War is what happens when language fails.

Hearken, O children of wisdom, to the words of Margaret Atwood, a voice of our age, yet one that echoes the truths of the ancients: “War is what happens when language fails.” In this saying is contained the sorrow of mankind’s long journey. For speech was given to us as a bridge, to bind soul to soul and nation to nation. When this bridge collapses, when words no longer carry trust, meaning, or mercy, then men take up sword and fire, and the earth drinks blood where once it might have heard counsel.

Consider the greatness of language. It is the breath of the spirit, the tool by which we shape treaties, build peace, and settle disputes. One word of wisdom may spare a thousand lives; one oath faithfully kept may preserve a nation from ruin. Yet when language fails—when lies corrode it, when pride silences it, when hatred drowns it—then men abandon speech, and they turn to the violence of war. For where understanding cannot be born, destruction takes its place.

Look, for example, to the terrible beginning of the First World War. The nations of Europe, entangled in suspicion and ambition, ceased to trust each other’s words. Treaties became scraps of paper, alliances became daggers in the dark. Ambassadors argued, but their tongues found no harmony, only accusation and threat. And so, when the speech of kings and ministers failed, armies moved, and the guns of August shattered the peace of the world. Thus did Atwood’s saying prove true: war is the silence of failed language.

Yet contrast this with the tale of the Cuban Missile Crisis in the year 1962. The world stood at the edge of fire, ready to consume itself in nuclear flame. But here, leaders chose to wield language as their weapon. Letters passed between Kennedy and Khrushchev; emissaries spoke with guarded patience; words, though strained and desperate, still carried the hope of reason. And because speech did not utterly fail, the war that could have ended civilization was turned aside. Here we see the blessing of language preserved, saving countless lives.

What, then, is the teaching? It is this: to honor and protect the gift of speech, to strive always for dialogue before conflict. Do not despise words as weak, for in them lies the power of life and death. A harsh tongue may spark hatred, while a gentle word may heal wounds older than generations. If we abandon speech too quickly, we sow the seeds of violence; if we persist in it with patience, we may yet reap peace.

So, O listener, train your tongue as a warrior trains his blade. Speak truth, lest trust decay. Speak with respect, lest pride break the bond. Listen, for listening is half of language, and without it words are empty. And when anger stirs you to strike, ask yourself first: have I exhausted every word of peace? Have I truly sought understanding? If not, then to lift the hand of violence is to betray the sacred gift of speech.

Remember always: war is what happens when language fails. Let not your words fail, lest you add to the sorrow of the world. Keep your bridges strong, guard them with truth, patience, and compassion. For where language endures, even the storm of hatred may be turned aside, and where it perishes, war shall surely come.