And it was only when I lay there on rotting prison straw that I sensed within myself the first stirrings of good. Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either—but right through every human heart—and through all human hearts. This line shifts. Inside us, it oscillates with the years. And even within hearts overwhelmed by evil, one small bridgehead of good is retained. And even in the best of all hearts, there remains … an unuprooted small corner of evil.
My grandma is an unassuming lady who never raises her voice. When I was little, we played with wooden blocks and went on walks. In summer, she always gave me pocket change to buy ice cream. She let me keep a stray cat that I befriended. When I grew up, she gave me a beautiful shawl that she had worn as a young woman. That way, we would stay connected even when far apart. All my life, my grandma has shown me nothing but kindness. Yet she regularly consumes the flesh of tortured animals. How can someone so loving be so unfeeling toward animals? How can a thoughtful and self-critical lyricist be the same person responsible for Aubrey Graham’s ruthless public execution? Some of the smartest, kindest people developed the atomic bomb. Others, surely as kind and smart, are now racing towards ever more powerful AI. How does any of this make sense?
I thought I engaged with this question honestly. I learned about ethics, psychology, religion and history. I joined a residency on group rationality. Still, I couldn’t understand human wickedness. Maybe this wasn’t something I could solve intellectually. What else could I try? I turned to my friends for help. They listened patiently. Then one of them said–”You know, it’s almost like you don’t remember that you ate meat!”
“He has a point,” an inner voice declared. “I acknowledge some of my wrongdoings. Sometimes, I even change how I behave. But if I don’t take the next steps, I will forever run into similar mistakes. And I will never learn to understand other sinners.”
“Next steps”–what does that mean? I’m not perfect but I do plenty. I donate a reasonable chunk of my income. I volunteer. I’m vegan. If I noticed that my actions were evil, I’d just act differently!
“Is such superficial change enough?”
What else is there to do?
“I always had my reasons. I ate animals because I prioritised my own comfort. I cultivated a lack of curiosity to keep doing it. Are these deeper issues magically resolved? Aren’t they still there, driving other evil deeds?”
I’m sure they got better! Why direct these questions at me, anyway? My goal is to understand others.
“Understanding others without understanding myself? I doubt that’s how it works. And let’s not forget that understanding is especially hard for me.” The inner voice paused for a moment. Then she added, “After all, I love to hate.”
No, I don’t!
“Oh, yes, I do.”
I always lean into kindness and patience!
“And I love putting myself above others.”
I don’t even look down on people’s flaws! I’m just not as pathetic as they are.
“I see… Maybe I truly can’t grasp evil. That would require pity and empathy. As long as I don’t sense within myself the stirrings of weakness, both will stay buried.”
I have to admit, it’s at least something new to try. Let’s pick apart some of my wrongdoings. I will see how far this takes me.
Facing Weakness
The Blind
Isn’t that a weird thing to say on a first date? I remember this question from ten years ago. It was a sunny summer day. I was sitting on a patch of grass with Jonas, a charismatic young man I had met through a shared hobby. He had just told me that an ex had accused him of raping her. But if he really did it, wouldn’t he try to hide it? Who’d bring up something like that? I felt my body tense up as a thought took shape. Slowly, arduously, it was coming to the surface. It didn’t make it in the end. I let it drown. We changed the topic soon enough. Later, when I was alone, I didn’t think about this interaction. I didn’t think about it the next day, nor the next week. I didn’t reach out to his ex for her side of the story. I didn’t tell my friends about it. I would come to regret that.
“Why did I let it go so easily?”, asked the inner voice.
Jonas denied the allegations and showed no signs of remorse. If I had come to believe that he had raped her, I wouldn’t have dated him. Neither my conscience nor my sense of self-preservation would have allowed that. I had to squash all attempts to think about it because I wanted us to be together.
While this is a severe display of blindness, it is hardly an exception. How often did I enter this split kind of awareness–not noticing, yet sensing what not to notice? How often was I “oblivious” of my own misdeeds? How often did I look away when my family, my friends or the ones that I respect were casually cruel? Seeing clearly could mean friction. It could break apart the relationships I cherish. Even worse, they could persist unchanged. I would have to face that I resigned, given up on something precious. How could I accept that the ones I love are deeply flawed? I would weep, thinking about how we could have made this world beautiful.
The Judge
In my early twenties, I had a friend, Christopher. Chris was a conservative lad. He liked obscure humour, drinking with his friends and anime. He even worked on fan translations for ongoing shows! We talked once a week and texted daily. He was a good listener. Among the many hobbies that we shared was dancing. So when I needed a new partner, we took up dance class together. Before and after lessons, we would talk politics. With incredible precision, I would find the topics we were most divided on. Chris would stand his ground. He was stubborn like that–but not as stubborn as me. I would bring up our disagreements again and again, hoping to convert him. How can someone think like that?, I often thought after these conversations. Until one day, I snapped. My very sight became distorted. Everything redeeming and bright about Chris faded away. Then and there, I decided to cut him out of my life. I didn’t announce my intentions. I just stopped talking to him. He carried on texting, like he always would. I didn’t reply. Soon enough, Chris noticed that something was off. Eventually, he stopped texting me. After days of silence, my phone lit up with a message–“I miss our conversations.” Still, I did not reply. Yvonne, a common friend, warned me. That it was a bad idea. That I should reconsider. I would not listen. She didn’t understand the situation, the importance of my crusade!
“Did it hurt him to be abandoned like this?”
It surely did. That wasn’t important, though. Sometimes being corrected hurts. What mattered was that I was doing the right thing. Looking back, Yvonne was right, of course.
“So what was that about?”
I was pursuing “truth and justice”. That’s how I would have put it then. I would have left unmentioned that I loved chasing the rush of conflict. That I liked the fire flaring in my belly, spreading through my body. What’s more, I enjoyed watching people walk on eggshells around me. There is something powerful in judgement. It oozes with unbending strength, its CLARITY burns away all doubt. I am ready to stand by my verdict, untouched by justifications, tears and pleas. I move with confidence. What I have to offer in exchange seems trivial. My body stiffens up. My voice becomes harsh. My thoughts grow rigid. I want to cast aside the common peasants, to crush them or reforge them! Not because they hurt me, but because they are ugly and pathetic. They should be better! Among the rejected are people who, with a bit of patience, could have become friends for life.
I’m different now–more tolerant, more patient and more loyal. I give people the benefit of the doubt more often.
“I want to say I’m different now. That it’s a problem of the past. Yet judgement is a storm that still possesses me. I feel purpose and direction, all while it’s in control of me.”
The Vigilant
Imagine pregnancies without medical screenings. Imagine births without doctors or midwives. Do you think of mothers from the poorest slums of Bangalore? Think of mavericks and hippies from the US instead. Think of women who choose this. Pulled in by honey glazed promises, they dream of “wild pregnancies” and “free births”, surrounded by candles and fairy lights, their loved ones close, connected to their bodies, in the presence of the Goddess, the Powerful Feminine, away from the medical industry of men. Most will deliver healthy babies. A scant few will suffer major complications. Among the unlucky will be mothers who bleed out and die. Newborns will turn blue and purple, struggling to take their first breath. Disabilities will befall babies who could have been whole. Some will be stillborn, others won’t survive longer than a day. Regrets will become intimate companions of the mothers who remain. They will wake up in the middle of the night and wail. They will cry, thinking of the lives their babies could have had. They will shed tears because they miss their little ones. They will blame themselves for the rest of their lives. As they should.
Poor babies, I’m sorry you were hurt. I’m sorry that your future turned to ash and dust. You deserved it all–protection, love and kindness, a full life. You deserved it all. My heart is cold hard stone towards the mothers. You are not victims of a scam. You are STUPID, USELESS IDIOTS who DECIDED to be reckless. It is a parent’s oldest duty to protect their child. YOU FAILED. So you’d rather listen to internet mobs and charlatans instead of medics who could have saved your baby? That’s on you. Nobody forced you to binge “aspirational” birth podcasts. Nobody roped you into Reddit threads downplaying lifesaving procedures. You chose this.
“I know it is unfair to think this way. So where does this wrath come from?”
From having eyes. Just look at the world! How much kindness can you expect from strangers? Some offer their seats to pregnant women, a common courtesy. Most mind their own business. Too many are eager to use you–or abuse you. I want to shift all blame to victims. Only then can I believe that if I’m cautious, if I’m just vigilant enough, the cruel and cunning will not come for me. [2]
Prophecy
“This went well. It’s time to speak with one voice again.” It is time for one voice.
A prophecy was bestowed on me once: Distancing yourself from dark things will make it impossible to fix them in yourself, and in the world at large. There’s truth to that. That truth was reflected to me through countless interactions, through shards and splinters of ideas. With that in mind, I set out on my quest. I’m proud I faced those memories. I wanted to feel more pity and more empathy, and I do. There is more to tell, about The Scared, The Envious, The Hedonist. Even then, I’m missing steps, so many steps. I will have to face that, too. Still, ever so slowly, I am learning to see in the dark.
The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate, though I keep this from my children. For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird. For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you, though I keep this from my children.
Learning to Understand Evil
My grandma is an unassuming lady who never raises her voice. When I was little, we played with wooden blocks and went on walks. In summer, she always gave me pocket change to buy ice cream. She let me keep a stray cat that I befriended. When I grew up, she gave me a beautiful shawl that she had worn as a young woman. That way, we would stay connected even when far apart. All my life, my grandma has shown me nothing but kindness. Yet she regularly consumes the flesh of tortured animals. How can someone so loving be so unfeeling toward animals? How can a thoughtful and self-critical lyricist be the same person responsible for Aubrey Graham’s ruthless public execution? Some of the smartest, kindest people developed the atomic bomb. Others, surely as kind and smart, are now racing towards ever more powerful AI. How does any of this make sense?
I thought I engaged with this question honestly. I learned about ethics, psychology, religion and history. I joined a residency on group rationality. Still, I couldn’t understand human wickedness. Maybe this wasn’t something I could solve intellectually. What else could I try? I turned to my friends for help. They listened patiently. Then one of them said–”You know, it’s almost like you don’t remember that you ate meat!”
“He has a point,” an inner voice declared. “I acknowledge some of my wrongdoings. Sometimes, I even change how I behave. But if I don’t take the next steps, I will forever run into similar mistakes. And I will never learn to understand other sinners.”
“Next steps”–what does that mean? I’m not perfect but I do plenty. I donate a reasonable chunk of my income. I volunteer. I’m vegan. If I noticed that my actions were evil, I’d just act differently!
“Is such superficial change enough?”
What else is there to do?
“I always had my reasons. I ate animals because I prioritised my own comfort. I cultivated a lack of curiosity to keep doing it. Are these deeper issues magically resolved? Aren’t they still there, driving other evil deeds?”
I’m sure they got better! Why direct these questions at me, anyway? My goal is to understand others.
“Understanding others without understanding myself? I doubt that’s how it works. And let’s not forget that understanding is especially hard for me.” The inner voice paused for a moment. Then she added, “After all, I love to hate.”
No, I don’t!
“Oh, yes, I do.”
I always lean into kindness and patience!
“And I love putting myself above others.”
I don’t even look down on people’s flaws! I’m just not as pathetic as they are.
“I see… Maybe I truly can’t grasp evil. That would require pity and empathy. As long as I don’t sense within myself the stirrings of weakness, both will stay buried.”
I have to admit, it’s at least something new to try. Let’s pick apart some of my wrongdoings. I will see how far this takes me.
Facing Weakness
The Blind
Isn’t that a weird thing to say on a first date? I remember this question from ten years ago. It was a sunny summer day. I was sitting on a patch of grass with Jonas, a charismatic young man I had met through a shared hobby. He had just told me that an ex had accused him of raping her. But if he really did it, wouldn’t he try to hide it? Who’d bring up something like that? I felt my body tense up as a thought took shape. Slowly, arduously, it was coming to the surface. It didn’t make it in the end. I let it drown. We changed the topic soon enough. Later, when I was alone, I didn’t think about this interaction. I didn’t think about it the next day, nor the next week. I didn’t reach out to his ex for her side of the story. I didn’t tell my friends about it. I would come to regret that.
“Why did I let it go so easily?”, asked the inner voice.
Jonas denied the allegations and showed no signs of remorse. If I had come to believe that he had raped her, I wouldn’t have dated him. Neither my conscience nor my sense of self-preservation would have allowed that. I had to squash all attempts to think about it because I wanted us to be together.
While this is a severe display of blindness, it is hardly an exception. How often did I enter this split kind of awareness–not noticing, yet sensing what not to notice? How often was I “oblivious” of my own misdeeds? How often did I look away when my family, my friends or the ones that I respect were casually cruel? Seeing clearly could mean friction. It could break apart the relationships I cherish. Even worse, they could persist unchanged. I would have to face that I resigned, given up on something precious. How could I accept that the ones I love are deeply flawed? I would weep, thinking about how we could have made this world beautiful.
The Judge
In my early twenties, I had a friend, Christopher. Chris was a conservative lad. He liked obscure humour, drinking with his friends and anime. He even worked on fan translations for ongoing shows! We talked once a week and texted daily. He was a good listener. Among the many hobbies that we shared was dancing. So when I needed a new partner, we took up dance class together. Before and after lessons, we would talk politics. With incredible precision, I would find the topics we were most divided on. Chris would stand his ground. He was stubborn like that–but not as stubborn as me. I would bring up our disagreements again and again, hoping to convert him. How can someone think like that?, I often thought after these conversations. Until one day, I snapped. My very sight became distorted. Everything redeeming and bright about Chris faded away. Then and there, I decided to cut him out of my life. I didn’t announce my intentions. I just stopped talking to him. He carried on texting, like he always would. I didn’t reply. Soon enough, Chris noticed that something was off. Eventually, he stopped texting me. After days of silence, my phone lit up with a message–“I miss our conversations.” Still, I did not reply. Yvonne, a common friend, warned me. That it was a bad idea. That I should reconsider. I would not listen. She didn’t understand the situation, the importance of my crusade!
“Did it hurt him to be abandoned like this?”
It surely did. That wasn’t important, though. Sometimes being corrected hurts. What mattered was that I was doing the right thing. Looking back, Yvonne was right, of course.
“So what was that about?”
I was pursuing “truth and justice”. That’s how I would have put it then. I would have left unmentioned that I loved chasing the rush of conflict. That I liked the fire flaring in my belly, spreading through my body. What’s more, I enjoyed watching people walk on eggshells around me. There is something powerful in judgement. It oozes with unbending strength, its CLARITY burns away all doubt. I am ready to stand by my verdict, untouched by justifications, tears and pleas. I move with confidence. What I have to offer in exchange seems trivial. My body stiffens up. My voice becomes harsh. My thoughts grow rigid. I want to cast aside the common peasants, to crush them or reforge them! Not because they hurt me, but because they are ugly and pathetic. They should be better! Among the rejected are people who, with a bit of patience, could have become friends for life.
I’m different now–more tolerant, more patient and more loyal. I give people the benefit of the doubt more often.
“I want to say I’m different now. That it’s a problem of the past. Yet judgement is a storm that still possesses me. I feel purpose and direction, all while it’s in control of me.”
The Vigilant
Imagine pregnancies without medical screenings. Imagine births without doctors or midwives. Do you think of mothers from the poorest slums of Bangalore? Think of mavericks and hippies from the US instead. Think of women who choose this. Pulled in by honey glazed promises, they dream of “wild pregnancies” and “free births”, surrounded by candles and fairy lights, their loved ones close, connected to their bodies, in the presence of the Goddess, the Powerful Feminine, away from the medical industry of men. Most will deliver healthy babies. A scant few will suffer major complications. Among the unlucky will be mothers who bleed out and die. Newborns will turn blue and purple, struggling to take their first breath. Disabilities will befall babies who could have been whole. Some will be stillborn, others won’t survive longer than a day. Regrets will become intimate companions of the mothers who remain. They will wake up in the middle of the night and wail. They will cry, thinking of the lives their babies could have had. They will shed tears because they miss their little ones. They will blame themselves for the rest of their lives. As they should.
Poor babies, I’m sorry you were hurt. I’m sorry that your future turned to ash and dust. You deserved it all–protection, love and kindness, a full life. You deserved it all. My heart is cold hard stone towards the mothers. You are not victims of a scam. You are STUPID, USELESS IDIOTS who DECIDED to be reckless. It is a parent’s oldest duty to protect their child. YOU FAILED. So you’d rather listen to internet mobs and charlatans instead of medics who could have saved your baby? That’s on you. Nobody forced you to binge “aspirational” birth podcasts. Nobody roped you into Reddit threads downplaying lifesaving procedures. You chose this.
“I know it is unfair to think this way. So where does this wrath come from?”
From having eyes. Just look at the world! How much kindness can you expect from strangers? Some offer their seats to pregnant women, a common courtesy. Most mind their own business. Too many are eager to use you–or abuse you. I want to shift all blame to victims. Only then can I believe that if I’m cautious, if I’m just vigilant enough, the cruel and cunning will not come for me. [2]
Prophecy
“This went well. It’s time to speak with one voice again.” It is time for one voice.
A prophecy was bestowed on me once: Distancing yourself from dark things will make it impossible to fix them in yourself, and in the world at large. There’s truth to that. That truth was reflected to me through countless interactions, through shards and splinters of ideas. With that in mind, I set out on my quest. I’m proud I faced those memories. I wanted to feel more pity and more empathy, and I do. There is more to tell, about The Scared, The Envious, The Hedonist. Even then, I’m missing steps, so many steps. I will have to face that, too. Still, ever so slowly, I am learning to see in the dark.
Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr I. The Gulag Archipelago, 1918–1956: An Experiment in Literary Investigation. Vols. 3–4, translated by Thomas P. Whitney, Harper & Row, p. 615.
The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children.
– Maggie Smith, excerpt from Good Bones