The Forgotten Sword of Europe
There is an old tale by Lord Dunsany, of a city called Merimna. Once it was guarded by great warriors, names spoken with awe, swords raised against all who threatened its walls. But time passed, and the warriors died. The city grew fat on peace, decorating itself with statues of the dead, whispering their names with reverence but never lifting a blade. The people believed they had inherited safety, as though courage were carved into stone and not carried in the blood of men. And so, while they slept in comfort, the enemy returned.
Europe today is Merimna. We live among monuments, museums, and libraries. We inherit the works of Dante, Goethe, Cervantes, and Shakespeare — but only as curiosities. Our cathedrals are admired as architecture, not as houses of faith. Our traditions are kept alive as festivals, costumes, tourism — stripped of the marrow that gave them meaning. We have mistaken memory for vitality.
In this long peace, Europe has grown both fat and paralyzed. Fat with comfort, entertainment, and processed abundance; paralyzed by bureaucracy, cowardice, and the fear of giving offense. Our politics are no longer struggles of vision, but rituals of paperwork. Our food is engineered, our culture trivialized, our freedoms dulled into permissions.
We congratulate ourselves on “openness” while we quietly decay. We forgot that our ancestors did not build civilization by lying down. They fought for it, and often died for it. Without that fire, the statues mean nothing, the words on the pages turn to dust, and the “open” societies open not to life but to oblivion.
Meanwhile, the world outside watches. New forces, new peoples, new ambitions — they press at our borders. They are not impressed by our museums or our delicate moral debates. They test whether the sword of Welleran still hangs in our halls, or whether it has turned to rust.
The question, as Dunsany posed it, is simple: can the living hear the call of the dead? Will we awaken, not to repeat the past, but to remember that we once had strength, clarity, and a sense of who we were? Or will we, like Merimna, wake too late, surrounded by enemies, fat and paralyzed, wondering why the statues do not rise to defend us?