I am a pacifist and have always avoided the army – dismissing it as something bad, superfluous, that should be abolished. My mother always preached the principle to me : «The wiser person gives in.» So I stood in the schoolyard while I was being pushed around and wondered if the time of the predators would ever end.
I told myself that I might not be the stronger one, but at least I could be the smarter one. And so I hoped that the less intelligent one would eventually come to his senses. In principle, that's still the case today.
My eldest son – eight – is a different calibre. He's not a fighter, but he's certainly not someone who puts up with everything. Words are his sharpest weapon. Just like me. While my parents preached that it was worth avoiding conflict at all costs, I'm honestly not so sure about that.
What if the saying no longer applies? What if the smarter person has become too passive and constantly gives in – in the hope of something good? And then, as we see in global politics, it turns out that we have mistakenly assumed that the other person is also a rational being? What if the smarter person gives in, but only to make room for the other?
«War is when two people argue.»
The topic recently became relevant when my sons – the younger one is six – wanted to know what war is. I live separately from my wife, and she believes that politics should not be discussed with children. I, on the other hand, think that children's questions should be answered in a way that does not cause them unnecessary fear. One of my eldest son's best friends is from Ukraine. So, of course, it's a topic of conversation.
«What is war?» he wants to know. «Well, war is,» I say, trying to choose my words carefully, «war is when two people fight.» «Like in our school playground?» he presses. «When two people fight?» «More like this: when two people fight, but it's not about resolving a conflict, but about marking a claim,» I say.
What if the smarter one gives in, but in doing so only makes room for the others, the predators?
«For example: No one except me is allowed on the climbing frame. All children shorter than 1.60 metres are no longer allowed to enter the left side of the schoolyard. Or all children who believe differently than I do are no longer allowed to play.» «That's really mean,» says my son. «And what do you do if the other person is stronger – or has more friends?»
I explain to him what «institutionally restricted» means. «There is always someone who is even stronger and takes care of exactly that. At your school, it's the playground supervisors or the school management, in everyday life it's the police. In a war, it's the army. They are there to make sure that nothing happens to you.»
I pause. Did I just say that? Me, the pacifist? The one who boasted when he was called up for military service that he would never carry a weapon? The one who associated soldiers with right-wing views, war crimes or completely unnecessary interventions? Tornadoes over Afghanistan, the Bundeswehr in Mali wearing sunglasses, the tattoo at the Bendlerblock: was all that right again?
Real wars? They don't exist anymore!
My generation grew up believing that real wars were over. Not these short-term geopolitical interventions, but the big, real wars. We grew up with «Never again Auschwitz, never again war». And now ministers are telling us we need to become «resilient» again?
What do we know about real war?
Yes, well. We know about the war in Ukraine and we all think it's really bad. As television viewers, with one hand on the remote control. But I remember sitting on my grandmother's upholstered sofa when I was about the same age as my son is now. She was watching the Winter Olympics. At school, I had heard that there had been a big war – and that a stone at the church commemorated it. Since my grandmother must have been about the same age as that stone, I thought she must have been there.
«What was it like during the war, Grandma?» I asked her. But my grandmother didn't want to talk about the war anymore. Shortly before she died, she gave me a box containing my grandfather's medals and a book with photos from the front: him in his shiny black uniform, hands behind his back, on the Eastern Front.
If you need to save yourself, me, or your brother, hitting is allowed.
My son in uniform
These days, many fathers are once again talking about their fear that their children might one day have to join the armed forces – and be sent into combat. The threat from Russia, the drone sightings everywhere. Is this a foretaste of things to come? Is the term «Eastern Front» experiencing a renaissance? Are the tools of barbarism lying in our cellars, crudely packed away, ready for use at any moment? Is the cloak of civilisation thinner than we thought?
What if the institutions that are supposed to protect us have long since failed? Is the era of predators in the school playground not over, but only just beginning?
I have to put down my bread roll as an image flashes into my mind: my blond son, aged 18, standing to attention at the flag ceremony.
Accepting violence as a means to an end?
«Mika says Trump should supply Ukraine with missiles so they can fire at Russia. Is that true?» asks my son, continuing to eat undeterred. «In principle, yes,» I say, thinking how quickly our history bleeds into the present.
«You know,» I say, placing my bread on the plate. «Many people want this to stop. Some say that weapons will help us win faster. Others say that it will only make things worse. It's a dilemma.» «What's a dilemma?» asks my son. «When there are no easy answers,» I say.
«But you say that the smarter person gives in,» he says. «When I say that the smarter person gives in, I don't mean that the smarter person has to put up with everything. I mean that arguments shouldn't be resolved with violence. Because that usually doesn't solve the problem.» «And what does that mean?» «It means that we may have to help people when they are attacked,» I say. «So that the weaker ones are protected when no one else helps them.» «With violence?» my son asks incredulously.
I hesitate and say, «Yes, even with force.» «But you always say hitting is forbidden!» «Yes,» I say. «If you hit someone because you want to take revenge or humiliate them, then hitting is forbidden. If you have to save yourself or me or your brother, then hitting is allowed.» «I wouldn't have thought that,» says my son, biting off a piece of bread. «To be honest, I wouldn't have thought that either,» I say, «that I would ever say something like that.»
One of the biggest disappointments
I think about this a lot over the next few days. As a pacifist, it doesn't feel right to accept violence as a means to an end. But when I look around and watch the news in the evening – Ukraine, Sudan, Gaza – I often ask myself what it means to be human. And when we started worshipping the wrong idols – money, the law of the strongest, the domineering behaviour of some men in world politics.
There is nothing I fear, no suffering that befalls me, but I fear for my children and that I cannot protect them.
I always hoped that these principles would die out over the course of my lifetime. For me as a man, this is one of the greatest disappointments; that we are back where we were before. Sometimes I seriously wish I had done basic training in the army after all.
Kamikaze drone outside the window
They are already distributing information that you need battery-powered radios, food for at least seven days, a charged power bank and candles. In Poland, civil resistance is already being trained: partisan courses for citizens. In Bremerhaven, less than 40 minutes from where I live, critical infrastructure is being scouted out every day. Will I live to see a kamikaze drone outside my window when I open the curtains in the morning?
Do I need to write down close contacts and talk to my children about what we would do if we were separated? I am very, very afraid that my life will not be as peaceful as I thought it would be. Or, as my mother would say: «We brought you into the world in good faith. We didn't want to have to watch ourselves die and send you into a dangerous, uncertain future.»
There is nothing I fear, no suffering that befalls me, but I fear for my children and that I cannot protect them.
«Dad, I'm afraid there's going to be a war,» says my son. «I understand that you're afraid,» I say. «But lots of people are working to make sure that doesn't happen.» At that moment, I hope so much that this is true.
Contempt gives way to gratitude
In everyday life, I notice that I view soldiers differently. Previously, there was a slight mixture of contempt and incomprehension. Today, it is gratitude. I let them through on the train, just as I would let emergency services personnel through. I read publications such as Hartpunkt and try to make sense of what our government is buying, whether it is good – and what plan might be behind it. I consider our country to be as unprepared as I am.
«Maybe,» says my son, «it's better to run away when there's a fight in the schoolyard.» «Yes,» I say. «That's always the first option. If you can, just run away. But if someone needs your help and you can help without putting yourself in danger, stand in their way.» «Did you do that?» he asks. «No,» I say honestly. «Not for far too long. But I wish it were different.» I explain to him that it starts with words, and think of the NATO soldiers in the East: «Stop – this is the border!»
When darkness comes, be the light.
The concept of humanity
«Setting boundaries is important, and those boundaries must be respected,» I say. «And if they're not?» he asks. «Then you have to decide: if it only affects you and you can run away, then run! If you have to help because you might be able to protect others, find support; friends you can alert.» «Yes, and then?»
«Then fight. Stay decent, even if it's hard. Don't kick someone when they're down. Don't punch them in the face, don't hit them with a weapon. And only fight until everyone is safe, while you keep trying to get someone's attention until someone comes to help you.» «Is that all?» he asks me.
«That's the concept of humanity,» I say, seeing my younger self in front of me in the school playground. «It's precaution, it's help, sometimes hesitation before throwing a punch, and sometimes courageous action when nothing else helps. When darkness comes, be the light.» «That sounds nice,» says my son. «Yes,» I say. «I would have liked to have said that to my grandfather.»
The author of this text lives in Germany. The text reflects the current social debate in Germany, in which topics such as the reintroduction of compulsory military service and the army's fitness for war are being controversially discussed. The text deals with the inner conflict of a pacifist father who is struggling with the question of how to explain the war in Ukraine to his children and how to respond to their fears. The editors have deliberately refrained from adapting the text to a British context.
