I saw Kuwait many times before the war. I remember it as a

The words of Norman Schwarzkopf — “I saw Kuwait many times before the war. I remember it as a beautiful place, full of very nice people, and it's a tragedy to see that somebody could set out to deliberately destroy a country the way the Iraqis have.” — are spoken with the sorrow of one who witnessed not only the clash of armies, but the devastation of a land and a people. He does not speak merely of military campaigns or shifting borders; he speaks of the shattering of a nation’s life, of homes reduced to ashes, of beauty turned into ruin. His words remind us that war is not only the contest of soldiers, but the deliberate wounding of entire cultures, and the deliberate breaking of what once flourished.

Schwarzkopf knew Kuwait before its invasion, when it was a nation of prosperity, a jewel of the Gulf, where modernity and tradition blended and people lived with dignity. His memory of Kuwait as “a beautiful place, full of very nice people” shows that nations are not abstractions — they are living communities of families, shopkeepers, children at play, elders in prayer. To see such a land invaded and burned is to see the destruction not only of territory, but of trust, of memory, of the very soul of a people. Thus, his lament carries the deep weight of betrayal against innocence.

The tragedy deepened because the destruction was not born of accident, but of deliberate intent. Schwarzkopf underscores this when he speaks of those who “set out to deliberately destroy a country.” Invasion is terrible enough, but deliberate devastation — the burning of oil fields, the looting of homes, the shattering of cultural treasures — reveals a cruelty beyond conquest. It is to leave scars that endure for generations, so that even victory cannot restore what was lost. This is why he calls it tragedy, for tragedy is not merely suffering, but suffering brought upon the innocent by the will of others.

History is filled with such moments. When the Romans burned Carthage at the end of the Punic Wars, they salted the earth so that nothing would grow. Carthage was not merely defeated — it was erased, its beauty turned to ash. Likewise, in Kuwait, when retreating forces set hundreds of oil wells aflame, black smoke choked the skies, and the land itself seemed to mourn. The world watched, horrified, as one of the wealthiest and most vibrant nations in the Middle East was brought to its knees by deliberate ruin. Schwarzkopf’s words, spoken from the heart of that conflict, call us to see the magnitude of such destruction.

Yet his remembrance is not only sorrow; it is also warning. He reminds us that nations, like individuals, may be tempted to destroy what they cannot fully possess. Aggression, when left unchecked, becomes cruelty, and cruelty becomes tragedy for all. The lesson is that we must never allow ourselves to view the suffering of another nation with indifference. For the destruction of one land diminishes the humanity of all lands, and the wound of one people echoes in the hearts of all peoples.

The lesson for us, then, is to cultivate reverence for the beauty of nations — their cultures, their traditions, their people. We must resist the temptation to see countries only as pieces on a chessboard of power. Instead, we must see them as living, breathing societies worthy of protection and respect. When conflict arises, we must remember the human face of the nation, and not allow greed, vengeance, or pride to blind us to its humanity.

What practical wisdom follows? In our own lives, we can practice this respect by valuing the cultures and peoples beyond our own borders. Learn from them, honor them, and stand against words or actions that dehumanize them. Support leaders who seek peace rather than domination. And when you witness injustice — whether the destruction of a nation, a community, or even the dignity of a single person — raise your voice against it. For silence allows tragedy to spread.

Thus let Schwarzkopf’s words endure as both lament and counsel: to destroy a country is to destroy a piece of humanity itself. Let us, then, be guardians of nations as we are guardians of our families — with reverence, compassion, and vigilance. For only in this way can the beauty of peoples endure, and only in this way can the tragedies of the past be prevented from becoming the tragedies of tomorrow.