The Futility of War
Selim Yenel (Rtd. ambassador)
30 March 2026
How can we stop wars? Is such an attempt futile or just naive? Are we condemned to conduct wars? These questions come up everytime we see the effects of conflict on a daily basis. Just look at the news. It’s everywhere. Each day we have been increasingly bombarded by horrowing sights for the last four years.
War has been part of human history almost since its very beginning. Despite thousands of years of destruction, suffering, and devastation, humanity has not managed to abandon it as a tool of policy. On the contrary, wars persist, sometimes changing in form, but rarely in essence.
For much of history, wars were primarily fought between neighboring states. Geography imposed natural limits. Armies moved on foot or horseback, and conflicts tended to remain regional. Even when maritime power expanded the reach of states, allowing them to project force across oceans, distance still imposed significant constraints.
This pattern is visible even in modern history. The First World War began as a conflict among neighboring European powers. Alliances transformed it into a wider war, but its origins were fundamentally regional. Similarly, during the Second World War, Germany’s expansion was directed toward its immediate surroundings, while Japan focused on East Asia. Even the United States, once drawn into the conflict, can be seen, strategically if not geographically, as part of the same interconnected system.
Only with the full engagement of the United States did these wars truly become global in scope.
Colonial wars represented an early departure from this pattern. European powers fought conflicts far from their own territories, projecting military force into distant lands. Yet such wars were costly and difficult to sustain. Distance strained logistics, finances, and domestic political support. For this reason, wars fought far from home have remained relatively limited in number.
Over the past century, however, a few powers, most notably France, Great Britain, and the United States, have repeatedly engaged in distant conflicts. In the twenty-first century, this trend has become even more pronounced, with the United States taking the lead, often supported by allies operating in auxiliary roles.
Yet history also reveals a striking pattern: aggressive wars, particularly those fought far from home, rarely achieve their intended objectives.
The examples are numerous and compelling.
Germany and Japan, the principal aggressors of the Second World War, were ultimately defeated and profoundly weakened. France and the United States struggled and left defeated in Viet Nam. The Soviet Union failed in Afghanistan, as later did the United States after two decades of military presence. Russia today faces a prolonged and
uncertain struggle in Ukraine. Even when military victories are achieved, they do not necessarily translate into political success.
The United States–led coalition succeeded in the First Gulf War because its objective was limited and clearly defined: the expulsion of Iraqi forces from Kuwait. By contrast, the Second Gulf War, aimed at reshaping Iraq, produced instability and long-term consequences that undermined any notion of strategic success.
These examples point to a broader conclusion: wars of aggression are structurally prone to failure, especially when they seek to impose political outcomes on societies that resist them.
When a country is attacked, its population often rallies in defense. External aggression tends to strengthen internal cohesion, even in societies that may otherwise be divided. National identity hardens, resistance intensifies, and the cost of occupation or coercion rises dramatically. In such circumstances, the aggressor’s military superiority is frequently offset by political and social resistance.
This is why wars of choice, wars that are not fought in self-defense, are particularly problematic. They are often justified through narratives of preemption, security, or necessity. Yet in practice, they tend to produce unintended consequences, prolong conflict, and deepen instability.
At a moral level, one may go even further. Wars that are not fought in defense of one’s own country raise profound ethical questions. They blur the line between combat and coercion, between security and domination. It is actually murder in the guise of combat.
This dynamic can be observed in current conflicts. Israel’s response following the Hamas attacks of October 7, 2023, can be understood within the framework of self-defense. However, the subsequent escalation and expansion of military action raise broader questions about proportionality, objectives, and long-term consequences.
Similarly, the actions taken by Israel and the United States against Iran reflect the logic of preemptive or preventive war. Such strategies may aim to neutralize perceived threats before they fully materialize. Yet history suggests that these approaches often fail to produce lasting stability. Instead, they risk triggering wider conflicts, strengthening adversaries’ resolve, and encouraging further militarization.
Ultimately, the enduring lesson of history is not that war disappears, but that its effectiveness as a tool of policy is deeply limited.
The end of the First World War remains one of the clearest examples. The Treaty of Versailles sought to secure peace by weakening Germany through harsh political and economic conditions. Instead, it produced resentment, humiliation, and instability. These unresolved grievances became fertile ground for extremism and ultimately paved the way
for the Second World War. What was intended as a final settlement proved instead to be an interlude.
A similar dynamic can be observed in the post-Cold War period. The collapse of the Soviet Union was treated largely as a strategic victory. Russia emerged weakened, disoriented, and diminished. Over time, the perception that its interests had been ignored, particularly in relation to NATO’s expansion, fed Moscow a narrative of grievance and exclusion. This sentiment has contributed to Russia’s increasingly assertive posture and willingness to use force to reshape its strategic environment.
These examples point to a broader conclusion, how wars end matters more than how they are fought.
A peace that humiliates, isolates, or ignores the defeated party often carries within it the seeds of future conflict. By contrast, settlements that aim at inclusion and legitimacy, even among former adversaries, stand a better chance of enduring. Germany and Japan are the prime examples.
This lesson is directly relevant to the current war involving Iran.
Even if Israel and the United States succeed in degrading Iran’s military capabilities or delaying its nuclear ambitions, the fundamental question will remain: what comes next? If the outcome is perceived in Tehran as humiliation, coercion, or externally imposed subjugation, it is unlikely to produce long-term stability. On the contrary, it may reinforce the very dynamics it seeks to eliminate, strengthening hardline elements, deepening anti-Western sentiment, and encouraging a renewed pursuit of deterrence, including nuclear capability.
Indeed, there is a real risk that this war could accelerate nuclear proliferation rather than prevent it. If states conclude that only nuclear weapons can guarantee regime survival, the long-term consequences could be far more destabilizing than the threat the war was intended to eliminate.
At the same time, the regional dimension cannot be ignored. Middle Eastern states will draw their own conclusions from this conflict. Some may seek stronger alliances; others may invest more heavily in self-reliance. The result could be a more fragmented and militarized regional order.
In this sense, the war against Iran risks becoming not a solution, but a catalyst, one that reshapes the strategic landscape in unpredictable ways.
Wars started by the aggressor rarely end where they are expected to.
And this brings us back to the central paradox. Wars may shape the battlefield, but they seldom shape a durable peace. If the aftermath of this war is not carefully managed, it may well set the stage for the next one.
Military power can destroy. It can weaken. It can even temporarily impose outcomes. But it rarely resolves the underlying political problems that gave rise to conflict in the first place. And this is perhaps the most important lesson of all. For all the strategic calculations, doctrines, and justifications that accompany war, one fundamental reality often remains distant from those who decide upon it: its human cost. Wars are not abstractions; they are lived experiences of destruction, loss, and suffering.
In sum war is futile. We see it but cannot prevent it.
One cannot help but wonder whether decisions would be made differently if those who choose war had themselves experienced its realities firsthand.
If political leaders had known combat personally, they might be far more reluctant to pursue it.
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