As a combat veteran, I know the cost of war.

The words of Tulsi Gabbard — “As a combat veteran, I know the cost of war.” — are simple, yet they thunder with truth. They are not spoken from books or from the lips of theorists, but from the heart of one who has walked the battlefield, who has smelled the smoke, who has borne the weight of comrades and the silence of loss. In this statement lies the eternal division between those who speak of war from afar and those who have lived its fire. To know the cost of war is not to recite numbers or treaties, but to feel its toll in the marrow of one’s bones.

The cost of war is more than treasure, more than the ruin of cities. It is the broken body of the soldier, the trembling hands of the survivor, the hollow eyes of the child who has seen too much. It is measured in nights haunted by memory, in families torn apart by absence, in dreams that can never be mended. Gabbard, who served in Iraq, does not speak of war as an abstraction but as a lived reality. Her words are both testimony and warning: that those who send men and women into battle must never forget the price written in blood and sorrow.

History offers many who have spoken in the same voice. Abraham Lincoln, standing at Gettysburg, reminded the living of the “last full measure of devotion” paid by the fallen. He, too, understood that the cost of war is not in the glory of victory, but in the graves of countless sons. After the carnage of the First World War, veterans returned with shattered bodies and broken minds, carrying in their silence the same knowledge Gabbard names. And after the Second World War, General Dwight Eisenhower, himself hardened by combat, warned of the military-industrial complex, knowing too well how easily war could be pursued without remembering its cost.

The truth of the matter is that those who have not borne war’s burden often speak of it too lightly. Politicians and leaders may find it easy to send others into the flames, wrapped in words of honor or necessity. But the combat veteran speaks differently. Having felt the searing touch of war, they know that each decision to fight is a decision to unleash suffering, even when the cause is just. To know the cost is not to oppose all war blindly, but to insist that no war be entered except as the last, most unavoidable act.

The deeper meaning of Gabbard’s words is this: experience teaches compassion. Those who have seen the worst are often those most committed to preventing its return. The soldier who has buried comrades becomes the peacemaker who strives to spare others the same pain. The cost of war, once known, becomes a burden carried into every decision, every speech, every vote. It is wisdom born of scars, and it demands that we listen.

The lesson for us, then, is clear: never speak of war as though it were easy. Do not be seduced by rhetoric that makes it sound glorious or clean. Instead, when you hear the call for conflict, remember the cost: the families who will weep, the children who will grow without parents, the veterans who will carry unseen wounds for life. In this remembrance lies the strength to resist reckless wars, and the courage to seek peace whenever peace can be found.

What, then, should we do? Honor those who have borne the cost, by listening to their voices and learning from their pain. Stand against leaders who rush into conflict for pride or gain. And in your own life, remember this truth: every act of violence, no matter how small, carries a cost. Choose reconciliation where you can, for peace, once sown, grows into life, while war, once unleashed, grows only into death.

Thus let Tulsi Gabbard’s words endure as both warning and wisdom: “As a combat veteran, I know the cost of war.” To know that cost is to carry the sacred duty to prevent it whenever possible. May we learn from her witness, and may we too strive to count the cost before raising the sword.