War, childhood and cultural criticism: why a tank bunny is no joke

When a bunny sits on a tank, many people laugh

A bunny on a tank – many people laugh, a casual photo on social media – and life goes on. But it is precisely this spontaneous reaction that should make us pause. Because what is amusing at first glance conveys a social meaning at second glance. In a Tübingen bakery, small chocolate rabbits sitting on tanks were made for Easter. The Südwestrundfunkreported on this – in a tone that wavered between amusement and admiration. No critical context, no historical context, no reference to the explosiveness of this imagery. Journalists report on it without questioning the symbolism involved.

This is not just about a creative product made of marzipan or chocolate. It is about the psychopolitical framing of a social climate in which warlike narratives are increasingly finding their way into everyday civilian life. What does it mean when armed rabbits find their way into our festive traditions? When we begin to interweave the military with the festive – and hardly anyone notices?

This is not simply a matter of marketing a motif. It is an update of a cultural code that aestheticises violence and at the same time de-problematises it. The question is not: Is this allowed? But rather: What happens to us when we find this normal?

From a celebration of hope to sweets with guns

Easter is a celebration of hope, life and renewal – for Christianity, it is the celebration of resurrection, in which death and destruction are to be overcome. The Easter bunny, a traditional symbol of fertility, spring and childlike innocence, usually appears in pictures with colourful eggs, flowers or baskets. But in the Tübingen bakery mentioned above, he rides cannons or sits on a tank. And he laughs while doing so.

This new variation is not a simple design experiment. It indicates a change in the cultural coding of holidays, in which war is not only introduced into the family and children's world of images, but at the same time trivialised. What looks like a gimmick is in fact a symptom of a society in which war is once again finding its place at the centre. A society in which people are beginning to get used to images of destruction – as long as they are well packaged.

The symbolic explosive power lies precisely in the fact that no one is shocked. The chocolate tank is sweet, cute, ironic. But its effect goes far beyond the visual. It marks a new normality with which military aesthetics are seeping into everyday civilian life. It appeals directly to children in particular, is photographed by adults, shared, consumed by everyone – and remains completely free of any critical reflection.

If you look more closely, you will see that these seemingly harmless figures reveal a lot about the symbolic power of our images, about collective memories, about cultural influences and about a society that is beginning not only to tolerate war, but to welcome it under the guise of tradition, humour and nostalgia.

Tradition as camouflage – a case study from the bakery

For Roland Barthes, everyday myths are not fairy tales, but ideological operations: they transform historical, politically charged meanings into seemingly natural, neutral everyday phenomena. In doing so, myths function as a secondary sign system: a sign that is already loaded with meaning (the Easter bunny) is reappropriated, this time with an ‘invisible’ ideological message of ‘warfare’. The myth does not erase the original story – it empties it of its original meaning, smoothes it out and makes it consumable. It replaces complexity with apparent evidence. As a result, the new message seems self-evident.

This mechanism is particularly evident in the tank bunny: what would be historically disturbing – the combination of childishness and war aesthetics – suddenly appears to be an amusing ritual. The myth relieves the conscience: it allows ideology to live on in a harmless form. This is precisely what makes it so effective – and dangerous.

The confectioner's argument sounds almost like a sociological case study – or a case study from a seminar on collective amnesia. He says: ‘My God, it's part of our history. Children used to get the bunny in the tank back then. (...) But it's part of the history of confectionery, and that's where it belongs.’ This sentence exemplifies an attitude that wants to understand history not as a learning process, but as a habit. What once was should be allowed to be again – that is the unspoken logic.

But this is precisely where what Roland Barthes calls ‘myth’ comes into play: the transformation of history into nature, of ideology into self-evidence. When ‘tradition’ no longer appears as a cultural construct but as a natural continuity, it eludes critical examination. The armoured rabbit is then no longer recognised as a political artefact but as a folkloric whim – a sign that pretends to mean nothing, even though it produces an excess of meaning.

In Barthes' language, the armed rabbit would be a typical everyday myth: an ideology that does not reveal itself as such. Its power lies precisely in its invisible translation – from the historically charged to the seemingly banal. The aesthetics of violence lose their political energy, not because they are defused, but because they are charged with emotional warmth. What was once a break becomes a custom. What once frightened us is now ridiculed – or bought.

This removal of the image from its historical depth of field is not harmless. It fulfils a function: it transforms violence, death and domination into a cultural pattern of repetition. According to Barthes, myth is not accidental – it is structurally parasitic. It needs an existing meaning in order to attach itself to it and neutralise it. This is precisely where its political power lies: it transforms the historically shocking into something everyday that no longer disturbs us.

The pattern of repetition acts as a camouflage net for the uncanny: by staging itself as a nostalgic custom, the military loses its sting. Death becomes decorative, cruelty becomes playful, politics becomes private. And this normalisation does not happen despite our habits – it happens because of them. The myth feeds on what we no longer question. It thrives on the fact that tradition is no longer recognised as a social construct, but as an identity-forming matter of course. That's how it was back then – so it can be that way again.

In this process, history is not remembered, but formalised. It loses its depth and becomes superficial – nicely packaged, easily digestible, ideologically compatible. This is precisely why the tank bunny is not an isolated case, but an indication of the political function of myth in everyday life: the disarming of criticism through the repetition of the ordinary. Friendly packaging, cultural coding, psychological impact.

What children really learn

And what do children learn when they receive chocolate tanks as Easter gifts? They learn more than just taste – they learn worldviews. They perceive that war is part of life, that cannons are acceptable decorations, that weapons can be decorative rather than threatening. The chocolate tank is not perceived as a disruptive element, but as a toy – and so as part of an innocent world that no longer exists.

From a developmental psychology perspective, children are particularly receptive to visual stimuli and symbolic messages. In preschool and primary school, imagination, reality and values merge into a moral worldview that responds not to arguments but to images. Those who associate tanks with happiness will find it more difficult later in life to distinguish between violence and protection. And those who experience the cannon as part of a celebration do not perceive it as foreign, but as familiar.

Such influences can also be understood from a neuropsychological perspective. Repeated emotional associations between positive emotions (celebrations, chocolate, family) and warlike symbolism lead to a creeping normalisation. The brainstores the association as unremarkable – not because it is logical, but because it has occurred often enough. This demonstrates the silent efficiency of symbolic violence: it does not work through threats, but through the design of stimuli.

The boundaries between play and seriousness, between celebration and the front line, become blurred – and with them the ability to perceive violence as such.

Symbolic violence – when images are faster than words

How do images work before language takes effect? How deeply do cultural narratives penetrate our experience – often unconsciously, but all the more lasting for that? In media psychology and sociology, it is considered a given that images are not mere representations, but carriers of meaning. They convey not only content, but also attitudes – silently, effectively, and difficult to question.

French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu coined the term ‘symbolic violence’ for this invisible pattern of influence. It refers to a form of exercising power that is not based on coercion, but on consent – a consent that is not actively given, but arises through cultural conditioning. Symbolic violence unfolds where people accept images, norms and orders as natural or ‘given’ – precisely because they seem familiar. This familiarity is no coincidence, but the result of social habituation, collective repetition and aesthetic framing.

So when an armoured rabbit at Easter no longer causes irritation, symbolic violence has served its purpose: military semantics are no longer foreign, but folklorised. The boundary between what can be said and what is considered normal has long since shifted – not through command, but through habituation.

It is precisely in this sense that images such as those of the armed rabbit unfold their psychopolitical effect: they set the stage on which later acceptance of violence is no longer experienced as such. It is a pre-structuring of thought – one that neither waits for arguments nor encounters resistance. For what seems familiar is rarely questioned. And what looks cute is hardly ever politicised. This is precisely where the power of symbolic violence lies.

Cute packaging, tacitly internalised

When a tank invades Easter traditions, it is no coincidence. It is an expression of a cultural climate that is increasingly surrounding itself with warlike imagery – without anyone noticing. We have long been witnesses to a semantic shift in which the military no longer appears as an exception, but as an ornament of everyday life. Chocolate as a medium for conveying a message may seem harmless, but it is precisely this form – the combination of pleasure, festivity and symbols of destruction – that reinforces the effect far more than explicit messages.

Psychological preparation for war does not begin in uniform, but in symbols. Not with marching music, but with ironic glances at supposedly bizarre design ideas. The impression is not made through information, but through affective embedding: what tastes good cannot be dangerous – that is the silent suggestion. What looks pretty is not critically questioned. In this way, an aesthetic of war emerges that diffuses into our everyday lives without provoking resistance.

This symbolic power is particularly effective in consumer culture packaging: it conveys not an argument, but a feeling. A feeling of well-being. And with every purchase, every smile, every Instagram story about a ‘funny’ rabbit on a tank, an image becomes entrenched in the collective memory – and is passed on to the next generation.

Military motifs in festive traditions are not bizarre isolated cases. They are part of a social process that de-dramatises thinking about war by depoliticising it. Not with words, but with sugar.

Wars begin in peace

War began and continues to begin in the visible realm. What starts today with a cute bunny on a tank has a long history – a history in which visual imagery, toys and aesthetics have been deliberately used for ideological purposes. Children are not only the target audience, but also the vehicles for cultural transmission. This can be clearly demonstrated by historical examples, particularly in the German context:

1. Tin and lead soldiers These miniature soldiers, painted in great detail, represented regiments, officers, artillery and battle scenes. Children used them to stage war scenarios, which not only trained military thinking but also loyalty to the state and the army. In the German Empire, they were considered a status symbol of the patriotic bourgeoisie and a gateway to military socialisation.

2. Toy weapons Replica rifles, pistols, bayonets and grenades allowed children to identify with military equipment. In the Third Reich, these were deliberately distributed through Nazi organisations such as the Hitler Youth. Play became practice – violence became an everyday experience.

3. Military construction kits and fortress games Construction kits that could be used to build trenches, tanks or fortresses combined enthusiasm for technology with warlike imagination. One prominent example was the ‘fortress play set,’ which reinforced ways of thinking about attack and defence in miniature strategies.

4. Board games with war narratives During the Third Reich, propaganda games such as ‘Juden raus!’ (Jews out!) and ‘Bomben auf England’ (Bombs on England) appeared, in which children playfully internalised enemy stereotypes. Games with a colonial or nationalistic background also circulated in the German Empire – for example, on the Boxer Rebellion or the unification of the empire. The mechanics of the games served ideological training.

5. Miniature vehicles and aircraft Miniature tanks, warships, zeppelins and aeroplanes conveyed technical superiority and national strength. They promoted identification with military progress – especially in the Third Reich as a means of silent consent.

6. Child-friendly uniforms Toy uniforms of the Prussian army or the Wehrmacht were deliberately used to create an emotional attachment to military roles. In the Hitler Youth, wearing uniforms was ritualised and identity-forming – a central mechanism of ideological education.

These historical examples show that psychological preparation for war begins in children's play. The normalisation of war is not achieved through coercion, but through repetition. Through design. Through consumption.

And sometimes a single glance at a shop window is enough to see how deeply this aesthetic has already seeped into our everyday lives. Those who do not object today will internalise tomorrow what would once have disturbed them.

Mental health needs cultural criticism

Mental health is not just about understanding yourself – it is also about critically interpreting the world around you. This includes the ability to decode cultural codes, recognise symbolic orders and understand images not just as decoration, but as an expression of power structures. Critical cultural competence means questioning what seems normal. Naming what lies hidden behind aesthetics. And sensing when something is not just meant to be nice, but is meant to be normative.

Especially in a world controlled by images, symbols and narratives, this ability is crucial for psychological resilience. Those who are able to interpret cultural signs develop a stronger self – one that does not merely conform, but takes a stand. Their own thinking becomes less manipulable, their emotional space larger, their moral judgement more refined.

It is not about problematising everything. It is about becoming sensitive to what creeps up on us – to the violence of habit, to what lurks beneath the surface of everyday life.

Because what we overlook and belittle, we internalise, and it spreads. Even – and especially – at Easter. And that is why cultural criticism is not a luxury, but part of our mental health.