I sometimes ask myself whether I have the courage I’ll need when things really get difficult. Not the kind of courage that makes headlines or earns medals—but the quiet, enduring kind. The courage to remain human when the world forgets what that means. The courage to live by what I believe even if everything around me is falling apart.
These thoughts often come to me when I consider how quickly the world seems to be unravelling. “Going to hell in a handbasket,” as the old saying goes. It’s an overused phrase, but lately, it doesn’t feel like an exaggeration. Climate, politics, society—so many systems feel brittle, like they're held together with frayed string. I wonder what might lie ahead, especially as I grow older. If I live to be over ninety, what kind of world will I be living in? I’ve imagined four different futures, each more difficult than the last.
The first: the key change is due to climate. Water becomes scarce. Rationing becomes a way of life. Crops suffer, food becomes harder to come by. But at least, where I live, there is no war. People are tense, perhaps fearful, but the social structure hasn’t collapsed. It would take resilience to live in such a world, but not necessarily moral courage. Not yet.
The second: climate chaos remains, but now society has fragmented. Local vigilante groups have taken power, dividing the land into jealously guarded territories. Fear and suspicion grow. “Their turf” versus “ours.” The law means little any more. This is where courage begins to take on a different shade. Do I hide? Resist? Collaborate? Survive?
The third: as the climate worsens and local conflicts multiply, wider war breaks out. My country isn’t directly under attack, but it is pulled into the conflict. Contributions are demanded—manpower, goods, loyalty. The old dream of neutrality falls away. This is the moment when everyone is asked to take a side. Would I go along? Could I refuse?
And the fourth: everything above, plus an unravelling so total that any attempt to restore structure feels like patching a sinking ship. People scramble to hold onto something—anything—that feels stable. But too few are willing to sacrifice their privilege, their comfort, their certainty. Without shared willingness, the centre cannot hold. Here, the danger isn’t just external—it’s in the loss of meaning, trust, cohesion.
And in every one of these futures, the same moral question rears its head. Sooner or later, I might be faced with a terrible choice: fight and possibly kill, or resist and possibly die. In that moment, would I have the courage not to abandon my humanity?
I think of people like Bertrand Russell, who refused to fight in World War I and went to jail for it. Later, he helped to lead the “Ban the Bomb” movement. I think of the Quakers, quietly courageous, who took their stand on non-violence even when society scorned them. I’ve always admired such people. Could I follow their path?
It’s easy to imagine myself being brave in the abstract. But when a gun is pressed to your temple, and someone demands obedience or blood—what then? The question chills me. I don’t claim to know the answer. I do know I’m capable of defending myself to a point, but that point is growing shorter every year. Physical strength ebbs. What’s left is clarity and resolve—or fear and compromise.
Would I be strong enough to say no, even if that meant the end of me? I hope so. I hope that even then, I could feel grateful for the life I’ve had. That I wouldn’t be driven by fear or anger, but able to see—even in that final moment—that life is a gift, not a possession to cling to at all costs.
Courage, in the end, might not mean standing up with fists raised. It might mean letting go. It might mean trusting that inner strength is more powerful than a gun. That the dignity of a life lived in alignment with one’s conscience matters more than survival at any cost.
I don’t want to be tested in this way. But if I am, I pray I’ll still be able to look inward, find that still point, and say: I remember who I am. I am still human.
Comments powered by CComment