The travellers find they have stranded themselves on top of the tower they have built. They have built tower on top of tower on top of tower, and so on until their multiple tower is monstrous, though it has seemed to them to be a good and strong tower, a great and necessary structure. And they have lived on the top of this monstrous multiple tower, built their lives within their tower, and have not questioned the great value of their achievement. Then, out of curiosity perhaps, or from gnawing necessity, they begin to look over the edge of their tower and see that they are stranded.
Then the travellers begin to be uneasy, as if wakening from a nightmare. And their numbed senses begin to stir. They remember that buried within the tower are dead tortured babies; and the travellers cry out at the memory, and do not know if their great achievement is built on the torture and murder of infants, though they suspect it may be the case, and that their great tower could not have been achieved without the murder of innocence. And each cries out, ‘How could I know?’ for each feels but one of the multitude; and they cry out, ‘I would never have agreed to the tower if I had known.’ But they were born within the tower and survived within the tower and perhaps they could not have known.
So the travellers begin to stir. And deep within each is the distant memory of love and of beauty; and they find that they want, strongly desire to be free from the tower. They look over the edge of the tower and see that down, down below, further down than can be measured, perhaps a million million miles below, is the good earth. And deep within them is the knowledge that the good earth is reality, and each one wants to be free again in that reality.
But explorers have been out, and brought back the news that the good earth is poisoned, and the seas and the air, all poisoned and endangered. And the explorers have found the cause of the danger to the earth: that the people on their tower have thrown their refuse, tons, tons and tons of tons of poisoned garbage thrown out off the tower and scattered to the winds, to fall onto the earth below; to fall into the seas; to poison the earth and the seas and the air; and that as well as being careless the people have also deliberately poisoned the earth.
And if you ask why?, why have the people built their tower on tower on tower, and poisoned their planet and their lives, they may look at you but will be unable to answer. They know why, it is very obvious why, but they cannot say why, because it is too well known and too obvious. Everybody knows why they have done this but no one can say.
Some have led, most have followed, but they all feel that what they have done is necessary, and inevitable.
It’s the same with the wars. These travellers are always going to war to kill the enemy; and during what they call peacetime, they devise the most horrific weapons to kill each other more effectively. Of course, they don’t just go to war, they don’t wake up one morning and decide en masse that they must go out and kill people. No. They recognise that there are rules to this sort of thing. One side gets itself all worked up, and behaves provocatively, and keeps on provoking the other side until both sides say,‘It’s happening again!’ and then they all go to war. Often they sing cheerful songs along the way. Then, when it’s over, and they look around at all the dead of both sides, well, then they’re very sorry about it, and wonder how it happened, and how to stop it happening again. Then they declare peace, and go home to prepare new weapons for the next war.
If you ask them why, the travellers don’t know why. They will give you answers, excuses, what they call reasons, even perfectly valid justifications, but there is nothing rational about war, though it may sometimes be justified. Killing a mass murdering tyrant is surely justified, but why is he a mass murdering tyrant? The travellers throughout their history have wondered about war, but haven’t understood.
It may be, when they stop to consider their extraordinary behaviours, they will say that they have behaved as nature behaves. Nature tortures and destroys, and nature builds on the destruction. They may point out that nature, magnificent and terrifying, pushes mountains out of earthquakes when plates collide, and that nature poisons the air and blots out the sun itself with dust from volcanic eruption. And some might argue that nature is a mass murdering tyrant. So the travellers may say, ‘We have done what nature does, and so it must be.’ And it may be that they believe their behaviour is not merely justifiable but perfectly right, correct and good.
But the flaw in this argument is that they always regret their irrational behaviour. ‘How did that happen?’ they exclaim in surprise when they notice that all the song birds have been killed off by pesticides and habitat loss; they blame the cats for a while; then eventually they realise that it is themselves who have destroyed the land and used the pesticides, and then they are very sorry, just like after a war.
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Babies and young children must obey, particularly the mother. Infants learn what they are taught, and what each one learns becomes the truth for that individual.
In the infancy of our species our ancestors suffered severe psychological trauma, from which we, their descendants, have not yet recovered. Our early ancestors believed in Mother Nature. In Her fury, she sent destruction and terror, and as they were human, our ancestors learnt their lessons. Mother Nature was cruel and dangerous, and therefore humans must be cruel and dangerous. That became the truth.
But the flaw in the argument is Frankl’s proof: human nature is fundamentally good, all babies are born good and loving.
Nature is beyond my comprehension. I can only marvel that the primroses come up each spring, that the fruit trees flower every year, and that if I put a seed in the ground it will grow. I do not and cannot understand how it works, and even if I became a botanist, though I might learn about the process, still I couldn’t understand the miracle of life. Even if I were clever enough to grow life in a petrie dish. And if there are tempests, floods, earthquakes, droughts, volcanic eruptions, meteorite strikes, I can only marvel at nature, be grateful that I am not at the epicentre of disaster, and if I can help those who are.
I am human, fundamentally good, born good and loving. It is not my business to copy nature's rages. It is my business and pleasure as a human being to be as much like my fundamental self as I can be.