The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which

Behold the words of Vladimir Lenin, whose tongue was sharpened by the fires of revolution and whose eyes beheld the machinery of deceit that clothed itself in the garb of freedom. When he declared, “The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent and repress them in parliament,” he did not speak with cynicism alone, but with the sorrow and fury of one who saw humanity sleep while the chains clinked beneath their dreams. The quote is not merely an indictment of rulers—it is a mirror held to the faces of the ruled, that they may awaken to their own power and their own slumber.

In these words, Lenin revealed the illusion of democracy that serves the oppressors. He saw how the powerful—those who control the wealth, the land, the law, and the voice of nations—constructed a theater in which the people might cast ballots instead of stones. They were granted the ritual of choice, but not the substance of change. For the true architects of policy, the lords of capital and industry, remained untouched by the hand of the commoner. Thus, even as the multitude rejoiced in their “freedom,” the structure of domination endured, veiled by the music of speeches and the banners of reform.

Consider the story of the French Third Republic, born from the embers of revolution yet swiftly captured by the same elites it had sought to dethrone. The workers who bled on the barricades were soon ruled by polished men who dined with bankers and whispered in the parlors of privilege. Every election promised a dawn of justice, yet the same economic masters pulled the strings, feeding the people dreams while consuming their labor. It was a stage where kings wore no crowns, yet ruled more subtly than monarchs of old.

This pattern repeats across the centuries, like the turning of a wheel that crushes hope beneath its spokes. The Roman plebeians once cried for bread and representation, but their tribunes, too, were seduced by wealth and prestige. The form of democracy remained, yet the soul of equality fled. Even now, in our modern empires of glass and steel, where votes are counted and promises televised, one may ask: has much truly changed? The oppressing class wears suits instead of armor, but they still guard the gates of power, and the oppressed still labor to sustain them.

Yet let no heart be drowned in despair. For awareness is the first spark of liberation. The purpose of Lenin’s words is not to sink the spirit into bitterness, but to awaken it—to call forth a generation that will see beyond appearances and reclaim the essence of democracy. True freedom does not dwell in the paper ballot alone; it breathes in solidarity, in education, in the courage to question, organize, and create systems that serve all, not a privileged few.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not be lulled by the ceremony of participation. Question who writes the laws, who funds the candidates, who profits from your silence. Be neither pawn nor spectator in the grand theater of politics. Seek truth in action, not in promises. Support movements, not merely parties. Build communities that share power, not hierarchies that hoard it. For only when the people learn to govern themselves—not through permission, but through purpose—will the chains that bind them dissolve into dust.

And so, remember, O child of tomorrow: freedom is not granted—it is forged. The ballot may be a tool, but it is not a weapon unless wielded with wisdom and will. Rise, therefore, not merely to choose your rulers, but to become a guardian of justice itself. Let your voice be more than a vote; let it be a force that shakes the pillars of false democracy and builds, upon the ruins, a new and shining dawn.