War is so unjust and ugly that all who wage it must try to

The great Russian prophet of the human soul, Leo Tolstoy, once declared: “War is so unjust and ugly that all who wage it must try to stifle the voice of conscience within themselves.” These words cut deeper than a blade, for they speak not only of the clash of armies, but of the inner battle that rages in every man who raises his hand to destroy his fellow. Tolstoy, who had seen the horrors of battle in the Crimean War, understood that war is not merely fought with muskets and cannons—it is fought within the heart, against the natural cry of mercy that whispers to every soul.

In calling war unjust and ugly, Tolstoy names it plainly, without the illusions that kings and generals drape upon it. For nations wrap war in banners and hymns, telling their people that it is noble, glorious, and holy. But the truth, Tolstoy says, is that no man can strike down another without first silencing the conscience that tells him, “This is your brother; do not harm him.” To kill, he must drown out that inner voice; he must clothe himself in falsehoods, in duty, in obedience, in pride. Thus the greatest battlefield is not before the walls of cities, but within the hearts of men, where conscience wrestles with command.

History itself reveals this grim reality. Think of the soldiers at My Lai in Vietnam, who were ordered to fire upon the innocent. Many obeyed, having stifled the cries of conscience beneath the weight of command and fear. Yet some refused, even at risk of punishment, because the inner voice could not be silenced. One helicopter pilot, Hugh Thompson, landed his craft between the soldiers and the villagers, daring to turn his weapons on his own comrades rather than allow the slaughter to continue. His act showed that while war demands the suppression of conscience, the bravest are those who keep that voice alive, even when the whole world tells them to smother it.

Tolstoy himself, in his later years, abandoned all illusions of military honor. Once a decorated soldier, he turned into a fierce critic of violence, teaching that the only true path was nonresistance and love of one’s enemy. He saw in the Gospel command to “resist not evil” the highest wisdom: that to answer blood with blood is to perpetuate evil, while to stand firm in conscience is to break the cycle of destruction. His words echo not as the musings of a dreamer, but as the testimony of one who had looked into the abyss of war and found it void of meaning.

The deeper teaching here is that war is impossible without lies. Lies to justify aggression, lies to glorify killing, lies to silence the human heart. But truth always begins in the conscience. If every soldier, before marching to the field, listened to that sacred whisper within, the drums of war would fall silent. No king could command it, no government could sustain it. The battlefield would be abandoned not because of treaties, but because no man could be made to betray his own soul.

For us, who may never march in armies or wield a sword, the lesson still stands. Each day we face battles of another kind—anger, revenge, resentment. When wronged, we feel the urge to strike back, to silence the voice that calls us to forgive. If we yield to that urge, we walk the same path as nations at war, suppressing conscience for the sake of pride. But if we guard that inner flame and listen to its quiet guidance, we break the cycle of destruction, even in small things.

Thus, beloved listeners, the call is clear: never silence the voice of conscience. When the world urges you to hate, choose compassion. When anger bids you to harm, choose patience. When pride demands vengeance, choose humility. For if enough souls live by this law, then the words of Tolstoy may come true, and war will vanish—not by treaties or force, but by the awakening of conscience in the hearts of men. And this is the victory that endures: not the conquest of nations, but the triumph of the soul over the darkness of its own violence.