In the new English edition of I Am Giorgia, My Roots, My Principles Giorgia Meloni’s memoir opens not with the voice of its author but with that of Donald Trump Jr. a man who has never held office, but who has long styled himself as a kind of lifestyle-brand consigliere for American fascism. It’s a fitting start. The son of the American president is here to introduce the Italian prime minister, not as a stateswoman or ideologue, but as a global brand, a populist icon, a female version of his father. “Just like my father here in America,” Trump Jr. writes, “Giorgia Meloni has effected lasting change in Italian politics.” What follows is a pantomime of recognition: she has “stood up for her country,” taken on the “globalist elite,” and delivered “courage and clarity” where others offered only weakness and drift.
The Global Right Writes Itself
If one wanted a short primer on how today’s global right markets itself across borders, this foreword would suffice. It is not the language of policy but theatrical moral clarity, a binary world of fighters and cowards, of national souls and elite traitors. There is no ambiguity. Meloni is introduced as the “patriotic tidal wave,” a natural force rather than a political actor, as if to sidestep any historical questions about what it means to be the leader of a party with fascist roots.
Trump Jr. wants to assure the reader that this isn’t just another political memoir. It is, he claims, “the real deal.” It is also, in his telling, part of something far larger: a “worldwide conservative revolution.” The idea that Meloni’s rise signals a civilisational correction, a turning of the tide, is central to the fantasy. But that phrase—worldwide conservative revolution—is also incoherent. What kind of conservative supports revolution? What Meloni and her transatlantic admirers offer instead is a revolutionary style built on reactionary substance: a politics of aesthetic rupture that ultimately leaves property, gender, hierarchy and capital untouched.
The foreword’s most telling passage may be its brief nod to popular culture: the now-famous remix of Meloni’s 2019 speech—“I am Giorgia, I am a woman, I am a mother…” set to a disco beat by two Milanese DJs, which became a club hit and TikTok meme. Trump Jr. doesn’t mention it directly, but its shadow is everywhere: a viral moment that temporarily made Meloni “cool,” despite her core ideology being somewhere between Catholic integralism and Fortress Europe ethnonationalism. That this remix (intended as satire) became an anthem, is the sort of reversal the far right thrives on. Ridicule collapses into relevance. Irony becomes influence. A speech about Christian motherhood becomes a dance track played in gay bars. It is not the first time fascism has found aesthetic cover in camp.
But that phrase—worldwide conservative revolution—is also incoherent. What kind of conservative supports revolution? What Meloni and her transatlantic admirers offer instead is a revolutionary style built on reactionary substance: a politics of aesthetic rupture that ultimately leaves property, gender, hierarchy and capital untouched.
But there’s a deeper irony in Trump Jr.’s endorsement. For all his swagger, his political role is performative: the son of a demagogue playing heir to a dynasty that styles itself anti-elite. Meloni, by contrast, wields real power. She governs. She legislates. And unlike Trump, who always appeared to find the work of government boring and beneath him, Meloni has spent her life immersed in the organisational and affective work of the post-fascist right. The foreword treats her as a fellow celebrity. What it cannot reckon with is the fact that, by 2025, Meloni is arguably more ideologically coherent and strategically dangerous than any figure in the Trump entourage.
I Am Giorgia (the Meme and the Myth)
Meloni opens her Introduction not with policy or political vision but with performance. Specifically, her speech in Piazza San Giovanni in October 2019. It was there, flanked by Salvini and Berlusconi, that she delivered what would become her signature incantation: “I am Giorgia. I am a woman, a mother, an Italian, a Christian. You will never take that away from me.” The line, a mix of blunt identity politics and nationalist fervour, was met with roaring applause. Within days, it had been remixed by Milanese DJs MEM & J into a disco track that swept through Italian clubs and TikTok, transforming her rallying cry into what she herself calls “an unexpected pop phenomenon.”
Meloni is astute enough not to disavow the remix. She claims it “amplified” rather than mocked her message. Just another case of satire accidentally fuelling reactionary celebrity, of ironic detournement becoming cultural branding. She even credits the meme with prompting her to write the book, a reminder that today’s reactionaries are just as media-savvy as their liberal counterparts, if not more so. Like Trump, Meloni understands the dialectic of derision and virality. Her detractors made her a meme. She made herself a martyr, then a star.
But if the meme was a mask, the memoir is the unveiling, or so she wants us to think. In truth, the book is structured less as a revelation than as a carefully choreographed origin myth, constructed in the populist grammar of authenticity. She is not a polished technocrat, nor a metropolitan sophisticate. She is Giorgia from Garbatella: working-class, fatherless, overweight, and underestimated. She belongs to the Italian equivalent of the “left behind” and yet she has emerged not as a socialist tribune but as a high-functioning symbol of reactionary meritocracy.
This is where the second act of her performance begins: the conversion of personal grievance into political authority.
Grievance as Origin
Meloni tells us she wasn’t meant to exist. Her mother, pregnant, abandoned, and broke, was on her way to a clinic to begin abortion tests when she turned around and walked into a café instead. She ordered a cappuccino and a croissant. An act Meloni mythologises as a sacrament of maternal refusal, a quiet heroism that saved her from oblivion. She writes, “I owe everything to that breakfast.” It’s a moment staged with cinematic clarity: the church of the café, the Eucharist of Italian pastry, and the miracle of divine motherhood. From the outset, Meloni casts herself as a product not of fate but of choice against modernity. A child born in defiance of secularism, liberalism, and despair.
The memoir lingers on these early wounds. Her father, she tells us, was absent, reckless, and eventually irrelevant. She recalls his indifference not with rage but with forensic detachment. When he died, she writes, “I felt nothing” delivered not to shock but to signal her completeness without him. His absence becomes more than personal; it becomes ideological, a cipher for everything Meloni thinks is wrong with contemporary society: absentee fathers, collapsing families, the soft tyranny of choice.
Her childhood, meanwhile, is depicted as a near-constant experience of embarrassment and exclusion. Too fat. Too poor. The wrong outfit. The wrong carnival costume. Her grandmother fed her biscuits and called her “capocciona” (big head). Her mother wrote 140 unpublished romance novels to make ends meet. At school, a boy told her he wouldn’t talk to anyone “without a father.” At the beach, she was hit in the face with a volleyball after being called “fatso.”
None of this is presented as pity. Instead, Meloni frames it all as training, the crucible of self-overcoming, the slow formation of a political personality toughened by cruelty. She doesn’t dwell in these wounds. She weaponises them. Like so many on the populist right, Meloni’s story is built not on solidarity with others who suffer, but on the moral capital of having suffered alone and survived. Her pain does not radicalise her politics in the direction of systemic critique. Instead, it hardens her into a libertarian moralist: self-sufficiency as virtue, victimhood as evidence of future greatness.
Meloni’s story is built not on solidarity with others who suffer, but on the moral capital of having suffered alone and survived
This is the crucial ideological move. Meloni’s early narrative is not a plea for empathy. It is a call to meritocratic nationalism, in which suffering confers no obligation except to oneself and one’s nation. Her enemies are not capital or exploitation, but cultural relativism, social liberalism, and bureaucratic indifference. Her answer is not redistribution but reclamation—of pride, identity, womanhood, Christendom.
In this framing, to be marginal is to be chosen. And to overcome marginality is to become authentic. It’s this affective logic that powers not just Meloni, but the entire post-liberal populist wave.
The Door in Garbatella
It was July 1992, and the Mafia had just murdered Paolo Borsellino. On television, Meloni saw the images from Via D’Amelio, the blast crater, the ruined cars, the rage and anguish. She was fifteen. That evening, she phoned the headquarters of the Movimento Sociale Italiano. The post-fascist party founded by Mussolini loyalists in the aftermath of the Second World War and asked for the address of her nearest youth section. It turned out to be on Via Guendalina Borghese, a short walk from her family home in Garbatella. That was where she knocked on the door and first stepped into what she now calls her second family.
She makes much of that moment. The chapter is titled Baptism by Fire. It is her first self-consecration as a political being. Not just politicised, but initiated. Into something she repeatedly calls a brotherhood, a home, a way of life. The Youth Front is portrayed not as a movement of far-right revanchism, but as a shelter for orphans, misfits and the emotionally exiled. “We were portrayed as villains (even violent) but the reality was very different,” she writes. “It excluded no one.” The elision is instructive. There is no mention of the MSI’s slogan “Neither Left nor Right, but Fascist,” or of the party’s role in rehabilitating fascist iconography for a postwar audience. The story she tells is not one of ideology, but of fellowship.
It’s also about status. The Youth Front had its own code, hierarchy and rites. Poster runs at night. Nicknames in place of real names, a holdover from the years of street violence. Each section had its own local eccentric; Meloni herself was called “Calimera”—a feminised Calimero, the underdog chick from children’s cartoons. Loyalty was paramount. “Wherever you were, if there was a problem, all the teams converged to help.” These were the forms of discipline that would shape her future party-building instincts. When she writes that no one pursued politics in those days for gain, that it was all “self-sacrifice, debate, growth, and courage,” she is mythologising the very mechanisms of fascist recruitment: fraternity, sacrifice, and purification by struggle.
There is no mention of the MSI’s slogan “Neither Left nor Right, but Fascist,” or of the party’s role in rehabilitating fascist iconography for a postwar audience. The story she tells is not one of ideology, but of fellowship.
The culture she describes is militarised, even if she doesn’t say so. She recalls preparing for “poster runs” with the same vocabulary one might use for a commando raid, the “teams,” “routes,” “synchronisation,” “discretion.” The humour, the cosplay, the Lord of the Rings references, all of it gives the movement a certain adolescent charm. But its real effect is to re-enchant far-right activism as moral adventure, with Meloni as a kind of right-wing Jo March: precocious, principled, and unwilling to obey.
This kind of origin story has long been a staple of European fascist memoirs. In Mussolini’s My Autobiography (ghostwritten in English for an American audience), the Duce presents himself as a teacher, a soldier, a man of letters—anything but a partisan of violence. Meloni does something similar. Her youth wasn’t about ideology, she insists, but instinct. It was about finding “a sense of purpose,” a place where “unpopular positions felt most natural.” The idea that her alignment with the MSI came not from history but from moral clarity is a tidy bit of sleight-of-hand. In her telling, the MSI wasn’t fascist. It was untainted, because it hadn’t been caught in the corruption scandals of the First Republic.
The effect is to launder fascism as prefigurative populism. The MSI is cast as the only party untouched by Tangentopoli. Borsellino’s murder is used not to launch a campaign against the state-criminal nexus or the failures of capital, but to justify allegiance to a party born of Salò. Meloni wants you to believe that she became an MSI activist out of a hunger for justice. What she actually describes is an affective convergence: the marginal child finds a political tribe. There is no analysis of the party’s racism, its paramilitary aesthetics, its suppression of class struggle in favour of blood and homeland. There is only the story of belonging.
And yet, one can see in this early activism the architecture of her later power: media savvy, discipline, a talent for organisation, and an ability to speak across layers of disenchantment. Her Italy is not a fascist revival in aesthetic or theatrical terms. It is a fascism of banality and management, a cultural counter-revolution dressed in the language of motherhood and merit. What she learned in the Youth Front wasn’t how to hate, but how to build: how to turn a marginal youth club into a nationwide machine. The MSI didn’t teach her what to think. It taught her how to organise.
Meloni wants you to believe that she became an MSI activist out of a hunger for justice. What she actually describes is an affective convergence: the marginal child finds a political tribe. There is no analysis of the party’s racism, its paramilitary aesthetics, its suppression of class struggle in favour of blood and homeland.
The Politics of the Wall
Meloni’s youth was not spent reading manifestos but rolling up fly posters and dodging police vans. In her account, the early 1990s were a time of immersion rather than instruction. She came of age in the ruins of the First Republic, as the Tangentopoli corruption trials tore through the Italian political class and left a vacuum for new ideological projects. It was, as she puts it, a time when “the main parties would soon be relics.” But while many gravitated towards the post-Communist Left or the rising Lega Nord, Meloni went deeper into the subcultural politics of the post-fascist Right.
She portrays the MSI’s student movement as a counter-school. A parallel curriculum that taught oratory, strategy, courage. This schooling happened not in libraries but in occupied school buildings, in street assemblies, in dramatic showdowns with hostile teachers. She describes these occupations as moments of moral education, where students “debated all night,” sang rebel (fascist?) songs, and shared the conviction that they were defending tradition from the encroachments of modernity.
There is a clear reverence for hierarchy in her account, but it’s cast in populist terms: leadership was earned “organically,” through service, loyalty, and sacrifice. This is not just biography, it’s pedagogy. She wants young readers to learn that discipline trumps privilege, that merit resides in action, and that politics is not a career but a calling. This fits neatly with the reactionary valorisation of ‘civic virtue’ over systemic reform. Meloni does not oppose the establishment because it is capitalist; she opposes it because it is decadent. She has no critique of ownership or labour, only of moral softness and cosmopolitan abstraction.
This is not just biography, it’s pedagogy. She wants young readers to learn that discipline trumps privilege, that merit resides in action, and that politics is not a career but a calling.
Still, what’s striking is how culturally sophisticated this political formation was. Her early activism involved translating the Tolkien mythos into street theatre, organising youth festivals, and engaging in debates on foreign policy from the Palestinian conflict to the Iraq War. The post-fascist Right in Italy has long prided itself on its intellectual density—heirs not just to Mussolini, but to Evola, de Benoist, and the Nouvelle Droite. In Meloni’s youth movement, that cultural ambition survives in ironic form. They read Tolkien, but also Pushkin. They knew The Fellowship of the Ring better than the Constitution. Their Europe was not a neoliberal technocracy, but a lost civilisation, waiting to be reawakened by myth.
She recalls the thrill of clandestine nicknames, of homebrewed propaganda, of long nights painting banners in crumbling Roman cellars. There is no denying the emotional pull of this kind of comradeship. But what gets buried in the nostalgia is the content of what was being built. Beneath the jokes and cosplay is a program of identitarian nationalism. One that sees democracy not as process but as possession: our country, our culture, our children.
When Meloni later enters Parliament, becoming, at 29, vice president of the Chamber of Deputies, she carries this sense of being a self-made insurgent into the corridors of state. She does not arrive with a programme of social justice or even economic reform. She arrives with a perfected sense of cultural grievance. To read these early chapters is to understand that for Meloni, power is not about transforming society. It is about defending an idea of it, a civilisational order rooted in patriarchal family, national sovereignty, and Christian tradition. Politics is not for negotiating interests. It is for naming enemies.
In this regard, she is far more disciplined than Berlusconi ever was, and more ideologically coherent than Salvini. She is the product not of the television studio, but of the party cell. She organises. And in that, she resembles the very forces she claims to despise: the old PCI cadre, the Catholic movementarians, the Gramscians of a previous era. But where Gramsci offered a philosophy of praxis and liberation, Meloni offers a politics of fortification: identity as stronghold, gender as essence, culture as battlefield.
The National Mother
Meloni calls it one of the defining moments of her career: standing before a sea of flags in Piazza San Giovanni and declaring herself “a woman, a mother, an Italian, a Christian.” Each noun is freighted with political meaning. She offers them not as personal descriptors but as absolutes. Ontological truths, against which no social construction, no liberal reinterpretation, no cosmopolitan ambivalence can stand.
In the memoir, these four terms appear again and again, not in argument but as mantra. “I am a mother,” she writes, “and no one will ever take that away from me.” She’s not referring to child custody, or legal recognition, or even reproductive rights. She’s talking about role, duty, truth. For Meloni, womanhood is not fluid, contingent or negotiated. It is pre-political. It is sacred.
The same goes for motherhood. There is little reflection here on parenting, child-rearing, or the contradictions of maternal life under capitalism. Instead, motherhood is presented as a form of national service. The mother is the figure who transmits values, defends borders (both literal and symbolic), and guarantees continuity. In her telling, Italy is under threat not because it is unequal or exploitative, but because it is infertile, faithless, and ashamed of itself. The mother becomes the last barricade against dissolution.
There is little reflection here on parenting, child-rearing, or the contradictions of maternal life under capitalism. Instead, motherhood is presented as a form of national service.
There is a moment when she writes: “The strongest women are those who do not renounce their femininity.” This is her anti-feminism. Posed not as hostility, but as a correction. Meloni does not claim women are weak. On the contrary, she celebrates their endurance. But she channels that strength into a deeply conservative framework: sacrifice, responsibility, duty to the family. The figure of the ambitious woman who seeks emancipation from those structures is rendered not villainous, but irrelevant. An ideological mistake, a product of Western decline.
What’s particularly revealing is how she frames her political ascent as a product of maternal values. Leadership, in her eyes, is not masculine. It is maternal—protective, instinctive, uncompromising. But the kind of mother she celebrates is not the nurturing caregiver of liberal myth. She is a sentinel. A mother who guards, who judges, who defends the home from invasion—be it by men, migrants, relativism, or trans ideology.
This version of motherhood is not unique to Meloni. It echoes a broader trend on the far right—Kristi Noem in the US, Marine Le Pen in France, Katalin Novák in Hungary—in which female leaders wear their gender as proof of authenticity, not as a site of struggle. These women do not campaign for women’s liberation. They weaponise motherhood to reclaim social conservatism from the ashes of male chauvinism. They are post-patriarchal reactionaries: leaders who argue that feminism has failed, and that women must now take charge. Not to remake the world, but to return it to its proper order. The patriarchal.
Meloni makes this clear in her defence of traditional family. While she occasionally concedes that children raised by single parents can be happy (she was one), she insists the state must incentivise marriage, heterosexual union, and natalism. This is not a policy vision so much as an affective state project: the restoration of a moral code via cultural hegemony. She does not want to ban women from public life. She wants to restore the conditions under which they know their place.
A Baptism Without Christ
Meloni declares herself a Christian in the same way she declares herself a mother or an Italian: not as a statement of belief, but as a declaration of boundaries. Catholicism, for her, is not primarily a theology. It is a civilisational identity—something to be defended, not questioned; invoked, not lived. When she says, “I am a Christian,” she means: I belong to a moral community that precedes and transcends liberalism. Her Catholicism is not confessional. It is cultural. And crucially, it is territorial.
This is a long-standing trope of the European far right. From Orbán to Zemmour, Le Pen to Salvini, appeals to “Christian Europe” serve as a proxy for ethnonational belonging, with religion stripped of doctrine and deployed as heritage. Meloni is no exception. The Church she celebrates is not the institution of Pope Francis but the imagined Christendom of charred basilicas, crucifixes in classrooms, and Madonne on hilltops. It is not Christ the redeemer she turns to, but Christ the border guard.
There is very little in I Am Giorgia about the Gospels, let alone the Beatitudes. There is no reflection on grace, or doubt, or divine mystery. Instead, Christianity is recast as the final line of defence against cultural dissolution. When she speaks of the Left’s attempt to “erase identity,” she includes Christianity alongside gender, nation, and family. What is under attack is not faith, but form. Christianity, in her view, is not about belief in God but about holding the line against relativism.
She does not hide her disdain for modern Catholic liberalism. One of the sharper tensions in her project is her complicated relationship with the Vatican under Francis. She avoids direct criticism, but the implication is clear: the current papacy is too soft on migrants, too open to secular humanism, too reluctant to wage cultural war. Meloni’s Christianity has no interest in solidarity. It is not for the poor or the refugee. It is for the native, the rooted, the reproductive.
In this, her vision of Christianity is entirely coherent with her broader project: a politics of cultural homogeneity disguised as moral revivalism. She offers Catholicism not as a set of teachings to be embraced, but as a spiritual firewall against multiculturalism, migration, and postmodernity. The Church becomes a symbol of eternal order, not because of its message, but because of its aesthetic: bells, stone, silence. The sacraments are not for salvation, but for identity.
This, too, is a type of postmodern politics. It borrows the language of transcendence but empties it of content. Meloni’s Christianity is not traditionalism so much as civilisational branding. In another era, she might have been a monarchist. In this one, she is the high priestess of the European nation-state’s fading sacred. Her Christ does not preach the Sermon on the Mount. He guards the gates of Europe with a flaming sword.
Her Christ does not preach the Sermon on the Mount. He guards the gates of Europe with a flaming sword.
Saving Italy from the Italians
One of the central myths in I Am Giorgia is that Italy is not failing because of structural inequalities or political dysfunction, but because it has forgotten who it is. Meloni does not dwell on the crisis of capitalism, the erosion of public services, or the violence of austerity. Instead, her diagnosis is cultural amnesia. Italy’s tragedy, she writes, is that it has surrendered its identity: “The family, the nation, faith, and even gender—under attack not by accident, but by design.”
This is a familiar refrain in contemporary right-wing politics: that national decline is not material but moral. Meloni positions herself as a kind of cultural paramedic, resuscitating the soul of a dying nation. There are no statistics in these pages, no economic graphs or historical reckoning. There is only tone: indignation, urgency, a sense of looming erasure. Italy is vanishing, not because of the ECB or deindustrialisation, but because of gender-neutral toilets and low birth rates.
Meloni’s Italy is not a failed state. It is a disgraced one. The institutions remain, but the values have withered. Her rhetoric often reads like a national eulogy delivered in the style of a war cry. Where others see bureaucratic dysfunction, she sees existential sabotage. Her enemies are not the rich, but the rootless. Those who apologise for Italy, open its borders, dilute its traditions. The Left, in her telling, does not govern in any meaningful way; it disfigures.
This sense of decline is not limited to the domestic. She writes about Europe with the same register of disappointment and betrayal. The EU is “a nebulous entity in the hands of obscure bureaucrats,” detached from culture, allergic to identity. She speaks fondly of a “Europe of peoples and nations,” but what she really means is a Europe of gated communities. Each nation guarding its own essence against migration, Americanisation, and Brussels.
Decline becomes her political superpower. It allows her to appear as both insurgent and guardian. The voice of a people who no longer recognise themselves in their own country. This is not a politics of the future. It is a politics of the return—to borders, to binaries, to a time before shame and complexity.
She does not promise transformation. She promises recovery. And in that promise lies the seductive appeal of her vision. If decline is a choice, then restoration is too.
From Story to Statecraft
By the time one reaches the final chapters of I Am Giorgia, it becomes clear that this is not simply a book of personal recollection or motivational narrative. It is a programmatic text. A manifesto of cultural restoration disguised as memoir. The motifs repeat: identity under siege, the sacredness of tradition, the naturalness of hierarchy. But what begins as anecdote and affect is, by the end, offered as state logic.
Meloni’s identity-based grammar—I am a mother, I am a Christian, I am an Italian—has become the ideological spine of the Italian state under her premiership. The personal has been weaponised into law. Womanhood becomes a national obligation. Christianity becomes a litmus test for belonging. Borders become baptismal fonts. Even her childhood suffering (fatherlessness, poverty, humiliation) is reframed as political prophecy: she suffered so the nation could heal. Her body is Italy. Her motherhood is the state. Her discipline is the party.
This is the ideological architecture of Fratelli d’Italia under her leadership. It is no longer the fringe inheritance of the post-MSI tradition, but a party rebranded as the moral custodian of the Italian soul. Its anti-immigration policies are justified not on economic grounds, but on civilisational ones. Its anti-LGBTQ+ stances are framed as defences of childhood. Its rejection of European humanism is coded as sovereign realism.
Even the language of governance reflects the book’s worldview. Ministerial announcements adopt the cadence of moral instruction. Welfare is not extended to the needy, but to the deserving, particularly mothers. Migrants are not processed but repelled. Dissent is not tolerated but medicalised as decadence. What Meloni offers is not governance in the liberal sense, but spiritual rearmament by legislative means.
If the neoliberal centre still governs through markets and efficiency, Meloni governs through myth and mission. Her Italy does not belong to the future. It belongs to the past that never was—but that enough people want to believe can return.
What makes this dangerous is not just the ideas themselves. It’s their consistency. There is, by the end of I Am Giorgia, no contradiction between the child humiliated at the beach and the Prime Minister speaking at the UN. Every scar, every sermon, every slogan feeds into the same machine: a politics of restoration without reconciliation.
In this sense, the book is not introspective. It is instrumental. It invites the reader not to understand Giorgia Meloni, but to enlist in her mission. If her speeches declare “You will never take this away from me,” the subtext of the book is clear: now I will take it back from you.
A Gospel for the New Reaction
I Am Giorgia is not simply the memoir of a right-wing Italian politician. It is a gospel for the new reaction, a narrative template that threads together grievance, femininity, faith, and nation into a political weapon. Meloni is not an aberration. She is a model. From Milei to Noem, Orbán to Trump, this is how the global authoritarian right now speaks: with personal pain recast as collective loss, and identity not as liberation but as discipline. The liberal centre still mistakes this for a backlash, a momentary regression. But Meloni’s memoir reveals something far more dangerous. This is not nostalgia. It is governance by myth. The fantasy is not simply of a better past, but of a purified future. This is an Italy stripped of shame, borders sealed, genders fixed, traditions restored. She offers a country that no longer needs to apologise for itself. And in doing so, she prepares it to become something far worse.
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