Adeeb, Hubb-ul-watani Aur Wafaadari

The demand for patriotism and loyalty to one's country and nation is nothing new. However, in the modern era, both the nature of this demand and the very concepts of loyalty and patriotism have changed. Transcending the boundaries of ethics, this has now become a purely political issue. While it is sometimes cloaked in the guise of religion and morality to suit specific needs, its foundation remains fundamentally political. Today, this demand is not found in ethical treatises or the sermons of religious scholars, but rather in political books on nationalism and the speeches of national leaders.

It is true that, despite being wrapped in a thick layer of morality, this was never solely an ethical issue; yet, it never possessed the character it does today. While tracing its exact origins is difficult, within the realm of political ethics, it began in Europe following the Renaissance and the Reformation, when national governments emerged with a new, aggressive concept of nationalism. Loyalty, treason, patriotism, and nationalism are not mere words or abstract concepts. If we peel back their layers, we find that they are deeply intertwined with the objectives of governments and the protection of the ruling class's interests.

This reality turns these concepts into a dangerous weapon in the hands of the ruling class and its sycophants, who gleefully bleed the masses dry in the name of loyalty and patriotism. In a class-based system, no one can remain neutral; everyone must take a side. The writer is no exception. At most, a writer might consciously or unconsciously fall prey to self-deception, loudly proclaiming their detachment and neutrality through their art. However, the moment a true test arises, the illusion of their detachment shatters. They either openly align themselves with the government, or they break free from the facade of neutrality to champion values that strike at the heart of authoritarianism and domination. In a class-divided society, it is impossible to even imagine a scenario where the interests of the ruler and the ruled align.

In this context, a logical point must be clarified. A situation may arise where a writer, due to their class background or some other reason, genuinely agrees with the government and its ideology. In such a case, wouldn't their literary integrity demand that they propagate the ideas they believe to be true? Upon closer reflection, however, this is not a particularly significant question. Certainly, such a writer has every right to express their views honestly. But in doing so, they forfeit the right to claim that they represent the masses. If they still make such a claim, then those who view the ruling class as anti-people or as the champions of an exclusive class system are entirely justified in declaring that writer an enemy of the people as well.

To put it another way: if there is a clash of interests between the ruling class and the subjugated class (which is inevitable), then ignoring the masses to act solely as a mouthpiece for the government, justifying its actions, or demanding loyalty to such a state is not merely a moral crime and an act of dishonesty. It is a criminal conspiracy with the very forces that seek to keep the people oppressed for their own selfish gains.

Is it not true that the issue of loyalty to the state and government is being raised today by the very writers who, until yesterday, scoffed at the idea of literature having a purpose? Who mocked the humanitarianism of other writers? Who dismissed expressing sympathy for the masses as an unliterary subject? Today, they are grasping at the very straws they once deemed weak and insignificant. This was bound to happen. Those who claim to shun revolutionary values and remain aloof from the everyday struggles of life have, in reality, intellectually surrendered to the very system they delude themselves into thinking they are separate from—the same system the masses oppose. Their intellectual angst, their pursuit of comfort, and their romanticization of sorrow are not aimed at resolving some grand, universal disorder; rather, their sole objective is selfish self-gratification.

This is why, in one way or another, they exhibit a deep distrust of the masses and view the spirit of humanitarianism with disdain. They mask their hostility toward the common people by boasting of their intellectual affinity with the elite or with extraordinary individuals. The supposed detachment of such writers ceases to be detachment; it becomes blatant partisanship. Despite projecting a sort of anarchic individualism, the true nature of their loves and hatreds is eventually exposed. The conclusion to be drawn from this argument is that when a conscious writer claims to remain aloof from social struggles for an extended period, they are, in fact, supporting the very status quo that must be changed for the benefit of the country and its people.

Whether one calls it a compulsion or a law of nature, the fact remains that a writer, like any other human being, is born into a society and occupies a specific place within its various tiers and compartments. They inevitably belong to a family, a nation, and a religion; they live under a system of government whose laws they must obey, whether they like it or not. Whatever their views may be regarding family ties, nation, religion, government, or the state, they will undoubtedly hold *some* views. These ideas may be traditional or revolutionary, purely theoretical or highly practical. One might construct an entire world out of mere intellectual musings about these concepts, or one might actively work to change them through practical action. However, despite all their individualism, proclaimed detachment, and artistic absorption, the writer is ultimately bound to society.

While the bonds forged in family life receive less attention these days, ever since the creation of Pakistan, the question of nationalism (and religious identity), the system of government, and loyalty to the state has surged to the forefront. People have emerged from the dark recesses of their subconscious, rubbing their eyes, marching through the streets in a semi-intoxicated state, chanting slogans of patriotism and loyalty. The hostility toward the masses and the anti-revolutionary sentiment that had previously been hidden from public view under the guise of detachment has now burst forth. They are gripped by a kind of crisis, and in this frantic state, they do not pause to consider: What is the true meaning of nationalism and government? What are the limits of patriotism and loyalty? How much can these sentiments shift as circumstances change? The sudden wellspring of loyalty that has erupted in the hearts of certain writers today is proof in itself that loyalty to the state or government is not an absolute emotion. It is not something intuitive or natural, nor is it an inherent part of human instinct. Rather, it is born out of social conditions, and it is strictly in the light of these social conditions that it must be studied.

No one can deny the fact that both India and Pakistan are class-based societies. In such societies, the benefit of one class usually conceals the detriment of another. Consequently, societal contradictions emerge and continue to grow, to the point where very little remains common among the different classes. One does not need any specialized knowledge or profound insight to grasp this obvious reality. Unable to outright deny this truth, some writers choose to ignore it, dismissing it as something inferior—as if their willful blindness could somehow erase the reality itself.

In such a situation, only one conclusion makes sense. Writers who ignore the realities born of class struggle are, in fact, proponents of maintaining the status quo and its inherent conflicts. However, to project a false aura of integrity, broad-mindedness, and elevated vision, they simply avoid mentioning it altogether. If, by some rare chance, their feet ever touch the ground, their ire inevitably falls upon the subjugated class—sometimes in the form of satire, and at other times under the guise of intellectual superiority. They lack the courage to clash with the state, look it in the eye, and compel it to deliver justice. As far as India is concerned, one can see how their silence and detachment once fortified the foundations of the British government, and how today, through declarations of loyalty, they are endorsing their respective governments—which is to say, they are endorsing the ruling class. If the masses were to seize power today, such writers would either commit suicide or immediately start singing their praises.

Ultimately, in our class-based society, different classes have distinct interests, distinct religious concepts, distinct mental frameworks, distinct ideals, and distinct sentiments of loyalty. Therefore, whenever loyalty to a state or government is demanded, a question immediately arises: loyalty to what kind of state, and loyalty from whom? Is it truly accurate to say that the king can do no wrong? That the state is incapable of making a mistake? We must examine where this belief originates, who benefits from it, and who suffers because of it. Can the true nature of loyalty ever be determined without reflecting upon these questions?

What is the state? Debates on this question have raged since the time of Socrates. So many diverse interpretations of this concept have been put forward that even highly educated individuals struggle to draw a definitive conclusion. Some describe it as divine will, while others view it merely as a social contract. To some, the state is a necessary evil; to others, it is a sacred institution. Some argue that the world has been divided into rulers and the ruled since the dawn of time—that the elite were born to govern and the lowly to be subjugated. Conversely, others set out to prove that true governance can only belong to the working class. Consequently, the concepts of state and government have become deeply entangled. From the theory of the divine right of kings to communism, and eventually to anarchism, countless models have been proposed. Providing a comprehensive explanation of all these forms is neither possible here, nor is it within my capacity.

I merely wish to point out that in every system of governance, the nature of the demand for loyalty to the state varies. The rights and duties of the ruler and the ruled differ, class relations differ, and the jurisdictions of the institutions born from these dynamics differ as well. These varying conditions give rise to diverse mental, psychological, philosophical, and moral paradigms. If someone chooses to turn a blind eye to them, that is a different matter entirely; otherwise, a study of human history presents these realities in an undeniable light. Admittedly, unraveling their complexities and precisely determining the nature of these relationships and the weight of their impacts remains a difficult task.

In today’s class-based societies, liberal democracies are often championed. It is argued that the best form of democracy is one that neither eradicates classes entirely nor elevates any single class to absolute dominance; one that neither advocates for revolution to cure societal ills nor dictatorially refuses to acknowledge its own flaws and mistakes, but instead grants equal rights within constitutional and legal boundaries. It is true that for any state, this system of governance and this theory of democracy are more progressive and beneficial than other alternatives. However, when we analyze their functions in practical life, a glaring contradiction between word and deed becomes apparent. More often than not, the reins of government slip into the hands of the very class that controls the means of production and distribution. In a class-based system, the concentration of wealth and property in the hands of a few individuals is inevitable. Consequently, democracy exists only in name.

It cannot be denied that in the modern era, the concept of democracy has introduced new paradigms of human dignity. It has shown some regard for public welfare and granted the masses a certain degree of participation in governance. However, these measures do not resolve the fundamental contradictions created by the modern capitalist system. In the struggle to eliminate these contradictions, if the scales tip to one side, fascism emerges; if they tip to the other, communism is born. Certain actions and decrees of a constitutional government appear progressive, while others seem reactionary. Regarding British politics, it is commonly observed that their government functioned as a progressive democracy in England, whereas in India, it operated not merely as an empire, but as a fascist regime. Therefore, the state cannot be conceptualized as an absolute and static institution for which identical edicts can be issued across every era and circumstance, nor can loyalty be universally decreed as the ultimate ideal for the subjugated.

The fact remains that not every class can pledge loyalty to every kind of state. Human beings cannot be reduced to mere machines, as fascism desires. Blind obedience to any individual or system of governance is simply not possible at all times and under all circumstances. The masses will only willingly and enthusiastically gravitate toward a state and a system of governance that safeguards their rights—one that belongs to them and exists for them. They will embrace a system that empowers the collective rather than the individual; one that eradicates class distinctions and exploitation to forge a new human society; one that does not impose moral laws from above, but rather structures life in such a way that living by the highest moral principles becomes second nature to humanity. They seek a society founded not on profiteering, but on the concept of human need and its fulfillment.

It is a state whose praises writers and poets sing not out of a desire for reward or the fear of imprisonment, but because the state itself inspires a profound zeal and conviction for life within their hearts. They come to realize that the masses and the state are not two separate entities; the voice of one is the voice of the other. This is the highest manifestation of democracy, and it is not merely a utopian dream—the collective will of humanity can translate it into reality. With the aid of science and knowledge, we can organize our world in such a way that the prosperity of one no longer necessitates the deprivation of another.

I will not entangle myself in secondary debates here; I will simply say that such a state does not need to demand loyalty from its people, for it is the people's loyalty that gave birth to it in the first place. How can a state that maintains the divide between the elite and the masses, and sells—or attempts to sell—their honor, hearts, and minds to others, claim the right to demand loyalty? There is no need to name specific countries or governments here; every state and government can see its own reflection in this mirror. Someone with a dead conscience might not realize this, but the people, ignoring the state's clamor, will continue to march forward in search of a better life.

I am not discussing the non-political forms of patriotism and loyalty here, because the demands made by the government and its loyalists have nothing to do with the natural patriotism found, to some extent, in everyone. The debate centers on the concept of loyalty where, if it is not explicitly demonstrated, individuals are branded as enemies of the state and traitors. If we examine political history, the demand for loyalty generally intensifies during two specific periods. First, when the interests of the ruling class are threatened by the awakening of the masses; and second, when there is a threat of foreign invasion. This threat can manifest as a military danger, or it can take the form of an intellectual revolution paving the way for a political one.

The conflict between the interests of the government and the masses in a class-based system has already been discussed above, along with a clarification of what is meant by loyalty in that context. Now, we must consider the purpose of loyalty during the threat of a foreign invasion.

If a state's system of governance is highly oppressive to its people, it is entirely possible that the citizens might side with foreign invaders to overthrow their own government. However, they would only do so in a state of extreme despair. Usually, during the threat of a foreign invasion, minor differences are set aside. Alternatively, the ruling class appeases the masses with certain concessions to secure their support, and everyone unites to fight the invader. This happens because the people, even if they do not hold the reins of power, still consider the country their own. They protect the legacy of their ancestors in the hope that, in the future, they too will receive their rightful share. Even in this form of loyalty, there is no need for the state to demand it; the people inherently know what is beneficial for them and what is harmful.

Writers who constantly harp on about loyalty ignore all these realities and simply align themselves with the interests of the ruling class. They may cloak their ideas in moral, religious, national, or racial rhetoric, but their underlying motive remains the same. In doing so, they often cross all limits. Obscuring the facts, they begin inciting their country to wage war against people and nations who do not share their ideology, or whose very existence threatens the interests of their rulers. The true purpose of constantly talking about and inciting war is to distract from the internal contradictions of society that are awakening the masses. By sounding the alarm of an external threat, they divert the people's attention, ensuring that the masses do not put the government in a difficult position by demanding their legitimate rights. Therefore, constantly diverting the public's mind toward some hypothetical external threat or war becomes the primary occupation of the ruling class and its propagandists. This is not a new tactic. Ancient conquering emperors and fascist dictators have provided them with ample lessons in this regard.

In the past, when the fascist tendencies of such writers were pointed out, people would be surprised. They used to count them among the progressives because they desired change (though it was never quite clear what kind of change). But today, these writers themselves openly declare that a writer can only truly be a writer if they are a fascist. Now, no one needs to ask what the true motive of such writers is when they demand loyalty, or what kind of sentiments drive them when they oppose progressivism.

It is not up to them to dictate or teach that a writer must remain loyal. Writers will certainly remain loyal to their state, but not to a state that is their enemy, that shatters their dreams, that spreads the poison of hatred and sectarianism within its borders, or that openly propagates fascism. They will be loyal to a government and a state that cherishes what are known as human values; that builds the edifice of governance through the hands of the people; that does not allow capitalist beasts to roam free, sucking the blood of the masses; that cures hunger and unemployment; that does not devour those who criticize its wrongdoings; and that does not constantly force people to turn a blind eye to reality by inflaming their racial, religious, and nationalistic sentiments.

Writers will undoubtedly be loyal to their state if it is truly *their* state—if the working class reaps the fruits of its labor, and if all its inhabitants are endowed with the wealth of true democracy, genuine education, spiritual growth, material prosperity, and inner peace. There is a vast difference between demanding loyalty and the natural emergence of a sense of loyalty toward one's own state.

It is the duty of writers to demand prosperity and contentment within the country, so that in times of external threat, the people naturally unite. It is the duty of writers to aspire to the creation of a universal human system in which no country remains the enemy of another. Writers who follow Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Mussolini, Hitler, and Goebbels cannot comprehend that human beings are not beasts; they are humans who can improve their lives through their own consciousness and efforts, and this desire for betterment is entirely natural. Any government or state that obstructs this natural desire will inevitably face treason from its people. Appeals to morality and religion, the illusion of racial superiority, accusations of treason, and the bogeyman of external threats cannot force the masses into loyalty. Only a progressive democratic system, along with a sense of freedom, progress, prosperity, and peace, will inspire true loyalty. These are the needs and desires of the people, and they are the needs and desires of the writers as well. A good writer must be a friend to humanity; they do not need to be a friend to the government. A writer may commit treason against the government, but they can never commit treason against the people.

The demand for patriotism and loyalty to one's country and nation is nothing new. However, in the modern era, both the nature of this demand and the very concepts of loyalty and patriotism have changed. Transcending the boundaries of ethics, this has now become a purely political issue. While it is sometimes cloaked in the guise of religion and morality to suit specific needs, its foundation remains fundamentally political. Today, this demand is not found in ethical treatises or the sermons of religious scholars, but rather in political books on nationalism and the speeches of national leaders.

It is true that, despite being wrapped in a thick layer of morality, this was never solely an ethical issue; yet, it never possessed the character it does today. While tracing its exact origins is difficult, within the realm of political ethics, it began in Europe following the Renaissance and the Reformation, when national governments emerged with a new, aggressive concept of nationalism. Loyalty, treason, patriotism, and nationalism are not mere words or abstract concepts. If we peel back their layers, we find that they are deeply intertwined with the objectives of governments and the protection of the ruling class's interests.

This reality turns these concepts into a dangerous weapon in the hands of the ruling class and its sycophants, who gleefully bleed the masses dry in the name of loyalty and patriotism. In a class-based system, no one can remain neutral; everyone must take a side. The writer is no exception. At most, a writer might consciously or unconsciously fall prey to self-deception, loudly proclaiming their detachment and neutrality through their art. However, the moment a true test arises, the illusion of their detachment shatters. They either openly align themselves with the government, or they break free from the facade of neutrality to champion values that strike at the heart of authoritarianism and domination. In a class-divided society, it is impossible to even imagine a scenario where the interests of the ruler and the ruled align.

In this context, a logical point must be clarified. A situation may arise where a writer, due to their class background or some other reason, genuinely agrees with the government and its ideology. In such a case, wouldn't their literary integrity demand that they propagate the ideas they believe to be true? Upon closer reflection, however, this is not a particularly significant question. Certainly, such a writer has every right to express their views honestly. But in doing so, they forfeit the right to claim that they represent the masses. If they still make such a claim, then those who view the ruling class as anti-people or as the champions of an exclusive class system are entirely justified in declaring that writer an enemy of the people as well.

To put it another way: if there is a clash of interests between the ruling class and the subjugated class (which is inevitable), then ignoring the masses to act solely as a mouthpiece for the government, justifying its actions, or demanding loyalty to such a state is not merely a moral crime and an act of dishonesty. It is a criminal conspiracy with the very forces that seek to keep the people oppressed for their own selfish gains.

Is it not true that the issue of loyalty to the state and government is being raised today by the very writers who, until yesterday, scoffed at the idea of literature having a purpose? Who mocked the humanitarianism of other writers? Who dismissed expressing sympathy for the masses as an unliterary subject? Today, they are grasping at the very straws they once deemed weak and insignificant. This was bound to happen. Those who claim to shun revolutionary values and remain aloof from the everyday struggles of life have, in reality, intellectually surrendered to the very system they delude themselves into thinking they are separate from—the same system the masses oppose. Their intellectual angst, their pursuit of comfort, and their romanticization of sorrow are not aimed at resolving some grand, universal disorder; rather, their sole objective is selfish self-gratification.

This is why, in one way or another, they exhibit a deep distrust of the masses and view the spirit of humanitarianism with disdain. They mask their hostility toward the common people by boasting of their intellectual affinity with the elite or with extraordinary individuals. The supposed detachment of such writers ceases to be detachment; it becomes blatant partisanship. Despite projecting a sort of anarchic individualism, the true nature of their loves and hatreds is eventually exposed. The conclusion to be drawn from this argument is that when a conscious writer claims to remain aloof from social struggles for an extended period, they are, in fact, supporting the very status quo that must be changed for the benefit of the country and its people.

Whether one calls it a compulsion or a law of nature, the fact remains that a writer, like any other human being, is born into a society and occupies a specific place within its various tiers and compartments. They inevitably belong to a family, a nation, and a religion; they live under a system of government whose laws they must obey, whether they like it or not. Whatever their views may be regarding family ties, nation, religion, government, or the state, they will undoubtedly hold *some* views. These ideas may be traditional or revolutionary, purely theoretical or highly practical. One might construct an entire world out of mere intellectual musings about these concepts, or one might actively work to change them through practical action. However, despite all their individualism, proclaimed detachment, and artistic absorption, the writer is ultimately bound to society.

While the bonds forged in family life receive less attention these days, ever since the creation of Pakistan, the question of nationalism (and religious identity), the system of government, and loyalty to the state has surged to the forefront. People have emerged from the dark recesses of their subconscious, rubbing their eyes, marching through the streets in a semi-intoxicated state, chanting slogans of patriotism and loyalty. The hostility toward the masses and the anti-revolutionary sentiment that had previously been hidden from public view under the guise of detachment has now burst forth. They are gripped by a kind of crisis, and in this frantic state, they do not pause to consider: What is the true meaning of nationalism and government? What are the limits of patriotism and loyalty? How much can these sentiments shift as circumstances change? The sudden wellspring of loyalty that has erupted in the hearts of certain writers today is proof in itself that loyalty to the state or government is not an absolute emotion. It is not something intuitive or natural, nor is it an inherent part of human instinct. Rather, it is born out of social conditions, and it is strictly in the light of these social conditions that it must be studied.

No one can deny the fact that both India and Pakistan are class-based societies. In such societies, the benefit of one class usually conceals the detriment of another. Consequently, societal contradictions emerge and continue to grow, to the point where very little remains common among the different classes. One does not need any specialized knowledge or profound insight to grasp this obvious reality. Unable to outright deny this truth, some writers choose to ignore it, dismissing it as something inferior—as if their willful blindness could somehow erase the reality itself.

In such a situation, only one conclusion makes sense. Writers who ignore the realities born of class struggle are, in fact, proponents of maintaining the status quo and its inherent conflicts. However, to project a false aura of integrity, broad-mindedness, and elevated vision, they simply avoid mentioning it altogether. If, by some rare chance, their feet ever touch the ground, their ire inevitably falls upon the subjugated class—sometimes in the form of satire, and at other times under the guise of intellectual superiority. They lack the courage to clash with the state, look it in the eye, and compel it to deliver justice. As far as India is concerned, one can see how their silence and detachment once fortified the foundations of the British government, and how today, through declarations of loyalty, they are endorsing their respective governments—which is to say, they are endorsing the ruling class. If the masses were to seize power today, such writers would either commit suicide or immediately start singing their praises.

Ultimately, in our class-based society, different classes have distinct interests, distinct religious concepts, distinct mental frameworks, distinct ideals, and distinct sentiments of loyalty. Therefore, whenever loyalty to a state or government is demanded, a question immediately arises: loyalty to what kind of state, and loyalty from whom? Is it truly accurate to say that the king can do no wrong? That the state is incapable of making a mistake? We must examine where this belief originates, who benefits from it, and who suffers because of it. Can the true nature of loyalty ever be determined without reflecting upon these questions?

What is the state? Debates on this question have raged since the time of Socrates. So many diverse interpretations of this concept have been put forward that even highly educated individuals struggle to draw a definitive conclusion. Some describe it as divine will, while others view it merely as a social contract. To some, the state is a necessary evil; to others, it is a sacred institution. Some argue that the world has been divided into rulers and the ruled since the dawn of time—that the elite were born to govern and the lowly to be subjugated. Conversely, others set out to prove that true governance can only belong to the working class. Consequently, the concepts of state and government have become deeply entangled. From the theory of the divine right of kings to communism, and eventually to anarchism, countless models have been proposed. Providing a comprehensive explanation of all these forms is neither possible here, nor is it within my capacity.

I merely wish to point out that in every system of governance, the nature of the demand for loyalty to the state varies. The rights and duties of the ruler and the ruled differ, class relations differ, and the jurisdictions of the institutions born from these dynamics differ as well. These varying conditions give rise to diverse mental, psychological, philosophical, and moral paradigms. If someone chooses to turn a blind eye to them, that is a different matter entirely; otherwise, a study of human history presents these realities in an undeniable light. Admittedly, unraveling their complexities and precisely determining the nature of these relationships and the weight of their impacts remains a difficult task.

In today’s class-based societies, liberal democracies are often championed. It is argued that the best form of democracy is one that neither eradicates classes entirely nor elevates any single class to absolute dominance; one that neither advocates for revolution to cure societal ills nor dictatorially refuses to acknowledge its own flaws and mistakes, but instead grants equal rights within constitutional and legal boundaries. It is true that for any state, this system of governance and this theory of democracy are more progressive and beneficial than other alternatives. However, when we analyze their functions in practical life, a glaring contradiction between word and deed becomes apparent. More often than not, the reins of government slip into the hands of the very class that controls the means of production and distribution. In a class-based system, the concentration of wealth and property in the hands of a few individuals is inevitable. Consequently, democracy exists only in name.

It cannot be denied that in the modern era, the concept of democracy has introduced new paradigms of human dignity. It has shown some regard for public welfare and granted the masses a certain degree of participation in governance. However, these measures do not resolve the fundamental contradictions created by the modern capitalist system. In the struggle to eliminate these contradictions, if the scales tip to one side, fascism emerges; if they tip to the other, communism is born. Certain actions and decrees of a constitutional government appear progressive, while others seem reactionary. Regarding British politics, it is commonly observed that their government functioned as a progressive democracy in England, whereas in India, it operated not merely as an empire, but as a fascist regime. Therefore, the state cannot be conceptualized as an absolute and static institution for which identical edicts can be issued across every era and circumstance, nor can loyalty be universally decreed as the ultimate ideal for the subjugated.

The fact remains that not every class can pledge loyalty to every kind of state. Human beings cannot be reduced to mere machines, as fascism desires. Blind obedience to any individual or system of governance is simply not possible at all times and under all circumstances. The masses will only willingly and enthusiastically gravitate toward a state and a system of governance that safeguards their rights—one that belongs to them and exists for them. They will embrace a system that empowers the collective rather than the individual; one that eradicates class distinctions and exploitation to forge a new human society; one that does not impose moral laws from above, but rather structures life in such a way that living by the highest moral principles becomes second nature to humanity. They seek a society founded not on profiteering, but on the concept of human need and its fulfillment.

It is a state whose praises writers and poets sing not out of a desire for reward or the fear of imprisonment, but because the state itself inspires a profound zeal and conviction for life within their hearts. They come to realize that the masses and the state are not two separate entities; the voice of one is the voice of the other. This is the highest manifestation of democracy, and it is not merely a utopian dream—the collective will of humanity can translate it into reality. With the aid of science and knowledge, we can organize our world in such a way that the prosperity of one no longer necessitates the deprivation of another.

I will not entangle myself in secondary debates here; I will simply say that such a state does not need to demand loyalty from its people, for it is the people's loyalty that gave birth to it in the first place. How can a state that maintains the divide between the elite and the masses, and sells—or attempts to sell—their honor, hearts, and minds to others, claim the right to demand loyalty? There is no need to name specific countries or governments here; every state and government can see its own reflection in this mirror. Someone with a dead conscience might not realize this, but the people, ignoring the state's clamor, will continue to march forward in search of a better life.

I am not discussing the non-political forms of patriotism and loyalty here, because the demands made by the government and its loyalists have nothing to do with the natural patriotism found, to some extent, in everyone. The debate centers on the concept of loyalty where, if it is not explicitly demonstrated, individuals are branded as enemies of the state and traitors. If we examine political history, the demand for loyalty generally intensifies during two specific periods. First, when the interests of the ruling class are threatened by the awakening of the masses; and second, when there is a threat of foreign invasion. This threat can manifest as a military danger, or it can take the form of an intellectual revolution paving the way for a political one.

The conflict between the interests of the government and the masses in a class-based system has already been discussed above, along with a clarification of what is meant by loyalty in that context. Now, we must consider the purpose of loyalty during the threat of a foreign invasion.

If a state's system of governance is highly oppressive to its people, it is entirely possible that the citizens might side with foreign invaders to overthrow their own government. However, they would only do so in a state of extreme despair. Usually, during the threat of a foreign invasion, minor differences are set aside. Alternatively, the ruling class appeases the masses with certain concessions to secure their support, and everyone unites to fight the invader. This happens because the people, even if they do not hold the reins of power, still consider the country their own. They protect the legacy of their ancestors in the hope that, in the future, they too will receive their rightful share. Even in this form of loyalty, there is no need for the state to demand it; the people inherently know what is beneficial for them and what is harmful.

Writers who constantly harp on about loyalty ignore all these realities and simply align themselves with the interests of the ruling class. They may cloak their ideas in moral, religious, national, or racial rhetoric, but their underlying motive remains the same. In doing so, they often cross all limits. Obscuring the facts, they begin inciting their country to wage war against people and nations who do not share their ideology, or whose very existence threatens the interests of their rulers. The true purpose of constantly talking about and inciting war is to distract from the internal contradictions of society that are awakening the masses. By sounding the alarm of an external threat, they divert the people's attention, ensuring that the masses do not put the government in a difficult position by demanding their legitimate rights. Therefore, constantly diverting the public's mind toward some hypothetical external threat or war becomes the primary occupation of the ruling class and its propagandists. This is not a new tactic. Ancient conquering emperors and fascist dictators have provided them with ample lessons in this regard.

In the past, when the fascist tendencies of such writers were pointed out, people would be surprised. They used to count them among the progressives because they desired change (though it was never quite clear what kind of change). But today, these writers themselves openly declare that a writer can only truly be a writer if they are a fascist. Now, no one needs to ask what the true motive of such writers is when they demand loyalty, or what kind of sentiments drive them when they oppose progressivism.

It is not up to them to dictate or teach that a writer must remain loyal. Writers will certainly remain loyal to their state, but not to a state that is their enemy, that shatters their dreams, that spreads the poison of hatred and sectarianism within its borders, or that openly propagates fascism. They will be loyal to a government and a state that cherishes what are known as human values; that builds the edifice of governance through the hands of the people; that does not allow capitalist beasts to roam free, sucking the blood of the masses; that cures hunger and unemployment; that does not devour those who criticize its wrongdoings; and that does not constantly force people to turn a blind eye to reality by inflaming their racial, religious, and nationalistic sentiments.

Writers will undoubtedly be loyal to their state if it is truly *their* state—if the working class reaps the fruits of its labor, and if all its inhabitants are endowed with the wealth of true democracy, genuine education, spiritual growth, material prosperity, and inner peace. There is a vast difference between demanding loyalty and the natural emergence of a sense of loyalty toward one's own state.

It is the duty of writers to demand prosperity and contentment within the country, so that in times of external threat, the people naturally unite. It is the duty of writers to aspire to the creation of a universal human system in which no country remains the enemy of another. Writers who follow Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Mussolini, Hitler, and Goebbels cannot comprehend that human beings are not beasts; they are humans who can improve their lives through their own consciousness and efforts, and this desire for betterment is entirely natural. Any government or state that obstructs this natural desire will inevitably face treason from its people. Appeals to morality and religion, the illusion of racial superiority, accusations of treason, and the bogeyman of external threats cannot force the masses into loyalty. Only a progressive democratic system, along with a sense of freedom, progress, prosperity, and peace, will inspire true loyalty. These are the needs and desires of the people, and they are the needs and desires of the writers as well. A good writer must be a friend to humanity; they do not need to be a friend to the government. A writer may commit treason against the government, but they can never commit treason against the people.