The Worst Things Humans Have Done Were Done to Other Humans
I studied History as an undergraduate, with a concentration in post-war America rather than World War II. For a long time, I focused more on the systems that emerged after the war: the rise of suburbanization, the Cold War, labor shifts, media influence, corporate expansion, and the changing identity of the American middle class.
Recently, though, I started reading World War II diaries.
Some were written by Italian civilians trying to survive the collapse of their country. Some were written by American soldiers processing what they saw overseas. Others came from people who survived concentration camps and somehow found the strength to record experiences that most of us can barely comprehend.
What struck me was not simply the scale of suffering. History books already teach us numbers. Millions dead. Cities destroyed. Entire populations displaced.
What struck me was the intimacy of cruelty.
The worst acts in human history are not abstractions. They are humans harming other humans directly, personally, deliberately.
A guard deciding another person is no longer fully human.
A soldier learning to suppress empathy.
A bureaucracy organizing suffering with paperwork and schedules.
A crowd convincing itself that violence is justified because the victims are somehow different.
That pattern exists throughout history.
It existed in slavery.
It existed in genocides.
It existed in political purges.
It existed in colonial violence.
It existed in lynchings.
It exists today whenever people are taught to fear and hate one another before they truly know one another.
We often talk about history as though it belongs to the past. But history is not dead. History is a warning.
One of the most dangerous myths people believe is that atrocities are committed only by monsters. The reality is more uncomfortable. Many atrocities are carried out by ordinary people who become convinced that cruelty is acceptable, necessary, patriotic, profitable, or unavoidable.
That is why remembering matters.
Not to drown ourselves in guilt.
Not to endlessly relive suffering.
But to recognize how fragile civilization actually is.
The diaries I read repeatedly showed something else as well: people under enormous pressure searching for someone to blame. That instinct never disappeared after World War II. It simply changed form.
Today, many people are angry, exhausted, isolated, and financially strained. Instead of encouraging solidarity, powerful institutions often redirect frustration sideways. Workers are told their problems come from immigrants, neighbors, political opponents, different races, different religions, or people living in different regions.
Meanwhile, many of the people and institutions accumulating enormous wealth and influence remain largely insulated from the consequences of the systems they shape.
I want to be very clear: I am a capitalist.
I believe markets can create innovation, opportunity, efficiency, and prosperity. Human ambition can build incredible things. Free enterprise has improved countless lives.
But capitalism without limits becomes something else.
When profit becomes the only moral standard, people stop being citizens and become consumers. Workers become expendable. Communities become markets. Truth becomes advertising. Human dignity becomes secondary to quarterly earnings.
Healthy capitalism requires boundaries.
It requires labor protections.
It requires ethical regulation.
It requires accountability.
It requires remembering that an economy is supposed to serve human beings, not the other way around.
History shows what happens when systems become detached from human dignity. Sometimes the result is not immediate violence. Sometimes it is slow dehumanization: convincing people they are disposable, replaceable, or undeserving of empathy.
That dehumanization is the first step toward every historical horror.
And once people stop seeing each other as human, terrible things become possible.
The answer is not abandoning disagreement. People will always disagree politically, economically, culturally, and philosophically.
The answer is refusing to let disagreement erase humanity.
The person next door is probably not your enemy.
The struggling family in another town is probably not your enemy.
The worker trying to survive is probably not your enemy.
History repeatedly shows that ordinary people often have more in common with one another than they do with the powerful institutions profiting from division.
Reading those diaries reminded me that civilization depends on empathy more than ideology.
It depends on resisting the temptation to dehumanize.
It depends on recognizing manipulation when fear is used to turn people against each other.
Most importantly, it depends on remembering.
Because forgetting is dangerous.
The people who lived through humanity’s darkest periods were warning us.
We should listen.
“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference. Because of indifference, one dies before one actually dies. To be in the window and watch people being sent to concentration camps or being attacked in the street and do nothing, that’s being dead.”
— Elie Wiesel, US News & World Report (27 October 1986)








