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The question we should be asking is not "Why haven’t we stopped waging war?" or "How can we prevent war?" , but "How can we reduce the damage of war?", or "How can we ensure war doesn’t destroy humanity?"
The question we should be asking is not "Why haven’t we stopped waging war?" or "How can we prevent war?" , but "How can we reduce the damage of war?", or "How can we ensure war doesn’t destroy humanity?"
The question we should be asking is not "Why haven’t we stopped waging war?" or "How can we prevent war?" , but "How can we reduce the damage of war?", or "How can we ensure war doesn’t destroy humanity?"
The question of why humanity has never ceased waging wars seems, in today’s context, like one of those grand, unanswerable mysteries. Yet, to me, the answer is simple—it's just one most people are unwilling to accept: humans have an indelible animal instinct encoded in their genes—“the desire to possess resources” and “territoriality.” Even though we like to distinguish ourselves as the most advanced species on Earth, Darwin’s theory of evolution hasn’t erased this primal drive from us.
In fact, we don’t need to feel ashamed of this inherent animal nature. Whether it’s for territory or resources, both are deeply tied to our survival and sense of security. We crave personal spaces—our own rooms, or cubicles at work—because they carve out territory for privacy. We desire real estate because it marks our domain, providing us with shelter. We establish borders and customs stations because they declare sovereignty, securing our territorial claims. The war between Ukraine and Russia is a stark example of territorial instinct, or the broader need for security: Ukraine seeks NATO membership for safety, while Russia sees NATO’s expansion as a threat too close to home. So, two nations engage in a brutal conflict over a security concern that hasn’t even materialized. It’s like two lions roaring at each other across their adjoining territories, eventually clashing in a fight born from perceived threats—an absurd scenario when viewed from a civilized standpoint, yet one humanity repeats often without realizing.
This deep-seated survival instinct, wired into our genes, binds us to conflict, just as it does other animals, because territory and resources are finite. Marxist visions of a utopian, resource-rich communist society where everything can be distributed according to need remain mere dreams. As long as any organism or civilization exists, its need for resources will drive relentless expansion—until it collapses. You can catch a glimpse of this idea in one of the most popular modern sci-fi novels, The Three-Body Problem.
Wars are perpetual not only because of our innate animal instincts but also due to the “physical laws” of human society. While we share animalistic traits, we’re not the same as other creatures. Humans have agency, self-awareness, and creativity, enabling us to achieve what other animals cannot. Yet, our human agency often fails us. Despite the fact that almost everyone despises war, fears nuclear devastation, and dreads death, there seems to be no collective force capable of halting the escalation of these conflicts. Why? Because the behavior of a group differs from that of individuals. Although a group is made up of individuals, its actions and thought processes often diverge from those of its members. The individual will can become “disabled” in the group consciousness. For instance, a collection of peace-loving individuals can form a group that exhibits belligerent tendencies. Parents, who as individuals want nothing more than to keep their children safe, might collectively support their nation's military efforts out of a need for security. Politicians, driven by ambitions, may endorse war despite knowing its destructive potential. Soldiers, too, might not want to die on the battlefield, but duty forces them to obey orders and pull the trigger.
I liken this disconnect between individual and collective will to a phenomenon in the microphysical world. On a microscopic level, countless particles are in constant motion, yet at the macro level, they manifest as a solid, immovable stone. Each particle follows its own physical laws, canceling out the movements of others and creating a stasis.
Thus, the real question is not "Why have we never stopped waging war?" nor "How can we end war entirely?" because the former is driven by our animal nature, and the latter requires us to defy both our animal instincts and the physical laws of human society. Instead, we should ask: How can we reduce war and its destructive impact? How can we prevent wars from leading to our own annihilation? This is akin to addressing climate change. If we frame the problem as "How do we eliminate or stop climate change?" humanity will never find an answer. But if we ask ourselves, "How can we mitigate the impact of climate change?" and "How can we adapt to it?"—and in turn buy ourselves time to adapt—I guarantee that humanity can discover countless solutions. These solutions may be small or grand, diverse and creative, and can work locally within different cultures and communities. Together, they could help us achieve collective survival.
I see this way of approaching the issue as an application of the Taoist philosophy of "Shangshan Ruoshui" (the highest virtue is like water). When water encounters an obstacle, it doesn’t attempt to destroy it. Every being has its own way of existence, and we must first respect that. If you are a stream flowing toward a stone, insisting that the stone move for you is both unfair to the stone, which cannot move, and a potentially futile effort that may destroy you. However, this doesn’t mean that water always gives way or resigns itself to its fate. When you see a rock eroded by water over time, you’ll understand water’s perseverance. It uses the power of time, eroding the stone drop by drop, achieving its goal without forcing a zero-sum outcome. The stone remains largely intact, but with a passage carved through it for the water to continue its flow.
Look at the conflict in the Middle East, where Jews and Arabs, both claiming the same sacred land, will likely never see peace. The Jewish desire to establish their own state for security is understandable, but by founding it on land already home to Arab states, they’ve ensured their security will always be tenuous—unless they can reconcile religiously and share both their faith and the land. But that’s nearly impossible, as it would require them to abandon their core beliefs, akin to asking a stone to cease being a stone. Unless, that is, they choose to live like water. Indeed, some anti-Zionist Jews have chosen such a path: preserving their Jewish identity and culture while living harmoniously among others without territorial conflict. As for the Western politicians who forcibly carved out a land for the Jewish people, they clearly lacked the wisdom of water. They disrupted the established lives of the local Arab population, leading to never-ending landslides and collapses.
If the Creator has bound us to our animal nature and the laws of physicality, then what lessons can we learn from water? Can we find a way to rethink our questions, change our approach to survival, and adopt a new way of confronting obstacles?
The question of why humanity has never ceased waging wars seems, in today’s context, like one of those grand, unanswerable mysteries. Yet, to me, the answer is simple—it's just one most people are unwilling to accept: humans have an indelible animal instinct encoded in their genes—“the desire to possess resources” and “territoriality.” Even though we like to distinguish ourselves as the most advanced species on Earth, Darwin’s theory of evolution hasn’t erased this primal drive from us.
In fact, we don’t need to feel ashamed of this inherent animal nature. Whether it’s for territory or resources, both are deeply tied to our survival and sense of security. We crave personal spaces—our own rooms, or cubicles at work—because they carve out territory for privacy. We desire real estate because it marks our domain, providing us with shelter. We establish borders and customs stations because they declare sovereignty, securing our territorial claims. The war between Ukraine and Russia is a stark example of territorial instinct, or the broader need for security: Ukraine seeks NATO membership for safety, while Russia sees NATO’s expansion as a threat too close to home. So, two nations engage in a brutal conflict over a security concern that hasn’t even materialized. It’s like two lions roaring at each other across their adjoining territories, eventually clashing in a fight born from perceived threats—an absurd scenario when viewed from a civilized standpoint, yet one humanity repeats often without realizing.
This deep-seated survival instinct, wired into our genes, binds us to conflict, just as it does other animals, because territory and resources are finite. Marxist visions of a utopian, resource-rich communist society where everything can be distributed according to need remain mere dreams. As long as any organism or civilization exists, its need for resources will drive relentless expansion—until it collapses. You can catch a glimpse of this idea in one of the most popular modern sci-fi novels, The Three-Body Problem.
Wars are perpetual not only because of our innate animal instincts but also due to the “physical laws” of human society. While we share animalistic traits, we’re not the same as other creatures. Humans have agency, self-awareness, and creativity, enabling us to achieve what other animals cannot. Yet, our human agency often fails us. Despite the fact that almost everyone despises war, fears nuclear devastation, and dreads death, there seems to be no collective force capable of halting the escalation of these conflicts. Why? Because the behavior of a group differs from that of individuals. Although a group is made up of individuals, its actions and thought processes often diverge from those of its members. The individual will can become “disabled” in the group consciousness. For instance, a collection of peace-loving individuals can form a group that exhibits belligerent tendencies. Parents, who as individuals want nothing more than to keep their children safe, might collectively support their nation's military efforts out of a need for security. Politicians, driven by ambitions, may endorse war despite knowing its destructive potential. Soldiers, too, might not want to die on the battlefield, but duty forces them to obey orders and pull the trigger.
I liken this disconnect between individual and collective will to a phenomenon in the microphysical world. On a microscopic level, countless particles are in constant motion, yet at the macro level, they manifest as a solid, immovable stone. Each particle follows its own physical laws, canceling out the movements of others and creating a stasis.
Thus, the real question is not "Why have we never stopped waging war?" nor "How can we end war entirely?" because the former is driven by our animal nature, and the latter requires us to defy both our animal instincts and the physical laws of human society. Instead, we should ask: How can we reduce war and its destructive impact? How can we prevent wars from leading to our own annihilation? This is akin to addressing climate change. If we frame the problem as "How do we eliminate or stop climate change?" humanity will never find an answer. But if we ask ourselves, "How can we mitigate the impact of climate change?" and "How can we adapt to it?"—and in turn buy ourselves time to adapt—I guarantee that humanity can discover countless solutions. These solutions may be small or grand, diverse and creative, and can work locally within different cultures and communities. Together, they could help us achieve collective survival.
I see this way of approaching the issue as an application of the Taoist philosophy of "Shangshan Ruoshui" (the highest virtue is like water). When water encounters an obstacle, it doesn’t attempt to destroy it. Every being has its own way of existence, and we must first respect that. If you are a stream flowing toward a stone, insisting that the stone move for you is both unfair to the stone, which cannot move, and a potentially futile effort that may destroy you. However, this doesn’t mean that water always gives way or resigns itself to its fate. When you see a rock eroded by water over time, you’ll understand water’s perseverance. It uses the power of time, eroding the stone drop by drop, achieving its goal without forcing a zero-sum outcome. The stone remains largely intact, but with a passage carved through it for the water to continue its flow.
Look at the conflict in the Middle East, where Jews and Arabs, both claiming the same sacred land, will likely never see peace. The Jewish desire to establish their own state for security is understandable, but by founding it on land already home to Arab states, they’ve ensured their security will always be tenuous—unless they can reconcile religiously and share both their faith and the land. But that’s nearly impossible, as it would require them to abandon their core beliefs, akin to asking a stone to cease being a stone. Unless, that is, they choose to live like water. Indeed, some anti-Zionist Jews have chosen such a path: preserving their Jewish identity and culture while living harmoniously among others without territorial conflict. As for the Western politicians who forcibly carved out a land for the Jewish people, they clearly lacked the wisdom of water. They disrupted the established lives of the local Arab population, leading to never-ending landslides and collapses.
If the Creator has bound us to our animal nature and the laws of physicality, then what lessons can we learn from water? Can we find a way to rethink our questions, change our approach to survival, and adopt a new way of confronting obstacles?
The question of why humanity has never ceased waging wars seems, in today’s context, like one of those grand, unanswerable mysteries. Yet, to me, the answer is simple—it's just one most people are unwilling to accept: humans have an indelible animal instinct encoded in their genes—“the desire to possess resources” and “territoriality.” Even though we like to distinguish ourselves as the most advanced species on Earth, Darwin’s theory of evolution hasn’t erased this primal drive from us.
In fact, we don’t need to feel ashamed of this inherent animal nature. Whether it’s for territory or resources, both are deeply tied to our survival and sense of security. We crave personal spaces—our own rooms, or cubicles at work—because they carve out territory for privacy. We desire real estate because it marks our domain, providing us with shelter. We establish borders and customs stations because they declare sovereignty, securing our territorial claims. The war between Ukraine and Russia is a stark example of territorial instinct, or the broader need for security: Ukraine seeks NATO membership for safety, while Russia sees NATO’s expansion as a threat too close to home. So, two nations engage in a brutal conflict over a security concern that hasn’t even materialized. It’s like two lions roaring at each other across their adjoining territories, eventually clashing in a fight born from perceived threats—an absurd scenario when viewed from a civilized standpoint, yet one humanity repeats often without realizing.
This deep-seated survival instinct, wired into our genes, binds us to conflict, just as it does other animals, because territory and resources are finite. Marxist visions of a utopian, resource-rich communist society where everything can be distributed according to need remain mere dreams. As long as any organism or civilization exists, its need for resources will drive relentless expansion—until it collapses. You can catch a glimpse of this idea in one of the most popular modern sci-fi novels, The Three-Body Problem.
Wars are perpetual not only because of our innate animal instincts but also due to the “physical laws” of human society. While we share animalistic traits, we’re not the same as other creatures. Humans have agency, self-awareness, and creativity, enabling us to achieve what other animals cannot. Yet, our human agency often fails us. Despite the fact that almost everyone despises war, fears nuclear devastation, and dreads death, there seems to be no collective force capable of halting the escalation of these conflicts. Why? Because the behavior of a group differs from that of individuals. Although a group is made up of individuals, its actions and thought processes often diverge from those of its members. The individual will can become “disabled” in the group consciousness. For instance, a collection of peace-loving individuals can form a group that exhibits belligerent tendencies. Parents, who as individuals want nothing more than to keep their children safe, might collectively support their nation's military efforts out of a need for security. Politicians, driven by ambitions, may endorse war despite knowing its destructive potential. Soldiers, too, might not want to die on the battlefield, but duty forces them to obey orders and pull the trigger.
I liken this disconnect between individual and collective will to a phenomenon in the microphysical world. On a microscopic level, countless particles are in constant motion, yet at the macro level, they manifest as a solid, immovable stone. Each particle follows its own physical laws, canceling out the movements of others and creating a stasis.
Thus, the real question is not "Why have we never stopped waging war?" nor "How can we end war entirely?" because the former is driven by our animal nature, and the latter requires us to defy both our animal instincts and the physical laws of human society. Instead, we should ask: How can we reduce war and its destructive impact? How can we prevent wars from leading to our own annihilation? This is akin to addressing climate change. If we frame the problem as "How do we eliminate or stop climate change?" humanity will never find an answer. But if we ask ourselves, "How can we mitigate the impact of climate change?" and "How can we adapt to it?"—and in turn buy ourselves time to adapt—I guarantee that humanity can discover countless solutions. These solutions may be small or grand, diverse and creative, and can work locally within different cultures and communities. Together, they could help us achieve collective survival.
I see this way of approaching the issue as an application of the Taoist philosophy of "Shangshan Ruoshui" (the highest virtue is like water). When water encounters an obstacle, it doesn’t attempt to destroy it. Every being has its own way of existence, and we must first respect that. If you are a stream flowing toward a stone, insisting that the stone move for you is both unfair to the stone, which cannot move, and a potentially futile effort that may destroy you. However, this doesn’t mean that water always gives way or resigns itself to its fate. When you see a rock eroded by water over time, you’ll understand water’s perseverance. It uses the power of time, eroding the stone drop by drop, achieving its goal without forcing a zero-sum outcome. The stone remains largely intact, but with a passage carved through it for the water to continue its flow.
Look at the conflict in the Middle East, where Jews and Arabs, both claiming the same sacred land, will likely never see peace. The Jewish desire to establish their own state for security is understandable, but by founding it on land already home to Arab states, they’ve ensured their security will always be tenuous—unless they can reconcile religiously and share both their faith and the land. But that’s nearly impossible, as it would require them to abandon their core beliefs, akin to asking a stone to cease being a stone. Unless, that is, they choose to live like water. Indeed, some anti-Zionist Jews have chosen such a path: preserving their Jewish identity and culture while living harmoniously among others without territorial conflict. As for the Western politicians who forcibly carved out a land for the Jewish people, they clearly lacked the wisdom of water. They disrupted the established lives of the local Arab population, leading to never-ending landslides and collapses.
If the Creator has bound us to our animal nature and the laws of physicality, then what lessons can we learn from water? Can we find a way to rethink our questions, change our approach to survival, and adopt a new way of confronting obstacles?
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