The Law of Fire and Song

Economy

Without police, without courts, without written codes or formal institutions, what kind of society would it be? Chaos would come to mind. Something not unlike the "purge" depicted in The Purge. Yet, for tens of thousands of years, the first human communities lived this way, without institutions and formal rules, without judges and gendarmes, but within a defined order and peaceful communities. An order established by relationships, rituals, and shared memory. An order in which cooperation was not taken for granted, but was continually negotiated, maintained, and, occasionally, reinforced by punishment.

The Hadza are a group of hunter-gatherers from Tanzania, one of the few remaining societies in the world that still lives off nature's resources. They have no leaders or rigid hierarchies. Yet, as field studies have shown, they manage to cooperate with surprising effectiveness. When it comes to sharing food, for example, there is an implicit norm of sharing: those who have been successful in the hunt are expected to share. There are no judges to enforce this rule. Despite this, violations are extraordinarily rare. There are no physical or verbal sanctions for those who transgress. It's all a matter of reputation. Those who don't share are isolated and ridiculed. Their name is circulated in evening stories around the fire. They become an example of what should not be done. It's a subtle yet powerful punishment: being excluded from a group that depends on mutual aid is equivalent to a very severe sentence.

Very different, but equally instructive, is the dynamic we observe among the Inuit who inhabit the Arctic regions. In a hostile environment, survival depends on the ability and willingness to work together. But when things go wrong, conflicts arise over sentimental matters or the division of resources, the Inuit do not resort to violence. They use "singing duels"; a ritualized form of contest in which two rivals insult each other in rhyme in front of the village, trying to gain the public's favor. The winner is not the one who is right, but the one with the more effective song. An archaic form of contest not unlike battle rap or the trappers' diss tracks that are so popular on Spotify. This form of "artistic punishment" is revealing. The punishment is not imposed from above, but mediated by the group. Public humiliation replaces revenge. Social order is maintained not by force, but by irony, prestige, and in some cases even beauty.

The Yanomami of the Amazon have developed a different model. In this semi-nomadic hunter-gatherer society, equality and sharing are held in the highest regard. No one eats the meat of their own prey. They share it with family and friends, confident that others will do the same and that everyone will get theirs. Violations of these norms are severely punished. Disputes often escalate into physical fights. However, even here, rules exist. Revenge must be proportionate, publicly justified, and often agreed upon in advance. Punishment is not blind: it is governed by shared social norms, however variable. The interesting thing is that even in violent contexts like these, cooperation does not cease; it persists. The Yanomami form alliances, trade, and intermarry with members of different clans. Violence, paradoxically, does not destroy the social fabric: it restructures and strengthens it.

Among the Mbuti of the Congo and the !Kung of the Kalahari, other forms of conflict regulation are still observed. Social pressure is the primary form of control. If someone behaves opportunistically, they are publicly ridiculed or ignored at crucial moments of collective life. There are no prisons or formal sanctions. Symbolic isolation is used, which can be much more painful and penalizing. The selfish person who refuses to share food, boasts about prey, or violates the codes of equality is punished by the community. The punishment can be collective irony, derision around the fire, corrective gossip, or temporary isolation. Even among the Mbuti, singing is used to express disapproval. It is the "", a singing ritual that calls upon the forest, a moral and spiritual entity, to bear witness to the inappropriate behavior. The crucial point is that the punishment is carried out by those who do not directly benefit from it: "altruistic" behavior, according to the definition given by behavioral economists. Those who punish do so to preserve balance, out of a sense of responsibility toward the group. It's not revenge or imposition, but a collective corrective mechanism that maintains cooperation and equality through subtle but effective tools. Social cohesion is built this way: not through the threat of force, but through the strength of shared norms.

As these examples show, throughout history we have developed a wide variety of ways to strengthen cooperation, manage conflict, and discourage opportunism. More egalitarian societies tend to punish informally and symbolically; more hierarchical ones resort to material punishment. But in any case, punishment is always present because cooperation comes at a price.

What, then, do the experiences of these archaic societies teach us? First, that cooperation does not emerge on its own. It must be protected and reinforced, sometimes even with punishment. Second, that many forms of sanction exist, not necessarily coercive, but informal, symbolic, even artistic. Third, that the function of punishment is generally not so much to punish individual violations but, rather, to preserve balance and cohesion. Finally, these societies teach us that when group size grows beyond a certain threshold, social pressure is no longer sufficient to maintain order and discourage conflict. Reputation cannot travel fast enough. Singing duels become ineffective. This is when the need for formal institutions arises: courts, contracts, laws, priests, warriors, and leaders. But these new institutions, to be effective, must learn from the old: they must build relationships, not just deterrence. They must be based on legitimacy, not just control. Because justice, in every society, is always and above all a form of mutual trust. A promise we make to each other: that we can live together even without destroying each other. And when this promise is broken, all that remains is fear.

Justice does not arise from law—we have repeated this many times—but from the desire and need to live together. Before the code, before the judge, before the punishment, there is the fire lit in the night. A sacred and public space where we sing, tell stories, remember who we are and that shapes us. There, between the ashes and the voice, the fragile architecture of coexistence is built. Stateless societies teach us that punishment is not always domination: it can be care, it can be a reminder, a voice, it can even become music. A way of saying that even those who make mistakes belong, but not as such. It is a language that corrects without breaking and that should protect without humiliating. A gesture that contains, in the pain it inflicts, the hope of being together again. And when, as today, our institutions often seem more committed to punishing than understanding, more committed to demeaning than including, it would be worth remembering the lessons of song, of irony, of the collective gesture that comes from this past. Because justice is never just order: it is memory, it is connection, it is a voice that reminds us that we are part of something bigger than ourselves.

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