I thought the war would never end. And perhaps it never did

The words of George Grosz — “I thought the war would never end. And perhaps it never did, either.” — are not merely the sigh of a man broken by battle, but the lament of an age, echoing across generations. They remind us that the scars of war are not measured only in ruined cities and fallen bodies, but in the lingering shadows it casts upon the human soul. The cannons may grow silent, yet the thunder remains within, resounding in memory, in society, in the spirit of those who survived. To say that the war never ended is to confess that its poison continues to flow, unseen, shaping the world long after the treaties are signed.

Grosz spoke as one who had walked through the inferno of the First World War, and who saw in its aftermath a society pretending to heal while still bleeding within. He was a German artist, disillusioned by the promises of glory, disenchanted by the hypocrisy of politics, and horrified by the grotesque parade of destruction he had witnessed. In his brushstrokes and in his words, he cried out against the lie that peace had truly come. For in the taverns, in the streets, in the hearts of the people, the spirit of war still dwelt, hidden beneath uniforms and broken dreams.

Indeed, history confirms his insight. After 1918, the world proclaimed peace, yet the embers of conflict glowed beneath the ashes. Germany’s humiliation, economic collapse, and the bitterness of veterans wandering the streets in despair were not the marks of a healed nation but of a wound festering still. The so-called end of the war was but an interlude, a pause between storms. From that poisoned soil rose the fury of fascism, and within two decades, the earth once again shook with marching boots and the clash of arms. Grosz was right: the war never ended, it merely changed its mask.

Consider also the men who carried the war in their minds. Some returned to their homes but could not leave the trenches behind. Their nights were haunted by the roar of artillery, their days shadowed by the faces of lost comrades. They lived in peace, but peace was a fragile veil, torn again and again by memories that clawed at their souls. In modern times, we give it the name trauma, but in ancient language, it is the curse of war’s spirit, refusing to be dismissed. Thus, for the soldier, too, the war never ends; it lives within him, demanding recognition, demanding endurance.

Think of Odysseus, the cunning king of Ithaca, who wandered for years after Troy had fallen. Though the city burned, his trials did not cease. The war followed him home, in shipwreck, in loss, in battles yet to come. And when he did return, it was not to rest, but to fight again, to purge his house of those who had dishonored it. The poets knew what Grosz knew: the war never ends, it only transforms. What begins on the battlefield seeps into the hearth, the city, and the generations to follow.

The lesson is stern but clear: do not believe that the end of a conflict erases its mark. Nations and men alike must labor to heal, lest the wound fester into new strife. When you see anger or bitterness after the quarrel is done, do not dismiss it — tend it, cleanse it, and speak truth to it. If left untended, yesterday’s quarrel becomes tomorrow’s war. To think otherwise is folly, and folly breeds suffering.

So what must the wise do? First, remember that peace is not given; it is made, and then remade each day. Seek reconciliation, not merely silence. Speak with those you wronged, and listen when you are confronted. Teach your children that the battle is not glorious, but grievous. And when you carry wounds, seek to heal them, not to hide them. To live as though the war never ended is to remain chained to sorrow. But to labor for healing, to confront shadows with courage, is to bring forth true peace, within and without.

Therefore, carry Grosz’s words as a warning and a charge. The war never ends unless we end it in ourselves, in our communities, and in our nations. Do not be deceived by the silence of cannons; listen instead to the whispers of memory and the cries of the wounded. Only when those voices are heard and answered can the tide of history turn toward peace.