Uncivilised

The first time I took the wheel in the UK, I found myself overwhelmed by driving on the opposite side of the road. As I attempted to change lanes, a car in the next lane flashed its high beams at me. Assuming it was a warning to back off, I slowed down, letting the car pass. But instead, the car slowed down even more. It turns out, flashing high beams in such situations often means “go ahead.” It wasn’t a special act of kindness, just a part of the unspoken language of British roads. Drivers even flash their lights to let pedestrians cross on busy streets. I had always associated high beams with aggression, so discovering this as a gesture of courtesy was a small but striking cultural revelation.

Many consider the UK a “developed” country—thanks to its contributions to science, democracy, rule of law, art, literature, and of course, the English language. What we call “Western civilisation” is largely rooted in British history. But I believe the true reason lies not only in its academic, cultural, or economic achievements but in its people’s mature civic consciousness. The ability to use headlights to say, “You go first”—that’s a quiet, everyday form of civilisation.

Yet during my time in the UK, I began to question how civilised Britain’s national identity really is. Living in London for a year, I was surrounded by cultural heritage—especially with the British Museum just minutes from my home. I often stood in awe before relics that told the story of humanity. But over time, I came to realise that behind the grandeur of these artifacts lay a darker history of conquest and imperialism.

Room 1 of the British Museum greets visitors with a bust of Sir Hans Sloane and the famous image of a slave ship—boldly showcasing the museum’s roots in imperial plunder. Ramesses II’s massive statue, gouged and extracted from an Egyptian temple, and the Elgin Marbles, taken from the Parthenon in Greece, stand not only as cultural treasures but as evidence of brutal cultural destruction. The forceful removal of such objects is, at its core, no different from the Taliban’s destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas in 2001.

In Uncivilised: Ten Lies That Made the West, author Subhadra Das challenges the moral foundations of Western civilisation. A historian and museum curator at University College London, she investigates the legacy of scientific racism and eugenics, exploring how modern society has been shaped by these ideas. Das reexamines widely accepted concepts—science, education, time, writing—not as neutral or universal truths, but as tools created through Western imperialism and capitalism to dominate and control.

The book’s central argument is stark: many of the values we take for granted are not timeless truths but constructs designed to justify power. Rational science and the sanctity of education, for example, have often been deployed to validate oppression. The idea that “time is money” emerged from capitalism’s obsession with efficiency and productivity, pushing us to live in rigidly managed hours. By uncovering who benefits from these values and how they were manufactured, the book reveals how arbitrary—and biased—the boundary between civilisation and barbarism really is.

Das shows how deeply embedded Western values have become in our worldview. From the monopolisation of science to classical studies that glorify empire, and Eurocentric histories that exclude the rest of the world, we live within a framework shaped by power. This insight is especially relevant to Korea. Shaped by Japanese colonialism and U.S. influence, Korean society absorbed Western systems as markers of civilisation. As a result, our identity often remains trapped within Western-centric thinking.

What struck me most in Das’s writing is her ability to expose the hidden violence behind values we accept without question. Her argument—that we cannot truly understand history without first breaking free from these inherited frameworks—is powerful and urgent. This is not just a history book; it’s a guide to reclaiming the power to imagine a different future. Questioning the “obvious” is the beginning of new perspectives.

Das emphasizes that civilisation begins with care and coexistence, referencing a famous anecdote involving anthropologist Margaret Mead. When a student asked what she considered the first sign of civilisation, Mead pointed to archaeological evidence of a healed broken femur. In the animal world, such an injury would be fatal, but the healed bone signified that someone cared enough to nurse the injured back to health. That, Mead said, was the beginning of civilisation.

As I closed the final chapter, I found myself asking: What is civilisation? Why do the treasures of the British Museum feel more barbaric, while a simple act like flashing headlights on a British road seems deeply civilised? In the end, the difference lies in a single contrast: oppression vs. empathy. Oppression is barbaric. Empathy is civilised. Who would argue with that?

Uncivilised forces readers to question the world they’ve grown used to. It may be an uncomfortable read, but it also reveals just how much we’ve been conditioned by invisible systems of power. That discomfort is a necessary first step to imagining a better world.

Lastly, a thought about headlights. About 70% of Korea’s land is mountainous, and driving in rural regions like Gangwon-do often means navigating winding roads. In such places, drivers sometimes flash their high beams to warn of upcoming hazards. In that way, even in the countryside, headlights already serve as signals of care. Perhaps it’s time to bring more of that spirit into our cities too—with just a little less anger, and a little more civilisation.