Since the German people, with unparalleled heroism, but also at

Hear, O children of history, the voice of Bernhard von Bülow, who declared: “Since the German people, with unparalleled heroism, but also at the cost of fearful sacrifices, has waged war against half the world, it is our right and our duty to obtain safety and independence for ourselves at sea.” These words, spoken in the fires of the First World War, are both declaration and justification. They reveal the mind of a nation besieged, bleeding, yet unbowed, seeking to claim for itself the strength and security denied it by the powers of the earth.

Von Bülow, once the chancellor of Germany, spoke to his people and to the world with the authority of one who had seen the empire rise under the iron chancellorship of Bismarck and expand into a rival of Britain, France, and Russia. To him, the war was not only a contest of armies, but a trial of destiny. Germany, hemmed in by rivals, yearned for its place among the great sea powers. And as its people endured the hunger of blockade and the agony of trenches, von Bülow framed their suffering as the price of eventual greatness. Sacrifice, he said, must lead to independence; blood spilled on the land must yield freedom upon the waters.

History shows us the weight of his words. For Germany, unlike Britain, was not born a maritime power. Its might was forged on land, with soldiers and cannons, with discipline and order. Yet by the dawn of the twentieth century, the seas had become the true highways of empire. Britain’s navy ruled them, securing colonies and wealth across the globe. To von Bülow and his contemporaries, this imbalance was intolerable: if Germany fought “half the world,” it must be because half the world stood guard over the seas, while Germany remained caged within its frontiers. Thus, his cry for a navy was not mere policy—it was the vision of a people longing to break their chains.

But here lies the tragedy. For the war that Germany waged with “unparalleled heroism” was also a war of desperation, and the “fearful sacrifices” consumed an entire generation. The trenches at Verdun, the fields of the Somme, the starvation of the blockade—these became the true cost of von Bülow’s words. And though he spoke of duty and independence, history would show that Germany’s dream of naval supremacy shattered against the fleets of Britain and the entry of America into the conflict. The seas were not conquered, and the sacrifices bore not freedom, but humiliation in the Treaty of Versailles.

Yet let us not dismiss his words as empty rhetoric. They are a mirror of a deeper truth: that nations, like men, often justify their struggles by appealing to destiny, to honor, to necessity. Von Bülow spoke as many leaders before him had spoken: like Pericles urging Athenians to endure plague and war for the sake of empire, like Napoleon urging his soldiers to cross the Alps for the glory of France. Such words bind suffering to purpose, and turn the agony of the present into the promise of the future.

But the lesson for us, O seekers, is not to glorify such cries uncritically. We must hear in them both the nobility of human endurance and the danger of human pride. The German people indeed endured fearful sacrifices, and their courage cannot be denied. Yet courage yoked to ambition without restraint leads to devastation. To seek safety and independence is just; to cloak conquest in those terms is perilous.

Therefore, remember this wisdom: in times of struggle, weigh carefully the voices that bind your sacrifices to promises of greatness. Ask whether the price demanded truly leads to freedom, or whether it feeds the pride of rulers. Honor the heroism of those who endure war, but learn also from their suffering, lest you repeat it. For as von Bülow’s words remind us, a people may fight with valor against the world, and yet, if wisdom fails, find themselves not in independence but in ruin. True safety lies not in conquest, but in justice; true independence lies not in war alone, but in peace rightly built.