The Fruits of the Rotten Roots.

Come closer, my children, and listen. There’s something I must tell before my breath runs out and my voice fades into the wind. It’s the story of a tree, a tree our fathers once planted with hope and pride.

That tree was meant to live only ten years. After that, it was to be cut down, so the land could rest and new life could grow. But when the ten years passed, the people looked upon it and said, “Ah, let it stand just five more. It still gives us peace.” And when those five years ended, they said it again. “Just five more.”

But beneath the ground, the roots had already died, though the branches still bore fruit, sweet fruit that we called peace. The people ate it with joy. They said, “Surely, nothing this sweet can be bad.”

They didn’t see that each bite blinded them. They didn’t see that while they feasted, the ground beneath them was dying.

Years passed. Ten became twenty, twenty became forty. And by the time the truth was seen, the rot had spread everywhere: through our freedom, through our schools, through our health, through our very souls.

When the people finally ran to the elders, crying, “Give us an axe to cut it down!” they found the elders already bewitched. The fruit had poisoned them too. It made them forget kindness, forget truth, forget what it means to be human.

And those who spoke against the tree were called traitors. The elders sent hunters after them, claiming to protect peace, the same peace that had already enslaved us.

Now, we sit in the shadow of that dead tree, blaming the one who planted it. But deep down, we know the truth. It was we who refused to cut it down when we still had the strength. So remember this, children, not all peace is pure, and not every fruit is worth the sweetness.

The moral of this story is not for everyone. It is for those who have eyes but choose to see, ears but choose to listen, and hearts that still remember how to feel. Many will hear these words and laugh, saying, “It is just a story about a tree.” But those who understand will know, it is not the tree I am talking about. It is us. It is the things we build, the powers we let grow, and the silence we keep when we should speak.

That is how evil grows, not in darkness, but in our comfort and excuses. That is how oppression is born, not by the strength of the tyrant, but by the silence of the people. The dictators who torment us today are not gods.

And now, when they bite, we cry out as if it were a surprise. But no, my children, it was written long ago in the soil of our inaction. We had the chance to cut down the tree when its ten years had ended, yet we said, “Leave it be. Its fruit is sweet, and it gives us peace.” Now, it’s rotten roots have spread throughout our country, feasting on our future.

So hear me well: never let a small wrong grow into a monster. Never let comfort blind you to decay. The peace that costs your voice is not peace, it is the silence before slavery.