Can we understand a person we never met?
The short course “The World as a Village of 100 People” is structured around four weekends each with their own theme. Last time I wrote about week one - Orientation. We looked at and discussed the data, the statistics, the cold architecture of global inequality. This week we moved into something harder to measure: Imagination. CAN WE UNDERSTAND A PERSON WE NEVER MET? It sounds like such a simple question, but it isn’t. Most of us move through life in circles of sameness. We build relationships with people who share our education level, our income bracket, our ethnicity, our worldview. Even when we think we’re being open, the algorithms of social media are quietly doing the opposite. They push us deeper into our own corner, reinforcing what we already believe, showing us more of what we already see. The concept of ubuntu — I am because we are — tells us that we are incomplete without the other. A person is a person through other people. But which people? And how do we reach the ones we never encounter? Because even our imagination has its limits. It is shaped by what we have lived, what we have read, what we have been allowed to see. We don’t imagine freely, we imagine from somewhere. And that somewhere is always, unavoidably, ourselves. This is where the course introduced an idea that stayed with me long after the session ended. Most non-fiction is written in first or third person. "I experienced this." "She lived through that." The reader remains at a safe distance. Moved, perhaps, but separate. Second person is much rarer, and for good reason: it is uncomfortable. “You wake up before dawn.” “You fold a torn page carefully into the seam of your pants because you have no bag, no shelf, no box of your own.” Suddenly there is no distance. The grammar has placed you inside someone else’s life before you decided whether you were ready to go there. It doesn’t ask permission. It just takes you. But here is the question that unsettled me: is that understanding, or is it a literary trick? The immersion feels real. The empathy feels genuine. And yet, circumstances haven’t changed. Only the reader’s comfort has.