The kitchen of politics and our plate.

There’s a grand kitchen called politics. This kitchen is never quiet, always steaming, filled with aromas that tempt—sometimes fragrant, sometimes reeking with a stench that stings the nose. Inside, the chefs—the politicians—are busy concocting dishes. They stir pots, chop vegetables, season meat, and occasionally bicker fiercely over recipes. Some work with heart, striving to serve a delicious meal for all. But many others think only of praise, profit, or simply want their name remembered as the greatest chef.

And us? We are the customers seated at the dining table, waiting for the dish to be served. Our plates are empty, our stomachs hungry, our hopes high. But are we wise enough to ask: What’s on my plate? Do we care enough to sniff the dish’s aroma, check its color, or even read the list of ingredients on the menu? Or do we simply swallow whatever is placed before us, never questioning whether it’s nutritious, high in calories, or—perish the thought—poisonous?

Politics, they say, is a muddy swamp. Dirty, full of intrigue, and often revolting. But don’t you think, precisely because it’s dirty, we must step into it? Not to wallow in the muck, but to understand how the mud came to be, why it reeks, and how we can clean it—or at the very least, keep it from soiling our plates.

Picture that political kitchen. There are honest chefs who painstakingly select the finest ingredients: justice, prosperity, freedom. But there are also dishonest ones, mixing in expired goods, adding too much sugar to mask the rot, or even sprinkling poison to feed their own ambitions. Their dishes—policies, promises, laws—will land on our table. And if we are apathetic, if we sit silently without ever questioning, then we ourselves will eat that poison. We ourselves will suffer the stomachache, or worse, a poisoned soul.

Learning about politics doesn’t mean we have to become chefs. No. We don’t need to enter the kitchen, wield a knife, or stir the pot. But we must be clever customers. Customers who know not every dish is healthy, not every chef is sincere. We must learn to read the menu: What’s the nutritional value of this policy? Is that promise just sugar, sweet on the tongue but empty in the stomach? Does this law truly serve us, or does it only line the chef’s pockets?

Like wise customers, we must have the courage to critique. “Sorry, Chef, this is too salty!” or “This ingredient seems spoiled!” We must have the sensitivity to smell something fishy, to reject a suspicious dish. And most importantly, we must hold onto hope that the kitchen can change. That one day, the political kitchen will be filled with chefs who cook with heart, who don’t just crave praise but want to see their customers healthy and happy.

Don’t be apathetic, my friend. Don’t turn away from the kitchen just because it smells foul. Politics may be dirty, but it’s the kitchen that determines what’s on our plate. If we don’t care, if we don’t learn, we’ll keep eating dishes we never wanted. We’ll stay hungry, disappointed, poisoned.

So, rise from the dining table. Open the menu, read the ingredients, ask for the recipe. Be a customer who doesn’t just wait but also decides. Because our plate is our future. And only we can ensure that what we eat is a dish worth savoring, one that gives us strength to move forward, not one that brings us down.

The political kitchen may be dirty, but our plate can still be clean. As long as we’re willing to learn. As long as we never stop caring.

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