Letter from My Garden 2

One of the first letters from my garden:

"I wish to share a thought that came to me following the reactions of certain 'guardians of the temple' regarding a form of neutrality we should display in our writing, so as not to provoke the wrath of political leaders against our Institution… Even though I know that the articles published on the FSALE website are only read by a small number of 'visitors' who are presumably sympathetic; it is sometimes good to allow the expression of a personal feeling, a point of view, an anecdote, or even a reaction, and thus avoid any naiveté that would label us as 'sheep following the crowd'."

The article in question is by our fellow legionnaire, Captain Jean-Marie Dieuze, who shared a letter addressed to his children and grandchildren: "So that you don't become afraid too soon," which I offer for your reading below:
So that you don't become afraid too soon…
"My dear children,
My dearest grandchildren,
I am writing to you because you asked me a question that has haunted me ever since:

"Should we be afraid that there will soon be a third world war?"
I didn't know what to say at first. I understood, searching for my words like one searches for footsteps on a starless and moonless night, that this question wasn't just about a war that some seem almost to be hoping for.
It was saying something else, something deeper, perhaps more cruel: it was asking a father and a grandfather why he no longer knew—or hadn't been able—to protect his family in this world gone mad.

"My dear children,

My dearest grandchildren,

I am writing to you because you asked me a question that has haunted me ever since:

"Should we be afraid that there will soon be a third world war?"

"I didn't know what to say at first.

"I understand, as I searched for my words like one searches for one's footsteps on a starless and moonless night, that this question wasn't just about a war that some seem almost to be hoping for.

It was saying something else, something deeper, perhaps more cruel: it was asking a father and a grandfather why he no longer knew—or hadn't been able—to protect his family in this world gone mad." I would, of course, like to answer you: “No!”
To tell you that all this is just a troubled period, but a temporary one.
That those who lead our beautiful country know what they are doing; that these women and men are responsible citizens, concerned for their fellow citizens, and that they are, above all, the true defenders of peace in the world. And that reason, in the land of Enlightenment, will eventually prevail. But I am not a purveyor of illusions, nor a teller of children's stories. And you know me too well: I have lived with a weapon in my hand for too long to invent certainties that do not exist.

I could also say: “Yes!”
That the world is reeling, that certain noises resemble rumblings we have already experienced. Rumblings I have experienced, in other lands. That the maps of geopolitics are being redrawn. That nations are becoming rigid. That rhetoric is hardening. Some are anticipating, or perhaps hoping for, the worst. That we might have to expect to suffer…
But if I do that, I'll steal your peace, your nights, your dreams.

So, between these reassurances and these dire predictions, how could I have been a good father, a loving grandfather?
I'm caught between two truths I can't ignore: one too comforting to be sincere, the other too sincere to be reassuring.
That's where I am. That's where we are.
So I tell you, with all the love I have for you: "I don't know."

And this ignorance is a weight on my shoulders, darkening my days and disturbing my nights. A weight I fear nothing will easily lift.
Our era speaks loudly. Too loudly. Voices clash, speeches—often vain and inconsistent—collide and contradict each other. Everyone proclaims themselves responsible, but no one seems ready to truly take responsibility for anything in this catastrophic scenario they no longer fully understand.

In this confusion, it becomes difficult to distinguish our friends from our potential enemies. Everything becomes a source of doubt and suspicion. And this is even more true of the media, which, by amplifying anxiety, ends up giving it life.
Everyone is talking, and talking badly. They use words too soothing to be honest, or too honest to truly soothe.
The whole world seems to be commenting on history as it unfolds, but no one is really taking the time to reclaim the pen. The world has come so far since the last world war… Perhaps it's time to pause and make sure we haven't lost our way. Nothing compels the world to continue down this wrong path.

And we, poor adults—or those who consider ourselves such—advance amidst these contradictory echoes, fallacious or sincere, like wanderers lost in a thick fog. Each thinks they see a wall, a crevasse, a glimmer… but no one can clearly distinguish truth from falsehood, or what is real from what is fake.

So how can I be surprised that you, my children, ask me today a question I never imagined I would hear as a father?

I confess to you an immense sadness.
Not a boisterous sadness or theatrical. No: the muted, unspoken fear of a father who realizes he hasn't been able to pass on a world solid enough to soothe your cautious anxieties, your legitimate fears, your youthful fears.
The fear of a father who observes that the horizon is shrinking, and that subsequent generations look to the future not with impatience, serenity, and optimism, but with apprehension, anxiety, and fatalism.
I watched you grow up, laugh, learn, fall, get back up… and I never would have thought that one day you would ask me if tomorrow would be a battlefield.
Fathers should talk about the future, not survival. They should pass on reasons for hope, not instruction manuals for weathering impending storms.

And yet… here I am.
So let me tell you this, even if it's neither a yes nor a no: "Don't be afraid too soon." Fear is a slow poison. It gnaws away even before the danger arrives. And it ends up doing more damage than the events it claims to anticipate.
Be vigilant, clear-sighted, informed—but don't live on your knees.
Make plans, love, build, travel, raise your children, laugh loudly, cry when necessary, keep your hearts strong and your souls open.
This world is too often harsh, but it still belongs to those who live it, not to those who already see it dying in their speeches.
As for me, I will accompany you as best I can. I will always be there for you, as long as God grants me life. I am neither a prophet nor a strategist. I am simply your father, your grandfather—a man who has seen dark things and yet knows that the light always returns sooner or later, sometimes through a window, sometimes through a simple gesture of tenderness.
I don't promise you that the future will be easy.

I don't promise you it will be terrible.

I only promise to stay here, by your side, with my honesty, my awkward silences, my tenderness that doesn't always dare speak its name, and this stubborn desire for you to be happy despite everything, against all odds.
If one day you ask me the same question again, I will answer without shame: "I don't know."

But I will look at you with the certainty that you will know how to navigate this world better than I could ever do in your place.

And that is worth more than any prophecy.

With all my love,
Your father, your grandfather, forever.

To be continued…