The problem is when you are writing something in retrospective

“The problem is when you are writing something in retrospective, it needs a lot of courage not to change, or you will forget a certain reality, and you will just take in consideration your view today.”
Thus spoke Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the scholar-diplomat, peacemaker, and former Secretary-General of the United Nations — a man who witnessed both the nobility and frailty of human institutions. In this reflection, he reveals a profound truth about the nature of memory, truth, and courage. For what he describes is not merely a writer’s dilemma, but the eternal struggle of humankind: the temptation to reshape the past to suit the comfort of the present. He warns that to look back upon history — or one’s own life — without honesty is to betray both. It is easier to rewrite than to remember; easier to judge the past by the light of today than to face the shadows of what once was. But the wise, he says, must resist this — they must have the courage not to change the truth of memory, even when it pains them.

The origin of this thought lies in Boutros-Ghali’s own journey through history and diplomacy. As a leader during times of war and peace, as a witness to human triumph and human tragedy, he understood how easily perspective distorts memory. In the halls of power, as in the heart of every man, there is always the temptation to soften what was harsh, to justify what was flawed, to recast failure as foresight. Yet he knew that truth, once altered, is truth no more. When he speaks of “writing something in retrospective,” he does not mean only the act of putting words to paper — he speaks of all who, looking back on their choices, seek to make them prettier in recollection than they were in reality. It is a universal temptation, and it demands uncommon courage to resist.

The courage not to change is among the rarest forms of bravery. To remain faithful to the reality of the past requires one to stand unflinching before one’s own mistakes, fears, and compromises. It is to look upon one’s younger self — imperfect, uncertain, and perhaps misguided — and to acknowledge that this, too, is part of who we are. Too often, men rewrite their stories in the colors of victory, forgetting the darkness through which they once walked. But Boutros-Ghali reminds us that wisdom grows not from rewriting the past, but from remembering it truthfully. For if we forget our reality — if we let the vanity of the present dictate our remembrance — we become liars not only to others, but to ourselves.

History itself bears witness to this truth. Consider the tale of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, philosopher-king of Rome. In his book Meditations, he wrote not for glory or for posterity, but for truth. He confessed his weaknesses, his doubts, his weariness of power — all that the world would never have seen had he sought to revise his own image. His writings remain immortal precisely because he had the courage not to change his own record. He faced his flaws with honesty and accepted them as the soil from which virtue grows. It is this same courage that Boutros-Ghali calls for — the courage to face the truth of our past without disguises, to record it as it was, not as we wish it to appear.

In another sense, Boutros-Ghali speaks to nations as much as to individuals. He warns that civilizations, too, are tempted to forget their reality. Each generation seeks to polish its history, to erase its injustices, to remember only its triumphs. But when a people rewrite their past to flatter themselves, they sever the roots of understanding. A nation that forgets its mistakes is doomed to repeat them; a person who denies their errors cannot grow beyond them. The courage to remember — to face what was — is the foundation of wisdom, humility, and peace. Without it, both man and nation drift into illusion.

To remember truthfully also requires faith — faith that facing the past does not destroy us, but strengthens us. It is only through honest remembrance that reconciliation can be born. Boutros-Ghali, who sought peace among nations scarred by conflict, understood this well: reconciliation begins not with forgetting, but with remembering rightly. Whether in the story of a man or the chronicle of a people, the path to healing runs through the valley of truth. To walk that path demands courage, for truth is not gentle. Yet only those who embrace it can rise renewed, unburdened by illusion.

So, my child, take this teaching to heart. When you look back upon your life, do not let pride rewrite what pain once taught you. Have the courage not to change your memories, but to see them clearly — both the noble and the flawed. Let your past stand as it was, for only by facing it honestly can you grow in wisdom. When you speak of history, speak as a witness, not as a sculptor of myth. When you write your own story, write it with the ink of truth, not the paint of vanity.

And remember this: the man who forgets his true past becomes a stranger to his own soul. But the one who faces it — who looks upon his former self with both honesty and compassion — becomes whole. For truth, once accepted, loses its sting and becomes instead the foundation of strength. As Boutros Boutros-Ghali teaches, the courage to remember as it truly was is the noblest form of integrity — the bridge between who we were, and who we are yet to become.