VICTORAȘ, THE NEIGHBOURS' BOY

Victor Ponta. A True Balkan Hero of the Modern Era, a God to the Serbs, and a Deluge to His Own Voters. Victor Ponta, a name that has become a symbol of contradiction, stands as a modern-day Balkan hero in the most peculiar of ways: a savior of the neighboring lands and a destroyer of his own. His crowning achievement? A historic feat of flooding Romanian villages in a desperate attempt to salvage his neighbors, offering a solitary tear – discreetly hidden by the smokescreens of the PSD – as the floodwaters rise. A devoted nationalist, though not for Romania, heaven forbid! No, he’s a sovereigntist for every other country that never had him as their prime minister. His loyalty defies borders, logic, and occasionally even gravity. And yet, with the air of an eternal adolescent cast out of a failed Sunday morning TV series audition, always ready with a smile for any talk-show and a mind wandering over golf courses, Victor returns. He aspires once more to the presidency of Romania – probably out of reflex. After all, in his mind, audacity trumps competence, and the electorate’s amnesia is a renewable resource.

His name is Ponta. Victor Ponta. And he seems determined to write his destiny between two press conferences and a pirouette of ideological gymnastics, performed with the grace of a hippo on skates. In the past, he was inseparable from a man named Șova – a sort of Sancho Panza to his promises without follow-through. A friendship so genuine that only a DNA case could separate them. And let’s not forget his soulmates. Victor Ponta maintains an unshakable, unwavering bond with Sebastian Ghiță – another national hero, gloriously fleeing to Serbia, the homeland of Romanians escaping justice. A beautiful friendship, born in studios and cemented in criminal dossiers. Ghiță, the man with the servers and secrets, now lives peacefully in Belgrade, in the very Serbia for which Ponta might still flood a few more villages. Such is the depth of their love for their neighbors that Romania becomes nothing more than a sacrifice pool – a geopolitical puddle where only the fools drown. While Ponta builds dikes for the Serbs, Ghiță brings cables for servers. An impeccable tandem – one floods, the other stores.

Today, Ponta has leveled up: he’s a fan of China – the homeland of surveillance cameras with a soul – Turkey – where democracy is but a rumor – and, of course, Donald Trump. He dreams of partnering with him on the golf course, in a symbolic game where no balls are hit, only alternative truths. The score? Whoever yells louder. A global politician in the sense that he’s completely lost his compass. A universalist with selective preferences, a master of diplomatic illusions and selfies with leaders who have no idea who he is. Ponta is slippery as a snake escaped from a filthy Romanian transition test tube. He bites haphazardly, sending venom in all directions, then pretends to be offended that no one understands him. Today, he despises Simion – rightly, but also with the jealousy of one who feels dethroned by a louder clown. Tomorrow, he’ll curse Crin Antonescu, his former comrade with whom he shared the stage, the silence, and the failure. For Ponta, political friendship is like Play-Doh – easily molded and discarded at the first sign of responsibility. And the golden moment remains his retreat following the Colectiv tragedy. A lesson in disavowal: “If I must acknowledge something, I do it here and now. If I must leave, even though I am not guilty, I will leave now.” Translated into human language: I don’t care, but I insist on looking affected. A departure through the side door, one step back and three forward into talk-shows and conferences on the “future of the region.” Now, after a well-deserved vacation from responsibility, he returns. With the same smile of a boy who finished his homework without ever starting it and the same recycled speech from Central Asia. A mix of populism flavored with Eastern spices and wrapped in a flyer with large fonts for the nostalgic of 2012. And yet, how could anyone forget Victor in that presidential final? A legendary match, lost with grace, arrogance, and a crisis management strategy cobbled together on the fly. His strategy? To practically forbid the diaspora from voting. Brilliant! Not only did the diaspora not vote – an entire country voted... against him. A rare achievement: self-destruction with such conviction. And now, he seems to be replaying the scenario. No longer blocking votes – now blocking dikes. While Romanians are bailing out water from their basements, he speaks about strategic neighborhood relations, one eye on the ballot box and the other on Google Translate, searching for how to say "solidarity" in Serbian. The ending? Almost predictable. Ponta, in his favorite role: the clear loser with the airs of an international savior. A modern-day Noah, but without an ark, without animals, and with the boat already sunk. And yes, Romania deserves more. But, like in a recurring nightmare, it once again receives the grotesque spectacle of Victor Ponta – with his ironically twisted mask-like smile and plans as grand as a puddle of incompetence. But wait, don’t leave yet – the show is just beginning. Because Victor Ponta is not just a former prime minister with a tarnished history and a greasy smile. No. In his mind, he’s a tragic figure, a political martyr, an Icarus with cardboard wings, painted in tricolor and falling not from the sun, but from his own vanity. He pities himself with the grace of an actor from a failed soap opera, talking about “how much he sacrificed for the country” – as if it hadn’t been the other way around. As if he hadn’t left behind, with each term and speech, a trail of unfulfilled promises, toxic alliances, and rivers of cynicism poured over the citizens. And now, he – the former amnesiac prime minister, the former prosecutor without memorable cases, the former leader without a backbone – wants to be president. Again. Because, in his world, failure isn’t an obstacle; it’s a résumé. Because, after all, why not give another chance to someone who has demonstrated time and again that he knows exactly what not to do? Victor Ponta is the type of politician who would light a candle for democracy – in a gas station. Then blame the press for the explosion. But he’d be sure to give himself an award for courage. And yet, Romania tolerates him. Still listens to him. Why? Perhaps because we’ve grown used to absurdity, to the recycling of failed characters, and to the idea that if a joke was bad the first time, it’s worth telling again. With echoes. And a backdrop of dirty waters. Perhaps that’s the real tragedy: not that Ponta returns. But that he knows exactly how short our memory is. And that, in Romania, even a man with a broken boat can believe he’ll steer the ship.