I am deeply terrified by the forests of my own ignorance. This fear can become so debilitating, the forests so overwhelming, that I simply give up trying to claw my way out. Most recently, this has resulted in me relinquishing attempts to chase after current political discourse. The strong feeling is that I will never know enough; about macroeconomics, about the American Civil War, about the rise of authoritarianism in Poland. About Brexit.

Undoubtedly, my fear of ignorance was heightened after getting into Cambridge. I recall my first holiday after Michaelmas Term of my first year, when a family friend questioned me about King Edward VII’s role in the Second Boer War. I turned about as bright red as a brown person can go, admitting that I couldn’t offer him anything other than knowledge of a few dates and names. His response, a comment I’ve received perhaps twenty times since, was: “Call yourself a Cambridge historian, and you can’t tell me about *insert historical event here*?”. What I now wish I had said, is this: “Sorry, Paul, but British military history in the late Victorian era is not my area of interest. You clearly know plenty about it, so please enlighten me.” Or, more succinctly, “Piss off, Paul”.

When discussing politics, give up your ego, and accept that sounding clever in a conversation at your college bar is probably not going to fix the housing crisis

Nowhere is this fear of ignorance – of potential embarrassment – more pronounced than in the realm of political discussion, and this is the direct result of politics becoming far too enmeshed with personal identity. Alongside the music we listen to and the clothes we wear, politics has become another expression of self. This has led to two things: one, a worry that our political views or ideas will be used against us, and two, a level of engagement with political causes that can at best be called superficial. Our primary concern has become not the substance of ideas but rather the portrayal of a consistent political image. I should not have leapt to support my lecturers simply because the term ‘pension cuts’ sent a cold shiver down my leftist spine, but because I had come to an informed opinion on the issue itself, isolated from pre-existing beliefs. Moreover, seeking validation through politics will always lead to simplicity. Significant historical change has been enacted by thousands of nameless, faceless heroes; posting a photo of yourself at the divestment rally is not a virtue.

So, what to do? The Japanese philosopher and samurai Miyamoto Musashi implores us to “Think lightly of yourself, and deeply of the world”. When discussing politics, give up your ego, and accept that sounding clever in a conversation at your college bar is probably not going to fix the housing crisis. By the same token, so many times have I worried about appearing stupid, that I have prevented myself from debating and developing my own opinions, and from challenging other people to defend theirs. This leads to intellectual stagnation, a permanent subscription to a political identity that refuses to change.

The fear of ignorance is also self-perpetuating; the more scared we are of being wrong, the less willing we are to open up and learn. Isaac Asimov wrote despondently of a “cult of ignorance” that he perceived in the US, which was fostered by the “false notion that democracy means that my ignorance is just as good as your knowledge”. This comfort with being in the dark for the sake of maintaining a political image is unacceptable. Rather, we have a responsibility to face the forest head on, and self-educate.

The internet has democratised knowledge, and whilst the volume of information can be overwhelming, it can also be essential for revising our prejudices. Find the most cogent arguments for your beliefs, and then read the rebuttals those arguments have received. Concede to the experts. It was only this summer, after listening to Ha-Joon Chang, that I was able to find the language and information to articulate thoughts I have held for over eight years (my angsty twelve-year old socialist self has finally been satiated). In this way, when our knowledge inevitably falls short, it is not for lack of trying.

The limitations of human knowledge define our consciousness: we still don’t know what caused the Big Bang, or why I have recurring dreams about my eyelashes falling out. My fear of ignorance, though not unfounded – the ignorance itself most certainly exists – exists in us all. But as soon as we become outwardly political, as many of us first do during our time at university, this ignorance becomes a threat not only to our ideology, but our personal morality and character. Rather than forgive ourselves for momentary ignorance, the reasonable prelude to knowledge, we jump to conclusions based on neon headlines and prejudice as a means of self-defence. What we must practise instead is letting go of self-importance, and undertaking a slower process of self-education. We should try to understand what matters to us in as much detail as possible, and most importantly, not be afraid when that is not enough.