There was a time when war meant fear.

Now it means notifications.

An explosion flashes across the screen.
Missiles. Retaliation. Counter-strike.
We watch. We share. We argue.
Then we scroll to the next video.

The war does not stop.
Only our attention does.

When the news comes every hour, suffering begins to feel ordinary.
Once, hearing that people had died would make us pause.
Now we measure tragedy in numbers.

10 people.
50 people.
500 people.

As the numbers rise, our emotions shrink.

Maybe we are not cruel.
Maybe we are tired.

There was a time when a distant war felt distant.
Now it enters our feed instantly.
But the problem is this:

Anything that lives in a feed doesn’t live for long.

Has our empathy become algorithm-driven?

The stories that trend feel more important.
The videos that go viral feel more real.

What happens to the rest of the pain?

We take sides.
We defend.
We debate.

But rarely do we stop and ask—
Who was the person on the other side?

Someone’s child.
Someone’s parent.
Someone’s unfinished dream.

War is political.
Death is always personal.

The most frightening part is not the explosions.

It’s the way we slowly get used to them.

Without hearing the blast,
we still become numb.

Maybe our humanity doesn’t disappear overnight.
Maybe it erodes quietly, one headline at a time.

The fire of war burns far away.
But the ash settles inside us.

So here is the question—

Are we watching war,
or are we slowly losing our ability to feel?

We read war through numbers—
how many killed, how much land taken, how many billions lost.

But war is not a game of statistics.
War is an equation of power, and in that calculation, human beings become expendable assets.

Headlines don’t say this—
the first casualty of war is truth.
Each side calls its bombs “defense” and the other side’s grief “propaganda.”
Truth becomes a luxury. In wartime, the state does not carry truth—it deploys it.

Headlines don’t say this—
people lose their moral compass slowly.
First, the enemy is a human being.
Then a “target.”
Then a “number.”

The person who once said, “Killing innocents is wrong,”
now says, “In war, some collateral damage is inevitable.”
Morality doesn’t die—
the state simply places it on leave.

Headlines don’t say this—
war divides empathy by nationality.
Our children are martyrs.
Theirs are collateral damage.
Tears speak the same language, but when the flag changes, so does their value.

Headlines don’t say this—
war teaches people to fear thinking.
Questioning becomes treason.
Doubt becomes betrayal.
The state demands loyalty, not intelligence—
because people who think are difficult to rule.

Headlines don’t say this—
war makes cruelty habitual.
At the first body, we tremble.
By the tenth, we scroll while sipping tea.
Cruelty is not born—it becomes normal through repetition.

Headlines don’t say this—
those who survive are never the same.
They return home, yes—
but trust does not return,
security does not return,
and most terrifying of all—
the ability to imagine a future does not return.

If Machiavelli were here, he might say—
war can be necessary for the state.
But if the state forgets that the true cost is paid by human beings,
it may survive—
yet not for its people,
but by using them.

After war, maps change.
But what changes quietly—
without a headline—
is the human being inside the human being.

A tourist went on a trip to Mexico. While wandering around, he arrived at the seashore and was delighted to watch the fishermen catching fish. He approached them and asked,

“How long does it take you to catch fish each day?”

“Not very long,” the fishermen replied quickly.

“Then why don’t you spend more time fishing and catch more fish?” the tourist asked.

“The fish we catch are enough for our needs,” the fishermen said as they pulled in their nets.

“Then what do you do with the rest of your time?” the tourist wanted to know.

The fishermen answered, “We sleep, play with our children, eat with our wives, spend time chatting with friends in the evening, have fun, laugh, sing loudly, and enjoy life.”

Interrupting them, the tourist said, “I have an MBA from Harvard University. I can help you with my business knowledge. You should spend more time fishing, sell the extra fish, and buy a bigger boat.”

“Then what?” the fishermen asked.

“With bigger boats you’ll catch more fish and earn more money. With that money you can buy several more boats. Eventually, you’ll build an entire fishing fleet. Then you won’t sell your fish to middlemen anymore—you’ll deal directly with fish processing factories. One day, you’ll even open your own fish processing factory. After becoming very wealthy, you’ll leave the village and move to a big city in Mexico, or even to Los Angeles or New York in the USA. From there, you’ll launch mega projects,” the tourist went on.

“How long will all this take?” the fishermen asked.

“It will take at least 20 to 25 years,” the tourist replied after a moment of thought.

“And then?” the fishermen asked curiously.

Smiling, the man said, “When your business grows even bigger, you’ll enter the stock market and earn millions of dollars.”

“Millions of dollars! Suppose we get that. But then what?” the fishermen asked in surprise.

Now slightly annoyed, the tourist replied, “Then you’ll retire. You’ll return to a quiet village, sleep by the sea, play with your children, eat with your wife, spend evenings chatting with friends, and enjoy life.”

The fishermen looked at him calmly and said,
“But that’s exactly what we are doing right now! So why should we suffer for 20–25 years?”

—Collected