Once upon a time, there was a man named Donald, who was born with justice in his heart. From his earliest youth, he could not stand to see anyone being abused, deceived, or forgotten. Whenever he saw injustice, his blood boiled like a river in spring.
Donald grew up with a dream: “When I grow up, I will become a politician. Then I can make laws that are fair, and people will never again have to fear being treated unjustly.”
He studied, learned, and worked harder than anyone else. He served on councils and committees, sat through meetings late into the night, and always stood firm like a tree in a storm. At last, the time had come: Donald decided to found his own party — a party for the people, as he called it.
Then came the day of his initiation. It was a ceremony from which few ever returned with the same look in their eyes. Donald stood in a great hall full of shadows, where a strange ritual was laid before him:
He had to put on a costume. Not just any costume, but the outfit of a hand puppet.
Donald looked around in astonishment — and to his shock, he saw that all the other politicians were already such puppets. Their mouths opened and closed, their arms moved rhythmically, but their eyes were empty. Behind them, invisible to ordinary people, stood a force that called itself the Cabal: a mysterious power that controlled every puppet.
“This is the price of power,” whispered the Cabal. “If you wish to join, put on the costume. You will appear great, but we will guide your hand.”
Donald hesitated. His heart said no, but his ego said yes. He felt important, proud to belong among the powerful. And so he put on the puppet’s costume. The cold hand of the Cabal slipped beneath his back, and suddenly he could no longer move as he wished.
From that day on, Donald spoke in meetings words that were not his own. In votes, he wanted to say “no,” but his puppet-body raised its hand for “yes.” His thoughts remained his own, but his actions were steered.
The people, who had once admired him for his honesty, began to hate him. “He is no different from the rest!” they cried. “He has betrayed us!”
Donald looked in the mirror and saw the truth: he had become a man with a puppet’s head. His own voice was drowned beneath that of the Cabal.
In the end, something broke inside him. He understood that politics was not made of free men, but of puppets, controlled by invisible hands. The people saw only the puppets, never the puppeteers.
And so Donald did not end as the hero he longed to be, but as a broken man who knew the truth — a truth too heavy to bear.
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