Professor Mona Siddiqui

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The stunningly beautiful goddess Calypso offers Odysseus something that you might think no human being could ever refuse: never to age and never to die. Stay with me on this Island and you will achieve immortality. And yet refuse it he does. I am really excited to see the new Christopher Nolan film version of The Odyssey. Last summer holidays I read it to my boys whilst we were holidaying on the next island along from Ithica. And there are so many fascinating philosophical and theological issues it raised: not least, what are we to make of Odysseus’ preference for risk and death over immortality and agelessness. Earlier this year the American tech entrepreneur Bryan Johnson launched his Immortals programme; at a cost to the individual of a million dollars a year, it offers a promise held out in its strap line “don’t die”. In a fascinating essay on why Odysseus is right to refuse this, the philosopher Martha Nussbaum argues that there are some things that the immortal Gods are not able to do that human beings are: not least amongst them is to show courage. If you can’t risk anything because you cannot die, then how can you possibly be courageous? What sort of life would the hero Odysseus have if he stayed with Calypso on her deathless realm, and gave up any need for his famous craft and resourcefulness? And what would love itself mean if you could never put anything on the line for others? That’s why we cheer Odysseus on as he decides to refuse Calyspso her seemingly unrefusable offer. Despite being a convert from Christianity to Judaism, Nussbaum intriguingly suggests that there is something about this giving up of immortality that explains one of the key features of Christian theology: of God becoming human, of a God who is prepared to suffer and die in the name of love. What is attractive about both Odysseus and Jesus is that they are both prepared to have skin in the game, which is pretty much the very definition of incarnation. Personally, I don’t buy the idea that that science could one day make us immortal. But, and here’s the point, even if it were true, I think we should refuse it. Indeed, I don’t think we often fully grasp what immortality of this sort would mean. Because to live beyond the realm of suffering and death is to live in a way that is no longer human – without the possibility of heroism, without the possibility of risking all for love. Why is it, for instance, that so often in Greek mythology, perfect Gods fall in love with imperfect human beings rather than their own kind? Because fragile humanity can exhibit exciting virtues, risky love-soaked courage in the way that the gods just cannot. Of course we don’t want those we love to be taken from us. Yet also, death is what makes life valuable and precious. In the words of the late Queen Elizabeth II, “grief is the price we pay for love”. What Odysseus discovers on Calypso’s Island, is that without death, life will be drained of its meaning.

Good morning. This week France's parliament approved a bill banning social media access for children under fifteen. They can still use messaging services like WhatsApp, but not platforms like TikTok and Snapchat. It's part of a global movement that saw Australia ban social media for under-sixteens last year, and the UK plans something similar for next spring, potentially adding an overnight ban for sixteen-to-seventeen year-olds. We've heard the arguments many times: on one side the experience of parents and the studies linking childhood social media use to bullying, sleep deprivation and mental health problems. On the other, concerns about free speech and the difficulty of enforcing a ban. But governments are now moving from consultation to action, and this feels like a turning point. We're realising that social media apps aren't just tools. They take hold of our attention, direct it, shape who we become. Buddhism has always taught this. A mind trained on outrage becomes quicker to outrage. A mind trained on comparison becomes quicker to feel lacking. Social media platforms are built, deliberately, to exploit these mechanics — offering stimulation to prompt a feeling, knowing that feelings of liking and disliking impel us to act. They maximise the very reactivity Buddhist practice has always tried to loosen. And the attention economy links that reactivity to money: every second of captured attention is monetised, which means the pressure to capture more of it will only intensify. Without a response, we risk being overwhelmed by tech-powered reactivity. Buddhism calls us conditioned beings — shaped, moment by moment, by what we attend to — and places the responsibility for that squarely with us. Not blame for being conditioned, which none of us chose, but responsibility for what we do about it. I think we are gradually understanding that living well with tech-driven conditioning is a central challenge of our time, and the response has to work at both levels: the personal discipline of noticing where attention goes, and the collective willingness to set limits on what is being done to it. That's what France's parliament has just attempted. Children are especially vulnerable, but the deeper question doesn't stop at fifteen or sixteen. What am I training my mind to become, simply by what I let it rest on? Technology raises the stakes because it conditions us faster and more relentlessly than anything the Buddha could have imagined. The least we owe ourselves is to know that it's happening.

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