Cyberbullying isn't real. But bullying and harassment certainly

Hear the striking confession of Milo Yiannopoulos: “Cyberbullying isn’t real. But bullying and harassment certainly are real. Trust me, friends, I went to school in England. They’ve got bullying down to a fine art. I know, because I was one of its chief architects. I was awful to my fellow schoolboys.” In these words we find not only provocation, but also the heavy burden of truth spoken by one who admits his own guilt. The speaker seeks to distinguish between the new fear of cyberbullying and the timeless cruelty of bullying itself, reminding us that the pain of mockery, intimidation, and humiliation is no invention of the digital age.

The meaning is layered. Yiannopoulos, in casting doubt on the uniqueness of cyberbullying, does not deny the reality of suffering inflicted through screens. Instead, he insists that cruelty wears many masks, that whether it is through whispered words in a hallway or typed insults in the night, the wound is the same. The harassment that crushes the spirit of the young has long existed, only changing its garments as time advances. His admission that he was “one of its chief architects” is not merely a boast, but a grim acknowledgement of his own role in perpetuating that ancient cruelty.

In this we are reminded of the old truth: cruelty thrives wherever there are hearts blind to compassion. The Romans spoke of the “games of boys” as preludes to the “games of men,” where the mockeries of childhood hardened into the violence of adulthood. Yiannopoulos’ confession echoes that same current. He who once mocked his schoolmates admits now that such bullying was a kind of art, practiced and refined, an inheritance of a culture where strength was prized and weakness despised. Yet such art is poison, for its beauty is only destruction.

Consider the story of Winston Churchill. As a boy, he too endured severe bullying at Harrow, where older boys tormented the younger with rituals of dominance. The scars of those years did not vanish, but instead forged within him a resilience that would later serve him in war. Here we see the paradox: bullying can wound deeply, sometimes shattering spirits, but at times it also steels the heart of the one who endures it. Yet, the lesson must not be that cruelty is justified, but that the human spirit, though tested, has the power to rise.

The confession “I was awful” is itself a key to understanding. The true weight of these words is not in the jest about cyberbullying, but in the honesty of one who admits to past wrongdoing. To look back and call oneself an architect of cruelty is to show the grave responsibility that comes with reflection. It teaches us that those who wound others carry their own burdens of memory, that the tormentor is never free from the shadow of his own actions. Thus, we are reminded that every word spoken, every jest at another’s expense, may echo through the years.

The lesson is sharp and enduring: whether in the schoolyard, the marketplace, or the digital world, cruelty is real, and its wounds are lasting. Do not be deceived into thinking that new forms of communication have created a new form of pain. The instrument changes, but the poison remains the same. What matters is not the medium but the heart—whether it beats with malice or with compassion.

Therefore, let us resolve to be different. Let us not be architects of cruelty, but builders of kindness. Let us examine our own words, whether spoken aloud or typed in secret, and ask whether they lift or destroy. And let us remember that confession alone is not enough—one must turn from harm and walk a new road. For in this way, we break the chain of bullying and harassment, refusing to pass on to others the suffering once inflicted upon us or by us. And thus we create a legacy not of cruelty, but of healing, strength, and compassion.