Some people destroy because of hate. Others, because of ideology. But some destroy simply because they can.
No resistance. No consequence. Just a clear path.
The stories of Ravana, Hitler, and Charles Cullen are radically different in setting, time, and method. But at the heart of each is the same terrifying ease: they weren’t stopped. They chose to act because they could.
Ravana: No Opposition, No Restraint
Ravana was not born a villain. He was brilliant, devout, and powerful. But his power met no resistance. When he abducted Sita, it wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even personal. It was to prove he could shake the gods. It was ego—unchecked and unchallenged.
His family knew of his pride. His father, a sage, remained quiet. His mother pushed him toward conquest. Those around him worshipped or feared him but rarely questioned him.
Would Ravana have still committed his great folly if someone—anyone—had challenged him not in battle but in thought? We’ll never know. No one did.
So he did what he wanted.
Because he could.
Hitler: The Silence Around the Spark
Adolf Hitler began as a child with talent and dreams, scarred by violence and rejection. As he grew, bitterness turned into ideology, ideology into speeches, and speeches into war.
At every point, signs were visible. His words became venomous. His plans outrageous. But most people looked away, hoping it would pass.
The silence wasn’t just from individuals—it came from institutions, governments, even nations. There were windows where history could have shifted. Where voices could have risen. Where lines could have been drawn.
But silence is easier than confrontation. And so the world paid.
He did what he did.
Because he could.
Cullen: Fast Forward to the Quiet Killer
Charles Cullen wasn’t a warlord or a dictator. He was a nurse. A quiet man in white, entrusted with healing. But over sixteen years, he murdered at least forty patients—some believe hundreds. He moved from hospital to hospital, leaving death behind like a trail of whispers.
Each time someone noticed, they chose paperwork over prosecution. Reputation over responsibility. And so he kept going.
When he was finally caught, he said: “They didn’t stop me.”
It wasn’t an excuse. It was a statement of fact.
Cullen didn’t kill because he hated. He killed because the system let him. Because no one stopped him. Because every institution passed the buck.
He wasn’t a monster in the shadows. He was in plain sight. Hiding behind silence.
He kept going.
Because he could.
The Power of Passive Permission
“Because I can” is not born in a vacuum. It grows in the spaces where courage fails and confrontation is postponed. It hides behind titles like genius, leader, healer. It is fed by those who shrug, who whisper, who walk away.
We imagine evil as loud. But often, it starts in whispers.
A child throws something. Laughs at pain. Lies. Cuts corners. And no one corrects them.
A colleague manipulates. A friend disrespects. A public figure lies. And we say, “It’s not my place.”
And slowly, what was once unthinkable becomes possible. Then normal. Then irreversible.
Not because the person was unstoppable.
But because no one tried.
Cullen vs. the World: A Different Kind of Monster
It’s chilling to realise some people hurt not from purpose, but from opportunity.
Unlike Hitler, who was driven by blind belief, or Ravana, who was consumed by ego, Cullen did not roar. He did not declare war. He did not justify his actions with any cause.
He simply acted in the gaps others left.
No drama. No ideology. Just absence. Of checks. Of courage. Of resistance.
The deadliest silence isn’t the one around us—it’s the one within us.
That moment we say, “It’s not my problem.”
That’s the moment power takes root.
Parenting: The First Playground of Power
It starts early. A parent snaps, slaps, shouts—not because the child deserves it, but because the parent is tired, stressed, or overwhelmed. The child flinches, cries. But there’s no apology. No correction. Just a shrug: “I’m the parent. I know best.” Or worse, “Because I said so.”
And so the child learns that control is love, that pain is discipline, that silence is safer than resistance.
When a parent hits—not out of protection but frustration—they’re teaching more than obedience. They’re teaching hierarchy. That power doesn't need explanation. That pain without justice is normal. That someone bigger, louder, or older has the right to hurt.
And most dangerously, they’re showing the child a template.
The template of “Because I can.”
The Cost of Not Saying No
This isn’t about parenting. Or politics. Or history alone. It’s about a dangerous human pattern—the comfort in looking away.
We think staying silent keeps us safe. But silence often crowns the next tyrant.
We think inaction protects peace. But inaction fuels predators.
Each time we choose not to say "No"—to a lie, a cruelty, a power grab—we allow something dangerous to grow.
That first unchecked insult can become emotional abuse. That unchallenged manipulation can spiral into full control. That unspoken discomfort can mature into generational trauma.
The cost is not always immediate. Sometimes, it arrives years later, as a child too afraid to speak up, a worker too broken to resist, a society too numb to care.
Saying no is not confrontation for the sake of conflict. It's a boundary for the sake of balance.
It doesn’t take a sword to stop destruction. It takes a voice. A line. A mirror.
Because when we don’t stop someone early—we often can’t stop them later.
Let the Pattern Break Here
There is hope. There is always hope.
It lies in the quiet courage to confront the first wrong. In the refusal to ignore. In the strength to say: “You will not get away with this.”
It lies in noticing. In naming. In nudging.
It lies in remembering that prevention is not punishment—it is protection.
The most dangerous phrase in history isn’t “I will destroy.”
It’s “No one will stop me.”
Let’s be the ones who do.
Let’s end the cycle of “Because I can.”
