Letting It Happen

Seventy million.

That’s how many lives were lost in World War II. Over six million of them were Jewish; men, women, children, all systematically exterminated in ghettos, forests, gas chambers, and nameless roads across Europe. Millions more like the Roma people, disabled individuals, political dissidents, Slavic civilians, and LGBTQ people, all murdered for existing outside the twisted ideals of a regime built on hate. This wasn’t just a war, it was erasure.

The world bled to end it, fought to bury that hatred so deep it could never return. But hate doesn’t always come back wearing a uniform.

Hate arrives in whispers, in symbols that flirt with the past. It comes in vague references, in irony, in designs that nod just enough to the old horrors to stir attention but not enough to trigger alarm. It’s dressed up as content. It hides behind memes, sarcasm, and shock value. It uses modern atrocities as justification; it shrouds history to create narratives of doubt. And more often than not, it gets brushed off as a joke.

That’s what makes its reappearance in paintball so hard to stomach.

This sport was built on heart, on grit, on shared effort. For years, it didn’t matter who you were; race, gender, background, beliefs; if you showed up, you belonged. It was raw, weird, sometimes immature. But it was ours. All equalized by the paintball marker in your hand, and a story defined by what you did with it.

Now, something darker is creeping in. Symbols, language, and imagery, all borrowed from history’s darkest chapters, are showing up on gear, in logos, and in media. It’s subtle, but don’t think for a second it isn’t calculated. Paraded as aesthetic first, intent second. And when people notice, the response is almost always the same: “It’s not that deep.” or “Don’t be soft.” But hate doesn’t always knock, sometimes it just waits to be invited.

You want to understand what that looks like? Go to Poland

There’s a cemetery there, Remah Cemetery, where a Jewish community lived, thrived, and buried its dead for nearly 500 years. A sacred space where generations were laid to rest, honored, and their names carved into stone. When the Nazis arrived, they didn’t just kill the people, they destroyed the memory. They ripped up headstones and used them to pave roads. Half a millennia of legacy, of family, of love, ground into the dirt beneath marching boots. That’s what hate does when you let it grow. It doesn’t just take lives, it takes meaning, culture and identity. It turns history into debris, and then walks over it without looking down.

This isn’t distant history, this isn’t a tall tale, it’s real. And it’s relevant.

I’ve been in this game long enough to know its flaws. I’ve seen the egos, the rivalries, and the bad takes, my own included. But under it all was always a baseline of respect, of belonging. Now, we’re watching that foundation rot, not because someone kicked in the door, but because we left it open.

Here’s the truth: hate is easy. It draws clicks, it builds brands, it creates noise. Not because it’s clever, but because platforms reward outrage. Not because it’s earned, but because it gets attention. And when we hand the spotlight to people chasing engagement, we don’t just look the other way, we validate it.

And people notice.

New players stay away, church groups go bowling, and Mom finds another sport for her child's birthday. Sponsors step back, referees stop showing up. And through all this, our sport shrinks, not because of competition or cost, but because of cowardice. When we let personalities define the culture instead of principles, suddenly, a game that was about inclusivity becomes a platform for something hollow.

No one is asking for perfection, at its highest points this game is anything but perfect. But pretending this doesn’t matter? That’s how it starts.

Hate doesn’t need a stage with the lead role and spotlight, just one seat in the back of the theater. And every time we say nothing, it grows. The heckling gets louder, bolder, normalized. And soon, it isn’t just symbols, it’s the sports culture.

If we can’t say “not here” in something as fundamentally insignificant and unimportant as paintball, where else will we say it? And if we don’t care enough to draw a line inside of this game, what does that say about us outside of it?

We don’t need outrage and threats. We don’t need to cancel people. That all just puts hate in hiding. We need awareness, education, integrity, and a little courage. Enough to speak up, and not just scroll past. Enough to say “not in my sport”

I’ve stayed quiet before in my life; I’ve let things slide. But the older I get, the heavier history feels.

What the f*** are we letting happen?