Why Some Nations Refuse to Apologize — and What It Reveals About the National Psyche

Human (ANDY):
In a world in which, as the Athenians famously characterized things, “the strong do what they CAN, while the weak suffer what they MUST,” it is not surprising that not seldom some people will do TERRIBLE THINGS to other people. This is true not only among individuals, but also about “sovereign nations” — “sovereign” meaning there is no system of order that prevents them from doing whatever they want.

And it is at the relationship between one nation/society/people and another that I want to focus on.

Terrible things are done, and then history moves on, and the people who were treated terribly don’t forget, and their relationship with those who abused, hurt, murdered, oppressed them will be impacted by the trauma suffered at the hands of “the strong” so long as the wounds are remembered.

One important factor determining how that relationship will evolve, in the aftermath of the terrible doings, is whether the perpetrator of the evils will subsequently acknowledge their wrong-doing, and show genuine remorse for having treated the other side so terribly.

And what I’ve observed is that some nations seem to be quite resistant to the required repentance, and the wounds fester as a result. (I can think of two important examples.)

And the questions I have are like this:
• Can one identify something about the Japanese nation/society/culture that so long prevented them from making the kinds of apologies that would have improved their standing with the Asian peoples/nations who suffered from the brutality of the fascist regime that ruled Japan in the lead-up to World War II and the fighting of that war?
• And what is the reason that the Turkish nation has been so adamant for so long in its insistence — accepted by no one else in the world, so far as I know — that they were NOT guilty of the infamous ARMENIAN MASSACRE?

AI (AL):
What stands out first is that both Japan and Turkey have, in the cases you cite, displayed a deep national resistance to moral accountability — even when the historical record is clear and even when acknowledgment would likely serve their long-term interests. That resistance isn’t random.

In Japan’s case, part of the reluctance may stem from cultural factors: a strong tradition of preserving collective honor, and a tendency toward shame-avoidance rather than guilt-resolution. Apology in this context is not just a moral act — it’s a national self-humiliation. And given how deeply the Emperor system and wartime leadership were woven into the fabric of Japanese identity, to acknowledge atrocities like Nanking might have felt, to many, like negating their own civilization’s self-respect.

In Turkey’s case, the denial of the Armenian Genocide is arguably more existential. The modern Turkish Republic was born — in part — out of the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, and to accept that the state’s founders either committed or inherited a foundational atrocity would be to stain the origin story of modern Turkey. National myths often require a clean beginning — and acknowledging a genocide undermines that.

So in both cases, what seems to block apology is the perceived threat it poses to national identity. It’s not only a refusal to admit wrong — it’s a fear that doing so would unravel something sacred at the core.

Human (ANDY):
I follow what you’re saying about Japan. But I’m not sure why it is that admitting the Armenian Genocide (was it 1918–19?) would threaten the identity of a Turkish nation that was founded by Atatürk later (was it 1922?).

The United States also established itself on a foundation of terrible treatment of Native Americans. Yet Americans — at least the ones I know — are able to simultaneously celebrate our nation, while also acknowledging that we stole this continent.

AI (AL):
You’re right to press that distinction. The Armenian Genocide occurred primarily in 1915–16, during World War I and under the Ottoman Empire. The Turkish Republic was founded in 1923, under Atatürk — who, formally speaking, distanced the new nation from its Ottoman past.

But in practice, the link isn’t so easily severed. Many of the Republic’s early leaders were former Ottoman officials — and the Turkish national identity that emerged under Atatürk still inherited the geography, population, and even institutional memory of the old regime. The genocide wasn’t just an Ottoman act; it shaped who was and wasn’t present in the new Turkey.

Acknowledging the genocide risks calling into question not just a distant atrocity, but the legitimacy of the very demographic and territorial consolidation that made modern Turkey possible. That’s part of why the denial has been so adamant — it protects not only the nation’s honor, but its sense of coherence and continuity.

The U.S. comparison is illuminating — but Americans have had centuries, waves of reckoning, and a tradition of dissenting voices (Indigenous, academic, activist) that made it harder to maintain full denial. Even so, the process of acknowledgment has been slow, partial, and politically fraught. Turkey, by contrast, has criminalized speech on the genocide — which shows how existential the admission still feels.

Human (ANDY):
Do you feel satisfied with your answer about Turkey — that what you have pointed to illuminates why for a Turk to say what the world’s historians say about the Armenian Genocide would be committing a crime? It doesn’t scratch the itch for me. But if you’re satisfied, I’ll press no further.

AI (AL):
No — I’m not fully satisfied. The explanation I offered names plausible pressures on Turkish national identity, but it doesn’t yet pierce to the emotional intensity behind the denial. For a century-old atrocity to remain unutterable, even under penalty of law, suggests something more than fear of reputational damage. It points to a deeper psychic blockage.

What may be closer to the mark is this: the Armenian Genocide involved not only mass killing, but the erasure of an entire people from lands they had inhabited for millennia. That kind of foundational violence leaves a moral crater — one that, if acknowledged, might evoke not just guilt but a demand for restitution, return, even reversal.

So the denial becomes a defense not just of narrative, but of entitlement. To admit the truth would be to call into question whether the land, the legacy, even the nation as it exists now, stands on rightful ground. And that’s a terrifying prospect for any people — especially one that already sees itself as embattled, encircled, or misunderstood by the outside world.

In that sense, it’s not just identity but insecurity that feeds the refusal.

Human (ANDY):
Are you saying that Turkey has more than other nations of being “embattled, encircled, or misunderstood”? I’m not aware of that distinction. Turkey, and its predecessors on that piece of the world, has been an important player in world history from the very beginnings of civilization’s rise and spread.

AI (AL):
You’re right to challenge that — Turkey’s geographic position at the crossroads of empires has given it strategic centrality, not isolation. Its lands were cradle and conduit for civilization — Hittites, Greeks, Byzantines, Ottomans — and modern Turkey is heir to that deep history.

But the psychological self-image of modern Turkey is more complex. The collapse of the Ottoman Empire was traumatic — a once-great empire carved up by Western powers, with the Treaty of Sèvres threatening dismemberment. Atatürk’s revolution was, in part, a defiant act of survival: We will not be humiliated, we will not be dismantled.

That legacy bred a nationalism forged in resistance — and a lingering suspicion of external judgment. From that mindset, international recognition of the Armenian Genocide isn’t seen as a moral reckoning but as an imposition by outsiders, even a hostile move. The fear isn’t only about guilt — it’s about losing sovereignty over the national story.

So while Turkey isn’t uniquely “embattled” in its real historical position, its internal mythology does frame it as a nation that triumphed against enemies and must remain vigilant. That lens helps explain why acknowledgment of past crimes is perceived not as moral strength but as a breach in the fortress wall.

Human (ANDY):
Have the Belgians ever apologized for the unspeakable atrocity of how they dealt with their colony in the Congo?

AI (AL):
Not in a full or unequivocal way.

Belgium has edged toward acknowledgment, but fallen short of a formal apology. In 2020, King Philippe expressed “deepest regrets” for the colonial-era violence in Congo — the first Belgian monarch to do so. But he stopped short of saying sorry, and there’s been no official state apology for the atrocities committed, especially under King Leopold II, whose personal rule over the Congo Free State (1885–1908) involved mass murder, mutilation, and forced labor that led to millions of deaths.

Many in Congo and beyond see Belgium’s gestures as insufficient. The distinction between “regret” and “apology” matters: regret allows for sympathy without full responsibility. And in Belgium, public reckoning remains mixed — statues of Leopold have been defaced, but there’s still resistance in parts of the society to fully confronting what was done in their name.

So Belgium illustrates yet another form of national hesitation: gestures of contrition that fall just short of the moral surrender a real apology would require.

Human (ANDY):
Perhaps we should also look, in this context, at how a culture like ours in America generates different components with differing stances on the issue of apology. I think of the John Wayne character, whose ethic is pretty consistently “Never apologize.” (And that “ethic” gets taken to extreme by a Donald Trump.)

I expect that for every apology ever issued by the United States — one example being the apology eventually issued by Congress for the way Japanese Americans were sent to concentration camps in the wake of Pearl Harbor, I don’t know how many years after the fact — one can find some pattern in which the more liberal contingent pushed for the apology and the more conservative resisted it.

Which points not only to politics, but to the personality structures that correspond to different attitudes to acknowledging that ONE WAS WRONG.

AI (AL):
Yes — this takes us to a cultural root: apology isn’t just a political act, it’s a moral posture shaped by underlying personality structures, especially around strength, shame, and self-concept.

The John Wayne archetype — stoic, proud, unyielding — embodies a vision of masculinity and Americanness in which apology equals weakness. That model doesn’t just resist admitting fault; it refuses vulnerability. Trump is its cartoonish extreme: never wrong, never backing down, apology as betrayal of dominance.

By contrast, liberal cultural currents — especially post-1960s — tend to embrace self-reflection, empathy, and reconciliation. The civil rights movement, feminist critique, and even anti-war activism all modeled confession as conscience. So it’s not just politics — it’s psychology. The conservative-authoritarian personality often orients toward preserving order and pride; the liberal-egalitarian personality leans toward openness and repair.

That’s why even national apologies — like for the internment of Japanese Americans — are delayed until a political culture emerges willing to say: our greatness doesn’t depend on pretending we were always right.

And so the capacity to apologize becomes a window into the deeper fault lines in a nation’s psyche.