My Dearest America,
From across your northern border, from a nation that has enjoyed the serene luxury of your shadow and your shelter, I write to you on the occasion of your 250th birthday — as a grateful beloved and not some moralistic scold or resentful neighbor. For I am acutely aware that the liberties I enjoy, and the clarity with which I know myself free, are gifts of your thought, your daring, and your existence. I am a Canadian woman, yes, but in the profoundest sense that matters — one which appeals to nature and not to passports — I am your daughter.
Others will say you are a “propositional nation,” while some still cling to the hope that you are a “heritage nation.” Both miss the point, because each misunderstands the revolution behind what you really did and who you really are. The radicalism of your proposition lies in its claim to be true by nature. In brief, you are and will be true in all times and places. You did something unprecedented: you took equality and liberty out of the realm of myth, custom, and historical accident, and you wrote them on the tablet of nature itself. “All men are created equal.” You said that what you claim depends not on particular English habits, Protestant temperament, or colonial grievances; it depends on the soul.
That is why I, a foreigner, can claim you with gratitude and seriousness. The moment you say “created equal,” you obliterate the boundary between your citizens and the rest of mankind — not politically, but philosophically. You announce that the standard by which regimes are to be judged is man’s eternal nature and not tradition, blood, or geography. And if that is true, any regime — yours, mine, or any other — that repudiates that standard becomes an enemy not merely of Americans, but of humanity itself. This is why your existence is more than a political fact; it is a philosophical revolution.
You are called arrogant for speaking of yourselves as a “city on a hill.” But your most profound audacity is your humility before nature. You dared to assert that the truths upon which you rest are not yours. They do not belong to Boston or Philadelphia. They are not an American custom; they are a human truth. You did not create the equality of men; you discovered it. You did not grant inalienable rights; you recognized them. That is why you are, and must be, a light to other nations.
The light you bear is not the sentimental glow of humanitarian feeling, which rises and falls with fashion. It is the light of nature—a light that flattens false hierarchies and exposes tyrannies as both false and unjust. It is the light by which a peasant in China, a dissident in Iran, and a woman in Canada can quietly measure her rulers and know whether they are legitimate. It whispers to the soul: You were not born to be a subject. You were not born to be a means. That whisper is your greatest weapon.
You are the New Zion and its new chosen people. This is not to say God prefers your soil or your accents, but rather that you have been chosen for a specific task. You are chosen to live with the burden of having declared to the world that there is a standard above tribe, throne, party, and epoch. The burden is that you cannot retreat into the consolations of relativism without betraying your foundation. You cannot comfortably say, “Well, every culture has its own truths,” without also sawing off the branch on which you sit. If equality and liberty are not true by nature, then your founding is a magnificent illusion, and you are only one more tribe defending its prejudices. But if they are true by nature, then their reach is universal, their demand inescapable. You carry that demand. You carry it in your institutions, but more profoundly, you carry it in your self-understanding. You are condemned, by your own first principles, to care about the fate of liberty everywhere — out of philosophic consistency and not of imperial ambition. This is the burden of being New Zion. You cannot hide your light under a bushel without ceasing to be yourselves.
From my vantage point, in a nation that has grown accustomed to retreat — to the modest comfort of thinking we can live as if history has ended and geography will protect us — I see you for what you are: the keystone of Western civilization. Remove you, and the arch collapses. Your military power is the result of this reason. The real keystone is that in you, the philosophy of natural rights did not remain an abstraction in a book or a lecture, but took the frightening step into reality. You wagered that men, understood as by nature free and equal, must govern themselves. The West’s greatest achievement — the union of reason and liberty—has its most concrete home in you.
That is why your crises are never local matters. When you grow weary of yourself, when you tire of the old words and regard them as empty slogans, it is not only you who are endangered. A world already suspicious about reason looks on and concludes that even the noblest attempt to found politics on nature is a failure. Your decadence is offered as proof that the longing for liberty must submit at last to some new form of gentle despotism, administrative and “scientific,” tidy and soulless. The world is always looking for an excuse to give up on the demand that regimes justify themselves by appealing to something higher than power. Your failure would be that excuse.
This is why — on this 250th anniversary — I write to thank you, not simply to flatter. You are tempted today by two opposite forms of forgetfulness. One is the temptation of heritage idolatry: to imagine that what makes you is a mere continuity of blood and custom, an ethnic story dressed up as philosophy. The other is the temptation of pure proceduralism: to see yourself as nothing but an empty framework in which any “culture”, any “values,” any “identity” may be poured.
Both are evasions. The first reduces you to a tribe among tribes and abandons the universality at your essence. The second strips you of all substantive claims and abandons the truth by nature that gave you birth. Between these lies the hard road of self-knowledge: to remember that you are, in origin, argument and not blood — the argument that there are truths about man and justice that are true everywhere and always.
As a Canadian, I have been spared many of your struggles. But I have not been spared the consequences of your ideas. I live in a world fundamentally shaped by the fact that, in 1776, a group of men on the eastern edge of a vast continent dared to write that governments derive “their just powers from the consent of the governed,” and that when any form of government becomes destructive of the ends of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, it may be altered or abolished. Whether my own nation remembers it or not, I know, because you taught me, that any regime which denies the equal natural freedom of its citizens is illegitimate.
That knowledge is a liberation and a wound. It liberates because it tells me that I am not crazy when I feel outraged by injustice; I am simply judging by the nature of things. It wounds because it leaves me no refuge in the cozy lie that “this is just the way we do things here.” Your universalism leaves me cosmopolitan in the deepest sense, unable to be satisfied with local excuses.
So today, on your 250th birthday, I thank Providence that my quiet, conciliatory nation has been blessed to share a border with you and not with a despot. I thank Nature’s God that your existence keeps alive the possibility of politics grounded in nature and not will. I thank you that your flag, mocked and burned in some quarters, still stands as a symbol that there is such a thing as a rational standard by which the mighty may be called to account.
My love, the chosen people of natural right, you remain the one great nation that staked everything on the claim that man is by nature free and equal, and that government must humble itself before that fact. For that, a woman across your 49th parallel can know, without permission or apology, that she is free and equal by nature. That knowledge is your gift to me. Do not renounce it.
In awe and wonder,
An eternally grateful Canadian
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Dimpee Brar currently serves as the Director of Engagement for Allies for a Strong Canada. She is a writer whose work can be found in the Federalist, American Spectator, the Western Standard, and the Toronto Sun. She appears frequently on various podcasts and radio shows. You can follow her on X: @isthisdimpeeb
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