Opinion - The hardening of gentle hearts (4)
The hardening of gentle hearts (4)
With good friends and soul comrades, reveling in idealistic youth...
I left off part (3) with a cryptic reference to a certain, time-proven allegory.
It's the best way, it seems, to try and explain something very intangible. Ephemeral. Like a strange mist, we see, only in retrospect.
A quiet, haunting melody, that drifts in, on a quiet, sleepless night, from far, far away. Familiar, yet strange. Reminding us of something, we wish, perhaps, to forget.
I would tell it, quietly, to my young, earnest, Fascist friend. And lest I came across as somehow, a pompous, grandly moralizing, fool? I might hint at it being less of a wise counsel, delivered from on high. More, perhaps? A humble confession.
You see, we were young, in those days. Full of beans. Vim, and vigor.
We strode tall, over the high mountains of soaring idealism, under the clear blue sky. The sun warming & inspiring our hearts, and illuminating our dreams. We were well aware of the dark, cloud covered valley below. Hiding the grimy towns. It was the topic of our earnest conversation. We knew there was rampant injustice down there. Discrimination in many forms. We knew the voting system was rigged in unspeakable fashion, and we called it gerrymandering. We knew there was discrimination in public housing. In employment. And that the Justice system? Was hopelessly biased. The Royal Ulster Constabulary treated us harshly, and we were presumed guilty and required to prove our innocence. We might be beaten, for no good reason, by volunteer thugs in Police uniform. Armed with pick ax handles. And from our lofty mountain peaks of presumed moral perfection? We could hear the screams of our folk drifting up, piteously, from the valley floor.
I would remember my mother's many sad stories.
And we, young men? Decided, for the best of reasons, to intervene, in whatever fashion deemed necessary.
Ah, yes... I sigh, softly.
You see, the years have rolled by. Decades have switched out. And I tell you, we meant well. But years, decades later? Do we have the courage, to ask, the hard question? Namely, did something, invisible, a cruel hand perhaps, reach up out of that dark valley? And, coldly, touch, unseen, our warm hearts?
Did we perchance?
Become, that which we once hated so much?
My young Fascist friend might look blank. Or even annoyed. His eyes might look at me darkly. In his eyes, a hint of suspicion, that the Old Man had gone soft.
He might growl at me: "So? What does that mean? What's the point of just words? Talk is cheap! There's too much talk. Meanwhile, the raging lion devours!"
I would nod, in agreement. I would remind him of the Old Soldier's words.
“In war, you cannot see the individual. Only the uniform. Otherwise nothing ever gets done.” (see: "A creaking of the heavy, oak, door.")
I would remind him of Jack Donovan's words, in "Violence is Golden".
I would tell him that any movement that shuns violence, as a last resort, is doomed for failure. History coldly proves it. Convincingly.
Si vis Pacem, para Bellum. (if you desire Peace, Prepare for War)
But I would tell him that hate is a toxic compound. That gnaws away, relentlessly, at the inside, of any receptacle that tries to contain it.
And that therefore Violence is the absolute last resort, of the moral man.
That the good Fascist, fit and healthy, skilled at fighting and weaponry, should also take great care to be a deeply spiritual man.
Hence the many articles? In the Fascist-Spirituality Section.
Lest that terrible rage? That hate?
Devours him.
I would say all this, quietly, to my young, earnest, Fascist friend. And lest I came across as somehow, a pompous, grandly moralizing, fool?
I might hint at it being less of a wise counsel, delivered from on high. More, perhaps?
A humble confession.