The danger of repetition

Nietzsche spoke of the eternal recurrence of the same. Was this perhaps a trauma in which he was ensnared? If humanity has learned anything about this reality thus far, it is that we have too often attempted to impose limits upon it, only for reality to teach us that these were merely our projections—our efforts to feel more secure and potent in a world that, in all things, defies control. I have often reflected on the words of Jesus of Nazareth: “This heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” It strikes me that, in our ever-growing understanding of reality, a kind of passing of “heaven and earth” has occurred—the passing of the boundaries we impose on reality, the “above” of heaven and the “below” of earth. Today, we conceive of heaven and earth differently. We have the Big Bang as a temporal boundary in our understanding of reality—what was before it, and was there anything at all? We have the expanding matter of the universe, about which some say it knows no bounds, while others assert it exists within limits. If so, what lies beyond those limits? And if there are none, what does boundlessness or infinity even mean? Finally, we have our planet, which we call Earth, beneath our feet, upon which we stand.

From this perspective of boundaries in our understanding, the earth and heaven as once known—“above and below”—have already passed away. Yet, the words of Jesus of Nazareth endure. Of course, there are those who hold to the idea of creation, viewing this vast reality as crafted by a God who also created our infinitesimally small planet and all upon it. In an era when our ancestors knew boundaries as “above” and “below,” a God seemed plausible and immediate. Today, with new boundaries and, in particular, our insights into the evolution of life, it is more challenging to presuppose a God. And yet, even now, one could conceive of a God, though the understanding of reality as a creation would need to be entirely different. This act of forging a new understanding, however, carries the risk of establishing new boundaries. Often, we humans learn by setting limits.

What of the boundaries of time, specifically our history? What prevents humanity from repeating the negative and destructive patterns—culturally or nationally—that have already occurred? What argues against the inevitability of such repetition? Can we even do anything to prevent history from repeating itself? Not long ago, humanity endured a world war, which we call the Second World War, in which parts of humanity sought to dominate, conquer, enslave, and even kill and exterminate others. If we turn back the clock, we see peoples who did this in the regions they conquered—the Romans, the Mongols, the Aztecs, and others. They created hierarchies to stand at their pinnacle, but why? And why do humans do this repeatedly?

Why have we done this even within households, called patriarchal or matriarchal, in tribes, villages, cities, and states? Why does there persist in humans a need for order, for domination and submission, and, in equal measure, for freedom, liberation, and creation? It seems we humans wish both to impose boundaries on our reality and to break free from those we have imposed. These antagonistic human impulses have led, and continue to lead, to the same outcome: destruction. We destroy what we build, we destroy one another, and we destroy ourselves. Why?

These are the grand themes that touch the many small and concrete aspects of our lives in this reality. In the countless organisations and groups we have today, in which we participate, people grapple daily with these and other challenges. Some see pressure and violence as the solution to everything, others transparency and responsibility, and still others a love that breaks all boundaries. There are many approaches, and one insight is that there is no single path or solution for everything. Sometimes, one seeks to save an organisation; other times, to hasten its destruction; sometimes to abstain from decisions, and sometimes to engage with great courage. We often err, and even more often, we can rectify our mistakes. What is objectively right in any situation is not always the same as what feels subjectively right to those acting. We humans are, after all, monsters, living especially in our own minds, in our own worlds, which we perceive more vividly than any other.

Strengthening community and close communication with those around us is often immensely beneficial and worthwhile, yet sometimes it is not, and we want—and should—distance ourselves and take a pause. This can be done in a community-building way by pausing specific topics or by cutting communication with those who have hurt us until they show remorse and seek forgiveness. No one wishes to forgive someone in this reality who has shown no remorse. I urge everyone to demand and expect remorse.

It is not always about expanding our consciousness and dissolving boundaries to our thinking and actions, as some neuroscientists, modern gurus, and religious thinkers suggest today—though thinking and expanding our consciousness can benefit us and the world in many situations. Sometimes, however, it is about the opposite: reducing our consciousness to think less, or not at all, about certain things. Rest and superficiality are often beneficial too.

In politics especially, for politics is merely an extension of our lives into collective societal action. Aristotle wrestled with politics, was forced to leave Athens, and wrote that even if we do not engage with politics, it engages with us—there is no life without politics.

That said, the danger of repetition is ever-present. Once something has happened, the risk of its recurrence arises. We should not erase history in the hope that forgetting will prevent repetition, for that has been tried repeatedly and achieved nothing. Instead, we must preserve memory and inform our “mini-monsters”—the new generations—and our fellow “monsters” about it, so all understand what lies within us, how terrible we can be, and what other options exist. Only this path forward promises more peace, though it too is uncertain. This is the essence of the story Buddha told of the young monk chased by a tiger until he falls into a ravine, managing to cling to a small branch protruding from the rock. Hanging over the abyss—certain death—with the tiger above, also promising death, the monk recognises the meaning of life, and its boundary, in the branch that holds him. There, he sees a berry, and with all his strength, he reaches for it, eats it, and realises it is the most beautiful and delicious he has ever tasted. The meaning of life, as I interpret Buddha, is not to let go or to draw boundaries but to hold fast to the present, to what gives us stability, and, most importantly, to enjoy it. I see it similarly, and my present includes the many fellow monsters and the terrible things they do and have done in history. I have managed to integrate even that, not to flee or sugarcoat the world, and so I hold fast. Be vigilant, for in every present, the danger of repetition looms.