The Skeleton Man Before the Minister - How Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Was Haunted by Reality on Halloween

Once upon a time there was a well-kept front yard in a wealthy neighborhood of Washington, a few withering pumpkins, a porch with an American flag - and in the middle of it all a skeleton sitting in a garden chair. On its lap a sign, handwritten, simple, merciless: "Wish I had taken my vaccine." The neighbor, Christine Payne, did not have to explain much. The skeleton spoke for itself. It was perhaps the most accurate political statement of this autumn - directed at the man who, as Secretary of Health of the United States, has turned health policy into an ideological testing ground: Robert F. Kennedy Jr., once an anti-vaccine activist, now Trump's health secretary, responsible for the public health of a nation he has been destabilizing for months.

One has to picture the scene: inside, behind security fences, resides a minister who calls the World Health Organization "a hydra of the pharmaceutical industry" and has abolished the vaccine mandate for healthcare workers. Across the street, the real statement looks out from the window of the conservatory - a skeleton in a garden chair, pale and grinning, its bony fingers resting on the armrests, a cardboard sign held to its chest that reads: "Wish I had taken my vaccine."

Kennedy, who likes to see himself as a "dissident within the system," has in truth demolished the system from within. Since taking office earlier this year, research programs have been cut, epidemiological institutes merged, scientific advisory boards dissolved. Internal memos state that "the excessive dependence on data" should be "replaced by holistic approaches" - a euphemism for distrust of evidence. The consequences are visible. Vaccination campaigns against flu and RSV have collapsed. Hospitals are reporting rising case numbers, especially in rural areas. On social media, the old myths are circulating again - this time with the blessing of the ministry itself. And while Kennedy talks in interviews about "self-healing powers," doctors sit in emergency rooms in front of overcrowded waiting areas and wonder if they have traveled back in time.

That it is his neighbor who breaks the silence has an almost literary quality. It is as if a house in the suburbs had decided to resist - with plastic and cardboard instead of slogans. Payne, neighbors report, put up the skeleton on the evening before Halloween. Within hours, hardly anyone passed by without taking a photo. Some laughed, others nodded, some shouted "Thank you."

Kennedy himself remained silent. His press team released no statement, no denial, no ironic remark. Perhaps because there is nothing to deny. Perhaps because he, too, knows that the symbolism surpasses him. Because the skeleton in the conservatory is more than a suburban commentary - it is a memento mori for a government that has made death socially acceptable again. While millions of Americans fear for their healthcare, while drug prices rise and insurance coverage falls, the health secretary has turned himself into a missionary of mistrust.

Trump's decision to bring him into the cabinet was the triumph of populism over science. It signaled that expertise is now seen as a threat, that facts arouse suspicion, and that the word "health" henceforth smells of conspiracy. Kennedy has embraced this role with the vanity of a man who believes himself misunderstood and lives off the misunderstanding. And now he faces what remains of his ideals: a skeleton man in the conservatory. No screenwriter could have devised a better symbol.

One can say the skeleton is a Halloween gag. One can also say: it is the most honest portrait of a ministry that has forgotten its purpose. In a time when ships are sunk, food assistance is cut, and hospitals privatized, death sits in the garden chair holding a sign that contains the whole truth: I wish I had taken my vaccine. And somewhere behind the curtains, Robert F. Kennedy Jr. may be wondering whether his neighbors' mockery is the worst thing that could have happened to him - or the most deserved.