To walk through the ruined cities of Germany is to feel an

George Orwell, prophet of the modern conscience, once wrote: “To walk through the ruined cities of Germany is to feel an actual doubt about the continuity of civilization.” These words, spoken after the Second World War, rise like ashes from the rubble. They are not merely a description of broken stones and shattered walls, but a cry from the soul of a man who saw what happens when human progress devours itself. For in the silence of fallen streets and burnt-out homes, Orwell felt the tremor of a question: can the march of civilization truly endure, or is it but a fragile dream, forever threatened by the storms of war?

The ruined cities Orwell describes were once thriving centers of culture, art, music, and industry. Dresden, Cologne, Hamburg — places that had given the world beauty and brilliance — lay reduced to heaps of rubble, haunted by the memory of firebombs and thunderous destruction. To see them in such a state was to realize that no city, however radiant, is immune from the rage of men. What had taken centuries to build could be erased in hours. This is why Orwell felt an actual doubt: if the most advanced societies could collapse into ruins, what assurance is there for the future of mankind?

Orwell’s words also speak to the paradox of human achievement. The same ingenuity that built soaring cathedrals and libraries also crafted the bombers that burned them. The same intellect that composed symphonies also engineered weapons of mass slaughter. Thus, the very tools of civilization can become instruments of its undoing. When Orwell walked those shattered streets, he was not only mourning the dead stones of Germany, but warning the living that progress without wisdom leads to ruin.

Consider Dresden in February of 1945. The city, known as the “Florence on the Elbe,” was reduced to ashes in a firestorm that killed tens of thousands in a single night. Once, it had been a jewel of culture; afterward, it was a wasteland. To walk those streets was to feel not triumph, but grief — to wonder whether human beings were destined always to destroy the very beauty they create. Here is the living example of Orwell’s lament: the continuity of civilization shaken by the hand of its own makers.

Yet, Orwell’s doubt is not hopelessness. It is a challenge. To doubt the permanence of civilization is to recognize its fragility, and in that recognition lies a sacred duty: to guard it. His words remind us that the structures of peace, culture, and justice are not eternal by themselves. They must be defended not only by armies, but by conscience, by compassion, by the daily labor of those who refuse to let hatred reign. If we forget this, the ruins will return.

The lesson, then, is clear: every generation inherits both the ashes and the possibility of renewal. To prevent the collapse of civilization, we must reject the arrogance that believes progress is guaranteed. We must instead build with humility, remembering that cathedrals and libraries, laws and freedoms, stand only so long as we guard them with vigilance. For war is not only fought with weapons; it begins in the hearts of men, when envy, pride, and cruelty are left unchecked.

Therefore, my children, let Orwell’s vision be your guide. When you walk through the ruins of history — whether in books, in memory, or in cities still scarred by flame — do not turn away. See them, feel them, and learn. Live in such a way that your hands build rather than destroy, your words heal rather than divide, your choices preserve rather than consume. For only through such vigilance can the fragile thread of civilization endure unbroken, and the dream of humanity continue through the storms of time.