The Physiology of Faith by N. Fakhr - HTML preview

I Have Memory, Therefore I Am

I look at the white sheet of paper in front of me. Why do I understand that it is a piece of paper? Why do I know that its color is called white? Why do I know that its shape is called a rectangle? Why do I know what it is used for? Would a newborn baby, when looking at this paper, understand that it is a piece of paper, that its color is white, that its shape is rectangular, and that it has a specific use? Certainly not.

But does the light entering my eyes from the paper differ from the light entering the eyes of the baby? Do we not both see the same thing? Apparently, our understanding is not the result of merely seeing an object; rather, it is the result of the brain processing the information received from that object.

The baby reaches out his hand toward the paper and, after several attempts of trial and error, eventually grasps it and brings it toward his face and mouth. Through this process, he begins to acquire information about the paper and store that information. The second and third times he encounters a piece of paper, if any of the previously acquired information remains in his memory, that memory is retrieved, and that information becomes the “concept of the paper” in front of him.

After repeating this process with different papers made of different materials and having different colors, he discovers that there are common characteristics among all of them—objects that he has touched and perhaps brought toward his face and mouth. His brain stores these shared characteristics as the concept of this type of object, so that he no longer needs to test every piece of paper again.

From then on, whenever he sees a piece of paper, regardless of its material, shape, or color, his brain retrieves the previously formed concept of paper. He realizes that he is dealing with paper and there is no need for further investigation. Later, when he learns that the name of this object is “paper,” hearing the word “paper” causes the concept of paper to be retrieved in his mind, and the word acquires meaning for him. Years later, when he learns the written form of the word paper, seeing that written word retrieves both the word and the concept of paper in his mind, and the written symbol gains meaning.

A young gazelle that has once seen its herd flee from a creature with the appearance of a lion stores both the image of that creature and the fear and excitement associated with that experience in its brain. From then on, when it sees any similar feline animal, that image and the accompanying feeling of fear are retrieved, followed by reactions such as adrenaline release, increased heart rate and blood pressure, and an attempt to escape.

In reality, the “concept of lion” has been formed in the mind of that young gazelle. It no longer needs to test every new lion it encounters to discover whether that animal is also a dangerous predator.

Images, sounds, smells, and tastes enter our brain first through the brainstem and the limbic system before reaching the cerebral cortex. The emotions and feelings that arise from experiencing each of those images, sounds, smells, and tastes are also stored in these regions. When we encounter those same images, sounds, smells, or tastes again, the associated emotions are retrieved as well. In this way, the meaning of everything takes shape in our minds.

Without memory, we would understand no meaning or concept from what our senses receive. The meaning that a human newborn derives from seeing a lion differs from the meaning an adult human derives from seeing the same lion, and both differ from the meaning a fully grown zebra derives from seeing that lion. These differences depend on the information and emotions retrieved by the brain of each creature after seeing the lion.

These retrieved memories—or, more precisely, the “concept of lion” in the mind of each creature—depend on the unique history that each of these three beings has experienced and that has been processed and stored in different parts of their brains.

If a young zebra and a lion cub are raised together and become friends, the adult zebra may not run away when seeing other lions. The concept of lion formed in this zebra’s mind, because of its unique history, differs from the concept formed in the minds of zebras living freely in nature. Seeing a lion therefore does not trigger a rise in adrenaline or heart rate in this zebra.

During pregnancy, childbirth, and the first moment a mother holds her child, changes occur in the brain and limbic system that cause the child’s face, whenever seen afterward, to evoke a special meaning and feeling for that mother—one that the same face does not evoke in other women or men. This is why the mother experiences a feeling of motherhood toward that child, while others do not have the same feeling.

If this mother were to lose her memory for any reason, her child’s face would acquire a completely different meaning for her.

Without memory, we would no longer know what love is or what hatred is. We would not know what nostalgia is, nor would we understand what hope feels like. We need memory in order to think and make plans for the future.

People suffering from Alzheimer’s disease lose the ability to plan for the future. When they are asked what they want to do today, they often answer: “I don’t know.” To imagine the future, we need memory, because we must first imagine different possibilities in our minds, then choose those that are possible under current circumstances, and store that choice in memory. All these processes depend on the function of memory.

Without memory, we understand nothing. Without memory, we would not even understand that what we are seeing and hearing belongs to the present moment, because our understanding of time itself depends on memory.

Through memory, we understand that something called the past existed, that it no longer exists now, but that we can still remember it. Through memory, we understand that something called the future exists and will arrive, because we remember that the past and the present once did not exist either, yet they came into existence and eventually became the past.

Without memory, we would live only in the present—and even that present would be a completely meaningless and empty moment.

All our habitual movements, such as walking, cycling, driving, and even the skill of eating with a spoon and fork, are stored in memory. Without this type of memory, even the simplest tasks would become extremely difficult or impossible, as can happen when an accident damages parts of the brain, such as the cerebellum.

Without memory, we would have no understanding of ourselves. We would not know who we are, what characteristics we have, what kind of personality we possess, what we like or dislike, what frightens us, or what brings us peace. Without memory, much of our personality and identity would never develop.

Without memory, we would have neither a language with which to express ourselves nor the ability to think. We Persian speakers use the Persian language to think, and without language, thinking becomes extremely limited.

Without memory, we would not even have subjects to think about, because no image, sound, taste, or smell could be retrieved in our minds to initiate associations and chains of thought.

Without memory, we would not even understand dimensions. During infancy, by moving objects closer and farther away, we gradually learn that the space around us has length, width, and depth. People who are deprived of vision in one eye from childhood see the world in two dimensions and lack an understanding of depth.

We can conclude that just as the concept of depth is created in our brains through processing and storing information from binocular vision, if no information were stored—if there were no memory—length and width would also be meaningless to us. Therefore, without memory, even if we had perfectly healthy eyes, the information entering our brain from our eyes would be meaningless even in terms of dimensions.

Mike May lost his vision at the age of three and a half due to a chemical explosion. Nevertheless, he became a successful person and, using sound-producing navigation signals, became a Paralympic champion in skiing.

After 40 years of blindness, he discovered that he could restore his eyesight through a stem cell procedure. However, another problem remained: his brain was unable to interpret the information received from his eyes. The part of his brain involved in vision—the visual cortex—had been repurposed to serve his other senses, such as hearing and touch.

He could see his children’s faces, but he could not tell what they looked like or distinguish one child from another.

When Mike left the examination room and entered the hallway, the carpet, the paintings on the walls, and the doorframes had no meaning for him. He could not make sense of cars, buildings, or people. After about a month, he gradually began to understand the differences between objects and people. [1]

Now a very important question arises:

How does this memory, which is so essential, actually work?

You may ask why I raise this question.

Because we want to understand whether there is any possibility that after death we can take with us all this information, this ability to understand and comprehend, this personality, these emotions and feelings, this way of thinking, this perspective toward everything, and this ability to communicate in the Persian language, see, hear, understand, and make ourselves understood—while our body and brain decay and disappear.

If yes, how?