Michelle: Everything you were taught about human nature is wrong. That famous story of 38 people watching a woman get murdered and doing nothing? A lie. The Stanford Prison Experiment, proving we’re all monsters underneath? A hoax. Today, we’re tearing it all down. Mark: Whoa, that's a bold start. You're basically saying the cornerstones of our cynicism are built on sand. That feels both terrifying and kind of liberating. What's driving this takedown? Michelle: And it all comes from a book that has been both wildly popular and incredibly controversial: Humankind: A Hopeful History by the Dutch historian Rutger Bregman. Mark: Right, this is the guy who argues we're not inherently selfish. It's interesting because his background isn't in psychology, but history. He's looking at the grand sweep of our existence to make his case. Michelle: Exactly. And the book was a massive bestseller, winning awards, but it also got a lot of pushback from critics who felt he was cherry-picking evidence. Which is exactly what we're going to get into. Bregman starts by taking a sledgehammer to one of the most powerful ideas of the 20th century: the belief that in a crisis, we all turn into savages.

Michelle: He begins with the London Blitz during World War II. The British government was terrified. They were reading this crowd psychologist, Gustave Le Bon, who basically said that people in a crowd lose all reason and become primitive beasts. They expected total pandemonium. Mark: I mean, that sounds reasonable, right? If bombs are falling from the sky, I'd expect chaos. People trampling each other to get to safety. It’s the classic "veneer theory"—that our civilization is just a thin layer of paint, and a little pressure will reveal the monster underneath. Michelle: That's what everyone thought! Churchill's government prepared for the worst. They predicted a million psychiatric casualties. One general wrote, "The homeless will shriek for help, the city will be in pandemonium." But the reality was the complete opposite. Mark: Really? No shrieking? Michelle: Bregman digs up these incredible eyewitness accounts. One Canadian psychiatrist, Dr. John MacCurdy, was sent to observe the chaos. He went to a heavily bombed neighborhood and found... well, nothing. He described the scene with what he called "majestic boredom." Kids were playing, shoppers were haggling, a policeman was directing traffic. No one was even looking at the sky. Mark: That's incredible. So the veneer of civilization didn't crack? Michelle: It wasn't a veneer at all! Public mental health actually improved. Alcoholism and suicide rates dropped. People felt a sense of community and shared purpose. But here's where the story turns dark. The Allies, led by Churchill and his top advisor, Frederick Lindemann, took this completely wrong lesson. Mark: What do you mean? Michelle: They believed their own propaganda. They thought the British people were just uniquely resilient. So they decided to apply the failed theory of panic to Germany. They thought, "If we bomb German civilians, their morale will break, and the war will end." Mark: That's horrifying. So our cynical view of human nature led to a catastrophic military strategy? Michelle: Precisely. Lindemann's own psychiatric team reported that the bombing wasn't breaking German morale, but he misrepresented the findings to Churchill. He claimed people cared more about their houses being destroyed than their relatives being killed. It was a complete fabrication to justify a brutal policy. Post-war studies showed the bombing was a total failure. It may have even strengthened the German war economy. Mark: Wow. So a wrong idea about human nature directly led to the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. Michelle: And Bregman argues this pattern repeats. He then pivots to the ultimate story of human savagery: William Golding's Lord of the Flies. Mark: Oh, a classic. Every high schooler reads it. A group of British schoolboys get stranded on an island and descend into tribalism, hunting, and murder. It's the ultimate proof that we're all just one step away from being monsters. Michelle: Except it's fiction. Written by a man, William Golding, who was by his own admission a depressive alcoholic who confessed, "I have always understood the Nazis, because I am of that sort by nature." He believed man produces evil as a bee produces honey. Mark: Okay, so the author was a pessimist. But the story feels so plausible. Michelle: That's the power of a good story. But Bregman went looking for a real-life example. And he found one. In 1965, six Tongan schoolboys were shipwrecked on the deserted island of 'Ata. They were stranded for fifteen months. Mark: Let me guess... they didn't kill each other? Michelle: They did the opposite. It's the most incredible story. They established a small commune. They worked in teams of two—one on garden duty, one on kitchen duty, one on guard duty. They built a food garden, a gymnasium with makeshift weights, a badminton court, and chicken pens. They kept a signal fire lit continuously for over a year. Mark: That's unbelievable. What about conflicts? Surely six teenage boys had arguments. Michelle: Of course. Their solution? They would impose a time-out. The argument would pause, the boys would go to separate ends of the island to cool off, and after a few hours, they'd come back together and apologize. That's how they stayed friends. When one boy, Stephen, slipped and broke his leg, the others set his leg using sticks and leaves. They never left his side. Mark: So the real Lord of the Flies is a story about friendship and cooperation. Why isn't that the story we all know? Michelle: Because, as Bregman says, a cynical story often feels more realistic, more profound. But the truth, in this case, is far more hopeful.

Michelle: And that story of the Tongan boys isn't an anomaly. It's the key to Bregman's biggest, most mind-bending idea: we didn't survive because we were the fittest, or the strongest, or even the smartest. We survived because we were the friendliest. Mark: The friendliest? That sounds... soft. How does friendliness beat a Neanderthal with a bigger brain and stronger muscles? They were tough, we were... nice? Michelle: It's a bit more scientific than that. Bregman calls it the rise of 'Homo puppy.' He points to a famous, long-running Russian experiment with silver foxes. Starting in the 1950s, a geneticist named Dmitri Belyaev began breeding them, selecting for only one trait: friendliness towards humans. Not the most aggressive, not the smartest, just the least fearful. Mark: Okay, so they got tamer foxes. What's the big deal? Michelle: The big deal is what came with the friendliness. After just a few generations, the foxes started to look and act like dogs. Their coats developed spots, their ears got floppy, their tails started to wag. They even started to bark. Mark: That's wild. Just from selecting for friendliness? Michelle: Yes! And here's the kicker: they got smarter. At least, in a social sense. These domesticated foxes could understand human gestures, like pointing, something even our closest relatives, chimpanzees, really struggle with. Friendliness, it turns out, is a gateway to a whole new level of collective intelligence. Mark: So you're saying humans basically did this to ourselves? We went through a process of self-domestication? Michelle: Exactly! Bregman argues that for thousands of years, we've been selecting our partners and friends based on their ability to cooperate. The aggressive, lone-wolf types were weeded out. This led to physical changes. Compared to our ancestors, our faces are softer, our brow ridges less pronounced. We're the only primates with visible whites in our eyes, which makes it easier to see where we're looking and builds trust. And we blush! Mark: Blushing! The ultimate involuntary truth-teller. Michelle: It's the most human of all expressions, as Darwin said. It's a costly signal that says, "I care what you think of me." All of these traits—our 'puppy-like' features—made us better at social learning. A lone genius Neanderthal is no match for a hundred cooperating 'Homo puppies' who can share, copy, and build upon each other's knowledge. Our superpower isn't individual brainpower; it's our collective brain. Mark: So 'survival of the friendliest' is the real story of human evolution. We're not killer apes; we're cooperative puppies. That completely changes the picture.

Mark: This is a fantastic, hopeful idea. But if we're all so friendly and cooperative, why does the world often feel so... not friendly? Why are our workplaces, schools, and even our democracies built on competition and distrust? Michelle: That's the 'nocebo' effect Bregman talks about. A nocebo is the opposite of a placebo; it's when a negative expectation causes a negative outcome. We've built systems based on the wrong, cynical assumption about who we are. And those systems then encourage the very behavior they expect. If you treat people like they're selfish and lazy, they're more likely to act that way. Mark: It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Michelle: Exactly. But Bregman shows it doesn't have to be that way. He gives these incredible real-world examples. Take the Norwegian prison system. Mark: Right, the one that looks like a college campus. I've seen the pictures. Critics call it a 'holiday camp for criminals.' Michelle: But it's built on a radical principle of normality and trust. The goal is rehabilitation, not punishment. Guards are trained as social workers; their job is to talk to inmates and build relationships. They eat together, play sports together. In Bastøy prison, which is on an island, inmates and guards ski and fish together. Mark: That sounds insane to someone used to the American system. Does it actually work? Michelle: The results are staggering. Norway has one of the lowest recidivism rates in the world—only 20% of inmates are back in prison after two years. In the US, it's 60%. On Bastøy island, it's a mere 16%. It's not just more humane, it's dramatically more effective and, in the long run, cheaper. They are treating people like human beings, and they act like human beings. Mark: So it's about changing the system to match our true nature. What about in politics? That seems like the ultimate cynical arena. Michelle: Bregman highlights the rise of participatory budgeting. He tells the story of Torres, a small municipality in Venezuela. For decades, it was run by a corrupt elite. In 2004, a radical candidate, Julio Chávez, won the election on a wild promise: to hand over power to the citizens. Mark: How does that even work? Michelle: He started holding hundreds of community gatherings where residents directly debated and decided how to spend the city's investment budget. The old elite called it anarchy and tried to shut it down. But the people marched on city hall and forced the governor to accept their budget. Mark: And the result? Michelle: Within ten years, corruption plummeted. New schools, roads, and health clinics were built. Political engagement soared. It's a model of democracy that is built on trust, not cynicism. It assumes people are capable and decent, and they rise to the occasion.

Michelle: So, when you connect the dots, Bregman's argument is that our cynical view of humanity isn't just depressing, it's a dangerous, self-fulfilling prophecy. It led to the bombing of German cities, it creates toxic workplaces that crush motivation, and it fuels political apathy. Mark: And the alternative isn't some naive, utopian dream. It's what he calls a 'new realism'—one based on what the evidence actually shows. The real-life Lord of the Flies, the fox experiment, the Norwegian prisons—they all point to the same conclusion: we are wired for cooperation. Believing in human decency is the most pragmatic thing we can do. Michelle: Exactly. The book is a call to action. It's about having the courage to build our world on a more hopeful, and more accurate, foundation. Bregman ends with ten rules to live by, but the first one is the most important and maybe the hardest. Mark: What is it? Michelle: "When in doubt, assume the best." Mark: That's a powerful and challenging idea. It's so easy to assume the worst, to protect yourself. But maybe the real risk is living in a world we've created from our own cynicism. Michelle: It's a thought that can really change how you see everything. We'd love to hear what our listeners think. Does this resonate with you, or does it feel too optimistic for the world we live in? Find us on our socials and let us know. Mark: This is Aibrary, signing off.