To Be Remembered Is Not to Be Freed: The Mythic Economy of Progressive Sacrifice

Leftist pundits should remember: God answered Abraham’s own sacrifice. The sin of sacrificing another’s child is eternal—and paid in hell. (Image generated by ChatGPT-4o-)

Whether it’s the weight shouldered by members of the vulnerable population—Emma Sulkowicz’s mattress, George Floyd’s last breath, Breonna Taylor’s bedroom, or Alan Kurdi’s shoreline—each was made into a symbol not by their own will, but by the myth-making impulses of leftist punditry and media machinery eager to construct heroes out of hurt. Their pain was aestheticized, their names invoked, their images distributed. But in many cases, they and their families suffer—not only from the original violence, but from the relentless symbolic labor they are forced to perform. Some are harassed, surveilled, erased. Others are iconized so completely that they are never seen again as people. Their public meaning grows while their private agency collapses. They become scaffolding for a morality play in which they never auditioned. Their liberation is recited, never lived.

This transformation from person to parable is not incidental—it is embedded in the moral economy of contemporary wokeism. Liberation is not a shared project but a transaction, sealed through sacrifice. Political legitimacy is won not by organizing for freedom, but by offering up a body to be injured, a voice to be silenced, or a subject to be mythologized. These figures are not truly seen. They are deified, consumed, and converted into liberal cautionary tales—fetishized icons whose pain is preserved but whose personhood is discarded.

This is the tragedy of postmodern identity: real lives become metaphorical instruments. The dead speak only through curated remembrance, and the living suffer as placeholders for unredeemed history. Heidegger might call this the reduction of being to utility: the human as object, politically visible only when useful to others’ narratives. In this way, ontological erasure becomes functional visibility—a form of legibility that only emerges through subjugation, when pain becomes performance. This seamlessly echoes Michel Foucault’s notion of biopolitics, where power does not merely repress but regulates the conditions under which life is allowed to be seen, counted, and managed. In a world where not all lives are equally protected, the bourgeoisie monopolize not only the payoffs from the moral economy of contemporary wokeism, but the full expression of life—safety, rest, and the dignity of emotional bandwidth. Others are permitted only visibility through trauma, and even that is selectively allocated.

Even that visibility, however, often comes posthumously. The sacrificed individual is remembered, not lived. Their death becomes an ethical signal; their life is a discarded draft. The real horror lies in this economy of symbolic compensation, where systemic injustice is aestheticized, not remedied. Tragedy becomes theater, and mourning becomes moral capital. In many cases, the market absorbs these symbolic deaths with stunning efficiency. Grief becomes brandable, pain becomes a hashtag, and corporations don the colors of solidarity while continuing to exploit those very lives behind the scenes. The commodification of trauma thus becomes the final act in the ritual: mourning not as a reckoning, but as marketing.

Hannah Arendt saw the mechanics of evil, not its texture. Her account of the “banality of evil” captured bureaucratic amorality, but did not dwell in the suffering it produced. Her reflection is Lacanian: a cold mirror without skin. It renders evil comprehensible, but not felt. In effect, Arendt displaced the burden of suffering—transferring it from analytical engagement to symbolic abstraction, a form of ethical outsourcing that left the pain of victims intellectually acknowledged but existentially untouched. She succeeded in anatomizing the structures of evil, but left unexplored how suffering is lived, fragmented, and erased within those very structures. Arendt gave us the ethics of the thinking subject, but not of the suffering one. Perhaps for Arendt, that suffering was not just analytically elusive—it was something unspeakable, something she refused to represent precisely because its intimacy defied conceptual containment. In this absence, suffering becomes an epistemic object, not an ethical imperative. Diagnosis arrives without embodiment; politics speaks without contact. Her refusal to descend into the phenomenology of pain was not philosophical neutrality—it was an ethical omission. To map evil without feeling its tremor is to risk normalizing it anew, in cleaner language.

Thus, suffering is neutralized into mythology. The wounded are sainted but silenced. Pain becomes proof of virtue—an untouchable credential that resists criticism and political transformation. The sacred victim cannot be questioned, only mourned or idealized. And here lies the ethical stagnation: trauma becomes a closed loop, an immutable symbol, rather than an impetus for structural change. When political identity is secured by suffering, liberation becomes a performance endlessly rehearsed but never concluded.

If pain merely confers symbolic status, then the living are doomed to repeat the dead’s script. The suffering subject’s current life becomes unlivable. Their future is overwritten by a demand to represent trauma, indefinitely. Woke politics, in this form, enshrines suffering without transforming it. It is a politics of infinite repetition, not release. And it leaves no room for agency beyond grief.

Contrast this with the figure of the Bodhisattva: in Mahayana Buddhist philosophy, the Bodhisattva is one who, despite being capable of entering nirvana, voluntarily delays personal liberation to remain in the world and accompany others in their suffering. They sense suffering and remain with it, not to define others by it, but to transmute it. The Bodhisattva does not use pain to confer meaning. They use presence to restore it. Their compassion is not forensic, but existential—a form of dwelling. The Bodhisattva is not merely compassionate; they are co-present. Their ethics emerge not from abstraction, but from dwelling beside. Where liberal politics universalizes suffering into policy, the Bodhisattva particularizes it into presence.

But presence is not enough without structure. In political terms, presence must be accompanied by material reparation. The craftsman—an ethical architect—must build beyond reflection. But craftmanship is no longer ethically sufficient if it only judges who deserves repair based on performative pain. This is where the symbolic economy of sacrifice collapses: those who have suffered must not merely be honored or remembered—they must be structurally equalized. They must be permitted to live lives as full and rich as those who now consume their memory as moral capital. There is no justification, ethical or political, for the continued monopolization of livable life by those who hide behind commemorative virtue while enjoying the fruits of unshared freedom.

Yet even this ethical craft has limits if it is not coupled with radical redistribution. The mythic victim must not only be acknowledged—they must be released from their myth. Here, capitalism, paradoxically, offers a necessary tool: not because any one mechanism is inherently virtuous or profound, but because no existing liberal or progressive instrument—reparations, welfare, or identity-based redistribution—has succeeded in releasing the mythologized victim from their symbolic role. In the absence of a non-patron-clientelist structure that can offer real exit from sacrificial identity, instruments like shareholdership or even randomized redistribution remain the only viable tools to shift the terrain. Capital, at its coldest, is indifferent to lineage, grievance, and symbolic performance. And that very indifference may be the most ethical feature available: it does not measure worthiness; it redistributes possibility. Not as reward, but as rupture. A metaphysical wager against inherited repetition. A refusal to remember, so that others might begin to live.

And in a world that only remembers your surname, hometown, or trauma—capital remains the only force indifferent enough to liberate you from all three. It may not have a conscience, but it also has no prejudice. And sometimes, that blankness is the most just form of remembering we have left.

This perspective is not rooted in the ivory towers of philosophical critique. Unlike Adorno, Arendt, or Benjamin—who observed authoritarian violence from historical distance, where suffering remained a subject of analysis rather than an object of shared responsibility—this argument emerges from within the vulnerable population itself. It does not mourn trauma as a conceptual loss; it lives within its ongoing consequences. If traditional critical theory attempts to historicize injustice, this voice demands to de-historicize survival. It refuses to be remembered. It insists on being redistributed.

Thus, to move beyond symbolic sacrifice, we need three agents: the Bodhisattva who stays, the craftsman who builds, and the system that gives. This system need not replace ethics, but it must outmaneuver its exclusions—the binaries of good and evil, victim and bystander. Without presence, structure, and rupture, suffering remains mythic, and justice remains posthumous. The task is not to mourn more skillfully, but to liberate more concretely.