Albert Camus’ The Plague: A Reflection on Absurdism, History, Language, and the Gaps in Modern Humanity

My First Reflection After Reading The Plague Twice This Year

Reading The Plague once is an experience. Reading it twice—especially in today’s world—feels like peeling back layers of meaning that shift under scrutiny. Camus' novel, often interpreted as an allegory for fascism and human endurance, is undeniably powerful. Yet, on my second reading, I couldn't ignore its omissions: the erasure of colonial realities, the depoliticization of fascism, and the way its language reinforces a detached, almost clinical perspective on suffering.

This reflection is my attempt to reconcile my admiration for Camus with my growing awareness of these gaps. While The Plague is an intellectual masterpiece, does its universalism come at the cost of truth? And if so, what does that say about the way we, in modern times, understand and narrate suffering?

Camus’ Absurdism and the Historical Metaphor of The Plague

The Plague as an Allegory for Fascism

The most common reading of The Plague sees it as a metaphor for Nazi-occupied France. The quarantine, the creeping sense of doom, and the quiet resistance of figures like Dr. Rieux mirror the psychological experience of living under totalitarian rule. Yet, on closer examination, Camus abstracts fascism into an impersonal, almost natural force—erasing the ideological and systemic structures that made it possible.

While Hannah Arendt describes totalitarianism as a meticulously planned system, The Plague frames oppression as an existential burden, something to be endured rather than actively dismantled. The novel captures the atmosphere of fear but leaves out the specific political mechanisms that enabled Nazism—the Vichy government’s complicity, anti-Semitic persecution, and the bureaucratic machinery of genocide.

Camus, a member of the Resistance, knew these realities well. But his Absurdist philosophy, which emphasizes endurance over transformation, leads him to frame history as something that happens to people rather than something they shape.

The Absence of Jewish Persecution and Political Specificity

One of the most striking omissions in The Plague is any mention of anti-Semitism or the Holocaust. If the novel truly intends to reflect fascist oppression, why does it leave out the central crime of Nazi ideology? The Vichy regime deported thousands of Jews, yet Camus universalizes their suffering into an anonymous plague, rendering it metaphorical rather than historical.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Camus’ existentialist contemporary, took a different approach. In Les Mains Sales, Sartre directly engages with the ethical dilemmas of political action, refusing to let history dissolve into abstraction. Compared to Sartre’s work, The Plague reads like a novel of passive endurance, one that resists but never truly fights back.

Colonialism and the Erasure of Algeria’s Reality

Oran as a Colonial Space

Another glaring omission becomes obvious when considering the novel’s setting: Oran, a French-colonized city in Algeria. Camus describes Oran as a sterile, bureaucratic, and indifferent place—a reflection of modern absurdity. But what he leaves out is the colonial structure that defined it.

During real plagues in Algeria, the French authorities often neglected the indigenous population, prioritizing European settlers. Edward Said critiques Camus in Culture and Imperialism, arguing that The Plague universalizes suffering in a way that erases colonial oppression. If Oran is truly meant to reflect human endurance, why do Arabs barely exist in the novel?

Camus was born in Algeria, yet his writing often focuses on European settlers rather than the indigenous people. His humanism, while profound, stops short of confronting the racial hierarchies that shaped his world. Even his later political stance—hesitating to support Algerian independence—reveals this blind spot.

Camus’ Silence on Colonial Oppression

Frantz Fanon, in The Wretched of the Earth, highlights how existentialists often frame suffering as a personal or philosophical issue rather than a structural one. Camus, despite his brilliance, does the same in The Plague. The novel depicts suffering as something that happens to all people equally, rather than something that power structures inflict upon the most vulnerable.

In modern discussions about global crises, we see a similar pattern. Climate change, pandemics, economic disasters—all are discussed in universal terms, yet their impact is not evenly distributed. The marginalized always suffer more. Camus’ decision to leave colonialism out of The Plague feels eerily similar to how many contemporary crises are narrated: with empathy, but without accountability.

The Limits of Absurdism in Modern Reality

Ethical Revolt vs. Political Action

Camus’ Absurdism teaches that humans must resist meaninglessness, even without hope of success. Dr. Rieux fights the plague because that is what must be done, not because he expects to win. This is a powerful ethical stance—but is it enough?

As I reflected on The Plague, I kept thinking about how modern crises—wars, climate disasters, pandemics—are often framed in the same absurdist terms. We talk about them as if they are unavoidable, as if resistance is a moral but ultimately futile act. But is this enough? Shouldn’t resistance also aim for real change?

Sartre believed that history is shaped by human decisions, that politics requires action. Camus, on the other hand, seems to suggest that the best we can do is resist absurdity without expecting resolution. Reading The Plague in 2024, I find this attitude unsettling. If we merely endure, does that absolve us from actively transforming the world?

Language, Memory, and Historical Accountability

The Universalization of Suffering Through Language

Camus’ choice of words often transforms historical atrocities into abstract struggles. The plague is a “collective trial,” resistance is “a moral duty,” suffering is “shared.” While these generalizations make the novel widely relatable, they also erase the specific political and racial dimensions of oppression.

Compare this to Toni Morrison’s Beloved, which refuses to let the horrors of slavery dissolve into metaphor. Morrison keeps historical suffering rooted in reality, refusing to turn it into an existential lesson for all humanity. Camus, on the other hand, speaks in broad strokes, making suffering seem equal when, in reality, it never is.

Memory and Historical Accountability

One of the biggest challenges today is how we remember and interpret history. Literature plays a huge role in shaping collective memory, but what happens when a novel smooths over real suffering? The Plague remembers suffering but forgets its cause.

Comparing it to Holocaust literature, such as Primo Levi’s If This Is a Man, highlights this gap. Levi refuses to turn his experiences into an abstract lesson—he keeps the details raw, specific, and undeniable. Camus, in contrast, turns fascism into a metaphor, which can be powerful but also dangerously vague.

This made me wonder: how will future generations remember today’s crises? Will they be reduced to metaphors, losing the sharp realities of who suffered most and why?

Final Thoughts: The Plague, Modern Crises, and the Responsibility to Remember

After reading The Plague twice this year, I still admire Camus. His exploration of Absurdism remains profound, and his depiction of quiet resistance is undeniably moving. But I also see his limitations more clearly.

His vision of Absurdism—though powerful—sometimes abstracts suffering in a way that removes responsibility. In modern crises, we see the same tendency: a preference for universal metaphors rather than direct political engagement. Camus teaches us that resistance is necessary, even when we cannot win. But perhaps Sartre was right about one thing: history is shaped by action, not just endurance.

As I reflect on modern humanity, I wonder—are we merely enduring, or are we willing to challenge the very systems that create these plagues in the first place?