[Part 4]In August 1945, a Japanese doctor named Shuntaro Hida was rushing to treat patients in the countryside just outside Hiroshima. That morning, he looked up and saw a single aircraft slicing through the blue sky—oddly alone. Moments later, the sky turned white, and the earth trembled. He didn't yet know that history had split in two.When Dr Hida reached Hiroshima hours later, the city he once knew had vanished. Bodies lay like shadows on the pavement. Buildings had evaporated. Children screamed for mothers who were already ash. For him, this wasn’t just war—it was the birth of a new kind of history, one measured not just in lives lost, but in what humanity had become capable of.Hiroshima wasn’t just a battlefield. It became a moral landmark, a global symbol of how war no longer simply redrew borders—it redrew the boundaries of ethics, of science, of civilisation itself.War has shaped human history not as a rare interruption, but as a recurring force—redrawing borders, toppling empires, forging identities, and rewriting global power structures. From the ancient world to the 21st century, wars have been pivotal not merely in terms of military outcomes but in their capacity to remake societies entirely.
In antiquity, for instance, the Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta (431–404 BCE) didn’t just end in military defeat—it marked the decline of Athenian democracy and the broader fragmentation of Greek power. Thucydides, the historian of that war, famously argued that conflict reveals the true nature of power and human ambition. This theme still resonates today and is explored in A New History of the Peloponnesian War by Donald Kagan (2009, Penguin Books), a modern retelling of how war reshaped the intellectual and political fabric of ancient Greece.Kagan argues that the Peloponnesian War fundamentally transformed the intellectual and political landscape of ancient Greece. The prolonged conflict between Athens and Sparta, which lasted nearly three decades, did not merely destroy armies and cities—it unsettled the philosophical assumptions, civic ideals, and democratic institutions that had once defined Greek identity.Kagan illustrates how the pressures of war forced cities to abandon long-held norms. Athens, once the cradle of democracy and philosophical inquiry, became increasingly intolerant, paranoid, and authoritarian. The Athenian pursuit of imperial dominance led to political purges, show trials, and a harsh erosion of civil liberties. Sparta, too, was drawn into a more aggressive and interventionist posture that contradicted its traditional conservatism.Intellectually, the war prompted deep scepticism about the role of the gods, the reliability of justice, and the viability of democratic rule. This crisis of confidence laid fertile ground for thinkers like Socrates, who questioned the moral compass of his fellow citizens, and for historians like Thucydides, whose analytical and unsentimental chronicle of the war broke away from mythic storytelling. In essence, the war catalysed a shift from idealism to realism, from collective virtue to personal survival, and from stability to ideological experimentation.In War Before Civilization: The Myth of the Peaceful Savage (1996 by Oxford University Press), Lawrence H. Keeley presents war not merely as a tragic flaw in human history, but as a fundamental and persistent aspect of human existence. He argues that warfare has always been an intrinsic part of human societies, long before the rise of modern states. According to Keeley, war in prehistoric and tribal societies was not a rare event but rather a regular and often decisive force in shaping group dynamics, territory control, social cohesion, and cultural evolution. Far from being a perversion of natural human peace, Keeley suggests that war was deeply embedded in the survival strategies of early humans. In this view, violence and conflict were not just occasional disruptions but mechanisms by which groups competed, adapted, and sometimes even flourished.By exposing the high rates of mortality in small-scale wars and comparing them unfavourably to modern conflicts, Keeley challenges the romanticised notion that ancient or tribal peoples lived in idyllic harmony with one another. He sees war as both a destructive and formative force—one that has played a significant role in shaping the trajectory of human societies. His broader point is that civilisation did not invent war; rather, it has, in some ways, tamed and regulated it.Keeley devotes significant attention to the tactics and weapons used by prehistoric and tribal societies, and his findings challenge the common perception that such warfare was unsophisticated or ritualistic. Keeley argues that so-called “primitive” warfare was not only frequent and lethal, but also strategically intelligent and tactically refined. Contrary to the stereotype of clumsy hand-to-hand skirmishes, many tribal societies employed complex ambushes, surprise raids, pre-dawn attacks, and even psychological warfare to intimidate their enemies. Stealth and deception were highly valued, and warriors often struck when their opponents were most vulnerable—such as during sleep or religious rituals.In terms of weaponry, Keeley documents a diverse and effective arsenal. Clubs, spears, bows and arrows, slings, and even early forms of body armour were common. Far from being crude, these weapons were often engineered with remarkable precision. For instance, bows were capable of penetrating shields, and some societies used poisons to ensure lethality. Keeley underscores how many of these weapons could be as deadly—if not deadlier—on a per-combatant basis than firearms in some modern engagements.Ultimately, Keeley’s point is that prehistoric and tribal warfare was not just a chaotic clash of brute strength, but a domain of cunning, preparation, and innovation. It was war—just as real and ruthless as any fought with tanks or drones.Keeley explores the various forms of combat used by prehistoric and tribal societies, demonstrating that their warfare was far from disorganised or ritualistic. While many anthropologists previously assumed that indigenous peoples engaged primarily in symbolic or low-intensity skirmishes, Keeley presents compelling evidence that combat in such societies often involved intense violence and deliberate strategies to inflict real damage.He explains that combat could take many forms. One of the most common was the raid—a sudden, swift attack intended to kill, steal resources, or assert dominance. These raids were usually brief but deadly, targeting enemy villages when they were most vulnerable. Ambushes were another widespread tactic, involving careful planning and concealment to surprise the enemy. Keeley also describes pitched battles, though these were less frequent. Unlike modern battlefield engagements, these tribal battles were often fluid, with fighters advancing and retreating rather than holding rigid lines. There were also forms of guerrilla warfare, with warriors attacking in small groups and avoiding prolonged confrontation.Keeley’s research highlights that combat among early societies was not only frequent but also sophisticated in its execution. It was not a ritual dance with sticks; it was real, brutal, and aimed at survival, power, and protection. In essence, early warfare was an adaptive response to threats and competition, and it often left lasting scars on communities—both physically and psychologically.Keeley offers a sharp and often provocative comparison between so-called “primitive warriors” and “civilised soldiers.” He challenges the widely held assumption that ancient or tribal warriors were somehow less dangerous or morally superior to soldiers from state-based societies. Keeley argues that this romanticised distinction is misleading and that, in many ways, warriors from non-state societies were every bit as lethal, and in some respects even more so.Primitive warriors, according to Keeley, operated in societies without centralised authority, standing armies, or formal training institutions. Despite this, they engaged in warfare with intense frequency and shocking levels of violence. Their methods—raids, ambushes, and massacres—were highly efficient for their purposes. These warriors didn’t wear uniforms or follow written rules of engagement, but they understood the logic of war: strike first, strike hard, and don’t give the enemy a chance to retaliate. Keeley points out that the per capita death rates in tribal wars often far exceeded those of modern wars.On the other hand, soldiers from civilised states usually fight in more regulated and organised ways. Modern armies are subject to political oversight, codes of conduct, and international laws. While this can lead to large-scale devastation, particularly in industrial warfare, it also introduces mechanisms to limit and contain violence. Keeley does not argue that modern warfare is inherently more moral, but rather that the chaos and cruelty of tribal war has been underestimated by modern observers.Keeley debunks the myth that primitive war was somehow more “noble” or “humane.” He asserts that warriors without bureaucracies or borders were capable of extraordinary cruelty, and their wars were just as real, just as consequential, and often just as bloody as any fought by modern states.Keeley devotes considerable attention to the casualties of war, especially within prehistoric and tribal societies. He challenges the modern tendency to assume that warfare among “primitive” peoples was relatively harmless or merely symbolic. In reality, Keeley shows that such conflicts often produced staggeringly high death rates, far surpassing the levels typically seen in wars between modern states.Keeley’s research reveals that in many tribal societies, warfare was not an occasional event but a regular, almost expected part of life. As a result, the percentage of the population killed in combat could be astonishingly high. In some prehistoric communities, it’s estimated that up to 20–30 percent of adult males died in warfare. By contrast, in the most devastating modern wars—like World War II—the per capita death rate was often much lower. This suggests that tribal warfare, although smaller in scale, was often more intimate, brutal, and personally costly.Moreover, Keeley dispels the myth that “primitive” warfare was governed by strict rules or rituals designed to avoid serious injury. While some tribal cultures did impose limits on combat, many others allowed or even encouraged massacres, torture, and the killing of non-combatants. Civilian casualties were not accidental—they were often deliberate. Keeley makes the point that war in pre-civilised societies could be just as total and horrifying as the worst moments of industrial warfare.Keeley turns the conventional narrative on its head: it’s not that modern civilisation invented mass casualties, but rather that early humans were already intimately familiar with them.Keeley addresses not only the brutal realities of primitive warfare but also its costs and benefits—what he calls the "profits and losses" of war in prehistoric and tribal societies. Keeley argues that while war was devastating in terms of human life, it was not without rational purpose or tangible rewards for those who engaged in it.He explains that primitive war, despite its high casualty rates, could bring significant material and social gains. Victorious groups often seized territory, food supplies, livestock, tools, and even women and children from their enemies. War could also elevate the status of successful warriors, granting them prestige, influence, and sometimes more mates. In small-scale societies without formal political systems, personal bravery and martial success were key currencies of power. For some groups, war was an institutionalised way of redistributing resources and asserting dominance over rivals.However, these gains came with enormous costs. Entire villages could be wiped out, populations could be decimated, and cycles of revenge and retaliation could drag on for generations. Keeley points out that these wars often created environments of chronic insecurity, where people lived in fear of surprise raids or mass killings. Resources were diverted from productive uses—like agriculture or trade—to defence and conflict. Thus, even when war brought short-term gains, it often undermined long-term stability and prosperity.Keeley’s nuanced argument is that primitive war was not senseless or chaotic—it had logic and structure—but it was also deeply destructive, both physically and psychologically. The “profit” of war was rarely shared equally, and the “loss” was often borne by the most vulnerable members of society.Keeley challenges the romanticised idea that early humans were naturally peaceful and that war only emerged later due to agriculture, capitalism, or state-building. Instead, he insists that war has deep roots in human nature and social organisation.According to Keeley, the causes of primitive warfare were complex and varied, but often revolved around tangible, practical issues. Competition for resources—such as hunting grounds, water, or fertile land—was a major driver. When resources were scarce or unevenly distributed, violence became a tool for redistribution. Additionally, Keeley points to revenge and retaliation as powerful motives. In societies without courts or police, justice was often personal and tribal, creating cycles of revenge that could spiral into generations of violence.Another cause Keeley highlights is the role of status and honour. For many young men in tribal societies, warfare was one of the few ways to gain social standing, respect, and even access to marriage. Group identity, fear of outsiders, and the desire to dominate or defend also played significant roles. Keeley does not claim that war was inevitable or constant, but he firmly rejects the notion that it was rare or irrational. To him, war was an adaptive response to real pressures, not a bizarre deviation from an otherwise peaceful past.In essence, Keeley argues that humans went to war for the same reasons they still do today—resources, revenge, honour, fear, and power. The difference is that in the absence of strong institutions, early societies had fewer tools to prevent violence from erupting.
[Part 2]
