War: a massacre of people who don't know each other for the

Hear, O children of tomorrow, the piercing words of Paul Valéry, who unveiled the cruel irony of human strife: “War: a massacre of people who don’t know each other for the profit of people who know each other but don’t massacre each other.” In this single utterance, the poet strips the veil of noble illusion from war, showing it not as valor’s feast but as a grim bargain, where the common man bleeds while the mighty clasp hands in hidden halls. The swords are wielded by strangers, yet the fruits of conquest are gathered by familiar friends seated far from the smoke of the battlefield.

The origin of these words lies in Valéry’s vision after the Great War, that calamity which swept across Europe like a devouring fire. Millions perished, men from France, Germany, Britain, Russia, America—most of whom had never laid eyes upon one another before they struck and fell. They fought not for personal enmity, but for banners raised by rulers, for treaties signed in secret, for wealth and dominion that belonged not to them. Thus, Valéry laid bare the hidden exchange: the unknown are slain, the known are enriched.

Let us recall Verdun, 1916, where for months the cannons thundered and the earth itself seemed to cry out in agony. French and German youths, who might have been neighbors, students, or artisans in another world, poured out their lives in that furnace. Yet the architects of their suffering—the ministers, the financiers, the generals—stood far behind the lines, sipping wine, measuring the tides of battle with cold pens upon maps. When peace was signed, it was not the dead who rejoiced, but those whose fortunes had multiplied while blood mingled with mud.

This paradox has echoed throughout ages. Did not the peasants of Europe march to war at the call of kings who had quarreled over land they would never till? Did not the sons of Asia and Africa die in fields far from home, serving empires whose rulers they would never meet? Always it is the multitude—farmers, craftsmen, laborers—who strike against one another, though no quarrel exists between them. The quarrel lies among those who dine together, who speak each other’s names, who scheme and profit while others perish.

Valéry’s words, therefore, cut like a prophet’s rebuke: war is not born of the hatred of the many, but of the ambitions of the few. It is the few who know one another, who call each other “friend” across borders, who shake hands at conferences and carve up the spoils of peace. Yet it is the many who bear the yoke, who see their children starve, their homes destroyed, their lives cut short in the service of causes not their own.

What lesson, then, must we take from this? We must guard our hearts against the easy intoxication of warlike cries, against the voices that demand sacrifice without reckoning whose table shall be filled by it. The wise must always ask: who profits, and who pays? The farmer in his field has more in common with the farmer across the river than with the lords who send them both to die. The worker at his bench shares more kinship with the laborer abroad than with the magnates who command them.

Therefore, let our action be this: to seek fellowship among ordinary men and women, across borders and tongues, so that the few may not turn us against one another. Let us practice vigilance, questioning the motives of leaders who clamor for war, and let us cultivate bonds of solidarity that make such wars harder to wage. To honor Valéry’s wisdom is to refuse to be pawns in games we did not design. Resist blind hatred, cherish unity, and speak against those who profit by division.

Carry these words as a lamp: “War is a massacre of strangers for the profit of acquaintances.” May they remind you to see clearly, to value peace, and to bind yourselves to one another in the name of justice and compassion. For if we heed this teaching, the future need not be built on the bones of strangers, but on the shared labor of friends.