Fear, Death, and the Roots of Division: A Reflection on Ernest Becker, Sheldon Solomon, and the Politics of Mortality

By David Waterman

In the wake of crises—pandemics, wars, ecological collapse—something ancient stirs in us. A tightening. A searching for certainty. A pull toward the familiar and the tribal. We see it in the rise of populism, in online culture wars, in the way we divide the world into good and bad, right and wrong, us and them.

At the heart of all this, according to Ernest Becker, lies a single unspoken fear: the fear of death.

Death Denied, Fear Displaced

In The Denial of Death (1973), Becker argued that much of human culture exists to shield us from the unbearable awareness of our mortality. We construct belief systems, political ideologies, religious narratives, and identities not just to make sense of life—but to stave off the anxiety of its inevitable end.

Becker writes: "Man breaks through the bounds of mere cultural determinism and openly admits that he is a creature who will one day die." And yet, most of us don’t. At least, not consciously. Instead, we chase symbolic immortality—through legacy, nationhood, fame, even consumerism.

We push the fear underground.

But what is repressed doesn’t disappear. It leaks. It distorts. It finds other targets.

This is where Sheldon Solomon and his colleagues stepped in, developing Terror Management Theory (TMT). Their research demonstrated that when people are reminded of their mortality—even subtly, like passing a cemetery sign—they become more defensive of their worldviews, more hostile to outsiders, and more prone to authoritarian thinking.

In other words, when we feel death close, we cling harder to what feels safe. But in doing so, we often divide more fiercely, love more conditionally, and exclude more brutally.

Division as a Defence

This helps explain why populist movements often surge after periods of loss, humiliation, or instability. Post-WWI Germany, crushed by defeat and the Treaty of Versailles, became fertile ground for Hitler’s rise. The collective wound of death and shame made the promise of national rebirth, racial purity, and heroic immortality intoxicating.

Closer to our time, the COVID-19 pandemic didn’t just leave a trail of physical illness—it left a trail of fear. Fear of others, of change, of institutions. For some, that fear hardened into rigidity: conspiracy, blame, division. For others, it deepened a hunger for meaning, service, or spiritual growth. Same fear. Different response. The difference, perhaps, lies in how consciously we are able to hold the fear—rather than be held by it.

Kierkegaard, Consciousness, and the Courage to Stand Still

Long before Becker, the philosopher Søren Kierkegaard described anxiety as the "dizziness of freedom"—a necessary by product of becoming conscious. For Kierkegaard, to become a true self was to confront the paradox of being a finite creature aware of the infinite. In other words: to face death and still choose to live.

To deny this anxiety is to live in despair. But to face it—to stand before it with courage and curiosity—is to open the path to authenticity.

In this sense, our task is not to eliminate fear, but to meet it. Not to deny death, but to integrate the reality of it into how we live.

Stoicism and the Practice of Mortality

Here, the Stoics offer a practical philosophy. Marcus Aurelius wrote: "You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think." Far from morbid, this daily contemplation of death was seen as a path to freedom. If nothing is permanent, what matters is how we love, how we act, how we show up—now.

When we make peace with death, we are less easily manipulated by fear. We don’t need enemies to feel strong, or scapegoats to feel safe. We can act with generosity because we no longer believe in the illusion of control or permanence.

This is where real egalitarianism begins. Not just in tax policy or political structure—though those matter—but in the deeper work of releasing our fear of not having enough. Enough food. Enough power. Enough recognition. Enough time.

Because when we feel safe in the face of death, we are far more capable of living fully. And far less likely to divide the world to protect our illusions.

A Responsibility to Feel

We obsess over GDP. But maybe we should be tracking something else: GDF — Gross Domestic Fear. Because when fear runs high, everything else suffers. Connection. Creativity. Compassion. Even democracy.

What if the true measure of a society’s health wasn’t how much it produces, but how much it soothes? How safe its people feel in their own skin, their futures, and in one another’s presence?

Because when we reduce fear — not deny it, but meet it — we make space for something else to grow. Something less fragile. More human.

That comparison-driven anxiety — the endless chasing of status, perfection, lifestyle — often isn’t about wanting more so much as wanting to not feel fragile. If we can buffer ourselves with success, we might (unconsciously) feel safe from the truth of mortality. But it’s a sticking plaster. And once we name it, we can start to loosen its grip — even laugh at it. And maybe seek joy elsewhere.

Becker reminds us that we are not only creatures of survival—we are creatures of meaning. And when we deny death, we distort that meaning. We cling to shallow symbols, substitute inclusion for identity, and become vulnerable to the worst parts of ourselves.

But if we face death—truly face it, not in abstract but in breath and bone—something else can emerge. Not nihilism. Not despair. But humility. Clarity. A kind of fierce tenderness.

This is our work:

• To feel the fear of death, and not pass it on as division.

• To hold the mirror steady, even when the reflection shakes.

• To become the kind of beings who can live together, not because we have conquered death, but because we have befriended its presence.

  
  

Because from that place, we don’t need to be louder. Or richer. Or more right.

We just need to be here. Together. Awake.

Even now.