Slush Fund

There’s a revealing moral hierarchy taking shape in Washington. At the top: people who claim they’ve been “wronged” by the government, some of whom may include individuals convicted of attacking police officers on January 6. At the bottom: actual victims.

The Trump administration’s proposed $1.8 billion “Anti-Weaponization Fund” makes that hierarchy impossible to ignore. On paper, the fund is supposed to compensate people who were unfairly targeted by the government. In practice, no one seems entirely sure who qualifies. Not lawmakers. Not the Justice Department. Not even the administration itself.

What we do know is this: Officials have refused to rule out the possibility that January 6 rioters—people convicted of assaulting police officers—could apply for compensation. So, a federal fund—worth nearly $2 billion—may end up paying people who attacked law enforcement.

And even some Republicans are uneasy about it. Senators who are usually aligned with the administration are openly questioning the fund’s purpose, its structure, and its lack of oversight. Some have gone further, warning it could function as a “slush fund.”

When your own allies are using language like that, it’s not a messaging problem. It’s a substance problem. But the deeper issue isn’t just who might receive the money. It’s who isn’t even part of the conversation. Because while the administration is scrambling to create a compensation system for politically convenient grievances, it has shown far less urgency—or empathy—when it comes to actual victims of abuse and exploitation.

Consider the survivors connected to Jeffrey Epstein. For years, they’ve fought for recognition, accountability, and basic justice. They’ve navigated a system that often moved slowly, reluctantly, or not at all. Even now, many of those victims feel sidelined, treated as an afterthought rather than a priority. There is no $1.8 billion fund for them. And the government has absolutely failed them, and is still failing them. No sweeping federal initiative to compensate the harm they endured. No urgent push to make them whole.

Instead, we’re watching a government construct a massive financial mechanism for people who claim political persecution, while leaving real, documented victims to continue their long, uneven search for justice.

That contrast isn’t just striking. It’s damning. Because it tells you everything about priorities. This isn’t about fairness. It’s about narrative. And about looting the government on behalf of Trump’s loyal allies. The administration has spent years arguing that it, and its allies, are victims of “weaponization.” Now it’s attempting to institutionalize that claim, turning it into a compensatory framework backed by taxpayer dollars.

But victimhood, in this context, is being defined in the broadest and most politically convenient terms imaginable. Even the architects of the fund can’t clearly explain how it will work. Who decides who qualifies? A group of unnamed “commissioners.” Based on what criteria? That’s still unclear. With what oversight? Also unclear. Funded how? Largely outside the normal appropriations process.

It’s not just vague. It’s deliberately so. And that’s what makes it dangerous. Because when you combine a large pool of money with unclear rules, minimal oversight, and political incentives, you get favoritism. You get selective compensation. You get a system where those with the loudest voices—or the closest connections—are best positioned to benefit.

Meanwhile, those without that access remain where they’ve always been: waiting. Waiting for recognition. Waiting for accountability. Waiting for someone in power to decide that their suffering matters. That’s the part that should bother people the most: the inversion of priorities.

A government that moves quickly and decisively to compensate perceived political allies, while moving slowly—or not at all—for those who have actually been harmed. That’s not justice. It’s brazen corruption, and completely on-brand for this administration.