The burqa and the brain

The burqa debate has sparked some interesting blogs, but there is an element to these discussions that I have not yet encountered, and that concerns the physiology of facial expression interpretation. I thought it worthwhile to scribble a few lines about why it may or may not matter that we see the full face of another individual.

The human brain has evolved the ability to interpret a wide range of emotions, the most important of which are happy, fear, surprise, disgust, anger and sadness. When we meet someone we look first at the eyes and then at the rest of the face, and within a fifth of a second we (well, most people) make a judgement as to their emotional state. In evolutionary terms this ability has been crucial to the success of homo sapiens as a social animal, as it primes elemental responses such as empathy and distrust.

As a species we simply do not have the neuronal machinery to accurately evaluate the mood of a fellow human being without being able to see the full face. But does this matter? Perhaps in societies where faces have been partly hidden for generations, individuals become more adept at making those evaluations solely on the subtle nuances of the eyes. The problem arises where burqa-wearer meets non burqa-wearer or, in this debate, where East meets West. The former is privy to a depth of emotional analysis denied the latter, who may thus feel at a disadvantage (real or imagined). This subtle discomfort is what many of us will have experienced in receiving a delivery at our front door from a helmeted motor-cyclist.

The liberal side of me believes that providing it is worn willingly and without duress, anyone should be able to wear the burqa or niqab (except perhaps when driving). However, we must also recognize that for sound evolutionary reasons face-covering impairs communication between individuals and that this is not good for social cohesion.

The Cell Cyclist

This is principally a blog for cyclists, but may equally appeal to anyone interested in the course of human suffering, in this case my own. I'm a cell biologist who briefly turned cell cyclist earlier this week, but I discovered on Monday that I’m a bit naïve when it comes to the requirements for tootling more than just a few miles around London. My good friend and colleague John Greenwood is cycling with two friends, Lloyd Hutchinson and Alex Monroe, from Land’s End to John O’Groats. This is a charity ride to raise money for research into blindness, details of which, including route and how to donate, can be found here. Their 1000 mile slog will take 14 days, and on Monday (July 5th, day 5) along with a few colleagues I joined the Three Amigos (as they’ve become known) for one of those days, the winding northerly route along the English-Welsh border through Herefordshire and Shropshire.

We arrived at our rendezvous a few miles south of Ross-on-Wye on Sunday evening, half an hour or so before John’s group who had that day cycled the 75 miles from somewhere near Glastonbury. The three had been joined on day 4 by BBC middle-east correspondent Jeremy Bowen, who arrived intact but with a ghastly looking knee following a tumble. Clearly, visiting Gaza every few weeks simply isn’t dangerous enough. Despite their exertions, the four were in excellent spirits and a most convivial evening ensued, as we unrestrainedly sampled the local beer and cider, and stoked ourselves with calories for the exertions that lay ahead.

But it was as the evening became dusk, and dusk became crepuscule, and through the jokes and merriment, that a few mild anxieties first began to flutter in my stomach. Looking around the gathered company, not only did the others all appear to be unreasonably fit, but they also had all the gear – the funny little gloves with no fingers, the lycra shorts, the weird handlebar extensions, clips that stick your feet to the pedals etc., all of which I’d idly dismissed as mere frippery, the unnecessary trappings of the ardent amateur. Ruminating on whether my preparation for this bike ride might have been just a little too relaxed, I made my way to bed and a rather restless night.

Up early the next morning to birdsong, sunshine and the roar of a septic tank lorry outside my window. After a light breakfast (scrambled egg on toast, tea) we checked out, threw bags in the 'support car' and prepared for departure. As we assembled for a group photo my anxieties might easily have been piqued by John, who pointed out that I appeared to have come dressed for a barbeque rather than a bike ride. No matter I thought to myself with inexplicable confidence, I’m feeling good, and whilst I may have lacked the glistening and tightly stretched apparel of the others, I felt comfortable and relaxed as we snaked away from the hotel and headed north.

The first few miles were a breeze, nay a delight, as we cycled up the Wye valley through the bucolic charms of sunlit woods and fields, and although I had to get off and push a couple of times (which none of the others did) I was feeling in reasonably good shape. I suppose it was after about 25 miles that I started to be aware of just how unaccommodating my bicycle seat had become. Standing on the pedals from time to time helped, but there was no denying the nagging discomfort that grew with every mile. Add to that, a brisk northerly wind had pepped up, apparently referred to by serious cyclists, and with good reason, as the ‘invisible hill’.

In fact, the combination of real and invisible hills was starting to take its toll, and progress wasn’t helped by a couple of wrong turnings that resulted in us cycling twice through the village of Bartestree. The hills did eventually give way to something flatter, but by the time we reached Leominster (32 miles), and our lunch stop, my wrists were now giving me as much gyp as my derriere. Sad to report, it was but a few miles further that I realized that to continue might very well mean never being able to sit down again, and when I’m not powering home from work up the Holloway Road, I’m a man who’s fond of the comfy chair.

So it came to pass that after some 36 miles the magnificent seven became the stupendous six, as I sat out the remaining miles in the ‘support car’, my view of the countryside enriched by half a dozen bobbing backsides all the way to our destination at Clun. Scientists never tire of learning, and the lesson for me that day was that the right equipment is actually quite important, not least the padded shorts, and that training beforehand is also to be highly recommended. But even with all the correct preparation there can be no doubt that what the Three Amigos are doing is awesomely impressive and they have my unreserved admiration. The beers we downed in Clun were, for me, a well-earned conclusion to an arduous but wonderful day, and for John, Lloyd and Alex, a mere refueling and pit-stop for the 65 miles that lay ahead on Tuesday.

Jenks: from tectum to rectum

Friends, and I have many, often ask me, 'my dear fellow, how on earth do you rally those vitriolic thoughts of yours into the cogent masterpieces of anti-science invective we know and love?' They really do. And invariably, I will tug ruminatively on my pipe, and respond with the answer that vituperation, wit and coruscation are three happy neighbours in one of the many higher centres of my brain, and it would be folly for me to try and impede their joyous communion in the written word.

With equal regularity, friends, for I am blessed with many, will urge me to explain in greater detail the birthing route that delivers what I think of as my 'conscience' to the printed page. If you're not 'pro'science then of course you must be 'con'science! Sometimes my own brilliance leaves me short of breath, I stand with eyes akimbo, and drink deep from the well of scientific ignorance.

Where was I? Oh yes, responding to the pleadings of my friends, what absolute dears, I recently had a consultation with a neurosurgeon - an attempt to fathom the mysterious origins of my glittering erudition. I was told that whilst scientists do not fully understand the processing of abstract thought into written or spoken word, it was clear in my own case that when I see something, a region of my brain called the tectum makes the first translation into reasoned response. From there, gravity (if you believe in such invisible forces!) pulls the developing notion to exit my body from something called the rectum.

I still haven't the faintest idea what he was talking about, but my friends, and what on earth would I do without them, seemed absolutely delighted with the diagnosis.

The doctor will see you at an indeterminate time

Towards the end of last year, shortly after discovering the joys of Twitter, I posted a couple of blogs on the subject of my impending heart valve surgery. I wish I could say that my subsequent silence on this topic could be explained by an uneventful period of convalescence, but alas this is not the case.

The first date I was given for the operation was erased well in advance, the second date was changed to a third because the surgeon decided I could be treated using keyhole surgery (which necessitates the assembly of a separate specialist team), but this too was cancelled.

The fourth date took me right up to the day of admission. After several phone calls with the hospital, and with their profound apologies, I was told there were no beds available. My condition is not urgent, and people keep having heart attacks so of course they take priority. By now it was almost Christmas, and I agreed with the surgeon that a fifth date should be deferred until early January. Unfortunately, I developed a nagging chest infection over the holiday, which meant a further postponement.

Today I go to see the surgeon with high hopes that we'll set a sixth date. During this time we've become quite friendly, and despite the frustration of the repeated delays I am acutely aware that it would make little sense to antagonise the man who's going to be reassembling my mitral valve.

My condition is not physically problematic, the most annoying consequence of the repeated delays is my diminished ability to concentrate on work. I am able to deal with short-term tasks, such as refereeing papers or grants and keeping up with the administrative demands of HR, but it's a real struggle to focus on larger mind-tasks such as writing grant applications and papers.

In the mean time, at least I continue to learn. Evidence here that I've managed (with much help from my 14 year old daughter) to improve my Photoshop skills.