Leviathan and the Myth of the Lesser Evil: A Modern Satire
Picture a giant sea monster, half fish and half bureaucratic nightmare, politely answering to the name Leviathan. Hobbes, centuries ago, already knew this creature symbolized the State and its bottomless appetite. What Hobbes probably did not foresee is that the beast would one day have a Twitter account, a customer service hotline, and a team of PR experts repeating that whatever it does is always the “lesser evil.” As if blowing up your kitchen were perfectly fine as long as the entire house did not burn down.
That is the heart of our satire: the “lesser evil,” the favorite magic card of leaders since humanity decided we needed people to tell us when to sleep and how much tax to pay on a bag of carrots. The lesser evil works like a loyalty program. The more you use it, the less guilty you feel. Every little lie, every sneaky expropriation, every war that gets slightly out of hand suddenly looks justified if you can say “Hey, I could have done worse.” It is like bragging “I spilled your coffee but at least I did not wreck your car.” And somehow this transforms disaster into a special favor.
Leaders and their favorite sport: comparing blunders
In the lofty world of power, everything is about comparison. One says “I do not torture, I only run mass surveillance.” Another replies “I run mass surveillance but I do not steal public money.” A third proudly declares “I steal money but I keep my crimes clean and odor free.” It is a contest of who has the best bad excuse, a kind of world championship of “Yes but he did worse than me.” In the end, it is like choosing between a punch, a kick, or a frying pan to the face. And if you ask whether it is possible not to be hit at all, they explain you are naïve and the world is too complicated.
The lesser evil is a lot like store sales. You are told 30 percent off is a once in a lifetime opportunity, even though the product is still overpriced. But you leave the store happy, convinced you “saved” money. In the same way, politicians leave their offices convinced they made a moral bargain. Instead of bombing three cities, they only flattened two, and suddenly they think they deserve a discounted Nobel Peace Prize.
Power as an unwanted subscription
Governing is like subscribing to a gym that charges your credit card every month even if you never set foot inside. Once you sign up, you cannot cancel without filling out 47 forms and making a humiliating phone call. Likewise, once in power, you cannot just say “Actually, I have seen the paperwork, I am not interested anymore.” The contract sticks to you like glue. And every decision, even the most boring one, becomes a giant butterfly effect that ends up crushing someone far away.
The trouble is that candidates always believe they are different. “I will be the ethical, responsible, humanist leader.” Translation: “I am going to try to tame Leviathan with a leash bought on Amazon.” But the monster laughs, because it knows that no matter how pure your intentions are, you will eventually find yourself justifying a slightly toxic pipeline, an overcrowded prison, or a law that looks like it was written by a tired intern at three in the morning.
The calm madness of wanting to rule
Who in their right mind wakes up one morning and says “I will take on unbearable responsibility, be judged for consequences I cannot understand, and be insulted daily by people I will never meet”? It is like volunteering to test new shoes by walking barefoot on broken glass. You need a mix of arrogance, blindness, and a peculiar passion for moral pain.
Leviathan loves this. It waits patiently for the next candidate who believes they are invincible, just like a coffee machine waits for the intern who will forget to refill the water tank. Each new ruler arrives with a heroic slogan: “This time, things will be different.” And in the end, we always get the same tired excuse recycled: “Yes, but it was the lesser evil.”
The trap of arithmetic morality
Leaders love to do morality the way people do math. “I killed 100 people, but I saved 200, so the net result is positive.” As if human suffering worked like air miles in a rewards program. But this is not a spreadsheet. This is real life, and victims do not feel comforted by a favorable balance sheet. Imagine telling someone “Sure, I ran over your dog, but I saved the neighbor’s cat.” That logic would not fly at a family dinner, yet in a ministerial office it is considered serious reasoning.
The irony is that this calculation does not reduce guilt, it inflates it. Behind every moral equation there is a subtraction of conscience. The more you compare yourself to worse, the less you look in the mirror. You build a tower of justifications and hope no one notices it is resting on marshmallow foundations.
A world with no willing candidates
So what now? Maybe we should stop believing power is a trophy. Instead of letting the ambitious fight for the chance to pilot Leviathan, why not draw lots and force an unsuspecting citizen into the role? Like military service, but for governing. At least it would be honest. Nobody would actually want the job, and whoever ended up with it would govern with the same enthusiasm as someone forced to scrub stadium bathrooms after a rock concert. That might even be the first step toward a power that admits it is a curse, not a privilege.
In truth, the only way to govern ethically would be not to want power at all. But try explaining that to people who already dream of their faces printed on postage stamps and of cutting ribbons with golden scissors.
Conclusion: the tragic joke of the lesser evil
The lesser evil is a comforting myth, a soothing bedtime story for those who want to tame Leviathan without thinking too hard about the bones they crush along the way. But satire shows that this arithmetic is nothing more than a mental card trick. Governing is not about choosing between two evils. It is about signing a pact with a creature that will swallow your conscience no matter what. Each excuse becomes a ticket into the eternal blame lottery.
The funniest part, if we dare use that word, is that history is full of leaders convinced they were heroes of the lesser evil. They all end up judged harshly, sometimes during their lifetime, sometimes centuries later, like children caught red handed with jam on their faces. The moral could not be clearer. If you really want to be ethical, do not even try to command Leviathan. Just learn to swim nearby and avoid the splash zone.
And if anyone ever tells you again “it was the lesser evil,” politely reply: “Thanks for your generosity, but next time please keep your catastrophes to yourself.”