Memory Erasure and Forgetting Who You Are

Earlier this month, MSN News detailed new research coming out of Japan that may revolutionize how we approach memory. The technology – being developed at Tohoku University – allows for the selective deletion of traumatic memories. While only tested on mice so far, the human application could provide widespread benefits – particularly for those who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). But, as with the advent of any new technology, it’s important to pause and consider the implications of such a development. Might we have moral reason to not remove certain memories – even the really bad ones?

Immanuel Kant had much to say on matters like these. For Kant, our rationality – our ability to reach reasoned decisions – was of paramount importance. This is why he saw the circumvention of our rational processes as one of the worst things we could do. Kant’s fundamental moral rule – the “Categorical Imperative” – demands that we always treat people (including ourselves) as ends in themselves, and never merely as a means to an end. It’d be wrong, for example, to befriend a lawyer merely for free legal advice. This formulation of Kant’s rule also creates strong prohibitions against lying and other forms of deception. Why? Because feeding someone with false information will necessarily derail their ability to make informed – and therefore rational – decisions. That’s what’s so egregious about the blatant spread of misinformation by politicians and pundits.

It’s worth noting that, according to Kant, deception isn’t wrong just some of the time, but – rather – all of the time. And, for many, this might seem too strict. Consider, for example, the concept of “white lies.” Many of us believe that it’s morally permissible to engage in occasional harmless deceits – especially where doing so spares the feelings of others. Suppose that I was to play you a piece of music on my mandolin (an instrument I’m only just beginning to learn) and ask you what you thought of it. Suppose, further, that – owing to my inexperience – the performance wasn’t very good. It would be tempting to tell a white lie, and compliment my performance; but – according to Kant – it would be wrong for you to do so. And maybe we can see why. Among my ends, we might assume, is the desire to be a good mandolin player – but I won’t be able to achieve that end if I believe that my amateurish fumblings already sound excellent. In order to rationally decide how much practice I need, I require honest feedback – even if it comes at the cost of my feelings.

Let’s return, then, to the technology offered by Tohoku University. Removing one’s memories might be seen as a sort of “self-deception” – a lie we tell ourselves in order to feel better. But, if Kant’s approach is correct, then it’s morally impermissible for us to do this. Our experiences – even those that are traumatic – inform our rational decision-making. Put another way, they allow us to make better decisions going forward. To remove such memories might therefore be a case of failing to respect our own ends, instead treating ourselves as a mere means to the end of greater happiness.

Of course, subscribers to certain other ethical theories would say that this is precisely the point. Hedonistic utilitarians, for example, claim that an action is right so long as it maximizes pleasure (or, at the very least, minimizes pain). Utilitarians of this stripe are all for lying if it achieves some greater good. On this approach, then, the removal of one’s memories would be the right thing to do if it genuinely made the person happier.

But whether it’s morally permissible to remove one’s memories is only half the concern here. A more troubling consideration is whether we can even make sense of you removing your memories in the first place.

Philosophers spend a lot of time thinking about the problem of  “personal identity” – that is, what makes someone the same person over time. To be clear, there are many ways in which we aren’t the same person over time. We obviously change – inside and out. We grow, we age, we learn, and we change our minds about a great many things. But in spite of all these qualitative changes, there is a sense in which we still persist as the same person over time. When I look at a photo of my ten-year-old self, I know that’s me – even though he looks, acts, and thinks very differently to the me who sits here now. What, then, makes that ten-year-old the same person as me? This is the problem of personal identity.

A number of different answers have been given to this question (including the answer that there is no good answer). But one of the most popular solutions suggests that it’s psychological continuity – specifically, our memories – that make us the same person over time. In other words, the ten-year-old in that picture is me simply because I remember being him.

What this means, then, is that if I lost all of my memories, I would cease to exist. Sure, there would still be someone sitting here in this body, but that person wouldn’t be me. For many, this fits well with their intuitions regarding personal identity. What’s unclear, however, is how many of our memories we can afford to lose while continuing to be the same person. It seems that the answer is, at least, “some.” I have no memory of writing my first piece for The Prindle Post, but I can still confidently claim that the person who wrote that piece was me. But there are, it seems, a “critical mass” of memories (especially important, character-forming memories) that, if lost, would mean that I had gone out of existence. There’s a chance, then, that utilizing – or, at least over-utilizing – technology like that being developed at Tohoku University might not merely raise moral concerns, but threaten our continued existence altogether.