Fig leaves in the Age of ChatGPT
Ethics, privacy or academic integrity. These are not the real reasons for rejecting ChatGPT; they merely give that rejection a semblance of legitimacy, argues Cor Zonneveld. “Those who warn against ChatGPT’s use of data are often themselves on Instagram without giving it much thought.”
When Adam and Eve first tasted from the Tree of Knowledge, they became aware of their nakedness and hastily clothed themselves with fig leaves. Today, the new Tree of Knowledge is called the Large Language Model. And like Adam and Eve, many academics clothe themselves with fig leaves. Their fig leaves are arguments: appeals to ethics, privacy, or academic integrity. These are not the true reasons for refusing to use ChatGPT, but they lend that refusal a veneer of legitimacy. Beneath them lies an existential anxiety: the fear of becoming obsolete.
Footprint
Han van der Maas recently described the opposition to ChatGPT as a kind of ostrich behaviour: heads buried in the sand, hoping the storm will pass. I share his impatience, but I see something more revealing. The arguments we hear — about energy consumption, copyright, or privacy — are fig leaves. Take energy: hardly anyone knows their own digital footprint, yet suddenly ChatGPT’s footprint is treated as decisive. Take copyright: the first thing any academic does when publishing is to hand over the copyright to a commercial publisher, while often lamenting how copyright reinforces inequality elsewhere. And take privacy: the very people warning against ChatGPT’s use of data are active on Facebook, Instagram, and countless other platforms, all without much reflection. These arguments are not the real reasons for resisting ChatGPT. They are fig leaves — borrowed for modesty, to make the refusal appear principled.
Threat
There is, however, one objection that cuts closer to the bone. Many academics insist that writing is thinking — and I agree. Writing is not just a vehicle for ideas; it is the very process through which ideas are shaped. If ChatGPT can take over part of that process, then the fear is no longer about carbon footprints, copyright, or privacy. It becomes a fear that one’s academic existence itself is under threat. For those whose identity and authority rest on their ability to think through writing, the prospect of a machine that can also write feels like the prospect of obsolescence. And so they strip the fig tree bare, using every leaf they can find to cover their existential anxiety.
Obsolete
That fear is not irrational. For disciplines built on writing, the ways of teaching and assessing will have to change fundamentally. ChatGPT and its successors will reshape academic life — the question is whether academics themselves can reshape their disciplines in response. Those who cling to fig leaves instead of adaptation may buy themselves a little time, but they are sealing their own fate. In ten years, if they have not redefined their teaching, their methods of assessment, and even their understanding of what their discipline is for, they will have made themselves obsolete.
It is autumn and the fig trees are dropping their leaves. Academics, too, will find that their fig leaves cannot be held in place forever. The respectable arguments will wither away, and their nakedness — the existential anxiety of obsolescence — will become unmistakable. The only way forward is transformation: to redefine teaching, assessment, and scholarship in ways that acknowledge the new reality. Those who refuse will not be shielded by fig leaves for long. But if some are ready to change and no longer need their fig trees, they are most welcome to donate them to me — I can always find room for one more in my garden.
Cor Zonneveld is biologist and teachter at the Amsterdam University College.
