What can’t we see? What do we do with that? — Veil of Perception, Empathy, Identity Politics

I tell you, it’s beautiful here. I bet it’s beautiful there too.

Jan 12, 2024

Tell a colourblind man there is obviously a difference; tell a white woman of systemic pain.

There was a point in which science realised a deeply humbling truth: what we see is barely the beginning of all that is. Thanks to the microscope, enlightened modern humans like you and I now know there exists a whole world on an entirely different scale from what is visible to our human eyes, and nonetheless is the foundation of biological life. Movements within it can bring an earthly population to its knees; its intricacies are literally a part of us. On our skin, in our gut; both balances very essential and for some people (like me) far, far too fragile.

And for centuries, we remained blissfully unaware of it all.

The point that each scientific discovery makes, whether it be the intricacies of every material and object we see on a microscopic level, or our place in time and space, or even the very nature of atoms, is, again and again, the veil of perception. Simply because we have not seen a thing—or a whole plane of things—yet, (because we did not have eyes to see) does not by any means necessarily nullify its existence, impact, or truth.

This is all a common enough philosophical lesson. Read Thomas Kuhn for more on how scientific revolutions might work.¹

But in here, let’s stretch it further, into the flaming mess that is identity politics.

The questions:

If our senses are limited, how can we be sure of what exists? Can we even do so?
What determines if a given perception is a legitimate and valid, truthful perception of reality?
If we cannot be sure of the complete nature of all that exists, how should we proceed?
As seen in the case of a microscope, scale and arbitrary determinants of perception can render certain details (seemingly) trivial. What variation of reality—or the nature of something (an object, a phenomenon, etc.)—is the one we operate on?
Does this awareness change the way we approach the matter of identity politics?
What don’t we see, and how can we find our own microscopes?
Circling back to close off: how unsure is sure, and can we remember to hedge our confidences on proportionate intervals?

I — If our senses are limited, how can we be sure of what exists? Can we even do so?

As in the introduction, I suggest the general response is one of intellectual humility. We’re generally never 100% certain of the nature of things; always, we look with hopeful curiosity for the next perspective–warping truth to be discovered and proven.

Obviously, we don’t exactly go around doubting the limit of everything all the time—certainly not with things or concepts we really need to work with. No, we accept what we currently know as the nature of things, and work within those assumptions. Only, as we keep in mind the intellectual humility we gained from the recognition of our veil of perception, we’re then ready and willing to update our worldviews once we’re presented with evidence that adds a new perspective to it. That’s the general way of science and reason, now. For the most part, we’re really glad about that.

Can we be sure of the nature of things? We (hopefully) operate by being sure enough, watching for the moment the balance tips towards the side of our previous theories no longer being sure enough. Then, ah, glorious day! New information, thus a new potential perspective.

So what counts as information?

II — What determines if a given perception is a legitimate and valid, truthful perception of reality?

For ages, menstruating females reported excruciating pain other debilitating symptoms in a plea for any kind of accurate diagnosis and effective cure. But nausea, fatigue, and severe blood loss were all staunchly determined to be made-up complaints.

It wasn’t until the 1920s that endometriosis was officially named.

If I cannot comprehend such pain ever existing, nor can I understand a clear cause of it other than the personal symptom reports of someone else, is it reasonable to count their experience as a perspective my eyes have missed?

We’re humans in an increasingly strange and connected world. This wraps around us everywhere, every day now.

Anhedonia is a condition of complete apathy towards life, including things that once brought great pleasure. Some lucky few will never experience it, and thus never fathom the concept, nor why it brings certain individuals to such a standstill that they cannot escape on their own. Some unlucky few will experience it for so long, and so strongly, that they’re baffled at the thought of life ever being different again.

While society collectively tends to accept and acknowledge the grief of miscarried pregnancies now, what of the grief that comes with pseudocyesis (false pregnancies, in which individuals have symptoms of pregnancy but are not pregnant)? Did the child truly exist? Can a child be lost in such a way?

Experiential knowledge (as opposed to propositional) is the knowledge of an experience itself, not the facts that make it up. Take the experience of the colour blue. How to describe it to a blind person? Or the experience of falling in love, how to describe that? However you describe it, you will fall short of the experience itself, for that is knowledge bound behind the price of living it out; and this, this is untouchable and infinite, all so that I honestly think it’s one of the fundamental purposes of human life². But that’s for another essay, possibly written on a whim at 2am.

Back on topic!

This is the kind of knowledge hidden by the veil of perception, in the context of humans. If we cannot be fully sure of the existence of a phenomenon of human experience, due to our personal veil of perception, how many need to testify of their reality, their experiential knowledge, for us to accept its existence?

How many, in order for that perspective to be acted upon?

III — If we cannot be sure of the complete nature of all that exists, how should we proceed?

Say maybe it’s an issue of perceived offence and hurt. Since we can’t experience the pain of another’s menstrual cramps, entirely real as they are; so, perhaps, we cannot experience the pain of offence to a religion we do not share. Or the pain of the history of a people’s colonisation being yet perpetuated in formalities to this day.

Looking with the naked eye, a bit of wood may seem perfectly smooth. It may even feel so to our touch. Looking through a microscope, the grain is a series of valleys and ridges, definitively rough, and certainly existent. Now, which reality is true?

Does it go so with pain?

The balance of probabilities and reasonable doubt is used in the context of court cases, where judgements must be made around uncertainties. The stakes vary, and thus, so does the level of doubt that must be proved beyond

Lady Justice of Albany County, New York Court of Appeals

IV — What variation of reality is the one we operate on?

Yet even with this, the stakes may look different to different individuals, as pain may be weighed differently. In the case of the accessibility of physical sex reassignment for transgender individuals, the pain of dysphoria, as well as the pain of de-transitioning, is weighed with wildly differing beliefs, depending on who you ask. Again, we each have different veils we cannot breach.

Who decides which truth is more important, significant, actionable? How?

V — Does this awareness change the way we approach the matter of identity politics?

Identity politics is often a mess of “they just don’t understand”. And honestly, I think it somewhat true.

Many issues within identity politics tend to clash on value judgements of pain and pleasure. With different veils of perception, both of these experiences are bound to be weighed differently, as they’re known to different extents by each individual arguing within an issue.

In the sense I’ve been discussing them, these veils are our functional identity within identity politics. Identity politics considers matters in which we necessarily see on an entirely different scale, which gives us access to an infinite amount of knowledge regarding every variable of a problem, thereby colouring our final view of the pain and pleasure brought by a given decision; this determines our actions. We know of microbes, and thus every hospital has a sanitizer dispenser at every few metres. We know bright lights and loud sounds can be excruciating for people with sensory issues, and so we create spaces that accommodate that.

Of course, we’re also utterly blind to certain other existent truths, and supposedly will remain so forever.

Forever?

VI — What don’t we see, and how can we find our own microscopes?

I will warn, this section is about to be extremely biassed, even more so than all the rest already is: I am a writer. I live and breathe stories. Of course I believe in their power. Call it experiential knowledge.

Surely, there is enough proof that identity politics need not be as rigid as both this theory and Twitter these days suggests it is. Through deep and prolonged sharing of lives, there are innumerable instances throughout humanity’s history of the breaching of our individual veils of perception. For as long as there have been identity politics, there has, too, existed the simple truth of empathy.

Humanity is the most literate it has ever been. And far more accessibly connected. Is it so impossible to gain experiential knowledge (some significant amount of it, at least) from stories of mental illness and trauma, different expressions of love, cultures, and religions?

No, stories are not a complete solution. I don’t honestly know very much more simply because I’ve read Oliver Twist. But progress is relative, and perhaps it’s the stepping stone to expanding our fields of vision enough to allow for a connected conversation with someone different. Just maybe.

Oh, humans have done so much. How is this beyond us?

VII — How unsure is sure, and can we remember to hedge our confidences on proportionate intervals?

Until that utopia in which we all have unlimited empathy, we still operate within identity politics. It exists, and simply ignoring it does not, unfortunately, lead to its cessation.

And so we must come to remember: sure is never entirely certain. How unsure is sure?

Within forecasting, there is a clear awareness of confidence intervals. That is: how sure are you of your listed prediction? Of course, you had to have some level of certainty to have predicted in a given way. But how certain?

An elementary enough concept, yes. To apply it: a prudent habit of superforecasters is the addition of their typical error rate to their confidence interval—particularly when they think they are sure.

I doubt most humans would be inclined to hedge every statement and judgement with a decimal-specific confidence interval. But the sentiment is, I think, a good one.

The practice, even more so.

As ever, I am but a person attempting to be a fool-scholar. I am a far way from a good variation of it, and certainly nowhere near an expert in anything I write of, explore, and do. These writings are merely my playing around with concepts as they link within my mind, putting them down to some level of sensibility in written word. I share not only in the hope of learning from responses, but also as a reminder to myself to question, and do so well.

Thank you for reading my muddlings and the questions that worked them. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

A Fool Scholar

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