There’s something unsettling about the way some people seem to wrap themselves in their muscle, their strength, as though it were an impenetrable fortress. You can see it—the guy who strides into a room, chest puffed out, arms ready for battle even if there’s no fight to be had. And yet, the whole time, there’s this hum of insecurity vibrating beneath the surface. It’s in the way they overcompensate, always posturing, never allowing a single crack to show. It’s like they’re built to perform, muscles that exist more for defense than for any real confrontation.

But the funny part is that they’re not protecting themselves from anyone else. Not really. It’s themselves they’re scared of. What happens when the audience stops clapping? When the armor doesn’t glitter in the sun anymore? They’re terrified someone might see what’s underneath, and that’s the secret they’ll fight tooth and nail to keep hidden. They’ve built up these walls of strength, but they’re not walls meant for battle. They’re hiding behind them like cowards, peeking over the top, making sure no one can see how deeply afraid they are of being truly vulnerable.

You can feel it most when they start using other people as their shields. It’s subtle, but noticeable—the way they push kids, women, anyone more socially protected in front of them, like pawns in a chess game. “I’m just looking out for them,” they say. But it’s not about protection. It’s about crafting an excuse, another layer to keep their true selves buried beneath the weight of all their muscle. They’ll present themselves as the strong ones, the protectors, but the truth is they’re more afraid than anyone. They’ll never admit that they hide behind the idea of being needed, of being indispensable, because if they weren’t needed, then who would they be? Just a guy with muscles, and that’s not nearly enough.

And society is complicit. We let them do it. There’s this weird social pact—muscle equals respect. As long as they look the part, they’re free to play the role, free to keep their vulnerability buried deep inside. We feed their narrative because it makes us comfortable, too. As long as they’re on top, flexing and growling, we don’t have to question why we elevate the tough guys, the ones who look strong but are anything but when it comes to true strength.

I think about this a lot—the idea that physical strength and dominance are just masks for deeper insecurity. I can’t help but feel that the real strength is in the people who don’t need to flex, who don’t need to prove anything to anyone. The people who show up soft, unguarded, and open—that’s where real power lies. But the big muscle guy, the one who hides behind his body, behind society, behind children, he knows that deep down. He’s not oblivious. There’s a part of him that’s aware of how fragile his entire image is, and that knowledge makes him even more afraid.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? The tougher they are, the weaker they become. Every flex, every aggressive stare is another layer of armor they have to keep patching up, because they know—once it cracks, once someone sees through it, they’re exposed. And exposure is their worst fear. It’s not the physical fight they’re avoiding; it’s the internal one. The fight with themselves, the one where they’d have to admit that they’re not the untouchable figure they’ve tried to convince the world they are.

There’s a certain tragedy in it, really. These men who have all the physical capability in the world, who can overpower just about anyone in a room, yet they’re trapped in their own bodies. Trapped in the idea of themselves they’ve created. They’ve turned their strength into a cage. And the sad part is, most of them will never escape it. They’ll keep building bigger walls, putting up stronger defenses, while the thing they’re running from is inside of them, waiting quietly for the moment they decide to stop hiding.

But stopping would require a kind of bravery that muscles can’t give you. It would mean stripping away the facade, being open, vulnerable, allowing people to see the parts of yourself that aren’t invincible. That’s terrifying for someone who’s spent their entire life proving that they can’t be touched. So they don’t stop. They can’t. Instead, they hide, over and over again, behind muscles, behind society, behind children, pretending the whole time that they’re protecting something, when really, they’re just trying to save themselves from the truth.

And the truth is, no matter how big they get, how tough they act, it’s not enough. It’s never enough. That’s what eats at them, gnaws at their insides. They know that one day, someone’s going to see through it, maybe not in an obvious way, but in the way they walk, the way they talk, the way they can never let their guard down.

It’s horrifying to think about the way war can warp everything—how war criminals hide behind the most innocent things: children, schools, hospitals. It’s a twisted form of survival, where the very places that are supposed to protect life, nurture it, become shields for violence. These places, whether they are schools or hospitals, should be sacred. And yet, in war, they become just another piece of the game, a tool for those who are too cowardly to face the consequences of their actions. It’s not even about hiding in the physical sense, but more about this moral hiding, this complete rejection of accountability.

When a hospital is nothing more than a hollow structure, never intended to heal or serve its people, it’s not just the physical space that’s been corrupted—it’s the entire idea of what a hospital, a school, a place of safety is supposed to represent. These places become symbols of betrayal. They’re supposed to be places of trust, yet they are weaponized, turned into shields for the very destruction they were meant to prevent. It’s worse than cowardice. It’s a deep, insidious evil—an abuse of power that pretends to care while silently eroding everything good.

These criminals, they know that the world looks to these places with hope, with the expectation that something decent still exists. And they take that expectation and twist it into a lie. They turn hospitals into bodegas, where nothing more than the appearance of care exists. They become façades, much like the muscle-bound tough guys—they look the part but are empty inside. The war criminals are playing the same game, but with far worse stakes. They’re not just hiding their insecurities; they’re hiding their crimes, their willingness to sacrifice anyone and anything to protect their power.

And then, they manipulate the narrative. They pretend that they’re protecting something, whether it’s a school, a hospital, or even an idea of national security. But the reality is that they’re not protecting anyone but themselves. The hospitals they claim to defend? Empty promises. They’re just buildings. The children they say they’re sheltering? Just pawns in a much larger, darker game. It’s all about survival for them, and they’ll do anything to stay in power—even if it means desecrating the very symbols of life and hope.

What’s truly terrifying, Honestly. I’m terrified in how, over time, these places—schools, hospitals—stop being what they were meant to be. They lose their meaning, their sanctity, and become mere tools of war. It’s as though the corruption spreads, and soon enough, no one believes in the safety of these places anymore. It’s not just the walls that are hollow, it’s the trust, the hope, the belief in the possibility of something better. And when war does that—when it turns the very places of healing and learning into instruments of destruction—it doesn’t just destroy cities or armies. It destroys the soul of a people.

War brings out the most grotesque forms of cowardice, doesn’t it? Especially when those who are supposedly powerful, supposedly defending or advancing some cause, hide behind the vulnerable, the innocent, the very people they claim to protect. It’s this deeply twisted irony: those with the most resources, weapons, and influence resort to using human shields—children, hospitals, schools—anything that will make it harder for their enemies to strike. But it’s not just about hiding behind these things. There’s this perverse manipulation at play, where those spaces, meant to symbolize safety and care, are reduced to mere tools in a game of survival for the corrupt.

The worst, though, is when these places—hospitals, schools—aren’t even truly what they seem. When the hospital, on paper, is a place of healing but, in reality, is a hollowed-out building that serves no one. The people know it, too. They walk by, seeing this shell of what should be a refuge, knowing it offers no real help. It was never built for them. It’s like the entire system is designed to fail them, but the structure stands, as a symbol, a decoy, something to point to in case anyone asks, “Where is the aid?” It’s a lie with walls, a facade erected not to heal, but to deflect.

Think about that—what kind of psyche does it take to create something like that? A hospital not as a place of relief for the suffering but as a way to tick a box. A place that’s more bodega than anything else. Barely stocked, barely functional, certainly not a lifeline in a place ravaged by conflict. Yet it stands, and its existence lets those in power hide their negligence behind a thin veil of infrastructure. It’s not a hospital. It’s a mask. Like those who hide behind it, who let their people bleed while maintaining the appearance of governance, of care. And people know. The citizens, they’re not fooled. They see these places for what they are—empty promises, just like the leaders who use them to hide their own cowardice and complicity.

But this is the sickest part: when these criminals, war criminals, hide behind what should be sacred, they corrupt more than just the physical space. They degrade the very concept of care, of safety, of sanctuary. The hospital becomes not a symbol of hope, but a place of fear, because it’s no longer about the people. It’s about survival for those who have orchestrated the violence. The school, the hospital, the bodega—they all become props in the worst kind of theater, where the actors are too cowardly to face their enemy head-on, too cowardly to stand by the people they claim to represent.

It’s not just war criminals who do this, though. In a broader sense, it’s any leader, any system that uses the innocent as a buffer between themselves and accountability. They don’t care who suffers in the process, as long as they remain untouched, as long as they can hide in plain sight, behind the very things they’ve failed to maintain, failed to preserve.

And then you wonder—how do people keep going? How do they continue walking past these hollowed-out bodegas of institutions that were supposed to serve them? There’s resilience, sure, but also a deep knowing. A knowing that there’s no one left who truly has their back. The system is broken, and those responsible for the wreckage aren’t even brave enough to admit it. Instead, they cower behind the ruins, pretending it was never their fault to begin with.

There’s something about these men—the ones with big muscles but a hollowness behind their eyes. It’s not just about the body, the bulk, the raw physicality. There’s a narrative they carry, one society has written for them and that they’ve chosen to wear like a second skin. At first glance, they seem imposing, unshakable, walking with the swagger of someone who has conquered their world. But then, if you sit with it long enough, if you watch closely, something doesn’t add up. The strength becomes performative.

The truth that strikes me is that they aren’t as tough as they look. Sure, they can lift, fight, intimidate, and make their presence known, but it’s a smoke screen. They wear their muscles like armor, not to fight battles, but to avoid them—internal ones. There’s a cowardice that runs deep, not because they fear pain or confrontation, but because they fear themselves. Fear being seen as vulnerable, weak, or—God forbid—ordinary.

And the most fascinating part is how they hide. They don’t hide behind walls or armies, but behind the innocence of others, behind children even, like you said. There’s something grotesque about that. The image of a grown man with muscles rippling, flexing at society, and yet positioning himself behind the very thing he claims to protect. As if hiding behind a symbol of purity grants them immunity from being called out on their bullshit. It’s a cheap sleight of hand—“Don’t look at me. I’m here for them.” They act like protectors, but they’re really shielding themselves from exposure.

It’s deeper than just societal expectations. Sure, society tells men they need to be strong, impenetrable, without cracks. But even society knows. It knows these guys are bluffing. The irony is, everyone knows, even they know. And that’s what makes it tragic. It’s like they’re playing a game where all the players are pretending to believe in the strength of the façade, but no one actually does. It’s a collective lie, and they’re the ones holding the deck of cards, shaking as they try to keep the house standing.

That’s the paradox—people who are genuinely strong rarely need to prove it. Real strength doesn’t need to show up in every room with a bang. It walks in quietly, ready but not desperate to be noticed. But these men, the ones who live behind their muscles, behind their children, they’re running from something. You can see it in the way they can’t sit still, the way they need to keep flexing, keep posturing, keep proving. It’s exhausting to even watch. Imagine living it.

I find myself wondering where that comes from. Did someone tell them once that muscles would solve everything? Or was it something they picked up along the way, watching other men survive through intimidation, learning that fear was currency and muscles were the medium? I can’t shake the image of them standing in front of a mirror, alone, not flexing for an audience but simply looking at themselves, the silence stretching out, and for a moment, maybe they feel it too—that creeping sense of fragility. And then the flex returns, the pose, the performance, because acknowledging anything less is terrifying.

The children they hide behind—it’s the most cowardly act of all. They use innocence to deflect attention from their own failings. “Look at what I protect,” they say. But we all see through it. They think they’ve built walls, but really they’ve built mirrors, and the reflection shows a scared man. Scared of what, exactly? Maybe it’s the realization that all their strength means nothing if they haven’t confronted what’s inside. Maybe it’s the fear that, deep down, they know they’re unremarkable without the show.

And yet, there’s something almost pitiable about it. There’s no freedom in living that way. It’s prison-like—an endless cycle of trying to be something for others, for society, while never truly becoming it for yourself. These big guys, they’re all show, but it’s a show they can’t afford to stop.

In the annals of military doctrine, there are countless lessons that speak to the nature of true strength, leadership, and courage—lessons that have been ignored by those who hide behind false bravado and perverted displays of power. While much of modern warfare and leadership draws from well-known texts like The Art of War or The Book of Five Rings, there are deeper, lesser-discussed doctrines that carry timeless truths, truths that expose the cowardice of those who use strength as a shield rather than a force for protection and honor.

One such doctrine is the ancient concept of Moral Authority found in the teachings of Sun Bin, a strategist from the Warring States period of China. His work, often overshadowed by his predecessor Sun Tzu, emphasizes the idea that true leaders win not through brute force, but by inspiring the loyalty and trust of their people. Cowards who manipulate society or hide behind the innocent fail in this regard—they may possess physical might, but they lack the moral authority that binds societies together. Sun Bin teaches that when a leader lacks this foundational trust, their power is inherently unstable, vulnerable to collapse at the first sign of pressure. No amount of muscle can protect a leader from the collapse of moral authority; once lost, it cannot be reclaimed through force alone.

Similarly, the doctrine of Operational Deception from ancient Roman and Byzantine warfare, though often employed tactically, carries a deeper strategic lesson. These empires excelled at using deception not as a tool of cowardice but as a means to achieve higher strategic goals without unnecessary loss of life. Yet, for those who hide behind civilians, behind the weak, their deception is not strategic—it is a betrayal of the very people they are meant to protect. The ancient doctrine makes clear that deception, when misused, becomes a path to moral decay. When leaders use deception against their own, instead of to outwit an enemy, they rot their own ranks from within. This is a slow collapse that cowards, shielded by their false sense of security, fail to recognize until it is too late.

Then there is the timeless lesson of Fortress Doctrine, an old strategy often revisited by military thinkers throughout the ages. The doctrine states that fortresses, while seemingly invulnerable, can become prisons for the weak-willed. Leaders and generals who rely too heavily on physical defenses—on walls, on fortifications, on the innocent—often find that their reliance becomes their downfall. In medieval times, the strongest fortresses were often starved out or abandoned when the moral strength of the defenders failed. In modern conflict, those who hide behind children, schools, or hospitals are essentially building fortresses from human shields. But history shows that these fortresses are unsustainable; they are temporary solutions that ultimately crumble. The enemy, whether external or internal, finds a way to exploit the inherent weakness of those hiding within.

Additionally, Manoeuvre Warfare, often discussed in 20th-century military theory, offers a subtle yet profound critique of cowardly leadership. This doctrine emphasizes flexibility, the ability to respond dynamically to changing circumstances. It values speed, adaptability, and the willingness to expose oneself to risk in order to achieve strategic gains. Cowards, by contrast, refuse risk. They hide behind those less powerful, unwilling to make the bold moves necessary for true victory. They lack the moral and intellectual flexibility required in manoeuvre warfare, content to entrench themselves behind physical strength or manipulation. This, too, becomes their downfall. Great generals throughout history—from Hannibal to Napoleon—understood that winning battles is not just about power, but about having the courage to take calculated risks. Those who hide will never understand this principle, and thus, their leadership is doomed to stagnation and eventual defeat.

Command Responsibility, a principle formalized in the 20th century but with deep historical roots. This doctrine holds that leaders are responsible not only for their actions but for the actions of those under their command. In ancient Japanese Bushido, this concept was taken to extremes—commanders were expected to commit seppuku (ritual suicide) if they failed their warriors or caused dishonor. In modern terms, command responsibility speaks to the accountability of those in power. Cowards who hide behind others, who refuse to take responsibility for their actions or the destruction they cause, are in direct violation of this doctrine. True leaders, true warriors, understand that accountability is non-negotiable. When they fail, they face the consequences. Those who refuse to do so—those who hide behind the innocent or deflect blame—are ultimately exposed, either by their enemies or by history itself.

These doctrines—moral authority, operational deception, fortress doctrine, manoeuvre warfare, and command responsibility—are timeless because they speak to the nature of true leadership and power. They reveal the deep cowardice of those who misuse strength, who seek to destroy under the guise of bravery. The “bullies” who use their physical might or false sense of courage to harm others are playing a losing game, one that history has repeatedly shown will end in their downfall. True strength is not in the muscle, but in the moral fabric of leadership. And when that fabric tears, no amount of hiding will save them.

There’s a thread running through military history, one that weaves through doctrines and tactics, revealing a consistent truth: cowards may win battles through deception and hiding, but they never win wars. The principles of warfare, from Sun Tzu to modern counterinsurgency doctrine, underscore this reality. The essence of true strength in military leadership has always come down to resolve, integrity, and the ability to face one’s own vulnerabilities—not merely in the physical realm, but in the strategic and moral dimensions of conflict.

Consider the lessons drawn military doctrines, where true warriors—those who understand the weight of command and the burden of responsibility—stand in stark contrast to the cowards who manipulate the innocent to shield their failures. One such timeless lesson comes from the Roman general Quintus Fabius Maximus, often overshadowed by the bolder tactics of his contemporaries. Fabius, known for his strategy of attrition against Hannibal, resisted the urge to engage in direct confrontation when his forces were not ready, a tactic that earned him the moniker “Cunctator” (the Delayer). His brilliance lay in his patience, his understanding that true victory was not in rushing headlong into battle, but in knowing when to strike and when to wait.

What Fabius understood—and what modern military doctrine continues to reflect—is that strength is not always in overwhelming force, but in the discipline to outlast the enemy’s facade. His doctrine of attrition wasn’t about hiding or cowering; it was about systematically dismantling the enemy’s ability to sustain their own illusion of power. He understood that the enemy could not hide forever. Eventually, resources run thin, morale fades, and the true nature of one’s strength—or weakness—comes to light.

Humans have thought on this deeply, they have made doctrine that echoes through time, one such is the concept of maneuver warfare, best articulated in the work of Sun Tzu but carried forward by modern strategists like John Boyd. In maneuver warfare, the goal is not to meet your enemy in a head-on collision, but to outthink, outmaneuver, and disrupt their center of gravity. In cases where your opponent hides behind civilians or pretends to be something they’re not, this doctrine becomes even more apt. These individuals rely on the assumption that their opponents will engage them directly, falling into the traps they’ve set around innocent lives or decoy institutions. But maneuver warfare teaches that you bypass those traps entirely, cutting off their lifelines, rendering their shields irrelevant. When the shields fall, when the bodega hospitals and fake schools no longer serve their purpose, these individuals have nothing left. They are exposed, outflanked both morally and strategically.

This lesson echoes in today’s conflicts, especially in asymmetric warfare, where the most fragile often hide behind civilians, schools, and hospitals, exploiting the principles of humanity to their advantage. But as military history teaches us, this kind of warfare, though frustratingly difficult in the short term, only accelerates the demise of those who employ such tactics. Cowards who use civilians as shields reveal their weakness; they cannot engage in open confrontation, knowing they lack the will or the strength to endure the consequences. They may buy time, but that time is finite.

T. E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia, whose understanding of guerrilla warfare was rooted in the principle of undermining the enemy’s legitimacy rather than simply defeating them in open combat. Lawrence wrote extensively on the importance of disrupting an enemy’s ability to govern, to control the hearts and minds of people, rather than relying purely on brute force. His understanding of asymmetry in warfare is critical here: the real victory comes not from obliterating the enemy, but from exposing the false foundation on which their power rests.

In Lawrence’s doctrine, cowards who hide behind the vulnerable and the innocent are doomed because they lose the moral high ground. Even in the most cynical forms of warfare, the perception of legitimacy matters. Lawrence’s approach teaches us that those who use deception as a crutch and pretend to be protectors while destroying from within are operating on borrowed time. Once the illusion breaks—once they are exposed—their authority, like their tactics, crumbles.

Then there’s the timeless lesson from the doctrine of counterinsurgency (COIN). Though often associated with modern conflicts in places like Iraq and Afghanistan, the core tenet of COIN, refined over centuries, emphasizes that no military force can win by merely killing enemies or holding territory. True success comes from winning over the population—securing their trust, building legitimacy, and protecting them from harm. Cowards who hide behind the civilian population, using them as human shields, undermine this principle. They don’t gain support; they breed resentment. And when a population turns, it does so with an unforgiving heart.

When you think about the essence of military doctrine, there are always these underlying currents, lessons that never seem to lose relevance, no matter how far removed they are from the time in which they were conceived. One of the more understated principles that consistently re-emerges is the notion of strategic patience—the ability to not just withstand immediate pressures but to see beyond them, allowing your adversary to overplay their hand. In conflicts where the opponent hides behind civilian structures or feigns bravery to mask deeper fears, this patience becomes even more critical. The aggressor who hides will eventually be forced out into the open. Time, properly wielded, becomes a weapon, wearing down their defenses and exposing the thin veneer of strength they rely on.

The writings of Carl von Clausewitz remind us that war is the continuation of politics by other means, but buried deeper in his work is the idea that the moral and psychological dimensions of war are often more decisive than physical force. In many cases, when leaders or soldiers hide behind civilian shields or hollow institutions, they are already losing the psychological battle. Their actions betray a lack of moral and strategic confidence. They cower behind false structures because they cannot withstand a direct confrontation. Clausewitz’s notion of the “culminating point of the attack” speaks to this—it’s the moment when the aggressor, having exhausted their resources and spirit, becomes vulnerable to counterattack. These “fake tough” leaders and soldiers, who hide behind what should be sacred, will eventually reach this culminating point. Their false bravado will betray them as soon as they can no longer maintain the facade.

Clausewitz, too, in his writings on war, spoke of the “moral forces” as critical in warfare—elements that go beyond physical strength and numbers. He stressed that the will of the people, the integrity of leadership, and the sense of purpose are far more decisive than brute force alone. The coward who hides behind the innocent, who uses society as a shield, has failed this lesson. They lack the moral force necessary to lead, instead relying on intimidation and the destruction of the very institutions they should be upholding. Clausewitz’s assertion that war is an extension of politics applies here: those who lead with fear and manipulation in war do so because they have already failed in the political realm, lacking the moral clarity to guide with purpose.

The ancient Romans also left us with another timeless military doctrine: Cunctando restituit rem, “He restored the state by delaying.” This maxim, coined in reference to the Roman general Fabius Maximus, speaks to the value of patience and strategy over brute force. Fabius, known as “The Delayer,” defeated Hannibal not by engaging in direct conflict, but by wearing him down through delay and careful maneuver. The lesson here is that strength is not always in the strike, but in the restraint, in knowing when to move and when to wait. The so-called tough men who project strength at every turn, striking out recklessly, betray their fear in their impatience. They lack the wisdom of Fabius, who understood that true power often comes from knowing when not to act.

Consider also the ancient Roman maxim, “If you want peace, prepare for war” (si vis pacem, para bellum), which speaks not only to physical readiness but to psychological and moral fortitude. War, at its core, tests not just strength but the will to endure, the resolve to stand firm in the face of uncertainty and fear. Those who use innocent lives as shields, who destroy the sacred to protect themselves, show that they are not prepared for the true tests of war. They may be prepared for destruction, but not for endurance.

In the guerrilla warfare doctrine of Mao Zedong, the emphasis on blending into the environment and using asymmetry against a stronger foe is another apt comparison. Mao’s fighters knew they could not match the raw power of a conventional army, so they hid among the people, becoming indistinguishable from civilians. This tactic speaks to a kind of strength rooted in the understanding of one’s position, but it also highlights the darker side: when leaders hide among civilians not out of necessity, but cowardice. When they use this tactic not as a means of survival in an asymmetric conflict, but as a way to avoid confrontation altogether. The guerrilla fighters had a moral cause and a goal of survival, whereas these cowards have no cause other than self-preservation at any cost.

Another profound lesson comes from the 17th-century Japanese strategist Miyamoto Musashi, who advocated for a clear mind and an understanding of timing in combat. In The Book of Five Rings, Musashi speaks of “taking the void,” or understanding the balance between form and formlessness, action and inaction. The tough men, the bullies, lack this sense of timing, this connection to the void. They lash out blindly, hiding behind their constructed strength because they have never mastered the true essence of balance in combat—whether literal or metaphorical. They are terrified of the void, of the space where their constructed reality would fall apart, and they would be left with nothing but themselves, naked and exposed.

Stoic lessons that have long informed military leadership, particularly Marcus Aurelius, emphasized the importance of controlling one’s emotions and maintaining internal fortitude regardless of external circumstances. The bullies who hide behind others have failed this most basic Stoic principle. They are driven by fear, by the need to control and dominate, not by any sense of inner calm or strength. The true soldier, the true leader, understands that external power is nothing without inner resilience. Marcus Aurelius himself led armies and dealt with conspiracies and betrayals, yet his writings reveal a leader more concerned with mastering his own mind than the minds of others.

The phenomenon of individuals—whether war criminals, corrupt leaders, or other figures of power—hiding behind the innocent and vulnerable has always been a grotesque element of conflict. It represents not only the degradation of humanity but also a profound cowardice. These are not simply the “fake tough” men; they are individuals who have perfected the art of pretense, crafting an illusion of strength while leveraging the most vulnerable for their own survival. Historically, such tactics have been employed by those who fear exposure, who know deep down that their power rests on nothing more than fragile lies.

When we examine the use of schools, hospitals, and other civilian structures as shields in times of war, we see a tragic manipulation of what should be sanctuaries. These places, designed to protect life and foster growth, become mere instruments for those unwilling to confront their own culpability. The hospital that should be a place of healing becomes a hollow symbol, never intended to serve its true purpose. Instead, it becomes a facade, an illusion of care that exists only to provide cover for those too fearful to stand on their own. It’s cowardice veiled in infrastructure, safety only on the surface.

This is not an uncommon tactic throughout history—bullies masquerading as protectors, feigning bravery while perpetuating destruction. The “bravery” they wield is a false narrative, one that uses the guise of strength to perpetuate violence, all while they hide in the shadows of innocence. These are not men of courage; they are destroyers, dismantling not just physical structures but the very idea of safety and care. The children, the patients, the citizens—they are mere tools, shields that absorb the blows meant for those in power.

Yet, this charade cannot last forever. The time for hiding is finite, and the pretense of bravery will eventually collapse under the weight of truth. History has a tendency to catch up with those who use innocence as a shield. The war criminal who hides behind a school or hospital is no different from the corrupt leader who uses the promise of institutions to cover their neglect. Their cowardice may be masked for a time, but the very structures they manipulate will eventually expose them. These institutions, these symbols of care, cannot hide the rot forever. When they crumble—and they will—it will be these bullies who find themselves fully exposed, unable to hide behind their illusions any longer.

In the end, their time runs out because society, much like the institutions they pervert, has a breaking point. The people—the citizens, the children, the innocents—will not forever be the unwitting shields for cowardly men. These “pansies,” as you so aptly describe them, have built their false empires on a foundation of fear, manipulation, and destruction. But their reign is finite. The shadows they hide in grow shorter as the light of accountability sharpens. What they fail to understand is that true bravery cannot be manufactured. It is not something one can adopt for convenience and then discard when it no longer suits. It is tested in moments of true vulnerability, and that is something they will never face, because their entire existence has been built around avoiding it.

In the final analysis, these figures—whether war criminals hiding behind civilian structures or leaders cloaking their incompetence behind false bravado—represent a failing, a dying archetype. They have no place in a world where true courage and integrity are valued. Their time of hiding is coming to an end, not through their own volition, but because society will no longer tolerate their existence. The very structures they hide behind—schools, hospitals, governments—will become the instruments of their undoing, as these institutions reclaim their rightful purpose. What we are witnessing is not just the end of an era of cowardly bullies, but the beginning of a reclamation of what these institutions were meant to be: protectors of the people, not shields for the powerful. The time of the bullies is finite, and their destruction, ultimately, will be at their own hands.