In the traditional telling of Abraham and Isaac’s story, Abraham is the protagonist, the father proving his faith. But venture capitalist and thinker Peter Thiel offers a provocative twist: consider the sacrifice from Isaac’s perspective.

As Jordan Peterson recounts in a discussion with Thiel, Isaac’s role demonstrates “childlike faith”. He trusted that somehow this would work out, that his father or God would provide an alternative.

And indeed, at the last moment, Isaac was spared. Thiel draws a contrast: Abraham’s sacrifice was to give up his son. Isaac’s sacrifice was to trust his father and God completely, essentially sacrificing his own life in trust.

While Isaac did not ultimately die, he had to be willing to. In that sense, Isaac “was the one who made the sacrifice,” as Thiel reportedly framed it. What does this perspective teach us?

One insight is about the nature of faith and sacrifice: sometimes the greatest sacrifice is not a physical offering, but an internal one. The sacrifice of one’s fear, the surrender of one’s will.

Isaac carrying the wood up the mountain is often seen as a foreshadowing of Christ carrying the cross shows a kind of serene willingness.

According to some interpretations, Isaac could have resisted. He was a youth, Abraham was over 100, he could likely have run or fought. But he did not. He laid himself on the altar at least that is how later religious commentary paints it.

If so, Isaac’s submission was a sacrificial act of courage and obedience parallel to Abraham’s. Thiel’s interest in this might be tied to a broader point about how Judaism and Christianity pivot away from human sacrifice.

Isaac’s faith that God is loving and would provide an alternate outcome point to a conception of God not as capricious and bloodthirsty as many pagan deities demanding literal sacrifice were, but as just and merciful. And indeed, God intervened.

From Isaac’s standpoint, the ordeal was likely terrifying. Imagine the confusion and then dawning realisation when his father bound him. Isaac’s last question “Where is the lamb?” was answered in a gut-wrenching way.

Yet, if we see Isaac as a willing sacrifice, he had to overcome that terror and choose trust. That choice is itself a form of self-sacrifice: sacrificing the instinct for self-preservation on the altar of faith.

It resonates deeply with many subsequent narratives of martyrs or soldiers who march forward despite fear, trusting in a cause or leader. Isaac can be seen as an early martyr-like figure, albeit one who happily did not end up martyred.

Peter Thiel’s twist also accentuates the relational dynamic: Abraham loved God so much he would give his son. Isaac loved and trusted his father and God so much he lay down his life.

Both sides of the relationship involved sacrifice out of love and loyalty. This two-way devotion can be a model. In any cause or relationship worth its salt, all parties may have to sacrifice for each other.

A parent sacrifices for a child, but also a child, in simpler ways, sacrifices for a parent. Maybe giving up time to care for an aging parent or trusting a parent’s guidance over their own impulses.

Similarly, in a team or nation, leaders might sacrifice for their people and ask for sacrifices in return. Understanding Isaac’s role reminds us that those who “follow” or are under authority often exhibit tremendous courage in sacrifice as well, not just the leaders who make the tough decisions.

Thiel’s interpretation likely appealed to him because it upends expectations and highlights overlooked agency. We think of Isaac as a passive victim in the tale. Thiel reimagines him as an active participant of great faith, a hero in his own right.

This underscores a key concept: sacrifice is most powerful and noble when it is voluntary. Isaac’s sacrifice was meaningful because he was not just taken. He gave.

That is crucial when we talk about sacrifice generally: the moral weight lies in the willingness of the sacrificer. A person forced to lose something is not exactly “making a sacrifice” in the virtuous sense. They are a victim of loss.

But someone who willingly gives up something, comfort, wealth, even life for a higher purpose is truly sacrificing. Isaac, if willing, thus becomes a moral actor, not just a subject.

It aligns with the Christian view of Jesus’ sacrifice. He said, “No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down of my own accord” (John 10:18). The volition transforms an execution into a sacrifice. Likewise, Isaac’s consent, implied in this twist, transforms a would-be child sacrifice into a profound act of faith on his part.

This perspective also changes how we see young people in narratives of sacrifice. Often youth are sacrificed by elders for causes like soldiers in war at the orders of generals.

Here, the elder was ready to sacrifice the youth, but the youth was sacrificing himself in trust. It is a poignant inversion: the one who “does not have power” demonstrates ultimate power over fear.

In many movements, it is the younger or seemingly weaker ones whose sacrificial bravery moves hearts. Think of young activists on hunger strikes or students facing tanks in protests. Their sacrifice, like Isaac’s possible mindset, carries a faith that their offering will awaken conscience or bring change.

In secular terms, we might take from Isaac’s twist the lesson of trusting those who’ve earned your trust, even when the ask is hard. Isaac clearly trusted Abraham due to a lifetime of love.

In our lives, if someone who has proven wise and caring asks us to sacrifice something or step into the unknown, perhaps we consider it seriously. For example, a mentor says, “Take the challenging job abroad, I know it is scary, but it will grow you,” a mentee might sacrifice the comfort of home in trust of that mentor’s wisdom. A small Isaac-like move. Or a community leader says, “We need everyone to tighten belts for the hard winter ahead,” and trusting them, the community sacrifices luxuries. These are everyday echoes of Isaac’s trusting sacrifice.

Thiel’s Isaac-centric twist enriches the concept of sacrifice by highlighting trust, willingness, and the unsung courage of the one seemingly powerless.

It underscores that in the great story of life, multiple sacrifices interplay: Abraham sacrificed having his son, Isaac sacrificed his very life impulse. Both were necessary to fulfil that test and both were rewarded.

Life was preserved, faith vindicated. So, in highlighting Isaac, we come to see sacrifice not only as a top-down command but as a personal, active choice to give oneself to something greater. That, arguably, is the essence of all meaningful sacrifice. It is the difference between being a pawn and being a hero. Isaac, often seen as the pawn, can thus be reclaimed as a hero of sacrifice in Thiel’s reading. A notion that can inspire each of us to face our own trials with similar bravery and trust in a higher purpose or love.

On a rainy evening in Birmingham, 17-year-old Aisha set the table for dinner, knowing one chair would remain empty. It had been two months since her father died of a sudden heart attack. In that time, Aisha had barely spoken at home. She went through the motions of school, numb with grief, convinced that nothing could alleviate the darkness that fell over her family.

Her father had been her rock who was going to help her with maths, or tease her about her favourite TV show, or simply ask how her day went? As she placed his photo on the mantel that night, Aisha felt a wave of bitterness. Why him? Why us?

she thought, tears welling up. Seeing her distress, her mother quietly handed her a notebook and pen. “Let’s try something, darling,” her mum said softly. “Tonight, before bed, write down three things you are grateful for. It might feel silly, but humour me.” Aisha wanted to fling the notebook away grateful?

How could her mum even use that word now? But to please her, Aisha later sat on her bed, stared at the blank page and racked her brain. She almost gave up. Yet, slowly, she wrote: I’m grateful for the 17 years I had with Dad. Then: I’m grateful Mum is here for me. It was hard to think of a third. Finally: I’m grateful Dad taught me how to be strong.

As she wrote that, she realised it was true, her father had always modelled resilience and positivity in tough times. The next day, Aisha wrote three different things. Some were small a friend’s joke, a good book, some larger a scholarship opportunity, her close-knit extended family. Day by day, through tears and smiles, Aisha’s list grew.

Gratitude did not erase her grief, but it started illuminating pinpricks of light in her darkness. At her father’s funeral, Aisha even mustered the courage to speak, saying she was grateful to have been his daughter and would carry forward his legacy of kindness. Many in attendance were moved, noting that Aisha’s words, though born of pain, radiated hope.

This real story as shared by a Birmingham counsellor who worked with bereaved teens shows how gratitude can coexist with grief and guide someone through it. Aisha found that focusing on what her father gave her, rather than solely what she lost, allowed her to feel he was still a positive presence in her life.

She began volunteering at a heart disease charity in his memory an act of gratitude and purpose that further aided her healing. Psychologists call this post-traumatic growth, where individuals, after tragedy, find new meaning and appreciation for life.

Gratitude is a catalyst for that growth. Even amidst our darkest times, there are things, however small that we can cling to and say “thank you” for, and those become like lifeboats keeping us afloat in stormy seas.

Gratitude in Adversity

History and current events abound with examples of gratitude shining in adversity. During WWII, amidst the Blitz, many Londoners kept morale by grateful reflection. Diaries from the era note people giving thanks for each day of safety, for neighbours who helped each other, for a cup of hot tea amid the ruins.

That gratitude did not stop bombs from falling, but it steeled their resolve to carry on and not lose humanity. Fast forward to the COVID-19 pandemic: nightly claps for NHS workers were a collective expression of gratitude that united streets and provided emotional uplift during a frightening period.

People put signs in windows thanking delivery drivers and nurses. These acts recognised the good heroism, community in a bad time. They reminded everyone that even when life is far from normal or fair, there are reasons to persevere, and people to appreciate.

In personal hardships too illness, unemployment, heartbreak gratitude can be a lifeline. Many cancer patients, for instance, keep gratitude journals to focus on living, not just the disease. They might note gratitude for a supportive spouse, a caring nurse, a day of feeling okay. It is not denying pain. It is balancing it with moments of grace.

Research backs this up: a seminal study found that people who kept gratitude journals for just 3 weeks reported significantly better mental health, even if they were in the midst of major life challenges, compared to those who did not practice gratitude.

Gratitude seems to activate coping mechanisms by shifting perspective. It is as if saying “thank you” for what remains gives one the strength to face what is gone or what hurts. Of course, gratitude is not a cure-all. It won’t bring back a loved one or single-handedly rebuild a life shattered by disaster.

But it can be, as one survivor of the Grenfell Tower fire said in an interview, “the little spark that keeps you getting out of bed each day.” That survivor, having lost his home and neighbours, said he survived the dark nights by mentally listing things he was grateful for, that his family got out alive, that donations poured in to help them, that volunteers offered comfort. Those thoughts did not eliminate his trauma, but gave him the will to keep going and eventually start anew.

The Humbling Power of Gratitude

Gratitude also humbles us in a healthy way, especially in adversity. It reminds us that we are recipients of grace and generosity we did not earn. Realising that can foster resilience by connecting us to something larger be it a faith in God, the kindness of humanity, or just the sense that the universe is not purely cruel.

Humility born from gratitude can be empowering: we accept help more readily and acknowledge we are not alone. For Aisha, being grateful for her mum’s support allowed her to lean on her mum without shame during grief, which in turn helped her heal better than isolating would have. For Craig Stanland from Article 2, gratitude humbled him to recognise those who stood by him and that humility was key to rebuilding relationships he had damaged with ego and entitlement.

We see this in communities too. A neighbourhood hit by a flood comes together in mutual gratitude “I’m so thankful my neighbour had a boat to rescue us,” “We are grateful to the church for providing meals.”

This communal gratitude not only boosts morale but strengthens bonds and collective efficacy. People who have been through hardship together, expressing gratitude for each other, create tight-knit support networks that outlast the crisis. It is a form of social resilience.

There is also a moral dimension: gratitude can make us better stewards of what we have left. Someone grateful for the environment’s beauty even after witnessing ecological destruction might be more driven to protect it. On the flip side, ingratitude can make us reckless or wasteful if you don’t appreciate something, you are more likely to toss it aside or exploit it. Gratitude for adversity overcome can inspire one to help others facing similar trials. Many charities are started by people grateful to have survived something. They channel that thankfulness into action to ease others’ suffering. Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD), for example, was co-founded by a woman who lost her child but was grateful for the support she received in her grief, which propelled her to advocate to save others.

Everyday Gratitude Practices

While extraordinary adversity highlights gratitude’s importance, it is in everyday life that we must cultivate it so it is available when times get tough. Think of gratitude as a muscle, you build it in calm times so it is strong for heavy lifting in rough times.

Simple practices can weave gratitude into our routines: say grace religious or secular before meals, not out of obligation but to pause and acknowledge the food and the hands that prepared it.

End the day with a mental or written recap of what went right however minor. Start meetings or classes with a quick round of positives, it snaps people out of pessimism and primes them to cooperate.

Some families use the “gratitude jar” method: throughout the week, family members write little notes of what they are thankful for and put them in a jar, then read them together later.

This can be fun and revealing it shows how the small kindnesses we do matter a note might say “I’m grateful my brother helped me with my homework on Tuesday”. Knowing that encourages more kindness, as discussed in the kindness articles.

Digital life offers opportunities too: many people have taken to social media not just to vent or boast, but to share daily gratitude’s or #ThankfulThursdays posts. Such content might seem sappy to cynics, but it garners positive interaction and can inspire others to reflect on their own blessings.

Even in tough news cycles, seeing an online friend say “Today I’m grateful my elderly neighbour recovered from COVID” or “thankful for a rainy day and a cup of tea” is a gentle nudge that life isn’t all doom. Of course, one must be careful not to veer into toxic positivity being grateful does not mean ignoring genuine problems or telling others to “just be grateful” when they are hurting.

It is a personal tool for balance, not a hammer to hit others over the head with. Tact and empathy matter. For instance, Aisha’s mum wisely suggested gratitude after giving her space to mourn, not as a dismissal of her feelings.

Smoothing Life’s Bumps

Life is a journey with both smooth highways and pothole-riddled backroads. Gratitude is like shock absorbers on that journey. It does not remove the bumps but makes them less jarring, protecting us from too much breakdown when the road gets rough.

It does so by keeping our eyes on guiding lights: love, memories, values, possibilities. When we acknowledge those, we navigate hardships with an inner compass that points towards healing and meaning.

Think back to someone you admire who went through a lot. Chances are, you will recall them expressing gratitude amidst it all “I wouldn’t have made it without my friends,” “Going through that taught me what truly matters.” Gratitude colours the wisdom of survivors. It can also be the spark that turns mere survival into thriving. It did for Craig in prison, for Aisha in grief, for communities facing disasters. It can for each of us, too, if we let it.

Perhaps the final word on gratitude in dark times should come from Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, who wrote about finding meaning in suffering. In the concentration camp, he noted how some prisoners, despite being stripped of everything, would share a crust of bread and whisper thanks for one more day alive or a moment of sunset through the wire. Frankl suggested that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances. Gratitude is one such attitude a choice to see light even if only a flicker. It is not always easy to choose, but when we do, it can illuminate even the darkest of nights and lead us toward a dawn of renewed hope.

One of the oldest and most profound stories of sacrifice comes from the Bible: Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah. In Genesis 22, God calls Abraham to take his beloved son, Isaac the son he waited decades for and offer him as a burnt sacrifice.

It is an unimaginable test of faith and obedience. Abraham, heart heavy, nonetheless sets out early the next morning with Isaac and wood for the fire. For three days they journey, the father surely agonising in silence. Isaac notices something amiss “Father, we have wood and fire, but where is the lamb for the offering?” he asks innocently.

Abraham can only respond, “God himself will provide the lamb”, voice trembling. Atop the mountain, Abraham binds Isaac, who by all accounts seems strangely trusting or resigned the scripture does not record a struggle. As Abraham raises the knife, tears in his eyes, an angel of the Lord calls out: “Abraham Do not lay a hand on the boy.

Now I know you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” In that moment, Abraham looks up to see a ram caught by its horns in a thicket a providential substitute sacrifice. He frees Isaac and offers the ram instead, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude. God reaffirms his promises to Abraham, blessing him for not withholding even his dearest treasure.

This dramatic tale is often cited as the pinnacle of faith. Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice what he loved most because he trusted in God’s plan. But beyond faith, it encapsulates values of obedience, loyalty, and complete devotion. Abraham was willing to give up everything; nothing was more important to him than doing what he believed was right by God.

For believers, it is an example of putting divine will above personal desire, the ultimate sacrifice of one’s own heart. Yet, as many scholars note, Isaac too displayed courage or at least acquiescence; in some interpretations, he becomes a willing participant, foreshadowing another son Jesus) who would willingly sacrifice himself centuries later.

An interesting perspective highlighted by thinkers like Peter Thiel reinterprets the story focusing on Isaac: the child’s faith and willingness to be sacrificed. In this view, Isaac’s trust that his father and God knew what they were doing is itself a sacrifice of fear for faith.

Peter Thiel draws attention to the fact that Isaac must have had extraordinary faith in God and his father to lie there calmly, a “model of childlike faith” that believed God would provide an alternative. Thiel suggests this pictures a God who ultimately doesn’t desire human sacrifice a sharp contrast to pagan gods of the time and that Isaac’s role shows a move toward a non-violent, loving God. Thus, in this twist, Isaac becomes as much a hero of the story as Abraham: he sacrifices his own fear and possible resistance, trusting in a higher love.

Whether one views it from Abraham’s angle or Isaac’s, the Binding of Isaac or Akedah in Hebrew is foundational in discussions of sacrifice for faith. It asks: what would you be willing to give up because you hold something else in this case, God’s command even higher?

For Abraham, the answer was everything even his precious son. Importantly, the story ends with God stopping the sacrifice, which has been interpreted as God affirming that actual killing of the innocent was not required; it was Abraham’s willingness that mattered.

This carries the lesson that sometimes we are tested on what we would sacrifice, and by showing we are willing, we grow spiritually, without losing the thing in the end. In life, we may be asked to sacrifice much career ambitions for family, personal comfort for a cause, etc. The story reassures that sacrifices made out of fidelity or love are seen and honoured, and that sometimes what we “lose” is given back in another form Abraham not losing Isaac, but gaining a renewed covenant and trust.

From a human viewpoint, the story can be troubling why would God ask such a thing? But one practical takeaway is about priorities: Abraham’s identity was wrapped up in his son all his hopes and dreams. The test forced him to examine if his blessings Isaac had become more important than the source of blessings God.

In proving he would sacrifice the gift for the giver, he realigned his priorities. In our lives, we sometimes face analogous if far less extreme choices do we cling to our gifts, talents, possessions, even relationships, in ways that compromise our principles or higher purpose?

Sacrifice in this sense is about letting go and trusting. Abraham’s famous words “God will provide” highlight a theme: sacrifice requires faith that something will fill the void or that the sacrifice has meaning.

This ancient story has resonated through millennia as believers see in it a foreshadow of God’s own willingness to sacrifice by offering Jesus, but that leads into later articles. For now, it establishes the idea of sacrifice as the ultimate test of devotion.

Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Isaac sets a template: true sacrifice is motivated by love and obedience, is costly you truly give up something dear, and involves tremendous inner turmoil. And as the angel’s intervention shows, sometimes the spirit of sacrifice the readiness to give is all that’s required, not the literal loss.

Yet that readiness must be genuine, proven by action up to the final moment. Abraham raised the knife; only then did the command to stop come. In life, we might have to walk to the brink of sacrifice to show our commitment, though grace may allow us to keep what we were willing to lose.

The Abraham and Isaac story teaches that sacrifice is the ultimate proof of love and loyalty. Abraham proved his fear of God, and Isaac in Thiel’s twist proved childlike trust. It is a story that has inspired countless reflections, art, and commentary across Judaism, Christianity, and Islam in Islamic tradition, interestingly, it is Ishmael who is nearly sacrificed, but the lesson of submission is similar.

For anyone pondering the role of sacrifice in their life be it sacrificing time for service, sacrificing money for charity, sacrificing personal dreams for family duties, Abraham’s ordeal stands as a dramatic example of the heart’s capacity to put higher purpose above self.

It challenges and inspires: would I be willing to sacrifice what I cherish most if called to? And is there faith that such sacrifice, if truly asked, serves a greater good or will be met with provision “the Lord will provide” Abraham named that mountain?

In our modern context, we don’t expect such direct divine tests, but we do face secular analogy. Think of a parent sacrificing a career for a child’s well-being echoes of Abraham giving up his future Isaac represented his lineage out of duty.

Or a soldier sacrificing his life for country giving up what is most precious life for a higher loyalty. These sacrifices, while not commanded by a voice from heaven, come from a similar place of values and devotion. They show that the spirit of Abraham and Isaac lives on when people put principle or others above themselves. And like the ram in the thicket, sometimes sacrifice leads to unexpected redemption. The world provided with an example that inspires many more acts of courage and faith.

Thus, the story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac stands at the beginning of our exploration of sacrifice, illustrating the pure, if heart-wrenching, nature of the act: surrendering that which you love most, in obedience to love itself. It sets the stage for understanding later sacrifices including those where, unlike Isaac, the knife is not stayed.

 

From Gang Life to New Life
On the tough streets of Luton, a young man named Jamal felt he only had two choices: be prey or be predator. Growing up in a neighbourhood plagued by gang violence, Jamal saw kindness as a luxury he could not afford.

By 15, he had been recruited by a local gang; they gave him a nickname, a knife to carry, and orders to be ruthless. He thought these older boys were his “family.”

They taught him that loyalty meant hurting others and that mercy was weakness. So Jamal played the part, robbing other kids, getting into vicious fights, all the while burying any instinct of kindness deep inside. But inside, he was scared and miserable.

One night, Jamal’s gang involvement nearly got him killed when a deal went bad and a rival stabbed him. As he lay in the hospital recovering, something unexpected happened. His former primary school teacher, Mr. Andrews, came to visit. This teacher remembered Jamal as a bright little boy and was heartbroken to see what had become of him.

Instead of lecturing, Mr. Andrews simply sat by Jamal’s bed, held his hand, and said, “I’m here for you. Whatever you need.” Jamal broke down in tears. It was the first unconditional kindness he had experienced in years. That moment became Jamal’s turning point.

With the support of Mr. Andrews and a local youth worker, Jamal left the gang. It was not easy. He received threats and had to rebuild his life from scratch, but he persevered.

Today, at 19, Jamal himself is a youth mentor, using kindness as the weapon to break the gang cycle. He meets boys headed down the same path he was on and shows them a different way. “These kids are not bad kids,” he says, “They’re just hurt and hungry for respect. I show them some love and respect, and they open up.

They start to believe they are worth something more.” By treating them with kindness, Jamal is defusing their anger and guiding them away from violence, just as Mr. Andrews did for him. Jamal’s story is echoed by many who escape gang life.

In London, a former gang member named Carl recalls how a simple act of kindness saved him. At 16, Carl was deeply involved in a gang dealing drugs, carrying weapons. One evening, he tried to rob a convenience store at knifepoint.

In the chaos, an elderly shopkeeper stumbled and Carl could have run away. Instead, noticing the man’s distress, something in Carl clicked: he helped the old man up, apologised, and fled empty-handed. That tiny spark of empathy haunted Carl.

He realised he was not as cold-hearted as the streets demanded. A week later, Carl showed up at a community centre known for helping troubled youth. He met a counsellor who did not judge him, but kindly listened and helped him find a job training program.

It was the first time an adult showed him consistent kindness and patience. With that support, Carl left the gang for good. He later learned that the shopkeeper he tried to rob had told police he forgave the culprit and hoped the boy would “find a better path.” That forgiveness, pure kindness from a stranger had given Carl permission to change.

Now in his twenties, Carl often revisits that same community centre, volunteering to talk to younger teens. He tells them, “I know you think nobody cares about you. I thought that too. But people do care. I care.

Let me help you.” Many of those teens, hardened by violence, break down when Carl speaks to them gently. They are not used to it. That is the tragedy: in some communities, kindness is so rare that it surprises and disarms these kids more than any threat could.

Kindness Breaking the Cycle
Serious youth violence whether gang-related or random feeds on revenge and “respect” battles. In many urban areas, one stabbing leads to another in retaliation, creating a vicious cycle of payback.

But kindness has proven to be a cycle-breaker. A powerful example comes from Leicester in 2013, where a feud between gangs spiralled out of control. After one youth was murdered, his friends sought revenge by setting fire to what they thought was a rival’s house.

Tragically, they had the wrong address and ended up killing an innocent family of four, a mother and her three children in the blaze. It was a horrific act born of anger and mistaken loyalty.

The violence could have escalated further, but something remarkable happened. Leaders from the community, including local imams and pastors, came together to publicly urge no retaliation. They reached out to the bereaved father of the family and showered him with support and compassion, attending the funerals and helping with funds.

The father, in his unimaginable grief, did something extraordinary: he forgave the perpetrators publicly and urged youths to stop the cycle. He said, “I’ve lost everything, but I don’t want any other parent to suffer like me.”

His forgiving kindness in the face of devastation moved the entire city. Rival gang members, who had been gearing up for more violence, were stunned. Many actually showed up at a community vigil to pay respects to the family standing side by side without fighting.

That father’s kindness had robbed them of their appetite for revenge. The cycle of killings ceased. Police and social workers seized on that moment to broker peace talks between gangs, eventually leading to a truce. It was an outcome no one thought possible weeks prior. Kindness does not always immediately stop violence, but in this case it did by removing the fuel of hatred.

In Glasgow, Scotland once branded the “knife crime capital” of Western Europe, a similar story played out. A decade ago, Glasgow’s youth gangs were entrenched and murders were common.

The government tried a bold experiment: the Violence Reduction Unit (VRU), which treated violence as a public health issue. Central to the VRU approach was an ingredient seldom associated with tough street crime: empathy.

Social workers and reformed gang members were sent to work with active gang youth, not to punish them but to listen and show concern. They ran programs where rival gang members met hospital staff who treated stabbing victims, and even met victims’ families.

But instead of lectures, these meetings were structured around humanising each other. Building empathy. One former gang member described a turning point when a nurse who had treated him for stab wounds asked him to talk to a current victim who was his own age. “She treated me like a human, not a thug,” he said of the nurse’s request.

In consoling a victim, that young man’s hardened heart cracked. He later left his gang, crediting the kindness and respect shown by those trying to help him. Over several years, dozens of young Glaswegian men left gang life through VRU initiatives, which included training, jobs, and ongoing mentorship steeped in compassion.

Glasgow’s murder rate plummeted by over 50%. What decades of brute force policing had not achieved, empathy and support did. This model focusing on kindness, understanding, and providing a route out has since been replicated in London, Manchester, and other cities.

It is important to note that kindness in these contexts is not about being “soft” on crime. It is about being effective. Young people involved in violence expect society’s contempt, which only entrenches their defiance.

When instead they encounter calm, caring outreach, it can throw them off balance in a good way. A London outreach worker once shared how he approached a teen who was known to carry a knife and had a hostile attitude.

Instead of chastising, the outreach worker regularly greeted him warmly: “Hey man, how’s your day going?” and offered help with anything he needed. For weeks, the teen brushed him off. But one evening the boy was visibly upset after a street altercation.

The outreach worker simply said, “You look like you have had a rough day. Want to talk about it over some food? My treat.” To his surprise, the teen accepted. Over burgers and chips, the story spilled out.

The boy’s brother had been stabbed by rivals and he was afraid he would be next. He felt trapped between wanting revenge and wanting out. That meal was the start of a mentoring relationship.

With guidance and no judgment from the outreach worker, the teen eventually decided not to seek revenge, and entered a program to relocate and get into construction work.

Months later, the boy admitted something that stuck with the worker: “I kept waiting for you to give up on me or cuss me out. You never did. No one’s ever just been cool with me like that. It made me think, maybe I can be cool too.” That is the essence. Kindness planting a seed of self-belief where previously there was only bitterness.

Kindness in Everyday Encounters
Not all acts of life-changing kindness make headlines. Often, it is the small, everyday gestures that cumulatively create a safer atmosphere. One teenager, a girl named Priya from Birmingham, recounted how a simple act in the school corridor saved her from a downward spiral.

Priya had been bullied about her skin condition; one day her main tormentor knocked her books out of her hands in the hallway, to the amusement of others. As Priya knelt, humiliated, to gather her papers, she was holding back tears when suddenly another girl she barely knew stooped down and helped her pick everything up.

That girl whispered, “Ignore them, they are idiots,” and gave Priya a quick side hug before walking with her to class. That tiny kindness was a lifeline. “It was the first time someone stood up for me,” Priya later wrote. “It stopped me from self-harming that day.” The bully lost his audience; seeing his peers show Priya care made him look small. Over time, Priya’s confidence grew and the bullying waned.

All from one compassionate bystander who decided not to stay silent. It reminds us: in the battle against cruelty, every kind act matters, no matter how small it seems. You never know which kind word or helping hand will be the one that turns someone’s day or life around.

Social media, so often a cauldron of nastiness, can also be reclaimed with kindness. Many teens have started combating online hate through positive comments and peer support.

For example, in one high school a rumour spread on Snapchat shaming a girl after a bad breakup. When a few students saw the cruel memes circulating, they decided to intervene.

They began posting sincere compliments about that girl her art talent, her humour in class with a hashtag #WeGotYourBack. Within hours, dozens more students joined in, drowning out the negative posts with positive ones.

The girl later said those messages “felt like a shield” protecting her from despair. The bullying stopped when the bullies saw that their behaviour was actually boosting the girl’s support and popularity exactly the opposite of their intention.

This is the “viral” nature of kindness. It multiplies when people see it in action. Today’s youth have immense power at their fingertips to amplify kindness or cruelty. By choosing kindness, they create an online culture that polices itself against bullying.

In fact, the UK’s Crimestoppers youth arm, Fearless, actively encourages teens to report online bullying anonymously and spread messages that challenge the “no snitching” culture with empathy, noting that staying silent about bullying can cost lives.

Slowly, these efforts are chipping away at the idea that cruelty is cool. More young influencers are promoting messages of inclusion, mental health support, and anti-bullying on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, reaching far wider audiences than any adult lecture could.

It is often said that children live what they learn. If they grow up in an environment of callousness, they will likely mimic it. But the opposite is true, too: raise them in kindness, and they will radiate it. A striking study showed that even very young children toddlers have an innate capacity for empathy.

They will try to comfort a crying peer or offer a toy to someone who is sad. It is in our nature to care. Cruelty is what is learned when kindness is not nurtured. In adolescence, peer dynamics complicate things, but the fundamental human need for kindness does not disappear.

Sometimes, troubled teens act toughest when they are hurting most, effectively begging for someone to show care behind their prickly armour. That is why the approach of persistent, patient kindness like the outreach worker who kept greeting the hostile boy warmly is so effective.

It might take a hundred tries, but that 101st kind greeting might be the day the teen’s walls crack and he says, “Actually, I’m not okay. Can you help me?” As a society, we have to be willing to give that 101st try.

We must also recognise that kindness is not just a nicety. It is a protective factor. The University of Kentucky found that gratitude and empathy fruits of kindness literally reduce aggression and increase “pro-social” behaviour.

Another study noted that kids who perform acts of kindness experience improved mental health and even become more popular because they are seen as trustworthy.

Kindness builds social capital when you are kind to others, you earn their support, which can shield you from bullying or gang pressure. A teen with a circle of kind friends is far less likely to fall through the cracks into violence or extremism.

Thus, teaching kindness is a tangible form of youth violence prevention and community healing. We invest so much in policing and correction. Investing in kindness may yield far better dividends. Imagine if every mentorship program, every school curriculum, every youth campaign made kindness a foundational pillar, not an afterthought.

kindness is the quiet hero in a noisy world of aggression. It might not grab headlines, but it works miracles in human hearts every day. It works in the hospital room, where a teacher’s kind presence redirects a gang member’s life.

It works in the classroom, where a gentle act by a peer stops a suicide. It works on the street corner, where an outreach worker’s friendly persistence disarms a would-be knife fighter.

It works in entire cities, turning the tide on violence through empathy and understanding. Kindness is not weakness. It is strength, healing, and courage combined. The cure for our communities’ pain won’t come solely from cracking down harder. It will come from reaching out more warmly. As Jamal, the former Luton gang member turned mentor, tells his mentees, “No matter how hard you think you are, everybody responds to love. Let someone be kind to you. It might save your life.”

And as he exemplifies, letting kindness in not only saves a life. It can transform it into a force for good, breaking vicious cycles and creating virtuous ones. In a world that can be cruel, choosing kindness is a revolutionary act. One with the power to change young lives and thereby change the world.

(The names in the above narrative have been changed to protect identities, but the events described are drawn from real cases of youth experiences in the UK and beyond.)