Seven Samurai: Is revenge wrong?

“So. Again we are defeated. The farmers have won. Not us.” -Kambei Shimada

Synopsis: Kurosawa Akira’s Seven Samurai is a timeless masterpiece that is widely recognized as the greatest foreign-language film ever made. The plot concerns a humble village hiring a band of samurai and protecting itself from pillage in war-ravaged sixteenth-century Japan. Since the wretchedness inflicted on the peasantry is evocative of all forms of human suffering, the honorable service conducted by the seven samurai takes on universal significance. source

---

I first watched Seven Samurai back in high school. We were studying East Asian literature, and I had just fallen in love with Rashomon. That curiosity led me down a Kurosawa rabbit hole, where I discovered his jidaigeki — period films that felt both ancient and timeless. Of them all, Seven Samurai remains my favorite.

There are many memorable moments in this 200+ minute masterpiece, but one scene always makes me pause.

A samurai captures a bandit and brings him to the village. The villagers, hardened by years of abuse, clamor for his death. The samurai — bound by honor — argue for mercy, reminding them that the bandit surrendered and shared information. But reason doesn’t stand a chance against rage. When an old woman limps forward with a scythe to avenge her murdered son, the samurai can only watch as justice becomes vengeance.

Every time I watch that scene, I ask myself: Who is wrong here? The villagers? After all, their pain runs deep — their families were murdered, their crops stolen, their homes burned. Maybe revenge is the only justice left to them. But then again, what makes the samurai’s code of honor better? Is it nobility or naivete– believing that morality still exists in a world where wives are raped, sons killed, and crops stolen?

I grew up Catholic, and I learned that revenge is wrong — that forgiveness is the higher road. “Turn the other cheek,” they said. But as I got older, I strayed away from the confines of organized religion, and I started to question this idea.

Why is it wrong to want justice? Why does the burden of morality always fall on the person who was hurt, and not the one who caused the harm?

Even outside of religion, that belief lingers. Society still tells us to stay calm, to report, to let someone else handle it — as if retaliation itself is shameful. But where’s the line between revenge and self-defense? Why is one condemned and the other celebrated?

Because sometimes, revenge is glorified. Revenge is justified. When someone stands up to a bully, we call it courage. When the weak fight back, we cheer. So when does revenge stop being “wrong” and start being “right”?

I don’t have an answer. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe revenge and justice live in the same messy space where contrasts collide and yet coexist. Pain and pleasure. Hot and Cold. Night and Day.

That’s what Kurosawa captured so perfectly — that fine and messy balance between what we feel and what we believe. Seven Samurai isn’t just a story about honor or violence. It’s about people trying to survive in a world that keeps breaking them — and still choosing, in whatever way they can, to take back a little of their dignity.