I picture the look of judgment of the faces of people who stumble into this neighborhood by mistake. I can see them now. The people from stable families, who glance at addicts and shake their heads and say, "I would never do that to myself." I feel an urge [to] stop them and wave Gabor's statistics in their face and say—Don't you see? You wouldn't do this to yourself because you don't have to. You never had to learn to cope with more pain than you could bear. You might as well look at somebody who had their legs amputated in a car crash and declare: "Well, I would never have my legs cut off." No. You haven't been in a car crash. These addicts—they have been in car crashes of the soul.
And then, just as I am rehearsing this self-righteous lecture in my mind, I notice that I, too, am hurrying past the street addicts, with a look on my face that looks like—what? Fear? Disgust? Superiority? Recognition?
Chasing the Scream ~ Johann Hari
Johann Hari never presumes to speak for anyone else or tell his audience what they should feel, think, say, or do. He does guide readers through his own reasoning and interjects his reactions and opinions, but they are quite clearly stated as his own. That's why it's so powerful when his use of the word 'I' includes another. When I read this excerpt, I wasn't reading it from Hari's perspective but my own.
Reading is powerful. It opens the eyes to new perspectives, the mind to new ideas, and the heart to new emotions. I am among the most ardent advocates for the strength and significance of reading. But even I must admit that reading has its limits—and even dangers.
Reading ignites the imagination but sometimes too sensationally, giving the illusion that imagination is equivalent to experience. It's not.
In some ways, the imagination knows no boundaries, but, in others, it cannot begin to comprehend certain depths. Imagination gives us a false sense of security, thinking we know what it's like or what we would do. But then, in the face of reality, everything changes.
What would we really do if Trolley Problem was no longer a philosophical poser? What would we really say if the person we were angry with was standing in front of us? And what would we really do if we were passing by the people whom we profess so much compassion for without actually knowing a single one of them—without knowing anything more than what we've read in books and heard from other distant, disengaged, detached third parties?
Would we look at them, or would we look away? Would we refuse to acknowledge their presence by looking down or straight ahead? Or would we look at them but then turn away again? Would we be able to hold their gaze? Would we stare or would we see? What would we see? Would we see their exteriors or their interiors? Would we see them or ourselves? Would we be able to see everything—or anything? Would we be able to look? Would we be able to see?
The problem with our eyesight is that it's so often dull and myopic. We see things in black and white and forget the complexity of colour. When we do add it in, it's often through rose-coloured glasses that still don't give an accurate representation. People are multi-layered and complicated. Imperfect.
Some people, after absorbing all this, would develop an idealized or sanitized picture of addicts. This was not an option at the Portland Hotel Society.
Gabor was often spat at and told to fuck off. The staff there have had shit—literal shit—flung into their faces. One of Gabor's patients, Ralph, was a middle-aged coke addict with a dyed Mohawk and a Hitler moustache. He was a Nazi, and he taunted Gabor by muttering "arbeit macht frei." When Gabor explained his grandfather died in a death camp where those words were displayed over the gates, Ralph said his grandfather had it coming
That's why, even when we don't fully understand others, we can relate to them. We're not perfect or simple either. We're full pain and confusion and inner conflict that we don't fully understand either. That's why we can relate to other—because they don't make sense to us.
Johann Hari strikes the perfect balance between professional and personal. As a professional journalist, his responsibility is uncover to the facts - to dig deep into both sides, understand them, challenge them, and then share his findings in an accurate but accessible way to the general public. As a person, his responsibility to retain the human element and remind us why this matters—that it's not just about facts or formulas, but that some things don't fit into our calculations like that, and they shouldn't. He reminds us that it's a human science that's much more intricate and delicate than the hard sciences. He reminds us to have a care. He reminds us who we are. He leaves it to us to consider if it's good or bad
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