Republished with permission from Harry Knapp
The answer to that question reveals not just our private morality, but the state of our culture. Because if we’ve reached a point where killing feels ordinary—whether on the screen, in traffic, or in the name of an idea—we’re in far deeper trouble than most of us care to admit.
The fragile line between defense and belief
Most people, if pressed, will say they could kill to protect their family. It’s the ancient instinct of survival—the raw, awful impulse to defend what we love.
But that’s not the kind of killing that defines our time.
The real danger lies in killing for ideology—for power, for identity, for a tribe. It’s the kind of violence that doesn’t emerge from immediate fear, but from slow persuasion. Someone tells you the other side is corrupt, evil, less than human—and before long, killing isn’t shocking, it’s rational. Even righteous.
History is filled with people who believed they were doing “the right thing” while committing the unforgivable.
The deeper roots: greed, power, racism
If you scrape away the slogans, most large-scale violence comes down to three roots: greed, power, and racism.
Greed drives wars and policies that value resources over lives.
Power demands obedience and silences dissent, using violence to maintain control.
Racism justifies it all by deciding in advance whose lives count less.
Together they create a moral distortion field: killing becomes a means, not a crisis. And that logic trickles down—from the battlefield to the neighborhood, from the statehouse to the street.
The tribalization of empathy
We’ve built a political culture where identity matters more than humanity.
Every issue is sorted into “our side” and “theirs.”
We treat the other tribe not as misguided citizens but as moral enemies—threats to the nation, to decency, to civilization itself.
Once that switch flips, empathy collapses.
Dehumanization is no longer shocking; it’s strategic.
And violence, or at least the tolerance of it, becomes a badge of loyalty.
The illusion of safety: cars and keyboards
Here’s what fascinates me: most people aren’t cruel face to face.
In public, we hold doors, say thank you, nod to strangers.
But sit those same people behind the wheel of a car—or behind a keyboard—and they transform.
Road rage is the purest modern microcosm of moral distance.
Drivers feel invincible inside a metal shell, insulated from eye contact, safe in their outrage.
A person will scream, tailgate, even flash a weapon over a lane change, yet would never say a harsh word to the same stranger in an elevator.
Online, the dynamic is identical. The screen replaces the windshield. The sense of invulnerability grows.
Behind a username, empathy evaporates.
It’s the illusion of safety that allows cruelty to thrive.
Violence as content
Add to this our digital environment, where violence isn’t just visible—it’s monetized.
We scroll through footage of death and outrage like it’s weather.
Each new clip dulls the moral shock a little more.
Platforms profit from engagement, and nothing engages like fear and hate.
We no longer see violence; we consume it.
And once consumption replaces reflection, killing becomes just another story we click past.
Two deaths, two reactions
Earlier this year, Minnesota House Speaker Melissa Hortman and her husband were murdered in their home—a politically motivated act that drew brief coverage, heartfelt statements, and then silence.
Months later, conservative activist Charlie Kirk was shot and killed at a university event, and the story exploded. It dominated social media, cable news, and political rallies.
The same kind of violence, two very different reactions.
That contrast reveals what “optics” really means today: whose death is useful, whose grief is convenient, whose humanity is marketable.
When empathy becomes partisan, the moral floor falls out from under all of us.
My worry
We are normalizing moral distance.
We’re teaching ourselves that cruelty is communication, that outrage is courage, that empathy is weakness.
And as greed, power, and prejudice keep turning the gears, we’re letting technology amplify the worst parts of human nature at industrial scale.
That’s how societies slide from “I could never” to “someone had to.”
Not through mass evil, but through everyday detachment—through millions of small moments where empathy gives way to anger and anger finds cover in a car, a screen, or a cause.
How we climb back
If there’s a way out, it starts with slowing down the reflex.
With remembering that the person in the other car, the other thread, the other tribe—is a person.
With rejecting the greed and power structures that depend on our division.
And with demanding that our media and leaders stop turning violence into spectacle.
We can’t change human nature, but we can change what we reward.
We can rebuild the social habits that make empathy feel normal again.
Look someone in the eye. Speak face to face. Remember what it feels like to be seen.
Because the minute we stop seeing one another as human, the question—could you kill another human being?—becomes less a test of conscience and more a matter of time.
Harry Knapp
Harry Knapp is a visual artist and filmmaker in California.
"Survived Hollywood’s circus. Now I juggle art, existential dread, and bad decisions. Enlighten me, if you’re still reading."
