I have never enjoyed watching war films or even catching glimpses of war footage on the news; they unsettle me in a way I can’t quite shake off. Perhaps it seems odd, especially for someone in my profession. After all, bloodshed is a daily reality in our line of work. We witness patients writhing in pain, their lives hanging by a thread, and we engage in an endless battle—against time, against death, and against the relentless march of disease. And yet, despite being immersed in such grim scenes, I cannot bring myself to accept the brutal nature of war.
The death brought about by war is unlike the abrupt, unforeseen deaths on the operating table. It is mass-scale, silent slaughter. On the battlefield, lives that once teemed with vitality vanish in the blink of an eye, leaving behind only ruin, along with endless sorrow and hatred. I recoil at such images because each life lost feels like a cold, cruel dagger to my heart. Every single loss should not be downplayed or accepted as routine. These are people of flesh and blood, with parents, with siblings, with loved ones waiting for their return. Their lives are not mere numbers, not symbols, and certainly not pawns in the grand game of war—they are individuals with their own stories, dreams, and emotions. The traces they leave in this world, however small, are worth remembering.
As a doctor, people might assume we’ve long become indifferent to death, that we’re equipped to handle every form of bloodshed with calm detachment. Yet, even the patients who die in hospital evoke a deep sense of regret in me. How could I possibly not mourn those who are forced to give their lives on the battlefield? In war, death is often the inevitable end, not the uncertain gamble between life and death that we face in hospitals. It is this inescapable sense of fate that makes it unbearable to watch.
Perhaps my aversion stems from a sense of weakness. After all, who can truly face the reality of war without flinching? The rawness, the unfiltered cruelty—it is too much. I admit, I am afraid. I fear how easily humans can bring harm to one another, and I fear that I might become numb to it all, losing the reverence I hold for life.
But it’s a fear I do not wish to conquer. Perhaps it serves as a reminder of life’s intrinsic value. Perhaps it tells me that, whether in the hospital or on the battlefield, life must be honoured, not senselessly destroyed. One day, I may come to terms with this harsh reality, but perhaps I will carry this fragility with me for the rest of my life. It is this fragility that makes me feel human, that allows me to still grieve each passing life with genuine sorrow.
Maybe, in truth, my refusal is not just about war films but about rejecting the creeping numbness that treats death as something inevitable. When we cease to fear death, when it becomes a foregone conclusion, I believe we have lost something fundamental. Every single death should cause us to pause, to reflect. War films, however, often package death in a veneer of heroism or victory, as though bloodshed is justified by the glory that follows. This dulls our sensitivity, numbs us to the tragedy, and erases the true humanity behind each loss.
I believe this is where my resistance comes from. As a doctor, I have stood at the threshold between life and death too many times. Behind every struggle, I have seen the broken families, the extinguished hopes, the shattered love. This is not some simple statistic; it is a wound that cannot be healed. Yet war films often glorify death, concealing the blood and suffering behind a façade of heroic triumph, making us less sensitive to the horror, even romanticising it, stripping away the human cost.
In a world already marred by violence and conflict, perhaps such a stance is insignificant, but it is my choice. I choose not to applaud bloodshed, not to glorify war, and not to yield to death. Every choice is a reflection of a deeper belief, and I choose to believe in the sanctity and irreplaceable worth of life.
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