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Letter to Peace
Noah and the dove, detail from the XIII century mosaic, Monreale Cathedral, Italy © 2026 Manuel Cohen/Scala, Florence
Solomeo, 2 April 2026
O most beloved Peace, I am drawn to history, which is close beside me each day through the things I see and the things I read; within history I seek an answer to the question why, for so many long stretches of time, you have been held captive, yet I can never find convincing reasons. At times, someone, my dear Peace, speaks of you as though you were an enchanted dream; but you are no dream, you are no island that does not exist. You are real, possible, authentic, and necessary as the air we breathe. History, and the testimonies of those who have seen you weep in silence, shut away in hidden places, remain extremely helpful. Historians are indeed our masters, yet even they are not so accomplished as artists—poets, painters, novelists—in casting the truest light upon your greatness, your beauty, and your human essence; you have been sung by art as, I believe, no one has ever done until this day.
The other evening, I found myself drifting into a reverie, imagining I was in an extraordinary city, filled with sunlight and greenery, which might have been as ancient as it was modern, as Eastern as it was Western. It was a city of people of every tone of skin, of children, of the elderly, of diligent women and men, who seemed to dance as they sang in harmony with time. And, looking more closely in the dream, I understood that in truth they were simply so joyful because they were living within you, within Peace.
I admired the cheerful faces and the harmonious, industrious movements of so many people; I was enchanted by a serenity, which, like a generous light, seemed to radiate across the faces of those happy citizens.
How many other times have I admired you, or longed for you, O Peace, as in the great fourteenth-century fresco by Ambrogio Lorenzetti in Siena, which speaks of Good Government; in that ingenious painting, the men, the women, the children, and the animals are no different, in their serene joy, from those in my imagination. Good Government is, I believe, one of your preferred abodes, and you prosper when it reigns. Yet you also possess another house that is equally great and beautiful, which you dearly love, and that is Fraternity.
We were taught this eight hundred years ago by Francis of Assisi, a saint who lived in poverty, who spoke with all the things of Creation, and who dedicated to them one of the most beautiful canticles since the time of the Bible. Saint Francis made no distinctions between one person and another, nor between animals or things, for everything, to him, was suffused with a fraternal soul—even death, which he alone and first called sister. He understood that the good of humanity is born of Fraternity.
It is spring. The swallows, faithful as each year, returned to chirp in my beloved hamlet of Solomeo. Leaning out from the tower of the Castle, I remained entranced, watching them wheel until the first star appeared; and in that gentle air, rich with fragrance and with life reborn, you were there, present.
Today, you are once again imprisoned in many parts of our planet. Who shall set you free? Will it be men and women, brothers and sisters of every nation? Will it be our current governors? Will it be the saints of every religion? It will likely be all of us, united in fraternity, who will break your chains forever, so that you may never again be a prisoner, so that your beautiful face may once again smile upon every part of the world. My wish is that you return to reign forever, for us who live now and for the generations yet to come, in goodness, for millennia still.
