The last of the remaining humans

Huxley's imagined islands..

In Brave New World, Aldous Huxley envisioned a future where humanity lives within an intricately controlled society, one that shapes every facet of existence from education to the very nature of personal identity. He foresaw a world where individuals, molded by artificial systems, would lose touch with their instinctual selves, becoming cogs in a vast, meticulously engineered machine. Yet, in this sweeping vision of conformity, Huxley left room for hope—a small island in South America, untouched by these systems, where humanity’s true nature would remain preserved. Here, unmediated by synthetic influences, people would retain their instincts, individuality, and the uniquely human qualities that set them apart from the manufactured masses.

Huxley, I believe, wasn’t merely theorizing. In his own way, he was sounding an alarm, one we’re drawing closer to every day. The world seems to be on the verge of becoming one vast manufacturing unit, breeding “humans” who simply wear labels—titles, affiliations, beliefs—without truly understanding or questioning them. Independent thought is slipping away; soon, resistance may disappear altogether. We’re drifting toward a time when people will only echo the ideas they've been fed, without a flicker of critical thought or dissent. Individuals will align with one side or the other, adopting pre-packaged ideologies instead of examining issues with any real depth. On the surface, society might appear diverse and complex, but beneath that lies a growing uniformity, a carefully orchestrated conformity spreading across every culture and region.

I once described England as a force of colonization that, instead of territory, now mass-produces minds—people cultivated with the precision of a commercial farm, more like livestock than autonomous beings. And this wasn’t born out of animosity but observation: as a mature student, I found myself surrounded by young people whose perspectives were curated by algorithms, whose opinions were largely inherited from the internet. It wasn’t their fault. They had been swept into an ecosystem that allows little room for nuance or genuine exploration. I wonder if Huxley saw this coming, how the systems we build for convenience, connection, and control would end up breeding homogeneity, eroding the capacity for free thought.

Huxley may have held out hope for a last bastion of humanity, a small island in the depths of South America, where people would remain untouched, preserving the essence of human instincts and the sacred connection to nature. Yet, it seems he underestimated the reach of this technological tide. The islands of sanctity and sacredness, once imagined to be safe from encroachment, are disappearing at an alarming rate. The force shaping human existence now moves with a speed and magnitude far beyond any single person’s control. With the internet stretching into the world’s remotest corners, even those untouched places of instinct and heritage are dwindling. We’re witnessing the gradual extinction of individuals who still carry within them unfiltered human nature—a vital link to our past and our shared history. When these last enclaves are gone, it may mean the complete severing of our instinctual heritage.

In only a few short years, we’ve evolved into a species fundamentally different from those who came before us. Our predecessors lived deeply connected to their environment and to one another in ways we can now scarcely imagine. In light of this, a question arises: Are we prepared to let go of this old version of humanity, to relinquish the instincts, rituals, and the wisdom that took countless generations to build? Or is there still a way to preserve it, even as we forge ahead? So this brings us to a pressing question..

Are we truly human anymore? It’s a question that seems more pressing by the day. Perhaps we’re more accurately described as cybernetic beings now, our lives intertwined with the internet, sharing moments, thoughts, and images with the world at every instant. As you read this, you’re engaging with words that traveled across thousands of miles, from my keyboard to your screen. Is this good or bad? I’m not sure, but in this era of hyperconnectivity, loneliness has somehow become a defining feature of our lives. It’s ironic—Huxley’s characters, too, grappled with loneliness amid constant stimulation. Our friendships often lack depth, and the local communities that once grounded us have weakened. It’s as if we rely on this cybernetic web not to grow closer but simply to stay tethered, afraid to drift into true solitude.

Humans were once creatures of remarkable freedom, roaming the land and water at will, guided by their inner instincts. Their gods weren’t images or institutions; they were the very elements that sustained them. Conscience was their compass, not law or government. Today, we’ve moved so far from those roots. In our pursuit of wealth, we seem to have lost the essence of peace and happiness. The boundless connection promised to us has turned out to be an isolating trap, one that leaves people feeling lonelier than ever, even with billions of potential connections at their fingertips.

And yet, somewhere, there are still communities—the last pockets of what we might call real humanity. These are the people who live outside the digital web, who feel the earth and know the seasons, who remain connected to something deeper and untouched. They remind us of what it means to be truly human. The question is, can we find our way back, or is that life—our former, natural life—fading too quickly for us to reclaim?

In recent weeks, I traveled through the dense, green valleys of the Western Ghats in India, where I encountered people living in isolated enclaves, deep in communion with nature. For generations, these tribal communities have existed far from the frenzied pace of the modern world. Their lives are deeply rooted in tradition and the natural landscape around them. Simplicity defines their days, and an enduring connection to the land shapes their worldview.

Within these communities, bonds are strong and genuine, shaped by shared responsibilities and a collective spirit. Life unfolds through communal gatherings, storytelling, and age-old rituals that reinforce a shared identity. Absent are the pressures of technology or the relentless pursuit of material wealth. Instead, happiness here is found in the warmth of close-knit relationships, where each person is seen, heard, and valued. Isolation, in this case, isn’t a burden but a sanctuary, a space where peace is found in the harmony between people and their environment.

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During my short stay, I saw this life in its simplest beauty: songs echoing in fields surrounded by a sacred forest, a slower but richer rhythm of existence where respect for the earth and each other creates a shared purpose that transcends individual gain. This, I thought, is the “island” Huxley once imagined—a pocket of humanity untouched by the trappings of modernity.

But it left me questioning: where do we, in our digital, fast-paced world, stand in relation to such a way of life? Are we losing our sense of rootedness and interconnectedness in the drive toward progress?

We share almost nothing in common with these people anymore, do we? Recently, I asked some of you to recount what it was like to grow up before the world was saturated with screens and notifications. Your stories were eye-opening—they revealed a time when our lives closely mirrored the simplicity and community of these isolated tribes. But that bond has been severed. We, too, now live in an imagined reality, surrounded by a world that feels like home but is anything but real.

Take a moment to look around. Notice how numb we’ve become to our own lives. We’ve subscribed to endless wars that fill our screens and keep us emotionally engaged, though none of it affects our day-to-day lives. We track economic battles that keep our money on a seesaw of highs and lows. There’s no silence anymore; our days are filled with noise, our minds are anything but peaceful. We’re connected to millions, yet lonelier than ever. Our children live miles away, too busy to visit, and our grandchildren grow up with little sense of our presence. We’ve traded genuine family bonds for the illusion of “infinite connection,” losing the most dear and grounding things in our lives—family, friendship, and the peace found in simple, shared moments.

And what has this pursuit of comfort cost us? New diseases, deep-rooted anxieties, and a gnawing sense that something is terribly wrong. We sense it in our subconscious but feel paralyzed, too comfortable to change. Our screens have become a silent captor, an addictive comfort that leaves us in a waking dream. When reality does break through, we’re overwhelmed by stress, realizing we’ve squandered irreplaceable moments in mindless scrolling.

Who benefits from this numb, distracted life? I don’t know. But if we don’t pause, if we don’t reclaim our attention and time, the cost of our complacency may be the very essence of what it means to be human.

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There are still those who live outside this imaginary reality we’ve crafted—a reality built on screens and superficial interactions, lacking the depth of real, sensory experience that once defined us as “human.” These individuals are grounded in the physical world, where relationships, labor, and land are all felt and experienced firsthand.

Their way of life has also preserved some of the world’s oldest forests and sacred groves. The reason is simple yet profound: they live by an inherited truth—'the land is not ours to own; we are its caretakers, passing it on, unspoiled, to the next generation.' This philosophy, carried through centuries, offers something beyond religious doctrine or cultural boundaries. It speaks of a humankind that transcended politics, technology, and even religious identity. It speaks of a person who valued connection over consumption, who saw the earth as kin, not commodity.

But here we are, in an era where “the hand of the machine,” as

Paul Kingsnorth

and others have warned, has outgrown its creators. We are engulfed by its reach, conditioned by its rhythms. So what, then, is the answer? Perhaps it lies not in retreating but in reclaiming the core of these ancient values—understanding that we are part of the world, not above it. If we can reawaken to the wisdom that we are here to steward and not exploit, we might begin to heal this disconnect. The answer may lie in simplicity, in a shift of perception, and in reconnecting to the land and each other with the humility and reverence that our ancestors once knew.

We can’t romanticize the past, nor can we retreat to a world where the internet didn’t exist. What we need is something richer than the hollow comforts of our manufactured reality—something that sustains us with a happiness that doesn’t fade with the next distraction or dopamine hit. True happiness isn’t loud or attention-seeking; it’s quiet, unremarkable, often easy to overlook. It lacks the drama of hardship or the thrill of temptation, demanding neither applause nor validation. Instead, it rests, soft and steady, in life’s small, passing moments—in the rhythm of familiar routines, the shared laughter of loved ones, and the peace of ordinary days.

Contentment doesn’t glitter like ambition or stir the soul like chaos. It simply holds us, like roots anchoring us to the earth, keeping us grounded. This happiness may never appear grand or glamorous, but it is precisely this gentle, stable joy that gives life its meaning. It’s the quiet, enduring force that makes existence feel whole.

We must find our answers here, in this moment, in this era, without running back to old worlds. And perhaps the answer lies in reclaiming our humanness. To some, it may seem irrational to embrace an older form of belief—a belief in the divine within nature, in the vitality of the earth itself. But the indigenous wisdom of tribes worldwide, the ones who called savages, those who revere the natural world as sacred, still resonates with truth. The earth is alive, and so are we, bound by a kinship that the modern age seems to have forgotten.

The forces trying to turn us into numb, purposeless beings must be confronted. This is our guard to take. We cannot allow ourselves to become inert, passive spectators in our own lives. Instead, we must become like coal, ignited with purpose, a living, breathing part of this world rather than its bystander. We might have to turn into that savage, who spoke thus…

“Isn't there something in living dangerously?

'There's a great deal in it,' the Controller replied. 'Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.

'What?' questioned the Savage, uncomprehending. It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory.

'V.P.S.?'

Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconvenience.'

'But I like the inconveniences.'

We don't,' said the Controller. 'We prefer to do things comfortably.'

'But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.'

'In fact,' said Mustapha Mond, 'you're claiming the right to be unhappy. Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer, the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.' There was a long silence.

'I claim them all,' said the Savage at last.

Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. 'You're welcome,' he said.”

― Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to find islands of sanctuary amidst the relentless tides of materialism and distraction. Each time we discover a space that offers solace and connection, we are met with overwhelming forces that seek to erode it. Yet, rather than solely searching for these external havens, we can turn inward and become those mini-islands of sanctity and sacredness ourselves.

In doing so, we cultivate spaces within us that thrive on authenticity, nurturing our instincts and values in a world that often seeks to drown them out. As we embrace this journey, we may begin to notice that we are not alone; many others are also emerging from the fog of virtuality, seeking out connections and communities that resonate with the essence of what it means to be human.

With time, we will see that we have formed a vast archipelago of islands—each representing our shared strength and instinctive drive for meaningful existence. Together, these islands can create a thriving network that celebrates life, purpose, and our profound connection to one another and the earth. In this collective awakening, we will rediscover the beauty of being truly alive, anchored in the present, and rooted in the sacredness of our shared humanity. More alive. More savage!

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