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:

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.
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.
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?
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.
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!

Rick has died

My friend, Rick Allen, has died. A few days ago he was caught in an avalanche on K2, the world’s second highest peak and hardest to climb, and swept to his death.

Rick was 68 years old. He’d climbed for over 40 years, and was recognised as one of the world’s top mountaineers. K2, located on the border of China and Pakistan, is 8,611 metres (28,251 ft) high, only 238 metres less than Mount Everest but considered far more deadly. One climber dies on K2 for every four who reach the summit. Rick was attempting a new route up the south east face, raising money for Partners UK, a humanitarian charity which provides emergency relief during crisis events.

Now Rick has died, and been buried near the foot of K2. Being laid to rest among the world’s highest mountains is exactly what Rick would want.

He was my friend during my ten years as a minister in Aberdeen. During that time Rick came to faith in Christ, was baptised, became one of our church members, and married his wife Alison (who later worked with me in the church office). After their wedding service, Rick and Alison exited beneath an arch of ice axes held aloft by climbing buddies. (Alison, sadly, died some years later.)

Rick was my best encourager when I ventured into the Scottish mountains. I told him a nervous church member had said I was certain to die if I continued to climb alone. But Rick told me ‘Of course there are dangers, but there’s no reason you can’t climb on your own if you master a compass and map, have the right equipment, and use common sense.’ I accepted his wisdom. It would have been hard to argue since he was a renowned Himalayan mountaineer, and I was an utter novice.

Rick urged me to buy an ice axe, essential for digging into snow to haul yourself up and, even more importantly, he taught me how to lean my weight on the axe to brake a slide downhill. I kept that axe for years, even after we’d moved to the Thames Valley in the south of England where there’s almost no snow and definitely no mountains.

Rick taught me much more than how to use an ice axe. I’ve been reflecting on some of these things since I heard of his death.

A good life is active, not passive Rick wasn’t for letting life happen to him. Nor that life should be super-protected, like an ocean-going yacht moored permanently in a harbour. What he had – intellectually, socially, physically – was a gift to be used. There were great things to accomplish, and it would be a sin not to grasp every opportunity. You don’t retreat from challenges; you face them head on.

Around that time I was planning a visit to church workers in Pakistan. I’d never been to Asia, and was particularly nervous about Pakistan. But I was helped by advice from another friend. George had spent many years in a developing country, and he told me two particularly valuable things:

Banish any idea that ‘this ought to happen’ (such as assuming a train should run at its scheduled time).
‘Just go for it’. Take advantage of every experience, enjoy it, and find what’s good in it.

Both those lessons have served me well in Asia and down the years. But it’s the second I want to highlight because ‘go for it’ was precisely Rick’s attitude. Rick didn’t let life happen; he made it happen. He got the best from everything and gave his best to everything.

You can’t be afraid of big challenges From ancient to modern times, people have attempted the seemingly impossible. They sailed great oceans not knowing when or where they’d land. They explored huge jungles well aware they might die from disease or hostility. They were launched into space trusting to less technology than we have today in one mobile phone. They didn’t have to do these things. And yet they did. There’s something hard-wired into our psyches to reach beyond what’s already known or done, to push further and further out the boundaries of human accomplishments.

There’s a semi-serious answer mountaineers give when asked, ‘Why did you climb that mountain?’ Answer: ‘Because it’s there’. That’s true. But it’s not the whole truth. The fuller answer is: ‘Because it’s there, and climbing it proves that mountain is not greater than what I can achieve.’

For most of us our ‘big challenges’ aren’t Everest or K2. But our challenges are still big for us:

Can I really do this job?
Will this relationship work?
Should I step out in faith?
Can I take on this responsibility?

We should ask whether a big challenge is the right challenge for us. But, Rick would say, no challenge should be refused just because it’s ‘big’. We’re made to take on big challenges.

But you must put in the work I was driving in Aberdeen late one evening, and noticed a runner jogging up the hill carrying weights in both hands. It was Rick. I couldn’t have run up that hill minus weights and with a wind behind me, but Rick was pushing his body to its limits. When we talked about it later, he added an important point, that on a mountain, roped with others, perhaps in near-blizzard conditions, your life and their lives depend on everyone being supremely fit. Hence he was putting in the work before his next big climb.

Years ago I listened to an interview with the politician and novelist Jeffrey Archer. He was answering a listener’s question about how to become famous. His answer was that you have to be famous for something. So, he asked, what are you good at? Cooking? If so, train to be the best cook in the country and be famous for that. If you’re good at athletics, train to win major championships and be famous for that. Or you might be a superb singer, or hilarious comedian – put in the work, become the best, and then you’ll be famous. It’s nonsense to think you can just be famous. You have to be famous for something, and that requires years of hard work.

I’ve never forgotten that lesson. Nor Rick’s example. And I’ve tried to live it out. Before I became General Director of BMS World Mission, I’d read books on management and been responsible for a moderately large church. But BMS was a multi-million pound organisation working in 40 countries with hundreds of staff and volunteers. Heading up BMS was way beyond anything I’d done before. So, despite what seemed an impossible workload, I studied for a Masters degree in Business Administration (MBA). I read teaching materials and books on strategy, human resources, organisational structure, finance and more. When? Anytime I could, which included on planes, into the early hours of the morning during conferences, and while sitting on a thin mattress under a mosquito net in Angola. I put in the work, scored well in assignments and exams, and got my degree. Those studies helped greatly as I led BMS through change.

The biggest challenges are worthy of our best, and our best requires hard work.

Come to terms with the risks you are taking Rick knew the risk of avalanches. He’d been caught in them before but survived, albeit with scars. Avalanches often occur after soft snow, but what comes thundering down a mountainside is everything that snow picks up on its descent such as rock, ice, and soil. It’s heavy and moves very fast. National Geographic explains: ‘A large, fully developed avalanche can weigh as much as a million tons. It can travel faster than 320 kilometers per hour (200 miles per hour).’*

Risk, though, doesn’t exist only in mountains. It’s part of everyday life. We accept risk when we cross the road, drive a car, take a flight, eat a meal. It’s risky to get out of bed. And it’s risky to stay in bed since many die in their sleep. In other words, you can’t live and avoid risk. We know that, and we accept a certain level of risk when we cross a bridge (it might collapse), walk down the street (a car might crash into us), mix with others (someone might attack us), and so on.

Rick wasn’t ignorant of mountaineering’s risks. Among his earlier near death accidents was one where he’d been given up for dead but then found still alive. (More details in news report links at the end of this blog post.)

But at least two things pushed Rick on. One, Rick had faith, knew his Maker, and was ready to stand before him. That didn’t mean he wanted to die; just that he was ready to die whenever the time came. Two, Rick couldn’t have lived a life geared to self-protection. He had a great career in the oil industry, but would never have settled for that as his only purpose. He had higher goals (literally). He was a great climber, one of the best in the world. That demanded hard training but it was also a gift, a passion, almost a calling which drove him to supreme achievements. In 2012, Rick and his friend Sandy Allan were the first to conquer the Mozeno Ridge in Pakistan, for which they received the prestigious Golden Ice Axe award. Was that easy? Was that safe? It was neither. But these men had an inner drive that faced immense risk and pressed on nevertheless.

Very few will ever be elite mountaineers. But, for all of us, any significant challenge we face comes with risk. To refuse the risk is to refuse the challenge. But the rewards for facing the challenge are great.

Rick bought me a book I read a lot of books. Non-fiction for information and mind-stretching ideas. Fiction for page-turning excitement, especially in novels where there seems no possibility of a good ending.

Never, though, have I found the drama, suspense and excitement of fiction in a non-fiction book. Until, that is, Rick gave me Touching the Void by Joe Simpson. +

From the earliest pages of Touching the Void you know how it must end, but as I read the book I was unable to believe it could end that way. It’s a survival story from a high altitude climb in the Peruvian Andes that went horribly wrong. The book was published in 1988, and is still in print. I could not recommend the book too highly. (Over a million copies have been sold, and more than 20 translations made. The book has won awards, been turned into a 2003 film, and recently into a stage play.)

I loaned out my copy of Touching the Void and the inevitable happened: it wasn’t returned. So I bought it again. It’s that good, and that important. Never have I been so inspired by an account of human determination to survive. I’ll always be grateful to Rick for buying me that book. I’ve just taken it off my bookshelf. It’s time to read it again, and Rick will keep speaking to me through its pages.

If I could talk to Rick one final time, here’s what I’d say: ‘Rick, you inspired me and helped me. And you’ve done that for thousands more. Thank you. Now you’ve made the ultimate final ascent. May God bless you.’

————————-

The following news stories describe Rick’s accident, and give more information on his life, especially his climbing.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-57964217

https://www.ukclimbing.com/news/2021/07/rick_allen_dies_in_k2_avalanche-72830

There are stories from the north of Scotland newspaper Press and Journal I’d encourage you to read, but any link I create embeds copyright protected photos! The way to find all the paper’s stories about Rick is by entering ‘press and journal Rick Allen’ in Google, and the stories will be listed.

* https://www.nationalgeographic.org/encyclopedia/avalanche/ During World War I Austrian and Italian troops fought in the Alps. In 1916 10,000 troops died in avalanches in a single day. In fact, avalanches killed more soldiers in World War I than poison gas did.

+ The book exists in several editions, the most recent published by Penguin: https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/1035723/touching-the-void/9781784875374.html

It’s available from most bookshops.

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