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Rh-negative blood group

AT THE ORGANIC COMPANY

Blood is a silent substance that flows through us: not just oxygen and nutrients, but stories, signals, memories. Every drop carries traces of who we were; this is why the Rh-negative blood type arouses curiosity not only among doctors, but also among anthropologists, philosophers, and those who study symbols.

I too belong to that minority. About fifteen percent of the population lacks a small protein called the D antigen on their hemoglobin : it is this absence, not a disease, that defines the Rh-negative blood group. The D antigen is part of the Rhesus system; the AB0 system, which involves the A and B antigens and determines blood groups A, B, AB, or O, is different. In practice, the blood group (A, B, AB, O) and the Rh factor (positive or negative) are two distinct levels of the same blood matrix: they combine, but they are not confused.

The discovery of the Rh factor dates back to 1940, to Landsteiner and Wiener; since then, we’ve known how its absence can have clinical implications—the best-known case is maternal-fetal incompatibility, when an Rh– mother carries an Rh+ fetus. The maternal immune system can recognize certain cells of the fetus as “other” and react: a clear, biological explanation for a phenomenon that, however, brings with it a powerful and paradoxical image: life that can reject life.

In any case, the mystery doesn’t end with biology. Why is Rh-negative blood concentrated in certain areas—among the Basques, in Iceland, on some islands—and scarce in others? Hypotheses range from genetic isolation to local selection patterns, but the lack of clear answers has also given way to narratives: remote legacies, lost civilizations, collective memories. It is here that myth and science touch without overlapping.

If we try to interpret the phenomenon from a broader perspective, a theme that interests me emerges: liquid memory . The human body is made up of over seventy percent water; blood is water aggregated with proteins, cells, and electrical impulses. Some experiments—both well-known and controversial—have suggested that water responds to external stimuli: Masaru Emoto, for example, has documented how the morphology of water crystals changes in relation to sounds or words (see my article of April 12, 2015) . Those studies have been criticized for their method and interpretation, and do not constitute, they say, definitive scientific proof. However, restoring the symbolic meaning of the observation: if water, the primary component of the body, is sensitive to vibrations and contexts, it is legitimate to question how much blood, a complex and dynamic form of bodily water, can retain traces of memory of experience.

This isn’t a claim to miracles: it’s an opening of perspective. Blood records biological history and reactions, reflecting our immune and metabolic status, and, in a certain sense, even our way of life. Thinking of it as an “archive” doesn’t mean replacing medicine with mythology; it means recognizing that the body carries data and narratives that deserve careful reading.

Ultimately, the question of Rh-negative blood type speaks to us about identity and diversity, not just genetics. It’s a trace—a small mark on humanity’s skin—that invites us to look beyond classification to ask broader questions about meaning and memory.

Blood isn’t just what keeps us alive: it’s also a place where body, history, and memory intertwine. It flows, and it tells stories about us.–
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