I was with my three younger siblings in a European country called Villa St. Etienne. The country shared a border with France, Germany, and uh Syria, believe it or not. I looked at a map of Europe early on, and where Italy would normally be, there was a blocky lump instead of the long thin peninsula, and that was where this country was. France and Germany were where they would normally be. But where Austria, Hungary, Yugoslavia, etc. are, instead, was Syria and a country called Asia Minor. Apparently, the Middle East was not so eastern anymore.
My family happened to be good friends with the ruler of Villa St. Etienne-- it was the last remaining true monarchy in Europe, no parliament or anything. The king looked like he was only in his forties but apparently he had fought in World War I, as had both his sons. Both sons had died but he had lived... without any heir. It was unclear what would happen to the line of succession after his passing.
He was a very sad man. His wife, the queen, and their daughter were away in France for a while on some sort of holiday, but he had to remain to oversee rulership duties. There was a big negotiation going on-- Syria and its satellite countries were going to build a pipeline to his capitol city on the coast. Because he was the only European country that still was on very friendly terms with Syria, that meant he would have the only outlet of their enormous oil fields available to Mediterranean shipping. Suddenly, everyone else on the planet wanted to be his best political friend.
When I asked him about his sadness, first he lamented the gradual dilution of his country's culture. Everyone thought Villa St. Etienne was French, but they were at least as German, and had lots of unique elements of their own. He was very concerned that people would think he was French (he sounded French) or that his people were German (all the buildings and such looked very German). He didn't want to be considered to be either.
Then he acted like he was still mourning the deaths of his sons. One of his castle's many dining rooms was decorated by these huge flat-panel screens, each of which displayed a still sepiatone photograph from the Great War-- but each photograph was actually the first frame of a piece of black and white film footage, and if you stood in front of a picture for a few seconds, it would play the rest of the footage. I walked with him from picture to picture, watching short films of him with his troops, including his sons, enjoying hot porridge in the trenches... surveying the enemy lines... and ultimately, coming under machinegun fire. There, on his dining room wall: the deaths of his sons, captured for posterity.
It wasn't clear to me which side of the war-- France or Germany-- his country was on.
Ultimately, I think he was sad because suddenly, for the first time ever, his country was in the spotlight, a big deal... but only because everyone wanted to make a buck figuring out how to get middle eastern oil shipped to the United States. Nobody cared about his history. Nobody cared about his culture. Nobody cared about the beautiful scenery, the delicious cuisine, or the incredible art and music.
They just wanted to get oil into cars.