The wonders of zooming out, gain in significance when simultaneously we zoom in.
Eye level. The daily realities of politics, society. In my country, The Netherlands, we had a devastating election outcome last November. For the first time in the history of our democracy, a far-right party won the most seats. And as you all know, this is not a Dutch phenomenon.
Worldwide, populist parties are feeding on the fear spiked by growing insecurities. The gaze turns inwards, the mind narrows. Otherness is framed as threat. In such dangerous times, the ultimate gaze of a telescope pointed to possible worlds far away can be an antidote. Showing us the enormity that we are still part of, even though nationalism grows. Showing us how strangely alien we are, all of us. Mysterious carbon-based lifeforms – unique and futile – full of contradictions, very much dependent on each other and the planet that sustains us.
The telescope is often presented as something a-political, a thing of objective science and facts, but it can be much more than that. In these times, searching for the furthest horizons is possibly an act of resistance and searching for life in alien form a way of staying open for the otherness that populist politicians try to make us fear.
Also, the James Webb telescope can help remind us of the intrinsic value of the universe we inhabit, which is no small feat in the light of the very fast developments in the commercialisation of space. More and more, planets, orbits and asteroids are seen as a commodity from which private companies can profit. This raises huge moral questions not only about ownership but also about how – once it is commercialized – we will relate to the night sky that throughout human has been a source of science, solace and spirituality.
By reducing forests, rivers and planets to nothing more than resources, we lose sight of their intrinsic value, until they no longer mean anything besides a product for consumption. This in turn reduces us to consumers of the world, no longer in conversation with our surroundings. A lonely way of living.
No wonder recent years have seen a worldwide explosion of feelings of alienation, especially among young people. There is a lack of a sense of belonging and relating to the world. For how can you relate to a world – a universe – that is primarily viewed as something for economic gain?
Staring into space with the huge communal eye of a telescope is a way of honouring the non-commercial values of the universe. Honouring the cosmos as a source of wonder and knowledge. The search for habitable planets and possible alien presence makes us understand the stars as a force of life, as something to relate to. It is, again, an antidote. Aliens against alienation.
Someone much in favour of relating to the universe was the Canadian astronomer Rebecca Elson. Working for the Hubble telescope in the ninety-nineties she combined her scientific work with the writing of poems. Like this one, perhaps my favourite, called ‘Evolution’.
We are survivors of immeasurable events
Flung upon some reach of land
Small, wet miracles without instructions
Only the imperative of change.
In one of her poems Elson formulated something called a responsibility to awe. Saying we have a duty to honour the poetry of astronomy. I love that word, responsibility, for the response it carries inside. Seeing the pillars of creation, possible relatable planets, the birth of stars – we need to ask ourselves how to respond to all that magnificence. It is the only way to keep science where it belongs, right next to poetry, so near that it sometimes is impossible to distinguish between the two. For Rebecca Elson, astronomy asked for reciprocity. Gathering data through a telescope is not about finding facts, it is about starting a conversation that keeps us connected with the universe we inhabit.
In celebration of this meeting on the findings of the James Webb telescope, I tried to formulate my response to awe. Thinking about reciprocity, perhaps we should consider this question: what’s in it for the possible alien we so hope to discover? In case we would be ‘discovered’ one day, wouldn’t we at least want to know what our discoverers are about? This is not an original idea. With his Golden Record, Carl Sagan tried communicating about humankind to possible faraway forms of intelligence. You all know the story. It was beautifully poetic but he left out a few things. Sagan was convinced that a first impression had to be a good one. I believe aliens deserve the whole truth. So, here’s my letter to the possible inhabitants of some far-off planet in a goldilocks zone.
Dear alien,
How long before you come into view? Conversely, you may
already have us in your sights for a long time. Us, a speck in your sky.
I can’t speak for all of humanity, but in general
that possibility is hard to stomach here.
Our geocentric thinking forms us. Our myths are replete
with chosen-ness. We alone are the children of a sun.
We alone look back at God. It is crushing, the idea
that we might be a simple collusion of the right ingredients.
Not the pinnacle of creation, not guardians of the stars.
Random wanderers in a remote galaxy, with strange kin
around another sun. You force us to ponder
how we can think beyond our human selves.
Look at me writing ‘you’, assuming singular existence.
While you might be a thousand things, or a thousand things at once,
a collective movement, a large-scale happening in a twelfth dimension.
I once asked an astronomer: How can we recognise extraterrestrial life?
Her answer was: we probably can’t.
The overly alien eludes a human. But you can learn, she said,
by unlearning all you learned. Make the strange familiar, the familiar
strange. Regard this world with permanent amazement.
Why this? Why so?
Her words made me think of all those earthly beings,
so close and yet misunderstood. The wild fish on our plates,
the wisdom of root systems, the slow language of metals
which we understand only as raw material for destructive growth.
Why this? Why so?
Our conversation with the world is a long and boring monologue.
But something resonates within us when we look upon the stars.
The remnants of some giant melody. Somewhere in that void
our song vibrates along.
If we meet you, I’m not sure if we’ll acknowledge what connects us.
It can take ages for a human to recognise their neighbour,
let alone a relative from billions of years away.
And yet. We point lenses at the unknown. Like lost children, we peer
into the dark. It’s time someone finds us.