Yuval Noah Harari has built a global reputation by exploring humanity’s trajectory through sweeping, interdisciplinary narratives. His first two books, Sapiens and Homo Deus, looked backwards and forward at our evolutionary past and technological future. With 21 Lessons for the 21st Century, Harari turns to the present, asking, “How should we make sense of the world we live in right now?”

This third book is more grounded but no less ambitious. It’s structured as a series of 21 essays grouped into five thematic sections: The Technological Challenge, The Political Challenge, Despair and Hope, Truth, and Resilience. The scope is broad—from artificial intelligence and automation to nationalism, religion, fake news, immigration, education, and secularism. Each chapter presents a standalone reflection, but they come together to form a coherent picture of a world in transition.

At its core, the book is about disorientation. Harari argues that we are facing a confluence of global challenges—technological disruption, ecological instability, geopolitical fragmentation—that are outpacing the capacity of our current institutions. Many of the systems we rely on, from education to governance, were designed for an earlier age and are ill-equipped for the speed and scale of today’s transformations.

One of Harari’s most urgent warnings concerns the pace of automation and the rise of artificial intelligence. The digital revolution, he argues, threatens to displace not just low-skilled workers but even professionals in medicine, law, and finance. This could lead to the emergence of what he calls a “useless class”—not because people have no intrinsic value, but because the economic system no longer finds use for them.

In a development context, this raises important questions. In countries with large informal sectors and growing youth populations—like those in Melanesia and PNG specifically—the prospect of widespread technological unemployment poses real challenges for education, employment, and social cohesion. While Melanesia is still a step removed from the frontier of AI-driven labour markets, the global nature of technology means these shifts may come faster than expected.

Harari is particularly critical of nationalism’s resurgence in a world defined by global problems. Climate change, cyberwarfare, and pandemics do not respect national borders. Yet most political systems remain domestically focused. The mismatch between global challenges and national politics, Harari argues, is one of the defining problems of our time.

This argument is especially resonant for Melanesia. Our region contributes the least to global emissions but faces the greatest risks from climate change. Look at what is happening at Cartaret Island in PNG. Regional cooperation is important, but global solidarity is often fragile. Harari’s critique of nationalism can feel abstract at times, but the underlying message is that problems of this scale require cross-border solutions—aligns closely with our lived reality.

In chapters focused on “fake news” and the erosion of truth, Harari explores how the digital age is undermining shared sense of reality. In a world flooded with information, the challenge is no longer access—but discernment. Algorithms now curate our worldviews, and misinformation spreads faster than reasoned analysis.

This has direct implications for public policy, civic education, and media integrity in developing countries. In contexts with low media literacy or weak institutional checks, disinformation can be deeply destabilising. In PNG, there has been lots of misinformation of politicians and artists being dead, resulting in people sending condolences messages. Harari stops short of offering concrete solutions, but he is clear on the stakes: societies that lose the ability to agree on basic facts lose the ability to govern themselves.

Despite his often sobering analysis, Harari does not end in despair. He argues that in a world of uncertainty, resilience matters more than certainty. In his final chapters, he advocates for teaching critical thinking, emotional intelligence, and mental flexibility. He also highlights the importance of mindfulness—not as a retreat from politics, but as a way of becoming more aware of our biases, reactions, and stories.

This emphasis on cognitive and emotional tools is especially important in development. Our island economies are navigating an increasingly complex global environment—from climate adaptation to digital transitions—investments in education and mental resilience will be just as important as infrastructure or trade policy.

But the book is not without its limitations. Harari’s preference for abstraction can at times obscure the realities of inequality, power, and political economy. There is little engagement with the structural dimensions of poverty or the lived experiences of the Global South. Melanesian readers may find his analysis detached from local constraints and grounded realities. The absence of regional perspectives is notable.

21 Lessons for the 21st Century is not a policy manual. It does not offer ten-point plans or sectoral blueprints. Instead, it encourages a shift in mindset—a readiness to interrogate assumptions, question inherited narratives, and stay alert to the velocity of change. For Melanesians, where global shocks are increasingly shaping domestic outcomes, this kind of thinking is not a luxury—it’s a necessity.

In an era of disruption, perhaps Harari’s most important lesson is also the simplest: humility matters. We don’t know exactly what lies ahead. But we do know that navigating it will demand sharper minds, stronger institutions, and a deeper commitment to collective thinking.