Today, those who have made it their business to identify and cure these feelings of emptiness and the consequent loneliness that is experienced by the human self have presented panoply of solutions, usually gift-wrapped in various intellectual discourses. People struggle with each discourse, hoping that maybe one will, after all, be their stamped pass through the golden gateways of enlightenment. Time unwraps each solution and lays its contents bare. History stands as a graveyard, giving testimony to the inadequacy of the philosophical critiques and theoretical discourses of modernity and post-modernity. The world is still in a state of chaos and, within this existentialist milieu, human beings still question their solitary existence.

It seems that history has selected a fistful of people who deem themselves destined to step into the arena of intellectual combat, jumping to the rescue of humankind. The common man finds themselves in a literary laboratory where they are left to experiment with the latest medicines that have been prescribed for their affliction. In a desperate attempt to break free from the onslaught of isms hurled at us by the age of modernity and post-modernity, the intellectuals of our age have come up with a new literary concoction. The era of isms has ended. It is now the age of paradoxes. There is an increasing trend of juxtaposing ironies in the guise of facts and universal truths. Language is the best-seller in the market for dressing-up contradictions with such frills; one is often left so dazzled by the linguistic niceties that they are unable to detect any lacuna in the logic presented. People develop unique dictionaries for each of these. The logic presented for this discrepancy in the repertoire of every person is simple: each person’s world is made up of their distinct life experiences, their memories of the past and their imagination of the future, as well as their comprehension of the now and their plans of action for grappling with the present. Thus, the language one employs and the peculiar meaning it entails is contingent upon one’s very own, individual privé monad. It is these self-concocted dictionaries, composed of their distinct vernacular along with their numerous subtleties, which form one’s individual mental architecture by which the affairs of one’s life are orchestrated.

This novel concept of individual dictionaries rotates round and round the dining tables of the most “progressive” of humankind. People prize themselves as being part of what is now being hailed as a grand intellectual revolution. This revolution, it is believed, gives one the ability to guard one’s pristine exclusivity. Inherent within this exclusiveness of the individual self from the “other” is the championing of the self, and a sense of security prevails, giving humankind the assurance that the esoteric nature of our pristine binaries of right and wrong, true and false, beautiful and ugly make all that we do and say a private matter. And, some like to believe, within this privacy, within this unique sphere of personal space lays the epitome of freedom that humanity has ever been able to reach.

It is within this multiplicity of one’s private, peculiar lingua franca that they are able to ascribe meaning to their very existence. One’s conceptualization of the self and one’s ferocious defense of this newly-acquired perception of freedom are what form the basis of one’s interaction with those around them and the world that they live in. This sense of exclusivity leads to what Habermas has called a breakdown in “communicative action”-the absence of common relatable backgrounds to the extent that no one can any longer imagine being in another’s shoes. Without this mutual taking of perspective, the very precious element of human emotional intelligence that is known as “empathy” is automatically removed from many people’s dictionaries. Empathy is the same trait that makes a child burst into tears when another one cries in front of them, thinking that the pain is not the other’s but their own. This quality of being able to relate to, to actually understand and feel not only the other’s pain, but also their happiness, is what forms the main spring of the concept of rescue, a concept upon which entire literary laboratories have been established. If it were not for empathy, the demarcation between the self and the other would make it unimaginable for anyone to surmount those towering walls to rescue another; this would have been a thing of fairy tales and folklore. This is the point when an eagerly embracing the age of private dictionaries, with their golden masquerade of personal freedom, draws one actively into an intellectual maelstrom against the “other,” and against tolerance.

Confronted by such tempestuous times, when I look upon the glorious pasts of our ancestors in an attempt to find some point of reference that could aid in navigating, one string of events presents some relevant points to my argument. While growing up, my life, just as that of any other child who was growing up at the same time, was colored by numerous stories and legends. Over time, I managed to dust off images of flying horses and heroic men coming to the rescue of people who were being tortured by brutal potentates. But the more human memories have remained with me to this day. As a young child, I often saw my grandmother leave the house and walk over the next-door neighbors’ house with some delicious dish she had prepared. The visits had an almost ritualistic feel to them, since every single time some delectable dish was cooked and brought over to our house; I knew some of this would find its way to our house. On the occasions when I was allowed to accompany my grandmother on these visits, I would witness her place the dish on the table, and then either herself or the recipient would divulge some important piece of news, each launching off into a torrent of complaints and remarks about this, that and the other. On one such occasion, the meeting took a sudden unpleasant twist. I remember quite vividly that my grandmother severely rebuked one of our neighbors, a regular receiver of sweets and meals. The hot halawa lay on the table in front of her, sending off sweet enticing whiffs while both grownups were engaged in a heated verbal brawl. The point of contention was indecipherable to me, as grown-ups at that time had a way of skillfully employing a code language in front of children; perhaps this was part of an attempt to protect our innocence from being tarnished by the realities of adulthood. At the end of the quarrel, my grandmother apparently had the last word and made her way home with the hot dish of sweet-smelling food still sitting on the neighbor’s table. From that time onwards, there was a continuation of exchanges of harsh words over hot delicious meals or sweet mouth-watering delicacies. My young mind was at first befuddled and later exasperated by the on-going quarrel, the continuation of which was clearly contingent on the exchange of meals. I knew that all the trouble would effortlessly come to a halt if neither lady were to cross the fence that demarcated their house from the other. No ties of blood bound them and the cessation of any contact whatsoever would not have disrupted the routine of our lives. It was as simple as that.

What left my young mind baffled in the past was the persistence of my grandmother and our neighbor to maintain contact, despite the conflict; however, this makes sense to me now. People in the past had a more wholesome experience of life because it was framed within a sense of collectivity. Their dictionaries were not discrepant from others and they spoke a common language based on a certainty that their essence was unique to them not as individuals, but as an individual human race. It was their recognition of the unity of essence, shrouded within a multiplicity of existence, which enabled them to forge ties that were so tenacious. This notion of being united in essence, in their human proclivity to do good and believe in the Absolute Truth, was translated into their relationships and their persistent efforts to maintain relationships that had been forged willingly. The entire saga of my grandmother’s quarrels with the neighbor is intelligible to me now as a part of ongoing effort to remind her friend not to detract from this natural inclination towards goodness that was rooted within her very makeup as a human being. The whiffs of sweet-smelling treats were left as a message that her act of reprimanding her friend did not spring from a desire to claim a higher moral ground based on her own personalized set of rights or wrongs, but rather from an active concern for the community that she perceived herself to be a part of. The fact that the neighbor welcomed her at the door each time before the drama took place relates the moral pattern of people at that time, or at least within the confines of such interactions. It reflects a broad moral consensus of the entire neighborhood; they were actively involved in saving not just the one who was being wronged, but also the one who was doing wrong. Each person comprehended the fact that the underlying reason for the argument between the two found its source in the legacy of mutual concern, handed down to them from their elders. An active sense of empathy, of the fear that the wrong that was being committed today could be committed by them tomorrow, the fear that if it was not ended it would form a part of the legacy of their children, existed among these neighbors.

Today, people find a false sense of security in the notion of privacy and personal space. A sense of relief is felt that no busybody from the neighboring apartment will come knocking on the door, with the sense that the gift of a sole meal or a plate of sweets grants them the moral right to correct one’s wrongs or to criticize acts. One finds themselves comfortably ensconced in this preservation of private space and thus fails to recognize that the so-called privacy that is so aggressively guarded is actually shrinking with every passing day. In the past, at least one was able to walk down a street without having some person or another trying to sell them expensive means to look socially acceptable. But the case today is the total opposite of this. The alienation that is a direct cause of protecting what we now term “personal space” has curtailed our freedom to guard our natural proclivity towards goodness which connects us with humanity. The percolating sense of otherness and spreading intolerance are just two sides of the same coin.

The decisive factor in the above discussion is that no time is in and of itself golden. It is the people who are living at that time who cast it in varying hues, hues by which the future generations will remember them. Only if people could burst their own bubble which divides them from the other and embrace the unified proclivity towards Good and Absolute that is part of their human makeup, will they be able to live up to the moral responsibility that they have, not only towards themselves and their contemporaries, but also towards their future progeny. In this hour of need what we need is not another so-called glamorized intellectual revolution, but rather a grand intellectual revival of the human estimation of one’s own self. In my opinion, expensive intellectual laboratories and large think-tanks can help, but a revolutionary revivalism of that which can help us find a positive continuity with the past and a beneficial connection to the future could play a small start. The muddy hand of a child is enough to hold up a mirror to each and every one of us, shattering any claims of uniqueness or separateness. This brief muddy treasure will remind us of what we are made of and of what we mean to one another. Within this humbling realization, I believe, flickers a great hope.

Raaza Jamshed Butt has an MA degree in international relations from the International Islamic University, Malaysia.

I am sure, to most of us who have learned about scientists as unapproachable figures sitting on top of Mount Everest (and somehow almost all of whom are Western), this viewpoint may seem quite new. Yet, there is more to it. The same thinker points to another equally important factor in the development of civilization and advancement of sciences: with a great strength in his weakness and potency in his impotence, man is very much like a pampered child in creation. If he recognizes his weakness and performs his worship with his words, actions and state of mind, if he knows his own impotence and asks for God’s aid, he will then have fulfilled the obligation of gratitude for the subjugation of creation to his needs.

As with a petted child who by means of a little cry or simply a sad look obtains the assistance of adults to serve him: even the tiniest part of what they do for him by far exceeds what lies in the child’s own power to do for himself, and their great help he owes to his great weakness. So too, the apparent dominance of man over the rest of creation and his progress in civilization are not the result of his own deserving but they were subjugated to him because he himself was weak: he received aid because he was helpless; he was enriched thereby because he was poor; he was inspired because he was ignorant; he was bestowed with favours because he was in need of them (Nursi, 23rd Word). 

Penicillin

Most people believe that great discoveries are results of deliberate, directed effort, planning. exhaustive experiment and logical inference. The discovery of penicillin is the most famous counter example. Although the role of planning, experimenting and research has an undeniable role in scientific discoveries, events do not always form a logical sequence, and this is what I am here trying to emphasize.

During World War I, doctors depended on antiseptics to cure battIe wounds. A. Fleming, a bacteriologist, observed that phenol (or carbolic acid, the most common antiseptic at that time) did more harm than good, in that it killed the leukocytes (white blood cells) faster than it killed the bacteria, and he knew this was bad because the leukocytes are the body’s natural defenders against bacteria.

In 1922, while suffering from a cold, Fleming made a culture from some of his own nasal secretions. As he examined the culture dish filled with yellow bacteria, a tear fell into it from his eye. The next day, when he examined the culture, he found a clear space where the tear had fallen. He correctly concluded that the tear contained a substance that caused rapid destruction of the bacteria, but was harmless to human tissue. The antibiotic enzyme in the tear he named lysozyme. It turned out to be of little practical importance because the germs that lysozyme killed were relatively harmless, but this discovery was an essential prelude to that of penicillin.

In the summer of 1928, Fleming was engaged in research on influenza. While doing some routine laboratory work involving microscopic examination of cultures of bacteria grown in petri dishes (flat glass dishes provided with covers), Fleming noticed in one dish an unusual clear area. Examination showed that the clear area surrounded a spot where a bit of mould had fallen into the dish, apparently while the dish was uncovered. Remembering his experience with lysozyme, Fleming concluded that the mould was producing something that was deadly to the staphylococcus in the culture dish. Later he would say: ‘There are thousands of different moulds and there are thousands of different bacteria, and that chance putting the mould in the right spot at the right time was like winning the Irish sweep.’

Fleming’s own words are enough as a response to those who attribute scientific discoveries to chance or idolize scientists. However, I will give other examples to make the point clearer.

Teflon

From non-stick frying pans to space suits to artificial heart valves, Teflon has found several areas of application. Its discovery resulted from an apparently ‘accidental’ observation by a young chemist, R. Plunket, working in Du Pont laboratories. On April 6, 1938, Plunket opened a tank of gaseous tetrafluoerothylene in the hope of preparing a non-toxic refrigerant from it, but no gas came out, to the surprise of Plunkett and his assistant. Plunkett could not understand this because the weight of the tank indicated that it should be full of the gaseous fluorocarbon.

Instead of discarding the tank and getting another in order to get on with his refrigerant research, Plunkett decided to satisfy his curiosity about the ‘empty tank’. Having determined that the valve was not faulty by running a wire through its opening, he sawed the tank open and looked inside. There he found a waxy white powder and, being a chemist, he realized what it must mean.

The molecules of the gaseous tetrafluoroethylene had combined with one another ‘polymerized’ to such an extent that they now formed a solid material. The waxy white powder did indeed have remarkable properties: it was more inert than sand – not affected by strong acids, bases or heat and no solvent could dissolve it – but, in contrast to sand, it was extremely slippery.

X (Roentgen) Rays

Physicist W. Roentgen discovered the rays which were later to be named after him, in an unexpected and unplanned manner. Roentgen was repeating experiments by other physicists in which electricity at high voltage was discharged through air or other gases in a partially evacuated glass tube. We now know that cathode rays are actually streams of electrons being emitted from the cathode, and the impact of these electrons on the walls of the glass tubes produces the phosphorescence.

In 1892, it was demonstrated that cathode rays could penetrate thin metallic foils. Discharge tubes having thin aluminium windows allowed the cathode rays to pass out of the tube where they could be detected by the light they produced on a screen of phosphorescent material (such screens were also used to detect ultraviolet light), but they were found to travel only two or three centimetres in the air at ordinary pressure outside the evacuated tube.

Roentgen repeated some of these experiments to familiarize himself with the techniques. He then decided to see whether he could detect cathode rays issuing from an evacuated all-glass tube, that is, one with no thin aliminium window. Na one had observed cathode rays under these conditions. Roentgen thought the reason for the failure might be that strong phosphorescence of the cathode tube obscured the weak fluorescence of the detecting screen. To test this theory, he devised a black cardboard cover for the cathode tube. To determine the effectiveness of the shield, he then darkened the room and turned on the high voltage coil to energize the tube. Satisfied that his black shield did indeed cover the tube and allowed no phosphorescent light to escape, he was about to shut off the coil and turn on the room lights so that he could position the phosphorescent screen at varying short distances from the vacuum tube:

Just at that moment, he noticed a weak light shimmering from a point in the dark room more than a yard from the vacuum tube. At first, he thought there must be, after all, a light leak from the black mask around the tube, which was being reflected from a mirror in the room. However, there was no mirror. When he passed another series of charges through the cathode tube, he saw the light appear in the same location again, looking like faint green clouds moving in synchronism with the fluctuating discharges of the cathode tube. Hurriedly lighting a match, Roentgen found to his amazement that the source of the mysterious light was the little fluorescent screen that he had planned to use as a detector near the blinded cathode tube, but it was lying on the bench more than a yard from the tube.

Roentgen realized immediately that he had encountered an entirely new phenomenon. These were not cathode rays that lit up the fluorescent screen more than a yard from the tube! With feverish activity, he devoted himself single-mindedly in the next several weeks to exploring this new form of radiation. He reported his findings in a paper published in Wunburg, dated December 28, 1895, and entitled ‘A New Kind of Ray, a Preliminary Communication’. Although he described accurately most of the basic qualitative properties of the new rays in this paper, his acknowledgement that he did not yet fully understand them was indicated by the name he chose for them, X-rays. (They have also often been called Roentgen rays.)

He reported that the new rays were not affected by a magnet, as cathode rays were known to be. Not only would they penetrate more than a yard of air, in contrast to the two or three inch limit of cathode rays, but also (to quote his paper):

‘All bodies are transparent to this agent, though in very different degrees. Paper is very transparent; behind a bound book of about one thousand pages I saw the fluorescent screen light up brightly. In the same way the fluorescence appeared behind a double pack of cards. Thick blocks of wood are also transparent, pine boards two or three centimetres thick absorbing only slightly. A plate of aluminium about fifteen millimetres thick, though it enfeebled the action seriously, did not cause the fluorescence to disappear entirely. If the hand be held between the discharge tube and the screen, the darker shadow of the bones is seen within the slightly dark shadow image of the hand itself.’

He found that he could even record such skeletal images on photographic film. This property of X-rays captured the attention of the medical world immediately. In an incredibly short time X-rays were used routinely for diagnosis in hospitals throughout the world.

Insulin

If a relative or a friend of yours has diabetes, you will probably know how important insulin is for them. As a partial remedy for most diabetics today, insulin was discovered as an answer to the prayers of hundreds of thousands of diabetics by the Most Merciful One. Perhaps, even better relief and remedy are awaiting discovery in some unexpected time or place.

In 1889, while studying the function of the pancreas in digestion, two researchers removed the pancreas from a dog. The very next day a laboratory assistant called their attention to a swarm of flies around the urine from this dog. Curious about why the flies were attracted to the urine, they analysed it and found it was loaded with sugar. Sugar in urine is a common sign of diabetes.

The researchers realized that they were seeing for the first time evidence of the experimental production of diabetes in an animal. The fact that this animal had no pancreas suggested a relationship between that organ and diabetes. The researchers subsequently proved that the pancreas produces a secretion that controls the use of sugar, and that lack of this secretion causes defects in sugar metabolism then exhibited as symptoms of diabetes.

Many attempts were made to isolate the secretion, with little success until 1921. A young Canadian medical student extracted the secretion from the pancreas of dogs. When they injected the extracts into dogs rendered diabetic by removal of their pancreases, the blood sugar levels of these dogs returned to normal or below, and the urine became sugar-free. The general condition of the dogs also improved.

Until recently, all insulin used for the treatment of human diabetes came from the pancreases of some animals. As a result of genetic engineering, based on knowing how DNA controls protein synthesis, a major pharmaceutical firm has begun to produce human insulin by using bacteria. The fact that a microscopic creature, like the bacterium can be made to work for the wellbeing of human beings is a subject worthy of study on its own.

Of course, these are by no means the only examples worth mentioning of ‘happy, chance discoveries’. Here are some more to add to the list: the discovery of molecular structure of organic compounds, saccharin and nutra-sweet (sugar substitutes, again for diabetics), ‘safety glass used in automobiles and planes, oxygen and several other chemical elements, radioactivity, astronomical discoveries like pulsars and background Big Bang radiation, many mathematical theorems, high temperature superconductors, synthetic dyes, etc., etc.

Can one really call all of these marvellous discoveries simply ‘happy, chance accidents’? I believe human conscience and reason must resist such a misconception. Surely, any person of common sense would say: ‘I am thankful to the Merciful One, who has bestowed upon us the favour of these discoveries, enabled us to benefit from them, among His innumerable other bounties’.