A Modern Parable

Voting For Your Own Starvation - a short parable on the timeless mechanics of the political distraction

HIGH ON THE HILL sat the grand chamber of the Valley Syndicate. The building served a dual purpose: by day, it was the boardroom where the directors counted their dividends; by night, it was the town hall, where those exact same directors sat as the ruling council.

They owned the mines, the mills, and the law itself. Yet, the townsfolk below, who worked longer hours for fewer coins while the price of coal rose every winter, still held the right to vote for the town’s charter every four years. And election day was looming.

The directors looked over the ledger, facing a frustrating dilemma. “We want to pass an amendment to the charter that ensures all profits flow strictly up to this hill and strips the workers of their remaining leverage,” the First Director said. “But we have a problem: even with our money, there are only a dozen of us, and the workers outnumber us a thousand to one. If they unite, they’ll vote us off our own council.”

The Second Director leaned back, chewing his cigar. “How do we convince the hungry to cast a ballot that cements the theft of their own bread?”

After a long silence, the Third Director tapped the mahogany table. “We must give them a different enemy. We will tell them that the reason their wages are flat and the coal is expensive, is not because of our council seats or our dividends. We will tell them it’s because of the migrant labourers living in the shanties by the rail lines.”

“Brilliant,” the First Director cheered. “We will hand out syndicate-branded flags, tell them they are the true sons of the valley, and point them toward the tracks. The men will grab their iron bars and rampage in a fury.”

“But what if they break our town laws while rampaging?” asked a junior executive.

“Oh, as the council, we will issue an official decree championing their ‘sacred right to free speech and assembly,’” whispered the Third Director with a smirk. “We won’t actually bail them out when our constables lock them up, of course. But they will believe we are on their side, and they will march straight to the ballot box to vote ‘Yes’ on our new charter.”

The junior executive hesitated. “But once the charter is passed and our council seats are locked in forever, won’t they eventually look up at the hill, see we’ve grown richer, and realise they’ve been used?”

The directors laughed, the sound echoing off the wood-panelled walls.

“My dear boy,” the First Director chuckled, “by the time they realise that, we will have used our new council powers to rewrite the charter entirely. They’ll be so busy waving their flags that they won’t even notice their right to speak has been struck from the books.

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