Chandrilan.

For truth is not an argument, nor a decree. It is simply what is; not what power wishes it to be.

It requires no permission. It does not wait to be authored. It exists as it is: indifferent to banners, immune to slogans, and stubborn against every hand that tries to reshape it.

When I stood in the Senate chamber five years ago, I believed, perhaps naively, that truth still possessed weight within those walls. To stand in that chamber is profoundly humbling. A thousand platforms, each bearing a world, each suspended over a a void. It is analogous, deliberately so, to the galaxy itself. The chamber is vast enough to swallow voices, to make suffering feel distant, theoretical.

I remember how small Ghorman sounded in that space. One name, spoken into an ocean of indifference. I spoke of crushed streets and shattered bodies. Of a people ground beneath the machinery of “order.” I believed, even then, that if I described the horror with enough clarity, if I named it for simply what it was, the chamber would have no choice but to listen.

But I also remember what followed. For a moment, the chamber was still. Then it erupted. Not in horror at what had been done, but in fury that it had been said.

I was told I had broken decorum. That I had endangered stability. That I had mischaracterized events every sentient being already knew. The outrage was not for Ghorman. It was for the discomfort of those forced, however briefly, to look at it.

Then the protests came, as they always would, that Ghorman was an exception. That the suffering inflicted on it's people was tragic, yes, but contained. That what was done there could never be done elsewhere. That the Empire had merely stumbled. That this was not who we were.

They were wrong.

On Ghorman, the unthinkable became possible. And once the unthinkable becomes possible in one place, it becomes viable in another. From viability comes repetition. From repetition, normalization. And from normalization, inevitability.

Tyranny is spread mostly by precedent. It is banal. It is boring. It wears the mask of routine.

Long have I feared that the terror visited upon the Ghorman people would not remain on Ghorman. That a government willing to crush a world beneath its heel would, in time, learn to crush a street, a home, a single life.

The scale is what changes. The logic does never does.

And now, on Coruscant, no less, we have seen that fear come to fruition. The truth is visible. Unmistakable. Yet the official record declares something else entirely, conjured after the fact, a danger invented to justify the irreversible.

And again we are being taught to treat truth as negotiable, as partisan, as something that may be overridden by uniform and title. Taught to look away when that logic comes home. When it no longer falls on a distant world, but on a familiar street. When it is no longer them, but us.

Democracy, or any system of governance, or any society for that matter, that values justice, in truth, not merely in name — cannot survive that lesson.

We are told this is the price of safety. That fear must be met with force, and force must be shielded from question. But safety built on silence is not safety.

It is submission.

And a society that cannot speak what it sees will soon be unable to see at all.

Five years ago, I said that the distance between what is said and what is known to be true had become an abyss.

We are told to stand back from it. To accept it. To let it define the limits of what may be spoken.

I will not. That abyss exists only so long as we agree not to cross it.

Every lie that goes unchallenged widens it. Every truth that is spoken, plainly, without permission, becomes a crossing.

The Empire depends not on our belief in falsehood, but on our silence. It does not require that we accept its narratives, only that we cease to contest them.

Let me be clear — to resist oppression is not always to take up arms, but often to take up responsibility: to be better than the forces that seek to divide us, to listen rather than shout, to understand rather than impose, to choose empathy over enmity, and to extend a hand in solidarity, unarmed and unguarded. These choices, though quiet, hold the power to transform even the most overwhelming tides of tyranny. These are choices available to us all, even in the smallest of moments.

And yet, it is often within these smallest of moments that the seeds of change—or of destruction—are sown. It is in these moments that those who wield great influence over the galaxy choose whether to lead with humility and wisdom or with arrogance and domination. As I reflect upon the recent actions of such individuals, I find myself both deeply troubled and reminded of the profound responsibility each of us bears, no matter how small our part may seem, to resist tyranny in whatever ways we can.

Figures such as Director Krennic and others in the Emperor's inner circle cast a long shadow, their actions indicative of the deeper rot festering within the Empire.

Recently, right here on Coruscant, Director Orson Krennic, a man of significant wealth and influence, one who fancies himself an innovator and builder of futures, stood before a grand assembly to deliver a public address. It was in this moment, under the guise of exuberance, that Krennic performed a gesture that bore the disturbing echoes of ancient Sith traditions. The significance of this act was not lost upon those of us who understand the weight that symbols carry.

This Sith salute — for I shall not, even for a moment, dignify it as anything else, cloaked in the plausible deniability of Imperial fervor, was far more than a fleeting display of enthusiasm. It was a deliberate act, a quiet signal to those aligned with his beliefs and a chilling reminder to the rest of us of how easily history’s most painful chapters can be revisited under the guise of innocence. Krennic, a man whose ambition is matched only by his proximity to the Emperor himself, has wielded his wealth and power not to build a brighter future, but to pave the way for domination and subjugation. In that smallest of moments, he revealed the dark path the Empire had chosen—a path lined with symbols and gestures that signal allegiance to tyranny.

Let us not forget, his so-called "clean energy projects," lauded as the future of sustainable power for the galaxy, share an unsettling foundation with the principles that enable the construction of superweapons.

This duality reveals a chilling truth: the tools of progress, if placed in the hands of those who lack moral conviction, become the tools of oppression. For Krennic, the promise of clean energy is but a stepping stone to the Empire's ultimate aim of domination, his projects a façade behind which he conceals the mechanics of mass destruction. It is a sobering reminder that technology itself is neither good nor evil—it is the intent of those who wield it that determines its legacy.

When Emperor Palpatine declared the Galactic Empire, he wasted no time enacting decrees that cemented his authority under the guise of restoring order. He stripped citizenship from children of those deemed "undesirable," erasing their right to belong and marking the vulnerable for further exploitation. Simultaneously, he declared a "galactic emergency" at the Outer Rim borders, branding entire systems as threats while empowering Imperial enforcers to act with impunity, all to tighten his grip on trade and resources.

Palpatine’s sweeping measures extended to the galaxy’s environment and well-being. Under the pretext of an "energy crisis," he escalated planetary mining operations, disregarding the devastation wrought on ecosystems. Withdrawing from the Galactic Health Consortium, he severed critical cooperation in disease prevention, endangering trillions of lives for the sake of consolidating power. He even erased diversity from Imperial policy, declaring that the Empire would only recognize "two genders" and dismantling programs fostering inclusion, a chilling attempt to impose conformity at the expense of the galaxy’s vibrant identity.

Perhaps most disturbing of all, Palpatine pardoned insurrectionists responsible for atrocities across the galaxy, rewarding their loyalty with absolution. These decrees, taken together, paint a portrait of an Empire that seeks not unity, but conformity; not stability, but submission.

It is in these moments that we, as citizens of the galaxy, must ask ourselves: will we allow the Emperor’s vision to define us? Or will we, in our smallest acts of resistance—offering aid to the oppressed, preserving the histories he seeks to erase, and choosing compassion over compliance—light the way for a brighter future?

As I reflect upon the life and legacy of Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore, I find myself torn between admiration for her unwavering commitment to pacifism and the the stark reality that her idealistic pursuit of peace ultimately led to Mandalore's subjugation by the Empire.

Satine dared to dream of a Mandalore that would rise above its violent history, a Mandalore where the ways of war would be discarded in favour of diplomacy and nonviolence. Her vision was undeniably alluring, a beacon of hope in a galaxy torn apart by conflict. I respected her for her unerring conviction, her tireless efforts to transform Mandalore into a bastion of tranquillity.

It was a dream that resonated with the hearts of many, myself included. However, my respect for Duchess Satine's pacifist views is not without an acknowledgment of the challenges that Mandalore would face by turning its back on its traditions. As much as I yearn for a galaxy without violence, I understand that it is a cruel reality—one that we cannot simply wish away.

It is a painful truth that Mandalore's abandonment of its warrior past left it vulnerable to the relentless grasp of the Empire. By embracing pacifist rule, Mandalore unwittingly created a schism in it's society—a schism that the Empire would later exploit, virtually unopposed. Satine's policies, while driven by genuine idealism, lacked the pragmatic understanding of the ruthless nature of those who seek power and control.

By forsaking their warrior heritage, the Mandalorians lost a fundamental aspect of their identity — a bond that had long made them a formidable force in the galaxy. The strength and unity that had defined Mandalore for millennia was diminished under Satine's tenure. The Mandalorian clans, once united in their martial prowess, now found themselves divided, their bond weakened by the absence of a common purpose.

The consequences of this fragmentation were dire indeed. When the Emperor turned his gaze towards Mandalore, the Mandalorians were ill-equipped to respond. Had they embraced their warrior past and rallied against the impending threat, Palpatine's invasion of Mandalore would have met a resounding resistance. The strength of their combined forces, fortified by the fierce determination born of their warrior culture, would have posed a formidable challenge to the Empire's ambitions. In retrospect, I even believe it likely that they would have succeeded in repulsing the Imperial forces, leaving Mandalore as world free from the tyranny that has beset us.

The fall of Mandalore was not solely a consequence of Satine's absence. Her pacifist policies, while well-intentioned, eroded the Mandalorians' martial spirit and weakened their ability to resist oppression. It is a painful truth that I must confront, acknowledging the impact of her choices on the fate of her people.

As I honor Satine's memory, I cannot ignore the harsh lessons that Mandalore's fall teaches us. Pacifism, while noble in theory, must be balanced with a realistic understanding of the dangers that lurk in the galaxy. Embracing one's heritage and the strength of unity does not necessarily equate to a path of insularity and aggression, but rather to a fortification of one's identity and the ability to defend against those who seek to subjugate.

Mandalore's fate stands as a sombre reminder that peace, if pursued without caution, can leave us vulnerable to those who exploit weakness.

The Chandrilan Embassy on Coruscant was a testament to the opulence and elegance of its homeworld. From the moment one stepped through its grand entrance, they were enveloped in an atmosphere of refined luxury that echoed the architectural aesthetics of Chandrila itself.

The interior of the embassy, with its spacious corridors and ornate chambers, uncannily resembled the interior of The Chandrilan House. The floors were crafted from polished Chandrilan marble, their smooth surfaces reflecting the soft illumination of strategically placed lumicrystal fixtures. Richly upholstered sofas and chairs provided comfortable seating, while delicate Chandrilan floral arrangements brought a touch of nature into the space. The rooms, furnished minimally, were occasionally and tastefully accented by artifacts depicting aspects of Chandrila’s rich history, each piece as radiant and unyielding as Chandrila itself.

However, inside the reception hall, subtle reminders that this was, in fact, an embassy punctuated the air of domestic splendor. State-of-the-art holo-communication devices and secure data terminals seamlessly integrated with the tasteful decor, embodying the blending of tradition and progress. The distant hum of airspeeders permeated the halls, a reminder of the bustling cityscape beyond. And through the expansive windows, the towering spires of Coruscant reached towards the sky, their shimmering lights contrasting with the soft glow of the enormous lumicrystal chandelier that was suspended from the high ceiling.

Tonight, the duality of its existence bothered Mon Mothma. The embassy, bequeathed to her by the Chandrilan House so that she could fulfil her Senatorial duties on Coruscant was her home. A sanctuary and a place of solace, where she could escape the weight of her responsibilities and the ceaseless struggles of the galaxy. But on this evening, at the insistence of her husband Perrin, she once again found herself playing host to a gaggle of strangers at an impromptu dinner party.

Resplendent in an elegant gown, she moved through the crowd with effortless grace. Her presence commanded attention as she engaged in conversations, her voice carrying an air of authority tempered with congeniality. Senators, high-ranking Imperial officials, and even members of her own family mingled amidst the throng, their voices blending into a harmonious symphony of polite discourse.

Despite the formalities and politeness, her stomach knotted as she watched her Imperial guests traverse the polished floors, their crisp uniforms and the echo of military boots on the marble felt like a violation, an intrusion into her sacred space. The grandeur of her home was now tinged with the oppressive aura of the Empire, casting a shadow on the very essence of what she held dear. It was as if a dark stain had marred the sanctity of her haven, a reminder of the compromises and concessions forced upon her by the political landscape. Her inner turmoil intensified with each passing moment. She despised the Empire and all it stood for—its oppression, its disregard for individual freedoms, and the innocent lives it had extinguished. And yet, as a leader and diplomat, she was forced to navigate treacherous waters, engaging with those who perpetuated the very system she fought against.

“Mon-“ Perrin’s voice echoed over her thoughts, and she turned to face him, nodding politely at the guest seemingly in his charge “would you mind keeping Commodore Fordo here company for a few moments? I need to excuse myself, a little too much of the Nubian punch, apparently.”