Nuremberg
Suddenly, I was reminded of Nuremberg. You know how it is. There are days when you wake up and think: ‘Today, I'm going to get my life in order. Catch up on paperwork, do the laundry, save democracy.’ And then you open the news and find out that Country A has decided that Country B is ‘actually, historically speaking’ a kind of out-of-control backyard.
That ‘historically speaking’ is always a bad sign. ‘Historically speaking’ is what you say right before you do something that's already unacceptable. It's the international version of: ‘I'm not saying this to start an argument, but...’ — and then you do start an argument, with chairs and everything.
Country A sends tanks, Country B sends cries for help, and the rest of the world sends statements so carefully worded that they could also serve as coasters.
And somewhere in Country A, a minister appears on television with the look of someone who has just discovered that moral responsibility does not fit into Excel:
‘This is not an invasion,’ he says. ‘This is a special... er... security operation.’
Sure. And my grandmother didn't smoke cigars, she practised ‘smoke-based stress regulation’.
What Nuremberg made clear to us after the Second World War is something you really hope you never have to explain again to grown-ups with a defence budget: planning and waging a war of aggression is a crime.
Not ‘unfortunate’. Not “complex”. Not ‘mistakes were made on both sides’.
Nuremberg put it bluntly: aggression is not a normal policy instrument, but the starting point of a chain reaction of misery. It opens the door to everything that comes after—destruction, occupation, deportations, torture, executions, rape as a weapon, starvation, mass graves. Aggression is the match; the rest is the house burning down.
The cynical thing is: aggression is often sold as something very reasonable.
‘We are protecting our people.’
‘We are preventing worse.’
‘We are responding to provocations.’
‘We are bringing stability.’
Stability. Yes. Like a bulldozer brings stability to a china shop.
Nuremberg had another uncomfortable message for those who like to blend in with the crowd: individual responsibility.
Not: ‘It was the system.’
Not: ‘I had to.’
Not: ‘I was just doing my job.’
The core message was: you are your actions. A uniform is not a magic trick to make your conscience disappear. And ‘orders are orders’ is not a licence to switch off your humanity like a light in the hallway.
This is important because invasions always need personnel: planners, propagandists, logisticians, interrogators, guards, administrators, people who stamp documents as if they were building permits. War crimes rarely arise from one big villain accompanied by dramatic music; they usually arise from many small decisions made by people who prefer not to think too long.
And that is precisely why the Nuremberg line is still an anchor: you cannot blame everything on the leader, but you cannot hide behind the leader either.
An invasion always calls for retribution. Logical. People want it to stop, they want it to pay, they want it to be righted. But Nuremberg also showed something else: the difference between justice and revenge.
The idea was not: “That people are bad”.
The idea was: “These people did this. These are the facts. This is the indictment. This is the judgement”.
That sounds boring, and that is precisely its strength. The rule of law is often boring. It involves forms, evidence, procedure, lawyers saying things like ‘superfluous’ and ‘in cassation’. But the alternative is the jungle, and in the jungle, the strongest always wins—until the next strongest comes along.
Invasions are usually presented as heroic. Flags. Music. Maps with arrows. Tough talk about honour and destiny. But look at the bill—and especially: who gets it?
- The soldier who returns with a body that no longer cooperates and a head that continues to wage war at night.
- The nurse in Country B who runs a trauma ward with two gloves and one torch.
- The worker in Country A who finds that wages are being frozen “because national security demands it”.
- The children, of course. Always the children. They learn very early on that adults sometimes lose their minds en masse.
War is the biggest privatisation trick ever: profits are concentrated, damage is socialised. Ordinary people pay with money, security, their future and their health. And meanwhile, leaders call it ‘necessary sacrifices’, as if they themselves are sacrificing anything other than their public image.
Nuremberg was not just about punishment; it was about an attempt at civilisation: the idea that power is not automatically right. That borders should not be redrawn by force. That there are rules, even when it is difficult. Especially then.
And so, when Country A invades Country B, there are a few conclusions that are not fashionable or trendy, but essential:
- Call aggression aggression. Euphemisms are the lubricant of crime.
- Protect civilians and document facts. Without evidence, the lie will win in the end.
- Focus on those responsible, not on populations. Justice is precision work.
- ‘Order’ is no excuse. In every chain, there is a person who can choose—even if it costs something.
- Peace is not only the silence of weapons, but also the restoration of justice. Otherwise, you get a pause, not peace.
An invasion is ultimately a test. Not only for the country under attack, but for everyone around it. Because you can pretend for a long time that norms and treaties are mere props—until someone decides to set fire to the set.
And then it becomes clear: civilisation is not a given. It requires maintenance. Like a dyke. You only realise how important it is when it's too late to start shovelling.
So yes, “never again” sometimes sounds like a solemn phrase from a museum. But it's more like a sign at a dangerous bend:
We've crashed here before. We won't do it again.
We'll do it anyway.