Every war when it comes, or before it comes, is represented not

The words of George Orwell — “Every war when it comes, or before it comes, is represented not as a war but as an act of self-defense against a homicidal maniac.” — are the wisdom of one who had looked into the machinery of power and seen its tricks laid bare. Orwell, who fought in Spain and lived through the convulsions of the Second World War, understood that wars are not born only from necessity but from the stories told to justify them. His warning is clear: before the bombs fall, leaders cloak aggression in the language of protection, casting their enemy as a monster so that their own violence may appear righteous.

To call the enemy a “homicidal maniac” is to strip him of humanity, to paint him not as a man but as a beast beyond reason. It is easier to rally a people to war when they believe they are defending themselves against madness rather than contesting power, resources, or influence. Thus Orwell exposes the mask: every war is sold to the public not as conquest, but as self-defense, not as ambition, but as necessity. This is the eternal rhetoric of power — to persuade the people that they are forced to fight, when often it is their leaders who hunger for battle.

History bears countless examples of this truth. Before the First World War, nations dressed their aggression in the language of defense. Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia in the name of justice after an assassination, Germany spoke of protecting itself from encirclement, and Britain of defending small nations. Each side claimed to resist a homicidal threat, yet all marched willingly into the abyss of slaughter. The trenches filled not because peoples desired empire, but because they were told their very survival was at stake.

So too in the Second World War, propaganda painted enemies in monstrous hues. The Nazis described their campaigns as struggles for self-preservation against supposed conspiracies, while the Allies rightly cast Hitler himself as the embodiment of homicidal madness. Orwell, living in this time, saw the paradox: even when wars are fought against real tyrants, the language of self-defense is universal, and thus people are always told they have no choice but to fight.

Orwell’s insight is not to deny that self-defense can be real, but to warn that it is also the most powerful cloak for deception. Leaders know that the people will endure sacrifice only if they believe they are protecting home and family. Thus, even in wars of ambition, the story remains the same: we did not seek war; it was forced upon us by a madman. By the time the truth emerges, the cannons are already roaring, and the lies are buried with the dead.

The lesson, then, is vigilance. We must train our minds to question the stories told to us before war begins. When leaders speak of maniacs, of existential threats, of battles that cannot be avoided, we must ask: is this truly defense, or is it ambition cloaked in fear? To accept every claim without question is to become an accomplice to deception. To think critically is not weakness, but the truest form of loyalty — loyalty to life, to justice, and to truth.

What, then, should we do in our own lives? Learn from Orwell. Resist the seduction of simple tales where one side is pure and the other insane. Understand that in human affairs, motives are complex, and wars are rarely as clean as their prophets proclaim. Demand honesty from leaders, seek multiple voices, and never surrender your conscience to the drums of war. For only those who think hard before believing can prevent the cycle Orwell described from consuming new generations.

Thus let his words endure as a fire in our memory: every war is dressed as defense against a maniac. Let us not be blinded by the costume. Let us look deeper, judge carefully, and remember always that truth is the first casualty of war. And by guarding truth, perhaps we may also guard peace.