In every war, there's looting.

Hear, O children of history, the sobering words of Cate Blanchett, who declared: “In every war, there’s looting.” In this brief but piercing truth, she unmasks one of the oldest companions of human conflict: the plundering of what is not one’s own. For war is not only the clash of armies upon battlefields; it is also the unraveling of order, the breaking of restraint, and the descent of man into chaos, where greed and desperation take hold as surely as swords and guns.

The origin of this truth stretches back into the dawn of civilization. When cities were sacked in ancient Mesopotamia, their treasures were carried off as prizes. When the Romans conquered Carthage, they stripped its temples and enslaved its people. When Constantinople fell in 1204 during the Fourth Crusade, soldiers who had sworn holy vows turned into looters, stealing relics, gold, and even tearing the bronze horses from the Hippodrome to adorn Venice. In each case, the sword was followed by the hand of theft, as if war itself demanded that order be overturned and the strong seize from the weak.

Yet looting is not only about gold and jewels. It is the theft of culture, memory, and dignity. In the Second World War, the Nazis looted not only lands but also art—paintings, manuscripts, sacred objects—seeking to erase identities and replace them with their own. Libraries burned, museums were emptied, and families were robbed not just of possessions but of their history. Here the truth of Blanchett’s words deepens: war devours not only life but also the heritage of civilizations.

Sometimes looting arises not from malice but from hunger and despair. In the aftermath of the Great Depression, when war erupted, soldiers and civilians alike scavenged to survive. In the ruins of bombed-out cities like Dresden or Hiroshima, ordinary people picked through rubble not for treasure but for bread, shoes, or blankets. Even then, Blanchett’s words hold true: wherever war goes, looting follows, whether in the hands of the greedy or the desperate.

But there is also a symbolic looting, a theft beyond material goods: war loots innocence, loots trust, loots the sense of security that binds communities together. In Vietnam, in Iraq, in Syria, people lost not only homes but faith in the stability of their world. The looting of banks and markets was matched by the looting of hope. Thus, the words of Blanchett remind us that war takes what is most precious, even when no gold changes hands.

The lesson here is not to accept looting as inevitable, but to recognize it as the shadow of conflict. For if we know that every war brings plunder, we must strive to prevent war itself. And when war cannot be prevented, we must safeguard what we can—protect heritage, defend the vulnerable, preserve the dignity of peoples—so that the looters do not have the final word. Awareness is the beginning of resistance.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, take this teaching: remember that in times of strife, chaos always seeks to seize what does not belong to it. Do not let your own soul become a looter, driven by greed or despair. Instead, be a guardian—of justice, of heritage, of compassion. For Blanchett’s words are both a lament and a warning: in every war there is looting—but in every heart there can be resistance to it. Only then can humanity rise above the oldest curse of conflict.