Understanding Reality: The Blind Men and the Elephant vs. Rashomon
*last updated: July 19, 2025
If you’ve ever gotten into an argument—about politics, history, religion, or even something smaller, like a family memory—you know how frustrating it can be when the other person just doesn’t see what seems obviously true to you.
“I was there!”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“You’re twisting things.”
“You’re missing the point.”
It’s easy to assume that if we just lay out the facts, the other person will come around. But more often than not, we’re left wondering: How can we see the same world so differently? To help me think about this, I keep coming back to two old stories. One is meant to offer comfort and clarity. The other, not so much.
Blind Men and an Elephant
You’ve probably heard it. Several (in some versions, three) blind men come across an elephant for the first time. One touches its side and says, “It’s like a wall.” Another feels the trunk: “No, it’s like a snake.” A third grabs a leg and insists it’s like a tree trunk. They all argue, each sure they’re right. And in a way, they are right. But also… not really. Each of them has grasped a part of the whole, but because they won’t listen to each other, none of them understands the full picture.
It’s a popular metaphor for truth—and one that makes us feel hopeful. If we could just learn to listen to each other’s perspectives, then maybe we could combine them and arrive at a deeper understanding. It’s a bit like solving a jigsaw puzzle. Everyone has a piece, and if we put them together, we’ll finally see the elephant.
That’s how I used to think about it. I still find the metaphor useful. It encourages humility. It reminds us that each person sees the world from a different angle, shaped by culture, experience, emotion, and language. And it offers a model for how dialogue might help us make sense of reality.
But over time, I began to feel that something about this story didn’t quite fit. I started wondering: what if we’re not all touching the same elephant? What if we’re not even in the same room?
Rashomon
Enter a darker metaphor—one that doesn’t offer the same easy comfort.
Rashomon is a 1950 film by Akira Kurosawa, based on Ryūnosuke Akutagawa’s short story In a Grove. The story centers on a violent encounter in a forest: a samurai ends up dead, and multiple people—including his wife, a bandit, and even the dead man himself (through a medium)—tell their version of what happened.
Each account is vivid. Each feels emotionally true. But they contradict each other in fundamental ways. Who is lying? Who is self-deceived? Who is telling the real story?
By the end, you want to fit the pieces together and find out what really happened in the grove. But you can’t. The puzzle doesn’t resolve. There’s no master perspective. No final narrator to step in and explain it all. The result is disorienting—and haunting.
If the elephant metaphor says, “We’re all partially right,” then Rashomon says, “Maybe we’re all wrong.” Or maybe we’re just seeing reality through lenses so thick with emotion, trauma, self-preservation, and language that we can no longer separate perception from projection.
Where Is the Truth?
The truth (fittingly) might be somewhere in between.
The blind men and the elephant offer a metaphor for partial truths. If we assume that reality is out there and basically knowable, then the key is to listen better, include more voices, and try to build a more complete picture.
Rashomon shows us the fragility of perception. It reminds us that even when people are sincere, they may not be reliable narrators—not of events, not even of their own memories. The mind is not a camera. It’s more like a storyteller—creative, biased, protective, and deeply shaped by emotion.
Both stories are about how we make sense of the world. Both suggest that “truth” isn’t something we simply see—it’s something we interpret, filter, and argue about. And in moments of conflict—especially political or cultural conflict—those interpretations can clash violently.
When I say, “I’m right and you’re wrong,” what I often mean is, “I see reality clearly, and you don’t.” That’s a bold claim. And often, a dangerous one.
So, What Do We Do?
We need to keep asking: Are we debating facts? Or meanings and interpretations? Are we touching different parts of the elephant—or caught in different Rashomon stories? This kind of questioning doesn’t mean giving up on truth. It means approaching truth with more humility.
It means recognizing that while reality exists—yes, there was an elephant, and yes, something happened in the grove—our access to it is always filtered. Our minds weren’t built to perceive the world perfectly. They were built to help us survive [more on that, see here].
And yet, we can do better. We can compare stories. Listen carefully. Notice contradictions. Ask hard questions. Learn more about how perception works. Stay curious. And, most of all, admit that our own view might be incomplete—or even distorted. That kind of humility isn’t weakness. It’s the beginning of wisdom.
About this project: Start page
“I was there!”
“That’s not how it happened.”
“You’re twisting things.”
“You’re missing the point.”
It’s easy to assume that if we just lay out the facts, the other person will come around. But more often than not, we’re left wondering: How can we see the same world so differently? To help me think about this, I keep coming back to two old stories. One is meant to offer comfort and clarity. The other, not so much.
Blind Men and an Elephant
You’ve probably heard it. Several (in some versions, three) blind men come across an elephant for the first time. One touches its side and says, “It’s like a wall.” Another feels the trunk: “No, it’s like a snake.” A third grabs a leg and insists it’s like a tree trunk. They all argue, each sure they’re right. And in a way, they are right. But also… not really. Each of them has grasped a part of the whole, but because they won’t listen to each other, none of them understands the full picture.
It’s a popular metaphor for truth—and one that makes us feel hopeful. If we could just learn to listen to each other’s perspectives, then maybe we could combine them and arrive at a deeper understanding. It’s a bit like solving a jigsaw puzzle. Everyone has a piece, and if we put them together, we’ll finally see the elephant.
That’s how I used to think about it. I still find the metaphor useful. It encourages humility. It reminds us that each person sees the world from a different angle, shaped by culture, experience, emotion, and language. And it offers a model for how dialogue might help us make sense of reality.
But over time, I began to feel that something about this story didn’t quite fit. I started wondering: what if we’re not all touching the same elephant? What if we’re not even in the same room?
Rashomon
Enter a darker metaphor—one that doesn’t offer the same easy comfort.
Rashomon is a 1950 film by Akira Kurosawa, based on Ryūnosuke Akutagawa’s short story In a Grove. The story centers on a violent encounter in a forest: a samurai ends up dead, and multiple people—including his wife, a bandit, and even the dead man himself (through a medium)—tell their version of what happened.
Each account is vivid. Each feels emotionally true. But they contradict each other in fundamental ways. Who is lying? Who is self-deceived? Who is telling the real story?
By the end, you want to fit the pieces together and find out what really happened in the grove. But you can’t. The puzzle doesn’t resolve. There’s no master perspective. No final narrator to step in and explain it all. The result is disorienting—and haunting.
If the elephant metaphor says, “We’re all partially right,” then Rashomon says, “Maybe we’re all wrong.” Or maybe we’re just seeing reality through lenses so thick with emotion, trauma, self-preservation, and language that we can no longer separate perception from projection.
Where Is the Truth?
The truth (fittingly) might be somewhere in between.
The blind men and the elephant offer a metaphor for partial truths. If we assume that reality is out there and basically knowable, then the key is to listen better, include more voices, and try to build a more complete picture.
Rashomon shows us the fragility of perception. It reminds us that even when people are sincere, they may not be reliable narrators—not of events, not even of their own memories. The mind is not a camera. It’s more like a storyteller—creative, biased, protective, and deeply shaped by emotion.
Both stories are about how we make sense of the world. Both suggest that “truth” isn’t something we simply see—it’s something we interpret, filter, and argue about. And in moments of conflict—especially political or cultural conflict—those interpretations can clash violently.
When I say, “I’m right and you’re wrong,” what I often mean is, “I see reality clearly, and you don’t.” That’s a bold claim. And often, a dangerous one.
So, What Do We Do?
We need to keep asking: Are we debating facts? Or meanings and interpretations? Are we touching different parts of the elephant—or caught in different Rashomon stories? This kind of questioning doesn’t mean giving up on truth. It means approaching truth with more humility.
It means recognizing that while reality exists—yes, there was an elephant, and yes, something happened in the grove—our access to it is always filtered. Our minds weren’t built to perceive the world perfectly. They were built to help us survive [more on that, see here].
And yet, we can do better. We can compare stories. Listen carefully. Notice contradictions. Ask hard questions. Learn more about how perception works. Stay curious. And, most of all, admit that our own view might be incomplete—or even distorted. That kind of humility isn’t weakness. It’s the beginning of wisdom.
About this project: Start page
