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Greece is not poor.
It’s exhausted.
A nation of talent, history, and quiet endurance … trapped inside a system that keeps betraying its own people.

According to Eurostat report that was published yesterday, the subjective poverty rate in the EU dropped to 17.4% in 2024.
But in Greece, that number is a staggering 66.8% …the highest across all member states.
That means two out of three Greeks believe they cannot make ends meet.
Not because they lack ability ,,,,, but because the system keeps pulling the ground beneath their feet.

This isn’t just an economic statistic.
It’s a confession.
A collective whisper that says: “We don’t trust what’s above us anymore.”

The Mirage of Prosperity

To the world, Greece still looks golden …. the light, the islands, the endless blue.
But step past the postcard and you’ll find something far less photogenic:
people juggling bills, small businesses strangled by bureaucracy, young graduates working three jobs just to stay afloat.

It’s not the lack of money that breaks you here.
It’s the feeling that effort doesn’t matter.
That corruption … not competence … decides who rises.
That justice bends quietly for those who can afford its time.

Corruption as a Culture

Greece’s real poverty is not financial …. it’s moral.
Corruption here doesn’t arrive in dramatic scandals. It seeps.
Through tenders, approvals, contracts, friendships.
It becomes habit …. a kind of cultural smog we’ve learned to breathe.

When the elite treat the state as a wallet, when public office is seen as inheritance, when honesty is punished as naïveté
the entire social fabric decays.

You can’t measure that in euros, but you can feel it in the pulse of every exhausted worker, every cynical voter, every young person buying a one-way ticket abroad.

The Exodus of Faith

Faith is a nation’s invisible currency.
It builds trust, fuels ambition, keeps people believing that tomorrow is worth trying for.
And yet, in Greece, that currency has collapsed.

When 66.8% of citizens say they can’t make ends meet .. in a country within the world’s largest economic bloc … that is not poverty.
That is betrayal.

The EU average shows progress.
Greece shows fatigue.
A fatigue so deep it’s become identity.

We talk about brain drain — but what’s leaving Greece isn’t just talent.
It’s hope.

The Real Rebuild

You can’t repair this with subsidies or slogans.
You repair it by cleaning the rot.
By building institutions that act, not perform.
By ending the mafia of mediocrity that keeps excellence out of power.

The next Greek renaissance won’t come from more tourism campaigns or foreign investments.
It will come from transparency, merit, and trust — the three words every corrupt system fears most.

Because when a country as blessed as Greece feels this poor, the problem isn’t the people.
It’s the parasitic class that feeds on them.

The Fire Under the Ash

Greece doesn’t need pity. It needs accountability.
The same courage that once birthed philosophy and democracy must now birth integrity.

This isn’t about left or right.
It’s about right and wrong.
And until that line is redrawn, the numbers will keep lying
and the people will keep paying.

Because Greece’s poverty is not measured in income.
It’s measured in how much truth a society can bear before it changes.

Let’s start with the punchline: in Greece, if you’re a minister, you don’t fear prison. You fear losing your parking spot in Kolonaki. That’s because our Constitution — yes, the sacred text — hides a clause so absurd it would make Kafka blush and Carlin howl. It’s called Article 86, and it’s the single best insurance policy for politicians who want to lie, steal, or screw up catastrophically without consequence.

The Joke That Isn’t Funny

Article 86 basically says: only Parliament can prosecute ministers for crimes they commit while in office. Sounds democratic, right? Wrong. It’s like asking the foxes to investigate who ate the chickens. And surprise: they always vote that nobody did.

Think about the Tempe rail disaster — fifty-seven dead. Contracts signed, safety systems delayed, money evaporated. Who faced justice? No one at the top. Or the TEXAN recycling scandal — millions lost, a company under investigation, but political names safely cocooned. Or the OPEKEPE farm subsidies that never reached farmers — because Article 86 doesn’t allow prosecutors to knock on certain doors.

If you kill people with negligence, cheat the system, or siphon EU money, you and I risk prison. Ministers? They risk a bad headline.

That’s not democracy. That’s is mafia code designed to escape crimes

This wasn’t an accident. Article 86 was designed by elites for elites. It’s the ultimate firewall, a built-in feature of the Greek state: a rule that makes accountability optional. Every time the clause was challenged, parties closed ranks. Left, right, center — all complicit, because all benefit.

It turns law into theater. Trials are rare, convictions even rarer. The few who are prosecuted end up in a “Special Court,” which sounds grand until you realize it’s staffed by politicians’ peers and has the lifespan of a fruit fly.

This is how systems maintain themselves: not through secret cabals in smoke-filled rooms, but through clauses hidden in plain sight that make justice impossible.

The Cost in Blood

We talk about corruption as if it’s just money. But look at Tempe: fifty-seven families burying their children. Look at underfunded hospitals while subsidies vanish. Look at farmers crushed while middlemen pocket their aid.

This is not just theft. This is violence against citizens. When ministers are untouchable, citizens become disposable. Article 86 is not abstract; it is written in coffins and unpaid bills.

Who protects the people, when the law protects the powerful?

So here’s the scam: the Constitution protects politicians, politicians protect each other, and citizens protect… nothing. We get to vote every four years and pretend it matters, while Article 86 laughs in our faces.

George Carlin once said: “It’s a big club. And you ain’t in it.” Article 86 is Greece’s version of that club. The rest of us? We’re the punchline, paying the tab.

The European Public Prosecutor Laura Kovesi came to Athens and said it straight: Article 86 is standing in the way. She’s right. And while politicians argue whether to touch the holy Constitution, citizens keep dying, paying, and waiting.

So let’s stop pretending this is normal. Article 86 is not tradition. It’s not law. It’s a crime scene dressed up as democracy. And until it’s gone, Greece will keep burying its victims under the weight of its own impunity.


If the law itself is corrupted, dismantling it isn’t rebellion — it’s survival.

Let’s play a little game called “What Does It Take to Get Fired at Nestlé?”

Because history shows it’s not child labor. Not killing babies with formula marketing. Not stealing water from drought-stricken communities. Not covering up contamination in Perrier. Nope—none of those made the cut.

What finally crossed the line?

Falling in love.

Yes, in August 2025, Nestlé’s CEO was sacked for an “undisclosed romantic relationship” with a subordinate. And honestly, it’s refreshing to see Nestlé finally fire someone for something. It’s just… hilarious that this is the hill they chose to die on.

Nestlé’s Resume of Horror (That Didn’t Get Anyone Fired)

But romance in the office? Good heavens, no! Out comes the guillotine.

Corporate Morality, Nestlé-Style

Apparently Nestlé can shrug off:

  • Exploiting children.
  • Starving infants.
  • Depleting ecosystems.
  • Lying about contamination.

But if you dare to mix business with pleasure, that’s the real crime. That’s the one that “damages trust.”

This is the corporate equivalent of Hannibal Lecter being acquitted of cannibalism but jailed for jaywalking.

Why? Because PR > People

The truth is, scandals don’t get you fired at Nestlé. Bad optics do. Exploiting kids? Complex issue. Killing babies? “A matter of perspective.” Water theft? “Debatable.” But a consensual workplace romance? That’s messy, public, and can’t be spun into a sustainability campaign.

So out goes the CEO. Not for crimes against humanity. Not for corruption. But for love.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Nestlé in a nutshell:

  • A company that can survive boycotts, lawsuits, and moral outrage for decades.
  • But can’t survive a human relationship without hitting the eject button.

Because at Nestlé, water, forests, and children are all negotiable. But HR paperwork? That’s sacred.

Another week, another scandal.


A president’s secret files. A prime minister’s offshore stash. A health minister caught partying while hospitals collapse. Greece and developing countries stealing EU money. Ngo’s stealing Eu money
It barely makes the group chat anymore….while people…the majority … just suffers!

We don’t even flinch.
Because deep down, we already expect it.
Not just from one politician, or one country. From the whole machine.

This is not the exception. This is the age.
The age of scandal.

It’s tempting to believe the world is more corrupt than ever.
But it’s not.
What’s changed is that corruption no longer bothers to whisper.
It walks past the cameras like it owns them. The governments own most investigative reporters. The majority of them report only the news they want them to report …to people too tired to question anything.

Secrets used to be locked in filing cabinets.
Now they leak from group chats, deepfakes, metadata, and disgruntled staffers with Wi-Fi.
Anyone can expose anyone.
And yet—nothing really changes.

Once, scandal was a career-ending event.
Now it’s a minor inconvenience. A talking point.
A momentary dip in polling before the next distraction kicks in.

The playbook is always the same:
Deny.
Deflect.
Blame the media.
Then post a photo kissing a baby or petting a dog.
Wait for the algorithm to flush the memory.

The truth is, they’re not even trying to hide anymore.
Because they’ve learned something terrifying:
We’ll keep scrolling.
We’ll be mad. But we’ll move on.
Because there’s always another crisis. Another headline. Another dopamine hit of moral outrage.

We’ve confused exposure with progress.
We think because we see it, we’ve somehow stopped it.
But visibility is not victory.
Outrage is not action.

And scandal is not justice.

There’s an economy around our disbelief now.
A whole ecosystem designed to keep us in a loop of shock, click, forget.
The media monetizes it. Politicians manage it.
And the rest of us?
We watch. We share. We rage. Then we go to sleep.

Scandal has become a spectacle.
Not a breach of trust—but a performance.
And somewhere along the line, we stopped demanding accountability.
We settled for drama.

The most dangerous part of all this?
Not that they lie.
Not even that they steal.

It’s that we’ve started to expect it.
To build our lives around it.
To let our standards rot slowly, because hope feels naïve and memory is short.

They know this.
That’s why they smirk when caught.
That’s why apologies sound like PR scripts.
That’s why scandals pile up faster than consequences.

Because they’ve figured out the one thing that breaks democracy isn’t corruption.
It’s exhaustion.

Maybe the real scandal isn’t that they lied.
It’s how quickly we learned to live with it.