We share the basic experience of life with all mammals.
Christof Koch | NAUTILUS
The contrast could not have been starker—here was one of the world’s most revered figures, His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, expressing his belief that all life is sentient, while I, as a card-carrying neuroscientist, presented the contemporary Western consensus that some animals might, perhaps, possibly, share the precious gift of sentience, of conscious experience, with humans.
The setting was a symposium between Buddhist monk-scholars and Western scientists in a Tibetan monastery in Southern India, fostering a dialogue in physics, biology, and brain science.
Buddhism has philosophical traditions reaching back to the fifth century B.C. It defines life as possessing heat (i.e., a metabolism) and sentience, that is, the ability to sense, to experience, and to act. According to its teachings, consciousness is accorded to all animals, large and small—human adults and fetuses, monkeys, dogs, fish, and even lowly cockroaches and mosquitoes. All of them can suffer; all their lives are precious.
Compare this all-encompassing attitude of reverence to the historic
view in the West. Abrahamic religions preach human
exceptionalism—although animals have sensibilities, drives, and
motivations and can act intelligently, they do not have an immortal soul
that marks them as special, as able to be resurrected beyond history,
in the Eschaton. On my travels and public talks, I still encounter
plenty of scientists and others who, explicitly or implicitly, hold to
human exclusivity. Cultural mores change slowly, and early childhood
religious imprinting is powerful.
I grew up in a devout Roman Catholic family with Purzel, a fearless dachshund. Purzel could be affectionate, curious, playful, aggressive, ashamed, or anxious. Yet my church taught that dogs do not have souls. Only humans do. Even as a child, I felt intuitively that this was wrong; either we all have souls, whatever that means, or none of us do.