It was in 1919 when the Treaty of Versailles was signed, hailed as the pact that would end all wars. Yet only two decades later, the world was plunged back into bloodshed with World War II, a catastrophe more devastating than the first. If this is not proof that people fail to learn from history, I don’t know what else could be.
The First World War was branded the “war to end all wars.” But the arrogance of the victors, who imposed crushing reparations and humiliation on Germany, instead sowed the seeds of resentment and extremism. History had whispered a warning: punishment without reconciliation only breeds future conflict. But leaders were deaf to that lesson, and soon Hitler rose from the ashes of bitterness, using that resentment as fuel for one of history’s darkest infernos.
The same cycle of blindness can be seen in colonialism. Empires stretched their hands across continents, exploiting resources, enslaving bodies, and breaking cultures. Then, one by one, colonies fought for independence, blood was spilled, and the colonizers retreated in disgrace. And yet, neo-colonial tendencies—whether through economic control, military bases, or political puppetry—still thrive today, showing that the lessons of arrogance, greed, and exploitation have not truly been absorbed. The world claims to abhor colonialism, but in new clothing, the same dance continues.
Consider the Cold War. After the horror of nuclear bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, one would think nations would tread carefully with weapons of mass destruction. Instead, the arms race escalated, with the United States and the Soviet Union stockpiling enough warheads to obliterate the planet many times over. The Cuban Missile Crisis was a terrifying reminder that humanity was sleepwalking toward self-destruction. And yet, even now, with North Korea flaunting nuclear tests and superpowers flexing their arsenals, the folly persists. We still flirt with annihilation, as though Hiroshima’s silence did not scream enough.
Genocides tell the same story. After the Holocaust, the world declared “Never again.” But it happened again—in Rwanda, in Cambodia, in Bosnia. The patterns were familiar: propaganda that demonized an ethnic group, silence from the international community, and neighbors turning on neighbors. Each massacre was not born in a vacuum; each was history repeating itself in a grotesque loop, because human beings forgot—or chose to ignore—the lessons etched in the graves of six million Jews.
Even economics follows this rhythm of forgetfulness. The Great Depression of 1929 was triggered by reckless speculation, unregulated markets, and blind optimism. Decades later, the 2008 financial crash replayed the same notes: greed, deregulation, and bubbles too fragile to hold. Politicians and bankers swore reforms, yet already we see whispers of the same risky behaviors emerging. Money, it seems, is humanity’s Achilles’ heel, and memory is conveniently short when profit beckons.
And what about pandemics? The Spanish flu of 1918 killed millions, spreading in part because leaders downplayed its severity and populations ignored precautions. Fast-forward to COVID-19, and we saw eerily similar scenes: denial, disinformation, and delayed responses. Modern medicine was more advanced, yes, but human pride and political gamesmanship proved timeless. It was as though the century between the two pandemics had taught us little about humility in the face of nature.
When I reflect on these cycles, I don’t see history as a stern teacher patiently waiting for us to understand. I see it more as a broken record—scratched, skipping, and repeating the same tragic tunes—because we refuse to lift the needle and change the song. If we truly wish to stop history from replaying itself, we must foster collective memory, nurture humility, and hold leaders accountable. That way, we can break the loop and let humanity compose a different, more hopeful melody.
