When Executioners Dress as Saints: A Symphony of Horror in Five Acts

On a weathered wall in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood, an ICE agent chases a dog wearing a Superman cape. The spray can has captured what a thousand diplomatic pens do not dare to write: the naked face of power that preys on the weakest. While this honest art fades on concrete, palaces and presidential suites give birth to documents of such monstrous deceit that even Kafka would turn away in horror.

The Alchemy of Perversion

Benjamin Netanyahu, the eternal conductor of a war without end, raises the pen like a maestro who wants to transform the roar of cannons into a melody of peace. With artful rhetoric he transforms Donald Trump - that man who cast democracy out the door like an inconvenient tenant - into an apostle of reconciliation. The Abraham Accords, he writes, created “formal diplomatic relations,” as if bloodshed could be erased by the elegant facade of a treaty. Formal relations! As if diplomacy were a social dance where one bows while corpses are stacked in the next room.

What sublime irony: the man who never lets the smoke clear in the Middle East nominates the putschist of the Capitol for a prize once bestowed on Schweitzer and Mandela. It is as if Nero praised himself for his merits in fire protection while Rome was still burning. Language here is not only raped - it is quartered, its parts sewn together into a chimera that stammers “peace” while giving birth to war.

Hun Manet from Cambodia - that laboratory of suffering where human rights are crushed like vermin - seconds with the eloquence of a torturer suddenly singing troubadour songs. Trump had ended a border conflict with Thailand, he exults, as if the man had solved the Gordian knot and not merely staged a photo of two despots shaking hands. The “visionary leadership” he praises is the vision of a blind man leading other blind men into the abyss.

But the absolute climax of this farce, the moment when language finally commits suicide and rises again as a zombie, is Melania’s letter to Putin. With the naivety of a Lady Macbeth suddenly reciting nursery rhymes, she coos of “silent defiance” and children with “quiet laughter.” She, whose husband locked toddlers in cages like lab animals, lectures about innocence that “stands above geography, government, and ideology” - as if innocence were a private jet circling over corpses.

“You alone can humanize Russia,” she flutes to the war criminal and child murderer, as if Putin were an out-of-tune piano that only needed to be tuned correctly. One wants to scream at this obscenity of cluelessness masquerading as wisdom. It is the poetry of madness, written with the ink of the privileged who believe their detachment from reality is enlightenment.

The Dance on the Volcano

Mark Carney, the eternal model student of international diplomacy, surprisingly dances the same danse macabre, only in minor instead of major. “The leadership of President Trump and the United States opens the possibility of ending Russia’s illegal war in Ukraine,” he claims - as if the man who licked Putin’s boots had suddenly had the Damascus experience of a pacifist. It is the logic of the absurd: the arsonist is named fire chief, the rapist becomes women’s commissioner, the grave robber becomes chief physician.

What happens here is more than mere hypocrisy. It is the complete reversal of all values, the creation of an anti-language in which every word means its opposite. Orwell would have burned his “Newspeak” had he read these letters - they surpass his darkest visions. When warmongers award peace prizes, when tyrants babble about humanity, when the accomplices of violence stage themselves as its overcomers, then language is no longer a means of understanding but a weapon of confusion.

The true art, the only honest statement in this panorama of lies, remains the graffiti in Chicago. There, where an anonymous artist hurls the truth at the wall with a spray can: power hunts the weak, no matter what cape they wear. No chatter about “national security,” no euphemisms, no diplomatic arabesques. Only the raw, unvarnished brutality that calls itself by its name. These letters, by contrast, are gravestones of language. Every sentence a nail in the coffin of meaning. They document the moment when words finally became whores of power, purchasable, arbitrary, interchangeable. The Nobel Peace Prize for Trump would only be the logical crowning of this perversion - the final capitulation of meaning to madness. In the archives of the future, these documents will lie like radioactive waste, glowing with falsehood, poisoning all who take them seriously. They are the legacy of an epoch that lost shame and elevated disgrace to virtue. Meanwhile, the wall in Chicago will long have been painted over, but its message will survive in the hearts of those who still know that an executioner does not become a saint just because he crafts himself a halo out of words.

What do they actually have for breakfast in 2025, that Nobel Peace Prizes are handed to warmongers like discount stamps in a supermarket? As an investigative journalist one harvested threats ten years ago when hunting warlords or Blood and Honour - today it is enough to glance into the Epstein files, or letters, and the phone goes crazy. The nervousness of the powerful has visibly grown: they react to every pinprick as if it were a stab. But that is exactly the proof that we are right. Every reprisal is a signpost to the truth, every threat a love letter. They do not know that their panic is our compass. Piece by piece we take them off the board - not with their weapon of violence, but with ours: meticulous research. For in a world where even asking questions becomes rebellion, cowardice is the only true death. So yes, their intimidations only motivate us - we breakfast on resistance, day by day, and so the morning begins.

History will read these letters and laugh - a bitter, knowing laugh at a time when murderers awarded each other peace prizes while their victims were buried nameless in mass graves. It is the ultimate tragedy: not that these words were written, but that there were people who could sign them without shame. That is the true art of our time - the art of saying the unspeakable without blushing. The art of dancing on piles of corpses and calling it ballet. The art of lying the apocalypse into an apotheosis. The graffiti in Chicago will be painted over. The letters will gather dust in archives. But the truth they both tell in their own way - the truth about a time when words became weapons of absurdity - that remains. And somewhere in between it chokes on its own incomprehensibility.

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