#pro sasuke

Firstly, I want to state that I have no intention to play the trauma Olympic here, though it is important to acknowledge that there are different kinds of mental anguish, and some are easier to understand than others. People tend to resonate with grounded, familiar pain, things rooted in experiences that mirror their own in some form.

That’s why both Naruto’s and Sakura’s struggles at the beginning of the story were so relatable to most readers. Naruto’s lonely childhood hit a more accessible (and dare I say, quite universal) emotional register: neglect, bullying, a desire for recognition—all the things many of us have experienced more or less in various degrees. Similarly, Sakura’s insecurities about her appearance, her fragile self-esteem, and her need for external validation reflected common struggles in adolescence, especially when one has yet to develop a strong sense of self. Their hardships weren’t trivial, but they were very legible, easily understood without straining empathy.

Meanwhile, Sasuke’s trauma, in contrast, was mythic in scale. He wasn’t simply a sad “emo” boy, he was the lone survivor of a massacre. He watched as his clan was annihilated by the very person he trusted most at the tender age of seven. That same person also deliberately chose to spare him after making him relive the horrifying events for gods know how long in a horrid mental stimulation, destroying his self-worth, belittling him for being ‘too weak, worthless to kill’. Sasuke’s suffering was not just bereavement, it was the existential torment of betrayal, genocide, and the shattering of his entire worldview in one night. This was not the relatable pain of losing a dear person or enduring bullying, it was devastation so extreme that it resisted comprehension.

And here, psychology gives us an explanation why when suffering exceeds what people can personally imagine or contextualise, their ability to empathise falters—it’s actually a very real phenomenon called “psychic numbing”.

The term was first coined by psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton when he observed the survivors of the Hiroshima bombing. He used it to describe the psychological phenomenon where individuals or groups become desensitised to large-scale suffering or potential threats, particularly in the context of catastrophic events like war or genocide. Further psychological research, such as Paul Slovic & Daniel Västfjäll’s work: “The More Who Die, the Less We Care: Psychic Numbing and Genocide”, suggests that empathy diminishes as the scale of suffering increases beyond relatable bounds. Human compassion evolved to respond to the one, the few, the familiar—not to the catastrophic, the abstract, or the incomprehensible.

Sasuke’s loss of an entire clan in one single night, compounded with the betrayal by his beloved brother, was so catastrophic that it felt abstract to many readers. His trauma was a singular, cataclysmic event that lacks a clear real-world parallel for most, therefore the vastness of it created a cognitive barrier, making it difficult for people to internalise or emotionally connect with his pain, rendering his backstory more theoretical than visceral.

And then, to make matters worse, Sasuke also didn’t fit into the “good victim” trope.

We’re socially conditioned to empathise with victims who suffer in silence: those who endure their pain quietly and never “become like their abuser”; those who seek redemption through positive traits like forgiveness or resilience instead of lashing out; or those who remain incredibly positive in their unwavering heroic way. This archetype is comfortable, palatable, easy to digest, and welcomed to sympathise with.

But Sasuke’s trauma was loud and confrontational. He externalised his pain through anger, rebellion, and defiance; he became vengeful and dangerous. He rejected surface-level pity when it was offered and refused to perform the role of the broken hero who “learns to love again.” He spiralled further into “darkness”, letting pain drive his actions even if it consumed his sanity. He dared to lash out at the very village that let the genocide of his clan happen, he dared to want revenge on the very system that enabled his trauma and then had the audacity to sweep it all under the rug. He chose to be an avenger, to be the only one who genuinely cared about the fate and reputation of a lost clan, to bear all the pain on his shoulders alone no matter what it cost to walk on that path.

Sasuke’s reactions were actually psychologically plausible: trauma survivors, especially those of genocide, might exhibit intense anger and distrust, as seen in real-world studies of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and survivor’s guilt. Sasuke’s refusal to “move on” or forgive made his pain palpable but discomforting, as it forced readers to confront the messy, unpalatable reality of trauma rather than a sanitised, easy-to-digest redemption arc.

Moreover, Sasuke’s reactivity challenged the readers’ moral framework. His willingness to harm allies at times (such as attacking Naruto or stabbing Karin) and align with villains like Orochimaru and Obito made him appear unsympathetic or even villainous. Readers struggled to reconcile his trauma with his morally ambiguous actions, especially when contrasted with Naruto’s unwavering optimism. This discomfort was heightened by cultural biases favouring stoicism or heroism in trauma survivors, making Sasuke’s loud, vengeful response feel alienating or excessive.

In conclusion, for many, Sasuke’s reactions and the extremes he’s willing to go for are too uncomfortable. We prefer the narrative of healing. We prefer victims who “overcome” their pain and move on. Sasuke instead demanded justice, even if it became messy and cruel, even if it meant destroying himself on the way to attain it. And that unsettles people a great deal to the point that it’s easier to dismiss than to confront his pain for a lot of us since, again, it’s less emotionally taxing that way.

And thirdly, we have the conflict that was deliberately portrayed by the narrative.

From the outset, Sasuke was cast as Naruto’s foil: the “darkness” to Naruto’s “light.” This wasn’t merely an aesthetic opposition but a narrative mechanism. The series often positioned Sasuke’s trauma-driven decisions as antagonistic to Naruto’s trajectory. His grief and rage, however justified, were written to interrupt the protagonist’s dream of acknowledgement and his journey to eventual Hokage-hood.

And so, as many readers are conditioned to prioritise the protagonist’s journey, Sasuke’s “descending to the darkness” was framed as an obstacle rather than a reality to be understood. His legitimate suffering was flattened into a narrative function: the rival who must be overcome, pitied from a distance, or “saved” on the protagonist’s terms. This leads to selective sympathy: readers resonate with tragic characters who don’t get in the way of the protagonist.

Kakashi had a mournful past too, but he never opposed Naruto in any way and was deeply loyal to the Leaf village, where Naruto’s dream of becoming a Hokage lied in—therefore he’s a great character, a perfect teacher, and a wonderful shinobi! Gaara had a tragic childhood and he had admittedly done a lot of horrible things, but after a fight and an honest conversation with Naruto, he was “brought back to the light” and fully became Naruto’s supporter, so the fandom adores him because he’s completely redeemed!

Sasuke’s trauma was inherently different in its core—his entire clan was annihilated overnight by his own brother, orchestrated by the very system Naruto swore his loyalty to and wanted to become its leader. Unlike Kakashi or Gaara, Sasuke’s pain (for most of the journey) did not resolve neatly into loyalty or support of the protagonist. Instead, it remained jagged, disruptive, and politically inconvenient. His quest for truth and justice directly opposed Naruto’s dream of becoming Hokage of the very village complicit in his clan’s slaughter.

Thus, when Sasuke’s actions complicated the main narrative or endangered beloved characters, people vilified him, just as how the narrative told us to. Sympathy was revoked because his trauma resisted narrative domestication. He refused to be “healed” in the way Gaara was, or to sublimate his grief into quiet loyalty like Kakashi.

And one more thing that really unnerves people is that Sasuke refused to be grateful toward the fandom’s favourite characters or Konoha. He didn’t show appreciation for the Leaf, his old teammates, or even when they offered him his “second chances”. And why should he? From his point of view, those things came too late, or from people who never truly grasped what he lost. Sasuke didn’t owe them gratitude just because they finally noticed his pain. But readers, especially those identifying with Naruto or Konoha, often expect it. And when it didn’t come, they labelled him selfish, dramatic, undeserving, or even irredeemable.

In truth, Sasuke’s character forces us to confront a version of trauma that doesn’t resolve cleanly, a kind that doesn’t lead to healing through love or friendship (at least not until he’s ready). He challenges the narrative that you have to behave a certain way to be worthy of sympathy. And for many, that’s not just frustrating—it’s threatening. Because if someone like Sasuke, with all his pain, intelligence, and humanity, still chose anger and alienation, then it complicates our entire understanding of how “good victims” are supposed to act.

He was, in many ways, the embodiment of trauma that bites back. And people don’t like being bitten.

[End of the analysis part]

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[Objective hat off, personal rant hat on] I know some of you might think. I can already hear the counterpoint: But Sasuke finally realised how wrong he was! He accepted Naruto’s “unconditional love,” they had their (metaphorically) hand-holding session in the Valley of the End, and everything was neatly resolved. See? The darkness was cured after all!

Yeah, sure. Because in this story, it’s never about justice for genocide victims, it’s about preserving the Leaf’s moral high ground at all costs. Who cares about justice when the main character finally achieves his totalitarian dream? Who cares about the erasure and rewriting of atrocities as long as Konoha gets to pat itself on the back and pretend the system works? Who cares about individual grief, rage, and survival when the Collective Machine needs its gears oiled with silence and submission?