No More Heroes, Please

 On the erosion of heroism and the poverty of language

From David Bowie to the Foo Fighters, from The Stranglers to countless others, popular culture keeps returning to the same figure: the hero. Songs, films, books — too many to count. We appear obsessed with heroism. Which raises an uncomfortable question: do we truly understand what it means, or are we simply in love with the idea of it?

What makes a soldier throw himself on top of a grenade, absorbing a blast that would otherwise kill an entire platoon?

What makes a fireman run into a burning building, on the brink of collapse, to rescue a resident while fully aware it might cost him his own life?

What makes a passer-by jump into an icy, wild river to save a drowning child?

Why do some people overcome their most primal instinct — the fear of dying — in order to save others? Is it a split-second decision, a momentary lapse of reason? Or something closer to standing at the edge of an abyss and feeling the urge to jump?

We tend to call these acts heroism. Acts of valor. But what is heroism, really?

An online definition describes it as putting others first, even at great personal risk. A vague description, leaving the door wide open — as if the word itself has lost its edges.

In recent times, nurses and hospital staff across the globe were hailed as heroes during the COVID crisis. Many of them undoubtedly fit the definition; some even lost their lives in the process. Firefighters routinely put their physical integrity — and sometimes their lives — on the line. Soldiers are deployed into war zones where danger is not an exception but the rule. Choosing such a profession requires a particular mindset.

Does training and calling smooth the sharp edges of that choice? Or is danger itself part of the appeal?

My own thoughts on the subject surfaced while writing a new novel. My protagonist consistently avoids danger; self-preservation dominates his decisions. Even in fiction, I found myself unable to make him stare into the precipice and jump. We write what we know. That realization told me more about myself than about my character.

I do believe, however, that we should be careful when categorising people as heroes too easily. Teachers, police officers, social workers — even politicians — are now routinely labelled as such.

Teaching can be stressful, yes, but so are most jobs. Policing involves risk, certainly, but let’s not exaggerate. Social workers do meaningful and necessary work. These are professions that, generally speaking, do not require facing imminent death as a defining feature of the job. Individuals within these professions may perform heroic acts under exceptional circumstances — but as a rule? Pars pro toto? No.

Even parents are now called heroes simply for raising their children and putting their own ambitions aside. Stretch the word far enough and it eventually snaps. Is this where we are as a society — awarding medals for feeding our kids?

This does by no means diminish the value of good parenting or teaching. 

It is however a sign that something is going wrong in our societies: a deep and burning desire for recognition and reward.

More troubling still: governments are often eager to pin the label of heroism onto underpaid and undervalued public servants. It is a convenient substitute for structural change. A medal is cheaper than reform.

If we truly want to honour real heroism, the term cannot be handed out as a form of emotional currency or political anesthesia. It should be reserved for those who genuinely deserve it. Calling both Harriet Tubman and a second-grade teacher heroes doesn’t elevate the latter — it diminishes the former.

But then again: what do we call those who come close? What do we call those who are not heroes, yet act meaningfully and selflessly all the same?

And how is it possible that a language capable of naming everything still comes up empty when it matters most?