“War never changes.”
That is how the Fallout universe begins—a fictional post-apocalyptic world telling the story of humanity after a nuclear catastrophe.
But is that really true? Does war truly never change? I would like to explore this a little.
Perhaps from the perspective of a man setting out on a journey from which it is so hard to return—or from the perspective of his wife, his children, and his mother—we would find little difference between today and the days Homer describes in the Iliad. The horror of war, its indiscriminate nature, like a tornado that sweeps away everything in its path—none of this has gone anywhere.
Equally unchanged is the fact that war originates in the interests of elites and those in power. The military process is not conceived in the minds of ordinary people. The strategy of attack and defense is not shaped in the heads of the populace. And it is not the common citizen who is the direct beneficiary when the spoils are distributed. Yes, it sometimes happens that the interests of elites align with those of the population; there are also political regimes in which the impression of complete identity between these interests is cultivated. This impression is formed with varying degrees of naturalness: in some places the people genuinely believe the elite exists only for their sake; in others, the elite embodies the fatherland itself; elsewhere, it claims to express the will of the masses.
I have even encountered the opinion that in a modern, highly developed state, the elite has no interests of its own at all—only the interests of the people. Perhaps. But I have not found a single example in history where State A declared war on State B solely because the rights of its own citizens were being violated.
Here we must draw a clear line: it is one thing to rhetorically justify war by appealing to the interests of the people—and quite another to actually start a war because the rights of ordinary people are being trampled.
For my part, I will continue to proceed from the assumption that the interests of elites and the population are different, and that interstate wars are generally unleashed because the interests of the elites—first and foremost—have been infringed upon. This claim may seem too “strong,” but I am not aware of any information that would substantially disprove it.
So—does war change for the common people over the course of history? I don’t think it changes much. But does it change for the elites (whatever form they take in any given century)? Now that is where things get interesting.
Do you remember Agamemnon, sailing to Troy? According to myth and epic, he led his warriors with sword in hand. He personally took part in the key events. An image of courage backed by personal risk. It is hard to imagine that in that era the central functions of a ruler were fully delegated. There were always friends and comrades hungry for glory—but to walk at the head of the formation was considered the ruler’s duty and honor. To stand with his subjects in the moments when they march toward certain death (even if not on the very front lines), to endure all the hardships and deprivations of campaigns, to “lead from the front”—this was the core function of power in that age. Not an obligatory rule, but an ideal. An image that served as a model.
Alexander the Great, Marcus Aurelius, and even Edmund Ironside—all of them personally led their armies. “To hold the sword in one’s hands” and to bear the burden of power were long seen as inseparable, romanticized obligations of the first person. This union of functions was not a written norm, but an unwritten ideal—celebrated in culture. Even if we take the later feudal era, we see the same: land granted by a liege to a vassal was a gift to a warrior—payment for loyalty and readiness to fight. The martial function was inseparable from the status itself.
Thus, ideally, the right to rule was directly tied to personal strength, personal valor. There were those who avoided warfare during their reigns—but Power, the elite of that era, was first and foremost force. Above all, it was the readiness to bear the risks of one’s own adventurism with one’s own body.
What has happened since then? When did power, force, and personal risk to one’s own life become separated? I think it happened gradually, for many reasons that accumulated over centuries. I am not going to trace them all. But I would introduce one important Indicator. It is not about the violation of anyone’s rights. But notice: a woman could not be a fully legitimate first person in many societies. Less so legally, more so spiritually: if a woman becomes the first person—how will she hold the sword? The very emergence of the possibility for a woman to hold supreme power becomes an indicator that supreme power has already ceased to conceptually require personal physical strength or masculinity from the first person; wherever this became possible, power no longer implied the bodily risk of the ruler.
So we see the distinction:
The old image of the ruler—a warrior; bearer of physical strength; participant in risk.
The new image of the ruler—a political subject; organizer; dispenser of force, but not necessarily its bearer with his own body.
However, it should be noted that military service to the fatherland and governance as a combined phenomenon still occurred even in the 20th century. We know that many politicians were military men. We know that the children of many members of the elite directly fought in wars. It is deeply symbolic when a politician or elite figure declares: “I do not merely extract benefits from what is happening—my own son is fighting on the front lines.”
Such a circumstance testifies, at minimum, that the powerful have not merely delegated to their people the right of bodily representation in war (along with the risks of death), but bear the burden of its consequences themselves. Modernity offers few such examples. By the way, after World War II, the very nature of wars changed. War became, to a lesser extent, “existential.” Existential in the sense that, as a result, your fatherland could cease to exist entirely; that a foreigner could enter the home of an ordinary citizen and take it from him. Although local conflicts do still occur, in which states split or merge, or regimes are replaced with ones loyal to the aggressors.
But in modern warfare, we usually do not speak of the loss of statehood (yet). Nor do we speak of the destruction of a people, or of aggressors seizing your home or your women. A term like “genocide” has emerged, and the modern aggressor tries as much as possible to avoid that label—above all, in the eyes of his own compatriots (though we all know counterexamples). For it is not enough merely to wage war—it is important to wage war while proclaiming it a righteous cause. “Genocide” is hard to reconcile with “goodness,” no matter how cunning the orator. A modern state requires public legitimation even when it resorts to extreme violence.
The other side of the coin is that in these “modern conditions,” finding volunteers among the ordinary population for your war has become harder. It is extremely difficult to convince a citizen that he needs to defend the interests of the elite at the cost of his own life. An elite that, meanwhile, takes no bodily risk. Information, education, open borders—all of this makes it somewhat harder. However, let us be honest: with competent ideological processing (seasoned with a little bloodletting), the elite still manages it, and the people still go to war.
There is also the contract system and professional mercenaries—but I am speaking not so much of them, but of the ordinary citizen sitting in an office or working at a machine. For him, it has become harder to understand why he should go and lay down his body on the altar of elite interests.
Nor should we forget nuclear weapons. Sinister and incinerating, their existence has prevented large-scale bloodshed between powerful states. But that did not last long, and right before our eyes it is changing. Does having nuclear weapons stop anyone from raiding your country? Does it mean a nuclear inferno will follow for the attacker? Modernity has shown—no. The doctrine of nuclear use, reluctance to escalate, and other political circumstances still prevent it from being used in local conflicts.
But look at the substitution that has occurred: the use of nuclear weapons is like that very sword held in the first person’s hand—so why not wield that sword? Quite simply: because then the ruler’s own body comes under threat, and with it the state itself, the people, and the planet. Nuclear weapons, designed to ensure deterrence, have become the personal guardian angel of the elite.
“Woe to the wayward ruler who failed to acquire a nuclear arsenal. Shamefully he sits in a court on the territory of the state that kidnapped him, and they charge him with crimes against humanity.”
Nuclear weapons are the great safety lock, and voters should choose their rulers wisely: God forbid this sword ends up in the hands of someone who is not afraid to stake his own life. Fate forbid that at this post stands a courageous idealist for whom virtues or ideals matter more than his own pitiful self-interest. In traditional political ethics, the ruler must be fearless; today, the ruler who is too fearless is the dangerous one.
Yes. Nuclear weapons nowadays are a guarantee of the bodily safety of today’s life-loving elites. That is their value—which, combined with the frailness of the elite, will prevent the very scenario of the Fallout universe from coming to pass.
Does war change?
For those whose lifespan is brief in a trench—hardly at all. But for those who make the decisions, it has changed forever: transformed from an arena of personal risk into a technology for managing the risks of others—with the guarantee of their own inviolability secured by a nuclear arsenal.
That’s my opinion.
Do you think war is changing?
). I don’t know how much of that was fact or simply made up by an over-enthused reporter.