𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓'𝐒 "𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐘" $𝟒𝟓,𝟎𝟎𝟎,𝟎𝟎𝟎 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐔𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐘

The statue stands not merely on the green of the National Mall, but on the moral nerve of a nation slowly forgetting its own heartbeat. Eight feet tall, gaudy with gold, the hand thrusts upward in triumph—thumb extended, as if to approve. Yet beneath that imperial gesture lies not marble nor justice, but the crushed crown of Liberty herself. The symbolism is too clear for comfort, too blunt for dismissal.

And yet, the crowd passes by.

It was no accident that this grotesque idol was unveiled on June 14, the very date when, under the guise of commemoration, the Republic was asked to clap for tanks in the capital—steel beasts whose treads had once been reserved for war zones, now repurposed to rattle along boulevards of protest and pretense. The pretense? That this parade was for the Army’s 250th anniversary. The protest? That it was a birthday feast for one man, a man whose appetite for spectacle is exceeded only by his need for validation.

It cost $45 million—not to heal the wounded, nor house the homeless, nor lift up the forgotten veterans for whom this anniversary might truly have mattered. No. That sum was spent on smoke, on iron, on uniforms made to stand at attention before a camera lens and a narcissist’s smile.

The artists behind “Dictator Approved” remain unnamed, perhaps wisely. In a healthy republic, satire is a right. In a sick one, it is a risk. Their creation does not whisper. It accuses. Upon its base, the words of tyrants echo with eerie reverence: Putin calling Trump “bright and talented”; Orban saluting the man “most respected, most feared”; Bolsonaro, that illiberal apologist for cruelty, claiming shared values. And then, like a bitter coda, the honeyed language of North Korea’s Kim—“Your Excellency,” “extraordinary courage”—like a bouquet left on the tombstone of freedom.

And still, the crowd passes by.

The White House, in its brittle condescension, released a statement with a smirk: "In the United States of America, you have the freedom to display your so-called 'art,’ no matter how ugly it is." The irony stings. For those of us who once knew a world where art required silence and risk, not permission slips, this is the new mutation of authoritarianism: one that permits dissent not because it is strong, but because it is numb.

Yes, this parade bore the pageantry of Pyongyang. Yes, the statue mocks with painful precision. But deeper still is the rot that permits both to stand: a citizenry amused rather than alarmed, entertained rather than awakened. That is the final stage of decline—not outrage, but fatigue.

We once believed that the machinery of tyranny required camps and walls, torture chambers and secret police. But now we see it can wear a grin, wave a flag, and pass through the Capitol to polite applause. It can quote dictators while denying it knows them. It can hold parades on cracked streets, and still call itself free.

And still, the crowd passes by.

For now, the statue remains. Just until Sunday. Like a candle in a windstorm. Like a warning whispered too late.