That most unfortunate war, which I deeply deplore.

The words of Emperor Hirohito — “That most unfortunate war, which I deeply deplore.” — were spoken in sorrow at the end of the Second World War, when Japan lay in ruins, its cities burned, its people weary, and its spirit broken beneath the weight of defeat. These words, spoken by a man once regarded as divine, carry not the triumph of victory, but the humility of regret. They reveal the recognition that a path once taken in pride and ambition had led only to ruin, and that no glory could be found in such devastation.

In this phrase, Hirohito names the war as “unfortunate,” a word simple yet filled with layers of meaning. It acknowledges that the war brought nothing but suffering: Hiroshima and Nagasaki scorched by the first use of atomic fire, millions dead across Asia, and a nation humbled before the world. By calling it unfortunate, he distances it from triumph and casts it as a mistake, a calamity that should never have been. In his lament, we hear the voice of a ruler who sees too late the cost of choices made in the name of empire.

To “deeply deplore” is more than to regret; it is to grieve, to mourn, to declare one’s sorrow in the presence of all. For Hirohito, it was an act of surrender not only of arms, but of pride. Once worshipped as a living god, he now confessed before his people and the world that the war had been a tragedy. His words sought to soothe the wounds of a nation and to signal a turning away from the path of militarism. They were, in essence, an appeal to begin again, to rebuild upon ashes with humility rather than arrogance.

History reminds us of the truth of his lament. The Pacific War had begun with bold expansion — the attack on Pearl Harbor, the conquest of vast territories across Asia and the Pacific. Yet what seemed at first triumph became overreach, and the United States and its allies pushed back with relentless strength. By 1945, Tokyo itself was firebombed, Okinawa drenched in blood, and the Japanese people starving. The emperor’s words at surrender are the mirror of this descent: ambition turned to ashes, pride to sorrow.

There is a lesson here, told across the ages. The ancient kings of Mesopotamia, the emperors of Rome, the conquerors of Europe — all who sought dominion through endless war eventually stood in ruin, forced to see their empires crumble. Hirohito’s lament joins their voices, warning future generations that war waged in arrogance, war pursued without wisdom, will not end in glory but in lamentation. The mightiest thrones are shaken when they forget that the true duty of rulers is to protect their people, not to gamble their lives in reckless ambition.

The deeper meaning for us is this: never let ambition blind us to the suffering of others, nor pride prevent us from seeing the true cost of war. For Hirohito, the recognition came too late — after millions had already perished. But we, hearing his words, may learn before the fire consumes us. His phrase is not only a confession of defeat, but a gift of warning to all who would choose war lightly.

What then should we do? In our own lives, we must live as guardians of peace. Resist the voices that glorify violence or promise easy victory through conflict. Honor those who suffered in past wars by ensuring their sacrifice is not repeated in vain. And when disputes arise — whether between nations, neighbors, or even within our hearts — choose wisdom, patience, and compassion before the path of destruction.

Thus let Hirohito’s words endure as a solemn teaching: war that begins in pride will end in sorrow. Let us deeply deplore it before it begins, rather than only after it ends. For in this foresight lies the true strength of nations and the true nobility of humankind.