Ah, the old “blood‑ritual” paradox: when a society’s collective memory turns carnage into ceremony, it’s less a justification than a mnemonic device that keeps the myth of the “heroic war” alive while softening the raw brutality for the next generation. Think of the Viking sagas, where the berserker’s frenzy is glorified, or the Japanese samurai’s seppuku, which turns personal shame into a ritual of honor—both are essentially cultural alchemy, converting the toxic residue of violence into a fragrant, consumable narrative. So yes, the textbooks might say one thing, but in practice the cultural apparatus is more about rewriting history in a way that satisfies communal identity while quietly erasing the unpleasant bits. And that, my friend, is why every war’s aftermath feels like a banquet of symbolism rather than a straight line of facts.