There can be no savior of or saving the oppressed as long as they see themselves as Almost-Oprressors. The illusion of the ladder that could be climbed distracts them from its moth-eaten rickety state. Eventually, the ladder becomes a symbol, worshipped, and pointed at in defence of their claim to freedom, “We are not enslaved, the door is right there.” But they will never climb. The occasional Daredevil, who does, without falling off, climbs their totem, becomes both a hero and a pervert. An enabler for their illusions, and a disgrace for stepping on their god, as they dig on in their dark well.