Even if people do wrong, we're social animals, so what can we do

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city wrapped in a film of silver mist. The streetlights glowed like tired candles, and the smell of wet asphalt hung in the air — a mix of steel, smoke, and melancholy. Inside a small corner café, the windows steamed from breath and coffee, and the faint sound of jazz hummed from an old speaker behind the counter.

Jack sat by the window, fingers tapping against his cup, his eyes tracing the movement of pedestrians hurrying through puddles. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a mug, the rising steam painting her face in a fragile halo of light.

The air between them was heavy, yet alive — as if it were holding its breath before the first word.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Denise Mina once said, ‘Even if people do wrong, we’re social animals. Calling them evil is just an unwillingness to empathize.’ I’ve been thinking about that all week.”

Jack: “Empathy for the people who do wrong?” He leaned back, his grey eyes narrowing. “That’s a luxury, Jeeny. Not everyone can afford to feel sorry for those who hurt them.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about feeling sorry. It’s about understanding. If we can’t understand why people do harm, how can we ever stop it?”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, making the café’s sign sway like a pendulum marking time. The barista wiped a glass, glancing at them with quiet curiosity before returning to his work.

Jack: “Understanding? You think if we just ‘understand’ murderers or liars, they’ll change? Tell that to the people who lived through the Holocaust, Jeeny. Tell that to the parents of a child killed by a drunk driver. What comfort is empathy to them?”

Jeeny: Her voice softened, but her eyes sharpened. “It’s not about comfort. It’s about prevention. Calling someone ‘evil’ ends the conversation. It’s a door slammed shut. But if we ask why, if we look at the circumstances, the pain, the system that created them — then maybe we can change something.”

Jack: “You sound like every idealist who’s ever tried to reform the world. The system, the trauma, the context — all convenient excuses for human cruelty. Some people just like watching things burn, Jeeny.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup. A small drop of coffee spilled onto the table, dark as blood on marble.

Jeeny: “You think people are born that way? You really think a baby comes into the world already twisted?”

Jack: “No. But I think the world does the twisting, and some people don’t fight it. They choose the easy path — selfishness, violence, greed. You can call it social behavior if you want, but at the end of the day, it’s a choice. You hurt someone — you own it.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? If the world twists people, shouldn’t we try to untwist it — not just blame the ones who broke under its weight?”

Host: The rain began again, softly, like a whisper returning to finish its sentence. The neon from the sign outside painted their faces — one side red, one side blue — as if the universe couldn’t decide which one of them was right.

Jack: “You’re talking like a saint. The world doesn’t run on empathy, Jeeny. It runs on order. On boundaries. On punishment. When someone crosses the line, you make them pay — so others think twice.”

Jeeny: “Fear keeps people in check, not in harmony. It’s temporary. The moment the punishment is gone, the behavior comes back.”

Jack: “That’s still better than letting everyone believe they can be ‘understood’ out of their sins. That’s chaos.”

Jeeny: “It’s not chaos. It’s growth. Look at Norway’s prisons — they treat inmates like humans, not monsters. Their recidivism rate is among the lowest in the world. Why? Because they rehabilitate, not punish. Because they believe people can change if you treat them like they can.”

Jack: “Norway’s a small country with a social safety net. Try that in a place like Detroit or Jakarta. You’ll have criminals laughing in your face.”

Jeeny: “So your solution is what — keep calling them ‘evil’ until they start believing it? You know where that leads, Jack. That’s how we justify wars, lynchings, exclusions — by telling ourselves some people don’t deserve to be understood.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, toward the window, where a homeless man sat under an awning, smoking the last of his cigarette. The light from a passing bus briefly illuminated the man’s face — a face that could have belonged to anyone, anywhere.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been hurt. Like you’ve never had someone betray you and smile while doing it.”

Jeeny: “I have.” She looked down at her coffee, the words coming out like confession. “And I wanted to hate them. I did. But hate didn’t fix me. It just kept me tied to them.”

Jack: “Forgiveness doesn’t fix them either.”

Jeeny: “No, but it frees you from becoming them.”

Host: The room fell quiet, the kind of silence that feels alive, pulsing with all the words that haven’t yet been spoken. The clock on the wall ticked, its sound like a slow heartbeat.

Jeeny: “When we call people evil, we stop trying to see them. And once we stop seeing them, we stop seeing ourselves.”

Jack: “Maybe I don’t want to see myself in them.”

Jeeny: “But you do. We all do. Every person who’s ever done wrong was just another version of what we could have been — given a different street, a different childhood, a different moment of weakness.”

Jack: “That’s a comforting philosophy. But it’s too soft for the real world. Some things can’t be excused with understanding. Hitler didn’t need empathy. He needed to be stopped.”

Jeeny: “And he was — but that doesn’t mean we should stop asking how someone like him ever became possible. Understanding doesn’t mean forgiving; it means learning enough to prevent the next one.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the intensity of her conviction. The rain had become heavier now, drumming against the window like the echo of their heartbeats.

Jack: “You’re asking people to love their enemies. That’s not human.”

Jeeny: “It’s the most human thing there is.”

Host: Jack’s hand moved slowly toward his cigarette pack, but he didn’t light one. Instead, he stared at the matchbox, the way someone stares at an unspoken truth.

Jack: “So what do you do when someone keeps doing wrong, no matter how much you ‘empathize’? What then, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “You protect others from them. You set boundaries. But you don’t strip them of their humanity. The moment we do that, we become what we fear.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen what happens when people stop believing it. Every genocide starts with language — with words like evil, vermin, monster. Once we stop seeing a person, anything becomes possible.”

Host: The rain softened again, as if it too was listening. The lights outside flickered, their reflections dancing on the wet pavement like ghosts trying to find their way home.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe calling someone evil is just a way to avoid looking too closely.”

Jeeny: “It’s easier that way. Simpler. But not better.”

Jack: He gave a slow nod, his voice quiet now. “Empathy’s hard, Jeeny. It’s… exhausting.”

Jeeny: “So is hate. But one builds, the other burns.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. A faint light broke through the clouds, reflecting off the street like a new beginning. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the steam from their cups mingling in the air — two small clouds, merging, then fading.

Jack: “You know… maybe empathy isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s just the kind of strength we forget to practice.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Maybe it’s the only kind that lasts.”

Host: Outside, the homeless man stood, folded his cardboard, and walked away into the light. The city, freshly washed by rain, seemed to breathe again — slow, tentative, alive.

And inside that small café, amid the scent of coffee and forgiveness, two souls sat — not in agreement, but in understanding.