The Natural History of Power

It’s often useful to look back at our probable genetic heritage. We find that it contains a legacy inherited from our human ancestors, and it influences certain aspects of our social behavior, limiting our freedom of choice. Blind or semi-blind adherence to this legacy is not harmless for human society. We need to be aware of it, not only to better understand history and the events we witness and participate in, but also to learn lessons for the future. An informed person won’t place their hopes in the spontaneous rise to power of a strong personality—they already know what kind of “order” such a person will impose. Nor will they hope that “things will just work themselves out,” because they know that the worst-case scenario is what usually forms on its own. Finally, they won’t be swayed by the calls of Nazis, religious fundamentalists, anarchists, or communists. The first two openly advocate for a rigid hierarchy based on certain instincts, while the latter two inevitably hand society over to the very biological instincts whose existence they so vehemently deny in theory.

Let’s start not too far back, with the great apes. Their groups are small and organized simply, but differently depending on the species—from the family units of tree-dwelling orangutans to the small herds of semi-terrestrial chimpanzees. Zoologists have spent much effort studying these animals. It turns out that in all great apes, males completely dominate females and form a hierarchical ladder among themselves.

Gorillas live protected by forests, eat simple plant foods, are large and powerful, and have huge canine teeth. They have almost no natural enemies. In these conditions, they developed a simple group structure, which can be called a patriarchal autocracy (rule by a single old male). The highest rank belongs to the oldest male with a gray back. The few younger males form a simple hierarchy among themselves. There are no friendly alliances, and they cannot collectively oppose the leader. The gray-backed male constantly reminds others of his rank, making them yield food, comfortable spots, and other signs of respect. The hierarchy is maintained easily, rarely escalating to fights. The dominant male uses facial expressions and gestures to threaten, and sometimes approaches a misbehaving member in a threatening pose. The subordinate immediately assumes a submissive posture, and the dominant male responds with a ritual pat on the back.

Such relationships are also found among humans—in large patriarchal families or small offices, for example—but the gorilla model doesn’t exhaust the variety of our hierarchical systems. Clearly, you can’t build a complex social organization on this basis alone, and our ancestors needed one badly.

Our upright-walking ancestor, Australopithecus afarensis, who lived in Africa three to four million years ago, was just over a meter tall. The first toolmaker, Homo habilis, was about the same height. Only the next species, Homo erectus, who appeared about 1.6 million years ago, was one and a half times taller.

Early hominids couldn’t hunt large animals. Recent research shows they were gatherers, caught small animals, and scavenged carcasses. Even with sharp stones, they likely couldn’t kill predators alone. They were small, poorly armed, slow runners (even compared to macaques and baboons), clumsy, and unable to quickly climb trees. They were more defenseless than chimpanzees, let alone gorillas, and lived in the savanna—the most dangerous environment for primates. So, the idea that they lived in isolated families or loosely organized groups (like gorillas and chimpanzees) doesn’t hold up.

At the same time, humans are, by zoological standards, highly aggressive, highly sexual (even compared to other apes), jealous to the point of killing rivals, and males have a lifelong need to fight for hierarchical rank. For ethologists, this is clear evidence that the backbone of ancient hominid groups was a strict hierarchical pyramid formed by sexually mature males. In many group-living animals—orangutans, lions, horses—the dominant male expels other males, including his own sons, to avoid endless conflict. But these are either well-armed, fast, or safe animals. If human ancestors had been well protected, they might have followed the same path.

At the same time and place, five species of “late” australopithecines—our huge, powerful, big-jawed, upright-walking distant cousins—lived. For them, this path was open. But our small, slender, small-toothed ancestors were poorly armed and needed all adult males for collective defense of females and offspring.

Ancestors of some macaque and baboon species faced the same problem in the savanna. Zoologists have long concluded that human ancestors independently followed a similar path. Therefore, we should look not only at the social organization of great apes, but also at that of savanna-dwelling monkeys, which have preserved ancestral social models. There are many striking analogies.

Baboon-like monkeys can form large, complexly organized herds. For males, the struggle for hierarchical rank—and thus for access to females—is almost the main thing in life. This struggle is harsh, with fights, and losing means constant humiliation, fear, and having to give up the best food. Low-ranking baboons are stressed, get sick more often, and live shorter lives. Reading about the tricks they use to torment each other can be nauseating.

Baboons in the African savanna discovered that a more aggressive, stronger male can be demoted if you find an ally as weak as yourself. If several males form an alliance, they can challenge a higher-ranking individual. Among young males, these alliances are unstable, as members often betray each other, especially in fights. But over time, some males of the same age form more stable alliances and can challenge the elders. Usually, the baboon herd forms a hierarchical pyramid by age, but “youth alliances” can change it through a “bottom-up revolution.”

Age-based pyramids are undoubtedly characteristic of humans. In traditional societies, age hierarchies are strictly observed. But forming alliances to overthrow a dominant is also common, known from ancient times to today. Among humans, these alliances are also unstable and easily broken. Betraying yesterday’s ally is normal for politicians—otherwise, the Roman saying “divide and conquer” wouldn’t have lasted for thousands of years. Of course, the idea of uniting to overthrow oppressors can be reached intellectually or through computer models, but the instinct is there, ready to act both rationally and irrationally.

Now let’s look at the top of the baboon pyramid. Who sits there? A patriarch with a gray mane? No! It turns out several patriarchs sit at the top. Their relationships aren’t friendly or trusting, but not hostile either. In their youth, they fought hard for dominance in their age group and long ago realized they’d never yield to each other. Forming an alliance, they collectively fought for every step up the hierarchy. Their less persistent and less organized peers died off, often from stress. Now, only a few remain, and their main concern is to hold off the more numerous, increasingly powerful subdominants trying to take their place. None of the old males can hold his position alone, so they do it together.

Ethologists call this group dominance by elders “gerontocracy”—rule by the old. Gerontocracy often forms among humans, too, either in small groups or at the top of a state. It usually arises when the official leader is insecure and fears the younger generation. By surrounding himself with equally old and insecure people and sharing power, he forms an elderly elite whose fear of losing power outweighs their desire to rule alone. In everyday life, the behavior of gerontocrats may seem cunning and calculated, but it’s really the cunning of instinct. Some have managed to hold onto power even in senility by relying on it. In traditional societies, the recognized and law-sanctioned power of elders—councils of elders, senators—was often acceptable to ordinary members.

Reaching the top of the hierarchy doesn’t make life easier for a baboon. He always feels there’s not enough order in the herd. Sitting on a high spot, he frowns at one monkey, then another. He has to threaten with his fist, beat his chest, bare his teeth, pat his genitals, summon one male or another, and force them into submissive poses: bowing their heads, prostrating themselves, or assuming a humiliating mating posture. If someone finds something tasty or interesting, he demands it. The elders consider the females their property and can’t allow them to mate with lower-ranking males, but the females are cunning and hard to watch. The leader has no nest or property. Three things constantly concern him: maintaining and expanding territory, keeping the females, and holding power.

For baboons, gerontocracy is inevitable, since a single leader can’t hold power alone. Subordinate males won’t help suppress each other individually; on the contrary, they can collectively resist. Let’s leave the world of baboon males—strong, rough, power-hungry, but not vile animals—and look at macaque herds, which are smaller and less well-armed. They also spend much time in open areas and form larger, less strictly organized groups. The struggle for dominance is important among macaque males, but less brutal. Their dominants don’t need alliances, because macaques have a nasty instinctive program (also found in some other pack animals, like dogs): if the dominant starts punishing a subordinate, others rush to help, yelling, throwing feces, or trying to hit the punished one themselves. Ethologists found that this is redirected aggression, built up from fear of the dominant, and is transferred down the hierarchy. During punishment, the punished one appears even lower than the lowest, so it’s safe to attack him. Females, who usually don’t play male hierarchy games (their rank is below any male), not only join in but act more zealously than the males. This simple mechanism allows the dominant to suppress subordinates with little risk—just start, and the group will finish. A similar program works in humans. Have you noticed how, in a line, a cashier (the dominant in our subconscious, since she controls something) can instantly turn almost the whole line against a customer who dares to demand something, even if it benefits everyone—like working faster, not shortchanging, or not being rude? Have you noticed it’s easiest for her to involve those who subconsciously feel lower and weaker—women more than men, older women more than younger? Do you think the cashier needs to be taught this psychological trick? No, it quickly surfaces from the subconscious.

Among humans, this program has many faces: public shaming at meetings, reprimands, show trials, public executions. A crowd can stone the condemned, demand their death, or, if handed a recently powerful person, literally tear them apart. Humans differ from macaques in one subtlety: while a male monkey doesn’t reward those who vent their aggression on the punished, a human can single out, promote, and elevate the most active. This creates the most terrifying structure—a leader surrounded by scoundrels. In spontaneously formed teenage gangs, this is common: a strong leader, a few nasty and pathetic hangers-on, and below them, much stronger guys. Rudyard Kipling vividly portrayed the psychology and behavior of the “toady” in the character of Tabaqui the jackal, who attached himself to Shere Khan the tiger.

In criminal gangs, the “boss” is also usually surrounded by “toadies.” The same happens at the state level: a tyrant is surrounded by satraps, whose distinguishing features are criminality, immorality, cowardice, baseness, and aggression toward subordinates. The ancient Greeks called this structure “ochlocracy”—rule by the worst. We’ve seen that the program of forming alliances within a rank, which exists in humans, doesn’t allow one to hold power alone. But if it’s opposed by the program of ganging up on those attacked by the dominant, then a small group of subdominants can’t withstand the dominant’s attack, supported by all the suppressed. This is the mechanism that creates a tyrant supported by “the people.” All tyrannies keep strong personalities in check by constantly threatening them with the wrath of the masses.

The main symbol of superiority among primates, as with many mammals and birds, is to visually elevate oneself above others, to take a high place and not let others up. Thrones, presidiums, platforms—all pay homage to this ancient program. There are many other, sometimes amusing, symbols.

The only joy for old baboons is middle-aged children. While climbing the hierarchy, they weren’t interested in them (except maybe playing with their mother’s younger children). But now, an innate program to teach them awakens. Surrounded by adoring youngsters (so scary to everyone else, so kind to them!), he shows them how to dig in the ground, tear apart rotten logs, turn over stones, crack nuts, find water, and more—everything he learned in childhood and mastered over a long, successful life.

Every young baboon has three innate programs for the dominant male with a gray mane: “this is what someone you should obey looks like,” “this is what your father looks like,” and “learn from someone who looks like this.” In other words, he is the Chief, Father, and Teacher.

The program to teach the young in old age is in us, too, and it’s a very necessary program. The trouble is, baboons live in a world of eternal truths, while we live in a rapidly changing world where the knowledge and views of elders can become outdated. Still, by the same innate program, being surrounded by children is a sign of the leader. That’s why tyrants everywhere have always wanted their public appearances to include a group of children suddenly and joyfully running out to surround them. Portraits of leaders with one or two happy little girls in their arms are a common attribute of all tyrannies. It seems like a cheap ethological trick, but it powerfully affects the mass subconscious. In response to the innate signal—children clinging to the male—the program shouts: “Here he is, our Chief, Father, and Teacher!”

As we see, in the primitive herd of human ancestors, there could be no trace of equality. “Primitive communism” is a myth invented by armchair scholars of the past century. By then, ethnographers had found among some degenerate tribes living in extremely harsh conditions various “quirks”: some were obsessed with making sure no one had anything of their own, others with complex rituals of dividing spoils, others with everyone doing the same work together, others suppressed all initiative, and some were so addicted to alcohol or drugs that the tribe survived only thanks to the women who didn’t abuse them. From these scraps, some authors created the image of a primitive paradise—“primitive communism”—and others, the theory of matriarchy. Science has since debunked these errors. But some armchair philosophers of the last century used them as the basis for far-reaching theories about humanity’s past and future. In the 20th century, a giant experiment was conducted on all continents, in all climates, and among all races to implement these theories and build communism. Physiologist Ivan Pavlov said he wouldn’t have sacrificed even a single frog for such an experiment. As a result, everywhere, instead of a society of equality, cruel hierarchical pyramids arose, topped by tyrants—“bosses” surrounded by “toadies”—the “thin-necked leaders,” as poet Osip Mandelstam aptly put it.

By comparing innate behavioral programs in humans with those of herd primates, we can roughly reconstruct the structure of our ancestors’ groups. Undoubtedly, it was based on male hierarchy. The pyramid of males was formed primarily by age. Within each age group, males fought for their rank both alone and in unstable alliances. If an alliance was strong enough, it tried to overthrow higher-ranking males. If successful, it reached the top, and a gerontocracy formed. If a single, exceptionally aggressive male broke through, an autocracy formed. The autocrat was surrounded by “toadies”—individuals with little personal ability but who were servile, cunning, and cruel. Hierarchs constantly suppressed subdominants, who immediately redirected aggression downward, and so on to the bottom of the pyramid. The herd, especially its suppressed part, supported the autocrat and elders when they punished someone, especially subdominants. Females participated in collective condemnation and punishment. The autocrat and elders, if necessary, incited those at the bottom against males dangerous to their power. The herd operated by the principles: “where there’s judgment, there’s punishment” and “the hierarch is always right.”

The young saw the hierarchs as their fathers, who taught them. Hierarchs were loved by females, children, and low-ranking males. Only subdominants harbored suppressed aggression toward them. If you think this was an unhappy society, you’re mistaken: the majority were content.

Typical hierarchical systems among vertebrates can’t be too large or cover vast territories. They’re based on everyone knowing everyone else’s rank, meaning all must recognize each other “by face.” But if there’s an instinctive program for everyone to support the dominant’s actions, he doesn’t need to know everyone—just that everyone knows him and his “toadies.” Or even better, that they recognize him even without knowing him personally.

For this, it’s enough for his rank to be marked on him—“written on his forehead,” so to speak. For humans, this is achieved through symbols of power. By holding or wearing symbols, one can control any number of people and create mass hierarchical structures covering vast territories, up to the scale of a state.

If we didn’t have a program to submit to symbols, why would a crowd obey a few organizers wearing armbands, or listen to those who climbed onto a platform? And to organize and lead a crowd, you need a symbol—a flag, a banner. Morality teaches: “do not make yourself an idol,” meaning don’t blind yourself with symbols. Reason also advises not to blindly obey symbols, and when we see parades with flags for causes we don’t care about, we remain calm.

But if something dear to us is threatened, we rush to defend its symbol, forgetting all rational warnings. People are literally ready to follow a symbol into fire and water, to die without thinking. As long as the threat comes from other people. Under banners, people go to war, overthrow governments, but no one marches under banners to fight floods, droughts, fires, or locusts. Hierarchical clashes between people happen more often than we think. Natural selection has created many programs to soften these conflicts. Here’s a funny example: baring teeth is a widespread instinct among vertebrates, meant to warn others of your armament and readiness to defend yourself. Primates use it widely. Humans also bare their teeth in fear or anger. Being the target of such a display is unpleasant.

But the tooth-baring program has two much softer variants. The first is the ingratiating smile, used when meeting someone you’re wary of. The second is the broad smile, used by a calm, confident person. He’s also showing he’s armed and ready to defend himself and doesn’t need your indulgence. But this form is so gentle that it doesn’t cause fear, but rather friendliness and calm. It’s long been noted: when a traveler from a totalitarian country visits a free country, he’s surprised at first by how everyone smiles at each other and at him. Used to no smiles or only ingratiating ones, he first thinks people want something from him.

Have you noticed how an authoritarian boss, seeing subordinates smiling at each other in a meeting, gets agitated? The reason is simple: first, the boss is used to employees smiling at him differently. Second, when the boss subconsciously senses that some subordinates feel free, he gets suspicious: “They’re not afraid? So they don’t respect me?” That’s the traditional formula of despots. The words “fear” and “respect” are confused because an innate program is triggered to control subordinates’ aggression. This program has two modes—soft and hard. In conflict, subordinates must feel fear toward the dominant, and he feels a mix of fear and anger toward them. This state is hard for both and shouldn’t last long. Normally, it’s enough for subordinates to feel a slight fear. The dominant perceives this as a positive signal, relaxes, and can show the softest forms of superiority—patting on the back (a mild punishment), relaxing his frown, or giving a reward. Generals raised in strict hierarchies even officially say, “Without nuclear weapons, they’ll stop respecting us.” For them, “fear” and “respect” are the same, just that “respect” sounds nicer to both parties.

For the subordinate, there’s a program providing four emotional responses to the dominant. The harshest is hopeless hatred. Next is pure fear, which is hard to live with. The third is accepting the dominant’s behavior as normal and quickly, without emotion, giving a measured dose of appeasement. The fourth is remarkable: out of unconscious fear of the “senior,” the individual voluntarily shows all possible forms of appeasement and submission. Voluntary expression of this is nothing other than love. Love for the dominant can be incredibly strong and blinding, hiding his flaws and exaggerating his virtues. Think of how your dog loves you. Each of us responds to superiors with one of these variants. The same person can evoke the whole range (which is, of course, a difficult case).

If you hate everyone above you—older students, teachers, artists, scientists, writers, your own father—something is off in your instinctive program. The opposite also happens: a person acts obsequiously toward anyone who dominates or could dominate—salespeople, cashiers, waiters, people in uniform—and loves all bosses indiscriminately. The second person has an easier life than the first.

I think, reader, you can now solve the terrible riddle of “why tyrants are loved.” Tyranny creates an atmosphere of fear. It’s hard to live in constant fear of the dominant. Not seeing him, not knowing what he’s doing (“maybe he’s watching me?”), only increases the fear. Real tyrants intuitively understand this and fill their domains with exaggerated images of themselves: “See, I’m everywhere, standing and watching you.” What can the instinctive program do in this hopeless situation? Only one thing: switch to love. Life immediately becomes easier, even joyful. The stronger the love, the duller the fear. Of course, many who “love” the tyrant are just pretending. But we’re talking about the phenomenon of sincere love, so strong that when the tyrant orders someone executed (for nothing, just because), the victim dies shouting, “Long live the tyrant!” I wasn’t joking when I said our ancestors’ herd wasn’t an unhappy society: hierarchical programs are designed so that life was bearable, and “contented” people were found not only among the hierarchs. Life was also softened by altruistic programs unrelated to hierarchy.

No matter how much tyrants wish to live forever, they’re mortal. When a tyrant dies, society stratifies. Those whose psyche he couldn’t deform pay their last respects only as much as they think he deserves. Those who loved him deeply are in boundless grief. Those he personally harmed simply rejoice. But many people suddenly change their behavior and, as the ancients said, “kick the dead lion”—or more accurately, the “leopard.”

People view this change differently. Some find it disgraceful, others approve, saying they’re “squeezing the slave out of themselves drop by drop.” But that Chekhovian phrase doesn’t fit here. The slave should have been squeezed out while the tyrant was alive. If a person didn’t do it regularly, after the tyrant’s death, it’s too late. The silent, obedient slave just becomes a rowdy, noisy one.

Without ethology, it’s hard to understand the “mouse fuss around the dead cat.” In any naturally non-aggressive animal, prolonged suppression doesn’t redirect aggression. Its target is clear—the oppressor—but the animal doesn’t dare show it. When the oppressor dies, not only does fear disappear, but the ban on causing harm is lifted. The pent-up aggression is finally released, albeit belatedly. Note that people who “kick the dead lion” are usually pretty good people. The “bottom” doesn’t participate. On the contrary, it’s the “bottom” and the truly bad people who torment, torture, and execute the deposed ruler.

The ancient Greeks were the first to understand that tyranny transforms fear into love, and that it’s almost impossible for a city-state to escape the trap of tyranny on its own. They found a simple cure: when a tyrant arose in one city, the others would band together, storm the citadel, and free its people. This “death to tyrants” technology proved effective.

We’re still seeing the widespread toppling of monuments to tyrants and their henchmen, and heated debates about the ethics of such actions. Many smart things have been said, but they all seem abstract, because people don’t know or understand the subconscious basis of their behavior—its ethological roots.

We’ve already established that tyrants put up exaggerated images of themselves everywhere to keep you in anxious fear. These monuments are aimed against you, your psychological health, and comfort. They’re not harmless as long as you fear them. For many, years of suppressed aggression toward a totalitarian regime are redirected at these statues. They feel something like what Eugene felt in Pushkin’s “The Bronze Horseman.” The simplest, most animal way to heal from fear is to destroy the idol, humiliate it, and make it lie at your feet.

By toppling the huge statues of their oppressors, people, though not in a civilized way, free themselves from fear and aggression in the most biological way. The sense of relief is so strong that everywhere, after toppling the idol, the crowd would sing and dance (not just destroy things). A lesson in pure ethology.

To be continued…