How do you know whats true Sheila Marie Orfano

A samurai is found dead
in a quiet bamboo grove.

One by one, the crime’s only known
witnesses recount their version

of the events that transpired.

But as they each tell their tale,

it becomes clear that every testimony
is plausible, yet different.

And each witness implicates themselves.

This is the premise of “In a Grove,”
a short story published in the early 1920s

by Japanese author Ryūnosuke Akutagawa.

Though many know this tale of warring
perspectives by a different name:

“Rashomon.”

In 1950, Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa
adapted two of Akutagawa’s stories

into one film.

This movie introduced the world
to an enduring cultural metaphor

that has transformed our understanding
of truth, justice and human memory.

The Rashomon effect describes a situation

in which individuals give significantly
different but equally conceivable accounts

of the same event.

Often used to highlight the unreliability
of eyewitnesses,

the Rashomon effect usually occurs
under two specific conditions.

The first: there’s no evidence
to verify what really happened.

And the second: there’s pressure
to achieve closure,

often provided by an authority figure
trying to identify the definitive truth.

But the Rashomon effect undermines the
very idea of a singular, objective truth.

In the source material,

Akutagawa and Kurosawa use
the tools of their media

to give each character’s testimony
equal weight,

transforming each witness
into an unreliable narrator.

Without any hints on who’s sharing
the most accurate account,

the audience can’t tell which
character to trust.

Instead, each testimony takes
on a truthful quality,

and the audience is left doubting
their convictions

as they guess who ended
the samurai’s life.

Some might find this frustrating because
the plot subverts expectations

of how mysteries usually end.

But by refusing to provide a clear answer,

these two artists capture the messiness
and complexity of truth and human memory.

Neuroscientists have found
that when we form a memory,

our interpretation of visual information
is influenced

by our previous experiences
and internal biases.

Some of these biases are unique
to individuals,

but others are more universal.

For example, egocentric bias
can influence people

to subconsciously reshape their memories

in ways that cast a positive light
on their actions.

Even if we were able to encode
a memory accurately,

recalling it incorporates new information
that changes the memory.

And when we later recall that event,

we typically remember the embellished
memory instead of the original experience.

These underlying psychological
phenomena mean that the Rashomon effect

can pop up anywhere.

In biology, scientists starting
from the same dataset

and applying the same analytical methods,
frequently publish different results.

Anthropologists regularly grapple with
the impact personal backgrounds can have

on an expert’s perception.

In one famous case, two anthropologists
visited the Mexican village of Tepoztlan.

The first researcher described life
in the town as happy and contented,

while the second recorded residents
as paranoid and disgruntled.

Experts aside, the Rashomon effect can
also impact the general public,

particularly when it comes to the
perception of complicated world events.

For example, following a 2015
security summit

between the United States
and leaders from the Arab States,

media reports about the summit
varied enormously.

Some stated that it had gone smoothly,
while others called it a complete failure.

It’s tempting to fixate on why we
have competing perceptions,

but perhaps the more important question
the Rashomon effect raises is,

what is truth anyway?

Are there situations when
an “objective truth” doesn’t exist?

What can different versions
of the same event tell us

about the time, place and people involved?

And how can we make group decisions
if we’re all working

with different information, backgrounds,
and biases?

Like most questions,
these don’t have a definitive answer.

But the enduring importance
of Akutagawa’s story

suggests there may be value
in embracing the ambiguity.