Of Spears and Superpowers: A Brief History of Bashing Each Other’s Heads In

 

Let’s face it: we’ve nailed tea, tech, and TikTok but peace? Still in beta. Humans have a shockingly persistent habit of trying to bludgeon, bomb, or bureaucratically annihilate each other.

From the moment early humans picked up sticks (which quickly became spears), we've been astonishingly good at squabbling over things. Territory. Religion. Resources. Cows. Sometimes just because someone gave us a funny look.

From prehistoric fisticuffs to nuclear standoffs, we’ve turned war into everything from a survival tactic to a sacred duty, a political instrument to a televised spectacle. So, why do we do it? What makes a species capable of both symphonies and slaughter pick war, again and again?

So join me for a slightly sarcastic, gently theological, and occasionally eyebrow-raising journey through humanity's favourite bloodsport. Bring tea. You'll need it.

The First War: The Battle in Heaven

Before we even get to humans, there was a war in heaven. Yes, really. According to Christian tradition, the first rebellion was led not by a man, but by an angel. Lucifer, full of pride, declared, "Non serviam" (“I will not serve”), and tried to overthrow the order of heaven.

And who stood up against him? St Michael, the Archangel. With sword in hand and heaven at his back, he declared, Quis ut Deus? ("Who is like God?"). He led the heavenly host into battle and cast down the rebel angels.

The imagery is fierce, the symbolism eternal: pride leads to war; humility and obedience defend peace. Long before humans picked up swords, heaven already had its own.

Ah, the Sword of St. Michael…that bold celestial swipe across Earth’s crust that says, “Demons, beware. GPS-enabled holiness is coming for you.”

This legendary straight line, which stretches from the misty Atlantic cliffs of Skellig Michael in Ireland all the way to Stella Maris Monastery in Haifa, Israel, appears to slice across continents with saintly precision as if Archangel Michael borrowed a ruler from Heaven’s geometry department and dramatically drew a line.

According to lore and a few suspiciously aligned Google Maps pins, there are seven sacred sites along this mystical path.

Skeptics say it’s coincidence. Believers say it’s divine design. Google Maps says, “Recalculating route to sanctity…”

Whether divine geometry or holy coincidence, the line reminds us of something older and truer than geopolitics: that the struggle between light and darkness has always had its champions—and always will.. Some say it traces the Archangel’s heavenly blow against evil; others feel it simply in their bones.

It is a reminder: the battle between good and evil isn’t abstract. It is real, ancient, ongoing and we are, somehow, part of it.

Even now, we stand in the shadow of that great sword. And those who dare to walk the straight path; the path of humility, justice, and courage still walk in the footsteps of Michael, whose sword never wavered and whose cry still echoes through history: Quis ut Deus?

The Stone Age: Where it All Began (Literally)

Our earliest ancestors lived in tribes, shared food (sometimes), and roamed the earth with a general distrust of anyone who didn’t grunt in quite the right way. Conflict, back then was inevitable.

Archaeological evidence suggests that tribal skirmishes were common. Blunt force trauma was essentially a voting method. If you won, you got the fire. If you lost, well... you became firewood.

But even then, there was something more than brute survival. Cave paintings show animals, hunts, rituals, and awe. Something deeper stirred. Perhaps a longing for the divine. A spark of conscience. A sense that bashing in your neighbour's skull wasn't the only way to solve disputes.

Baby steps.

The Mahabharata: Dharma on the Battlefield

Growing up in India, I was raised on the grand epic of the Mahabharata; a saga of family feuds, celestial cameos, and, yes, a war to end all wars (at least until the next one). My favourite character? Krishna, of course. Part god, part charioteer, and once king of Mathura. Cheekier as a kid and a smart guide in battle, he’s got plenty of brains and just enough charm to keep things fun.

The great battle of Kurukshetra, which scholars estimate may have taken place around 1000–800 BC (though the dating is famously fuzzy), wasn't just about who got the kingdom; it was about dharma: right action, moral duty, the struggle to do what's right when every path seems wrong.

Before the battle even begins, both sides must choose their allies. When Krishna offers his support to both Arjuna, the protagonist, and Duryodhana, the antagonist, he sets one condition: he will not fight. One of them can have his vast and powerful army; the other, just Krishna himself, unarmed.

Duryodhana, ever the practical prince, chooses the army.

Arjuna chooses Krishna.

And that choice; wisdom over weapons, becomes the soul of the Mahabharata. Before the first arrow is fired, Arjuna, the ace archer of the Pandava clan, has a full-blown existential crisis. He looks across the battlefield and sees not enemies, but cousins, teachers, old friends. He drops his bow. He wants to quit.

And Krishna, calmly steering the chariot like an Uber driver with divine patience, gives him a pep talk for the ages.

It was India’s first recorded philosophical TED Talk and it still holds up.

The Mahabharata dares to ask: What if victory leaves everyone broken? Here the real battlefield is the human conscience.

As a child, I remember curling up beside my mother to watch Mahabharat on the television. The epic unfolded in slow, sonorous Hindi, with the blowing of the shankh (a conch shell trumpet), dramatic stares, astras (divine weapons), and enough moral dilemmas that would flummox a UN committee.

What drew me in wasn’t the divine weapons or flying chariots; it was Krishna. Serene in the storm, wise without weariness. Even in the middle of a battlefield, he never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. There was something deeply compelling about that stillness, that sense of knowing when everyone else was flailing.

Ancient Empires: Conquest as a Career Path

In the era of empires; Egyptian, Greek, Roman, war became a bit more formalised, with uniforms, formations, and Latin battle cries. Conquest wasn’t just a matter of survival anymore; it was a way of saying, “Look how civilised I am! I built roads, aqueducts, minted coins, and enslaved half the known world!”

Alexander the Great wept because there were no more worlds to conquer. Julius Caesar invaded Gaul mostly because he could. He wrote about his conquests as if they were Sunday strolls. Veni, vidi, vici”  Latin for “I came, I saw, I conquered” is perhaps the most gloriously smug dispatch in military history: three perfectly polished words to sum up a total rout. Caesar had an unmatched flair for both the sword and the soundbite.

War was the ancient equivalent of launching a startup; high risk, high reward, and someone usually lost their head.

And if battles weren’t enough, there was always the Colosseum. Gladiator games turned violence into public entertainment: men fighting to the death while the crowd cheered and emperors gave thumbs-up or thumbs-down like ancient talent show judges. Bloodlust was normal. Mercy was weakness.

But slowly, something began to shift. A new way of thinking crept in from the margins; one that spoke of loving your enemy, turning the other cheek, and valuing every human life, even the ones no one cheered for. Christianity didn’t end war (spoiler: it still hasn’t), but it started to rewire how people thought about power, suffering, and what it meant to be human. In a world entertained by blood, it whispered a strange, stubborn alternative: compassion.

Medieval Mayhem

Then came the Middle Ages, a time when plagues roamed the land, literacy levels plummeted, and war took on a whole new vibe. The medieval Church, for all its soaring cathedrals and candlelit reverence, had a complicated relationship with peace. Enter the Crusades: a series of holy military campaigns that started with spiritual zeal and quickly spiralled into centuries of bloodshed, botched diplomacy, and baffling detours (like the time Crusaders accidentally sacked Constantinople, a Christian city, because maps were hard).

In Europe, war was also localised: the Hundred Years’ War (which, charmingly, lasted 116 years), was basically England and France spent over a century bickering over who got to wear the French crown, shouting “Mine!” back and forth in increasingly elaborate accents.

The English claimed royal rights through a complicated family tree that made very little sense but sounded impressive. The French politely disagreed with swords. Battles broke out, truces were signed and broken like bad New Year’s resolutions, and somewhere in the middle, everyone forgot what they were actually fighting for.

But then came Joan of Arc; my favourite saint and, frankly, the only one in this saga with actual plot twist energy. A teenage peasant girl who heard voices, put on armour, and told grown men how to do their jobs. She led French troops to victory at Orléans and proved that you don’t need a royal title or beard to change history…just some courage, conviction, and very good timing.

Of course, the English were less impressed. They captured her, tried her for heresy (also known as “being inconvenient”), and burned her at the stake. But she didn’t disappear. She became a saint, a symbol, and an eternal reminder that sometimes God sends a teenage girl with a sword to sort out the mess grown men make.

Honestly, in a war filled with endless battles and grumpy monarchs, Joan was the one with real fire; not just on the battlefield, but in spirit. Still my favourite. No contest.

Reformation, Revolution, and Really Long Wars

Some wars, like the Thirty Years’ War, seemed less about belief and more about who could hold a grudge longest. Meanwhile, revolutions brewed; French, American, Haitian. People began shouting things like liberté! and death to tyranny! while, paradoxically, causing quite a lot of death.

And still somewhere in the background; quiet monasteries kept praying and whispering that true change comes not through bloodshed but through the heart. Few were listening.

World Wars: The Global Family Row

The 20th century was proof that humans could mechanise anything; even horror.

World War I began with an assassination and ended with an entire continent traumatised. By World War II, we’d decided to really commit. With Hitler, Hiroshima, and humanity teetering on the edge of self-destruction, we entered a darkness even the Middle Ages couldn’t dream of.

And it wasn’t just Europe. While Pearl Harbor pulled America into the fight, colonial empires were still carving up territories; dividing lands, exploiting people, and exporting empire in the name of progress. Even as the world burned, the wheels of power and possession kept turning.

Yet amid the smoke, there were flickers of light. People risked their lives to hide others, comfort the dying, smuggle out hope. Some bravely sheltered the hunted. Ordinary men and women did extraordinary things.

After the bombs fell, some sat in the ashes and finally wondered, “Perhaps we’ve gone too far?”

The Cold War and the Art of Not Blowing Up the Planet

Post-1945, the world divided into two ideological camps: capitalism vs. communism, Coke vs. vodka.

The Cold War was less about direct combat and more about strategic glaring. Proxy wars did the actual bleeding, while the superpowers stockpiled enough nukes to end civilisation.

The Church spoke out against both godless communism and soul-less capitalism, trying to remind the world that humans aren’t just production units or ideological pawns; they’re souls. It called (again and again) for peace, justice, and the dignity of every person, even the ones you wouldn’t invite to dinner.

Meanwhile, the UN, newly minted and nervously hopeful, gathered nations around large tables to try solving global crises with stern resolutions, raised eyebrows, and lots of paperwork.

It wasn’t perfect. There were Cold War standoffs, vetoes, and enough diplomatic theatre to rival Shakespeare. But something had shifted. For the first time, the world seemed to agree, at least on paper that peace was preferable to annihilation, and that war should be a last resort, not a business model.

The Church, the UN, and a few tired philosophers stood quietly in the wings, waving little moral flags and muttering, “Told you so.”

Modern Warfare: Old Grudges, New Gadgets

These days, war doesn’t always come with a declaration. It comes via drone, hashtag, or a very pointed "defensive manoeuvre." Neighbours glare at each other across borders they both claim to have drawn first. Missiles fly while diplomats tweet. One side says it's ancient history; the other insists it's sacred land. Both keep receipts going back millennia. Lines on maps wobble. Ceasefires expire faster than milk.

If you listen closely, you can hear history muttering in the background, “Oh not this again.”

And through it all, the rest of us try to carry on; sending our kids to school, scrolling past doom-laden headlines, and wondering if peace is just a bedtime story for diplomats and dreamers. Yet we hope. Somehow, still we hope.

Because maybe…just maybe…the next generation will be tired of war. Not because they’re saints, but because it’s all so tragically, predictably exhausting.

A Quiet Moment in Bristol

I once stood alone in the hollow shell of a church in Bristol, UK, its roof long gone, torn away by Luftwaffe bombs decades before I was born. The stone walls still stood; stubborn, scarred, dignified. Wind threaded through broken arches. Grass had quietly taken over where pews once stood, growing gently between old tiles like green threads through the fabric of memory.

There were no crowds, no plaques shouting history, no music to stir the mood. Just the weight of silence…

I stood there for a long time, letting the stillness speak.

I thought of all the stories that had passed through this place; weddings, funerals, whispered prayers, wartime vigils. Of the people who once knelt here, fearing for their sons, praying through sirens, hoping the next bomb wouldn't fall on their street.

I thought of how often we confuse power with peace, noise with strength, victory with wisdom.

Peace is not weakness. Stillness is not surrender. And hope is not naïve. It is, perhaps, the bravest thing we have left.

So Why Do We Keep Waging War?

Because we forget.
Because it’s easier to demonise than dialogue.
Because anger feels strong and forgiveness feels slow.
Because the serpent still whispers that might makes right.

But also…because we’re learning. Slowly.
There are peace treaties. Truth commissions. People refusing to pick up the next weapon. Saints, soldiers, mothers, and monks who plant something instead of burning it.

A certain Nazarene once said, “Put away your sword.”
He said it to a friend who thought violence might save the day.
It didn’t then. It doesn’t now.

The Boldest Revolution

Looking back from the ancient fields of Kurukshetra to the crumbling walls of bombed-out cathedrals, from sword-wielding archangels to quiet citizens dodging drones…the thread that runs through it all isn’t just blood. It’s longing.

A longing for justice. For dignity. For peace.

We keep trying to solve ancient wounds with modern weapons. We dress vengeance up as policy, call fear “strategy,” and package pride as patriotism. And yet, with every war, we seem to forget something our ancestors already knew: that violence may win ground, but it never wins hearts. It silences, but never settles.

And still, even now, amidst the noise and the newsfeeds, people quietly choose another path.

They forgive when they could fight back. They listen when they could shout. They feed, shelter, protect; not because it’s easy, but because it’s right.

Because maybe the most courageous thing isn’t going to war. Maybe it’s choosing not to.

So maybe the real revolution isn’t war at all.

It’s love.