INFATUATIONS WITH WAR

 

The Paradox of Generational Revolt: Between Inevitability and Illusion

The Architecture of Perpetual Rebellion

Each generation arrives convinced of its unique burden, armed with the certainty that it alone possesses the clarity to dismantle what came before. This cyclical infatuation with revolt and mayhem represents more than youthful rebellion—it reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of how change operates in human societies. We become willing participants in our own deception, instruments of forces we mistake for our own agency.

The roots of this pattern lie in what we might call the "flattery of hope"—the seductive belief that our moment in history represents a unique opportunity for transformation. Hope, when unchecked by wisdom, becomes a form of intoxication. It whispers that previous generations failed where we will succeed, that their compromises were weakness where our resistance will be strength. This flattery makes us susceptible to grand narratives of revolution, where complex social problems appear solvable through dramatic action.

The Specter of Manufactured Fear

Running parallel to inflated hope is the "impression of fear"—not genuine fear born of real threats, but constructed anxieties that serve to mobilize and direct generational energy. These fears are often abstract yet urgent: the collapse of democracy, the end of civilization, the betrayal of sacred values. While some dangers are real, the impression of fear operates independently of actual risk, creating a psychological state where radical action feels not just justified but morally imperative.

This manufactured urgency prevents the patient work of understanding. When everything is a crisis requiring immediate response, there is no time for the slow labor of comprehension, no space for the humility that comes from recognizing the complexity of inherited problems. The impression of fear transforms citizens into soldiers in wars they do not fully understand.

The Inexorable Rhythm of Conflict

Perhaps most troubling is the "inexorable periodicity of war"—not merely military conflict, but the broader pattern of social combat that seems to emerge with predictable regularity. Each generation discovers enemies that must be vanquished, systems that must be overthrown, injustices that cannot be tolerated. The specific targets change, but the underlying impulse toward confrontation remains remarkably consistent.

This periodicity suggests something deeper than rational response to changing circumstances. It points to war as a psychological necessity, a way of defining identity through opposition. We require enemies to know ourselves, conflicts to feel alive, causes to justify our existence. The tragedy is that we mistake this psychological need for moral clarity, confusing our desire for meaning with the demands of justice.

The Gradual Nature of Authentic Change

The most profound observation lies in recognizing that genuine change operates on a different timeline than our impatience allows. "Change is never certain nor instant but inevitable and sets in gradually"—this captures a truth that revolutionary thinking consistently misses. Real transformation happens through the accumulation of small shifts, barely perceptible alterations in how people think, feel, and relate to one another.

This gradual quality of change frustrates generational urgency. It offers no dramatic moments of victory, no clear before-and-after narratives, no satisfying sense of having defeated the old world. Instead, it requires patience, persistence, and the willingness to plant trees whose shade we may never enjoy. It demands that we work within existing systems even as we work to transform them, that we build rather than merely tear down.

The paradox deepens when we confront the ancient wisdom that "the more things change, the more they remain the same." This is not cynicism but recognition of human constancy beneath surface variation. The same jealousies, fears, and desires that drove previous generations continue to operate in new forms. Technology changes, institutions evolve, but the fundamental challenges of living together in complex societies persist across centuries.

The Question of Historical Awareness

The final metaphor—about those who don't know when the rain started cannot tell us where they dried themselves—cuts to the heart of historical consciousness. Many who advocate for radical change lack sufficient understanding of how current conditions emerged. Without knowing when the rain started, how can we evaluate proposed solutions? Without understanding the long arc of problems, how can we judge the adequacy of our responses?

This ignorance is not merely intellectual but practical. Those who cannot trace the origins of current difficulties are likely to repeat past mistakes, to propose solutions that have already been tried and found wanting, to tear down structures without understanding their function. The absence of historical perspective creates a dangerous confidence, where ignorance masquerades as innovation.

The Path Forward: Humble Engagement

Recognition of these patterns need not lead to paralysis or cynicism. Instead, it points toward a different kind of engagement with social change—one characterized by humility rather than certainty, patience rather than urgency, understanding rather than action for its own sake.

This approach requires us to resist the flattery of hope without abandoning hope entirely, to acknowledge real fears without succumbing to manufactured panic, to work for change while accepting that we are part of larger patterns we cannot fully control. It means becoming students of history rather than its judges, gardeners rather than conquerors.

The generational cycle of revolt will likely continue, driven by forces deeper than rational analysis. But perhaps some can step outside this pattern, can resist the seductive call to become instruments of forces they do not understand. Perhaps some can learn to work for change that outlasts the satisfaction of rebellion, to build rather than merely tear down, to plant seeds rather than uproot gardens.

In the end, the measure of our generation may not be the revolutions we started but the quiet work we did to understand the rain, to build better shelters, and to leave our successors with clearer skies and firmer ground on which to stand.