There is a writer whose work I adore: Ursula K. Le Guin. Known for her speculative fiction, she delves into so many different sensitive topics, and that’s precisely why I respect her so much. I believe literature serves as a means to encourage us to think and talk about these delicate issues, and she does this so beautifully.
I recently read her piece "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas." The story describes a world where everyone is happy and free—even the horses. There are no secret police, no swords, no slaves, no kings. They’re celebrating a huge festival, full of joy. When you begin reading, you feel like this couldn’t possibly be a real place. Who could be this happy? Where could be this fair? Then, as if anticipating your skepticism, the author addresses it.
She says, “Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.” And with that, she unveils a disturbing secret about the city. Hidden in the basement of Omelas is a child who has been deprived of everything, denied any joy or freedom. The door to this basement is always locked, and usually, no one interacts with the child. But everyone in Omelas is aware of the child’s existence. Every child in Omelas is told about this reality between the ages of 8 and 13, and they go down to visit the basement. Those who see the child are initially moved, but they eventually carry on with their lives. It’s not because they lack compassion or empathy; they understand that their happiness is only possible because of the child’s captivity.
Then the author mentions another intriguing detail: occasionally, after seeing the child, some people return home without shedding a tear, and later, they leave Omelas altogether. These people leave alone, and no one knows where they go, but they walk with a strong sense of purpose and certainty about their destination.
After finished reading, I felt like through the various perspectives in this story, we see a world that, while outwardly different from ours, is actually quite similar.
Upon my first reading, many thoughts crossed my mind. The initial one was how powerful the metaphor of the child in the basement is. Does not seeing the child frequently affect our capacity to internalize his situation and our ability to imagine ourselves in his place? Would the people of Omelas react the same way if the child were in a cage in the town square rather than hidden away in a basement? I guess it is much easier to forget when someone or something is out of our sight.
I was struck by how relevant this is to our current world. I thought of the photos from Gaza I encounter on Instagram every day, like any other user. I’m not a monster, yet I look at the pictures, feel sad, empathize as best I can, and then go about my life. We all do this.
In fact, when I realized it, our attitude toward those who live in metaphorical “basements” today is not so different from the Omelas citizens we initially judge as cruel.
Then I began thinking about what separates those who stay in Omelas from those who leave.
The people who remain in Omelas are much clearer in the eyes of the reader. They are unaware of the existence of a different kind of world, but beyond that, they are so trapped within the limits of their own city that they can’t even imagine a different world could exist.
And what about those who leave Omelas? They clearly cannot accept that the happiness they experience depends on the sacrifice of that child. They cast themselves into the unknown darkness. They know what they are giving up, but they don’t know what they will face. They simply know they must leave. And, of course, they are capable of dreaming of a fairer, better place. But even as we recognize the sacrifice of those who leave Omelas, we find ourselves questioning: is this truly bravery?
No one in Omelas chooses a third path. Why couldn’t someone stay and fight to change the situation? Or was it even possible? Isn’t true sacrifice breaking completely free from your comfort zone and becoming the voice of someone who has none? If you leave Omelas, even though you give up your privileges, are you still ultimately in search of a better place for yourself? Or is the true virtue perhaps staying, despite the discomfort, and striving to change things?
To conclude this reflection, we might look to our own world, where we face similar choices about injustice. Some people walk away from difficult situations, seeking a place or community that aligns with their values. Others, perhaps like those who remain in Omelas, knowingly or unknowingly continue with life, feeling constrained or unsure of how to act.
Yet, there’s a third path—a path not chosen in Omelas. This third path represents those who stay and attempt to change their reality. Throughout history, individuals have courageously chosen this path, like activists who stay within corrupt systems to challenge and reshape them or community organizers who, rather than turning away from suffering, work tirelessly to transform conditions from within.
In today’s world, we see examples of this third path through people advocating for systemic change, often at great personal cost. Figures like Nelson Mandela, who stayed and fought for justice within South Africa, or Malala Yousafzai, who continues to advocate for education from within Pakistan and beyond, show us this alternative. They remind us that perhaps the most difficult but meaningful journey is not leaving but choosing to stay and confront injustice.
So, would you leave Omelas? Or, if given the chance, would you stay and become the voice for those who can’t speak, striving for a fairer, kinder world, even if it means stepping into discomfort and uncertainty? It’s a question each of us must answer in the face of the world’s metaphorical “basements.”