In the early hours of June 13, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu addressed his nation and the world with a carefully choreographed declaration of war. “Before an hour, Operation ‘Rising Lion’ began,” he announced. “Our brave pilots are striking a large number of targets across Iran.” He listed the objectives: “to damage Iran’s nuclear infrastructure, its ballistic missile factories, and much of its military capabilities.” Framed as both a defensive necessity and a moral imperative, the address was as much a military act as a linguistic one. The targets of the strikes included Iran’s enrichment facility in Natanz and scientists alleged to be working on a nuclear weapon. “We struck senior command, senior scientists… and also struck at the heart of Iran’s ballistic missile program,” Netanyahu said. But beyond the bombs, another more insidious weapon was launched: the language of war.
This language, carefully curated and aggressively disseminated, was mirrored almost instantly from Tehran. Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei responded with forceful rhetoric, calling the Israeli assault “a crime” and warning, “The powerful hand of the armed forces of the Islamic Republic will not let them go unpunished.” He described the attack as one that “struck residential centers and killed several Iranian commanders and scientists.” The exchange set the stage not only for a military escalation but a psychological one, in which citizens on both sides were primed for prolonged conflict, linguistically drafted into war.
The public, caught between pride and powerlessness, will remain the unacknowledged victim of wars they did not start but are expected to survive.
War language rarely stays confined to official statements. It bleeds into the national psyche. Netanyahu warned Israelis to remain in bomb shelters “for longer periods than they are used to” and instructed citizens to “strictly adhere to the Home Front Command’s instructions,” reinforcing the image of a country under existential threat. The real message was unmistakable: unity through fear, solidarity through silence.
Such rhetoric has profound implications. It converts complex geopolitical realities into emotionally charged binaries: good versus evil, defense versus aggression, us versus them. “Operation ‘Rising Lion’,” much like India’s “Operation Sindoor” launched in May against Pakistan, is named with deliberate emotional resonance. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi described his military response as “not just a name, it reflects the emotions of millions of Indians,” and declared, “We will enter their homes and eliminate terrorists.”
This stylized, emotionally loaded language elevates military action into moral crusade. It justifies violence as virtue. In Modi’s address, strikes on Bahawalpur and Muridke, described as “universities of global terrorism”, were symbols of unwarranted aggression against a peace-loving nation.
Pakistan’s response, delivered by Prime Minister Shehbaz Sharif, followed the same linguistic pattern. India’s strikes were branded “cowardly attacks on five different locations within Pakistan.” He assured the nation that “Pakistan has every right to respond fully to this act of war, and that response is already underway.” The phrasing such as rights, retaliation, national unity, is part of a familiar rhetorical loop repeated by all belligerents.
The consistency of this war discourse across nations, be it Israel, Iran, India, or Pakistan, suggests a deeper structure beneath the surface. When leaders address the nation after launching an attack, their objective is not to request participation but to manufacture emotional consent. The Israeli public was not asked whether ‘Operation Rising Lion’ should begin; they were simply told it had already begun. The speech’s purpose, then, was to align the collective mood with the state’s agenda, to psychologically bind citizens to a policy they did not shape.
There is also the post-strike phenomenon of claiming victory where there is none. Netanyahu’s emphasis on “determined and powerful execution” and his salute to the military’s “bold planning” exemplifies this. Victory is declared in abstract terms, morale, deterrence, symbolism, even when strategic gains remain unclear. Similarly, Modi emphasized that India’s weapons had proven themselves: “During this operation the credibility of our Made-in-India weapons were also proven.” Such declarations redefine victory in ways that obscure loss, civilian displacement, and the risk of prolonged instability.
War language not only dehumanizes the enemy, it dehumanizes the speaker’s own people by reducing them to patriotic instruments. It tells them to accept death quietly, to interpret fear as loyalty, and to see suffering as a badge of honor. A subtle yet powerful form of psychological injury is inflicted, one that can persist across generations. A comparative look at Europe’s postwar trajectory offers a stark contrast. After the devastation of World War II, European nations made a radical shift, not just in alliances, but in language. The formation of the European Union, the adoption of a shared currency, and the dismantling of internal borders were all made possible by a shift in discourse: from vengeance to cooperation, from militarism to integration. Language played a foundational role in that transformation. European leaders stopped talking about enemies and started talking about partners.
Countries currently at war, or remain on the brink of conflict such as Pakistan and India, should look to the European Union as a living example of how former enemies can become partners through dialogue, shared interests, and the language of peace.
The world today lacks such courage of speech. When Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy addressed his people after a Russian drone and missile barrage, he urged “action from America, which has the power to force Russia into peace.” But action, in the dominant diplomatic lexicon, still too often means arms and sanctions rather than reconciliation. Russian President Vladimir Putin, for his part, spoke not of peace but of capability: “Our air defenses have intercepted over 80,000 targets during this conflict,” and he emphasized the “maintenance and further development” of Russia’s nuclear arsenal.
The cumulative effect of this kind of language, regardless of origin or ideology, is to normalize war as a method of diplomacy. It teaches populations that peace is naïve, that strength lies in retaliation, and that silence in the face of state violence is a form of patriotism.
Yet, an alternative is possible. If leaders chose to speak differently, to mourn openly, to acknowledge mutual loss, to value restraint as a form of strength, the foundations of peace could be laid not with treaties alone, but with tone. What if a speech began not with a pledge of revenge, but with a moment of silence for every life lost, regardless of nationality?
Until such language emerges, war will continue to be fought not just with missiles and drones, but with metaphors, slogans, and speeches, each one reinforcing the machinery of conflict. The public, caught between pride and powerlessness, will remain the unacknowledged victim of wars they did not start but are expected to survive.
In an age where words travel faster than weapons, the language we use may well determine whether we live in endless war or begin the long journey toward peace.
Muhammad Shaban Rafi is a Professor at Riphah International University, Lahore, and a lead guest editor at Emerald and Springer publishing. Ayesha Saddiqa is an Assistant Professor at Govt. Graduate College for Women, Samanabad.