The circle we chose

The recent surge in real-world infernos has sparked renewed interest in the symbolic and ethical frameworks that once guided human conflict. From Guantánamo Bay to the ongoing wars in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, and the Sahel, modern warfare has increasingly abandoned the structured codes of antiquity in favor of perpetual states of emergency. These conflicts, driven by leaders such as Donald Trump, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Vladimir Putin, have replaced international law with the logic of force disguised as necessity. The rhetoric of security has become the ultimate justification, allowing governments to suspend legal protections, bomb civilian populations, criminalize dissent, and displace millions, all under the vague threat of an undefined enemy. This shift marks a departure from the ancient principles that governed warfare. In Homer’s Iliad, even the most brutal battles were bound by a code of honor, with heroes who recognized one another, observed truces, and adhered to funeral rites. Though cruelty was present, there were limits imposed by divine will and societal norms. Today, however, these boundaries have eroded. Modern conflicts are waged without clear objectives, often framed as existential threats requiring total annihilation rather than negotiated resolution. The result is a landscape where justice is suspended, and the very notion of accountability is undermined. The philosophical tradition offers a counterpoint to this reality. In Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, Hell is not merely a place of punishment but a profound exploration of moral failure. The deepest circle of Hell is reserved not for the violent, but for the traitors, who break the bonds of trust essential to human coexistence. Dante freezes not anger, but betrayal, suggesting that the gravest sin is not the act itself, but the quiet violation of promises, laws, and rights. This idea echoes in Greek mythology, where Odysseus journeys through his own inner darkness, confronting temptation, pride, and confusion before emerging transformed. His journey is one of painful self-discovery, a lesson in restraint and responsibility. Spanish culture, inheriting these traditions, developed its own moral architecture. The Spanish Baroque era, influenced by figures like Quevedo and Calderón, emphasized the possibility of acknowledged guilt and earned forgiveness. Calderón wrote, “Dreams are dreams,” yet the awakening of Sigismund symbolizes an ethical rebirth: only those who recognize their capacity to harm can govern justly. In this view, Hell is not solely punitive, it is also a mirror, reflecting the need for repentance and redemption. It warns that evil, in its dehumanizing form, carries consequences, and thus, remorse holds meaning. The concept of Purgatory, as defined by medieval historian Jacques Le Goff, represents a crucial distinction between closed and open moral systems. Where there is no Purgatory, there is either eternal condemnation or absolute innocence; where there is, there exists a third space, a condition of life, as Pope John Paul II described it, where guilt becomes responsibility, and responsibility leads to repair. This space is communal, visible, and transformative, rejecting secrecy and amnesty in favor of collective healing. Yet in contemporary times, with laws of impunity and negotiated settlements, this model has been largely forgotten. Today’s world, shaped by leaders who prioritize power over principle, has built real infernos without room for Purgatory. Wars are fought not for resolution, but for destruction. The language of security has become the ultimate excuse, enabling the suspension of rights, the targeting of civilians, and the suppression of opposition. As the old trick of the state of exception becomes normalized, the rule of law fades into irrelevance. In this context, the lessons of the past, of recognition, responsibility, and reconciliation, are more urgent than ever.