The Holy Diploma: The Nation Could Collapse (Or So They Say)

Ah yes, the curious case of Mulyono, Konoha's presidential diploma that might just unleash national chaos—truly, we live in times where a mere piece of paper holds the power of Pandora’s box. One imagines the scenario: the moment the sacred document is revealed, the sky darkens, the earth quakes, and the nation's citizens descend into civil disarray, screaming, “We have seen the parchment!”

In a world where leaders publish books, memoirs, and even breakfast choices to enhance their image, here we have a diploma so potent, so destabilising, that its disclosure could allegedly shatter the very fabric of the republic. What mystical credentials might it hold? Ancient royal lineage? The secret formula for political immunity? Perhaps it’s not a degree at all—but a Horcrux of the state.

And of course, the wisest response to suspicion is never transparency but theatrical alarm. “Show the certificate and chaos shall reign!”—a line worthy of a dystopian blockbuster. One almost expects Morgan Freeman’s voiceover: “In the year of our discontent, one document threatened to undo a nation...”

Of course, in any functioning democracy, documents are verified, not venerated. But here, we are asked to believe that a university degree has joined the ranks of nuclear codes, state secrets, and sacred relics—far too powerful for mere mortals to behold.

Throughout history and across the world, there have indeed been individuals who deceived an entire nation and, through manipulation and cunning, rose to positions of power. These figures often came to prominence during times of political instability, economic hardship, or national humiliation, when the public was most vulnerable to grand promises and simple solutions.

One of the most notorious examples is Adolf Hitler in Germany. Exploiting the desperation and disillusionment that gripped the country following its defeat in World War I and the harsh terms of the Treaty of Versailles, Hitler presented himself as a saviour. He fed the masses a potent mixture of nationalism, scapegoating, and promises of restored glory. Through relentless propaganda and theatrical oratory, he convinced millions that he alone could resurrect Germany’s strength. Once in power, he dismantled democratic institutions, criminalised dissent, and orchestrated one of the most horrifying genocides in human history, leading the world into the catastrophic Second World War.

In a similar vein, Benito Mussolini in Italy utilised propaganda and nationalist rhetoric to position himself as the restorer of Roman greatness. Initially appearing as a strong leader amid chaos, he soon ruled as a fascist dictator, suppressing freedom and leading Italy into disastrous wars.

Another chilling example is Pol Pot of Cambodia, who masked his brutal agenda under the guise of radical equality and agrarian communism. Once in control, he initiated a social reengineering campaign so extreme that it led to the deaths of nearly two million Cambodians through starvation, forced labour, and execution. His rise was cloaked in ideological purity, but the reality was one of mass murder and repression.

In the modern era, Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines rose to power through legal means, winning elections and earning public trust. However, once entrenched, he declared martial law under false pretences, claiming the need to protect the country from communists. He then ruled with an iron fist, enriching himself and his cronies while silencing critics and violating human rights on a massive scale.

Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of the Congo) is another classic case. Using anti-colonial rhetoric and promises of African nationalism, he portrayed himself as a unifier. However, his regime became one of the most corrupt in history, hollowing out national institutions while amassing immense personal wealth.

Even in the classical Islamic world, there were rulers who rose to power on the backs of broken oaths and betrayed promises. Some used religious titles and invoked divine legitimacy to gain the people's trust, only to betray it later by persecuting scholars and consolidating authoritarian control. These examples are often cited in the context of fitnah (tribulation) and serve as cautionary tales in Islamic historiography.

What is common across all these figures is their ability to manipulate narratives. They exploited fear, created enemies where there were none, and promised redemption. They presented themselves as protectors of the people—only to become their greatest threat.

As the philosopher George Santayana once said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” In this light, history is not merely a record of the past, but a warning—a mirror held up to the present and future.

In On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century (2017, Tim Duggan Books), historian Timothy Snyder draws chilling parallels between the authoritarian regimes of the 20th century and the political tendencies of our own time. One of his key arguments is that modern autocrats no longer rely solely on violence or brute force to gain control—they now operate through narrative control, public manipulation, and the normalisation of falsehoods.

According to Snyder, today’s authoritarian-leaning leaders often present themselves as national saviours—messianic figures who alone can “fix the nation,” purge corruption, or restore some imagined lost greatness. But to build this myth of salvation, they must first manufacture an enemy: whether it’s immigrants, intellectuals, a past regime, or even an entire ethnic group. This tactic mirrors the 20th-century dictatorships Snyder studies, where fear and division were weapons far more efficient than guns.

What’s particularly dangerous, he warns, is the use of outright lies, historical revisionism, and identity manipulation. These leaders don’t just bend the truth—they break it completely. They rewrite national history to suit their personal mythologies, claim heroic pasts or noble lineages that don’t exist, and often fake or obscure educational and professional achievements. These aren't small embellishments—they're part of a carefully curated performance designed to reshape public memory and eliminate inconvenient facts.

Snyder warns that once a population gets used to "one small lie at a time," it becomes numb to even the most blatant untruths. Over time, truth becomes irrelevant. What matters is repetition, spectacle, and loyalty. Thus, the leader who rewrites the past also controls the future, because a society without a clear memory is far easier to deceive.

He draws a sharp line between civic memory and manipulated nostalgia. Civic memory involves understanding the complex, sometimes painful truths of national history. Manipulated nostalgia, on the other hand, offers a false paradise—one that never existed, but which authoritarian figures promise to bring back, with themselves as the sole gatekeepers.

In sum, On Tyranny is a warning that propaganda, fake credentials, and constructed identities are not accidents of modern leadership—they are essential tools of authoritarianism, cleverly disguised as patriotism and progress.

In The True Believer: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements (1951, Harper & Row), Eric Hoffer explores the psychological mechanics behind why ordinary people are drawn to radical movements and charismatic leaders, even when logic and evidence suggest they shouldn’t be. At the heart of Hoffer’s argument is a simple but unsettling truth: people often seek meaning, not facts. When life feels uncertain, painful, or directionless, what many crave is not information, but purpose—and charismatic leaders are masterful at providing it.

Hoffer explains that mass movements thrive by offering individuals an identity bigger than themselves. They absorb the fears, frustrations, and insecurities of the disillusioned and turn them into collective hope—or in some cases, collective hatred. A charismatic leader serves as the emotional anchor in this transformation. He doesn’t need to make sense rationally; he just needs to feel right emotionally.

This explains why people often ignore or excuse blatant lies when those lies are wrapped in a compelling story. Hoffer argues that once a person identifies with a movement or a leader, truth becomes secondary to belonging. The more emotionally invested someone becomes, the harder it is to confront the possibility that they’ve been deceived. To do so would not only be intellectually uncomfortable—it would also threaten their emotional security and group identity.

What’s more, Hoffer highlights how suffering and personal dissatisfaction create fertile ground for manipulation. The more hopeless a person feels about their personal life, the more eager they are to surrender individual thinking and adopt the belief system of a strong, confident leader. These “true believers” are not looking for accuracy—they are looking for certainty, even if that certainty is built on illusions.

Ultimately, The True Believer explains that charismatic leaders don’t convince through argument—they seduce through story. They offer redemption, glory, and transformation. And for a public desperate to believe in something, even falsehoods can become sacred truths if they offer hope.

In Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media (1988, Pantheon Books), Edward S. Herman and Noam Chomsky present a powerful framework for understanding how the media in capitalist democracies can serve elite interests while giving the appearance of neutrality and objectivity. Central to their thesis is the idea that mass media operates through a series of filters—economic, political, and ideological—that shape what is reported, how it is reported, and what is conveniently left out.

According to Herman and Chomsky, media outlets rarely act as independent watchdogs. Instead, they often function as gatekeepers of acceptable discourse, subtly protecting the interests of those in power. This includes politicians, corporate actors, and institutions with the ability to influence policy or shape public perception.

When a leader’s legitimacy is based on dubious claims—such as a fake diploma or fabricated noble lineage—and that myth is shielded by a compliant media ecosystem, the line between truth and illusion becomes blurred. The media, instead of investigating, amplifies the performance. Silence replaces scrutiny, and doubt is treated as sedition. In such an environment, even basic questions—like “Is this credential real?”—are portrayed as attacks on the nation, or as disrespectful to authority.

This is not censorship in its traditional form, but manufactured consensus. By repeating certain narratives and ignoring others, the media conditions the public to accept particular versions of reality, while dismissing contradictory evidence as fringe, malicious, or irrelevant. When media organisations depend on access, advertising revenue, or state favour, they become structurally incentivised to look the other way.

Thus, when a leader’s myth is actively protected by mass media, the public is no longer given a fair chance to discern truth from fabrication. The image becomes more real than the individual, and political theatre replaces democratic transparency. As Herman and Chomsky make clear, propaganda in modern democracies is not imposed—it is internalised.

In The Dictator’s Handbook: Why Bad Behavior is Almost Always Good Politics (2011, PublicAffairs), Bruce Bueno de Mesquita and Alastair Smith offer a sobering, and at times unsettling, look at how leaders—especially authoritarian ones—maintain power not by serving the public good, but by strategically manipulating institutions, rewarding loyalty, and deceiving the masses.

At the heart of their theory lies a concept known as “selectorate theory.” Rather than focusing on citizens as a whole, authoritarian leaders focus on a small group of insiders—the military, party elites, cronies, and financiers—whose support is critical to staying in power. As long as this inner circle is kept satisfied through privileges, patronage, or immunity, the regime remains stable—regardless of how unpopular it may be among the general public.

To maintain this balance, authoritarian rulers often engage in image construction, including fabricating or exaggerating their personal background. If a polished academic past or a heroic family lineage can lend credibility or cultural resonance, then a fake degree or mythologised biography becomes a cheap yet powerful tool of legitimacy. It’s not about truth—it’s about what sells.

In these systems, loyalty is currency. The truth is negotiable. A leader who exposes his vulnerabilities—such as a falsified educational record—risks losing the very network that props him up. Instead, he must project confidence, competence, and inevitability, even if that means manipulating records, silencing critics, or criminalising dissent.

The authors argue that such behaviour is not a flaw in the system—it is the system. Political survival is the goal, and truth is expendable. If lying, bribing, or myth-making keeps the “winning coalition” intact, then those acts are not just permitted—they are politically rational.

In a democracy, voters are the boss. In an autocracy, optics are the boss. So long as the public sees a strong, capable figure—even if forged—they’re less likely to question the machinery behind the image. As the book puts it: “Leaders do what is necessary to survive, not what is right.”

Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince, first published posthumously in 1532, remains one of the most influential and controversial texts in political philosophy. Modern editions are widely available from Penguin Classics and Cambridge University Press, often accompanied by scholarly introductions that highlight its enduring relevance to contemporary power dynamics.

At its core, The Prince is not a moral guidebook, but a brutally realistic manual for acquiring, maintaining, and expanding political power. Machiavelli famously declares that it is better for a ruler to be feared than loved, if he cannot be both, and that appearances often matter more than reality. One of the central themes of the book is that perception trumps truth in the game of politics. A leader must learn to manipulate public opinion, control narratives, and project strength—even if doing so requires deceit.

This directly relates to modern and historical leaders who falsify academic qualifications or noble ancestry. According to Machiavellian logic, such fabrications are not necessarily shameful—they are strategic. If claiming a prestigious degree or royal bloodline helps a leader solidify legitimacy in the eyes of the people, then the falsehood becomes, in Machiavellian terms, a "necessary virtue."

Machiavelli writes, "Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are." This aphorism precisely captures the essence of political forgery: the public sees the polished image, not the forged certificate. They see a “doctor,” a “prince,” or a “war hero”—rarely questioning the origin of such labels.

In semi-authoritarian states or emerging democracies, the public often craves stability and symbolism. A leader presenting himself as an educated figure or one with royal descent taps into deep cultural archetypes of authority. Whether these claims are true becomes secondary to their symbolic power.

Thus, in light of The Prince, the act of faking credentials can be seen not as an anomaly, but as a calculated performance—one that Machiavelli might even admire for its effectiveness. While liberal democracies uphold truth as a civic value, The Prince reminds us that many rulers rise to power not by virtue, but by illusion—and stay there by maintaining it.

History and current affairs have seen several examples of leaders who fabricated noble ancestry, royal lineage, or academic credentials in order to gain power or prestige. These individuals often use these false claims to manipulate public perception, boost their legitimacy, or distract from their lack of true qualifications.

One notable case is Ferdinand Marcos, the former president of the Philippines, who exaggerated his military accomplishments during World War II. He claimed to be the most decorated war hero in the country’s history, yet multiple investigations later proved these medals were either unearned or completely fabricated. His mythologised military past helped him build an image of strength and sacrifice—qualities that resonated deeply with voters.

In Thailand, Chatichai Choonhavan, a former Prime Minister, was rumoured to have enhanced his elite status by overemphasising his noble connections. While he did have a prominent military and diplomatic background, questions were raised about how much of his prestige was rooted in actual merit versus inherited influence.

In Nigeria, Salisu Buhari, the former Speaker of the House of Representatives, was exposed in 1999 for faking his age and educational qualifications, including a degree from the University of Toronto—which the university confirmed he had never received. His dramatic fall from grace became a national scandal and a symbol of how forged credentials can momentarily open the doors to power.

Similarly, Laura Callahan, a senior official in the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, resigned in 2004 after it was revealed that she had obtained her academic degrees from a diploma mill. Despite occupying a high-level federal position, her entire educational background was essentially fake.

In Southeast Asia, and Indonesia in particular, history has not been immune to the rise of leaders who gained power through manipulation, deception, or the strategic use of myths and mass psychology—echoing precisely what Niccolò Machiavelli wrote about in The Prince. Machiavelli, a 16th-century political philosopher, argued that the effective ruler need not be morally upright, but rather skilful in appearing virtuous while being ruthless when necessary. According to him, it is better for a prince to be feared than loved, if he cannot be both, and that maintaining power justifies the use of cunning, illusion, and even cruelty.

This framework can be applied to understand figures such as Suharto, Indonesia’s second president. Initially perceived as a stabilising force following the tumultuous years under Sukarno and the bloody anti-communist purges of 1965–66, Suharto cultivated the image of a humble "Bapak Pembangunan" (Father of Development). Yet beneath that image lay a sophisticated apparatus of control: he monopolised the military, suppressed dissent, manipulated media narratives, and neutralised political opponents—all under the guise of protecting unity and stability. His New Order regime, which lasted for over three decades, demonstrated many of the Machiavellian principles: maintaining power through calculated fear, controlling perception through propaganda, and employing selective violence to deter resistance while maintaining an outward appearance of benevolence.

In neighbouring Malaysia, Najib Razak provides a more recent example. Rising from a prominent political family, he projected an image of modernity and economic vision. However, the 1MDB corruption scandal revealed the extent to which personal enrichment and power maintenance took precedence over public good. Despite overwhelming evidence, Najib initially retained support by leveraging nationalist rhetoric and claiming political persecution—again, a textbook Machiavellian tactic: blame external forces and rally loyalty through identity politics.

In the Philippines, Rodrigo Duterte also ascended to power using what Machiavelli might admire as strategic fear. Promising to end crime and corruption, Duterte's brutal war on drugs claimed thousands of lives, often without trial. Yet his popularity remained high for much of his tenure, thanks to a crafted image of a strong, no-nonsense leader—mirroring Machiavelli’s idea that the appearance of decisiveness and toughness can mask deep violations of ethics and justice.

These Southeast Asian examples reflect how The Prince is not merely a relic of Renaissance thought, but a living political manual. Leaders who embrace Machiavellian realism do not necessarily lie outright—they simply shape the truth, curate narratives, and present themselves as indispensable to national survival. They understand that politics is theatre, and that fear, myths, and the illusion of righteousness can be far more effective tools than laws or democratic ideals.

Closer to modern populist regimes, there have been allegations and viral debates about certain presidents or public officials possessing fake or unverifiable degrees. In some cases, universities deny ever having issued such diplomas; in others, documents conveniently disappear, and legal authorities hesitate to investigate.

In authoritarian or semi-authoritarian contexts, questioning a leader’s educational or noble claims often becomes taboo—critics are silenced, whistleblowers are punished, and the regime doubles down on myth-building. This, too, echoes Machiavelli’s principle: appearance matters more than truth, especially when truth is inconvenient.

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