If they succeed in starting a war, neither politicians nor their children will be on the front lines. The upper class will enjoy the spectacle from their cushy sofas, hoping for victory to claim the credit. But if things go wrong, no worries. They’ll don dark suits, feign sadness, and shed crocodile tears for the heroic sacrifice of their countrymen.
If they succeed in starting a war, it won’t be the rich or their children taking bullets and shrapnel in the trenches. Nor will it be those who produce and sell weapons. They’ll remain safe in their luxury villas, watching their bank accounts swell as their fellow citizens wield the lethal products they’ve created.
If they succeed in starting a war, it won’t be prominent journalists or their children under the missiles. Their job will be to justify the war, making it seem reasonable, even necessary, on behalf of politicians and lobbyists, ensuring the public responds obediently to the call to arms. When the carnage begins, they’ll rush to the scene, microphone in hand, to narrate the devastation.
Indeed, if they succeed in starting a war, the only ones dying at the front will be the poor souls and their children—those who are insignificant in peacetime, let alone in wartime. After all, the meager professional armies won’t be enough for a world conflict, so recruits will have to come from civilians, especially the young, because war prefers fresh bodies: more resilient, more reckless, more obedient.
Many young people will fall for the political propaganda and head off to war, convinced it’s worth sacrificing their lives for some egotistical fantasy. But many others will be forced to go, bitter and terrified, consumed by a profound sense of injustice over their cursed fate. They’ll receive their draft letters, be trained and equipped, and march off to kill some ruthless enemy—other human beings, victims of the same madness. If things go badly, their parents will get a second letter, condolences, perhaps a medal, and a pat on the back. They’ll spend the rest of their lives laying flowers at a grave.
Many of these young people are currently playing with their friends or sitting in school desks, thinking about their next test, a crush, or the upcoming game. They’re enjoying the peace inherited from their grandparents and parents, blissfully unaware that their country’s leaders are jeopardizing their future by dragging them into a global conflict. Not some dictator, but self-proclaimed democratic politicians. Not a rogue state, but European republics experiencing the longest period of peace in their history. The last world war was so devastating that Europe chose peace and vowed never to fall into that trap again.
But the infection of war was never completely eradicated. In recent decades, wars have changed names and excuses. We started fighting them far from our eyes and hearts. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. And here we are. Europe is arming itself once again, preparing for a world conflict that could even be nuclear. Politicians, arms lobbies, and influential journalists are restarting the war machine. After all, it won’t be them or their children in the trenches—only the poor souls who pay for wars twice. First with their taxes, spent on missiles and bombs instead of hospitals and schools. Then, with their lives.
