In 2014, on World Down Syndrome Day, the perverse Jerôme Lejeune and Coordown foundations aired in nine countries an offensive ad in which several Down children and teenagers exhibited ominous happiness. The perfidious creative, by Saatchi & Saatchi, won several awards at Cannes, no doubt unfair. The vile ad, titled Dear future momwas a letter to a mother worried that her son was going to be born with Down syndrome. Its disturbing text —Advisory! Explicit content!!!— read as follows:

"Dear future mom, don't be scared, your child will be able to do many things: he will be able to hug you, run to you, talk and tell you that he loves you; he will be able to go to school, like everyone else; he will be able to learn to write, and write to you if he goes far away, because he will be able to travel; he will be able to work, and earn his money, and with it invite you to dinner, or rent an apartment where he can live alone. Sometimes it will be difficult, very difficult, almost impossible, but isn't it the same with others? Dear future mom: your son will be able to be happy, as I am."

Unpleasant, isn't it?

At least that's what the French High Audiovisual Council thought, which withdrew it on the grounds that it would "disturb the conscience of women who had made different legitimate choices in their personal lives". Maybe they wanted to have an abortion and the ad gave them a bad feeling, better to ban it, in the epicenter of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, in the middle of the 21st century.

The foundations lodged an appeal with the European Court of Human Rights, and this September came the surprise in the form of an explosive drone when the illustrious judges sided with the French censors, condemning the children to no longer bother with their prurient television bliss.

I do not write this article from anti-abortionist positions, I respect those who "make different legitimate choices in their personal lives" or any other fancy euphemism; it is a recognized right and it goes with the conscience of each person. Nor from the militancy in pro-life associations or under religious banners; it is equally respectable and belongs to the beliefs of each person. I am writing this as the father of Maria, who is eleven years old and has Down syndrome.

I too, like the mother in the ad, had moments of panic and not knowing what to do. If you ask me, I would say that I would have preferred that Maria had been born without that extra chromosome, although if you ask her I am not so sure. Because she is happy. She likes to laugh, read, draw, listen to music, dance, win at Parcheesi, and all those disturbing things the ad says. She is happy without complexes and as outrageously as she can. And it worries me that she has to hide her happiness because some gray men have decided so. It worries me that a society that claims to be inclusive excludes a group that needs to be embraced as much as anyone else. Should we hide Down's, autistic, or intellectually disabled people in a closet... so that some people don't feel uncomfortable? I am not unaware of the economic reasons and the interest of some governments in not giving birth to people who may need help that will deplete their coffers. This is not the first time that something like this has happened in Europe. Undoubtedly, the Court of Human Rights has today brought its name into disrepute, and our society should take a good look at itself for allowing this to happen.

In the meantime, with the judges' permission - or without it I will also write a letter. Dear daughter: smile undisguisedly, with joie de vivre, or with irony at the ignorant; laugh provocatively at their stupidity; offend them with your happiness if you have to; be shocked at their smallness and their emotional handicap. And, whenever you can, laugh without reason, without shame, without stopping, floating in the air like in a room with Mary Poppins, making everything and everyone fly around you. Never miss the slightest chance that life gives you: smile, daughter. And smile, kids, always smile... even if it pisses some people off.