My friend,
I write to you because I am about to do something incredibly illogical. It will probably end in my death or disappearance. You must know why.
Five weeks ago, I was in New Mareland to witness the third anniversary of its liberation. My presence wasn't voluntary, but a political obligation. Nonetheless, I determined to enjoy my time there in spite of my circumstance. The celebration failed to engage me beyond brief admiration, and nearly every other avenue of entertainment would have appeared undignified. So, I did something that had been itching at the back of my mind for several months.
I asked to see the ruins of New Manehatten.
Owing to my reputation as a loyal party member, my request was granted with little protest. I was ushered off to the edge of the city, where the radiation had faded entirely and I could still see the scope of the destruction.
The explosion had ripped almost everything to shreds. You may have seen pictures, but until you are standing at the precipice of such desolation, you cannot truly know it. The remains of skyscrapers lie slumped against the ground, among the scattered debris of smaller buildings. Bits of rebar jutting into the air, intermingled with chunks of concrete. A city not just crushed, but pulverized.
This was the symbol of our dominance, of the pervasive and inevitable nature of the Revolution. It was something to be rejoiced.
But I didn't rejoice. I was horrified.
My mind ran wild with images and sounds, the roaring of the shockwave, the searing heat, the crumbling buildings and quaking earth. The cataclysm that we had wrought upon New Mareland, as a vapid and sadistic god would. And all the innocent ponies. Stallions, mares, foals, and all of them without a single crime to their name. Workers, the very same ponies that we were meant to save and protect from the clutches of exploitation. Burned, vaporized, and by our hooves.
That moment changed me. It made me truly think for the first time in years. It made me realize just how bad things had gotten.
Everything since that day has been in an entirely new light. I have seen the current path for what it is, and I am absolutely revolted.
When I first joined the Revolution, when it was limited only to Stalliongrad, surrounded by those who would quench the flames of rebellion, I was certain in my place. When we crushed the opposition that had once seemed an invincible beast, the future was cast in daylight. And when I went to the shattered remains of New Manehatten, I was sure that things would continue as they had.
Yet they did not. In the midst of such glory, the very image of our supremacy and power, I could feel nothing but abject horror and sadness. Is this the cost of the socialist dream? The destruction of our former cities, the murder of ponies that were once our fellow citizens? New Mareland could have been pacified and integrated easily, and instead, in our rage, we chose to eviscerate them in the harshest terms possible. They may wear masks of delight when we are present, but I have no doubt that nearly every pony there harbors in their heart a passionate hatred for what we have done and what we represent. Not because of our beliefs, but because of our actions. Because of New Manhatten.
I fear for what horrid retribution will come to the River Federation once we finish consuming the rest of Griffonia.
The most crushing part of it all is that we cannot even maintain our own peace. The inner political debate of our country has become nothing more than an agonizingly drawn out shouting match. Socialism has been splintered into a hundred different copies, each only slightly different from the next, yet loathing all the others all the same. It has ruined our alliances, both within and without. I remember, quite clearly, that just two years ago we were not just allies with the griffons, but brothers and sisters. I remember how we worked together, resolute in our goal, warm-hearted and certain that the future would be bright for both of us. Now, when they differ even slightly from our policy, they become imposters, and must be punished immediately and unflinchingly. The radios run wild with proclamations of griffon savagery, idiocy, and monarchist sympathies. Our greatest friends have transformed into our most despised enemies overnight, and war is a convincing prospect.
Why? Why this choking hatred and lust for conflict? Is the socialist movement not one of love and companionship? Not just for our own, but for all creatures of the world? Why do we prepare to run red the streets with griffon blood when we agree on all but the most minute details? Why?
I suppose that I have lost faith. I suppose that would make me an enemy of the Revolution. I suppose, then, that I will embrace that title. The Revolution that I supported was just, honest, and moral. Its goal was not conquest or self preservation, but to banish the cruel abuses of a world that did not care for the working pony. Yet, I find that what I have helped create is a brother to the monarchistic callousness of old, living only for itself and grinding the common pony beneath iron hooves.
I do not know when it happened. I do not know how or why. All I can say is that, somewhere after its inception, socialism as an institution was led astray. It became just another way of crushing, terrifying, and ruling the ponies of a nation. It sickens me that I did not see this sooner, that I was too absorbed in my own fervor to notice when it all went so horribly wrong.
The image of eternal war and self destruction before me is not acceptable, and I refuse to take part in it any longer. It is against our nature to be so heartless and blind. If we are willing to sink to these depths, how much further will we plunge? How long before we become a regime as terrifying and bitter as the worst monarchy of old?
I cannot stand by anymore. I must act.
My resistance will not be physical. Even now I know that I could not bring myself to hurt my misguided comrades. They are innocent in this; it is their ideology that I must combat. However foolish it may be, I will attempt diplomacy. Not among the leadership, for they are well set in their ways, but among the true ponies of the Revolution.
I may not survive. I may be imprisoned, tortured, or killed. These are dark days indeed, and I find myself struggling to trust in mercy to prevail. Nonetheless, I cannot remain a slave to this mockery of socialism. I must make myself heard, even if it is at the cost of my life. There is no other way.
In three days time, soon after you have read this letter, I will head to Stalliongrad. I will stand directly outside of the Palace of the Soviets, and I will speak to anypony who will hear. My speech has already been prepared to the utmost of my ability. I will talk of true socialism, the values that we seem to have lost sight of, and how it is our duty to reclaim them.
I will then be detained, forced out of sight, most probably beaten, and interrogated. What follows is unknown to me, and I suppose that is for the best. A vague future is one easily ignored, and I must focus on delivering my message. I know that something unpleasant will happen to me, and that is all the information that I need.
One of two things are likely after that. I will either appear, roughly a week later, to renounce my thoughts and actions, or I will never appear at all. If it is the first, do not pity me, for I will have broken and betrayed myself. In that case, I am worthy of nothing but scorn. If I am never seen again, then I will have remained firm until the very conclusion. Perhaps I will meet my end, but at least I will keep my honor.
If you are concerned for yourself, do not be. You, my family, and all others who have befriended me over the years will not be dragged into whatever investigation follows. Should I fail, harm will only come to me. To implicate anypony other than myself would be to invalidate the underbearing laws of the Union. We have sunken low, but not that low. I am sure of it.
I ask that you not agonize over me, nor attempt to stop me. You cannot change my mind, and in any case, it will be too late to try once you receive this letter. I am surely a fool for doing this, but what the heart wills cannot be avoided. The revolutionaries of old didn't have the support of those above them either. They succeeded through the power of their vision, through the righteousness of their ideals and the good of the common pony. Maybe I can do the same.
Should this be my final letter, I wish nothing but the best for you. May your future be bright, and may you come unscathed through whatever is to come in these darkening days.
- Regards, Natalya