The Battle Is Not Yours

The Battle Is Not Yours

Ton sourire est le soleil, ne fronce pas les sourcils on n’a pas besoin de pluie

(Your smile is sunshine, don't frown — we don't need rain)

By Kateb

Marseille. City of colors, contradictions, and charisma. A city where the mistral wind tells stories, where grandmothers hang laundry with one hand and cast blessings with the other, where the street corners smell of lavender and sarcasm. You can hear laughter and arguments in the same breath, and find both wisdom and wildness tucked between the cobblestones.

Assieds-toi, mon ami. Je vais te raconter une histoire.

(Sit down, my friend. Let me tell you a story.)

This isn’t just a story to pass the time. It’s one to pass on to your children, and theirs too, like a good cast iron pan or a scar with meaning.

The Battle Is Not Yours.

"Ce n'est pas ton combat."

(This is not your fight.)

Let that sit in your spirit a second.

Because some of you are out here fighting every shadow that twitches, charging into emotional sword fights armed with nothing but your ego and an expired grudge. You’ve got enemies lined up like it's Black Friday and you're handing out smoke for free. You're holding pain like it's a precious heirloom, passing it down like bitter wine.

But the Creator—Le Créateur — is over here like:

"Mon enfant... repose-toi. Laisse-moi faire."

(My child... rest. Let me handle it.)

You are doing the most with the least.

My grandmother Celestine used to say, "Baby, people trying to play chess with God, and they don't even know how the pawns move."

We plan. The Creator plans. And Le Créateur? Oh, He’s the best of planners. Our clever little schemes? They’re limp noodles in a sword fight. Our revenge ideas? Like wearing flip-flops to climb a mountain.

Let me tell you something that's as true as Marseille's sea is blue:

"Ne touchez pas à ceux sur qui j'ai posé ma main."

("Do not touch the ones I have my hand on.")

When the Creator lays a divine hand on someone when you are covered, called, and chosen that means you walk with a cosmic security detail. Spiritual bodyguards. And any fool who comes for you? They're not fighting you. They're tussling with the infinite.

Tes bras sont trop courts pour te battre avec Le Créateur.

(Your arms are too short to box with The Creator.)

And yet here we are trying.

You're out here in spiritual tug-of-war, yanking on cords The Creator already cut. Wondering why you're tired. Pourquoi tu es fatigué? (Why are you exhausted?) Because you’re lifting what was never yours to carry.

Let Me Tell You A Tale

Assieds-toi bien. Voici une vieille histoire de Marseille que les anciens racontent encore.

(Sit tight. Here's an old tale from Marseille the elders still whisper.)

La Femme et le Vent

(The Woman and the Wind)

Madame Clarette was a legend. She walked like her hips had secrets and glared like thunder lived in her eyelashes. She kept records of wrongs longer than tax archives. You crossed her in '82, and she still stirred her soup with rage.

One hot summer, the mistral wind blew in, wild and unbothered. It slammed her shutters, knocked over her basil, and spilled her tea.

She roared:

"Vent maudit! Tu es comme tous les autres contre moi!"

("Cursed wind! You're like all the others against me!")

But the wind, sassy as ever, whispered back:

"Non, Clarette... je suis juste le combat que tu refuses de confier au Créateur."

("No, Clarette... I'm just the battle you refuse to give to the Creator.")

She paused. Because deep down, in her grudge-wrapped heart, she knew the wind was right.

From that day, she let go. And wouldn’t you know it? Her garden bloomed again. Her laugh came back. Even her cat started liking her more.

Moral of the story?

Let it go before it drags you somewhere you can’t return from.

You, yes you the one holding onto anger like it's rent-controlled. Let me tell you something the seagulls of Marseille know and the fishmongers preach:

Life is too short to live it clenched.

Loosen your fists. Unwrinkle your face. Smile like your ancestors prayed for you (because they did). Live like you already know the end of the story (because you do).

You think peace means they got away with it? No, darling.

Peace means you did.

You walked away. You gave it to the heavens. You upgraded your spirit while they stayed petty.

Aspirations & Lessons From the Sea

The sea in Marseille doesn't fight the sky. It reflects it.

Why are you fighting what you're meant to reflect?

Reflect hope. Reflect faith. Reflect the Creator's hand over your life.

Every battle ain’t for you. Every insult doesn’t deserve your reaction. You don’t have to RSVP to every drama you’re invited to. Let your silence be your sword, your kindness your crown.

"Ce n'est pas ta guerre. C'est ton témoignage."

("This is not your war. It's your testimony.")

Let The Creator show off. Watch mountains move. Watch tables turn. Watch you win in ways you never imagined.

And while you're waiting for that victory?

Ton sourire est le soleil. Ne fronce pas les sourcils on n’a pas besoin de pluie.

(Your smile is sunshine. Don't frown we don't need rain.)

Laugh like you've already won. Dance in your kitchen. Praise in your problems. Keep your joy close and your ego on mute.

Victory is yours. Not because you're mighty, but because you're marked.

And marked people?

We walk different. We rise different. We love different.

Because we know:

La bataille n'est pas à nous.

(The battle is not ours.)

It never was.

Now go ahead. Smile like the sun. We’ve had enough rain.