones that her husband espouses with blunter, more offensive confidence? Or is she merely performing, a high-wire act of silent resistance that, unfortunately, must bend to the gravity of domestic and social survival? There is no tidy answer, and therein lies the fascination. Usha Vance forces us to confront the inconvenient reality that agency and morality are not synonymous, that victimhood and power can coexist uneasily, and that appearances, however polished can conceal alignment as easily as they can conceal opposition.

In the end, Usha Vance is neither saint nor simple victim. She is an enigma, a figure who challenges the comforting narratives we like to tell ourselves about right and wrong, inclusion and exclusion, complicity and resistance. And maybe that is exactly the point: in a world obsessed with moral binaries, she reminds us that the most compelling characters and the most discomfiting truths, reside in the grey spaces where survival, intellect, and subtle allegiance intersect.

#eBook Rooms haunting nightmares by Julia A. Girard

 

The wind howled through the Scottish Highlands, a wail of misery that rattled the windows of the Aberdare Hotel.

It was as if the storm itself resented the hotel’s existence. Inside, the faint scent of mildew clung to the air, mingling with the dampness of the stone walls. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, its glow casting long shadows that seemed to dance and shiver at the edge of the room.

Thomas Carver stood just outside the hotel’s weathered entrance, his gaze drifting across the cobbled path that led up to the door. His coat flapped against his legs, as though the wind itself was trying to pull him away, back into the storm.

A man of logic, Carver wasn’t one to entertain superstitions or wild ideas, but something about the letter he had received weeks ago clawed at the back of his mind.

Julia A. Girard is a writer who'd rather be caught dead than serious. Her stories and books are a delightful blend of witty observations, quirky characters, and laugh-out-scary moments that will have you hooked from the first page.

Ovi eBook Publishing 2025

Rooms haunting nightmares

Read the eBook it online HERE!
Enjoy viewing & reading it online or download in PDF format HERE!
All eBooks and downloads are FREE!

Maples & Oranges #055 #cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

Taunting oranges in the midst of other fruity links,
constantly spreading the wares of their juicy gloom.

For more Maples & Oranges, HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

---

Her next move by Markus Gibbons

Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is, without question, a force that has reshaped the Democratic Party in ways few anticipated even a handful of years ago. She is a lightning rod, a disruptor, and, perhaps most importantly, a harbinger of a generational and ideological shift that is increasingly difficult for the party’s old guard to ignore. Her presence alone forces conversations about climate change, economic inequality, and the moral imperatives of social policy onto the national stage. And yet, for all her prominence and influence, AOC has largely stayed within the confines of her Queens–Bronx district, her power a combination of grassroots fervor and national attention rather than traditional congressional seniority or committee leverage. But as the Democratic Party looks toward its future, the question becomes inevitable: should Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez set her sights on the crown jewel of congressional authority the Senate, and specifically, Chuck Schumer’s seat in 2026?

There is a poetic symmetry in the idea. Schumer is the quintessential institutional Democrat; strategic, patient, a master of the parliamentary chessboard. His power is entrenched in the procedural and the pragmatic. AOC’s power, by contrast, is raw, visceral, and relentlessly public. She thrives in the spotlight where Schumer excels in the shadows. The juxtaposition of the two could be seen as the natural progression of a party at a crossroads. The question is not merely whether she can beat Schumer, politically, that is a monumental challenge but whether she should, in the sense of what it would signal about the party’s direction.

Some would argue that such a challenge is politically reckless, even foolhardy. Schumer is not merely a senior senator; he is Senate Majority Leader, a position that wields influence over legislation, appointments, and the party’s legislative agenda in ways that no freshman senator could hope to match. The optics of a young, outspoken progressive challenging an institutional titan could easily be framed as internecine warfare, undermining Democratic unity at a moment when the party is already walking a delicate tightrope. There is also the question of optics in New York itself, where loyalty to established figures often trumps ideology in local politics. To take on Schumer would be to court both national attention and the kind of intra-party criticism that could be brutal and enduring.

Yet the argument in favor is compelling. The Democratic Party is at a generational inflection point. The leadership that navigated the post-Reagan era, the post-9/11 era, and the Obama-to-Trump transition may not be the leadership that can inspire or mobilize the rising electorate. Millennials and Gen Z voters, who increasingly determine electoral outcomes in key states, are less impressed by procedural mastery than by clarity of vision and authenticity. AOC embodies a language and a sense of urgency that Schumer’s decades-long experience cannot replicate. Her energy, her moral clarity, and her fearlessness in taking on entrenched interests speak directly to the emerging base of the party. A Senate bid would not merely be a personal gamble; it would be a statement of intent for a party at a crossroads between pragmatism and idealism.

Moreover, AOC challenging Schumer would force the party to confront a broader question: what is the purpose of power if not to use it to reflect the values of those it represents? Schumer is undoubtedly effective, but he represents an older, more cautious conception of Democratic leadership. AOC, whether she wins or loses, embodies a willingness to risk political capital for bold ideas. In a nation increasingly impatient with incrementalism, the optics of such a challenge may resonate beyond New York politics, signaling that the party is willing to engage in internal debate about its future trajectory.

There is also a strategic consideration. Nationally, the Democratic Party is vulnerable in 2026. If the party cannot inspire its base, midterm losses could be severe. AOC’s Senate bid would bring immense attention to New York, sure but it would also energize volunteers, increase fundraising, and potentially drive turnout in a year when Democratic enthusiasm might otherwise wane. In short, it could be a calculated risk with outsized upside, especially if framed not as a personal vendetta against Schumer but as a generational renewal that elevates voices long underrepresented in the party hierarchy.

Critics will say she is too young, too polarizing, too ideologically uncompromising to take on a senior senator. They will point out that the risks to her political capital are enormous. But AOC has never been known for caution. Her career has been defined by defying expectations, from unseating a ten-term incumbent in Queens to becoming a national figure who can dominate headlines while remaining unflinchingly true to her progressive ideals. Perhaps the bigger question is not whether she should run, but whether the Democratic Party itself is ready for the conversation her candidacy would force.

Ultimately, a Senate bid in 2026 would be audacious. It would be combative, risky, and headline-grabbing. But audacity is exactly what AOC’s political brand is built upon. The Democratic Party is not static; it is in flux, caught between the pragmatic instincts of its long-serving leadership and the idealistic fervor of a new generation. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez challenging Chuck Schumer could be the moment that crystallizes which path the party will take: the path of cautious, incremental governance or the path of bold, values-driven leadership.

In the end, AOC’s choice will define more than her career. It may define the future of the Democratic Party itself. And perhaps that is precisely the kind of recklessness, the kind of audacity, this moment demands.

The price of a ballroom and the absurdity of affordability by Timothy Davies

If the new White House ballroom is anything to go by, Donald Trump’s understanding of affordability is, quite frankly laughable, if it weren’t so damaging to the national conversation. The very notion that someone who has presided over a personal empire of gold-plated indulgence could lecture the country on what counts as “affordable” is absurd. One has to wonder, when Trump talks about affordability, whose budget is he thinking of? Certainly not the average American’s. Certainly not mine. Certainly not yours.

Let’s start with the obvious. The White House isn’t supposed to be a private luxury resort; it’s a symbol of the people, a working seat of government, and, in its aesthetics, a reflection of both history and restraint. Yet here we are, discussing a ballroom that could rival a Las Vegas casino in size, opulence, and sheer impracticality. If this is a “measure,” as Trump might call it, of fiscal responsibility or good taste, then the standard has officially gone off the rails. Affordability, in any reasonable sense of the word, isn’t a function of marble columns, gilded chandeliers, or custom woodwork. It’s about moderation, practicality, and understanding the reality that you are not shopping for yourself but stewarding public resources.

And yet Trump has no grasp of that distinction. He seems to operate under the eternal misconception that wealth equates to expertise. Owning towers and private jets apparently translates into wisdom about public expenditure. It does not. There is no “Trumpian measure” that can justify extravagance in a space funded by taxpayer dollars. The White House ballroom is not a personal trophy case, and Americans are not contestants in a permanent reality show about opulence. The cost of renovations, upgrades, or new construction is not a metaphor for success; it is an accountability test for those entrusted with stewardship. On that test, Trump would fail spectacularly.

The tragedy here is more than aesthetic, it’s political. When public figures who have never had to calculate a monthly rent or stretch a paycheck lecture on affordability, they erode trust. They normalize a disconnect between power and the lived reality of most citizens. How can someone who casually tosses around figures in the tens of millions discuss what counts as reasonable when a family of four in rural America is calculating whether they can make rent, fill the gas tank, or pay for health insurance? Affordability is a lived, measurable tension between income and necessity, not a vague slogan tossed off for political convenience or campaign rhetoric.

Trump’s fantasy of affordability seems to exist in a vacuum. In his world, a ballroom isn’t just a ballroom; it’s a monument to status, a symbol of winning, a metric by which greatness is measured. But for ordinary Americans, affordability is about trade-offs, compromise, and understanding the real cost of choices. There is a profound irony in a man who built his brand on excess, who wrapped himself in the trappings of wealth, now speaking in moralistic tones about fiscal responsibility. It’s like asking a chef who has never eaten vegetables to lecture a family on healthy eating: the expertise simply isn’t there.

And let’s be honest: this is about more than money. It’s about the optics of priorities. A ballroom of this scale sends a message, one of self-indulgence, grandeur, and disconnection. Whether intentionally or not, it tells the public that those in power value spectacle over substance. When affordability becomes a punchline, it cheapens the very concept, turning a word meant to anchor civic debate into an empty political cudgel. The White House, ideally, should embody prudent stewardship, not opulent one-upmanship.

To listen to Trump discuss affordability while standing in the shadow of a multimillion-dollar ballroom is to witness cognitive dissonance in full bloom. It’s a lesson in the perils of mixing personal fantasy with public responsibility. If anything, the ballroom should be a cautionary tale, a vivid illustration that wealth does not confer wisdom, that ostentation is not a substitute for understanding, and that affordability is not a word to toss around lightly.

In the end, it’s simple. Affordability is not about what you can buy, it’s about what you should buy, especially when others are footing the bill. And on that measure, Trump, despite his bravado, his charisma, and his flair for self-promotion, should probably keep his mouth shut.

Because if the new White House ballroom is a measure, he has absolutely no idea what affordability is, and saying otherwise is a luxury Americans cannot afford.

Jacques Maritain (November 18, 1882 – April 23, 1973), World Citizen Philosopher by René Wadlow

Jacques Maritain was a French intellectual who spent the years of World War Two in Princeton in the USA. He was a friend of the anti-Nazi German author Thomas Mann who also lived in Princeton. Both men were among the active advocates of world citizenship. When Thomas Mann’s daughter, Elizabeth Mann Borgese, was editing the world citizen journal Common Cause from the University of Chicago in the 1947-1950 period, Jacques Maritain wrote a number of articles for the journal along the lines of his thinking set out in his Man and the State.

At the time that he was writing for Common Cause, he was the Ambassador of France to the Vatican, having been named ambassador by Charles De Gaulle from 1945 to 1948. Maritain had supported De Gaulle during the war when many French Catholics had sided with the Vichy government or were silent.

Jacques Maritain had become a well-known French intellectual in the 1930s for his writings on a wide range of topics but always in a spirit of spirituality in the Roman Catholic tradition. However, he was born into a Protestant family with anticlerical views which were common at the start of the Third Republic in the 1870s.

Maritain was converted to the Roman Catholic faith in his early twenties after a period of depression linked to his search for the meaning of life. He had married young to his wife Raissa, who came from a Jewish Ukrainian family who had come to France due to a persistent anti-Jewish atmosphere in Ukraine. Both Jacques and Raissa converted to the Roman Catholic faith at the same time as a result of intense discussions between the two.

Raissa became well known in her own right as a poet and writer on mystical spirituality, but she also always worked closely on the writings of her husband. Their spiritual Catholicism was always colored by their early friendship with unorthodox Catholic thinkers, in particular Charles Péguy and Leon Bloy. After Raissa’s death in 1960, Jacques Maritain moved back to France from Princeton to live in a monastic community for the last 12 years of his life.

His writing on the spiritual background for creative actions for the benefit of the world community can be an inspiration to us all.

*************************************

René Wadlow is President of the Association of World Citizens.

Tang & Ram #117 #Cartoon by Thanos Kalamidas

 

Putting pieces together
never helped Ram’s brutal sarcasm to Tang.

For more Tang & Ram, HERE!
For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

---

Athens Polytechnic’s memory meant to haunt authoritarianism by Thanos Kalamidas

Fifty-two years ago, in November 1973, a group of young students barricaded themselves inside the Athens Polytechnic, shouting the now-immortal words: “Bread, Education, Freedom.” They were not armed with anything but their voices and their certainty that democracy even bruised, even fragile, was worth more than the generals’ guns. It didn’t take long before all of Athens answered their call. Thousands gathered outside those gates, young and old, workers and teachers, dreamers and the broken. In a city suffocating under seven years of dictatorship, the Polytechnic uprising was the moment the regime could no longer hide behind its lies.

And so, as all terrified regimes do, it struck back. With police batons. With soldiers. And then, finally, with tanks. Those ugly metal beasts whose roar still shakes the conscience of this country. The junta crushed the uprising with deathly force. But the students won something larger; they ignited a fire that outlived the dictators who tried to silence them.

Yet here we are; half a century later, standing in a Greece that has learned all the wrong lessons. Because if 1973 was a symbol of democratic awakening, 2025 has become a symbol of democratic decay. And the decay starts at the top, with a government rotting from its own arrogance, corruption and authoritarian hunger.

Kyriakos Mitsotakis, Greece’s tragically enduring Prime Minister, has managed the spectacular feat of dragging the country backwards while smiling for international cameras and selling himself as a “moderniser.” Modern? Perhaps if modern governance means surveillance states, media manipulation, abolition of rights, and the suffocation of dissent. Under Mitsotakis, Greece has achieved something remarkable: it has sunk to the bottom of Europe’s press freedom rankings and the top of Europe’s corruption scandals.

This is not a government it’s an organised clique. A cartel dressed in suits, protected by friendly newspapers and business interests fattened on public money. And like all cartels, it tolerates no criticism.

When journalists are spied on with military-grade spyware, Mitsotakis calls it “an unfortunate mistake.”
When dead migrants wash up on Greek shores, he blames “bad weather.”
When wildfires consume half the country, he lectures the public on “responsibility.”
When tempers rise, he goes abroad to collect awards given by people who never set foot in an underfunded Greek hospital.

And when the Greek people feel the ground beneath their feet collapse under inflation, poverty wages and suffocating rents, he speaks in the language of technocracy, a cold, bloodless tongue designed to make misery sound mathematical.

Meanwhile, his ministers, those interchangeable faces in expensive ties, parrot talking points with the enthusiasm of frightened interns. The government has all the creativity of a spreadsheet and all the morality of a discount loan shark.

But perhaps the greatest insult, the most grotesque irony, is this the anniversary of the Polytechnic has never been more relevant. The slogan that shook the junta ‘Bread, Education, Freedom’ reads today not like a memorial, but like a demand still waiting to be met.

Bread.
Tell that to the thousands surviving on salaries that vanish by the 20th of each month. To the families forced to choose between heating their homes and feeding their children. To the young who work two jobs and still cannot afford a flat, not even a windowless basement. Greece is the country where “economic growth” means yachts for the few and empty fridges for the many.

Education.
Ask the students crammed into universities where funding disappears faster than ministers’ ethics. Look at the classrooms with no heating, the teachers paid worse than supermarket cashiers, the universities militarised with armed guards as if ideas are dangerous weapons. The junta feared students; Mitsotakis fears them too. That alone should tell us something.

Freedom.
The word has become a bitter joke. Freedom of press? Choked. Freedom of protest? Criminalised. Freedom from surveillance? Nonexistent. Greece has become the country where journalists investigating corruption end up blacklisted, wiretapped or mysteriously unemployed and in some cases ...dead. Where citizens are monitored because someone in power “needed to know.”

The government behaves not like a democratic administration but like a property owner who believes the country is his family estate, an inheritance to distribute among friends, donors and party loyalists.

And while all this unfolds, Mitsotakis stands on polished podiums and talks about “progress,” “stability,” “resilience.” The only thing resilient in Greece today is corruption. The only thing stable is inequality. And the only progress we see is the progress of authoritarianism wearing the mask of European respectability.

Some insist that comparing today’s Greece with the junta years is an exaggeration and some years ago I was one of them. No tanks on the streets, they say. No curfews, no military courts. True authoritarianism has evolved. It has become smarter, smoother, and infinitely more cowardly. Why send tanks when you can send police units with shields and tear gas? Why close newspapers when you can buy them? Why torture when you can destroy reputations with sponsored headlines and silence critics with lawsuits? Why imprison dissidents when you can exhaust them with economic despair until they leave the country voluntarily?

The weapons have changed. The intentions have not.

The Polytechnic students shouted “Bread, Education, Freedom” because they recognised that dictatorship is not only uniforms and curfews, dictatorship is the absence of dignity. And dignity is exactly what is stolen today, systematically, shamelessly, day after day.

So, what does the anniversary mean now, in a Greece governed by a prime minister who behaves like accountability is an optional luxury? It means we must stop treating the Polytechnic as a relic, a ceremonial march followed by polite speeches. Its message is not a hymn, it is a warning.

If 1973 taught us anything, it is that democracy does not collapse in a day. It rots slowly. It erodes silently. It dies from the thousand small concessions people make out of fatigue, fear or resignation.

And so the question, 52 years later, is painfully simple: Are we willing to become the generation that watched democracy suffocate while pretending everything was fine?

The Polytechnic was not just an uprising. It was a refusal to accept that power belongs only to those who claim it. Today, Greece desperately needs that refusal again. Not nostalgia. Not symbolism. Action. Courage. Outrage.

Because the tanks of 1973 crushed bodies, Mitsotakis government of 2025 is crushing hopes.

And a country can live without tanks but it cannot live without hope.

Erdogan’s past reflection in the mirror of Ekrem Imamoglu by Sabine Fischer

There is a peculiar irony in Turkish politics these days, an irony so rich it feels scripted by history itself. President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, who once stood as the defiant mayor of Istanbul battling a system that tried to silence him, now presides over that same system as it seeks to imprison his political rival, Istanbul’s current mayor, Ekrem Imamoglu. The circle has closed. What Erdogan once endured, he now enforces.

Turkish prosecutors are demanding a 2,000-year jail sentence for Imamoglu, accusing him of leading a criminal organization. On paper, it sounds absurd a number so theatrical it could belong in a dystopian novel rather than a modern courtroom. But in today’s Turkey, where political trials often serve as theater for power rather than justice, it is not shocking.

Imamoglu’s alleged crimes? Political influence, leadership within supposed criminal networks, and the usual collection of catch-all charges designed to strip legitimacy from a rival who has become a real threat to Erdogan’s long reign. It’s the same old song of authoritarian politics: label your opponent corrupt, dangerous, and criminal, then declare yourself the nation’s saviour.

And yet, the irony cannot be overstated. Erdogan’s own ascent began in the same city, Istanbul, and in much the same way. In 1998, he was convicted and jailed for reciting a poem, one that authorities at the time claimed incited hatred. That short imprisonment turned Erdogan into a political martyr, a symbol of resistance against Turkey’s secular establishment. It propelled him to national prominence and eventually to the presidency.

Now, nearly three decades later, the roles are reversed. Imamoglu, too, is the mayor of Istanbul, charismatic, populist, and widely seen as the strongest opposition figure capable of challenging Erdogan’s grip on power. And like Erdogan before him, he faces a judiciary bent to the will of the powerful.

It’s as if Erdogan has become the very system he once fought against. The persecuted has become the persecutor. The man who once claimed to speak for the silenced now uses the full force of the state to silence others.

Imamoglu’s story is not merely a political rivalry it’s a reflection of Turkey’s deeper crisis. The erosion of democracy in the country is not a slow decline anymore; it’s a free fall. Each year brings another headline that feels like a warning flung from the past. Once upon a time, the Turkish judiciary was weaponized by secular elites to suppress religious conservatives. Now, it is weaponized by religious conservatives to suppress secular democrats. The pendulum swings, but the principle remains the same: power above justice.

When Erdogan first ran for office, he promised a Turkey that would never again jail people for their beliefs, a nation where political competition could thrive freely. That promise has long faded into the rhetoric of strongman politics nationalism wrapped in faith, loyalty demanded over liberty. In such an environment, someone like Imamoglu moderate, modern, and with a knack for connecting with ordinary Turks, is not just an opponent; he’s a threat to the mythology of Erdoganism.

What makes Imamoglu dangerous is not his alleged crimes but his popularity. In 2019, he defeated Erdogan’s party in the Istanbul mayoral election, not once but twice, after the government annulled the first result and forced a re-run, hoping to reverse the loss. The rerun only widened Imamoglu’s margin of victory. That moment cracked the illusion of Erdogan’s invincibility, proving that even in a tilted political system, the people could still push back.

So now, instead of trying to beat Imamoglu at the ballot box, the government seems determined to beat him in court. A 2,000-year sentence isn’t a legal demand, it’s a message. It says: Challenge me, and I will bury you in paperwork, trials, and humiliation. It’s a show of intimidation disguised as due process.

Yet, such tactics often backfire. Erdogan’s own life should remind him of that. Every time a leader tries to crush dissent through spectacle, they risk creating a new symbol of resistance. Imamoglu, whether behind bars or on the campaign trail, may yet become the rallying figure Turkey’s fragmented opposition has been searching for.

The situation also raises an uncomfortable truth for Erdogan himself: history remembers both the oppressor and the oppressed, but never in the same light. Erdogan’s legacy could have been that of a reformer who lifted Turkey to democratic maturity. Instead, he risks being remembered as a ruler who completed the transformation from reformist to autocrat, a man who looked into the mirror of power and chose to resemble his former enemies.

Turkey, a nation straddling two continents and two identities, deserves better than this endless cycle of political revenge. The battle between Erdogan and Imamoglu is not just a personal rivalry, it’s a struggle over what kind of future Turkey will have. A future where power is preserved through fear, or one where dissent is allowed to breathe.

As things stand, Erdogan is replaying his own history in reverse. The courtroom that once made him a hero may now create his successor. The script has already been written, only the actors have changed.