Tag: Michael Walzer

A good tree bears good fruit

Imagine that your boss is treating you unfairly. Your workload has been increased, your hours changed, your workplace moved to a small corner, and your requests for time-off are constantly denied. Enough is enough, and you complain to senior management. You hear that the top bosses will assign one of the directors to review your situation. You know all the directors, and the reviewer will be either Benevolent Bert or Careless Colin. Bert has an impeccable reputation: well-informed, thoughtful, honest, wise, and fair. Colin couldn’t be more different: dishonest, reckless, unwise, uncaring, and self-centred. So, Benevolent Bert or Careless Colin? Who do you hope will review your situation? The answer is obvious. You want Benevolent Bert.

The logic behind that choice is that a good, fair, thoughtful person will make good, fair, thoughtful decisions. And that’s exactly the logic that underpins what philosophy calls virtue ethics. The idea aligns with an analogy of Jesus: ‘every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit’ (Matthew 7:17). Whether a tree or a person, whatever is at the core is what emerges as ‘fruit’ from its life.

Virtue ethics is not at all new. More than 300 years before Jesus, Greek philosophers like Plato and his pupil Aristotle wrote about virtue.[1] Aristotle said no-one was born either good or bad by nature. Virtue is not an accident of birth. Rather, according to Aristotle, virtues are choices. You use reason to know what’s right and to decide to do right, and the more you make that choice the more virtuous you become. Your inner nature – your disposition – becomes good, and in turn what you do is good.

Now, a tendency or a bias towards what’s good isn’t a guarantee of doing right every time. Joe exercises great control over his diet, unless, that is, someone brings cream doughnuts into the office, and that’s more than Joe’s discipline can resist. The Greeks had a word for that moment: akrasia. It means weak-willed – knowing what’s right but not doing it. Of course we can go wrong in several ways, such as making poor decisions because we’re too tired, or making a bad judgment because we hadn’t gathered all the facts of a situation.

But occasional carelessness or weakness of will doesn’t change the fundamental point: virtuous people tend to act virtuously. Someone whose character is good, kind, generous, thoughtful, will make decisions that fit with their character. Likewise, the person who is selfish, mean, careless, rash will make bad decisions.

So, that’s the moral theory called virtue ethics. It comes with several implications, including these three:

Virtuous actions are thoughtful, careful choices.  Good people are not simply wired to be good, or have a habit of being good. They choose to be good. But surely a habit of doing good would help? Mostly it wouldn’t, because habits are thoughtless – actions which are really reactions. Suppose Colin began investigating your work situation and made up his mind after speaking only to your manager, completely convinced by his side of the story. Nothing you said later could change his opinion. You would feel badly wronged. He hadn’t investigated the whole situation, and heard both cases. He just reacted to what he was told first, and that meant an injustice was done. Finding the virtuous answer requires care. Swift reactions are usually inappropriate.

On these sticks of rock, ‘Blackpool Rock’ writing is throughout Hazel Scott from Sheffield, UK, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Sticks of ‘Brighton Rock’ Paul Hudson from United Kingdom, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Virtue must be deeply embedded in someone’s character. That’s what makes it a consistent character trait, something deep in a person’s soul. As a child our family often vacationed at a seaside resort. As often as possible I got my parents to buy me a stick of rock. For the uninitiated, I’m not referring to a lump of stone but what is described as ‘a type of hard stick-shaped boiled sugar confectionery most usually flavoured with peppermint or spearmint’.[2] Nothing could be worse for dental health, but I enjoyed licking or biting my rock stick until it got smaller and smaller. But what never changed? Answer: the writing in the stick that had the name of the resort. The writing on one end of the stick was the same at the other end, because it ran right through its whole length. Virtue should be like that: reliable, consistent, invariable. It can’t be there only one day and not the next, or there when the situation is easy and gone when it’s tough.

Many years ago, when the Glasgow area called the Gorbals had the worst of tenement slums, I visited a young Christian worker who lived in the most troubled-area of the Gorbals. Not only were these tenements in dangerously poor condition, gangs and drugs dominated the streets. That young man’s small flat was over-run with local kids, who ate his food, watched his TV, lounged on his sofa, and sometimes stole his property. No matter how tough his life was, that Christian didn’t leave. He kept right on befriending youth, helping them and forgiving them. And because his commitment never varied, they listened to him, and some lives were changed. Real virtue is a through-and-through trait. There’s nothing superficial or temporary about it.

Real virtue is costly. That’s clear from the last example, but it’s not an isolated case. Think how tough it is to stand up for a bullied fellow-student or colleague. Or how hard it is to give generously to alleviate poverty. Or how worrying to take a phone call at 3 am from someone threatening to commit suicide. Or how difficult to tell the truth when that will hurt a friend or damage your own reputation. But virtue doesn’t take the easy road. It doesn’t shy away from hard situations or challenging decisions. Virtue faces hardship head on and doesn’t blink. It keeps on doing what’s right, whatever the cost.

So, does virtue ethics – as a moral theory – have the answer to every dilemma? Can we abandon the theories mentioned in earlier blogs like deontology (strict observance of rules) or consequentialism (defining rightness by whether outcomes are good or bad)?

Unfortunately I don’t think we can. Just as those other moral theories had weaknesses, so does virtue ethics. I’ll list three.

Understandings of virtues differ across cultures    Today we regard slavery as a terrible evil. But both Plato and Aristotle (mentioned earlier) had slaves. Aristotle had no problem saying slaves were essential to a household’s economy. Was Aristotle simply being a man of his time? Yes, he was. But that means people then had different virtues from people now. And people in the future may have different virtues to ours. Even people who live at the same time but in different places have different lists of virtues. If there’s no lasting universal understanding of virtue, that must leave a theory like virtue ethics resting on a changeable foundation. And, at any particular moment, applicable only within its own culture.

Virtue responses can vary from person to person    A deontologist will tell you what the rule is that addresses the rightness of an action. No negotiation – the right thing is predetermined. A consequentialist will calculate whether the action, on balance, gives a good result – if so, it’s right and if not, it’s wrong. These theories give precise answers about right and wrong. Virtue ethics doesn’t. Sometimes all it offers is ‘do whatever is best in the circumstances’.

But what one virtuous person thinks best may be different from what another thinks best. In previous blogs I illustrated what dirty hands means by using an imagined scenario by Michael Walzer: a terrorist has planted bombs with timers; he is arrested but won’t reveal where the bombs are planted; a politician must decide whether torture can be authorised to make the terrorist talk; torture is evil and illegal, but not torturing the terrorist may mean hundreds die. So, what is the right thing to do? That’s the challenging scenario. Now let’s adapt it by imagining the decision will be made either by Politician Maureen or Politician Nancy. Both are highly virtuous people, but they’re virtuous in different ways. Maureen is strong in care towards the needy: giving generously; visiting homeless shelters; talking with people sleeping in shop doorways. Nancy has past experience of dealing with major emergencies: she has the ability to assess priorities; courage to take hard decisions; awareness of the needs of first responders; boldness in demanding government resources. If I had to choose the right person for the ‘torture or no torture of the terrorist’, I would prefer Nancy, because she has experience of extreme situations. But I can believe others would choose Maureen because her sensitivity might win over the terrorist. And they might be right about that. But my point is this: there’s a problem when the decision made depends on the strength of the particular virtues someone has. A sensitive Maureen will choose a different action from a decisive Nancy. The dominant virtues in one are soft and caring, and the dominant virtues in the other are boldness and certainty, and their particular character traits may be yielding opposite solutions when faced with exactly the same circumstances. How can that be right or good? Are we simply to hope that the politician who shows up is strong in exactly the virtues necessary for a particular situation?

Virtue ethics doesn’t specify right actions    This follows on from my previous point. Many criticise virtue ethics because the theory may point you in a good direction but it never tells you exactly what to do. To be fair, you can’t be deemed a failure for not doing what you never claimed you could do. And this theory only claims that a virtuous person will act virtuously, but, because circumstances vary, it doesn’t spell out what exactly that would mean. But is that a flaw?

I don’t think it is for two reasons.

First, we must be reasonable. No-one is unfailingly right, and therefore the virtues of even the best person will not be unfailingly correct. Nor, of course, will rule-followers always apply their rules perfectly, or consequentialists identify the right outcome perfectly. There are problems defining exactly what is right with those systems too, so why blame virtue ethics when it can’t specify what’s provably right?

Second, all moral theories need a healthy dose of humility. If a parent thinks their child isn’t applying himself to his schoolwork, does he punish or encourage? Or a neighbour is struggling with debt, so do you give them money or let them learn their lesson the hard way? Many times we just don’t know what is right, and even afterwards we may not be certain. In the end, we do what we think best. And that’s exactly what virtue ethics does too – what’s reasonable, what seems helpful, what looks correct. After all, the outcome from someone truly trying to do the virtuous thing can’t be too bad.

Personally, in whatever the situation (the dirty hands kind or any other moral dilemma), I would want virtuous people to be the leaders and deciders. Could virtue be the sole-guide? I don’t think so. Virtue ethics should be influential, but I think rules are also an important guide, and consequences always have to be considered.

If you’ve found this blog on virtue ethics confusing, I apologise. My mind goes back to my early journalism years when I would call a professor or top scientist for details of their new breakthrough. They’d talk without pause for five minutes, and I understood nothing at all they said. When they drew breath, I’d ask them to put it more simply. Another three minutes of rapid talk would follow. I still had no idea what they were on about. I might try one more time, still get nowhere, thank them for their time and write for the paper the two sentences I’d actually grasped from their explanations. People who have been absorbed in a subject are rarely able to explain it clearly and concisely to others. I am sorry if I am one of those.

I’ll do better next time… I hope.

[1] Plato lived from around 428 to 348 BC, and Aristotle from 384 to 322 BC.

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_(confectionery)#:~:text=Traditional%20seaside%20rock%20is%20made,to%20one%20part%20glucose%20syrup.

Would you torture a terrorist if that would save thousands of lives?

Here’s the situation. A terrorist has been arrested while planting a bomb in the middle of a large city. The bomb is diffused, but it’s soon very clear six or more other bombs have been planted, each timed to explode within 24 hours. The terrorist is interrogated, but he won’t reveal the location of the bombs. You are the senior political figure. The police and security services tell you there’s only one way to find the bombs: torture the prisoner to make him talk. You are asked to authorise his torture.

Torture is illegal. That is not only the law of the land, but contrary to the UN Torture Convention. It cannot be inflicted under any circumstances. You agree. Torture is heinous, a terrible evil. But the murder of thousands is also evil. In numbers and severity their deaths are a much greater evil. Surely it’s obvious which is worse? The choice is torture one very bad man, or allow bombs to explode and kill thousands including children. Which is right? What do you do?

This scenario – often called the Ticking Bomb Scenario – is wholly imaginary. It’s the invention of philosopher Michael Walzer, written to illustrate hard moral choices. Personally Walzer is utterly opposed to torture, but, to save the lives of hundreds or even thousands in a situation like this, he believes torture has to be allowed.

At the heart of the issue is what’s called ‘dirty hands’. You get dirty hands by doing something morally bad, but which is necessary to achieve a good outcome (or to minimise a bad outcome). So, in Walzer’s scenario, the politician would have dirty hands by authorising a morally evil practice, even though he authorised it so there would be good (least bad) consequences.

Here’s a real-life dirty hands story, one I partially described in a past blog post (https://occasionallywise.com/2021/07/31/rick-has-died/). The whole story is told skilfully and compellingly in the book ‘Touching the Void’.[1]

Joe and Simon had climbed an immensely high snow and ice-covered peak in the Andes. It was a major achievement for a two-person team. But getting up a mountain is one thing; getting down safely another. The descent began well, then came the accident. They were edging down an ice wall, clinging to their ice axes, when Joe’s axe gave way and he fell. He crashed into the base of the cliff, bones in his knee shattered instantly, and he was catapulted over the edge of the mountain’s East Face before his rope jerked him to a stop. The pain in his leg was excruciating. The agony in his mind was no better, for climbers knew that even a broken ankle is a death sentence in these conditions when there are only two mountaineers. Joe’s ripped knee was much worse than a broken ankle. His leg was useless, lying twisted in a hideous zigzag.

Simon now faced a dreadful choice. He could safely descend alone. With Joe? No chance. An attempt to lower Joe on a descent of 3000 feet (914 metres) would be fatal for both of them. But they decided to try. There was just one chance. First a bucket seat would be dug deep into the snow, firm enough to support Simon while he lowered Joe down the slope. When the rope was fully extended, Joe would secure himself on the slope and begin to dig another belay seat, while Simon climbed down. Then with Simon secure in the new snow seat, he’d lower Joe further. It would be immensely dangerous. If Joe fell, Simon would near-certainly be whipped from the snow and both would plunge to their deaths.

Remarkably the plan worked. With Simon holding Joe’s weight, and despite excruciating pain as his broken leg snagged on rocks and snow, Joe slid down, anchored himself, dug a new seat, let Simon descend, and the ritual began all over again. By now light was fading, snow falling, and both men had frostbitten hands.

By the fifth belay point, Joe could hardly think straight but he’d managed to secure an ice screw to free his hands which he waved to get some feeling back into them. Simon joined him, and stared at the ice screw. Both knew that ice meant something steep just below. By now they were in white-out conditions, and they’d no idea what lay ahead. But to stop was to die. They had to keep going. Joe was lowered, Simon descended, Joe was lowered, Simon descended. Over and over again. The two men almost grinned. They were getting good at this. Both began to believe they would make it to the glacier below.

On the next descent, Joe realised the slope was getting much steeper. Ahead there must be a sheer drop. Joe shouted a warning for Simon to stop lowering him, but his words were swept away. Desperately Joe tried to halt his descent, but his ice axe wouldn’t bite. Suddenly his feet hung in space and his whole body slid over an edge. He toppled backwards, dangling in spacing, spinning in circles. Somehow Simon had managed to hold his weight. When his circling eased, Joe used his torch, saw a massive overhang above, and only a sheer drop below. Even if Simon had a completely firm belay seat, he could never haul Joe up. Of course Simon was not on solid ground but sitting in snow, It was impossible.

Joe hung from his rope, and stared down. He could see enough to know he was not far from the glacier. Except, what was right below was not glacier but the gaping void of a crevasse.[2] For half an hour, Joe hung. Simon was now as trapped as he was. He would either die in his seat, or be pulled off the mountain by the strain of holding Joe.

Simon had been nearly wrenched from an already crumbling snow seat when Joe had fallen. He’d thrown himself backwards, bracing his legs against the sudden strain. He didn’t know what had happened, but guessed that Joe had fallen and couldn’t get his weight off the rope. Time passed. Simon’s legs went numb, his arms could hardly bear the weight, and his snow seat was half its original size. Desperately Simon hoped Joe could anchor himself, take his own weight, and Simon could move. It didn’t happen. After an hour, his seat was collapsing, an avalanche of snow pressed him from behind, and he began to slide.

Simon dug his feet into the slope. It stopped him momentarily. Then – only then – the thought came to Simon: his knife. With difficulty he got it from his rucksack. There was now only one option. He made his decision, put the knife to the rope and the super-tight strands parted instantly. As he pulled up the frayed end of rope, he asked himself, ‘Have I killed Joe?’

There is much, much more to that story than this. But my extract gives enough information for the tough question: Was Simon right or wrong to cut the rope?

In any ordinary circumstance, Simon had committed a serious moral crime, and possibly a legal crime. Cutting your climbing companion’s only lifeline could result in a murder charge. But Simon’s situation was no ordinary circumstance. There was no hope of saving Joe, and within seconds both Joe and Simon would plunge to their deaths. Unless, that is, Simon cut Joe’s rope. Joe would die, but losing one is better than losing two.

So, if we consider only the act of cutting Joe’s sole lifeline, the action was wrong. But, if we take a broader view, recognise that Joe was already doomed but Simon could still live, the action was right.[3] Cutting the rope gave the better consequence.

But we seem to have reached an odd conclusion, that by doing what is bad you get what is good. By doing wrong you do what’s right. That seems impossible. But some philosophers believe that’s exactly possible according to their moral theory. Other philosophers, though, think such an idea is false, and even incoherent.

And that is what the dirty hands debate is all about. Can we make sense of this? Is there any moral theory that answers the very tough questions these ideas provoke?

Those who know me personally, or have read the ‘About’ page of this blog, will know that I’m studying for a Masters degree in philosophy. My final challenge is a dissertation, and my wise or foolish choice of subject is the dirty hands dilemma.

Here are examples of questions I’m currently trying to answer:

  1. Are there moral rules which must always be obeyed? If so, then dirty hands actions can never be done. A rule would forbid them. But that means the terrorist’s bombs will explode with mass casualties, and Simon and Joe will both fall off the mountain.
  2. Could the gravity of a situation be so great rules must be broken? An example I’ll explain more fully next time is of a householder giving shelter to someone trying to escape a murderer – then the murderer bangs on the door and demands to know where his intended victim went – do you say ‘Come on in, he’s inside …’ or do you point into the distance and say ‘he went that way’? A man’s life depends on you lying.
  3. Might a dirty hands action be so awful that it could never be justified no matter how terrible the consequences? Philosophers ask, ‘If the terrorist won’t tell where the bombs lie, could you torture his (wholly innocent) wife to force the terrorist’s confession?’ Could that ever be right?
  4. Might dirty hands actions be justified only if the consequences of doing nothing reached a certain level of awfulness? Some suggest torturing the terrorist wouldn’t be justified if only a few would be killed by his bombs, but it would be entirely different if the terrorist had planted a nuclear bomb which would destroy millions.
  5. If someone is a moral rule-keeper and refuses to do ‘what needs to be done’ (a dirty hands action), and there are dreadful consequences, should the rule-keeper be blamed, and perhaps held legally liable? For example, a beach life-guard has promised to be home in time for his daughter’s birthday party, but just before he leaves his post he’s told someone is drowning in the waves. But, he’s a rule-keeper and can’t break his promise to be present at the party. Besides, his shift-time is over, so home he goes. The person in the waves drowns. The lifeguard kept his promise, but will he not be blamed because someone died whose life he could have saved?

Thankfully the philosophical world is not on tip toes waiting for my answers to these questions. All debate will not screech to a halt because of what I write. But I’m glad to be studying something which impacts all of us. Not you? Are you sure? Next time someone you care about – a spouse, a son or daughter, your best friend, has an appalling hair cut or wears outrageous clothes, and asks ‘Do I look good in this?’ what will you say? The truth, or a lie…?

If it’s any comfort, in the next blog I’ll explain why rules matter, and why sometimes they just can’t be followed.

[1] The book details can be found here: https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/357672/touching-the-void-by-simpson-joe/9780099511748

[2] A crevasse can be 150ft/45m deep.

[3] My elite mountaineer friend Rick told me what Simon did was exactly right. Climbers understand and accept that two shouldn’t die when one could live. In fact Joe did not die, but everything that followed his plunge into a crevasse is one of the most remarkable survival stories ever recorded. Read the book!