Truthfully writing (mostly)

Last week, I was in a hospital when a surgeon friend asked me to get an injection from the pharmacy for a small procedure. Unfortunately, the one he wanted was not available. A junior surgeon then asked my friend, the senior surgeon, whether there was an alternative. Without hesitation, he said, “Let us get Injection STD.” As a physician, I immediately smiled because, to me, STD means “Sexually Transmitted Disease.” I told them, “Look, I am a physician, and I only know one STD.” They burst out laughing and explained that, for surgeons, STD meant Sodium Tetradecyl Sulphate. 

Later, after the procedure was over, I asked, “Why STD? Why not STS?” After all, the name itself seemed to point in that direction. My friend simply shrugged and said, “I do not know; we have always called it STD.” Perhaps some senior surgeon with a mischievous sense of humour once decided to call it STD instead of STS, and the name stuck. Surgeons probably need such humour to lighten the stress they carry. 

To be fair, physicians and other doctors do the same. We often create a world of abbreviations, inside jokes, and technical words that mystify the public while amusing our tired minds. 

 

But that little incident reminded me of something deeper: words carry meanings, and meanings are shaped by our memories, training, assumptions, and fears. The same word can sound harmless to one person and alarming to another. In that sense, even our understanding of truth is often filtered through what we already think we know. 

 

A recent conversation with friends brought this home. They had fallen out with some family members and were trying to understand whether perceptions, preconceived notions, or careless words had caused the distance between them. 

This takes me to the true story of a judge who had to decide what to do with a man accused of being a dangerous religious fanatic.  

 

“The day began badly. Religious leaders arrived early with a prisoner, but they refused to enter because they wanted to remain ceremonially clean. Delivering a man for execution was acceptable; stepping indoors was apparently too much. 

 

As the judge listened, many voices must have argued inside him. The accusers shouted, “Dangerous man!” Political instinct warned him to avoid unrest. Reports suggested there was no army, no weapons, and no rebellion. He had already received military intelligence reports late that morning, but they warned him of the danger of ignoring the matter. His wife had already cautioned him not to do anything foolish (And he knew her well enough to listen to her). 

 

He was also troubled by the memory of a recent incident in which his colleague had decapitated a similar person for “breaking boundaries” of expectation, and how his supervisors had been pleased with that decision. 

 

The prisoner himself was strangely calm. Instead of begging or defending himself in the usual way, he spoke of a kingdom not of this world. And saying that he is truth himself.  The judge, who was used to questioning others, may have felt that he himself was now being questioned. Power, politics, religion, fear, conscience, and convenience all pressed upon him at once. 

 

Finally, almost with exhaustion, he asked the question that has echoed through the centuries: “What is truth?” 

 

Before we draw parallels with leaders, judges, or public figures around us today, let me be clear: this is the story of Jesus before Pilate, not a coded reference to any current political leader or judge.  

 

Yet the question remains painfully relevant. We hear words, attach meanings, and make decisions based on fear, habit, loyalty, or prejudice. Sometimes, like my surgeon friends, we laugh at the confusion. Sometimes, like Pilate, we stand before truth itself and still fail to recognise it. 

Until the day before yesterday, truth was passed on orally. Immediate, interactive and based on memory. In one sense, that was convenient. 

I can always say, “I did not say that” or blame it on my declining memory. I still do that off and on. That is the comfort of oral tradition. 

 

Then came yesterday - the age of handwritten documents. They were copied and recopied so they could be shared more widely, but with every rewriting, someone exercised an “editor’s prerogative” and produced a version shaped by personal interpretation. 

 

Then came the written and printed era, which improved matters considerably. Evidence could be documented and preserved. Truth, at least in theory, was recorded for posterity. Of course, yellow journalism still found its way in. 

 

Then came the audiovisual era. Truth became what the audience wanted to hear. If a particular piece of information or a certain story increased TRP, (Rating points - likes for social media) it was promoted more aggressively - and, gradually, it became accepted as truth. 

 

And today is the social media era, where everyone became a custodian of truth of his or her own making. 

I remember the Covid pandemic, when we were leading a group of senior doctors to provide online telehealth support. Agreeing on a common treatment protocol was difficult. Everyone had their own “eminence-based,” “experience-based,” or “feeling-based” protocol, even though clear evidence was emerging about what worked and what did not. I created a few disgruntled friends along the way because I had to disagree with many things that were brought up. 

 

Experts call this the era of digital orality, (see link below) a full-circle return to immediate, interactive communication. Each person now puts forward the truth as he or she believes it, while the common person stands, like Pilate, asking the same old question: “What is truth?” 

 

I wonder what will happen when truth is increasingly shaped by AI. 

 

Today, AI tells us what is true based on the information we provide and the data it receives from other machines. In that sense, truth may become a form of computational consensus. But what happens when artificial general intelligence begins making such judgments on its own, as it seems to be doing already in some fields? When machines decide what is true and present it to us, will we accept their conclusions as readily as they now accept ours - especially when they hold far more knowledge than we do? 

 

I wonder what Pilate would have done if a tech-savvy adviser had stood beside him, skilled at prompting AI to produce an answer that sounded “true,” “right,” and computationally consensual.  

In one sense that was exactly what happened. He ignored the truth standing before him, his wife’s voice and his hearts nudge and decided to respond to the “voices and data driven  truth” for a the greater good of his position and control.  

Same today too -  we have depersonalised and relativised truth, reshaping it to suit what feels convenient, acceptable, and right for each of us.

May be we should create a community of personified truth tellers. 

Notes 

 

To be honest, I did two things with this blog article. First, I asked AI to reduce my original draft of 2000 words. Without changing the content. Then I asked whether what I had written was truth itself or merely my perception of truth. This was its response.

 

“Overall, I would estimate the article to be about 65-70% evidence-based observation and 30-35% interpretation, reflection, and opinion.”

 

So I am truthful most of the times…AI is refusing to call me a lier - which is good. :)  See below an excellent article. I have quoted much from this too. So if you think I am lying, I am not responsible.:) 

https://bigthinkmedia.substack.com/p/as-print-literacy-fades-our-perception