It's a repressive society where you can't be horrible, I'm not

John Lydon’s cry—“It’s a repressive society where you can’t be horrible, I’m not horrible, they made me horrible, I’m just honest”—rises from the ashes of rebellion, a torch of defiance against the weight of convention. It is the voice of one who has been cast as villain, not because of cruelty, but because of unflinching honesty in a world that fears truth. His words are not the song of hatred, but the lament of a man forced into armor by the blows of hypocrisy. Here lies the heart of the matter: that society itself, in its rigid masks and its narrow rules, often creates the monsters it later condemns.

In every age, those who dared to speak plainly, to pierce the veil of illusion, were branded as horrible. Socrates was accused of corrupting the youth of Athens, though his crime was only to question and expose falsehood. Galileo was condemned for daring to say that the earth moved, though his only sin was to proclaim what his eyes beheld. These men were not monstrous, yet they were made monstrous by a society that could not bear to be confronted with truths that wounded its pride. Lydon’s words echo this ancient pattern: the repressive society that silences truth-tellers by painting them in the colors of cruelty.

To be honest in such a world is to walk the path of exile. It is to endure the scorn of the many, to be painted with ugliness because one refuses to bow to lies. Yet honesty, though scorned, is the seed of renewal. The prophet Amos thundered against the injustices of his time, calling rulers corrupt and merchants greedy. His words were not gentle; they were jagged stones. To the powerful, he must have seemed horrible—but his honesty was the spark of divine justice. Without such voices, societies rot from within, their false peace festering until collapse.

Lydon, as a child of punk, spoke this truth with venom, but beneath the venom lies a principle as old as the prophets: that repression breeds distortion. When society demands masks of politeness while injustice reigns, when it silences cries of anguish and calls it “civility,” it forces the honest soul into the role of the outcast. The words become sharp, the tones become harsh, not because the speaker is evil, but because the weight of silence would crush them if they whispered instead of roared.

We see this also in the tale of Martin Luther, who stood before the might of the Church and declared, “Here I stand, I can do no other.” To his opponents, he was destructive, rebellious, even “horrible.” Yet his honesty tore away centuries of corruption and lit the path of reform. Like Lydon’s words, Luther’s defiance shows that society itself creates rebels when it refuses to listen, when it seeks to suffocate voices that will not bow.

The lesson is profound: honesty must not be confused with cruelty. When we encounter sharp words, we must ask—do they spring from malice, or from a desperate hunger for truth? Too often, society condemns the messenger rather than facing the message. If we would be wise, we must learn to listen, even when the words sting, even when they disrupt the fragile peace we have built upon lies. To repress honesty is to drive it underground, where it festers and returns as rage.

So, what action should each listener take? First, be brave enough to speak truth, even if the world calls you “horrible.” Do not let the fear of judgment chain your voice. Second, when others speak with raw honesty, do not be quick to condemn—seek the heart behind their words. Ask yourself: is this voice tearing down for its own sake, or is it tearing down the false walls that must crumble for justice to rise? This practice will preserve both truth and compassion.

Let the words of John Lydon burn in memory: “They made me horrible, I’m just honest.” This is not merely rebellion, but a testimony. It reminds us that when a society silences honesty, it breeds the very monsters it fears. Let us therefore build a world where honesty is not punished, where truth-tellers are not exiled, and where courage of speech is met with ears that are willing to hear. In this lies freedom, and in this lies the path to a society not of repression, but of awakening.