There is a peculiar species of protester — abundant on college campuses, city squares, and social media echo chambers — who passionately waves the flag of a country they would never dream of living in. They shout their demands in English, backed by Wi-Fi, beneath banners of regimes whose chief export is misery and whose greatest technological achievement remains functional plumbing.
They hold up the flag of Cuba, while sipping Starbucks. They chant in support of Venezuela, then DoorDash Chipotle. They wear keffiyehs stitched in sweatshops from nations where women can't drive and journalists often "disappear." It is a theater of allegiance where the actor refuses to join the cast overseas. Call it revolutionary cosplay — minus the danger, the draft, or the consequences.
Now, I don’t care what flag you wave. You could wrap yourself in the Bolivian Navy’s banner and declare it your truth — good for you. That’s the beauty of America: we let the confused remain verbose. But it becomes high comedy when the same people crying for a “decolonized world” shriek in horror at the idea of repatriation. If the homeland is sacred, why not go?
And herein lies the chewy center-they don’t love these countries, they love the idea of loving them. They worship struggle like a lifestyle brand, and foreign suffering as a stage prop. But do they apply for visas? Do they buy one-way tickets? No — because the air conditioning’s better here.
What we are witnessing is not genuine solidarity but performative dissent — the flag as fashion accessory, rebellion without risk. It’s the political equivalent of a vegan who only fasts between cheeseburgers.
The irony is so thick you could pave potholes with it. These are the same citizens who decry nationalism, then hoist the colors of someone else’s nation with fervor that borders on spiritual. They abhor the American flag as a symbol of oppression, but will wave the emblems of far more oppressive states while protected by the very freedoms they detest.
Now, I’m not advocating we start issuing travel vouchers and exit papers. This is America, after all — home of the free, land of the dramatically confused. But perhaps the next time someone waves the flag of a place they’d never live, we simply ask, politely: “When’s your flight?”
Because patriotism, like real estate, is best proven by moving in — or moving out.
Rick Wagner
