Somehow, in a world without satellite television, air travel, or the internet, the ancient Cynics devised the concept of cosmopolitanism. The cosmos is one giant city, they postulated, with its citizens all so intimately connected as to be like kin to one another. Their ideological cousins, the Stoics, developed this notion further, putting it at the cornerstone of their philosophy. There is literally no difference between helping oneself and helping others. So long as we are aware of our responsibilities as rational beings, to do one is to do the other.
The modern citizen of the cosmos is able to test the fullest extent of this philosophy. Never before has it been so universally easy to spend substantial portions of our lives in faraway lands, speaking foreign tongues, engaging in behaviors radically unfamiliar to our younger selves. In some sense, it is arguable that the philosophically-minded should actively seek opportunities to sojourn in places culturally distinct from one’s home. In fact, it is that very argument that I will attempt to make a case for over the course of the next several paragraphs. However, there are better and worse ways to travel, a fact of which our ancient forebears were well aware.
Many of us view travel as an antidote for sorrow, or a distraction from everyday life. We inhabitants of the 21st century need not be endowed with considerable wealth to have a penchant for preoccupation. Travel to foreign lands is to us moderns a relatively inexpensive pass-time, something that more easily offers entertainment than opportunities for self reflection. But travel in itself does not make better people of us. Like other things easily purchased, it does not even relieve us of the troubles we thought we left at home.
“Why do you wonder that globe-trotting does not help you, seeing that you always take yourself with you? The reason which set you wandering is ever at your heals,” Seneca quotes Socrates in his 28th letter to Lucilius. He continues: “What pleasure is there in seeing new lands? Or in surveying cities and spots of interest? All your bustle is useless. Do you ask why such flight does not help you? Because you flee along with yourself.” Travel is not, as some dyed-in-the-wool adventurers might have us believe, valuable in its own right. The Stoics would argue that only virtue reserves that right. If it is to be valuable to us, we must first have our philosophical house in order.
Travel must be undertaken with a mind geared toward self reflection for it to be of use to the philosopher. It is, like any other experience, an opportunity to learn how to be a better citizen of the Cosmos, and offers little to those seeking enlightenment at a Sri Lankan souvenir shop. The beaten path of the Eat Pray Love tourist is strewn with well-meaning wayfarers who shortsightedly abandon the feast of a foreign culture after only the first course.
This does not mean that travel should not be pursued for the sake of pleasure, but rather that our primary pursuit should be self cultivation. After all, pleasure can and should be had anywhere. To further quote Seneca from the same letter, once we are comfortable with ourselves and have a firm grasp on the worthier reasons for travel, “all change of scene will become pleasant; though you may be driven to the uttermost ends of the earth, in whatever corner of a savage land you may find yourself, that place, however forbidding, will be to you a hospital abode. The person you are matters more than the place to which you go; for that reason we should not make the mind a bondsman to any one place. Live in this belief: ‘I am not born for any one corner of the universe; this whole world is my country.’”
This brings me to the central focus of this article: what should the modern Stoic bear in mind when abroad for an extended period of time? If the entire cosmos of rational beings is our polis, or city, then we are truly citizens of the world. How can we be citizens in a place whose customs are unknown, or even unpleasant to us? How do we have civic engagement in a land whose language we do not speak? How can the Stoic principle of oikeiosis and the counsel of the ancients to think of strangers as our brothers and sisters become more than mere platitudes? While this could easily become the subject of an entire dissertation, I would like to advance 3 observations that I have experienced as an American who has lived most of my adult life on the opposite side of the planet.
Living abroad is a minute-to-minute reminder of the dichotomy of control
“Some things are under our control, while others are not under our control.” So begins the Encheiridon of Epictetus with perhaps the most oft-cited quote in the Stoic canon. He continues, “Under our control are conception, choice, desire, aversion, and in a word, everything that is our own doing; not under our control are our body, our property, reputation, office, and, in a word, everything that is not our own doing.” In the comfort of a culturally familiar environment, it might become easy to forget that for all the effort we exert on our situations, the outcomes are simply beyond our control. When we navigate society with comfortable vernacular and our disagreements follow recognizable patterns, we become able to predict outcomes in ways that run the risk of misleading us into thinking that we have more control over our lives than we actually have. Living abroad, especially in lands with radically different histories and customs, cures us of this illusion.
Navigating social situations with grace is only the beginning of the ever-expanding list of concerns for the expat. Am I allergic to this unrecognizable dish put in front of me? Will visa laws change this year? If I die abroad, what will become of my body? We are constantly in the process of discovering the basics of life. What all strangers in strange lands come to learn is acceptance, both of the bottomless ignorance of the mechanics of life in your adopted home, as well as for the disconnect between your best intentions and your desired outcomes. The only method to attain more or less abiding contentment is to fix one’s attitude, and when appropriate to try one’s best to do as the Romans, without ever forgetting the ultimate uncertainty of the results of our actions.
Living abroad gives us infinite ways to re-contextualize virtue
As Stoics, we are convinced of the self-sufficiency of virtue, or rational pro-social behavior. We need go no farther than our own living rooms to exercise the cardinal virtues of practical wisdom, justice, temperance, and courage. But we are also called toward social and civic engagement, which requires exposure to the wider public. Diversifying the contexts toward which we are exposed gives us ever more varied ways in which to practice what we have already learned, as well as further the application thereof.
Though we might all be citizens of a single polis, this does not negate the existence of cultural distinction. Our values and customs differ from one corner of the world to the other. In addition to palpably reinforcing the dichotomy of control, immersing oneself in a foreign culture teaches us just how much we can differ one from another, and the dimensions along which those differences can manifest. Modern China, for instance, demonstrates social closeness through the abandonment of linguistic niceties, such that essentially all lexical markers for politeness, i.e. equivalents for “please” “thank you” and the like, are reserved for a handful of occasions. Even with strangers, or one’s superiors on the social hierarchy such as one’s boss or law enforcement, it is common, and even preferred, to forego the use of such estranging language. Japan, conversely, continues fairly strict observance of the Confucian practices of etiquette. Even friends who have known each other for years will continue to use higher registers of politeness in discourse, and shower one another with their rich vocabulary for gratitude and mutual care to show appreciation for the hard work of others. Westerners tend not to be as actively aware of their emotional proximity to others, nor do we make it a habit to grammaticize or ritualize the ways in which that proximity is felt. Social harmony and belonging are more salient in the Orient, something the Modern West might do well to learn.
Likewise, it is important to bear in mind the importance of friendship to the Stoics. They agreed strongly with their philosophical contender Aristotle that “Perfect friendship is the friendship of men who are good, and alike in virtue; for these wish well alike to each other qua good, and they are good themselves.” Finding examples of “wise men,” or ethically-driven fellow citizens of the polis, in distant lands has been a concern of the Stoics since the founding of the philosophy. As Cicero reminds us in De Natura Deorum, “It is one of [the Stoics’] maxims that the wise are friends to the wise, though unknown to each other; for as nothing is more amiable than virtue, he who possess it is worthy of our love, to whatever country he belongs.” Friendship with fellow “wise men” transcends cultural boundaries, and enriches us in ways we cannot predict. Seneca expresses this thought beautifully in the 109th letter to Lucilius when he says:
“… a good man will help another good man. … they will communicate to each other a knowledge of certain facts; for the wise man is not all-knowing. And even if he were all-knowing, someone might be able to devise and point out short cuts, by which the whole matter is readily disseminated.”
We are therefore not only able to befriend culturally distinct “good men” but our differences allow us to enrich one another on the very matters of virtue which attracted us in the first place. The ancients thought of virtue as a craft like any other, and the meeting of cultures allows for its development. Just as the cultivation of rice spread from the Yangtze River valley to the neighboring civilizations of Southeast Asia among the agriculturally adept, so too can the cultivation of virtue spread among good citizens. Differing ideas can be challenged, or similar ideas can be refined. Or, as Seneca so astutely notes, short cuts might be pointed out. Take for instance this passage from Book I chapter XXI of the Discourses of Epictetus:
“It has always been my wish that those who meet me should admire me and as they follow me should exclaim ‘O Great Philosopher!’” Who are these people by whom you wish to be admired? Are they not these about whom you are in the habit of saying that they are mad? What then? Do you wish to be admired by the mad?
Now compare it with this quote from the Analects of Confucius:
Fear not that society doesn’t understand you, fear that you don’t understand society.
Both quotes remind the reader not to value the opinions of others, but the latter goes on further to suggest that we conversely run the risk of harm when we fail to understand others. It implies that such ignorance exposes us to any number of unstated risks, such as being influenced by others to unwittingly participate in behavior we would otherwise avoid. And indeed, it does so in a fraction of the space. The original, in fact, is even shorter1; western languages2 simply cannot capture the succinctness of Chinese. And similarly, the rich cultural context that learning a foreign language provides allows outsiders to reimagine their own philosophies through an additional lens.
Living abroad allows us to truly expand and collapse our sphere of care.
The whole world is our city, and we are its citizens. When we live in foreign lands, it is our responsibility to acclimate to the local customs, language, and societal norms as best as we are able. As we learn the ways in which human behavior varies, we learn to look more critically on our own cultural background, to see shortcomings in the ways we might have been practicing virtue at home. We learn to become more “culturally agnostic” and adopt new habits that enable us to be pro-social in infinitely varying ways.
The circle of Hierocles calls us to collapse our sphere of care from the farthest reaches of humanity onto ourselves. There is no better way to do that, I would argue, than to live among those we mistakenly believe to be fundamentally different from ourselves. To live next to someone is the first step to taking them seriously, and to truly attempt to understand them. In this way, the wellbeing of our neighbor is a daily concern for ourselves. The real secret is that for the wise man, there is no such thing as “abroad,” only not-yet-visited corners of his own polis. If we’re really diligent, we might be able to follow Seneca’s advice when he proclaims:
“I will live so as to remember that I was born for others, and will thank Nature on that account… She has given me alone to all, and all to me alone.”
Give me a porch and some sunshine and I will be stoic and welcoming to all who come my way …..