Dear Papa,
On November 6th, 2024, two things happened. First, Donald Trump became the 47th president of the United States. Second, I called you, crying.
That day, in the hours when late nights turn into early mornings, I looked out at the world beyond my window. The phone’s ringing echoed in my ears, waiting for you to answer. The tears blurred my vision, creating a distorted reality where everything looked deceptively normal: the squirrels chased each other up a tree, their furry bodies twirling up the trunk, tails trailing like paintbrushes that drew invisible lines on the bark, and the crows congregated in their usual spot.
On the third ring, you answered, but the ringing in my ears hadn’t stopped.
“Papa,” I said, my voice quivering, my throat tight, and my chest constricting until it felt like I was gasping for air.
“Allo, Isabelle,” you replied softly, a note of apology in your voice; you knew exactly why I was calling.
You told me two things: first, to consider myself lucky to live in another country; second, that the American people had spoken.
Finally able to breathe in my clammy bedroom air, I wanted to argue, to tell you it wasn’t about where I lived, but at that moment, fear tightened my throat and stole my words. The ringing in my ears, once deafening, had fallen silent, leaving only the weight of what I couldn’t say.
You were right on the second part, the American people have spoken. But their voices are terrifying, laced with something cold and unyielding. They’ve chosen more than policies; they’ve chosen character–a chilling blueprint for what it means to lead. Now, I can’t help but picture every young boy watching, soaking in his messages and silencing the alarms: “Take what you want, control who you want, lie when you want, and cheat when you can.” Suddenly, the paint coming off the squirrels’ tails wasn’t invisible anymore. It spelled “LEGACY” in thick letters, dark red paint slipping from its intended path.
With their votes, Americans have shown boys that dishonesty and cruelty aren’t just tolerated—they’re celebrated as the path to power. Outside, the crows circle a withered tree, casting a shadow over what was once a source of hope. They chant their hollow calls, which vibrate like distant sirens that pierce my eardrums like shards of glass. Their voices hang in the air, the wind scattering it like dust, but the message remains the same: “Honesty and empathy are for the naïve; only the ruthless rise.”
So yes, Papa, Americans have spoken. But young women shouldn’t feel grateful to live somewhere else where the bells of liberty may still be heard. President Trump’s example doesn’t stop at borders–it creeps across them, enveloping our brothers everywhere in the same dark lesson: it’s okay to destroy everything in their path, including us, to get ahead.
So, when I called you crying that day, it wasn’t over economic policies. I cried because I was mourning the legacy he would leave–the model he’d set for a generation of boys, teaching them that it’s acceptable to tear down our futures for their gain.
I cried because the bells of liberty that had once rung have fallen silent, with each crack formed by a boy ensnared by this destructive message.
But most of all, I cried for the millions of women around the world I will never meet but ache for deeply because I so desperately want a better world for them.
Now, weeks later, as I write this letter to you, I understand why the world felt so unchanged that dark November morning. It wasn’t the squirrels playing their familiar games or the wind singing its usual song. It was because, beyond the hills of fallen leaves and forests of withered trees, I could still see the stars—silent and steadfast, waiting beyond the shadows to guide us through the darkness.
And though the bell has cracked, and the alarms have fallen silent, I believe that the bells of liberty will ring again.
Avec tout mon amour,
Isabelle