There is a peculiar silence that falls over certain hungers. It’s not that they vanish, but in the stark glare of a conflict, they seem to shrink, to blush with a kind of shame. We recognize it in history books, in the stories of our grandparents, and perhaps now, watching newsreels from distant, trembling streets. The simmering desire for a bigger house, the anguish over a slight at the office, the intricate planning of a perfect vacation—these are the concerns of a sheltered sky. When the sky begins to fall, such wants don’t just become secondary; they can feel almost absurd, like worrying about the arrangement of deck chairs while the ship takes on water.
This is the curious hierarchy of human need. In peacetime, our spirits are free to wander the upper floors of Maslow’s pyramid, decorating rooms of self-actualization, seeking esteem, curating our lives like works of art. We have the luxury of psychic complexity. A frustrating commute can ruin a day. A missed promotion feels like a seismic life event. Our desires grow intricate and subtle, feeding on stability the way roots feed on undisturbed soil. There is nothing frivolous about this; it is the very hallmark of a society that is, fundamentally, safe. It is the blossom of peace.
Then comes the gale. Conflict, whether on our doorstep or haunting our screens, strips life back to its studs. Suddenly, the primal grammar of existence reasserts itself: safety, shelter, survival, the physical well-being of those we love. In this brutal light, our previous preoccupations can seem not just small, but almost childish. The yearning for a new car dissolves into the yearning for a tank of fuel to flee. The quest for a perfect espresso is replaced by the prayer for a clean cup of water. The anxiety about a wrinkle or a gray hair is obliterated by the witness of actual wounds.It is a sobering, even humbling, realignment. We see the outlines of what we took for granted, the invisible fortress of normalcy that allowed our “petty” worries to flourish. We realize that pettiness is a privilege. Frivolity is a kind of freedom. The capacity to be bored, to be annoyed by minor inconveniences, is in itself a sign of profound security.
But this is not to say those peacetime desires are meaningless. Perhaps the tragedy of conflict is not that it reveals them as silly, but that it so violently suspends them. They are not lies; they are the fruits of a world we are meant to inhabit. The longing for beauty, for personal growth, for creative expression, for comfort—these are not shortcomings. They are the quiet, essential hum of a human spirit that is not in immediate danger of being snuffed out. They are what we are fighting for, even if we forget their shape in the fury of the fight.
So we should be gentle with that part of ourselves that feels ashamed for missing a concert while others miss their homes. That shame is a testament to our empathy, our sudden, jarring understanding of scale. But let it also be a promise. For when the conflict ends, as it must, and the slow, painful work of rebuilding begins, we must not forget the lesson of the stark light. We must tend to those foundational needs for all, so that once again, in time, we may all have the incredible, fragile, necessary luxury of worrying about the small things. We must build a world where the quiet hungers can speak again, not as a chorus of frivolity, but as the vibrant, grateful noise of peace.