I don't like Bush. I don't trust him. I don't like his record.

“I don’t like Bush. I don’t trust him. I don’t like his record. He’s stupid. He’s lazy.” Thus spoke Cher, the singer and actress, but in these words we hear not merely the voice of a celebrity, but the echo of an ancient truth: that rulers must be judged by the weight of their deeds, and that the people must speak boldly when their leaders falter. Though her words were sharp and unsparing, they carried a force as old as the agora of Athens, where citizens raised their voices to question kings and magistrates. For power without trust is a hollow throne, and a leader without respect is but a shadow upon the world.

The meaning of Cher’s declaration lies not in the insult, but in the courage to speak. Many in her time, as in all times, feared to challenge authority, fearing ridicule, fearing exile, fearing loss. Yet she chose to cast her words like stones into the still pond of public silence. The ancients would have called this parrhesia—the fearless speech of one who risks much to speak truth as they see it. Her statement was not the murmur of courtesy but the cry of dissent, reminding us that even the high must be accountable to the judgment of the people.

Consider how in the history of Rome, Cicero spoke with similar fire against Mark Antony, declaring him corrupt, unworthy, and dangerous to the republic. Cicero, like Cher, used words sharp as swords, not dulled by politeness, but honed by conviction. His speeches, known as the Philippics, burned through Rome and stirred citizens to reflection. He paid with his life, but his courage lives on as a testament to the power of speech against those in command. So, too, Cher’s boldness, though far from the battlefield, reminds us that no ruler is beyond reproach, no leader exempt from judgment.

We must also see in her words a warning about trust. A leader who cannot inspire confidence, who is seen as negligent, foolish, or corrupt, weakens not only himself but the nation he governs. Trust is the foundation of all leadership. Without it, armies will not march, laws will not be honored, and the people’s loyalty will decay. The harshness of Cher’s words points to this deeper truth: that leaders must labor, must strive, must act with wisdom, for to be idle or careless is to betray the sacred trust of those who follow.

Yet we must temper passion with reflection. To call a leader “stupid” or “lazy” may wound, but it must also point toward a greater lesson: that leadership is not for the faint of heart, nor for the indifferent. The ancients demanded much of their kings and generals—they must be wise, just, strong, and tireless. When they failed, they were cast aside, for a nation’s destiny cannot be entrusted to weakness. Cher’s words, harsh as they seem, align with this eternal standard: that those who sit in high places must be held to the highest measure.

The lesson for us is clear: we, too, must speak boldly when we see failure in those who rule over us—whether in government, in business, or in any sphere of power. To remain silent is to consent; to murmur quietly is to waste the moment. Like Cher, like Cicero, we must learn to name what we see, even at the cost of scorn. Yet our speech must not end in insult alone—it must drive us to demand better, to hold leaders accountable, and to rise ourselves to the standard we seek.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, remember this teaching: trust must be earned, and power must serve. Do not bow before authority blindly. Question it, measure it, test it against truth. Speak with courage when leaders falter, and do not fear the sting of your own voice. For it is the duty of the people to keep the world awake, and the duty of every soul to call for wisdom where there is folly, for strength where there is weakness, and for justice where there is corruption. This is not rebellion; it is responsibility—the eternal burden and blessing of the free.