[* A number of animal species possess complex communication systems, but they all differ structurally from human language. Put very simply, animal communication is based on signs, with each sign having a fixed significance. In human language, the same word can have very many different meanings, and language also has a knowledge function, as well as serving to confer identity. Moreover, human consciousness presupposes the use of words (‘what you can’t say, you can’t know’), differing in this respect from mere awareness, which can be confined to affective experiences.]
These differences are very important, and militate against studying primates to solve questions about our identity. The likelihood that apes lie awake at night musing on the nature of their existence seems remote — we must look elsewhere for answers. The fact that our identity is formed through relationships with others provides the key. If the study of primates can teach us anything, it is through their interactions with each other. Is it possible to identify characteristic relationship patterns associated with particular circumstances? Here, patterns means habitual behaviour, which takes us back to the original meaning of ethics as discussed in chapter two: a combination of customs and character that can later develop into a system of rules.
As soon as we focus on these aspects of behaviour, a key characteristic leaps out. Humans are social animals, as Aristotle already knew, but Hobbes, Thatcher, and the originators of social-contract theories had apparently forgotten. These theories, which were developed in the 18th century, assumed that a person in his or her natural state — nature again! — would be both a solitary and a free being. Only reason could prompt all those solitary creatures to renounce their individual freedom and opt for the group, albeit under certain conditions. These would take the form of a contract (hence contract theory) in which individuals would see the clear benefits of social organisation. Those who found the contract wanting could always terminate it.
Such a view of humans is scientifically flawed because its premise is wrong. Biology shows that we are social animals; if a member of our species lives a solitary life, he or she is either diseased or has been ostracised. Being ousted from the group is still the earliest punishment in universal use (‘Stand in the corner’), and banishment used to be tantamount to death. The concept of the noble savage, leading a solitary life in the wilderness, is no more than a romantic image. Primates live in hierarchically structured groups, in which social relationships very much determine survival and reproduction.
In addition to the importance of the group, primates share another prominent characteristic. In social relationships, the affective basis (‘gut feeling’) is infinitely more important than the rational and cognitive layers built on top of it. The same applies to humans. We often take crucial decisions in situations that allow little time for conscious thought, and it is mostly only after the event that we rationalise our largely automatic responses, driven by gut feeling. It’s not for nothing that rationalisation — a retroactive justification of something that we don’t really understand and of which we are often ashamed — derives from the Latin word for reason. A system of ethics entirely based on reason, that bypasses gut feelings, only works on paper — like the paper used to draw up social-contract theories.
How does this affective basis work, and how must we picture it? Henri Bergson, who devised the now forgotten concept of Élan vitale, regarded it as a form of intelligence that humans share with the animal species to which they belong. He believed that this largely unconscious knowledge originated from a kind of collective memory or subconsciousness that helped to steer our behaviour. These days, the subconscious is passé. As modern, evolutionary jargon has it, certain responses are ‘pre-wired’. Our wiring is already in place at birth, and thus shapes our behaviour. A notion of this kind sounds satisfyingly scientific and therefore convincing.
In fact, both concepts (subconscious intelligence and pre-wired behaviour) are no more than a metaphor for something that we don’t really understand. We haven’t got much further than observing recurring behavioural patterns and realising that they aren’t the product of conscious decisions. And the ‘it’s all in the genes’ argument is of very little use here: genes code primarily for proteins, and that’s about it. The leap from proteins to behaviour is gigantic, and as things stand we have no idea how to bridge the divide. The metaphorical ‘explanations’ that we take to be true merely illustrate the dominance of a certain scientific conviction during a certain period. As the Nobel prize–winning physicist Richard Feynman so elegantly put it, there’s a ‘difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something’.
As is so often the case, it’s easier to say what something isn’t. Decisions are steered by gut feelings, but not according to some algorithmic system that responds to input in a set way. If that were true, our behaviour would be extremely predictable, and that clearly isn’t the case. What’s more, a rigid decision-making system of that kind would be at odds with our huge capacity to adapt. So in our efforts to understand our affective basis, we will have to content ourselves with observing broad tendencies and correcting misconceptions. Back to Frans de Waal — what does his work teach us about the social relationships within our species?
Do ut des and an eye for an eye
Assumptions about primate behaviour mainly spring from the notion of the struggle for survival: primates are highly aggressive, wage war, practise infanticide and cannibalism, etc. The concept of the killer ape is now part of our cultural baggage. Take the opening scene of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: a space odyssey, where the apeman discovers how he can shatter a skull with a bone, to the swelling, martial accompaniment of Richard Strauss’ Also sprach Zarathustra. Then the bone is hurled up into the steel-blue sky and, turning over and over, changes into a spaceship, this time to the velvety tones of The Blue Danube by Johann Strauss. I’ve watched this transition (designated the best cut in the history of cinema) many times, but it still gives me goosebumps.
There are plenty of scientific studies showing a strong hierarchical structure among primates, marked by dominance and aggression. The rosy notion that everyone is equal has no place in their societies — quite the contrary. What studies also show, though, is that a combination of hierarchy and stable authority ensures a peaceful equilibrium; when authority disappears, for instance because the alpha male (‘the boss’) has been taken away by researchers, unrest and aggression result.
Frans de Waal would be the last to deny that primates are aggressive. But what is pioneering about his research is that he has also studied the other side of their nature, arriving at a much more nuanced picture. It is now generally accepted by evolutionary biologists that social-animal species display altruistic behaviour. A huge body of evidence has been gathered of instances of such behaviour among primates and, albeit more anecdotally, of primates acting altruistically towards others who are not of their species. This behaviour ranges from helping to collect food, caring for infants, and ensuring safety, to spontaneously aiding others in need.
In the wild, primates will, for instance, always share a food surplus with relatives and friends, who will in turn give any to others. Dividing the spoils of a hunt is often based on an individual’s share in the partnership, not simply on their place in the pecking order — the alpha male or female must also have co-operated. A hierarchy exists, but it is leavened with an innate sense of fairness, so that differences in status and food distribution are only accepted within certain limits.
Experiments investigating primates’ notions of fairness have led to interesting findings. Some involve a set-up in which apes are taught that they will be rewarded for performing a certain task by being given food. When two apes carry out the same task and are given the same reward (cucumber), all goes smoothly. When one is given a much more coveted reward (grapes) while the other is still paid with cucumbers, the latter not only goes on strike; it even refuses the cucumber, with a look that conveys in simian language, ‘Do you know where you can stick it?’ Ma
ny variations of this experiment have been performed, always with the same result — unfair distribution is not accepted, and animals would rather receive nothing than be paid less for the same work.
In another experiment, apes carrying out an assignment are rewarded with a plastic token that they can use to ‘buy’ food. They can choose between two kinds of token: one that only buys food for themselves, and one that also buys food for another member of the group. They almost always choose the latter option, though they are less inclined to do so when the other ape is a stranger. They also share less when they know the other ape, but he is only partly visible, or cannot be seen at all, because of the set-up of the experiment. And if a particular token leads to the other ape getting more and better food, the ape who did the work is more likely to choose the token that will reward only itself. Sharing is fine, and so is giving away, but there are limits to generosity.
(The importance of vision is made clear by these experiments. As soon as another individual is out of sight, the level of exchange declines. The human variant is a decision taken online by anonymous shareholders that has extremely negative consequences for unseen workers. Modern warfare is an even better example: when you’re looking at a screen, killing isn’t so very different from playing computer games. Even the consoles are identical.)
Interestingly, the above two experiments were based on an economic experiment involving human participants, known as the ultimatum game. Two players take part. One of them can decide how a sum of money is to be divided between them. The other can either accept or reject the proposal; if it is rejected, neither gets anything. Note that neither player has to do anything to get the money; it’s just about distribution. Time and again, it emerges that the second player would rather go empty-handed than accept a proposal whereby he or she gets a little and the other gets a lot, ‘because that isn’t fair’. This is completely irrational — the player’s getting money for which he or she doesn’t have to do anything — yet at the same time makes intuitive sense. A small advantage for the first player (ten coins for me, eight for you) is usually accepted without demur. Incidentally, fair distribution tending towards equal shares is a more-or-less universal inclination. Anthropological studies of various cultures show that the more a culture is geared to co-operation, the fairer distribution is, and vice versa.1
So sharing reveals the nice side of primate nature. But what about the less-nice side, the capacity for schadenfreude — that is, delighting in the misery of others? The sight of an individual of one’s own species suffering pain has surprising consequences, even in the case of a humble animal like the mouse. If a mouse sees another mouse from its own nest suffering pain, it responds as if it were in pain itself. When the mouse in pain is unknown, this response is much more muted, or even entirely absent.2 The human response to other humans in pain has been similarly explored; brain scans revealed interesting results. In a normal situation, we literally feel the pain of the other: the same regions light up in our own brain, albeit less strongly. But when the person suffering pain is someone who has just cheated us (during a game that is part of the experiment), the pleasure centre in our brain lights up — the neurological expression of schadenfreude. It should be added that this response is almost exclusively confined to men.3
Frans de Waal uses dozens of similar experiments to show how relationships between social animals are both pre-wired and determined by context. In the case of primates, in particular, empathy — the ability to feel what others feel — also comes into play. De Waal attaches enormous importance to this, partly because this trait has long been regarded as exclusive to humans. Indeed, empathy places social relationships on a completely different footing. Philosophers like Schopenhauer believe ethics to be based on empathy rather than on reason — do as you would be done by. Link to this the human ability to reflect, to think about ourselves and our own behaviour, and we are very close to the notion of conscience. We know what we feel; we can feel what others feel. To pretend ignorance (‘We didn’t know’, as Germans living near the Nazi death camps said after the war, when their full horror was revealed), testifies to a wish not to see and therefore not to know, followed by the necessary rationalisation.
Primate research does not provide answers to our questions about identity, but does permit certain firm conclusions to be drawn. There can be no doubt that humans are social animals, and that they function best in a social hierarchy which ensures peace and co-operation. In the case of primates, too, leadership serves a peacekeeping purpose. It would not be too far-fetched to see in the results of the above experiments with apes a partiality for justice and solidarity, albeit largely directed towards known individuals. At the same time, the findings reveal aggression and recalcitrance, while brain scans make schadenfreude visible. The above studies moreover show that pity and schadenfreude are not random traits of individual apes, but part of a broader mindset: ‘You cheated me, and now you’ve been punished — serves you right!’ Our closest relatives are familiar both with Do ut des, ‘I give that you might give’, and with ‘an eye for an eye’. In both cases, the social organisation or lack of it, in combination with visual contact, will stimulate or inhibit behaviour in accordance with these principles. In other words, primates are not essentially good or evil; circumstances steer behaviour.
Finally, I should like to point out something that initially escaped my own notice. Sharing behaviour always focuses on a concrete object, ranging from food, to grooming each other for fleas, or scratching each other’s back. Its importance wasn’t initially very clear to me until I recalled the sociologist Marcel Mauss, who laid the foundation for modern anthropology in 1925 with his classic work The Gift. Societies exist by virtue of the gift — otherwise there would simply be no community — and each culture can be typified, among other things, by the way in which exchanges take place. A notion from chapter one can thus be taken a step further: identities are determined by the community in which they are formed and consequently by the method of exchange typical of that society. Primates mainly exchange food and sex, and our own economy can be traced back to this form of barter. Different economic systems determine different forms of exchange and, consequently, different identities within different social relationships.
Freud: man as force field
De Waal’s work shows how social behaviour among primates can be empathetic and altruistic, or egotistical and aggressive. These tendencies appear to be innate, or, in current jargon, pre-wired, while the environment determines which behaviour predominates. The fact that sex as well as food is central to those primate social relationships leads me to Freud. Although his theories focus more on the individual, he also wrote several interesting essays about the relationship between individuals and society.
Just like Bergson, Freud starts from the notion that we as a species have acquired certain tendencies and responses over the course of evolution. These are stored in a kind of collective memory, a shared part of the subconscious, and so continue to determine our behaviour today. As part of that collective subconscious, Freud identified two conflicting urges: Eros, the life urge, and Thanatos, the death urge.
The life urge propels humans towards union with others. Freud called this Eros because of the sexual component, though this instinct goes beyond sex. It is not so much about the melting together of two bodies, but about the fusion of energies in an increasingly powerful force field. The tension generated by energy is literally the stuff of life. Eros is opposed by Thanatos, which drives couples and groups apart, and throws individuals back on themselves. Freud saw this, too, in very broad terms. This split causes a sometimes massive and abrupt discharge of energy, ending all tension. Loss of tension implies loss of life, hence the sombre term ‘death urge’.
Freud formulated this theory long before anyone had heard of nuclear fission and nuclear fusion, the Big Bang and the Big Crunch. Far be it from me to draw any parallels with modern-day physics, but, applied to humans, it isn’t so hard to see that two-way m
ovement in our everyday lives. The most obvious example is sex. Two bodies melt together, causing tension to rise to the point of orgasmic discharge, after which the two fall apart again, once more becoming separate individuals. Another example is the development of our identity. It entails periods when we seek to connect as much as possible with the other. (And I don’t just mean the bonding process of our early years. Don’t we all, as adults, experience the urge to be wholly submerged in a loved one?) Once bonding is sufficiently strong, we are propelled in the opposite direction. We want to be independent, to do our own thing — to achieve a state of separation. In the consulting rooms of psychotherapists you find the two related phobias, separation anxiety (‘No, don’t leave me all by myself, I need you’) versus intrusion anxiety (‘You’re preying on me; go away, I need to be alone’). The same opposing forces are active at group level, and here too the urge to fuse inevitably reaches a point where it swings around in the opposite direction. Fusion — whether of organisations, companies, or countries — sooner or later generates calls for independence.
One of the questions confronting Freud was how these primal urges could be kept in balance. A life with just Eros sounds nice, but is in fact as untenable as just Thanatos. This question, being about proximity, distance, and pleasure, brings us back again to ethics. Freud’s answer is extremely interesting, because he makes a connection between three things that would at first sight seem unrelated: collective ethical rules, the individual regulation of bodily tension, and social relationships (fusion versus fission). I think he is unique in doing so.
What About Me?: The Struggle for Identity in a Market-Based Society Page 8
