Involution Labs

Tag: culture

  • The Lost Boys of Europe

    Europe worries about many things.

    War.
    Migration.
    Economic uncertainty.
    Political polarisation.

    But there is another problem hiding in plain sight.

    A growing number of boys and young men seem lost.

    Not evil.
    Not broken.
    Not dangerous.

    Lost.

    They are growing up in a culture that tells them what not to be far more often than it tells them what they can become.

    Many are disconnected from meaningful rites of passage. Some grow up without strong male role models. Others struggle to find purpose, belonging, or a clear sense of identity. They spend more time online than in communities, more time-consuming images of life than living it.

    And yet we often speak about them only when something goes wrong.

    When they become radicalised.
    When they become violent.
    When they withdraw completely.

    By then we are no longer asking how they became lost. We are simply reacting to the consequences.

    The Need for Purpose

    Human beings need more than freedom.

    We need purpose.

    Historically, cultures offered young men pathways into adulthood. The details differed, but the message was similar:

    You belong.

    You matter.

    Here is your responsibility.

    Modern societies are less certain.

    Many traditional expectations have disappeared, which has created new freedoms. But freedom without direction can become confusion.

    A young man may know what he wants to avoid.

    He may have no idea what he wants to become.

    The Digital Mirror

    Social media has intensified the problem.

    Young men are constantly shown images of success, wealth, status, and desirability.

    They see the finished product.

    They rarely see the struggle.

    The result is a widening gap between expectation and reality.

    Some respond by giving up.

    Others search for belonging wherever they can find it.

    And belonging is one of the most powerful human needs.

    When healthy communities fail to provide it, unhealthy ones often step in.

    What Boys Need

    Most boys do not need to be fixed.

    They need to be seen.

    They need boundaries without humiliation.
    Responsibility without shame.
    Guidance without domination.

    They need adults willing to take them seriously before their frustration hardens into resentment.

    And perhaps most of all, they need a sense that they have a place in the future.

    A society that cannot imagine a positive future for its boys should not be surprised when its boys struggle to imagine one for themselves.

  • The Courage to Think

    Thinking is often treated as something automatic. We assume we’re already doing it because we have opinions, reactions, beliefs, and conclusions, but real thinking requires something more demanding. It requires openness.

    To think isn’t just to process information; it’s to allow ourselves to be changed by what we encounter. That isn’t easy. It means letting go of certainty, questioning what feels familiar, and staying with ideas that don’t immediately make sense. That takes courage.

    Inspiration is often treated as something external, something that arrives when the conditions are right. But it’s closely tied to thinking itself. It emerges when we stay open, when we’re willing to engage without needing immediate answers or clear outcomes.

    When I was growing up, characters like Pippi Longstocking, created by Astrid Lindgren, suggested that it was possible to move through the world differently, without needing to fit neatly into expectations or social norms. That kind of influence doesn’t just inspire behaviour; it changes how you think about what’s possible. In a different way, Tove Jansson, the creator of the Moomin books, encouraged a deeper kind of reflection, a willingness to examine and question rather than accept things as they are.

    Thinking doesn’t happen in isolation. It’s shaped by what we read, what we experience, who we encounter, and also by the language we move through every day. Language does more than communicate ideas; it shapes how we understand them. The words available to us influence what we can describe, question, and even notice.

    When language becomes simplified, shortened, or reduced to immediate reactions, thinking can become narrower too. Quick responses replace reflection. Nuance disappears behind slogans, captions, and certainty. Even digital forms of communication—text language, constant scrolling, emojis, and rapid exchanges—change the rhythm of thought itself. They’re expressive, efficient, and useful in many ways, but they also encourage speed over depth. And deep thinking rarely happens quickly.

    There’s a tendency to avoid discomfort by simplifying things, by turning challenges into easy explanations. Phrases like “everything happens for a reason” don’t open thinking. They close it. They offer resolution without understanding.

    Challenges aren’t interruptions to thinking; they’re what make it possible. To think well, we have to be willing to learn, unlearn, and relearn. That means meeting new situations without assuming we already understand them and allowing doubt, uncertainty, and contradiction to exist without rushing to resolve them.

    In that sense, thinking isn’t just an intellectual activity. It’s a way of being. And it begins with something simple but difficult: being open enough to change.

    Excerpt from Thinking Out Loud: Notes on Being Human

  • If You Want to Understand Russian Culture, Start with the Food

    When we think about Russia, food is rarely the first thing that comes to mind.

    More often, it’s politics, history, stereotypes—vodka, potatoes, cold winters. But if you really want to understand a culture, food is one of the most honest places to start.

    Russian food is not just “Russian.”

    It has been shaped by many cultures—French, German, Scandinavian, Caucasian. It borrows, adapts, absorbs. What ends up on the table is a mixture of influences that, over time, becomes something distinct.

    And yet, because Western culture dominates how we define “good food,” Russian cuisine is often overlooked or misunderstood.

    We recognise dishes like borshch or beef Stroganoff, but beyond that, many dismiss it without really engaging with it. And when we dismiss the food, we are often dismissing the culture with it.

    Food is never just food.

    It carries memory, history, survival.

    Russia has experienced periods of abundance, but also repeated famine and scarcity. That leaves a mark. Food becomes more than nourishment—it becomes something to hold onto, something to protect, something to share.

    That’s why hospitality matters so much.

    Tables are full. Guests are fed generously. Bread and salt are offered as a sign of welcome and respect. Even strangers can be invited to eat.

    There is a sense that food is not just for the body, but for connection.

    There is also something deeply seasonal and grounded about it.

    Russians eat what is available—grains, root vegetables, cabbage, mushrooms, berries. Food is preserved, pickled, dried, stored for winter. Foraging is still part of life for many, a quiet activity that feels almost meditative.

    It’s a way of being connected to the land.

    At the same time, Russian food is rich, colourful, and layered.

    Tables filled with small dishes—zakuski—served before the main meal. Soups, fish, meat, breads. Sour cream in everything. Sweet pastries, pancakes, cakes.

    It’s abundant, even when it comes from a history of scarcity.

    And that’s where something interesting happens.

    Because food reflects how people have lived.

    If you look at Russian cuisine closely, you see:

    • survival and celebration
    • hardship and generosity
    • borrowing and belonging

    We often approach other cultures through our own lens.

    We compare.
    We judge.
    We say “I like this” or “I don’t like that.”

    But food asks something different of us.

    It asks us to sit at the table.

    To taste without immediately deciding.

    To be open to something that doesn’t come from our own experience.

    There are no language barriers when eating.

    You don’t need to speak Russian to understand something about Russian life when you share a meal.

    Russia is vast, complex, and often misunderstood.

    But if you want to understand even a small part of it, don’t start with explanations.

    Start with the food.

    Sit down.

    Taste it.

    And pay attention to what it tells you.