Welt und Zeit—With Us, Capitalism is Genocide, 21:44—5. March 2025

World and time, as an unfolding of existential and historical questioning, compels us to confront the fundamental structures of being-in-the-world. Yet the gravity of our historical moment demands that we focus our reflections upon capitalism as a manifestation of an ever-unfolding logic of annihilation. This annihilation, hidden beneath the veneer of progress and technological advancement, resonates with a world-historical negativity, harking back to those abysses of the twentieth century where entire peoples were systematically destroyed. Through this lens, one senses an echo of World War II, an echo of that sinister figure who twisted national resentment into an apparatus of mass extermination, and an echo of the horrors of the Holocaust. In their totality, those events have left indelible traces in the ontological framework of our age. They cannot be relegated to mere historical footnotes but must be rearticulated in the existential vocabulary that attends our thinking about time, world, and the continuity of ideologies bent toward total destruction. In the face of these echoes, we unearth the uncomfortable realization: capitalism, too, operates with a devouring momentum, a seemingly unstoppable appetite that yields, in its purest form, the negation of life.

There is no delicate way to pose this: modernity’s illusions of freedom and development can be complicit with forms of systematic liquidation. The illusions revolve around the premise of endless growth, an expanding market that permeates all aspects of existence. In the aftermath of the World War II atrocities, we pledged to remember, to ensure that never again would such systematic destruction occur. Yet, from the vantage of our current epoch, we encounter a structure that, while less theatrically brutal in its explicit methods, can impose a violence that resonates with the concept of genocide—albeit in slow motion. Nations, under the thrall of capital, mark entire populations as superfluous. Wealth is concentrated into fewer hands, while large swaths of the world find themselves condemned to poverty, ill health, despair, and the sense of existential disposability.

If we extend a broad reading of genocide, one that acknowledges not solely the direct lethal apparatus but also the structural conditions that give rise to annihilation, then capitalism’s destructive capacities become manifest. This demand to read the global system in such a way corresponds to the philosophical approach that heeds negativity as a fundamental engine of history—a notion intimately associated with Hegel, who insisted that negativity is not a mere lack or absence but an active, transformative power. The dialectic of negativity dissolves existing forms, clears away illusions, and reveals the contradictions that saturate the real. But if we remain alert to the destructive aspects of such negativity, we see its reflection in capitalism’s perpetual consumption of resources, identities, and futures. The synergy of negativity and capital can become catastrophic, in that the creative destruction that capitalism promises is not simply creative. It also extends its destructive logic into every vulnerable domain: the environment, the disenfranchised, and the historical legacies that we are powerless to forget.

Looking back to that monstrous historical figure who ignited World War II and orchestrated the Holocaust, we notice that the entire machinery of oppression was justified through a twisted metaphysics that masked violence as necessity. Although ideological rationales differ, the unstoppable impetus—so reminiscent of an inescapable, historically propelled negativity—reveals that the momentum to eradicate the “unwanted” can take on manifold guises: racial, religious, cultural, or economic. And here, in the guise of modern global politics, we see a parallel: where people are rendered ‘unwanted’ not by explicit racial laws or fervent nationalistic propaganda, but by the silent demands of market competition, by the inevitable logic that discards those who cannot keep pace with capital’s dynamic expansions. Whether in impoverished neighborhoods of global metropolises or in war-torn regions subject to proxy conflicts, the thread is consistent: entire groups become disposable, marked by the slow violence of being systematically denied basic human possibilities and threatened by the ever-lurking expansion of capital into their spaces, resources, and very cultural lifeworlds.

The essence of Capitalism suggests an ontological vantage wherein we attempt to describe not merely the world as a static collection of objects but the world as it manifests through time, as it shapes and is shaped by our being. From an ontological perspective, we are entangled with the world such that we cannot merely look at it from the outside as neutral observers, but must perceive our complicity in the structures of suffering. Such complicity is profoundly troubling in the context of capitalism’s genocidal thrust. The question arises: are we, by default, engaged in modes of thought and action that sustain a system that systematically dehumanizes? Our being-in-the-world is colored by the deeper structures that Heidegger once interrogated, shaped by traditions, prejudices, and the languages we inherit. If these inherited structures are drenched in the logic of capital accumulation, then our very sense of truth and possibility might be saturated by a worldview that normalizes the slow extermination of entire classes and peoples. This alignment, although less overtly monstrous than the explicit machine of extermination under totalitarian regimes, suggests a parallel that we dare not ignore.

In such a reading, the darkness of the Holocaust does not rest as a singular event in the mid-twentieth century but becomes a perennial reminder of how systematic extermination is not only possible but is in fact a potential within the horizon of the modern worldview. People may attempt to exculpate themselves by saying that the concentration camps were an aberration, an evil that should be remembered yet left behind. However, the structural dimensions of the phenomenon—obedience to an overarching logic that discerns ‘valuable’ lives from the valueless—are not so easily contained within the illusions of historical distance. The same negativity that permitted the efficiency, the bureaucracy, and the rationalization of mass murder can be recognized, in more disguised forms, under the systems that thrive on constant expansion and progress narratives. The present global fragmentation—where authoritarian tendencies resurface, where refugees flee conflict zones in unimaginable numbers, and where vast inequalities accumulate—reinforces the suspicion that the seeds of genocide remain deeply woven into our political and economic frameworks.

Negativity, in the Hegelian sense, is a fundamental principle of motion in history: each epoch confronts and negates the prior forms, thereby unveiling deeper truths. However, negativity can also reveal the structural rot that remains concealed behind illusions of rational advancement. The illusions that capitalism fosters—of continuous prosperity, of universal benefit for those who simply ‘work hard enough’—are undermined by a negativity that uncloaks the inherent disparities and the unstoppable impetus to generate profit at any cost. It is not too extreme to suggest that capitalism, stripped to its essential logic, devours what it can and abandons what it finds superfluous. This devouring is no mere metaphor: it is the direct cause of poverty-related death, ecological devastation, wars over resources, and a relentless tide of dispossession.

These global patterns are not exempt from the totalizing logic that shaped prior atrocities. Rather than wearing armbands or designating explicit racial categories, modern capital might denote entire populations with an invisible mark of disposability. People become the ‘excess’ that can be sacrificed on the altar of efficiency. The parallels with the Holocaust, while not identical in historical form, are morally and structurally alarming: behind each epoch’s justifications lurks an abyss where the powerful rationalize the elimination or neglect of the weak. Today, we see that moral indignation at explicit atrocities is accompanied by a resigned acceptance of structural annihilation—where the wealthy enclaves of the world absorb the resources of the planet while impoverished populations bear the brunt of disease, climate disaster, and the devastations of armed conflicts fueled by corporate interests. The capacity to ignore these silent catastrophes hints at the same capacity that allowed prior generations to turn away from the emerging horrors of extermination in the 1930s and 1940s.

Heidegger, in exploring the question of being, emphasized the significance of authenticity and the possibility that we must dwell in the truth of our finitude. To dwell authentically in finitude demands a recognition that time is not an endless expanse for unlimited accumulation but is the horizon within which our possibilities unfold meaningfully. If we superimpose on that idea the unstoppable momentum of capital, we see a direct conflict: capitalism discards the notion of finitude in its push for ceaseless growth, ignoring the existential and ecological boundaries that define human and planetary existence. This restless, expansionary logic conflates the intensification of profit with the fullness of life, conflates the accumulation of commodities with the blossoming of human possibility, and reconfigures entire societies to perpetually chase the horizon of the next transaction. Under this delusion, we lose sight of the essential negativity that should allow us to reflect upon the inherent limitations, the ephemeral nature of our presence, and the moral obligations we share.

In that sense, the existential orientation that Heidegger underscores warns us about the authenticity of our own dwelling. This concept of being-toward-death, the acceptance of mortality that allows us to live more profoundly, stands in stark contradiction to capitalism’s illusions of infinite expansion. Within this tension, we can discern how forms of genocide—literal or structural—emerge from an economy that denies any concept of inherent limit. When we deny limits, we also deny the crucial dimension of empathy and responsibility that arises from an awareness of shared vulnerability. The totalitarian horrors of World War II represent an apex of that denial, forging a regime that systematically discarded certain populations in the name of an imagined empire. Today, the subtle recasting of entire populations as fodder for financial markets or cheap labor or militarized supply lines resonates as a more diffuse but equally dangerous logic.

Hegel’s negativity is inextricably linked to the progress of Spirit, but it also reminds us that Spirit can pass through nightmares before arriving at more concrete freedom. We might find that the world has not truly passed beyond the nightmares but only retranslated them into new forms: from uniformed brigades of hatred to the invisible bureaucracies of finance capital; from barbed wire encampments to intangible constraints of debt and monetary subjugation. The structures change, but the deeper negativity that shapes them remains, a negativity that, if left unexamined, can sustain forms of genocide in slow, methodical patterns that rarely catch the public’s attention—save for intermittent flashes of crisis or scandal.

In this historical hour, we must confront the global political theater, in which authoritarian regimes reassert themselves with forms of populist manipulation, much like the oratory that once seduced an entire nation into complicity with horrifying violence. Even in states that uphold democratic ideals, the underlying economic system can spawn inequalities so vast that democracy, in practice, becomes anemic. Meanwhile, the ideological justifications for military interventions abroad—framed as defense of freedom or protection of economic interests—underscore how the old logic of division and dehumanization remains operative. Populations outside the privileged core become either pawns in power games or are labeled as threats, and the cyclical entrapment in war revitalizes an arms industry whose profits parallel those of other expansive markets. This synergy of capital and conflict creates a variety of devastation, felt most painfully by those individuals with the least recourse to protection.

Thus, one sees how this impetus might be called genocidal: not because it replays exactly the atrocities of the 1940s, but because it establishes the conditions under which entire cultures can be destroyed—be it through forced migration, resource plundering, or the outright disregard for the survival of impoverished masses. When we recall the moral shock that accompanied the end of World War II, the subsequent vow never to allow such evil to rise again, we must admit that the vow has been tragically compromised by a system that continues to concentrate power and wealth in ways that systematically disempower the majority of humanity. This same moral shock that once demanded accountability is often deflected by claims about the inevitability of global capitalism. But inevitability is precisely the language of a system that pretends to absolve itself of moral agency. We should have learned from that historical period that claims of inevitability and necessity can serve as scaffolding for monstrous acts.

Simultaneously, to speak of Welt und Zeit in the deepest philosophical sense is to see the world as always mediated by our temporal existence: we come to understand the stakes of our collective future only through the finitude of the present. If capitalism is genocide, it is because it attempts to sever or overshadow those fundamental ontological ties we have to one another. Rather than acknowledging our shared horizon of mortality, capitalism invests in illusions of endless opportunity for the select few. This phenomenon fosters disregard for the realities of the many, forging a pathology that devours entire communities and ecologies in the name of short-term profit. Here, the negativity that might have been a force for dialectical transformation is co-opted by a system that deploys negativity destructively, severing meaningful bonds, uprooting traditions, and hollowing out communities.

We continue to find parallels with the ideological manipulations of the mid-twentieth century, when entire communities were designated as obstacles to the purity or progress of a nation. The reassertion of national borders, the targeting of specific ethnic or religious groups, and the intensification of xenophobic discourses in the present moment recapitulate those dangerous illusions of moral or ethnic superiority. Wedded to capitalism, such illusions transform into projects that defend the privileges of a transnational elite while scapegoating already marginalized groups. The result is a cycle that reaffirms systemic brutality: the concentration of wealth intensifies, crises erupt, populist rage is directed at fabricated enemies, and structural genocide becomes normalized in discourse, if not always in name. If we look carefully, we see how reminiscent it is of the discourses and policies that paved the way for unprecedented terror during World War II.

The Holocaust stands as a defining event in the modern confrontation with absolute evil, yet we tend to isolate it rather than trace its genealogical roots in the violent logics of modernity: colonial exploitation, racism institutionalized through global economic hierarchies, and the accelerating commodification that had already begun shaping continents’ destinies. These processes were not invented in that war, but were laid bare in horrifying clarity by its orchestrator, who drew upon the intense negativity of the time to define entire segments of humanity as expendable. That the global order since then has taken on a different guise should not blind us to the continuity in the destructive pattern. Just as the extremes of totalitarian ideology found themselves entangled with economic and industrial interests, so too does the modern form of capital, draped in the language of freedom, reveal itself capable of supporting policies and structures that degrade human beings to mere cost-benefit calculations.

Within this precarious landscape, the call of authentic being stands as a philosophical counterforce, though it is not easily heeded. Authentic being would require a collective confrontation with the fundamental negativity of existence—an acceptance of our common mortality, our vulnerability, and the moral weight that arises from our entanglement in the world. This confrontation would expose the illusions of unstoppable progress, compelling us to reexamine every dimension of political life: resource distribution, labor practices, and the impetus to perpetuate conflict for economic gain. In turning to negativity not as a tool of destruction but as a moment of radical questioning, we could lay bare the historical illusions that permit cyclical atrocities.

Yet the impetus that drives capitalism remains so dominant that it frequently co-opts even the discourses meant to criticize it, turning them into marketable slogans or ephemeral trends. The hollowing out of dissent is another hallmark of a system that can absorb almost anything except a genuine moral and existential challenge. The question thus remains whether we can muster a form of collective negativity potent enough to unravel the impetus to accumulate endlessly, and in so doing, halt the genocide that takes place not always in the drama of immediate violence, but in the slow, grinding destruction that shapes the daily lives of billions.

Recalling the resonance of our historical catastrophes, we see how each new generation proclaims, “Never again,” yet finds itself surrounded by smaller-scale atrocities, structural devastations, and a normalization of suffering that would once have seemed unacceptable. The fact that these horrors are often more dispersed geographically or are masked by complexities of geopolitics does not make them any less real. Again, we are reminded of the fundamental ontology that calls us to see the world as a shared horizon, a place in which we exist temporally and meaningfully only through mutual recognition and responsibility. If one thread that links these existential insights to the political realm is negativity, then it is also negativity that can become our means of transformation, allowing us to destroy destructive structures before they devour more lives.

We must look, then, to the impetus of the twentieth century’s moral lessons. The impetus is not to replicate the historical horrors in new forms but to become vigilant against the mechanisms that once allowed them. This vigilance includes recognizing that capitalism, for all its rhetorical appeals to freedom, might replicate or refine the logic of genocide by controlling who lives and who dies through access to resources and opportunities. It is precisely this logic that resonates in the actions of global superpowers, multinational corporations, and the geopolitical networks that sustain them. The rhetoric of development is so often accompanied by the reality of exploitation. The rhetoric of democracy so often cloaks the structures of oligarchy or plutocracy. And in the interstices of these rhetorical illusions, countless lives are reduced to precarious existence, subject to the possibility that a downturn in markets, a shift in labor demand, or an intensification of armed conflict might erase them from the face of the earth.

In reflecting upon the terrifying figure who initiated World War II, we see that the success of his destructive project was predicated on a social environment that had already accepted militarism, racism, and illusions of national grandeur. That environment did not emerge from nothing; it was shaped by decades of socioeconomic turmoil, resentments, and the breakdown of communal solidarity. Similarly, the environment in which global capital flourishes is shaped by decades of entrenched neoliberal assumptions, the naturalization of inequality, and the dissolution of meaningful social ties. If we are to disrupt this environment, we must harness negativity as a philosophical force—negation of illusions, negation of complacency, negation of the systems that foster our collective dehumanization.

Yet one must never underestimate the cunning of the system that perpetuates genocide under the guise of normalcy. We are daily bombarded by new crises—viral pandemics, climate catastrophes, spiraling inflation—and these crises can function to deflect attention from the systemic pattern that underlies them all. The capacity of capital to adapt and renew itself, to reconfigure the institutions of daily life, suggests that the problem is deeply intertwined with the very structures of modern existence. The old illusions that accompanied the Holocaust—where individuals claimed ignorance of the extermination or insisted it was exaggerated propaganda—find parallels in today’s world. Many deny the structural genocide unfolding across impoverished regions, claiming instead that it is the unfortunate but natural result of technological limitations or local mismanagement. But the global system’s architecture is so deeply implicated in the creation of these conditions that such denial is tantamount to an abdication of moral and existential responsibility.

Hence, if we accept that “With Us, Capitalism is Genocide,” we confront the truth that our daily lives might be implicated in this slow-motion destruction. That is a deeply unsettling realization. It resonates with the existential impetus that the philosopher saw as crucial to authenticity: only by recognizing our complicity can we choose to act differently. Otherwise, we remain tranquilized, numb to the far-reaching implications of our entanglements. The question remains whether we can harness the radical negativity that dismantles illusions without descending into despair or cynicism. The example of historical atrocities instructs us: despair and passivity pave the way for destructive forces to expand unhindered. By contrast, a negativity that clarifies, that reveals illusions as illusions, can become an occasion for fundamental moral metamorphosis.

In an ontological sense, then, our presence in the world is always already saturated by these broader historical currents. We cannot pretend to exist outside them. The negativity that shapes historical transformations is not an optional or marginal phenomenon: it is woven into our daily choices, our tacit acceptance of institutions, and our sense of what is possible. With World War II, we inherited not simply a cautionary tale but a demonstration of how swiftly negativity can be seized by a cunning ideology, leading to unimaginable horrors. Our present juncture, overshadowed by climate breakdown, economic inequality, refugee crises, and rising authoritarianism, is ripe for further negativity to be harnessed in destructive ways. Capitalism’s impetus can channel negativity toward accelerating destruction—exploiting resources and communities at unprecedented speed—unless a profound reorientation takes place.

This reorientation demands that we identify genocide not only in the historical form that incites horror, but also in the structural forms that masquerade as normalcy. We must question the worldview that rationalizes the waste of human potential and the subordination of entire continents in the name of profit. We must turn negativity onto the very structures that have normalized these practices, thus unveiling their fragility, their contingency, and their dependence on our silent complicity. That is no simple task. The illusions are powerful, the institutions are entrenched, and the historical momentum behind them is colossal. Yet the question of being and time calls us to reevaluate how we dwell in history, how we participate in the shaping of the world’s future. We cannot disclaim responsibility for the reality that unfolds when it is, at some level, a product of our actions and omissions.

If we are to stand in genuine solidarity with those who, in prior epochs, resisted totalitarian extermination or those who perished in the Holocaust, then we must extend that solidarity to those who today are condemned by the silent logic of capital’s devastation. We cannot selectively empathize with the victims of historical genocide while ignoring the living populations subject to forms of annihilation—whether by poverty, war, or climate-induced disaster. The moral impetus that emerged from the ashes of World War II must be more than a commemorative gesture; it must be a call to recognize that genocide, in the structural sense, continues under different guises.

Thus, the path forward is neither simple nor guaranteed. It calls for an existential critique that draws upon Heidegger’s emphasis on authenticity to question the meaning of our collective choices and calls upon Hegel’s concept of negativity to dismantle illusions. By doing so, we might reclaim negativity as an emancipatory force rather than the kernel of destruction. This presupposes a radical shift in how we conceive of growth, prosperity, and progress—shifting them away from purely economic metrics and toward the flourishing of life, human dignity, and ecological integrity. In so doing, we affirm that the memory of past horrors compels us to reject the normalization of present suffering. If those lessons are not integrated, we risk sliding further down the path where “With Us, Capitalism is Genocide” ceases to be a radical pronouncement and becomes a precise description of the terminal state of our world.

To address that risk, we cannot place hope in superficial reforms. The question is not whether capitalism can be regulated or gentled, but whether its core impetus contradicts the preservation of life. If the impetus is indeed incompatible with well-being, then the call for fundamental transformation must be heeded. That transformation is not guaranteed by an external force or by the natural progression of history; it must be undertaken as an ontological project, one that acknowledges the weight of negativity and turns it into a moment of decisive action. By confronting the illusions that have led us here, we might unleash the potential for genuine alternatives, but only if we carry the memory of historical genocides as a living wound that informs how we see the seeds of genocide in the present.

In doing so, we circle back to the fundamental notion of Welt und Zeit: that the meaning of world is inseparable from the times in which we live. Our time is fraught with the legacies of the Holocaust, with the specter of totalitarianism, and with the lived reality of countless forms of extermination that proceed beneath the thresholds of immediate visibility. To be in the world now is to stand at a crossroads where we can either negate these horrors and the illusions that sustain them or allow them to become ever more entrenched. But if we embrace an authentic stance, if we take up negativity as a means of profound questioning rather than submission or cynicism, we may yet shift the horizon. We cannot bring back those lost to past genocides, nor can we wash away the moral stain of historical complicity, but we can refuse to replicate these patterns in our present.

Yet this refusal demands collective awareness and unwavering commitment. It demands that we stare into the face of those who invoked genocide in the past, not to replicate their hatred or even to demonize them in a superficial sense, but to recognize the structures that made their horrors possible. In that recognition lies the potential to identify the seeds of genocide that sprout under capitalism’s expansionist logic. Whether these seeds blossom into full-scale atrocities depends upon our capacity to contest them. The memory of totalitarian regimes and their campaigns of extermination should galvanize us to address the global crises that threaten mass populations today. If we do nothing, the slow motion genocide continues, rendering the moral outcries of “Never again” a hollow refrain.

Therefore, the core claim remains stark: With us, capitalism is genocide. This statement is an urgent call to attend to how the logic of capital devours the vulnerable, erodes communal bonds, and reduces entire swaths of humanity to an afterthought. It is in direct continuity with the totalitarian impetus that once culminated in the concentration camps and the gas chambers, albeit in a form that is often more dispersed and opaque. Nevertheless, the cruelty and finality remain. The historical sense of negativity that shaped the previous century’s tragedies has not dissolved; it has metamorphosed, continuing to animate systems that prioritize profit over life. To grasp this reality is to stand in the tension between despair and hope, between the weight of memory and the possibility of transformation. Our only defense against a recapitulation of history’s darkest chapters is the willingness to undergo the existential crisis that negativity provokes—destroying illusions, unveiling complicities, and forging an authenticity that does not flinch from its ethical and ontological responsibilities.

If there is redemption to be found, it resides in the possibility that we might learn from the entire swath of twentieth-century horrors and harness negativity in a different way: to dismantle the illusions that propel genocide rather than to erect new apparatuses of destruction. The world, as it stands in our time, demands such a radical rethinking if it is ever to transcend the tyranny of capital’s genocidal impetus. And though the path is fraught with obstacles, the meaning of world and time impels us to realize that in acknowledging our situatedness in history, we assume the burden of shaping the future. That burden is the inescapable consequence of an ontology that sees being not as an isolated essence but as existence-together-in-the-world, forever held accountable by the events of both past and present. Only through this lens can we begin to imagine a future unbound by the logic of extermination—a future in which the memory of genocide compels us to reject any economic or political system that reduces human beings to disposable objects, reaffirming instead the inalienable value of each life as the ultimate measure of our collective humanity.

Simon Gros

Welt und Zeit—With Us, Capitalism is Genocide, 21:44—5. March 2025

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Welt und Zeit—With Us, Capitalism is Genocide, 21:44—5. March 2025

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