On October 12, 2025, the world watched, or perhaps pretended not to see, as you desecrated the very soul of our broken democracy. In the dark corners of our wounded land, you shamelessly stuffed ballot boxes, and stole our voices to proclaim victory for a regime that has bled our people, silenced our youth and transformed our once vibrant homeland into a valley of grief and ashes.

You found the audacity to speak for a broken people, to stand before the world and lend your voice to falsehood, faking in their name, allegiance to the very architect of their agony for 43 long years; as if ballots could dance where guns dictate the music, and propaganda could summon joy where only fear has reigned. Yet in streets where children once played and markets once thrived, only silence and sorrow now tread, heavy as the smoke of burning homes, a testament no tally can erase.

You sold your consciences for vanity, your dignity for positions, and your people, for political favour. You faked a “massive turnout” to please the tyrant and feed your greedy ambitions, while our villages are being emptied by fear, and our schools and markets lie in ruins. You call it “participation,” but the only participation was your deception, your calculated betrayal of those who dared to dream of peace in the land you now exploit.

You did not merely sell our votes, you sold the very soul of our people. Every speech, every broadcast, every false tally, deepens the wound and brings to light the instruments of a betrayal so intimate that it can never be erased. And yet, the land itself remembers, the soil that bore the feet of your ancestors weeps. “When truth dies in a nation, the nation itself begins to die” (Bernard N. Fonlon). You have slain truth on the altar of greed, and from this day, in every heart that bleeds, you will hear the echoes of October 12, 2025. They will not fade. You will not sleep. You will forever be haunted by the truth you sought to bury. The conscience you tried to silence is alive, persistent, unyielding, and unforgetting.

Consider this letter a mirror, held not in accusation alone but in hope: hope that perhaps you will pause, reflect, and tremble at the weight of your betrayal. Mammon may have been your guide, but conscience is inexorable. The anguish of the people you betrayed runs deep, and unless you bow before their suffering and seek their pardon, no fortress of power, no gilded office, can shield you, and your descendants (unfortunately) from the unyielding judgment that time and eternity itself will deliver.

Hear their cry. Feel their pain. Know that the land itself will never stop speaking.

John P. K. Semirnyuy
October 2025.