I’ve always held two conflicting beliefs. The first is my macro, philosophical view of the world: that people are innately good. I’ve always subscribed to the idea that “hurt people, hurt people”—that when humans do terrible things, it’s not because our core is evil, but because it has been damaged.
But then there’s my second belief, the one that operates on a micro, day-to-day level. In reality, I have trust issues. When I meet new people, a wall goes up. My default setting is suspicion, and they exist in a probationary period until they “prove themselves” trustworthy.
I’ve lived with this contradiction for years. I have faith in humanity, but I lack faith in the individual human. I couldn’t figure out why this gap existed in my own head until I read Rutger Bregman’s Humankind. The book, an explosive and deeply researched argument for our species’ inherent decency, didn’t just give me hope; it also gave me an answer. The problem wasn’t me. The problem is what I’ve been taught.
Bregman’s central thesis is that for centuries, Western thought has been dominated by “veneer theory”—the idea that civilization is just a thin, fragile coating over our true, selfish, monstrous nature. We are told this by philosophers, by economists, and most powerfully, by the daily drumbeat of our news media, which profits from showcasing the worst of us. The book systematically dismantles this idea, using overwhelming evidence from history, anthropology, and sociology to prove that our natural state is one of cooperation, kindness, and trust.
And this is where reading the book became a profoundly jarring experience, filling me with two warring emotions: a soaring sense of hope, and a deep, gut-wrenching depression.
The hope came from the solutions. Bregman doesn’t just argue that we’re good; he shows what happens when our systems are redesigned around this principle. He presents case studies for nearly every major issue we face—crime, poverty, political polarization, workplace dissatisfaction—and reveals that the most effective solutions are almost always the simplest. They are the ones that are built on trust.
Want to reduce recidivism? Give prisoners more autonomy and dignity. Want to solve homelessness? Give homeless people homes, with no strings attached. Want a more productive company? Get rid of managers and let employees govern themselves. The evidence is there. A better, fairer, more efficient world isn’t a utopian dream. It’s a tangible reality, waiting for us the moment we decide to trust each other.
And that’s where the depression sets in. Because for some idiotic, infuriating reason, we don’t.
We have the blueprints for a better world, yet we refuse to build it. We are stuck in a loop, endlessly applying cynical, top-down, control-based “solutions” that fail, time and again, because they are based on a fundamentally flawed premise about who we are. The book makes it painfully clear that the obstacles are not practical. The obstacles are ideological. We are held captive by a cynical worldview that serves those in power, who benefit from a population that is suspicious, divided, and afraid of itself.
Reading Humankind made me realize that my personal paradox—believing in humanity while distrusting humans—is a perfect microcosm of our societal paradox. We have the innate capacity for goodness, but we live in systems designed to suppress it. The book didn’t just teach me about human nature. It forced me to ask a devastatingly simple question: If we know how to fix our biggest problems, who, exactly, benefits from us believing that we can’t?
