Can anything be stupider than that a man has the right to kill

The French philosopher and seer of the human heart, Blaise Pascal, once thundered against the madness of nations with this piercing question: “Can anything be stupider than that a man has the right to kill me because he lives on the other side of a river and his ruler has a quarrel with mine, though I have not quarrelled with him?” In these words he unmasks the folly of war, the absurdity of borders, and the cruelty of rulers who drag ordinary men into battles not of their own making. Pascal, with the clarity of reason sharpened by faith, exposes the lunacy of shedding blood for disputes in which the people themselves have no part.

This saying was born in the seventeenth century, in the aftermath of Europe’s endless wars—conflicts of religion, ambition, and pride that left fields barren and families in mourning. Pascal saw how peasants who once traded across rivers became enemies overnight, not because of quarrels among themselves, but because princes and kings had clashed in arrogance. The river, once a boundary of nature, became a line of death. The subjects on either side had no quarrel, yet they were compelled to kill each other as though they did. Thus Pascal declared this practice not merely tragic, but stupidity of the highest order.

History abounds with examples. Consider the First World War, when the youth of France and Germany, neighbors in blood and culture, were hurled against each other in trenches. They had no personal quarrel; many had more in common with each other than with the rulers who sent them to die. Yet because their leaders quarreled, they slaughtered one another across barbed wire, separated not by rivers alone but by the inventions of power. Millions perished, not for hatred of one another, but for causes they scarcely understood. Pascal’s cry echoes through that war: what madness is this, that strangers must kill each other for the quarrels of rulers?

The ancients, too, glimpsed this truth. When Hector faced Achilles before the walls of Troy, he did not quarrel with the Greek himself. He fought because his city’s honor was bound to the will of kings. Yet his blood was spilled, and his family broken, not by his own enmity, but by the pride of rulers who sought vengeance over stolen honor. Thus, from Troy to the trenches, the same folly repeats: men wage war not for themselves, but for the ambitions of others.

From this, O children of the future, learn the wisdom of Pascal. When you are told to hate another because of a line on a map, or because rulers quarrel, ask yourself: What quarrel have I with this man? What wrong has he done me? Most often, you will find that the stranger across the river, across the border, across the sea, is as human as you—loving his family, fearing death, longing for peace. The true enemy is not the man across the river, but the pride, greed, and folly that pit neighbor against neighbor.

The lesson, then, is clear: refuse to be a tool in the quarrels of the mighty. Cherish peace over blind loyalty to rulers who would spill your blood for their glory. Question the calls to hatred that rise when borders are threatened. And in your personal life, do not let the quarrels of others ensnare you into battles that are not yours. Guard your hand from striking where your heart holds no anger.

Practical actions follow: seek friendship across divisions, learn the language of those called your “enemies,” and see in them not rivals but reflections of yourself. In disputes at home, resist being drawn into quarrels not of your making. And in the wider world, stand for peace, even when the powerful clamor for war. For true strength is not in obedience to folly, but in the courage to declare, as Pascal did, that such killing is not only unjust—it is the height of stupidity.

Thus let his words endure across the ages: “Can anything be stupider…?” Let them pierce the armor of propaganda, let them awaken hearts dulled by the drums of war. For only when men see the absurdity of killing for rulers’ quarrels will the rivers cease to run red, and the earth at last taste the blessing of peace.