Dharmayudh: How Men Fight Wars—and Themselves

Over the past week, I found myself rewatching Vinland Saga, and just like the first time, it hit me hard—maybe even harder now. I’ve already praised this anime many times on my movie review site, especially for its breathtaking character arcs, emotionally resonant music, and its raw portrayal of war and humanity. But this time around, with the noise of global conflict always looming—India-Pakistan tension, the ongoing war in Gaza, echoes of America's involvement in Iraq—it all struck differently.

This post isn’t about politics. It isn’t about blaming nations, leaders, or ideologies. It’s a reflection—mine—of what war really does to people. Especially to men. And how deeply stories like Vinland Saga, Grave of the Fireflies, The Dark Knight, and Fight Club have helped me understand that.

MEN LOVE STRUGGLE

Yes, we do. Maybe not consciously, but it’s there, deep in our wiring. From the time of the cavemen, we’ve fought to survive—against the cold, the wild, and each other. First, it was for food and shelter. Then it became about land, kingdoms, religion, and politics. The battlefield changed, but the instinct didn’t.

Somewhere deep in our DNA, men are still expected to fight. To protect. To sacrifice. From tribal warriors to modern soldiers, we’ve been raised on stories where the brave man is the one who charges ahead. The one who slays. The one who bleeds. And the one who doesn’t? Society is quick to label him a coward.

I remember being a teenager, reading crime news. Back then, I wanted the worst punishments for the accused—an eye for an eye. No hesitation. No question. I didn’t stop to think about context, about justice versus revenge. In my head, every wrong demanded instant retribution. And that mindset? It wasn’t mine alone. It was echoed in every action movie, every angry political speech, every childhood lesson about what it means to be a "real man."

And yet, underneath that conditioning, there’s a truth we don’t often talk about: Men are simple, yes. But their emotions? Far from it.

We can be predictable—you often know who a guy likes, what he wants to do, what makes him laugh. But when it comes to our internal world? We are a mess. A storm. Most of us don’t even know how to begin processing what we feel. We’re more comfortable fighting with the world than sitting alone in silence, confronting what’s within.

We try to understand politics, science, or philosophy—but when it comes to understanding ourselves, we shut the door. We bury the pain. We call it strength and move on. Until one day, it explodes.

There’s this iconic moment in Fight Club, where the narrator says:

“We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War is a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives.”

That hit me hard the first time I heard it. It still does. Because even though we live in relatively comfortable times compared to the past, there’s a part of us—especially men—that still craves the struggle. The chaos. The war.

We don't just want purpose—we want to feel something. Anything. And when society doesn't give us that outlet, we make our own. That’s exactly what Edward Norton’s character does. He’s numb from the corporate grind, the shallow consumption, the lifeless routine. So what does he do? He starts Fight Club—a place where pain equals truth, and bleeding means you’re alive.

He creates chaos not because he wants to hurt others, but because he wants to escape the emptiness. And in many ways, that’s what a lot of men silently go through. We build cages for ourselves: expectations, responsibilities, roles. Then one day, we look around and wonder why we can’t breathe.

We don’t talk about it. We don’t cry about it. So we punch walls. We ghost people. We destroy things—sometimes ourselves. Because that’s how we think we regain control.

That’s why Vinland Saga hit so close to home. Because it wasn’t just about Viking conquests or swords and shields. It was about a boy named Thorfinn. A boy who watched his father die, and spent years with his murderer—not to grow, not to learn, but to kill him. Decades passed. His life became nothing more than a vessel for revenge. When he finally lost that goal, when the person he wanted dead was no longer there, he broke.

He wasn’t a warrior anymore. He wasn’t anything.

And that, to me, mirrors a lot of real men who come back from war. Or heartbreak. Or burnout. You put everything into one identity—the fighter, the provider, the protector—and when that purpose is taken away, you're lost. We avoid complexity until it consumes us.

Season 2 of Vinland Saga is a masterpiece not because of its action, but because of its stillness. It shows Thorfinn confronting his past, learning how to live, not just survive. It shows a man understanding that peace requires more courage than war.

As the famous quote goes:

"It is easier to fight for your principles than to live up to them."

And in this world? We men often choose the fight. Because we don’t know any other way.

THE COST OF WAR – NO WINNERS, ONLY WOUNDS

“For people watching from a distance, war is a headline. For those inside, it’s hunger, fear, and the slow death of hope.”
 — Inspired by the reports of Marie Colvin, a war journalist who died covering Syria

War is always more glamorous from afar. In reels, films, and patriotic parades, we see slow-motion shots of jets taking off, men in uniform marching proudly, and anthems playing. But the real face of war is off-camera—it’s quiet, horrifying, and endless.

It’s a mother boiling sugar water because milk is gone, and her baby is starving. It’s a sister rummaging through rubble where her home used to be. It’s the soft whimper of a father who has no words left to comfort his child as bombs fall outside.

One of the greatest and most painful portrayals of this is in Grave of the Fireflies. The film doesn’t preach; it just shows. Two children—Seita and Setsuko—caught in the firebombing of Japan, slowly wasting away in a world that no longer sees them. There are no heroes here. No victories. Just hunger, silence, and loss. It's so emotionally devastating that many viewers say they can’t bear to watch it a second time. And that’s the point. It’s not a film meant to entertain—it’s meant to haunt you. Because war should haunt us.

And still—somehow—we ignore the lesson.

Japan was brought to its knees in 1945 by just two nuclear bombs. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were erased in seconds. Over 200,000 lives lost. Many more were burned, maimed, and poisoned by radiation. The aftermath lasted generations. Shadows were seared into walls. Children born years later bore the weight of fallout their parents couldn’t escape. It took two bombs to bring one nation to devastation.

Today, over 12,500 nuclear warheads exist globally, held by just nine countries. If two can level cities and rewrite history, what is the purpose of having thousands? What scenario are we preparing for? And more importantly, who are we preparing to use them against?

The cold, bureaucratic answer is deterrence. But how long do we keep playing this Russian roulette? How long before one wrong decision, one false signal, one act of pride or fear ends millions of lives in the span of minutes?

And the money. Oh, the money.

The U.S. spent over $2 trillion on the war in Afghanistan. That’s enough to end global hunger several times over. Instead of building bridges, we built bombs. Instead of funding schools, we funded soldiers. The global arms trade is worth over $100 billion a year, profiting off suffering like it’s a commodity on Wall Street.

It’s not just the battlefield that gets destroyed. It’s trust. It’s the spirit of young men who believed they were doing something noble. It’s the mental health of veterans who wake up screaming in the night from flashbacks. It’s the widow who never stops waiting. It’s the child who grows up without a father because two men in suits disagreed on a map.

Even when wars “end,” they don’t. They ripple. PTSD. Economic collapse. Orphaned children. Land mines left behind, waiting. Hatred passed down through generations like an inheritance.

The cost of war isn’t just counted in lives lost. It’s counted in futures stolen.

Did Anybody Try To End This Peacefully?

There’s a moment in Vinland Saga Season 2 that hit harder than any sword clash or blood-soaked battlefield. Thorfinn—once a boy fueled by vengeance, raised in violence—now stands as a man who wants nothing more than peace. When King Canute arrives to seize a farm built by years of quiet labour and healing, Thorfinn doesn't reach for his weapon. He simply asks… to talk.

But the world doesn’t listen to peace. Not right away.

The only way he’s allowed an audience? To endure one hundred punches—one hundred brutal, bone-crushing blows from the kingdom’s strongest warrior. His friend, watching in horror, pleads with him to stop. “Are you insane? You’ll die before they even listen. If this could’ve been resolved by talking, it would’ve been done a long time ago.”

And then comes the line that lingers—not just in the anime, but in the hearts of everyone who’s watched it:

“Did you? Did you even try to talk? Did you even try to make the effort, somehow, to resolve it with your words? Or did you see them draw their swords and immediately draw yours? Did anybody try to end this peacefully?”

That question cuts deeper than any blade. Because it isn’t just fiction—it’s a mirror. How often in our own lives, in our wars—whether between nations, communities, or within ourselves—do we reach for violence before we reach for understanding? How often do we raise our voice before we offer our ear? How often do we try to win instead of trying to heal?

We claim we want peace, but too often, our version of peace is just silence after dominance. We don’t talk to resolve—we talk to prove. To protect pride. To punish. And maybe that’s why Thorfinn’s stand hits so hard: because it’s not just brave… It’s rare. He fights with his body, not to hurt, but to earn the right to speak. To be heard. To try.

And in a world where battles are fought faster than bridges are built, that attempt—however fragile, however painful—is the true act of courage.

I HAVE NO ENEMIES

There’s a haunting moment in The Dark Knight that still lingers in my mind more than any explosion or villain monologue. The Joker, the architect of chaos, sets up a twisted moral trap: two ferries rigged with explosives—one filled with civilians, the other with prisoners. Each group is handed the detonator for the other’s boat. The rules are simple: kill the others before they kill you. Tick tock.

And yet… nothing happens.

No one pushes the button. In the face of fear, anger, and self-preservation, the people choose not to become murderers. Even the prisoner throws the trigger away. The Joker's social experiment fails—not because the people were perfect, but because they were human enough to see beyond hate.

That moment always stayed with me. Because if the Joker is a symbol of how the system provokes us—how fear, manipulation, and division are weaponised—then the people on those boats represent what we could be. That we always have a choice. But in the real world, we too often surrender that choice to fear.

We follow orders. We trust the narrative. We kill because someone in power tells us the other side is the enemy. But what if we didn’t?

I’ve always wondered—what if a leader announced a war… and no one showed up? What if the soldiers said no? What if they all stayed home, not out of cowardice, but out of courage? What if they saw through the game—that most wars are not fought for peace or justice, but for profit, pride, and power?

What if we dropped our weapons not because we were weak… but because we understood?

The truth is, we often create enemies where none exist. We blame “the other” for problems born from within. We punish the many for the crimes of the few. We build weapons not because we need them, but because others have them. We follow blindly because fear is louder than reason. And in doing so, we forget: we don't have to hate.

In Vinland Saga, when Thorfinn is asked why he endures punches instead of simply striking back to reach the prince, his answer is one of the most quietly revolutionary things ever said in anime:

“Today is the first time I’ve met any of you. We know nothing about one another, and I’m not the one who came to fight. So what reason could we have to hit each other? It’s absurd. We’re only here because of a dispute between Canute and Ketil. The two of them could settle it with a game of Hnefatafl, and it would mean as much as this war. But instead, they raised armies and sent them to spill each other’s blood. We’ve barely even spoken. I don’t have a single enemy among these men. I have no enemies at all.”

No enemies at all.

That line isn't just about war. It’s about unlearning hate. It’s about seeing people—strangers, rivals, even soldiers—not as threats, but as lives. As stories. As someone who might’ve sat beside you in a different life. It’s about choosing connection over conquest.

Because maybe peace doesn’t begin with treaties or negotiations. Maybe it starts with a simple truth: we don’t have to be enemies.

DHARMAYUDH: DESTROYING THE TRUE ENEMY

In ancient Hindu mythology, the word Dharmayudh means a war fought for righteousness. But the myths never said it was about killing men—it was about confronting evil. And evil, contrary to what we’ve been told, is rarely a man with a sword. It’s an idea, a lie repeated until it's called truth. It’s fear, spread until it’s worshipped. It’s blind obedience. It was silent when courage was needed most. That’s the true enemy. And unlike enemies with faces, this one doesn’t bleed.

Ron Kovic, the real-life Vietnam veteran whose story is told in Born on the Fourth of July, once stood before a crowd and said:

“They tricked us into going 13,000 miles to fight a war against a poor peasant people. The government is a bunch of corrupt thieves, rapists, and robbers. We are here to tell the truth.”

And yet, even today, wars are not started because of land or religion. They’ve started because someone wants more. Power. Oil. Territory. They build narratives, false ones. Turn neighbour against neighbour. Make us believe that someone else is the enemy—when really, it's the system that feeds on our ignorance.

Chernobyl wasn’t a war, but it was a war against truth. And as Legasov said:

“What is the cost of lies? It’s not that we’ll mistake them for the truth. The real danger is that if we hear enough lies, then we no longer recognise the truth at all.”

And the longer wars last—decades instead of years—the more profitable they become. Not for us. Not for the soldiers. But for those who sell weapons, sign treaties with one hand and press launch codes with the other. And we, the people, are sold dreams wrapped in barbed wire.

There’s a quote often shared in quiet corners of protest:

“What if there was a war... and no one showed up?”

What if?

What if soldiers asked, “Why am I killing a man who’s never harmed me?”
What if leaders stood alone on a battlefield with only their pride to defend?
What if every bullet questioned its purpose mid-air?
What if we

“If violence is the only language you speak, then I will run. I’ll run far. I’ll run until I find a place where no one needs to pick up a sword.”

Canute, now a king, surrounded by armies and empire, doesn't understand at first. He asks, “Do you truly think running will bring peace? That fl saw through the illusion and refused to play the part written for us?

That would be the true Dharmayudh—to recognise the real enemy not as people, but as the hatred within systems, the silence that enables cruelty, the history that only records victory but never grief.

Thorfinn’s journey in Vinland Saga isn’t about becoming a hero—it’s about unbecoming a weapon. He was raised on blood, trained to kill, and taught to survive by destroying others. But after years of war, after losing everything—his father, his youth, even himself—he finally says something that shakes not just Canute, but the entire idea of what strength is: being from conflict will change the world?”
 And Thorfinn replies—not with anger, but with clarity:

“I’ve tried fighting. I’ve tried hating. I’ve tried killing. It didn’t make me strong. It only made me empty. I’m not running from fear. I’m running toward peace.”

So let this be the final truth:

We don’t need sharper swords.
We need braver hearts.

Not to conquer—but to forgive.
Not to raise flags—but to lower our fists.
Not to win wars—but to end them before they begin.

Because the true warrior is not the one who defeats enemies,
But the one who dares to say:
"I have no enemies."