People nowadays don't know about the Cold War and the U.S.'s old

Hideo Kojima, the storyteller who often wove the struggles of nations into his tales of men and machines, once reflected with sadness: “People nowadays don't know about the Cold War and the U.S.'s old rivalry with the U.S.S.R.” These words are not spoken as mere complaint, but as lament—lament that memory fades, that the lessons of fire and shadow are forgotten, and that the generations who did not live through the fear of annihilation walk as though no such storm ever darkened the earth.

The origin of this statement lies in the long and tense standoff that stretched from the end of the Second World War to the final years of the twentieth century. The Cold War was no ordinary conflict. It was a duel of ideologies, capitalism against communism, democracy against dictatorship, each armed not only with armies but with weapons capable of ending the world. For decades, the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. faced each other in a rivalry that touched every corner of the earth—wars by proxy, spies in the shadows, missiles aimed and waiting. It was a war of fear, of silence, of brinkmanship, where a single mistake could unleash the fire of Armageddon.

The meaning of Kojima’s words is clear: when memory fades, so too does vigilance. The Cold War shaped nations, alliances, and technologies, yet younger generations often know it only as a vague phrase in history books. They do not feel the weight of duck-and-cover drills, the terror of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the long stalemate in Vietnam, or the race to the stars driven by the rivalry of superpowers. To forget such a past is dangerous, for it blinds us to the signs of rising conflict, to the reality that peace is never guaranteed, and to the truth that even the greatest powers may stumble into ruin if pride overwhelms wisdom.

Consider the story of October 1962, the Cuban Missile Crisis. For thirteen days, the world held its breath as Soviet missiles were discovered in Cuba, aimed at American cities. President Kennedy and Premier Khrushchev stood locked in a deadly dance of threats and negotiations. One wrong move, one rash command, and millions would have perished in nuclear fire. Yet through restraint, courage, and dialogue, catastrophe was averted. This moment revealed the full terror of the Cold War—and the miracle that humanity survived. To forget such a story is to forget how close we once came to self-destruction.

Or think of the Berlin Wall, that scar of concrete and barbed wire dividing a city, a nation, and a world. Families torn apart, soldiers standing guard, escapees shot in the night—this was the visible symbol of the rivalry Kojima speaks of. And when the Wall finally fell in 1989, it was not only the collapse of a structure but the crumbling of an empire, and with it, the easing of a rivalry that had dominated half a century. To remember this is to remember that walls of hatred and division may seem eternal, but they too can be brought down.

Yet Kojima’s lament also carries a deeper warning. The struggles of the Cold War did not vanish into history—they left behind legacies, tensions, and weapons still aimed, still waiting. When people forget the past, they risk repeating it. The old rivalry may appear gone, but new rivalries emerge, cloaked in different names, fought with different tools. To forget the lessons of patience, diplomacy, and restraint learned during those dark decades is to walk blindly into dangers reborn.

The lesson for us is clear: do not let memory wither. Teach the young the meaning of the Cold War—not as dry dates, but as living stories of fear and endurance, of arrogance and restraint, of humanity standing on the edge of the abyss. Let them know that peace is fragile, that rivalry can consume the world, and that vigilance must be matched by wisdom. Just as the Wall fell, just as the missiles were withdrawn, so too can future conflicts be defused—if we remember what nearly was, and what must never be again.

Practical wisdom calls us to act: read the stories of those who lived through the Cold War, listen to their voices, and pass their lessons onward. When new divisions rise, resist the urge to mock or ignore history. Instead, remember Kojima’s lament: people nowadays don’t know. Therefore, let us know, let us remember, let us teach. For only in remembering can we guard against the return of that same shadow.