John Lewis Gaddis is not only the favorite historian of the

Noam Chomsky, ever the fierce critic of power, once declared: “John Lewis Gaddis is not only the favorite historian of the Reagan administration, but he's regarded as the dean of Cold War scholarship, the leading figure in the American Cold War scholarship, a professor at Yale.” In this saying lies more than a simple recognition of a scholar’s stature; it is a meditation upon the relationship between history, power, and the voices that shape the memory of nations. For the stories that survive, the narratives that enter the halls of learning and government, are not always the stories that speak most truly, but those that align with the mighty and are favored by their courts. Chomsky, in his sharpness, seeks to remind us that history itself can become a weapon—wielded not with swords, but with words.

In naming Gaddis the “favorite historian of the Reagan administration,” Chomsky unveils a truth: that even scholarship, which ought to serve wisdom, may be embraced or exalted when it comforts the powerful. For Reagan’s era was one of fierce conflict in the shadows—the Cold War, where battles were not always fought with armies, but with ideas, narratives, and ideologies. To be the historian most favored by such an administration meant not only recognition, but also alignment with the prevailing winds of state. Thus, Chomsky hints at the danger: when history is written to suit the palace, truth may bend to the throne.

Yet Gaddis is also called the “dean of Cold War scholarship,” a title of great weight. He shaped the way generations understood the long twilight struggle between the United States and the Soviet Union. His interpretations, his framing of events, his telling of the balance of power—all entered classrooms, textbooks, and the minds of future leaders. Here lies the double-edged sword of scholarship: the pen of one man may color the memory of millions. The authority of the professor, cloaked in the robes of Yale, resounds beyond the ivory towers and into the councils of policy and war. Thus the historian does not merely recount; he shapes the moral compass of the age.

Reflect, my children, upon the example of Thucydides, who chronicled the Peloponnesian War. His words have echoed across centuries, not because they were neutral, but because they carried an understanding of power, of human folly, of the ambitions and fears that drive men into endless strife. So too in the Cold War, the way it is remembered—whether as a noble defense of freedom, or as an empire’s bid for domination—depends upon which historians hold sway. When Chomsky speaks of Gaddis, he is not only acknowledging his eminence, but also warning us: be vigilant, for even the most exalted historian may wear the fingerprints of power upon his scrolls.

Consider the tale of Vietnam. While many official histories framed it as a noble attempt to contain communism, countless others saw it as a war of aggression, a tragedy inflicted upon a small nation in the name of empire. Which version survives in the minds of future generations depends greatly on the historians who write, and the governments that elevate them. Chomsky’s observation of Gaddis reminds us that those who sit at the banquet of power may speak with a voice that drowns out the cries of the suffering. It is not always falsehood, but it may be half-truth—a history told from the victor’s throne.

What then, is the lesson? It is this: never take history at face value, even when told by the learned. Seek out voices from the margins, testimonies of the oppressed, accounts written not only in the halls of power but also in the fields where the battles were fought, in the prisons where dissenters languished, in the villages that bore the bombs. Only then can one approach truth, and only then can the memory of an age be preserved in full.

So, my children, let your hearts be awake when you hear the names of great historians and professors. Respect them, yes, but also question them. Read widely, weigh carefully, compare what is said with what is silenced. Do not allow the memory of nations to be shaped only by the victors, or by those who stand too close to kings. For truth is a fire that burns brighter when fed by many voices, not just one. And if you would live wisely, let your pursuit of truth be unceasing, so that future generations are not handed chains disguised as history, but wings fashioned from honesty.

Thus, heed Chomsky’s wisdom: the stories of our world are never neutral. They are shaped, chosen, exalted, or discarded by those in power. Be not passive receivers, but seekers of hidden truths. In this lies your freedom, and the freedom of all who come after you.