Death in War: The Price of Defense and the Paradox of Democracy

Two women, one sorrow, death in wars.

It was a cold, misty morning on the banks of the Alqueva reservoirs. The silence seemed almost absolute, broken only by the rhythmic sound of Tété’s footsteps on the damp earth. Fog covered the landscape like a translucent cloak, enveloping everything in mystery. The nearly leafless trees stood bare, silent witnesses to times gone by. Their twisted trunks told stories of endurance, while fallen branches seemed to whisper a quiet farewell to the cycle of life.

Every detail of the landscape carried an echo of finitude, as if the forest itself were paused on the threshold between the present and eternity. Overhead, a flock of vultures circled, their wings casting silent shadows on the calm water—a disturbing reminder of the cyclical nature of life and death.

Tété walked slowly, each step an attempt to escape the weight of the numbers hammering in her mind. That morning, the news had brought yet more statistics of lives lost in war—lives reduced to cold, indifferent numbers. Nearly 500 deaths a day, the report said. More than 230,000 the year before. How can the world accept this? Tété thought, staring at the reflection of the grey sky in the still water.

The fog seemed to mirror her unease, cloaking the forest in silent melancholy. The bare trees, the broken branches, the absence of sound—all echoed the heaviness in her chest. She stopped, took a deep breath, and whispered:

Tété (softly, almost to herself): Death, where are you? I need you. Today, I want to talk. This sadness can’t be mine alone. I want to understand, I want to unburden… this human obsession with war.

The silence lingered, then gave way to a strange sound, like leaves stirring in a wind that wasn’t there. Tété closed her eyes, feeling a chill. When she opened them again, the familiar translucent figure was before her—emerging as if it had always been there, waiting for the call.

Death, serene, looked at her with an expression that blended curiosity and patience, ready to listen to such an unusual invitation.

Tété (her voice trembling): Death, it’s so hard to understand… Every day lives are taken in wars, in the name of so-called noble ideas—democracy, freedom, security. But what is noble about destroying families, about reducing people to numbers?

Death (calmly): It is the human contradiction, Tété. They dress death in flowers, parades, and medals. They call the dead heroes, but rarely ask why they had to die. It is a spectacle to console the living, while nothing is done to end the logic that perpetuates war.

Tété (with a heavy sigh): That reminds me of my father. He served in the colonial war. He hated speaking of it. Only as an adult did I begin to understand why. The weight of war, what he saw, what he lost… it silenced any attempt at heroism. It was as if he bore the shame of something he never chose.

Death (more serious now): Exactly. Those who have lived through war know there is no glory in destruction—only scars. But while they remain silent, others raise flags and make speeches, feeding the cycle. Their sacrifice is used to justify even more sacrifices.

Tété: And that’s what makes me so angry. We celebrate soldiers with flowers, but we do little—or nothing—to stop others from going down the same path. It’s as if we forget the human cost, the real suffering.

Death (serene): The human cost, Tété, is always forgotten. It is easier to build monuments to the dead than to face the reasons they died. Easier to glorify the past than to fight for a future without war.

Tété (lowering her head): And we who are alive—how do we change this? How do we honor these lives without falling into the hypocrisy of creating more war zones?

Death (sitting beside her): You begin by recognizing the value of each life, Tété. Not as a pawn on a board or a statistic in a report, but as a unique being—full of dreams, fears, and loves. And, above all, you question. You question the narratives. You question the leaders. You question the acceptance of the unacceptable.

Tété (thoughtfully): That’s what Rhythms of the End can do, isn’t it? Make people think about death—not as an inevitable fate in war, but as part of something larger. An invitation to live more consciously, to reject this glorification of destruction. My father’s silence makes sense now. He hated war.

Death (with a soft smile): Yes, Tété. Because in the end, the true tribute to those who have passed is not to raise them up as martyrs, but to fight for a world where no one else has to die that way.

Tété (looking up at the sky): Maybe that’s what hurts me most. Each of those 500 lives lost every day… they were dreams interrupted, families devastated. Who were they? What did they want from life?

Death (with compassion): That is the question so few ask, Tété. Humanity hides behind numbers because it is easier to count bodies than to face stories. But each of those lives had a unique value. Each one was an unfinished poem.

Tété (with determination): Then we must honor their stories. I can’t change the world, but perhaps I can help people live more consciously. Isn’t that the best way to honor the dead?

Death: Exactly. And that is why I am here, Tété. I am not the enemy, but the great teacher. Not in the hands of weapons, but in the cycles of nature. And that is what Rhythms of the End can do: help people re-signify death—and, above all, life.

Tété (curious): But how, Death? How can we live in times of chaos and war, still valuing each moment?

Death (with quiet wisdom): Begin with the essentials. Recognize the value of each life. Behind every number is a person, an entire universe. Reflect on who they were. Imagine their stories. Write memoirs, letters. Keep their presence alive.

Tété (nodding slowly): Yes… and what else?

Death: Question contradictions. If democracy values life, how can it destroy it so mercilessly? Stay informed. Speak out. Refuse the narratives that present wars as inevitable.

Tété (her eyes shining): And to live fully… How do I do that, Death? Sometimes it feels impossible.

Death (smiling): Death is always present, even outside of war—at the end of relationships, of phases, of identities. Make space for what nourishes your soul: walking in nature, listening to music, dancing. Meditate on the cycles of life, like the seasons that return and fade.

Tété (gently): And what advice would you give to those who read Rhythms of the End?

Death (firmly): Create a legacy of peace. Every small gesture—teaching a child empathy, practicing dialogue—is a seed. Cultivate the art of saying goodbye. Learn to let go, whether of a person, a habit, or an idea. Value cycles. Understand that every ending carries the seed of a beginning.

Tété (with a soft, tearful smile): I think I’m starting to understand. Wars are brutal reminders of how little we value life—but they can also be invitations to change, to rethink, to live better.

Death (reflectively): Exactly, Tété. True transformation begins when we accept that life—in all its forms—is too precious to waste. May Rhythms of the End inspire people to turn numbers into stories, and stories into a new way of living.

As they walked on through the forest, Tété felt something shift. It was no longer just sorrow at the devastating toll of war—it was a renewed determination to live each day with greater awareness, love, and courage. For if Death teaches anything, it is that life deserves to be lived fully, as a continuous cycle of rebirth.

Her steps grew lighter along the trail. The silence around her was no longer oppressive but became a necessary pause, like a breath before the next movement in the dance. The sun breaking slowly through the fog reminded her that even in death and chaos, there is always room for renewal and hope.

If nature teaches anything, it is that death is not, in itself, destruction—it is part of the cycle of renewal. But the death imposed by war is a rupture in that cycle, a waste of life that dishonours the very meaning of existence.