The weight shocked you.
Cold iron in your small hands, while your teacher painted the sounds of screams, explosions, and shattered walls. You thought it was just a harmless relic, a souvenir of long‑ended wars.
That simple classroom moment—holding a cannonball while your teacher described thunderous blasts and broken walls—was more than a history lesson. It was a quiet invitation to confront how deeply violence and ingenuity are woven together in our past. Each iron sphere, once roaring from a cannon’s mouth, carried with it the power to redraw borders, sink ships, and decide whose stories would survive.
Today, these same cannonballs sit behind glass or on mantels, admired for their age and patina. Collectors prize them, museums label them, children stare in awe. Yet they also demand respect: some remain dangerously volatile, reminders that war’s echoes can linger in the most ordinary objects. In learning to preserve them safely, we also learn to preserve the lessons they carry—about ambition, brutality, resilience, and the fragile line between destruction and progress.