By Qamar Bashir
From the dawn of human civilization, long before Judaism, Christianity, Islam, or Buddhism emerged to reshape the moral foundations of society, humanity lived under a brutal and irrational law: when one person committed a crime, entire tribes, cities, and nations were punished. The crime of an individual became the burden of thousands. A conflict between two men could trigger decades of warfare. A single act of adultery could unleash generational blood feuds. Ancient history is filled with examples of wars ignited by the wrongdoing of a few but fought by tens of thousands who had no connection to the original offense. Around 1200 BCE, the legendary Trojan War erupted because of the actions of one couple—Paris and Helen—but ended with the deaths of an estimated 40,000 to 100,000 warriors and the destruction of Troy. In 490 BCE, the entire city of Miletus was destroyed by the Persian Empire in retaliation for the Ionian Revolt, though only a handful of rebels had participated in the initial uprising. In 586 BCE, the kingdom of Judah was crushed and Jerusalem destroyed because King Zedekiah rebelled against Babylon; tens of thousands were exiled for the decision of one ruler. These ancient precedents reveal an era dominated by collective vengeance rather than individual responsibility.
When Judaism arrived, the moral code began to shift. The Torah introduced the revolutionary principle that “the children shall not be put to death for the sins of the father,” establishing that punishment must be confined to the perpetrators. Christianity later reinforced this concept through the teachings of Jesus, emphasizing forgiveness and individual accountability. Islam, too, declared unequivocally in the Quran that “no soul shall bear the burden of another,” and that punishment must be proportionate and directed only toward the guilty. These religions attempted to end the age-old normalization of collective punishment. Yet despite these divine instructions, humanity repeatedly drifted back into the primitive instinct of retaliating against entire populations instead of targeting the individuals responsible for the crime.
Modern history, too, is littered with catastrophic examples of collective punishment. When one person or one small group acted, nations responded with wars that killed millions. During World War I, the assassination of a single man—Archduke Franz Ferdinand—on June 28, 1914, by a 19-year-old Serbian nationalist, led to a conflict that killed over 20 million people. In World War II, the rise of a few extremist leaders drove humanity into the deadliest war in history, killing an estimated 70–85 million people between 1939 and 1945. In 1937, after one Chinese soldier went missing near the Marco Polo Bridge, Japan launched a full invasion that resulted in the deaths of 300,000 civilians in Nanjing alone. Again and again, the scope of punishment far exceeded the scope of the crime.
The twenty-first century has unfortunately normalized collective punishment in new and devastating forms. After the 9/11 attacks of September 11, 2001—committed by 19 individuals—America understandably pursued all those who plotted, supported, facilitated, or financed the attack. Justice against the perpetrators was necessary and morally justified. But the response soon expanded far beyond those responsible. The invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001 resulted in more than 170,000 Afghan civilian deaths over two decades. In March 2003, Iraq was invaded even though Iraq had no involvement in 9/11; the war killed between 300,000 to 600,000 Iraqis and displaced millions. Libya was bombed in 2011, leaving 30,000 dead. Syria’s civil war, ignited by a small protest in 2011, eventually claimed over 500,000 lives and displaced more than 12 million people—half of the population. These tragedies illustrate a dark truth: the punishment for the crime of a few was extended to entire nations.
In the most recent and heartbreaking episode, the October 7, 2023 Hamas attack on Israel killed around 1,200 Israelis and took approximately 250 hostages—a horrific and indefensible act that demanded justice. Yet the response unleashed upon the civilians of Gaza escalated into one of the deadliest campaigns of the 21st century. By late 2025, more than 70,000 Palestinians had been killed, 75 percent of the population displaced, nearly all hospitals destroyed, food and medicine blocked, and children left freezing under plastic sheets in harsh winter rain. Families buried under rubble, newborn babies dying without incubators, entire neighborhoods turned to dust—this was not justice against the perpetrators but a sweeping punishment against an entire population for the crimes of a few.
The world watched collective punishment become normalized once again. Instead of targeting militants, the response treated every man, woman, and child in Gaza as equally punishable, an approach that contradicts not only international law but the core moral principles of Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and every civilized system of justice ever established.
And now, in November 2025, America risks repeating this ancient mistake within its own borders. After a lone gunman killed one National Guard soldier and severely wounded another, the United States had every right and duty to pursue the killer and anyone who supported or facilitated him. The safety of American soldiers and citizens must always come first, and no one can dispute that justice must be delivered swiftly and firmly. But instead of targeting the perpetrator and his network, sweeping executive orders were issued that affected millions of immigrants who had no connection whatsoever to the crime. Immigration processing was halted. Asylum cases were frozen. Green card holders and legal permanent residents—people who have committed no crime, who work hard, pay taxes, raise families, and contribute to America’s GDP—were suddenly labeled suspicious, stereotyped as criminals, and threatened with deportation.
Collective punishment once again overshadowed common sense. American immigrants, who statistically commit fewer crimes than native-born citizens, found themselves trapped under suspicion because of the actions of one man. These families fled economic collapse, persecution, and violence in their home countries; now they face being thrown back into the very instability they escaped. Their dreams, their years of sacrifice, their contributions to the U.S. economy have been jeopardized by an act they neither supported nor participated in.
The logic is simple and eternal: punish the guilty, not the innocent. Every major religion, every moral code, and every civilized legal system supports this principle. Collective punishment is not justice—it is a return to the darkest chapters of human history. It destroys trust, divides societies, and creates new cycles of hatred.
The United States is a great nation with strong institutions and a history of self-correction. It has the capacity to distinguish between a criminal and an entire community. It can choose a path guided by law, reason, and fairness rather than anger. As President Trump often says, his movement is a movement of “common sense.” But common sense does not support punishing millions for the crime of one. Common sense teaches us to hold the perpetrator accountable, not innocent families. Common sense demands proportionality, fairness, and justice—not blanket retaliation.
The question now is whether America, and indeed the world, will learn from history. Will we continue to repeat the ancient mistakes of punishing nations for the crimes of individuals, or will we finally embrace the moral clarity that has been taught to us for thousands of years? The answer will determine whether humanity advances toward justice—or falls backward into its brutal past.
By Qamar Bashir
Press Secretary to the President (Rtd)
Former Press Minister, Embassy of Pakistan to France
Former Press Attaché to Malaysia
Former MD, SRBC | Macomb, Michigan, USA
