Who Defines Us? Memory, Perception, and Moral Judgment

 Mangoes — the sour-sweet ones — are her favorite. Mine is guava. I am eating one while writing this. We had a lovely conversation tonight. She has gone to sleep, and I am here, trying to make that conversation last a little longer through my thoughts.

I once read a story about a woman who lost her memory and found herself in a completely unfamiliar world. A man stood before her, claiming to be her husband. But she had no memory of him — or of herself. Her mind was filled with questions about her identity, yet no one seemed to give her real answers.

Instead, she found judgments.

People said she had cheated on her husband. Some called her unreasonable, haughty, even obnoxious. They looked at her with hatred, as if she were already guilty of something she couldn’t even remember. A woman claiming to be her best friend came with a cruel plan — to torment her husband through her. Overwhelmed by this new and hostile reality, she began to feel disgusted with herself. She could not accept the version of her identity that others described. Unable to reconcile it, she attempted suicide.

After regaining consciousness, she confronted her husband again, demanding answers. Why wouldn’t he tell her who she truly was?

His response was quiet but profound. He said that whatever he told her would only be his perspective. He could describe what he thought of her, but not who she truly was. Only she could discover that. No one else could define her identity for her.

I do not remember the entire story, and perhaps that does not matter. This part is enough.

It reminds me of The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho. The novel begins with the death of Athena, after which a journalist interviews everyone who knew her. Through these interviews, Athena appears differently in every narrative. To some, she is a witch. To others, a goddess. To some, a madwoman. To others, a woman who selfishly prioritized herself above everything.

Yet no one can deny that she lived intensely — experiencing what she desired, mastering her passions with devotion. An extraordinary woman. But who truly knew her? Who could define her as right or wrong?

Perhaps no one.

People often judge because judgment is easier than understanding. And what is “wrong,” really? Is it merely the absence of “right”? Can we measure a person full of colors, contradictions, and emotions using a rigid black-and-white standard?

This thought leads me to Raskolnikov, the protagonist of Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. He sees an old pawnbroker as a cruel woman who exploits the poor. In his mind, she is unworthy of her wealth. From that perception, he constructs justification. He convinces himself that killing her would serve a greater good — that distributing her wealth to the poor would make the crime meaningful.

He imagines himself superior, comparing his reasoning to that of Napoleon Bonaparte. For a great cause, he believes, a little bloodshed is justified. History is often told from the victor’s perspective. The predator becomes the hero; the casualties become statistics. And why would a victor trouble himself with the suffering of his prey?

Across these stories, one thread binds my thoughts: the question of definition.

Who has the authority to define a person?

Are we what others say we are?

Or are we something that exists beyond their perceptions?

Perhaps we are fragmented in the eyes of the world — different in every story told about us. Yet somewhere beneath those shifting versions lies a self that only we can confront and understand.

And maybe the real task is not to control how we are seen, but to know ourselves deeply enough that we are not destroyed by other people’s definitions.

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