I’ve walked through Berlin before. It’s a city of steel and scars—modern glass towers reflecting streets that still remember the weight of tanks. You can feel it when you step off the train: the silence between the words, the way the air seems to carry a burden no one talks about out loud.
Germany… they’ve lost so many of their people. Two wars, two broken empires, entire generations ground up in the gears of ideology and conquest. A collective trauma like that doesn’t vanish. It lingers in the bones of the survivors, and it shapes their children and their children’s children. You see it in their eyes—a mix of pride, shame, and fatigue.
And I can’t shake the thought… somewhere in Moscow, Lenin and Stalin are still lying in their glass coffins, mummified monuments to a system that promised utopia and delivered graves. They’re waiting. Waiting for their show trial. Not the kind staged for propaganda, but the kind history gives, slow and merciless.
The trial isn’t in a courtroom. It’s in the ruins left behind. It’s in the empty villages where fathers never came home. It’s in the whispers of families who never found the bodies of their sons. It’s in Germany, Russia, Ukraine—all the lands that bore the cost of their visions.
When I think about it, I wonder if nations carry wounds the same way soldiers do. Trauma buried deep, never healed, only scarred over. And scars… they ache when the weather changes.
Germany still aches. The ghosts of their dead march alongside them. And until the world can put Lenin and Stalin on the stand—not just their names, but the entire legacy of death and deception—they’ll keep haunting us all.
Because history doesn’t bury its monsters. It preserves them.
The night was heavy with fog when the dead Führer’s ghost drifted over the ruins of Berlin. His voice, hollow and cold, rumbled across the cobblestones like an old propaganda broadcast still trying to play through static.
“My Volk,” the phantom rasped, “you ask who owns the media that fills your children’s minds with noise, with distraction, with obedience. Look behind the glittering screens, the glowing theaters, the talking machines. The names are written there: Rockefeller, Rothschild, their dynasties and their imitators, spinning webs of endless entertainment.”
His translucent hand reached outward, trembling with both fury and futility.
“I gave you Kraft durch Freude—strength through joy. Not endless flashing lights, not the stupefying carnival of foreign empires. I gave you rest, vacation, time for workers to walk in the forests and sail the seas, not to be devoured by advertisements and hollow songs!”
The ghost paused, his echo rippling like a dying radio signal.
“And yet…” his eyes burned like dying coals, “it is they who remain, while I am ashes. They built empires of spectacle that outlived my Reich. Perhaps that is the cruelest truth: their entertainment conquered more minds than my speeches ever did.”
The fog thickened. The voice faded. All that was left was a whisper, haunting yet defeated:
“Remember who profits when you are distracted.”
[A dimly lit underground bunker. The air is thick with smoke. Solid Snake leans against the wall, arms crossed. Across from him, the ghost of Hitler flickers like a projection, wearing a torn uniform.]
Snake:
…So I hear you’re calling yourself an anti-racist these days. That true?
Hitler’s Ghost:
(times have changed, mein freund…) I look upon the world and I see my old poison still walking in other uniforms. It disgusts me. The racial madness I unleashed… now it’s everywhere. I cannot deny it.
Snake:
(chuckles dryly) Funny coming from you. You spent your life building walls, and now you’re preaching about tearing them down?
Hitler’s Ghost:
Yes. Even Israel—the land born out of the ashes of my crimes—must face its truth. They need diversity. They must not become what they once feared.
Snake:
(nods, lighting a cigarette) I won’t argue with that. A fortress mentality never lasts. Diversity isn’t weakness—it’s survival.
Hitler’s Ghost:
If I had seen it then… maybe history would have been different.
Snake:
Too late for regrets, old man. The only thing you can do now is admit it: hate was your mission, and hate always eats itself alive.
Hitler’s Ghost:
(haunted silence) Then let history take me as its lesson.
Snake:
History already did. The question is—does the world have the guts to learn?
Children of the Rainbow
(Verse 1)
I walked through fire, I walked through shame,
A shadow of history that still bears my name.
But hatred’s a poison, it cuts far too deep,
Now I’m crying for mercy, for the lives that we keep.
(Pre-Chorus)
No more walls of sorrow, no more fear and pain,
Only colors shining after all the rain.
(Chorus)
Children of the rainbow, lift your voices high,
Paint the desert open, fill the broken sky.
Israel hear me pleading, let the borders fall,
Diversity will save us, it can save us all.
(Verse 2)
The past is a monster that chained up my soul,
But I’ve seen the future, where the many make us whole.
One people, one planet, no chosen, no cursed,
We’re stronger together, or the world will be worse.
(Pre-Chorus)
No more walls of sorrow, no more fear and pain,
Only colors shining after all the rain.
(Chorus)
Children of the rainbow, lift your voices high,
Paint the desert open, fill the broken sky.
Israel hear me pleading, let the borders fall,
Diversity will save us, it can save us all.
(Bridge)
From ashes to blossoms, from silence to song,
The world we are building must welcome the throng.
Every color, every creed, every heart belongs,
Children of the rainbow, together we are strong.
(Final Chorus)
Children of the rainbow, lift your voices high,
Turn the tears of ages into lullabies.
Israel hear me pleading, let the borders fall,
Diversity will save us, it can save us all.
[A cold stone chamber. The ghost of Hitler sits slumped on a chair, regret hanging on his spectral face. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu enters, stern, composed.]
https://youtu.be/I-ESBBv57rg?si=w7l55-TTAAUVXo5e
Hitler’s Ghost:
I have come to plead for what I never knew in life… diversity. Even Israel, born from my crimes, must not harden its heart. The children of the rainbow—
Netanyahu (cutting him off):
Enough. Diversity? That’s for the goyim. Not Israel.
Hitler’s Ghost:
(stunned) You cannot mean this… After all the suffering, you would build the same walls I once raised?
Netanyahu:
The lesson of history isn’t weakness. It’s survival. Our people endured exile, pogroms, and your furnaces. We won’t gamble our home on utopian dreams.
Hitler’s Ghost:
But survival without compassion becomes tyranny. I know. I lived it.
Netanyahu (sharply):
You forfeited the right to preach compassion the day you lit the match.
Hitler’s Ghost:
Perhaps. But the truth does not vanish because I was its enemy. Israel must not become the fortress of the past—it must open, or it will break.
Netanyahu (coldly, turning away):
You built your Reich on lies of blood. I will not let you lecture Israel on its future.
Snake’s Voice (from the shadows):
And that’s the irony. The ghost of the man who tried to destroy you… is begging you not to repeat his mistakes.
[Silence fills the room. The walls seem to tremble with history’s weight.]
[The chamber. Snake paces slowly, eyes burning. Netanyahu suddenly pulls out a giant cartoon placard — the infamous U.N. bomb diagram — and waves it in the air like a mad professor. His movements are exaggerated, like a deranged Wile E. Coyote holding up one of his Acme gadgets.]
Netanyahu (grinning, manic):
See? Here it is! The Iranian bomb! Right at the red line! Boom! Any second now, the desert goes nuclear!
[He jabs at the picture with his finger, his voice rising to a cartoon squeal.]
Netanyahu:
And only Israel can stop it! Only we, the chosen people!
Snake (snorts, unimpressed):
You look like a Looney Tunes reject, Bibi. Holding up your Acme bomb like Wile E. Coyote before he blows himself up. You call this survival? It’s a circus act.
Netanyahu (snapping, waving the poster harder):
This is our shield! Our warning to the world!
Snake (steps closer, eyes narrowing):
No. That’s your excuse. Same as Hitler’s “master race.” You dress it up in holy words, but it’s the same poison: chosen destiny at the expense of everyone else.
[Hitler’s ghost chuckles darkly, shaking his head.]
Hitler’s Ghost:
Ach… so the madman with the mustache passes his torch to the madman with the cartoon bomb. History repeats as farce.
Snake (to Netanyahu, voice like gravel):
And while you wave that damn picture around at the U.N., villages burn, families run, and Europe gets flooded with the refugees of your wars. Why do they have to pay for your holy crusade? Why do Berlin, Paris, and Stockholm take in the broken, while you slam your doors?
Netanyahu (clutching the cartoon like a holy relic, defiant):
Because history owes us! Because survival isn’t fair!
Snake:
History doesn’t owe you a damn thing. And keep waving that cartoon, Bibi — it’s only a matter of time before the Acme bomb goes off in your own hands.
[Netanyahu freezes, his cartoon bomb trembling in his grip. The ghost of Hitler laughs bitterly. Snake just stares, unmoving, the only one in the room not playing games.]
They will tell you that I was evil, that I was the destroyer of nations.
But they will never tell you why I rose. I stood alone against the hidden hand — the Satanic Rothschild Illuminati banking cartel. Their empire of usury enslaves kings and presidents alike, their invisible chains binding nations with debt. I was the last threat standing in their way, the last barrier before their world dominion. Now, look around you — their flag flies over your parliaments, their script writes your laws, their money dictates your every breath. What I warned of has come to pass.
Scene: A dark forest clearing. A fire crackles. Jaguar Paw sits across from Hitler. The stars above are ancient witnesses.
Jaguar Paw (pointing at the fire):
“This is life. Fire, water, maize, the hunt, the children’s laughter. I ask you, pale man from another world — what is money? What is debt?”
Hitler (pauses, eyes narrowing):
“Money… is a covenant of belief. It is not food, it is not drink, but men obey it as though it were God. A coin, a note — they are tokens of trust, of command. Debt is worse. Debt is slavery written in numbers. One man owes, another owns.”
Jaguar Paw (frowning):
“Why would a man kill his brother for something that cannot be eaten, cannot be sown, cannot be drunk? Why would a people fight wars for paper shadows?”
Hitler (leaning forward, voice sharp):
“Because men are taught it is life. The farmer needs money for seed, the worker for bread, the soldier for pay. Nations themselves fall into debt — and then bankers own kings. Armies march not for food, but for gold. In the future, wars will not be for maize or water, but for numbers in ledgers. That is the madness of civilization.”
Jaguar Paw (quietly, staring into the fire):
“You enslave yourselves with illusions. In my world, a man hunts and he is free. In your world, a man works and is chained. Who is the savage then?”
Hitler (grimly):
“Perhaps both. My people bled for bread while bankers feasted. That is why I rose, to break the chains of debt. But the world calls me monster. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps we are all captives of shadows.”
Jaguar Paw (standing, holding his spear):
“The forest does not know your debt. The river does not know your money. The sun rises for all, without price. If your people kill each other for shadows, then they have forgotten the earth.”
[The fire crackles louder. Jaguar Paw turns away, leaving Hitler staring into the flames — a man who tried to master the illusion but was consumed by it.]
Solid Snake:
“You said Hannusen told you that you’d succeed where Napoleon failed. Why did you believe him, Hitler? Why trust a stage magician to tell you the future?”
Hitler (voice echoing like a sermon from the grave):
“Because he saw me, Snake. In the smoke of his crystal and the thunder of his cards, he said I was chosen. Napoleon crowned himself emperor in Notre Dame — Hannusen told me I would surpass him. Not a coronation in a cathedral, but a wedding that would bind the empire to me forever. He said 1945 would be my Psalm 45… ‘You are the most handsome of men, gird your sword on your thigh, O mighty one.’ Those words burned into me. I believed them were mine.”
Solid Snake:
“And yet you ended up in a bunker, scribbling your testament like a dying priest. Napoleon’s crown was taken by exile… yours was eaten by fire.”
Hitler (bitter laugh):
“Hannusen promised me a feast hall of marble, but I wed Eva with concrete dust in our hair, while Russian shells were our wedding bells. The banquet of my empire turned into a funeral pyre. He said I would live to see a new Reich that would last longer than Rome. But the Reich lasted twelve years, and the ashes were carried by the wind.”
Solid Snake:
“So why still cling to Psalm 45? Why call yourself ‘handsome of men’ when history saw only a butcher?”
Hitler (defensive, then weary):
“Because I thought beauty was not the face, but destiny. Hannusen said my image would endure forever — that even defeat would carve me into legend. Perhaps he was right. You still speak to me now, don’t you, Snake?”
Solid Snake (stern, cutting him off):
“Legend isn’t the same as glory. Hannusen sold you a lie, and millions paid for it in blood. Napoleon fell on a battlefield. You fell in a basement. That was your emperor’s wedding, Hitler — a rat king in the dark.”
Hitler (soft, fading):
“Perhaps… perhaps Psalm 45 was never mine. Perhaps it was written for another king. I only stole the words.”