What is a “fatherland”? This question, deceptively simple, lies at the heart of Voltaire’s musings in his Philosophical Dictionary. His chapter on Fatherland probes the reader to think about what it means to claim a Fatherland. While we might first think of flags, borders, and patriotism, Voltaire prompts us to consider a deeper, more human answer.
At first glance, Voltaire’s idea of the fatherland is appealing: a piece of land, a home to call one’s own, a community to belong to. The ideal “fatherland” is a place where you’re accepted, where your voice matters, where you live alongside people who share in your joys and struggles. Community, he implies, is everything—an essential piece of what we call home. Perhaps we don’t truly belong to a place; rather, we belong to the people around us, those who make us feel seen, valued, and safe.
But Voltaire doesn’t stop there. He goes on to question patriotism itself, suggesting that “often in order to be a good patriot one is the enemy of the rest of mankind.” This idea is disturbing but also strikingly relevant. We see it today, where “patriotism” can serve as a divisive force, pitting one group against another within the same nation. People become “patriots” by hating certain portions of their own community, by seeing fellow citizens as enemies instead of neighbors. But could we not define patriotism as love for one’s community, a commitment to the well-being of everyone? Could we not build a vision of patriotism that involves wanting the best for every fellow human, not just those who look or think or pray as we do?
This idea of a fatherland built on unity rather than division resonates deeply for anyone who’s ever felt like an outsider. Born in a country that defines itself as a white, Christian nation, I have often felt like a visitor, rather than a member of the very land I’m supposed to call home. And I’m not alone in this feeling. For many of us, “home” and “fatherland” don’t align neatly with national borders. If patriotism is about inclusion, where does that leave those of us who don’t fit into the dominant cultural identity? If patriotism is about exclusivity, what does it say about our ability to see one another as equals?
So perhaps “home” has less to do with borders and more to do with being ourselves, with feeling free to live openly and authentically. Home, as I’ve come to understand it, is best described as a place where you can be fully you. It’s where you’re accepted and loved, where you feel safe, and where you genuinely want to see everyone around you thrive as you thrive. Home isn’t just about comfort—it’s about a shared commitment to the well-being of everyone in our community. And maybe, just maybe, this is a kind of “fatherland” that can exist without walls or restrictions.
Voltaire leaves us with no easy answers, only deeper questions about what it means to belong, what it means to have a place in the world. Our “fatherland,” whatever it may be, might just be as much a matter of the heart as it is of the land.