This blog post explores whether humans’ aversion to insects stems from innate instinct or learned emotions shaped by society and culture.
A few days ago, I was killing time in my dorm room by surfing the web on my laptop. Truthfully, I had an assignment due the day after tomorrow, but I had deliberately pushed that thought to the back of my mind. Leaning my chin on my hand, I was lost in boredom, endlessly refreshing Facebook. This time spent doing nothing yet pretending to be busy, these moments that seemed utterly useless, weren’t always so bad. As I listlessly scrolled through meaningless daily photos or trending videos posted by others, I was suddenly overcome by an uncomfortable feeling, alone in my room. Even though no one was there, it felt like something was staring at me.
Slowly lifting my head, what caught my eye was a grotesque black creature clinging to the wall. Waving its long antennae while stuck to the wall, that creature was a cockroach! Suddenly stiffened by the unexpected appearance of this creature, I couldn’t look away for a moment, staring at its presence. The cockroach paid no attention to my presence, simply adhering to the wall, clinging to the survival method it had long maintained.
I didn’t scream or panic; instead, I began to ponder how to deal with the cockroach. Soon, calmly, I retrieved my roommate’s insecticide and sprayed it mercilessly at the cockroach. In that brief moment, various thoughts flashed through my mind. I briefly pondered why humans instinctively react so intensely whenever encountering such small creatures, and why so many people loathe bugs. But that reflection was fleeting. Upon actually witnessing the cockroach twitching its legs and thrashing about, I found myself shutting off reason and reacting purely on instinct. No matter how tenacious its life force, the cockroach ultimately couldn’t withstand the might of human civilization.
Struggling in agony, the cockroach attempted to sever its own leg and flee in a desperate act of survival. Yet, against the lethal power of the insecticide—a potent blend of countless chemicals—it was a futile gesture. Soon, the struggling cockroach ceased moving, becoming nothing more than a chemical-soaked mass of organic matter. I carefully placed the carcass in a dustpan and set it on the dirt outside the dormitory.
Though I performed this series of actions almost mechanically, a powerful sense of doubt swept over me afterward. I had always prided myself on being quite fond of insects. I remember when colorful moths would land on my hand in the countryside, I would watch them quietly until they flew away on their own. I also recall the satisfying feeling of carefully catching a spider that had spun its web under my desk and releasing it outside through the window. Given that I was someone who, unless faced with pests like mosquitoes that directly harmed me, never casually took a life, I felt a sense of incongruity about today’s action.
Furthermore, this experience made me reconsider what it means to be human. Are humans not beings with a contradictory nature—capable of compassion toward some creatures, yet instinctively harboring hostility toward those that cause momentary discomfort? If it is human nature to pride ourselves as civilized beings yet react excessively in unnecessary situations, then through the cockroach, I had confronted human nature once more.
A few years ago, there was a cockroach craze on the internet. At the time, cockroaches were known as devilish insects with tremendous reproductive power, impossible to kill unless burned, and even when killed, they left behind a new enemy called the cockroach moth before disappearing. However, being an insect-friendly person, I investigated whether this was true. I discovered that the above facts were merely rumors spread by elementary school students on Naver Knowledge, and that the cockroach is a harmless insect that causes almost no harm to humans. Yet, regardless of this rational understanding, the moment I saw the cockroach, I felt an obligatory impulse to kill it, and I acted on it. Rationally speaking, there was absolutely no reason for me to kill that bug immediately. This irrational impulse must have stemmed from a ‘disgust’ towards the cockroach. It seems undeniable that humans universally harbor disgust towards bugs. Even I, who prided myself on liking bugs, committed this act of killing due to this disgust. So where does this ‘disgust’ come from?
Is human disgust towards bugs a product of education, or an instinct imprinted in our genes? The origin of this disgust can likely be traced to one of these two. At first, I thought it was an instinct imprinted in our genes. Certainly, among insects, there exist pests harmful to humans, and individuals who detest them would have had an advantage in survival and reproduction. Therefore, genes for insect aversion would have been passed down through natural selection. The fact that we detest even non-pest insects likely stems from evolution not being sophisticated enough to distinguish between them.
However, if human disgust relies solely on instinct, one might question whether the emotion of ‘disgust’ should no longer function significantly in modern society, where many civilizations have developed. Rather, in modern times, disgust towards insects seems to be spreading further through media and social information dissemination. Perhaps we react not to the insects themselves, but to the social image they evoke: ‘dirty beings,’ ‘pests,‘ ‘dangerous things.’
This initial thought quickly collapsed on its own. If one argues that disgust stems from instinct based on this reasoning, then other animals besides humans should also naturally detest insects for the same reasons. However, recalling a puppy that would excitedly run around playing tag upon seeing bugs, it doesn’t seem that animals other than humans detest them. At the genetic level, there is absolutely no reason to view humans differently from other animals. If we consider humans to be uniquely special, that is nothing but human arrogance. Therefore, the initial hypothesis was naturally discarded, and my conclusion leaned toward disgust being a product of education.
Several additional grounds support this thinking. Even just looking at our daily lives, don’t children raised in the countryside clearly feel less disgust toward bugs than those raised in the city? This difference can only be attributed to environmental factors.
Furthermore, in our society, women generally exhibit a much stronger aversion to insects than men. Again, it’s difficult to find a reason for this difference to be innate. I believe this difference stems directly from the environment, specifically from cultural demands. This is because the framework of femininity demanded by our society is tailored to such behavior. This cultural pressure defines our actions.
Put differently, humans constantly live balancing between the ‘natural’ and the ‘artificial,’ and our aversion to insects might be a mixed emotion derived from this tension. Within the demands of education and society, the process of learning to avoid insects involves recognizing their existence as part of nature while simultaneously harboring a complex desire to reject them.
Ultimately, my conclusion is that human disgust toward insects is a product of education. To be more specific, this disgust takes root within us as we imitate the behaviors of parents and those around us, conforming to societal and cultural demands and atmospheres. For someone like me, whose disgust is weaker, perhaps this education and socialization occurred somewhat less intensely, or perhaps my rational thinking is more grounded in action. But recalling how I ended up killing that beetle today, driven by that very disgust, perhaps my previous self was merely putting on a strong front.
You might think it’s overkill to make such a fuss over killing one beetle while eating meat every day without a second thought. Yet this trivial yet intriguing reflection offered justification for killing the beetle despite my usual beliefs, and even if I couldn’t find any practical use for it, the experience itself was enjoyable.
What began as a simple attempt to kill time surfing the web ended up concluding with a reflection that can hardly be called useful. But rather than wasting time aimlessly surfing the web, finding this small happiness in such a fleeting thought might be considered fortunate. Though it’s a somewhat cruel happiness built upon the beetle’s corpse, I conclude this piece by offering my humble thanks to the beetle that gave me this fresh experience.
