We are a segmented society, living in our individual bubbles.

Richard Cohen, commentator and seeker of civic truth, once declared: “We are a segmented society, living in our individual bubbles.” These words are both lament and revelation. They tell us that though we share nations, cities, and even neighborhoods, our lives have become divided, separated by walls unseen yet strong. The old bonds that once drew communities together have frayed, replaced by chambers of isolation where each man and woman hears only the echo of their own voice, their own tribe, their own truth.

The meaning is as sharp as the edge of a blade: a segmented society is a society that has forgotten how to see itself as whole. When each of us dwells in our own bubble, speaking only with those who agree, walking only among those who look or think like us, then we are no longer citizens of a common world but inhabitants of private worlds that barely touch. The strength of a people lies not in sameness, but in connection; yet without bridges, even the strongest city crumbles into scattered stones.

History bears witness to this truth. In the final days of the Roman Empire, the rich retreated into their villas, withdrawing from the struggles of the poor. The senators debated among themselves, blind to the hunger of the masses. Rome became a segmented society, each class locked in its own bubble, unwilling to share burdens or blessings. And so, when the empire was struck by invasion and decay, no unity remained to defend it. The walls of separation proved as deadly as the swords of enemies.

Consider, too, the story of the United States during the civil rights era. For generations, Black and white Americans lived in different worlds, segregated not only in law but in culture, education, and opportunity. Each group lived in its own bubble, one privileged, the other oppressed. It was only when brave souls—Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr., and countless others—burst these bubbles through protest, dialogue, and sacrifice that a measure of unity could be reclaimed. Their struggle teaches us that segmentation is not destiny, but a condition that can be challenged when courage and love arise.

Cohen’s words also point to the present age, where technology has given us new bubbles. Social media, though vast in reach, often narrows our vision. Algorithms show us only what we like, voices that confirm our beliefs, faces that mirror our own desires. We call it connection, but often it is only isolation in disguise. This is the peril he warns of: that a society divided into countless echo chambers cannot act as one, cannot solve the great problems that demand shared sacrifice, cannot endure the storms that require solidarity.

The lesson for us, then, is clear. We must resist the comfort of the bubble. It is easy to remain among those who affirm us, who share our customs, who speak our language of thought. But growth, wisdom, and strength lie beyond the walls. To heal a segmented society, we must seek out those unlike ourselves, listen without fear, and learn to hold the tension of difference without retreating into isolation.

Practical action begins in small steps. Speak to neighbors who are not like you. Read the words of those whose politics or culture unsettle you. Break bread across divides. Teach your children not only the pride of their own heritage, but the respect for others. And when you are tempted to withdraw into your bubble, remember that freedom and democracy cannot survive as fragments—they survive only as a whole.

So let Cohen’s words be etched in our memory: “We are a segmented society, living in our individual bubbles.” But we need not remain so. The walls that divide us are not eternal; they are of our own making, and thus within our power to dismantle. Let us then choose unity over division, dialogue over silence, and community over isolation. For only then can a people rise together, strong, unbroken, and prepared to face the trials of time.