Unesco's first Philosophical Encounters were held last year at Paris on the theme of “What Do We Not Know?” and they were a great success. Diogenes published some of the papers by participants in its No. 169. A second meeting was held from March 27-30, 1996, devoted to a question as simple and difficult as that of the first: “Who Are We?” Once again this journal will not be able to publish all contributions, but is fortunate enough to present at least some of them to its readers.

Which traveler, passing through the rural communities of Asia, has not been intrigued by the existence, on the periphery of the village, of shrines, piles of stones, trees, or caverns ornamented with offerings which, at certain key moments during the year, become the focal points of an intense religious activity? These sites are in fact consecrated to chthonian forces that, next to the ancestors, occupy a high rank in the relationship that the peasants of Asia or other regions around the world establish with the divine. To be sure, the earth gods and the ancestors do not put themselves at the top of the pantheon that each society neatly builds for itself; but they nevertheless dominate the immediate sphere of individuals and social groups. They are at the center of their most routine cultic activities, and they are bestowed with a crucial role in the perpetuation of the groups with which they are identified and whose unity they symbolize.

Among the ancients, ethics was resolved largely through the treatment of virtues. Suffice it to recall Aristotle's Etica Nicomachea, which was for many centuries a prescribed text. In our times such a treatment has almost disappeared. Today moral philosophers discuss values and choices, on both analytical and propositional levels, and their major or minor rationality, as well as discussing rules or norms and consequently rights and duties. One of the last significant writings devoted to the classic subject of virtue was the second part of Kant's Metaphysics of Morals (Die Metaphysik der Sitten), titled The Theory of Virtue (Die Tugendlehre), the first part of which discusses the Theory of Law (Die Rechtlehre). However, Kant's ethics is especially one of duty, and more specifically of inward as distinguished from outward duty, with which the theory of law is concerned. In the former, virtue is defined as the necessary willpower to accomplish one's duty, as the moral strength required by man to fight those defects which prevent or become an obstacle to the accomplishment of duty. Kant's theory of virtue is an integral part of the ethics of duty and, as explicitly and repeatedly declared, has nothing to do with Aristotelian ethics.

What Nepalese village or plot of land does not have a sacred tree or grove? The altar devoted to the earth gods is often the only collective shrine in a locality. Usually it is a natural site on the outskirts of the village, combining rocks and trees, and sometimes wooden shapes instead of rocks. It can also be associated with a cavity or hole in the earth. Thus among the Tamang of West Nepal: “The site of worship, which is known by the Nepalese term bhumithan, is located on a sharp incline overhanging the village; it is set up in a small sheltered area in the rock and divided into two areas by a raised flat stone.” Furthermore, we might add B. Pignède's description of the sanctuary as one finds it among the Gurung on the southern side of the Annapurna: “Three walls of rock hold up a little roof of flagstones, the facade being open to the outside. The wall at the back is cut by a large tree that covers the whole area with its shade, with the tree and rock forming a single mass … Three raised rocks, the top of which is crudely rounded, are placed on a kind of tier. In the left corner is a little stone statue of a four-footed animal … Finally, on the outside, in front of the sanctuary's open facade, a wooden post is set up … The ensemble of the sanctuary includes a mixture of Indo-Nepalese and local elements.”

Sarah is a young deaf woman in revolt, refusing to speak. She marries James, an orthophonist who works in a special school for the deaf. However, what gradually emerges in the course of their relationship is the latent suffering caused by what each of the partners isn't getting. James, tired of acting as Sarah's interpreter, frustrated by the limits of what they can share, shouts out:

In what sort of situation might someone ask the question “who are we?” It seems most appropriate in the mouth of someone trying to shape her audience into a more coherent community. It is the sort of rhetorical question a party leader might ask at a party rally. In such situations, it means something like “what unifying ideal can we find to make us less like a mob and more like an army, less like people thrown together by accident and more like people who have united to accomplish a task?”

Let us begin with Richard Rorty's question: how can we speak of “us,” how to invoke a universal and abstract “we”, when the people of the earth are separated from each other by so many inequalities and injustices? This is a crucial question, and one that it is a direct descendant of pragmatic inquiry. The essential aim of this kind of analysis, Dewey said, was less to “reach ultimate reality” than to “clarify human ideas in relation to the epoch's social conflicts.”

The experience of the body, which all speaking subjects share, is at the origin of many corporeal metaphors and figurative expressions which are laced throughout all of our productions of language, and which reveal the diverse representations of the body as elaborated within linguistic communities. For instance, when the French say that someone “does nothing with his ten fingers,” to signify his inactivity or laziness, this expression reveals a representation of the hand, which is viewed as “THE SEAT OF ACTIVITY.”

The military conquest of the Magarant, the Magar land, took place during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the Thakuri petty kings and their dependents (priests, artisans, soldiers) fled India to settle there. The Magar resistance appears to have been weak, due to their lack of unity and the alliances the conquerors formed with some of them. The Magar people quickly opted for assimilation into the royal caste of the Thakuri, adopting most of their cultural traits, notably their language and religion. Nevertheless they retained or developed particularisms in their relationship to the earth, as we can see in the rites they devote to Bhume. We should emphasize first and foremost that the name Bhume is itself Nepalese, derived from the sanskrit bhû, bhûmî. This goddess is neglected by the Hindi of high caste, whereas she is central to the Magar. This paradox has two possible sources: the Magar might have identified one of their principal goddesses with a minor Hindu deity by virtue of a common relation to the earth, conferring an unusual importance on the latter. Or they might have constructed a divine being on the basis of Hindu concepts, as the result of a new-found need to defend their rights to the earth in the face of the Hindu invaders. The second hypothesis seems more likely, since there is no trace of a Magar earth goddess before Bhume. Even in the regions where the Magar retained the use of their original language (such as in Palpa, Syangja, or in the Kham country) and where, consequently, some of the gods have Magar names, the earth goddess is called by Nepalese terms, such as Bhume, Bhuyar, or Bhayar. Furthermore, even if the Magar themselves once had an earth goddess of their own, the renaming of this deity would indicate a change of identity, given the importance of a divinity's name.

In Burma, the rituals connected with the earth concern the relationship between the local communities of rice-growers and the political whole that encompasses them. The structure of this totality is a result of the history of the Burmese Buddhist monarchy which was, from the tenth century to the end of the nineteenth, the dominant political institution of the Irrawaddy valley. The Buddhist kings were viewed as the masters of the earth, a role symbolized by the ritual of the first furrow, which they “traced” in the soil in order to inaugurate the work season. Moreover, the native Burmese religious system does not include a deity exclusively associated with the earth and who could, by this right, be the object of a systematic cult. This complex religious system, dominated by Buddhism, includes another cult, that of the thirty-seven nats, whose history is linked both to the Burmese monarchical system and the adoption of Theravada Buddhism as the state religion. The fall of the monarchy in 1886 did not bring about its disappearance. On the contrary, this cult is still quite alive and touches all levels of Burmese society. It is especially vibrant in those local communities that worship the thirty-seven nats of the national pantheon, viewed as the protector of their land.

The question thus formulated is inscribed in the purest philosophical tradition: it actualizes the scope of wonder, that Greek sentiment that awakens not before the extraordinary, but precisely before the most ordinary and obvious, before the fact of being there; wonder that is particular to the first thinkers of the dawn of the West and from which philosophy and science are born.

Two essays have been placed under this title. The first is written in the spirit of continental European moral and political philosophy. Its emphasis is on the tensions and paradoxes inherent in the idea of tolerance. The first paradox: the possibility of tolerance, far from being based on the renunciation of the absolute nature of the conviction, depends on the contrary on the capacity for absolute engagement which itself gives rise to an unconditional right towards respect. Another paradox: while, in the case of scientific truth (rational or empirical), understanding and consent coincide, in the case of belief (moral, religious, or aesthetic), there is a striking divergence between the contestable nature of the affirmation and the risky nature of the attachment; but such is the cost of the unconditional. An extreme paradox: it is at the very heart of the idea of truth that a split between possessing and sharing must be operated; and it is then in the realm of dispossession and nonknowledge that the art of mimicking an opposed conviction within oneself - ultimate bulwark against the temptation to impose one's own portion of truth on others - can be learned. The spirit of Karl Jaspers permeates this lucid meditation.

During the past decades, the deaf in the United States, as well as those in other countries, have been trying to define themselves within society. They constitute, indeed, a “different” population group, insofar as they are “disabled,” and they also have their own language that they utilize for interpersonal communication. So, as a group, they are called “a group of disabled individuals,” “a distinct Deaf Culture,” “a linguistic minority,” “a society,” “a community,” “a sub-culture,” etc.

Who are we? Never have so many of us asked this question, nor so few been able to answer it. What is happening to us? Already we miss those who are not asking the question along with us.

We all were sure of ourselves in our respective groups - some aggressive, others tolerant - but sure of being these ones and not those ones as we crossed paths with others or with us, in business and in war, and who were always ready to tell us which of all of them we were.

For the Black, White and Red Tai, the universe is composed of three levels: the heavens, the “flat world,” inhabited by man, and the “world beneath the waters,” upon which the flat world rests and in which the ophidian genies, the nguok, live. These ophidians at times transform themselves into men and devour the heart of young girls. The white Tai imagine that the third level is also peopled by dwarves. The soul is multiple, according to the Tai, and its components become distributed post mortem among the two upper levels of the ternary world mentioned above. Indeed, some souls of the deceased migrate to an afterlife in the heavens, others fake up residence in the altar of ancestors where they become tutelary household spirits, while the remainder, bound to the body of the deceased, reside in the cemetery.

The Chinese are probably the most particular people in the world when it comes to their names. As the Chinese proverb says, “worse than being born under a bad star is to receive a bad name.” For this reason it is difficult, if not impossible, to evaluate the role of name signs in China without a certain knowledge of the Chinese tradition regarding the attribution of names. A legal Chinese name is made up of a family name, monosyllabic with some exceptions, followed by a monosyllabic or disyllabic first name. Theoretically, the 50,000 characters that make up the Chinese lexicon are potential choices for the composition of a first name. Due to the great number of homophones included in the Chinese language, it is difficult to identify the graphic form of a Chinese name by its pronunciation alone. Hence the custom of specifying the characters by writing them in the air or by indicating their signification, or even by simply presenting a calling card.

Tolerance is not, as is often thought, an attribute of urbanity that can be equated with other similar values, such as politeness. Nor is it - or at least it should not be - considered the oil that facilitates the smooth functioning of the engine of human desires, in spite of their differences of opinion. Rather, true tolerance takes root in the same soil as human rights. And this root is at the same time shared by liberty and truth. It is an untamed, barely diplomatic, root, burrowing deep in the soil of an absolute demand.