Without alienation, there can be no politics.

In the words of Arthur Miller, “Without alienation, there can be no politics,” we hear the solemn voice of a dramatist who spent his life unmasking the struggles of human society. Miller, who wrote of guilt, justice, and the loneliness of the modern man, understood that politics does not arise in a vacuum of harmony. It is born from separation, from estrangement, from the sense that one group stands apart from another, divided by class, by race, by belief, or by interest. To speak of politics is to speak of conflict—and conflict requires alienation, the awareness of difference, the cry of “we” against “they.”

The origin of this thought emerges from Miller’s own time, a century marked by wars, depressions, and revolutions. In America, he lived through the Great Depression, the Red Scare, and the civil rights movement. He saw how groups of people, alienated from power or prosperity, rose to demand justice. His plays, such as The Crucible and Death of a Salesman, were not only works of art but political commentaries, showing how individuals and communities, feeling alienated from truth or from society, were driven into struggle. Thus, Miller observed that alienation is the spark from which the flame of politics is kindled.

History offers many witnesses to this truth. Consider the French Revolution. The peasants and working poor of France, long alienated from wealth and privilege, watched as kings feasted while they starved. Their estrangement from the system was total: no bread, no voice, no recognition. Out of this alienation rose politics in its fiercest form—debate, revolution, upheaval, and eventually the birth of a new order. Without alienation, there would have been no cause for politics at all, only the silent continuation of monarchy. Alienation was the mother of change.

Yet, Miller’s insight is not merely historical but philosophical. To be alienated is to feel separate, unseen, unheard. It is the condition that compels men and women to organize, to demand, to contest. If all were satisfied, politics would wither, for there would be nothing to dispute, nothing to build anew. Alienation, painful though it is, becomes the soil in which the seeds of freedom and reform grow. It is both curse and catalyst, wound and weapon.

But let us not romanticize alienation without caution. For alienation can lead not only to liberation but also to destruction. It can give rise to noble revolutions, but also to tyrannies born of resentment. The alienated can build movements for justice, but also movements of hate. Consider Weimar Germany, where the alienation of the people after World War I, humiliated by defeat and economic collapse, gave rise not to justice but to the horrors of Nazism. Miller’s warning, then, is double-edged: alienation is necessary for politics, but it must be guided by wisdom, lest it consume society in rage.

The lesson, O listener, is powerful. Do not dismiss alienation as mere despair, for within it lies the energy of change. Listen to those who feel excluded, for their alienation is the lifeblood of politics and the seed of reform. But also, be vigilant, for alienation left untended can turn bitter, and bitterness can breed tyranny. The task of the wise is to transform alienation into dialogue, estrangement into solidarity, division into renewed community.

As for practical action: when you encounter alienation in your society—whether among the poor, the marginalized, the disillusioned—do not ignore it. Ask what truths it reveals, what injustices it exposes. Work to bridge gaps, to invite the estranged back into the circle of belonging. And in your own life, do not fear the feeling of alienation; instead, let it sharpen your sense of justice, pushing you toward action rather than resignation.

Thus, Arthur Miller’s words remain as a torch of understanding: “Without alienation, there can be no politics.” Alienation is not the end, but the beginning—the spark that ignites debate, struggle, and transformation. It is the cry of the outcast that shakes the throne of kings, the hunger of the poor that reshapes nations, the silence of the forgotten that demands to be broken. Recognize it, honor it, and channel it toward justice—for in doing so, you carry forward the eternal work of politics: the reconciliation of division into a greater whole.