Political Scientists

Honestly, I think the worst TV has to offer in the past years is not the never-ending onslaught of daft ‘reality’ formats but political talk shows.

They could be little, important islands of political information. They could be showcases about how to discuss our differences. They could enhance our political knowledge and therefore foster opinions and ways to pragmatically form compromises. And all those compromises could grow into steps. And step after step, we could actually grow. Sorry, I am dreaming aloud again.

Instead, we get shouting matches. Sure, some people hide it behind verbal smoke screens and this drone of words making you forget what the actual question was. Also, in an attempt of misunderstood and misguided pluralism there always seem to be voices uttering opinions that need no discussing in the year 2020 (or 1933, or 1871, or 9 – geez, some views were ALWAYS wrong!).

I am sick of the perpetual parade of silver foxes clad in expensive clothes and world views of the 50s telling young people that their beliefs and dreams are fantasies. Unstable soap bubbles of hope.

See, there is always this one dude. The guy your in-laws wanted for their child instead of you. The pearly white smile, the expensive smart fashion style, the inherited money from daddy’s cigar factory (Mom did not earn her own money.), the personification of every late 80s highschool drama villain.

And he will always tell you about stocks, about stopping the government from interfering with business. The eternal message that if you stop regulating rich people, wealth will somehow trickle down to everyone.

Which is a fairy tale. A soap bubble we popped so often in the past forty years that, quite frankly, it got boring.

To the left of Mr Toothygrin always sits the Hawk. Of course, Mr Neoliberalism will assure us that they do not condone or share the Hawk’s opinions, but we know better. Should the Hawk ever be free of the pesky cage of democracy, Mr Economy will gladly provide the bodies to be sacrificed upon an altar of blood. Most of them will happily wave flags.

The Hawk spins tales of borders. Myths of times when only his kind lived here. Any historian could tell you that these times NEVER existed, but he will not budge. The Hawk will define an “Us”, and all his solutions will exclude “Them”. Irritatingly, sometimes “Them” will wave flags for “Us”. The waters get murky.

Another tall story.

On the edge, of the group – a befuddled clown who has it all figured out. All the world’s woes are caused by vaccines. Or 5G masts. Or the Jews; always the Jews. He blabbers incoherently, waving a flag. Hawk and Neoliberalism smile, hoping no one sees the strings they use to tug the Clown’s arms. Making them flail wildly.

A mad yarn.

And whenever someone suggests we should listen to the people whose future we are debating, they protest in unison. ‘Naive dreamers!’ they shout.

I wish we would invite them; these brilliant, wise and beautiful heads we have among us in this country. We’d be surprised how many of them are called Aishe. How colourful they are! Yet, how, in the broadest Berlin drawl they would sing their dreams. Dreams full of love and hope.

All we’d need to do is: Listen!

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