90%
Writing
Mohammed Abdurazak
In 1970, a Japanese robotics professor named Masahiro Mori posited that the creation of an artificial human is a primary interest of the field of robotics- an odd, misguided attempt to construct a cold, chrome-plated companion for mankind. Prevailing thought, at the time, suggested that one’s affinity for the Robot would logically increase as it inched towards perfect humanhood. Children are so fond of their little light-up mechanoids; surely adults would feel the same?
Mori begs to differ. He likens the quest of robotics to hiking- every onward step in the climber’s ascent of a mountain represents an additional foothold in the creation of the optimal humanoid, and therefore a proportional rise in our empathy for the machine. It must be noted, however, that despite the popular notion that each step takes the climber higher, their true altitude would remain the same (or perhaps even diminish) as they trudge toward the summit- owing to the interventions of valleys.
The valley- a purgatoric, transitional stretch providing neither a stairway to the top nor safe passage to base camp. A winding limbo-land to make hikers question whether a fleeting glance from the peak is worth the litres of wasted sweat and lactic acid. Worth your feet, blistered and oedemic from days of meandering.
The mission of robotics, according to Mori, is also halted (if only temporarily) by a valley- the “uncanny valley”. At a percentage of likeness quantified at 80-90% human, the expected hope of progress is marred by a sudden onset of dread and revulsion felt when encountered by something almost, yet critically not quite, like oneself.
An icy sheet shrouds you upon shaking “hands” with this form- a grip imperceptibly too tight, glazed eyes refusing to break contact; a smile that ekes beyond the confines of polite acknowledgment- baring a maw embedded with teeth that just don’t connect like yours do. The self and its idea of sentience are sacred; we’re hardwired to feel violated when any being trespasses into it.
The uncanny valley, then, calls into question the ethics of robotics. How far can technology’s leash be stretched until its intrusion on the human condition is deemed too severe?
This discussion is, of course, fraught with technicalities, evergreen and perpetual. It’s simply inconceivable that a single consensus would be reached regarding a quandary as complex as whether or not a program should be able to consume the electricity required by a small country to be able to spit out an image of a cow with five tits. What is more fruitful, I believe is asking its converse:
If the march toward sentience is indeed unrelenting and unavoidable- if the birth of the immaculate titanium man- complete with self-enforced intellect and emotion and granted a corporeal form- is nigh, how would he feel about the uncanny valley?He is born, through no fault of his own, with the curse of difference. His actions immaterial, wit secondary, productivity discarded. His primary identity is doomed to be that of the “other.” He’s treated to grimaces as he walks by- the dirty eyes of curiosity that often trail uniqueness. They tug their children closer, giving them brisk overhead strikes to keep them quiet, hastily making way lest “something” happen. The children are beings of grace: their recognition of his peculiarity isn’t laced with unease. What would the children lose by learning about him?
He cannot mask the tightness, the godforsaken rigidity that plagues his body. He cannot feign the fluidity of their gaits, the comfort in the way they shuffle around, shifting through speeds at will. Loosening up is a Sisyphean task, and his position as the street’s chosen subject of scrutiny doesn’t help. He’s told that he’s brave simply for existing in a world not made for him, but what good is a pat on the back when all it does is throw him off balance?
Each new day is a series of humiliations, reminders of inadequacy. Until the day his body is forced into obsolescence, unable to host what made him tick. He will be condemned to the scrapyard, having lived a crippled life where try as he may, despite the years of apparent betterment, he was never quite able to transition into a “real” man. How would he feel about the uncanny valley? Ask a disabled person
Concept Note
Living in India as a disabled person means the subjection of oneself to immense amounts of distress, doubly so if you don’t wish to confine yourself to the indoors like you are meant to.
This uncharacteristically dire essay speaks of my fight to experience the human condition in all its glory, and (mostly) the perils that come along with it. I attempt to lay bare the common perception of my body as the “other,” a tabooed agent of discomfort, by likening societal attitudes towards disability to the concept of the “uncanny valley,” which seeks to explain one’s antipathy to forms not-quite-yet human.
Attempting to rebuke the burden of “inspiration porn” that is often placed upon the already-hurting backs of the disabled, it tackles the spectres of futility that often overpower the desire to persist in a world where my community's existence is restricted to the lower rungs of life.
Artist Bio
Mohammad Abdurazak is a recent graduate of St. Joseph's University. The winner of the 2023 SJU Prize for the personal essay, he nurses a turbulent relationship with writing. He loves music and getting impulsive tattoos and generally being whimsical, but hates most other things.