Every time there is a spectacle of cold-blooded cruelty —
guts pulled out,
genitals carved into warnings,
newborns torn apart while still latched
to their dead mothers,
humans rush to call it inhuman.
I’ve always found that
exorbitantly hilarious.
As if cruelty arrived from elsewhere.
As if it trespassed.
As if it forgot it was home.
Civilisation begins here.
Religion begins here.
Inheritance, borders, lineage, gods,
all drafted in the handwriting
of brothers slaughtering brothers,
sons and fathers spilling blood
over symbols
they will later teach children
to respect.
And we still pretend
this is not our most reliable instinct.
What is it,
if not comedy,
to name the most consistent human behaviour
after something
we insist we are not?
“Inhuman” is not a judgement.
It’s a reflex.
A linguistic recoil.
The sound a species makes
when it catches its own reflection
mid-swing
and looks away.
No monsters.
No deviations.
No bad apples.
Just design.
Violence is not an invention.
It is a ceremony.
A ritual.
A christening.
We gift-wrap it.
Sanctify it.
Normalise it.
Teach it through uniforms, oaths,
and bullet-riddled ethics.
When it becomes uncomfortable,
we rename it.
Distance it.
Call it inhuman
and resume normal functioning.
“Inhuman” is not condemnation.
It’s hygiene.
A way to keep the hands clean
while the blood on the floor
learns to dry.
No other species does this.
No other species kills
and then negotiates vocabulary
to feel innocent again.
Only humans commit atrocity
and demand applause
for feeling conflicted about it.
That is the real evolution.
Empathy didn’t civilise us.
It refined the excuse.
Gave us grief convincing enough
to hold a knife
without our hands trembling.
This is not inhuman.
This is humanity
unedited.
No fall from grace.
No corruption.
No anomaly.
Just a species
doing exactly
what it was built to do,
and inventing a word
to pretend
it had a choice.
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