family


Resignation Syndrome

Ylena is just nine years old, the daughter of asylum seekers, currently living in Sweden. Shortly after arriving, while her mother was pregnant with her baby brother, she was afflicted with a strange illness. From being a very active young girl, she became listless and tired, she wouldn’t explain what was the matter, then she stopped talking altogether, she wouldn’t eat and she wouldn’t even get out of bed even to go to the toilet. There were no signs of any identifiable disease. The doctors were perplexed. All they could do was keep her alive by tube feeding, maintain hydration and hygeine, treat any infections, massage her limbs and prevent pressure sores. For most of the time, she slept in nappies like a baby. It is now five months since she became ill. Her parents are beside themselves with worry, not only about Ylena, but also the family’s immigrant status. The Swedish government has informed them that when their 13 month temporary residence expires, they will be deported. It was because their lives were in severe danger that they were forced to escape their country of origin and seek asylum.  They fear they will all be killed if they return.

Ylena is not the only child to be afflicted with this strange condition. It has been observed in the children of many asylum seekers in Sweden, and often occurs in clusters of friends or family members. It has been called Resignation Syndrome because it seems like the children afflicted have given up on life, but although the children are non responsive, their pulse and other physiological signs react to the presence of other people.

All the children affected by Resignation Syndrome have witnessed severe trauma often directed against their mother or father in their country of origin and the family is under threat of deportation. It is like, having witnessed extreme abuse, they cannot cope with the anxiety that their life will again be threatened. If their parents are taken away, how will they survive?  It is like the children have gone into a state of dissociation, like ‘Sleeping Beauty’.  But the illness tends to recover spontaneously if the threat of deportation is lifted.  Thus it seems that the cause of the illness is the extreme insecurity and the treatment is hope.

This epidemic has only been reported among asylum seekers in Sweden. Is this because Sweden has taken in a disproportionately large number of immigrants in recent years, but their policy for asylum has now become more strict, maybe because a few people were feigning illness to stay. But Resignation Syndrome is not faked.

Although the standard Swedish health policy has been to support life and wait for the illness to recover spontaneously or not, there is one clinic where they have instituted a radical new treatment. The children are separated from their parents and accommodated in friendly, comfortable surroundings, where staff play and engage with them in a positive way. There is, however, one strict rule; nobody is allowed to talk about deportation. Separated from the constant threat, children start to recover often within days and most make a complete recovery. But then they have to return to their parents and the threat of deportation.

There are clearly similarities between Resignation Syndrome and other unexplained illnesses, notably Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Anorexia nervosa and perhaps some patients with severe constipation predominant Irritable Bowel Syndrome, all of which may be instigated by trauma. Perhaps the epidemiological links with insecurity and the therapeutic influence of hope apply to all of them. The beneficial effect of removing the children from an environment that is toxic is also important. Illness isn’t just about medicine, politics and culture can have an important influence.

This post was inspired by Crossing Continents, broadcast on BBC Radio 4 last Thursday.

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Hot-Milk

Rose is paralysed. She cannot walk or even feel her legs. The doctors do not seem to know what is wrong. So Sofia has accompanied her mother to see Dr Gomez, a charismatic doctor/healer with a clinic, built in white marble ‘like a spectral beast’ on a hilltop in Almeria, Southern Spain. Throughout Deborah Levy’s new novel, Hot Milk, we are never quite sure whether Gomez is just a clever practitioner, who is trying to create the conditions where Rose has no alternative but get well, or whether he is a charlatan preying on her vulnerability to fund his clinic.

Ever since Rose was abandoned by Christos, Sofia’s Greek father, she has been dependant on her daughter to care for her. Bound by chains of control and dependency, Sofia has struggled to find her own life. She trained to be an anthropologist, interested, of course, in kinship, but she works as a barista and in her spare time, experiments with sexual relationships with both men and women. Her obsession with Ingrid, whose ‘body is long and hard like an autobahn’, seems to mirror her dysfunctional attachment with her mother, while with Juan she plays out a desire that is never quite reciprocated.

A little more than halfway through Sofia, throws a vase on the floor. The vase is a replica of an ancient Greek krater. In the shards Sofia sees “the ruins that were once a whole civilisation”, an image of her mother’s shattered life in Greece. When she takes a week off to visit her father in Athens, a city broken by economic collapse, she finds him shacked up with his child bride and baby daughter in small apartment. She sleeps in an airless storeroom on a camp bed that collapses as soon as she lies down on it. Upon leaving, she discovers her father has made a will leaving all of his not inconsiderable wealth to the church.

Back in Spain, she goes swimming in the sea and notices her mother walking over the sand. Her legs are clearly working fine. She swims though a swarm of medusa jellyfish which sting her into action. “My love for my mother is like an axe,” Sofia says. “It cuts very deep.”

Later, she offers to take her mother for a drive, but at a viewpoint high in the hills, she wheels her mother to the centre of the road. In the distance she sees a white lorry approaching. So she leaves her and drives off. When she returns to the apartment her mother is already there. Without a word, she walks into the kitchen to fetch Sophie a drink.

Deborah Levy’s novel is not a great read. I could not easily sympathise with any of the characters. The men seemed not to care, the women self centred and acting out of a sense of injustice or grievance. The stark desert landscape, the relentless sun, the chained Alsatian on the beach that won’t stop barking, the sea full of poisonous jellyfish; they all seemed to represent Sofia’s life in confined exile. She uses her desperate, ambivalent sexuality as a gesture of freedom from her dysfunctional relationship with her parents that she cannot relinquish, but that in turn threatens to be an obsessional entrapment. Ingrid calls Sofia a monster. Perhaps she is. She is certainly not a heroine I could warm to.

Hot Milk isn’t a long novel, but it is heavy with meaning, like a poem. In the first few pages, Sofia drops her computer and its screen shatters. “My laptop has all my life in it and knows more about me than anyone else”. Perhaps that is a clue. Deborah Levy’s book about identity and entrapment. Sofia floats through her life like the poisonous jellyfish which drive the tourists away from the white-hot beach. Her her mother’s illness devours her past, her father’s new family render it meaningless, and her relationships with Ingrid, with Juan, with the inscrutable Gómez, seem to evaporate like spray on hot sand.

Perhaps her trip to Spain with her mother marks a fracture in her life, a life that has been on hold because of her mother’s incessant demands and her confusion of her mother with herself. When her mother limps painfully, so does Sofia. “My legs are her legs.”, she says. Only now, it seems, they can both walk away independantly, but to where?

Hot Milk is a powerfully hypnotic narrative of a troubled life, containing a constellation of disturbing symbols, that continue to haunt me long after I turned the final page.

Desperate Dan

At a recent conference, entitled ‘Men on the Couch’, which took place on the top floor of Foyle’s book store in Charing Cross Road, the Israeli psychoanalyst, Eyal Rozmarin, a somewhat intense, bald headed young man with a light beard, answered this with a story.

A mother had taken her young son, aged about 4 or 5 to a park to ride his bike. There she met a friend and chatted, while her little boy cycled round and round in ever decreasing circles. Inevitably he crashed and fell off, scraping his knees. He seemed a little shocked and was clearly in pain, but he did not cry. His mother looked round, told him to be careful, and got on with her conversation. Her son, his knee bleeding, looked at his mother, but not getting anything more in return, got back on his bike and cycled away, much more slowly. He had learnt what it was to be a man. Real men don’t cry.

War and Masculinity

Being brought up shortly after the Second World War, I can relate to that narrative. My father had been badly injured during the war, but we were always told how brave he was. As his boys, we had to be brave. The same message was repeated during my ‘all-boys’ public school. We couldn’t allow ourselves to show any vulnerability; this would just attract bullying. We had to tough it out.

In 1915, the same year he wrote Mourning and Melancholia, Freud penned his ‘Thoughts for the times on war and death‘. Europe was obsessed with nationhood and militarism. A mechanised arms race was heading to oblivion, tearing apart the idea of a more cosmopolitan identity. Although Freud wrote that war was a primitive regression to violence, he was nevertheless impressed by duty and bravery. These were the demands made by society to men. Men had to do or die. Women had to bear the anxiety.

Strangely, for somebody who understood human frailty, Freud does not identify with the danger and terror experienced by his sons, who were in the army.  Instead, he  proselytises that ‘the full meaning of life is to be found, not in anxious attachment, but heroism, glory and the risk of death’. Freud is with Siegfried. So is Tolstoy: in War and Peace, Prince Andrei Bolkonsky declares he would give up all attachments to wife and family for one moment of glory.

I have known rock climbers claim that life is more exciting and more meaningful when they are in most danger. Nevertheless, glory on the battlefield, can seem a narcissistic delusion that justifies sadomasochism. Dying is no longer threatening, it is seductive.

The idea of glory permeates the bedrock of our culture. It is there in all Abrahamic religions. Samson was raised to save the state of Israel. God sacrificed his only begotten son to die in order to save mankind. Glory justifies the fanaticism of Isis, the rhetoric of Donald Trump, the provocation of Kim Jong Un. But what is glory but a kind of homo-ecstatic drive?

My friend Maurice embodies the same male archetype. He shows the same compulsion in fighting for justice as he does in flying alone around the world in a 70 year old light aircraft. Is he mad? Yes, in a sense he is; there is a delusional grandiosity in it all, a quest for fame and glory, but also, like all action heroes, a desire to risk all to right a perceived wrong.

The emotionally unavailable father

The roots of ‘masculinity’ are thought to reside in our earliest relationships. As Donald Winnicott famously declared, ‘there is no such thing as a baby’, there is just the relationship between the mother and her infant. Mother is the complete life support system, supplying warmth, nourishment, protection, shelter and love. With fathers entry into this maternal dyad, there is a split, a conflict between desire for all the comfort and safety that mother provides and a prohibition of that desire. Much is repudiated and foreclosed with the arrival of the archetypical father, but what emerges is gender identity. Boys identify with the masculine element; they learn what it is to be male, to subsume one’s needs and desires into a cause. In previous generations, boys were meant to be boys and learn to serve in harm’s way. Losing a son at war was the ultimate sacrifice a family could make.

The archetypical father is proud and ambitious, but cannot show his feelings. His sons grow up without their father’s love. In the Old Testament, Isaac could not oppose his father, the only way he could show his love was to be sacrificed. The consequence of failing to live up to the notion of manhood is shame. The boy who fails to show courage in the face of adversity and danger is not living up to the ideas of manhood and is shamed in the eyes of himself and others. But he is in a bind. Either he gives way to desire and fear and is weakened by it. Or he goes for glory and either dies or never quite makes it. Shame is an inevitable consequence of this notion of manhood.

A changing world

The world has moved on. Gender roles and identities are much more fluid. There is no reason why women cannot identify with manliness, especially if they were brought up to be self sufficient and resilient. Last weekend, I sat opposite two women at breakfast in 22 York Street. They were both in their late fifties or early sixties. One was an adviser to NATO and had been a pilot in the US Air Force, the other had served in a parachute regiment and was now an instructor/mentor to the military in Europe. The each told stories of their fathers exploits during and after the D day landings and had been brought up admiring their father but not able to gain their love. They both embodied a masculine idea of bravery. These days, they might complain that they were born the wrong gender, but they each explained that after they had demonstrated that they could do the job just as well as a man, they were accepted as part of the fighting team and their biological gender was irrelevant.

The military metaphor no longer seems appropriate. The male stereotype is a generalisation, that seems too heavily influenced by the wars of previous generations and the idealisation of an emotionally absent father. Although gender dimorphism have been demonstrated in the organisation of the brain and the behaviour of infants, and sex hormones have a major influence on behaviour in adolescence and beyond, this basic biological predisposition is overlain with many layers of identification and meaning. Conflict, competition, ritual, routine, rigidity and justice may well seem more engrained in the male psyche, but they do not define masculinity. Many women show the same attributes, while some men can be just as adaptable, caring and understanding as women. 30% of psychotherapists are men.

Masculinity under threat

If we can believe what we are told in the media, the idea of masculinity is under threat. Traditional roles, not only in the workplace but also as husbands and fathers are being questioned. Men are no longer necessarily figures of respect and fear. Although women have not yet achieved parity in many occupations and professions and are still more involved in childrearing and housekeeping, enormous changes in family dynamics have taken place over the last 50 years. Housework, cooking and the rearing of children are more shared than they ever used to be. Father isn’t always the one who goes out to work while mother stays at home. Both parents tend to be in employment, leaving their children to feel like emotional orphans during the week. But at weekends or holidays, both may play an equal role in the care of their children. There may be little separation of roles. Father may be present but not visible or separate. This may make it difficult for children to know how to be. Who are their mentors? Who can they identify with? What is their notion of being a man or a woman?

Within the last few years, an increasing number of young people are declaring themselves neither boys nor girls, not even gay or Lesbian but transgender or non-binary or just ‘queer’. What does this mean? How has it come about? Is it a product of single parent families and the absence of a father figure? Or is it more subtle than that? Is there no such thing as a man any more? If both parents are absent for much of the time and both equally involved when they are present, is it any wonder that many young people grow up with a degree of gender ambivalence that may be all too readily influenced by cultural icons and celebrities.

Nevertheless, basic differences still exist. We only have to observe the ways men talk to each other compared with the ways women communicate. Men still tend to be competitive, they test each other out before admitting them to their tribe or club. Women are more inclined to a one to one sharing of confidences. Men and women support each other in different ways. The testosterone-fuelled urgency of aggression and desire means that shame probably features more prominently in men than women. After all, the nature of the sexual act means that it is men who ‘do things’ to women, who play a more passive role. Men are still expected to be stronger than women. They are expected to accept ‘sledging’ or ‘banter’ from other men and give as good as they get, even if it might become physical. Many women want their men to be strong, but at the same time berate them for not having feelings. Men may sometimes feel they can’t do right for doing wrong, and may wish to avoid the interdependency of attachment. The rise of feminism may well have felt threatening, even castrating for many men.

Impacts on a future society

Have the changes in gender politics that have occurred over the last 50 years produced a society that is more tolerant and understanding, but at the same time one that is weaker, less secure and decisive? Does this only apply to white middle classes? If so, has it led to more divisions in society? How will this impact on the next generation? Will the circumstances of our precarious global existence plunge us once again into a militaristic model of existence, rekindling the notion of manliness?

Anneka is only one year old, but she is bonding with me.  She stares hard at my face, makes eye contact, holds it, then reaches out, touches my nose, my eyes, my ears, scanning each of my features, fixing them in her memory.   Then later when she hears my voice she looks round until she finds the face and smiles.   It seems to me she is not just recognising, she is bonding. 

In the fusiform gyrus, deep in the inferior temporal lobe of the brain, there is a collection of neurones that respond to specific faces.  Damage to this area by a tumour or a stroke leads to the neurological condition, known as proposagnosia – absence of face recognition.  The same region also serves place recognition.  It responds to the features of particular cars in car enthusiasts like Rowan Atkinson, and to characteristics of birds in bird watchers like Simon Barnes.  Indeed Barnes writes about having a giss for a bird, a facility for identification from minimal cues.   If Anneka is played a recording of birdsong, she immediately looks out of the window to see the bird.  Is this the beginnings of giss? 

So is the fusiform gyrus, the site for pattern recognition?  And do people develop a facility for better recognition of patterns that are familiar and interest them, like cars, bird or traction engines?   That would make sense.  After all, Chinese people are better at recognising Chinese faces and find Europeans look very similar.  

But recognition is not the same as familiarity.  The latter is more a function of the amygdala and its emotional connections to the orbitofrontal cortex.   You don’t need recognition in order to form an emotional connection. People with proposagnosia are not autistic.  Some with proposagnosia greet everybody with great familiarity as if every face was a friend.   So do minor forms of proposagnosia lead to indiscriminate affection and intimacy, like the potion poured into Titania’s ear.  Almost anyone will do, even one with the head of a donkey.  Is promiscuity based on a neurological deficit of character recognition? 

Bonding is more enduring than emotional connection.  It requires a specificity, a recognition that is  consolidated by repetition.  Every time you see that person, go to that place, hear that song, a charge of emotion fixes the connection deeper into the memory, like paths through the forest.  It takes time to get to know a person, to trust the consistency of the interaction, to establish that  emotional railroad that makes relationships meaningful.   And once that bond has been produced, it is impossible to sever.  Reinforced by contact, it only declines by degrees when lack of contact and/or disillusion no longer sparks the memory.

If only.  If only they hadn’t put the banner on top of the roof at Lower Loxley.  If only Nigel had employed somebody to get it down.  If only David had not suggested that his brother-in-law climb up.  If only David had admitted this when it all happened.  And if only he hadn’t felt compelled to admit it later when Elizabeth was beginning to get over it all.  

Did he expect Elizabeth to understand and forgive him?   Didn’t he realise that the knowledge was bound to shatter the fragile supports she had manage to construct over the weeks since Nigel fell to his death?  Not only would it dismantle the story she had constructed to enable herself and the children to get over it all, but it would also destroy the trust that had built up between brother and sister and leave her without any support at all.  So why did he do it? 

David wanted forgiveness, redemption; he wanted to salve his conscience.  He couldn’t bear the guilt of Elizabeth’s gratitude.  His conscience wouldn’t let her think he was a saint, whereas he felt exactly the opposite.  So he sought absolution from the only person who could give it to him.  But this was such a selfish act.  In admitting his guilt, he was only thinking of his own feelings.  He didn’t think about the consequences of his actions. 

Openness and honesty are not always the best policy. Sometimes you have to bear your own guilt.  Admitting it can only damage the aggrieved.  Let them keep their story; it’s all they’ve got.  Don’t take that away.  Don’t try to justify or explain, only to yourself.  Live with it, understand, don’t attempt to excuse, just understand and in doing so understand your own humanity. 

But this is radio, not real life and in fiction, the best story lines are the most dysfunctional.  So what will happen now?   Will David get so depressed he will take his own life?  Will Elizabeth leave the village?  Will Roy be without a job?  I see a tipping point has occurred and events will take the trajectory that is of most interest to the script writers.

 

Life is a constant process of modification and adaptation,   The basis of our identity is forged early on through the interaction with our parents.  Our whole world is our family, our home.  But then as we grow, become more independent, explore our environment, other people and situations influence us;  extended family, friends, school, holidays, university, marriage, job; they all accrete to our personality to form a distinct, recognisable identity.  But it doesn’t stop there.  We continue to remodel our personality throughout our life.  This usually occurs by a gradual process of evolution, but it sometimes occurs more dramatically by crisis and revolution. 

So what is it that changes us?  The simple answer is experience; the things that happen.  If the environment changes, then we either adapt and grow or we stay put, stuck in the past. Not all events change us, of course; most of what happens can be accommodated within the confines of our experience and serve only to reinforce our view of the world.  But occasionally, we encounter someone or live through some situation that so outside our experience that we are forced to adjust our whole way of thinking to incorporate it.   

Change is an emotional interaction.  Things that are different challenge, excite, shock, frighten and even depress us.  If we engage with them, we may feel envious, guilty, ashamed or angry.  Sometimes we may be able to change the situation, but more often than not, we can’t; the only thing we can change is ourselves.  Working through, coming to terms with, are the processes of change;  the reconstruction of the personality that develops out of emotional crisis.   So if something affects us, makes us think and feel, then we are changed by it.  Change is instigated by emotion.   We fall out with somebody, argue, disengage, fume, but then later, sometimes much later, we pause, start to see it from their point of view, and reconcile our differences.  We are changed by what has happened.    

‘Love changes everything’, wrote Andrew Lloyd Webber.  Such a deep emotional identification with another human being results in coalescence, a  blending of experience that changes both.  Change requires an interaction, an exchange.  We are social beings; other people change us.   Conflict and love; we are changed by sharing of intense emotional experience. 

 But it’s not just direct emotional experience that changes us.  We can be adjusted by culture.  Art, literature, science, technology, religion, politics are all agents of cultural change.   They facilitate change in ourselves by altering the emotional environment.  They can rearrange the way societies perceive their existence and influence the choices they make.  Somebody proves that God no longer exists or that world is finite, and suddenly the restrictions of people’s behaviour are lifted and they change.  The ability to communicate instantly with somebody at the other side of the world, the way we experience war, earthquakes and tsunamis in the comfort of our living room as they are happening, the way we can shop, pay bills, book holidays, conduct our jobs without leaving home; all off this has altered the way we are. 

Governments, yes even Conservative governments, are agents of social change; they change the social environment by legislature and the people have to move into it.  

Architects also change the social environment.  Geoff Cohen said on Radio 4 last week that good architecture must not only be functional, it has to create hope and space for emotional development.   Jaume Plensa (currently at The Yorkshire Sculpture Park) creates  environments for peace and meditation as well as exciting spaces where change can happen.  His sets for opera create such dramatic possibilities.   

Change the environment, change the meaning.   If we move away, get another job, we mix with a whole new social group and we are changed.  If we separate from our partner,  move on, marry someone else, we become a different person.  Relationships change people, probably more than anything else. Parents and teachers create the environment/space in which children can grow, but eventually the child has to separate.  A good teacher or parent equips the child to take advantage of the opportunity. By the same token, psychotherapy can expands perception and creates possibilities for change, but only the individual can change.  You not only need space to change, you need courage to take advantage of the opportunity.  And the good enough parent, teacher or therapist, must facilitate a safe environment for the person to develop with confidence and not seek to overprotect and confine through selfishness and fear.

So why do we help each other?  It defies logic.  According to Dr Samuel Okashi, who was speaking at the Cafe Scientifique last night, if we were the rational, logical creatures we claim to be, then there would always be an advantage not to.  The Prisoner Game, invented by the ‘autistic’ mathematician John Nash (depicted in the film by Russell Crowe),  demonstrated that when you cannot trust your partner what to do, it is always better to defect, because the risk of collaborating when they don’t, could mean you end up with nothing and even if you both defect, you could at least end up with something.  This makes logical sense to prisoners and psychopaths, who cannot trust.  It also makes sense for governments.  Look how difficult it is for states to agree on cutting carbon emissions.  Powerful states with more to lose, defect, because if everybody else cuts emissions they will gain, even though the world will lose.  How could you ever get them to collaborate?

Why should people who are inherently narcissistic and self interested, engage in co-operative altruistic behaviour?   Is it just that we are social animals and as such have an inbuilt need to collaborate?   Such behaviour is built into us from the beginning; it’s instinctive; the baby clings to the mother, the mother’s instinct is to care for her infant.  Families stay together not just because there are distinct advantages for them to do so, but because there is a powerful emotional bond.  People group themselves in tribes.  There’s strength in numbers, but there’s also comfort, creativity and meaning.  In a social unit, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  No one person can do everything.  By adopting different roles, they can work as a unit to achieve much more as long as they see advantage in doing so and there is discipline.  And for that you need trust and leadership.  Difficulties arise when you have too many chiefs and not enough Indians.  Our survival as a species is based on collaboration.        

But we don’t collaborate with others just because we discern long term gains from such behaviour or because we avoid long term losses; we avoid being punished.   No, I think it’s deeper than that.  Our lives are built on meaning, the meaning that can only come from social interaction.  Our brains are wired by making emotional connections; neuroscience shows that the more we engage with the people and world around us, the more our brains adapt to cope; the more we grow as individuals.  It’s the way we form our identity.  Defection leads to autism, depression, exclusion and in an evolutionary sense, extinction.  Comparative research among primates indicate that the bigger the social group, the larger the size of the brain.  The implication is that you need big brains to hold in mind the dynamics of so many relationships. 

The key factor is trust.  Relationships, societies are based on trust.  Evolution assumes collaboration, at least for time enough to exchange genes but for social species collaboration must persist for much longer.  Trust is the glue that bonds people into families, friendships and tribes.  We have to know that at the end of the day, those whom we are bonded to by trust, will not abandon, mislead, exploit or betray us.  We need to know we belong.   Without trust we are like prisoners; always suspicious, watching our backs, making sure that others do not steal the advantage leaving us with nothing.  Society disintegrates without trust.  

The Prisoner Game is not the only game. There is another game for social animals and that is what my grandmother quaintly called courtship.  Here the goal is conjunction, the creation of a lasting bond.  In the edgy dance of courtship, each partner attempts to determine the sincerity of the other in all sorts of tests and tasks. ‘if you really loved me, you would do never be late, forget, let me down.’  The object is to build and establish the share mythology of absolute trust that will sustain the sufficiently to rear confident, trusting children while at the same time consolidating their place in the tribe.  In the courtship game, there is only one win.  The philanderer and seductress may achieve a short term gain, but it doesn’t last and both are the losers, gaining only disillusion and loneliness; lust, trust and bust!    

The Prisoner Game is based on false assumptions.  It assumes that human beings are purely logical, rational animals, who have no time for trust and only see personal advantage in relationships.  It is rather similar to the corporate game in which representatives employ the skills of seduction, charm and persuasion, to gain an advantageous deal.   Trust often doesn’t come into it; the best either partner can hope for is mutual advantage, bound by a written agreement, where law replaces trust.   But in the corporate world too, aren’t the best agreements forged during a round of golf or over a drink or meal?  The enjoyment of the game, the companionship, alcohol and food are ways executives still use to break down suspicion and promote trust, but increasingly such individuals are ‘protected’ by their PR companies.  As societies have expanded, so they have developed ever more efficient systems to protect themselves from ‘messy’ emotions.   You need more than the promise of good intentions if you are going to strike the best deal. 

Are so called civilised human beings becoming more selfish and more suspicious?  Do we trust less?   And are we paying the price for this?  Isn’t loneliness the major public health risk of our time?  Hasn’t the birth rate declined  – and the divorce rate gone up?   Are we breeding a generation of mixed up, disenfranchised kids?  Are we more split, more confrontational, more keen on our individual rights than building something together?  Is it better to be right than be together?  Is this the essence of our decline as a society?  Can we do anything about it?

The driver game, in which drivers choose whether to drive on the left or the right,  only works if the players can rely on each other to make the same choice.  A partnership must be mutual, in marriage, friendship or even corporate relationships.  If one partner does everything, if one partner is ambivalent, deceives, plays away, betrays, it doesn’t work.  But collaboration requires energy (though not as much as suspicion) and as long as their basic needs are met,  human beings are lazy. 

So is this the way the world ends – not with a bang, but a whimper?

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