The Dragon, the Bear, the Eagle—and Helvetia

A modern fable about power, neutrality, and the art of standing firm

At the edge of the Alps, a strange quarrel is under way.

A gold-green dragon spits fire and brags, “I’ll burn down anything that dares oppose me!”

A hulking bear slams his paws into the ground: “My brute strength crushes every foe!”

High above, an eagle wheels in the sky and shrieks, “I own the heavens—nothing escapes my watch!”

Each puffs himself up, desperate to outdo the others. Not one will yield an inch.

Then a slight figure steps forward: Helvetia.

She carries a shield and spear, but instead of threats, she offers only plain, almost schoolteacherly words:

“Neutrality. I don’t meddle; I stand firm. That’s my way,” she says clearly, in a voice that carries a mountain accent you can’t quite place.

The three great beasts look at her confused. “What does this frail little thing from the hills want?” they scoff, and launch their attacks.

The dragon dives, but alpine gorges tear at his wings, and glaciers snuff out his fire.

The bear charges, but mountain passes sap his strength and slow his march.

The eagle, lord of the skies, flaps and circles, but finds no opening—fog, wind, and natural borders drive him back.

Helvetia stands perfectly still, knowing full well she will win without ever raising her spear.

Meanwhile, in Brussels, four familiar figures lounge around a heavy oak table, watching the spectacle on a control-room monitor.

They sip subsidized Greek wine, top off their glasses, graze on delicacies from every corner of the world, and keep their distance.

Marianne dabs a drop of wine from her lip and exclaims, “Voilà! Helvetia keeps her freedom by refusing to get dragged into squabbles. Très courageuse!”

Britannia swirls her glass and arches a brow: “By Jove, she defies even the dragon, while we sit here drowning in rules and budgets—as once we did in other battles…”

Michel tugs awkwardly at his nightcap and sighs, “If only I had that kind of self-assurance—instead of always footing the bill.”

The Emperor carefully straightens the Maria Theresa medal on his jacket, plucks a Croatian olive from a crystal bowl, and murmurs, “Ach geh, she’s mastered the art of standing in the middle without ever being pulled in. Truth is, we’ve had trouble with her since 1291.”

They nod, half admiring, half envious, and drift back to their endless talk of budgets.

Up in the Alps, the dragon, the bear, and the eagle grow weary. Their attacks fizzle out. There are, they decide, other ways to keep themselves in the spotlight.

And Helvetia, back on her perch atop the Federal Palace in Bern, reflects:

“Neutrality may look plain—but it’s the strongest shield I’ve got.”

In St. Gallen, a high school teacher jolts awake in a sweat, smooths her hair, and types into her digital to-do list:

“Time to act—if we want things to stay the way we want them.”