Before agriculture, before cities, before writing, there were tribes. Small, tightly knit groups of hunter-gatherers moved across the land in search of food. To survive, they had to rely on each other. But beneath this interdependence lay a brutal truth: the greatest threat to life was not disease or starvation; it was other people.
Archaeological evidence has revealed a startling number of fractured skulls among prehistoric humans, many with blows to the left side of the head, suggesting right-handed attackers wielding weapons. Studies estimate that as many as one in ten individuals died at the hands of another. For children under ten, the numbers are just as grim. Death came not from exposure, but from violence.
This paints a picture of a world where exclusion wasn’t symbolic; it was terminal. Failing to fit into the group could mean death. And more often than not, that death came from within the group itself.
Communication: Humanity’s Superpower, and its Weapon
What set Homo sapiens apart from other hominins was not brute strength or sharper tools, but a remarkable ability to communicate. Unlike Neanderthals, who may have relied on more instinctual cooperation, our ancestors developed language, storytelling, and shared myths. This allowed them to collaborate on a scale no other species could match.
They could hunt larger animals, plan ambushes, guard camps, and raise children together. The strength of Homo sapiens lay in their social intelligence.
But communication was not always peaceful. With it came gossip, manipulation, and power struggles. If you couldn’t contribute, or worse, if you threatened the cohesion of the group, your life was at risk. Words became tools of survival, and sometimes of elimination.
Group members didn’t need to be physically strong to dominate. They could influence, persuade, or betray. The gift of speech carried with it the danger of being spoken against. And once a reputation soured, there was often no way back.
Agriculture and the Rising Cost of Exclusion
When the Agricultural Revolution began, one might expect life to become more stable and secure. Humans built homes, domesticated animals, and grew crops. But something else grew alongside the wheat and barley, hierarchies.
Land ownership introduced a new kind of inequality. Settlements demanded governance. The number of people in each community grew, and with that, so did the pressure to conform.
Ironically, the rate of murder may have increased. Some estimates suggest that 15% of people in early agricultural societies died from interpersonal violence. The stakes were higher. Resources could be hoarded, and reputations became long-term liabilities. A whisper in the village could ruin a life.
Social cohesion became even more essential, and exclusion became even more deliberate. The ability to collaborate was no longer optional. It was compulsory. And those who failed were pushed aside, often with brutal efficiency.
Gossip as Evolutionary Software
Why does gossip feel good? Why does knowing a secret, or sharing a story about someone else, give us a small surge of pleasure?
The answer may lie in our evolutionary past. In a tribal setting, having up-to-date knowledge about who could be trusted was crucial. Gossip wasn’t just idle talk; it was a survival tool. It told us who might be dangerous, who was loyal, who was stealing food, or who had broken unspoken rules.
Over time, our brains began to reward this behavior. Dopamine is released when we gossip, just as it is when we eat sugar or receive praise. That small pleasure is nature’s way of reinforcing a behavior that, in ancient times, helped us live longer.
Today, this instinct plays out in office rumors, celebrity news, and social media drama. But the emotional circuitry is the same. We feel safer when we know what others think, even if the information is secondhand or exaggerated.
Reputation as a Life-or-Death Matter
To understand modern anxiety, especially social anxiety, we must go back to the roots of reputation. In a small tribe, there were no strangers. Everyone knew everyone. If you were labeled lazy, disloyal, or strange, that label stuck. And it wasn’t just a comment; it could be a death sentence.
Being ostracized meant no help during illness, no protection during raids, no food during lean times. You might survive a lion attack, but not a cold shoulder from your group.
Even now, this ancient fear lingers in our nervous systems. We blush when embarrassed. We obsess over how we’re perceived. We replay conversations in our minds, wondering if we said something wrong. These reactions are not neurotic; they’re ancient. They helped our ancestors avoid exile.
In the digital age, this fear is amplified. A bad photo, a misunderstood post, or an online shaming can feel catastrophic. And in a way, it is. We live in overlapping tribes; friends, coworkers, followers. To be excluded from one can feel like a kind of death.
The Modern Tribe: School, Work, and the Playground of Judgment
Look closely at a school or office, and you’ll see ancient dynamics in modern clothes.
Children form cliques. They whisper about each other. They exclude those who don’t dress right, talk right, or follow unspoken norms. Teachers may say bullying is wrong, but the instinct is older than morality. It’s the same instinct that protected our ancestors by identifying “threats” within the group.
In the workplace, the patterns continue. Meetings become arenas for dominance. Social skills matter as much as competence. Fail to read the room, and you may find yourself on the margins. Those who collaborate well are praised. Those who don’t are quietly isolated.
This is not a design flaw of human systems; it is the system. Companies may call it “culture.” Schools may call it “peer interaction.” But at its core, it’s the same old tribal game of fitting in or being pushed out.
Ethics: Our Attempt to Tame the Instinct
But humans are not only driven by instinct. We are also capable of reflection, compassion, and change.
Religions emerged not only to explain the stars or offer comfort in death, but to shape how we treat one another. The Golden Rule, present in many traditions, is a way of curbing the instinct to exclude. It asks us to imagine life from the other side of the gossip, the rejection, the silence.
Ethical systems, whether religious, philosophical, or secular, are attempts to rewrite our evolutionary code. They tell us to care for the weak, to forgive the outcast, to welcome the stranger. In a sense, they are upgrades to our social software.
But make no mistake: these upgrades are fragile. They run on top of powerful old hardware. And when we’re stressed, afraid, or threatened, the old program kicks in. We judge. We exclude. We gossip. Not because we’re evil, but because we’re human.
The Burden of Being Seen
In today’s hyper-connected world, the need to be seen and seen positively, is overwhelming. We check likes, tweak photos, edit messages. We try to control our image across dozens of platforms and social groups. And yet, the fear remains: what if we’re misunderstood? What if we’re rejected?
This is not vanity. It’s the old survival code, repackaged for the digital age. We are trying to stay inside the tribe, whatever form it takes.
It’s why we suffer from burnout, not just from work, but from being perceived. The effort to manage reputation, to decode social signals, to avoid exclusion, is constant and exhausting. But to stop would feel dangerous.
Toward a Kinder Tribe
If we know that our instincts push us toward judgment, exclusion, and gossip, we can begin to resist them, not with guilt, but with awareness.
It means noticing when we enjoy hearing something negative about someone else, and pausing before passing it on. It means recognizing the quiet cruelty of office gossip or classroom bullying, and choosing not to participate. It means teaching children not just to be polite, but to understand why kindness matters.
Because when we fail to manage these instincts, we reproduce the violence of the past. Not with clubs and axes, but with silence, laughter, and side glances.
The old instincts are still with us. But so is the capacity to rise above them.
Image by Thang Ha
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