Ethics, Politics, and Democracy: From Primordial Principles to Prospective Practices

Ethics, Politics, and Democracy FROM PRIMORDIAL PRINCIPLES TO PROSPECTIVE PRACTICES EDITED BY

JOSE V. CIPRUT

ETHICS, POLITICS, AND DEMOCRACY

ETHICS, POLITICS, AND DEMOCRACY: From Primordial Principles to Prospective Practices

Jose V. Ciprut, Editor

The MIT Press Cambridge, Massachusetts London, England

The Mythical Act of Cosmic Purification shows Mithra––liberty-coiffed God of Light and Chastity, Foe of the Forces of Obscurity––trampling Sin, Malevolence, and Evil (dog, scorpion, serpent), slaying primordial Might (bull), and irrigating “Earth” with its blood.––Ed. Graphic: Roman Sculpture of Mithra Slaying the Bull. © The Art Archive/Corbis Cover Concept and Design: Jose V. Ciprut

© 2008 Jose V. Ciprut All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher. MIT Press books may be purchased at special quantity discounts for business or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected] or write to Special Sales Department, The MIT Press, 55 Hayward Street, Cambridge, MA 02142. This book was set in Palatino by SNP Best-set Typesetter Ltd., Hong Kong, and was printed and bound in the United States of America. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ethics, politics, and democracy : from primordial principles to prospective practices / edited by Jose V. Ciprut. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-262-03386-2 (hardcover : alk. paper)–ISBN 978-0-262-53309-6 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Democracy—Moral and ethical aspects. 2. Political ethics. I. Ciprut, Jose V. JC423.E79 2009 172—dc22 2008014044

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Josie, with whom I share the intimate sentiment that some rights are not just; and that duties—not obligations—can encourage being into becoming, from which a state of mind may blossom, with a fragrance known as “freedom” to some.

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good [wo]men do nothing.” Edmund Burke (1729–1797)

Dalgacı Mahmut . I s¸im gücüm budur benim, Gökyüzünü boyarım her sabah, Hepiniz uykudayken. Uyanır bakarsınız ki mavi.

Captain Can-do’s Conundrum

Deniz yırtılır kimi zaman, Bilmezsiniz kim diker; Ben dikerim

When the sea gets torn from time to time, You’d never guess who mends it; I do, else who.

Dalga geçerim kimi zaman da, O da benim vazifem; Bir bas¸ düs¸ünürüm bas¸ımda, Bir mide düs¸ünürüm midemde, Bir ayak düs¸ünürüm ayag˘ ımda, Ne haltedeceg˘ imi bilemem.

And once in a while I daydream a tad That’s a duty of mine, too; I think of a head inside my head, I think of a belly in my belly, I think of a foot in my foot, yet too bad, I can’t figure out what the heck to do.

Orhan Veli Kanık (1914–1950), Turkish poet

“Daydreamer Mahmoud,” interpreted by Jose V. Ciprut ©

This is my job, it’s what I do: Every single morning I paint the sky, While all of you are sleeping. You open your eyes and look up: it’s blue.

11 Criteria for Electing Konya’s Representatives to the Turkish National Assembly (Compiled by Ali Akgün, journalist in Konya, in Turkish, around 1908) —Long-time residency in Konya; familiarity with its people’s interests & aspirations; —Capacity to want laws, to conceive/articulate bills, conducive to Konya’s happiness; —Neither so ignorant as to discredit the nation nor a rake unworthy of Konya’s trust; —Ability and fearless courage openly to address the State’s unjust or unlawful deeds; —Not bonded or open to handouts; not one to wink at lawbreakers/abusers of justice; —Neither a tear-shedding accomplice to crime, nor an alms seeking merciless official; —Not one to accept bribes, nor one to sell others’ rights, or inclined to destroy others; —No record or reputation for inflicting pain, for inciting to cruelty/torture on others; —Not inclined to, or adept at the unethical practice of two-facedness or double-speak; —Not led by a need to prove others wrong, to eavesdrop on others’ secrets, or to plot; —Skilled and/or wealthy enough to ensure autonomous livelihood after public service.

From Islam and Constitutionalism (1908) Konya: Yusuf Ag˘ a Library, Catalog 9521/2. Turkish to English translation by Jose V. Ciprut, 2008.

Contents

Preface and Acknowledgments 1.

Prisoners of Our Dilemmas

xiii 1

Jose V. Ciprut 2.

Law and Morality in Ancient Near Eastern Thought

33

Barry L. Eichler 3.

On an Ethic of Peace Grounded on Justice: An Eighteenth-Century Voice

59

Paul Guyer 4.

Ethics, Modernity, and Human-Animal Relations

83

Adrian R. Morrison 5.

The Future of Genetics in Medicine: Practices, Prospects, and Peril

103

Reed E. Pyeritz 6.

Ego and Ethos

135

David R. Williams 7.

Trust, Ethics, and Markets

159

Paul R. Kleindorfer 8.

Ethics, Morals, and the State: Rereading the Classical View J. J. Mulhern

181

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9.

Contents

Ethics, Morality, and Religion: Directional Transitions and Trends, East and West

201

Don Baker 10. Exclusion, Fear, and Identity in Emerging Democracies

227

Jeff Spinner-Halev 11. Politics of Ethics: Toward an Ethic of Egalitarian Democracy?

251

Kevin Cameron 12. The Problem of a Democratic Ethic

273

Richard Schuldenfrei 13. On the Need and Requirements for a Global Ethic of Communication

293

Thomas W. Cooper and Clifford G. Christians 14. The Long Road Ahead: A Mode of Democratic Citizenship Inseparable from a Shared Ethic of Responsible Freedoms

319

Jose V. Ciprut About the Authors Name Index Subject Index

327 331 339

Preface and Acknowledgments

At the intersection of religion, morality, and ethics, it puzzles one to find neither serenity nor peace but disconcerting perplexities borne by incessant dilemmas spawned by dichotomies at war: humongous archetypal struggles oft disguised in petty tensions, whether between ‘my virtues, your sins’, ‘I good, you bad’, or ‘us right, them wrong’, with rare if any durable reconciliations between extreme ascriptions, short of oxymoronic concessions rendered convenient by circumstances. Many important people, at one time or another, have found reason to comment on the true meaning of religion,1 on what is right and what is wrong,2 and especially on the merits of doing the ‘right thing’ for the ‘right reason’3—some, in their profound fervor, to the extent of seeing no great difference between ‘true ethics’ and ‘true religion’.4 Modestly, if determinedly, this little volume seeks to revisit the origins of these certainties; to reexamine the modalities of our grumbling and fumbling practices in the present and, of course, also the prospects for a more sagacious, more astutely inclusive approach to transforming the globe into a more hospitable, more beneficent social abode for one and all. This it sets out to do in fourteen intimately braided, thematically relevant, and logically sequenced short chapters insightfully penned by experts in pivotally pertinent disciplines, each of which is discerningly aware of, and discriminatingly attentive to, its 1. The reflection that “the true meaning of religion is . . . not simply morality, but morality touched by emotion” is a double-edged sword pre-owned by Matthew Arnolds. 2. “A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right,” said once a pensive Thomas Paine. 3. In T. S. Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral, one stumbles on this merciless judgment: “The highest form of treason: to do the right thing for the wrong reason.” 4. “Ethics thought out is religious thought; ethics felt out is religious feeling, and ethics lived out is the religious life”—thus spake William Channing Gannett.

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others. Truthful adjectival modesty aside, we first visit the ethics of self-governance, past and future; next we examine how the self has almost concentrically evolved across eccentric transactional contexts (household, market, state, and globe); then we problematize the ethics of politics, with the future conditional of self-adjusting democratic governance always in mind. As the vivid harvest of my final annual seminar cycle, this book completes my Cross-Campus Conversations at Penn. I am pleased to have been informed that these seminars did change a life or two on campus for the better; and I know, for having noted their emergence myself, that they also inspired new course titles, encouraged expansions of tired syllabi, and even led to a lavishly budgeted and staffed major initiative—an emulation wrapped in a gilded version of CCC@P—under an ever so slightly different acronym, for good taste. Indeed, as I conclude my proofreading of this last volume, I notice with quiet contentment the proliferation of similar ventures that seem to have been encouraged, catalyzed, or galvanized into existence—in spirit, organization, and method as also in mindset, attitude, and disposition—on the very greens that between 1998 and 2005 served as CCC@P’s intellectual turf, its pilot laboratory, for the then quite unusual transdisciplinary faculty-student interface it first was designed to be, and the strictly invitational interprofessional academic setting it had to be quickly transformed into, in order to survive the wicked threats it faced, thereby the more effectively directly to serve the One University ideal it pursued—by casting bridges over time-honored conventional barriers across full-fledged disciplines and professions at professorial and expert levels only. This it did, meaningfully and successfully, becoming remarkable (and envied) in a very short time. Our thanks go to the usual suspects—particularly those who help us host our guests in the most hospitable surroundings—in this case, The Carol and Lawrence Zicklin Center for Business Ethics Research of the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania. We thank also the staff of the Instructional Technology Services of the School of Arts and Sciences of the University of Pennsylvania. We do value very much the loyalty of our contributors, who stuck with us through thick and thin, during this particularly demanding project: without these distinguished colleagues become esteemed accomplices and true fellow pilgrims, this volume would not have seen the light of day. For their magnanimous solidarity and generous confidence, the expression of our appreciation and gratitude iterated on this occasion is only natural.

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xv

According to systems theory, regardless of whether undertaken by one or more person(s), a system-wide innovation is at its purposive, progressive, and productive best when its functions, structures, and processes, inter-sustaining by design, relate so well to each other’s practical and ethical justifications across time and space that, when the constituents expose and attune themselves to the fast evolving exigencies of their individual contexts and to the vagaries of their forever altering collective relational/transactional environments, they do so in interconnected modes, as “elements” of a “synergetic” ensemble. Manifest in concert, such self-orchestration is purported to be able to transform a self-supporting enterprise into behaving almost as an autopoietic [an actively self-readjusting, continually (re)organizing, always responsively readapting, and self-maintaining] operating “system,” empowered to deploy more than the arithmetic sum of its wherewithal as it learns and transforms itself. By definition, such an entity is expected to survive hardships precisely because it is not a mere aggregation of talents the sum performance of which—by resignation—would depend primarily on the mechanics of transfer in clockworks vulnerable to the very first particle of sand that poses a threat. This is why such an enterprise is supposed to become its own magnificent reward: were it because, as if miraculously, the orbits of theory and practice become so teased to come closest to each other that even the mortal enemies of such a systemic creation cannot, hard though they might try, disrupt its purposely reorientable trajectory. Everyday practice, however, often goes on to prove that the sort of smooth perfection rendered possible by theory is—simply put—not quite of this world. Forming our Cross-Campus Conversations at Penn, single-handedly forging the contexts in which they took life; and bringing the seeds of these efforts to blossom, fruition, and harvest proved in practice as challenging as the ideational demands and the managerial exigencies that I had placed upon myself at the outset and also as I kept ideating, designing, organizing, supporting, feeding, directing, improvising, and translating each and all of these quests into outcomes as a purposely interrelated ensemble, even if sometimes I had to do so in defiance of the vicious obstacles placed, and in utter disdain for the noxious adversities encountered along the way. In retrospect, the very conditions in which each and all of these tasks were accomplished now give me cause to consider myself that much more gratified, were it for having been able to innovate against the odds, by devising ways to make do with what I could muster and by inventing alternate routes

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as means to reach the final destination—in other words, by constantly readjusting and doggedly moving on without ado, and all the while remaining impervious to inimical acts, or to cheap rivalry. In the process, I found myself able to perceive new distinctions between theory and practice and to discover new parallels twixt large bureaucracies—military, governmental, or academic: The more proximate the fit between theory and practice across time and space, that more closed may tend to become a system gradually enamored with (enslaved to) itself, the more predictable the existential connections that it entertains within its operational and transactional ambits, and the more mechanical its myriad interfaces with both internal agents and external environments. Conversely, the less espousing the fit, the more open the system in question, the less predictable the potential for serendipitous synchronicity and for corresponding isomerisms by the system and by its statistically significant others in shared or impacting environments. More plainly reworded: at one extreme one finds trains that run on time, every time; aging practices that seem as immortal as ever and cliques that self-perpetuate ‘for the good of the masses’—a Platonic universe in which there has been carved out a place for each of the ten thousand things under the sky and where it is a hierarchical obligation to see to it that every single one of these things is, indeed, always, without fail, in its assigned place. At the other extreme: few things that work, junk that accumulates, no garbage collection to speak of, and practically no order; therefore—surprising for some—also ‘no fear’, out of fear, in total absence of palpable legitimacy embodied in tangible authority. It is not so much that old trains—assuming they still are in running condition—do not move, leave, or arrive on time, every time; but more generally, that a sense of individual latitudes, of shared collective responsibility for orderliness or of regard for the usually unwritten rules of civic reciprocity are neither ingrained in the vernacular nor integrated to the culture. Somewhere along this nonfigurative quasi-continuum that imaginably stretches from one of these two hypothetical extremes to the other, and within the virtual bounds of the labile zone in which principle and practice are often, in the mind’s eye, perceived to be traveling companions sitting next to each other, stands democratic citizenship under eminently ameliorable ‘enlightened democratic governance’. The exact locus of the ephemeral bliss point in staged scenarios of alternate futures is often suspected to depend mainly on the direction, frequency, and magnitude, if sometimes also on the deep qualitative content of an ethic of freedom that,

Preface and Acknowledgments

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if/when at all, only fleetingly impacts the fragile democratic space, with some luck more indelibly so than it touches any other. One might ask, why frequently in some democratic spaces, yet only occasionally in others? This is a valid question at the intersection of ethics, politics, and democracy, one that might find itself rewarded with insights in lieu of answers by the end of the contextualized explorations conducted in the pages ahead. Jose V. Ciprut

Ich war ja kein . . .

I wasn’t One . . .

Als die Nazis die Kommunisten holten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Kommunist.

When the Nazis came to arrest the Lefties, I kept my mouth at ease: Hell, I was not one of these.

Als sie die Sozialdemokraten einsperrten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Sozialdemokrat.

When they incarcerated the Social Demies, I kept my mouth at ease: Well, of course; I was not one of these.

Als sie die Gewerkschafter holten, habe ich nicht protestiert; ich war ja kein Gewerkschafter.

When they rounded up Trade Unionese, I did not protest, fact is; Why should I—wasn’t one of these.

Als sie die Juden holten, habe ich geschwiegen; ich war ja kein Jude.

And when they grabbed Yehudis, I kept my mouth at ease: D’never been one of these.

Als sie mich holten, gab es keinen mehr, der protestieren konnte.

Then th’came me to seize; With no one else left, who’s to speak up for me please.

Poem (1976 “original” version) attributed to Pastor Martin Niemöller (1892–1984)

Interpreted by Jose V. Ciprut ©

The poem reproaches the indifferent silence by German intellectuals when, upon rising to power, the Nazis began purging targeted groups one after the other, supposedly in that order: none of those not (yet) harassed would stand to speak up for those purged, until there was allegedly no one left who could speak for the self-engrossed whose turn had come. Unwittingly, the poem gives equal pride of place to political incarceration and systematic murder. It’s as if it saw no moral difference between group imprisonment and system-wide genocide.—Ed.

1

Prisoners of Our Dilemmas Jose V. Ciprut

A modern Western textbook on ethics and morals ordinarily would begin by reminding us that these two notions boast European origins: ethics, it might tell us, comes from ethikos, ultimately from ethos, Greek for ‘character’; and morals, from moralis, ultimately from mos, Latin for ‘custom’ or ‘manner.’1 If the latter precision might create ambiguity, by juxtaposing custom and manner when it refers to morals, the former assertion might do injustice by failing to recognize the ancient nonWestern codes of ‘customs’ and ‘manners’. With those, even the Greeks and Romans themselves had become well acquainted as a result of their exposure, through trade, fact gathering, and military expeditions, which at different times extended to southern Russia, the Indus, North Africa, Gibraltar, and thus into, across, and beyond Europe. As mortals with duties to ourselves, commitments to our others, and obligations to our life space as a whole, we may find ourselves all too often hamstrung twixt what may look repulsively ugly yet is right and what may seem attractively beautiful yet is fundamentally wrong. Our inclinations to be just, and yet our pretensions to be right, each and every time and in every situation, usually remain at loggerheads in the minds of the many of us somehow still in touch with our conscience. This sense of being ‘torn apart’ can imprison us in our dilemmas, should we linger for long to ‘muddle through’ bravely, short of having to choose between two opposite courses of action: inwardly surrendering 1. As the sixth edition of Thiroux’s (1998, 3) Ethics—Theory and Practice simplifies it further: “Nevertheless, in ordinary language, whether we call a person ethical or moral, or an act unethical or immoral, doesn’t really make any difference. In philosophy, however, the term ethics also is used to refer to a specific area of study: the area of morality, which concentrates on human conduct and human values. . . . The important thing to remember here is that moral, ethical, immoral, and unethical, essentially mean good, right, bad, and wrong, often depending upon whether one is referring to people themselves or to their actions.”

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to our lust, while publicly proclaiming triumph as we bask in arrogance whenever we find ourselves in the vicinity of ‘success’ attained by any means; or succumbing to pangs of conscience and precipitating a premature sense of failure by seeing in ourselves a ‘loser’—a condition far worse than death in settings designed for ‘winners’ only. None of the opposing worldviews reflected by infamous film characters2 and by virtuous one-liners3 so far have had epiphanic effects able to foster lasting conversions—whether by the silently repentant, the boisterously born-again, or the myriad others who, in large part unperturbed, believe they simply must continue to prove to themselves and to the world at large that nothing for too long can keep them from that ‘rendezvous with success at any cost’ to which they are destined. Human is as human does. And that seems to be that. The purpose of this book is three-pronged: to revisit some of the earliest forms of relational ethics and morals; to reexamine the kinship links with systems of belief; and to reappraise what basic tenets came about, and how and why their evolved versions continue to shape the values of humans, markets, and states. By these pursuits, we seek to appreciate whether and wherefore some values have stayed on, while others have vanished from the normative purviews of common practice over time and across space. We also try to gain fresh insights as to the possible need and role for civic ethics in modern global settings that necessitate farther- and farther-reaching democratic governance. We begin by scrutinizing history, in an attempt to gain a more encompassing longitudinal overview of the evolution of human practice in domains intimately linked with ethics and morals. We proceed from antiquity in Mesopotamia, to Enlightenment in Europe, to modernity in the United States, to metamodernity in a world still reinventing itself, all the while keeping in mind that an omnidirectionally galloping technoscientific civilization has only just inaugurated a millennium during the first century of which human society will undergo relentless and profound transformations triggered—and driven—by economiccultural, political-social globalizations of hitherto unknown scope and speed. 2. “Greed is good. Greed is right. Greed works. Greed cuts through, clarifies, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit,” insists Gordon Gekko, a pivotal character in Wall Street—a motion picture featuring Michael Douglas as Gekko. 3. “Everything that can be counted does not necessarily count; everything that counts cannot necessarily be counted” is a remark said to have been made by Einstein, for whom the true value of a human being resided in the extent to which that human being had managed to attain “liberation from the self” (see also Arcenas 2008).

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With that framework in mind, we reserve our first set of four chapters to law and morality in ancient Near Eastern social thought and societal practice; to an ethic of peace grounded on justice in Europe during the Age of Enlightenment; to ethics, modernity, and humananimal relations in twentieth-century U.S. society; and to genetics in medicine, with particular attention to its current practice and special focus on its attending prospects and perils in humanity’s faster- and faster-paced rush to unstoppable modernization. We then move to a second group of four chapters, now dwelling on levels of analysis that are just as intimately cross-linked—starting with the individual’s ego and ethos; continuing with issues of risk, trust, and markets; and proceeding with matters of ethics, morals, and the state; before closing with discerning comparisons between creed, religion, and morality from pertinent East-West ethical perspectives. To conclude, we confront complex issues of ethics at theoretical and practical levels of both domestic and international democratic governance, in globalizing contexts. Our last four chapters therefore offer an interlinked array of insights and appreciations with special attention to exclusion, fear, and identity in emerging democracies; to the politics of ethics and the prospects for egalitarian democracy in a shrinking world; to the problem with a democratic ethic; and to the need and requirements for a global ethic of communication capable of transforming the world into a hospitable habitat for those still barely alive and for those yet to be born. Our chapters address their given topics head-on, also by latching on to each other across history and geography through their sequentially developed thematic cohesion. Law and Morality in Ancient Near Eastern Thought Many of the deeply held cultural values of Western Civilization are steeped in biblical tradition, which itself partakes of a human heritage shared with other ancient Near Eastern cultures that as such hold the cradle of civilization. Mesopotamian and Ancient Egyptian literatures reflect central moral concerns for, and ideal standards of, propriety in human conduct. When comparatively reviewed, they also reveal many similarities between ancient Near Eastern and biblical thought in the realm of social, sexual, religious, and personal ethics. Nevertheless, significant differences, which stem from their deeply idiosyncratic worldviews, are also apparent.

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The literature on ancient Near Eastern and biblical ethics and morals covers many specific aspects with modern implications:4 proper upbringing (Kieweler 2001), social and philanthropic ethics (Frisch 1930, Meyerowitz 1935), the genesis of moral imagination in the Bible (Brown 1999), corporate responsibility (Kaminsky 1995), love and sex (Biale 1992), murder (Friedmann 2002), land tenure (Fager 1993), and of course, issues of good and evil (Reventlow and Hoffman 2004), among them. Instead, as an Assyriologist specializing in the law of Akkad and Sumer, the literature of Mesopotamia, and the ethics of Jewish law from its earliest origins onward, Barry Eichler addresses his assigned title by comparing the ethical and moral codes of three civilizations, the Mesopotamian, ancient Egyptian, and biblical, from several angles. Both ancient Near Eastern and biblical worldviews experienced and viewed human society in cosmological terms. Hence ancient Near Eastern conceptions of law and morality were intimately tied to the cosmic order of the universe and to the realm of the divine. In Mesopotamian and Egyptian thought, law and morality were regarded as intricately interwoven concepts to be identified with the cosmic principles that ordered the universe. The cosmic force is referred to as kittum in Mesopotamia and as maat in Egypt, both terms connoting “that which is correct and true.” Mesopotamian and Egyptian kings were divinely mandated to maintain the cosmic order and to establish a harmonious socioeconomic reality on earth. Hence they were inspired with the perception of this cosmic force of Truth, which enabled the kings to serve as its earthly agent by issuing edicts and rendering judgments that reflected the moral cosmic standard. In Mesopotamia and Egypt the ultimate source of law and morality was thus rooted in the cosmic forces of the universe to which both the gods and humankind were subject. Because of the radically different biblical conception of Deity as transcendent and sovereign over the totality of the natural and supernatural cosmic forces of the universe, biblical thought could not accept the ultimate sanction of law and morality as being rooted in the cosmic principle of kittum or maat. To the biblical mind, the Deity is the ultimate sanction of law and morality, both of which are conceived as expressions of the divine will. Law is viewed as a set of revealed instructions to serve as a divine blueprint for the conduct of human society. Hence biblical law is conceived as a positive prescriptive code 4. See, for instance, Schnabel (1985), Mouton (2002), and F. Watson (2000).

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of ethical behavior, not a reactive means of redressing rights violated. In contrast to ancient Near Eastern thought in which the moral cosmic standard was an abstract impersonal force incapable of communicating its will to humankind, biblical thought views the divine moral standard as clearly articulated ethical ideals that are being translated into legal norms. On the basis of a covenantal relationship between God and his people, the entire community becomes responsible, individually and communally, both for the observance of the law and for the maintenance of justice. Thus biblical thought broadened and democratized the Mesopotamian notion of divine selection and covenant between Deity and king by clearly positioning the people on par with the king. This unique biblical notion of law as covenant, established upon a mutual and reciprocal basis in which the people integrally join as one of the covenanting parties, is a major contribution to Western thought. Although the modern secular world cannot accept the basic premise of ancient Near Eastern and biblical conceptions of law and morality as reflecting an absolute moral standard, lessons gleaned from these ancient civilizations would enhance discussions of modern ethics, were it by providing historical and cultural perspectives of humankind’s incessant quest for an ethical and moral society. When one contrasts biblical notions of law and morality with those extant in Mesopotamia and Egypt, one sees that greater moral clarity enhances the sense of personal responsibility, that greater societal valuation of the individual’s role in upholding the social contract of law and fostering governance intensifies individual and communal commitment to act responsibly. It is therefore imperative for modern democratic societies to identify the common ethical values they hold to be true and also to articulate clearly their moral standard, which serves as the cultural wellspring of their societal postulates. This necessity is particularly urgent at this time in human history, when, once again, basic moral issues can no longer remain in the private or personal domain but must be translated into legally enforceable norms that are apt to inform society’s decision-making policies and to define its actions, especially those likely to have an impact on equity, peace, and justice. On an Ethic of Peace Grounded on Justice: An Eighteenth-Century Voice The eighteenth century was the epoch of the European “Enlightenment,” one of culture shocks abroad (Weber 2005), revolutionary

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thoughts at home (MacCormick and Bankowski 1989), and reconsiderations of criminal law and justice (Porret 1997), with attending social aspirations (Lehmann et al. 2000) and legal limits (Bernard 1979). It was also a century of constant warfare. It produced a number of ambitious proposals for the establishment of peace among nations. The best remembered was produced, late in his life (1795), by the German philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), who—by synthesizing German, British, and French sources—managed to produce one of the definitive philosophies of the Enlightenment and indeed of the whole modern era. Yet while Kant’s little book Zum ewigen Frieden (Perpetual Peace) is nowadays more widely read than ever, it continues to be enigmatic in its content: itself written in the form of a peace treaty, it veers between dead seriousness and irony, and seems to contain a fundamental tension. For example: 1. Kant holds personal freedom and the right to acquire property to be the most fundamental among human rights; but freedom and property can be enjoyed only with the consent of others, and indeed, on a globe any point of which can be reached from any other, in principle with the consent of all other human beings. Thus a condition of global peace in which the rights of all are secure is understandably the ultimate necessary condition of justice. 2. Kant describes natural mechanisms by which warring people will be led to form republican governments—what we now call democracies with constitutional protections for the rights of those not currently in the majority—and holds that as this form of government spreads across the earth, the temptation for war will diminish, and that correspondingly (and hence, apparently inexorably) peace will emerge. 3. Yet Kant’s theory of human freedom insists that we always have the liberty to choose between the better and the worse course of action. No matter how strongly nature—that is, our nature—itself inclines us in the direction of the just and the good, we always have the power to subvert it. How then could progress toward peace be guaranteed by any natural mechanism? Historian of philosophy Guyer’s chapter argues that Kant did not really contradict himself: his theory is that nature can guarantee the availability of means that can be used toward peace as an end and, in this sense, guarantee the possibility of peace, but that only the free

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choice of those in powerful positions in governments to use their power as morality commands can actually bring peace about. This line of thought remains as true today as it ever was. But Kant also recognized that human beings are emotional as well as rational creatures, and discerned that the rhetoric of guaranteed progress toward peace can give us emotional support in our efforts to secure peace even though our reason requires only the recognition of the moral necessity of peace and the mere possibility of successful efforts toward it. Kant saw that a successful strategy for justice—or for any other morally requisite goal—must bring our emotions into harmony with our reason; and this observation remains as true today as it was then. One instance in which human reason and human emotions remain in a state of unresolved debate is, say, in the domain of human-animal relations, dating from antiquity and likely to last for as long as human civilization itself continues to exist. Ethics, Modernity, and Human-Animal Relations Human-animal relations have a very long history (Preece 2005), which has led humans continually to rethink them (McKenna and Light 2004) from many angles, including humanist (Matignon 2000), social (Barnett 2001), cultural (Knight 2003), anthropological (Knight 2000), civilizational (Lorenz 2000), ecological (Woodroffe, Thirgood, and Rabinowitz 2005; Quammen 2003), psychological (Akhtar and Volkan 2005), ethical (Blakemore 2005), and interdisciplinary (Corona-M. and ArroyoCabrales 2002), as also along a variety of perspectives, including those of domestication (Haraway 2003), hunting (Pelly 2001), experimentation with animals (Birke and Hubbard 1995), animal rights (Reichmann 2000), and alternative-practice proposals (Balls, van Zeller, and Halder 2000; Crabtree and Ryan 1991; OTA 1986; van Zutphen and Balls 1997). The question of the human use of animals is one of today’s most contentious social issues, for it raises doubt on whether it is ethical to interfere in the lives of other species in order to improve upon the wellbeing of one’s own. Throughout human history, men and women have had interactions with animals in ways both good and evil. A very active animal rights movement seeks to destroy that relationship. The change from an agricultural to an industrial society in Western civilization has made that movement’s efforts easier: the majority of the citizens are far removed from the natural world, most viewing animals as pets, even

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as members of their family. A small number of philosophers have advanced ideas that would seriously affect the well-being of the human species, and radical elements have striven to use these as tools. For example, efforts to block biomedical research by legal, illegal, and even violent means are a serious threat to any nation’s health program and also a menace to the institutions working to ensure global medical progress. Other human activities, too, have come under attack, modern agriculture and hunting being two examples. Modern societies have to examine their various uses of animals in a reflective, unemotional way based on scientific inquiry in order to decide how human beings are to act and interact with animals in the modern world. Unlike most of the other chapters of this book, which consider the ethical implications of human interactions in various fields, this chapter explores aspects regarding human uses of animals. From the earliest interactions of human beings with emerging domesticated species—a practice recognized at the time, and since, as a mutually beneficial process—to outright modern biomedical experimentation with animals, including some of the domesticated species, we humans generally have had the upper hand. However, with increasing social sensibilities, mostly resulting from the deepening separation from the natural world that has accompanied the process of urbanization, the self-serving instrumental utilization of animals by humans has also come more frequently into question. The most extreme expression of that concern is found in the animal rights movements, which seek to remove animals from all human control. Given that such an extreme solution is impractical in the eyes of all but a radical few, how is one to ensure the welfare of both parties—humans and animals—since, as Morrison puts it, “animals have little say in the matter”? This chapter hence reviews the ethical implications of the continued use of animals—in entertainment, hunting, intensive agriculture, basic biomedical research and the like— concluding that the complexities in each of these various uses demand acquisition and assimilation of all the facts before deciding what is proper and what is improper in the varied ways that we humans interact with other species. But, to begin with, how are we humans to heal our own species in the future? The Future of Genetics in Medicine: Practices, Prospects, and Peril Following the recent success in identifying the human genome, the U.S. Department of Energy (DOE) and U.S. National Institutes of

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Health (NIH) had channeled 3 to 5 percent of their annually budgeted outlays for the Human Genome Project (HGP) to studying the ethical, legal, and social issues (ELSI) surrounding these genetic data now accessible worldwide. What was the world’s largest bioethics program has thus spawned also a model for ELSI programs emulated around the world, to tap myriad related ethical issues—from the clinical, reproductive, and psychological to the conceptual, philosophical, commercial, and well beyond. And the single most thorough textbook on the practice, promise, and perils of the medical uses of genomics is also one that happens to have been coauthored by the contributor of chapter 5 (Rimoin et al. 2002). Otherwise, the question of what scientists engaged in the life sciences think and do always has been and remains of great and growing interest (Stangroom 2005). What Reed Pyeritz, chief of the Division of Medical Genetics at the University of Pennsylvania Health System, is trying to sensitize the reader about in his chapter for this book can be represented briefly as follows: now that, at long last, the human genome has been almost completely sequenced, the already quite substantial number and scope of applications of genetics to medicine will burgeon. An area that is already well established is the testing of characteristics of a person’s genotype for medical indications. Although such testing need not involve DNA, it does reveal the fact that the high serum cholesterol level of an individual does tend greatly to augment the chances that the subject has a genetic predisposition to a defect in lipid metabolism. Put differently, the sheer ability to sample and analyze a person’s DNA, in and of itself, has greatly expanded the opportunity for testing, among other things, presence or absence of disease even in utero, as well as carrier status for recessively inherited disorders such as cystic fibrosis, while also enabling the screening of newborns for disorders that can be treated very early in life and helping to determine an individual’s susceptibility to disorders that clinically might not occur until some years later. Each of these indications has special and specific ethical considerations. At the most fundamental level, most genetic testing provides factual information not only about the person being sampled, but understandably also about his or her close relatives. Furthermore, the results of testing may not be as clear-cut as one might anticipate; for example, analysis of a gene may reveal an unusual variant, the consequences of which are unknown. All of this indicates that genetic testing is different from most other testing in medical practice. A

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number of closely related public policy issues of deep ethical import are likely to arise in the years ahead. Already, at a minimum, health care providers face the need to make publicly available pretest/posttest counseling (which includes education) about the genetic test itself. Pyeritz’s chapter offers a detailed understanding of the why and wherefore of all these ethical considerations, with the future of men, women, and children in a postindustrial civilization of globewide import constantly in mind. Doubtless too, where and why in a democracy a citizen is tested, and where and why such information may be (mis)used, raise legal and moral and ethical concerns of their very own. Human rights issues may come to the fore, where the practice is exercised, say, in coercive ways in more autocratic, less democratic settings where the rule of law is scant. Having briefly scanned the history and geography of fundamental ethical considerations with a select, theme-specific focus on humans and their close relations with other human and nonhuman life forms in the first four chapters, we next turn to the interconnected levels of analysis encompassing the practical relational and situational ethics on the planes of the self, the market, the state, and the globe. Ego and Ethos In the literature, the self is examined from a variety of angles that includes the endogenously affected identity (Chowers 2004)—that is, the post-revolutionary (Goldstein 2005), the reshaped (Centrie 2004), the experience-marked ego (Ireland 2004)—as well as the exogenously, and more specifically, social-mentality-driven, persona (Whybrow 2005). Reflexivity and intersubjectivity provide extra insights on the ego (Johns and Freshwater 2005), as does the repatterning of the self—say, for caring and healing—as exemplified by the nursing profession (J. Watson 2005), by an aesthetics of the self, treated through clothing and the material culture (Küchler and Miller 2005), and by the beliefrelated aspects of the self (Shun and Wong 2004; Krumbein 2005; Markham and Özdemir 2005). The self is examined by an abundant literature in ways conducive to even more polyvalent complex understandings by means of insights from alterity (Mensch 2003, 2005; Wall 2005; Fryer 2004) or literary (Kaster 2005), philosophical (Johns and Freshwater 2005), and political (Parker 2004) viewpoints, as also from

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psychological (Dilman 2005), moral (Gardiner 2005), ethical (Davies 2000; Wenham 2000), and many additional perspectives (for example, Badiou 1982, 1988, 2003). Ethics concerned with the principles of ‘human duty’ is normally based on considerations that do not include the facts of the ordinary everyday conscious experience of individual human beings. The chapter by psychologist-psychiatrist David Williams (who did see ‘experiments with animals’ in B. F. Skinner’s laboratory, as a very young student) hence advances the proposition that a reexamination of ethics might profit from one’s taking account of the most prominent facts of human experience. The obvious elements of everyday human consciousness are organized within the framework of existential/ humanistic psychology and placed on a ‘Phenomenological Map’ relating them to mind, brain, and some other underpinnings beyond awareness, including the genomic and spiritual influences that give a sense of direction to the very process of living. Ego and ethos are united by the concept of ego identity, namely, the first stage of adult ego development, and are applied to ethics through the concept of ego integrity, specifically the final stage of that development. Here, Williams distinguishes two components of ego identity: personal identity, an expression of the individual’s unique genomic and perhaps spiritual nature; and social identity, formed on the basis of an individual’s ethos. Ego integrity is attained through successful management of the challenges to ego identity, which arise from opportunities for intimate and productive engagement that come to the fore in the normal process of living. The need for a reexamination of ethics comes from the threat that technology poses to humanity’s survival, both from weapons and from defilement of the earth. The human response to the threat lies in the emergence of a new ethos, along with an underlying ethic, that is inconsistent with the self-destroying tendencies of current social systems. To illustrate how a new ethos might arise, Williams proposes an ethical principle based on ego integrity, and then explores the possibility of advancing it through practical empirical research. Williams, with ensuing conviction, concludes that there is a path to a new understanding of ethics through behavioral research on constituents of a new and nondestructive ethos that demands urgent exploration. How does trust affect ego and ethos at both individual and small or large group levels?

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Trust, Ethics, and Markets Some recent events have shaken the very foundations of American capitalism. U.S. business, once traditionally heralded as the model for the rest of the world, has recently taken some hits. Companies that were considered leaders and innovators have become notorious for bad management and even fraud. Enron, WorldCom, Lucent, Qwest, and Xerox have all been toppled like idols with clay feet. Along with them, auditors, once the most highly trusted of all professionals, have fallen. Arthur Andersen has been disgraced and is now no more. These problems are not confined to the United States; large scandals are emerging also in Asia and Europe, and a growing number of non-U.S. corporate accounting scandals are becoming visible across the globe. The result is that trust in the corporate sector has fallen to a new low. The same loss of trust is not confined to the corporate sector, and has begun spreading to institutions like churches and hospitals. And the problem is not just with accounting and finance, but extends to other areas where economic activity has fundamental impacts that extend beyond the narrow confines of profit and loss, among them the environment and product safety and security. In almost every aspect of business activity, companies and their agents are no longer viewed as trustworthy. About the only objective that citizens are prepared to believe as credible for the corporate sector, and for the market institutions that govern it, is the unbridled pursuit of personal gain for those lucky enough to occupy seats of higher power in large organizations. The reproachful tenor and tone in current writings on the topic (Kassirer 2005; Kramer and Cook 2004; Rampton and Stauber 2001) in the United States are very different from those adopted proactively (Garone 1994), let alone much earlier in the United States (Lectures 1930) and even until very recently abroad (Shionoya and Yagi 2001). Kleindorfer’s chapter describes the serious problems that arise for economic institutions if and when trust, the basic glue of social intercourse, disappears. After a brief introduction to the heart of the matter, this risk analyst submits a few prosaic examples from recent American corporate history, taken from his research in the energy sector and the chemical industry sector. The author considers experimental evidence to shed some light on determinants of trust in market-based transactions. These experiments underline the importance of fairness and open communication in reinforcing trust. Analytical conclusions for the state of trust in the corporate sector and in the people who manage it

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do not seem to be very uplifting at this point, but Kleindorfer finds reason to think there are a few hopeful signs on the horizon. These he takes to indicate a developing appreciation by many stakeholders that without trust and good ethics there cannot be any realistic expectations of, or even hope for, efficient markets at a time when relations between markets and the state are changing. Ethics, Morals, and the State: Rereading the Classical View In this essay, which is indebted to the work of James Q. Wilson, classicist J. J. Mulhern, who teaches topics on comparative government, considers the rediscovery of character and its importance for the way one understands the silent relation of ethics and morals to politics.5 Character has a long history in thinking about politics (Wilson 1995; Garver 2004; Yu 2004). Indeed, for some Greeks, including Aristotle, character (e¯thos) was the central issue in the study of human things. The Greeks were concerned not only with character itself but also with all the things that were related to it, especially the things that were caused by character and the things that caused character to develop, for better or for worse. These were their ‘ethical things’, or ethics. Thus, for them, ‘ethics’ was not a discipline, nor was ‘ethical’ (e¯thikos) a concept for expressing general approval, as opposed to, say, ‘unethical’. For some Romans, including Cicero, the central issue rather appears to have been custom, or mos. The Romans were concerned both with custom and with the things related to it. These were their moral things, or morals (moralia). Thus, at the outset, ‘morals’ was not a discipline, nor was ‘moral’ (moralis) an expression of general approval, as opposed to, say, ‘immoral’. Character, was something that belonged to individuals: it was different from custom, which was shared by many; but both Greeks and Romans did agree that custom could have an effect on character development and, hence, that character could be embodied or reflected in custom. In modern times, many thinkers have struggled with what they describe as the relation of ‘ethics or morals’ to the state, often in ways that are not too helpful to the political actor, especially where the 5. I recently looked over McCain and Salter’s book, titled Character Is Destiny (2005), in which—as their publishers suggest—the authors seek to “illustrate these qualities with moving stories of triumph against the odds, righteousness in the face of iniquity, hope in adversity, and sacrifices for a cause greater than self-interest . . . by telling the stories of celebrated historical figures and lesser-known heroes whose values exemplify the best of the human spirit.”

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language of ethics and morals has long lost the precision it enjoyed in its original classical descriptive form. Some moderns have spoken as if there might be politics without ethics or morals, and ethics or morals without politics. The rediscovery of character leads back to a tradition in which ethics and politics are continuous because, as a matter of fact, actions produce habits, habits are integrated into character, character is reflected in customs or laws, and customs are embodied in institutions, including political institutions or what is spoken of in modern times as the state, and in which, likewise, these institutions reinforce customs, customs mold character, character strengthens habits, and habits make actions easier and more pleasant to perform. This tradition, though neglected for many centuries, is helpful to the political actor, since it provides an explicit way of thinking about the political actor’s work. Both individuals and institutions, including the state as embodied in the political actor, have an interest in promoting in people the kind of character that disposes them to avoid criminal acts, dependency, and intemperance. Might there be differences in ethics and morality and their respective connection with religion, so different in East and West as to have an impact on customs, manners, and approaches to politics, governance, and attitudes to democracy? Ethics, Morality, and Religion: Directional Transitions and Trends, East and West The literature on the connections among religion, morality, and ethics is far-reaching. In the domain of applications, its reach extends from considerations of war and peace (Dallmayr 2004) to biotechnological concerns with decisions that may conflict with Christianity (Smith 2005). In the domains of philosophy, it encompasses such topics as reconsiderations (Dole and Chignell 2005), theological reevaluations (Lewis 2005), and newer reviews of Christian ethics, a Protestant ethic of work, capitalist values, and Weberian revisitings of material success and religious temperament (Swatos and Kaelber 2005); novel observations on ‘the radical protestantism’ in Spinosa’s thought (Hunter 2005), on Maimonidean ethics (Cohen 2004), or yet again on ancient Egyptian maat as a moral ideal (Karenga 2004); and even contemplations of value and virtue in a godless universe (Wielenberg 2005). In a comparative mode, alongside closer studies of discursive formations and of ethical emotions in Buddhist thinking (Griffiths 2004), one finds also lectures on free thought (Wright 2004) and on theories of ethics (Graham 2004).

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And hundreds of additional items fall under a myriad other themespecific rubrics, from mysticism (Jones 2004) to ‘just’ sex (Farley 2006). It has been a common assumption in Europe and North America that morality and ethics require a theistic religious foundation. But East Asia has not shared that assumption. Instead, China, Japan, Korea, and also Taiwan have given morality and ethics autonomy from religion and have instead made religion subordinate to morality and ethics. Instead of letting religion dictate the hegemonic moral principles and ethical codes, the governments and peoples of those societies traditionally required religious organizations to accept and to enforce the secular moral principles and ethical codes promoted by the secular state. That stance has been slightly modified in the modern world, under the fresh influence of the notion of religious freedom. Religious organizations now are allowed to supplement and sometimes even to modify the secular ethical injunctions promoted by their secular governments. The peoples of East Asia, nevertheless, remain much more comfortable with moral principles and ethical codes with no theistic religious connotations or foundation, more so than the peoples of Europe and North America are. With such fundamental differences in the worldviews and everyday ethics of peoples, North and South, and East and West, can there ever be a worldwide ethics of communication conducive to the globalization of a democratic mindset, of a mentality of social-cultural inclusion, of a more balanced, more just political-economic interdependence, while fear and exclusion persist deep inside individual societies, and among them too? Having connected the various levels of analysis in a sequence of augmenting synthetic aggregation and, via cross-sectional means, thus complemented the longitudinal overview preceding it, we next take a detailed look at each of four multilateral concerns, each of which is laden with values specific to issues of great pertinence to the just conduct of democracy in ways indispensable to good relational ethics. Exclusion, Fear, and Identity in Emerging Democracies To the classic (traditional) issues of inclusion, exclusion, belongingness, and marginality, the factor of fear6 has been able to impart qualities that 6. See, e.g., Ciprut, Editor (2000, 2001), Of Fears and Foes: Security and Insecurity in a Globalizing International Economy, penned shortly before “9-11-01.”

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have very negatively affected domestic and international policies since the fall of the iron curtain at the end of the 1980s, in Europe, and in the aftermath of the tragic events of September 11, 2001, in the United States, although internecine wars, genocidal outbursts, irredentist militancy in the third world, and excessive disparities between rich and poor inside technologically advanced countries, as well as among wealthy and deprived countries around the world, have complicated matters further, for each and all, in ways seldom seen before. Thus the extant literature, meanwhile, has also expanded to include fresher investigations of traditional modes of exclusion in historical social contexts (Spina 2005; Coviello 2005; Carlisle 2005), while also dwelling on the novel societal effects of fear and hatred (Lukacs 2005). Ensuing challenges to urban cohesion (Kazepov 2005), resultant needs and measures for controlling borders in an enlarged Europe (Bigo and Guild 2005), the domestic impact on American democracy of the United States’ global war on terror (Ivie 2005), the fear-control nexus (Siegel 2005), the globalizing effects of localized poverty-marginality issues (Munck 2005), the particular attention now required by laggard regions such as southern Europe (Calavita 2005), and myriad other topics are now continuing to receive fuller coverage. The chapter by J. Spinner-Halev, a political scientist with a strong interest in issues of morality with regard to citizenship, focuses on ethical problems related to democratization in societies with sizeable religious minorities. The chapter is written with past, present, and future in mind. The author examines why democracies, which are often taken to be inclusive regimes, usually informally but sometimes also formally exclude minorities from citizenship. His main focus here is on religious minorities that often bear the brunt of such exclusions. For example, there is increasing anti-Islamic sentiment in Europe, Muslims in India feel besieged, and the advent of democracy in such places as Indonesia has seen the onset of violence against Christians. The author notes the psychological literature that suggests there is a strong human tendency to identify as part of a group by contrast to other groups, a contrast that often conduces to acrimonious feelings toward those other groups. He finds this literature to be unfortunate but persuasive, regretting that, too often, theorists of democracy discuss citizenship without noting this difficulty. Seeking to correct this oversight, Spinner-Halev argues that this tendency to identify one’s group in contrast to other groups is especially dangerous in a democracy. Because the members of a democratic society are supposed to share the very democracy’s

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sovereignty, when people identify themselves with cluster attributes, in contrast to others’ cluster attributes, then democratic exclusion arises. The first part of Spinner-Halev’s chapter weaves this psychological literature together with both democratic theory and the empirical examples referred to already. And the last part of the chapter helps to accomplish two goals: (1) it shows how, to their peril, some theories of democracy and cultural pluralism overlook the democratic tendency to exclude; and (2) it discusses what can be done about the democratic tendency to exclude. Can then, in an imperfect world, a more egalitarian democracy ever be accomplished? Politics of Ethics: Toward an Ethic of Egalitarian Democracy? Inequality visits and revisits us in uncountable ways, often in different guises. The more recent literature dwells on a broad range of investigations that cover dilemmas of inequality the world over (Tulchin and Bland 2005); frameworks for theories of equality (Baker et al. 2004); inquiries into inequality on grounds of religion (Hassan 2003), of race— whether by means of discrimination for job openings (Jonas 2005) or by the very role the race factor plays in the nexus between equality and sovereignty in, say, Cuba, of all places (Bronfman 2004)—of sex and gender differences, some of which are opposed by feminists (Andrew, Keller, and Schwartzman 2005); studies of how race and class inequalities discourage and delay integration, in the United States for example (Cashin 2004), and of how inequality can be brought about by the limits to recognition, thus impacting issues of justice as well (Markell 2003); and recognition of economic democracy as an avenue to liberty and equality (Wilkinson 2005). By contrast, as a scholar of law and government, Cameron lets his chapter speculate on the possibility of an ethic particular to egalitarian democracy. Cameron submits that the ethical conflict at the heart of modern democracy can be understood in terms of the two democratic traditions that have evolved out of the historical emergence of democracy. These two traditions are the libertarian and the egalitarian. The emphasis of the libertarian tradition is on the rights and liberties of the individual against the state’s public coercive power; by contrast, the egalitarian tradition defends and champions the equality of citizens against the coercive practices of private individuals, private groups, or private institutions. Seen in these terms, the proponents of the former tradition view the public sphere as the principal threat to democracy, while the

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proponents of the latter tradition view inequality in the private sphere as the main threat to democracy. Libertarians limit equality to political equality, or equality before the law, but egalitarians promote economic equality as well as political equality. Accompanying the libertarian tradition is the argument that any attempt to eliminate inequality in the private sphere will only lead to the terror and suffering associated with the totalitarian state. In practical terms, this syllogism results in a form of blackmail against egalitarian political projects. To take a closer look at the makings of the ideological mobilization against the very goals of egalitarian democracy, Cameron undertakes a psychoanalytic reading of Kantian ethical theory. The outcome seems to suggest that egalitarian democracy offers an ethic more truly universal than its libertarian counterpart. Unlike its libertarian kin, egalitarian democracy starts from an appreciation that the ethical dimension of society is found not so much in an abstract universal principle, such as ‘natural’ rights, but in the universal principle of equality that is latent in concrete social relations. It is the political goal of egalitarian democracy to indeed mobilize this concrete universal good against the abstract universal good that supports inequality. In this manner, argues Cameron, it can be said that essentially the ethics of egalitarianism lies in its ‘Kantian duty’ to eclipse the ‘reality principle’ purported to support the libertarian worldview’s abstract universal. Analytically, then, egalitarian political projects represent a kind of intriguing and timely return of the long-repressed term ‘equality’, which has remained latent in concrete, modern, globalizing social relations. Would resolving inequality prove to be a conclusive answer to the question of developing a democratic ethic? Or is there more to the tricky question, and to the gist of all possible answers? The Problem of a Democratic Ethic The lifting of the iron curtain, the implosion of the Soviet Union, and the almost immediate reaction by its former satellites, now anxious instantly to convert to democratic rule, have sent most of the left and some of the right back to the drawing board, to rethink their political theory in general and their democratic theory in particular. Much time has elapsed since Dahl’s provocative question as to who governs (1961) and David Held’s reintroduction of Critical Theory (1980) through an overview of the evolution of that mode of thinking from Horkheimer to Habermas, to be succeeded by Held’s models

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for democratic rule (1987) and his essays on state, power, and democracy (1989). The main concern now is over the modalities and, moreover, externalities of democratic governance in a globalizing international political economy. This newer focus is amply reflected by the topics addressed in the latest literature—including the state of democratic theory (Shapiro 2003), of capitalism (Schweickart 2002), of the challenges ahead (Carter and Stokes 2002), and of the prospects for reflective democracy (Goodin 2003); issues of democracy and the rule of law (Maravall and Przeworski 2003), of education for democratic citizenship (Lockyer, Crick, and Annette 2003), and of ethics and politics in post-Marxist critical theory (Devenney 2004); regional concerns with the quality of democracy (O’Donnell, Vargas Cullell, and Iazzetta 2004); and questions of representation—again!—(Ankersmit 2002; Laycock 2004), as well as of democratic social choice and institutional planning theory (Sager 2002), naturally not without a scholar’s guide to pertinent research (Keman 2002). More than 2,000 years ago, Plato developed a critique of democracy. He suggested, first, that democracy would not be simply a political arrangement, neutral, as between cultures, but that it would be a culture as well, a least-common-denominator culture. He believed that a democracy would be a culture characterized by people who sought shallow pleasures, rejecting every form of nobility. Knowledge in such a culture would take the form of mere means to the acquisition of pleasure. In his chapter, philosopher Richard Schuldenfrei suggests that those predictions have been borne out and that the evolution of rights serves to inoculate democratic society against every attempt to elevate its aspirations with any higher ‘democratic ethic’. Plato not only believed that democratic aspirations were too low, but also believed that they were unstable, and unprotected against degradation to the point where they could no longer support democracy itself. He believed that the pursuit of pleasure would lead democrats to choose tyranny over freedom, if the former could better fulfill their desires. The author argues in his chapter that none of the prominent contemporary philosophical/ethical theories contain the resources to provide enough security against such a possibility, and that hence Plato’s critique presents an important relevant contemporary challenge to democracy. So ‘what do we need and when do we need it’ as demonstrators in the habit of demanding ‘everything, right here, right now’ usually chant, without thereby always succeeding in communicating their frustration in convincingly constructive, palpably practical, response-eliciting ways?

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On the Need and Requirements for a Global Ethic of Communication Questions concerning the ethics of communication have long retained the interest of scholarly communities from various perspectives that, among other things, addressed basic ethics—in human exchanges (Johannesen 2002); communication ethics and global change (Cooper et al. 1989); ethics in political communication (Denton 1991); media ethics (Englehardt and Barney 2002; Solomon 1999); democratization among the world media (Hackett and Zhao 2005); global electioneering (Sussman 2005); dialogue, as a form of communication in education and for community building (Shields and Edwards 2005); and even in theory itself (McPhail 2006; Shepherd, St. John, and Striphas 2006). Having elsewhere dealt with the importance of narrative in the social ecology of human society (Krippendorff 2000), of ‘languaging’ as a means of reclaiming the voice of theorized others (Krippendorff 2001), of the code theory of language (Clark 2008), and of language policy and citizenship issues (Schiffman 2008), we now turn to the need and wherewithal for ‘a worldwide ethic of communication’ in a globalizing international political economy: a topic of highest urgency for a worldwide ethic of democratic citizenship from now on. Modern communication technology has already been successful in linking societies and connecting cultures around the globe. What the globe seems to be lacking now is a worldwide media ethic capable and qualified to animate the planetary network already in place. Several international models have been developed, or are under way, to that effect. In this chapter, a philosophical and social ethicist with expertise in journalism and international communication joins hands with a media expert to conduct a thorough analytic synthesis of the needs, ways, and means of addressing the dilemma raised by the query articulated in stylized format at the end of the preceding section. On the empirical level, common values have been sought usually either by comparing professional codes of ethics or by contrasting media accountability systems within, between, and across countries. On the theoretical level, universal models rooted in philosophical reflection have been proposed—interactive universalism, linguistic commonality, authentic communication in indigenous cultures, the sacredness of life, and international human rights among them. These universals are not abstract absolutes. They are preliminary presuppositions without which cross-cultural principles would be impossible.

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Normative formulas of universal scope build on the rich legacy of communication ethics embedded in humankind’s cultural histories. Virtually all religions have served early dogma about communication practices. Philosopher Mircea Eliade, rather, found the paradisiacal myth rooted in truth telling, across history and around the world. Alongside cultural diversity are cultural parallels, with Confucius in the East and Aristotle in the West both advocating an ethics of equilibrium, for example. And Carl Jung has identified universal thought forms that he chose to call the ‘collective unconscious’. In addition to epochal theorizing and historical traditions, contemporary sociopolitical policies and mandates promote common ethical practices. But agreements forged among nations and between institutions are not sufficient in and of themselves for providing a universal framework. Media technologies change constantly and raise new issues that need resolution. Hence, only a transdisciplinary and cross-cultural approach on all levels will yield a universal mode of communication ethics adequate to the twenty-first century, if it is done for the reasons and using the distinct approaches toward the emancipatory practical goals and higher objectives that are realistically discussed in this lucidly written concluding overview. * Before closing, it might prove useful to critique these interrelated contributions: they all seek to enhance an understanding of practical relational ethics in ways that encourage deeper effective politics of governance and broader and more inclusive purviews for egalitarian democracy. They do so from consequentialist and nonconsequentialist perspectives. In Guyer’s and Cameron’s contributions, for instance, one can discern a tendency to emphasize more a nonconsequentialist approach to peace-related and justice-specific ethics grounded, not so much on consequences, but rather on a ‘high’ standard that finds its motivation in norm-based prescriptions of how humans ‘ought to’ behave—not according to divine command theory, but in accord with Kantian duty ethics: Kant’s categorical imperative need not be mistaken for some version of divine command theory.7 Yet, part of the 7. Paul Guyer reminded us that if fifty years ago Elizabeth Anscombe infamously did assert it was, the suggestion is untenable: Kant viewed the categorical imperative to be inherent in human reason—thus recognizable by every human being implicitly and every time that we as humans consider acting upon a principle of action (some proposed ‘maxim’). Kant did hold that—to believe that the morality with which we are to conduct our lives can be fulfilled—we humans, indeed, need to believe in God. Yet it is not our

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urgency inhering in the ethical conduct of democratic politics along the dimensions discussed in this book is in a consequentialist mode of thinking, in that some of the chapters seem to concern themselves utmost with the outcomes, implications, and consequences of actions, such as the ones that touch on ego and ethos (Williams), on trust and markets (Kleindorfer), on ethics, morals, and the state (Mulhern), on exclusion and fear (Spinner-Halev), and on the problem of a democratic ethic (Schuldenfrei) or on the urgent requirements for a global ethic of communication (Cooper and Christians). True, if heeded, these tenets might be capable of bringing about a more just world in the course of a new century that, sad as it is to admit, started with the deadliest of all nondialogues between the blind and the hard of hearing. In this editor’s opinion, intuitionistic decisions, taken on a case-bycase basis—such as ‘act nonconsequentialists’ tend to undertake, the more conclusively to decide what is “the right thing to do” under very specific circumstances—are so subjective that a general theory of action is far from achievable, to the detriment of theorizing with any universal applicability. For if all stakeholders were to engage in ‘what makes them feel good’, chances are that responsible democratic citizenship would be the first casualty as a mode of lawful practice apt to conduce to more egalitarian democratic governance. In a world where, for better or for worse, faith-based organizations have begun to assume a newfound importance, and where the jury is still out on the makings of any ‘clashes of civilizations’, the problem raised by a ‘rule nonconsequentialist’ (i.e., consequence-indifferent) mode of thinking, however, resides in its placing trust in divine command, conducive to the awkward secular doubt as to ‘whose God’s command prevails’ on issues of public (not household) import. Clearly Kant’s categorical imperative gains pride of place here, because it may insist on the basic immorality of an act that is decided upon, and undertaken as is, on basis of a rule (maxim) that is not universally acceptable to all stakeholders. One agrees with Paul Guyer, however, that the contrast between consequentialism and Kantian thought should not be overdrawn: for Kant, the moral principle is a formal principle, at least in its first formulation; through that principle, we are to treat all human beings as ‘ends’ in themselves, not as mere ‘means’ to our very own ends. This certainly specifies a blind faith but our own reason that enjoins those tasks upon us. And when it comes to perpetual peace, Kant quite unmistakably leaves God altogether out of the picture: peace is a state of affairs to be realized in human history, by means of human good will and by the mechanisms of nature, but clearly not God.

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‘consequence’ of our actions, albeit in a way that says nothing about ‘happiness’. In modern settings geared to the pursuit of happiness by each and all, habitually in stances that often so closely resemble selfish altruism, whether being treated as ends in themselves will allow human beings to set and pursue their own ends (to the extent compatible with everyone else’s doing so) in ways that will assure the happiness of one and all, is a very different question, however. In the sense and to the extent that one’s maxims for actions are not to be merely ‘applicable’ but, indeed, acceptable to everyone who could be affected by them—hence because it rules out the imposition on others of principles they could not freely accept—the categorical imperative serves as a conduit to covenanted justice, not as a vehicle for coveted joy, thereby offering but a beginning in its very own ends. Kant specifically distinguished the categorical imperative from the traditional Christian rule. For him, ‘doing unto others as thou would have them do unto thee’ left out an important complement: ‘not doing unto others what they would not have done of themselves for themselves to themselves’. It is therefore in the very amalgamation of these two complementary principles that resides the serenity offered by justice, on which one just might found collective joy, and in which one also just might find personal happiness. We do not do unto others what they would not have done to ‘them’, and we do unto others what we would have done to ‘us’—to the extent that, in so doing, we remain true to, and also consistent with, the first part of the principle, the limits and latitudes of our resources, and the primacy of our most intimate aims (which we should view as no more, if also as no less, worthy than anyone else’s): not exactly a garden variety of selfish altruism insofar as—while it does include the achievement of one’s own aims among the aims of all—it allocates to one’s aims no self-arrogating weight. Inside that mentality, if in a somewhat different sense, the argument finds its echo in Bourdieu’s suggestion that “a point of view that perceives itself as such, that is, as a view taken from a point in a space of contending positions, is in a position of overcoming particularity” (Bourdieu 1991, 384). Our discoveries from this critically edited book thus resonate with an almost-Kantian thinking that, while hoisting the categorical imperative to a zenith, wants it not least to coexist symbiotically with reasoned altruism in a mode of ‘ecumenical’ syncretism—do’s and don’ts because already, and all too well, we can reason what is good and not bad for one and all. For some, this might seem to amount to a much too simple political ethic, although it does provide a basis for an eminently

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nonsimplistic code of societal behavior that, through a practice of sagacious politics, may come closest in its wider effects to the uncommon achievement of actually straddling religious charity and secular humanistic generosity, and therefore becoming conducive to liberty, peace, and the pursuit of happiness—albeit in the company of one’s others. Buttressed with a robust dose of political ‘free will’, this code also should help to dissipate any lingering languor, much residual reticence, and many hampering hesitations to embark in one’s humane duties to build—hand in hand with one’s others—a more humane world for one and all, starting not a year from next epiphany, but right here and now. References Akhtar, Salman, and Vamik D. Volkan, Editors (2005) Cultural Zoo: Animals in the Human Mind and Its Sublimations, Madison, CT: International Universities Press. Andrew, Barbara S., Jean Keller, and Lisa H. Schwartzman, Editors (2005) Feminist Interventions in Ethics and Politics: Feminist Ethics and Social Theory, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Ankersmit, F. R. (2002) Political Representation, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Arcenas, Elvira (2008) “Boxed In, Boxed Out: Whither Freedom?” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Freedom: Reassessments and Rephrasings, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Badiou, Alain (1982) Théorie du Sujet, Paris: Seuil. ——— (1988) L’être et L’événement, Paris: Seuil. ——— (2003) L’éthique: Essai sur la conscience du Mal, Caen, France: NOUS [original edition (1993) Paris: Hatier]. Baker, John, et al. (2004) Equality: From Theory to Action, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hamps.: Palgrave Macmillan. Balls, M., A.-M. van Zeller, and M. E. Halder, Editors (2000) Progress in the Reduction, Refinement and Replacement of Animal Experimentation: Proceedings of the Third World Congress on Alternatives and Animal Use in the Life Sciences, held in Bologna, Italy, from 29 August to 2 September 1999, Bologna: World Congress on Alternatives and Animal Use in the Life Sciences; Amsterdam, New York: Oxford, Elsevier. Barnett, S. Anthony (2001) The Story of Rats: Their Impact on Us, and Our Impact on Them, Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin. Bernard, Paul P. (1979) The Limits of Enlightenment: Joseph II and the Law, Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Biale, David (1992) Eros and the Jews: From Biblical Israel to Contemporary America, New York: Basic Books. Bigo, Didier, and Elspeth Guild, Editors (2005) Controlling Frontiers: Free Movement into and within Europe, Aldershot, England: Ashgate.

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Birke, Lynda, and Ruth Hubbard, Editors (1995) Reinventing Biology: Respect for Life and the Creation of Knowledge, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Blakemore, Colin (2005) “Animal Experimentation, Ethics and Medical Research,” in Jeremy Stangroom, Editor, What Scientists Think, London: Routledge. Bourdieu, Pierre (1991) “On the Possibility of a Field of World Sociology,” L. J. D. Wacquant, Translator, in J. S. Coleman and P. Bourdieu, Editors, Social Theory for a Changing Society, Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Bronfman, Alejandra Marina (2004) Measures of Equality: Social Science, Citizenship, and Race in Cuba, 1902–1940, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Brown, William P. (1999) The Ethos of the Cosmos: The Genesis of Moral Imagination in the Bible, Grand Rapids, MI: W. Eerdmans. Calavita, Kitty (2005) Immigrants at the Margins: Law, Race, and Exclusion in Southern Europe, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Carlisle, Clare (2005) Kierkegaard’s Philosophy of Becoming: Movements and Positions, Albany: State University of New York Press. Carter, April, and Geoffrey Stokes, Editors (2002) Democratic Theory Today: Challenges for the 21st Century, Cambridge, UK: Polity; Oxford; Malden, MA: Blackwell. Cashin, Sheryll (2004) The Failures of Integration: How Race and Class Are Undermining the American Dream, New York: Public Affairs. Centrie, Craig (2004) Identity Formation of Vietnamese Immigrant Youth in an American High School, New York: LFB Scholarly Publications. Chowers, Eyal (2004) The Modern Self in the Labyrinth: Politics and the Entrapment Imagination, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Ciprut, Jose V., Editor (2000, 2001) Of Fears and Foes: Security and Insecurity in a Globalizing International Economy, Westport, CT: Praeger. Clark, Robin (2008) “Reliable Cribs: Decipherment, Learnability, and Indeterminacy,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Indeterminacy: The Mapped, the Navigable, and the Uncharted, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Cohen, Hermann [1842–1918] (2004) Ethics of Maimonides, Almut Sh. Bruckstein, Translator and Commentator [from the original in German: Charakteristik der ethik Maimunis], Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Cooper, Thomas W., et al., General Editor (1989) Communication Ethics and Global Change, White Plains, NY: Longman. Corona-M., Eduardo, and Joaquin Arroyo-Cabrales, Coordinadores (2002) Relaciones hombre-fauna: una zona interdisciplinaria de studio, Mexico, D.F.: Plaza y Valdes: CONACULTA, INAH; Plaza y Valdes. Coviello, Peter (2005) Intimacy in America: Dreams of Affiliation in Antebellum Literature, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Crabtree, Pam J., and Kathleen Ryan, Editors (1991) Animal Use and Culture Change, Philadelphia: MASCA, The University Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, University of Pennsylvania.

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Dahl, Robert Alan (1961) Who Governs? Democracy and Power in an American City, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Dallmayr, Fred R. (2004) Peace Talks: Who Will Listen? Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Davies, Andrew (2000) Double Standards in Isaiah: Reevaluating Prophetic Ethics and Divine Justice, Leiden: Brill. Denton, Robert E., Jr., Editor (1991) Ethical Dimensions of Political Communication, New York: Praeger. Devenney, Mark (2004) Ethics and Politics in Contemporary Theory: Between Critical Theory and Post-Marxism, London and New York: Routledge. . Dilman, I lham (2005) The Self, the Soul and the Psychology of Good and Evil, London: Routledge. Dole, Andrew, and Andrew Chignell, Editors (2005) God and the Ethics of Belief: New Essays in Philosophy of Religion, New York: Cambridge University Press. Englehardt, Elaine E., and Ralph D. Barney (2002) Media and Ethics: Principles for Moral Decisions, The Wadsworth Communication Series, Robert C. Solomon, General Editor, Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Thomson Learning. Fager, Jeffrey A. (1993) Land Tenure and the Biblical Jubilee: Uncovering Hebrew Ethics through the Sociology of Knowledge, Sheffield, England: JSOT. Farley, Margaret A. (2006) Just Love: A Framework for Christian Sexual Ethics, New York: Continuum International. Friedmann, Daniel (2002) To Kill and Take Possession: Law, Morality, and Society in Biblical Stories, Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Frisch, Ephraim (1930) Jewish Philanthropy in the Biblical Era, Cincinnati, OH: The Tract Commission. Fryer, David Ross (2004) The Intervention of the Other: Ethical Subjectivity in Levinas and Lacan, New York: Other Press. Gardiner, Stephen M., Editor (2005) Virtue Ethics, Old and New, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Garone, Stephen J., Editor (1994) Business Ethics: Generating Trust in the 1990s and Beyond, New York: Conference Board. Garver, Eugene (2004) For the Sake of Argument: Practical Reasoning, Character, and the Ethics of Belief, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Goldstein, Jan (2005) The Post-Revolutionary Self: Politics and Psyche in France, 1750–1850, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Goodin, Robert E. (2003) Reflective Democracy, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Graham, Gordon (2004) Eight Theories of Ethics, London: Routledge. Griffiths, David B. (2004) Buddhist Discursive Formations: Keywords, Emotions, Ethics, Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press.

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Hackett, Robert A., and Yuezhi Zhao, Editors (2005) Democratizing Global Media: One World, Many Struggles, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Haraway, Donna Jeanne (2003) The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness, Chicago: Prickly Paradigm. Hassan, Sana S. (2003) Christians versus Muslims in Modern Egypt: The Century-Long Struggle for Coptic Equality, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Held, David (1980) Introduction to Critical Theory: Horkheimer to Habermas, Berkeley: University of California Press. ——— (1987) Models of Democracy, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. ——— (1989) Political Theory and the Modern State: Essays on State, Power, and Democracy, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Hunter, Graeme (2005) Radical Protestantism in Spinoza’s Thought, Aldershot, Hampshire, England: Ashgate. Ireland, C. (2004) The Subaltern Appeal to Experience: Self-Identity, Late Modernity, and the Politics of Immediacy, Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Ivie, Robert L. (2005) Democracy and America’s War on Terror, Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press. Johannesen, Richard L. (2002) Ethics in Human Communication, 5th ed., Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Johns, Christopher, and Dawn Freshwater, Editors (2005) Transforming Nursing through Reflective Practice, 2nd ed., Oxford, UK: Blackwell. Jonas, Gilbert (2005) Freedom’s Sword: The NAACP and the Struggle against Racism in America, 1909–1969, New York: Routledge. Jones, Richard H. (2004) Mysticism and Morality: A New Look at Old Questions, Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Kaminsky, Joel S. (1995) Corporate Responsibility in the Hebrew Bible, Sheffield, England: Sheffield Academic Press. Kant, Immanuel ([1795] 1957) Perpetual Peace, Lewis White Beck, Editor, Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Karenga, Maulana (2004) Maat: The Moral Ideal in Ancient Egypt—A Study in Classical African Ethics, New York: Routledge. Kassirer, Jerome P. (2005) On the Take: How America’s Complicity with Big Business Can Endanger Your Health, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Kaster, Robert A. (2005) Emotion, Restraint, and Community in Ancient Rome, London: Oxford University Press. Kazepov, Yuri, Editor (2005) Cities of Europe: Changing Contexts, Local Arrangements, and the Challenge to Urban Cohesion, Malden, MA: Blackwell. Keman, Hans, Editor (2002) Comparative Democratic Politics: A Guide to Contemporary Theory and Research, London and Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

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Kieweler, Hans Volker (2001) Erziehung zum guten Verhalten und zur rechten Frömmigkeit: die Hiskianische Sammlung, ein hebräischer und ein griechischer Schultext, Frankfurt am Main: P. Lang. Knight, John, Editor (2000) Natural Enemies: People-Wildlife Conflicts in Anthropological Perspective, London: Routledge. ——— (2003) Waiting for Wolves in Japan: An Anthropological Study of People-Wildlife Relations, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Kramer, Roderick M., and Karen S. Cook, Editors (2004) Trust and Distrust in Organizations: Dilemmas and Approaches, New York: Russell Sage Foundation. Krippendorff, Klaus (2000) “On the Otherness That Theory Creates,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Of Fears and Foes—Security and Insecurity in an Evolving Global Political Economy, Westport, CT: Praeger. ——— (2001) “Ecological Narratives: Reclaiming the Voice of Theorized Others,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Art of the Feud—Reconceptualizing International Relations, Westport, CT: Praeger. Krumbein, Elyakim (2005) Musar for Moderns, Jersey City, NJ: Ktav Publishing House. Küchler, Susanne, and Daniel Miller, Editors (2005) Clothing as Material Culture, Oxford, UK: Berg. Laycock, David, Editor (2004) Representation and Democratic Theory, Vancouver: UBC Press. Lectures (1930) delivered in 1929, as “The Ethical Problems of Modern Finance,” the William A. Vawter Foundation on Business Ethics, Northwestern University, School of Commerce, New York: Ronald Press. Lehmann, Hartmut, Hermann Wellenreuther, Renate Wilson, et al., Editors (2000) In Search of Peace and Prosperity: New German Settlements in Eighteenth-Century Europe and America, University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Lewis, John G. (2005) Looking for Life: The Role of “Theo-Ethical Reasoning” in Paul’s Religion, London: T. & T. Clark International. Lockyer, Andrew, Bernard Crick, and John Annette, Editors (2003) Education for Democratic Citizenship: Issues of Theory and Practice, Aldershot, Hants, England: Ashgate. Lorenz, Günther (2000) Tiere im Leben der alten Kulturen: schriftlose Kulturen, Alter Orient, Aegypten, Griechenland und Rom, Wien: Böhlau. Lukacs, John (2005) Democracy and Populism: Fear and Hatred, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. MacCormick, Neil, and Zenon Bankowski, Editors (1989) Enlightenment, Rights and Revolution: Essays in Legal and Social Philosophy, Aberdeen, Scotland: Aberdeen University Press. Maravall, José Maria, and Adam Przeworski, Editors (2003) Democracy and the Rule of Law, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Markell, Patchen (2003) Bound by Recognition, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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. Markham, Ian, and I brahim Özdemir, Editors (2005) Globalization, Ethics and Islam: The Case of Bediuzzaman Said Nursi, Aldershot, England: Ashgate. Matignon, Karine Lou (2000) Sans les Animaux, le Monde ne Serait pas Humain, Paris: Albin Michel. McCain, John, and Mark Salter (2005) Character Is Destiny—Inspiring Stories Every Young Person Should Know and Every Adult Should Remember, New York: Random House. McKenna, Erin, and Andrew Light, Editors (2004) Animal Pragmatism: Rethinking HumanNonhuman Relationships, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. McPhail, Thomas L. (2006) Global Communication: Theories, Stakeholders and Trends, 2nd ed., Malden, MA: Blackwell. Mensch, James R. (2003) Ethics and Selfhood: Alterity and the Phenomenology of Obligation, Albany: State University of New York Press. ——— (2005) Hiddenness and Alterity: Philosophical and Literary Sightings of the Unseen, Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press. Meyerowitz, Arthur (1935) Social Ethics of the Jews, with Selected Texts from Biblical and Talmudic Literature, New York: Bloch. Mouton, Elna (2002) Reading a New Testament Document Ethically, Leiden, Brill. Munck, Ronaldo (2005) Globalization and Social Exclusion: A Transformationalist Perspective, Bloomfield, CT: Kumarian Press. O’Donnell, Guillermo, Jorge Vargas Cullell, and Osvaldo M. Iazzetta, Editors (2004) The Quality of Democracy: Theory and Applications, Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. OTA (1986) Alternatives to Animal Use in Research, Testing, and Education, Washington, DC: Congress of the United States, Office of Technology Assessment, U.S. Government Printing Office. Parker, Glenn R. (2004) Self-Policing in Politics: The Political Economy of Reputational Controls on Politicians, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Pelly, David Fraser (2001) Sacred Hunt: A Portrait of the Relationship between Seals and Inuit, Vancouver: Greystone Books; Seattle: University of Washington Press. Porret, Michel, Editeur (1997) Beccaria et la culture juridique des Lumières: (actes du colloque européen de Genève, 25–26 novembre 1995)/études historiques éditées et présentées par M. Porret, Genève: Droz. Preece, Rod (2005) Brute Souls, Happy Beasts, and Evolution: The Historical Status of Animals, Vancouver: UBC Press. Quammen, David (2003) Monster of God: The Man-Eating Predator in the Jungles of History and the Mind, New York: W. W. Norton. Rampton, Sheldon, and John Stauber (2001) Trust Us, We’re Experts! How Industry Manipulates Science and Gambles with Your Future, New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher/Putnam. Reichmann, James B. (2000) Evolution, Animal “Rights,” and the Environment, Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press.

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Reventlow, Henning Graf, and Yair Hoffman, Editors (2004) The Problem of Evil and Its Symbols in Jewish and Christian Tradition, London: T. & T. Clark. Rimoin, David L., J. Michael O’Connor, Reed E. Pyeritz, and Bruce R. Korf (2002) Emery and Rimoin’s Principles and Practice of Medical Genetics, 4th ed., London: Churchill Livingstone. Sager, Tore (2002) Democratic Planning and Social Choice Dilemmas: Prelude to Institutional Planning Theory, Aldershot, England: Ashgate. Schiffman, Harold F. (2008) “Language, Language Policy, and Citizenship,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Schnabel, Eckhard J. (1985) Law and Wisdom from Ben Sira to Paul: A Tradition Historical Enquiry into the Relation of Law, Wisdom, and Ethics, Series: Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, 2te Reihe-16, Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (P. Siebeck). Schweickart, David (2002) After Capitalism, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Shapiro, Ian (2003) The State of Democratic Theory, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Shepherd, Gregory J., Jeffrey St. John, and Ted Striphas, Editors (2006) Communication as . . . : Perspectives on Theory, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Shields, Carolyn M., and Mark M. Edwards (2005) Dialogue Is Not Just Talk: A New Ground for Educational Leadership, New York: P. Lang. Shionoya, Yuichi, and Kiichiro Yagi, Editors (2001) “Competition, Trust, and Cooperation: A Comparative Study,” Proceedings of the Fifth SEEP Conference on Economic Ethics and Philosophy, held on March 10–12, 1999 at the Kansai Seminar House of the Nippon Christian Academy, Kyoto, Japan, Berlin: Springer. Shun, Kwong-loi, and David B. Wong, Editors (2004) Confucian Ethics: A Comparative Study of Self, Autonomy, and Community, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Siegel, Marc (2005) False Alarm: The Truth about the Epidemic of Fear, Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Smith, George P., II (2005) The Christian Religion and Biotechnology: A Search for Principled Decision-Making, Dordrecht: Springer. Solomon, Norman (1999) The Habits of Highly Deceptive Media: Decoding Spin and Lies in Mainstream Media, Monroe, ME: Common Courage Press. Spina, Frank A. (2005) The Faith of the Outsider: Exclusion and Inclusion in the Biblical Story, Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans. Stangroom, Jeremy, Editor (2005) What Scientists Think, London: Routledge. Sussman, Gerald (2005) Global Electioneering: Campaign Consulting, Communications, and Corporate Financing, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Swatos, William H., Jr., and Lutz Kaelber, Editors (2005) The Protestant Ethic Turns 100: Essays on the Centenary of the Weber Thesis, Boulder, CO: Paradigm. Thiroux, Jacques (1998) Ethics—Theory and Practice, 6th ed., Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall.

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Tulchin, Joseph S., and Gary Bland, Editors (2005) Getting Globalization Right: The Dilemmas of Inequality, Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner. van Zutphen, L. F. M., and M. Balls, Editors (1997) Animal Alternatives, Welfare, and Ethics: Proceedings of the Second World Congress on Alternatives and Animal Use in the Life Sciences, held in Utrecht, Oct. 20–24, 1996, Utrecht, the Netherlands: World Congress on Alternatives and Animal Use in the Life Sciences. Wall, John (2005) Moral Creativity: Paul Ricoeur and the Poetics of Possibility, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Watson, Francis (2000) Agape, Eros, Gender: Towards a Pauline Sexual Ethic, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Watson, Jean (2005) Caring Science as Sacred Science, Philadelphia: F. A. Davis. Weber, David J. (2005) Bárbaros: Spaniards and Their Savages in the Age of Enlightenment, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Wenham, Gordon J. (2000) Story as Torah: Reading the Old Testament Ethically, Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Whybrow, Peter C. (2005) American Mania: When More Is Not Enough, New York: W. W. Norton. Wielenberg, Erik J. (2005) Value and Virtue in a Godless Universe, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Wilkinson, Richard G. (2005) The Impact of Inequality: How to Make Sick Societies Healthier, New York: New Press/W. W. Norton. Wilson, James Q. (1995) On Character: Essays, expanded edition, Washington, DC: AEI Press. Woodroffe, Rosie, Simon Thirgood, and Alan Rabinowitz, Editors (2005) People and Wildlife: Conflict or Co-existence? Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Wright, Frances [1795–1852] (2004) Reason, Religion, and Morals, Course of Popular Lectures, Amherst, NY: Humanity Books. Yu, Tianlong (2004) In the Name of Morality: Character Education and Political Control, New York: P. Lang.

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Law and Morality in Ancient Near Eastern Thought Barry L. Eichler

The beginning of modern times is marked by the emergence of humanism and the European Enlightenment. These movements gave rise to a strong belief in natural law and universal order, and in the ability of human reason to discover universal principles governing humanity, nature, and society. The traditional bonds linking religion, human behavior, and governance began to tear asunder. The grounding of morality on religious absolutes was called into question in ways that mattered. Intuitionists and empiricists reflected on the nature of human conscience. Questions of absolute good and relative good came to be entertained. And, until this day, various attempts to establish an ethical criterion evidently independent of theological considerations have continued to be debated. With the advent of modernity, old notions of the interrelatedness of law and morality were no longer accepted on face value. Law came to be deemed a social creation, enforced by judicial authority, while morality came to be understood as an individual concern based on a personal sense of obligation.1 More recently, the modern world has begun to question once again the relationship between religion, law, and morality. As a result of technoscientific advancements, along with sociopolitical emancipation and cultural-economic development, modern societies are now grappling with the exigencies and attending dilemmas of giving legal 1. Throughout this chapter, I use “law” to refer to social norms that have been escalated into legal norms because they are enforced by legal sanctions. I use the term “morality” to imply personal norms that are based on a sense of individual obligation to do that which is right and proper. And I use “ethics” to mean a system of priorities and values that provide the theoretical framework within which an individual can exercise moral judgment and make moral decisions. These “words” are foreign to ancient Near Eastern thought, as these cultures had no special terms for morality or ethics. Therefore, I do not distinguish between ethics and morals in a modern sense, or even along the GrecoRoman perspectives intimated by J. J. Mulhern in this book.

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expression to moral issues of existential importance—life and death, human dignity, individual responsibility and freedom,2 and the equitable distribution of resources. It therefore would be useful to revisit ancient Near Eastern notions of law and morality in order to enhance discussions of modern ethics, by providing historical and cultural perspectives of humankind’s incessant quest for an ethical society. It is universally recognized that biblical thought3 has played a formative role in the development of Western thinking: many of the most profound cultural values of Western civilization are steeped in the biblical tradition. But biblical thought partakes of a shared heritage with the other ancient Near Eastern cultures that form the cradle of human civilization. For seminal characteristics of biblical notions of law and morality to be more fully appreciated, one must situate them within the cultural milieu of ancient Near Eastern thought. But before doing so, it is even more important to set the discussion itself in its own authentic intellectual framework. The nonsecular ancient Near Eastern world experienced human society in cosmological terms. Hence, conceptions of both law and morality were most intimately tied to the cosmic order of the universe and to the realm of the divine. Law and morality were viewed as intricately interwoven concepts. It should be also noted that ethics—in the sense of a philosophical system of priorities and criteria meant to provide the theoretical framework for exercising moral judgments—is wholly foreign to ancient Near Eastern thought. Nevertheless, a rudimentary notion of ethics may be gleaned from ancient Near Eastern literary compositions that reflect central moral concerns and ideal standards of proper human conduct. After identifying the pertinent literary sources, this chapter will briefly describe Mesopotamian and Egyptian standards of proper human conduct, in order to explore the ties linking them to biblical moral concerns. 2. For the ethical and moral issues and their ramifications, in the related debate on free will, see Guyer, “Indeterminacy and Freedom of the Will,” (2008). 3. The term “Biblical thought,” as used throughout here, refers to the ideational legacy of beliefs, conceptions, and thoughts derived from various literary genres and preserved in the biblical canon. Biblical must be distinguished from Israelite. The latter defines a historical and cultural reality, whose actual practices and beliefs may not always reflect biblical thought. Biblical thought must also be differentiated from Jewish and Christian thought, both of which are based on later, rather sectarian, interpretations of biblical literature even though much of biblical influence on Western civilization has derived from Christian thought, which shares core biblical conceptions with Jewish thought.

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Mesopotamian Ethics Most of the literary sources bearing on Mesopotamian ethics were part of the Mesopotamian “stream of tradition,” representing a corpus of texts transmitted by Sumerian and Akkadian scribes for more than two millennia (from c. 2300 to 500 B.C.E.). These literary sources may be grouped into law collections, wisdom compositions, religious texts, and omen literature: Mesopotamian law collections4 do not constitute royally prescribed legislation but are more closely linked to royal inscriptions. The law collections attest to the king’s fulfillment of his divine charge to establish justice and equity in his realm. Hence some of the law cases within the collections may represent specific royal ordinances and economic reforms. Other cases, however, may reflect nonbinding Mesopotamian principles of equity transmitted over the millennia by its scholarly tradition. Such cases would represent statements of ideals that do not reflect the actual practice of law. Nevertheless, the law collections reflect the king’s moral sense of right and wrong and, as such, provide valuable insight into the Mesopotamian conception of justice and its taxonomy of social values. •

Mesopotamian wisdom compositions5 are replete with proverbial sayings and didactic instructions, which encourage a code of correct behavior. The motivation for such behavior is based on pragmatic and utilitarian considerations. The religious factor is apparent only in Mesopotamian works of theodicy, which question the foundations of correct behavior and explore the reasons for the suffering of the righteous. •

•

The theme of human suffering is also prevalent in religious texts. Although Mesopotamian literature recognizes natural causes of illness, it tends to view prolonged suffering and social adversity as signs of divine displeasure. Mesopotamian penitential psalms and cultic rituals were designed to release afflicted persons from their suffering. They often contained confessionals, listing both social and cultic misdeeds suspected to have precipitated the sufferer’s afflictions. Hence, these 4. English translations of Mesopotamian law corpora with introductory essays and notes may be found in Roth (1997). For summaries of specific topics in Mesopotamian law, see the relevant chapters in Westbrook (2003). 5. Buccellati (1981) discusses problems associated with the application of the term “wisdom” to Mesopotamian literature.

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texts bring into focus what was deemed to be proper human behavior, meritorious of the blessings of the gods, as well as improper human behavior, doomed to incur divine wrath. •

Within the corpus of Mesopotamian omen literature, human behavioral omens and dream omens are most relevant to the study of Mesopotamian ethics. In these omens, some human actions, committed while awake or in a dream, bear a favorable or unfavorable divine message. It has been assumed that these omens reflect speculations on proper and improper human behavior. This assumption, however, is complicated by the fact that although many of the socially accepted behaviors are taken to be good omens, there exist behaviors deemed clearly unacceptable in the law collections that, nevertheless, are interpreted also to be good omens. Social Ethics Since the preceding literary sources derive from the royal and the scholarly elite in the employ of the palace and temple, the behavior that they foster is geared to the preservation of the existing social order. Hence one of the central moral concerns here is that of social ethics, pertaining to the maintenance of the social hierarchy and the promotion of harmony inside the family and the community. The sources stress filial obedience to parental authority. As is amply evident from Mesopotamian adoption tablets, filial love and respect entail both an economic responsibility and a social duty to care for one’s elderly and indigent parents. Filial obligation continues even after death, with responsibility for ensuring proper burial and mourning rites, and for maintaining offerings so that the ghosts of the deceased will be at peace, and hence not endanger the realm of the living by ever restlessly wreaking havoc within the society of the living. In turn, the hierarchy among siblings is based on age and gender. Respect is expected toward one’s elder brother and sister. The filial respect and loyalty owed to one’s parents was a value that extended also to one’s superiors, including a master, public officials, the king, and one’s personal god. Included within social ethics are the moral concerns that are essential for a cohesive community. Human life is safeguarded by the prohibition of homicide, which, under certain circumstances, may be a capital crime. Often the decision is left to the victim’s kin, who may demand

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blood vengeance or blood money. An individual’s right6 to private property is another primary value of Mesopotamian society and a major concern of the law collections. These texts deal not only with violations against one’s right to property, through theft or burglary, but also with liability incurred for the destruction of property. The sources also demand honesty in commercial relations. The use of false weights and measures and the moving of a neighbor’s boundary stone are considered to be serious misdeeds. Closely linked to issues of honesty is the reliability of one’s spoken word. This value is essential for the proper functioning of society, especially in the realms of its legal and judicial system, which depends upon the consistent veracity of accusations as also on the trustworthiness of testimony. The legal collections deal with such moral infractions as false testimony, false oaths, slander, and blasphemy. It is the legal contracts that specify heavy penalties for breach of contract.7 Sexual Ethics Much of Mesopotamian sexual ethics dealing with the violation of women is closely related to the concept of property rights, since the unmarried daughter is considered to be the property of her father; and the married woman, the property of her husband. Thus the rape of an unmarried woman of free birth and the rape of a slave girl are viewed as a property offense, requiring monetary compensation to father or master.8 Similarly, the adulterous relation of a man with a married woman is an invasion of the husband’s dominion, and at times may be a capital crime. The decision rests with the aggrieved husband, who may demand the death of the adulterer only if he is willing to acquiesce also to the death of his wife. Hence the crown, unwilling to interfere with the patriarchal authority of the paterfamilias, nevertheless 6. ”Individual” refers to an adult free member of the society, not to a “person” in the modern legal sense (cf. Edward L. Rubin, “Right to Be, Privilege to Become: The Dangers of Citizenship” [2008], and also J. J. Mulhern, “The Political Economy of Citizenship” [2008]). 7. For a fuller discussion of Mesopotamian social ethics and the other following categories with extensive documentation, see “Ethics and Etiquette: Rules of Proper Conduct and Correct Behaviour” in Toorn (1985). 8. The master could “(ab)use” his “property”: slaves were deemed to have no right to object or legal ground for complaint. But, although the Laws of Hammurabi (c. 1750 B.C.E.) did not directly punish the father who raped his daughter, the law did require that he leave the city (Roth 1997, 154).

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demanded equal treatment for his subject on par with the treatment of the aggrieved husband’s wife. In the law collections available to date, abortion and male homosexuality are mentioned only in the Middle Assyrian Laws (c. 1076 B.C.E.). The law case dealing with abortion states that a woman who aborts her fetus shall be impaled and remain unburied. The severity of the crime seems to be based upon her act of insurrection, that is, by way of deliberately destroying her husband’s potential progeny. Otherwise, one who strikes a man’s pregnant wife, causing her to abort her fetus, usually pays monetary compensation to the husband. The assailant is held capitally liable only if the woman’s husband had no son. As to homosexuality, one who fornicates with his comrade is to be sodomized and turned into a eunuch. It is unclear whether the act is criminal for its homosexual nature or for being committed against someone of the same social standing. In the sexual human behavioral omens, homosexual acts are deemed to be good omens; and hence seem to be viewed and received in a more positive light in the omen series than in the legal sources. Religious Ethics Mesopotamian religious ethics reflect principles that are similar to those found in its social ethics. Although little is known about the role of the common people in the practice of religion, it is clear that their personal gods served as their intercessors before the great gods. Wisdom literature and penitential prayers focus on duties toward one’s personal gods, who are viewed and treated as the divine parents of the worshipper. The gods are to be honored materially, with sacrifices; and verbally, with prayers. Blasphemy by swearing false oaths is a serious act of disrespect, since they swear by the lives of the gods. Other offenses include the seizure of temple property and the wronging of temple personnel, both estimated to be divine property. More is known of the roles of the king and the cult’s functionaries in the state religion. The major royal cultic duties were the maintenance of the temples of the great gods, the support of their cults, and the observance of their festivals. The performance of these duties was vital for the prosperity and security of the land. The cultic functionaries had to follow a cultic etiquette, requiring of them to be physically sound and otherwise unblemished, and ritually pure. Physical cleanliness was demanded, as was also the wearing of clean clothing. Washing of hands was required before prayer, sacrifice, and the sacred meal. During certain

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cultic times and rituals, food restrictions were in force, as recorded in ancient Mesopotamian calendrical diaries. Personal Ethics Mesopotamian sources consistently extol virtuous behavior; they praise the god-fearing person for his reverence, obedience, humility, and trust. But more detailed information concerns royal rather than personal ethos. Royal ideology demanded the moral perfection of the king, who was divinely mandated to uphold the moral order. His duties were not only to secure the borders of the land but also to maintain the socioeconomic well-being of its citizenry. As the faithful shepherd of his people, the king was required to enforce justice, render true judgments, protect the powerless, care for the weak, and support the helpless. He had to be meek and humble in his devotion to the gods, fastidious in the execution of his cultic duties, and always exercise utmost care not to abuse his power. Hence, both king and subject had to be humbly mindful of their subservient roles within the cosmos. Egyptian Ethics In turning to ancient Egyptian ethics, one must recognize that the nature of the source materials available for the reconstruction of Egyptian civilization is very different from that of Mesopotamian primary sources. The peoples of Mesopotamia recorded their life mostly on clay tablets, which when baked became almost indestructible. Ancient Egyptians, however, used papyrus as their primary medium, which is prone to decay in humid climates. The Nile’s periodic overflows, cyclically inundating the ancient inhabited areas, have made it all the more difficult to recover ancient Egyptian epigraphic remains. Most of the excavated archaeological sites are located at the desert fringes of the narrow fertile strip along the Nile, where the Egyptian kings had constructed their pyramid complexes. Thus most of the excavated cities in Egypt are necropolises, the monumental inscriptions and texts of which are closely associated with death, with funereal cults and practices, and with the histories of those buried in the tombs. In contrast to Mesopotamian sources, therefore, one finds a dearth of legal, socioeconomic, and administrative texts, without which it would be impossible to reconstruct more fully the societal fabric of ancient Egypt. The lack of copious legal documents from the actual practice of law in ancient

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Egypt and the absence to date of royal legal collections9 prevent a detailed reconstruction of Egyptian standards of proper human comportment in terms of social, sexual, religious, and personal ethics. Still, one may gain a vision of Egyptian ethical values by relying on “autobiographies,” wisdom literature, and religious texts dealing with the judgment of the dead.10 Egyptian “autobiographies”11 are tomb inscriptions of royal officials, which summarize the professional accomplishments of the deceased and highlight important episodes in their careers. These texts are attested from the middle of the third millennium B.C.E., and they continue to develop as a genre throughout the span of ancient Egyptian civilization. In the period of the Old Kingdom (2650–2135 B.C.E.), these “historical autobiographies” are supplemented with “reflective autobiographies” that offer a moral self-portrait of the deceased. Such texts present the deceased as having been in perfect harmony with the ideals of the upper class and with its social and moral responsibilities toward the king, the gods, and the middle and lower classes as well. References can be found to filial responsibility toward parents, nurturing children, rescuing the weak from the strong, feeding the hungry, and clothing the naked. More general assertions state that the deceased knew, spoke, and did maat (“truth,” representing the cosmic standard of order in the universe), as desired by kings and gods. The texts include denials of grave misconduct, such as abuse of power, while positively expressing the ideals of justice, fairness, honesty, mercy, kindness, and generosity. These same ethical values appear also in later “autobiographies,” together with themes of professional accomplishment and social status. Another source for ancient Egyptian moral concepts is Egyptian wisdom literature. This literary genre comprises didactic texts for propagating rules of conduct.12 In the personal and the political spheres, these texts extol the practice of justice, honesty, and benevolence and stress the virtues of diligent labor and of loyalty to the king, 9. For a summary of what is known about ancient Egyptian law, its legal institutions and practices, see the contributions of Richard Jasnow (2003a, 2003b, 2003c, 2003d) in Westbrook (2003). 10. Translations of Egyptian literature may be found in Lichtheim, vols. 1 (1975), 2 (1976), and 3 (1980). 11. For a full discussion of this genre, its text types, and its literary development, with bibliographical references, see Gnirs (2001), vol. 1, pp. 184–189. 12. ”Instructions” are the main texts in this genre. They are discussed by title of composition in Redford (2001), vol. 2, pp. 169–175.

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to superiors, to family, and to neighbors and inferiors. Some texts of instruction also teach that oppression of inferiors, quarrelsomeness, and greed bring calamity upon society. People should act with friendliness, care, and restraint, possibly by suppressing their aggressive feelings. These themes are carried forth into the first millennium B.C.E. by didactic texts that stress the necessity of efficient and impartial governance for the maintenance of civic and individual security. These wisdom compositions teach behavior compatible with maat. They are thus thematically related to texts dealing with the judgment of the dead (Quirke 2001, 211–214). Beginning in the Middle Kingdom (2040–1650 B.C.E.) and culminating in the New Kingdom (1550–1080 B.C.E.), a new conception of the judgment of the dead developed in which, upon one’s death, every individual was tried by a divine tribunal to determine whether or not that individual was deemed worthy of eternal life. The Coffin Texts (Lesko 2001b, 287–288) and the Book of the Dead (Lesko 2001a, 193–195) contain an appeal to the power of magic; but it is in Chapter 125 of the Book of the Dead that one finds a judgment scene, describing specific behavioral wrongdoings. Included in these are cultic crimes, such as blasphemy, theft of sacred property, and defiling sacred space;13 economic crimes, such as moving boundaries of fields and using false weights and measures; criminal acts of theft and murder; and social wrongs, such as the exploitation of the weak and the orphaned, the infliction of injury and pain, adultery, lying, slandering, eavesdropping, losing one’s temper, and behaving aggressively (Ockinga 2001, 485). It is in these Egyptian sources that one stumbles upon the most references to specific acts of illegal and unethical behavior. From the foregoing brief survey of Mesopotamian and Egyptian ethics, one cannot help noticing the similarities between ancient Near Eastern and biblical ethical thought. It is premature, however, to address the comparative issues at this juncture, without first gaining a more fundamental perception of the notion of ancient Near Eastern ethics. This may be achieved by placing Mesopotamian and Egyptian moral concerns within the conceptual framework of their distinct societal worldviews. In the Mesopotamian polytheistic worldview, gods emerged from a primordial realm that harbored within its midst all natural and 13. See the reference to a Suf’I mystic’s vulnerably accessible yet, since the days of Ottoman Turkey, still inviolate tomb site, in the brief dedication to Freedom: Reassessments and Rephrasings, Jose V. Ciprut, Editor (2008a).

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supernatural cosmic forces. These cosmic forces existed prior to the creation of gods, earth, and humankind. Hence gods—like mortals— were subject to the natural forces of biological existence, but also to the supernatural forces of fate, destiny, and magic and to the other cosmic principles ordering the universe. In Mesopotamia, law was conceived as an aspect of the cosmic order; ideal standards for ethical conduct were closely related in Mesopotamian thought to the Mesopotamian conception of law. Law as the embodiment of cosmic order is called kittum (“truth,” or “that which is correct/right”). Like all other cosmic forces of the universe, kittum is not only eternal but also universal; and hence it could never have originated with gods or with humankind. Although the Mesopotamian sun god of justice (Shamash) was not the source of kittum, he did serve as its divinely appointed custodian.14 It was in this capacity that the sun god could possess its intimate knowledge of this cosmic force. Just as law is understood by the Mesopotamians to be an embodiment of the cosmic principle of kittum—a precept indispensable for maintaining social equilibrium in the world—so too do Mesopotamian moral norms appear to reflect a cosmic standard of propriety governing both human and divine behavior, with the intent of achieving harmonious social intercourse. Thus the Mesopotamian concepts of ethics and law seem to be subsumed en masse by the Mesopotamian cosmic principle of kittum. Despite the many disparate physical and cultural elements that constitute the distinctive traits of the Egyptian and Mesopotamian civilizations, ancient Egypt did share with Mesopotamia a polytheist worldview, in which gods and primordial cosmic forces coexist. The Egyptians recognized in the concept of maat an independent cosmic principle of harmony, order, and stability, closely linked with their notions of law. But this cosmic principle was not confined to truth and justice in terms of legal administration. Almost like kittum in Mesopotamian thought, maat in Egyptian thought refers to a complex and intertwined set of just and proper relationships governing cosmic phenomena. Maat staves off cosmic chaos (isfet) and is responsible for establishing universal “order.”15 So ancient Egyptian standards of moral behavior and, 14. Not all Mesopotamian gods were male. Female goddesses also were in charge of things serious and important. The goddess Ishtar/Inanna, for instance, was a major deity in the Mesopotamian pantheon. 15. In Egyptian religious thought there is a tendency to concretize abstractions. Hence cosmic forces are often personified as deities. Like Fate, maat can be written with a deity determinative. For maat as both ‘cosmic force’ and ‘goddess’, see Teeter (2001, vol. 2,

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indeed, the very conception of law, are rooted in the cosmic principle of maat. Thus both the Mesopotamian and Egyptian polytheistic worldviews conceive of law and morality not only as complementary but also as symbiotic aspects of a primordial cosmic principle that harmoniously orders both divine and human societies.16 Biblical Ethics The biblical perception of ethics is distinct from that found in Mesopotamian and Egyptian thought, owing to the Bible’s fundamental, radically different perception of the divine. The biblical worldview, usually termed monotheistic, is not mere belief in the existence of one God. Rather, it is the idea that the Deity is transcendent and sovereign over all. It differs fundamentally from polytheism in the absolute freedom of the Godhead. Unlike ancient Near Eastern gods, who are born into a primordial realm of natural and supernatural forces, which precede them in time and transcend them in power, the biblical God is there from the very beginning, and the forces of the cosmos are all-inherent inside him. Thus the biblical Deity acts in total freedom, unrivaled either by the will of other gods or by the cosmic forces of the universe. For this reason, biblical thought cannot accept the ancient Near Eastern conception of the ultimate sanction of law and morality as being rooted in the primordial cosmic principle of either kittum or maat, both of which transcend all of the gods and all of humankind. Such a conception is inconsonant with the biblical definition of the Godhead, as the sole and unique source for all cosmic forces, and to whom moral perfection is attributed. To the biblical mind, God is the ultimate 319–321). Moreover, maat is both cosmic principle and mode of behavior: “doing maat” (being moral, behaving ethically, promulgating and obeying laws and principled rules imbibed by maat) sustains maat (the principle itself). Both Mesopotamians and Egyptians believed that, also present in the universe, there were negative cosmic forces that could interfere with the proper functioning of the positive cosmic forces. John Baines (1991, 125) states: “Ordered creation has constantly to be affirmed against the forces of disorder. Not only the king and humanity but also the gods were involved in this enterprise.” Man’s moral actions played an important role in the continuance of the natural order of creation, and his immoral behavior could weaken and thwart the effectiveness of cosmic order in the created world. 16. Kittum was never personified like maat and therefore remained a more abstract concept. Kittum seems to be more of a defining force, representing the ways in which the gods and humankind were to create social order and stability.

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sanction of law and morality, both of which are conceived as the expression of his will.17 Despite the fundamental ideological differences extant among the biblical, the Mesopotamian, and the Egyptian worldviews, and between their differing perceptions of law and morality, one must remember that the bearers of the biblical tradition nevertheless were members of a closely interrelated cultural complex known as the ancient Near Eastern civilization. Thus the Bible contains many legal and moral concerns similar in substance and in formulation to those found in earlier Near Eastern literatures. As it is evident from the summaries of Mesopotamian and Egyptian ethical considerations outlined previously, many an ancient Near Eastern legal and moral norm is also echoed in the biblical literature. The two main sources for discerning biblical ethics are its wisdom literature and legal collections. Similarities in form and content among the biblical, Egyptian, and Mesopotamian didactic literatures establish biblical wisdom literature clearly as integral to this international literary genre. Couched in practical terms, much of the biblical instructional wisdom literature clearly notes the tangible blessings of proper conduct. Unique, however, is the very emphasis that it places on the religious conviction that the fear of God is, indeed, the mainstay of wisdom.18 But the biblical law collections, too, share many features of form and content with the cuneiform law collections. It is, indeed, the very uniqueness of the biblical conception of law as the will of God that distinguishes the biblical law collections from those of Mesopotamia. Yet, despite the uniqueness that creates these differences, biblical and ancient Near Eastern literatures often share common ideals. The shared ideals represent aspects of ancient Near Eastern thought that remained compatible with the biblical worldview, whereas biblical departures represent reactions to aspects that were seen as inimical to biblical cultural values. In that light, it would be instructive to highlight the major differences between specific biblical and ancient Near Eastern legal and moral concerns, through the formulation of biblical ethical considerations that follows. 17. Note that the most common designations for law in the Bible are references to God’s mitsvah, ‘commandment’ (Deuteronomy 11:13), torah, ‘instruction’ (Genesis 26:5), davar, ‘utterance’ (Deuteronomy 4:13), and various nominal forms of hoq, ‘decree’ (Leviticus 33:3), in addition to the term mishpat, ‘norm’ (Exodus 21:1). 18. Psalms 111:10; Proverbs 1:7, 9:10; et passim. The fear of God is also prominent in the wisdom strata of Deuteronomy (Weinfeld 1972, 274–281). To be sure, the term “fear of the gods” (palah ili) also occurs in Mesopotamian texts where it has important cultic implications. Cf. Toorn (1985), p. 174, n. 373; p. 175, n. 374.

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Social Ethics As in Mesopotamian thought, one of the central moral concerns of the Bible is social ethics, especially the maintenance of harmony within the family and the community. Biblical law insists on filial respect and obedience, emphasizing the affirmative obligation of honoring one’s parents—the duty of supporting and providing for them in need—and raising the culpability for striking and cursing one’s parents to the status of a capital crime against society. This value of filial subservience was extended to one’s duties to one’s leaders, and especially to one’s God, the cursing of whom is a capital crime (Exodus 22:27).19 As one moves from family concerns to those of society at large, one must note that—unlike Mesopotamian society—biblical society envisions no legally defined social classes among free Israelites, except, that is, in cultic matters. True, there exist clear economic asymmetries between rich and poor and differences between natives and resident aliens, as there also are legal distinctions between free Israelites and slaves, men and women, adults and minors. But there is no evidence of a developed class structure. Caring for the weak and the powerless is an important element in Mesopotamian royal ideology, but only biblical law attempts to ameliorate the conditions of the poor by prohibiting interest-bearing loans (Exodus 22:24; Leviticus 25:35–37; Deuteronomy 23:20) and by imposing the charitable duty of offering a part of one’s agricultural harvest to the needy (Leviticus 19:9–10). As for the resident alien, he is treated the same way as the native Levite, who also does not own tribal territory in the land. Resident alien and Levite fall in the category of the poor, qualified to receive charitable gifts from the harvest. Generally, resident aliens are included in the purview of the biblical law applicable to the Israelites and, as such, may partake of religious and cultic observances. The admonition not to mistreat them is motivated by the Israelite experience of being resident aliens in Egypt (Exodus 22:20; Leviticus 19:33–34). No such concern for the welfare of strangers is to be found in Mesopotamian law collections. Notwithstanding its general recognition and its quite ordinary institutionalization, slavery is deemed undesirable as a status for Israelites. The kidnapping of Israelites for use or sale is a capital crime. Israelites found to be enslaved to non-Israelites have to be redeemed. But unlike Mesopotamian law, which considers the nonreturn of fugitive slaves to 19. Cf. 1 Kings 21:10.

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be a capital crime, biblical law forbids the return of a fugitive slave to his master (Deuteronomy 26:13). Also, the Bible adjures Israelite society to improve the circumstances of the slaves by remembering that Israelites had been slaves in Egypt. Although both Mesopotamian and biblical laws state that debt slaves are to be freed at periodic intervals, only biblical law requires the master to provide his freed slave with the economic means of initial self-support (Deuteronomy 15:13–14). Biblical law is also unique in its legislation of laws for the protection of the body and the life of slaves from their master’s abuse (Exodus 21:20–21, 26–27). Rather, Mesopotamian law addresses only issues of harm caused to the slaves of others (Laws of Hammurabi 199). Although biblical law reflects a patriarchal society in which minors were under the jurisdiction of their fathers and upon marriage women became subordinate to their husbands, both minors and women were treated as “persons”—not as mere chattel—before the law. A father could not kill his rebellious son without first, accompanied by his wife, duly petitioning the court (Deuteronomy 21:19). Not least, and in sharp contrast with the Mesopotamian law collections, biblical law did not sanction the punishment of children for the crimes of their parents or the punishment of wives for the crimes of their husbands. Thus the biblical principle of lex talionis is so iterated as to forbid vicarious punishment to be visited upon an offender’s children or wife (Leviticus 24:19–20).20 Moral concern for the safeguard and well-being of the individual (essential for the cohesion of the entire community) is rooted in the biblical worldview that humankind was created in the image of God, thus rendering him unique to all other created forms of life. Since the Bible views God as the promulgator of law, a religious evaluation permeates biblical law, as evidenced in its basic postulate of the inviolability of human life. Murder is an absolute wrong—it is a sin committed against God, hence a crime not subject to human arbitration (Exodus 19:13).21 The biblical postulate of the invaluableness of all human life is set forth in Genesis 9:5–6.: “For your own lifeblood I shall require a reckoning: of every beast I shall require it; of man, too, will I require a reckoning for human life, of every man for that of his fellow man. Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for in the image of God, did He make man.” This clear cosmological 20. Cf. Deuteronomy 24:16 and Exodus 21:31. 21. Cf. Exodus 21:14 and Leviticus 24:21.

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reference to the biblical concept of man is noteworthy. Because of the sanctity of human life, the Bible views even the most innocent shedding of human life as a criminal act: a beast that kills a man destroys the image of God, and must give a reckoning for it. Thus in the case of a goring ox, the ox must be stoned. The very prohibition of eating the flesh of that ox is an unmistakably direct indication of the religious rather than merely utilitarian appraisal inherent in the law that requires the destruction of the ox.22 Acceptance of monetary compensation for homicide is expressly forbidden, as stipulated by the rule “You shall not take a ransom for the life of a manslayer, who is guilty of death; he shall surely be put to death” (Numbers 35:31). Ransom may be accepted only for negligent homicide, not personally committed, as in the case of the goring ox (Exodus 21:30). Although Mesopotamian law is protective of human life and recognizes that a murderer is polluted with blood, it nevertheless does allow for monetary compensation to be made, with the consent of the aggrieved family, even in cases of flagrantly intentional manslaughter. This provision reflects an economic valuation of human life quite consistent with the Mesopotamian worldview of man’s place and role in the cosmos. According to Mesopotamian cosmogony, man was created in response to a divine labor crisis that caused great unrest in the divine assembly. Humankind was created to serve the gods, in their newly erected earthly temples, thus freeing the younger gods from the endless toil—a task that had been imposed upon them—of feeding and caring for the great gods. This material economic valuation of human life contrasts sharply with the Bible’s religious valuation of human life as a spiritual entity. This basic difference in itself accounts for the disparateness in biblical and Mesopotamian attitudes toward human life. 22. Cf. Exodus 21:28–29: “When an ox gores a man or woman to death, the ox shall be stoned and its flesh shall not be eaten, but the owner of the ox is not to be punished. If, however, the ox has been in the habit of goring, and its owner, though warned, has failed to guard it, and it kills a man or a woman—the ox shall be stoned, as shall its owner also be put to death.” Cf. Laws of Hammurabi 250–251 (Roth 1997, 128): “If an ox gores to death a man while it is passing through the streets, that case has no basis for a claim. If a man’s ox is a known gorer, and the authorities of his city quarter notify him that it is a known gorer, but he did not blunt [?] its horns or control his ox, and that ox gores to death a member of the awilum class [i.e., the ruling/noble/upper class, as distinct from the Muskenum (the working class) and the Uardu (slaves)—Editor’s note], he [the owner] shall give 30 shekels of silver. For a discussion of the comparative issues raised by the biblical and Mesopotamian laws of the goring ox, see Malul (1990, 113–152).

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As is the case in Mesopotamia, biblical law is concerned with an individual’s right to private property, and it demands redress for the destruction of property as also for violations against one’s right to property, ranging from mere compensation to multiple fines, but not exceeding fivefold penalties. Yet, unlike Mesopotamian law, property offenses can never be escalated to capital crimes, since human life is never commensurate with property in biblical law. As an individual’s right to private property is of primary value in Mesopotamian society (whose own worldview reflects an economic valuation of human life), some of the property-targeting offenses are, indeed, punishable very severely—even by death—in the Mesopotamian law collections.23 Finally, both Mesopotamian and biblical law demand transactional honesty in commercial relations and strictly binding reliability in one’s spoken word on legal and judicial matters. Sexual Ethics In both Mesopotamian and biblical law, the sexual violation of unmarried women is closely related to the concept of property rights, since the unmarried daughter is considered to be the property of her father. The rape of an unmarried woman of free birth, like the rape of a slave girl, is a property offense that commands a just monetary compensation to her father. But unlike Mesopotamian law, biblical law does not view the sexual violation of a married woman as a private wrong to be dealt with by the aggrieved husband in a way of his sole choosing. In biblical law, an adulterous relationship between a man and a married woman is a capital crime: if committed consensually, it is punished by the death penalty for the woman as well. Adultery is a religious violation of a divinely sanctioned matrimonial bond; hence, it is not up for punishment or pardon at the simple or sole discretion of the wronged husband. Similarly, homosexuality and bestiality, deemed “abominations,” are capital crimes against the established—divine—moral order of creation. With regard to striking a pregnant woman during a brawl and occasioning a miscarriage, biblical law views the loss of the fetus foremost as an offense against the husband, and thus prescribes monetary payment.24 23. See Laws of Hammurabi, 19 and 22 (Roth 1997, 85) for greater pertinent detail. 24. Cf. Exodus 21:22. Catholic interpretation follows the Septuagint’s translation of the ambiguous Hebrew terminology, which understands the loss of a fully formed fetus to be a capital crime. This difference in interpretation in part accounts for the differing positions in Jewish and canon law on issues of abortion (Feldman 1968, 258–259; 268–275).

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Religious Ethics In the realm of religious ethics, biblical law emphasizes the responsibility of the persons in divine service. Little attention is given to the role of the king, whose religious responsibilities are so very central to the Mesopotamian cult. The people are enjoined to observe the Sabbath, to celebrate the festivals, and to honor God by providing, materially, for the maintenance of cultic activities. The Mesopotamian cult centers on king and priests in providing for the physical needs of the gods in accordance with the reigning worldview. The biblical cult focuses on the individual and the collective needs of the people to interact with the divine, by requiring the people to present free will or sin and guilt offerings, also by commemorating creation and celebrating discrete national-historical events through cultic worship. As representatives of the people, and not of God, and in divine service, priests in their capacity as cultic functionaries must adhere to a cultic etiquette that requires of them to be morally unblemished, physically sound, and ritually pure. As a result of the direct communication that exists between God and the people, and the divine covenant between them, the biblical worldview understands that every single worshipper is endowed with some cultic status (Exodus 19:6).25 This raising of laity to some degree of priesthood is evident in certain cultic etiquette incumbent also upon the people, and most explicitly so in certain food taboos.26 But a biblical worship of God demands more than a modicum of cultic service and piety. For in the biblical worldview, it is not merely God’s omnipotence (authority) but his moral perfection (legitimacy) as well that render him worthy of the people’s worship. And hence, the people discover a religious obligation to abide by his will and to commit to his ethical norms. Personal Ethics Underlying the first psalm in the Book of Psalms, whose message has a wider application to the entire collection of psalms, is the basic biblical worldview that an individual’s life is “governed by a divinely ordained universal moral order” (Sarna 1995, 29). Thus “fear of God” is a cardinal virtue, for it acknowledges a Supreme Being, who makes 25. Cf. Numbers 16:3. 26. Cf. Leviticus 22:8 in the context of v.2 with Leviticus 17:15 and Exodus 22:30.

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moral demands on human beings and holds each of them accountable for their own actions. These beliefs are rooted in “the Lord’s teachings”; therefore, the individual is enjoined throughout the biblical literature to study these teachings. Thus “knowledge of God” (i.e., his teachings) is yet another cardinal virtue, for these teachings serve as an authoritative guide to correct behavior. It is not God but the people who are held responsible for creating a moral society. As such they are to act honestly, pursue justice, provide for the needy, protect the powerless, and love their fellow men. The first psalm not only affirms the triumph of a moral individual in an immoral society but also implicitly proclaims the power of the individual to transform society. Other personal ethical/moral imperatives include the following biblical statements: “thou shalt do that which is right and good in the eyes of God” (Deuteronomy 12:28); “thou shalt be unto Me a kingdom of priests and a holy people” (Exodus 19:6); “thou shalt be holy for I, the Lord your God, am Holy” (Leviticus 19:2). This last statement is understood as an imperative, in the form of imitatio dei, to mimic (the better to fall in step with) the ways of God, possibly to emulate his moral attributes—including holiness, righteousness, humility, mercy, and compassion. In no uncertain terms, these biblical urgings point to a covenantal imperative to heed a supralegal standard of ethic in the conduct of one’s life along a code of behavior situated well above the inadequacies of a servile human implementation of biblical law. Understanding the Legacy Although the ancient Near Eastern and biblical worlds differ fundamentally from the modern secular world, both ancient and modern societies are acutely aware of the centrality of moral concerns and ideal standards of human conduct for achieving harmonious social intercourse. Our brief survey of concerns and standards of behavior that find central expression in ancient Near Eastern literatures has attempted to underscore the persistence of erstwhile commonly held societal norms that are still manifest in the modern Western world. These norms and related concepts are part of the cultural legacy of ancient Near Eastern thought to Western civilization, transmitted through biblical mediation. It is therefore important more fully to appreciate ancient Near Eastern and biblical conceptions of morality and their notion of human responsibility for upholding moral order.

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Although basic differences separate their conceptions, both the ancient Near Eastern worldview and biblical thought conceive of law and morality in absolute terms. For Mesopotamians and Egyptians, the moral cosmic standard—like law, as well as each and all of the many other natural and supernatural primordial forces of the universe—was an abstract impersonal force that governed the universe and to which both gods and humankind were subject. Because such innate forces were not endowed with the power of self-expression, however, neither the Mesopotamian principle of kittum nor the Egyptian principle of maat was ever capable of directly communicating its “will” to humankind. In Mesopotamia, the very gods that served as custodians of the primordial forces of the cosmos served also as a liaison or hyphen of sorts between humankind and these metapersonal cosmic forces. And as such, they inspired privileged human beings (the various elites) with knowledge of the essence of these forces. Of all humankind, the king, by dint of his divine selection, was thought to be the most inspired, for he was the only one divinely mandated with primary responsibility for establishing a harmonious socioeconomic reality perfectly and completely consistent with kittum. The Mesopotamian king was not the source of law as embodied in the cosmic principle of kittum; he just served as its earthly agent. But it was the Mesopotamian king’s duty nevertheless to author laws, to issue edicts, and to render judgments that would reflect the moral cosmic standard. The responsibility of the individual consisted in heeding the king’s law. Yet unlike the Mesopotamian edicts and judgments authored by the king, and hence identifiable as enforceable legal norms, many of Mesopotamia’s moral maxims seem to have remained in the realm of social norms. As such, they were not enforced by the king or by any other group endowed with the legal privilege of sanction. It was religious beliefs that helped bolster individual observance of the society’s moral order, because inappropriate human conduct was regarded as something doomed to disturb the harmonious social order on earth, and at times even to jeopardize and to undermine nothing short of cosmic stability. Hence, certain legal or moral infractions would be considered acts of sacrilege and taboo. Such ominous infractions were deemed punishable not only by legal force or by social pressure, but also by religious (and even magical) retribution. But individual responsibility to uphold the moral order faced yet another challenge. Mesopotamian sources appear acutely aware of humankind’s inability to comprehend fully the mind of the gods and

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the essence of the cosmic forces. The penitential psalms and the wisdom literature stress the limited capacity of humankind to grasp what pleases the gods or to distinguish between good and evil, hence to comprehend clearly the cosmic moral standard. Mesopotamians believed, however, that this lack of knowledge did not exonerate humankind from blame or punishment for its misdeeds, since such ignorance was viewed as mere insufficiency inherent to the imperfect human condition.27 Nevertheless, this lack of certainty could severely undermine the individual’s resolve to live by predefined moral order. In effect, however, individual moral responsibility does not seem to have emerged as a significant, let alone dominant, factor within the perimeter of Mesopotamian society—especially when compared with the overwhelmingly duty-laden central role of the Mesopotamian king. In Egypt, too, it was the king who bore the primary burden and central responsibility for maintaining the moral order by upholding the cosmic force of maat. The ancient Egyptian king, by virtue of his divine status, manifested maat, and the people’s responsibility was to follow the king’s law, which fully conformed to the ideals of maat. Lichtheim (1997,11ff.) notes that Egyptian royal officials describe themselves in their “autobiographies” as active “knowers and doers of maat.” It seems therefore that royal officials, too, had a personal knowledge of maat, possibly for having “learned” it from the royal community and from schooling in wisdom literature. Their actions are said to be firmly anchored in this personal sense of right and wrong. Many Egyptologists think that a shift must have occurred during the development of Egyptian moral thinking, from the primary association of maat with the king in the Old Kingdom, to the primary association of maat with the gods in the Middle Kingdom (Ockinga 2001, 484–485). It is thought that an apparent failure on part of the kingship to uphold order and to sustain stability at the close of the Old Kingdom may have given rise to a new understanding that next reassigned primary responsibility for maintaining cosmic and terrestrial order to the gods. Humankind was now instructed to do maat ‘for sake of the gods’; and if disorder should prevail, it would do so ‘because the gods did not make their presence felt’. But in the period of the New Kingdom, Egyptologists sense the occurrence of yet another shift, in which personal piety comes to the 27. For detailed discussion, see Buccellati (1995) and Toorn (1985). Both works have extensive bibliographical references.

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fore (Ockinga 2001, 486–487)—though the moral standards upheld in earlier periods seem to have prevailed, a successful enduring life and an eternal afterlife now begin to be subordinated to one’s private relationship with the gods. Success in life and the attainment of a blessed afterlife are no longer viewed as a given, that is, as a consequence of moral behavior in consonance with the cosmic principle of maat. These human aspirations seem now to have become subject to the will of the gods. But since ancient Egyptians seem to have been keenly aware of the inscrutable nature of the gods and of their plans for humankind, a deep sense of insecurity appears to have taken hold. Some Egyptologists have argued that it is this very sense of profound insecurity that led to the expansion of self-centered personal piety, seeking automatic atonement from the gods, which consequently became very notably detrimental to Egyptian societal cohesion (Ockinga 2001, 486–487). Much in contrast to Mesopotamian and Egyptian thought, the Bible conceives of law and morality as the expression of the divine will of an omnipotent—and caring—sole Deity. The biblical God is not only the ultimate source of law and morality but especially also the sole author of biblical law. It is in his concern for the welfare of his creation that God communicated his will to humankind.28 Law therefore is viewed as a set of revealed instructions intended to serve as a divine blueprint for the conduct of human society, whereby divinely ordained moral and ethical ideals are translated into legal norms. Thus, for example, the commandment to return lost property (Exodus 23:4–5; Deuteronomy 22:1–4) represents a legal obligation meant to fulfill a religious-moral duty. Here, biblical law is conceived as a positive prescriptive code of ethical behavior, not a reactive means to redress rights violated. Considerations of duty become primary, while issues of rights remain secondary.29 Also, any nonobservance or violation of biblical law, even when it involves property torts or contract law, is not only a civil offense against society but also a violation of God’s will—an absolute wrong—for which the wrongdoer is directly accountable to God.30 28. Note God’s concern for communicating his will to Adam (Genesis 3:1–3) and Noah (Genesis 9:1–17) at the very outset of biblical history. 29. Such a conception of law accounts for the didactic tone of the biblical law corpora and for the frequency of motive clauses attached to biblical laws, for which see Sonsino (1980). 30. Cf., among others, Numbers 5:5–8; Leviticus 19:20–22; Genesis 20:6. For this reason, biblical law does not distinguish fundamentally between cultic and noncultic offenses. The fact that the biblical law corpora contain an intermingling of both social and cultic matters (e.g., the Decalogue) is best understood in this context. Note that, since all cultic

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This biblical conception of law as the revealed will of God stands high and clear, in stark contrast to the myriad uncertainties and innumerable insecurities associated with Mesopotamian and Egyptian conceptions of law and morality. In the biblical worldview, the divine moral standard is clearly articulated; individual responsibility for heeding a clear standard is paramount. It is this appreciation of law, morality, and human responsibility that permeates the biblical prophetic tradition, characterized by its passionate demand for human equality and dignity, its hatred of oppression, and its dream of universal peace, each grounded on social justice. These ideals and the divine imperative for humankind to try to actualize them have left an indelible imprint on the consciousness of Western civilization. But there is yet another important dimension to the biblical conception of law and morality. Biblical law, which God addressed directly to the entire community of Israel,31 is conceived as the basis of a covenantal relationship between God and Israel. Both the Sinaitic covenant and the covenant of the Plains of Moab center on a book of law (Exodus 24:4, 24:7; Deuteronomy 29:11, 29:13, 29:20) containing divinely dictated legislation. The book of law contains also elements of ancient Near Eastern “vassal-covenant” stipulations that demand complete loyalty and total allegiance to God. Unmistakably explicit is the affirmation that God and Israel are bound in contract, whereby faithful observance of the law guarantees divine prosperity and also protection, just as violation of the law results in dire calamity and misfortune to the individual and to the nation (Leviticus 26:3–45; Deuteronomy 28).32 Of far greater import and consequence here is the fact that now an entire people becomes responsible—individually and communally—for the observance of the law (Deuteronomy 11:13–28), the maintenance of justice (Deuteronomy 16:18–20), and the punishment of offenders (Deuteronomy 17:5 et passim). It is precisely this biblical covenantal approach to law that underscores the uniquely heightened sense of individual and communal responsibility for the observance of law and offenses, social crimes, and civil torts are viewed as violations of God’s will, it would not be meaningful for biblical law to draw distinctions between socioeconomic and cultic-religious matters in the organization of its legal formulations. 31. Moses’s intermediary role, as a messenger relaying God’s utterances to the people, is viewed as a divine concession to the request of the people. See Exodus 20:18–20 and Deuteronomy 5:23–31. 32. This conception of covenantal law remains a dominant theme throughout biblical history, reaffirmed in the covenants of Joshua (Joshua 24), Josiah (2 Kings 23), Zedekiah (Jeremiah 34), and Ezra (Nehemiah 9–10).

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morality—not found in the ancient Near Eastern world.33 Biblical thought could, in this way, broaden and democratize the Mesopotamian notion of divine covenant between deity and king by clearly placing the people on par with the Mesopotamian and Egyptian kings in the upholding of legal and moral standards within society. This unique biblical notion of law as covenant, established upon a mutual and reciprocal basis on which the people join as one of the covenanting parties, represents a major contribution to Western civilization. Only a bilateral covenant that cannot be unilaterally revoked and whose contents are righteous, equitable, and compassionate (i.e., moral, or godly) can truly safeguard the rights of the people. This biblical conception eventually became a cornerstone of Western democratic political thought.34 Despite this legacy, the modern secular world for the most part cannot accept the basic premise of ancient Near Eastern and biblical conceptions of law and morality as one reflecting an absolute moral standard.35 Secular thought has little interest in, and even less sympathy for, a biblical ethic that derives from divine command which is then articulated in legal norms. There is no place for dogmatic ethical absolutes defined by theological systems of belief in the pluralistic multicultural societies of modern democratic states that declare commitment to freedom, diversity, and tolerance.36 But lessons gleaned from ancient Near Eastern and biblical conceptions of law and morality should not be dismissed precipitously or all too lightly. By contrasting the biblical conception of law and morality with that of Mesopotamia and Egypt, this chapter sought to underscore the fact 33. This approach is responsible for the creation of Jewish law and forms also the foundation of Jewish covenantal ethics (Würzburger 1994) as expressed in classical Judaism. Also cf. Silberg (1961). 34. Cf. the essays of Konvitz (1978) and the more popular article by Cahn (1961). See Meislin’s introduction (1976) on the colonial period, which documents the influence of the Bible on American legal thinking in the formative period of American history. 35. In the modern secular mind’s eye, an absolute moral standard may be viewed as robbing humankind of its autonomy and its ability to make authentic moral choices, and thus as disallowing the validity of human intellectual moral growth. This position is somewhat misleading, for both ancient Near Eastern and biblical conceptions of an absolute moral standard recognize the importance of the human factor in moral development. The Mesopotamian and Egyptian notion of the absolute moral standard as an innate cosmic force incapable of self-expression necessitates an incessant human quest to discover moral truths as human ethical thinking evolves over time (see, for instance, Lichtheim 1997, 96–99, and Buccellati 1995, 1695). The biblical notion of the absolute moral standard as a divinely willed mandate also necessitates human implementation of a moral blueprint for human conduct as human society evolves over time. 36. See Botwinick (2008).

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that greater moral clarity does enhance the sense of personal responsibility; and that greater societal appreciation of the role of the individual in upholding the social contract of law, citizenship, and governance intensifies both individual and communal commitments socially to act responsibly. True, relativism, deconstructionism, and especially postmodernism have enriched modern thought in many ways, but they have also led to considerable moral confusion. Therefore, it is imperative for modern democratic societies to identify the common ethical values they hold to be true and to articulate clearly their moral standard that must serve as the cultural wellspring of their societal postulates. Needless to say, this is a long, arduous, and often wrenching process that must bring together the most diverse moral conceptions of many different peoples, a process that must find commonality without thereby trampling the rights of local or global minorities. It is equally imperative that modern democratic societies clearly articulate and strongly inculcate these common values in their citizenry. This statement is especially true at this time in human history when, once again, basic moral issues can no longer remain in the private or personal domain, but must be translated into legally enforceable norms that inform society’s decision-making policies and define its actions. The task at hand is formidable. May we have offered the reader a contextualized grasp of the existential complexities that underscore the myriad societal issues remaining to be faced and the attending ethical questions meriting to be answered. References Baines, John (1991) “Society, Morality and Religious Practice,” in Byron E. Shafer, Editor, Religion in Ancient Egypt: Gods, Myths and Personal Practice, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Botwinick, Aryeh (2008) “Liberal Democracy: Interrogating the Questions,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Democratizations: Comparisons, Confrontations, and Contrasts, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Buccellati, Giorgio (1981) “Wisdom and Not: The Case of Mesopotamia,” Journal of the American Oriental Society, 101:35–47. ——— (1995) “Ethics and Piety in the Ancient Near East,” in Jack M. Sasson, Editor, Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, vol. 3, New York: Simon & Schuster Macmillan. Cahn, Edmond (1961) “The Jewish Contribution to Law,” Jewish Frontier, May issue, 12–17. Ciprut, Jose V., Editor (2008a) Dedication, in Freedom: Reassessments and Rephrasings, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

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———, Editor (2008b) Democratizations: Comparisons, Confrontations, and Contrasts. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Feldman, David M. (1968) Birth Control in Jewish Law, New York: New York University Press. Gnirs, Andrea M. (2001) “Biographies,” in Donald B. Redford, Editor, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 1, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Guyer, Paul (2008) “Indeterminacy and Freedom of the Will,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Indeterminacy: The Mapped, the Navigable, and the Uncharted, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Jasnow, Richard (2003a) “Old Kingdom and First Intermediate Period,” in Raymond Westbrook, Editor, A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill. ——— (2003b) “Middle Kingdom and Second Intermediate Period,” in Raymond Westbrook, Editor, A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill. ——— (2003c) “New Kingdom,” in Raymond Westbrook, Editor, A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law, vol. 1, Leiden: Brill. ——— (2003d) “Third Intermediate Period,” in Raymond Westbrook, Editor, A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law, vol. 2, Leiden: Brill. Konvitz, Milton R. (1978) Judaism and the American Idea, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Lesko, Leonard H. (2001a) “Book of Going Forth by Day,” in Donald B. Redford, Editor, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 1, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. ——— (2001b) “Coffin Texts,” in Donald B. Redford, Editor, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 1, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lichtheim, Miriam (1975) Ancient Egyptian Literature, vol. 1: The Old and Middle Kingdoms, Berkeley: University of California Press. ——— (1976) Ancient Egyptian Literature, vol. 2: The New Kingdom, Berkeley: University of California Press. ——— (1980) Ancient Egyptian Literature, vol. 3: The Late Period, Berkeley: University of California Press. ——— (1997) Moral Values in Ancient Egypt (Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 155), Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Malul, Meir (1990) The Comparative Method in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical Legal Studies [Alter Orient und Altes Testament, 227], Neukirchen-Vluyn: Butzen & Bercker Kevelaer. Meislin, Bernard J. (1976) Jewish Law in American Tribunals, New York: Ktav. Mulhern, J. J. (2008) “The Political Economy of Citizenship,” in Jose V. Ciprut, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Ockinga, Boyo (2001) “Ethics and Morality,” in Donald B. Redford, Editor, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 1, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Quirke, Stephen G. J. (2001) “Judgment of the Dead,” in Donald B. Redford, Editor, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 2, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.

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Redford, Donald B. (2001) The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vols. 1–3, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Roth, Martha T. (1997) Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor, Society of Biblical Literature Writings from the Ancient World 6, Atlanta: Scholars Press. Rubin, Edward L. (2008) “Right to Be, Privilege to Become: The Dangers of Citizenship,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Sarna, Nahum M. (1995) On the Book of Psalms: Exploring the Psalms of Ancient Israel, New York: Schocken Books. Silberg, Moshe (1961) “Jewish Law and Morals,” Harvard Law Review 75:306–331. Sonsino, Rifat (1980) Motive Clauses in Hebrew Law: Biblical Forms and Near Eastern Parallels (Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series 45), Chicago: Scholars Press. Teeter, Emily (2001) “Maat,” in Donald B. Redford, Editor, The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt, vol. 2, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Toorn, K. van der (1985) Sin and Sanction in Israel and Mesopotamia, Studia Semitica Neerlandica 22, Assen: Van Gorcum. Weinfeld, Moshe (1972) Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School, Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press. Westbrook, Raymond, Editor (2003) A History of Ancient Near Eastern Law, 2 vols., Leiden: Brill. Würzburger, Walter S. (1994) Ethics of Responsibility: Pluralistic Approaches to Covenantal Ethics, Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society.

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On an Ethic of Peace Grounded on Justice: An Eighteenth-Century Voice Paul Guyer

At the end of a century that was supposed to be enlightened yet saw constant warfare, the Prussian philosopher Immanuel Kant published Toward Perpetual Peace. This text seemed to assert that the course of nature, in the fullness of time, would guarantee the realization of perpetual peace. Such a claim was both historically implausible and inconsistent with one of the deepest claims of Kant’s philosophy: that the radical nature of human freedom always gives us the choice between good and evil no matter how propitious our circumstances might seem for one or the other. In fact, as Kant’s argument develops, it becomes clear that he does not mean to argue that nature guarantees the realization of perpetual peace, but only that nature must make available means that we—or more precisely the politicians who represent us, if they choose to be moral—can freely choose to use for the sake of peace. Kant’s stronger language of guarantees can be seen as having been addressed to our passionate persona more than our rational nature, aimed at giving us encouragement as real human beings rather than philosophers. The lesson that, no matter how just, no social and political arrangements by themselves can guarantee the realization of peace, apart from the moral commitment of those who can use them, remains just as true today as it was in 1795. Historical Context and Societal Background We tend to think of eighteenth-century Europe as the serene hub of the ‘Age of Enlightenment’. Of course, this enlightenment began before the calendar year 1700; perhaps the publication of John Locke’s Essay concerning Human Understanding and Second Treatise of Government in 1690, or the Earl of Shaftesbury’s Inquiry concerning Virtue or Merit in 1696,

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could mark the start of the Enlightenment, at least from an intellectual point of view. But from a political point of view, it is far from clear that the eighteenth century represented a special period of enlightenment: in 1701 the War of Spanish Succession started; in 1702 the Elector Frederick III of Brandenburg crowned himself king as Frederick I of Prussia and Charles XII of Sweden invaded Courland and Poland; and upon her succession to William III in 1702, Queen Anne conferred the captain generalship on the Duke of Marlborough—the very same year in which Prince Eugene of the house of Savoy, proudly “in the service of the Austrian Holy Roman Empire,” defeated the French in Carpi and Chiara. Nor did the warfare of the so-called Century of Enlightenment end in 1800, the year, after all, in which Napoleon established himself as first consul in the Tuileries and the mighty French army defeated the Austrians at the battle of Marengo; nor in 1801, the year of the not entirely mutual Act of Union of Great Britain and Ireland, that of the Prussians’ assault on Hanover, and the one that saw the assassination of Russian Tsar Paul I. Further, the century of the Enlightenment would witness the British capture of Gibraltar (1704); Marlborough’s conquest of Spain and the Netherlands; the signing of “the Perpetual Alliance,” between Prussia and Sweden; the vertiginous ascent of the British East India and the New East India companies’ political power; the Prut River War (1711) between Russia and the Ottoman Empire, and the curt dismissal of Marlborough as commander-in-chief, that same year; the Peace of Utrecht (1713), when Spain agreed to cede Gibraltar and the islet of Minorca to Britain; the Mongol occupation of Lhasa (1717); “the beginning of a not so beautiful friendship” (known as the Quadruple Alliance) among the Holy Roman Empire, France, England, and Holland (1718), allowing France’s prompt declaration of war on Spain (1719); the vorsichtig (foresighted) and tüchtig (proficient) move to establish a Ministry of War, Finance, and Domains by Prussia (1723); the eventless birth of an ordinary baby named Immanuel Kant (1724), the (alas sacred-to-none) alliance between the Holy Roman Empire and a differently holy Russian Empire (1726) against the Muslim Turks of the Ottoman Empire, for whom both adversaries were miserably miscreant; the first of many explosions of the Polish Succession War and France’s declaration of war against Emperor Charles VI (1733); the misleadingly short-lived war between the Ottomans and the Persians (which, though waged officially from 1734 to 1735, would continue on and off through 1743); yet one more conflagration (1736–39) between

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Russia and the Ottoman Empire; the dispatch of British troops to Georgia (not the one to the east of the Black Sea, but the one across the Atlantic) to settle a “border dispute” with Spain and the sack of Delhi by Persians under Nadir Shah, all in the short span of the same year (1739); next, the First (1740–42), Second (1744–45), and Third (1756– 1763) Silesian Wars (all of which were parts of the Austrian Succession Wars and ended up becoming also an integral and central part of the European-wide Seven Years’ War); the alliance between Austria and Russia against Prussia (1746); the establishment as a fortress of Halifax in Nova Scotia (1749); the Treaty of Madrid of 1750—a quasi appendix to those of Tordesillas (1494) and Saragossa (1529)—revising earlier papal facilitations of the division of the Latin American continent between Spain and Portugal, now a tad more so in the latter’s favor; the Anglo-French war over border disputes in North America (1754) and the British defeat by the French in Fort Duquesne (where Pittsburgh stands today); China’s invasion of eastern Turkistan (1758); Dutch explorer Jakobus Coetsee’s advances beyond the Orange River in South Africa (1760); Britain’s capture of Martinique, Grenada, Havana, and Manila (1762), and proclamation providing for government in Quebec, Florida, and Grenada; the confiscation of church lands in Russia and the suppression of Jesuits in France (1764); the separation by the Mason-Dixon Line (named after its British surveyors) of the “free” North (Pennsylvania) and “slave” South (Maryland) regions in colonial America (1766); the agreement between Russia and Prussia about the partition of Poland and the quasi completion of Russia’s conquest of Crimea (formerly in Ottoman hands) that same year (1771)—although it would take the Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca for the Ottomans to deign to pretend to recognize it, and twelve more years for Potemkin to be seen to have consolidated it (in 1783); the American Revolution (1775–1783); the war waged by Britain against the Mahrattas in India (1779–1782); the capture of the Dutch settlement at Negapatam (Madras, India) by the British (1781); the completion of Florida’s conquest by Spain (1782); Austria’s declaration of war on the Ottoman Empire (1768) and their capture of Belgrade in the same year as the French Revolution (1789), even as the Austrian Netherlands were about to declare independence in a revolution suppressed by the Austrians in Belgium (which would end up wrenching its independence from the Dutch by a “separation” 41 long years later, in 1830); the assassination in the Stockholm Opera House of Sweden’s king, Gustavus III (1792); and the beginning of the Reign of Terror (1793) and not least the

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banning of Catholicism in France, the same year, during which a coalition against France began to take form, French troops were ousted from Germany, the Holy Roman Empire declared war on France, the United States proclaimed its neutrality, and Toulon was taken by Napoleon. Next, the French Revolution would “devour its children” as the Whiskey Insurrection roared in Pennsylvania (1794). And the Third Partition of Poland would accompany the abdication of the Polish King Stanislas II even as the Dutch surrendered Ceylon (today’s Sri Lanka) to the British in 1795; next, Agha Mohammed of Persia seized Khorasan and proclaimed Tehran the capital (1796). The elevation as shah of Persia of Fath Ali and the nomination of Marquis Wellesley governorgeneral of India (1797); the proclamation of the Helvetian Republic in Bern; the conquest of Egypt (1798) and of Syria (1799) by Napoleon, who appointed Talleyrand Foreign Minister of France (1799), as Britain now found reason to join the Russo-Ottoman alliance against France (1799); and the British capture of Malta and Napoleon’s undisputed (if temporary) hold over most of Europe would finally usher in the calendrical close of the official Century of European Enlightenment. In the year 1795, just another annus horribilis in Europe, during which bread riots created havoc and White Terror raged in Paris, while Luxemburg capitulated to France, the French forces occupied Mannheim and Belgium, the British seized the Cape of Good Hope, the Dutch had to cede Ceylon to the British, and Napoleon was appointed commander-in-chief in Italy, even as the third partition of Poland beckoned, two private events occurred in Germany that would acquire protracted historical significance:1 Frederick Wilhelm IV of Prussia was born, and Immanuel Kant published his Zum ewigen Frieden. That essay was anticipated by earlier efforts by the Abbé Saint-Pierre and JeanJacques Rousseau, and prompted by ensuing political events; but it was above all an enlightened philosopher’s response to the century of strife just chronicled. Remarkably, however, it seems to argue not just that peace among nations is possible, but even that it is inevitable. Could such a critical philosopher as Kant have meant to assert something so implausible, or is the innate message of the work something else? If so, what; and does it have anything still to say to us now, two centuries 1. In enumerating the more salient events of contextual pertinence to this thematic essay, I have cited generously from The Timetables of History—A Horizontal Linkage of People and Events, new third revised edition, by Bernard Grun (1991), based on Werner Stein’s Kulturfahrplan. I thank our editor, Jose Ciprut, for his generous provision of the material for this section and for his helpful comments throughout the paper.

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later, and particularly after the recent end of a century in which warfare was perhaps not as frequent but more intense and on a much vaster scale than what it had been in the eighteenth century? On the Probabilistic Merits of Rational Hope for a Morality of Peace In his famous essay Toward Perpetual Peace (1795), did Kant (1724–1804) really mean to claim that a natural process of political development within and among different states can ever provide a guarantee of perpetual peace among them? He certainly seems to be arguing that natural mechanisms inexorably drive nations toward republican government, and that a world of republics would have no occasion for war with one another, thereby guaranteeing perpetual peace: What affords this guarantee (surety) is nothing less than the great artist nature . . . from whose mechanical course purposiveness shines forth visibly, letting concord arise by means of the discord between human beings even against their will; and for this reason nature, regarded as necessitation by a cause the laws of whose operation are unknown to us, is called fate, but if we consider its purposiveness in the course of the world as the profound wisdom of a higher cause directed to the objective final end of the human race and predetermining the course of this world, it is called providence . . . 2 (TPP 8:360– 362; Gregor 1996, 331–332).

Kant then proposes “to examine the condition that nature has prepared for the persons acting on its great stage, which finally makes its assurance of peace necessary” (TPP 8:362–363; Gregor 1996, 332), and to examine how nature “affords the guarantee that what man ought to do in accordance with laws of freedom but does not do, it is assured he will do, without prejudice to [his] freedom, even by a constraint of nature” (TPP 8:465; Gregor 1996, 334). And in these proposals, too, it certainly sounds as if Kant thinks that nature will guarantee perpetual peace by means of the following scenario: war drives human beings to all corners of the earth, seeking safety from one another; but no part of the earth is completely inaccessible to any other, so even once people 2. Toward Perpetual Peace, henceforth TPP. Kant’s texts are here cited first by their locations in Kant’s gesammelte Schriften, edited by the Royal Prussian (next, and successively, the German and the Berlin-Brandenburg) Academy of Sciences, Berlin: Georg Reimer, and subsequently, Walter de Gruyter & Co., 1900—; and then, from Immanuel Kant, Practical Philosophy, edited and translated by Mary J. Gregor (1996), from which all translations are drawn.

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have been driven to all corners of the earth they will still be in fear of one another, and thus make war upon one another; but the burdens of war upon the populations that must carry them will be so great that over time people will transform their governments into republics more fully expressing their own interests than any other form of regime can, and once people have transformed their own governments into republics they will not have any internal cause to make war on other nations; so once all nations have become republics, thereby removing any external cause for one nation to make war upon another, all cause for war will be removed and there will henceforth be no war. (This is a summary of Kant’s account at TPP 8:363–368, Gregor 1996, 332–337.) Political scientists have purported to refute this rosy scenario by adducing historical cases in which republics have made war upon one another.3 However, the empirical criteria for counting regimes as republics that some participants to this debate have used—for example, that 30 percent of males have the franchise to vote4—fall so far short of Kant’s ideal conception of a republic,5 and it is so far from clear that any actual regimes, let alone actual regimes that have made war upon one another, have ever satisfied Kant’s ideal of republican government, that it seems to me pointless even to discuss this objection. What I do want to ask here is whether Kant himself could have thought that such a guarantee of peace through natural mechanisms is consistent with the basic principles of his own philosophy. The answer to this question is clearly no. Indeed, Kant’s description of the key mechanism by means of which nature is supposed to guarantee perpetual peace makes it clear both that it can do no such thing and that Kant did not think that it can do any such thing. In expounding the “First Definitive Article for Perpetual Peace”—namely, that “The civil constitution of every state shall be republican”—Kant writes the following: 3. This discussion began with Michael Doyle (1983), who defended Kant’s apparent empirical argument for the inevitability of peace among republics. There have been numerous critics as well as supporters of Doyle’s position; for a sample list, see Cavallar (1999, 180–181, notes 5 and 6). 4. See Ernst-Otto Czempiel, “Kant‘s Theorem und die aktuelle Diskussion über die Beziehung zwischen Demokratie und Freiheit,” in Valerio Rhoden (1997, 99–120), cited in Cavallar (1999, 146–147). 5. See TPP 8:349–350, 352; Gregor 1996, 322, 324; Metaphysics of Morals (henceforth MM), Doctrine of Right, sections 45–48, 6:313–316; Gregor 1996, 456–460; and On the Common Saying: That May Be Correct in Theory but It Is of No Use in Practice, 8:289–296; Gregor 1996, 290–296.

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The republican constitution does offer the prospect of the result wished for, namely perpetual peace; the ground of this is as follows. When the consent of the citizens of a state is required in order to decide whether there shall be war or not (and it cannot be otherwise in this constitution), nothing is more natural than that they will be very hesitant to begin such a bad game, since they would have to decide to take upon themselves all the hardships of war (such as themselves doing the fighting and paying the costs of the war from their own belongings . . . ); on the other hand, under a constitution in which subjects are not citizens of the state, which is therefore not republican, [deciding upon war] is the easiest thing in the world; because the head of state is not a member of the state but its proprietor and gives up nothing at all of his feasts, hunts, pleasure palaces, court festivals, and so forth, he can decide upon war, as upon a kind of pleasure party, for insignificant cause. . . . (TPP 8:350; Gregor 1996, 323–324)

This is not the language of guarantee, but one of probabilities. That citizens who are collectively the sovereign of a republic may be highly averse to risking their own lives or livelihoods in order to make war and that sovereigns who are proprietors of absolutistic regimes may not be especially averse to risking the lives and goods of their subjects in order to aggrandize their own wealth or status do not guarantee that the former will never make war or that the latter will always do so. Nor could Kant, with his clear recognition of the difference between a synthetic a priori principle and a mere empirical generalization, have thought otherwise. Kant’s own language makes it clear that he could not have thought that even the worldwide spread of republican governments could automatically guarantee perpetual peace any more than we could believe this to be so. In fact, Kant somewhat modifies his apparent suggestion that the worldwide spread of republican government would or could guarantee the elimination of war in several subsequent statements, which assert that the natural mechanisms he describes will only produce gradual progress toward perpetual peace, not a prompt or full realization of that earnestly desired as well as morally mandatory condition. Thus in the conclusion of Toward Perpetual Peace, many pages after the bold statements cited, Kant remarks: “If it is a duty to realize the condition of public right, even if only in approximation by unending progress, and if there is also a well-founded hope of this, then the perpetual peace that follows upon what have till now been falsely called peace treaties (strictly speaking, truces) is no empty idea but a task that, gradually solved, comes steadily closer to its goal (since the times during which equal progress takes place will, we hope, become always shorter)” (TPP 8:350; Gregor 1996, 323–324).

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And in his brief discussion of the “Right of Nations” in the “Doctrine of Right” of the Metaphysics of Morals (MM), published two years later than Toward Perpetual Peace, Kant concludes his résumé of the earlier work with the following comment: “So perpetual peace, the ultimate goal of the whole right of nations, is indeed an unachievable idea. Still, the political principles directed toward perpetual peace, of entering into . . . alliances of states, which serve for continual approximation to it, are not unachievable. Instead, since continual approximation to it is a task based on duty and therefore on the right of human beings and of states, this can certainly be achieved” (MM, “Doctrine of Right,” section 61, 6:350; Gregor 1996, 487). Here it seems as if Kant has given up on the idea that there can be any natural mechanism that guarantees the realization of perpetual peace and instead has settled for the idea of a mechanism that would produce ever-increasing progress toward this goal. But if his claim is that the sorts of natural mechanisms he has described can guarantee even merely progress toward perpetual peace, that conclusion still seems to be more than is warranted by the thought that certain naturally occurring transformations of regimes would make perpetual peace more probable. For probabilities guarantee nothing: that the probability of precipitation today is 90 or 95 percent does not guarantee that it will rain today at all nor even that there will be a misty condition approximating to full-blown rain. It just says that on (recorded) past days with initial conditions like today’s, it has in fact rained ninety or ninety-five times out of a hundred. And just as in meteorology, where some minor or even imperceptible difference between today’s conditions and those prevailing on ninety or ninety-five similar days, when it did rain, can undermine the inference from the probability of perception to actual precipitation today, likewise we know all too well that some minor incident can precipitate an unpredictable chain of events leading to war, even in conditions that we might otherwise have thought were unfavorable to war. Therefore, natural conditions that would make peace more probable would not seem to guarantee anything at all, be they the complete realization of perpetual peace or merely an asymptotic approximation to it. From Promoting Morality to Banning War That Kant could not actually have meant to assert the existence of any guarantee of either the complete realization of perpetual peace or even

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constant progress toward it through any natural mechanisms may follow arguably from something far deeper than facts about empirical probabilities with which Kant was perfectly well acquainted. It seems to follow from the fundamental premise of his mature moral psychology. What I have in mind here is Kant’s view, expressed in Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason only two years before Toward Perpetual Peace and four short years before the Metaphysics of Morals: that human freedom, understood at its deepest, “transcendental” level, is always the freedom to choose between what morality requires and what self-love suggests. So that, even in cases where natural mechanisms, including natural inclinations, would seem to promise conformity with the requirements of morality—and for Kant perpetual peace is the ultimate such requirement (MM, “Doctrine of Right,” section 61, 6:350; Gregor 1996, 487)—human beings always are free to subvert such natural mechanisms in the name of self-love, no matter how deluded or shortsighted their conception of what would gratify their self-love might be. What Kant calls “radical evil” is the concomitant of his radical conception of human freedom: true freedom to choose what is good is also true freedom to choose what is evil. Having made this completely clear, just two years before publishing Toward Perpetual Peace, after a lifetime of reflection on the problem of free will,6 Kant could hardly be thought to have forgotten this fundamental point in the subsequent work. Before I pursue this issue a little further, let me be clear that I am not making the point that, no matter how favorable to outward compliance with a moral obligation, no natural mechanism can actually produce complete satisfaction of such an obligation because that requires an internal disposition, which can only be freely chosen, namely, the motivation to act out of respect for duty alone.7 To be sure, Kant claimed at 6. The problem of free will was a central problem in Kant’s earliest work in philosophy, the New Exposition of the First Principles of Metaphysical Cognition, published in 1755, and a central issue in the Critique of Pure Reason (1781), the Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals (1785), and the Critique of Practical Reason (1788). Of course, Kant’s stand on the problem underwent many changes before he settled on the final position toward it, which he took in Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason (henceforth Religion); but the very fact that he had considered so many options before settling on the position he finally took in 1783 makes it all the more implausible that he could have forgotten what he wrote in 1793 by 1795. 7. This may seem to be suggested by Volker Gerhardt, in Otfried Höffe (1995, 171–194, at 184). In the same volume, Pierre Laberge (Höffe 1995, 149–170) argues that there are three things that might be thought to be intended to be guaranteed by Kant: (1) the conditions that make peace necessary, (2) the means for the juridical condition of peace, and

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the very outset of the Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals8 that the only thing that is unconditionally good and truly estimable is good will (see GMM, section 1, 4:393–394; Gregor 1996, 49–50). And he argued in the “Critique of the Teleological Power of Judgment” that we can see the whole of nature as a determinate system aimed at a unique end only if we see it as aimed at a “final end” of unconditional moral value, for only such an end would qualify as unique. Yet he also argued in that work that we cannot see nature itself as producing anything more than the “culture of discipline” over our inclinations, a discipline that may be a necessary condition for the implementation of a moral disposition but that cannot be a sufficient condition for it (see section 83, 5:432 in Guyer 2000) for the simple reason that no operations of mere mechanisms of nature, that is, of our own nature, can ever earn us true moral worth or esteem. Further, Kant also makes it clear that although the obligation to earn moral esteem is itself a human being’s Tugendverpflichtung, or obligation of virtue as a motivation, that is, an internal disposition, his Rechtspflichten, or duties of justice, by contrast, are duties that we can satisfy entirely by outward compliance with the relevant moral laws, regardless of what sort of motivation we use in order to get ourselves to do so, if only to avoid moral demerit. And that is why juridical duties can admit of external legislation connecting them to “pathological determining grounds of choice, inclinations and aversions,” but in fact, Kant continues, ‘only by aversions’. “The mere conformity or nonconformity of an action with law, irrespective of the incentive to it, is called its legality (Legalität), its lawfulness (Gesetzmässigkeit); but that conformity, in which the idea of duty arising from the law is also the incentive to the action, is called its morality” (MM, Introduction, section 4, 6:219; Gregor 1996, 383). In Kant’s scheme, the duty to seek perpetual peace is the ultimate juridical duty or duty of right or justice (Rechtspflicht). The fundamental principle of right is the principle to perform only such actions as “can coexist with everyone’s freedom in accordance with a universal law” (MM, “Doctrine of Right,” Introduction, section C, 6:230; Gregor 1996, 387). In particular, (3) the performance of peace as a duty; that nature, however, could supply items 1 and 2 but not 3. Laberge agrees with the view I take here; for, in his own words, “The problem treated in the essay on peace appears to be only juridical; its solution is not dependent on the good will and ‘the moral improvement of mankind’ ” (Höffe 1995, 164). But Laberge seems to believe that Kant thinks nature could guarantee peace as an external condition. Hence, he does not argue, as I will, that Kant’s commitment to the doctrine of radical evil makes that outcome most unlikely. 8. Henceforth GMM.

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the universal principle of justice requires one to make only claims to the control and use of land and its products that are compatible with the freedom of others to make such claims as well, hence claims that can be considered to be endorsed by a “universal” rather than a merely “unilateral” will (MM, “Doctrine of Right,” section 8 [Höffe 1995, 149–170], 6:255–256; Gregor 1996, 409). And thus, only in a “true condition of peace” throughout the globe can rights to “anything external that is mine or yours” . . . “hold conclusively,” rather than as “merely provisional” (MM, “Doctrine of Right,” section 61, 6:350; Gregor 1996, 487). In Kant’s view, then, one can only hold property rightly and securely in a condition of perpetual worldwide peace, and the intention to hold property rightly therefore entails the duty to establish such peace. But precisely because such a duty is purely juridical, “the motivation by means of which one fulfills it” is of no juridical interest; and thus from the juridical point of view it would be perfectly acceptable, perhaps even highly desirable, if perpetual peace could be assured by natural mechanisms. Of course, if we were to achieve the condition of perpetual peace out of sheer free respect for duty itself, there would be ethical merit in doing so. But that is a separate matter: the achievement of peace through free choice or by internal disposition is not a juridical requirement. In decisive words from Kant’s sketches for Toward Perpetual Peace, “The issue here is not promoting morality or even happiness but merely banning war” (23:162). The Freedom to Choose Either Good or Evil The problem then is not that something necessary for peace is missing if it is achieved through natural mechanisms; the problem is rather that the very nature of human freedom means that we can pervert any natural mechanism that might by itself conduce to perpetual peace, no matter how plausibly and reliably conducive to peace that mechanism might have seemed. This is an inescapable implication of the doctrine of “radical evil” that Kant expounded in Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason. But does that doctrine then imply the very opposite of what Toward Perpetual Peace initially seemed to offer: that is, does the doctrine of radical evil imply a pessimistic guarantee that there can be no perpetual peace? It does not, because Kant’s point in arguing that evil is radical—that it is due not to merely natural factors beyond our own control but to our own free choice—was precisely that conversion from evil to good is always open to us. In the political context

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this means that, while the radical freedom of human choice entails that no natural mechanism possibly guarantees the just outcome of perpetual peace, this very same freedom does entail that it is always possible for us to use these natural mechanisms to progress toward that peace. Admittedly, this is hardly the place for a detailed exegesis of Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason, but I will just briefly document several key points: First, the work argues that although we have within us an “original predisposition to good,” that is, natural predispositions to humanity and personality (Williams, chap. 6 of this book) that can lead to morally desirable outcomes (Religion, Part 1, 6:26; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 74), as well as a natural “propensity to evil” that manifests itself in superficially different yet perhaps morally not manifestly distinguishable forms of frailty, impurity, and depravity (Religion, Part 1, 6:29–30; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 76–78), whether any particular human being is ultimately either good or evil cannot be explained by either of these natural tendencies, but only by the free choice of a human being to realize his predisposition toward the good or to pervert that predisposition by giving in to the propensity toward evil. In Kant’s words: The human being must make or have made himself into whatever he is or should become in a moral sense, good or evil. These two [characters] must be an effect of his free choice, for otherwise they could not be imputed to him and, consequently, he could be morally neither good nor evil. If it is said: The human being is created good, this can only mean nothing more than: He has been created for the good and the original predisposition in him is good; the human being is not thereby good as such, but he brings it about that he becomes either good or evil, according as he either incorporates or does not incorporate into his maxims the incentives contained in that predisposition (and thus must be left entirely to his free choice). (Religion, Part 1, 6:29–30; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 76–78)

Kant’s argument here is that, if a person is to be given moral credit for doing or being good, then his so doing or being cannot be the result of merely natural predisposition, but must be the result of his own free choice to incorporate that predisposition into his own principles or, in Kant’s term, maxims. But if that choice is truly free, then the person is in fact also free to choose to do evil, by perverting that predisposition, thus to be evil by his own choice, and indeed, radically so. The possibility of radical evil is inseparable from the possibility of imputable goodness.

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Kant’s reference to maxims in the last passage manifests his view that the choice between good and evil takes the form of a preference between two fundamental maxims, on the one hand the maxim to fulfill the dictates of morality even when they conflict with the demands of self-love, and on the other hand the maxim to seek to satisfy the demands of self-love even when they conflict with the demands of morality.9 That is, Kant conceives the choice between good and evil as the decision whether to subordinate self-love to morality or morality to self-love, the decision “which of the two one makes the condition of the other” (Religion, Part 1, 6:36; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 83). That Kant understands the choice between good and evil in this way reflects two assumptions: the first, which might seem optimistic, that no human being is entirely ignorant of the moral law, and thus no one ever does evil in mere ignorance of the moral law; and the second, which certainly seems realistic, that no human being is entirely exempt from the natural demands of self-love, and thus no one ever does good (or can be called upon to do good) from a mere absence of self-love: “The human being (even the worst) does not repudiate the moral law, whatever his maxims. . . . The law rather imposes itself on him irresistibly. . . . He is, however, also dependent on the incentives of his sensuous nature because of his equally innocent natural predisposition, and he incorporates them too into his maxim (according to the subjective principle of self-love)” (Religion, Part 1, 6:36; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 82–83). What morality requires of us is not that we eliminate self-love, which can have all sorts of morally permissible, or even requisite, consequences under the right conditions; it requires only that we subordinate our ineliminable tendency to self-love to the principle of morality, which determines what the right conditions for acting upon self-love are. The free choice not to do that, not the merely natural tendency toward self-love, is the source of evil. The second key point to take from the Religion, however, is that Kant does not argue for the radical nature of human evil as a counsel of despair. He does so, rather, the better to demonstrate that the possibility of conversion from evil to good is always within our grasp. Further, Kant characterizes human evil as radical, not to prove that it is omnipresent, but rather to prove that is eliminable. This is a point that may escape readers of the Religion when they puzzle over Kant’s apparent argument that human evil is “omnipresent.” He simply says, “We can 9. For a more detailed discussion, see Cameron (2008).

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spare ourselves the formal proof that there must be . . . a corrupt propensity rooted in the human being, in view of the multitude of woeful examples that the experience of human deeds parades before us,” and then goes on to allude briefly to “scenes of unprovoked cruelty in the ritual murders” among various aboriginal populations but also the “long litany of charges against mankind” even in its supposedly “civilized state,” such as “secret falsity even in the most intimate friendship,” “a propensity to harm him to whom we are indebted,” and not least “the state of constant war” among “civilized peoples” (Religion, Part 1, 6:33–34; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 80–81). As a proof of a universal and necessary proposition that human beings are always and everywhere evil rather than good, such an empirical wave of the hand may seem woefully inadequate. But clearly the point of Kant’s argument is not to demonstrate that human beings are generally evil rather than good, for that he takes to be obvious. His philosophical point is rather that the widespread evil of human beings is radical—for being the product of their own free choice—and therefore reversible. In Kant’s words, “This evil is radical, since it corrupts the ground of all maxims. . . . Yet it must equally be possible to overcome this evil, for it is found in the human being as acting freely” (Religion, Part 1, 6:37; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 83). “Müssen ist Können”: Toward a Concept of Right with Efficacy Kant illustrates this point in the Religion with nothing short of an explicit allusion to perpetual peace: “Philosophical chiliasm, which hopes for a state of perpetual peace based on a federation of nations united in a world-republic, is universally derided as a sheer fantasy as much as theological chiliasm,10 which awaits for the complete moral 10. It is useful to recall that “Chiliasm is the belief that Christ will return to establish a glorious kingdom of peace on this earth for one thousand years. The term comes from a Greek word that means one thousand, and arises out of the reference in Revelation 20 to a thousand-year period in which Satan is bound and the souls of martyrs reign with Christ. Chiliasm is distinct from the present day premillennialism in that chiliasm does not teach a secret rapture or emphasize dispensations. Some of the early church fathers held to a form of chiliasm.” But “it died out in the church after Augustine came to understand that the millennium is not a literal one-thousand-year period, but is the era from Christ’s ascension to His second coming.” Chiliasm was resurrected by the radicals of the Reformation. Willem Balke (Calvin and the Anabaptist Radicals) asserts that “in spite of their differences, all of these Anabaptist groups [in Strasbourg] shared a common, feverish longing for the advent of the kingdom of God.” In his comprehensive study, The Radical Reformation, George Williams concludes that the expectation of a golden age or

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improvement of the human race” (Religion, Part 1, 6:34; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 81). But his point is clearly that it is not a complete fantasy, for the very fact that evil is a product of our own free choice implies that goodness, thus perpetual peace, can also be a product of our free choice. The very point of perceiving so much widespread evil, including the state of constant war, as a product of free choice is precisely to remind us that we are also free to choose the alternative, thus the state of perpetual peace. And this, I would argue, is the point of Toward Perpetual Peace as well: Kant’s aim is not to provide a natural guarantee of the actuality, or even the probability, of perpetual peace, but rather a philosophical guarantee of the possibility of perpetual peace, by which it can be proven that such peace, no matter how remote it may seem, is something that is possible for us, and therefore that it is rational as well as morally requisite for us to work toward it. That this is Kant’s fundamental point in Toward Perpetual Peace should in fact be apparent from the statement with which he follows his initial description of nature as a “great artist” affording a “guarantee (surety)” of perpetual peace: what he says is that the representation of the relation and harmony of artifices of nature “with the end that reason prescribes immediately to us (the moral end) is an idea, which is indeed transcendent for theoretical purposes but for practical purposes (e.g., with respect to the concept of the duty of perpetual peace and putting that mechanism of nature to use for it) is dogmatic and well founded as to its reality” (TPP, 8:362; Gregor 1996, 332). This precision makes it clear that Kant is not seeking to make a theoretical prediction based on laws of nature, but rather, asserting something more akin to a postulate of pure practical reason: that the end of perpetual peace commanded by the moral law must be possible within nature, and achievable by means afforded by nature, if those ends are used with a moral will. If this point is not sufficiently clear from Kant’s opening remark, then it surely becomes apparent in Kant’s first appendix, “On the Disagreement between Morals and Politics with a View to Perpetual Peace.” This section begins with nothing less than a statement of Kant’s general kingdom was not only a significant common thread among the radicals, it also accounts for their rash and often violent behavior. He writes that “the churches of the Radical Reformation were sustained and emboldened by the conviction that they and their charismatic leaders were the instruments of the Lord of history in the latter days.” (From “The Reformation’s Repudiation of Chiliasm,” by Professor Russell J. Dykstra, Professor of Church History and New Testament in the Protestant Reformed Seminary. More at http://members.aol.com/twarren14/reformedchil.html.)—Ed.

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premise that a moral “ought” presupposes a “can”: “Morals is of itself practical in the objective sense, as the sum of laws commanding unconditionally, in accordance with which we ought to act, and it is patently absurd, having granted this concept of duty its authority, to want to say that one nevertheless cannot do it” (TPP, 8:370; Gregor 1996, 338). Kant reiterates the point a few pages later when he writes: “If there were no freedom and no moral law based upon it and everything that happens or can happen is instead the mere mechanism of nature, then politics (as the art of making use of this mechanism for governing human beings) would be the whole of practical wisdom, and the concept of right would be an empty thought. But if one finds it indispensably necessary to join the concept of right with politics, and even to raise it to the limiting condition of politics, it must be granted that the two can be united” (TPP, 8:372; Gregor 1996, 340). The central task of Kant’s critique of practical reason11 is to show that it is always possible for us to act as morality demands, no matter what the prior history of our conduct might seem to predict.12 Likewise, I suggest, the chief point of Toward Perpetual Peace is then to show not that there are natural mechanisms which make perpetual peace necessary, but rather that there are natural mechanisms which will make peace possible if they are used, and freely so, with the distinct intent of bringing it about. This point needs to be carefully stated, however. For at the most general level of his philosophy, if Kant could really prove that we always are free to choose good instead of evil—which would entail in the context of international relations that we also always are free to choose perpetual peace rather than constant war—one may well ask, why then should he need to argue that there are specific natural mechanisms or that they be used to tease progress toward perpetual peace? Why should he not rest content with the general assurance of the Critique of Practical Reason that whatever our present conception of the laws of nature inherent in human action might seem to predict we will do, we (at the transcendental level) always are free to do what is right, and can be assured that if we do choose what is right, then empirical nature will reflect our noumenal choice of what is right after all? Why, as Kant suggests, should not each who would work toward perpetual peace be 11. By this I mean to refer to his subject in both the third section of the Groundwork, which is entitled “The Transition from Metaphysics of Morals to the Critique of Pure Practical Reason,” and the eponymous work of three years later. 12. In the Critique of Practical Reason, see especially the “Critical Elucidation of the Analytic of Pure Practical Reason” (5:89–106).

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comforted with the thought that “nothing is, for him, antecedent to the determination of his will, but every action—and in general every determination of his existence changing conformably with inner sense, even the whole sequence of his existence as a sensible being—is to be regarded in the consciousness of his intelligible existence as nothing but the consequence and never as the determining ground of his causality as a noumenon” (Critique of Practical Reason, 5:97–98; Gregor 1996, 218)? Once this has been said, what need is there to discuss specific mechanisms in nature that might bring about perpetual peace? The answer to this question is, I believe, of a complexity that ultimately reflects Kant’s own view of human beings as creatures who are both rational and sensible. Even as purely rational creatures, we must be assured that what we ought to do we also can do; and since the goal of perpetual peace, though required by pure practical reason, is a goal that must be achieved within nature, we must be assured that there are means available within nature through which we could bring about this goal. But as both sensible and rational creatures, we may need more than an abstract argument to the effect that peace is indeed possible within nature and that nature does afford us means by which we can bring it about: our moral motivation to seek perpetual peace may also need the concrete encouragement of a view of history that can make the achievement of peace seem inevitable as long as we seek to cooperate with, rather than undermine, the natural forces that make it so. The Free Use of Natural Means Let me begin with the abstract point that even as purely rational creatures we must be assured that what we ought to do is also possible for us to do. That Kant takes this point to be self-evident is clear, particularly in the Religion, where just in Part 1 he writes, for example, that “however evil a human being has been right up to the moment of an impending free action (evil even habitually, as second nature), his duty to better himself was not just in the past: it is still his duty now; he must therefore be capable of it,” that “the command that we ought to become better human beings still resounds unabated in our souls; consequently, we must also be capable of it,” and that “duty commands nothing but what we can do” (Religion, Part 1, 6:41, 45, 47; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 87, 90, 92).13 I will not worry whether this premise could actually be demonstrated, but will instead consider what it implies for our 13. In Religion, Part 2; see also 6:62 and 66; Wood and di Giovanni 1996, 105, 108.

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present concerns. One might well think that all that is necessary to show that some state of affairs is possible is to demonstrate that it is not self-contradictory. That indeed would be a natural way to read Kant’s argument in the third “Antinomy of Pure Reason” in the first Critique, where he contends that freedom of the will would be inconsistent with the thoroughgoing determinism of the phenomenal world that has been demonstrated by the “Transcendental Analytic,” but that, nevertheless, the distinction between the phenomenal and the noumenal world also demonstrated in the earlier parts of the Critique allows for freedom to be conceived as a property of our noumenal rather than phenomenal selves (see especially The Critique of Pure Reason, A 538–558/B 566–586, in Guyer and Wood 1998). But I would suggest that we see Toward Perpetual Peace as aimed at demonstrating what Kant generally calls “real” rather than merely “logical” possibility, or what he characterizes earlier in the first Critique as the “objective reality of the concept” rather than merely the “necessary logical condition” of its possibility. To demonstrate the logical possibility of a concept requires demonstrating only “that in such a concept no contradiction [is] contained”; to demonstrate its real possibility or objective reality, however, requires going beyond that exercise—to demonstrating that the object of the concept can be also constructed within the form of our personal experience. In the first Critique, Kant illustrates this distinction with reference to the objects of geometry, arguing that in order to demonstrate their real possibility we must not only show that their concepts are free from contradiction but also that these objects can be constructed within the a priori “conditions of space and its determination” (Critique of Pure Reason, A 220–221/B 267–268, in Guyer and Wood 1998). I would submit that in the case of perpetual peace, demonstrating its real possibility—which is necessary, if only to make it rational for us to seek to fulfill our duty to achieve it—requires not only showing that its achievement is consistent with the forces working on human populations in nature, but also and especially that nature itself affords means that we can use, if we freely choose to do so, with the intent of bringing about this condition—the aim to construct it, as it were.14 Kant does not explicitly separate the two steps in principle necessary to prove the real possibility of perpetual peace, perhaps because he need not do so: demonstrating that nature affords means to achieve 14. This point does not conflict with my claim that the “guarantee” of Perpetual Peace is intended practically rather than theoretically: the practical necessity of achieving perpetual peace requires nothing less than its real possibility.

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perpetual peace if we freely choose to use these means would of itself presumably entail that the realization of such peace is not incompatible with the laws of nature. But Kant does suggest both steps of such a proof, when he writes: “It is just the general will given a priori (within a nation or in the relation of various nations to one another) that alone determines what is laid down as right among human beings; but this union of the will of all, if only it is acted upon consistently in practice, can also, in accordance with the mechanism of nature, be the cause bringing about the effect aimed at and providing the concept of right with efficacy” (TPP, 8:378; Gregor 1996, 345). This reasoning suggests that the achievement of “what is laid down as right among human beings”—in the final analysis, perpetual peace— is not only consistent with the mechanisms of nature (“in accordance” with them), but also remains to be achieved through the use of these mechanisms which, if used with the morally right intention, can provide “the concept of right with efficacy.” If this is the sort of proof of the possibility of perpetual peace that Kant aims to put before us as beings whose actions, though motivated by pure practical reason, must nevertheless be carried out in the natural world, the whole argument of Toward Perpetual Peace can be read in the following way: First of all, as Kant establishes early on, natural mechanisms, above all war, provide the conditions that make peace necessary by driving human beings to all corners of the earth, but still leaving them in a position to threaten the property and security of one another. Second, through the very same mechanism, namely war, nature can also point human beings toward the form of political regime that is necessary to eliminate war and to establish perpetual peace, namely, republican government. That merely natural forces can drive us to recognize that it is only through republican governments that we might achieve peace is expressed by Kant also by means of his famous statement that “the problem of establishing a state, no matter how hard it may sound, is soluble even for a nation of devils (if only they have understanding)” (TPP, 8:366; Gregor 1996, 335),15 for even people driven solely by self-love—which is what would make them a “nation 15. Sometimes Kant uses the term “understanding” as a generic term for intellect, thus as interchangeable with “reason.” Here he may be using it in contrast to “reason” to imply that a “race of devils” can think in terms of self-interest but not take the universal standpoint that Kant associates with reason in its practical form. He would thus be making the same contrast that John Rawls makes between the “rational” and the “reasonable,” where the former is the merely self-interested, instrumental use of reason. See “Kantian Constructivism in Moral Theory” in Rawls (1999, 316).

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of devils”—can see how a political system of checks and balances,16 which obtains only in a republic, could allow them to live with themselves and with neighboring populations in peace and certainty. But of course, if we give in to self-love, as we can freely choose to do (the choice that makes us radically evil), we will be tempted to undermine the conditions of peace and security that nature has suggested to us for the sake of what we think will be our private gain, and will pervert the tendency of nature’s mechanisms toward perpetual peace. The only thing that can prevent us from so doing is the free choice to use the mechanisms of nature only for the morally mandatory condition of perpetual peace rather than the choice to subvert them for what seems to be in our personal interest. In other words, the mechanisms of nature that can drive us toward peace will do so only if they are employed by “a moral politician, that is, one who takes the principles of political prudence in such a way that they can coexist with morals,” rather than by “a political moralist, who frames [his] morals to suit the statesman’s advantage” (TPP, 8:372; Gregor 1996, 340). Kant’s position is therefore not a “fantasy” that nature itself will produce perpetual peace, nor is it the hopeless claim that only a “state of angels” could achieve perpetual peace, “because human beings, with their self-seeking inclinations, would not be capable of such a sublime form of constitution” (TPP, 8:366; Gregor 1996, 335). He offers, in lieu of both of these implausible positions, the realistic recognition that nature does provide the means for perpetual peace, but just the means. That Kant says the mechanisms of nature that can produce perpetual peace will do so only if used by a moral politician rather than merely by a moralist or a wholly moral person reflects a further important element of realism in Kant’s political theory. This is his recognition that actual states do not arise in conditions of moral purity, in some convention where real people freely choose to form a republic, but rather, in conditions of violence and injustice, typically as the outcome of war or revolution. Politicians who have founded a state have never done so in a strictly rightful way: for “the only beginning of the rightful condition to be counted upon is that by power, on the coercion of which public right is afterward based” (Religion, 8:371; Gregor 1996, 339), suggests 16. Kant himself does not think in terms of the three-way system of checks and balances that evolved in the American republic between the ratification of the Constitution in 1789–1790 and Marbury v. Madison in 1803, and he at least sometimes seems to think of the judiciary as a subsidiary of the executive power. But he does think of the legislature as independent of the executive and empowered to check it if necessary.

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Kant, although he does not really advance any argument that this must be so. But a moral politician precisely is one who, however he might have come to power, “will take to heart the maxim that . . . an alteration is necessary, in order to keep constantly approaching the end (of the best constitution in accordance with laws of right)” (TPP, 8:372; Gregor 1996, 340). This statement implies that however politicians may come to power, it is only if they will freely choose to use the mechanisms afforded them by nature for achieving the end of perpetual peace that this goal can be achieved. Through the image of the moral politician, Kant makes his point that nature can at least but also at most provide us with the means to justice, which can actually yield justice only if we freely choose to use them toward that end, rather than to subvert them. The idea that nature affords us means to a moral end, but that we alone can provide the will to use these means to that end, of course, is not restricted to Kant’s mature political theory. It is also adequately evident in his mature theory of virtue, where he argues that natural feelings of “sympathetic joy and sadness” are by no means feelings of which we should rid ourselves (as might have been suggested by his notorious examples and even some statements in the Groundwork 4:398–399, 428; Gregor 1996, 53–54, 79); rather, he says, “Nature has . . . implanted in human beings receptivity to these feelings” in order to use them “as a means to promoting active and rational benevolence [as] a particular, though only a conditional, duty,” and we therefore have nothing less than “an indirect duty to cultivate the compassionate natural (i.e., aesthetic) feelings in us, and to make use of them as so many means to sympathy based on moral principles and the feeling appropriate to them” (MM, “Doctrine of Virtue,” section 34, 6:456; Gregor 1996, 574–575). The duty to cultivate and act upon sympathetic feelings is only conditional, of course, because there are circumstances in which to act upon such feelings would actually violate the demands of morality.17 But it is still a duty, because it is only by acting on such means when it is in fact right for us to act upon them that we can achieve the end of beneficence when we will to do so. Such feelings are the means that nature has afforded us to achieve this virtuous end if we will to do, just as nature 17. Thus we have a duty not to act upon our sympathetic feeling when the person we would help is himself attempting to violate the moral law. In Barbara Herman’s famous example, we have a duty not to act upon our natural inclination to help someone struggling with a heavy burden when that person is in fact an art thief struggling to carry his booty away from the museum from which he has stolen it. See Herman (1993, 4–5).

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has afforded us both war but also the possibility of political reform, to achieve the ultimate end of justice in the form of perpetual peace if we will to do so. The Will to Approach the Ultimate End of Justice as Perpetual Peace But if Kant’s real point in Toward Perpetual Peace is simply that nature has made peace a real possibility by affording us the means to achieve it if we have the moral will to use these means to that end, why does he start the essay not simply by stating that nature can guarantee the possibility of peace but chooses to use language that could be taken to mean that nature can guarantee peace itself, or even continuous progress toward it? The only answer I can offer to this question is the suggestion that in so doing, he means to appeal not solely to our purely rational nature (which requires demonstrability that what we ought to do we can do, if our motivation to attempt such is not to be undermined), but especially to our sensible nature (where our wavering motivation to do what is right, perhaps for being tempted by deluded conceptions of self-love, might need buttressing by a sense that what we ought to do is in fact that at which nature itself aims). As rational creatures, the thought that nature makes it possible for us to do what we know we ought to do should suffice; but as sensible creatures, the thought that nature will push us toward that which we ought to do, even if we are tempted not to do that on our own, could be of help.18 In all of his final works, from the Critique of the Power of Judgment of 1790 to the unfinished Opus postumum, Kant is intensely concerned with the relation between our rational principles and our sensible natures. But there are really two separate questions with which he is concerned. One question is in a general sense the problem of judgment: what do our general rational principles entail and require when applied to the particular conditions of our sensible existence? This is the issue that comes to the fore in the Metaphysics of Morals, where Kant investigates the duties of justice and virtue that result when we apply the general principles of morality to the particular circumstances of our lives as embodied creatures with physical needs, living on the finite surface of a sphere any region of which may be reached from any other. Here Kant shows that it is only when the general principles of practical 18. See Eichler, chap. 2 of this book.

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reason are applied to the particular circumstances of our embodied existence that particular duties (say, the duty to make property determinate and secure and the duty to avoid drunkenness and gluttony, or the duty to cultivate our talents) arise. But in a separate line of thought, Kant also looks for sensible supports for our rational motivation to do what we know to be right for creatures in our circumstances (see chapter 4 by Morrison and chapter 5 by Pyeritz in this book). Kant suggests that we can learn to love apart from our personal interests from the experience of the beautiful—even to love contrary to our sensible interests from the experience of the sublime (Critique of the Power of Judgment, General Remark following section 29, 5:267, in Guyer 2000). He holds that we take pleasure in the existence of natural beauty because it is palpable evidence that nature is hospitable to our moral objectives (Critique of the Power of Judgment, section 42, 5:300–301). He even argues that we can look on the whole of nature as if it were a system designed to promote our moral development (Critique of the Power of Judgment, section 84, 5:434–435). With these claims, I take him to be suggesting that although in principle we can act out of respect for duty alone and indeed earn moral esteem only for so doing, in fact our first obligation is not to earn moral esteem but to do what morality requires in any and every way that we can manage it, and that we should therefore support our pure but wavering commitment to do what morality requires of us by whatever means nature affords us. Looking at nature as if it were pushing us toward perpetual peace on its own might then well be one way to support whatever purely moral motivation we might have to achieve such peace. If this conclusion is accurate, Toward Perpetual Peace addresses its readers as both rational and sensible creatures, as both thinkers on the one hand and creatures of passion on the other, as willing yet willful human beings. It addresses us as philosophers when it argues that what justice requires is really possible, that nature itself affords us means we can use to bring about perpetual peace if only we have the will to do so. It addresses us as ordinary people when it tries to convince us that nature is actually pushing us toward the goal that in our better moments we know we must strive to achieve, but from which we can so easily waver, out of frailty and self-love. Of course, each of us is both philosopher and ordinary person; that is, each of us possesses pure reason and emotions. The encouraging rhetoric of a guarantee is aimed at our emotions; and the argument for a putative but palpable possibility for perpetual peace is aimed exclusively at our reason. As is also the case

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with the rest of what morality requires, the possibility of perpetual peace ultimately demands of us that we achieve harmony between our reason and our emotions: we cannot be governed by the former alone, but neither can we allow ourselves to be governed by the latter only. References Cameron, Kevin (2008) “Beyond Ideology, Toward a New Ethic of Freedom?” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Freedom: Reassessments and Rephrasings, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Cavallar, Georg (1999) Kant and the Theory and Practice of International Right, Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Doyle, Michael (1983) “Kant, Liberal Legacies, and Foreign Affairs,” Philosophy and Public Affairs 12:205–235, 323–353. Gregor, Mary J., Editor and Translator (1996) Immanuel Kant, Practical Philosophy, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Grun, Bernard (1991) The Timetables of History—A Horizontal Linkage of People and Events, new third revised edition, based on Werner Stein’s Kulturfahrplan, New York: Simon & Schuster/Touchstone. Guyer, Paul, Editor (2000) Critique of the Power of Judgment (The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant), Paul Guyer and Eric Matthews, Translators, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Guyer, Paul, and Allen W. Wood, Editors and Translators (1998) Critique of Pure Reason (The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant), Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Herman, Barbara (1993) The Practice of Moral Judgment, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Höffe, Otfried, Editor (1995) Zum ewigen Frieden, Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Rawls, John (1999) Collected Papers, Samuel Freeman, Editor, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wood, Allen W., and George di Giovanni, Editors and Translators (1996) Immanuel Kant, Religion and Rational Theology, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

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Ethics, Modernity, and Human-Animal Relations Adrian R. Morrison

The question of the human use of animals is one of today’s most contentious social issues. How we should care for them, what purposes are worthy of animal use, and whether they should be used at all by humans are topics that regularly appear in the media and in common conversation. The first two of these queries are old ones, but the last is a product of modern life. At the same time, it is at the heart of our discussion: Is it ethical to interfere in the lives of other species? Inevitably, the answer has to be yes. This chapter will explore why. I should note at the outset that I am not a dispassionate commentator. For more than twenty years, I have been countering what I know are false charges against biomedical research, earning a damaging nighttime visit from the Animal Liberation Front to my laboratory in 1990 as a result. That visit heralded more than a year of harassment directed at me—as well as at my family and my close colleagues. As a scholar, though, I strive to look beyond such personal problems in order to examine the scientific and ethical issues surrounding the human use of animals. I also bring with me a particular viewpoint stemming from my upbringing and my rural background. This background, in addition to my veterinary training, provides me with extensive knowledge of animals and their uses. Both my intimate personal background and my formal professional knowledge color my thoughts on how animals may be appropriately used, and this view may differ from those of many readers. Those who disagree with some of my views, however, should be certain that they have all facts available to them before they pass final judgment.

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Some Fundamental Issues Throughout history, humanity has associated with animals in ways that have benefited human beings. Animals have been hunted for food and clothing, accepted at our hearths for companionship, and brought into our fields to produce food in various ways. Only until the latter twothirds of the nineteenth century could humans even think about living without animals in their daily lives: all of us clearly depended upon them for transportation and for working our fields. As the twentieth century progressed, industrial advances and technological capabilities rendered these once-obvious needs superfluous. And now, according to some, we have no need, indeed no right, to interfere in animals’ lives. This is the creed of the animal rights movement, which feeds on the rationale of a small group of philosophers. That we humans can live without using or interacting with animals in various ways is simply not possible, but to a number in our society— a wealthy, developed society that can afford such notions—the idea rings true. The reason is simple: we, citizens, are no longer a rural, agrarian people. Less than one in fifty of us entertain an association with agriculture today, compared with one in four in 1930, and one in two in 1880; for the most part, many know animals only as family members (Strand and Strand 1993). And in answering the concerns of the public about the use of animals in biomedical research, we must deal with the fact that, in the West today, those younger than age fifty comprise the healthiest population in history. Those born after 1950 simply cannot relate to the following quotation, in the words of Oxford physician and pharmacologist Sir William Paton, speaking of the time of his training in the 1930s: One no longer sees infants with ears streaming pus, school boys with facial impetigo, beards growing from heavily infected skin, faces pocked by smallpox or eroded by lupus, or heads and necks scarred from boils or suppurating glands. Drugs and a better diet have transformed haggard patients with peptic ulcers. The languid, characteristically brown-skinned case of Addison’s disease of the adrenals; the pale, listless patients of chronic iron deficiency or pernicious anemia; and the cretin, or conversely, the young woman with ‘pop eyes’ and overactive emotional behavior—due respectively to thyroid deficiency or excess—are all being treated. The soggy hulk of a patient in the edematous stage of chronic kidney disease is relieved by diuretics. As a result of polio vaccine and the public control of tuberculosis, we see few crippled children: as one walks behind a group of youngsters today, varied as ever in shape and size, the marvel is how straight their limbs and backs are. The chronic arthritics

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with their sticks are being replaced with septuagenarians swinging along on their plastic hips. And rare are these days, the patients that once were seen dying from an infected mastoid, struggling for breath in the last stages of heart failure, or dying from appendicitis, leukaemia, pneumonia, or bacterial endocarditis. (Paton 1993, 93)

We can thank the animals used in biomedical research for the scientific advances that abolished these horrific conditions—not only animals, of course, because a variety of methods have always been needed and used. The suggestion that we are not justified in using animals to alleviate our ills—a pursuit promoted by a few philosophers, Singer’s (1975, 1994) and Tom Regan’s (1983) being the most prominent among these claims—is nonsensical when viewed from the perspective of a biologist like me. Conservation writer Richard Conniff, writing on issues of wildlife management, offered this bold assessment: Those espousing the view that humans have no right to interfere with animal life have “elevated ignorance of the natural world almost to the level of a philosophical principle” (Conniff 1990, 32). In other words, there are times when philosophy just must confront biologic reality: all organisms struggle to stay alive, and we humans will do so. To be sure, one can joust intellectually with philosophers, but one must be careful to keep in mind biologic reality, and to challenge all to do the same. I will offer some answers to philosophical objections to the human use of animals, but first I wish to say something about our relations with them in the real world. Humankind always has been intimately involved with animals, very often in a nonbenign way. We have eaten them, and they have eaten us. The latter is a rarity now, but the smallest of them (worms and protozoa, and their primitive ‘cousins’—viruses and bacteria, often carried to us by the larger animals around us) continue to sicken and kill us. Think of rabid raccoons. Animals, depending on the particular species, have, in turn, benefited from their association with us, beginning with the warmth of the hearth and extending to the relief from disease provided by modern veterinary medicine. Although we generally dominate the animals that are of evident private and public ethical concern—I speak of those we regard as sentient and capable of suffering in some manner—we are not all-powerful after all: seemingly uncontrollable suburban deer come readily to mind. And our ethical concern must ultimately extend to all animals, for we hold in our hands the fate of countless species as we advance our material interests.

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Thus ethical proposals dealing with human use of animals in research, or in a number of other ways for that matter, have to consider biology (a science), just as science itself must reflect on ethics. A professor of oncology from Wisconsin, Van Rensselaer Potter, proposed this idea—and was belittled for it initially—calling his melding of the two fields, biology and ethics, more simply bioethics. Although this denotation later was confined to merely a medical connotation by the dominating Kennedy Center for Bioethics, Potter’s term had encompassed a broader view: it had been proposed “in order to emphasize the two most important ingredients in achieving the new wisdom that is so desperately needed: biological knowledge and human values. . . . Man’s survival may depend on ethics based on biological knowledge, hence [on] bioethics” (Potter 1970, 128, 152). My primary focus has been the ethical issues regarding the use of animals for biomedical research in a scientific context, and I will consider them at some length in the last part of this chapter. But modern life and modern sensibilities have forced consideration of other uses, once taken for granted. Thus I will look at the ethical problems they may present for some among us. I begin with a brief historical review and look at animal use in a sociological and cultural context. I briefly consider the challenges by philosophers to any use of animals whatsoever and next examine distortions of value and impacts on medical progress by some medical professionals. Then I discuss a variety of issues forced on us by modern life, moving toward concluding with a retrospective of my own scientific use of animals in biomedical research and the personal ethical dilemmas I have faced in the pursuit of my professional responsibilities as a biomedical scientist. Historical and Sociological Considerations From the beginning, humankind has created roles for animals that suit its worldly purposes: as food and clothing, hunting companions, instruments of war, sources of benign and malignant amusement, or appeasements to the gods and God, and—way back from the time of Aristotle—also as a means for understanding the biological world, my major field of interest. Acceptance of the appropriateness of each of these uses has varied over time and across cultures and religions. In every case, though, the view was that “animals are perpetual ‘others,’ doomed to have their interests represented to humans by other humans” (Jones 2003, 4).

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We cannot be too arrogant or patronizing, however, because animals have not been passive instruments in their contacts with us. Evolutionary pressures have insinuated them into our lives. Domestication, for example, has proved to be a two-way street. We began by hunting animals, yet later, certain animal species developed characteristics that allowed them to be domesticated and used for various purposes. During the last Ice Age, humans and animals had limited and altering resources as the ice cap receded. Those animals most adaptable to these all too rapidly changing harsh conditions survived. In adapting to varying conditions, some animals matured physically before developing behaviors that made them fearful of and aggressive to strangers, and aggressive but willing to accept care from familiar humans—also a benefit for humans, to be sure. Ultimately, domestication ensured survival and good health among the descendents of these animals. The process by which physical and sexual maturation outpaces loss of some infantile behavioral and physical characteristics is termed neoteny. Just as evolutionary pressure “used” neoteny to create niches among humans for various species, so do humans now employ this technique in selective breeding. For example, careful selection for juvenile behavioral features could create animals adapted to perform a herding task with animals born to be their natural prey. Fluffy sheep dogs, artificially arrested in their development, thus retain certain puppylike physical features and behavioral tendencies, hence making them playful around sheep yet appropriately aggressive when predators succeed in penetrating the flock (Budiansky 1992). However, we do not use animals as other animals use each other: We think about it, and sometimes even worry about it. We alone, of all species, have ethical concerns. A number of our uses of animals involve harming and often sacrificing the animal for human well-being. This practice is most obvious in the case of biomedical research. Indeed, when animals must be killed for purposes of an experiment, we scientists refer to such acts as “sacrificing” the animals when speaking to each other and even in our written papers. Animals are sacrificed in some religious ceremonies and, I would argue, in the quasi-ritual activity of hunting, something foreign to many urban souls who eat what they themselves do not have to catch, shoot, or steam live, to that end. Even pets are an issue these days. The keeping of pets is an ancient and widely accepted practice for all but the extremists within the

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animal rights movement, who regard even this benign practice as “exploitation.” Because we are so powerful, we can decide which species will be pets and which of their fellows within a species might be put to other uses, even eaten. Pigs, for example, can make wonderful pets and no less wonderful food for the same pet owner: a case of different pigs with different designations. Dogs, important to many cultures as pets, are eaten in others. They also are used as fur. These variations depend on the first ethical choice made by humankind: the use of animals by humans is appropriate and natural in the grand scheme of things. Philosophical Challenges to Human Use of Animals Two major categories of theory in moral philosophy, namely, the utilitarian and the deontological, are represented by two philosophers who have provided the philosophical underpinnings of the modern animal rights/liberation movement: Peter Singer (1975) and Tom Regan (1983). Other individuals could be mentioned in this discussion, but these two men are dominant. While Singer professes utilitarianism, Regan holds to rights theory. Regan is an absolutist. Singer, who dismisses rights as a human political construct, allows for some benign control of animals. He places such constraint upon their use in laboratory experiments, however, that his position becomes absolutist as well. Neither scholar places his body of thought in the natural world, as Conniff succinctly has stated. Both can and should be judged from the vantage point of the ‘real’ world because both have forced their ideas into the political arena (Regan and Singer 1985, 56). That ‘real’ world requires that philosophical demands of this sort actually be practicable. As Cicero is said to have remarked, “One can defend any idea rationally, but that does not make the idea valid or true.” Abandonment of animals for varied uses can put unreasonable and, sometimes, even unthinkable demands on humanity. Biomedical research offers a case in point. Stell (1995) has challenged those who demand that research not be performed with animals. He argues they should feel honor bound to refrain from benefiting from the fruits of current medical research. That they should do otherwise is unethical in his mind, and in mine. Many devotees of the animal rights/liberation ideology eschew the eating of meat because killing animals for food is cruel in their eyes. But then their claim that biomedical research

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is cruel and useless, even as they continue to benefit from that research, puts them in an ethical bind. A number of scholars have countered both Singer and Regan (Fox 1986; Leahy 1994; Petrinovich 1999; Scruton 2000; Cohen and Regan 2001; Parker 2003), and I too have discussed their ideas at length (Morrison 2001b); hence I need to comment only briefly here. It troubles me that Singer has so utterly misrepresented the contributions of animal-based biomedical research in his demeaning chapter in Animal Liberation (Russell and Nicoll 1996; Petrinovich 1999). From a utilitarian perspective, this was a clever ploy, helping to tilt the balance when weighing relative benefits for different parties. Singer seems disturbingly ready to dispense with ‘inconvenient’ forms of human life. For him, a baby becomes a person protected under the law only after reaching around a month of age. He reasons that parents with a deformed or mentally defective infant, one with hemophilia or Down syndrome, to use his examples, would be justified in rejecting this “nonperson” and then seeking to have a normal infant (Singer 1994, 212–214). Human culture can barely accept the deliberate termination of human life in the womb; many believe abortion to be unethical; and deliberate infanticide, criminal. I would rather argue that an ethical society should reject such facile solutions, even though I do recognize that severely impaired newborns, as well as patients in a terminal state, are allowed to die when all hope is vanished. The ethical society, though, resists callously ‘convenient’ solutions. Human beings have evolved as social beings that owe their greatest allegiance to fellow humans. That is why most are repulsed by the idea of rejecting central human needs in response to the extreme demands of the animal rights/liberation movement. Concern for animal welfare and for antivivisectionist sentiments is not new, of course. England led the way in the nineteenth century, promulgating and implementing laws to protect animals from gratuitous cruelty and to regulate vivisection on animals. Ultimately, the fervor against research with animals waned as the benefits to humanity became more evident. Renewed concern arose in the United States in the latter part of the twentieth century: it began, in particular, with an exposé in a prominent magazine by a supplier of dogs for research. The story galvanized society into action, leading to the passage of the Animal Welfare Act in 1966 (Parker 2003). But Singer’s publication, in 1975, of Animal Liberation stimulated activism and raised a wave of extreme thought that seeks removal of all animals from human control.

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Modern Issues Following the destruction of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York by Islamist terrorists on September 11, 2001, search dogs performed heroically, finding living victims and human remains. Many of these animals suffered medical problems as a result. The conjunction of that terrible event and the efforts shown by the tireless dogs forced a startling question into my mind: Is it ethical to continue to use a species that has done so much in the service of mankind in ways that inevitably harm them—say, as in biomedical research? Think of unmatchable guide dogs and helper dogs for the disabled, comforters of the lonely, childhood playmates, and faithful guardians. Should we cease using some of their fellows in research? Should we exempt this special species? This is a dangerous idea—one that is potentially devastating for some biomedical research and that admittedly would never have entered my mind as an eager young scientist. Unfortunately, we simply cannot abandon the use of dogs in research, for they have a number of diseases that are useful replicas of human disorders. Studying these dogs will bring great relief to suffering humans. I could not deny these ailing people that reward, professionally—and, especially, ethically. Cats are common pets and now outnumber dogs in the ordinary household category, judging from the caseload at our veterinary hospital. As someone with two of them at home, I am well aware that cats offer the closest thing there is to living with a wild animal. Not being pack animals like dogs, they do not readily adhere to their owners’ wishes. Community ordinances today have drastically reduced the number of dogs running loose. Not so in the case of cats that—solitary, and with wandering habits and negligent owners—eventually may become feral animals, that is, domesticated animals that have reverted to wild habits. These animals are intruders into the environment (as well-fed pampered cats also can be), exacting a heavy toll as predators on other creatures. Well-meaning people argue that the colonies formed by these cats should be allowed to exist but that their members should be captured and neutered as a way to control the problem they raise for local wildlife. Is this the ethical thing to do? Would it not be even more responsible to euthanize them for the sake of those animals that quite naturally ‘belong’ to that environment? To what uses that inevitably harm animals may we subject them, then, as reflective, ethical beings ourselves? The answer is not easy

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because different animals mean different things to various groups of people, even inside our own Western culture. A conversation with a colleague in the department of psychology at the University of Maine vividly brought this fact home to me. He had just attended a forum on animal uses, which also included members of the conservation department. Their representative spoke approvingly of hunting and trapping while at the same time looking askance at what was happening to animals in the labs of the psychology department. Imagine the same forum at an urban university. Who would be put on the defensive in that setting? Clearly, both personal and cultural preferences and—more important perhaps—ignorance of what a particular use actually involves constitute major factors in deciding what will be condemned. For example, the thought of any use that requires deliberate harm to animals for sheer amusement is abhorrent in our culture. Bear baiting and dogfighting are outlawed and good riddance. Another culture, however, sees nothing wrong with, say, bullfighting, an activity requiring that the neck muscles of the bull be disabled by gouging before the matador looks it in the eye. This prevents dangerous thrusts of the bull’s head, thereby in fact reducing the danger the matador faces. I disapprove, although I know from personal experience that the bullfights are Sunday family outings in Mexico. In contrast, a risky, clean kill, with the bull having all its powers when confronting the matador, would be acceptable to me, especially as the bull is ultimately used for food. Others in our society might disagree, either because the bull would be slaughtered in public or simply because it ended up being slaughtered. I speak, of course, with the sensibilities of one from an ‘other’ culture and worldview. The sensibilities of an activist segment of one exogenous culture can unethically, and seriously, interfere with another culture’s endogenous practices. For example, Inuit people of the north used baby seals as a cash crop until several years ago when the outside world intervened to stop this practice, thereby gravely affecting the economy of these people. The method of killing, a quick blow to the head that causes no suffering, made for great press coverage because of its seeming brutality and the subsequent sympathetic outpouring from ‘civilized’ society. That the activists used films of staged hunts to enhance the semblance of unacceptable brutality makes the activists’ managed campaign only more reprehensible (Herscovici 1985). Using animals for food presents ethical problems beyond the basic question, Should we eat them? For me, the question is one of what and

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how much is healthy to eat, not whether or not it might be wrong—for the omnivores that we humans are—to do what comes to us naturally. Other principled individuals disagree, of course, and are or become vegetarians. A dilemma that involves us all, however, is the one presented by the methods of modern agriculture, known as intensive farming or, pejoratively and sensationally, as factory farming. Since fewer and fewer farmers have begun to feed more and more of the population, production efficiency has had to enter into consideration. People have to make a living, and the world must be fed. Thus in the mid-twentieth century animals were moved from barnyards into confinement housing where, though deprived of a bucolic atmosphere, they did find protection from disease and from predators (Jones 2003). The issues are complex, much more so than the animal-rights literature bothers to portray. The ‘freedom’ we have gained from having a small proportion of the nation engaged in the production of food has allowed U.S. society to pursue to a greater extent other beneficial concerns, such as biomedical research and education. The United States spends less than 10 percent of its national income on food, allowing the other 90 percent to be used for other acquisitions (David T. Galligan, School of Veterinary Medicine, University of Pennsylvania, personal communication). Less efficient use of animals would make it more difficult for the poorer segment of the population to obtain proper nutrition. In this sense, the ethical question presented is to what extent we strive for ‘happy’ animals versus better fed people? Intensive agriculture, by being so efficient, has reduced the acres that must be plowed under. Improved productivity allows more land to remain undisturbed, thus preserving biodiversity. In this way, less visible animals, such as field mice, can prosper. These animals are ignored in arguments about animal rights. But, here, too, the issues are not simple. There is, as well, another ethical issue: the question of the biological health versus the economic health of an animal. Indeed, a veterinarian has always had to judge whether it would be more or less economical to restore an animal to health or to cull it from a herd, that is, send it to slaughter. Now, the need for optimum efficiency may require that a healthy dairy cow be culled simply because she is an inefficient producer and is, therefore, not ‘economically healthy’. Killing such an animal is hard to accept for anyone (say, most of the population) who is not involved in agriculture. For example, some of our veterinary

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students lacking a farm background feel noble solving the biological problems, yet immoral solving those dilemmas presented by economics. A fundamental question remains, however: How much of their ‘natural lives’ can we deny these animals in the name of economic efficiency, recognizing that those natural lives often include lingering death from injury, disease, or even malnutrition. Ethical behavior demands that we seek answers. I believe very firmly that producers must strive to balance their economic interests with the welfare of their animals—and they are, in fact, engaged in that very effort. However, they can only do so through scientific inquiry, and not by relying on uninformed sentiments. There are, as well, activities in our society that receive condemnation from many, if not necessarily from myself: hunting, trapping, fur farming, and rodeos to name some that have been targets of animal rights activism. One reason that I oppose such attacks, most certainly, is that I come from a rural background, while most of the negative opinion resides in the cities and in the suburbs. Hunting is the example I will use because it also touches on the question of our ethical responsibility to the environment as a whole. Hunting is anathema to many. Yet, in my opinion, a fair amount of the objection arises out of ignorance and prejudice. I am thinking here of the disgust voiced by various meat eaters, who buy their meat wrapped in plastic foil from spotless supermarkets. What hypocrisy! In modern society, hunters often are depicted, by those opposed to this activity, as beer-guzzling yahoos doing something without merit and devoid of any moral foundation. In large measure, the truth is quite different. Although never a hunter myself, owing largely to my city-girl mother’s fear of guns, I have eaten much game provided by uncles and friends, good men all. I used to keep my waterfowl-hunting friend Dave company during cold days in the Delaware marshes, without a gun, but participating as much as I could by trying to call in the geese, in return for the pleasures of his goose dinners. To put a shotgun in my inaccurate hands would have been unethical: it would not have been fair to the birds and would have endangered Dave and me. I confess, though, that as I sat in the blind with Dave, and even when walking in the woods alone, I did have a sense of incompleteness. I do not participate fully in an ancient and honorable tradition—honorable, I would argue, even in today’s modern society, if correctly performed.

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Jan Dizard, a sociologist, can help me here. He can defend my stance scientifically. He has compared characteristics and views of hunters and nonhunters, using data from the biennial General Social Survey by the National Opinion Research Center, primarily from facts gathered in 1998 (Dizard 2003). The two groups are amazingly similar. They have comparable income levels although more nonhunters (28 percent) have achieved a bachelor’s or higher degree than have hunters (17 percent). In terms of political views, 22 percent of hunters considered themselves conservative or extreme conservative, while 18 percent of the nonhunters ticked that category: a statistically insignificant difference. However, hunters were much more likely to favor the death penalty and disapprove of gun control, no surprise with the latter. Both hunters and nonhunters seemed comparable in their views on gender equality. Also, hunters remarked that “human nature is basically good” (40 percent) slightly more often than did nonhunters (36 percent). There are differences here and there, some of which are due to gender effect: hunters are predominantly male. The image of hunters the survey portrays, though, is not of a group living on the fringe of civilized society. Dizard notes that the practice of hunting always has been surrounded by traditions and self-imposed rules and has involved only a minority of the population. Rules have continued to hold. Killing an animal is only part of the venture. From his analysis and those by others, it becomes clear that hunters have a strong desire to be one with nature, to participate in an ancient human ritual. He recognizes that there are some ‘bad apples’ among the hunting fraternity, as in any other interest group. Yet, argues he, “Self-restraint is deeply embedded in the culture of sport hunting. It is practiced and reinforced, not as an abstract code practiced for public consumption but . . . a deeply held conviction: selfrestraint is what crucially separates hunters from killers” (Dizard 2003, 169). Beyond hunting as a personal ritual activity, there is hunting to redress imbalances in nature due to the complexities of modern life. The most obvious example is hunting, or more accurately, killing by hired sharpshooters, of white-tailed deer. Deer cause gross environmental destruction when the carrying capacity of a particular area is exceeded. Worse than destroying our shrubbery, they can destroy habitat for many other creatures and create concern about the safety of plant species themselves. Deer die on Pennsylvania’s highways at a rate of about 50,000 every year, and this carnage commonly leads to

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human injury and death as well. Yet they are beautiful creatures with soulful eyes and graceful movements. Walt Disney’s film Bambi greatly reinforced their image as cute creatures. Consequently, they have passionate defenders who try to impede culling of deer in parks. These true defenders of deer believe this activity to be unethical, although their objections are never voiced in ethical terms. They are a bit more strident. It is a simplistic view, for they would sacrifice other species that depend on a healthy forest for one kind. I think we cannot, ethically, simply walk away from the situation created by the deer. Neither can those who object to deer culling ignore the possibility that their homes may have encroached on the deer’s habitat, contributing to crowding and ultimately therefore to the very disruption of the ecological balance. In another magnificent book, Dizard (1994) analyzed the ethical complexities of this issue in a case involving the protection of forest surrounding a reservoir that supplies the city of Boston. In danger was the quality of water, should the forest surrounding the reservoir be degraded by overpopulation of browsing deer. The deer were engaging in what comes to them naturally: reproducing rapidly. The outcome had been exacerbated by the absence of natural predators, driven away much earlier by humans. In essence, there arose two competing views of nature: whether to let it alone, free of human interference, or to manage it for the benefit of humans. The latter view does not, of course, imply rape of the landscape. It requires a sense of responsibility, an interweaving of science and ethics: both wise management and restrained consumption, a true bioethics in Potter’s sense. A Career in Retrospect I close by considering my career in biomedical research, which has constantly presented ethical problems to me. First, I must answer the question of whether using animals to understand human disease or disability is valid and productive. Only then can I begin discussing ethical issues. If other methods would suffice and/or the use of animals would not help medical advances, as a few medical professionals have falsely claimed (Morrison 2002), then the answer would be a very clear no! The answer, however, is a resounding yes—a response that has been amply corroborated (Bliss 1982; Carroll and Overmier 2001; Paton 1993). Unfortunate as it is, those opposed to this reality are very active; and some are physicians, who grossly distort medical history while

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arguing that using animals in research impedes medical research—sad examples of unethical behavior (Barnard and Kaufman 1997; Greek and Greek 2000). Their rewriting of medical history is easily revealed (Morrison 2002). Of course, any humane person would like to eliminate use of animals in research, were it possible to do so. However, animals will contribute to medical progress for as far as we humans can see into the future, but always in association with various other means, including careful clinical observations at the bedside, epidemiological studies, computer simulations, tissue cultures, and many other laboratory methods. In the final analysis, we have benefited through evolution (and “God’s grace” for some) in developing a magnificent brain that puts us ‘above’ all other animals. Hence, only we humans can be held accountable in a court of law for our actions; only we are capable of making laws and obeying them. We alone can think of the welfare of other animals. And so, too, can we very easily do something to promote their welfare when they are under our direct control. This is when our duty to other species is seen in its starkest reality. Yet our duty to our fellow humans outweighs such demands and hence justifies the use of animals in biomedical research. As Petrinovich (1999, 3–4) states the case: “This position does not imply that any human whim should take precedence over essential needs and deep welfare interests of nonhuman animals. It only means that human interests should be read as high cards in any game where costs and benefits are taken into consideration.” Given our omnipotent powers, we have an obligation to use animals fairly and compassionately, most especially so in biomedical research. No words capture this idea better than a passage I read long ago in a children’s book, My Friend Flicka, and that I have not forgotten during my long career working with animals. In that passage, rancher Rob McLaughlin is speaking with one of his sons about a wild mare that had broken loose from their corral with the noose of a lariat around her neck. “ ‘What if it did choke her?’ asked Howard. ‘You always say she’s no use to you.’ ‘There’s a responsibility we have toward animals,’ said his father. ‘We use them. We shut them up, keep their natural food and water from them; that means we have to feed and water them. Take their freedom away, rope them, harness them, that means we have to supply a different sort of safety for them. Once I’ve put a rope on a horse, or taken away its ability to take care of itself, then I’ve got to take care of it. Do you see that? That noose around her neck is a danger to her, and I put it there, so I have to get it off’ ” (O’Hara 1941, 50–51).

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I have controlled animals in the laboratory for more than forty years. During that period, I have damaged parts of their brains, implanted various recording devices, or infused drugs, ultimately killing these animals in order to study their brains in various ways. How could I, a veterinarian, do this when my very concern upon admission to veterinary school was the fear that, sooner or later, I would be called upon to euthanize the very animals that as a child I had loved? As I approach the end of my active career in the laboratory, I ponder this question ever more profoundly. I think the ultimate reason is this: I had an intense interest in scientific discovery. Although it would sound nicer, a desire to cure human medical problems is not the driving force behind much research. Such a pristine ideal would not keep one going through long, often boring, hours in the laboratory and in the face of discouraging failures after tedious weeks of hard work. H. L. Mencken, an American social critic, understood this fact and proceeded to describe a committed scientist’s motive in a very amusing way. He saw the scientist as one driven by curiosity: “a boundless, almost pathological thirst to penetrate the unknown” and “not some brummagem idea of Service.” His metaphor was “not the liberator releasing slaves, the Good Samaritan lifting up the fallen, but a dog sniffing tremendously at an infinite series of rat-holes” (Mencken 1982, 12). Mencken certainly describes quite accurately who I was during the first half of my lengthy career as a neuroscientist. Although I still possess that curiosity, my encounters with the animal rights movement and the viciousness of the actions against scientists by some adherents to the cause led me to reexamine what we scientists were doing. Looking into medical history made me recognize how many good things scientists had accomplished. Then, as a spokesman for medical research, I also encountered groups of patients, desperate for relief of their ills and, as such, very supportive of biomedical research. Now, I am quite focused on this charge: working against the medical ills of humanity. Curiosity is truly in our nature, though. And we cannot be condemned for striving to unravel nature’s secrets. I believe that it would be wrong, tantamount to an affront to the evolutionary process, to waste our tediously developed, large human brains. But because our brains allow us to be reflective, our curiosity must be accompanied with concern for the consequences. In the case of animal-based research, the primary consequence is harm inflicted on an animal. Any caring scientist is ambivalent about what he does. In my case, although I had a great desire to understand the workings of the nervous

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system, every now and then doubts would arise in my mind. Such worry recurred every month or so for many years, and now with ever greater frequency as the end of my scientific career nears. When using cats in my research, the question that came to mind was “Do I really want to continue doing this [implanting electrodes in the brain, for example] to cats?” For we had cats as pets in our home as well. Yet the answer to the question was always yes because joining my unabashed curiosity was the idea (or hope?) that what I was doing would provide a useful extra bit of information that might go toward helping children, although I have yet to see that result. I am fortunate, however, to have seen some of my basic research, indeed, lead to the understanding of a sleep disorder, only recognized in 1986, which occurs primarily in older men (Schenck 1993). Despite this comforting result, I am living with the uncertainty of research: A particular experiment may rapidly prove very useful in an unforeseen way, just as—and more often—a very long and costly experiment may lead nowhere at all. When my curiosity begins to wane, assuming it ever could, then I should sense I must stop. If not, I would probably be using animals for not the best of reasons: whether to occupy my time, keep up my reputation as a scientist, or bring in grant money—a feat that my institution would applaud. This would be unethical. Who, then, is able to decide that it would be unethical to carry out a particular experiment? Or, to put it another way, what evidence should a scientist present to convince the skeptic that his experiment should be performed? The law requires that such evidence be presented to an institutional committee before a scientist can perform any experiment. This evidence must include demonstration that a method not requiring the use of animals is not available. Of course, this procedure assumes that the scientist has the money needed to conduct the experiment because, beforehand, he must have persuaded a group of very skeptical scientists from other institutions, sitting on a review board, that the project is worthy of grant funds (Morrison 1993). Trivial proposals elicit no interest. Yet the burden rests primarily on the scientist, who must have personal integrity above all. The scientist is the one who will be alone with the animal in the laboratory. Thus only ethical behavior on his or her part can make sure that outside controls will really work to an animal’s advantage. It is the individual scientist who must decide what experiment to perform and on what species. Choices may vary among scientists according to their individual sensibilities as

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well as their knowledge (see Guyer, chap. 3 in this book), and the ‘rightness’ of a choice may be also determined by the current level of technology. To judge all too quickly another scientist’s choice would bespeak arrogance (Morrison 2001a). Competence is the second quality a scientist must exhibit. Competence includes technical skills that will minimize pain in an animal, but also thorough knowledge of the field of study, so that unnecessary experiments will not be performed. Since replication of data produced by other scientists in order to generalize the data is the essence of scientific progress, an experiment need not necessarily lead to new knowledge in order for it to constitute an ethical experiment. Ending an animal’s life is not a problem for me anymore if the reason is appropriate and waste is not involved. Of course, no mentally healthy individual can actually enjoy killing an animal. I have always sensed great regret when having to sacrifice one of my ‘partners’ in the experiment. We have no evidence that animals contemplate their future beyond short-term basic needs, however: say, looking for the next meal, the next mate, and a way to escape evident harm. Animals can be clever in various instances, and they can plan to a certain extent, as when a wolf pack stations itself to force prey into the jaws of a pack mate. But reflecting on the future of their band or plotting their own destiny is beyond them as far as careful research to date has been able to discern (Hauser 2000). The ethical dilemma arises, rather, when we inflict carefully controlled pain as we do in biomedical research. Although 90 percent of the experiments conducted do not involve pain that is beyond the level caused by a needle during an injection or that cannot be alleviated by anesthesia and analgesics when warranted, the neural systems that involve the sensation of pain need to be studied as well. No other way is available for developing painkilling drugs. Such studies are designed, however, to permit the animal to escape pain beyond a level that is tolerable. Chronic pain studies, so important to people suffering from such, present an even clearer and more intense ethical dilemma, with no easy answer. The requirements are clear, however: to be certain the experiment is necessary, to use the minimal level of pain, to minimize the number of animals to the lowest number consistent with scientific validity, and to perform experiments with great skill—above all, to remember that only the greater importance of human life can justify these critical experiments.

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Conclusion The interaction between animals and humans is complex and at times terrible—in both directions. On the one side, one thinks of the slaughter of the bison on the Great Plains in the nineteenth century or, simply, the mistreatment of a little puppy. On the other side, there are rampages of hungry elephants destroying the fields of poor African peasants and the horrible consequences of a dangerous bite inflicted by a rabid dog. Nevertheless, with our great brains we are the ones charged with caring for all. Animal welfare should be a priority of ours. Nevertheless, human welfare is a legitimate and very often paramount concern. Certainly it is in the case of biomedical research. Society must carefully consider the risks to future health should research with animals be overly impeded by activists’ actions, or even by their demands, and sometimes by the craven responses of bureaucracies to these. We are enjoined by our intrinsic allegiance to humanity to use animals in research while dealing with the natural empathy almost all of us feel for them. In considering interactions with animals in nature, we humans must determine whether or when our actions are ‘good’, ‘bad’, or ‘neutral’. Why, for example, is it intuitively ethical not to intervene in the death of a gazelle caught by a cheetah on the Serengeti Plain yet unethical not to help ducks dying because of an oil spill caused by us? How many of those who rail against the culling of a deer herd that is overrunning a park live in the suburban houses that have forced those deer out of their habitat and into that park? Nowhere is the complexity of human-animal relationships more evident than in the definition of a species as a pet. Why do some societies keep dogs as pets while others eat them? Which society is right? How far can we go in breeding domestic animals to suit our special needs, let alone our whims? Moving to the use of animals for food, we must ask ourselves how far we can push animals to provide us with an economic source of food. When are the benefits they derive from proper nutrition and veterinary care overbalanced by some level of confinement? How much is society willing, or even able, to pay for something approaching a bucolic existence? The simple solution of the animal rights movement—separating ourselves from the rest of the animal kingdom—will not do. Better as a guide are the relevant thoughts of Potter (1970, 127): “We are in great

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need of a land ethic, a wildlife ethic, a population ethic, a consumption ethic, an urban ethic, an international ethic, a geriatric ethic, and so on,” said he; and, “All of these problems call for actions that are based on values and biological facts.” References Barnard, N., and S. Kaufman (1997) “Animal Research Is Wasteful and Misleading,” Scientific American, 276(2) (February):80–82. Bliss, M. (1982) The Discovery of Insulin, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Budiansky, S. (1992) The Covenant of the Wild: Why Animals Chose Domestication, New York: William Morrow. Carroll, M. E., and J. B. Overmier (2001) Animal Research and Human Health: Advancing Human Welfare through Behavioral Science, Washington: DC: American Psychological Association. Cohen, C., and T. Regan (2001) The Animal Rights Debate, Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield. Conniff, R. (1990) “Fuzzy-Wuzzy Thinking about Animal Rights,” Audubon Magazine, (November):121–133. Dizard, J. (1994) Going Wild: Hunting, Animal Rights, and the Contested Meaning of Nature, Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. ——— (2003) Mortal Stakes: Hunters and Hunting in Contemporary America, Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Fox, M. A. (1986) The Case for Animal Experimentation: An Evolutionary and Ethical Perspective, Berkeley: University of California. Greek, R., and J. Greek (2000) Sacred Cows and Golden Geese: The Human Cost of Experiments on Animals, New York: Continuum. Hauser, M. D. (2000) Wild Minds: What Animals Really Think, New York: Holt. Herscovici, A. (1985) Second Nature: The Animal Rights Controversy, Montreal: CBC Enterprises. Jones, S. D. (2003) Valuing Animals, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Leahy, M. P. T. (1994) Against Liberation: Putting Animals in Perspective, London: Routledge. Mencken, H. L. (1982) A Mencken Chrestomathy, New York: Vintage Books. Morrison, A. R. (1993) “Biomedical Research and the Animal Rights Movement: A Contrast in Values,” The American Biology Teacher, 54(4):204–208. ——— (2001a) “Making Choices in the Laboratory,” in E. Paul and J. Paul, Editors, Why Animal Experimentation Matters: The Use of Animals in Medical Research, pp. 49–77, Piscataway, NJ: Transaction.

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——— (2001b) “A Scientist’s Perspective on the Ethics of Using Animals in Behavioral Research,” in M. E. Carroll and J. B. Overmier, Editors, Animal Research and Human Health: Advancing Human Welfare through Behavioral Science, pp. 341–356, Washington, DC: American Psychological Association. ——— (2002) “Perverting Medical History in the Service of ‘Animal Rights,’ ” in Perspectives in Biology and Medicine 45(4):606–619. O’Hara, M. (1941) My Friend Flicka, Philadelphia: Lippincott. Parker, J. (2003) “Animal Research, Human Responsibility: Common Sense and Religious Sensibility,” unpublished manuscript. Paton, W. (1993) Man and Mouse: Animals in Medical Research, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Petrinovich, L. (1999) Darwinian Dominion: Animal Welfare and Human Interests, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Potter, Van Rensselaer (1970) “Bioethics, the Science of Survival,” Perspectives in Biology and Medicine, 14(1):127–153. Regan, T. (1983) The Case for Animal Rights, Berkeley: University of California. Regan, T., and P. Singer (1985) “The Dog in the Lifeboat: An Exchange,” New York Review of Books, April 25:56–57. Russell, S. M., and C. S. Nicoll (1996) “A Dissection of the Chapter ‘Tools for Research’ in Peter Singer’s Animal Liberation,” Proceedings of the Society for Experimental Biology and Medicine, 211:109–154. Schenck, C. H. (1993) “REM Sleep Behavior Disorder,” in M. A. Carskadon, Editor, Encyclopedia of Sleep and Dreaming, pp. 499–505, New York: Macmillan. Scruton, R. (2000) “Animal Rights,” City Journal, Summer:100–107. Singer, P. (1975) Animal Liberation, New York: New York Review. ——— (1994) Rethinking Life and Death: The Collapse of Our Traditional Ethics, New York: St. Martin’s. Stell, L. K. (1995) “The Blessings of Injustice: Animals and the Right to Accept Medical Treatment,” Between the Species, 11:42–53. Strand, R., and P. Strand (1993) The Hijacking of the Humane Movement, Wilsonville, OR: Doral.

5

The Future of Genetics in Medicine: Practices, Prospects, and Peril Reed E. Pyeritz

The Setting In medical practice today, tests that probe the human genotype, from germ cells to cells of the adult, living or dead, are being utilized with rapidly increasing frequency. The following are representative case examples of situations faced by health professionals who utilize a genetic test: •

As part of the “routine” testing offered by an obstetrician, a pregnant couple has carrier screening for cystic fibrosis. The obstetrician receives the results: they indicate that both partners carry genetic alterations at the locus (CFTR) that encodes the cystic fibrosis transmembrane conductance regulator protein, but he cannot interpret what the implications are for the pregnancy. A referral is made for genetic counseling, but at a time when counseling must be arranged hurriedly, decision making and testing of the fetus must be rushed, and termination would be difficult. •

An internist learns from a family history that a female patient’s brother has hemochromatosis, an autosomal recessive cause of excessive iron accumulation, and orders a genetic test as part of her routine blood work. The result is C282Y/H63D, indicating that she is heterozygous for one mutation in the HFE gene, C282Y, which is present in two copies in most people with the disease, and for another mutation, H63D, which is associated with disease much less frequently. Less than 5 percent of people who are C282Y/C282Y develop overt iron overload. Nonetheless, the internist tells the woman that she has hemochromatosis, even though her iron indices are normal. The physician correctly reassures her that she needs no therapy. However, this result and diagnosis become part of her medical record. When she changes jobs, she is denied health insurance.

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•

A young man receives a mailing from a genetic testing company advertising a test for susceptibility to Alzheimer’s disease. The man, whose grandmother recently died at age eighty after an illness of several years marked with progressive cognitive decline, asks his physician to prescribe the test. •

A divorced mother learns that her ex-father-in-law has died of Huntington’s disease (HD), an untreatable and progressive neurologic deterioration that typically begins in middle age. She wants to know if her five-year-old daughter has inherited a mutation for HD. Her ex-husband refuses to be tested. The woman asks her daughter’s pediatrician to order the genetic test for HD. •

A busy pediatric genetics clinic has evaluated hundreds of children over three decades for diagnosis of a possible genetic cause of mental retardation, absent other somatic abnormalities. In many cases, no diagnosis was possible. Recently, a new gene was discovered that, when mutant, causes nonsyndromic mental retardation. The clinic staff is overworked as it is, and wonders if they should be contacting the parents or guardians of previously evaluated retarded patients to suggest reassessment. The Dilemmas Some health care professionals have allegiance exclusively to the patient sitting in their office; primary care practitioners are good examples. Others, exemplified by those involved in public health, have a much broader allegiance. Medical geneticists can be found in both of those extremes, and at all places in between. Indeed, some geneticists may have to switch allegiances, perhaps subconsciously, during the course of an average day’s work. This notion of allegiance defines in large measure the types of ethical issues faced by medical geneticists and any health professional likely to use genetic information (Lappe 1973). This chapter delves into some of the issues that can be fairly called ‘ethical’. They seem to fall into two main categories—termed ‘macroethical’ and ‘microethical’ (table 5.1). The former pertain to testing in the realm of public health (such as programs for newborn screening), eugenic implications, philosophical issues (Is the genome the secular equivalent of the soul? Does a clone have a right to its individual genome?), and the meaning of words used in describing genetic concepts (Does the use of the term “genetic cause” imply genetic

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Table 5.1 Examples of Macroethical and Microethical Issues in Genetic Testing Macroethical Issues Genetic determinism (Allen et al. 1978; Pyeritz et al. 1997; Pyeritz 1978) The definition of genetic information Ownership of genetic information (Marshal 1997) Codes of professional ethics (Baumiller et al. 1996a, 1996b) Directiveness of genetic counseling as a professional standard (Bernhardt 1997) “Geneticization” of health care (Lippmann 1991) Balancing research efforts and funds on determining individual genetic risks versus reducing environmental risks for the entire population (Pollack 2002) Choice of language and metaphors in considering and implementing policy (Searls 2002) Maximizing cost of testing through patenting and restrictive licenses Marketing “predictive genomics” panels of tests for generic conditions (e.g., “heart disease”) when the actual risk associated with the genetic variation is not known The use of population-based disease registries and DNA banks to validate genetic tests (Ho et al. 2002; Mitka 2002) Lack of consistency among specialty societies regarding standards of care or approaches to specific testing situations Determining when to begin a public health genetic screening program for a specific disease (Petersen and Bunton 2002) Determining the panel of mutations to be used in a screening program Determining the populations to be offered screening As policy, unfair discrimination in employment based on the results of genetic testing As policy, unfair discrimination in insurance based on the results of genetic testing (Zick et al. 2000) Duty to recontact previous patients (Hirschhorn et al. 1999; Sharpe 2000) Use of stored specimens for genetic research (Clayton, Steinberg, and Khoury 1995) Microethical Issues Dealing with nonpaternity detected serendipitously during genetic testing Testing children for adult-onset genetic disorders for which no treatment exists Protecting privacy and confidentiality of a patient and relatives Preventing unfair discrimination against a patient and relatives Informed consent for genetic testing Directiveness of genetic counseling in an individual case: Whether to undergo testing How to respond to the results of the test

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determinism?). These more global areas typically are not the provinces of the practicing physician. Rather, the concern of the physician is, on a daily basis, with the microethical issues that pertain to single patients and families. This situation may change, however, as technology brings screening to the primary care physician’s office. For example, a recent review of population screening predicts, “Over the next decade or two, it seems likely that we will screen entire populations or specific subgroups for genetic information in order to target interventions to individual patients that will improve their health and prevent disease” (Khoury, McCabe, and McCabe 2003). Our discussion will focus on the microethical issues faced by the diversity of health care practitioners today and for the near future. We would emphasize that not even the so-called ‘experts’—whether genetic counselors or medical geneticists—are always clear about which ethical issues pertain in a given circumstance or how to deal with them appropriately. More importantly, as genetics enters mainstream medical practice, the levels of sensitivity to the ethical issues and sophistication about the additional requirements imposed by these ethical issues will diminish considerably. The potential impacts of a lack of attention to these time-consuming and nuanced details will require formal assessment. Background Among the dozen wishes for the new year identified by the editors of the Philadelphia Inquirer four years ago was that “the pell-mell pace of advances in genetic science will slow long enough for society’s ethical and moral understanding to catch up” (2003). These days, in large part stimulated by the report of the births of human children produced by reproductive cloning, similar sentiments can be found in a host of references in both the popular and the scientific media. Such calls for a slowing of the pace of scientific “progress,” including outright moratoria, have occurred repeatedly during the past few decades, most memorably in response to fears over recombinant DNA technology (i.e., “genetic engineering”) in the early 1970s (Judson 1996), and more recently over stem cell research. Indeed, concerns about the use and misuse of genetics, in all of its guises, have been among the major stimulants to the emergence and development of the entire field of bioethics (Murphy, Butzow, and Suarez-Murias 1997). For example, when the Hastings Center, one of the preeminent bioethics ‘think tanks’ in the

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United States, was founded in 1969, its early work focused on four areas: genetics, reproductive biology, death and dying, and consent. A word much in the news today is genomics, a word coined in the latter part of the twentieth century to mean the study of structure, function, and interactions of all of the genes that constitute a species’ genome. Genetics, however, is the study of inherited biologic variation, and the term was coined by W. Bateson in the first decade of the twentieth century. While genomics holds considerable promise for applications to medicine, it is genetics that has both an instructive legacy and direct relevance. We will examine the ethical issues raised by one application of genetics in medicine, so-called genetic testing. Even this seemingly narrow compass will emphasize a diversity of ethical principles and practical dilemmas (Burke, Pinsky, and Press 2001; Burke 2002). In the United States, formal applications of genetics to medical practice began in the 1950s at medical schools at Wake Forrest, Johns Hopkins, the University of Michigan, and the University of Washington. Only some three decades later would the American Board of Medical Genetics establish accreditation standards for training programs and toward certifying examinations for health professionals in a number of disciplines: clinical genetics (for those with medical degrees); human genetics (for those with other doctoral degrees); cytogenetics; biochemical genetics; immunogenetics; and genetic counseling. Within a few years, clinical molecular genetics was added. And by 1991, the American Board of Medical Specialties recognized medical genetics as a primary medical specialty, the final step in the long process of full recognition by organized medicine. By 2005, forty-eight American medical centers were accredited to train M.D. clinical geneticists, and twenty-seven programs were accredited to train genetic counselors, who typically receive a masters of science as their terminal degree. Growth of these specialties has been more than matched by growth in knowledge (Beaudet 1999). To an important degree, for instance, the ability to understand hereditary disorders has been driven by laboratory technology (cytogenetics, enzymatic assays, analysis of nucleic acids) (Lindee 2002). The first edition of what has become the standard textbook in the profession, Principles and Practice of Medical Genetics, was published in 1983 and surveyed the field in 105 chapters and 1,502 pages (Emery and Rimoin, 1983). The most recent edition, the fifth edition, published in 2007, contains 170 chapters and 3,871 pages

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(Rimoin et al. 2007a). The intellectual underpinnings of the practice of medical genetics have been driven, to a substantial degree, by technological developments, especially in the analysis of chromosomes and genes. This history has been reviewed, and it is not central to the themes of this chapter (Boehm and Kazazian 1990; Kazazian 1990; Pyeritz 1998, McKusick 2007). What is central here is the paradigm shift in understanding the etiology and pathogenesis of disease: it has occurred over the past decade (Boehm and Kazazian 1990; Pyeritz 1992; Collins 1999; Murphy and Pyeritz 2002; Rimoin et al. 2007b). This shift began in the 1990s, with the ascendancy of ‘molecular medicine’, and it has accelerated tremendously with the sequencing of the human genome and the rise of genomics. A ‘rough draft’ of the genome was published in 2001 (Lander et al. 2001; Venter et al. 2001) with the “final draft” earmarked for April 2003, the fiftieth anniversary of the discovery by Watson and Crick of the double-helical structure of DNA (J. Watson and Crick 1953). The history of the evolution of the philosophical and practical ethics of human genetics deserves critical review, but it is far beyond our purview and the scope of this essay. The reader is commended to a wealth of references (Royal College of Physicians 1991; Annas and Elias 1992; British Medical Association 1998; Burley 1998; Clarke 1998, 2002; Thompson and Chadwick 1999). Much to our personal chagrin, the intellectual underpinnings of human genetics in most Western nations are rooted in the eugenics movement of the early twentieth century (Haller 1963; Ludmerer 1972; Gillham 2001). Notwithstanding that some regard our legacy as ancient history, many note the direct ramifications of the eugenics movement that occupy attention today— witness states continuing to apologize for their policies (“Oregon Governor Apologizes” 2003)—and examine the warnings from colleagues about eugenic implications of current practices (Garver and Garver 1991, 1994; Wertz 1998, 2002a; Wilkie 1993). Current Situation in the United States Both the medical and the lay media contain frequent references to ‘genetic testing’. Standard textbooks have multiple chapters dedicated to the topic, professional societies are devoted to its practitioners, the American Board of Medical Genetics and the American Board of Pathology accredit training programs and certify practitioners, and the federal and state governments have put in place elaborate programs for

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certifying clinical laboratories and mandating quality control and maintenance of proficiency. Today, ‘genetic tests’ for more than 700 different conditions are commercially available (GeneClinics 2003). Hundreds of other conditions have had their cause identified at a molecular level, and testing is being performed in research laboratories that are not subject to governmental regulation and should not be releasing the results to patients, although they often do. As we will discuss, genetic testing—however defined—does place special responsibilities on health professionals, most of whom are unprepared either to recognize the nuances of a genetic test versus any other medical test or to conduct the requisite pretest and posttest counseling. Nonetheless, in the United States, as of September 2002, the first direct-to-consumers marketing of DNA-based testing for hereditary breast cancer began. A Primer on Medical Genetics and Genetic Testing The nongeneticist, and the nonscientist, can easily appreciate the fundamental ethical issues that we will be discussing. The context of these issues, however, generates misery, in large part because of the nomenclature and jargon involved. Sadly, we can offer neither the fundamental scientific and medical background nor the elaborate vocabulary here. A brief glossary can be found in table 5.2. There has accrued an increasing realization that in all disease there dwells some degree of genetic contribution to etiology1 and to pathogenesis2 (Pyeritz 2003). This is most clear for those disorders caused in large part, if not wholly, by mutations in single genes (called Mendelian diseases) and aberrations of chromosome structure or number. For this reason, most genetic tests have focused on these sorts of disorders, especially in children. However, common disorders (that typically do not become evident until adulthood) have important genetic causes, and the actual pathogenesis of these disorders often has its onset in childhood. Thus there is tremendous potential to identify, at a young age, people who are likely to develop serious disorders later in life and to begin any of a variety of approaches to reduce or eliminate those risks. It is important at this time to emphasize that, for most disorders, this ability represents a potential benefit of genetic testing. There are relatively few common disorders for which 1. The study of cause. 2. The pathologic processes.

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Table 5.2 Glossary of Genetic Terms Allele an alternative form of a gene Autosomes all the chromosomes except for the sex chromosomes and the mitochondrial chromosome Codon a three-base sequence of nucleotides that specifies an amino acid or translational stop signal Epigenetic nonmutational phenomena that modify gene expression, such as methylation of a nucleotide Exon a region of a gene that codes for protein Genetics the study of biologic variation Genomics the study of the functions and interactions of all the genes in the genome, including their interactions with environmental factors Genotype the genetic specification of an individual, reflected by the sequence of nucleotides in DNA; can refer to all or part of the genetic information Heterozygous having two distinct alleles at a specific locus Homozygous having two identical alleles at a specific locus Intron

a region of a gene that does not code for protein; usually between two exons

Monogenic caused by a mutation in a single gene; except for mitochondrial genes, synonymous with “Mendelian” Multifactorial caused by the interaction of multiple genetic, environmental, and stochastic factors Penetrance the likelihood that a person carrying a particular mutation will have an altered phenotype Phenotype evidence of the expression of a gene or specific genes, as modified by other factors; can be expressed in terms of physical, intellectual, or laboratory findings Predictive value, positive the probability that a person with a positive test result will have a phenotype (such as a disease) Predictive value, negative the probability that a person with a negative test result will not have a phenotype Sensitivity

the percentage of those who are truly positive who test positive

Specificity the percentage of those who are truly negative who test negative Validity with regard to a test, the conjunction of sensitivity, specificity, positive predictive value, and negative predictive value Source: Adapted from Guttmacher and Collins (2002).

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Table 5.3 Indications for Genetic Testing, with Common Examples Reproduction Prenatal (maternal serum screening for neural tube defects and Down syndrome) Preimplantation (chromosome aberrations in a woman of advanced maternal age; or selecting an embryo lacking a specific mutant parental allele) Prefertilization (enriching for sperm bearing a Y chromosome) Carrier testing and screening (Tay-Sachs disease in Ashkenazic Jews; or cystic fibrosis among all couples) Newborn screening (phenylketonuria) Diagnostic (hemochromatosis) Presymptomatic Predictive (Huntington’s disease) Susceptibility (BRCA1 and the risk of breast and ovarian cancer)

sufficient clinical and outcome studies have documented long-term benefit. Genetic testing can be performed for a number of indications and therefore has clinical application in a number of settings (table 5.3). Reproductive Genetics Reproductive genetics has been the area of medicine in which genetic testing has had the most consistent application since the development in the late 1960s of amniocentesis (sampling fetal cells by removing a small quantity of amniotic fluid during the second trimester of pregnancy). The first indication was the detection of a fetus with chromosomal aneuploidy (especially, an extra copy of chromosome 13, 18, or 21), the risk for which is significantly increased by advanced maternal age. The derivative of prenatal testing, offering the couple of a fetus with a detectable defect the option of continuing the pregnancy or not, has always confronted the ethical issues, and the sociopolitical implications, surrounding abortion. One of the most troublesome situations faced by reproductive geneticists in the United States over the decades has been the couple that seeks prenatal diagnosis for sex selection (Wertz 2001). In most instances, typically for cultural reasons, couples have been intent on insuring that only a male would be born. Once hesitancy on the part of geneticists to facilitate the abortion of healthy female fetuses became clear, couples often invented some genetic history as a tactical subterfuge. Thus the abortion issue hides both a biologic dimension (skewing of the sex ratio in a population) and an ideological dimension

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(perpetuation of sexism and gender discrimination) as noted in the literature (Benagiano and Bianchi 1999). Today, newer diagnostic techniques that take utmost advantage of technology designed primarily to assist infertile couples (by way of in vitro fertilization, for instance) enable these couples to obviate the medical procedure of abortion by selecting embryos of a few dozen cells (chosen for the lack of a particular defect) to be implanted. However, such approaches do not assuage the ethical issues for those who hold that human life begins with conception, whether in the womb or in a petri dish. Until recently, for all but the most common chromosome anomalies and congenital malformations, it has not been (either technically or economically) feasible to offer screenings to every pregnant woman or couple interested in reproduction. In certain populations, generally defined by ethnicity, it has been practical rather to offer screening for carrier status (i.e., heterozygosity for a mutation that causes a recessive disease) for specific disorders that occur at high relative incidence in that population. For example, the standard of care today is to offer testing to any Ashkenazic Jew interested in reproducing, to determine his or her carrier status for Tay-Sachs disease and several other ‘Jewish’ genetic diseases (Massarik and Kaback 1981). If neither, or only one, of the partners is a carrier, the couple is counseled that the risk of having an affected child is quite low. For couples at a one-in-four risk of having an affected child, many elect prenatal diagnosis and a consequent termination of affected fetuses. The net result has been a marked decrease in North American births of children with Tay-Sachs disease, that is, children for whose health condition no treatment exists and who die by the age of four years (Kaback 2000). The initial carrier screening programs for Tay-Sachs disease were actively supported by many Jewish congregations. The sociopolitical context and effectiveness of carrier screening for a different ethnic disease, β-thalassemia, has been documented recently by a University of Pennsylvania faculty member (Cowan 1993, 2008). A serious disorder of hemoglobin (anemia, dependence on transfusions, resultant iron overload, reduced life expectancy), β-thalassemia is especially prevalent in the Mediterranean basin. On the island of Cyprus, the costs of care of affected individuals were staggering the economy and were projected to increase further as newer treatments emerged. With the tacit approval of the Greek Orthodox Church (for the southern half of the island) and the Islamic clergy (for the Turkish northern half of the island), publicly funded

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carrier screening, counseling, and prenatal diagnosis programs were developed. Compliance was so notably high as to suggest coercion. Women found to be carrying an affected fetus were supported to leave the island if they chose pregnancy termination. And the net result on Cyprus has been notably a tenfold reduction in the births of affected children; this experience has been replicated on the island of Sardinia and also in other regions of Italy, with the tacit approval of the Roman Catholic Church. It would seem that, as public policy, a utilitarian argument trumped one based on deontology in these instances (cf. chapter 2 by Eichler, this volume). Virtually any medical textbook will describe cystic fibrosis (CF) as the most common lethal hereditary disease among Caucasians. The deadly disease causes defective transport of chloride ions across membranes. Among the consequences are poor ability to clear pathogens in the lungs (leading to pneumonia and to chronic lung disease) and impaired secretion of digestive enzymes and insulin by the pancreas. One in twenty people of northern European ancestry carries one copy of a mutation in the cystic fibrosis transmembrane conductance regulator gene (CFTR). Because CF is autosomal recessive, an affected person must inherit a mutation from both mother and father. In 1999, the Consensus Development Conference organized by the National Institutes of Health (NIH) concluded that carrier testing for CF should be offered to several classes of people. Several of the recommended classes—women with CF and their spouses (men struck by CF are invariably sterile), relatives of a patient with CF, for instance— routinely have been offered testing. A number of studies have demonstrated that offering carrier screening more broadly was met with low uptake both by the providers of prenatal services and by pregnant women (Loader et al. 1996). However, the new recommendations from the NIH, which many interpreted as establishing a standard of care by fiat, have included all pregnant women and couples interested in reproduction (NIH 1999). This was the first recommendation expanding carrier screening from specific ethnic groups to the entire population. Practitioners were taken by surprise and reacted quickly. Leaders of the American College of Medical Genetics as well as administrators of the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists were quick to recognize that such carrier screening of massive numbers of people created both practical and ethical concerns of a scale not seen in American medicine (Holmes and Pyeritz 1998). Thus, because of resistance from the specialty

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societies, implementation of the federal recommendations was delayed until a number of guidelines and tools could be developed (Haddow et al. 1999; M. S. Watson et al. 2002). First, a panel of mutations in the CFTR gene needed to be selected. But since CF is a disease much more prevalent in Caucasians than seen in other ethnic groups, a variety of ethical issues arose: in the minimum panel, should mutations be included that are common in particular Native American tribes, even though these individuals represent only a miniscule proportion of the population to be screened (Grody et al. 2001)? In other words, should screening be ‘offered’ to all? To Caucasians only, while made merely ‘available’ to all ‘others’? Second, could the screening be provided by obstetricians at their busy practices? Third, should the screening be offered to the woman (who typically visited the obstetrician in the absence of her partner) first—and only if she did test positive, offered to the partner, too? Fourth, should formal informed consent for the screening be required, and if so, how? Fifth, and finally, what educational material should be provided so that truly informed consent might be obtained? Eventually, by late 2001, enough of the pieces fell into place to permit a screening program to be publicly announced by the specialty societies, although the very undertaking has yet to be examined for the efficacy of any of its components. Also, all the intense activity precipitated by the Consensus Development Conference occurred with scant mention of the endgame; that is, what choices did parents make when they were faced with a fetus carrying two mutations in CFTR that in turn indicated that the child would develop CF? Would pressures, subtle or not, be placed by health insurers on the parents to terminate the pregnancy “because of the high medical costs of caring for a person with CF” during the three decades or so of average life expectancy? Would couples that chose to refuse to consider abortion under any circumstances resent the entire screening process if they had not realized at least one of the likely potential outcomes of participation?3 The Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, and especially its support group for adults suffering from CF, was a skeptical stakeholder but an active participant in the discussions among the specialist health care professionals. The view was strongly expressed that parents should be informed of a number of facts: that there exists improved 3. The constituency that had its eye on the abortion issue from the outset and that continually warned about coercion in favor of terminating affected fetuses was the one made up of people affected with CF.

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medical treatment for CF; that many patients lead active, productive lives into the fourth decade or longer; that females with CF are fertile; and that gene therapy holds the prospect for an outright cure. Still, tensions over related issues persist to date. Newborn Screening Newborn screening was implemented in the 1960s, when it became clear that early detection of the rare inborn error of metabolism known as phenylketonuria (PKU) could be treated by instituting a diet low in the amino acid phenylalanine. If the diet was begun in the first month of life, the profound mental retardation characteristic of the disease could be prevented. The screening involves obtaining a blood specimen from an infant during the first days of life and testing for elevated phenylalanine. The test is designed to be sensitive but not specific: many false positives ensue and those patients identified on the initial screening have to be examined more carefully in follow-up testing. A successful program requires near-total ascertainment and rapid laboratory testing, as well as effective communication with the pediatrician, accurate testing of babies who test ‘positive’, and not least, long-term management in a metabolic clinic of truly (table 5.4) affected children (Millington 2002). The program for PKU has been shown to be effective Table 5.4 Requirements for a Genetic Screening Program The disease is a burden (illness, disability, death) in the population(s) to be screened. The prevalence and burden should be quantified. The screening test is sufficiently sensitive to detect the vast majority of cases. Follow-up testing is sufficiently valid to eliminate false positives. The positive and negative predictive values of the entire testing process are favorable. The testing is relatively safe. A program is in place to confirm the diagnosis in cases detected in the first screen. Treatment is available to affect the clinical outcome favorably. Treatment is relatively safe and well tolerated. The entire program is cost-effective. The entire program is acceptable to the population(s) to be screened. Appropriate safeguards for the following are in place in advance of initiating the program: Informed consent Freedom from coercion Confidentiality Discrimination Stigmatization

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both clinically and costwise, as a model for newborn screening in general (Meryash et al. 1981). In contrast, programs designed to detect a rare but potentially lethal form of childhood cancer, neuroblastoma, were abandoned when careful studies found them to be ineffective in reducing mortality (Cunningham 2002). Today, all U.S. states mandate newborn screening for PKU. A number of additional conditions have been included, although there remains considerable variation among U.S. states as to their specific mandated programs. Supplemental newborn screening programs, ones driven by tandem mass spectrometry and other technologies, are being offered by commercial laboratories, and most hospitals in Pennsylvania subscribe to these; thirty-five congenital and hereditary disorders are tested. The requirements for including a new test in these and in any other screening programs, are well established (table 5.4). One question involves equitability: why should some infants benefit from extended screening in one state and those born across the state line screened for no more than three conditions (Newborn Screening Task Force 2000; McCabe, Therrell, and McCabe 2002)? Diagnostic Genetic Testing Diagnostic genetic testing based on DNA has been available since mutations were described. The first disease to be readily diagnosed was sickle cell-anemia. Diagnostic testing was facilitated because all patients have exactly the same mutation, a single nucleotide change in the sixth codon of the beta-globin locus that results in substitution of a glycine for a valine. Over the succeeding thirty years, the mutations that cause many other disorders have been defined. In most cases, a given disease can be caused by a number of different mutations, and even by mutations in different genes. Intragenic and intergenic heterogeneity greatly complicates genetic testing. For example, although more than 900 distinct mutations have been shown to cause CF, only one specific mutation is most highly prevalent in people of northern European extraction: one in twenty carries the so-called ∆F508 mutation. For some disorders, every family in which the condition occurs carries its very own— ’private’—mutation; molecular diagnosis in such cases requires first defining the specific genetic change(s) in that family before testing can be applied to relatives. Some genes are quite large, and this fact makes finding a mutation technically difficult and expensive. For example, mutations in the

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gene encoding a large protein, fibrillin-1, cause Marfan syndrome and several related disorders; more than 700 distinct mutations have been described in the FBN1 gene, spread throughout the almost 10,000 nucleotides that make up the coding sequence. The coding sequence, in turn, is spread over about 200,000 nucleotides of chromosome 15. Only three commercial laboratories in the United States offer clinical testing for FBN1 mutations, and the charge is around US$1,400 per test. In certain instances, however, genetic testing can be helpful in the clinic. Hemochromatosis is a hereditary disease of abnormal iron storage with a plethora of clinical problems that gradually accrue. One in ten Caucasians is a carrier of a mutation in the HFE gene that causes this disease, implying that one in 400 offspring of Caucasians (1/10 × 1/10 × 1/4) will carry two copies of the mutation. Luckily, only a fraction (somewhat less than 10 percent) of people with two copies of the mutation develop clinical problems with iron accumulation. The reasons for this lack of ‘penetrance’ are still not clear. However, if a patient reliably is found to have abnormal iron accumulation, hemochromatosis is certainly part of the differential diagnosis. Today, a relatively simple genetic test of a patient’s DNA can confirm or disconfirm/eliminate that particular cause of the problem. Predictive Genetic Testing Predictive genetic testing pertains to disorders that are caused by mutations in single genes and that do not become manifest until later in life. The progressive neurological disorder Huntington’s disease (HD) is an example. Most people with a mutation in the HD gene do not develop symptoms until their fifth or sixth decade. However, if there is a family history of an affected relative, it is now possible to test relatives at risk for this autosomal dominant disorder. If a person carries the mutation, s/he is guaranteed of developing the disease: this is termed presymptomatic testing. Testing for HD—a disease that currently still is untreatable—has raised many concerns over the past few decades. For adults at risk, HD has been and still is the archetype for the preeminence of autonomy; some people want to know if they will develop HD, and some do not. But a host of very difficult issues can arise. For example, an asymptomatic young adult man knows that his paternal grandmother died of HD, but his father refuses to be tested. If the young man is tested and is found to carry the mutation, then he

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knows automatically that his father also carries the mutation. Now, have the father’s privacy and/or the very confidentiality of the fact been violated? Should the risk of such a violation have precluded the testing of the son? Is the primary-care physician capable of dealing with ‘survivor guilt’ in those found not to be carrying the mutation for which they were at 50 percent risk (Huggins et al. 1992)? In another real-life example, a couple has a ten-year-old child, and the mother has just been diagnosed with HD; the parents request to have their child tested. Legally, the child cannot give consent and is probably too young to give informed assent. Moreover, if the child carries the mother’s mutation, how will that knowledge affect the upbringing of the child? Has the child’s privacy been violated in the process (Wertz, Fanos, and Reilly 1994; Nelson et al. 2001)? Assessing Susceptibility to Disease Assessing susceptibility to disease is the final indication for genetic testing. In this case, the person being tested may be at increased risk for a disease that occurs with some frequency in the general population. If the person is found to carry a particular mutation, the risk of developing the disease increases, but it rarely reaches 100 percent. Most of the diseases for which genetic susceptibility has been defined at the molecular level are so common that by chance alone more than one case will have occurred in a single family during the three or four generations recollected in a typical family history. Thus familial occurrence alone, especially if the affected relatives are distantly related, is no guarantee that strong genetic risk is at work. Nonetheless, when several close relatives have developed the same disease, especially at a relatively early age, strong suspicion for genetic susceptibility should be entertained (Welch and Burke 1998). Over the past few years alone, an increasing number of genetic susceptibilities to common diseases have been described also at the molecular level. One field in which molecular explanations have generated intense research, and have retained considerable attention by the media, is cancer. Here, breast cancer has been at the forefront. When either of her two genes BRCA1 and BRCA2 is mutated, there is statistically significant risk for a woman to develop breast and ovarian cancer; and mutations in the BRCA2 gene cause 10 percent of all breast cancers in men. There are a few relatively common mutations in Ashkenazic Jews, but other patients can have any among hundreds of mutations that

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increase their susceptibility. Importantly, a patient may be found to have a genetic change that has never been discovered in a patient who has cancer. And as the implication of such a mutation is not clear, genetic testing now can leave a person psychologically worse off than before the testing was conducted. Much like FBN1, and as both of the genes are large, testing is expensive: in 2005 it cost more than US$2,975 to search both genes; and in the United States, insurance companies have balked at paying for testing in the absence of disease and with no clear way of preventing development of disease in those discovered at risk. Studies conducted suggest that prophylactic mastectomy and oophorectomy can greatly reduce the risk that cancer will develop in breast or ovarian tissue, respectively, and it is for this reason that many women are finding it easier to have the costs reimbursed. However, some women do not want their insurance companies to even know that testing is being done; they prefer to pay for the test out of pocket, and sometimes even use a pseudonym (Benkendorf et al. 1997). These women fear facing unfair (social, economic, workplace, or employmentrelated) discrimination if formally found to be at heightened risk of cancer. The Notion of Genetic Information Any definition of genetic testing depends in the first instance on what we mean by ‘genetic information’. In the broadest sense, this term refers to any test that informs about the genotype. The genotype and its effect on health can be assessed at many different levels. The first and most precise level, examining the DNA itself, is what most medical and laypeople first think of upon hearing genetic testing mentioned. And this chapter has already addressed the ways in which these assays are performed. However, the effects of alterations in the genotype can be also assessed at the level of •

the messenger RNA.

•

the product of the gene, usually a peptide or protein.

•

the functional protein, often a multimer of similar or dissimilar proteins. •

the metabolic pathway involving the gene product.

•

the effects of the genotypic change on cellular metabolism.

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•

the effects of the genotypic change on a tissue or an organ.

•

the effects of the genotypic change on the person.

The last of the levels of assessment involves the traditional skills of putting together the patient’s medical history and conducting a physical examination. The most important of genetic ‘tests’ is one already known and, hopefully, practiced by all physicians—the family history (Pyeritz 1997; Guttmacher, Collins, and Carmona 2004). The family history and the pedigree analysis that derives from it are often the first tips that there should be concern about a genetic condition or susceptibility. In most cases, obtaining a detailed family history is time-consuming. To some extent, this can be done largely by the patient. However, the family history has a life of its own, and it needs to be updated and amended periodically. Similarly, any adjustment to the family history should prompt additional analysis and interpretation, which in turn may lead to more investigation and intervention. The Process of Genetic Testing Genetic testing has several crucial distinctions from other kinds of testing in medicine. •

It provides information about relatives, not just the patient.

•

It requires special attention to pretest and posttest issues.

•

It raises concerns about privacy and discrimination.

The broad scope of the indications for genetic testing suggests that it is not just for the occasional patient. The very recognition of this fact raises a dilemma. If all of those who would qualify for genetic testing should require pre- and posttest counseling, who will provide such? Genetic counselors—that is, masters-level, board-certified health professionals—are the obvious choice, but they are relatively few in number (around 2,000 in the United States, in 2005). Thus the obligation must fall to a large extent on other health care providers, especially the physicians who order the genetic tests. This fact alone makes it clear that medical genetics is truly the province of all health care professionals. Unfortunately, few health care professionals have been trained about or have experience with modern genetic concepts and technologies (Greendale and Pyeritz 2001).

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The Need for Pretest Informed Consent and Posttest Counseling There is increasing consensus that the issues considered in the following sections, among others, need to be discussed with the patient or the person seeking testing (the consultand) before ordering a genetic test (James et al. 1998). Some have argued that a blanket ‘informed’ consent—one usually buried in the forms one is made to sign at the time and place of registration for an appointment with a physician— does not suffice. At the extreme, failure to inform a patient of the availability of a genetic test can lead to a legal claim of medical negligence or malpractice. Wrongful birth actions, indeed, have been successfully brought on behalf of children with severe disabilities. Once a result of a genetic test is known, that result must be interpreted for the person tested, and options may be explained. On surface, this requirement is no different from, say, a blood glucose value. However, most practicing physicians realize they lack the requisite knowledge to interpret genetic tests and do not have the time to retrain or, if they did, to do a proper job of counseling because of time constraints (Caulfield 1999). In the few situations that have been studied formally, nongeneticist physicians who order genetic testing and report the results to their patients perform inadequately (Giardiello et al. 1997). Genetic counselors are adequately qualified for this function, but there are still far too few of them around to address this growing need. And, with few exceptions, they cannot even independently bill and expect to be reimbursed for their services. Genetic Counseling Genetic counseling is a defined subspecialty of medical genetics typically practiced by masters-level, board-certified professionals, as described previously. These specialists have an integral role in the genetic testing process, particularly when the testing is ordered through a genetics clinic. Counselors often provide the vast majority of the pretest education (about the test and its implications) and obtain the informed consent. Counselors are heavily involved in interpreting and reporting the results. When genetic tests are performed outside the genetics clinic, counselors are seldom involved, unless the result causes panic to the patient or the physician does not know how to interpret the result.

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Standards for Genetic Tests There is a surprising lack of documentation about fundamental aspects of genetic testing that are well established for most other standard tests in routine medical practice. The three fundamental questions used to assess any medical test are the following: •

Analytic validity—does a specific test detect a specific genetic change? •

Clinical validity—is a specific genetic change predictive of disease?

•

Clinical utility—does knowing that a genetic change is present assist the patient? Analytic validity is often viewed as purely a technical issue. However, a variety of techniques can be used to identify any specific genetic change, and the distinctions among the techniques (such as in accuracy, reproducibility, and expense) are almost always invisible to those who will utilize the tests (Grody and Pyeritz 1999). But this aspect constitutes the least of the concerns when a specific test is the issue. Yet as medicine moves on toward a complete readout of a person’s genome, what rate of error will be tolerated? Currently the goal of DNA sequencing is to attain 99.99 percent reliability. At that level of precision, on average, one error would be likely to occur in every 10,000 nucleotides—a rate that only seems low. Since there are 6.4 billion nucleotides per diploid somatic cell, the number of errors per person would in fact add up to more than 600,000 by the same token. Clinical validity is inextricably linked to the biology of the disease for which a test is developed. In many cases, different kinds of mutations in the very same gene produce widely variable conditions (phenotypes), which may even bear different names. Particularly when the gene is large and hundreds or thousands of mutations can occur, simply ‘finding’ a genetic change in that gene will not be diagnostic of anything. Another common situation is a mutation that confers risk (susceptibility) that is less than 100 percent (incomplete penetrance). Only focused research will define what the penetrance is and what other factors might affect it, such as age or ethnicity. But even if the penetrance is well established to be, say, 60 percent, this fact needs to be known by the requesting physician and also explained to the patient. Defining clinical utility requires what medical research has come to call ‘outcome studies’. What good does it do the patient to know that

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a particular mutation exists? Will, accordingly, treatment be altered in a beneficial way? Can relatives benefit from screening? To be fair, clinical utility should (but rarely does) incorporate the downsides of testing, such as unfair insurance discrimination, which is much more of an issue with some disorders (cancer susceptibility, for example) than others (say, joint hypermobility). There is little regulation of the genetic testing world, even in the United States (Holtzman and Watson 1997). Most regulation pertains to laboratories, which must meet certain state and federal standards, and to laboratory directors, who must undergo proficiency testing. However, there has been virtually no regulation of testing based on validity and utility. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration has shown little interest, except for regulating ‘kits’, a function which it fulfills under its mandate to control ‘devices’. So-called home-brew tests, in which the substrates for the test are made in-house, are not regulated. Economic Issues Many genetic tests are expensive to perform, especially those that are based on analysis of DNA when the number of potential mutations is large (Yuan et al. 1999). The costs of some genetic tests, especially those that are considered “research,” are inconsistently reimbursed by insurance plans. Additionally, patenting and restrictive licensing have worked to keep costs high. Ethical Issues We conclude with a consideration of some of the microethical issues that concern us most of the time when we consider ordering a genetic test. Privacy and Confidentiality A genetic test can provide information about a given patient. However, unless the condition is the outcome of a new mutation (e.g., a new chromosomal translocation, a new point mutation in a gene causing an autosomal dominant condition), the results of the test provide information concerning (even implicating) relatives as well. And this is a fundamental distinction from other medical testing. Often, relatives are not consulted about whether a test should be performed in a patient, nor should they be. An exception here: the

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parents of a child who should be aware that whatever is found in the patient may shed light on their own genotype. These issues of privacy and confidentiality have not been explored for the vast majority of tests available today. The notion of privacy has important cross-cultural implications. In the United States, a diagnosis of cancer was anathema fifty years ago, and relatives did not discuss it. Physicians, had they tried to obtain a detailed family history concerning cancer, as is routine to undertake today, would have been hard-pressed to develop much useful information. In many parts of Asia today, people are quite reticent about illness in their families, in part on account of a heightened sense of privacy, and in part out of sheer fear of stigmatization. Occasionally, genetic information not central to the issue for which testing was indicated becomes apparent. The most frequent—and troubling—example occurs when the purported father turns out not to be the biologic father. Such an outcome exemplifies a potentially contentious and even socially devastating result of testing that has not only required profound deliberation by a multidisciplinary task force, but also rendered necessary a pronouncement by a specialty society meant to give direction to practitioners: The American Society of Human Genetics (1996) recommended that, unless the genetic test was done specifically to determine paternity, false paternity not be revealed. The ASHG’s recommendation, however, might result in misinformation about the risk of recurrence of a disorder, as well as in unnecessary future testing, in the sole service of sustaining the subterfuge. Autonomy In most Western countries, people are permitted to do what they will with information concerning their own genotype and that of their unborn children. Potential conflicts arise when the desire of a person to obtain as much genetic information as is technologically (if not economically) possible meets the beneficence (if not outright paternalism) of a health care professional desirous of minimizing harm (e.g., prenatal sex selection). Discrimination Concerns abound about genetic information being used by insurance companies to influence decisions about insurability (Billings et al. 1992; Rothstein and Anderlik 2001). Policies covering health, life, and disability are all at issue. Hard data are difficult to find, and this fact has

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prompted claims that all such problems are overstated (Nowlan 2002). Nevertheless, abundant anecdotal evidence exists that the fear of discrimination influences the willingness of people to make use of genetic testing (Rothenberg and Terry 2002). In June 2008 the U.S. Congress passed, and the President signed, the Genetic Information Nondiscrimination Act, which takes effect in the subsequent 12 to 18 months. The hope is that fears of unfair discrimination in employment and medical insurance will be allayed. The potential for unfair discrimination in health insurance has attracted political attention the most, and a number of U.S. states have enacted legislation prohibiting it. However, the U.S. Congress has yet to act, even though bills have been introduced in each of the past half dozen years. As a result, many patients continue to face the risk that health insurance policies may be denied them or canceled should they have a genetic test that reveals a condition—or even a heightened risk of a disease. A discussion of the potential for such discrimination should be an integral part of the pretest counseling for any genetic test. To be sure, the full extent of the problem has been imperfectly assessed (Wertz 2002b)—a point made repeatedly by representatives of the health insurance industry. One of the concerns by the industry is that a potential purchaser could practice adverse selection based on his or her private knowledge of genetic risk; that is, someone at increased risk could purchase more coverage, hence to the detriment of others. In the area of health insurance, at the present time, the industry attempts to carve out from the “community” those individuals who are at increased risk. Were we as a society to adopt an enlightened perspective, we could argue that, indeed, all of us are at genetic risk for some unwelcome surprise or another, and thus provide exceptional rationale for community rating for all. This, by the way, would provide additional support for universal coverage. Cross-cultural issues need to be explored in this area as well. Certain countries, such as China, encourage limiting family size and have been accused of practicing negative eugenics, by which families with a ‘worrisome’ family history are discouraged from reproducing. One group of individuals that has expressed concern about discrimination, often solely through advocates, encompasses survivors with genetic disabilities. For example, utilitarian and economic analyses that support prenatal diagnosis for congenital disorders (such as Down syndrome or cystic fibrosis) have engendered counteranalyses and outright hostility.

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Patenting and Licensing Issues In 1980, two important legal events occurred that have had wideranging implications for genetic research, and some of these implications raise crucial ethical issues regarding the application of genetic research to humans. The U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Diamond v. Chakrabarty (1980) that a genetically modified bacterium was patentable. Second, the Bayh-Dole Act, which had been designed to stimulate the development of products and processes that were developed in private hands with federal support, became federal law (Rai and Eisenberg 2003). The U.S. Supreme Court ruling has opened a veritable floodgate of applications aiming to protect discoveries (e.g., entire human genes or specific mutations) and applications making use of the nucleotide sequence information intrinsic to those genes or mutations. The first and still primary beneficiaries of the Bayh-Dole Act are universities, and there has been an exponential increase in attempts by these institutions to derive profit from the discoveries of their faculty and staff, and concomitant augmentation in the attending ethical and legal conundrums. Nowhere has this been more evident than in the growth industry of offices and specialists devoted to declaring and managing the conflicts of interest. Another consequence has been increased reluctance by some investigators to share with other investigators data regarding the requirements of an industrial sponsor, along with the need to protect the potential commercial value of results—as cited in 27 percent and 21 percent, respectively, of all cases involving the withholding of postpublication information (Campbell et al. 2002). With regard to genetic testing, one particular issue among many deserves special attention, primarily because those who produce the discoveries are largely unaware of the downstream consequences of the actions of their institutions. Once an inventor enters in technologytransfer agreements with the host institution, the inventor generally has little say from then on. The exception would be if the inventor actually develops a start-up company to commercialize the invention, with the university as a partner. However, invariably when a faculty member discovers a gene or a mutation, the university takes over to determine if the discovery has commercial potential. Typically, the maximum of income can be generated by a restrictive license to sell a test based on the discovery, usually with no strings attached to the forprofit entity that will produce, advertise, and market the test. Experience has shown, however, that the cost of the test is set to optimize profits, and in the absence of any competition it can be so high as to

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limit access to only the best insured or the wealthy. Thus those with the disease, the very persons for whom the test was intended, often are left unable to access it. This situation becomes particularly galling to patients, to their families, and to volunteer support groups of individuals who originally contributed samples to the faculty member in whose expert laboratory requisite fundamental research was conducted and who, in great part thanks to them, sees a quarterly royalty check. In an attempt to minimize the impact of such situations (which are the rule rather than the exception), several professional societies have begun educating their members as to their need to be proactive when discussing access with their institution’s offices of technology transfer. Effects of Direct-to-Consumer Advertising Many surveys suggest that consumers (especially women) demand access to advances in genetics directly advertised even if their personal physicians are ambivalent, neutral, or even opposed (Benkendorf et al. 1997). Some have argued that such advertising is, in essence, a denial of a patient’s right to adequate health care—in particular, to pretest counseling felt to be essential to proper utilization (Wertz 1999). What Is the Endgame? On the occasion of receiving the 2002 Harold Berger Award from the school of engineering of the University of Pennsylvania, Craig Venter stated, “I predict that within a decade parents will have the option to get the genetic code of their baby on a CD-ROM.” A number of comments are pertinent. First, his company has a stated business plan of being able to provide such a genetic blueprint for US$1,000—presumably in ‘nominal’ 2002 dollars. Second, Venter’s suggestions that parents will have “the option” of obtaining this information for a price have led some to counterargue that, in the very interests of public health, of preventive medicine, and of reducing long-term medical costs, such information should not be optional. Third, so far no one has a clue as to whether a decade from now the pediatrician will be able to deal with a printout of 6.4 billion nucleotides any better than today. Fourth, the educational programs required to empower the physician, even if we knew what the information meant, are not yet in place. And finally, even if our family’s health insurance plan agreed to pay the US$1,000 in inflation-adjusted currency, would we really want them to?

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6

Ego and Ethos David R. Williams

In this chapter, I intend to contribute to the reexamination of ethics by developing a point of view based on three familiar features of ordinary human experience: sentience, volition, and the belief that others’ conscious experience resembles one’s own. It would be odd indeed if these elaborate and ubiquitous aspects of the everyday human experience of living were irrelevant to the way people conduct their lives. These undeniable subjective phenomena are the fundamental fact at the heart of Gestalt psychology and existential analysis, and in combination with humanistic psychology, they stand as the basis of existentialhumanistic, or EH, personality theory. Existential-humanistic theory is based on awareness of reality as it consciously appears rather than any events conjectured to lie beneath appearances. The humanistic contribution to the EH approach lies mainly in an assumption, contrary to Freud, that human nature is creative, prosocial, and benign. The reexamination of ethics I will propose rests heavily on this assumption. I will supplement the assumption with a well-known model of adult ego development and add some considerations from evolutionary psychology as well. It is worth noting that the humanistic view is consistent with, but not derived from, additional suppositions that have a theological origin or a spiritual commitment. It is also worth noting that EH personality theory differs radically from psychodynamic theories of the kind first advanced by Freud. Unlike the humanistic view, the Freudian outlook was avowedly materialistic, and Freud’s postulation of an unconscious, out-of-awareness antisocial id devoted to lust and aggression was at the heart of the theories he formulated. Furthermore, Freud’s views transformed the phenomenological perspective into something superficial and rather misleading, perhaps even naive. In the deterministic Freudian system,

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duty—the core concept underlying ethics—has no meaning: human thought and behavior are as much a matter of cause and effect as the arrival time of high tide, and a sense of duty or a commitment to an ethical life is regarded as a hollow and meaningless operation of the human machine. Although I will borrow elements of psychodynamic practice as I develop the EH view of human nature, I find it necessary, even welcome, to detach them from the theoretical system that is their point of origin. The Constituents of Human Awareness Sentience is the capacity for sensing and perceiving. It is fundamental to the phenomenological viewpoint: no sentience, no phenomenology. There are four aspects of human sentience that are essential to the EH perspective I am developing: First, there is the perception of a world outside and around the individual. What is perceived to be “outside” of oneself is actually happening well within one’s skull, an event occurring in the brain. Because we are only aware of mental representations of things, we are much like a pilot flying a plane on instruments: the instruments provide useful information, but they do not depict the things represented. The blips on a radar screen, for example, may be interpreted as birds or other planes, and they permit adjustments that avoid collisions. But pilots know that the blips on a radar screen do not depict blips outside the plane. Pilots infer other sources and take appropriate action, never confusing the blip with the thing that produces it. It is the same with our mental representations of the world around us: they are useful appearances that permit us to take appropriate action, but they are constructions and not copies of their source. Second, we are aware of a world within us, an “inner world” distinct from the outer world or our senses. There is less agreement about the nature of this world than there is about the outer world. Its contents are private, and include a variety of elements designated by terms like intuition, belief, feelings, and values. Vague though these terms are, they typically cause little if any trouble in everyday talk. Many people believe that the inner world provides membership in nonmaterial realms of being—perhaps involving a soul, a spiritual essence, or even a spark of the divine. While some people are more sensitive to the apparent realities of the inner world than to the apparent realities of the outer world, for others, the situation is the reverse: this observation

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was the basis of Jung’s (1921, 44) original distinction between “introvert” and “extravert.” Despite the mystery of its origins and significance, most people assign some degree of importance to their experience of a private inner world. The third world of sentience is the world of meaningful things—a world of physical objects invested with subjective value based on what they mean. Because outer and inner worlds converge on the objects of this world, outer and inner realities are brought into subjective alignment by them. The physical form of meaningful things can mingle outer and inner worlds palpably as lovers do or symbolically as flags and sacraments do. Meaningful things bring outer and inner worlds into alignment, and actions taken toward them have consequences in both. The world of meaningful things commonly attracts a great deal of our attention, because its objects often present options for action whose significances in outer and inner worlds are hard to reconcile. Head and heart are often at odds when it comes to choosing a course of action, and it is for this reason that romantic attachments are wisely deplored in the workplace: the power of one’s very own inner-world representation of a particular coworker detracts from one’s professional evaluation of that coworker’s job-specific capacity to perform a task. The fourth essential aspect of sentience is the experience of volition—of being able to will, choose, or initiate action. Volition makes no sense in outer-world terms, where cause and effect apparently reign supreme. As a phenomenon of private experience, however, volition is a strong, salient, even prized aspect of our awareness. We feel, we sense, we commit ourselves to courses of action both behavioral and cognitive. We experience having a say in what our bodies do and a voice in the issues that occupy our thoughts. To feel unwillingly out of control of mind or body is upsetting; to believe one is a robot, a causeand-effect machine1 devoid of autonomous capacity for personal responsibility for what we think or do, is a high sign of mental disorder. Just what underlies the sense of volition—whether our ability to will and choose is an illusion or reflects the reality of our private existence—is as hidden from us as is the true reality underlying the other three worlds of our experience. Volition is a compelling perception, and without it, duty and responsibility are meaningless. Absent volition, 1. See Guyer (2008).

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there is no need to reexamine ethics: it can be dismissed as a baseless, illusory, and superfluous distraction. These four aspects of sentience are wholly private qualities of conscious experience, yet we speak of them confidently and use them to understand others’ lives and actions as well as our own. The ability to represent in one’s own mind’s eye another’s way of perceiving things is at the heart of social relationships, and while empirically gratuitous, it works reassuringly well, if not infallibly so: “mind reading” is a term of opprobrium for those who speculate too much about us, hardly listening and asking too little. The everyday success of our habit of experiential attribution supports psychoanalyst Harry Stack Sullivan’s “one-genus” postulation (1953, 32): he proposed that “everyone is much more simply human than otherwise.” Interpreted phenomenologically, his postulate is a key assumption underlying our reexamination of ethics from the perspective of ordinary awareness. A Map of Phenomenological Territory Renditions of phenomenological territory in the form of images and other representations are the stuff of art. They help us explore possibilities within our own conscious experience, essentially taking advantage of the advice of a fellow traveler: the artist who provides us with unexpected views. The very success of art’s accomplishment provides strong support for Sullivan’s postulate. By contrast, a map of phenomenological territory brings out relations among the various components of conscious experience without actually depicting them, just as the lines on a roadmap indicate how roads and states relate to each other without showing how they appear in reality. I have provided the phenomenological map in figure 6.1 to show how the worlds of experience are related to the experiencer, on the one hand, and to the sources from which phenomenological experience springs, on the other. Note that neither the means by which the perceived worlds are constructed nor the constituents from which they are derived are detailed on the map: important as they are, these essentials are not phenomenologically apparent, and hence are not included. After using the phenomenological map to suggest how ego and ethos combine in the worlds of an individual’s awareness, I will use it to dare suggest a basis for reexamining ethics. The most important feature of the map is the large oval at the top, labeled “Sovereign Self” and graced with a “you are here” dot. The

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Acting Sovereign Self Experiencing

= You are here

Awareness

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Combiner module Constructor module

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Figure 6.1 The Phenomenological Map and Ancillary Realms

oval designates the phenomenological self, the locus of immediate experience where sentience somehow takes place and acts of will are somehow initiated. A fuller elaboration of the “Sovereign Self” concept will emerge in the discussion of the ego that follows. Three pairs of arrows connect the Sovereign Self oval to three rectangles, labeled “Things Perceived as Meaningful,” “Perceived Inner World,” and “Perceived Outer World.” The paired arrows honor the possibility of voluntarily controlling the salience of the contents of each of those worlds by altering the attention paid to them (outward-bound, dash-dot arrow), so that awareness (inward-bound solid arrow) is enhanced or diminished. The large rectangle labeled “Mind” is depicted as responsible for the three worlds that are consciously perceived. The mind itself does not enter awareness; consciousness extends only to representations that the mind produces. Because meaningful things are also constructs of the mind, produced without awareness by combining information from perceived inner and outer worlds, as depicted by the shaded arrows, their synthetic character often escapes notice. “Mind,” “Body,” and “Brain” are located—without further differentiation—in a single

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rectangle to reflect the fact that, while a variety of distinctions regarding these entities are made by several disciplines, the distinctions are not salient at the phenomenological level of the sovereign self, and thus do not require further specification on a phenomenological map. A one-way arrow connects the oval of the sovereign self to the shaded rectangle of the mind. Labeled “Output to Mind,” this arrow represents the impact of volition, of acts of will, on cognitive and behavioral processes. The feedback loop between the sovereign-self oval and the mind rectangle is completed by the three perceived worlds of experience. The Ego and the Map The phenomenological map is not a map of the Freudian ego because it makes a sharp distinction between the rectangle labeled “Mind” and the oval labeled “Sovereign Self.” The distinction between mind and sovereign self is at the heart of EH psychology’s focus on sentience and volition. While EH psychology does agree with Freud’s goal of understanding the mind/brain system physically and computationally, it departs from that commitment where the sovereign self is concerned: neither sentience nor volition fits comfortably within any physicalist or cause-and-effect scheme, and neither, a fortiori, does phenomenology. Might the difference in kind between the phenomena of awareness (sentience and volition) and the rule-governed cognitive processes of the brain be a matter of wishful thinking, some soft-minded, muddleheaded, and slightly pathetic hope that there is more to “being human” than there is to being a machine? Might the distinction be gratuitous? Maybe not: the architecture of contemporary computers—laptops to desktops to mainframes—offers reason to think otherwise.2 The term “computer” implies a computing engine (say, a Turing machine) and—in complex modern machines—includes the necessary presence of a “supervisor system.” A desktop computer’s supervisor system automatically adjusts the allocation of computing elements to the demands of the problems presented to it. Larger machines, in addition to an automatic supervisor module, likely are subordinate to a human “system administrator,” who controls resource allocations directly. Some of the system administrator’s adjustments to the computing network reflect considerations that have nothing to do with 2. See Krippendorff (2008).

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efficient operation of the machine per se but reflect the politics of the organization that owns the machine: the egos of management, the perceived importance of problems, the expense of computer time, and so on. Matters like these are outside of purely computational issues and cannot be inferred from study of machine behavior alone.3 There is no way to tell if adjustments to a computing network have been generated wholly by modules within it or by a human systems administrator. And there is no way of telling, behaviorally, whether the sovereign self is just another mental module, as the materialistic Freudian view would hold, or represents an entirely different type of “administrator.” Each sovereign self is free to decide! The important distinction between the computational engine and its administrator is, surprisingly, captured in one of the working concepts that have evolved from the practice of psychodynamic psychotherapy4—the distinction between the observing ego and the participating ego. Hopefully, the “participating” ego is the rational actor.5 The “observing” ego stands apart: it can report on what seems, consciously, to be going on. In analytic sessions, both patient and analyst work primarily with their respective observing egos. The patient uses the observing ego to report the forces and feelings that lead to actions and decisions—whether perceived at the time as voluntary or habitual—even as the analyst is using the observing ego to detect and manage the “countertransferences”6 that are likely to arise in the course of the analytic hour. The concept of the participating ego extends to both mind and sovereign self, because both play roles—albeit rather significantly contrasting ones—in behavior. Within the phenomenological system, the 3. The situation is exactly analogous to the “glass part-full or part-empty” conundrum— the question cannot be answered by physical measurement, but only according to the interests of the perceiver. Whether “emptiness versus fullness,” “pleasing versus poisonous,” or “tasty versus vile” is at issue cannot be established by physically examining a vessel and its contents. The framing of the question depends not on what is seen, but on the mind of the beholder. The question begins in the mind of the observer, not the objective reality of whatever is observed. 4. A form of psychotherapy that embodies Freud’s deterministic system and traces current concerns to events that happened in the individual’s past. 5. Specifically, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the part of the mind “which, acted upon by both the id and the superego (ego ideal), mediates with the environment.” 6. The term refers to the unresolved conflicts that the patient stirs up in the analyst. When recognized, these provide the analyst with valuable clues about the forces at work in the analysis.

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aspect of the participating ego included in the mind is, like all the other functions of brain and computational mind, taken to be governed by cause-and-effect rules and thus not truly voluntary. The aspect of participating ego included in the sovereign self involves true agency: the capacity to initiate behavior for its own reasons. As the active agent overseeing the mind’s operations, the sovereign self therefore is the aspect of a person that can be held legally, morally, and ethically responsible for that person’s actions. And like any other sovereign, of course, the sovereign self has only limited power to govern events7 and has a duty to take into account the expectable consequences of actions freely chosen. The division of the ego into observing and participating parts is a functional distinction. Despite its origins in psychoanalytic practice, this distinction is phenomenologically meaningful to most people because it refers to familiar states of consciousness: self-reflection, on the one hand, and active, truly voluntary engagement in the process of living, on the other. Likewise, the incorporation of both ego functions into a sovereign self that stands outside the mind, quite the way a system administrator stands outside a computing engine, is also phenomenologically comfortable; it accords well with the everyday subjective experience that provides the perspective of this chapter. As sovereign self is to mind, so is pilot to aircraft, rider to horse, driver to car. And in each case, the functioning agent—sovereign self, pilot, rider, or driver—sometimes simply observes the goings on, intervening only occasionally. From the phenomenological perspective, these “experiencing” and “acting” operations appear to be seamlessly coordinated. There is no need to parse the territory of subjective experience further, and indeed it may be impossible to do so. Beyond Sovereign Self Experience The three lowermost terms appearing in the box at the bottom of the phenomenological map bear no specific relationship to each other or to the contents of the mind region of the map. Hidden from phenomenological view, they impact the sovereign self only indirectly, through 7. As legend has it, King Canute, who commanded the tides to stand still, knowing all too well that he would not be heeded, engaged in that act as a means of putting a halt to the exaggerations of his sovereign powers by sycophantic subordinates. This myth provides a suitable example, almost a graphic illustration, of my meaning in this instance.

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their combined influence on the structures within the mind rectangle and thereafter, directly on the perceived worlds. Two of these terms represent influences studied in the physical and biological sciences. The impact of things physical often appears in the “Perceived Outer World.” The genomic influence—the effect of genes on the brain and mind, representing the evolutionary origins of human nature—includes much of what is instinctively human, from abilities as basic as language and the capacity to self-reflect, to the images and archetypes that are part of the inner world’s “collective unconscious” (Jung 1917, 66). The referent of the third term, denoting to the possibility of a spiritual influence on the brain (see Wilber 2000 for an extended discussion), remains an open question. In line with the lack of theological or spiritual commitment underlying the EH view, spiritual influence is given a place among the precursors of mind, but not a more detailed functional significance on the phenomenological map. Together, these underpinnings of brain, body, and mind combine to produce the genius of individuality that lies within each person. In the phenomenological framework, these underpinnings somehow produce what Rogers (1951) has called an “organismic valuing process,” a functional “inner navigational system” that provides meaning, value, and significance to objects and possibilities, including those that come to sovereign self-attention. The organismic valuing process provides the native, endogenous, agenda of the sovereign self, similar to the way information in the genome provides the native, endogenous, agenda for building a person’s phenotype at the cellular level. For Rogers, the organismic valuing process is the key to “selfactualization,”8 the master motive or basic tendency of all sentient creatures to “actualize, maintain, and enhance the experiencing organism” (Rogers 1951, 487). Maslow (1971, 311), like Rogers, names “selfactualization” as the product of living in accord with “being values” and of respecting needs arising from one’s private “growth motivation.” Other EH theorists—Adler (1935/1956, 206) and May (1958, 55), for example, share with Rogers and Maslow the basic idea of a fundamental motivation to grow and develop throughout the life span, honoring a potential for actualizing within whatever circumstances 8. The term, a commonplace of the EH psychologies, originates with Kurt Goldstein (1939, 1940).

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(favorable or unfavorable) present themselves. The omnipresence of an “actualizing process” is a central tenet of all EH theories, although there is no general agreement about which specific sources produce it. As understood in EH theory, the process of self-actualizing is continuous throughout life, and it is possible to honor one’s personal actualizing process at every moment of conscious experience, however favorable or dire the particular moment may be. Doing so provides the sovereign self with an inner sense or feeling9 of “authenticity,” of personal “congruence,” and of “integrity.” The feeling emerges as a gestalt, as a consequence of the wholeness of the full worldview available to the sovereign self—an Umschauung that includes the self as a meaningful object on which one’s very own inner and outer worlds harmoniously converge to create a well-integrated whole. The humanistic assumption is that when fully experienced, this gestalt favors choice of actions that are both self-actualizing and prosocial. An implication of the assumption is that psychotherapy is largely a matter of un-concealing all the elements of the gestalt formed by the perception of self and circumstance.10 Its presence may be blocked in some individuals, and perhaps may be entirely absent in others.11 Only if a critical mass of people satisfy the assumption will the argument developed in the rest of the chapter make sense. Ego: Identity and Integrity The ego, for Freud, is the part of the mind that develops to manage commerce with the external world, gratifying both the libidinal id and the moral superego as rapidly and deftly as possible, while satisfying the reality principle.12 In the Freudian system, the ego is responsible not only for managing the physical world, taking account of cause-andeffect relationships among physical things, but also for responding to 9. This feeling, always welcome, may or may not be accompanied by a feeling of wellbeing, which depends more on circumstances. 10. Across the span of EH theories are many explanations of why potentially meaningful objects might be concealed from sovereign self-awareness; for present purposes, it is enough to draw attention to the humanistic assumption that denial or distortion of meaningful objects detracts from the experience of welcome wholeness that accompanies the gestalt. 11. A possibility that underlies the EH view of severe psychopathology. 12. The “reality principle” was Freud’s acknowledgment of an individual’s need to take account of the real-world consequences of one’s actions.

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the significance of things when they are perceived as imbued with biological and social qualities that turn them into personally meaningful, not merely physical, things. Two of the most important sources of meaning arise from the individual’s actualizing process and from the individual’s ethos. Ethos specifies an array of available roles an individual can play—for example, spouse, warrior, citizen, or thief—and includes instructions for how they are to be played. The complex of roles that an individual accepts constitutes the individual’s social identity, an aspect of ego identity that depends on the ethos. The way a sovereign self honors the actualizing process in turn provides the individual’s personal identity. There may well be other sources of identity besides ethos and actualization, but these two are the main influences on the reexamination of ethics I will propose. When ego identity is fully formed at the end of adolescence, the individual is prepared to take on the responsibilities of adult life, dealing with the central issues of intimacy and productivity (Erikson 1963, 263–268) as expressions of both social and personal identity. In the final stage of an individual’s life, where the end of life is now undeniably closing in, time is all too short to take a Mulligan.13 In Erikson’s theory, a successful life—one that near the end yields a sense of ego integrity—need not follow a straight or simple path. As Erikson (1963, 268–269) puts it: “Only in him who in some way has taken care of things and people and has adapted himself to the triumphs and disappointments adherent to being . . . may gradually ripen the fruit of [the prior] seven stages. I know of no better word for it than ego integrity.” The “integrity” to which Erikson refers requires only that, in the view of the individual reflecting on a lifetime, “the one and only life cycle is . . . accepted as the ultimate in life.” To do so fully requires that the individual accept that it is too late to redo the life.14 Failure to accept produces disgust and despair: the very opposites of ego integrity. •

•

take responsibility for the personal identity that has been forged voluntarily in a partnership between mind and sovereign self and that must continue to be expressed in a way that honors the still-active actualizing process, so that it may produce an experience that “conveys 13. A polite name for amateur golfers redoing, and not counting, an errant shot. 14. Unlike, for example, at the time of the “midlife” crisis, when a makeover still may seem possible for some.

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some spiritual sense and world order, no matter how dearly paid for.” •

find full and sufficient value in the ethos that played a role in the individual’s social identity: enough to acknowledge that the “style of integrity” provided by it was adequate in guiding the individual’s “moral paternity” of the personal life voluntarily lived. •

accept that “an individual life is the accidental coincidence of but one life cycle with but one segment of history; and that for him, all human integrity stands or falls with the one style of integrity of which he partakes”; that particular circumstances—material, social, and spiritual— were mere accidents of time and place; that what brings the attainment of ego integrity to an individual’s life is the way circumstances were managed by the sovereign self, honoring the actualizing process in the context of whatever possibilities were present. This quick summary of the way ego identity finds fulfillment in the achievement of ego integrity does not detail the challenges that characterize the intervening stages of intimacy and generativity, nor does it provide an understanding of how vicissitudes of living—triumphs and disappointments alike—contribute to its attainment. It, however, does make more understandable Erikson’s claim that in this “final consolidation, death loses its sting.” For Erik Erikson, the fulfillment of one’s life results from the actualization of one’s identity, personal and social, inside the context, demands, and opportunities of one’s perceived inner and outer worlds, and the meaningful things they have provided. Erikson concludes his discussion of ego integrity by pointing to a gift that can be conferred by those in the final stage of life upon those occupied with the demands of the earlier stages. He submits that “healthy children will not fear life if their elders have integrity enough not to fear death.” The sagacious suggestion reveals how ego can actively contribute to an ethos that nurtures fulfillment in those still busy blazing their own trail through the yet-to-be-experienced territory of their individual and conscious lives. But it also helps to illustrate the kind of intergenerational support that successful cultures require. Alternatives to Erikson’s formulation may be found outside of the EH framework; most prominent currently is Greenberg, Pyszczynski, and Solomon’s (1986) “terror management theory,” essentially the idea that life is lived with the primary purpose of avoiding thoughts of death.

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Erikson’s theory15 (1963, 247–274) still stands alone in providing a view of human development that makes sense of all stages of life and provides guidance for intergenerational relationships. It does not drag a theological commitment with it in order to make sense of the human endgame, and it fits well with the evolutionary considerations that follow. An Evolutionary Look at Ego and Ethos In EH personality theory, the fundamental nihilism of the existential outlook is tempered by the unrelenting optimism of the humanistic view, particularly apparent in the concept of the actualizing process as a human pursuit inherently proindividual and prosocial. Is this just a pseudoscientific form of whistling in the dark, notwithstanding the neutrality of EH psychology on whether spiritual input is null, negative, or positive? Whether there is a future for things human—importantly among them, our ego, ethos, and ethics—may well be decided within the lifetime of the next generation or two.16 Recognition of our capacity for self-destruction is more realistic than portentous, given the technologies we have developed: simultaneously, groups of humans— whether nationalities, religions, or ethnicities—are no longer separated by natural boundaries of time and space, while their powerful destructive capacity becomes ever more inventively excessive: on the one hand, the relatively slow defilement of the whole planet’s ecology; on the other, the immediate destruction of each other by weapons of mass destruction (WMD). Where once the shooting of an arrow was a highly personal and skilled destructive act, these days activating the switch on a doomsday machine is much simpler, depending at most on two keys and one button, and requires no more attention or skill than summoning an elevator. The destructive power individuals can now 15. Erikson was analyzed by Anna Freud, as she was being supervised by her father Sigmund. Although a child analyst, Erikson formulated the central theory of adolescence and extended his theorizing to cover the entire human life span. It is interesting that, while Erikson’s background and orientation were psychodynamic, his depiction of the human life cycle fits remarkably well with the substance of existential-humanistic psychology. The fit is the result, in part, of Erikson’s anthropological studies of Native Americans, and also of his pioneering work in psychohistory. It evidently also grew from the intuitive understanding he brought to psychoanalysis that there is a tad more to life than just id impulses and their management. 16. Our editor once remarked that, as noted in the unpublished Dostoevsky, “everything now depends on the next century.”

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command, whether by word or finger tap, can destroy the ecology of the species—an unintended if somewhat ironic consequence of mankind’s desire to triumph over nature. The conditions that have provided safety in ages past—the separation of clans and nations by distance and time and human-sized destructive capacities—are no longer in force; they have been largely superseded. Nowadays, we tend to fear the designs of societies at antipodes more often than we can find reason to dread the vicious bite of our unfriendly next-door neighbor’s pit bull. This is a new development in the history of species, and it provides a context of urgency within which to consider the question of whether or not we (and biological fellow travelers) are about to hit a dead end, as have so many other species before us. From the EH perspective, the answer depends first on the specifics of our organismic valuing process: Is there a sound humanistic core present within individuals that can guide both proindividual and prosocial behavior? And second: If present, can such a core be used to build an ethos within which individuals and their societies can flourish? The possibility is worth considering, in light of the dreadful—possible and already emerging—alternatives. Robert Wright (2000), an expositor of Darwinian thinking, has formulated a position that supports the plausibility of mankind’s ability to develop the requisite personal and social identities. His vision fits nicely with the EH paradigm and the view of human nature represented by the phenomenological map. Though grounded on the dynamics of evolutionary process, his stance is not less optimistic than the humanistic view itself. He bases his argument on the following points: •

“Evolution’s arrow points in the direction of complexity.” Evolution proceeds toward complexity by cycles: stable state, then challenge to stasis, then attainment of a more highly organized new stable state represented by an emergent new species. •

Typically, the new stable state involves the formation of a cooperative alliance of specialized parts already present, and separately active, but not yet coordinated to act in concert.17 Complex multicelled organisms thus are regarded as communities of specialized parts. Every development uniting specialized parts into a new whole represents a solution 17. The merger of mitochondria-based and chromosome-based cell nuclei into eukaryotic cells containing both kinds of nuclei within a single cell wall is a dramatic example. See Wright (2000, 251–261) for a full and accessible treatment of this and similar examples.

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to the challenge to survive that is based on the formation of a new, more complex, entity.18 •

The parts of a complex entity are “all in the same boat”—they share a common fate in terms of life and death, and reproduction. Wright casts this view in game-theoretical terms, pointing out that the parts of a whole necessarily relate to each other in non-zero-sum, cooperative, fashion, and not in a winner-takes-all type of contention that may have existed before the parts joined into a new, more complex, more internally more interdependent, whole. He remarks that iterative games favor non-zero-sum relationships—if individual gains and losses across single repetitions are kept within broad, reasonable, and not extravagant limits.19 •

The human species itself is specialized for adaptation: we occupy a wide range of physically diverse territories across the globe, in expanses that may be dry or wet, hot or cold, and so on. We respond to competition for scarce resources (implying the ultimate engine of evolutionary development) by developing effective technology that we can use as extensions of our raw strength, of our fighting skills,20 and of those of our social structures that organize and integrate the talents and abilities of individual human beings.21 •

Our speed of adaptation, an enormous advantage in the competitive struggle with other species, does not proceed primarily through genetic modifications. Those take many generations and so (in our case) many millennia. We humans do not adapt at the relatively slow rate of other species; rather, through the development of symbolic thought and the complex cultural legacy it permits, we can quickly create particular ideas, mythic or scientific, that can exist in the minds of members of a 18. In the context of our evolutionary look at ego and ethos, it seems clear that the threat of humanity’s self-annihilation provides compelling motivation for evolution to a new ethos, a new moral ordering of social relationships. 19. He bases this assertion on the remarkable work of Axelrod (1984). Comment: The destructive power now at hand puts us all in the same boat: out-of-control WMDs can sink “the boat,” drowning us all quickly, while out-of-control exploitation of planetary resources can lead to the same end point, if only more gradually so. 20. Our next adaptation, which needs to happen rapidly, may well involve a new understanding of personal identity, nurtured by a new, nondestructive ethos. 21. The needed complexity arises, not from the need for new physical force, but from the need for development of social structures that effectively synthesize competitive and cooperative elements of social interactions. This is not as hard to imagine as it might seem. Is not competition in a game of tennis between friends subordinated to the interests of both partners in playing the game for mutual enjoyment, by preagreed rules?

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community or culture.22 Some of these ideas will be uniquely combined into the personal identity of an individual, and others will be influential in the formation of social identity and the particulars of ethos that underlie it. Wright also discusses, albeit more tentatively, the possible role of human consciousness in bringing about the reorganizations needed by the destructive power we have created. His outlook, though stated in his own particular terms, is nonetheless analogous to the notion of sovereign self as system administrator developed earlier in this chapter. On either account, the question of significance for human evolution is whether the destructive force we have created can still be controlled. From the individual perspective, the answer will depend on whether ego, in aspects pertinent to its sovereign self, can create an ethos that will support an ethic, which provides the values and the imperatives needed for the survival of the species as a whole. From the EH psychological perspective, the answer turns on the traits and characteristics of the actualizing process, the driving force behind ego identity formation. Put another way, are we now prepared, thanks to our genes and memes, to develop an emergent ethos that supports our self-actualization while tempering the impact of our destructive capability? Speaking of Ethics Ethics, in its contemporary meaning,23 first and foremost implies focal concern with deontological principles of human dos and don’ts in daily professional, relational, and situational contexts. Although, functionally, ethics is a body of principles that undergirds an ethos rationalizing a set of standards of conduct to which a sovereign self is expected to subscribe, discourse on all issues of ethics proceeds philosophically, giving center stage not only to logic, aesthetics, and politics, but— today, not surprisingly—to morality and theology as well.24 The phenomenological perspective is not commonly part of the conversation: the sovereign self is seen as subordinate to, not as progenitor of, ethical 22. The necessary schematic and conceptual ideas that exist in human minds and alter human relationships are called memes, a term and concept first proposed by Dawkins (1989). 23. Cf. the term’s classical sense, and its original scope, as compared to morals, in chap. 8 by J. J. Mulhern, in this book. 24. See Donald Baker, chap. 9 in this book.

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principles. What is the point of adding sovereign self concerns to discourse on ethics? The answer lies in the functional relation of ethics to ethos, and thus in ethics’ relevance to the sovereign self’s task of taking ethos as well as the individual actualization process into account as it forms a full ego identity. Through ethics as a body of abstract imperatives transmitted by an ethos, the sovereign self represents these imperatives in the particulars of social identity. When ethical imperatives are integrated with the equally necessary demands of the individual’s actualizing process, the sovereign self has opened the way to satisfying the remaining tasks of ego development, ultimately achieving ego integrity. The sovereign self’s demand on ethics, then, is that its principles be formulated in a manner that provides the ethos with behaviorally prescriptive expectations on all who share it. This satisfies the ego’s need to take the consequences of actions into account. If social identity is inconsistent with personal identity, the sovereign self has a hopeless task: now elements of the two forms of identity are at war, and the sovereign self must hence prioritize and adjudicate, rather than reconcile and integrate—in essence, thereby, recapitulating the similarly hopeless task of the Freudian ego’s need to adjudicate between the interests of the superego and the id. By contrast, and in concert with Erikson’s view of ego integrity as the final sequel to individual identity formation, the EH system can offer a possibility that is not hopeless at all: an ethical principle that is compatible with ego integrity and capable of representation in an ethos that moderates or eliminates the destructive alternatives that appear to be bearing down upon us. Social identity—drawn from ethos, the basis on which culture is perpetuated—plays a clear role in the viability of the human species and its capacity to adapt, survive, and overcome. Likely, it will be formed around an ethical principle that guides the voluntary conduct of individuals toward a society worth living in. A Concrete Example From a phenomenological EH perspective, based on the foregoing, a reexamination of ethics would therefore focus on the possibility of developing a prescription for ethical practice that might serve as a prime constituent of an evolving ethos. As an example of one such constituent, I will propose a principle that satisfies the ethical

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abstraction Kant formulated on the basis of reason,25 while adding to it a stipulated duty to others—one consistent with the ever urgent need to develop a sustainable intergenerational culture, which honors the huge individual variations brought about by expressions of the actualizing process. Note that the soundness of the principle can be empirically probed, and it is open to supplementation or combination with other principles, depending on experience gained over the way it operates in practice, beginning with pilot-laboratory context and, if successful, subsequently, within realistic cultural contexts as well. The principle I will introduce next is proposed as a possibility,26 interesting not for its logic but for its contribution to meeting the need to develop sustainable nondestructive changes in the ethos. It hence represents a direction for social growth and evolution—not a revolution against human nature or a reaction to the cultural mores that have emerged this far. The principle is practical because it takes advantage of an aspect of human nature that, as understood in EH/Eriksonian theory, should permit all in a human society to thrive. Suppose, for concreteness, that we define as a primary duty our commitment to support the steps each individual takes, or attempts to take, in the direction of ego integrity; and, for ease of reference, let us call this duty the “EH ethic of ego integrity.” The principle falls under Kant’s well-known categorical imperative27 and satisfies Kant’s further humanistic elaboration.28 Of course Kant’s categorical imperative does not uniquely favor this particularization: its appeal rests instead on the validity of the EH/Eriksonian theory’s testable assumptions about human nature.29 Thus—and not insignificantly—as an expression of EH theory, the principle is compatible both with purely evolutionary and with foremost theological or spiritual commitments. The EH ethic of ego integrity is an example of a tenet which, if honored, points the way to a nondestructive ethos quite capable of providing the basis of a social identity. Integrated with a personal identity guided by the individual’s particular actualizing process, the EH ethic of ego integrity thus supports the formation of an ego identity 25. See Paul Guyer, chap. 3 in this book. 26. See Krippendorff (2008) regarding “possibilistic systems.” 27. That is, act so that the [determining motive of will] may be capable of becoming a universal law for all rational beings (Ming 1908). 28. That is, act so as to use humanity, whether in your own person or in others, always as an end, and never merely as a means (Ming 1908). 29. For an incisive critique in connection with modern sociopolitical civic contexts, see Cameron (2008).

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compatible with both prosocial and self-expressive behavior—just the sort of synthesis that provides the gateway to further ego development, and toward the ultimate attainment of ego integrity. The ethos that supports the EH ethic of ego integrity might well be expected to be stable and enduring, because—as the culmination of a fully developed ego identity that it is—ego integrity never is a scarce resource but, rather, a richness available to each and every individual. Living out this possibility in a community would also provide for a contribution every older generation could make to the generations following, thereby adding to the enlivenment of each. The principle simultaneously also would promote social relationships that include acknowledgment and respect for each person’s own identity and need to mature through willing participation in the succession of life roles. Most deeply, perhaps, the principle promotes sovereign-self awareness and genuine respect for the actualizing process—in oneself, but surely also in others. The EH ethic of ego integrity supports an ethos, and of course laws consistent with it, that keep competitive interactions within a framework of gains and losses at magnitudes consistent with win/win solutions to iterative games30 and thus preempt the kind of humdrum ethos that views competition and risk as inherently exploitative or distasteful. The job for an ethos and for the community that embodies it is to keep the risks and gains of competition, as well as the magnitude of gains and losses from competitive interaction, within humane and sustainable bounds. In light of Axelrod’s remarkable findings, the magnitude of the task seems less than daunting: it is capable of regulation by a system of laws similar to those already at work in many democratic societies. What about greed, avariciousness, or covetous desire? Within the EH framework, these and other inherently antisocial lusts, too, are regarded as compensations for unexpressed portions of an individual’s actualizing process, not as a fundamental part of the genome. Whether or not it is realistic to view greed and many other overwhelming urges to dominate as pathological expressions of stunted personal growth (Maslow 1954) is at bottom a researchable question, albeit one that cannot be answered without taking account of the ethos within which sovereign self-activity takes place. From a rational point of view, it would be better to gamble on the EH view of the actualizing process. 30. Axelrod (1984, chap. 3).

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The rewards of a successful gamble are ample, and worth the effort, while the penalty if the gamble is wrong is not likely to be worse than the disaster that looms if there is no major effort to reformulate the current ethos from which the destructive forces that confront us have emerged. Is This Example of an EH Ethic Realistic? Little is gained by supposing that the EH ethic of ego integrity— embedded in an ethos and a supportive community—is less realistic than the cataclysmic alternatives it rises to counter. This ethical principle provides a promising starting point from which a workable ethic, of the kind that is needed now, can be developed: if anything resembling the posited EH actualizing process can be identified and supported in a substantial number of individual lives, the process should prove capable of guiding individual growth from ego identity to ego integrity, fulfilling the ethical principle’s positive promise of contributing to an emergent and nonlethal social order. Whereas a direct inquiry involving a multigenerational study in model cultures would be repellant and grandiose, there fortunately do exist avenues of research that could be pursued under much more modest requirements and circumstances. Some examples of appropriate and potentially important areas of inquiry could include the following interrogations: •

Does the phenomenological map satisfy Sullivan’s one-genus postulate, and successfully describe some common features of the territory of human awareness? Are these features recognizable in all stages of adult life and in a wide variety of cultures? In other words, is the phenomenological map generally descriptive of human experience? Whatever implications might be drawn about the purpose of consciousness or human nature, if the mapping holds, is a separate question—the implications of the phenomenological map could be developed by investigation of further questions; some, like those that follow. •

Is communication at the sovereign self level meaningful and engaging when it involves individuals situated very differently along the spectrum of human talents and abilities? This question goes to the feasibility of establishing a community of sovereign selves, each dedicated to empowering the others’ efforts to honor their individual endeavors to self-actualize. One way to explore this would be to

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compare the effectiveness of task-focused groups that honor the sovereign self perspective of each member with the effectiveness of taskoriented groups that do not. It would be instructive reliably to assess bonding among diverse categories of individuals within particular communities as a function of whether or not each takes the sovereign self perspective of the others seriously, as EH theory requires. •

In task-oriented groups, is it important to take each member’s efforts to self-actualize into account, so that participation is personally meaningful, or is it a distraction to do so? Do groups so organized turn out to be more effective and productive than statistically and otherwise comparable groups, whose members participate only for rewards that are unrelated to the personal meaningfulness of their participation? Probably, if rewards for participation were balanced between groups, to ‘equate’ overall effectiveness, the costs and benefits of personally meaningful participation could be quantitatively assessed. •

Does ignoring or inhibiting aspects of individuals’ actualizing process have deleterious effects on an individual’s experience of living and capacity to contribute to others (as the EH position holds), or is it best to hold at least some aspects of individual actualizing tendencies in check (as psychoanalytic thinking would maintain)? Does despair among the elderly arise exclusively when the individual’s actualizing process has been in part neglected, ignored, or suppressed? Does some sort of danger for individuals or communities lurk in one or another part of the fully developed actualizing process? More generally, when the actualizing process is fully honored and respected, is the result really dependably benign and prosocial?31 These and similar questions, appropriately formulated for empirical inquiry, are well within the ambit of established research methodologies. And the results they produce would enhance or diminish the plausibility of taking the familiar features of ordinary human awareness into account when considering the evolution of ethos and its implications for a reexamination of ethics. Rephrased, revised, or supplemented as evidence indicates, if these propositions were not robustly affirmed, 31. There may be occasional problems with individuals whose actualizing process is inadequate or dangerous. The question is not whether there are any exceptions to the EH expectation, but whether there exists a substantial majority of individuals whose actualizing process is waiting to be encouraged. The practical need to shield group process from occasional malignant outliers is an obligation any social system must meet.

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then the possible contribution of the EH ethic of ego integrity would be in doubt. While there may be other paths to the goal of establishing nondestructive relations among human beings as individuals and among their social groupings, it is doubtful that EH psychology would be a part of these other pursuits. To cope with a fundamentally malign human nature, different means would be needed. Research on questions like these promises to contribute to an understanding of whether the EH ethic of ego integrity has practical implications for governing the relations among individuals and their communities by focusing on relationships at the sovereign self level. Appropriate research could be designed to illuminate the strengths and limitations of the EH-qua-Erikson’s assumptions, thereby also running the risk of destroying the plausibility of this approach. Although the risk of falsifying premises is always a possibility through worthwhile research, that very same risk is also a potential source of strength: for, pari passu, evenhanded research has the capacity to make valid hypotheses more likely to be taken seriously. Conclusion I have approached the question of reexamining ethics from the point of view of the apparent realities of everyday consciousness, summarized in a phenomenological map that treats these realities as the territory of subjective human experience. The main features shown on the map are a sovereign self, where awareness in successive moments of one’s “now” somehow takes place; a region called mind that is involved in producing these realities; and an array of underlying outside sources of both sovereign self and mind that extend from the material to the spiritual. In order to apply these features of human experience to questions of ethics, the map is to be used within the framework of existential/humanistic (EH) psychology, animated by Erik Erikson’s theory of adult human development and imparted purpose by Robert Wright’s analysis of the evolutionary challenge opposed to mankind by the success of its technological achievements. The phenomenological map depicts the outlook of an individual going about the task of consciously managing his or her particular human life. I have argued that the process of individual growth and self-actualization, with its promise of the attainable satisfactions of ego integrity, suggests the practicality of a community whose ethos is based on an “EH ethic of ego integrity,” expressed as the duty of each to

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support the steps every member takes or attempts to take in the direction of ego integrity. A community that successfully ‘joins’ selfactualizing individuals would need to support a broad variety of pathways to ego integrity, from the highly competitive to the inner directed, honoring each while coordinating (not in a sense of control, but in a spirit of facilitation) their contributions to the whole. Does the EH ethic of ego integrity imply a Pollyanna view of human nature and require unrealistic support from a utopian polity? No: instead, it calls for consideration of the neglected yet likely productive resources available in the phenomena of awareness and the desire of individuals to actualize the possibilities of their human nature, supported by a social context governed by practical precepts—of the sort proposed by Axelrod. This is a workable combination of ego and ethos, and as such also available for empirical exploration. Modified according to experience, it opens a path toward meeting the challenges to survival that reveal the dark side of our spectacular technological achievements—including and in particular our newfound prowess in ‘dual-use’ technologies. The phenomenological view, expressed within the framework I have advanced to support it, merits consideration as a step toward not only a more successful but also a more humane social evolution, along with the other views of the future of ethics that this book offers. One thing is clear: humanity has a realistic and perhaps final chance to develop an ethos built on the notion that each individual has an obligation to permit every other individual to prosper and to thrive according to his or her human potential. Failure to develop in this direction points toward the dusk of our species, and of many others on the planet as well. The habitually largely neglected facts of our phenomenology point in an alternative, significant, and powerful new direction. References Adler, Alfred (1935/1956) “The Use of Heredity and Environment,” in Heinz L. Ansbacher and Rowena R. Ansbacher, Editors, The Individual Psychology of Alfred Adler, New York: Basic Books. Axelrod, Robert (1984) The Evolution of Cooperation. New York: Basic Books. Cameron, Kevin (2008) “Beyond Ideology, Toward a New Ethic of Freedom?” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Freedom: Reassessments and Rephrasings, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Dawkins, Robert (1989) The Selfish Gene, New York: Oxford University Press.

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Erikson, Erik H. (1963) Childhood and Society, New York: Norton. Goldstein, Kurt (1939) The Organism, New York: American Book. ——— (1940) Human Nature. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Greenberg, Jeff, Tom Pyszczynski, and Seldon Solomon (1986) “The Causes and Consequences of a Need for Self-Esteem: A Terror Management Theory,” in R. F. Baumeister, Editor, Public and Private Self, New York: Springer-Verlag. Guyer, Paul (2008) “Indeterminacy, and Freedom of the Will,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Indeterminacy: The Mapped, the Navigable, and the Uncharted, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Jung, Carl G. (1917/1971) “Two Essays on Analytical Psychology,” Collected Works of C. G. Jung, vol. 7, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ——— (1921/1971) “Psychological Types,” Collected Works of C. G. Jung, vol. 6, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Krippendorff, Klaus (2008) “Four (In)determinabilities—Not One!” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Indeterminacy: The Mapped, the Navigable, and the Uncharted, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Maslow, Abraham H. (1954) Motivation and Personality, New York: Harper. ——— (1971) The Farther Reaches of Human Nature, New York: Penguin. May, Rollo R. (1958) “Ontological Guilt,” in Rollo May, Ernest Angel, and Henri Ellenberger, Editors. Existence: A New Dimension in Psychiatry and Psychology, New York: Basic Books. Ming, John (1908) The Catholic Encyclopedia, New York: Robert Appleton. Rogers, Carl R. (1951) Client-Centered Therapy: Its Current Practice, Implications, and Theory. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Sullivan, Harry S. (1953) The Interpersonal Theory of Psychiatry, New York: W. W. Norton. Wilber, Ken (2000) Integral Psychology, Boston: Shambha. Wright, Robert (2000) Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny, New York: Pantheon.

7

Trust, Ethics, and Markets Paul R. Kleindorfer

The basic thought I would like to convey is this. In line with the work of Francis Fukuyama (1995) and Adam Seligman (1997), it is precisely at moments of uncertainty about the future and when extant norms and existing obligations somehow appear to have lost traction in predicting behavior that trust is essential. In the dynamic global economy in which we live, new products and new services are emerging daily, driven by the great engine of innovation, modern capitalism. Markets are the essential institution by which such products and services are financed, produced, and sold. To be sure, not every detail is specified, let alone transparent, in a market transaction. A great deal of what is necessary for markets to work efficiently arises from an underlying trust on the part of market participants that the products being produced and sold, as well as the methods of payment for them, are governed by reasonably honest people who adhere to basic principles of integrity. When the foundations of trust disappear, markets themselves become unwieldy or cease to operate altogether. The resulting erosion of the efficiency of markets and trade can significantly affect the global economy that produces the necessary output to sustain the 6 billion souls on our planet, with huge consequences for well-being. These thoughts are not just abstract musings on my part. Many researchers have pointed out the importance of trust and equity in interpersonal relationships. Even economics, the “dismal science,” has noted the import of trust as an essential element of “social capital,” joining other elements of physical and human capital as the building blocks of an economy’s ability to create and sustain value. For example, Knack and Keefer (1997) use attitudinal surveys to demonstrate empirically that certain measures of trust (derived from their surveys) have surprisingly strong relationships with economic

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growth.1 Similarly, La Porta and colleagues (1997) show strong positive statistical associations across countries in their sample between a survey-based measure of trust and judicial efficiency, and strong negative associations between the very same measure and government corruption. Smith, Carlisle, and Michaud (2003) show that trust can be very important in promoting regulatory changes in response to what citizens may believe, rightly or wrongly, to be unfair adjustments in prices or terms of trade. These results are all clear indicators of trust as a key element of social capital. Let us consider how important trust is in even the simplest business transactions, such as purchasing household items at a supermarket. In the process, the consumer uses money or credit cards to purchase items manufactured by companies from around the world. What elements of trust are inherent in such transactions? These include the presumption that our “money” will be honored at the store, that the quality of the product is reasonable, and that the prices charged by the store are sufficiently “competitive” for comparative shopping at other stores not to be deemed worth the customer’s while. Consider the fundamental role of trust in the use of money in these transactions. Most of us no longer even think of the monetary infrastructure that assures the value of instruments such as money and coinage that reflects the assumed current and the presumed future rights embodied in it to the usufruct of the planet. In some parts of the world, where political corruption and ineptitude cloud the value of money, very different strategies have to be adopted by citizens to make sure that they are able to continue to fulfill their fundamental needs for food, shelter, and security. Money, in effect, is a symbolic source of the rights of citizens to call on anonymous others to help meet these needs, now and in the future. Undermine its value and you move citizens several steps back from today’s economy, where specialization and narrow competence can be assumed to provide a secure existence, toward more primitive economies where each citizen has to be individually responsible to sustain self and family. Further elements of trust undergird the use of credit or debit cards if these are used to pay for transactions. For example, we trust the store owner not to set up a back-office operation to copy our credit card information, manufacture credit cards corresponding to it, and sell 1. They show, in particular, that an increase of one standard deviation in the surveybased trust indicator they use is associated with about a one-half-standard-deviation increase in economic growth across the same country sample.

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these to the highest bidder. The reader may argue that the reason for such trust is the thought that if the storeowner did engage in such tactics, law enforcement agencies would readily discover the misdeed and exercise such severe sanctions on the owner that, in anticipation of this result, no rational person (or owner) would undertake such activities. This “confidence” (as Adam Seligman would define it) in the institutions that govern the market is what allows us to go to stores and supermarkets even when we do not know the owners or employees of these establishments. But note the key issue here. If we have to rely on the credible threat of punishment for wrongdoing to assure compliance with reasonable and fair business practices, and if this is the only way to assure such practices, then the size of the regulatory force assuring monitoring and compliance will have to be much larger than it would under the rather more appealing scenario in which most store owners can be trusted to do the right thing because of their sense of moral obligation and the personal fulfillment they feel from acting according to this sense. Consider the issue of product quality and safety. We purchase canned or packaged goods even though few of us, if any, think of the infrastructure that has been put in place under modern capitalism to assure that the products we buy have met basic requirements regarding health impacts in their manufacture and distribution. Of course, we are aware that there are federal and state agencies that have this responsibility, but we operate under an assumption that somehow their reach has been sufficient to assure the quality of each and every product we buy. If trust in these institutions is eroded in the stores where produce is sold, then only products with a well-known brand can be purchased, with the general understanding that large brands have a huge stake in maintaining their reputation and will therefore be forced by the market to adhere to the strictest of standards in producing and selling their produce. But that description does not come anywhere near the nature of the economy in which we currently live, in which more than half of the value added of the U.S. economy, and even greater percentages of the global economy, arises from goods and services sold by small establishments with little or no brand image at stake. In this case, too, we could rely on regulators to act on our behalf in attempting to assure “good behavior” on the part of such establishments, but to do so would set up a monitoring station for every transaction and every establishment, effectively bringing the global economy to a standstill. Instead, what we do is “trust” in our fellow citizens to exercise

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prudent and reasonable controls on their own, using monitoring and regulatory sanctions only ex post in those instances in which the few rogues who do not comport with such reasonable practices are sanctioned. But what happens when a general attitude begins to emerge that there are more than a few rogues around? What happens, say, when the public, around the world, begins to believe that we have lost our rudder or do not need a moral compass, given the “success” of rogues that run not just the corner grocery store, but now also some of the largest companies and organizations in the world? The answer is yet to be found, but surely it will call for additional monitoring and regulation. And, perhaps as a result, newer revelations of rogue behavior will surface. Such a dynamic has the clear potential to lead to a graveyard spiral if unchecked. To illustrate the dangers that confront us, I want to consider the evolution of two salient examples from my research indicating the delicate balance between markets, ethics, and trust, and the severe problems that arise from an erosion of trust. The examples are taken from the energy sector and the chemical sector. These sectors illustrate different strands of the preceding supermarket story, in that each is concerned with the centrality of trust, along with the consequences of eroding trust, for the companies and institutions that govern market transactions in major sectors of the economy. Energy: The Double Whammy of California and Enron2 The California electricity crisis did not start as a crisis of trust. It was rather part of a more general failure of deregulation. Policies were adopted that were relatively easy to adopt, while other policies that were necessary for success simply were not followed. In principle, the California restructuring that began in 1998 appeared to be a promising development. It seemed to apply some of the recent theoretical developments in restructuring energy markets proposed by reputable economists, and it seemed on the face of it to offer the potential for greater competition and incentives, and to encourage the California utilities to become more efficient. However, as it was implemented, the California approach made many serious errors. Starting with the nuts and bolts, California failed 2. For a further discussion of the crisis of trust in energy markets, see Crew and Kleindorfer (2002).

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to introduce efficient pricing schemes and smart metering, especially for smaller customers. As a result, the price signals received in the wholesale market were not transmitted to final consumers. Another area of nuts and bolts was forecasting. True, the state of California had built little capacity. But at the time of restructuring in 1998, it seemed to have an adequate reserve margin of around 23 percent, which is why any forecasts of capacity shortages were ignored. This attitude was imprudent, not only because the low elasticities of electricity markets have been common knowledge for many years but also because California, owing to its extensive use of hydroelectric power, is vulnerable to drought. In the event of shortage, elementary economics says that price must rise to very high levels. Moreover, the experience of the United Kingdom with a bidding system that was similar to that proposed (and eventually adopted) in California was that market power was easily exploited. All these lessons were ignored, and the industry went headlong into purchasing all of its electricity on the spot and short-term markets. When demand started to outstrip supply in the summer of 2000 and natural gas prices soared, the spot and short-term markets hit the roof, and claims were made about generators exploiting the market power that the bidding system made available to them. Since the utilities had agreed to a price cap, which the California Public Utilities Commission (CPUC) refused to raise, this process led to huge deficits for Southern California Edison and the ultimate declaration of bankruptcy on April 7, 2001, by Pacific Gas and Electric. The CPUC’s refusal to allow an increase in price when there has been a major change in the price of a utility’s major input was largely unprecedented. But the commission had come under increasing pressure from California consumers, who had begun to lose faith in the whole electric power restructuring exercise. The resulting financial problems for the state’s major utilities created a massive funding problem for the state of California, which took over the task of buying power for the failing utilities. Unfortunately, the state authorities responsible for buying replacement power did so quite ineptly and thereby created a significant additional burden for future generations. California’s approach to its energy problems will be with us for a long time. They have already cost the state of California, the utilities, and consumers many billions of dollars, and the outflow will continue. Many believe it was one of the primary reasons for the success of the recall petition that ended up replacing Governor Gray Davis by Arnold

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Schwarzenegger in the fall of 2003. Unfortunately, now that these general lessons about what went wrong are understood, and at a moment when change is most needed, little is happening. Why is this the case? The primary reason is that the entire California power market and its institutions simply have lost legitimacy and the public trust. This outcome occurred in part because the process was so badly managed, but ineptness was also accompanied by revelations that some generation companies made huge profits while distribution companies went bankrupt, and by a complete lack of transparency in the operations of the market. The result has been finger-pointing and adversarial mudslinging in the California Assembly and before the CPUC, but nothing that would approximate an open discourse likely to lead to a constructive outcome. Add to this volatile mix the Enron story, including Enron’s ultimate declaration of bankruptcy on December 2, 2001, and you have in hand the makings of a disaster for the entire energy sector. What made Enron so disastrous was not simply its, say, twisted, accounting and governance practices, or its virtual disappearance overnight from the energy trading business for which until then it had provided the backbone infrastructure. What struck most Americans about this horrid affair was that Enron’s demise took with it the accumulated pensions and collective savings of thousands of Enron employees, as well as of others whose companies had been purchased by Enron and whose employee pension plans had been converted into Enron stock. Overnight energy trading came to a standstill. As an acquaintance of mine, long active in energy trading, said early in 2002: “The trading game is dead. There is no one to trade with; no one trusts anyone to execute even cash-backed trades.” The reason for this result is a collapse of confidence in the institutions set up to conduct the trading business and a dissolution of trust that economic agents in this sector will undertake even what is in their apparent self-interest to do. The ripple effects of California and Enron together will be with us for some time. In energy markets, post Enron, we see problems that would normally be overcome through a straightforward cost-benefit calculus of alternatives. As noted by Smith, Carlisle, and Michaud (2003), the problem is that public trust has been so eroded that this normal “logical” course of action is met by skepticism at every single step, altogether leading to a slowing down of adversarial confrontations of evidence and counterevidence, and much cynicism about the motives of all— public, private, political—parties involved. The result is inaction and

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increasing risk of knee-jerk governmental interventions with potentially negative consequences. Environmental Justice in the U.S. Chemical Industry Sustainability and corporate social responsibility have been important themes in the global chemical industry, especially since the terrible accident in December 1984 in Bhopal, India, and the grounding of the Exxon Valdez in 1989 in Prince Edward Sound in Alaska. These events galvanized the industry and led to pressures around the world on chemical firms to clean up their act. As these tragedies occurred just as the Brundtland Commission Report3 on “sustainability” appeared, taken together, these events made for a powerful message on the importance of managing the environmental impacts of economic activity. Now, a few decades wiser, we see from the global summits at Rio de Janeiro in 1992 and in Johannesburg in 2002 that achieving a balance between rich and poor and between this generation and the next in using the resources of this planet will be difficult, indeed. Notwithstanding the lack of consensus about these issues and the confrontational nature of the debate about sustainability (see, e.g., Dryzek 1997), some progress has been made in the area of promoting better environmental, health, and safety practices on the part of businesses, especially the ones active in industrialized countries where nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) are capable of acting as surrogates for the public in bringing pressure on companies and regulators to preserve the environment. A new appreciation has begun to develop around the idea that two interconnected systems, the “little e,” the economy, and the “big E,” the Earth, must function in harmony to promote responsible and viable strategies for the long term, both for the planet as an integrated whole and for the globe’s denizens as an indivisible constituency. The “little e,” the economy, operates best in a decentralized mode in which individual households and businesses daily interact in relatively anonymous ways to trade labor for wages and salaries, to provide investment capital, and to purchase the products and services provided by businesses. The “big E,” planet Earth, however, requires more than 3. Chaired by Gro Harlem Brundtland, the World Commission on Environment and Development (WCED), convened by the United Nations I 1983 to consider the consequences for economic and social development of the deteriorating status of natural resources and the human environment, is often referred to by its chairman’s name. —Ed.

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this laissez-faire approach to operate efficiently. Many of the attributes of ecosystems, including air and water quality, the extent of biodiversity, and nonrenewable resource reserves, do not fare well when left entirely to the mercy of decentralized market forces. The main reason is that there are significant externalities associated with these “public goods,” and markets are not effective at allocating public goods. Achieving both efficiency and equity in the process of allocating public goods requires centralized intervention by the government to specify the rights, roles, and responsibilities of citizens and companies in preserving these public goods. This amounts to circumscribing the “little e” activities in the political economy with regulations and prescriptions specifying acceptable standards for company performance. The resulting balance between the “little e” and the “big E” systems is one in which companies and citizens are encouraged to undertake decentralized actions, as made possible within the constraints imposed by norms and regulations. What has all this to do with trust, ethics, and markets? The basic issue is this: Trust promotes and requires openness from parties with interdependent actions and payoffs. Ethics requires a commitment to established principles of action such as honesty and fairness. Markets require a level playing field if they are to function properly at all. And in the context of sustainable environmental practices, these three basic ingredients, trust, ethics, and markets, are reinforced by social norms, by formal regulations, or indeed by both. Without the monitoring and enforcement incentives provided by espoused norms or regulations, there remains a strong likelihood in environmental affairs of a graveyard spiral. Rogue companies giving no thought to their impacts on the environment invade the market with lower costs that ultimately drive out the companies that invest resources to reduce their negative effects on the environment. This process leads to a perceptible erosion of the basic standards of practice in industry and to further invasion by even worse environmental offenders, with all the obvious long-run negative outcomes. What will arrest this process is a commitment, by the better players in this market, to environmental sustainability, evidenced by credible information on their performance, and reinforced by social norms or regulations to assure that the less engaged and lower performing companies face sufficient sanctions to discourage them from entering or remaining in that market. Trust enters into this equation in the sense and to the extent that a society can justifiably begin to rely on its citizens and on company

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executives to do the right thing rather than focusing on the narrow calculus of inspections, fines, sanctions, and the other tools of governmental regulation to achieve compliance with environmental standards. Reliance on ethical behavior may be induced and reinforced by informational regulation (Kleindorfer and Orts 1998) substituting information provision for traditional command-and-control regulation. Informational regulation requires companies to provide audited information on environmental performance to external stakeholders, including the communities that host facilities of such companies. The idea is to rely on local stakeholders and their surrogates for the monitoring of the “ethics” of local companies, based on the information gathered, and to bring pressure for improvements where stakeholders believe local norms of behavior are not being respected. Relying on exemplary ethical behavior and on volunteered factual information rather than on traditional government-imposed regulation can save a great deal of money, since clearly it should necessitate much less infrastructure—from inspectors and enforcement officials right up to courts—for adjudicating disputes. Thus simple information regulation is a more effective alternative when it works. The basic requirement for it to work, however, is that there be some trust—by those at risk of being adversely affected by any negative environmental actions on the part of such companies—in the intentions of those running the companies that can affect the environment. And there has to be also a sense of trust by company management and shareholders that every other company in the same sector will face roughly the same pressures for environmental performance. Absent these ingredients of multilateral trust, the only remaining alternative is the hammer of governmental regulation, with all of its attendant inefficiencies. Let me illustrate these points briefly with data from the U.S. chemical industry. The tragedy at Bhopal in December 1984, followed by a subsequent release of aldicarb oxime from a production facility in Institute, West Virginia, resulted in great public concern in the United States about the potential danger posed by major chemical accidents. This public concern was translated into law in section 112(r) of the 1990 U.S. Clean Air Act Amendments. Section 112(r) sets forth a series of requirements aimed at preventing and minimizing the consequences associated with accidental chemical releases. These requirements are the basis of U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s (EPA) rule “Risk Management Programs for Chemical Accidental Release Prevention” (hereafter the Rule). With some exceptions, the Rule requires all

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regulated facilities to prepare and execute a Risk Management Program (RMP), which captures certain details about the facility’s accident prevention program, emergency response program, and hazard assessment, along with administrative information about the facility. The Rule also requires the facility to develop worst-case scenarios and to provide to the regulators and to the public a summary of the facility’s five-year history of accidental releases. Beginning June 21, 1999, the Rule (under section 68.42) also required that regulated facilities submit to the EPA their five-year history of accidental releases as part of their Risk Management Plan and update their submission every five years, or periodically when significant changes occur. The resulting data, including worst-case data, were intended to be released to the public, along the lines of informational regulation. The thought here is that releasing such information to the public would promote a healthy exchange between companies, as well as among their local communities and emergency response organizations, all together helping to promote long-term reductions in the use of hazardous chemicals. These data have given rise to a host of studies, on only one of which I want to report here—namely, a study of environmental justice and fairness—as a topic most germane to our discussion of trust, ethics, and markets in this chapter. “Environmental justice” addresses whether health risks or environmental impacts from industrial activities are distributed in a manner that befits basic cultural and social notions of fairness. An extensive body of research in political economics, public policy, and public health has noted associations between environmental and health risks arising from industrial facilities and the socioeconomic status (SES) of communities hosting them. These statistically significant associations could be caused by anticipation on the part of companies of lower levels of collective action and monitoring in communities with lower SES, and therefore by their preference to locate hazardous facilities there. They could, however, also result from migration of groups of lower SES to sites where such facilities have located, since property values may be lower in such locations. Whatever the reason, a finding that particular communities are at significantly greater risk than others raises fundamental questions for citizens as to the fairness and legitimacy of environmental regulation. These questions, in turn, can strongly affect the trust that citizens place in their government. If they feel that the environment can be sold to the highest bidder, their trust in other transactional aspects within the purview of the governing body also wanes.

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Empirical findings on the subject of environmental injustice have been mixed. Brown (1995) found that African Americans and lower-SES Americans are disproportionately likely to live near hazardous waste sites, to be exposed to air pollution or other toxic releases, and not to receive relief from regulatory decision or toxic cleanups. Perlin, Wong, and Sexton (2001) found that African Americans lived closer to the nearest industrial emission source than a white population did, that African Americans were more likely than whites to live within a mere two miles of multiple emission sources, and that children five years of age and younger who happened to be of African American origin were substantially more likely to live near one or more sources of industrial air pollution than white children in the same age bracket. Mitchell, Thomas, and Cutter (1999) found in their examination of South Carolina chemical facilities that, indeed, there exist significant negative correlations between the SES of host counties and the risk imposed by chemical facilities, but that differences in risk across counties are primarily the result of migration patterns of lower-SES individuals to the vicinity of the facilities and not the result of the original location decisions by facility owners. Perhaps the most striking results on environmental justice are those obtained from the RMP data. Using these data together with the 1990 census data, Elliott and colleagues (2004) looked for two main potential impacts of community characteristics that would reflect two essential sources of risk to surrounding populations: (1) risks associated with the decision about where to locate hazardous facilities, better known as location risk, and (2) risks associated with methods of operation and standards of care used in existing facilities, which experts term operations risk. What these authors found was that larger-sized and more chemical-intensive production facilities tend to be located in counties with larger African American populations and in counties with high levels of income inequality—that is, counties with both higher median incomes and higher levels of poverty. And even after adjusting for location risk, substantial residual risk of accidents was in evidence in the RMP data for facilities in heavily African American counties. (In fact, on average, an increase by 90 percent in the likelihood of an accident was in evidence for facilities located in counties with a population more than 20 percent African American compared to localities with a population less than 1 percent African American.) Since these data (covering the 1995–2000 period) are of recent vintage, this is a very disquieting finding. It suggests the possibility that, in the United States,

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society’s risks from chemical accidents may be borne inordinately by minority communities. What are the likely consequences of this sort of finding in a democratic society? First, it is to be noted that the finding itself is the result of open sharing of all accident data (and of the census data) arising from the 112(r) Rule in the chemical industry. What will likely happen is that these findings will lead to significant pressure to determine more clearly the true reasons for this apparent inequity in the risks borne by local communities from the siting and operations of chemical facilities. In the ensuing discussion, we will see a new balance being struck between the degree of openness of the chemical industry in sharing information, the degree of trust of the public in allowing companies to operate more autonomously, the degree of environmental regulation, and the attending extent of enforcement that results from the government. In the process, a number of market areas will be affected by the costs and structure of the resulting balance. These naturally include product markets where chemicals are bought and sold, labor markets that determine who will work for chemical companies, insurance markets that face both the direct costs of disruptions from chemical site accidents and liability suits from a now far better informed public, and capital markets that will determine the amount and the price of capital allocated to the chemical sector over time. All the participants in these markets will be watching this gripping story as it unfolds, influenced by the evolving information on the safety and environmental impacts of companies in this sector. Experimental Evidence on the Foundations of Trust and Cooperation Experimental evidence provides a large number of interesting insights on the determinants of trust and their interplay with market settings. Let me begin with a discussion of the classic results on cooperation in so-called prisoner’s dilemma games. As will become clear, in the present context I am thinking of “cooperation” as willingness between two or more parties to enter into agreements that are executed by sharing information and that are then equitably completed by dividing the results ex post, in the manner originally agreed. This is to be contrasted with a more defensive posture, which may yield lower overall results but may also protect one individual or party against opportunistic exploitation by another.

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Table 7.1 Payoffs for Classic Prisoner’s Dilemma Game Player 1’s Strategies

Player 2’s Strategies C2

D2

C1

4, 4

−2, 6

D1

6, −2

0, 0

The basic point I want to make is that communication, fairness, and low interpersonal risk are essential ingredients in promoting trust and cooperation. And these very same ingredients are therefore important in leading to sustainable markets. Table 7.1 presents the simplest version of the classic prisoner’s dilemma (PD) game.4 Here, one of the two players can either ‘cooperate’ (strategy C) or ‘defect’ (strategy D). This game has the following story associated with it. Two thieves are caught, without the incriminating evidence of their booty, which has been hidden in a location known only to them. They are held in different cells; hence they cannot communicate with each other. They each have two strategies: remain silent (the C strategy) or turn state’s evidence and thereby incriminate the other thief (the D strategy). If both remain silent, they are soon released, hence able to split their booty, and to live well—with maximally shared utility payoffs of (4, 4). Should both incriminate each other, then both receive light sentences, resulting in utility payoffs of (0, 0). And if only one of them were to turn state’s evidence, then that prisoner would go free and now be able to appropriate the other’s share of the booty, while the other thief would be doomed to remain in prison and to serve a full term, with a payoff of (−2, 6), in comparison to (6, −2) for the snitch, depending on who talks first. The individually rational solution to this problem, for either player, is to choose D. It is a dominant strategy in the sense that it assures the best payoff for one player, no matter what the other player chooses. But if both players choose this “individually rational” strategy, the outcome is (0, 0), clearly inferior to what they 4. See Kleindorfer, Kunreuther, and Schomaker (1993) for a fuller discussion of the gametheoretic foundations underlying this discussion. In particular, we illustrate this type of game only for two players; similar results hold for more than two players. When n > 2, the resulting games are referred to as commons problems or social dilemma games. They illustrate the tension between individual rationality and the benefits of cooperation.

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could have if only they chose to cooperate and, by keeping their mouth shut, jointly attain (4, 4). When might one expect a noncooperative solution to obtain (D1, D2) rather than a cooperative solution (C1, C2)? This has been the subject of continuing experimental work. The typical experiment proceeds as follows. Subjects are paired but remain separated from one another during the play of the game. They are presented with a series of games of the general form of table 7.1 and asked to indicate their choice of strategy for each. Their choices are then recorded, and they are informed immediately of the choice of the other player and their resulting payoffs. In some experiments, subjects know they are playing against the same player for the entire series of games; in others, they know they are playing against different players each game; and for some experiments, subjects do not know whether or not their opponent is changing over the series of games. For each such fixed constellation of knowledge, subjects are given a monetary reward based on the payoffs they have accumulated at the end of a series of games. The basic question of game-theoretical interest in these experiments is this: When subjects of a particular type (be it gender, age, culture, etc.) play a series of PD games, what then determines how frequently the cooperative solution (C1, C2) will be played relative to the other three strategy combinations? Some of the major findings of interest to our inquiry here—on trust, ethics, and markets—are the following. Communication and Reputation The possibility to establish “open communication” between players, even by insecure mail, leads to a significant increase in the frequency of cooperative play. Face-to-face play leads to even greater cooperation. The order of magnitude of likely increase even through simple communication is typically of the order of 30 percent cooperation for noncommunicating pairs, compared to more than 80 percent cooperation for pairs that can communicate with one another, even when such communication is allowed for a limited period of time in the few initial plays of the game and not thereafter. In the same spirit, if the identity of a player is known and visible to all, then that player has further incentive to engage in cooperative play in order to enhance his/her “reputation” as a cooperative player (and thereby encourage others to play cooperatively).

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Table 7.2 Payoffs for Classic Prisoner’s Dilemma Game Player 1’s Strategies

Player 2’s Strategies C2

D2

C1

4 + x, 4 − x

−2, 6

D1

6, −2

0, 0

Equity Consider the slightly altered PD game in table 7.2 from Marwell and Schmitt (1973). This game still has the PD property that the D strategy is a dominant strategy for both players, as long as x is between 0 and 2. The larger x is, the more “inequitable” will be the cooperative solution (C1, C2), although it remains clearly preferable to the noncooperative solution (D1, D2). What Marwell and Schmitt found was that the more inequitable the game was (the larger x was), the lower the frequency of cooperative play. Thus a sense of equity or fairness appears to be essential in promoting cooperation. Interpersonal Risk Consider the game in table 7.2 again, but now with the subjects in separate rooms with no communication at all ever allowed. They play the normal PD game given in table 7.1 first. If either player plays the D strategy, both players receive the payoffs given in table 7.1. If (and only if) both players somehow select the C strategy, then player 1 may push a “take” button and receive extra x units of payoff from player 2. And this action gives rise to the payoffs in table 7.2, assuming that player 1 actually does push the “take” button whenever this is feasible (as would be rational for player 1 to do). This is a situation that Marwell and Schmitt characterize as one now exhibiting “interpersonal risk.” In their experimental findings, the larger the degree of interpersonal risk (the larger the x) is, the less likely it becomes that subjects will play cooperatively. Beyond the Marwell and Schmitt experiments, we also see the clear impact of interpersonal risk in practice. For example, before firms exhibit a willingness to commit large funds to joint projects, they may insist on performance bonds or other assurances that

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their partners will not exploit them after they incur investment (or sunk) costs. Williamson (1985) refers to these financial assurances as (being tantamount to) “hostages,” a very old solution to assuring cooperation when palpable interpersonal risk may otherwise undermine cooperation and thwart its benefits. There are many other experimental approaches to the study of cooperation and trust, essentially modeled along the lines of the original Marwell and Schmitt experiments. Glaeser and colleagues (2000), for example, have used the following games as a measure of “trusting behavior”: subjects are first paired and next meet their partner. They are then separated and play the following game. Player 1 chooses an amount (say, between $0 and $15) to send to player 2. This amount, whatever it is, is matched by the experimenter, who then gives the total to player 2. Player 2 then can return some portion of the money to player 1. The amount of money player 1 sends to player 2 is a measure of “trust” in that it puts player 1 at interpersonal risk for anticipating that player 2 will return this money to player 1. Glaeser and colleagues were interested in what the determinants of trust, so measured, would be. They administered a survey instrument to the subjects in their experiments three to four weeks in advance of the experiments. The survey asked questions about the subjects’ attitudes toward trust and their experience with past trusting behavior. Not surprisingly, a primary determinant of trust, as measured in these experimental games, was the degree of social connection (friends or acquaintances that played the game exhibited higher levels of trust). A second determinant was that subjects who were paired with a partner of different race or nationality sent back less money to one’s partner (this return behavior, denoted by Glaeser and colleagues as trustworthiness, is the mirror image of player 1’s forward trusting behavior). Glaeser and colleagues discovered also that the education and the background of each player had strong associations with their propensity to trust. A final set of experimental results that I wish to note bear on the subject of fairness as an element of trust and markets. This is partly in evidence in the foregoing discussion of Marwell and Schmitt’s findings on equity, but also in the following experiments by Kahneman, Knetsch, and Thaler (KKT 1986), which go beyond those in illustrating the complexity of fairness judgments that affect market transactions.5 5. See also Kunow (2003) for a recent detailed discussion of various approaches to fairness and justice in market contexts.

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Kahneman, Knetsch, and Thaler propose the following principle of dual entitlement for market transactions: “Transactors have an entitlement to the terms of the reference transaction and firms are entitled to their reference profit. A firm is not allowed to increase its profits by arbitrarily violating the entitlement of its transactors to the reference price, rent or wage. When the reference profit of a firm is threatened, however, it may set new terms that protect its profit at transactors’ expense” (KKT 1986, 729–730). Consider the experimental results in table 7.3. Comparing the contrasting scenarios in table 7.3, we see the import of KKT’s notion of fairness based on reference levels of profits, price, and other transaction characteristics. Evidently, what we consider unfair is a significant departure from a reference point to the advantage of one party at the expense of another, especially if it were feasible to Table 7.3 KKT Experiments 1A: A landlord rents out a small house. When the lease is due for renewal, the landlord learns that the tenant has taken a job very close to the house and is therefore unlikely to move. The landlord raises the rent $40 per month more than he was planning to do. Fair (9%) Unfair (91%) N = 157 1B: A landlord owns and rents out a single small house to a tenant who is living on a fixed income. A higher rent would mean the tenant would have to move. Other small rental houses are available. The landlord’s costs have increased substantially over the past year, and the landlord raises the rent to cover the cost increases when the tenant’s lease is due for renewal. Fair (75%)

Unfair (25%)

N = 131

2A: A house painter employs two assistants and pays them $9 per hour. The painter decides to quit house painting and go into the business of providing landscape services, where the going wage is lower. He reduces the workers’ wages to $7 per hour for the landscaping work. Fair (63%)

Unfair (37%)

N = 94

2B: . . . landscape services. With about the same time and effort, the former house painter’s profits somehow fall significantly in his new business. In landscape services the going wage is lower so he reduces. Fair (67%)

Unfair (33%)

N = 220

2C: . . . landscape services. With about the same time and effort, the former house painter’s profits somehow rise significantly in his new business. Nevertheless, in landscape services the going wage is lower so he reduces. Fair (34%)

Unfair (66%)

N = 213

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maintain the reference point payouts. The worse the disparity between the outcomes and the reference point, and the larger the degree of opportunism reflected in the advantaged party’s payoffs, the more is the outcome judged to have been unfair. These experimental results point to some intuitive aspects of trust and markets, especially concerning transactions that involve some degree of risk by one or by the other of the parties engaged in the transaction. For such transactions to proceed to completion, it is thus clear not merely that trust and fairness are key ingredients, but indeed that these two central themes are intimately linked. Trust can be influenced by communication and enhanced through assurance of equitable—or fair—outcomes, as also through credible information that supports the reputation of a company as being fair, open, and trustworthy. A large number of the institutions of modern capitalism have been directed toward reinforcing these basic characteristics of transactions. Companies large and small have made great efforts to foster communication with their customers, investors, and all other stakeholders. Equitable outcomes are underlined by stable pricing and by marketing campaigns that highlight the quality of the product proposed and that offer unconditional returns should the customer be dissatisfied. Not least, product testing and quality verification by independent third parties (e.g., in the United States by Consumer Reports) are important drivers of market demand and company image. Finally, brand equity is a key aspect of marketing, for reflecting the various reputational assets of the company that are placed at risk in each and every transaction. In the face of these acknowledged foundations of good business, which attempt to support the image of the company and its representatives as trustworthy, how could the excesses and accounting scandals reported in the introduction to this chapter ever have materialized? This question is the subject of my concluding comments. Conclusions The case studies, together with the noted experimental results from the decision sciences, seem to many as compelling and intuitive. It is therefore all the more surprising how egregious the departures of corporate behavior have been from reasonable standards of fairness in some of the recent outcomes in the U.S. corporate sector. As noted earlier, what post-Enron surveys found most troubling about the Enron collapse was

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neither the crooked dealings of the Enron executives nor the selfenriching tactics of their well-paid accountants and legal advisors, but rather the damage done in destroying the pensions of employees. In the language of Kahneman, Knetsch, and Thaler (1986), it has become more or less expected that the reference point for senior executive compensation is whatever these executives can convince their board of directors to give them. Moreover, the reference point for corporate accountants seems to have tolerated personal enrichment to become a part of corporate accounting, possibly at the cost of cooking the books from time to time. But the reference transaction for pension planning most certainly does not allow for opportunistic behavior by executives or accountants to lead to the destruction of employees’ life savings. Based on Kahneman, Knetsch, and Thaler (1986), it is therefore not surprising that it has been this aspect of the Enron affair that has given rise to such great outrage, to new legislation, and to a view that wrongdoers in this affair should spend some time behind bars. As a further compelling example of violations of the notions of trust and fairness expected in market transactions, consider the matter of CEO compensation. In the wake of Enron and WorldCom, this subject has become something of a cause célèbre. The reason can be summarized in one simple statistic arising from the study by the business think tank, the Conference Board, which published a report in January of 2002 that surveyed the CEO salaries of Fortune 500 companies. Based on options packages and other exotic so-called risk-based compensation instruments, CEO compensation grew from 51 times the average American’s salary in 1980 to 542 times that same average American’s salary in 2000. Coupled with well-publicized examples of some annual salaries of top executives in excess of $100 million per year, the American in Main Street simply cannot believe the pious pronouncements of corporate America’s think tanks about the road to reform. It all looks like, smells like, and feels like pure greed to the proverbial “average American” in the proverbial American street. What is needed is a much more direct and a far more explicit confrontation of the values held by corporate executives and by the majority of ordinary citizens. If such values cannot pass the litmus test of open discourse espoused by Jürgen Habermas (1973) in his treatise on legitimation, they very likely will continue to evoke surprise, engender mistrust, and trigger a deep sense of illegitimacy when occasional stories of the inner reality of corporations surface. Recent commitments by companies and business schools to move toward

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increased corporate social responsibility, improved transparency in accounting and governance, and a more sincere espousal of ethical behavior standards, all sound good. But there still remain too many disturbing elements, constitutive of the current climate, suggesting that corporations are perceived by many as mere citadels of greed that have yet to connect to the basic ethical standards of fairness that are the bulwark of trust in any society. If this perception is not reversed, it will have clear, present, and lasting harmful effects on the efficiency of markets—the very instruments that are used to carry out the program of modern capitalism. Markets operate on a presumption of trust and anonymity, and once such basic presumptions are violated, the markets themselves enter into a self-stimulating spiral of dependence on guarantors, government regulations, and other costly interventions. As painful at it may be, therefore, we must begin to recognize and require of our executives, of those who wish to become executives, and of all the corporations that appoint them, a public and private commitment to (re)establishing ethics and trust—ahead of prowess in finance and transparency in accounting—as the cornerstones of national, regional, and global market economies. References Brown, Phil (1995) “Race, Class, and Environmental Health: A Review and Systematization of the Literature,” Environmental Research, 69:15–30. Consumer Reports, Consumers Union of U.S., Inc., Yonkers, NY. Crew, Michael A., and Paul R. Kleindorfer (2002) “Regulatory Economics: Twenty Years of Progress?” Journal of Regulatory Economics (No. 1, January):5–22. Dryzek, John S. (1997) The Politics of the Earth: Environmental Discourses, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Elliott, Michael R., Yanlin Wang, Paul R. Kleindorfer, and Robert A. Lowe (2004) “Environmental Justice: Community Pressure and Frequency and Severity of U.S. Chemical Industry Accidents,” Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health, 58:24–30. Fukuyama, Francis (1995) Trust, New York: Free Press. Glaeser, Edward L., David I. Laibson, Jose A. Scheinkman, and Christine L. Soutter (2000) “Measuring Trust,” Quarterly Journal of Economics, 115:811–846. Habermas, Jürgen (1973) The Legitimation Crisis, Boston: Beacon Press. Kahneman, Daniel, Jack L. Knetsch, and Richard Thaler (1986) “Fairness as a Constraint on Profit Seeking: Entitlements in the Market,” American Economic Review, 76:728–741. Kleindorfer, Paul R., Howard C. Kunreuther, and Paul J. H. Schoemaker (1993) Decision Sciences: An Integrative Perspective, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

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Kleindorfer, Paul R., and Eric W. Orts (1998) “Informational Regulation of Environmental Risks,” Risk Analysis, 18(2):155–170. Knack, Stephen, and Philip Keefer (1997) “Does Social Capital Have an Economic Payoff? A Cross-Country Investigation,” Quarterly Journal of Economics, 112:1251–1288. Kunow, James (2003) “Which Is the Fairest One of All? A Positive Analysis of Justice Theories,” Journal of Economic Literature, 41(4):1188–1239. La Porta, Rafael, Florencio Lopez-de-Silanes, Andrei Shleifer, and Robert W. Vishny (1997) “Trust in Large Organizations,” American Economic Review Papers and Proceedings, 87:333–338. Marwell, Gerald, and David R. Schmitt (1973) Cooperation: An Experimental Analysis, New York: Academic Press. Mitchell, Jerry T., Deborah S. K. Thomas, and Susan L. Cutter (1999) “Dumping in Dixie Revisited: The Evolution of Environmental Injustices in South Carolina,” Social Science Quarterly, 80(2):229–243. Perlin, Susan H., David W. S. Wong, and Ken Sexton (2001) “Residential Proximity to Industrial Sources of Air Pollution: Interrelationships among Race, Poverty, and Age,” Journal of Air Waste Management Association, 51:406–421. Seligman, Adam B. (1997) The Problem of Trust, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Smith, Eric R., Juliet Carlisle, and Kristy Michaud (2003) “Trust during an Energy Crisis,” Energy Policy and Economics Working Paper 006, University of California Energy Institute. Williamson, Oliver E. (1985) The Economic Institutions of Capitalism, New York: Free Press.

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Ethics, Morals, and the State: Rereading the Classical View J. J. Mulhern

In this essay, which is indebted to the work of James Q. Wilson, I consider the rediscovery of character and its importance for the way one understands the relation of ethics and morals to politics. Character has a long history in thinking about politics. For some Greeks, including Aristotle, character, or e¯thos, was the central issue in the study of human things. The Greeks were concerned not only with character itself, however, but also with the things that were related to it, especially the things that were caused by character and the things that caused character to develop, for better or for worse. These were their ethical things, or ethics. Thus, for them, ethics was not an academic discipline, nor was ‘ethical’ (e¯thikos) an expression of general approval, as opposed to, say, ‘unethical’. For some Romans, including Cicero, the central issue appears rather to have been custom, or mos. The Romans were concerned both with custom and with the things related to it. These were their moral things, or morals (moralia). Thus, at the outset, morals was not an academic discipline, despite its apparent inclusion by Cicero as the subject matter of one of the three parts of Stoic philosophy; nor was ‘moral’ (moralis) an expression of general approval, as opposed to, say, ‘immoral’. Character, as something belonging to individuals, was different from custom, which was shared by many; but both Greek and Roman societies agreed that custom could have an effect on character development and that character could be embodied or reflected in custom. In modern times, many thinkers have struggled with what they describe as the relation of ethics or morals to the state, often in ways that are not helpful to the political actor, especially where the language of ethics and morals has lost its original classical descriptive use. Some moderns have spoken as if there might be politics without ethics or morals, and ethics or morals without politics. The rediscovery of

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character leads back to a tradition in which ethics and politics are continuous because, as a matter of fact, actions produce habits, habits are integrated into character, character is reflected in customs or laws, and customs are embodied in institutions, including political institutions, and even the institution that is spoken of in modern times as ‘the state’; and in which, likewise, these institutions reinforce customs, customs mold character, character strengthens habits, and habits make actions easier and more pleasant to perform. This tradition, though neglected for many centuries, is helpful to the political actor, since it provides an explicit way of thinking about the political actor’s work. Both institutions and individuals, especially political actors, have an interest in promoting in people the kinds of character and custom that dispose them to avoid criminal acts, dependency, and intemperance, for example. To those who understand this history, it may be jarring to realize that many recent academic discussions that include terms such as ‘ethics’, ‘morals’, and ‘the state’ actually are of little interest to today’s political actors, who may use the first two expressions regularly in their ceremonial speeches, perhaps, but rarely in their day-to-day work. This situation is at variance with practice over much of history as we know it, back to classical times. Political actors of other times and places apparently were accustomed to addressing in their own languages the things that are identified in the ancient languages, distinctly, as ethics and as morals. This striking difference might be explained and has been explained by a change in standards and interests over time; it has been suggested, for example, that modern political actors are less virtuous and more self-interested than their predecessors were. It might be explained (but has not been), however, in a quite different way: it might be that, although our ‘ethics’ and ‘morals’ are derived from classical words that look and sound somewhat similar to them, these ancient words were being used in quite different ways from the way we use their descendants. If we knew how the classical authors used them, we might find out that today’s political actors actually are interested in the substance of classical ethics and morals but are not aware of this fact, since the traditional language of ethics and morals has been diverted to other purposes in a way that masks a substantive continuity of ancient with modern politics (Eichler, chap. 2 of this book). While Wilson’s work on character owes much to the Scottish Enlightenment, it is indebted as well to Aristotle, whom Wilson reads not only from a scientific standpoint, where the individual conducting an inquiry

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is primarily an observer of causes, but also somewhat from the standpoint of the political actor, where the individual conducting an inquiry might be or become the cause.1 Wilson’s position is that “the traditional understanding of politics was that its goal was to improve the character of its citizens” (Wilson 1995, 21). Wilson, however, did not go on to explain that this traditional understanding is part of a more inclusive classical conceptual system that links politics to human action. To my knowledge, the more inclusive system never has been described in the literature, not even in outline. The present chapter attempts to describe this system. It thus addresses the relations of the things that sometimes are named by ‘ethics’ and ‘morals’ and ‘the state’ by looking at the classical origins of our concepts of ethics, morals, and politics. After presenting an analysis of the original concepts, it goes on to suggest that later views have been faithful to the originals only intermittently at best, and it presents some of the consequences of intermittent fidelity. It concludes that the state, in the person of the political actor in Banfield’s sense (Banfield 1961, 5)—the person who causes public events rather than merely observing them—typically is concerned with ethics and morals in their classical senses, even though the objects of this concern so often are misdescribed that today’s political actor rarely if ever is able to recognize them for what they are. They are important, as will be seen, because the political actor’s ability to accomplish anything is limited at any time by the character and customs of the constituents or subjects who may be the intended objects of the actor’s influence. Ethics and the Hellenic Tradition Although we find ethical discourses in Greek writers earlier than Aristotle, it is Aristotle more than anyone else who gives us the language and thus the concepts of ethics. The language is important because the word is father, or mother, to the thought. The Greek for ‘ethics’ occurs prominently in three works that come down to us as Aristotelian— Nicomachean Ethics (EN), Eudemian Ethics (EE), and Great Ethics or Magna Moralia (MM)—as also in their traditional titles. A fourth work—On Virtues and Vices (VV)—while almost surely not by Aristotle, reflects the position of his school. 1. For the ontological-epistemological implications of observer-observed relations, see Krippendorff (2008).

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There remain complicated questions about the authorship and composition of the three main works and of the relations among them, but their status as conveying an Aristotelian view is not a matter of serious doubt. With all that has been written using the expression ‘ethics’, however, there is precious little that attempts to tell us precisely what Aristotle meant by it. I shall try to tell precisely what Aristotle meant by it and then go on to ‘morals’ and ‘the state’. Classically trained readers will wonder why I have used Great Ethics, which reflects the Greek tradition, along with the more familiar Latin title Magna Moralia. My reason is that the Latin title perpetuates what I conceive to be a confusion about e¯thika (ethics), with a long e, or eta: this expression is to be distinguished from the term ethikos, written with a short e, or epsilon, which is not used by Aristotle, although he does use the noun form ethos, which often is translated by ‘custom’. The confusion to which I refer is that of e¯thika, or things related to character, with moralia (morals), or things related to custom. This confusion is clear in Sidgwick (1931), in his Outlines of the History of Ethics for English Readers, 11, for example, which first appeared in 1886 and remains in print: he says, “The term ‘moral’ is commonly used as synonymous with ‘ethical’ (moralis being the Latin translation of ηθικοζ) [e¯thikos], and I shall so use it in the following pages.” (More on this later.) Aristotle frequently uses the expression ta e¯thika, or, as we should say, ‘the ethics’. This expression has the same sense as “the matters of character,” as Joachim translates it (Joachim 1951, 113). Thus the ethical things, or ethics, are the things associated with e¯thos (character) and viewed from the standpoint of their relation to character. It follows that there are two parts to stating precisely what Aristotle’s language about ethics meant: these are saying what character or e¯thos is and identifying the things that are related to it—the ethical things, or ethics. The view that e¯thos is an appropriate starting place is preserved clearly in the opening sentence of the Great Ethics, where the author says, “Since we are decided to talk about ethics, first it should be looked at of what [science or ability] e¯thos is a part” (MM 1181a24–25). After noting that e¯thos is a part of the political, Aristotle goes on to say that without being of a certain kind, that is, having a certain character, it is not possible to accomplish anything—to act—in civic affairs; and he gives being earnest as an example of character (1181a26–28). At this point, Aristotle appears to be connecting character directly with action. He is suggesting that action is produced by character, and

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one might write this relation (with an eye to what follows) as “Action ← Character.” Often, however, the connection of character with action is not presented as direct; habit comes between character and action, since actions are viewed as producing habits directly while habits combine into character. In a passage referred to by Wilson, Aristotle observes that “we get the virtues [the aretai, which are habits or hexeis] by being active beforehand. . . . And so we become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, courageous by doing courageous acts (1103a31–b2)” (Wilson 1995, 23). This relation is immediate, and it links actions and habits in a causal way. It may be represented as “Action → Habit,” and it is the best-known part of this analysis. Actions produce habits. Further, Aristotle says that to be earnest, which is to have a certain character, is to have the virtues (EN 1181a28–b24). Habits thus are the material (the stuff) of character—this relation may be represented as “Habit → Character.” These passages give us enough to begin to construct part of a system of causal relations, which will be extended in describing the relation of ethics to the state. In sum, so far: “Action ↔ Habit ↔ Character.” Here the causal relation is transitive, in the same sense as that in which some relations are spoken of as transitive in mathematics, where, for example, if a is larger than b, and b is larger than c, then a is larger than c; the relation carries through. Other passages make it clear that, for Aristotle, the influence not only carries through, or is transitive, but also that it runs in both directions or is symmetrical, as is the relation of equality in mathematics: if a is equal to b, then b is equal to a (see, for example, EN 1104a33–1104b3 on actions and habits, as also Poetics 1450a19). Of course, equality is transitive as well as symmetrical. Note that although being earnest sometimes is spoken of as having a virtue, it is spoken of also as having an e¯thos and thus as a way of having multiple virtues (1181a28–b24). This remark—about having virtues—is not a throwaway, since Aristotle says later that someone who wants to be thought well of, with respect to character, would have to pay attention to the mean of each of the passions (pathe¯, in MM 1186b34–35)—that is, approximately, to each of the ethical virtues (e¯thikai aretai) or virtues of character. (Aristotle does not use ‘ethical virtue’ here, with ‘ethical’ in the attributive position, but he does use it elsewhere, for example in Politics 1260a15, 17–18, and 20.) Further, there is confirmation of this virtue-encompassing view of character in the Nicomachean Ethics, where Aristotle treats megalopsychia, which we translate into modern English variously by ‘magnanimity’, ‘greatness

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of soul’, and ‘pride’, as a particular sort of character (Mulhern 2004, 315–318). Actions, habits, and passions, however, are not the only things that are included among ethics or ethical things or ta e¯thika. These ethical things include abilities (dunameis) as well (MM 1186a10–11; and see EN 1105b20–21); they might, indeed, include also deliberation (bouleusis, EN 112b22) and judgment (hupole¯psis, EN 1139b17) and all the other things that either produce character or are found where character is found, whether they are produced by character or are related otherwise to it. These are the things that are treated in the three Aristotelian works, and they are the ethics—ta e¯thika. And of course the things that must be distinguished from ta e¯thika sometimes are treated in these works as well. This fact explains the contents of the works as well as their titles. And so, at its origin, ethics is not a science or a field of study or a code of conduct or anything of the sort; it is rather the things that we study that are related, or that someone thinks are related, to e¯thos or character. In the classical scheme, the ethical things are not in a world of their own but are related to the political things—the things closely connected with the citizen (polite¯s). The point of studying the ethics is not mainly to understand them for their own sake, and Aristotle does not study them in that way (EN 1095a5–6, 1103b27–29). Instead, they are studied by those who are expected to produce the appropriate character in the citizens—namely, the political actors—and by the citizens themselves, who want to develop or promote good character. The things that Aristotle studies mainly to understand them are things that have causes other than himself or other than the individual who studies them—the physical things or physics, for example. The ethics are different because they are the things that people cause and the things that cause what people do; and sometimes the people who cause them also study them. A certain character or e¯thos, or rather attaining or producing a certain character, is the point of studying ethics or the ethical things, for Aristotle; he says in fact that the genuine political actor aims to make the citizens good (EN 1102a9). Thus the concept of e¯thos is central to ethics—so very central that the ethical things are denominated from it. One can see this centrality in Aristotle’s remark that “we shall know the things about e¯thos better by going through them each by each” (EN 1127a15–17); “the things about e¯thos” here include the virtues or aretai. It follows that other things cannot be central to the study of ethics or

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the ethical things; that, in these affairs, only one thing—e¯thos—can be central (see Williams on ego and ethos, chap. 6 in this book). Aristotle goes on to fill out his view of ethics and of the relation of ethics to politics in the Nicomachean Ethics, especially in two other passages. In the first of these, Aristotle says, “The appropriate character— loving the noble and hating the base—must belong [to the agent] somehow before virtue does. It is difficult to be drawn rightly toward virtue from one’s youth up except by being brought up under laws of the appropriate kind” (EN 1179b29–32, the italics are mine). In this passage Aristotle begins by linking character and habit to one another, since virtue is a habit. In the second sentence, he goes on to connect custom, since Aristotle links law and custom, with virtue, omitting mention of character—a move that parallels his direct connection of character with action in MM 1181a24–25. Here, the resulting sequence is “Habit ← Character ← Custom” (directional arrows represent the flow of causation). This sequence is at the center of his system of ethical things. But the ostensible direction of causality, running from custom to habit, is not the whole story. Aristotle’s use of “belong before” (prohuparchein) and “somehow” (po¯ s) suggests that character belongs to the agent in the sense that it is able to be developed in the agent or that the agent is disposed to develop it—suggesting that it ‘belongs’ in the way modern English Aristotelians would describe as ‘potentially’. If this interpretation is correct, Aristotle is suggesting that, while character must belong to an individual potentially as a cause of virtue, virtue still can be an actual cause of character. A little further on, the picture is added to—again: “When these things have been studied we may perhaps be better able to see what sort is the best politeia, how each is arranged, and what laws and customs each uses” (EN 1181b21–22). Here Aristotle links institution, in the form of the politeia or citizenship (Manville 1990, 5; Mulhern 2008), to law (nomos) and ethos, with a short e, or epsilon, again, where the idea apparently is that the institution grows out of the customs and that, in the person of the political actor, the institution uses and strengthens the customs to preserve itself—an arrangement which might be symbolized by “Custom ↔ Institution.” As one can see from a remark of Aristotle’s in the Politics, the Greek for ‘institution’ is used for both politeiai or citizenships and for other entities, including the putative democracy in which psephisms—decrees or resolutions that fail to reflect the basic institutions of a city, whether those institutions are recorded in writing or not—govern instead of laws; “such an

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institution” (Politics 1292a35), according to Aristotle, is not a democracy, strictly speaking, and is not a politeia or citizenship at all. These points concerning what Aristotle spoke and wrote about the ethics are worth insisting on precisely because Aristotle has been misunderstood so widely and so thoroughly. In the English tradition, the great Henry Sidgwick typifies this misunderstanding by suggesting (Sidgwick 1931, 1), “The derivation of the term [‘ethics’] is to some extent misleading; for Ethics (ηθικα) [e¯thika] originally meant what relates to character as distinct from intellect.” Sidgwick himself obviously was not misled. His own concern, however, was not with character, and he tried to appropriate the language of ethics for his own use. As he wrote (Sidgwick 1931, 2), “The primary subject of ethical investigation is all that is included under the notion of what is ultimately good or desirable for man; all that is reasonably chosen or sought by him, not as a means to some ulterior end, but for itself.” Thus Sidgwick was proposing to appropriate ‘ethics’ to an academic discipline that might well be called, following his student Rashdall, the theory of good and evil (Rashdall 1924, vi), or perhaps value theory. This discipline paid little attention to character if a great deal of attention to the senses of ‘good’, ‘right’, and ‘duty’. The move from ethics as “things” to ethics as “an academic discipline” was a challenging one for Sidgwick, not least of all because he apparently knew that he was undertaking this move and that it was chancy. He almost certainly knew, for example, that Lecky, in the preface to the 1869 edition of his famous History of European Morals, still was using ‘morals’ to talk about things in the world rather than about an academic discipline. Lecky was concerned with “the degrees in which, in different ages, recognized virtues have been enjoined and practiced” and with “the relative importance that in different ages has been attached to different virtues” (Lecky 1910, I: vii). Thus Lecky was addressing both ethical virtues, which are among the ethics, and practices widely shared or the customs—both ethics and morals as the tradition understood them. Working against this background, Sidgwick had to develop an argument that ostensibly brought him from ethics as things to ethics as a discipline. His argument was that Aristotle himself had created the discipline in the very writings that we are reviewing here because these writings went beyond the things connected with character, especially beyond the virtues and vices. As Sidgwick wrote, “The qualities of character which we call virtues and vices constituted only one element in the subject of the treatise [sic]

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of Aristotle which this term [‘ethics’] was used to denote” (Sidgwick 1931, 1). But the qualities of character that we call virtues and vices could not have been the only items addressed in Aristotle’s ethical treatises—if those treatises were to be useful to their intended hearers and readers— because other items are related to character as well, possibly as causes or effects of it, for example. The Great Ethics shows that an argument along Sidgwick’s lines had been proposed in antiquity, and had been responded to in the Peripatetic school. As the pertinent text says, “Someone may be in a quandary and wonder because when we are speaking about characters and political business we talk about wisdom. First off, looking into this would not seem to be foreign [to character], if it [wisdom] is a virtue, as we say. And perhaps it is appropriate for a philosopher to look into these things as well which happen to be in the same thing [i.e., the psyche]. And it may be necessary, since we are talking about things in the psyche, to talk about all of them. But wisdom is in the psyche, so that it is not out of place for us to talk about the psyche” (MM 1197b27–36). This text shows how very clearly the Peripatetics understood that Aristotle’s ethical books addressed not only the various qualities of character but also the things that were related to them as causes or effects or otherwise. And it suggests further that the ethical books had to address (and that they did address) the things that needed to be distinguished from the ethical things—the idea of the good, for example, in EN 1.6—but which sometimes were confused with them. This last point goes to explain much of what is considered dialectical in Aristotle’s ethical treatises. Sidgwick’s preoccupation with the contemporary theories of egoism, intuitionism, and utilitarianism, which are at the center of his own theoretical work (Sidgwick 1907), may have made it more difficult for him to see the relation of ethics and morals to the state as it was understood in antiquity and as it is described here. His concern was with a range of other issues; he hoped especially to deal with the three apparently competing claims that “the rational agent regards quantity of consequent pleasure and pain to himself as alone important in choosing between alternatives of actions” (egoism, Sidgwick 1907, 95), that “we have the power of seeing that certain kinds of actions are right and reasonable in themselves” (intuitionism, Sidgwick 1907, 200), and that “the conduct which, under any given circumstances, is objectively right, is that which will produce the greatest amount of happiness on

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the whole” (utilitarianism, Sidgwick 1907, 411). To the extent that his work circulated widely, which it did and continues to do, his fateful failure to deal sympathetically with the classical writings arguably has helped to transport ethical discussion away from being of much interest to the political actor by shifting the focus from character and custom, which the political actor must understand and be able to assess, to items which the same political actor may not have to understand and assess. Returning now to Aristotle on custom: although it is necessary to distinguish ethos from e¯thos in Aristotle’s writings, one may grant that ethos is not to be translated by ‘custom’ in each and every occurrence in his works (Bonitz 1961, 216–217). In some cases, ‘habit’ might be more appropriate in places where it is concerned with individuals. The natural language of the Greeks was not always more precise than our own. In English, one can say, for example, that an individual becomes accustomed or habituated to a certain practice, or even that one’s custom is to do such and such. This latitude certainly is reflected in the uses of the verbs etho¯ (be accustomed or habituated) and ethizo¯ (accustom). Aristotle himself says that the noun e¯thos signifies that it extends from ethos, and that—by being moved often in a given way—one becomes ‘accustomed’ (EE 1220a39–b2). At the same time, one can say that one group adopted another group’s customs—after being conquered, for instance; and one can say that a certain practice became customary, meaning that it came to be observed widely. In very many occurrences of ethos, ‘custom’ rather than ‘habit’ clearly is called for, because Aristotle is referring to widely observed behavior rather than to the psychic condition of a single individual. At Politics 1287b6, for example, Aristotle goes on to contrast the laws that are customary (kata ta ethe¯) with those that are written down (kata grammata). And in Rhetorica ad Alexandrum 1423a34, he refers to the ancestral customs (ta patria ethe¯). Thus, while ethos sometimes can be translated correctly by ‘habit’ when it has to do with individuals, in many cases ‘custom’ clearly is more appropriate because it represents something that is shared. With the addition of custom, and with the proviso that all the relations of causality are to be considered both transitive and symmetrical, the basic system of the ethics and the politics can be now represented in outline as follows: Action ↔ Habit ↔ Character ↔ Custom ↔ Institution

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Here, of course, the two-headed arrows indicate mainly the direction of the causality—that, indeed, it can go in both directions. They do not indicate ‘the nature’ of the causality. Nor do they exclude the possibility that some political actor might attempt to produce an effect that fails to conform to this sequence—for example, by using an institution (say, the U.S. Department of Education) to affect directly the actions of school students in a way that runs counter to established customs. As can be seen, the language of ethical things is reasonably exact and also fairly coherent in Aristotle. A case can be made that this language resonates with the language of earlier Greek writers, particularly with Plato’s. In The Republic, for example, Socrates induces Glaucon to admit that the politeiai or citizenships, which are institutions, originate, if not from the ancestral customs exactly, “from the characters (to¯ n e¯tho¯ n) of those in the cities” (544E1), which both embody and help to form or deform habits over time. Although the causal relations in Aristotle’s system are, indeed, symmetrical and transitive, the causality works in different ways in different cases. While repetition of actions produces habits in an individual, for example, possession of a habit disposes one to perform the corresponding actions. Here, too, if character requires that one have all the appropriate habits, one can speak of habits as producing character, and if character reinforces habit by integrating it in a certain way, as I have argued elsewhere that it clearly does for Aristotle (Mulhern 2004), then its causality is of a different kind. Similar observations can be made for the rest of this system. Further, the two-headed arrows indicate only that the causality can flow in either direction, not that it actually does flow in both directions or in either, for that matter, in a given case. The causal relations are contingent, and they depend on the initiative of those outside the system who act and are themselves causes; thus the system is a modal one, accommodating possibility as well as actuality in these causal relations. The political actor stands outside this system of relations; these relations present themselves to the alert political actor as avenues for exercising influence. The political actor who is aware of this system will know that there are several points at which the system can be entered, perhaps more or less effectively given the circumstances, as in the case of the Department of Education referred to earlier, for instance, where the customs are considered intractable and hence useless for the production of a desirable character. An alternative avenue of influence

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might be to work directly to form the habits of children through institutions other than the schools. Aristotle’s discussion of this system is not normative; it is descriptive, presenting as a matter of fact that the institutions and their customs can and do affect character and thus also behavior, whether one likes it or not. The issue thus is not whether the state as embodied in the political actor will or should affect character and the ethics, but rather how the political actor chooses to affect character and the virtues and so on—namely, the ethics. Morals and Latinity The classical view may have been made less accessible to us, rather than more so, by the very way the Romans received it from the Greeks. While there are earlier Latin writers who discuss what we might call moral things, it is Cicero who gives us the Latin language of morals. Moralis comes into Latin when, at the beginning of the fragmentary De Fato (On Fate), Cicero, writing near the end of his life, connects mos, which commonly has the sense of ‘custom’, with e¯thos, with an eta again. The opening words of the sentence in which he does so, though, are missing, and his precise meaning is obscured somewhat by this lacuna in the text. What is left begins with a causal clause using quia or ‘because’: “. . . because it [something?] refers to mores, which [something?] those [Greeks] call ηθοζ [e¯thos], we are accustomed to call this part of philosophy de moribus [about mores], but it is appropriate for one adding to the Latin tongue to name it moralem” (1.1). Some readers (Marwede 2003, 1) take the view that Cicero is suggesting mores as a synonym for e¯thos here. Indeed, the De Fato may be the source of the lexicographers’ view that the plural mores has the sense of ‘character’ instead of ‘customs’, where, as before, character is understood as something that belongs to an individual and custom as something that many individuals share. However that may be, Cicero, if not always, still often uses mores for customs rather than for character. In the De Officiis (On Duties), for example, in another occurrence of mores after ‘refers to’, Cicero observes that his predecessors have overlooked no argument “which refers to the laws, to the customs, and to the ordering of the res publica [public business]” [qui ad leges, qui ad mores, qui ad disciplinam rei publicae pertineret, 1.156]. Also in the De Officiis, while Cicero clearly uses mos (the singular form) in the sense of ‘custom’ in the phrase “with respect to custom and civil institutions” [more . . .

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institutisque civilibus, 1.148], he just as clearly uses mores (the plural form) in the sense of ‘customs’ in the phrase “nothing against customs, laws and institutions” [nihil contra mores, leges, institute, 3.63]. And once again, in the Tusculan Disputations, when comparing different ways of dealing with dead bodies, he certainly writes of the custom (mos) of the magi (1.108); and in the De Re Publica, too, after quoting the famous line of the early Roman poet Ennius, “On ways and men of old rests the Roman weal,” he observes that neither men, unless a city were provided with customs (mores), nor customs, unless men were to protect them, would be able either to establish or to preserve for so long a period of time a res publica which ruled so extensively (5.1). In fact, then, while Cicero may use the plural mores for character, he most certainly does not reserve mores for character only but often uses it as we would use the plural ‘customs’ (Merguet 1892, 588–591). Summing up so far: the meaning of ‘moral’ or ‘customary’ is not the same as the meaning of ‘ethical’ or ‘characteristic’, since custom is not the same thing as character. And, if it is not, then ‘moral’ is not an exact equivalent for ‘ethical’, despite what Sidgwick says. There is reason to believe, however, that mos may be central to Roman thinking in somewhat the way that e¯thos is central to Greek thinking, since the things related to it are denominated from it. If mos is central, especially as it occurs in mos maiorum (the ancestral custom; see ta patria ethe¯), then at a comparatively early date there may have been a shift away from ethics to morals as another systematic way for the political actor to view the central issues of human behavior (Gehrke 1994, 593–622). For Cicero, following the way the Greeks treated e¯thos and e¯thikos, using mos and moralis alone does not indicate that a practice is good or bad, right or wrong. For him, none of these expressions is evaluative. In the first oration In Catilinam, for example, Cicero’s O tempora, o mores! [Oh the times, oh the customs, 1.2] does not suggest that something is good or bad about mores themselves but that the customs that allow an enemy of the republic such as Catiline access to the senate are questionable. Just as happens with e¯thikos and its translations, however, moralis and its translations almost always come to be treated in modern times as themselves evaluative expressions. Foucault, for example, speaks of “the ethical, moral character,” where he fairly clearly is using ‘ethical’ and ‘moral’ in place of ‘good’ or another omnibus evaluative adjective instead of using them in their authentic and revealing historical senses

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(Foucault 2001, 86). If Foucault had said “the characteristic, customary character,” his words would have lacked their engaging ring. Even Sir David Ross could write of “moral action, i.e., . . . any action to which either the epithet good or bad, or the epithet right or wrong, is applicable” (Ross 1939, 192). Ross may have meant only that ‘moral action’ names actions that are susceptible of evaluation, not that every moral action is good. But strictly speaking, from the classical standpoint, a moral (that is, a customary) action is no more than an action associated with ‘custom’, and the custom may or may not be good or bad, right or wrong. If e¯thikos (‘ethical’) and moralis (‘moral’) had been used as approving evaluative expressions, surely they would have had cognate disapproving contraries in the ancient languages. In fact, however, there are no cognate words in common use corresponding to ‘unethical’ or ‘immoral’ in the classical languages. History deceives us by allowing words like ‘ethical’ and ‘moral’, which resemble their ancient antecedents, to remain in use while the conceptual schemes in which they operated and from which they derived their meaning have been forgotten. Further, the loose treatment of both ‘ethical’ and ‘moral’ as omnibus expressions of approval has made it easier to assume that they might share the same descriptive meaning, an assumption that surely makes accurate historical discussion of both ethics and morals more difficult (see Ciprut’s footnote 1 in chap. 1). Much recent academic writing is concerned not with ethics or morals as I have described them but with professional disciplinary boundary lines and their adjudication. The questions in this writing are whether to identify the disciplines of ethics and morals or to assert that the disciplines have different subject matters or that one somehow includes the other and the like (Annas 1992, I:329–331). These academic questions would have been of no importance to an Aristotle or a Cicero, since they would have provided little or no guidance for political action. Nor are they of much importance to the political actors of today. The State and the Political Actor In many conscientious listings of departures from the classical understanding of politics, the modern concept of the sovereign state would appear prominently. “The state,” as Jean Bodin, the learned French academic and diplomat, defined it in the sixteenth century, “is an aggregation of families and their common possessions, ruled by the

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highest power and by reason” (“Respublica est familiarum rerumque inter ipsas communium summa potestate ac ratione moderata multitudo,” Bodin 1591, I: i, 1), as Dunning (1902–1920, 2:86) translates it. And Bodin goes on, in a later chapter, to identify the highest power of which he is speaking: “Sovereignty is supreme power over citizens and subjects, unrestrained by the laws” (“Maiestas est summa in cives ac subditos, legibusque soluta potestas,” Bodin 1591, I: 8, 102), again as in Dunning (1902–1920, 2:96). The Latin maiestas comes over into English as “sovereignty” in a translation from Latin and French editions by a contemporary of Bodin’s: “Maiestie or Soueraigntie is the most high, absolute, and perpetuall power over the citizens and subjects in a Commonweale: which the Latines call Maiestatem, . . .” (Knolles 1606, 84). The traditional theoretical language of the state and the concepts associated with it still are used by some as if the state could be taken for granted as the focal point for political analysis. But whether there ever has been a state in this strict theoretical sense of Bodin’s is unclear. Indeed, as is clear from his use of legibus soluta, Bodin himself was perpetuating the medieval outlook, according to which, as he says, “absolute power [power unrestricted by the laws] extends only to setting civil law aside, as we have shown above, and that it cannot do violence to the law of God, Who has loudly and clearly told us by His law that it is illicit to take, or even to covet, another person’s goods” (Franklin 1992, 39). Certainly for most of history as we know it, there has been no such state, and human affairs have been governed by systems of overlapping influence, where influence is understood as the ability to get others to act, think, or feel as one intends (Banfield 1961, 3). An example studied intensively is medieval feudalism, if antiquity and American federalism do not provide enough examples of their own. Under systems of overlapping influence, the relations to one another of ethics or morals, and of either to the state, would not become the central issue, because character and custom and the things connected with them would be related to a variety of institutions of varying strengths, not just the state. As the convention of using the language of the state led theorists and other people to think of themselves as living in a putative state, however, and especially as the state inched toward its developed quasi-totalitarian form, it apparently became plausible to protest the notion of sovereignty and to look for limits to sovereignty, and even to reject the notion of sovereignty altogether. The

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alternatives were to look for sources of actual observable behavior and so to things such as the moral sense on one side, and on the other to look for a theoretical device perhaps not closely linked to observable behavior but still both attributable to individuals and arguably broader in scope than any putative state—something such as the Kantian will, accompanied with its putatively universal deliverances. The concept of ‘the will’ certainly seemed useful for a time, partly because of its association with the notion of popular sovereignty. But the notion of popular sovereignty, which has analogues throughout history, also has little or no practical utility as a guide to the political actor, since it can accommodate any way of organizing politically and thus is apt to accommodate incompatible ways of organizing politically, as well. Now that the language of the state no longer dominates debates and discussions of politics, even among political scientists, it may be possible to approach ethics and morals again, not from the modern standpoint of protest against state sovereignty but in a classical and historically sensitive way from the standpoint of the political actor. To subordinate the concept of the state for analytical purposes is not to suggest that the ‘nation-states’ of today, which are not states in the strict theoretical or sovereign sense anyway, are about to collapse or should collapse into some multinational entity. That eventuality probably is far off and may not be more desirable than the alternatives. The point rather is that, once it is clear that one need not speak of the state as the central point of reference, it becomes easier to understand that, over the much longer haul, and under any kind of system, people whom we may call political actors will emerge and will attempt to bend whatever system may be in force to their own purposes and preferences in ways that will affect and be affected by both character and custom. It is in this sense that the state, in the person of the political actor, may be seen or said to be concerned with both ethics and morals—those things related to character and to custom—in the classical way, even though the very objects of this concern so often are misdescribed that the political actor is able to recognize them rarely at most. And so, mistakenly but correctly, he regards what he sees presented under the rubrics ethics and morals as of no importance. Conclusion If ethics are things related to character and morals are things related to custom, the question is whether, so understood, ethics and morals are

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important to the political actor in any age. I conclude that they are. The perennial tasks of the political actor are to protect citizens from external threats and to restrain internal tendencies toward instability, all the while maintaining one’s own position; and the actor’s ability to do any of these, not to mention the approach to be taken, depends heavily upon the character and customs of the citizens themselves. Further, focusing the study of human affairs on e¯thos or mos and the things that are related to them makes it possible to conceptualize the relation of ethics or morals to the state, in the person of the political actor, in useful ways. What about the shift from e¯thos or character to mos or custom as the focal point, if indeed such a shift occurred in Roman times as the Romans struggled, as we know they did, to bring what they learned from the Greeks together with their native tradition? While much more work remains to be done on this question, it seems to me that the focus on mos often tends to appear as part of an attempt at reform, as it certainly did in the time of the seditions and at the end of the republic and in the time of Augustus. Once the mores have slipped, it is doubtful that they can be reformed by the political actor’s focusing directly on them. Instead, what may be required is more comprehensive attention to their causes, and so to ethics, in the classical sense directed toward more serious efforts to develop good character in the young. Bibliography The references that follow include some classical authors for whom places and dates of original publication are lacking. It is customary to cite these authors of enduring value by referring to conventional books and chapters or to pages, sections, or columns, and lines of critical editions that may have appeared many centuries after original composition and publication, whatever ‘composition’ and ‘publication’ may mean in dealing with a classical author. Thus Aristotle often is cited by name of work and by page, column, and line in column. ‘Politics 1260a15’, for example, is a citation of page 1260, column a, line 15 of Aristotle’s Politics in the Prussian Academy edition Aristotelis Opera (1960). As an alternative, when larger pieces of text are in question, his works are cited by work, book, and chapter. Cicero, however, regularly is cited by work, book, and chapter, and my references are to these as represented in the critical text of Mueller, listed as [Cicero] . . . (1878–1905). Modern lexicography is beginning to show that the conceptual frameworks of the classical authors sometimes were quite different from our own and from those of our more recent predecessors. Thus the most widely known translations may be unsuitable for use in firsthand specialized investigations such as the present one, in which ‘ethics’ and ‘morals’ are expressions whose sense is subjected to fairly radical testing rather than being taken for granted in the usual naïve way. It is not clear that discussions that use the expression ‘ethics’, for example, can be of much value until they come to grips with the history of this expression.

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References Annas, Julia (1992) “Ethics and Morality,” in Lawrence C. Becker and Charlotte B. Becker, Editors, Encyclopedia of Ethics, New York: Garland. [Aristotle] Aristotelis Opera (1960) Immanuel Bekker, Editor, 2nd ed., Olof Gigon, Editor, Berlin: de Gruyter. [Aristotle] Rackham, H. (1934), Translator, Nicomachean Ethics, London: William Heinemann. Banfield, Edward (1961) Political Influence, Glencoe, IL: Free Press. Bodin, Jean (1591) De Republica Libri Sex, Paris, Richard Knolles (1606) Translator, London [no publisher given]. ——— (1992) On Sovereignty: Four Chapters from the Six Books of the Commonwealth, Julian H. Franklin, Editor, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Bonitz, H. (1961) Index Aristotelicus, Olof Gigon, Editor, Berlin: de Gruyter. [Cicero] M. Tullii Ciceronis, Scripta quae manserunt omnia, C. W. F. Mueller (1878–1905) Editor, Leipzig: Teubner. Dunning, William Archibald (1902–1920) A History of Political Theories, 3 vols., New York: Macmillan. Foucault, Michel (2001) Fearless Speech, Joseph Pearson, Editor, Los Angeles: Semiotext(e). Franklin (1992), see Bodin (1992). Gehrke, Hans-Joachim (1994) “Römischer mos und griechische Ethik,” Historische Zeitschrift 258(3):593–622. Joachim, H. H. (1951) Aristotle: The Nicomachean Ethics, D. A. Rees, Editor, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Knolles (1606), see Bodin (1591). Krippendorff, Klaus (2008) “Four (In)Determinabilities, Not One,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Indeterminacy: The Mapped, the Navigable, and the Uncharted, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Lecky, William Edward Hartpole (1910) History of European Morals from Augustus to Charlemagne, 3rd ed., rev., New York: D. Appleton. Manville, P. B. (1990) The Origins of Citizenship in Ancient Athens, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Marwede, D. (2003) “Mos, Moralis, and Cicero’s De Fato,” 28th International Conference on Patristic, Medieval, and Renaissance Studies, Villanova University, September 6. Merguet, H. (1892) Lexicon zu den Schriften Cicero’s, Zweiter Teil, Zweiter Band, Jena: G. Fischer. Mulhern, J. J. (2003) “Patristic Uses of E¯thos, Mos, and Their Cognates: The Classical Background,” 28th International Conference on Patristic, Medieval, and Renaissance Studies, Villanova University, September 6.

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——— (2004) “ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ [Candor] in Aristotle,” in Ineke Sluiter and Ralph M. Rosen, Editors, Free Speech in Classical Antiquity, pp. 313–339, Leiden: Brill.2 ——— (2008) “The Political Economy of Citizenship,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Patrologia Latina (1844–1855) J. P. Migne, Editor, Paris [publisher not given]. [Plato] Platonis Opera (1900–1914) John Burnet, Editor, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Rashdall, Hastings (1924) The Theory of Good and Evil: A Treatise on Moral Philosophy, 2nd ed., London: Oxford University Press. Ross, W. David (1939) Foundations of Ethics, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Sidgwick, Henry (1907) The Methods of Ethics, 7th ed., London: Macmillan. ——— (1931) Outlines of the History of Ethics for English Readers, 6th ed. (enlarged), Alban G. Widgery, Editor, London: Macmillan. Wilson, James Q. (1995) On Character, expanded edition, Washington, DC: AEI Press. 2. The Greek word ΠΑΡΡΗΣΙΑ is pronounced “pharrhesia.” —Ed.

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Ethics, Morality, and Religion: Directional Transitions and Trends, East and West Don Baker

The relationship between religion on the one hand and morality and ethics on the other has been a thorny issue in philosophical debates in the Western world for the last few centuries. Recently East Asians have contributed to that debate over which comes first, the chicken of religion or the eggs of morality and ethics, but from a different angle. Around one thousand years ago, Western Europe was divided into a number of competing kingdoms. Above them all stood the papacy, the one authority they all at least had to pretend to respect and obey. On the other side of the Eurasian landmass, China, Korea, and Japan were each united under centralized governments before whom religious leaders had to bow. Those contrasting political histories have had long-lasting philosophical implications. Because in Western Europe a religious institution claimed and often exercised supreme authority over the secular realm for centuries, that same religious institution was also granted the authority to define moral principles and to dictate ethical commands. It was only when European states began to grow large and strong enough to resist papal power, and when the unity that had characterized Christianity in Western Europe began to fragment, that a few people began to doubt the claim of religious authorities to be the ultimate moral authorities as well. East Asia has moved in the opposite direction. For most of recorded history in East Asia, religious institutions were too weak to challenge the moral hegemony of their powerful central governments. Instead, they accepted the subordinate role of promoting adherence to norms already proclaimed by their political leaders. However, over the last century or so, as the notion of religious freedom penetrated East Asia and forced governments there to acknowledge and allow more than minimal autonomy for religious organizations, a number of religious

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organizations began to try to claim responsibility for defining moral principles and for articulating ethical injunctions. In the Western world, many people still assume that morality and ethics are not possible without religion. First of all, they believe that commandments that are explicit directions from the Supreme Being provide the building blocks for moral codes and ethical imperatives. Without that foundation of divine will, they believe, moral claims would have no firm ground to stand on. Moreover, they assume that people will not behave properly unless they have the fear of God in them. In their view, without the threat of divine sanctions or the hope of supernatural rewards, people would simply pursue their own shortterm self-interest without much thought for how their actions affect other people or even how their actions might affect themselves in the long term.1 In the seventeenth century, philosophers in Europe, stimulated by the decline in papal authority and in Christian unity and by the first stirrings of modern science, began questioning the authority of religion to dictate moral principles and ethical injunctions. From the outset, they thus sought to ground moral principles in human psychology and/or in the laws of reason and logic, or in utilitarian calculations of the benefits and disadvantages of various actions. However, by the twentieth century, philosophers, led by G. E. Moore (1873–1958), had begun to criticize all attempts to derive an “ought” from any sort of “is,” whether the “is” be anchored to the existence and will of a Supreme Being or the altruism presumed inherent to human psychology. Despite the growing consensus among philosophers in the West that, analytically and philosophically speaking, morality is not dependent on religion, many men and women continue to be influenced by their culture’s history. Just as their ancestors did five to ten centuries ago, today, too, they view religion, morality, and ethics as inseparably intertwined. If you ask the person on the street in North America, even in Europe, if they believe that a person can be moral without belief in God or some sort of religious orientation, quite a few will say “absolutely not.”2 1. One recent particularly sophisticated version of the argument that the fear of God is necessary for people to act morally appears in the work of the prolific sociologist of religion Rodney Stark, in which he argues that “only religions with adequate conceptions of the Gods are able to support morality” (2003, 367). 2. According to a survey cited on page 3 of “Americans Struggle with Religion’s Role at Home and Abroad,” a report issued by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life on March 20, 2002, 47 percent of Americans said that belief in God is not necessary to be moral.

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You would not get the same results in East Asia. In China, Japan, Taiwan, and North Korea the vast majority of people would not call themselves religious, yet they consider themselves to be at least as moral as the people in more religious countries such as the United States. Moreover, even in South Korea, the only country in all East Asia in which even a slight majority is willing to proclaim a specific religious orientation, around 70 percent say that people do not need to hold any religious beliefs to go to heaven after they die. Moreover, almost half the South Korean population feels that the ethical rules imposed by religious organizations on their members are just too strict.3 Clearly, most East Asians do not share the common Western assumption that religion provides the essential foundation for moral principles and ethical rules. The different histories of the Western world and East Asia are but one reason for that difference in attitudes toward the connection between religion on the one hand and morality and ethics on the other. Another reason can be found in the nature of religious traditions in the Western world and in East Asia. In the Judaic and Christian traditions, God handed down commandments for human beings to obey. In the Buddhist and Confucian traditions, which dominated religious and philosophical discourse in traditional East Asia, humans discovered for themselves the proper way to behave. They did not believe they needed a God to tell them what to do. Since they did not need a God to define morality and ethics, nor did they need religion to achieve the same feat. Defining Religion Another reason the Western and East Asiatic perspectives on religion, morality, and ethics differ so greatly is that the two cultural traditions define these key terms differently. “Religion,” for example, is an imported term in Asia, though before the peoples of China, Japan, and Korea began using that term at the end of the nineteenth century they did regularly participate in activities we would not hesitate to label religious. They prayed to gods. And they performed rituals they believed would influence supernatural beings. They also engaged in disciplinary practices they believed would make them good, and even 3. These figures are taken from Gallup Korea, Han’gugin ui chonggyo wa chonggyo. uisik [The religions and religious attitudes of the Korean people] Seoul, 2004.

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better, human beings. However, three defining features of the traditional Western concept of religion were either absent or downplayed in traditional East Asian religiosity. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, religion requires above all else a belief in one Supreme Deity. That Supreme Deity is a Supreme Ruler as well, one whose commands demand absolute obedience from His human subjects. Moreover, those highest commands are found in clearly identified sacred writings containing God’s explicit instructions to humanity. Monotheism, sacred scriptures, and the notion of moral commandments grounded in the will of the One True God have been so important in the Western religious tradition that even today it is difficult for many of those raised in the West to conceive of some religion worthy of respect that lacked any of those three essential characteristics. Rather, the indigenous traditional religions of Asia tended to be polytheistic rather than monotheistic. They had pages and pages of sacred writing, not one of which was ever awarded the unassailable authority and infallibility the Bible has enjoyed. And they derived their fundamental moral principles from nonreligious sources. In sum, they did not have the theological concerns, the doctrinal focus, or the lawgiving authority so characteristic of traditional Western religions. Folk Religions The earliest religions of East Asia are so far from the Western definition of religion that even today they are sometimes denied that label. One reason for their exclusion from the category of religion is that Shinto in Japan and the folk religions of China and Korea have little interest in theological reflection. They assume the existence of supernatural entities, some of whom are powerful gods, and others are merely troublesome spirits or the lingering presence of recently departed ancestors. However, practitioners, and even specialists in ritual, care more for what those gods and spirits can do to and for them than they care for what those gods look like or even who exactly they might be. They believe those gods and spirits to have the power to interfere for good or ill in human affairs: to bring rain to a parched field, or to deny it; to cure a disease or to inflict one; to give us many healthy progeny or deny us the children or grandchildren who comfort us in our old age. However, those who look to those gods and spirits either for help or in apprehension do not always agree on which gods or spirits exercise what powers. Sometimes they do not even agree on which gods or

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spirits are the objects of their rituals or the guests revered in their shrines. It would not be unusual in East Asia to see worshippers bowing before the same sculpted representation of a supernatural being and calling out that god’s name, and yet disagreeing on which god that statue represents. I have witnessed worshippers bowing side by side before a statue and addressing that statue with two totally different names. Such a cavalier attitude toward the names, traits, and powers of individual supernatural entities is a far cry from the exclusive intense focus placed on the name and defining features of the Supreme Being who has occupied theologians in the Western world for so long. Though they are not always sure who exactly the gods and spirits are that have the power to influence their lives for good or ill, participants in folk religious traditions nevertheless try to make sure they are, and remain, on good terms with those supernatural entities. Occasional ritual is one way to do so. To make sure that those invisible personalities make their lives better and not worse, they try to humor them, providing them with ritual offerings and even entertainment when they appear to need or desire such. Moreover, they try not to offend those powerful gods and spirits. Therefore, they sometimes have to behave in certain prescribed ways. However, such behavioral rules are not the sorts of divine commandments seen in the Western concept of religion. They are more like rules of etiquette, telling us how to behave if we want to please rather than anger powerful invisible neighbors. Hence, when such gods and spirits do become involved in promoting morality, they do so as supporters of already existing moral codes rather than generators of moral codes that are identifiable as their very own. Though they are based on belief in the existence of gods and spirits and on the related belief that ritual and proper behavior are two good ways of maintaining beneficial relationships with those gods and spirits, folk religious traditions lack theological focus, do not have clearly defined dogma, and do not entertain a notion that moral principles and ethical rules are grounded in the will of a god or a spirit. Therefore, their content does not look like what Westerners have traditionally expected a religion’s to look like. The ill fit between the traditional indigenous religions of Asia and the Western concept of religion (which has been adopted by some people in East Asia, particularly new Christians) is behind the ongoing controversy in Japan over whether or not a visit by the prime minister to the Yasukuni Shinto Shrine is, indeed, a violation of the constitutional separation of religion and the

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state or is simply an expression of Japanese cultural values. It is also the specific reason religious studies departments in North America may teach the highly organized religious and philosophical traditions of Confucianism and Buddhism while tending to leave the folk traditions to the departments of anthropology. Buddhism Even though religious studies departments in the West may teach courses on Buddhism, they nevertheless run into difficulties awarding it the “religion” label. Hence Buddhism oft is taught as a philosophy instead. One hurdle to referring to Buddhism as a “religion” is the nontheistic orientation of many of its monks; another, the way that most of their publications explain the basic principles of Buddhism. Yet, the more philosophically inclined Buddhists are not atheists. The possibility that God might exist is not so much denied by these Buddhists as it is ignored. They prefer to concentrate on activating their innate Buddha nature rather than debating theological issues. Suffice it to look at the best-selling books by the Dalai Lama or Thich Nhat Hanh. You will find little discussion of God in them. However, if you visit a Buddhist temple rather than a monastery, you will see a different form of Buddhism. Most Buddhists around the world do not share the nontheistic proclivities of their somewhat more intellectually inclined coreligionists. The average lay Buddhist is a polytheist, one who believes in many Buddhas and in many other supernatural beings such as Bodhisattavas (the rough equivalent of a Buddhist saint). Rather than focusing on their own innate ability to rise above the problems of this world, they pray to a multitude of deities in the hope that they thus will elicit and gain supernatural assistance in overcoming those problems. It is because of such popular Buddhism that Buddhism can be called as much a religion as the philosophy that it is. Whether nontheistic or polytheistic, Buddhists tend to share the same view of the relationship extant between their religion and their morality. The Buddhist understands that there are no ironclad commandments that all Buddhists have to follow simply because the Buddha or one of the other Buddhist deities has proclaimed them to be binding on all human beings. Instead, Buddhists are offered advice on things they should and should not do if they want to wean themselves from their attachment to the things of this world, an attachment

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that is the root of human suffering. These guidelines vary from one person to another, depending on a believer’s particular stage of spiritual advancement. For example, a monk is expected to follow a far stricter set of rules than an average lay believer is. However, some of the precepts apply to everyone. According to one sutra popular across East Asia, The Awakening of Faith, anyone who wants to escape the cycle of birth-death-rebirth that prolongs human suffering should take care “not to kill, to steal, to commit adultery, to be double-tongued, to slander, to lie, or to utter exaggerated speech. He is to free himself from greed, jealousy, cheating, deceit, flattery, crookedness, anger, hatred, 4 and perverse views.” Such actions are wrong, not because the Buddha has forbidden them, but because to engage in such activities is to act in a selfish fashion, putting your own wants and needs ahead of the wants and needs of others. Why is it wrong to act selfishly? Because acting selfishly is both based on and reinforces the illusion that you are a separate and distinct individual. Such an illusion, the mistaken impression that ultimate reality is composed of many such separate and distinct individual beings, is dangerous. It is responsible for all human suffering, both because it is at odds with the true undifferentiated nature of ultimate reality (or “suchness,” as Buddhist philosophers prefer to call it) and because it blocks the harmonious cooperation with everyone and everything around us that is the only foundation for true happiness. Selfish action is wrong, not because it is against the will of a particular God but because it is ultimately self-destructive. Buddhist precepts therefore are not commandments but suggestions for ways to behave that will enhance the individual’s ability to escape this realm of unavoidable suffering and to enjoy true happiness. We are free to ignore such suggestions if we wish to do so. However, we will pay a price. In more philosophical schools of Buddhism, that price is one’s return after death to live another life filled with suffering. In more popular forms of Buddhism, various hells await those who violate the more important precepts. No God condemns us to those hells, however. We place our own selves there by our own selfish thoughts and actions. In Buddhism, there is a close connection between religion on the one hand and morality and ethics on the other, but it is not the same sort of connection you find in theologically oriented religions such as 4. See Hakeda (1967).

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Christianity. Buddhism does not give orders; it only gives advice. Good and bad actions are determined by the nature of ultimate reality rather than the will of a God. Moreover, morality is simply the set of guidelines average individuals should follow if they want to minimize how much they will suffer in the long term. Ethics, here understood as voluntary behavioral codes, stricter than a community’s behavioral expectations, is for those who want to reach nirvana and escape the human realm of suffering once and for all. Such strict ethical regulations are not binding on the average Buddhist. Only those who already are at a higher level of spiritual advancement, thanks to their successful dampening of selfish thoughts and actions in previous lives, should even remotely attempt to conform to such rigorous restrictions on their thoughts and deeds. Those not prepared to meet such high ethical demands will only be frustrated, and that frustration can add to their 5 suffering. Confucianism and Neo-Confucianism More than Buddhism or folk religion, Confucianism—especially the Neo-Confucianism that dominated elite discourse in China, Korea, and Japan in the centuries preceding the encounter with the modern world—is even farther from the model of religion embodied by Judaic and Christian practices of faith, as regards what religion is and what the relationship between religion and morality should look like. There are no gods in Neo-Confucianism. The closest Neo-Confucianism comes to belief in invisible personalities is the respect and the deep regard that Neo-Confucians are expected to show toward ancestors and to great scholars and models of virtue from the past. However, NeoConfucians do not make the same requests of their late, great grandparents—or even of Confucius, their most revered sage himself—that practitioners of folk religion and popular Buddhism ask of their gods. Neo-Confucians do not ask of the dead to cure the living or to make them wealthy. Proper Confucian “ancestor worship” involves ritual displays of respect and reverence with no expectations of any reward for such displays (except perhaps a reputation for proper behavior). To perform a Confucian ritual, or to adhere rigidly to the strict demands of the Confucian moral code, in hope of some reward is to violate the 5. For a succinct discussion of the role of ethics in Buddhist thought and practice, see Harvey (1990).

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Confucian moral code, simply for harboring the selfish motive of indi6 vidual gain. According to the fundamental principles of Neo-Confucianism, virtue (including the proper performance of prescribed ritual) is its own reward. In the Neo-Confucian worldview, there is no room for a supreme judge personally rewarding good behavior and punishing evil. In the formative stages of Confucianism, around 2,500 years ago, there are hints of a belief in a supernatural personality overseeing the human realm; but even that long a time ago the primary focus of Confucian discourse essentially was on morality. Neo-Confucianism, which arose in China during the eleventh century, then spread to Korea in the fourteenth and to Japan in the seventeenth century, wholly dismissed any references to supernatural entities in revered texts as purely metaphorical. In place of theism, Neo-Confucianism constructed a comprehensive philosophy that can be best described as a nontheistic moral metaphysics. Neo-Confucianism can reasonably be called a moral metaphysics because moral guidelines provide the basic building blocks of the universe. In the Neo-Confucian worldview, there are two formative forces in the cosmos, li and qi (ki in Korean and Japanese). Like many key terms in East Asian thought, li (pronounced as “lee”) is difficult to translate into English, since there is no exact English-language equivalent for li. However, “patterning principles” comes close to describing the role li plays in Neo-Confucian thinking. Li is written with a Chinese character that originally meant the lines in a piece of jade an artist should follow when shaping that piece of jade into a work of art. However, li then expanded to mean the norms or guidelines human beings should follow as they go about their daily lives, as well as the patterns that define appropriate forms of interaction both in the natural world and within the human community. Li is both singular and plural. There is one all-encompassing li, the network-as-a-whole of appropriate interactions that is the universe and everything in it. There 6. We can find some examples in Confucian and even Neo-Confucian texts of “prayers” to heaven. However, Neo-Confucian philosophers make clear that the language in such prayers should be understood metaphorically rather than literally. Heaven was to be understood as the impersonal immanent governing force in the cosmos. Heaven was not a supernatural personality like the gods of theism. “Prayers” could influence heaven only to the extent that the supplicant’s sincerity and selflessness would resonate with broader cosmic forces and restore harmony and proper functioning to the universe.

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are also individual li for each actor, or node(s) of interaction within that network. For example, it is the li of the sun that it does rise in the east, crosses the sky overhead, and then sets in the west. It is the li of a human male that he obeys his parents when young, takes care of his parents when they grow old, and pays proper ritual respect to them after they have died. Both the movement of the sun and the actions of sons are governed by the li innate in both physical nature and human nature. The main difference between inanimate natural objects and human beings is that human beings can forget that they are supposed to act as parts integral to the cosmic network of appropriate interrelationships and instead act contrary to their li, harming not only themselves and their society but also the natural world in which they live, by acting in an unnatural (“against-the-natural-order”) way. Why would human beings act in such a way? Like all comprehensive worldviews, be they religious or philosophical, Neo-Confucianism had to answer that question and to account for the existence of evil. Buddhism blamed human ignorance. According to Buddhist doctrine, human beings behave inappropriately and therefore suffer because they do not understand the true nature of the world in which they live. They live in a world of constant change, yet they crave permanency; and they act as though the world around them could provide that much-craved permanency. They also believe that the world is composed of separate and distinct substances, and act as though they themselves are one such substance. Yet everyone and everything ultimately was one. Differentiation was nothing more than an illusion created by our belief in, and desire for a separate, distinct, and eternal existence. According to Buddhism, it was the conflict between the desire for, and the belief in, permanency and individuality, on the one hand, and the reality of constant change that undermined permanent individual existence, on the other, that doomed human beings to constant frustration. The philosophical Buddhist solution was to renounce attachments to the things of this world so that we become immune to such frustration and can escape the suffering that Buddhists believed was an inescapable consequence of the normal human ignorance about the true nature of reality. Neo-Confucianism arose as a Confucian response to almost 1,000 years of Buddhists preaching that this world of ours was an illusory world: nothing in it was safe from change. Confucianism first appeared in East Asia, well over 2,000 years ago, as an indigenous product of Chinese speculation about how human beings should behave. For

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more than 1,000 years, Confucianism remained primarily an ethical philosophy that focused on relationships among human beings on this planet. As such, it remained an important part of Chinese culture even after the importation of Buddhism from South Asia in the second century. However, to deny the ultimate reality of this world, as Buddhists did, was to deny the value of those earthly relationships that were the core of Confucianism. It took Confucians centuries to recognize how serious the Buddhist challenge was and to respond to it. Finally, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, they produced NeoConfucianism, itself a philosophical affirmation of the reality of this world and therefore of the moral obligations incumbent on those who live in this world. Neo-Confucians agreed with Buddhists that the world was a realm of constant change. However, they insisted that change, not claims that undermine reality, constituted reality. Reality, according to the Neo-Confucian worldview, was simply the sum total of the various patterns of appropriate interaction that constituted the network in which we and everything else was immersed. This was a denial not only of the Buddhist concept of reality but also of the Buddhist explanation of the existence of evil. After all, if this world of change is real, then to recognize that both change and the world that change creates are real is wisdom, not ignorance. How, then, do Confucians explain evil? They, too, blame ignorance, but for them danger comes from ignorance of the difference between li and qi (pronounced “chee”). Li are the formative patterns constituting both the “ought” and the “is” of the universe, directing the way people and things act when they act naturally, and at the same time also defining the way they should act. Qi is the basic stuff (both matter and energy) out of which interacting things and processes of change are composed. Li itself, according to the Neo-Confucian philosophers, is “above the realm of shapes,” put in other words, formless. For li to become manifest, it has to guide and shape qi into individual material objects. Unfortunately, qi is often muddy and lumpy (Neo-Confucians never explain where that mud and those lumps came from) and therefore not translucent enough for li to shine through that qi, unaltered. Because qi is not always a perfect medium for li, what should/could have been appropriate interactions are distorted and become imperfect. One example would be a human being whose basic human nature is li and who therefore naturally tends toward harmonious interaction with other human beings but who nevertheless acts in a selfish manner because his or her lumpy or muddy qi has misdirected his li.

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The Neo-Confucian solution to the perennial problem of how to avoid evil and how to become a better human being is knowledge. In the Chinese language with which Neo-Confucian philosophy was constructed, the word for “mind” is the same as the word for “heart.” Therefore, the same psychophysical organ that is responsible for likes and dislikes, and for the decisions that emanate from them, is also responsible for knowing, including knowing what is right and what is wrong. In other words, Neo-Confucians both think and decide with the same bodily and mental organ. This fact creates a much closer relationship between knowledge and volition (see Williams, chap. 6 in this book) than is posited by religions that instead distinguish between the brain through which we learn and judge and the mind through which we will and desire. Mainstream Neo-Confucians did not spend any time pondering the question of why human beings sometimes act improperly even though they know the proper way to act. In the NeoConfucian worldview, anyone who really knows what is proper will act properly. The standard Neo-Confucian approach to trying to be the best person one could possibly be was twofold. First of all, people endeavored to clarify their qi through meditation, self-discipline, and study. A common way to refer to the task of cultivating a moral character is “disciplining the body.” Second, they “investigated things and events” by which they meant to read history, literature, and philosophy as well as observe the world around them to identify those li they needed to align their thoughts and actions with. Neo-Confucians believe this approach should be easier than we might think at first, since those li are already present in our mind-qua-heart and all we have to do is simply recognize the same li in the external world. As they would put it, all we have to do is to illuminate the patterns in the world around us by shining the light of our true inner nature on them, and then letting that light reflect back on the patterns within our mind, further illuminating those innate patterns in return. In this mainstream Neo-Confucian worldview, there is no room for God or gods. What does this fact tell us about the relationship between religion, on the one hand, and morality and ethics, on the other, in the moral philosophy that dominated elite thinking in China, Japan, and Korea for centuries up until radical cultural transformation wrought by modernization began in the second half of the nineteenth century? Unless we define religion broadly enough to encompass the nontheistic

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moral metaphysics of Neo-Confucianism, religion—that is, folk religious traditions and Buddhism—was supposed to kneel as a servant before morality and ethics. Neo-Confucians held that the moral obligations incumbent on human beings were the same basic patterns that directed patterns of interaction in the natural world. No God or gods could override such essential human obligations as filial piety and loyalty without threatening the normative patterns that constituted the whole universe. Instead, the role of religions and the spirits they believed in, if those spirits actually existed, was to enforce already existing moral principles and ethical injunctions. Religions could confer extra obligations—such as the requirement for Buddhist monks to be celibate vegetarians—but such rules were treated as subordinate to the moral principles Confucians believed were embedded in the very fabric of both the universe and of the human mind-qua-heart. Religions could 7 not contradict such essential components of reality. There are some who will argue that Confucianism itself should be treated as a religion.8 After all, Neo-Confucianism was just as important in shaping the values and in guiding the behavior of devout NeoConfucians as Christianity is for devout Christians. At the very least, Neo-Confucianism should be regarded as a functional equivalent of religion. If that is the case, then what does the relationship of nontheistic Neo-Confucianism to morality and ethics tell us about the possible forms that the relationship between religion, on the one hand, and morality and ethics, on the other, can take? Since no one could ever say that Neo-Confucianism did not have a strong moral component, Neo-Confucianism poses a powerful challenge to those who believe that only a moral code, reinforced by a belief in a God or at least in gods, can be strong enough to guide human behavior. Though they did not need to fear a God who would condemn them to eternal punishment if they misbehaved, nor worry about pleasing a God who could reward them with eternal life in paradise if they behaved properly, Neo-Confucians nevertheless took their moral obligations seriously. Chinese and Korean history are filled with examples of Neo-Confucian scholars who died in defense of their ideals or otherwise sustained fidelity to the Confucian moral code at great personal cost. 7. For a concise analysis of what Zhu Xi (1130–1200), the man who shaped NeoConfucianism into its orthodox form, had to say about Buddhism, see Fu (1986). 8. See, for example, Taylor (1990).

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Though Neo-Confucians did not fear divine punishment and did not expect supernatural rewards, they did believe that immoral behavior had serious repercussions. Because Neo-Confucian morality was grounded in the very fabric of the universe, they believed that immoral actions or even immoral thoughts threatened the harmonious interactions both in the natural world and in the human community that maintained the universe in its optimal state. As one Korean NeoConfucian philosopher wrote, paraphrasing ancient Chinese texts, “If there is a hair’s breadth disparity [from what is right], Heaven and Earth will change their places” and the moral foundations of civilization proper will disappear.9 When the rules governing appropriate interaction within the human community are an integral part of a cosmic network of patterns of appropriate interaction encompassing the entire universe, there is no need for a God above to enforce those rules. The universe will provide enforcement enough, since interference in the harmonious operation of the cosmos will result in malfunctions such as drought, floods, or epidemics. Because Neo-Confucian morality and ethics were grounded in the physical universe and in human nature, Neo-Confucians were not concerned with the sorts of relations with God that are so important in the Abrahamic (Judaic, Christian, and Muslim) traditions. There is no NeoConfucian sacred commandment that declares, “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” or, “There is no other god but God and Muhammad is His prophet.” In fact, Confucian moral rules do not talk about gods at all. The primary moral relationships for Confucians, known as the Five Relationships, are those between rulers and subjects, between fathers and sons (alas for newly acquired Western precepts, daughters are not given the same weight as sons in the Neo-Confucian patriarchal moral code), between husbands and wives, between elder brothers and younger brothers, and between friends and friends. As in all religious traditions, however, Confucians did have certain ritual obligations. They were expected to show respect for their ancestors and for the great teachers revered in Neo-Confucianism. However, such ritual displays of reverent worship should not be understood as Western-mode “worship.” Confucians bowed before the spirit tablets of their ancestors and sages just as they bowed before living human beings they respected but did not view to be gods or supernatural personalities able to intercede in human affairs. 9. See Taylor (1990) and Kalton (1988, 178).

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Ethics, Morality, and Anthropocentrism in East Asia The anthropocentric focus of Neo-Confucian ethics and morality is obvious in the terms used for morality and ethics. Just as in European languages, so also in the Chinese language that provides most of the terminology for philosophical and religious discourses in East Asia, the terms for morality and ethics overlap yet can be distinguished. However, morality and ethics are not differentiated in the same way they are in the Western tradition. In that European view and tradition, morality can refer to the ‘mores’ of a society and to the broader rules that govern human behavior in general. Ethics, on the other hand, when it is differentiated from morality (see Mulhern, chap. 8 in this book), refers to specific codes of conduct that are incumbent on particular groups, such as the ethical codes for lawyers or those established for physicians. The Confucian tradition, rather, understands those terms in slightly different ways. The modern word for ‘morality’ in the Sinograph world (the East Asian region, which relies heavily on Chinese-character vocabulary) is a two-syllable term in which each syllable is a stand-alone character. The first syllable is pronounced Dao (daw) in Chinese and literally means a ‘path’ for people to follow. Yet, although it still can carry that meaning, Dao is also used to name the way everyone and everything should behave and the way they would behave if they acted according to their true inner nature. In that sense, it is often translated as ‘the Way’. The second syllable, pronounced de (duh), is often translated as ‘virtue’. Combined, ‘dao’ and ‘de’ together signify ‘the virtuous way of behaving’, in other words, morality. Yet another way to translate ‘daode’ is ‘goodness’, in the sense of the Way operating as it should operate—without any distortion. Even when those two syllables are combined, however, they still preserve their separate nuances. As an early Neo-Confucian philosophical dictionary points out, “In general, the Way is what is common, while virtue is what is achieved in the self, thus becoming one’s possession.”10 Nevertheless, they do share the meaning of morality in general, of both the general disposition to act properly and the state that generally prevails when everyone and everything are behaving as they should. The modern word for ethics, on the other hand, is a combination of the Chinese character used specifically to mean ‘appropriate human 10. See Ch’en (1986, 112–115).

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relationships’(the term for the five standard human relationships that are the core of Confucian ethics) with the Chinese character li. The result is a phrase that could be translated literally as ‘the patterns that define appropriate human interactions’. However, this was not the term used in most premodern texts. In premodern texts, li often stands alone clearly to mean the particular rules that govern interaction in specific situations. This is the same li we met, earlier, in the meaning of cosmic patterns of appropriate interaction. When conceived in the singular, it is no other than the Dao itself. Neo-Confucian scholars have frequently explained that li and Dao are one and the same.11 However, when a Confucian writer wants to focus on the specific rather than the general, he tends to prefer the term li, “patterning principles,” rather than Dao. What is quite important to note here is that both Dao and li are immanent rather than transcendent. There is no God imposing morality and ethics from above. Rather, the universe, including the human community, provides its very own moral principles and ethical rules. The traditional religions of East Asia are anthropocentric in that they focus more on human beings than on supernatural beings. Moreover, among the elite, the trend over the centuries has been to move farther and farther away from any concern with gods and spirits. The gods of folk religion are much more involved with human affairs than the deities of Buddhism are, at least in the mind’s eye of the philosophical Buddhists. In Neo-Confucianism, gods are pushed even further aside. In Neo-Confucian eyes, gods and spirits (except for the spirits of ancestors and revered teachers) are best ignored because they can become a distraction from the important task of appropriate interaction with visible entities, primarily other human beings. In such an anthropocentric religious culture, religion does not generate morality so much as religion is morality. That fact becomes particularly evident in the case of Neo-Confucianism, which in essence all in all is a philosophical justification of Confucian moral principles. Because behavior, particularly appropriate behavior—that is, moral behavior—is central to the traditional religious culture of East Asia whereas theology is not, East Asian folk religions and Buddhism, like Confucianism, are primarily religions of action rather than of thought. For them, ritual is more important than doctrine. What you do is more important than what you believe. Mind-heart is behavior: strangely, a 11. For example, see Ch’en (1986, 112).

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pragmatism reminiscent of Dewey’s philosophy in the United States. This tendency to privilege behavior over doctrine leads also to privileging morality over religion—if religion is understood in the same Western sense of theism, dogma, and sacred texts—or at least to denying religion the power to define the fundamental moral principles that govern human behavior. This is almost the polar opposite of the traditional Judaic and Christian approaches, which have put religion in charge of morality and ethics and even gone so far as to claim that a morality independent of religion is not true morality at all. These radically different understandings of the role of religion visà-vis morality and ethics led to tumultuous confrontations when Christianity penetrated East Asia and began preaching that belief in God required believers to obey the law of God at all times, even if that law conflicted with community mores and the hitherto accepted ethical injunctions. Such confrontations occurred across East Asia.12 However, my own research interest has been Korea. Moreover, Korea is the only country in East Asia where Christianity has managed to become a major presence, with membership figures rivaling those claimed by traditional religions. This fact makes it easier to compare those who put morality first and those who give priority to theology, making Korea an appropriate site to explore this important difference in greater detail. The Case of Korea Before examining the religious and ethical culture of Korea today, we should first go back a couple of centuries and see how this clash of worldviews unfolded when Neo-Confucianism was much stronger than Christianity in East Asia and was not yet supported by modern Western economic and military power. In the eighteenth century, Koreans began reading and discussing expositions of Roman Catholic teachings that were brought back to Korea by diplomats who had traveled to Beijing. Those missionary-authored writings were written in fluent Chinese and used a lot of terminology borrowed from Confucian classics, which made them attractive to some Confucian scholars. In the 1780s, a few young Confucian scholars took time out from studying 12. See Gernet (1985) for an in-depth study of the early Chinese Confucian reaction to Christianity, primarily in the form of Catholic philosophical and theological writings in Chinese. Elison (1973) provides an analysis of the reaction of the Japanese to the presence of Jesuit missionaries on their soil.

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for their civil service examinations to read those books; they became convinced that Catholicism—the ‘teachings of the Lord of Heaven’ as it was called in those publications—provided some ideas that might prove useful in moral cultivation. Even before there were any foreign missionaries on Korean soil, those few young men began organizing a Korean Catholic Church, convinced that the belief in God that those books promoted would be able to provide the personal grounding for the Confucian ethics of interpersonal interaction that impersonal li could not provide. At first, they found no reason to think they were abandoning their Confucian heritage. First, they accepted the Catholic missionary argument that Confucianism originally had been based on the belief in a Supreme Ruler Above but somehow had wandered away from its theistic roots over the centuries. They hence sincerely believed they were returning to original Confucianism. Second, they also held as true that belief in God, and the supernatural assistance God would provide for those who believed in Him, would make it easier for them to conform to the strict moral code of Confucianism.13 However, most Korean Confucians did not agree with that positive assessment of Christian theism. One who disagreed was the Neo-Confucian historian and philosopher An Jeongbok (1712–1791). An was one of the leading Neo-Confucian scholars of his day, yet his son-in-law became one of Korea’s first Catholics. Concerned about this deviation from tradition and how that might affect his family’s reputation, An penned a trenchant attack on his son-in-law’s novel views in which An criticizes Catholic moral teaching as essentially self-centered. He presented the standard Neo-Confucian line that human beings should simply do what was right because the li within their hearts told them that was the right thing to do (cf. Guyer, chap. 3 in this book). Unfortunately—he pointed out—Catholics teach that we should look to an external source, God, not only for ethical guidance but also for rewards for our good behavior. To An, goodness was its own reward. Any calculation of how moral behavior would benefit us personally gravely tainted that behavior. As he saw it, the Catholic pursuit of the individual reward of eternal life in heaven was selfish. Since selfishness, the pursuit of individual benefit, was the defining feature of immorality for mainstream Neo-Confucianism, Catholicism was unquestionably immoral. 13. For more on the appeal of Catholicism to that small group of Korean Confucians, see Baker (2003).

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As a concrete example of Catholic immorality, An noted that those Catholic books his son-in-law was reading taught that men should treat their own bodies as an enemy, since physical passions often lead us off the righteous path. However, An wrote, we receive our bodies from our parents. If our bodies are an enemy, then those who gave us those bodies must be our enemies as well. However, to view our parents as our enemies is not only totally irrational but is immoral as well, since such an attitude would undermine the filial piety that is one of the cardinal virtues.14 An’s criticism of Catholic teachings was but a warning shot that Korea’s first Catholics did not heed. They continued to hope that their new beliefs would prove compatible with Confucianism. However, those hopes were dashed in 1791. In that year, the mother of one of those Korean Catholics died. And since her son was a member of the Confucian scholarly elite, he was required to honor his mother with a proper mourning ritual. The ritual was supposed to include a spirit table, a piece of wood on which the name of the deceased was written. Part of the mourning ritual required the mourners to bow before that tablet as a show of respect for the person whose name was written on it. Catholic authorities far away in Rome had decided that bowing before a spirit tablet constituted “ancestor worship” and forbade Catholics to take part in any such ritual. Though Korea still had no missionaries on its soil at that time, a letter arrived from the French bishop in Beijing informing the nascent Korean Catholic community of this Catholic doctrine. Paul Yun Jichung (Paul was his baptismal name) followed the instructions of that bishop when he mourned his mother after she passed away in the spring of 1791. He did not include a spirit tablet in the mourning ritual. He was soon arrested, interrogated, and executed. Before his execution, however, Paul Yun engaged in a debate with his prosecutors about the relationship between morality and God. His prosecutors kept insisting that a moral human being would show proper respect to a deceased parent in the way society and the human heart told him he should. Yun countered that fidelity to God’s laws was the best way to show that he was the sort of righteous son his parents wanted him to be. This debate reveals two contrasting assumptions. The Confucian prosecutors could not understand how commands from a God could contradict the moral rules inherent to human nature. In 14. For more on An Jeongbok, see Baker (1979–1980).

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the Confucian worldview, only those ideas consistent with Confucian moral principles were trustworthy. If belief in the sort of God described by Yun led believers to neglect their basic moral duties and obligations, then such a belief should be rejected. However, in converting to Catholicism, Yun had abandoned the Confucian assumption that religious claims had to satisfy moral criteria in order to be deemed acceptable. Instead, he accepted the Catholic premise that God’s will determined right and wrong and that therefore belief in and obedience to God was the foundation of moral obligations, and only moral principles that were in accord with God’s laws were binding.15 Yun and his prosecutor were in reality arguing, on the one hand, about the proper relationship between religion and morality and, on the other hand, on ethics. In effect, the prosecutor personified the traditional East Asian assumption that religion’s role was limited to supporting the existing moral code and could not require violations of that code. Yun represented an idea that was totally new to Korea at that time: the notion that religious claims could override moral claims not grounded in the will of God. Though Yun lost that argument in 1791 and became a martyr to his Christian faith, Korea has changed significantly in the more than two centuries that have passed since his death. A totalitarian government in North Korea continues to promote the traditional subordination of religion to secular norms. However, the southern half of the Korean peninsula enjoys religious freedom. South Koreans are not executed for following religious convictions that are not dangerous to others. In fact, even during the years of military dictatorship in South Korea (from 1961 through 1987), the generals running South Korea exempted religious pacifists from the normal mandatory requirement for young men to spend time in the armed forces preparing to resist with weapons any Communist invasion. This relatively tolerant attitude does not mean, however, that South Korea, any more than any other country in Asia, has abandoned the traditional view of the relationship between religion and morality and ethics. Instead, they have modified it to allow religious institutions to preach their own ethical codes while maintaining the position that society has to conform to certain universal moral principles which the government has a responsibility to promote and to which all religious organizations have to subscribe. 15. For more on Paul Yun, see Baker (1979).

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Secular Moral Education in East Asia A 2004 Gallup poll found that 53.5 percent of all South Koreans say they believe in a particular religion. That is the highest figure ever to be reached in South Korea. Until the mid-1990s, more than half of the population regularly told pollsters they had no religious beliefs. According to the poll, 21.4 percent of the population were Protestant Christians. Another 6.7 percent informed Gallup they were Roman Catholics—meaning that only around 28 percent of the South Korean people have adopted a religion that puts God in charge of morality and ethics. Another 24.4 percent said they were Buddhists. And less than 1 percent told Gallup they believed in a religion other than Christianity or Buddhism, though a substantial percentage of the population continues to patronize the more than 100,000 shamans who still perform folk-religion rituals. South Korea is by far the most Christian country in East Asia. In comparison, less than 1 percent of Japanese and perhaps 6 percent of the people in Taiwan are Christian. There are no reliable figures for China, although it has been estimated that around 5 percent of China’s population is Christian. Nevertheless, Korea shares with its neighbors the traditional notion that “the state” should be the one to teach basic morals and ethics: religions should play no more than a supportive role in that endeavor. It is for that reason that, in South Korea, schoolchildren are required to take courses in morality and ethics through all their twelve years of education before they enter university—using textbooks approved by the Ministry of Education. In elementary schools, those courses are called learning to live a proper life. In middle school, the name becomes morality. And in high school, those courses are called national ethics. In none of these courses taught in public schools is there any promotion of belief in God, gods, or religion. But religious schools are allowed to add a religious component to the required morality and ethics curriculum. In public schools, the focus is on teaching Korea’s traditional values—primarily the values associated with Confucianism—as well as what is ‘proper behavior’ for a citizen in a democratic society. Until the first indications of thaw in relations between North Korea and South Korea, the morality and ethics curriculum in South Korean schools also had a strong anti-Communist component. Students were widely taught that a truly moral person would oppose the immorality that Communism represents. Today, the emphasis is on training

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public-minded citizens, who will put the best interests of society as a whole ahead of their personal self-interest. In order to train teachers to teach those morality and ethics courses, schools of education in Korea’s public universities have departments of ethics education. Students in those departments take courses both in Korea’s traditional ethics and in ethics of the Western tradition, including ‘Judeo-Christian’ ethics, but they are wholly aware that, if they end up teaching in public schools, they will be teaching secular morality and ethics courses.16 Japan has a similar but somewhat more muted approach to morality and ethics education. Japan’s Fundamental Law on Education, which was promulgated in 1947 and is in effect today, declares in its article 1 that “Education shall aim at the full development of personality, striving for the rearing of the people, sound in mind and body, who shall love truth and justice, esteem individual value, respect labor and have a deep sense of responsibility, and be imbued with the independent spirit, as builders of the peaceful state and society.” Obviously, this would involve teaching values and moral principles. However, to ensure that the Japanese government would not be accused of promoting any particular religion, article 9 of that Fundamental Law on Education states: “The attitude of religious tolerance and the position of religion in social life shall be valued in education. The schools established by the state and local public bodies shall refrain from religious education or other activities for a specific religion.” In elementary school and middle school, students can take specific courses on morality, just as students do in Korea. At high school level, however, ethics is not a separate subject: citizenship is taught instead, possibly out of serious concern that the level of specificity in high school courses might cause high school courses on morality and ethics to veer a tad too close to specific religious or political ethical injunctions. Nevertheless, Japanese aspiring to be teachers are aware that they will have to earn university credits in moral education in order to be certified to teach in Japan’s public schools.17 Taiwan has moved the farthest from explicit moral education in its public schools, probably because for decades morality and ethics classes were used to promote loyalty to the ruling party. As Taiwan has democratized, deep dissatisfaction with such politicized moral education led 16. For one example of how South Koreans think of moral education as education in traditional secular values, see Joh (2002). 17. For an interesting survey of what has been taught in moral education classes since Japan entered the modern era, see Hoffman (1999, 87–96).

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to calls for changes. In 2004 the government put an end to the exigencies for special ethics education requirements in public schools. And that action has led to expressions of concern from the general public still expecting society, not religious organizations, to provide the moral and ethical rules and regulations societies need to function well. Since the state is the representative of society in general, many people in Taiwan still expect the state’s schools to provide moral education. The primary debate in Taiwan is over what the content of that education should be.18 Few voices have been raised against the state’s involvement in teaching morality and ethics in favor of its handing over that essential responsibility to religious organizations. Across the Taiwan Straits, China has been much less reluctant to combine traditional virtues with political ideology in its ethics class for its students. In fact, such classes are called “ideology and morality” classes. Modifications have been made in their content to reflect the fact that China is quickly adopting the characterizing features of a market economy and is granting greater freedoms also in nonpolitical arenas to its citizens.19 However, the idea that the state—and not religious organizations—should be solely responsible for defining and teaching fundamental moral principles and ethical injunctions remains strong.20 Though South Korea, Japan, Taiwan, and China may differ in the specifics of how they conceive moral education in public schools, they nevertheless still hold firm to the traditional view that morality and ethics are independent of religion. The only significant modification to that view has been a willingness in the countries that have meanwhile become more democratized to allow religious organizations to add their own ethical teachings to what the state has already provided. But the secular state still is expected to provide the foundation. However, since the majorities in all of those countries do not have any particular religious orientation, we could hardly expect people in those countries to draw the same close connection Westerners have tended to draw between religion and morality and ethics. To link morality and ethics too closely to religion in East Asia would leave most of the people there with no moral compass. Therefore, the great divide, the conceptual gap between the North American and European assumption that morality and ethics without 18. See Lee (2004, 575–595). 19. Cf. deLisle (2008). 20. See Zhan and Ning (2004, 511–532).

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a religious underpinning is too weak to have much influence over human behavior and the East Asian assumption that morality and ethics are too important to be left to religious organizations that do not and cannot represent society as a whole, is likely to continue. Empirical data are unlikely to bridge this difference, since crime rates in East Asian countries with secular moral principles and worldly ethical codes are no higher, and in many cases much lower, than crime rates in countries with moral principles and ethical codes grounded in theistic religion. If we could peer into the future, probably we would not see the marked difference vanishing under the homogenizing effects of globalization in the decades ahead. Instead, mainly owing to growing cross-cultural interaction, and therefore also to enhanced cross-cultural understanding, more of us may come to appreciate the irony that nations claiming to be religious now are leaving moral and ethical education out of the public schools that a majority of their school-age children are attending, while nations with a much smaller attachment to organized religion continue to insist that their public schools teach ethics and morality. References “Americans Struggle with Religion’s Role at Home and Abroad” (2002) Report issued by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life on March 20, 2002. Baker, Don (1979) “Western Religion and Eastern Ritual,” Transactions of the Royal Asiatic Society, Korea Branch, No. 54:33–58. ——— (1979–1980) “A Confucian Confronts Catholicism,” Korean Studies Forum, No. 6 (Winter-Spring):1–44. ——— (2003) “Danger Within: Guilt and Moral Frailty,” Acta Koreana, 4:1–25, esp. 13–20. Chan, Wing-tsit, Editor (1986) Chu His and Neo-Confucianism, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Ch’en, Chun (1986) Neo-Confucian Terms Explained (the Pei-hsi tzu-i), Wing-tsit Chan, Translator, New York: Columbia University Press. deLisle, Jacques (2008) “Development without Democratization? China, Law, and the East Asian Model,”, in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Democratizations: Comparisons, Confrontations, and Contrasts, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Elison, George (1973) Deus Destroyed: The Image of Christianity in Early Modern Japan, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Fu, Wei-Hsun Charles (1986) “Chu Hsi [Zhu Xi] and Buddhism,” in Wing-tsit Chan, Editor, Chu Hsi and Confucianism, pp. 377–407, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

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Gallup Korea (2004) Han’gugin ui chonggyo wa chonggyo uisik [The religions and religious attitudes of the Korean people], Seoul. Gernet, Jacques (1985) China and the Christian Impact: A Conflict of Cultures, Janet Lloyd, Translator, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Hakeda, Yoshito S., Translator (1967) The Awakening of Faith, Attributed to A’svaghosha, New York: Columbia University Press. Harvey, Peter (1990) “Buddhist Practice: Ethics,” in Peter Harvey, An Introduction to Buddhism: Teachings, History, and Practices, pp. 196–216, Cambridge, UK: University of Cambridge Press. Hoffman, Stuart D. (1999) “School Texts, the Written Word, and Political Indoctrination: A Review of Moral Education Curricula in Modern Japan (1886–1997), History of Education, 28(1):87–96. Joh, Jong-ho (2002) “A Dilemma in Moral Education in the Republic of Korea: The Limitation of Individualistic Cognitive Approaches,” Journal of Moral Education, 31(2): 393–406. Kalton, Michael C., Translator (1988) To Become a Sage: The Ten Diagrams on Sage Learning by Yi T’oegye, New York: Columbia University Press. Lee, Angela Chi-Ming (2004) “Changes and Challenges for Moral Education in Taiwan,” Journal of Moral Education, 33(4):575–595. Stark, Rodney (2003) For the Glory of God: How Monotheism Led to Reformations, Science, Witch-Hunts, and the End of Slavery, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Taylor, Rodney L. (1990) The Religious Dimensions of Confucianism, New York: State University of New York Press. Zhan, Wansheng, and Wujie Ning (2004) “The Moral Education Curriculum for Junior High Schools in 21st Century China,” Journal of Moral Education, 33(4):511–532.

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Exclusion, Fear, and Identity in Emerging Democracies Jeff Spinner-Halev

Democracy often is thought of as an inclusive form of government. It is rule of the people, by the people, and for the people. While the people often constituted a restricted set—free men in Ancient Athens, property-owning men in the early United States—in contemporary times, many of the barriers to citizenship of years past have fallen and “the people” are now defined in a more inclusive way. Slaves no longer exist in democracies, while women and the ‘propertyless’ now vote. And yet almost all democracies are exclusive in some way, particularly as they emerge. Even if a democracy does not formally exclude insiders, the majority in it may still discriminate against minorities in important ways. Further, outsiders who may want to come in are often excluded. This exclusion can be traced to the way that most democracies, particularly emerging ones, are also nationalistic. Nationalism often arises in democratizing states. Democracies often feel a need to have an identity, which nationalism supplies (Anderson 1991). Moreover, both nationalism and democracy need to mobilize masses of people. Political parties in emerging states must decide the basis on which they will appeal to their supporters; a bid to lead their nation’s interests—and not the interests of other national groups within the state—is a strategy used frequently by elites to gain power (Snyder 2000). My interest is not mostly with elites, however, as I look at the psychology and political philosophy of exclusion; as I will explain, fear plays a large role in explaining why religious majorities tend to cling to their state, to the exclusion of others. The idea of democracy leads majority national groups to believe that the state is “theirs,” a belief that justifies an ethic of discrimination and an ethos of exclusion. I do not think this kind of discrimination and exclusion is usually acceptable, although it is almost inevitable: almost all democratizing states discriminate in notable and noticeable ways. This discrimination

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sometimes fades as the democracies mature. In other words, most young democracies are illiberal, and some mature democracies are liberal. This observation also means that older democracies ought to temper, though not necessarily silence, their criticism of younger and illiberal democracies; these older democracies, earlier in their life, had their moments of illiberalism as well, traces of which still can be found in them. Nonetheless, many older democracies have become less exclusive and more liberal over time—though even these democracies contain echoes of nationalism in varying degrees. This reality points to the importance of figuring out the ways and means of making young, exclusionary democracies more mature and more open. There are many kinds of exclusion, as well as many kinds of nationalism. Though part of my argument will apply to democracy and to nationalism, in general, my particular focus here will dwell on religious nationalism, since the ethic of exclusion associated with this kind of nationalism is one particularly hard to unravel. This task is difficult partly because religious nationalists think their views are sanctioned by God, but since many religious nationalists are not devout, a God-centered explanation is only a partial account of the tenacity of religious nationalism. I begin with the democratic tendency to exclude, focusing on democratizing states. I then turn to the particular case of religious nationalism, first explaining why modern religions have become more exclusive, unlike earlier religions, which were often more inclusive. In the last section, I examine what can be done to make exclusive states more inclusive, noting along the way how this purpose is harder to accomplish in democratizing states marked by an ethic of religious nationalism. Four examples will run through my chapter: India, Israel, Turkey, and Sri Lanka. These countries are democratizing in different degrees; some have moved toward democracy, only to lurch back sometimes toward a more authoritarian kind of government. Yet all these states have at least some degree of freedom, and all have contested elections.1 These examples also cover states that are dominated by four very distinct religions—Hinduism, Judaism, Islam, and Buddhism. There are other religions in the world, but if the same traits can be found in these 1. Since 1972, when the Freedom House surveys began, Israel has consistently ranked as free. India has moved between free and partly free, though lately ranked as free. Turkey and Sri Lanka also move between free and partly free, but lately both have been ranked partly free. The list is available online at www.freedomhouse.org.

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four markedly different religious nationalisms, then it is surely possible that the same or similar traits will appear in others as well.2 Democratic Identity Democracies, especially those undergoing young democratization, have strong tendencies to exclude. The marriage of democracy and nationalism is not new; it pervaded nineteenth-century Western Europe, where these two movements were not seen as exclusive, but complementary to one another. Yet the coincidence of these two movements means that these democratic processes were, in part, illiberal. The Western democracies may appear to be relatively liberal now, but that was not always the case. The majority’s desire to make the state’s identity its own is endemic to democracy, particularly in newly democratizing states; this desire is not an irresistible force, but it is a force that is hard to resist. Over time, however, as a democracy matures and becomes more secure, its inclination to exclude often fades. It in theory may be possible to imagine a democratic state that so disentangled itself from any particular group that the state’s symbols did not celebrate a particular group of people, or the state did not celebrate any of the heroes tied to a specific group, but it is hard to do so in practice. The implausibility of this idea is woven into the fashion in which democratic states are born; and few are born peacefully or easily. Peaceful democratic births usually occur when the democracy is mostly homogeneous. Slovenia, Poland, and Hungary emerged from the fall of the Eastern bloc mostly homogeneous and with little bloodshed or ethnic turmoil. These countries had, of course, no reason to fight about their national identity, which does not mean they did not celebrate one. Quite the reverse: they could celebrate their national identity with few or no dissenters at all. Conversely, Croatians, Serbians, Azerbaijanis, Georgians, and Bosnians had quite different, and unfortunate, experiences. The observation that divided democracies experience struggles over identity, while homogenous ones do not, cannot be shrugged off as mere coincidence or happenstance. Such a common occurrence is better understood as being part and parcel of democracy itself, particularly in democratizing states. 2. If there were more space here, I would include Great Britain, whose nationalism was intimately tied to its Protestantism, as Linda Colley (1992) has detailed.

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Democratic and Collective Identity The democratic tendency to exclude is based in the way democracy politicizes collective identity, which it does—and more so than many other forms of government do. A democracy is a government ‘of’ the people, and hence it must define itself in some way. A group of people will feel that the state belongs to them; this feeling is exacerbated when the majority thinks there are competitors who also want to make the state their very own, or deems itself threatened by a minority’s desire to make such entitlements completely neutral when it comes to cultural and identity matters. Monarchies, to voice one contrast, do not belong to the people; unless they are constitutional monarchies, the state belongs to the monarch, and identity is not collectivized: “Making the political community all-encompassing marked the idea off from any strong theory of kingship which conceived the country as the monarch’s hereditary estate” (Hont 1994). Very few political theorists have looked at the way democracies exclude “the other”; and the few that have point to language as the culprit. This rationale was formed long ago also by John Stuart Mill, who argued that the basis of democratic “fellow-feeling” is a shared language (Mill 1991, chap. 16). Will Kymlicka has argued that language is a key way for marking out different nations; each nation, Kymlicka argues, ought to have some degree of autonomy (Kymlicka 2001, 312). For Charles Taylor (1999, 138) what democracies need is a high degree of cohesion, and thus a common identity.3 Cohesion is needed because the citizens that make a people must be capable of listening to one another in an effective manner in order for collective decision making to work at all, and so the people need to speak the same language.4 It is surely right that democracies can be defined by language, but there is little reason to think that language is the only way to define a democracy. Taylor and Kymlicka, both Canadians, may be a tad more influenced by the example of Quebec. The troubles in the former Yugoslavia perhaps came from differences in identity, but not because the different groups could not understand one another, since Serbs, Croats, and Bosnians all speak mutually intelligible languages. When Finland became independent in 1918, its emerging democracy did little to drive out or exclude its Swedish-speaking population, which makes up about 3. Both Taylor and Kymlicka are influenced by Gellner (1983). 4. See Schiffman (2008)

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6 percent of Finland. There are in fact many language minorities in democracies. Some of them are threatened, but some are not. Belgium is being tugged in two different directions by its two main language groups, but multilingual Switzerland exhibits no such problems. The world’s largest democracy, India, is wracked by communal divisions and contains myriad languages, but there is little connection between the two; indeed, the divisions seen in India rarely track linguistic differences.5 Religion is the largest divider in India, the divisions among indigenous peoples being another source of tension. Language, while not a completely benign issue in India, is but only relatively malevolent (Brass 1990, chap. 5). Democracies can identify themselves through language, but also through nationality, religion, race, or ideology, though sometimes these categories overlap, and also other categories may be used. The process of democratization and the choosing of an identity6 are often linked tightly together, since it is at the emergence of a democracy that it must be determined who is ‘the people’ becoming sovereign. This identity is not merely abstraction. Democracies must define who is a citizen and who is not; must choose their holidays, heroes, and symbols; decide what they will teach as their history; and determine their official language(s).7 When the history books of a new nation-state are being developed, these do not start from the year the new state was founded, which may have been a year or two ago, lest they provide a short and shallow read. When a new state is founded, it is commonplace for a commission to be created, for new history textbooks to be written to celebrate the nation and its achievements far into the distant past. The Turkish history books developed after the birth of modern Turkey celebrate the Turkish people’s past over centuries, and not merely beginning with the proclamation of the modern Turkish republic in 1923, even if that very founding is obviously emphasized and proudly celebrated. The history textbooks of Israel celebrate the accomplishments of the ancient Hebrews and mourn the setbacks of the Jews throughout history, not just from 1948 onward. The Israeli flag contains the Star of David, a Jewish symbol; and the Israeli national anthem lends voice to the yearnings of the Jewish soul. Similarly, the Turkish flag features crescent moon and star, Islamic symbols both. These are not politically neutral matters, but are constructed to celebrate a specific people in 5. Cf. Aronoff (2008). 6. See Williams, chap. 6 in this book, and Williams (2008). 7. See Schiffman (2008).

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institutionalized fashion. The people celebrated could simply be the people of the state, but more often the people celebrated are those of the dominant nation in the state. There is no necessary reason why the people being celebrated must speak the same language—as long as they (as they must) share some identity that can be institutionalized in a variety of ways that are acceptable to the majority.8 Fear and Identity The identity that a democracy chooses as it emerges need not be permanent; identities can change over time. Flags can be redesigned, holidays altered, and textbooks rewritten. Nonetheless, the original identity, chosen at the very outset, will certainly figure as the presumptive identity of the democracy; and it is this identity that will have to be overridden. This is one reason why the democratizing process is so important; as a state becomes a democracy, it chooses an identity that will shape the contours of the state for years to come. Rousseau notes the importance of the founding when he discusses the lawgiver. True, at the birth of a political society, it is the top leadership that shapes the society’s basic institutions, but after that, Rousseau says, “it is the institutions” that “shape the leaders of the republic” (Rousseau 1968, 84). Changing a democracy’s identity is rarely easy, though certainly possible; how hard it will be to change the identity of a democracy will depend in part on how deeply rooted and how largely institutionalized its ethical foundations are. The difficulty of change will also depend on how the democracy’s relationship to its enemies has changed over time. The identity of a popular state is often defined partly in contrast to ‘others’, who may be inside or outside the state. If they are inside, the majority will act on a sense of urgency, to make sure that the state is or remains ‘theirs’. Ownership of the state becomes all too crucial in democracies when two or more groups believe they are in competition with one another. There is little question about who is in charge of a monarchy and who ‘owns’ the state. But in a democratizing state, when the definition of ‘the people’ is up for grabs, ownership often becomes a heated issue. Few want to live in a state dominated and defined by those from a different group; the fear of having to do so fuels much democratic 8. See Mulhern, chap. 8 in this book, for a classical version of the definition of ‘the state’ from an ethical perspective.

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violence. It is for this reason that the identity of the state matters so much: it is not just what symbols, history, and holidays the state will have, but whose. And this question has ethical implications and consequences. At the time of the partition of India and Pakistan, many Hindus felt threatened by Muslim political demands and wanted to have a Hindu-dominated state. They were the majority after all, and a Hindudominated India would not only accord with democracy but also restore the faded Hindu glory, so very undermined by Islamic invaders long ago. Muslim fears of Hindus have not calmed down during the last six decades of Indian independence. The recent rise of Hindutva, Hindu nationalism, has put the Muslim community on the defensive. Communal riots are all too commonplace, with Muslims usually having the worst of it. In the late 1980s the Muslim personal law system (family law in India is controlled by the different religions) came under attack, and many Muslims saw this as an attack on the ethical foundations of their community.9 A mosque, the Babri Masjid, which Hindu militants declared sat on a site that contained an important Hindu temple, was actually torn down by Hindu militants in 1992, while Indian police passively watched, making the Muslim community ‘feel’ even more besieged. That Muslims tend to be poorer and less educated than Hindus adds to the Muslim feeling of being ‘dominated’ by the Hindus. Yet just as many Muslims fear Hindus, many Hindus fear Muslims, even though 83 percent of Indians are Hindu and only 11 percent Muslim. Some Hindus regard their history to have had a glorious past, many centuries ago, followed by centuries of Muslim and then British rule. These Hindus contend that the reason for this domination was that Hindus have been divided, particularly by caste, and thus are relatively weak, whereas their enemies are united and strong. Whereas Hindus, by their number, do dominate India, they view Muslim support for religious family law as being part of a militant religious international Islamic revival. The fact that many Muslims go to the Islamicdominated oil-rich Persian Gulf countries to work, along with the mass conversions of lower-caste Hindus to Islam that take place, only adds 9. The matter of personal law in India is complicated by the fact that the state has intervened in Hindu but not in Muslim personal law, which has made the former much less discriminatory against women than the latter. Nonetheless, the perception of the Muslim community was that the Hindu-dominated state was intervening in their community in a way that threatened the ethical foundations of their identity. See also my discussion of the complexity of India personal law in Spinner-Halev (2001).

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to these fears. But Hindu anxieties have been fueled also by massacres of Hindus by Sikhs in the Punjab and by an influx of Muslim Bangladeshi immigrants into the Indian state of Assam (Jaffrelot 1996, chaps. 1 and 10). Relations between Hindus and Muslims in India reflect a pattern that is repeated again and again in other countries. Both Turkey and Sri Lanka moved haltingly toward democracy, with some reversals, in the second half of the last century. As the Ottoman Empire broke up, part of what is now Turkey was occupied by France and Britain, and then invaded by Greece, which had designs on Istanbul and the area of Anatolia. The humiliation felt by many Turks, rulers of the once great Ottoman Empire now not only in pieces, but occupied in its heartland, was deep. Many Greek Orthodox Christians in Turkey, however, supported this invasion, some very actively and some more passively. The Greeks were defeated, and that defeat led many local Greek Christians to become fearful of losing their homes, lives, and livelihood (Alexandris 1983, 82–83). Even if most did not entertain thoughts of serving as fifth column, this fact did little to calm Turkish fears of the defeated Greek minority. Emerging from war, unsure how complete the Greeks perceived their defeat to be, many Turks saw the coast as populated with too many untrustworthy Greek Christians, and they thought it now needed to be populated with more trustworthy Muslims (Ladas 1932, 20), leading to the expulsion of hundreds of thousands of Greek Christians from the new Turkish state, and later to an exchange (Mübadele) of national minorities between Turkey and Greece by forced reciprocal transfer. Nonetheless, by the early 1950s the relationship between the Turkish state and its Greek Christian citizens had improved, with the Greek community enjoying something of a revival. But all this came to a crashing halt with the emergence of the dispute between Turkey and Greece over Cyprus. Once again, the local Greek community was viewed as potential fifth column, a perception that led to anti-Greek riots and further expulsions. By the early 1970s, the same Greek Christian community in Turkey that for several centuries had flourished under the authoritarian but multinational Islamic Ottoman Empire (which for many centuries ruled Greece itself) was down to a mere few thousand souls, mostly elderly people, now living under the more democratic, nationalist, and secular Turkish republic. One might retort that this was not the consequence of religious nationalism, but the Jewish (and Christian Armenian) communities

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also suffered in Turkey. The Jews did not suffer as much as the Greeks did, but they nonetheless faced considerable discrimination (though much of this discrimination has since faded). The newly born Turkish state was for the Turks—and not just any Turks, but Islamic Turks. Though Atatürk maintained that the Turks were a nation before they became Muslim, being Turkish and Muslim were—and are—intertwined. Turkish leaders insisted upon the unity of their young nation; they were no ‘minorities’ within their midst, they insisted. They pressured the Jewish community into forgoing its status as a minority group, a status the community was entitled to under an international treaty that Turkey signed in the 1920s10 (Liberles 1984, 133). Yet even as it denied having minorities, Turkey routinely discriminated against its non-Islamic minorities.11 Islam was simply a “crucial, perhaps main, component of identity” in the emerging Turkish state (Poulton 1997, 98). In the 1930s the press led an anti-Jewish campaign that led to antiJewish riots and even to the removal of several historic Jewish communities. During World War II, well-to-do Greek Orthodox Christian, Catholic and Gregorian Armenian Christian, and Jewish men were rounded up and sent to special camps where they were forced to work for the state under harsh conditions (Poulton 1997, 117). Perhaps more ominous was the capital or wealth tax imposed on non-Muslims in the very early 1940s. A severe economic crisis lasting from 1939 to 1942 was blamed on non-Muslim businessmen. The capital tax was levied on all 10. It was sovereign Turkey’s perfectly legal prerogative after the Lausanne Treaty to abrogate all of the so-called capitulations that the now-defunct Ottoman Empire had signed with practically every major power. These were supposedly mere trading agreements that would permit the establishment of foreigners and their civil and criminal judgment by foreign envoys under foreign law. Until 1583, when England obtained its first “capitulation,” France had been the official protector of all “Europeans” established in Turkey. Later, England would gain claim to protect the subjects of ‘other nations’ as well. The practical result of the capitulations in Turkey was to form each separate foreign colony into a sort of imperium in imperio, to assail the local jurisdiction, and to abate the sovereignty of the ‘capitulating’ party even as the latter endeavored to become a modern independent nation. Even the Ottoman Empire’s erstwhile vassals in the Balkans—in principle bound to respect the capitulations for as long as they remained part of that empire—abrogated these in practice by virtue of the Treaty of Berlin in 1878, long before securing their own full independence. What modern state or government would have tolerated incursions into its sovereign jurisdiction after 1923? Surely none in Europe: hence nor did Turkey. The move was not directed at any one community in particular, though all had to be dealt with, one by one, by the newly sovereign state.—Ed. 11. The Kurds are Muslim and face ill treatment as well. But Turkish leaders hoped that the Kurds would accept being Turks—an offer never really extended to the non-Islamic minorities. The persistence of Kurdish nationalism and the ensuing terror convinced successive Turkish governments to oppose these with counterviolence as a last resort.

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citizens, but the tax on Jews and Christians was ten times the tax imposed on Muslims, while Jewish converts to Islam had to pay only twice as much. The result is reported to have led to a great impoverishment of non-Muslim communities (Poulton 1997, 117–119; Liberles 1984, 134–135). Secular Turkey’s membership in the Organization of Islamic Conference today is evidently not accidental. Group identity, fear, and religion play the familiar role also in Sri Lanka, where a religiously mixed population lives and the Buddhist population, like the religious majorities in Turkey and in India, is the clear majority. Sri Lanka comprises 74 percent Sinhala (most of whom are Buddhist) and 12 percent Tamil Hindu (the rest are Muslims, Christians, and Hindus from India). As in Turkey and India, the different religious groups historically shared one another’s practices. Although there have been contentions between the religious groups, historically the disputes in Sri Lanka were rarely about religion. Yet once again the emergence of democracy has meant a spiraling of religious resentment, discrimination, and violence, with Tamil Hindus feeling the sting of discrimination by Sinhala Buddhists. Sri Lanka’s constitution declares Sri Lanka to be a Buddhist state and calls upon the state to support Buddhism while respecting all other religions. In 1957, Sinhala was proclaimed to be the official language, replacing English; this was widely seen as a move to ensure Sinhala ascendancy and put the Tamils at a disadvantage, and although Tamil was later made the administrative language in some Tamil-dominated provinces, some Tamils have responded with violence, to the extent of fighting for a separate Tamil state in the Tamil-dominated regions of the island. What is rather striking about Hindu, Turkish Islamic, and Sinhala Buddhist nationalism is the need felt by substantial parts of the majority, a majority that is comfortably large, to assert themselves over the minority. Part of the urge to assert themselves is fueled by fear. “Just look at the map,” one Buddhist nationalist explains, “and see how tiny, how fragile Sinhalese Buddhist society is. . . . our Sinhala society is only a teardrop, a grain of sand, in an enormous sea” (Juergensmeyer 1993, 100). There are large Muslim countries near Sri Lanka, and of course there is Hindu-dominated India. Tamil Hindus may be a small minority in Sri Lanka, but—just to the north—there are tens of millions of Tamil Hindus in south India. Similarly, the Turks did not just fear the Greeks inside their borders, but those on the outside as well, just as some Hindus today worry about a Pan-Islamic movement, and many Jewish Israelis worry about the Arab world and not merely the Muslim Arab

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Palestinians. A majority that feels besieged and fearful will often view the minority with suspicion and will rarely act tolerantly. Trust is not the sole purview of the market;12 it is also a key factor in the making of peoples and ‘nation-states’. Believers and Heathens My foregoing examples come mostly from democratizing states whose identity is religious and nationalistic. Nationalism, of course, need not be attached to religion, but religious nationalism is often more intractable than other kinds of nationalism. Religion often adds one more layer, often a significant layer, of division between peoples, and so makes the exclusion attached to religious nationalism harder to undermine. When religion is a point of division it prevents people on the different sides from dealing with one another. Serbs, Croats and Bosnians do not just have a different national identity; specifically, they also have different religious identities (Orthodox, Catholic, and Muslim). That Greek Christians are different from Turkish Muslims on two important dimensions makes each side seem even more alien to one another. Some religious nationalisms are simply based on religion, as in Northern Ireland or India; here, religion does not add yet another point of division between the peoples at conflict, on top of national identity. Yet these religious nationalisms, too, are particularly hard to tame, since people are more likely to think that their religion is sanctioned by God than, say, by their language or culture. Sometimes, people may think that those who speak a different language are strange but rarely will they think that speaking a different language implies that someone is immoral or unethical.13 Giving up one’s religion is often hard, since it is such a stark thing to do. Religions are what Avishai Margalit calls an encompassing group: if you are part of one, you cannot be part of another (Margalit 1996). This generalization is not always true, as we will soon see, but it is almost the case when religious identities become politicized and boundaries between them become too clear. It is hard, although possible, to move between different religious communities. In contrast, one can easily speak more than one language. One can speak Romanian in public and Hungarian at home without betraying or changing one’s 12. See Kleindorfer, chap. 7 in this book. 13. For a distinction between ethics and morals, see J. J. Mulhern, chap. 8 in this book.

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beliefs. It is hard though to be Christian in public and remain Muslim or Jewish in private. The ‘Marranos’ in Spain tried it, but not for long. Finally, the ethical dilemmas that secular nationalism poses for liberal democracies have proven to be more manageable than those posed by religious-nationalist states. A state can have one or two official languages, teach a certain kind of history, and celebrate its past in ways that do not exclude14; this possibility does necessarily mean that some people with different cultural identities may have to keep those identities out of sight—not something easy to do. One can be French and Muslim or Jewish. But a state that is nationalistic in a religious way raises higher barriers to citizenship. When religious nationalists hold sway it means that to be ‘truly’ Israeli one must be also Jewish; to be a ‘real’ Turk, one must be also Muslim; and to be a ‘true’ Indian one must be also Hindu. The characteristic attitude toward religion in liberal democracies is that it is best kept in the private sphere. But making religion ‘private’ is hard to do when it is tied to the public identity of the state. Even the more secular democracies, like some in Western Europe, the United States, and Canada, celebrate Christmas as a national holiday. It may be that every democracy will favor some groups over others, but it is the magnitude of such favoritism that makes all the difference: the more religious the state, the greater such favoritism benefits the dominant religious group at the expense of the other(s). Though religion is the cause of tensions and conflicts today, this was not always the case. The ancient pagans rarely fought each other over religion because, in their view, religions were sources of beneficence, not morality, and had little to do with identity. If one had a different religion it merely meant that you looked elsewhere for power or wealth; that you had your gods to satisfy; and others, their very own to serve, to the same effect, unless of course you had the same gods who had different names. The Romans were quite flexible about their gods, easily assimilating the gods of their many others: “The first characteristic of Roman gods and goddesses to strike us must be the wide range of different types, all accepted and all worshiped” (Beard, North, and Price 1998, 30). With the advent of the monotheistic religions that prescribe morality, however, we have two kinds of people: those who pray to the ‘wrong’ god(s) and have an immoral code of conduct, and those who pray to 14. See Kumar and Silver (2008).

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the ‘right’ God and have a moral code of conduct. This dichotomy does not mean that people must look down upon those with the ‘wrong’ beliefs as heathens, nor does it mean that they must adjudicate the lives of the heathens as less important than their own, and surely not that they must view the heathens as a threat to their moral or ethical code, since members of their very own society might be tempted by the heathens’ way of life. But a dichotomy that divides the world between those who are moral and right as opposed to those who are immoral and wrong certainly allows all of these things to happen far more easily. There is, however, an important paradox in religious nationalism: many religious nationalist leaders and some of their followers are not religious at all. The Indian Hindu right uses little Hindu ritual in its organization (Jaffrelot 1996, 27; van der Veer 1994, 72; Juergensmeyer 1993, 83–84). Many among the earliest Zionist leaders were not merely nonreligious, but also implacable opponents of the Jewish religious establishment, which, in part and to some extent, was itself staunchly anti-Zionist. Under the Islamic Ottomans, more than a million Greek Orthodox Christians flourished, mostly peacefully, in what is now Turkey; Istanbul was more than 40 percent Christian when modern Turkey was founded (Alexandris 1983, 50). Yet it was under the Turkish Republic, which dismantled all state support for religion and outlawed the fez and the çars¸af (veil), that almost all Christians were either eased or forced out of the country (Poulton 1997, 98). When a democracy defines itself in religious terms, religion becomes a societal identity, making the religious content of that religion less important for some. When religion is an identity, it becomes a way of marking one in the world and a way of contrasting one from others; it becomes a source of pride, of self-respect, in the world. When these things happen, one expects respect when one’s own religion is respected; one feels that one’s fate is tied to one’s religion. The advantage of ‘identity religious’ nationalists over ‘devout religious’ nationalists resides in that the former are often not as single-minded as the latter, a point I shall return to. Although at times the two groups may assess their interests differently, often enough their goals will converge and may even coincide. Turning religion into political identity can bolster political and social boundaries. While the leaders of the monotheistic religions may look askance upon others, followers do not always look upon nonbelievers as immoral heathens. There is much religious sharing in the world:

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Muslims and Christians pay heed to Hindu gods, Muslims at times frequent churches or pray at Christian shrines, Hindus bow to Muslim saints, and even Christians believe in magic or astrology (Bayly 1989; Dalrymple 1998; Thomas 1971; van der Veer 1994, 33–43). Religion is not enough to provide hard and fast distinctions between believers and miscreants, but when religion becomes politicized, then the sharing of religious practices dramatically decreases. If you are a Sinhala Buddhist who thinks that Tamil Hindus threaten your nation, then you probably will not pray to Hindu gods. In other words, when religion moves from being part of a folk culture to becoming part of a high culture, then it is quite likely that religious sharing will stop. Folk cultures are local cultures that admit of broad variety; high cultures are fairly uniform cultures maintained by a set of institutions like schools and policed by elites with a fairly wide reach (Gellner 1983). There certainly is religious animosity when religion is part folk culture, but the potential for religious divisiveness clearly increases when religion becomes part of an ethic of high culture (see Baker, chap. 9 in this book). Nevertheless, religious content is not meaningless in the modern world, since it is quite important to many believers. Religious symbols that will appeal to religious and nonreligious followers alike can be used by political leaders. Religious nationalists may also use ambiguous symbols. The biblical hero David is represented by the Star of David on the Israeli flag: David can be praised both by secular and religious Jews alike. The movement in Sri Lanka to make Sinhala the sole national language (thereby demoting the status of English and Tamil) could be interpreted variedly as asserting Sinhala national identity, as proof of Sinhala’s role as a sacred language for Buddhists in Sri Lanka, or as asserting Sinhala Buddhist identity. The use of ambiguous symbols makes sure that the religious nationalist movement draws the broadest possible participation from the religious, the partly religious, and the nonreligious. The religious content ensures that some will take it to mean that God supports their nationalism, giving religious nationalism an added ferocity that other nationalisms will sometimes lack. Toward Inclusion That democracies often display an intolerant or illiberal ethic is apparent enough. But not all democratic citizens hate or fear others. There are people with a cosmopolitan view, who even aspire to be

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citizens of the world. Not everyone identifies very closely with a single particular group; nor does every citizen in a democracy seek to carve out an exclusive identity in the polity. Standing alongside many acts of intolerance are acts of kindness and bravery. Hindu and Muslim neighbors hide each other during riots; politicians and citizens speak out against intolerance; Israeli Jews, Israeli Muslims, and Palestinian Arabs hold joint programs together. When helping one’s neighbors is deemed kind and brave or where joint programs are viewed as a reaching out, then people clearly are advancing against tides of intolerance. There are ways of decreasing exclusion.15 Fareed Zakaria, for one, has argued that the key to protecting minorities is to be found in liberalism more than in democracy. His reminder that democracies are not always liberal convincingly argues that it is constitutional liberalism— securing rights to all citizens regardless of identity—that protects everyone’s rights. Zakaria maintains that “without a background in constitutional liberalism, the introduction of democracy in divided societies has actually fomented nationalism, ethnic conflict and even war” (Zakaria 1997, 35). This pessimistic conclusion, dooming all new democracies to endless conflict, is more pessimistic than Zakaria’s argument warrants. Not all democracies, not even mature liberal democracies, boasted at their inception the robust constitutional liberalism that they may display as a modern democracy. Such a backdrop develops over time, often in the seedbed of illiberal democracy. Zakaria says that “mature liberal democracies can usually accommodate ethnic divisions without violence or terror and live in peace” (Zakaria 1997, 35). This statement begs a question, though: How does a democracy become mature? Liberal democracies are not born mature; they too must have their beginnings, and these beginnings are almost always illiberal, at least in part. It is all too facile to divide the democracies into good and bad, to assert that we the lucky live in the good liberal democracies while others live in the bad non-Western, nonliberal democracies, and then to go on to criticize illiberal democracies. My argument over identity and democratization here focuses on democratizing states in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, but the same arguments about identity, democracy, and exclusion apply equally to democratizing states in the nineteenth century. Our good liberal Western democracies were once 15. See Kumar and Silver (2008).

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bad and illiberal. As these states democratized, they were invariably particularistic and nationalist, often in aggressive and violent ways. Take France, for example. Eugene Weber, in his description of how the centralized French regime nationalized the periphery, argues that turning peasants into Frenchmen was in many ways a process akin to colonialism: “Order imposed by men of different code and speech, somebody else’s order, is not easily distinguished from foreign conquest.” Weber declares that France was created by “conquest and colonization” (Weber 1976, 487, 493). Similar arguments could be made about the United States, Spain, England, Germany, and other presently liberal democracies. Now that these older democracies have already established the hegemony of a particular identity, they can graciously become even more liberal and open. For Margaret Canovan, “It is unfortunately the case that a nation that is peaceful, secure and a favourable site for liberal democratic politics now usually has a past that no liberal democrat can comfortably look into.” She suggests that “nationalism with all its faults . . . seems to be a necessary stage in the evolution of nationhood” (Canovan 1996, 104) and, I may add, of democracy.16 The residual scent that past illiberalism has left in the liberal democracies of our day sometimes can be overpowering: discrimination against immigrants, particularly Muslims, flourishes today in Western Europe; discrimination against the non-Japanese is rampant in Japan. Blacks and Hispanics and others face discrimination in the United States. Still, discrimination in the mature liberal democracies is rarely as violent or as massive as that in the less mature democracies. Mature liberal democracies generally treat their minorities noticeably better than do their democratizing relatives.17 Instead of merely criticizing newer democracies for being nationalistic in ways that often are reminiscent of the older democracies’ discriminatory pasts, however, it is more useful to identify the ways in which illiberal democracies can be made more liberal, and to see how immature democracies can become more mature. Religion will make it harder, though not impossible, to turn democracies toward liberalism (see Baker, chap. 9 in this book). 16. Cf. Schuldenfrei, chap. 12 in this book; see Aronoff (2008). 17. Bernie Yack’s insightful argument that nationalism is an outgrowth of democratic popular sovereignty does not take into account that democracies can be more or less nationalistic, more or less exclusive (Yack 2001). Less is often better, sometimes a lot better, than more.

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Reducing the Force of Religion One way to decrease the force of nationalism generally is to develop crosscutting cleavages. One of the secrets to Switzerland’s success is that it had two salient and crosscutting identities. The two main ethnic groups are French and German, but each group has large numbers of both Catholics and Protestants. Generally, if people have several salient and hopefully crosscutting identities, it decreases the chances for an ethic of intolerance. More specifically, a key to making nationalist states more liberal is to tease the nationalism away from any religious foundations it may have. Western European nationalism has generally become less violent as religion has become less important to the citizens there. Catholic France and Protestant Britain are no longer at loggerheads; the lessening importance of religion for their citizens seems to have helped ease this conflict. But it remains hard to know how to decrease the salience of religion in matters sociopolitical or over purviews of democratic governance. Fear No More Removing fear is one obvious way toward an ethic of tolerance; when the majority is no longer fearful of the minority, it will more readily treat the minority tolerantly. Secure states will usually invest fewer resources into maintaining their identity than insecure states, since perceived threat has receded. Zakaria does not precisely define mature democracies, but one element may be that they no longer face deep security threats. Trade, not an ethic of bellicosity, marks their relations with their neighbors. Consider the recent rise and rapid decline of PostZionism in Israel. After Israel’s independence in 1948, the Arab (and mostly Muslim) minority was viewed with muted if considerable apprehension by the Jewish majority. Sometimes their land was taken away (Dowty 1998; Kimmerling and Migdal 1993, 161), they lived under martial law until 1966, and they faced considerable explicit and implicit discrimination, which has eased since 1948 but is still palpable. Shortly after the Oslo peace accords were signed, the idea that Israel should stop considering itself a Zionist and Jewish state and begin thinking of itself simply as an Israeli state started being discussed in earnest in Israel. It was time, the Post-Zionists argued, to bestow real equal citizenship on Israel’s Arab citizens. Critical reexaminations of Israel’s founding were made on film and shown on television. These

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self-examinations courageously investigated many of Israel’s founding myths. The educational system was similarly changed to show not only the Jewish narrative around Israel, but to include Arab and Palestinian voices as well. There was even some discussion about replacing the Jewish national anthem, which narrates the deep yearnings of the Jewish soul. The reduction of fear thus helped launch the discussions of PostZionism; the resumption of fear has helped end them. With the collapse of the Oslo accords, the spate of suicide bombings in Israel, and the attacks on Israeli settlements and settlers in the ‘West Bank’ and in Gaza—triggering armed retaliations by the Israelis on Palestinians— the debates about Post-Zionism have almost completely stopped. The education minister has called for a revamping of textbooks toward emphasizing the Jewish narrative of Zionism once again. Debates about the meaning of Israeli citizenship have become nearly silent. Hardly anyone now raises the issue of the national anthem. Yet none of this is surprising, since the threat to Jewish Israelis has made their identity as Jews preponderant once again. Increasing security can be difficult: oppressed minorities may be security risks because of their oppression. True, visible attempts to reduce their oppression just may increase their loyalty to the state, but the majority may not want to take the risk of doing so, absent a very reliable promise of positive outcomes. Hence, increasing security probably will involve a political settlement involving outside forces: better relations between Pakistan and India, say, arguably are likely to encourage an ethic of cooperation, conducive to better relations between Hindus and Muslims inside India. While reducing fear is important toward enhancing tolerance, such attempts probably might have to decrease fear much further for devout religious nationalists than for others. If you think God has given you this land, the presence of others on it will be always suspect. It is no surprise that the people enamored with Post-Zionism were primarily secular Israeli Jews for whom physical security is paramount: when it appeared to them that security was increasing, Post-Zionism became more important. The fear element for devout religious nationalists is more than a matter of physical security, however; it is also a matter of ensuring that their flock’s ethic will not be contaminated by the ethic of others. If members of other religions are immoral, if they have harmful beliefs and practices, then you want your members to have little contact with them. A sense of greater physical security will do

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little to dampen the zeal of devout religious nationalists. Here the distinction between the ethic of devout religious nationalists and the ethic of identity religious nationalists is important. The latter may find the boundaries marked by religious nationalism less important as their physical security becomes more entrenched. If devout religious nationalists are a minority of religious nationalists, then reducing fear may be enough to tilt the balance in the state to a more liberal attitudinal ethic toward minorities. Good Elites Elite behavior sometimes can be crucial in helping determine the degree of intolerance in a country. Elites can work to stir issues up or mute them down. Bulgaria, a good example here, was one of the two European countries taken over by, or allied with, Nazi Germany, that nevertheless saved all of its Jews—partly because certain Bulgarian elites sought to thwart the Nazi attempts to discriminate and kill Bulgarian Jews (Todorov 2001). Fifty years later, many Bulgarian Turks became victims of an intolerance campaign led by the Bulgarian leader, Todor Zhivkov. Many were forced to change their names, and some were expelled to Turkey. When Zhivkov was removed in a coup in 1989, the new leaders reversed course: Bulgarian Turks were allowed to reclaim their name; and those expelled, to return home. Still, proper elite behavior cannot ensure a generalized ethic of tolerance. In neither of the Bulgarian cases was there much popular support for the campaigns against Bulgarian Jews or Bulgarian Turks. Religious nationalism often is fueled by an ethic of distrust or one of hatred of a rival religion, making elite behavior less important:18 in India both Nehru and Ghandi deplored the communal violence and intolerance displayed around India’s independence. Ghandi’s death at the hands of a Hindu nationalist, while fasting in protest of communal violence, was deeply mourned by many Indians, although it did not stop the violence. It is doubtful that a wholly different outlook on part of either the Israeli or the Turkish leadership around the founding of their respective countries would have ensured equality for their Arab or Christian minorities, respectively, even though a more tolerant leadership then might have helped to dampen some of the intolerance subsequently exercised by their successors. 18. One of the problems with Snyder’s (2000) treatment of democratization and violence is that it is perhaps overly elite focused.

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Electoral Arrangements Sometimes the manner in which political institutions are formed can help increase or decrease an ethic of cooperation among different groups. Consociational arrangements may ease nationalist tensions by giving two national groups an equal partnership in government. Such arrangements, however, work only when the political community contains two groups of nearly equal size. If smaller minorities exist, then the proportional representation (PR) system is preferred, as it encourages coalitions among a variety of groups and as it may give some leverage to minority parties, some of which may be organized around national or ethnic lines (Horowitz 1985, chap. 15). Alternatively, the political parties in PR systems may directly appeal to minorities by placing minority candidates directly on their electoral lists. Winnertake-all (or first-past-the-post) systems, like the one in the United States, give the winning party little incentive to cooperate with minority parties, since the winners are the majority and do not need anyone else to form a coalition with. On balance, PR systems are usually more favorable to national minorities, but PR systems do not necessarily always lead to a thereby-increased ethic of tolerance. While the PR system in India from time to time has given Muslims some measure of influence on the government, that minority still faces considerable discrimination. In Israel, Arab political parties officially never have been part of a ruling coalition. While there have been occasions when these parties unofficially have supported a government, they rarely have been given much reward for their sporadic quiet support. International Pressure and Economic Incentives The international community can pressure a state to act with a more pronounced ethic of tolerance. To take a nonreligious example, Estonia passed laws that discriminated against its Russian citizens after it became independent. But Estonia also coveted membership in the European Union; and to become even an associate member, it had to put a stop to these discriminatory laws, and it did so. Whether international pressure will succeed, either by way of subtle politics or coercion in the form of economic incentives and penalties, may depend on how much the nation and its elites weigh their desire for economic advancement against their reasons to want to maintain their discriminatory laws. Devout religious nationalists very well may prove to be

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more resistant to international pressure than identity religious nationalists. Given a choice between God and wealth, the devout believer more likely will choose the former. Identity religious nationalists, however, may take a more balanced approach to wealth and nation. Their code of ethic may permit them to give up certain kinds of national power in exchange for wealth. Any external pressure that does succeed will be aimed usually at securing formal civil and political rights and ensuring the security of minorities. Security and formal rights guarantees can coexist with discrimination, however, as they very often do in a mature democracy. State symbols and holidays can easily favor some groups over others, in the mature and the immature democracies. Still, securing the rights and security of all citizens is important for its own sake. An ethic of equal rights will help also where the influence of devout religious nationalists is weaker than that of identity religious nationalists. When you have the profound conviction that God still approves of your sovereignty over a space that is not just any piece of real estate, neither economic sanctions, nor diminished security threats, nor denial of diplomatic recognition will do much to stop your attempts to cling to the Land. Yet religious nationalists, too, are a group with mixed motives. The more devout in that group will not be enticed lightly into making compromises with their faith. The less devout, who see religion as a marker of identity at least as much as a matter of faith, very likely will be more pliable, usually more willing to balance interests and more amenable to negotiation and compromise, than their strictly more devout religious nationalist brethren. Hence, when identity religious nationalists predominate, there may be reason to hope that, with the right kinds of pressure at the right moment, democratizing states will treat their religious minorities with respect and ensure equal rights. It is therefore this sort of regime, one based on human rights, that may be what at best can be hoped for in emerging democracies. As they become more mature and more secure, some of their cultural biases will tend to fade, if not completely disappear: to date, there exists no democracy that has deployed either the disposition or the capacity to achieve absolute cultural neutrality. Moreover, there are reasons to conclude that in a globalizing world, a state that is culturally biased toward one particular group, yet also inclined to ensure the rights of all, may be worth defending (Taylor 1992). But democratic nationalism can very easily go astray, and any factual explanation of it must be accompanied by an unmitigated awareness of its dangers.

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References Alexandris, Alexis (1983) The Greek Minority of Istanbul and Greek-Turkish Relations, 1918–1974, Athens: Center for Asia Minor Studies. Anderson, Benedict (1991) Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism, 2nd ed., London: Verso. Aronoff, Myron Joel (2008) “Democratizations in Fissured Societies: Retrospectives and Prospects,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Bayly, Susan (1989) Saints, Goddesses, and Kings: Muslims and Christians in South Indian Society, 1700–1900, Cambridge South Asian Studies 43, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Beard, Mary, John A. North, and S. R. F. Price (1998) Religions of Rome, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Brass, Paul R. (1990) The Politics of India since Independence, vol. 4: The New Cambridge History of India, p. 1, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Canovan, Margaret (1996) Nationhood and Political Theory, Cheltenham, UK: Edward Elgar. Colley, Linda (1992) The Britons: Forging the Nation, 1707–1837, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Dalrymple, William (1998) From the Holy Mountain: A Journey among the Christians of the Middle East, New York: Henry Holt. Dowty, Alan (1998) The Jewish State: A Century Later, Berkeley: University of California Press. Gellner, Ernest (1983) Nations and Nationalism, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Hont, Istvan (1994) “The Permanent Crisis of a Divided Mankind: ‘Contemporary Crisis of the Nation State’ in Historical Perspective,” Political Studies 42:166–231. Horowitz, Donald L. (1985) Ethnic Groups in Conflict, Berkeley: University of California Press. Jaffrelot, Christopher (1996) The Hindu Nationalist Movement in India, New York: Columbia University Press. Juergensmeyer, Mark (1993) The New Cold War? Religious Nationalism Confronts the Secular State, Berkeley: University of California Press. Kimmerling, Baruch, and Joel S. Migdal (1993) Palestinians: The Making of a People, New York: Free Press. Kumar, Rahul, and David Silver (2008) “The Ethics of Civic Exclusion,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Kymlicka, Will (2001) Politics in the Vernacular: Nationalism, Multiculturalism, and Citizenship, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Ladas, Stephen P. (1932) The Exchange of Minorities: Bulgaria, Greece and Turkey, New York: Macmillan.

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Liberles, Adina Weiss (1984) “The Jewish Community of Turkey,” in Daniel Elazar et al., Editors, The Balkan Jewish Communities: Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Greece and Turkey, Lanham, MD: University Press of America. Margalit, Avishai (1996) The Decent Society, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Mill, John Stuart (1991) Considerations on Representative Government, J. Gray, Editor, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Poulton, Hugh (1997) Top Hat, Grey Wolf and Crescent: Turkish Nationalism and the Turkish Republic, New York: New York University Press. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques (1968) The Social Contract, M. Cranston, Translator, Harmondsworth, England: Penguin. Schiffman, Harold F. (2008) “Language, Policy, and Citizenship: Three Views Compared,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Snyder, Jack L. (2000) From Voting to Violence: Democratization and Nationalist Conflict, New York: Norton. Spinner-Halev, Jeff (2001) “Feminism, Multiculturalism, Oppression and the State,” Ethics 112(1):84–113. Taylor, Charles (1992) Multiculturalism and the Politics of Recognition: An Essay, A. Gutmann, Editor, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ——— (1999) “Democratic Exclusion (and Its Remedies?),” in A. K. B. Rajeev Bhargava and R. Sudarshan, Editors, Multiculturalism, Liberalism and Democracy, New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Thomas, Keith (1971) Religion and the Decline of Magic, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Todorov, Tzvetan (2001) The Fragility of Goodness: Why Bulgaria’s Jews Survived the Holocaust, A. Denner, Translator, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. van der Veer, Peter (1994) Religious Nationalism, Berkeley: University of California Press. Weber, Eugene (1976) Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Williams, David R. (2008) “Of Personhood, Peoplehood, and Polity,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Yack, Bernard (2001) “Popular Sovereignty and Nationalism,” Political Theory 29(4):517–536. Zakaria, Fareed (1997) “The Rise of Illiberal Democracy,” Foreign Affairs, November/ December, 22–43.

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Politics of Ethics: Toward an Ethic of Egalitarian Democracy? Kevin Cameron

Today’s democratic society is marked by a posttotalitarian ideology, according to which a radical political project of potentially emancipatory character can only culminate in some form of totalitarian control and domination. This is tantamount to blackmail insofar as it holds that even if the goals of a radical egalitarian political project may be just, attempts to realize these will only result in suffering, misery, and terror. The blackmail of ‘totalitarianism’ banishes hopes for a greater good, by foreclosing the possibility for radical politics from the outset. I want to argue that in foreclosing that possibility, this preemption operates against the ethical act as such. In accord with contemporary psychoanalytic theory, ‘ethics’ here is not used to imply a proper characterreflecting system of behavior, fostering the good and preventing the evil, but as a ‘transgressive act in and of itself’ that seeks to break open the manacles of ideological restriction and, thus, to free the individual to the possibility of a political ethic. It is in this sense that I engage in this chapter in a psychoanalytically motivated scrutiny of a social ethic and of its likely compatibility with a political project of egalitarian democracy. The Two Democratic Traditions In order to ascertain both the logic and the power of what I see as the blackmail of totalitarianism, first we must come to terms with the two traditions that have grown up side by side under modern democracy. From its inception, the theory of democracy has linked together two giant ideals: liberty and equality. Although both ideals are essential to the promise of democracy, they are often incompatible. This historic tension in turn has generated two separate traditions in democratic theory and practice: the libertarian and the egalitarian. The first stresses

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the rights and liberties of the individual against the coercive power of the state as the normative benchmark for democracy and finds its chief proponents in Anglo-American thought and practice. The second, chiefly characteristic of French and continental European thought and practice, advocates a democracy that promotes the equality of citizens as a defense against the coercive practices of private individuals, groups, and/or institutions. These two traditions owe their respective points of origin to the two great European revolutions that helped to inaugurate modern institutional democracy: the Puritan Revolution of the seventeenth century and the French Revolution of the eighteenth century (Sabine 1952, 453). In the generations that followed these revolutions, the libertarian torch was picked up by liberals, and the socialists became the most prominent spokespeople for the egalitarian tradition. Although liberty and equality may be inextricably linked in any practice of democracy, these two ideals at times have given birth to incompatible aims and methods. That the libertarian mode of democracy has its roots in the Anglo tradition entails that it outlines democracy largely in terms of the pursuit of liberty. From its early development as a project, starting from the Magna Carta in 1215, to the Puritan (1642–1649) and Glorious (1688) revolutions, the libertarian movement aimed at enlarging and protecting liberties, first of the nobility then of the merchant middle class (Lindblom 1977, 163). The English revolutions of the seventeenth century and to some extent the American Revolution of the eighteenth (1775–1781) sought to restore an ‘English birthright’ that was viewed as having been usurped by the illegitimate expansion of government power. Above all, each of these revolutions sought to create, if not to restore, individual freedoms of association and the pursuit of individual self-interest—by establishing a constitutional framework that should protect individual rights. This tradition argued that the sphere of government influence ought to be legally limited and that there exists a wide range of social, religious, and economic practices that are best left to the voluntary associations of individuals. Any political system that does not respect, protect, and preserve these presuppositions cannot accurately be called ‘democratic’. Philosophically, the libertarian tradition is built on a strict separation between the state and civilian society.1 The function of the state is not to make moral rules for society as a whole, but to enforce the rights of 1. Cf. the classical notion of “the state” cited by Mulhern, chap. 8 in this book.

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individuals through impartial judgment and the application of formal rules necessary to endow those rights with effect. The sphere of civilian society precedes and commands preeminence over the needs of the state. Within this civilian society, necessarily, there exist social classes built on an economic division of labor. This division and the classes associated with it are the natural outcome of the free exercise of the different aptitudes that exist among individuals. Thus there is an inherently close connection between liberty and social position, since one’s position is determined by differences in natural aptitudes. These differences in aptitude are deemed to be ‘natural’, and not the outcome of social forces. The libertarian tradition aims at the full development of personal liberty, including the freedom to engage in trade, freedom to establish enterprise and pursue economic gain, freedom of movement, and the protection of rights to own private property (Lindblom 1977, 454). Both historically and philosophically, the libertarian tradition has linked democracy to a market economy, with property rights serving as the basis for individual liberty. Owing to its association with property rights, libertarian democracy has never sought to equate democracy with popular control. In fact, some of its spokesmen (Federalist Papers 1961) sought to limit popular control in the name of liberty. Under this principle, equality is limited to political equality—equality before the law, so to speak. And since libertarians believe that social differences arise from ‘natural’ differences, they argue that any attempt to equalize social and economic relations can only lead to a most direct assault upon liberty. Generally considered to have its roots in the thought of Rousseau and the practices of the French Revolution, the egalitarian tradition of democracy offers a much different view on the nature of inequality. The Puritan Revolution sought to abolish the arbitrary practices of haughty government, which were threatening the rights of Englishmen. Its French counterpart pursued the abolition of the feudal privilege, which had perpetuated an almost obscene inequality in social relations. The French democratic insurgents sought to sweep away a vast and cumbersome system of status by replacing it with uniform ‘citizenship’ based on equal political rights (Sabine 1952, 462). Since their targets were political and social status, the reforms of the French Revolution were much more ambitious than those of the English revolutions with regard to the complex transformation of the social relations that underlie the state. Committed to the basic idea of building social relations on

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equal citizenship, the principle of democracy that evolved out of France was one that tended to view special interests in civilian society as threatening to democracy. Increasingly, as a consequence of the Industrial Revolution of the nineteenth century, socialists picked up the egalitarian torch, and demand shifted toward the abolition of inequality in the name of freedom and democracy. A political system built on such inequality in social relations, it was argued, was not one that could be democratic. Philosophically, the egalitarian tradition argues that status and hierarchy impinge upon citizens’ exercise of private liberty and civic duty. This argument, in turn, is fashioned on the idea that individuals do not exist as separate and distinct units, each possessing one’s own natural aptitudes. Rather, in this tradition, individuals are seen as intractably social. What they are and what their potential is can only be fathomed in terms of the social relations in which they find themselves. People do not owe their freedom to some abstract postulate such as natural rights. They develop freedom “socially,” by transforming society for the purpose of meeting the needs required to develop into free beings. It has been argued that, consequently, the egalitarian tradition does not place the same constraints on public authority as the libertarian tradition does. From the egalitarian perspective, it is not the state or public sphere that poses the primary threat to democracy, but the unequal distribution of wealth in the private sphere. Economic inequality is understood as translating directly into political inequality. In fact, as Marx argued, the separation of state and civil society in liberal societies merely serves to promote the interests of the economically powerful over the interests of the weak (Marx and Engels 1978, 26–52). The separation of the public and private spheres does not exist to enhance liberty, as proponents of the libertarian tradition would have it, but to enhance inequality. This inequality—of power—is directly attributable to the private enterprise system and to the market relations thereof. The goal of such a system is to preserve and to foster a class structure that works to the benefit of one class over another. Individual rights for the lower classes exist, according to the egalitarian argument, merely to enhance competition in the labor market for the purpose of securing the lowest possible wages for the worker. The rights and freedoms offered by a liberal society entrench inequality by limiting the political influence of the working people. The goal of the egalitarian tradition, then, is not to limit political influence, since doing so serves only the interests of the wealthy, but to expand it—by harnessing the coercive

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power of the state, in order to restrict, perchance to abolish, unequal economic and social relations, since ‘no equality’ in a “society” augurs ‘no equality’ in “the state.” The incompatibility of these two positions ultimately lies in the evidence that the egalitarian strain does not necessarily place limits on the absolute authority of the state, so long as the state can claim to speak “for the people,” while the libertarian strain can neither counter the ills equated with the social stratification “of the people” nor guarantee popular control “by the people.” It is within the ambitions of the egalitarian position that libertarians usually detect their fear of the rise of totalitarianism. The very attempt to create equal conditions throughout society opens the possibility for the state to spill over and to appropriate every facet of society within its care. This leaves the citizen with no guarantee of liberty in the face of the state. Such an overwhelming reach of the state becomes most apparent in the egalitarian ambition, one promoted most vehemently by socialists, starting with the Industrial Revolution, to “liberate” citizens from economic necessity (Hayek 1994). In order to meet this somewhat dubious dream, the state would have to quit protecting the individual in the name of “the greater good of the collective.” This collectivization, where the state—rather than the individual—becomes responsible for economic and social well-being, is the very basis for modern totalitarianism. Freedom from economic necessity, in the end, amounts to absolute political subjection. The evil of such projects can be witnessed in the terror and suffering associated with Stalin’s collectivization projects of the 1930s and in the forced ruralization program of the Khmer Rouge in 1970s Cambodia, just to name the most extreme cases. Although many democrats agree that any democracy in practice will need to find a balance between the elements in both of these traditions, only the egalitarian has been equated with totalitarianism. With the end of the Cold War, the equation of egalitarianism with totalitarianism has tended to become increasingly pronounced, both in the narratives and in the practices of democratic states—and especially so among those that continue to dismantle their egalitarian policies. Today, increasingly, the liberal trade-off seems to occur between the totalitarian “threat” viewed as posed by egalitarian projects and the “inequalities and everyday violence” perceived to be displayed by liberal democracy. With the expansion of private trade with government consent, in an era of globalization, the trend appears to be in the direction of even more limits on the prospects of egalitarianism.

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The Blackmail of ‘Totalitarianism’ Viewed from the outline of this trade-off, totalitarianism exists both as a historical phenomenon and as an ideological concept. In terms of what I call the “blackmail of totalitarianism,” our concern here is with how historical phenomena have been deployed as ideology, and what purpose this deployment serves. In the subtle exploitation of a factual historical reality for complex ideological purposes, ‘totalitarianism’ now becomes an ideological construct designed principally to sustain a manipulative operation—the consolidation of liberal-democratic hegemony. As a vehicle for blackmail, the idea of ‘totalitarianism’ ceases to denote historical fact, connoting instead a phobia engendered by an ideological device agitated for the central purpose of prohibiting certain political strategies and suppressing the circulation of particular political discourses—in other words, the use of the term ‘totalitarianism’ as agitprop is intended to scare off egalitarian critiques of liberal democracy, in preemption of any significant engagement into political debate (Zizek 2001, 3). The irony of this blackmail lies in the fact that instead of continuing to be the historical phenomenon that fed off and perpetrated prohibitions on thought, ‘totalitarianism’ now becomes a phenomenon of ideological construction in a world where certain prohibitions on thought just must be maintained. With regard to radical egalitarian projects, this blackmail argues that any attempt to rethink such projects in the light gained from the historical phenomenon of totalitarianism can only reconfirm the intractable link between the two. One of the telling consequences of this blackmail is the academic left’s latter-day sanctification of the work of Hannah Arendt, the grand theorist of totalitarianism. Though not outright a libertarian herself, Arendt’s theory of totalitarianism had been popularized by libertarian critiques of egalitarian projects (Zaretsky 1997, 210). Up until a couple of decades ago, leftist radicals dismissed Arendt’s arguments for lending themselves all too easily to the perpetration of false and misleading moral equivalence between the noble ideals of egalitarianism and the disastrous practical consequences of ‘totalitarianism’ as the key justification for the West’s all-out ideological struggles in the Cold War (Jay 1985; Pitkin 1998). In today’s post–cold war universe, however, many leftist theoreticians now seek somehow to reconcile her work with their own theoretical projects (Zizek 2001). In the end, this elevation of Arendt is perhaps the clearest sign of the theoretical defeat of the left—of how the left has surrendered to the basic coordinates of liberal democracy—in

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a mock showdown featuring liberalism versus totalitarianism (Zizek 2001). In the mind, this amounts to the sacrifice of the egalitarian tradition of democracy on the altar of the libertarian tradition. The left’s earlier enmity toward Arendt, rooted in her ambivalent relation to Marx—more specifically, in her criticism of Marx’s grasp of the ‘emancipation from labor’ (Arendt 1958)—was grounded in Arendt’s tripartite phenomenological division of the human condition into labor, work, and action. Labor refers to those functions indispensable for the biologic perpetuation of the species, or the “community.” It concerns those activities organized around necessity: production and reproduction. Work entails those activities from which permanence is derived from nature and is signified by means-end calculus. Action refers to the activities carried out between humans in relation to each other that do not entail the necessities of life. Since action is divorced from necessity, it corresponds to the realm of human freedom. This realm is the ‘public sphere’—an arena in which a free plurality of individuals, acting in regard to each other, build a world in common, by way of the medium of speech. Action is synonymous with politics. To set the table for critiques of Marx and of radical emancipatory projects altogether, we must identify what is the key distinction between the ancients and us moderns. The Hellenes and Romans delegated action to the public sphere, relegating labor to the private. As labor entailed the necessities of biologic life (the functions of animal laborens), it had to be banished from the public sphere in order to safeguard ‘freedom of action’. Labor, restricted to the private sphere, or the oikos, became the function of women and slaves. It was of paramount importance—in the ancient concept of freedom—that there be strict separation between the public and the private. Bleeding at the boundaries would risk introducing necessity into the public sphere, and thus serve to diminish the capacity for free action between equals. By the same token, the private economic sphere, which must be segregated from politics, allowed those ‘pariahs’ who lived off the labor of others to enter the public sphere and to act freely among their equals who, by definition, were also relieved from the demands of labor. Thus, in the ancient world, the public (politics) lived off the private (economics) but was separated from it so that there could arise a realm occupied by a few whose free activity was not impeded by the demands placed on the rest of community by economic necessity.2 2. For detailed insights, see J. J. Mulhern (2008).

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In the modern world, the line between the public and the private has become increasingly blurred. The infringement of the private upon the public, on a mass scale, results in what Arendt calls the ‘social’. The ‘social’ amounts to nothing less than the concerns of labor and the basic necessities of life hijacking the realm of action and, not least, thereby supplanting the preoccupations of politics by the daily concerns of the household. In this sense, it represents the transformation of the entire society into one immense household (Arendt 1958, 44–45). The obliteration of the line between the public and the private marked by the ascendancy of the ‘social’ results in the further obliteration of both spheres altogether. The problem with this kind of transformation is that the household is ruled by patriarchal domination (the lucky patriarch is presumably the only one free to enter the public sphere in the ancient world) so that any elevation of the ‘social’ to the level of politics can only result in some form of domination over the public sphere. The basis of Arendt’s criticism of Marx then, lies in what she sees as the latter’s fallacious assumption that overcoming the need for politics by means of the mere emancipation of labor would lead to the magnificent realm of freedom. Is it not through this rise of the social that the modern world has already transformed politics into administration? The public realm is no longer a “space” for action, but has turned into a “place” for the bureaucratic administration of biologic life. This is the signature phenomenon of the modern world. It highlights the threat generated by the egalitarian attempt to promote freedom from economic necessity. What Marx failed to understand is that creatures relegated entirely to the realm of necessity will not necessarily be capable of free action when they are no longer bound to that necessity, especially since, as Arendt’s verdict on the twentieth century suggests, any such action would hinder, and therefore also create problems for, the very ‘administration of things’ that make emancipation possible in the first place. The goals of ‘freedom from necessity’ would easily subsume the space for political freedom. The emancipation that Marx advocates is one that, ironically, forces the emancipated into a state of oppression. The all-encompassing reach of this management across society, to the point where there is no longer a distinction between the public and the private, is synonymous with Arendt’s very definition of ‘totalitarianism’. The typical erstwhile leftist criticism of Arendt pointed to her Hellenistic definition of freedom, not so much for its phenomenological as

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for its structural form—for the fact that the realm of freedom was the realm of the few.3 Echoing the libertarian critique of the egalitarian tradition, Arendt’s criticism of Marx’s notion of freedom is that it seeks to extend the needs of the collective across the range of human relations. This obliteration of the distinction between public and private creates the potential for equality on a mass scale. The radical criticism of Arendt can travel in a number of directions at this point. Let us investigate one in particular: It seems that, for Arendt, the ‘social’, like any emancipatory project that accompanies it, seeks to overcome the inequality between master and slave that makes possible her phenomenological understanding of politics, action, and freedom. In this sense, the social is an egalitarian force. If one were to take seriously this notion of the ‘social’ and the dangers that it entails, it seems that one would have to be led to the conclusion that the paramount political act left to us moderns would be to dissolve the remaining boundaries between masters and slaves, especially since today, according to Arendt, politics works at the behest of economic performance rather than that of freedom. This political act is especially necessary because today’s masters are not applying their status toward freedom as their ancient predecessors once did (Arendt 1958, 68–73). Absent a trespass of these boundaries, there would be no chance ever of overcoming the grip of the ‘social’. It appears therefore that Arendt’s notion of the ‘social’ has certain affinities with Marx’s point—that historically, freedom has been sacrificed to economic power and to domination. The only way out of this impasse for Marx was to overcome such domination. The libertarian tradition, in contrast, prefers to foreclose this act by way of marking it as the midwife of ‘totalitarianism’. Yet if the ascendancy of the social is as advanced as Arendt argues, then the radical project would seem to be the only real political act left. The libertarian tradition cannot see this point, if only because it presupposes economic domination to be phenomenologically outside of politics proper. It seems that if the modern world is indeed as the critics of egalitarianism describe it to be—a world where the ‘social’ has come to dominate our lives—then a ‘politics of freedom’ that forecloses the radical act in advance, perhaps by dismissing it as ‘totalitarian’ in its intentions, is a political sphere that seeks to limit its own content and, therefore, by definition, cannot be free (Jay 1985; Zizek 2001, 3). 3. See McInerney (2008).

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The Ethical Act Arguing against the liberal blackmail of ‘totalitarianism’ recent psychoanalytic readings of Kant explore the idea that ethics is not about imposing a set of guidelines designed to prevent evil, but rather, that the ethical dimension proper resides in the act of transgression itself (Zupancic 2000; Zizek 2001). The transgressive nature of the ethical act rests in the fact that good and evil cannot be distinguished in its form. The evil implied here is not evil in the Kantian ‘pathological’ sense—an act committed against the injunctions of the moral law for the selfinterested advancement of the perpetrator. Rather, it is evil in the formal Kantian sense—an act committed in accordance with the moral law without pathological motive, in essence a phenomenally free act. Although Kant would define this as a free act, and therefore good, I want to claim that because Kant’s moral law is purely formal, purely good and purely evil acts are synonymous.4 In Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone, Kant (1960) clearly outlines three different modes of evil: frailty—we yield to pathological motives in spite of our will to adhere to the law; impurity—we adhere to the law, but out of self-interest rather than out of respect for the moral law; and wickedness—we make self-interest the sole condition for obedience to the moral law. Almost as an aside, Kant adds a fourth mode of evil to these: the diabolical—which he then quickly rejects as being beyond the pale of human capability. Diabolical evil, Kant tells us, entails the elevation of ‘opposition to the moral law’ to the level of a maxim (Kant 1960, 30). This means that one would make it one’s ethical obligation to violate the moral law even to the point of disavowing one’s self-interest. With diabolical evil there is no pathological motivation behind the subject’s act. This lack of pathological motive in conjunction with the lack of content in the law allows the diabolical act to share the same structure with the purely good act—an act that takes the obligation to the moral law as its sole motive. The conflation of good and evil in the Kantian act reveals that the law has no a priori connection to any good that could serve as a motivation for the act. The very form of the act—”act as if the maxim of your will can hold as a principle of universal legislation”—is the act’s unique motive and content. It is also the content of the law. If the law 4. Because of the purely formal nature of the Kantian law, the ethical act outlined in the following paragraphs parallels Nietzsche’s understanding of “beyond good and evil” in that it aims at overcoming moral limits.

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were to offer a presupposed good beyond this purely formal structure of the act, then the maxim of one’s will would be something other than one’s duty to the law. This ‘something other’ opens the subject to pathological motivation if only because it comes between the subject and his/her duty. What is ethical to Kant is not one’s conformity to the law, but the very transformation of one’s will into the law. This cannot be a pathological (self-serving) transformation, since the maxim behind a pathological act cannot hold as universal legislation. Because we cannot test our maxims against some good outside the law, however, the free act is always a potential threat to the social good. Kantian law does not preclude the possibility that acts that transgress the social good, nonetheless, can be ethical at the same time, because the Kantian ethical subject makes the law and determines what is good by the subject’s very own act. Because a pure Kantian act is inherently transgressive, beyond pathological motivation, it enacts “a change in what is” (Zupancic 2000). The act aims to break the subject from the moral demands of the world from which it emerged. It is in essence this transgressive element of the Kantian act that makes it evil and not an a priori connection between the act and some empirical evil. A Kantian act has no a priori connection to empirical evil, simply because it has no a priori connection to experience as such. And to hold that it does is to fail ethically. What then is the relationship between the ethical act and reality as such? We perhaps can explain this relation best in terms of Freud’s own understanding of the reality principle. For Sigmund Freud the reality principle is that which regulates the pleasure principle (the very basis for pathological motivation in Kant) by placing prohibitions and setting constraints on what subjectively can be experienced as ‘possible’ within the symbolically constructed social space. The span designated by the reality principle is but a sociocultural space that delimits what is possible as a motivating factor in the subject. The ethical act as I have outlined it is an act that not only is beyond the reality principle, but that also invokes a change in the coordinates of the reality principle, precisely because the motivation behind such an act owes itself to the law, and not to the social good. In terms of social reality, an ethical act achieves the impossible by changing the parameters that designate what is possible. It does so by transgressing the understanding of the good supported by the prevailing ideology/reality principle. It is for this reason that, from the perspective of the reality principle, it is quite automatically equated with evil. In terms of Kantian ethics then, the

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ethical act does not entail a transgression of the prevailing ideological good for the pathological—out of self-interested reasons—since, by definition, such self-interest can be gauged in terms of the prevailing reality principle only. Because it is executed out of respect for duty, the ethical act is undertaken out of nonpathological motivation. It may be tantamount to doing the wrong thing for the right reason. The obvious example of the transgressive act would be the standard case of civil disobedience—one where the subject defies the legal order in the name of some higher principle that places a greater obligation on the subject. A superb literary case in point would be that of Antigone. But, as will be seen, Antigone’s case is more radical and, in terms of the structure of the act we are discussing here, much more ethical than the standard case of civil disobedience—precisely because she, unlike the civil disobedient, does not attempt to transpose one preconception of the good with another. One must remember here that Kant’s ethical project is designed to prohibit the role of any presupposed concept of the good from entering into the deliberations of the ethical subject. This is because, according to Kant, any ‘good’ that is not purely formal can only be a product of theoretical dogma. The point of Kant’s ethical project is to discover a basis for human freedom on nondogmatic grounds. One is merely called to act out of a duty that is universal to all rational subjects and not out of obligation to any social construction of the good that determines one’s duty in advance. Herein lies the distinction between morality and ethics in Kantian ethics. Moral acts are those beholden to some presupposed concept of the good, which generally carries the force of custom, that is, the laws of the land, divine edicts, and so on. Ethical acts, however, are carried out without this legal or customary guarantee. Rather, as the categorical imperative demands, they are acts done in the formal sense of becoming the basis for legislation in their own right. Kant’s use of the term ‘moral law’ has nothing to do with the ancient sense of referring to custom (the Roman moralia); rather it has to do with the universal duty equated with reason—regardless of one’s particular social environment. The Kantian law is not moral in the traditional sense (cf. Mulhern, chap. 8 in this book). Instead, it is ethical in that it, and only it, can be the basis for nonpathological motivation (freedom) in the subject. Contrary to Kant’s ethical imperative, moral acts are those that remain possible under the reality principle. The civil disobedient who transposes one good for another is moral, but not ethical. Kant’s point,

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however, was to discover an ethical justification that was not held hostage to the good in any phenomenal sense, but only to reason and human freedom thereof. Freedom, for Kant, entails an act that cannot be determined by, or located in, any phenomenal chain of causality. And this is precisely how Antigone acts. In the course of Sophocles’ play, Antigone offers three reasons for why she feels compelled to bury her brother Polynices. The first two reasons are rooted in her perceived obligation to the chthonic (earthly) laws. Here, as in the case with the civil disobedient, Antigone justifies her transgression of the social good in her allegiance to a higher good. At this point, Antigone’s position is ‘merely’ moral. Her pathology is witnessed in her impatient yearning for martyrdom. In Kantian terms, this motive is impure. Conversely, the third reason that Antigone gives comes after Creon chooses not to execute her, but instead to place her in a rocky chasm somewhere between life and death. It is a reason that no longer echoes the embarrassing cliché of her allegiance to some higher good/authority. Rather, in this final declaration, during a moment of immense moral distress for herself, Antigone declares that the reason she buried her brother Polynices is, because her parents are dead, she cannot have another brother. Had it been a husband or a son, she tells us, she would not have defied Creon’s edict because, unlike a brother, they could be replaced (Sophocles 1967, 137). In this last instance, what Antigone reveals is not only that her act does transgress the social good embodied in Creon’s edict, but also that her sense of duty is not motivated by a notion of the good susceptible to the reality principle. In her distress, she goes as far as to damn the very gods whose law she earlier had invoked in justification. Here, I think it is accurate to say that Antigone does not counterpose one concept of the good with another—and this includes any pathological good. In fact, her moral distress at this juncture can be linked to the loss of all pathological goods, including the martyrdom she very much desires. She does not evade responsibility by claiming that her act was compelled or determined by some higher force—as she had tried to do, earlier. Rather, her act, particularly in the motivation it reveals, displays the limits of the good and of the reality principle as such. It is this obliteration of the reality principle and not some obligation to any higher laws that makes Antigone an ethical character. Had she somehow maintained her allegiance to the chthonic laws in self-justification, she never would have moved beyond the scope of morality to penetrate the realm of ethics proper. What Antigone reveals by her act is that there is no

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concept of the good that can adequately predetermine the ethical consequences for all acts. If there were such a good, the human condition would lack the space for ethics. The ethical dimension of her act lies in the fact that, once the act occurs, the coordinates of the good—and the reality principle with it—must be reconfigured on new grounds. In these terms, then, what distinguishes an ethical act from a moral act is that the former is not one that realizes an already existing ethical norm, but an act that opens the space for the possibility of a new ethical norm to emerge. This very condition should be transposed with how we generally think of ethical norms in terms of the interplay between such norms and the empirical content to which such norms apply. Generally we understand a change in ethical norms to occur when the empirical situation becomes too complex to meet adequately the demands of the norms. We have to invent new norms in order to meet these conditions—as we see today in the proliferation of new ethical categories, designed to deal with dramatic changes in modern technology—such as cloning, organ transplant, and the like. New norms need to be invented or old norms reconfigured the more adequately to confront the exigencies of a changing environment. These innovations miss, however, the ethical dimension proper. A changing of norms in order to meet the new demands of reality transforms those norms into instruments designed to accommodate our pathological interests (Zizek 2001). Elevating empirical reality to create a basis for changing ethical norms cannot itself be ethical. In contrast, an ethical act is one that takes the ethical demand of the Kantian law seriously—for its own sake—to the point of wholly disregarding moral constructions of the good and their association with empirical reality. It is this disregard that ignites an ethical change in what is. By contrast, merely abiding to an existing norm or retailoring norms to fit our pathological needs would amount to conformity to the reality principle and to all the limits that such a principle places on what is possible for the subject. The ‘ethic’ in the ethical act lies in its questioning of the very contours of the reality principle. Antigone not only questions the higher authority of the gods and of their laws, but, in so doing, she undermines the concept of the good that props up the reality principle. It is the absurd rationality of her position that reveals a gap in the reality principle. Under the prevailing social good, the word ‘brother’—as it applies to Polynices—must be foreclosed by the reality principle that marks him as a ‘traitor’. Yet, by clinging so steadfastly to this very word—a drive substantiated by the fact that ‘the good’ prohibits its reference to

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Polynices—Antigone demonstrates the utter inadequacy of the reality principle itself. She demonstrates that, here too, the reality principle pivots on what is excluded. Its status as a positive order of being is built upon that which it denies from reality. By clinging to what is negated, she reveals that there is nothing much behind the social good other than the prohibitions invoked by the reality principle, which are necessary to prop up the good. When she defies these prohibitions out of a duty to the word ‘brother’, the reality principle and the good it supports fall like a house of cards. By embracing that which is negated by the reality principle, Antigone provides the basis for a new norm. Upon her act, one cannot return to the moral injunctions with which the tragedy had begun. In this light, now one can illustrate ethical failure also in the terms of today’s ‘ethics of the lesser evil’. In today’s liberal, moral universe, it is precisely ‘the ethical act’ that is being foreclosed. All ideologically ethical constructions prohibit the transgressive nature of the act by attaching some ill-boding empirical evil to it, usually in the form of human suffering: ‘Yes’, it would be nice to realize the dreams of the egalitarian tradition of democracy, ‘but’ any attempt to bring about such a world could only end in misery, suffering, and terror—a suffering inflicted on a population that must be fitted forcefully to uphold the parameters of those dreams: Here, too, the Soviet Kulaks come to mind. What of ‘the focus of today’s ideological realism’? “We live in an era of the end of great ideological projects, so let’s be realists, let’s give up immature utopian illusions—the dream of the welfare state is over, one should come to terms with the global market” (Zizek 2001). Thus the egalitarian tradition of democracy and the ethical duty that it assigns to itself are foreclosed as unrealistic in the face of the moral demands of the libertarian tradition. It is in this way that contemporary ideology ties one’s ethical hands by anticipation: The act behind radical egalitarian projects is inherently “evil,” if merely because it aims to transgress the ethical bounds delimited by the ideology of the day. It is precisely for this reason that post-Cold War ideology attempts to foreclose the thought of it, by arguing that it will only lead to evil in the empirical sense. This warning of empirical evil hides a thinly veiled hostility to the emergence of a new ethic beyond the reality principle— a hostility to the possibility of updating the good, as incorporated in the transforming nature of the act. Today’s struggle against evil is actually a struggle against the emergence of a new ethic. It is a reactionary struggle against the freedom of the Kantian act as such.

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Partisanship as the Ultimate Ethic of Egalitarian Democracy Let us now apply this ethic theoretically by returning to the key differences between the libertarian and egalitarian views of democracy. Since the central tenet of libertarian political theory is the separation of the state and civil society, and since this separation is constructed upon the natural rights of individuals, structurally then, the state is constitutionally limited to respecting and enforcing these rights so that private persons, individually and voluntarily, may enter into the widest possible range of social, religious, and economic exchanges with one another. What we have here is a system in which an abstract universal (a “natural right”) stands above—and yet, by means of formal rules, is neutrally applied to—a concrete and particular content (a specifiable individual inhabiting society). The freedom of the libertarian subject is determined by the political limits imposed by the universal principle of natural rights. The effect of this political limit is evident in the social inequalities that arise from natural differences. If universal freedom is to be preserved, this view contends, the concrete inequalities in social relations must not be remedied by the political apparatus of the state—such meddling should open the floodgates of totalitarianism. Under the libertarian premise, the equality that has been promised in the abstract-universal actualizes inequality in the concrete-particular. The egalitarian principle offers a substantially different understanding of the relation between the universal and the particular. Unlike the libertarians who argue for equality within the limited domain of the state only, egalitarians promote equality in social relations as well. They do so because egalitarians do not view inequality as natural, but as an outcome of social forces. To view inequality as natural is but to abstract the individual from that individual’s concrete relations with others. Egalitarians do not place the universal in the abstract—in some disembodied neutral position such as the one occupied by natural rights—but in the concrete. Actually, the universal is a mode of concrete social relations. Marx (Marx and Engels 1978, 174) has clarified this point in his general theory of revolution: “The class making a revolution appears from the very start, if only because it is opposed to a class, not as a class but as the representative of the whole society; it appears as the whole mass of society confronting the ruling class. It can do this because, to start with, its interest really is more connected with the common interest of all other non-ruling classes because under the present

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hitherto existing conditions its interest has not yet been able to develop as a particular interest of a particular class.” The revolutionary class is a very particular concrete element of society. It raises itself to the level of a new universal by representing the general interests of society against the old universal, which itself represents only a particular interest. From the egalitarian perspective, any abstract universal such as natural rights is only the ideological embodiment of the dominant interest in society. The true universal does not stand outside or above concrete social relations, but emerges from inside of them. The basis for this emergence is inequality. Inequality reveals the gap between the abstract universal and the concrete particular of any given society. As long as inequality exists, a true universal remains inside social relations as a latent representative of the general interests of society. The universal is not abstract, something that regulates social relations. Rather, it is concrete, something that transforms those relations. Let us apply these two positions to the difference, as outlined earlier, between morality and ethics. On the one hand, the libertarian ethos can be equated with our definition of morality in that it functions under the rubric of an abstract universal principle, which determines the legitimate makeup of the concrete. In this way, it mimics the reality principle. Just as moral acts are determined in terms of their conformity to a presupposed universal good, freedom in the libertarian tradition is determined by the organization of concrete social relations around the imperatives of the abstract universal principle of natural rights. The egalitarian ethos, on the other hand, is founded on a concrete entity that embodies the universal (the general interest of society)5 when it emerges to struggle against the abstract universal. This concrete entity embodies the universal when it seeks to remedy the contradiction between the abstract universal promise of equality and the concrete particular delivery of inequality. In this way, it can be said to mimic the Kantian ethical act: for representing equality, it adopts the form of the universal interest of society in the very manner that the Kantian ethical subject’s motive espouses the form of universal legislation. In that way, the egalitarian act deliberately disavows the good embodied in the 5. My use of ‘general interest’ here coincides with nonpathological interests. The ethic that I am outlining is a formal and, therefore, timeless duty. In a sense, the general interest of society evoked by egalitarianism does not have to coincide with the fickle, empirical interests of society any more than the moral law has to coincide with one’s pathological interests.

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abstract universal in the name of a formal duty to concrete equality. The concrete universal, unlike the abstract, embodies not its own good, but the universal good of society. This is why for Marx (Marx and Engels 1978, 482) the march of equality cannot end until the ascension of the urban proletariat because, for being denied equality, only it can embody the general interest of society. Yet the egalitarian principle is also Kantian because only equality can guarantee universal—that is, nonpathological—political motives. It demands that one sacrifice privilege in the name of the general good. It is important to understand that equality is the goal not because it is morally good, but because it is universal. In terms of ethics then, the paramount difference between these two democratic principles6 is that while the libertarian clings to the morality of the reality principle, a principle that structurally seeks to limit political possibilities in the name of natural rights, the egalitarian seeks to expand political possibilities by breaking through this reality and possibly introducing a new ethic. Politically, these divergent democratic principles can be perhaps explained by Lenin’s distinction of formal and actual equality. Formal7 equality is equality allowed within the coordinates of an existing power relation, while actual equality designates the site of an intervention that undermines these coordinates (Lenin 1992, 89). The libertarian principle offers formal equality: equality subject to the power relations sustained by the abstract principle of natural rights. A common name for this limit is the rule of law. Libertarian political theory advocates a universal truth (natural rights) that sets clear limits on political intervention. For libertarians, politics is largely a matter of achieving effective compromise between conflicting interests in society, the more enduringly to ensure that no particular interest usurps the position of the abstract universal. The egalitarian principle, however, promotes actual equality. This entails the political freedom to act against the reigning universal principle in the name of something more essentially universal. The freedom invoked here calls for the suspension of the rule of law. Egalitarian political theory maintains that since the universal emerges out of the 6. And therefore also two kinds of democratization, embodied in the pursuit of either of these two distinct democratic principles. For other kinds of democratization as well, see Ciprut (2008). 7. ‘Formal’ in the Leninist sense refers to abstract rather than concrete equality. His use of ‘formal’ should not be confused with Kant’s, since it refers to the formal moral (nonethical) contours of capitalist society. Actual equality encompasses the ethical element of Kant’s theory in the formal sense.

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concrete, universal truth and partisanship are not mutually exclusive. The universal becomes apparent only in the act of taking sides. It is not something that stands above social relations or that neutrally regulates them. The goal of politics is not compromise. It is partisanship. The politics of egalitarian democracy demonstrates that objective reality can be found only in the partisan act. Objective reality does not exist in some abstract formula that organizes the meaning of concrete relations; rather it only exists in terms of one’s place inside those concrete relations. Since egalitarians believe that inequalities are the product of social forces, they also believe that universal moral truths and reality itself are products of social antagonisms. Only when social antagonisms are overcome, that is, only when inequality ceases, will the universal cease to be merely partisan.8 When libertarians claim that attempts to remedy inequalities inevitably will lead to the next gulag, this ‘inevitability’ does not come from an objective point of view, but from a position inside the social struggle itself. When heard from the perspective of the egalitarian ethos, what this blackmail actually conveys is, If you fail to comply with the limits set by natural rights and by all the privileges accruing thereof, there will be suffering and, yes, terror. Here, we can see that the causal necessity invoked in this statement is not objective, but partisan—the logic of which owes itself to social antagonism. Neutrality, let alone reality, is already an aspect of taking sides. This is especially true when that neutrality promotes inequality. The egalitarian remedy to such neutrality is to take the side of equality against inequality, choose the side of the concrete universal against the abstract universal. A politics of the concrete universal is always a politics that is subversive of the reality principle. The politics of the ethic of egalitarianism aims at the suspension of the rule of law that serves as the support structure for the ruling class.9 This is justified by means of a duty to that very element in the concrete, which is being denied access to the promise of the abstract universal. Viewed from the perspective of concrete social relations, the abstract universal is particular. Therefore, it can never be the basis for equality. 8. What makes egalitarian partisanship universal is that it embraces equality as an ethical duty. This duty allows a universal basis for social relations to emerge out of concrete relations. Libertarian partisanship, in contrast, is designed to maintain inequality by placing a particular and, thus, pathological principle over social relations. 9. This statement does not mean that the ruling class has to be wiped out physically. It merely means that the pathological investment in social hierarchy must be suspended. After all, if revolution is the ethical duty I am portraying it to be, then it is open to everyone.

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The basis for equality, or the universal, then, must be sought for in that which is excluded. Since it is equality that serves as the basis for the universal duty promoted by the egalitarian principle, the central political struggle is always the economic struggle. All other forms of inequality—racial, ethnic, religious, gender, . . . —eventually can (as well they should) be overcome under the principle of natural rights. Only economic inequality, the inequality of class relations, cannot be remedied by natural rights because it, and only it, holds as its remedy the end to the distinction between the state and civilian society, built as that distinction is into the very concept of natural rights and of the protection of those natural rights by the rule of law. In addressing the problem of a democratic ethic, raised in this book by Schuldenfrei (chap. 12)—that democracies cannot simultaneously support a right and a unified good—I would argue that, with equality, democracies contain a good in themselves that is not inconsistent with freedom. The egalitarian tradition understands freedom not exactly in terms of the individual’s right against society, but rather as something experienced and fulfilled in terms of the equality that one shares with others. It is consistent with Kant’s imperative that we see others as ends and not as means. The problem is not so much that a “society committed most deeply to rights and freedoms . . . is very likely to be a divided society” (see Schuldenfrei), but rather that a divided society is very likely to be one that tends to be committed to rights and individual freedoms. It is the division,10 and not democracy as such, that makes freedom and the good incompatible. Schuldenfrei is correct in arguing that democratic freedom will always be at odds with the “good,” if by that he, indeed, refers to an abstract universal good. The politics of the egalitarian democratic ethic, however, aims at putting an end to the economic division in society—the very division that prohibits the emergence of the latent democratic good in its concrete form. Embracing the economically excluded (whether the homeless, the ghettoized, or the permanently unemployed), not just as yet another interest group under the liberal paradigm, but as the concrete universal within which to fashion a new society, is to embrace a new ethic beyond the reality principle. Politically, this amounts to moving beyond the possible as determined by the limits imposed by the liberal paradigm and by its consequent fear of totalitarianism. As we learned from 10. For comparative exemplifications, see Aronoff (2008).

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Antigone, a new ethic can only emerge by maintaining one’s duty to that which is excluded from the abstract moral universe. Pragmatically, then, the egalitarian act seeks to suspend the rule of law in the name of the concrete universal—in our context, equality. Some might claim that this attempt would open the door to totalitarianism. Yet, others might suggest that it could lead to the freedom of the ethical act. Either way, the truth behind the choice is not objective but purely partisan. And this is exactly what being ethical means. References Arendt, Hannah (1958) The Human Condition, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Aronoff, Joel Myron (2008) “Democratizations in Fissured Societies: Retrospectives and Prospects,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Ciprut, Jose V., Editor (2008) Democratizations: Comparisons, Confrontations, and Contrasts, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Federalist Papers, see Madison, Hamilton, and Jay. Freud, Sigmund (1961) Beyond the Pleasure Principle, New York: Norton. Hayek, F. A. (1994) The Road to Serfdom, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Jay, Martin (1985) “The Political Existentialism of Hannah Arendt,” Permanent Exiles, pp. 237–256, New York: Columbia University Press. Kant, Immanuel (1960) Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone, New York: Harper & Row. ——— (1996) Critique of Practical Reason, Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books. Lenin, V. I. (1992) State and Revolution, New York: Penguin. Lindblom, Charles (1977) Politics and Markets, New York: Basic Books. Madison, James, Alexander Hamilton, and John Jay (1961) The Federalist Papers, New York: Mentor Books. Marx, Karl, and Friedrich Engels (1978) The Marx-Engels Reader, Robert C. Tucker, Editor, New York: Norton. McInerney, Jeremy (2008) “Freedom and the Free Man,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Freedom: Reassessments and Rephrasings, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Mulhern. J. J. (2008) “The Political Economy of Citizenship,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Pitkin, Hannah (1998) The Attack of the Blob: Hannah Arendt’s Concept of the Social, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sabine, George (1952) “The Two Democratic Traditions,” Philosophical Review, 61: 451–474.

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Sophocles (1967) Complete Plays of Sophocles, New York: Bantam. Zaretsky, Eli (1997) “Hannah Arendt and the Meaning of the Public/ Private Distinction,” Hannah Arendt and the Meaning of Politics, Craig Calhoun and John McGowan, Editors, pp. 207–231, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Zizek, Slavoj (1997) “Multiculturalism, or the Cultural Logic of Multinational Capitalism,” Socialist Review, 28–51. ——— (2001) Did Somebody Say Totalitarianism? Five Interventions in the (Mis)use of a Notion, London: Verso. ——— (2002) “A Plea for Leninist Intolerance,” Critical Inquiry, 28:542–566. Zupancic, Alenka (2000) Ethics of the Real: Kant, Lacan, London: Verso.

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The Problem of a Democratic Ethic Richard Schuldenfrei

According to the tradition, the Pythagoreans used to say that three kinds of people came to the Olympic Games: those who came to watch, those who came to compete, and those who came to make money. In Plato, this notion was incorporated into an elaborate theoretical notion of politics and ethics, one articulated most famously in The Republic (Plato 1974). In part of his political theory, Plato was very critical of democracy. I want to discuss his idea of the problems of democracy under two headings, presenting two different but related aspects of what I will call “the problem of a democratic ethic.” The first aspect is what I will call the problem of democratic aspiration; the second, I will call the problem of democratic stability. Plato’s Theory of Character In Plato’s hands, the Pythagorean observation became a theory of types of character, of people who were typified or characterized by their aspirations, or as Plato would have put it, by what they thought was good. Plato believed that everyone actually desired the good—what they (actually, if perhaps unknowingly) believed to be good, rather than what they desired to be that which determined their lives. And what they believed to be good was very closely connected to how they thought, so that people with different beliefs about the good were people with different ways of thinking. This theory contrasts with the more common modern view that all rational people think the same way when attempting to maximize efficiently the satisfaction of their desires—only with different desires. Their beliefs about the good and as to how the good was connected to their most important traits of character, and to those of their rulers as well, determined the character of the society and of its politics. To understand Plato’s views

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on democracy, as well as about the ethical problems of democracy to be discussed here, we must hence begin with a brief overview of Plato’s taxonomy of character. Plato believed there were five basic kinds of people (Plato 1974, books 8 and 9). One was the wisdom lover. This kind of person subordinates all other interests to his interest in understanding the good. That understanding, according to Plato, goes beyond rigorous scientific/mathematical understanding; it caps scientific/mathematical understanding off with a dialectical understanding that is not based on axioms or assumptions. The result is a deeply moral understanding of the world, which according to Plato, reveals the appropriate place for each thing as well as the appropriate fulfillment of other needs a person has. It is a more scientific and rigorous understanding than our saints are normally credited with, and a more moral understanding than that of our scientists. Aristotle, Aquinas, and perhaps Einstein would be possible exemplars. If such people were to come to rule, the regime would be the best that humans could hope for. The second type of person is the lover of honor/victory. Such people are characterized by courage, loyalty, and particular tenacity. While incapable of the highest sort of wisdom, they cling to the wisdom they are taught when young and consider it dishonorable to abandon it or the people whose lives it governs. They control their other desires on behalf of their love of honor and victory. Their virtues are the virtues that used to be associated with soldiers and athletes: team spirit, determination to win, fortitude, discipline—the sorts of qualities Vince Lombardi, the famous U.S. football coach, might have admired. A society in which they rule is not as well organized as the previous one (owing to lack of depth of understanding), but it does have the stability of firmness and the virtue of military strength. The third sort of person, according to Plato, is the money lover. While not primarily concerned either with wisdom or with honor, this person leads an organized life in which impulses are controlled on behalf of the efficient pursuit of wealth. He does not indulge himself. He thinks in terms of efficiency, based on the calculation of profits and losses. A society in which such people rule is devoted to commerce; and Plato calls it an oligarchy. The fourth sort of person, according to Plato, is a lover of freedom and equality—the democratic man. Like the money lover, he is not concerned with wisdom or honor; but unlike the money lover, he is not disciplined in the pursuit of money either. He regards all desires as

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equal and does not discipline the frivolous (unnecessary) to favor the essential (necessary). He thinks impulsively, and he values the freedom to indulge whatever he desires. The society governed by such values, Plato calls a democratic society. Finally, the fifth sort of person that Plato describes is the anarchotyrannical man. Such a man is such a lover of “freedom” that his life is lawless, and he ends up being tyrannized over. He rejects any constraints whatsoever on his passions; as a result, he is dominated by the strongest of them, say, sexual passion, drug abuse, or the like. A society composed of such people inevitably comes to be dominated by a tyrant. The Problem of Democratic Aspiration This taxonomy raises a problem. It is in the very nature of democracy, according to Plato, that its collective aspirations do not include either wisdom or honor. The logic of this point is clear enough. Both those aspirations, if taken on collectively, require differentiating people in terms of quality, and this is deeply at odds with equality, one of the two basic values of democracy. People who regard all their desires as equal, and have also no interest in controlling them, cannot be given as much liberty as those who can control their passions, Plato believes; hence, there would be unequal degrees of freedom.1 In this respect, Plato would regard modern democracy as typical. It seems clear enough that in the United States, for example, neither wisdom nor honor is as highly regarded today as they have been either in other societies or, earlier on, in the United States’ own history. And this is the first of the problems of democratic ethics that I want to discuss: Is a society that does not collectively admire wisdom or honor a society with sufficiently high aspirations for human life? By Platonic standards, democratic aspirations are not very high; and many people who would not otherwise agree with Plato might agree on this point. Plato would probably not regard the United States as a paradigmatic democracy, however. Democracy for him meant rule by those who did not control their desires, which he assumed would be a large majority. It was to be contrasted not just with rule by the wise and rule by the 1. Cf. Marxian and postmodern interpretations referred to in Cameron, chap. 11 in this book.

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honorable, but also with rule by the wealthy,2 by the businessmen who, he assumed, would be a small group. In the United States, he would say, we have something of a mix between oligarchy and democracy. And that explains why we honor both money, on the one hand, and freedom and equality, on the other. To a certain extent these are at odds, of course. Left to itself, as if ever it could be, money does not end up being distributed equally; and so love of equality is to an extent in conflict with love of money. Also, the majority is not completely free to equalize the distribution of wealth or money; some have seen this inability as an infringement on freedom, though, of course, some others see the equalization of property as just such an infringement. To a great extent, these conflicts are the stuff of U.S. domestic politics still today. Even if, because of its oligarchic elements, U.S. democracy is not a pure Platonic democracy, this fact does not dissolve the problem of democratic aspiration, because aspiring to great wealth is surely too crude a goal for a society. Now in the course of making money, modern capitalist society has undertaken to conquer nature, using it to solve problems, and in general molding it to suit the needs of human beings. However, even the more exalted goals, of the conquest of nature and of ultimate triumph over material obstacles, toward a more comfortably pleasant life—for example, eliminating illness and poverty—are also insufficient. After all, achieving wealth or overcoming illness and poverty seem more like means to something beyond those specific ends. If we finally did succeed at these projects, what would we next do? Would we thereby have achieved all that a society should hope to achieve? Many people would say no. And there is now this further point: while a great part of our economy is devoted to meeting people’s genuine needs, an increasing proportion of it seems to be devoted simply to providing comfort and pleasure, including the unnecessary comfort and pleasure that Plato thought was characteristic of pure democracy. If we were tempted to ask, “Who says it is unnecessary?”—the very asking would show how much we have become like Plato’s democratic people, who will not and cannot distinguish between necessary and unnecessary pleasures. In fact, though Plato believed a democracy would include significant diversity, he nonetheless thought there would be a characteristically democratic man and that such a man would be a pleasure lover. In light of this 2. See Mulhern (2008).

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belief, it seems clear that we need to ask, instead, whether and how our collective aspirations can be raised. But why is it the case that a society based on freedom and equality turns out to be a society in which there is such a striking predominance of concern with pleasure? Might the governments of such societies be covertly violating their pledge to allow freedom and diversity? Plato’s thought is, I believe, that a pleasure-oriented society need not be basically coerced in order to emerge. Pleasure is the default value of normal human life. All that is necessary for pleasure to dominate (even if incompletely and with only very small room for alternatives) is for the culture not to aspire any higher than that. To take freedom and equality for the good, according to Plato, will block the effects of the only antidotes to the human inclination to lead lives of pleasure or comfort: people would follow their desires-qua-passions wherever those led. Such people stood in contrast to oligarchic men, who would control their desires for the sake of money; to men of honor, who would control their desires (including the desire for money) for the sake of honor; and to wise men, who would control all their desires for the sake of wisdom. The Obstacle to Raising Aspirations in a Free Society To understand the difficulty of the problem, it will help to look back at an aspect of the origin and basis of U.S. democracy. Apart from its combination with oligarchy, U.S. democracy exhibits a number of quite distinctive aspects relative to classical notions of democracy; these aspects include the United States’ emphasis on individual and minority liberties. Freedom of religion is a good example. What happened to Socrates in democratic Athens—namely, being executed for impiety— would be quite out of keeping with the U.S. conception of democracy. Some aspects of this particular conception of freedom find their origins, to some extent, in the Reformation. It is traditional to regard the people of the United States very much as the direct descendents of participants in the religious wars of seventeenth-century Europe, as does for instance John Rawls (1999) in “Justice as Fairness, Political not Metaphysical.” Neither Catholics nor Protestants had been able to establish the kind of consensus or hegemony that would have made religious freedom unnecessary; so the alternatives were constant war or agreements to disagree. As the diplomat-scholar Abba Eban has pointed out, the nations of the West

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are used to coming to the right solution for such problems, but only after they have tried everything else. In this case, after fighting to the point where the destruction was unbearable any longer, they more or less agreed to disagree. Eventually, a consensus could arise about the sheer inappropriateness of attempting to enforce religious consensus; and freedom of religion became the norm. It is important to keep in mind that the wars of religion were wars over the things most dear to people: their notions of which kind of a life is worth dying for and what kind of life people should lead. To Europeans who had been used to living in at least nominal agreement about these things, agreeing to disagree was quite a sacrifice. To some it may seem that people had simply come to their senses, and that fighting over religious differences now seemed just silly. Such thinkers should rethink how silly it might have seemed to people to have to fight wars with other countries in order to force or compel the adversary to adopt one’s own way of government and/or to submit to a wholly alien conception of rights, or to have to fight and die rather than simply to accept such. Agreeing to tolerate different religions3 at the time must have seemed to those peoples not much different from what agreeing to tolerate cannibalism or the burning of widows would seem to us today. In sum, religious tolerance then must have been viewed by them in the way that religious intolerance would be regarded by us now; it must have been considered to be tantamount to tolerating the intolerable. Learning to tolerate religious diversity was part of learning to live in a newly fragmented world, a world that came in parts, which did not necessarily fit into a meaningful whole, a cosmos. In science, it meant that the world came to appear more like a mechanism than a morally coherent structure. And in social life, it meant the recognition that not just barbarians but your nearest neighbors could legitimately see the world in different ways, and thus also entertain different values. Whereas previously people could have relied on a certain basic agreement on what was ‘good’ to hold society together, that was no longer sufficient. How to treat others can no longer be just a matter of whether they are good. When people have rights, and I have to respect their rights, I have to “divide” my judgment of them. As a person, I may judge 3. Cf. the perspectives offered in this book by Baker (chap. 9) and Spinner-Halev (chap. 10), as well as Doran (2008) regarding modes of tolerance “here and there” and “then and now.”

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whether they are good. But, as a citizen and as the government, I judge them also on the basis of whether or not they operate within their rights. These judgments will not typically coincide. If they did, the struggle that resulted in the institutionalization of rights would not have taken place. That struggle came from disagreements over the good. And so, freedom and goodness are in an important sense at odds. There will be people who, by the standard of goodness, I will not find reason to revere, but who, by the standard of political freedom, in our shared capacity as citizens of the same polity, I must respect. One way to talk about this change is to contrast the earlier society, based on a shared conception of the good, with the society that ultimately emerges, based on a conception of freedom (or rights) but also assuming a diversity of conceptions of the good (Rawls 1971, 446–452; see Sandel 1984, chap. 2). In such a society, rights and goods are to some extent at odds, for it is always tempting to universalize one’s conception of the good. But rights are obstacles to that intention. Hence, any individual’s conception of the good is in tension with his respect for the rights of others. In this sense, even the individual himself is somewhat fragmented. How much freedom? If freedom is a means to peace, then minimum freedom is the amount that offers that peace. If the war is between Catholics and Protestants, then peace necessarily will involve basic freedom(s) for each. But the boundaries of freedom, somewhat like the boundaries of a state, work best when they are drawn in defensible places. Freedom for Catholics and Protestants might prove to be less defensible a line than would be freedom of religion in general. Thus more religions come to be tolerated on the very basis of the original model of toleration. And freedom expands also for other reasons. For one thing, the model of removing divisive issues from the public domain, where such is possible, can itself become a tradition, as also a vitally astute political strategy. Moreover, freedom won at such a price, personal and/or social, becomes valuable to people and to societies in and of itself, and its exercise and extension are seen as valuable. Thus freedom goes beyond religion and even conscience on to “experiments in living,” as John S. Mill (1921) has called them, or “lifestyles,” as we would call them today (Smart and Williams, 1973; Warnock 2003). By the French Revolution at the end of the eighteenth century, the freedom of religion that was the outcome of the wars of religion and the rights of Englishmen for which the American Revolution had been

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fought had been generalized into becoming the rights of man. By the middle of the nineteenth century, J. S. Mill, in one of the great documents of liberty, was arguing that liberty should extend to everything that primarily concerned a particular person rather than one’s neighbors. Mill clearly meant to defend life as most U.S. citizens would today: according to different conceptions of the good. And much of Mill’s sensibility on these issues, especially about the extent of liberty, corresponds to our contemporary sensibility, even though there still is great controversy about particular important cases. The function of this historical-philosophical overview for our purposes here is to help show how difficult a solution to the problem of democratic aspiration would be. In a classic liberal democratic society, it is essential that freedom have precedence over particular conceptions of the good. It should be clear that in such a regime, appeals for higher aspiration—which are tantamount to appeals for a sort of shared notion of the good—are very likely to clash with this conception of freedom, for this vision of freedom concretizes itself as a resistance to any shared notion of the good; so any proposal for a shared higher aspiration that is not so abstract as to allow for indefinitely great individuality is likely to be regarded as a blatant infringement on freedom. This clash is part of the significance of the fight over diversity—often in the form of multiculturalism—in the United States in recent times. To propose a consensus over aspiration to a democratic populace such as we have in the United States today is not just to do unpopular work, it is perhaps factually to conflict with our notion of freedom. What then can there be to say about the problem of democratic aspiration? Perhaps, just this: there is a large literature about the price of modern democratic life, and it is possible that the lack of agreement on elevated aspirations is simply part of that price. Some would say that individual liberty and material progress more than make up for the otherwise lowered aspirations. Less respect for wisdom, as opposed perhaps to pragmatically oriented science; loyalty to family and/or tribe, as opposed to universality; fortitude and military-type virtues, as opposed to say, universal compassion . . . may or may not be “losses,” but in any event—especially, in the eyes of modernity’s many defenders—they are more than made up for by what has been gained. Low aspirations are not in themselves a menace to democracy, and hence not a threat to what will have been gained in the transition to modern democratic life. Might then the very search for a higher collective aspiration in reality not amount to more than nostalgia? Perhaps in a world

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of individual liberty, as well as equality and material well-being, our collective aspirations just have to be the least common denominator of our existence; and our very highest aspirations, inevitably individual.4 If the problem of collective democratic aspiration can be dismissed as a loss, or as an illusion of loss, may humans suffer as the species matures? The Problem of Democratic Stability Plato’s conception of politics was not merely taxonomic. It had a dynamic dimension as well. Plato regarded the regimes we have described as being hierarchically ordered in the order we presented them, and he believed that each was increasingly likely to decline into the regime beneath it. The immediate significance of this belief for our problem is that he believed that democracy was extremely likely to decline/degenerate into anarchy/tyranny. Plato expects that, if people give free reign to their desires, these desires will become more and more demanding until they cannot be harnessed anymore with reasonable restraint. He predicts that ‘democracy’ will inevitably descend into ‘mob rule’, with no respect for law, and then into a ‘tyranny’ headed by a “champion” of the people. De Tocqueville (1961) proposed a variant of this view by suggesting that in a democracy people might become so caught up in immediate personal gratification as to have no capacity for participating in, supporting, or defending free government.5 In the United States today we think of our freedom as being protected by the constitution, but the question this belief raises is, Who or what will protect the constitution? Logically speaking, the flaw here is that the constitution, which guarantees our freedom, guarantees it in a way that leaves us free to become the kind of people who will not defend our own constitution. This result could come about in any number of ways. One is that we might become so flaccid as a people that we are simply unable to defend the country from foreign enemies. Or we might, in quite the same way, become unable to defend ourselves from domestic factions. This outcome could occur with all the forms of democracy still in place. Or yet, we could lose vigorous democracy to apathy—say, if we simply did not vote, or did not otherwise 4. Cf. Cameron (2008). 5. See also Guizot’s (1849) specific views on the matter in Ciprut (2008).

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‘participate’ in politics. Also, our constitution could come to lose its meaning if it came to be interpreted in ways sufficiently different from its true meaning. This, in fact, is our second problem of democratic ethics. If the constitution that protects our freedom cannot protect itself, it would seem that some supplementary ethics is called for, in order to help protect that constitution and that freedom. The function of that ethic would be to prevent the occurrence of precisely the kinds of events that we have signaled as threats to the constitution. Such an ethic would have to keep us vigorous, competently involved in politics, and adequately qualified to interpret our own constitution in a way that sustains it actively instead of degrading its meaning passively. Here we need to distinguish between ethics and ethical theory. Ethics is taken to imply an existing way of life embodied in a living community: what Hegel (1952) called Sittlichkeit. By contrast, an ethical theory is a theoretical formulation of a standard for a way of life. What is needed in the first instance is an ethic; but the question that faces us is how to bring about such an ethic.6 In a democratic free society, we can only attempt to bring it about by proposing an ethical theory that is in fact rationally persuasive to the majority. What we shall hence proceed to do next is to examine the various standard kinds of ethical theory and see to what extent they are potentially effective solutions to the dilemma of democratic ethics. The crux of the issue at hand here is the extent to which a democratic audience can be expected to be receptive to these various ethical theories. We saw earlier that the conditions of freedom did not make the democratic man receptive, collectively, to the arguments for specific exalted aspirations. That unreceptiveness may have seemed optional in ways that the defense of freedom truly is not. The Ethics of Freedom and Democratic Stability The first category of ethical theories briefly to be discussed comprises an array of ethical—rather than political—theories that emphasize freedom. The first and most famous proponent of such ideas was Immanuel Kant. Kant proposed freedom as a moral (his word for the ethical), not merely a political, ideal. Many defenders of rights and freedoms as moral ideals have drawn on Kant. The interpretation of 6. For different approaches across space and time in such quests for a higher ethic, cf. Eichler (chap. 2), Guyer (chap. 3), Mulhern (chap. 8), Baker (chap. 9), and Cameron (chap. 11) in this book.

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Kant we will rely on for our discussion here is based on his Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals (Kant 1964). This interpretation gives more weight to Kant’s early, more rigorous, arguments and formulations than to his subsequent, and more nuanced, speculations that recent interpreters have preferred to emphasize. This kind of theory emphasizes freedom as of morally direct importance. It claims that rights, as well as the concrete freedoms that they provide for, are morally primary; in that sense, it imparts to rights and freedom the essence of morality by seeing them as morally valuable in and of themselves, not as a means to anything else. The political implication of such a theory is meant to be that we must have free institutions. Such theories are, of course, subject to criticism on serious substantive counts, which we need not go into here (MacIntyre 1981, chap. 4), since our task is not to engage in a general discussion of various moral theories. But there is one problem with such theories, which is specifically relevant to our problem of a democratic ethic. As noted, our focus here is on the potential effective appeal of this ethic—as a solution to the threats to freedom and democracy. As also noted, democratic culture is one of comfort and pleasure. And this is exactly what constitutes the threat to freedom. The sort of thinking that is done in a democratic culture is of a Humean sort. As opposed to Plato’s wise person for whom reason determines the goals of life, for Hume (1888, 415) reason as ideated in democratic society is and ought to be the slave of the passions, because reason tells us the means to acquire what we, independently of reason, want. So the appeal of rights to a democratic society will have to be based either on an independent desire for rights or on a claim that rights are a means to something else that democratic (wo)man wants. Ironically, however, that “something else” is just what this sort of theory is not prepared to provide. This statement is equally true of Kant’s own theory, which addresses freedom more generally rather than dwelling on rights more particularly. But in whichever formulation of that theory, it is central that the nature of freedom discussed not be viewed as a means to the fulfillment of some desire. In Kant’s general formulation of the defense of freedom, it is not a simple fact that freedom is not defended as a means to the satisfaction of desire; it is the very nature of freedom that it is not such a means. If we ask what it is that is supposed, according to Kant, to bring about moral action, if it is not that the action is the appropriate means to an end, one illuminating answer is to compare it to Platonic courage/ fortitude, which specifically includes “the ability to resist desire.” In

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Kant, this quality takes the form of “respect for [moral] law” or “respect for duty” (Kant 1964, 68–69). Yet, in its original Platonic form, the very absence of that attribute is one of the most defining traits (indeed, characteristics) of democratic culture. Earlier I observed that, rather than being a pure Platonic democracy, the United States seems something of a “mix”—a combination—part Platonic oligarchy and part Platonic democracy. This observation, however, does not give us any help here. For example, what if the oligarchs have resources for resisting pleasure or comfort that “democrats” do not have, especially if they are of the type imbued with what Weber called the “Protestant Ethic” (Weber 1958). But there is nothing intrinsically democratic about the oligarchic ethic. The oligarchic ethic has little about it to support equality; it supports freedom largely for the economically successful rather than for just anyone and everyone. Benthamite Utilitarianism and Democratic Stability There are other categories of ethical theory, which defend rights in a different way—as part of a more general theory of value, so-called ‘utilitarian’ or ‘consequentialist’ theories. In one of its very prominent forms, notably Bentham’s (1973, 257–290), this approach actually contained a direct attack on rights. Bentham’s point was that freedom is based not on rights, but on utility. Freedom is the means to the maximum satisfaction of our desires; and where it is not, it is not worth having. Here is an approach which—unlike the Kantian—has a purchase on the democratic man, because it defends freedom in a way that uses reason in the form that the democratic man understands it. Benthamite utilitarianism is characterized by its aspiration to utter rigor. Bentham (1996) proposes, strictly quantitatively, to calculate the pleasure that a policy brings to each person, and then to compare policies in the same way: he advocates choosing the one that maximizes the total amount of pleasure. As in the case of all moral theories, there are many problems worthy of (re)consideration, but here we shall discuss only the ones with special relevance to our specific interrogation of the palpable grounds and prospects for democratic ethics. One such relevant problem, which has played a sizeable role in the repudiation of utilitarianism in favor of more Kantian political thinking by many political theorists in recent times and particularly in the transformation of that domain by John Rawls (1971), has to do with equality.

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While utilitarianism insists on egalitarianism, in the sense that each person’s pleasure counts the same, it does not point to egalitarian outcomes because it allows ‘a great deal of utility for some’ to outweigh the fact that many others might not get very much at all. In other words, if an upper class lives in sufficient luxury, this fact might persuade a utilitarian to overlook the poverty and misery of the lower classes, as long as the numbers come out right. And since the worse off might well be a majority, it is not clear how well this approach would appeal to a democratic society over the long run. A second problem is that Bentham’s defense of freedom depends on freedom’s effectiveness in producing happiness. In situations where freedom and democracy had lost intrinsic appeal and the society could be most economically productive without either, the defense of freedom and democracy would be without support. Not so? Well try to imagine a Benthamite defense of the Weimar Republic in a Germany of the early 1930s. In that sense, and to that extent, Bentham’s views are hardly a candidate for an ethic specific either to freedom or to democracy. But there exists an important third problem. Bentham was for the dismissal of any distinctions between utilities that could not be quantified. This was an important part of the overall appeal of the “objectivity” claimed by his philosophy. And in a couple of ways, this is also a great strength of his position. In a scientifically oriented age, objectivity appeals in very important ways. Perhaps of even greater importance is one, somewhat more oblique, consideration: the emphasis on calculation, maximization, and efficiency has about it a spirit that is more businesslike than apathetic. Those who are actively engaged in maximizing their pleasure or that of a society are not passive, but actively engaged people. In this sense, the spirit of Bentham’s outlook is helpful. However, the other side of the coin of objectivity—and hence of the quantitative—is that Bentham was simply unable to give any reason for preferring poetry to ‘pushpin’ (a popular game in his time, or ‘television’ today, for that matter) if someone derived more pleasure from the latter. At first blush, this possibility would seem to be more relevant to our first problem of democratic ethics—the problem of low aspirations—and, indeed, it is. But it is also quite relevant to the problem at hand, in the here and now. For if the greater quantities of pleasure can be had from passive and/or nonpolitical engagements, then there would seem to be nothing to stave off the apathy that de Tocqueville was afraid of, or any of the sorts of self-indulgence that we feared

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would undermine freedom. What if it were to turn out that what made people happiest was, say, to watch television all day? Worse still, what if it turned out to be drugs like crack that gave people the most pleasure? Is the latter not a proposition that the people have come perilously close to exploring in real terms, across the United States, at certain periods, in recent times? Millian Utilitarianism and Democratic Stability There is another version of utilitarianism, which was proposed by John Stuart Mill. In addition to defending individual rights in his On Liberty (Mill 1921) on a utilitarian basis, the success of which is a matter of controversy, Mill handled the ‘pushpin-poetry’ dilemma in his Utilitarianism (Mill 1957). He proposed to distinguish between pleasures not just quantitatively, but qualitatively as well. By way of a criterion of qualitative difference between pleasures, Mill has claimed that between certain pairs of pleasures, particular ones were preferred by all of those who had experienced both. The preferred ones he believed to be higher-quality pleasures, chosen even when they were not superior quantitatively. On this basis then, poetry was to be preferred to pushpin. And since the criterion of quality is based on experience, Mill believed it to be objectively grounded, even if it was not wholly so quantitatively. I find here something that speaks both directly and quite relevantly to our problem. Mill can be understood as attempting to convince those who are tempted by a life of television watching that they are missing out on something else, which they would appreciate much more if they would only give the latter a chance. True enough, such disposition may require considerable effort, but the argument is that it surely would be worth their while in a way that is in some sense on their terms. If it is, say, happiness that the democratic population seeks, then people will be making a mistake if they were to indulge themselves in these passive— or, lower—pleasures. This is an argument that can be understood by, and even appeal to, democratic populations in no uncertain terms. There is a serious weakness in this argument as an answer to our specific problem, however. But in order to articulate it we need to make a more general point first. If nearly everyone who has tasted both vanilla and chocolate ice cream claims that the former is better, that fact does not make it such in and of itself. It only proves that “the majority” prefers vanilla to chocolate. In order for Mill to claim that he

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has identified something other than a preference by a set of more experienced observers, he has to show that there is something objective (innate to the products compared) lying behind taster-shared preference. This problem is exacerbated in our case by the following facts regarding poetry and, say, television programs by the World Wrestling Federation. The people on the two sides of the issue—those who prefer poetry, on one hand, and those who prefer rougher pleasures, on the other—surely differ also in numerous other ways. And not necessarily because the former are likely to have had a higher education, to belong to the middle classes, or to have “more refined” tastes: the two categories may oppose neighbors who live different lives, who enjoy different universes, neither of whom is able, inclined, or willing to enjoy the pleasures dearest to the other. Different categories of people who, whether brought up similarly or differently, prefer different things—the one unaffected by high culture, and the other indifferent to the natural pleasures of rough comradeship or to some kinds of brutality—come to mind. Unless Mill convincingly can rebut that argument, his views are likely to be perceived by democratically inclined audiences as heavily imbibed in class bias. He will seem to be simply endorsing certain of the values of the refined and educated classes with considerable indifference to those of the other strata. Practical Wisdom and Democratic Stability The last of the categories we examine is not an ethic designed specifically to defend rights, but a type of ethic that independently of such preoccupation supports a mode of ethical life that would not undermine rights. I am referring here to the Aristotelian tradition of what is these days called “virtue ethics,” more specifically to the virtue that Aristotle calls phronesis, or “practical wisdom,” in his Nichomachean Ethics (book 6). It is the human ability to judge—correctly—in regard to things that “could be otherwise.” And it contrasts, primarily, with sophia, or “theoretical wisdom.” Unlike theoretical wisdom, which deals, according to Aristotle, with what is ‘necessarily so’, practical wisdom is not infallible. It deals only with things that can be known, but not with things that can be known with certainty. It is wrong to keep what does not belong to you, but if an intoxicated friend asks for his car keys back, it may not be wrong to keep them. How greatly affected by the alcohol does he need to be to justify keeping his

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keys? This is a matter of judgment over which even the best of us can be wrong on occasion; but there is, nevertheless, a correct answer.7 Perhaps this sort of judgment is the very virtue that we need to encourage, the better to protect our freedom. This proposal raises the question “Is there such wisdom, and what does it say in any given case?” Aristotle addresses this query head-on. If you want to know what the wise judgment is in any given case, ask the wise man. While this may seem to provide a trivial or circular answer, it is actually illuminating in a most important way, for it reflects Aristotle’s confidence in a consensus about who is a wise man. This was a confidence based on the conviction that he lived in a society where people agreed, not unanimously, but by and large, on what was good and what was bad. And this belief was connected with other convictions that supported it: for example, that man was a “political” animal; that his society, namely the polis, was the natural unit of association; that human beings were so constructed as to be able to understand not just the natural but also the social world. We moderns do not agree on such things. It is therefore not surprising that the notion of practical wisdom—embodied by phronesic men’s worldview—cannot play the same role in our society that in his time Aristotle envisioned it to be playing in his. To see how and why this statement is true, we can turn to the vexed issue of abortion. The abortion issue does not lend itself to solution by simple appeal to the enumerated rights of the constitution, because no such rights are enumerated, and because both sides appeal to rights. Nor does it yield to a broader appeal to freedom, since both sides appeal to that as well. One emphasizes freedom in the form of the right to life; the other places the accent on freedom in the form of the right to the pursuit of happiness. The first sees in liberty the freedom to live within traditional parameters, while the second interprets freedom as the liberty to explore the limits of human individual life. Thus the abortion debate today (cf. Eichler, chap. 2 in this book) is but a concretization of two different conceptions of the good life, approached differently—albeit right inside the one and same society: distinct democratizations within the very same polity. In the United States this protracted controversy has plagued all the branches of government, but most centrally the judiciary. In effect, the 7. Even though some things, degrees in qualities among them, do remain in the paradoxical domain to this day: see, for instance, Gross (2008).

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people have attempted to deal with it by allowing their judges to solve it for them. But this approach has been quite unsatisfactory in the eyes of many among the people, and it has resulted in a controversy about the judges themselves. The opponents of abortion see the judges who allow it, not as objectively wise men, but as mere partisans8 of a particular conception of the world—sometimes referred to as “secular humanism”—which has a lot in common with what Mill (1921), in chapter 3 of On Liberty, described as “pagan self-assertion.” And because the dispute over abortion is, at a deeper level, also a dispute over the nature of a good life, and not just a dispute over this specific right, it often finds itself elevated to the level of the old Aristotelian contention as to who exactly is a wise person. These disputes then take the concrete form of prolonged debate over who is fit to be ‘a judge’ (‘wise’). And any prolongations of the sort can help spin enough rope to last for years, quite substantially interfering with the exercise of government— the workings of the U.S. Senate, for instance. One may expect to see such long-winded debates again, this time in regard to stem cell research. The problem with using “practical wisdom” arises in addition to two other problems that should be also noted. First, Aristotle in person never doubted that it would be only a small minority, a subset of the best people, who could or would exercise practical wisdom. For him, it was basically an elitist notion, hardly typical of democratic populations. Second, despite its name, practical wisdom is not basic reasoning of the means-ends sort. It is a kind of judgment about the appropriateness of certain qualities to certain contexts—for example, the ability to understand whether, in a given situation, it would be courageous or rash to fight and cowardly or sensible to retreat. These are not means-ends dilemmas for Aristotle. They are issues only for people who are antecedently committed to courage. Like Kant’s own “respect for law,” Aristotle’s “practical wisdom” in a sense finds its analogue in Plato. And although there are some quite considerable contrasts when compared to a Humean mode of means-ends reasoning, the Aristotelian notion of practical wisdom is more comparably similar to Plato’s notion of wisdom; and as we saw, the very absence of respect for that sort of wisdom is one of the defining qualities of democracy for Plato. 8. On this activist aspect of the notion of “partisanship,” cf. Cameron, chap. 11 in this book.

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Conclusion The problem of aspiration that we thought useful to mention is not in and of itself a mortal threat to democracy. It even might not amount to much more than yet another simple fact about the modern world. In contrast, the problem of democratic stability is just such a mortal threat. We should note also that there remains considerable question as to whether the problem of democratic aspiration should be looked at in isolation. In the first place, all the approaches with which we hoped to solve the problem of instability appealed in different forms to values of wisdom and/or honor, the very absence of which in fact defined the problem of democratic aspiration. Lest we forget, Plato himself had argued that the decline he expected from democracy into anarchy/ tyranny was simply one stage of the decline that begins with the descent from the regime of the wisdom lover to the regime of the honor lover, continuing inexorably down to the money lover and on to the freedom/ equality lover. We may think that, if we do not aspire any higher, the alternative would be to stay put where we are, but quite apart from Plato’s philosophical argument on this score, there is the simpler point that if a person circling a mountain halfway up does not concern himself with going any higher, s/he eventually will yield to gravity and end up even lower. “Men do not live by bread alone.” Nor do they live by freedom and democracy in a space devoid of everything else. Full-fledged human beings, whose lives can sustain both democracy and freedom, entertain a conception of what makes a life worthwhile. They may have fervent faith in freedom and democracy, but, as mature human beings, they will also have developed a conception of the good. The two major problems of democratic ethics, discussed earlier, are in fact two aspects of the separation of the right and the good—the consequences of giving social primacy to ‘right’ over ‘good’. As noted, when we separate the right and the good, we also disconnect the principles of political life and the very precepts of individual life. A society committed most deeply to rights and freedom, and not solely to the good, is very likely to be a divided society, because its members must believe in something else as well—the nature of a good life. There is nothing in a free society to assure that everyone will agree on such. Indeed, there is a strong tendency to make the very absence of such an agreement (“diversity”) a criterion of genuine freedom. History suggests that at least some such disagreement is important for the idea of freedom to take hold. U.S.

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society, for instance, has long assumed that, at least nominally, it could reach no agreement, attain no consensus, on the good life; and it increasingly is able to celebrate the very fact. Hence, we should not be surprised, under those circumstances, that we moderns are unable collectively to raise our sights or even jointly to protect our freedoms by appealing to a consensus around some ethical theory. If we did have such a consensus, our freedom would not be so important to us, and surely its pursuit would not be such a fragile undertaking. Though we cannot appeal to a consensus about a central ethic in order to protect our democracy, it does not follow that there cannot obtain one such central code, or that we cannot aspire to creating one. Such a consensus, however, would have to be about a conception that was at once seriously unified and richly diverse. For, if it were not unified, it could not mobilize our notions of the good in defense of our freedom; and if it were not diverse, it would be significantly at odds with freedom itself. And so we are forced to keep struggling on, toward finding the appropriate relationship between the freedom we seek and the good for which we search. The struggle to find the correct relationship between the freedom and the good is similar in certain ways to the struggle to ensure the optimal relationship between unity and diversity, a form of struggle for which Plato is our first and best guide. And as Plato makes clear, it is essential for our success in such struggles that we do not assume that we have found the answer already, be it in detail or in a basic outline. Specifically, that requires of us not to assume that freedom around the world will take the form that it has espoused in Western Europe, in North America, or in some other exceptional spot. Perhaps an honest struggle of this tenor and magnitude is the best recommendation one can make, in closing, in regard to an ethic of democracy, a democratic ethic, or democratic ethics, at this time. References Aristotle (1984) Nicomachean Ethics, in Jonathan Barnes, Editor, Complete Works of Aristotle, vol. 2, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Bentham, Jeremy (1973) Bentham’s Political Thought, Bhikhu Parekh, Editor, New York: Barnes & Noble. ——— (1996) An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, James H. Burns and Herbert L. A. Hart, Editors, Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press.

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Cameron, Kevin (2008) “Beyond Ideology, Toward a New Ethic of Freedom?” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Freedom: Reassessments and Rephrasings, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Ciprut, Jose V. (2008) “Pictures at an Exhibition in the Guise of an Epilogue,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Democratizations: Comparisons, Confrontations, and Contrasts. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Descartes, René (1993) A Discourse on Method, 3rd ed., Indianapolis: Hackett. Doran, Charles F. (2008) “From Rule of Law to Freedoms to Enlightened SelfGovernment: Emplacement of Value in Democratization” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Democratizations: Comparisons, Confrontations, and Contrasts, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Gross, Steven (2008) “Vagueness, Indeterminacy, and Uncertainty,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Indeterminacy: The Mapped, the Navigable, and the Uncharted, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich (1952) Philosophy of Right, Thomas M. Knox, Translator, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Hume, David (1888) A Treatise of Human Nature, Oxford, UK: Clarendon Press. Kant, Immanuel (1964) Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, Herbert J. Paton, Editor, New York: Harper & Row. MacIntyre, Alasdair (1981) After Virtue, Notre Dame, IN: Notre Dame University Press. Mill, John Stuart (1921) On Liberty, London: Longmans, Green. ——— (1957) Utilitarianism, 1st ed., Oskar Piest, Editor, Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Mulhern, J. J. (2008) “The Political Economy of Citizenship,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Plato (1974) Republic, Georges M. A. Grube, Editor, Indianapolis: Hackett. Rawls, John (1971) A Theory of Justice, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ——— (1999) Collected Papers, Samuel Freeman, Editor, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Sandel, Michael (1984) Liberalism and Its Critics, New York: New York University Press. Smart, John J. C., and Bernard Williams (1973) Utilitarianism For and Against, London: Cambridge University Press. Tocqueville, Alexis de (1961) Democracy in America, New York: Shocken. Weber, Max (1958) The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, New York: Scribner’s.

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On the Need and Requirements for a Global Ethic of Communication Thomas W. Cooper and Clifford G. Christians

Unique to this complicated age is technology on a worldwide scale, as well as two most decisive technologies in fundamental contradiction: Information hardware has helped create global communication systems that potentially involve us all in each other’s lives. Military technology, in contrast, threatens the human race with destruction. Our global era has acquired the dialectical sophistication to unplug human life even as it continues to plug nations into a worldwide information network. The time is 1945, Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Nuclear technology, in principle, now was able to roast most species into extinction. In 1957, Sputnik rocketed into space, and not merely as a satellite fired from the USSR in secret; the whole world was watching. For the late Marshall McLuhan (1974), Sputnik bound humankind together electronically for the first time. The rumors of Lincoln’s assassination had taken months to reach the London streets; a century later, Russian technology was paraded instantly before an admiring world. And on November 24, 1963, the world participated as one body in President John F. Kennedy’s funeral. Television, radio, and satellites gathered us around the casket with the emotion and ceremony we would reserve to the burial of someone intimately close. The parade was taking place not down Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC, USA, but on Main Street, in One World. Since those heady days, the earth’s orbits have become crowded with satellites, some for information and others for military purposes. Global technologies stand in counterpoint. As information increases, we presume it is facilitating global understanding. And when the nuclear arms race is successfully curbed, these two technologies are thought to follow their proper trajectory. Open information that is unfettered and destructive technology that is restrained, together produce a working formula for sustaining the globe at this auspicious moment of human

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history, although the correlation between improved information and decreased danger is not always a positive one and can be reversible. Communication has facilitated world affairs. The Berlin Wall fell and Mikhail Gorbachev’s glasnost took hold before the eyes of the world. A new world order for communication, offering free and balanced flow of news and information among nations, began to be touted as the Cold War’s strategy of mutually assured destruction began to fade. At the second MacBride Round Table meeting in Prague, in 1990, the world media were urged to address the problems of social unrest, armed conflict, violent fanaticism, environmental catastrophes, and economic deprivation; they were encouraged to mobilize public opinion for a resolution of these ills. Television, radio, and the Internet rallied the nation in the United States on 9/11/01, nurturing empathy throughout the globe. In electronic narrative, working-class rescue teams came through as heroes for their evident national strength and resiliency, and the media constructed an identity for terrorism. News coverage of Iraq and Afghanistan helped keep the military accountable, making sure the abuses at Abu Ghraib prison would not go unnoticed or be hushed up. The Qatar-based Arab network Al-Jazeera refused to promote any government’s agenda. And thanks to the global media, it became evident that winning a war and earning the peace, though both indispensable, are two different things. In reality, only rarely do the media serve as democracy’s agent, and not always as militarism’s dissenter. Both the war in the Persian Gulf and the invasion of Iraq witnessed the successful integration of electronic communication and military technology. The calibrated air raids, the use of smart bombs, night vision targeting, the high-tech defenses, and embedded reporters extending battlefields into our living rooms made the war in Iraq a triumph of communication. And undoubtedly the war on terrorism is communications driven as well. Al-Qaeda exists as a cyber network: its battles are coproduced, by television and by terrorists. On another front, the threat of cyber terrorism continues to escalate, by making use of the information infrastructure to wreak havoc on computer traffic, to threaten police safety operations and military readiness, and to shut down financial transaction systems. Meanwhile, electronic profiling of personal data and surveillance of citizen activities continue to proliferate, typically by attribution to national security, or under its painstakingly legitimated look-alike. All these conditions raise the nonrhetorical question, “Don’t we need a global media ethic?” which therefore merits an answer. It is all too

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evident that the media do not exist in a vacuum. Their welfare is determined by their context. In the absence of an explicit normative foundation, the media take on the identity of the national, religious, ideological, and technological world in which they live. In Jacques Ellul’s (1964) terms, the communications media are the meaning-edge of the technological order, the arena where the latter’s soul is most clearly exposed. Without well-developed ethics, mass media and social order are characterized by identical assumptions. They become an integrated set of concentric circles, as if they were parts of the same whole interwoven through similar social, economic, political, and intellectual constraints that cut through them both. Communication systems become a microcosm of the very society they supposedly serve. The online world largely represents the regimes of power that dominate society and culture offline. And in bloodstained hands, technologies of destruction and of communication can serve an identical purpose. Ethical thinking in the Anglo-American tradition has generally failed to intercept this accommodation. By design and execution, media ethics on the whole have been limited to perfunctory description and individual decision making. There are only tentative appeals to norms, and a general suspicion of their status reveals itself in value-free science and reporting. In the absence of some basis, substantively and universally normative, all parochial ethics will be stagnant, that is, commensurate and inconsequential. Thus the challenge: that the ethical domain revivify the normative dimension to keep media technologies on track. Our case study of these two global technologies in opposition seeks to illustrate the larger truth that a substantive ethic is needed to enable public communication to secure the common good. Without a concrete commitment to norms, emancipative intentions are jeopardized. Parochial ethics without ongoing attention to norms benefit only the established system. All the ethical theorizing we do worldwide will be stultified increasingly by petty interests and particularistic settings in a world of violence, terror, fundamentalist hate, and war—unless ethical theory is brought to reexamination under a transnational lens of universal ideals. (On the search for universals in matters of ethics, see Eichler, chap. 2; Guyer, chap. 3; Baker, chap. 9; and Cameron, chap. 11 in this book.) Our hope has been that communication among the world’s peoples would help to keep at bay the destruction and conflict among nations. Meanwhile, the urgent need for a global media ethic that matches the

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pumped muscle of today’s communication technologies has become obvious. In light of the power of global media corporations and the high-speed electronic technologies that now characterize the media worldwide, it is becoming imperative that communicational ethics become broad and strong enough to match the international impetus and impact of these forces. Otherwise, we would be stuck with a subservient ethic, echoing the status quo and neither confronting nor if need be contradicting it. Several worldwide models have been developed or are under way. The Eurocentric ethical canon—essentially a monocultural, parochial, and patriarchal one—is being replaced by cross-cultural, international, and even transnational frameworks. Theories of Universals Transcendental metaphysical universals with presumptions of foundationalism have been discredited for being imperialistic. Today, scholars doing credible work on universals understand norms to be historically embedded, and neither abstract nor absolutist. Diversity in culture does not constitute, or provide proof for, philosophical relativism. Relativism is subject to the naturalistic fallacy: that is, ‘ought’ statements cannot be derived from ‘is’ statements, since these two categories represent different realms. What exists in a natural setting cannot itself yield normative guidelines. Relativism faces the long-standing contradiction articulated by Karl Mannheim: those insisting that all cultures are relative must rise above them, for it is in so doing that relativism is nullified. The ethical frameworks described in this section, each and all, emphasize cultural diversity even as they continue to search for universals that are transcendent. The primary issue here is in identifying ‘a different kind of universal’, one that acknowledges and honors the splendid variety of human life. Kaarle Nordenstreng opened a pathway by accounting for common values, but diversity no less, through professional codes of ethics. Nordenstreng’s The Mass Media Declaration of UNESCO (1984) served as a path breaker in understanding professional ethics internationally, by way of codes of ethics as constellations of media values. Subsequently, an inventory of thirty-one codes in Europe enabled the identification of journalists’ accountability to the public, and to their sources and referents, as its primary emphasis (Laitila 1995). Christians and Nordenstreng (2004) placed codes of ethics in the larger context of

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social responsibility theory. Thinking along the lines of social responsibility has been going on in various parts of the world, from the work of the Hutchins Commission in the United States to the endeavors of the MacBride Commission, the European Union, and public journalism. Codes of ethics contribute also in bringing society to the forefront, if reoriented from media-centered professionalism to ‘social responsibility as a citizen-based paradigm’ (see Ciprut 2008). Thomas Cooper’s Communication Ethics and Global Change (1989), with contributions by Christians, White, and Plude, became the first comprehensive survey of media ethics conducted across cultures by an international network of media professionals and educators from thirteen countries. Cooper’s study of professional morality identified three protonorms as candidates for universal status. He concluded that one worldwide concern within the apparatus of professional standards and codes is the quest for truth, though often limited to objectivity and accuracy. A second concern, grounded on the research data available, is defined by Cooper as a desire among public communicators to work responsibly within the social mores and cultural features in which they operate. He finds freedom of expression to be a third imperative across professional media practice. Although stated in different languages and to different degrees, free speech is an important component in maintaining accurate human expression. Claude-Jean Bertrand (2000) advocates ‘media accountability systems’ (MAS) for enforcing ethical practices in the democratic media worldwide. Media accountability systems examine every option in the private sector that fosters the media’s responsibility by pressuring them to serve the public better, and thereby depriving the government of a pretext to interfere. All available strategies and means for media regulation are carefully included—codes of ethics, ombudspersons, news councils (local, regional, national), in-house critics, journalism reviews, citizen groups for accuracy and fairness, reader and viewer panels, and research institutes. Media accountability systems have become indispensable, given the unprecedented privatization and deregulation of electronic media worldwide. Media accountability systems designed to emphasize freedom and qualitative excellence already exist in many different forms across the globe, particularly in such countries as Japan, the United Kingdom, Germany, France, Sweden, Israel, Estonia, Portugal, and the United States (Bertrand 2003, 293–384). There are also several universal frameworks that step outside of professional ethics and of media institutions, concentrating on general

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morality: while having an explicit communication orientation, they are theoretical models rooted in philosophical reflection. S¸ eyla Benhabib (1992) has developed a principled interactive universalism, not subject to the criticism of postmodernists that grand narratives are no longer possible. She defends universalist ideals in moral and political life by addressing the contemporary assault on universals. In the process, she reserves serious attention to the respective contributions of feminism and communitarianism. In her reformulation of discourse ethics, she depicts humans as dialogic selves whose moral agency follows norms implicit in Habermas’s ideal speech situation: universal moral respect and egalitarian reciprocity (Bracci 2002, 128–130). Her idea of interactive dialogic rationality keeps ethics close to people’s everyday experience, so that diversity in cultures is recognized and differences are not buried under an abstract metaphysics. Kwasi Wiredu (1996), in contrast, writes from an African philosophical perspective: the human species lives by language. Every language is similar in its phonemic complexity, and though all of them serve in functional roles, far more importantly they serve in culture formation. It is through the intrinsic self-reflexivity of natural language that we arbitrate our values and establish our differences and similarities. Languages everywhere are communal, giving their speakers particularity; the shared lingual character of our existence makes intercultural communication possible. Through the commonness of our biologiccultural identity as homines sapientes, we humans can believe that there are universals, notwithstanding that concomitantly we live in our local communities. In a study of ethical principles in thirteen countries across three continents, the sacredness of human life was consistently affirmed as a universal value (Christians and Traber 1997). The rationale for human action was affirmed to be reverence for life on earth—respect for the organic realm within which human civilization is situated. Veneration of human life represents a universalism from the ground up, and various societies articulate this protonorm in different terms, which they illustrate locally, although every culture can bring to the table this fundamental norm for ordering political relationships and social institutions such as the media as well. There is at least one generality of universal scope underlying systematic ethics. The primal sacredness of life is a protonorm that binds humans into a common oneness. And in our systematic reflection on this foundation of the social order, we

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recognize that it entails such basic ethical principles as human dignity, truth, and nonviolence. Thomas Cooper’s (1998b) strategy for understanding our universal humanity was to expand the study of industrial societies to include learning from indigenous groups. He lived with the Shuswap in Canada, among Polynesians in Hawaii, and in the midst of the Rock Point Navajo people to experience firsthand their moral perspectives and modes of communication. He documents the umwelt, spirituality, respect, and wisdom of native peoples for whom communication is a release of power stored—potential energy becoming kinetic energy. He observes that “what outsiders call ‘ethics’ are derivative from a singular ethic,1 inseparable from the Great Spirit’s law” (1998b, 163). The emphasis by native nations on communion and community, the multilayered character of truth in indigenous cultures, and their integration of heart and mind demonstrate their fundamental commitment to authentic human communication. Cees Hamelink (2000) finds in international human rights the foundation for freedom, justice, and peace in the world, and thus for the moral standards of the media as well. He estimates ‘human rights’ to provide the only universally available principles for the dignity and integrity of all human beings. The world political community has recognized the existence of human rights since the adoption of the United Nations Charter in 1945 and has accepted the attending international legal machinery for their enforcement. Member states of the United Nations have pledged to promote universal respect for, and observance of, human rights; they have also committed themselves to upholding the dignity and worth of the human person, to foster social progress, and to safeguard the right of recognition before the law without any discrimination. Core human rights include the right to life, to food, to health care, to due process, and—not least—to free expression and to open public deliberation. To ensure democratic participation, in principle and practice, therefore, all peoples have (or must have) the right of access to communication channels in a manner independent of governmental or commercial control. Universalist positions have discredited themselves over history by breeding totalitarianism. Those who claim knowledge of universal 1. See Klaus Krippendorff, “On the Otherness That Theory Creates” (2000) and “Ecological Narratives: Reclaiming the Voice of Theorized Others” (2001), both on the systemic ‘inside/outside’ perspectives and sociolinguistic aspects of the singular communityembodying intracultural ethic.

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truth typically use it to control or convert dissenters. Universalism is said to threaten diversity, whereas relativism is purported to liberate us, and thus to enable us to reject all oppressive claims to truth. In the face of this objection, it must be reiterated, however, that the universalist appeals, from Nordenstreng to Hamelink, are not foundational a prioris. Interactive universalism, our common lingual identity, the very sacredness of life, authentic communication in indigenous culture, and international human rights in the theoretical models are not objectivist absolutes. They are presuppositions to which we are committed inescapably; one cannot proceed intellectually without taking something as given. Cartesian rationalism and Kant’s formalism both presume noncontingent starting points. However, these primordial generalities do not. Nor do they flow from Platonism, that is, from ‘the finite participating in the infinite, and receiving its essence from it’. Without protonorms of universal scope, ethical theory and politics are trapped in the ‘distributive fallacy’. Where one distinct part (typically an ideological bloc) presumes to speak for the whole (see Cameron, chap. 11 in this book). A commitment to universals does not thereby eliminate crosscultural differences in thinking and belief. The only question here is whether or not our values affirm the human spirit. The issue is whether these theoretical models enable the media to build a civic philosophy and thereby to demonstrate a transformative intent. This is ‘worldview pluralism’, a pluralism that encourages us to hold on to our beliefs in good faith and that allows us to debate them openly instead of making us perceive ourselves constrained by a superficial consensus. The universal principles described so far do not obstruct cultures, nor do they inhibit their development: they liberate us for strategic action, thereby also providing direction for social change. The Multicultural Heritage In the light of the preceding theories, it is essential to acknowledge the rich legacy of communication ethics already embedded within the patchwork quilt of cultural histories. The universal models we have described, which are close to the ground rather than removed and abstract, feed on those resources and keep us from reinventing the medicine wheel. Historically, it is difficult to imagine a society, tribe, or nation that did not have ethical teachings about communication. Indeed, some of

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the rules and norms listed in this section describe the roots of communication ethics and media law as we know them now. In many ancient societies our current cultural distinctions between law, ethics, policy, dogma, and norms were minimal or nonexistent. A religious teaching, for example, might have served simultaneously as dogma, law, and ethics instruction for children. In many cases it is impossible to know how, let alone if, communication rules were ever enforced. Nevertheless in some instances records exist stating the rule and even the prescribed punishment. From Pritchard’s (1958) rendering of Hammurabi’s famous code (circa 1925 B.C.) we find, “If a seignior accuses [another] seignior and brings a charge of murder against him, but cannot prove it, his accuser shall be put to death” (1958, 139). Here are the ancient roots of libel law and reputation ethics cast in one sentence (see Eichler, chap. 2 in this book). Virtually all religions had early dogma, or guidance, about common communication practices. Consider the Jewish Torah’s and the Christian Holy Bible’s (“Old” Testament) origins of the “Judeo-Christian” ethic, as in Deuteronomy 5:20, “Neither shalt thou bear false witness against thy neighbor,” and as in Exodus 23:1, “Thou shalt not raise a false report.” And three of the Ten Commandments delimit communication by forbidding (1) a “graven image” (Exodus 20:4), (2) blasphemy—”taking the name of the Lord in vain” (Exodus 20:7), and (3) unconfirmed accusation—”thou shalt not bear false witness” (Exodus 20:16). Within the Islamic Kuran was written “woe unto every backbiter, slanderer” (349) and “Those who blaspheme His name shall surely be recompensed” (193). Eastern philosophies, too, are rich in guidelines for communication, as in the Buddha’s teaching about “Right Speech” in the “Noble Eightfold Path,” referred to by Bresnan (2003, 235): “unflagging honesty and goodwill are the defining characteristics of Right Speech: Buddha specifically warned his followers to be on guard against the temptation to lie, to speak ill of others, and to engage in idle gossip” (235). Of course, a communication ethic is automatically housed within a larger ethic. For example, the Daoism of Lao Ze (Lao Tzu) (1988) instructs, “If you want to be a great leader, stop trying to control. Let go of fixed plans and concepts, and the world will govern itself” (verse 30). Inherent to the teaching is a communication ethic that avoids proselytizing, hard-sell advertising, and other persuasive attempts to change the way life already functions.

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In the Hindu Bhagavad Gita (1985), Krisha, who is God and character, proclaims that “no one can obtain perfection by abstaining from work. Indeed there is no one who rests for even an instant; every creature is driven to action by his own nature” (3:4–5). Implied is the sense that an ethic of communication serves a larger ethic of action. In Confucianism, correct communication practices derive from the larger social etiquette of li (respecting others’ dignity), the pursuit of personal jumzi (living with integrity), and the expression of ren (compassion and human-heartedness). And the communication of noble citizens must reflect these attitudes. Mowlana (1989) makes it clear that to understand Islam’s ethics of communication, one must first understand four overarching Muslim teachings (pp. 141–145): tawhid (unification), amr bi al-ma’ruf wa nahy’an al munkar (order beneficence and prohibit abomination), ummah (community of faith), and taqwa (fear from God). For mystics, human codes of communication ethics have no meaning unless they derive from God’s (Allah’s) thinking. As Mowlana’s explication of the doctrine of tawhid, which implies unity, coherence, and harmony among all parts of the universe, states: “All human-made laws and ethical codes that arrogate judgment to themselves, or to any authority or institution in any way other than in obedience and enforcement of ‘Allah’s Own Judgment,’ are void” (p. 141). Similarly, research about indigenous teachings the world over (Cooper 1998b) suggests that communication ethics, albeit unique in some ways to each tribe or nation, derive from a larger “law” or Way of the Great Spirit(s), known by many names (Wonkantonka, Windwalker, among others). There are specific indigenous rules of communication (‘always be silent when elders enter the room’; ‘speak only of what you have experienced’, and so forth). In all of the known indigenous peoples there originally was an all-encompassing ethic of respectful communication. Depending upon the tribe, details in such practices may have varied (the Shuswap asked permission of rocks and plants before moving them; the Dine, of the Navaho, blessed each dwelling; and so forth)—but underlying all of them was the notion that life is sacred and that therefore the entire earth and each species must be addressed ceremonially. Although ancient and indigenous practices inform modern-day communication ethics, in some cases they seem in stark contrast. For example, the research by Cooper and a team of scholars from fourteen countries (1989) determined that the order of values to which

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communication professionals aspire is (1) truthfulness (94 percent), (2) responsibility (92 percent), and (3) freedom (63 percent), according to their codes of ethics (1989, 32–37). Yet the documents analyzed for these data seldom mentioned respect. This finding would lead Cooper (1998b, 94) later to write: “While the authentic Native would honor these three values, especially truthfulness, she or he would bemoan the lack of emphasis upon respect. For most Natives, respect would be the first value central to a communication ‘code.’ A primary means for such respect to be communicated is through silence, stillness and inner listening. That the Western explorer . . . interpreted this silence as stupidity, aloofness, or hostility is tragic.” Just as any Islamic communication practice must emerge from an understanding of tawhid, even so any indigenous practice must derive from respect for the Creator Force(s) and all that she/he created. In short, communication ethics worldwide—in teaching or in practice, whether indigenous or imperialist, secular or sacred—typically have derived from a larger cultural, where not a higher theological, womb. Scholars like Heinberg (1989) and Eliade (1967) suggest that our multicolored millennium derives from a more monochromatic past. Suggesting a possible universal cosmology of peoples, the reputed scholar of mythology Mircea Eliade wrote, “In more or less complex forms, the paradisic myth occurs here and there all over the world” (1967, 59–60). Heinberg in turn writes, “The Hebraic Garden of Eden, the Greek Golden Age, the Australian Aborigines’ Dreamtime, and the Chinese Taoist Age of Perfect Virtue are but local variants of the universally recalled Time of Beginnings, whose memory has colored all of subsequent history” (1989, 3). Quoting everyone, from Tacitus and the Torah to Chuang Tzu and the Mahabharata of India, Heinberg hence implies that the combined global histories of humanity, often wrapped and preserved in myth, suggest an original universal ethic of virtue in which a communication ethic of truth telling and of respectful expression was pandemic. What would seem significant here is that the greater confluence of early documentation—whether mythic, historical, theocentric, or legalistic—either recorded or insinuated many similar communication rules across times and peoples. Ancient documents, whether idealized or accurate, project backward a prehistoric idyllic state of perfect communication and a utopian ethic of flawless truth telling within a life of perfect virtue.

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Many cultures are not apt to accept what indigenous cultures believe, namely, that myth is history and that the oral tradition is as accurate as the written one. Yet, either way, the spirit if not the letter in paradigms of communications ethic seems cross-cultural among the ancients. When both oral and literate societies are taken into account, there is a shared aspiration for honesty and respectful expression, with no room for blasphemy and defamation, especially of elders, gods, and leaders. It is commonplace for cultural differences to be emphasized; all cultures come from indigenous roots; and East and West often are portrayed as antithetical. This tendency did not prevent Christians and colleagues (2001) from placing Aristotle and Confucius side by side as equilibrium ethicists (pp. 12–14). From Aristotle we hear, “Moral virtue is a fixed quality of the will, consisting essentially in a middle state, as determined by the standard that a person of practical wisdom would apply” (book 2, chap. 6); and from Confucius (1991), that “the superior man embodies the course of the mean; the mean man acts contrary to the course of the mean” (vol. 1, 11.1; cf. Johnstone 2002; Byun and Lee 2002). The authors develop this correspondence between ‘mean ethicists’ and between East and West, just as one could do it also between or among thinkers, religions, and philosophies. The flip side of cultural diversity is cultural parallelism. Cross-cultural parallels may be found in both ethics and communication, as in this case with Aristotle and Confucius, long before the twentieth century, when the United Nations sought to forge common ground under the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Not only do cultures, organically, share tributaries of ethical thought, but they also participate in ethical systems which, whether by imposition or through inheritance, were infiltrated historically. For example, a significant Japanese code of ethics called the “Canons of Journalism” (1946), adopted by the Nihon Shinbun Kyokai, is essentially an ‘adapted’ American code of ethics implanted in Japan following U.S. victory in World War II. Many ethics documents bear the mark of the conqueror or of an influential, if not overpowering, neighbor. In Empire and Communication, Harold Innis (1952) argued that the communication technologies exported by imperialists have tended to determine the character of knowledge and the ethical approaches of the colonized peoples. Agents of change—be they missionaries, multinational corporations, generals, or immigrants—thus introduced the “ethics” of dictators, popes, revolutionaries, and royalty, across numerous boundaries in an array of distant lands.

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Yet for psychologist Carl Jung (1968) shared memories of race and moralities go far deeper than any of the external layers that are superimposed upon humanity by invaders: “The collective unconscious contains the whole spiritual heritage of mankind’s evolution born anew in the brain structure of every individual” (p. 152). Just as Freud (1978) argued that there are globally universal taboos (parricide and incest, for instance), Jung would conclude that there are also universal ‘thought forms’ deeply pocketed in all human consciousness, which he called the “collective unconscious.” After all, humanity is not only connected above, by common empires (and now by satellites that broadcast uniform information), but also connected below, just as seemingly isolated islands are connected by hidden land mass deep beneath the ocean. For Jung, people, just like islands, are actually peaks of submerged mountains that are all part of the same range. In the aggregate, therefore, there are multiple modes—organic, imperial, mythic, theological, historical, and subconscious—in which the constituent ingredients for a global communication ethic already are present. Experience with the unlocking of anemnesis (or buried memory) through archeology, anthropology, and oral history suggests that multicultural boundaries connect as much as they divide but that the world is covered by the branches of a single family tree. Across the centuries and continents lie clues and cues for possible globewide reunification. Modern Multigroup Agreements In addition to past wisdom and tradition, there are modern attempts to create multinational and cross-cultural agreements and mandates about ethical communication practices. These may take the form of (1) democratic agreements, (2) representative agreements, and even (3) imposed mandates. Democratic agreements come into existence when every single member of a professional organization such as the European Association of Left-Handed Cinematographers (a fictitious group) votes upon an ethics code or policy to be adopted by that association. Representative agreements occur when elected or appointed representatives from particular countries or members of organizations such as UNESCO adopt an ethics-related proposal intended to help govern, guide, or inform their regional or global constituencies. Finally, imposed mandates consist of dictatorial, religious, military, and other fiats. Examples range from ‘narrower’ (such as a papal instruction to all

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practicing Catholics forbidding them to see Jean-Luc Godard’s film Hail Mary) to ‘broader’ (such as an order from Hitler forbidding any criticism of German leadership throughout conquered Europe). Many among the global policies of communication ethics may not seem to be ‘international’ in the same sense that the practices of multinational corporations and of not-for-profit organizations are. For example, the codes of ethics of the Red Cross and of Time-Warner Corporation might not benefit from the extent of visibility that a United Nations document would command, even though they influence communication practices inside scores of countries and cultures. Hundreds of documents meant to regulate or guide communication ethics within and across cultures and countries have been created in the past two centuries alone. Some of the better-known international documents such as the “Mass Media Declaration of UNESCO” (1978) and the International Federation of Journalists’ “Bordeaux Declaration of Journalists’ Duties” (1954) have sought to bring cooperation to the largest possible number of germane communication professionals. Other documents, such as regional (e.g., Latin American), national (e.g., Belgium), and cultural (e.g., indigenous peoples) agreements, have brought both geographical entities and “affinity” groups together, sometimes in spirit (through visionary statements) and sometimes in letter (as binding accords). Frequently, when offered in such format, communication ethics somehow become enmeshed in another, broader, document. Just as the First Amendment, which protects free speech and freedom of the press in the United States, is part of the U.S. Constitution, many national and international communication policies, rules, and practices are integrated within constitutions, bylaws, legal systems, and other master documents. Very often, countries and groups may have multiple systems for ordering communication practices. Also, a country may generate simultaneously ethics-laden documents or dogma for newspaper editors, professional journalists, the citizenry, and members of one or more religious groups. Moreover, such documents may overlap and (in parts) even contradict each other. The delicate fabric of modern and postmodern communication ethics is riddled with complexity. Analysis of Ethics Already Present There is no unique communication ethics document, let alone a single moral system that is agreed upon either by all citizens of the world or

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by their representatives. Even if the United Nations were unanimously to consent to such a central document, there is no guarantee that all world citizens would abide by it or that nonmember nations of the UN, which include, for example, the many indigenous nations and peoples, and other nations as well, would be ready, willing, or able to conform to it. Moreover, ethics scholars such as Black and Barney (1985–1986) have long argued that ethics codes may themselves be unethical to the extent that they restrict, homogenize, or censor freedom of expression instead of protecting it (pp. 29–34). Paradoxically, even if ethics documents could be enforced, they arguably would be deemed invalid, possibly for restricting freedom. Yet if not enforced, they would be arguably invalid for being merely rhetorical or simply impotent. There are two types of communication ethics already available to the world today: (1) external, so named for consisting of objects, and (2) eternal, so named because religions and philosophies, which assume these ancient norms to transcend human societies, view these as surviving periods of history and being passed from generation to generation by means of enculturation. In the world of today, neither external (ratified or adopted agreements) nor eternal (ancient wisdom) communication ethics can be imagined to be fully binding upon all peoples. Many contemporary national populations find reason to question the wisdom of “ancient” (cf. “eternal”) religions, which they view as having become more secular and as having assimilated political and materialist philosophies. Even among religion-based cultures, some theocracies and spiritual regimes have been known to battle over theology. It therefore has become impossible to argue that ‘eternal’ verities are ‘universally’ accepted or acceptable. But external documents command no greater credibility and inclusiveness at the global level today. An ethics code or an ethics commission may be viewed as one more “toothpaste contract”—one that brightens the teeth of nations that devour other nations. Moreover, one might question whether any document can be said to speak truly for all groups, whether for children, the Amish, the Rapa Nui and all the other remote peoples, the feminists, Shintoists, all humans and animals, Zoroastrians, libertarians, and the disabled, among others. Beyond these challenges lurk myriad others: to begin with, those who do agree to study such documents cannot agree whether communication ethics should more rightly emphasize freedom or responsibility, as described

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in Cooper’s (1989) paradigm dubbed “the Nordenstreng versus Merrill debate”: even the experts, among themselves, cannot agree. In sum, on the one hand, the elements of a global communication ethic are everywhere to be seen; yet on the other hand, attempts to forge these elements alchemically into a panacea for all comers have proven to be too idealistic and unrepresentative on a global scale. Owing to the strength of what exists, the theorizing of universals is credible. In light of the reality of how much remains to be done, however, intellectual humility still seems mandatory. Technically Speaking A further complicating factor is that, unlike numerous other disciplinespecific ethics, communication ethics have been shifting their focus because of the continual development of technology. Although legal, medical, and business ethics, for example, have also been much impacted by technical innovation, communication ethics is a field in which, in very distinct ways, both the core and the gaze of the field have shifted from people to machines. As early as 1988, a thorough bibliographic study by Cooper and colleagues suggested that over 80 percent of modern writing about communication ethics focused upon media ethics. Neither reason nor research exists to suggest that this four-to-one ratio has decreased in favor of communication since. Many ethicists over time have argued that external technologies only amplify the presence of eternal ethical issues, hence making of “media ethics” merely a “communication ethics” in disguise. However, a significant number of senior scholars—Mumford (1934), White (1962), and Giedion (1969) among them—have suggested that every technology transforms society, and that many of these technologies might have unintended consequences2—including introductions of ethical issues. For example, research on the effects of television triggers debate on whether repetitive televised violence may contribute to everyday acts of violence. Computers and satellites provide the possibility for invading national and global privacy in ways that the naked eye and ear cannot. Arguments can be made to the effect that almost every medium transforms previous ethical issues and introduces new ones. Successively, Marshall McLuhan (1977), Eric McLuhan (1983), and Barrington Nevitt (1985) claimed that there were specific laws of the 2. See Krippendorff (2008).

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media which, like the laws of nature, are all but indifferent to human intention and action. Although Cooper (1997) found that there were forty ethical issues associated with cybermedia by the end of the last millennium, only three years later he claimed that there were already fifty-two such issues (2000), and more recently he has identified twelve more. Does speedup in the rate of implementing new technology imply that there is also a speedup in the quantity and impact of ethical issues? And if not, are such “issues” merely old wine in new bottles, if only because there is “nothing new under the sun”? With the advent of communication speedup, there are many invisible technologies at work that the public cannot detect. The substance of the research presented to the Foundation of Intelligent Physical Agents at their annual conference in Dublin (1998) suggested that the creators of new communication technology face the greatest ethical responsibilities (Cooper 1998a). Their hidden engineering systems may well be tested in advance. But little attention is given to testing the possible effects of these before, not after, the new technology has been—irreversibly—introduced into society. Most of the public does not even remotely know what intelligent agents are, let alone what their impact upon individuals and groups can be. Now consider these technologies: It was publicized that cellular phones may contribute to brain tumors only after the phones were widespread. Companies did request that pregnant employees not use VDT screens—but only after computers became ubiquitous. Most communication technologies are tested only for their effectiveness and marketability, not for their possible psychological, physiological, and social effects. The newer technologies risk introducing new ethical problems and amplifying existing ones before any system of checks and balances is in place. For example, in the United States, the Office of Technology Assessment, which was already too tiny to monitor the rapid growth of new technologies, was dissolved by Congress. There is no corresponding global office to pretest inventions and to evaluate the ensuing innovations in social and societal context. The Hall effect suggests that the interplay of technologies, software upgrades, plug-ins, formats, and innumerable invisible devices is most difficult to track. In his groundbreaking Food for Naught (1974), the seminal Canadian biochemist Ross Hume Hall shows the hidden effects of the interaction of food additives. Although tested in isolation, the additives were left untested in combination by nutritionists and government scientists. And so also with the new media ecology—a

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multiplication of newer interacting “species” also enlarges the world of hidden and observable ethical problems. Whether the new media environment creates a cornucopia of novel external issues or a virtual megaphone that amplifies eternal issues, one thing it has proffered is the appearance, if not the reality, of dozens of new genres of case study. A geometric increase in scholarly, professional, and popular literature about expanding issues of concern— privacy, confidentiality, obscenity, defamation, pornography, piracy, puffery, sensationalism, deception, and monopoly, among others—suggests that technology-related dilemmas now seem far larger than human conundrums ever have been, whether they are the two sides of one and the same coin or not. To observe this phenomenon is not, however, to suggest that machines rather than people cause, or are accountable for, ethical lapses and virtues. People invent and maintain the machines, and thus they are responsible for them. But, let us face it, a universe full of interactive talk machines that outlive the people who invented them offers a world very different from those of Aristotle and Confucius. On the Need and Requirements We live in an age that allows us intimately to interlink the information instruments and weapons technologies of our design. And we have learned that, if we are not willing to use communication technologies for humane, prosocial purposes, there are those who will use such technologies for their own darker purposes. Hitler’s S.S. cameramen used film not simply to record holocaust atrocities but also to document proudly the excellence in systematic efficiency attained when accelerated methods of genocide could be introduced. Given the concerns that are routinely expressed worldwide about the digital divide, censorship, deceptive advertising, information flow, propaganda, privacy, piracy, pornography, cultural erosion, racial and national stereotyping, free speech, and other problems, there indeed is a need for a global communication ethic. Research cited within this chapter, other studies, and recommendations from Hammurabi to Hutchins, all go to demonstrate that the human quest for responsible, truthful communication practice transcends period and place. Hence, the question of greater concern is not if, but how a global communication ethic may be created and can be implemented. Innis (1951) recommended that there be some balance struck between

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communication technologies of space and time. A larger requirement for a communication ethic is that there must be a balance between eternal communication ethics (approaches transcending time) and external communication ethics (approaches extending across space). The notion of “space” by now must take ample account of technologies and codes that leap over continents to form a multicultural mosaic. Such technologies, at present, extend into inner space (e.g., into our media-filled subconscious minds), crowd outer space (e.g., by means of satellites), and cover global space (e.g., throughout the wired world of seven continents and twenty-four time zones). A balance between an ethics of space and an ethics of time is now required. And other types of balance cannot be excluded when considering building a communication ethic suited to the sensitivities of a new millennium: 1) A balance between indigenous sagacity and the developed world’s own wisdom and vision. 2) A balance between idealized codes that inspire renewal, and among policies that accurately depict harsh global realities. 3) A balance between inputs—from North and South, and East and West—as when honoring both Aristotelian and Confucian ethics for their respective contributions and authentic parallelisms. 4) A balance between universal principles and particular issues involving the idiosyncratic practices of localities or regions. 5) A balance between the professional and the academic; between the latest technical media and the earliest deep-core origins of communicational ethics (including oral, aural, epistolary, and performancespecific ethics); between the political and the spiritual; between the codified and the intuitive/mouth-to-ear traditions; among others. In short, a balanced inclusiveness that honors cultural diversity in an appreciation of togetherness in fact, not in lip service, is required. Inside the technical world, homeostasis remains essential. New communication technologies that are implemented are primarily tested by (1) engineers for effectiveness, (2) research and development staff for competitive value, and (3) sales and marketing forces for target audiences. The teams that pretest not only technologies but also programming and information formats must be balanced (complemented) by ethicists, scientists, policy experts, parents, and community leaders, better placed to consider the potential impact of any new medium or

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product before it is introduced into society in general, and into a community in particular.3 Truly global inclusiveness must inform varied communication ethics. Peoples such as the Rapa Nui, Zulu, Old Order Brethren, Amish, Dani, and a wide variety of other populations are not usually consulted about world communication policy. Yet they often provide a valuable perspective precisely because of their media blackouts, limitation to a single-source media, freedom from any advertising stance, and other atypical approaches or anachronistic appreciations, which can force modernity to rethink its newfound wisdom. Ethical issues often appear after a new technology, a novel program, a communication genre, or a software platform is introduced into society. Nefarious impacts might have been understood and prevented if presearch (precautious research) had been utilized. To wit, before avid marketeers first beam, then export feminine hygiene commercials into the cultures of Pacific Islanders, they would need to know that many island women watching TV will leave the room to avoid public embarrassment. Cross-cultural ‘precautious research’ simply is necessary. And before Hollywood producers make a film with seemingly harmless initiation rites likely to be imitated by scores of teenagers (several of whom risk being killed), it is wise to involve teens and parents in the early test screenings. Need one add that before introducing communication infrastructures based on fiber optics into the mainstream and thereby unleashing related hazardous waste by-products, multidisciplinary presearch would be required, the better to study probable toxic side effects—before these start imposing themselves on an unsuspecting humanity? Consequently, a global communication ethic needs to be balanced also between safeguarding the future with presearch and learning from our mistakes in the past and present through case studies. A multidisciplinary, multicultural approach must seek and employ the wisdom of many thinkers, professions, schools, and peoples. It must take into account not only the original issues of rhetoric, such as defamation and deception, but should by now also account for the far-larger-growing index of technological issues, from “cyberspam” (virtual garbage) and 3. The reader may rest assured that the driving motive here is first and foremost preliminary socioecological quality assurance, not preemptive power-political censorship. It is clear to all, of course, that there is a very hazy dividing line between the two mindsets and approaches in most instances: hence the need for a balanced ethic.—Ed. Precaution is not being advocated here as a practice of principled a priori denial.

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“flaming” (electronic insult) to the Hall effect (defined earlier) within an elaborate media ecology. The global communication ethic that is required not only must be balanced, inclusive, and precautious, but also must be based upon a solid foundation of cross-cultural values. A synthesis of research to date suggests that the studies by Nordenstreng (1984), Laitila (1995), Christians and Nordenstreng (2004), Cooper and colleagues (1989), Bertrand (2000), Benhabib (1992), Bracci and Christians (2002), Wiredu (1996), Christians and Traber (1997), Cooper (1998b), and Hamelink (2000) provide a notable starting point for identifying the underlying values and protonorms that are necessary to build such a unifying ethic. When combined, an overarching analysis of both the Western and the indigenous communication ethics research by these scholars yields a list of sixteen primary values. Without these sixteen interhuman essences and the many related values they imply, any global ethics document would be doomed to remain strictly ornamental. Although several of the values drawn from these authors overlap, and despite the fact that a few other important values remain to be inferred from the list, the “group of sixteen” stands as symbolic of exactly what large global populations expect from individual and professional communication: accountability, social responsibility, truthfulness, free expression, implementation systems (comprising ombudspersons, codes, news councils, and the like), gender and racial equity, community, respect, reciprocity, spirituality, authenticity, human rights, integrity, nonviolence, and not least, dignity; but, above all, honoring the sacredness of all life. This list of sixteen values may be easily expanded or contracted into a more detailed or quintessential foundation. In one sense, the most recent commentary by Christians and Nordenstreng (2004), like the previous work of Christians and Traber (1997), suggests the ultimate contraction—from sixteen into a single protonorm. One implication of their thinking is that the sixteenth or final value provides a bedrock omnifoundation capable of sustaining the cornucopia of the other fifteen values. This underarching primary protonorm, though listed as the final one, might be summarized as a “reverence for life,” which is also strongly affiliated with the indigenous emphasis upon “respect for all life.” Christians and Nordenstreng have argued that “nurturing life is a pretheoretical given that makes the moral order possible” (2004, 20). For there to be truth, freedom, rights, and each and all of the other fifteen

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basic values, there first must be the existence of life and an ethic committed to preserving it. The other values do not and cannot survive without this foundational first principle. Hence in a world increasingly filled with both instruments of destruction and tools of communication, for potentially constructive exchanges, the latter must be committed to dissolving the former: to honoring and preserving life. True, a communication ethic for the twenty-first century must be rich in its ability to encompass complexity. Yet it must also remain morally simple in its unequivocal purpose—the nurturing and the protection of the sacredness of life. Behind this ethic stand the spirits of many peoples. From Martin Buber (1965, 143) there is the commitment that when dialogue is genuine, the speaker shall respectfully “behold his partner as the very one he is”; from Mahatma Gandhi (1947) comes the teaching that “you must be the change you want to see in the world”; from Chief Thomas Littleben (1990) flows the advice to “listen with all of yourself and only speak what you know”; and from Mother Teresa (1983) we received the wisdom that among humans, “there is no one who does not deserve our caring communication.” A global communication ethic must be much more than a hollow skeleton of worldwide codes and rhetorical declarations. It must add up to more than naive notions astutely balanced over space and time; it must be inclusive, preventive, and built upon a sixteen-layered foundation of values. To be effective, an ethics of communication of this kind must be lived constantly, and breathed by people of every background—especially by those who worry that, depending upon the choices we humans make, our current modes of communication may either guide destructive nuclear bombs or heal destroyed nuclear families—those still unafraid to heed Horace Mann’s (1859) ultimate challenge: “Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.” References Aristotle (1947) “Nicomachean Ethics,” in R. McKeon, Editor, Introduction to Aristotle, New York: Modern Library. Benhabib, S¸eyla (1992) Situating the Self: Gender, Community and Postmodernism in Contemporary Ethics, Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Bertrand, Claude-Jean (2000) Media Ethics and Accountability Systems, Piscataway, NJ: Transaction.

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——— (2003) An Arsenal for Democracy: Media Accountability Systems, Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press. Bhagavad Gita (1985) Eknath Eswaren, Translator, Petaluma, CA: Nilgigi. Black, Jay, and Ralph, Barney (1985–1986) “The Case Against Codes,” Journal of Mass Media Ethics, 1(1):27–36. Bracci, Sharon (2002) “S¸eyla Benhabib’s Interactive Universalism,” in Sharon Bracci and Clifford Christians, Editors, Moral Engagement in Public Life: Theorists for Contemporary Ethics, pp. 123–149, New York: Peter Lang. Bracci, Sharon, and Christians, Clifford, Editors (2002) Moral Engagement in Public Life: Theorists for Contemporary Ethics, New York: Peter Lang. Bresnan, Patrick (2003) Awakening: An Introduction to the History of Eastern Thought, Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall. Brislin, Richard (1984) Cross-Cultural Encounters, New York: Pergamon Press. Bruun, Lars, Editor (1979) Professional Codes in Journalism, Prague: International Organization of Journalists. Buber, Martin (1965) The Knowledge of Man, New York: Harper & Row. Byun, Dong-Hyun, and Keehyeung Lee (2002) “Confucian Values, Ethics, and Legacies in History,” in Sharon Bracci and Clifford Christians, Editors, Moral Engagement in Public Life: Theorists for Contemporary Ethics, New York: Peter Lang. “Canons of Journalism, 1946” (1989) adopted by Nihon Shinbun Kyokai, in Thomas Cooper, Editor, Communication Ethics and Global Change, White Plains, NY: Longman. Chai, Ch’u, and Winberg Chai (1973) Confucianism, New York: Barron’s. Christians, Clifford, Mark Fackler, Kim B. Rotzoll, and Kathy Brittain McKee (2001) Media Ethics: Cases and Moral Reasoning, 6th ed., New York: Addison-Wesley Longman. Christians, Clifford, and Kaarle Nordenstreng (2004) “Social Responsibility Worldwide,” Journal of Mass Media Ethics, 9(1):3–28. Christians, Clifford, and Michael Traber, Editors (1997) Communication Ethics and Universal Values, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Ciprut, Jose V. (2008) “Citizenship: Mere Contract or Construct for Conduct?” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Confucius (1991) “The Doctrine of the Mean,” in James Legge, Editor, Four Books of the Chinese Classics: Confucian Analects, The Great Learning, Doctrine of the Mean, Works of Mencius, 4 vols., Corona, CA: Oriental Book Store. Cooper, Thomas W. (1989) Communication Ethics and Global Change, New York: Longman. ——— (1997) “Alphabetizing and Analyzing the Leading Forty Issues in New Technology Ethics,” Pacific Telecommunications Review, 19(2):5–14. ——— (1998a) “Intelligent Agents and Ethics: The Plot Thickens,” Media Ethics, 10(1), 6:17–19.

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——— (1998b) A Time before Deception: Truth in Communication, Culture, and Ethics, Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light. ——— (2000) “Speed-up and New Technology Ethic,” Pacific Telecommunication Review, 21(3):11–28. ——— (2001) “Plain Speaking in a World of Suspect Communication Technologies,” Media Development, (Winter):26–29. ——— (2003) “Pacific Broadband and the Ross Hume Hall Effect,” in PTC Proceedings, (C.D. edition), Honolulu, HI: Pacific Telecommunications Council. Cooper, Thomas W., with Robert Sullivan, Peter Medaglia, and Christopher Weir (1988) Television and Ethics: An Annotated Bibliography, Boston: G. K. Hall. Dumoulin, Heinrich (1988) Zen Buddhism: A History, 2 vols., New York: Macmillan. Eliade, Mircea (1967) Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries, New York: Harper & Row. Ellul, Jacques (1964) The Technological Society, New York: Vintage. Freud, Sigmund (1978) Basic Works, James Strachey, Editor, vol. 3, Franklin Center, PA: Franklin Library. Gerbner, George, Hamid Mowlana, and Kaarle Nordenstreng, Editors (1993) The Global Media Debate: Its Rise, Fall, and Renewal, Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press. Giedion, Siegfried (1969) Mechanization Takes Command, New York: W. W. Norton. Hall, Ross Hume (1974) Food for Naught: The Decline in Nutrition, Philadelphia: Lippincott. Hamelink, Cees (2000) The Ethics of Cyberspace, Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Heinberg, Richard (1989) Visions and Memories of Paradise: Exploring the Universal Myth of a Lost Golden Age, Los Angeles: J. P. Tarcher. Holy Bible (1611, 1962) Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Publishing House. Hourani, George (1985) Reason and Tradition in Islamic Ethics, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Innis, Harold (1951) The Bias of Communication, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. ——— (1952) Empire and Communication, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. International Federation of Journalists (1954) “Bordeaux Declaration of Journalists’ Duties,” Bordeaux: Bordeaux Congress. Johnstone, Christopher (2002) “Aristotle’s Ethical Theory in the Contemporary World: Logos, Phronesis, and the Moral Life,” in Moral Engagement in Public Life: Theorists for Contemporary Ethics, New York: Peter Lang. Jones, Clement (1980) Mass Media Codes of Ethics and Councils, Paris: UNESCO. Jung, Karl (1934, 1969) The Archetypes of the Collective Subconscious, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. ——— (1968) “The Structure of the Psyche,” in Collected Works, vol. 8, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Krippendorff, Klaus (2000) “On the Otherness That Theory Creates,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Of Fears and Foes—Security and Insecurity in an Evolving Global Political Economy, Westport, CT: Praeger. ——— (2001) “Ecological Narratives: Reclaiming the Voice of Theorized Others,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, The Art of the Feud—Reconceptualizing International Relations, Westport, CT: Praeger. ——— (2008) “Four (In)Determinabilities, Not One,” in Jose V. Ciprut, Editor, Indeterminacy: The Mapped, the Navigable, and the Uncharted, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Laitila, T. (1995) “Journalistic Codes of Ethics in Europe,” European Journal of Communication, 10:527–544. LaFleur, William R. (1988) Buddhism: A Cultural Perspective, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Lao Ze/Lao Tzu (1988) Tao Te Ching, Stephen Mitchell, Translator, New York: Harper Collins. Leppanen, Harry (1977) “Journalistien Kanaslliset ja Konsainvaliset Saannostot,” thesis, Tampere, Finland. Littleben, Chief Thomas (1990) Interview with Cooper, Rockpoint Dine (Navajo) Reservation, Rockpoint, AZ. MacBride, S., E. Abel, H. Beuve-Mery, E. Ekonzo, G. Garcia Marquez, and S. Losev (1980) Many Voices, One World, Paris: UNESCO. Mann, Horace (1859) Commencement address, Yellow Springs, OH: Antioch College Archives. McLuhan, Eric (1983) Interview by telephone, Philadelphia to Toronto. McLuhan, Marshall (1974) “At the Moment of Sputnik, the Planet Became a Global Theatre,” Journal of Communication, 24(1):48–58. ——— (1977) Interview with Cooper, Toronto: University of Toronto. Merrill, John (1984) Global Journalism, New York: Longman. Momaday, N. Scott (1976) “A First American Views His Land,” National Geographic, July 1976, 13–18, 294, 297. Mowlana, Hamid (1989) “Communication, Ethics, and the Islamic Tradition,” in Thomas Cooper, Editor, Communication Ethics and Global Change, White Plains, NY: Longman. Mumford, Lewis (1934) Technics and Civilization, New York: Harcourt & Brace. Nevitt, Barrington (1985) Interview with Cooper, Toronto, Canada. Nordenstreng, Kaarle (1984) The Mass Media Declaration of UNESCO, Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Nordenstreng, Kaarle, and Antti Alanen (1961) “Journalism Ethics and International Relations,” Communication, 6:225–254. Pavlik, John V. (1996) New Media Technology, Needham Heights, MA: Allyn & Bacon.

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Pritchard, James Bennett, Editor (1958) The Ancient Near East, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Rapu, Sergio (1991) Interview with Cooper, Polynesian Cultural Center, Oahu, Hawaii. Rivers, William, Wilbur Schramm, and Clifford Christians (1980) Responsibility in Mass Communication, 3rd ed., New York: Harper & Row. Scott, Stephen (1988) The Amish Wedding and Other Special Occasions of the Old Order Communities, Intercourse, PA: Good Books. Teresa, Mother (1983) Letter to Cooper, Sri Lanka to Boston. Torah (1966) Rabbi H. Mariner, Introduction, New York: Henry Holt and the Jewish Publication Society of America. UNESCO (1978) Mass Media Declaration of UNESCO, Paris: UNESCO. Velikovsky, Immanuel (1982) Mankind in Amnesia, London: Sidgwick & Jackson. White, Lynn (1962) Medieval Technology and Social Change, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Wiredu, Kwasi (1996) Cultural Universals and Particulars: An African Perspective, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Zimmer, Heinrich (1951) Philosophies of India, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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The Long Road Ahead: A Mode of Democratic Citizenship Inseparable from a Shared Ethic of Responsible Freedoms Jose V. Ciprut

It is one thing to observe ant societies, to examine the social interactions of birds or apes, and thus to depict notable similarities with the human species. It is quite another thing to reach a level of mental acuity permitting one to define life and to hypothesize death in a semidetached (if still rather controversial and eminently debatable) neo-Darwinian mindset. In such a scientific view, “the organism does not live for itself”; indeed, “its primary function is not even to reproduce other organisms”; for a living organism in actuality merely “reproduces genes, and . . . serves as their temporary carrier” (Wilson 1975). Besides deflating humankind’s self-arrogating pivotal gravitas in a godless universe, such neo-Darwinian observations raise questions—of biblical (‘The Universe began without Woman; will the World end without Man?’), deontological (‘If not I, then who?—And if not now, when?’), and humanistic import (‘Can human society transform itself into a humane consociation, with a shared sense of stewardship by responsible stakeholders conscious of cohabitating an intricately interconnected, thoroughly encompassing network of social systems?’). All three questions engage ethics, politics, and democracy, although the last (humanistic) question seems to command a particular urgency, since the network of social systems that provides refuge to human and nonhuman beings is facing novel inhuman threats of extinction through mindless, heartless pursuits and unconscionable acts on the part of those so enslaved to their physical, social, and emotional ambits as to oppose reformative stances toward any prospects for opening up and expanding their relational and transactional environments. Emancipative benefits from diversity cumulating in the world at large hence remain shut out, thus suboptimized in their far-reaching capabilities and effects; as are, unwittingly or otherwise, many of the trickle-down awakenings possible through exposure to variety: novelty

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is confined to circulation exclusively within, between, and among the few innovating centers, having been decreed unworthy of the avoiders by the hiders and the deniers who would rather vegetate in the proximate peripheries of modernity, yet cry foul and blame others if confronted with realities when compelled to explain their “unequal” development. Beginning with the Renaissance and culminating in the European Enlightenment of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, humankind’s self-propelling aspirations aimed toward integrating the humanities with the arts and the sciences, toward cumulating undivided knowledge that should permit appreciating and perchance also more properly ameliorating what began to be perceived as a perfectible material world, a human habitat much in need of a more adaptive, more proactively humanistic, relational-transactional ethic. Despite, as surely also because of, the Industrial Revolution and the Communist Manifesto, the nineteenth century brought alas only more injustice, more misery, newer wars, and false alliances that served to reshape the geography of domination and to reconfigure the contours of empire. And in the twentieth century, “the war to end all wars” proved to contain merely the seed of its own negation for unwittingly precipitating preparations for World War II, with all the consequent lessons of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the Berlin Wall. The protracted period of Cold War that followed went to prove merely that practically nothing much had been learned about anything, other than the deterrent might of destructive nuclear power. After the implosion of communism and the dismemberment of the USSR, the rise of anti-Westernism amid the masses fearful of a modernity that, in their own scheming minds’ eye, purposely threatens to leave them lingering even farther behind, is now further retarding the humanistic project begun some four hundred years ago, to the even greater detriment of those who, all the self-liberations around them notwithstanding, continue to foment fear by means of ever more violent defensive-offensive backwardness on planet Earth. What kind of transformational ethic ought to be pursued in the twenty-first century toward a broader-encompassing, worldwide more humane mode of willed freedom and active associational democratic self-governance for all? This question is asked at a time in history when many begin to perceive the world itself to have become a huge citystate, still at the mercy of natural disasters and not-so-natural calamities yet, metaphorically speaking, complete with uptown/downtown ethnocultural spaces akin to neighborhoods versus ghettos; slums,

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suburbs, or even dormitory towns; proximate outskirts; and fartherflung peripheries—each and all of which are in need of discerning attention, audacious care, and sagacious incorporation toward a safer and more felicitous future in a shared inclusive (‘one-planet-for-all’) mindset. The world as a giga-city? In his Aristotle’s Politics, C. D. C. Reeve (1998, lvii–lix) summarizes that philosopher’s views on political community embodied in city-state as follows: In Politics I, Aristotle characterizes the city-state in rather abstract ways: the city-state is the community with the most authority; it is the most self-sufficient community; one that is ruled in its own characteristic way, different from that in which a master rules his slaves or a head of household rules his wife or children. When he puts meat on these abstract bones, however, we see that an Aristotelian city-state is quite like a modern state in these important respects: it establishes the constitution, designs and enacts the laws, sets foreign and domestic policy, controls the armed forces and police, declares war, enforces the law and punishes criminals. . . . [D]etails aside, has Aristotle really shown that we are . . . political animals, that we . . . perfect our natures in a specifically political community, in a city-state? . . . What experience has taught us is that there are many different human goods, many different good lives, many different ways to perfect ourselves, and much need for further experimentation and discovery in these areas. That is one reason we admire somewhat liberal states which recognize this fact . . . give their citizens a lot of liberty to explore various conceptions of the good and to live in the way that they find most valuable and worthwhile.

In Alternatives to Athens: Varieties of Political Organizations and Community in Ancient Greece, Brock and Hodkinson (2000, 1) remind us, however, that “the ancient lists of the works of Aristotle mention a collection of 158 constitutions of states”—democratic, oligarchic, tyrannic, and aristocratic—and express surprise that Diogenes’ list omits the ‘good forms’ of democracy and monarchy, namely, polity and kingship, which complete the list of six types of constitution (in Aristotle’s Politics 3.7). Remarking that the term citizen-state lays greater emphasis on community (Hansen 1993) than does the orthodox use of city-state for polis, these coauthors point out that Greek mainland and island poleis (such as Athens, Sparta, Corinth, Miletos, Samos, Naxos, and Aegina) were not alone in having ‘a constitution’. In addition to the major powers (Syracuse, Akragas, Taras, Croton, and others) and smaller ones (such as Troizen, Cynthnos, Melos, and Tenedos) in Magna Graecia, there were those in the Greek world at large, from Massalia (Marseille) to Cyrene (in Libya) to Soli (in Cilicia), those at best ‘marginally Greek’

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(Adramyttion and Kios in Mysia), and those not Greek at all (say, Carthage) that had their own constitution as well, not to mention the numerous ethne¯ (Achaeans, Lycians, and Thessalians among them) and the communities in Cyprus and Crete, each of which pursued its happiness after its very own ethic: the less said about there having existed one (exclusively Athenian) classic model of democracy, the better. Yet for C. Farrar, authoring The Origins of Democratic Thinking (1988, 1–2) was one way of rediscovering “the invention of politics in classical Athens”: the appearance of political theory during the very period when democracy was being cobbled together in fifth-century B.C.E. Athens, she finds, ushered in the democratic politics that “prompted citizens to construe their aims politically, and to reflect on their actions in terms of general, relatively abstract considerations.” For, “Political theory was part of democratic politics, self-understanding was political.” Farrar suggests the following: This dynamic synthesis of the concrete and the reflective was a striking achievement—so striking, indeed, as to be practically unintelligible from modern perspective. . . . On the assumption that political theory must be abstract, scholars have [reserved] the title of ‘first theorists’ to those undemocratic and politically alienated thinkers, Plato and Aristotle. And in the belief that democracy is a matter of rules and procedures designed to safeguard human rights and express the will of the people through its elected representatives, theorists have characterized the triumphant practice of direct, participatory democracy in Athens as mob rule, or as the hollow creation of a slave-owning elite . . . at best as admirable but outmoded.

But, submits Farrar, for all their differences [which help to “reveal the difficulty of maintaining a stable and integrated understanding of democratic man and avoiding extremes of order or freedom”], it is to the itinerant sophist-rhetorician Protagoras, the historian Thucydides, and the cosmologist-atomist Democritus that we must turn if we wish to discover—in their similarities—”a coherent analysis and critique of democratic man, [that is,] the possibility of achieving order and freedom when all citizens, rich and poor, exercise autonomy.” Farrar’s transdisciplinary leanings for gleaning a novel understanding of the classical origins of Athenian democracy would seem well founded: when placed under retrospective analytical-synthetic scrutiny some twenty-five centuries later, how better to grasp the yesteryear dynamics of evolving ideas and the altering practices in the political-economic and the socialcultural contexts of any given consociation across its long war-torn history than by reenacting the polyvalent and polyphonic intellectual

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effervescence of those times? And how better to do so, other than by traveling back to that distant past, to the best of one’s cognitive intellectual abilities, instead of contemplatively or speculatively reevaluating ‘what was’ in terms of ‘what is’ or by the standards of what will be in a future rumored to be closing up on us faster than ever before. The learning curve of democratically founded and democratically inclined nations (Ciprut 2008a, 2008b), treading the proverbial cobbled path to perfection and completion, is not always laden with rose petals; more often than not it exacts a high toll and sometimes blood money for safe passage both from constituents closest to the top and from the less fortunate denizens farther below. If the indelible social scars that the public hearings1 held beginning in the late 1940s by the U.S. House Un-American Activities Committee (USHUAC) could have been discussed in the light of the (still incomplete and still imperfect, but steadily advancing) social reforms brought about later—respectively, after the appearance of The Feminine Mystique (Friedan 1963), the Civil Rights movement, the trauma from the Vietnam War, the sociopolitical effects of the Watergate scandal, and the gradual appointment of Jews as university presidents or as chairmen of the Federal Reserve Board, of women to the Supreme Court, of African Americans as the secretaries of state and, at this juncture, even to the unanimous nomination by a major political party of a young African-American senator to the candidacy for the presidency of the United States of America—de Beauvoir’s reflections2 on blatant racism, commonplace anti-Semitism, and 1. “In 1947, the U.S. House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), chaired by J. Parnell Thomas, began an investigation into the Hollywood Motion Picture Industry. In June, 1950, three former FBI agents and a right-wing television producer, named Vincent Harnett, published Red Channels, a pamphlet that listed the names of 151 writers, directors and performers who they claimed had been members of subversive organizations before the Second World War but had not so far been blacklisted. If people refused to name names when called up to appear before the HUAC, they were added to a blacklist that had been drawn up by the Hollywood film studios. Over 320 people were placed on this list that stopped them from working in the entertainment industry. In October, 1953, Senator Joseph McCarthy began investigating communist infiltration into the military. Attempts were made by McCarthy to discredit Robert Stevens, the Secretary of the Army. The president, Dwight Eisenhower, was furious and realized that it was time to bring an end to McCarthy’s activities. On March 4, 1954, [Richard M.] Nixon made a speech where, although not mentioning McCarthy, [he] made it clear who he was talking about: ‘Men who have in the past done effective work exposing Communists in this country have, by reckless talk and questionable methods, made themselves the issue rather than the cause they believe in so deeply.’ ” For a more complete account, see the source of this borrowing, at http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/USAmccarthyism.htm. 2. See Simone de Beauvoir’s (1948) L’Amérique au jour le jour.

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all too flagrant misogyny in l’Amérique of the 1940s and 1950s might have been framed quite differently; as no doubt would have been rephrased also de Tocqueville’s own memoirs, had the sociocultural and political-economic results of the Civil War cast their light on perceptions, conversations, and notes from interviews held markedly before 1865 with “characters” of great importance at the time.3 With roots in the past and branches in the eternal present, ethics seem to have ways of changing their continuity and continuing their change by exhibiting almost imperceptible if always intriguing newer hues in their perennial blossoms, whether nipped for decorative display in public spaces or potted for breeding within the household. The different modes of democratization, which took place in Germany and Japan after World War II, the ones now being pursued in the formerly communist newer members of the European Union, and in a very particular fashion even in born-again Russia itself, attest to the existence of an array of democratic ethics throughout the world, a variety that cunningly or simplistically is lumped together under a one-size-fits-all label: “Westernization,” or “ugly Americanization.” Yet each democracy, as well as every single mode of democratization, pursues an ethic of its own, along contextualized processes, which affect and are affected by functional structures that embody, reflect, shape, and reshape myriad societal idiosyncrasies that endow it with character even across changed time and space. Democracy seems perfectly capable of bringing into its fold the unfree of this world, in the proverbial old-fashioned way—one culture at a time—by reconciling the ethics inside with the ethics outside, however long it may take for the two to take notice of each other and to begin to open up to one another. In this book, we examined the evolution of ‘liberating’ ethics as they traversed historical periods of societal transformation laden with political will for self-renewal. We saw how and to what extents, across time and space, subjecthood can transmute into citizenship and many an erstwhile closed community will transform into a society open to the world at large, although even in the long-transformed entities ‘democratic citizenship’ remains a project under construction. The interrogation as 3. See Pierson (1996). Alexis de Tocqueville lived from 1805 to 1859; Gustave de Beaumont, from 1802 to 1866; hence neither man could have written about, much less foreseen, the changes that the American Civil War (1861–1865) would unleash in the shorter and longer runs. Indeed, the period covered by Pierson himself, tracing their connections and their effects seventy-three years later, extends only from 1783 to 1865.

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to whether democracies are, or for long can, remain of, by, and for the peoples they embody, absent an individually felt associational sense of citizenship buttressed by a sincere spirit of civic ethics, is not a trivial asking-about: it is one that is finding newer justifications to culminate into questionings grave and urgent enough to merit deeper scrutiny, worldwide, top-down and bottom-up. In an increasingly interdependent world, the stark effects of the global forces of integration and diversification are—politically and otherwise—rendered ever more unforgiving and more intractably complex by the unrelenting torrents of the internally and externally displaced and the summarily dispossessed in search of a better future elsewhere. Matters sometimes are exacerbated by the misplaced senses of revenge and hate detectable in the acts and the declared intents of only a few of the vicariously traumatized, empathically motivated, emotionally propelled, or otherwise vengefully disposed new citizens and their diasporaic subcliques-in-the-making, apparently inclined to exploit their late-found privileges and freshly minted freedoms, the fiercer to act out the ethnonational mindsets or normative cultural exactions from which they fled, and that much more fearlessly to wage their ideological combats, at home and abroad, as if the rest of the world did not matter at all. While sometimes, in certain cases, such movements can and do help to bring about or to restore freedom in the countries of origin, rare if deadly predispositions for violence—no matter where they occur—seem to reserve little concern and even less inclination for taking notice of the mores and manners or the usually hard-earned peace and order held so dear by a vast majority of those whose fellow citizens such autistic claimants become in the receiving countries. The fact that many of the exogenous forces of terror rely on the complicity of their meanwhile safely endogenized kin, in the particular spaces targeted for one heinous reason or another, is not exactly fortuitous— no matter how seldom the hurtful manifestation of their explicit consequences may appear or how exceptional it may be. One ought not to forget the unfortunate fact, however, that some of the worst acts of terror are committed by self-righteous autochthons of the very countries in which they inflict harm in the name of some superlative cause. The daily ethical manifestations of democratic citizenship in pluralistic societies seem to continue to acquire ever newly minted reasons to be that justify urgent attention to and understanding of their compound complexities. Would that this book may have been able to generate sufficient insights as to make it realistically manageable for most of us

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to contextualize, across time and space, the local, regional, and global forces and counterforces at play, the more effectively to be able to confront the toughest of all challenges encountered yet—that of inspiring an ethic of freedom in each individual, and in each and every people yearning to partake in human dignity on this planet. References Beauvoir, Simone de (1948) L’Amérique au jour le jour, Paris: P. Morihien. Brock, Roger, and Stephen Hodkinson, Editors (2000) Alternatives to Athens: Varieties of Political Organization and Community in Ancient Greece, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. Ciprut, Jose V., Editor (2008a) Democratizations: Comparisons, Confrontations, and Contrasts. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Ciprut, Jose V., Editor (2008b) The Future of Citizenship, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Farrar, Cynthia (1988) The Origins of Democratic Thinking: The Invention of Politics in Classical Athens, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Friedan, Betty (1963) The Feminine Mystique, New York: Norton. Hansen, M. H. (1993) “The Polis as a Citizen-State,” in Acts of the Copenhagen Polis Centre, 1:7–29, Copenhagen: Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters. Pierson, George Wilson (1996) Tocqueville in America, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. (First published as Tocqueville and Beaumont in America, in 1938, by Oxford University Press.) Reeve, C. D. C., Translator (1998) Aristotle—Politics, Indianapolis: Hackett. Wilson, E. O. (1975) Sociobiology: The New Synthesis, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press.

About the Authors

Don Baker (PhD, University of Washington), Professor of Asian Studies, Director of the Center for Korean Research, University of British Columbia; has taught Korean, Japanese, and Chinese history, focused on Korean cultural history; has written on medicine, healing, worship, religion, and the rise of civilian society; authored The Confrontation between Confucianism and Catholicism in the Latter Half of the Joseon Dynasty and coedited the Sourcebook of Korean Civilization; member of the Korean Studies Committee of the Association for Asian Studies; President of the Canadian Korean Studies Association. Kevin Cameron (PhD, State University of New York), political theorist. After teaching political theory in the Government and Law Department at Lafayette College in Pennsylvania, he joined the faculty at Chaffey College in California. His work, teaching, and research straddle political theory and psychoanalysis. His writings have reexamined the psychoanalytic underpinnings of the development of the Early Modern democratic subject in the works of Thomas Hobbes and the affinity between perversion and democracy in the works of John Calvin and Alexis de Tocqueville. He has published articles and also chapters for edited volumes on ethics and on freedom. Clifford G. Christians (PhD, University of Illinois), Research Professor of Communications at the University of Illinois–Urbana Champaign, Director of the Institute of Communications Research, and Chair of the doctoral program in communications from 1987 to 2001; holds joint appointments as Professor of Journalism and Professor of Media Studies; was a visiting scholar in philosophical ethics at Princeton University and in social ethics at the University of Chicago; PEW Fellow in ethics at Oxford University; prolific on the philosophy of technology, on dialogic communication theory, and in the field of media ethics.

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Jose V. Ciprut (PhD, University of Pennsylvania), an industrial technologist and an army reserve officer, with undergraduate studies in the humanities and postgraduate degrees in the social sciences; was in industrial production, also international industrial marketing development, in the Near East, Europe, and the United States, before returning to academe. As a specialist in strategic planning, regional development, comparative international political economy, international relations, and peace and war economics, he has written on these topics and edited Of Fears and Foes, The Art of the Feud, Indeterminacy, Democratizations, The Future of Citizenship, and Freedom. He ideated, organized, and directed Cross-Campus Conversations at Penn. Thomas Cooper (PhD, Univeristy of Toronto), Professor of Visual and Media Arts at Emerson College. As copublisher of Media Ethics magazine and editor/author of many ethics- and media-related publications, he addresses ethical issues in a variety of modes of communication: new media, film, radio, television, photography, journalism, advertising, and speech. A young assistant to Marshall McLuhan and former assistant speechwriter in the White House, he was one of the pioneering producers of audio spacebridges among Soviet-U.S. communication professionals. He is a recipient of many honors and was a nominee for the Nobel Prize. Barry L. Eichler (PhD, University of Pennsylvania), Associate Professor of Assyriology, Associate Curator at the U. of P. Museum of Archeology and Anthropology, founder and former Chair (1982–1995) of the Jewish Studies Program at Penn, where he currently teaches/ researches the cultural linkages between the biblical and the ancient Near Eastern civilizations. He focuses on ancient law—the law of Akkad and Sumer, the literature of Mesopotamia, the ethics of Jewish Law—and has taught at Penn School of Law. He holds visiting appointments at Yeshiva University, which he will be joining full time. As a cuneiformist, he rereads clay tablets in a search for understanding. Paul Guyer (PhD, Harvard University), Professor of Philosophy and the Florence R. C. Murray Professor in the Humanities at the University of Pennsylvania. Having specialized in Kant’s thought, he has (co)authored and (co)edited many articles, chapters, and books; he referees and consults for university presses, and serves as General Coeditor of the Cambridge Edition of the Works of Kant. He is a member of several learned societies and a recipient of many professional honors.

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He teaches in the pilot curriculum and at all levels of learning. He teaches, researches, and writes on aesthetics and on modern philosophy in addition to his well-known work on Kant. Paul R. Kleindorfer (PhD, Carnegie-Mellon University), Anheuser Busch Emeritus Professor of Management Science at the Wharton School, Professor Emeritus of Business and Public Policy, newly ex-Member of the Graduate Group in Economics, and former Codirector of the Risk Management Center at the University of Pennsylvania. He has taught and conducted research in the fields of regulation and managerial economies, advised corporations on how to restructure in network industries—such as energy and postal delivery—and worked on risk management strategies for other industries, as well as on catastrophe coverage in the insurance field. He is now based in the EU. Adrian R. Morrison (DVM, Cornell University; PhD, University of Pennsylvania), Professor of Behavioral Neuroscience at the School of Veterinary Medicine at Penn, with secondary appointment in the Department of Psychiatry; a fellow of the Institute of Neurological Sciences. His postdoctoral work in the Institute of Physiology at the University of Pisa, Italy, introduced him to sleep research, on which he has taught and written extensively since. As President of the World Federation of Sleep Research Societies and Vice President of the Pennsylvania Society for Biomedical Research, he was aware of animal rights movements and has developed firsthand opinions on the subject. J. J. Mulhern (PhD, State University of New York–Buffalo), Director of Professional Education at the Fels Institute of Government and Adjunct Associate Professor of Classical Studies and Government Administration at Penn’s School of Arts and Sciences. He is a retired Navy Captain, who has worked with many levels of the U.S. Government. Earlier, he directed the Executive Masters Program in Government Administration at the Fels Institute. He teaches Ancient and Modern Constitution Making among other topics. His research focuses on philosophical and practical aspects of ethics and government. He has recently penned a chapter on the political economy of citizenship. Reed E. Pyeritz (MD/PhD, Johns Hopkins University), Professor of Medicine and Genetics, also Chief of the Division of Medical Genetics at the University of Pennsylvania Health System. He studies and writes on Mendelian disorders involving defects of connective tissue in the

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cardiovascular system, Marfan syndrome (the gradual enlargement of diseased aortas that dissect and lead to early death if untreated) in quest of understanding pathogenesis, toward treatment and cure. He has documented coronary artery disease cases usable as probands to conduct family studies toward discovering new genetic risk factors. He is prolific. Richard Schuldenfrei (PhD, University of Pittsburgh), Professor of Social, Moral, and Political Philosophy at Swarthmore College, where he has served as Acting Chair and as Acting Dean. He actively participates in public and community services. He has written on a variety of topics, published essays and reviews in specialized publications, and presented numerous philosophical works at professional conventions and institutions of higher learning. His teaching and research interests encompass interdisciplinary pursuits in philosophy-psychology, philosophy-politics, and philosophy-religion. He offers courses on Freedom, Modernity, Judaic topics, and Plato. Jeff Spinner-Halev (PhD, University of Michigan), Kenan Eminent Professor of Political Science at the University of North Carolina–Chapel Hill; was the Schlesinger Professor of Social Justice at the University of Nebraska; teaches normative and historical political theory, and researches the history of political thought, democratic theory, and ethnic and national identity. He has penned books and articles on these topics; was L. S. Rockefeller Visiting Fellow at Princeton University’s Center for Human Values, and Lady Davis Visiting Fellow at the Department of Political Science of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in Israel. David R. Williams (PhD, Yale University), Professor of Psychology emeritus, former Director of Clinical Training, and a licensed psychotherapist practicing at the University of Pennsylvania. As a young Harvard undergraduate, he worked in B. F. Skinner’s laboratory, then joined Miller and Sheffield’s laboratories as a Sterling Fellow at Yale, seeking to pursue learning theory and human behavior in ways that permit combining the psychology of brain and behavior with personality theory and clinical psychotherapy, and constructing an experimental psychology able to reach to the innermost layers of a person’s private experience and capacity for voluntary action.

Name Index

Adler, Alfred, 143 Akhtar, Salman, 7 Alexandris, Alexis, 234, 239 Ali, Fath, 62 Allen, E., 105 Anderlik, M. R., 124–125 Anderson, Benedict, 227 Andrew, Barbara S., 17 An Jeongbok, 218, 219 Ankersmit, F. R., 19 Annas, G. J., 108 Annas, Julia, 194 Anne, Queen, 60 Annette, John, 19 Anscombe, Elizabeth, 21 Anthony Ashley Cooper, Third Earl of Shaftesbury, 59–60 Antigone, 263–265, 270–271 Aquinas, Thomas, 274 Arcenas, Elvira, 2 Arendt, Hannah, 256–259 Aristotle, 21, 86, 181–192, 194, 274, 287–289, 304, 310, 321, 322 Aronoff, Joel Myron, 231, 242, 270 Arroyo-Cabrales, Joaquin, 7 Atatürk, 235 Augustine, Saint, 72 Axelrod, Robert, 149, 153, 157 Badiou, Alain, 11 Baines, John, 43 Baker, Donald, 150, 201–225, 240, 242, 278, 282, 295 Baker, John, 17

Balke, William, 72 Balls, M., 7 Banfield, Edward, 183, 195 Bankowski, Zenon, 5–6 Barnard, Neal, 96 Barnett, S. Anthony, 7 Barney, Ralph D., 20, 307 Bateson, W., 107 Baumiller, R. C., 105 Bayly, Susan, 240 Beard, Mary, 238 Beaudet, A. L., 107 Beaumont, Gustave de, 324 Beauvoir, Simone de, 323–324 Benagiano, G., 111–112 Benhabib, S¸eyla, 298, 313 Benkendorf, J. L., 119, 127 Bentham, Jeremy, 284, 285 Berger, Harold, 127 Bernard, Paul P., 6 Bernhardt, B. A., 105 Bertrand, Claude-Jean, 297, 313 Biale, David, 4 Bianchi, P., 111–112 Bigo, Didier, 16 Billings, P. R., 124–125 Birke, Lynda, 7 Black, Jay, 307 Blakemore, Colin, 7 Bland, Gary, 17 Bliss, Michael, 95 Bodin, Jean, 194–195 Boehm, C. D., 108 Bonitz, H., 190

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Botwinick, Aryeh, 55 Bourdieu, Pierre, 23 Bracci, Sharon, 298, 313 Brass, Paul R., 231 Bresnan, Patrick, 301 Brock, Roger, 321 Bronfman, Alejandra Marina, 17 Brown, Phil, 169 Brown, William P., 4 Brundtland, Gro Harlem, 165 Buber, Martin, 314 Buccellati, Giorgio, 35, 52, 55 Buddha, 207 Budiansky, Steven, 87 Bunton, R., 105 Burke, W., 107, 118 Burley, J., 108 Butzow, J. J., 106 Byun, Dong-Hyun, 304 Cahn, Edmond, 55 Calavita, Kitty, 16 Cameron, Kevin, 17–18, 21, 71, 152, 251–272, 275, 281, 282, 289, 295, 300 Campbell, E. G., 126 Canovan, Margaret, 242 Canute, King, 142 Carlisle, Clare, 16 Carlisle, Juliet, 160, 164 Carmona, R. H., 120 Carroll, Marilyn, 95 Carter, April, 19 Cashin, Sheryll, 17 Caulfield, T., 121 Cavallar, Georg, 64 Centrie, Craig, 10 Chadwick, R. F., 108 Charles VI, Emperor, 60 Charles XII of Sweden, 60 Ch’en Chun, 215, 216 Chignell, Andrew, 14 Chowers, Eyal, 10 Christians, Clifford G., 22, 293–318 Chuang Tzu, 303 Cicero, 13, 88, 181, 192–194, 197

Name Index

Ciprut, Jose V., 1–31, 41, 62, 194, 268, 281, 297, 319–326 Clark, Robin, 20 Clarke, A., 108 Clayton, E. W., 105 Coetsee, Jakobus, 61 Cohen, Carl, 89 Cohen, Hermann, 14 Colley, Linda, 229 Collins, F. S., 108, 110, 120 Confucius, 21, 304, 310 Conniff, Richard, 85, 88 Cook, Karen S., 12 Cooper, Thomas W., 20, 22, 293–318 Corona-M., Eduardo, 7 Coviello, Peter, 16 Cowan, F. S., 112 Crabtree, Pam J., 7 Creon, 263–264 Crew, Michael A., 162 Crick, Bernard, 19 Crick, F. H. C., 108 Cunningham, G., 116 Cutter, Susan L., 169 Czempiel, Ernst-Otto, 64 Dahl, Robert Alan, 18–19 Dalai Lama, 206 Dallmayr, Fred R., 14 Dalrymple, William, 240 David, 240 Davies, Andrew, 11 Davis, Gray, 163–164 Dawkins, Robert, 150 deLisle, Jacques, 223 Democritus, 322 Denton, Robert E., Jr., 20 Devenney, Mark, 19 Dewey, John, 216–217 di Giovanni, George, 70–73, 75 . Dilman, Ilham, 10–11 Diogenes, 321 Disney, Walt, 95 Dizard, Jan, 94–95 Dole, Andrew, 14 Donan, Charles F., 278 Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 147

Name Index

Douglas, Michael, 2 Dowty, Alan, 243 Doyle, Michael, 64 Dryzek, John S., 165 Dunning, William Archibald, 195 Dykstra, Russell J., 73 Eban, Abba, 277–278 Edwards, Mark M., 20 Eichler, Barry L., 4, 33–58, 80, 113, 182, 282, 288, 295, 301 Einstein, Albert, 2, 274 Eisenberg, R. S., 126 Eisenhower, Dwight, 323 Eliade, Mircea, 21, 303 Elias, S., 108 Elison, George, 217 Elliott, Michael R., 169 Ellul, Jacques, 295 Emery, A. E. H., 107 Engels, Friedrich, 254, 266–268 Englehardt, Elaine E., 20 Ennius, 193 Erikson, Erik, 145–147, 151, 156 Eugene, Prince of the House of Savoy, 60 Fager, Jeffrey A., 4 Fanos, J. H., 118 Farley, Margaret A., 15 Farrar, Cynthia, 322–323 Feldman, David M., 48 Foucault, Michel, 193–194 Fox, Michael, 89 Franklin, Julian H., 195 Frederick I of Prussia, 60 Frederick III of Brandenburg, 60 Frederick Wilhelm IV of Prussia, 62 Freshwater, Dawn, 10 Freud, Anna, 147 Freud, Sigmund, 135–136, 140, 141, 144, 147, 151, 261, 305 Friedan, Betty, 323 Friedmann, Daniel, 4 Frisch, Ephraim, 4 Fryer, David Ross, 10

333

Fu, Wei-Hsun Charles, 213 Fukuyama, Francis, 159 Galligan, David T., 92 Gandhi, Mahatma, 314 Gardiner, Stephen M., 10–11 Garone, Stephen J., 12 Garver, B., 108 Garver, Eugene, 13 Garver, K. L., 108 Gehrke, Hans-Joachim, 193 Gellner, Ernest, 230, 240 Gerhardt, Volker, 67 Gernet, Jacques, 217 Giardiello, F. M., 121 Giedion, Siegfried, 308 Gillham, N. W., 108 Glaeser, Edward L., 174 Gnirs, Andrea M., 40 Godard, Jean-Luc, 305–306 Goldstein, Jan, 10 Goldstein, Kurt, 143 Goodin, Robert E., 19 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 294 Graham, Gordon, 14 Greek, Jean, 96 Greek, Ray, 96 Greendale, K., 120 Gregor, Mary J., 63–69, 73–75, 77–79 Griffiths, David B., 14 Grody, W. W., 114, 122 Gross, Steven, 288 Grun, Bernard, 62 Guild, Elspeth, 16 Guizot, M., 281 Gustavus III of Sweden, 61 Guttmacher, A. E., 110, 120 Guyer, Paul, 6–7, 21, 22, 34, 59–82, 98–99, 137, 152, 218, 282, 295 Habermas, Jürgen, 177–178, 298 Hackett, Robert A., 20 Haddow, J. E., 114 Hakeda, Yoshia S., 207 Halder, M. E., 7 Hall, Ross Hume, 309–310 Haller, M. H., 108

334

Hamelink, Cees, 299, 313 Hammurabi, 37, 46, 301 Hansen, M. H., 321 Haraway, Donna Jeanne, 7 Harnett, Vincent, 323 Harvey, Peter, 208 Hassan, Sana S., 17 Hauser, Marc, 99 Hayek, F. A., 255 Hegel, Georg W. F., 282 Heinberg, Richard, 303 Held, David, 18–19 Herman, Barbara, 79 Herscovici, Alan, 91 Hirschhorn, K., 105 Hitler, Adolf, 310 Ho, J. W., 105 Hodkinson, Stephen, 321 Höffe, Ottfried, 67–69 Hoffman, Stuart D., 222 Hoffman, Yair, 4 Holmes, L. B., 113–114 Holtzman, N. A., 123 Hont, Istvan, 230 Horowitz, Donald L., 246 Hubbard, Ruth, 7 Huggins, M., 118 Hume, David, 283 Hunter, Graeme, 14 Iazzetta, Osvaldo M., 19 Innis, Harold, 304, 310–311 Ireland, C., 10 Ishtar/Inanna, 42 Ivie, Robert L., 16 Jaffrelot, Christopher, 234, 239 James, C., 121 Jasnow, Richard, 40 Jay, John, 256, 259 Joachim, H. H., 184 Joh, Jong-ho, 222 Johannesen, Richard L., 20 Johns, Christopher, 10 Johnstone, Christopher, 304 Jonas, Gilbert, 17 Jones, Richard H., 15

Name Index

Jones, Susan D., 86, 92 Judson, H. F., 106 Juergensmeyer, Mark, 236, 239 Jung, Carl Gustav, 21, 136–137, 143, 305 Kaback, M. M., 112 Kaelber, Lutz, 14 Kahneman, Daniel, 174–175, 177 Kalton, Michael C., 214 Kaminsky, Joel S., 4 Kant, Immanuel, 6–7, 21–23, 59, 60, 62–81, 151–152, 260–263, 268, 270, 282–284, 289, 300 Karenga, Maulana, 14 Kassirer, Jerome P., 12 Kaster, Robert A., 10 Kaufman, Steven, 96 Kazazian, H. H., Jr., 108 Kazepov, Yuri, 16 Keefer, Philip, 159 Keller, Jean, 17 Keman, Hans, 19 Kennedy, John F., 293 Khoury, M. J., 105, 106 Kieweler, Hans Volker, 4 Kimmerling, Baruch, 243 Kleindorfer, Paul R., 12–13, 22, 159–179, 237 Knack, Stephen, 159 Knetsch, Jack L., 174–175, 177 Knight, John, 7 Knolles, Richard, 195 Konvitz, Milton R., 55 Korf, Bruce R., 9 Kramer, Roderick M., 12 Krippendorff, Klaus, 20, 140, 152, 183, 299, 308 Krishna, 302 Krumbein, Elyakim, 10 Küchler, Susanne, 10 Kumar, Rahul, 238, 241 Kunow, James, 174 Kunreuther, Howard C., 171 Kymlicka, Will, 230 Laberge, Pierre, 67, 68 Ladas, Stephen P., 234

Name Index

Laitila, T., 296–297, 313 Lander, E. S., 108 Lao Ze (Lao Tzu), 301 La Porta, Rafael, 160 Lappe, M., 104 Laycock, David, 19 Leahy, Michael, 89 Lecky, William Edward Hartpole, 188 Lee, Angela Chi-Ming, 223 Lee, Keehyeung, 304 Lehmann, Hartmut, 6 Lenin, V. I., 268 Lesko, Leonard H., 41 Liberles, Adina Weiss, 235–236 Lichtheim, Miriam, 40, 52, 55 Light, Andrew, 7 Lindblom, Charles, 252, 253 Lindee, M. S., 107 Lippmann, A., 105 Littleben, Chief Thomas, 314 Loader, S., 113 Locke, John, 59 Lockyer, Andrew, 19 Lombardi, Vince, 274 Ludmerer, K. M., 108 Lukacs, John, 16 MacCormick, Neil, 5–6 MacIntyre, Alasdair, 283 Malul, Meir, 47 Mann, Horace, 314 Mannheim, Karl, 296 Manville, P. B., 187 Maravall, José Maria, 19 Margalit, Avishai, 237 Markell, Patchen, 17 Markham, Ian, 10 Marlborough, Duke of, 60 Marshal, E., 105 Marwede, D., 192 Marwell, Gerald, 173–175 Marx, Karl, 254, 257–259, 266–268 Maslow, Abraham, 143, 153 Massarik, F., 112 Matignon, Karine Lou, 7 May, Rollo, 143

335

McCabe, E. R. B., 106, 116 McCabe, L. L., 106, 116 McCain, John, 13 McCarthy, Joseph, 323 McInerney, Jeremy, 259 McKenna, Erin, 7 McKusick, Victor A., 108 McLaughlin, Rob, 96 McLuhan, Eric, 308–309 McLuhan, Marshall, 293, 308–309 McPhail, Thomas L., 20 Meislin, Bernard J., 55 Mencken, H. L., 97 Mensch, James R., 10 Merguet, H., 193 Meryash, D. L., 115–116 Meyerowitz, Arthur, 4 Michaud, Kristy, 160, 164 Migdal, Joel S., 243 Mill, John Stuart, 230, 279–280, 286–287, 289 Miller, Daniel, 10 Millington, D. S., 115 Ming, John, 152 Mitchell, Jerry T., 169 Mitka, M., 105 Mohammed, Agha, 62 Moore, G. E., 202 Morrison, Adrian R., 8, 81, 83–102 Moses, 54 Mother Theresa, 314 Mouton, Elna, 4 Mowlana, Hamid, 302 Mueller, C. W. F., 197 Mulhern, J. J., 13, 22, 33, 37, 150, 181–199, 215, 232, 237, 252, 257, 262, 276, 282 Mumford, Lewis, 308 Munck, Ronaldo, 16 Murphy, E. A., 106, 108 Napoleon, 60, 62 Nelson, R. M., 118 Nevitt, Barrington, 308–309 Nicoll, Charles, 89 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 260 Ning, Wujie, 223

336

Nixon, Richard M., 323 Nordenstreng, Kaarle, 296–297, 313 North, John A., 238 Nowlan, W., 124–125 Ockinga, Boyo, 41, 52–53 O’Connor, J. Michael, 9 O’Donnell, Guillermo, 19 O’Hara, Mary, 96 Orts, Eric W., 167 Overmier,.Bruce, 95 Õzdemir, Ibrahim, 10 Parker, Glenn R., 10 Parker, James, 89 Paton, William, 84–85, 95 Paul I, Tsar, 60 Pelly, David Fraser, 7 Perlin, Susan A., 169 Petersen, A., 105 Petrinovich, Lewis, 89, 96 Pierson, George Wilson, 324 Pinsky, L. E., 107 Pitkin, Hannah, 256 Plato, 19, 191, 273–277, 281, 283, 289, 290–291, 322 Pollack, R., 105 Polynices, 263–265 Porret, Michel, 6 Potter, Van Rensselaer, 86, 100 Poulton, Hugh, 235–236, 239 Preece, Rod, 7 Press, N. A., 107 Price, S. R. F., 238 Pritchard, James Bennett, 301 Protagoras, 322 Przeworski, Adam, 19 Pyeritz, Reed E., 9–10, 81, 103–133 Pyszczynski, Tom, 146 Quammen, David, 7 Quirke, Stephen G. J., 41 Rabinowitz, Alan, 7 Rai, A. K., 126 Rampton, Sheldon, 12 Rashdall, Hastings, 188

Name Index

Rawls, John, 77, 277, 279, 284–285 Redford, Donald B, 40 Reeve, C. D. C., 321 Regan, Tom, 85, 88, 89 Reichmann, James B., 7 Reilly, P. R., 118 Reventlow, Henning Graf, 4 Rhoden, Valerio, 64 Rimoin, David L., 9, 107–108 Rogers, Carl, 143 Ross, W. David, 194 Roth, Martha T., 35, 37, 47, 48 Rothenberg, K. H., 125 Rothstein, M. A., 124–125 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 62, 232, 253 Rubin, Edward L., 37 Russell, Sharon, 89 Ryan, Kathleen Ryan, 7 Sabine, George, 252, 253 Sager, Tore, 19 St. John, Jeffrey, 20 Saint-Pierre, Abbé de, 62 Salter, Mark, 13 Sandel, Michael, 279 Sarna, Nahum M., 49 Schenck, Carlos, 98 Schiffman, Harold F., 20, 230, 231 Schmitt, David R., 173–175 Schnabel, Eckhard J., 4 Schoemaker, Paul J., 171 Schuldenfrei, Richard, 19, 22, 242, 270, 273–292 Schwartzman, Lisa H., 17 Schwarzenegger, Arnold, 163–164 Schweickart, David, 19 Scruton, Roger, 89 Searls, D. B., 105 Seligman, Adam B., 159, 161 Sexton, Ken, 169 Shamash, 42 Shapiro, Ian, 19 Sharpe, N. F., 105 Shepherd, Gregory J., 20 Shields, Carolyn M., 20 Shionoya, Yuichi, 12 Shun, Kwong-loi, 10

Name Index

Sidgwick, Henry, 184, 188–190, 193 Siegel, Marc, 16 Silberg, Moshe, 55 Silver, David, 238, 241 Singer, Peter, 85, 88, 89 Skinner, B. F., 11 Smart, John J. C., 279 Smith, Eric R., 160, 164 Smith, George P., II, 14 Snyder, Jack L., 227, 245 Solomon, Robert C., 20 Solomon, Sheldon, 146 Sonsino, Rifat, 53 Sophocles, 263–264 Spina, Frank A., 16 Spinner-Halev, Jeff, 16–17, 22, 227–249, 278 Spinosa, Baruch, 14 Stalin, Joseph, 255 Stangroom, Jeremy, 9 Stanislas II, 62 Stark, Rodney, 202 Stauber, John, 12 Stein, Werner, 62 Steinberg, K. K., 105 Stell, Lance, 88 Stevens, Robert, 323 Stokes, Geoffrey, 19 Strand, Patti, 84 Strand, Ronald, 84 Striphas, Ted, 20 Suarez-Murias, E. L., 106 Sullivan, Harry Stack, 138, 154 Sussman, Gerald, 20 Swatos, William H., Jr., 14 Talleyrand, 62 Taylor, Charles, 230, 247 Taylor, Rodney L., 213, 214 Teeter, Emily, 42–43 Teresa, Mother, 314 Terry, S. F., 125 Thaler, Richard, 174–175, 177 Therrell, B. L., 116 Thich Nhat Hanh, 206 Thirgood, Simon, 7 Thiroux, Jacques, 1

337

Thomas, Deborah S., 169 Thomas, J. Parnell, 323 Thomas, Keith, 240 Thompson, A. K., 108 Thucydides, 322 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 281, 285–286, 324 Todorov, Tzvetan, 245 Toorn, K. van der, 37, 44, 52 Traber, Michael, 298, 313 Tulchin, Joseph S., 17 van der Veer, Peter, 239, 240 van Zeller, A.-M., 7 van Zutphen, L. F. M., 7 Vargas Cullell, Jorge, 19 Venter, J. C., 108, 127 Volkan, Vamik D., 7 Wall, John, 10 Warnock, Mary, 279 Watson, Francis, 4 Watson, J. D., 108, 110 Watson, M. S., 114, 123 Weber, David J., 5–6 Weber, Eugen, 242 Weber, Max, 284 Weinfeld, Moshe, 44 Welch, H. G., 118 Wellenreuther, Hermann, 6 Wellesley, Marquis, 62 Wenham, Gordon J., 11 Wertz, D. C., 108, 111, 118, 125, 127 Westbrook, Raymond, 35, 40 White, Lynn, 308 Whybrow, Peter C., 10 Wielenberg, Erik J., 14 Wilber, Ken, 143 Wilkie, T., 108 Wilkinson, Richard G., 17 William III, 60 Williams, Bernard, 279 Williams, David R., 11, 22, 70, 135– 158, 187, 212, 231 Williams, George, 72–73 Williamson, Oliver E., 174 Wilson, E. O., 319

338

Wilson, James Q., 13, 181–183, 185 Wilson, Renate, 6 Wiredu, Kwasi, 298, 313 Wong, David B., 10, 169 Wood, Allen, W., 70–73, 75, 76 Woodroffe, Rosie, 7 Wright, Frances, 14 Wright, Robert, 148–150, 156 Würzburger, Walter S., 55 Yack, Bernard, 242 Yagi, Kiichiro, 12 Yu, Tianlong, 13 Yuan, B., 123 Yun Jichung, Paul, 219–220 Zakaria, Fareed, 241, 243 Zaretsky, Eli, 256 Zhan, Wansheng, 223 Zhao, Yuezhi, 20 Zhivkov, Todor, 245 Zhu Xi (Chu Hsi), 213 Zick, C. D., 105 Zizek, Slavoj, 256–257, 259, 260, 264–265 Zupancic, Alenka, 260–261

Name Index

Subject Index

abilities, ethics and, 186 abortion in Mesopotamia, 38 practical wisdom and, 288–289 reproductive genetics and, 111–113 Abrahamic traditions, 214 absolute moral standard, 55 absolute power, 195 abstract universal, 266, 267–271 accounting scandals, 12, 164–165, 176–178 action character and, 184–186 emancipation from labor and, 257 habits and, 185 nature of, 257 religions of, 216–217 adaptation, 149–150 adulterous relationships in biblical ethics, 48 in Mesopotamia, 37 adverse selection, in genetic testing, 125 advertising brand equity and, 176 brand image and, 161–162 medical genetics and, 127 aesthetics of the self (J. Watson), 10 African Americans, environmental justice and, 169–170 agents of change, 304 agriculture animals in, 8 factory farming, 92

Akkad, ethics in, 4, 35–36 Alternatives to Athens (Brock and Hodkinson), 321–322 altruism, reasoned, 23–24 Alzheimer’s disease, 104 American Board of Medical Genetics, 107, 108–109 American Board of Pathology, 108–109 American College of Medical Genetics, 113 American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, 113 American Revolution, 61, 252 American Society of Human Genetics, 124 amniocentesis, 111 Anabaptist groups, 72 analytic validity, 122 anarcho-tyrannical man (Plato), 275, 290 ancestor worship, 208, 219 ancient Near East Egypt, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 law and morality in, 3–5, 33–56 Mesopotamia, 3–4, 35–39, 41, 44, 47, 51–52, 55 aneuploidy, 111 Animal Liberation Front, 83 animal-rights movement, 83, 87–89, 100–101 animals as pets, 7–8, 87–88, 90, 100 antivivisectionism in England, 89

340

animal-rights movement (cont.) biomedical research and, 97–99 fur and, 91, 92 human versus animal welfare and, 100 hunting and, 8, 91, 93–95, 100 rights theory, 88–89 See also human-animal relations Animal Welfare Act of 1966, 89 anthropocentrism, in East Asia, 215–220 anti-Semitism, 323–324 Armenia, fear and identity in, 234–235 Arthur Andersen, 12 Austrian Succession Wars, 61 autobiographies, Egyptian, 40 autonomy, in genetic testing, 124 Bambi (motion picture), 95 Bayh-Dole Act, 126 bear baiting, 91 behavioral research, 11 Belgium, collective identity in, 231 bestiality, in biblical ethics, 48 β-thalassemia, 112–113 Bhopal, India chemical spill, 165, 167–168 Bible, the biblical ethical thought, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50, 53–55 conception of Deity in, 4–5 Jewish versus Christian thought, 34 monotheism and, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50, 53–55 See also Christians and Christianity; Jews and Judaism biodiversity, 92, 166 bioethics, 86, 96–97 biomedical research, 8, 11, 83–86, 88–90, 95–99 achievements of, 85–86, 96, 99 bioethics and, 86, 96–97 challenges to, 88–89 competence of scientists, 99 curiosity as basis of, 97–99 See also genetics in medicine

Subject Index

bison hunting, 100 blacklists, 323 blasphemy, 38, 41 Bodhisattavas, 206 Bosnians, religious nationalism and, 230, 237 Boston, Massachusetts, deer culling and, 95 brain research, animals in, 96–99 brand equity, 176 brand image, 161–162 breast cancer, 111, 118–119 breeding, selective, 87 British Medical Association, 108 Brundtland Commission Report, 165 Buddhists and Buddhism in East Asia, 14–15, 203, 206–208, 210–211, 213, 216–217, 221 multicultural heritage and, 301 religious nationalism and, 228–229, 236–237, 240 Bulgaria, elites in, 245 bullfighting, 91 California, energy markets and, 162–165, 176–177 Canada, as liberal democracy, 238 cannibalism, toleration of, 278 capital crimes in biblical ethics, 45, 48 in Mesopotamia, 36–38 capitalism, trust and, 12–13, 176 capitulations, 235 categorical imperative (Kant), 21–23, 152, 262 Catholics and Catholicism banning in France, 61–62 in Korea, 217–220 papal authority and, 202, 305–306 pregnancy termination and, 113 in Western Europe, 201, 202 cats in biomedical research, 98 feral, 90 as pets, 90 causal relations, 191–192

Subject Index

change agents, 304 character action and, 184–185 e¯thos in ancient Greece, 13–14, 181– 192, 193 habits and, 14, 185–187, 190 kinds of people, 274–275 Plato’s theory of, 273–275 rediscovery of, 13–14, 181–182 in Scottish Enlightenment, 182–183 virtues in, 185, 189 chemical industry, trust and, 12, 165–170 children, in Mesopotamian law, 46 chiliasm defined, 72 philosophical, 72–73 theological, 72–73 China negative eugenics in, 125 religion in, 15, 201, 203–206, 208–214 secular moral education in, 221, 223 Christians and Christianity chiliasm and, 72–73 commandments and, 203, 204, 301 competing kingdoms in Western Europe, 201–202 fear and identity in Armenia, 234–235 in Greece, 234, 237, 239 in Indonesia, 16 Judeo-Christian tradition, 203, 204, 214, 217, 222, 301 in Korea, 217–220, 221–222 morals and, 14–15, 201–202 multicultural heritage and, 301 pregnancy termination and, 113 religious nationalism and, 239–240 in Western Europe, 61–62, 201, 202 See also Bible, the; Catholics and Catholicism chronic pain studies, 99 citizenship based on political rights, 253

341

democratic, 325–326 education in East Asia, 222 citizen-state, 321 civil disobedience, 262–263 Civil Rights movement, 323 Civil War, 324 clinical utility, 122–123 clinical validity, 122 cloning, 106, 264 cluster attributes, 16–17 codes of ethics, 20, 296–297, 304, 306, 307 cohesion, in democracy, 230 collective identity, 230–232, 255 collective unconscious (Jung), 21–23, 143, 305 command-and-control regulation, 167 communication analysis of ethics already present in, 306–308 globalization of, 3, 20–21, 293–314 Hall effect, 309–310, 312–313 media blackouts and, 312 modern multigroup agreements, 305–306 modern technology of, 20–21, 308–312 multiculturalism and, 300–305 needs and requirements for, 310–314 in prisoner’s dilemma games, 172, 192–193 See also globalization; language; media Communication Ethics and Global Change (Cooper), 297 Communism, 221–222, 320, 323 Communist Manifesto, 320 communitarianism, 298 computer, as term, 140–141 concrete universal, 268, 269, 271 Conference Board, 177 confidentiality, in genetic testing, 123–124 conflicts of interest, in genetic testing, 126

342

Confucianism and Neo-Confucianism, 203, 208–214, 216–219, 221 ancestor worship in, 208 filial piety, 213, 219 multicultural heritage and, 302 consciousness, 139–140, 150 Consensus Development Conference, 114 consequentialist perspective, 21–23 consociational arrangements, 246 cooperation, in prisoner’s dilemma games, 170–176 corporate social responsibility accounting scandals and, 177–178 in global chemical industry, 12, 165–170 corporations accounting scandals, 12, 164–165, 176–178 brand image and, 161–162 chemical industry, 12, 165–170 energy markets, 12, 162–165, 176–177 pharmaceutical industry, 99, 127 trust in, 12–13 See also advertising cosmic principles, 4 cosmology, in the ancient Near East, 34 covenants, 5, 54–55 credit cards, trust and use of, 160–161 criminal acts, in ancient Egypt, 41 Critical Theory (Held), 18–19 Critique of Practical Reason (Kant), 74–75 Critique of the Power of Judgment (Kant), 80, 81 Croats, religious nationalism and, 230, 237 cross-cultural issues, genetic testing and, 124, 125 Cuba, 17 cultic crimes, in ancient Egypt, 41 cultural diversity, 296, 304 cultural pluralism, 17

Subject Index

culture folk, 240 high, 240 curiosity, as basis of biomedical research, 97–99 custom Aristotle on, 190–191 institutions and, 14 mos in ancient Rome, 13–14, 181, 183, 192–194 cybermedia, 294, 309 Cyprus β-thalassemia in, 112–113 fear and identity in, 234 cystic fibrosis, 9, 103, 111, 113–115, 125 cytogenetics, 107 Daoists and Daoism, 215–216, 301 death in ancient Egypt, 39, 41 of animals in biomedical research, 97, 99 of animals in nature, 100 ego integrity and, 146–147 necropolises in ancient Egypt, 39 as penalty, 94 deer hunting, 94–95, 100 De Fato (On Fate) (Cicero), 192 deliberation, ethics and, 186 democracy Anglo-American thought and, 252 birth of democracies, 229 constitutional protections in, 6 defined in religious terms, 239 democratic agreements, 305 democratic ethic and. See democratic ethic democratic identity and, 229–237, 246 egalitarian tradition in, 17–18, 251–271 exclusion of minorities and, 15–17, 227–247 French and continental European thought and, 252

Subject Index

as inclusive form of government, 227, 240–247 liberal democracies, 238, 241–242 libertarian tradition in, 17–18, 251–253, 265–267, 268 liberty and, 251–255 moving toward inclusion, 240–247 Plato’s critique of, 19, 276–277, 281–282, 284, 290 problem of stability of, 281–289 property rights in, 227, 253, 276 religious nationalism and, 228–229, 231, 232–247 democratic ethic origins of democratic thinking and, 322–323 Plato’s theory of character, 273–275 problem of democratic aspiration, 275–281 problem of democratic stability, 281–289 democratic nationalism, 227–229, 241–242, 247 democratization birth of democracies and, 229 democratic identity and, 229–237, 246 different modes of, 324 elites and, 245 fear and identity in, 232–237 inequality and, 16–17 nationalism and, 227–229, 241–242, 247 practical wisdom and, 288–289 De Officiis (On Duties) (Cicero), 192–193 deontology human-animal relations and, 88–89 medical genetics and, 113 De Re Publica (Cicero), 193 diabolical, religion and, 260 diagnostic genetic testing, 111, 116–117 Diamond v. Chakrabarty, 126

343

discrimination in democracy, 15–17, 227–247 in genetic testing, 103, 124–125 diversity cultural, 296, 304 emancipative benefits of, 319–320 fight over, 280 religious freedom, 277–279 universalism as threat to, 300 divine selection, 5 DNA, 9, 106, 119 dogs in biomedical research, 89, 90 community ordinances concerning, 90 dogfighting, 91 as food, 100 as helpers to humans, 90 as pets, 88, 100 rabid, 100 selective breeding of, 87 domestication of animals, 87 Down syndrome, 111, 125 East Asia anthropocentrism in, 215–220 religion in, 14–15, 201–224 secular moral education in, 221–224 See also China; Japan; Korea; Taiwan ecology of the species, 147–148 economic issues as “dismal science,” 159–160 economic exclusion, 270–271 economic power versus freedom, 259 ethic of tolerance and, 246–247 in genetic testing, 123 See also corporations ecumenical syncretism, 23–24 education public schools of East Asia, 221–224 secular moral education in East Asia, 221–224 efficient markets, 13

344

egalitarian tradition in democracy, 17–18, 251–271 ego, 144–150 Erikson’s concept of, 145–147, 152 Freud’s concept of, 135–136, 140, 144–145 in psychodynamic psychotherapy, 141–142 See also psychological issues ego identity, 11, 145–147, 153 ego integrity, 11, 145–147, 151, 152–154, 156–157 egoism, Sidgwick and, 189–190 Egypt, ancient exclusion of minorities in, 45–46 Israelites and, 45–46 law and morality in, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 elephant hunting, 100 Empire and Communication (Innes), 304 ends, means versus, 6–7 energy markets, trust and, 12, 162–165, 176–177 England, antivivisectionism in, 89 Enlightenment, 5–7, 33, 320 as background for peace grounded on justice, 59–63 Scottish, 182–183 Enron, 12, 164–165, 176–178 entertainment, animals in, 8 environmental issues chemical industry and, 12, 165–170 environmental justice, 168–170 equality democratization and inequality, 16–17 egalitarian tradition in democracy, 17–18, 251–271 equity in prisoner’s dilemma games, 173 universal principle of, 15 equilibrium, ethics of, 21 equity Mesopotamian, 35 in prisoner’s dilemma games, 173 Estonia, discrimination in, 246–247

Subject Index

ethical, legal, and social issues (ELS), 9 ethical thought in ancient Egypt, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 biblical ethical thought, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50, 53–56 ethic of tolerance, 243 on genetics in medicine, 104–106, 123–127 in Mesopotamia, 3–4, 35–39, 41, 44, 51–52, 55 ethics analysis of, in communications, 306–308 in ancient Near East, 3–4, 33–56 animals and, 7–8 in biblical thought, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50, 53–55 classical origins of concept, 183 codes of, 20, 296–297, 304, 306, 307 defined, 33 democratic ethic, 18–19, 273–291 derivation of term, 188 in East Asia, 215–217 in Egypt, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 ethical theory versus, 282 e¯thos (character) in ancient Greece, 13–14, 181–192, 193 Greek origins of term, 1, 13–14 language of, 1, 182–194 markets and, 12–13, 159–178 in Mesopotamia, 3–4, 35–39, 41, 44, 45–46, 51–52, 55 morality versus, 223–224, 262–264, 267 mos (custom) in ancient Rome, 13–14, 181, 183, 192–194 personal, 39, 49–50 philosophical definition of, 1 politics of, 181–192, 193 religion and. See religious ethics sexual, 37–38, 48 social, 36–37, 45–48 state and, 13–14, 194–196 of tolerance, 246–247

Subject Index

e¯thos (character) in ancient Greece, 13–14, 181–192, 193 habits and, 14, 185–187, 198 Eudemian Ethics (Aristotle), 183 eugenics, 108, 125 Europe anti-Islamic sentiment in, 16, 60–61 Christians and Christianity in, 61–62, 201, 202 Enlightenment philosophy in, 5–7, 59–63 religious wars of, 277–278 See also specific countries European Union, 297 evil, 210–212 choice between good and, 67, 69–72, 73 Kant and, 260–263 as product of free will, 73 exclusion democracy and, 15–17, 227–247 of Israelites in ancient Egypt, 45–46 in Turkey, 234–236 executive compensation, 176–177 existential-humanistic (EH) personality theory, 135–157 case example of, 151–156 collective unconscious (Jung), 21–23, 143, 304 ego in, 135–136, 140–150 human awareness and, 136–138, 140 nature of, 135–136 outside versus inner world, 136–138 Phenomenological Map and, 11, 138–142, 148–150, 154, 156–157 psychodynamic psychotherapy and, 141 self-actualization, 143–144, 147, 152–157 Sovereign Self and, 138–144, 145, 150–151, 154–155

345

extraversion, introversion versus, 136–137 Exxon Valdez, 165 factory farming, 92 fairness, in prisoner’s dilemma games, 174–176 fear of designs of societies, 148 ego integrity and, 146–147 ethic of tolerance and, 243 exclusion and, 15–17, 232–237 of God, 44, 49–50, 202 identity and, 232–237 removing, 243 federalism, 195 Feminine Mystique, The (Friedan), 323 feminism, 298, 323 feudalism, 195 filial piety in biblical ethics, 45 in Confucianism and NeoConfucianism, 213, 219 in Mesopotamia, 36 Finland, collective identity in, 230–231 Five Relationships, 214 folk cultures, nature of, 240 folk religions, 204–206, 212–213, 216 food animals as, 91–92, 93–94, 100 factory farming and, 92 Food for Naught (Hall), 309–310 Foundation of Intelligent Physical Agents, 309 Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals (Kant), 282–283 frailty, religion and, 260 France French Revolution, 61–62, 252, 253–255 as liberal democracy, 242 freedom as choice between good or evil, 67, 69–72, 73 democratic stability and, 282–284 economic power versus, 259

346

freedom (cont.) human rights as foundation for, 299 Kantian free will, 67, 196 lover of (Plato), 274–275 as nonpathological motivation, 262 right to life, 288–289 Freedom House, 228 free will evil as product of, 73 Kant and, 67, 196 French Revolution, 61–62, 252, 253– 255, 279–280 fur, 91 fur farming, 92 game theory prisoner’s dilemma games, 170– 176, 192–193 winner-takes-all, 149 GeneClinics, 108–109 General Social Survey, National Opinion Research Center, 94 general theory of revolution (Marx and Engels), 266–268 genetic counseling, 103, 120, 121 genetic engineering, 106 Genetic Information Nondiscrimination Act, 125 genetics in medicine, 8–10, 103–127 assessing susceptibility to disease, 118–119 background on, 106–108 basic concepts in, 109–119 case examples of, 103–104 diagnostic genetic testing, 111, 116–117 dilemmas of, 104–106 ethical issues in, 104–106, 123–127 genetic counseling, 103, 120, 121 genetic information and, 119–120 genetic testing, 8–10, 103–104, 107–127 glossary of terms, 110 newborn screening, 9, 111, 115–116 predictive genetic testing, 111, 117–118

Subject Index

reproductive genetics, 111–115 in the U.S., 8–10, 103–104, 106–127 genetic testing, 8–10, 107–127 assessing susceptibility to disease, 118–119 basic concepts in, 109–119 case examples, 103–104 concept of genetic information, 119–120 diagnostic, 111, 116–117 economic issues, 123 ethical issues, 123–127 genetic counseling and, 103, 120, 121 glossary of terms, 110 nature of, 107 newborn screening, 9, 111, 115–116 predictive, 111, 117–118 pretest and posttest counseling, 10, 121, 127 process of, 120 in reproductive genetics, 111–115 requirements for genetic screening program, 115 standards for, 122–123 in the U.S., 108–109 genome, 8–9, 127, 143 genomics, 107 Germany democratization in, 324 Nazi, 245, 306 Weimar, 285 globalization ethic of communication and, 3, 20–21, 293–314 of international political economy, 19 God covenantal relationship with, 54–55 fear of, 44, 49–50, 202 Israel and, 54 as promulgator of law, 46 good, choice between evil and, 67, 69–72, 73 Great Ethics/Magna Moralia (Aristotle), 183, 184

Subject Index

Great Spirit, 299 Greece, ancient Christians and Christianity in, 234, 237, 239 definition of freedom, 258–259 delegation of action to public sphere, 257 e¯thos (character) in, 13–14, 181–192, 193 origins of democratic thinking and, 322–323 political community embodied in city/state, 321–322 politics of ethics and, 181–192, 193 greed, 2, 153–154 accounting scandals and, 12, 164– 165, 176–178 chemical industry and, 12, 165–170 energy markets and, 12, 162–165, 176–177 Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals, 67–68 group identity in Sri Lanka, 234, 236–237 in Turkey, 234–236 guarantees in peace grounded on justice, 59, 63, 65–68, 73–74 habits action and, 185 character and, 14, 185–187, 190 Hall effect, 309–310, 312–313 Hastings Center, 106–107 health insurance, genetic testing and, 103, 124–125 hemochromatosis, 103, 111, 117 heterozygosity, 112 high cultures, nature of, 240 Hindus and Hinduism fear and identity of, 233–234, 236–237 multicultural heritage and, 302 religious nationalism and, 228–229, 233–234, 239–240, 241 historical autobiographies, 40 History of European Morals (Lecky), 188

347

Holy Roman Empire, anti-Islamic sentiment in, 60 homeostasis, in technical world, 311–312 homicide in biblical ethics, 46–47 in Mesopotamia, 36–37 monetary compensation for, 47 honesty, in Mesopotamia, 37 horses, human relations with, 96 human-animal relations, 7–8, 83–101. See also animal-rights movement animals as food, 91–92, 93–94, 100 animals damaging humans in, 47, 94–95 basic issues in, 84–86 benefits to animals, 85 bestiality in biblical ethics, 48 biomedical research and, 8, 11, 83–86, 88–90, 95–99 deliberate harm to animals, 91 domestication of animals, 87 historical considerations in, 86–88, 95–96 hunting and, 8, 91, 93–95, 100 modern issues in, 90–95 pets in, 7–8, 87–88, 90, 100 sociological considerations in, 86–88 types of, 85, 86 wildlife management, 85, 90, 94–95, 100 human conscience, 33 human duty, in ethics, 11 Human Genome Project (HGP), 8–9, 127 humanism emergence of, 33 humanistic psychology and, 135 human rights, 10 as foundation for freedom, justice, and peace, 299 religious nationalism and, 247 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 304 human suffering, 207 hunting, 8, 91, 93–95, 100

348

Huntington’s disease (HD), 104, 111, 117–118 Hutchins Commission, 297 Ice Age, 87 id, 151 identity collective, 230–232, 255 democratic, 229–237, 246 ego, 11, 145–147, 153 fear and, 232–237 group, 234–237 personal, 11, 151 political, 239–240 social, 11, 145–146, 151, 152–153 In Catilinam (Cicero), 193 inclusion in democracy, 240–247 India Bhopal chemical accident, 165, 167–168 democratic identity in, 231, 233–234, 246 relations with Pakistan, 244 religious nationalism in, 228–229, 231, 239, 245 indigenous groups, 299 individual rights, 254–255 Indonesia, exclusion of minorities in, 16 Industrial Revolution, 254, 255, 320 inequality, democratization and, 16–17 infants ethical issues concerning, 89 newborn screening tests, 9, 111, 115–116 See also abortion informational regulation, 167 Institute, West Virginia, chemical spill, 167 institutions customs and, 14 institutionalization of rights, 279 separation of state and civil society, 254 intellectual property rights, genetic testing and, 126–127

Subject Index

international relations choice of peace in, 74 See also warfare interpersonal risk, in prisoner’s dilemma games, 173–176 intersubjectivity, 10–11 introversion, extraversion versus, 136–137 intuitionism, Sidgwick and, 189–190 Inuit people, seal hunting and, 91 in vitro fertilization, 112 iron curtain, fall of, 16, 18 Islam. See Muslims and Islam Israel and Israelites biblical ethics and, 45 collective identity in, 231–232 covenantal relationship with God, 54–55 Egypt and, 45–46 Post-Zionism in, 243–244 religious nationalism in, 228–229, 239, 241 See also Jews and Judaism Japan code of ethics, 304 democratization in, 324 nuclear technology and, 293, 320 religion in, 15, 201, 203–206, 209, 222 secular moral education in, 221, 222 Jews and Judaism anti-Semitism, 323–324 commandments and, 203, 204, 301 covenantal relationship with God, 55 fear and identity in Armenia, 234–235 genetic diseases, 105, 111, 112, 118–119 Jewish law, 4 Judeo-Christian tradition, 203, 204, 214, 217, 222, 301 multicultural heritage and, 301 religious nationalism and, 228–229 See also Bible, the; Israel and Israelites

Subject Index

judgment, ethics and, 186 jumzi, 302 just, right versus, 1–2 justice biblical ethics and, 54–56 human rights as foundation for, 299 peace grounded on. See peace grounded on justice rights versus, 1–2 See also legal issues Kennedy Center for Bioethics, 86 Khmer Rouge, 255 kingship Egyptian, 39–40, 52–53 in the European Enlightenment, 60–62 Mesopotamian, 35, 38–39, 51 kittum (cosmic force), 4–5, 42, 43, 51 Korea religion in, 15, 201, 203–206, 208–214, 217–220, 221–222 secular moral education in, 221–222 See also North Korea; South Korea labor economic division of, 253 emancipation from, 257 nature of, 257 language of ethics, 1, 182–194 of exclusion, 230–231 in philosophical perspective of human species, 298 of the state, 194–196 See also communication law. See legal issues legal issues in ancient Egypt, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 in biblical ethics, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50, 53–55 in biomedical research, 96–99 ethic of communication and, 301 in genetic testing, 103, 123–127

349

Kant and, 260–264 law, defined, 33 law and morality, 3–5, 33–56 law as covenant, 5, 54–55 in Mesopotamia, 3–4, 35–39, 41, 44, 47, 51–52, 55 rule of law, 268 li, 209, 210, 211, 212, 302 liberal democracies, 238, 241–242 liberating ethics, 324–325 liberation from the self (Einstein), 2 libertarian tradition in democracy, 17–18, 251–253, 265–267, 268 liberty in democracy, 251–255 Mill on, 280 location risk, hazardous facilities and, 169 lover of freedom (Plato), 274–275 lover of honor/victory (Plato), 274 Lucent, 12 maat (cosmic principle of harmony), 4–5, 41, 42–43, 51 MacBride Commission, 294, 297 male homosexuality in biblical ethics, 48 in Mesopotamia, 38 Marfan syndrome screening, 116–117 markets in China, 223 democracy and market economy, 253 public goods and, 166 trust and, 12–13, 159–178 See also corporations martyrdom, 263 Mass Declaration of UNESCO, The (Nordenstreng), 296–297 maxims, Kant on, 70–71 means, end versus, 6–7 media accountability systems of (MAS), 20, 297 as agent of democracy, 294–295 media ethics and, 308 See also communication

350

media blackouts, 312 medical genetics. See genetics in medicine mental retardation, 104, 115 Mesopotamia law and morality in, 3–4, 35–39, 41, 44, 47, 51–52, 55 property rights in, 37, 45–46, 48 Metaphysics of Morals (Kant), 66, 67–69, 80–81 minority rights, in the ancient Near East, 45–46, 56 mob rule, 281 monarchy. See kingship money, trust and use of, 160 money lover (Plato), 274 monotheism believers and heathens and, 238–239 in biblical ethics, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50, 53–55 in Western religious tradition, 204 See also Christians and Christianity; Jews and Judaism; Muslims and Islam moral action (Ross), 194 Moralis (Cicero), 192 moral metaphysics, NeoConfucianism as, 209–214 morals and morality classical origins of concept, 183 concept of, 184 in East Asia, 215–217, 220, 224 ethics versus, 223–224, 262–264, 267 law and, 3–5, 33–56 law and morality in the ancient Near East, 3–5, 33–56 morality, defined, 33 of reality principle, 261–265, 267, 268 religion and, 14–15, 201–202, 201–203, 204, 208–209, 215–224 Roman origins of term, 1, 13–14, 192–193 secular moral education in East Asia, 221–224

Subject Index

mores, as customs, 192–193 mos (custom), in ancient Rome, 13–14, 181, 183, 192–194 multiculturalism, 280, 300–305, 312–313 Muslims and Islam anti-Islamic sentiment in Europe, 16, 60–61 fear and identity of, 233–234 multicultural heritage and, 301–303 religious nationalism and, 228–229, 233–234, 237, 239–240, 241 My Friend Flicka (motion picture), 96 National Institutes of Health (NIH), 113 nationalism democratization process and, 227–229, 241–242, 247 religious, 228–229, 231, 232–247 National Opinion Research Center, 94 Native Americans genetic testing and, 114 learning from, 299, 302–304 natural law, 33 natural rights, 254, 266, 267–271 Nazi Germany, 245, 306 Near East ancient, ethical thought in, 3–4, 33–56 biblical ethics, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50 Egyptian ethics, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 Mesopotamian ethics, 3–4, 35–39 necropolises, 39 Neo-Confucianism, 203, 208–214, 216–219, 221 neo-Darwinian mind-set, 319 neoteny, 87 neural tube defects, 111 newborn screening tests, 9, 111, 115–116 Nichomachean Ethics, The (Aristotle), 183, 185–186, 187, 287–288 nomos (law), 186

Subject Index

nonconsequentialist perspective, 21–22 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), 165 North Korea relations with South Korea, 221 religion in, 203 noumenon, 75–76 nuclear technology, 293, 320 objectivity, 285 observing ego, 141–142 oligarchy, in the U.S., 276 omen literature, 36 On Liberty (Mill), 289 On Virtues and Vices (Aristotle), 183 operations risk, hazardous facilities and, 169 Opus postmortem (Kant), 80 organismic valuing process (Rogers), 143 organ transplants, 264 Origins of Democratic Thinking, The (Farrar), 322–323 other, in democracies, 230 Ottoman Empire anti-Islamic sentiment in, 60–61 democratization and, 234, 235, 239 outcome studies, 122–123 Outlines of the History of Ethics for English Readers (Sidgwick), 184 ovarian cancer, 111, 118–119 Pacific Gas and Electric, 163 pain studies, 99 Pakistan, relations with India, 244 participating ego, 141–142 partisanship, in egalitarian democracy, 266–271 passions, virtue and, 185, 186 patriarchy, in biblical thought, 46 peace grounded on justice, 5–7, 59–82, 299 choice between good or evil, 67, 69–72, 73 concept of right and efficacy, 72–75 free use of natural means, 75–80

351

guarantees and, 59, 63, 65–68, 73–74 historical context and, 59–63 rational hope for, 63–69 social background and, 59–63 ultimate end of justice as perpetual peace, 80–82 pedigree analysis, 120 pension planning, 176–177 Peripatetics, 189 personal ethics in biblical ethics, 49–50 in Mesopotamia, 39 personal identity, 11, 151 personality theory. See existentialhumanistic (EH) personality theory pets, 7–8, 87–88, 90, 100 Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, 202 pharmaceuticals biomedical research and, 99 impact of advertising, 127 Phenomenological Map, 11, 138–142, 148–150, 154, 156–157 phenylketonuria (PKU), 111, 115–116 philosophical chiliasm, 72–73 phronesis (Aristotle), 287 pigs, as pets, 88 pleasure, pursuit of, 19, 277 pluralism cultural, 17 worldview, 300 Poetics (Aristotle), 185 Polish Succession War, 60–61 politeiai (citizenships), 191 political identity, religion and, 239–240 political institutions customs and, 14 electoral arrangements and, 246 political parties, 246 democratization process and, 227–228 as ultimate ethic of egalitarian democracy, 266–271 political theory, 322–323

352

Politics (Aristotle), 185, 187, 190, 321 politics of ethics, 17–18, 181–197 ancient Greeks and, 181–192, 193 ancient Romans and, 181, 183, 192–194 in modern times, 181–182 moral politicians and, 78–79 state and political actors, 191–192, 194–196 See also warfare polity, 321 pollution. See environmental issues polytheism Buddhism and, 206 Egyptian, 42–43, 52–53 in folk religions, 204–206, 212–213, 216 Mesopotamian, 41–43, 51–52 Post-Zionism, 243–244 poverty biblical ethics and, 45 environmental justice and, 169–170 poverty-marginality issues, 16 predictive genetic testing, 111, 117–118 pregnancy genetic testing and, 111–115 See also abortion pretest/posttest counseling, 10, 121, 127 Principles and Practice of Medicine (Emery and Rimoin), 107–108 prisoner’s dilemma games communication in, 172, 192–193 equity in, 173 nature of, 170–172 risk analysis in, 173–176 trust and cooperation in, 170–176 privacy cross-cultural implications of, 124 in genetic testing, 123–124 private sphere, 257–259 product quality and safety, 12, 161–162, 176 property rights in ancient Egypt, 45–46 in biblical thought, 45–46, 53–54

Subject Index

in democracy, 227, 253, 276 in Mesopotamia, 37, 45–46, 48 proportional representation (PR) systems, 246 Protestant Ethic (Weber), 284 psyche, 189 psychoanalytic approach Freud in, 135–136, 140, 144–145 Kant in, 18 psychodynamic psychotherapy, 141 totalitarianism in, 251, 260–263 psychological issues, 10–11, 135–157 components of human awareness, 136–138, 140 ego and, 144–150 ethics and, 150–156 existential-humanistic (EH) personality theory, 135–157 Freudian concept of ego, 135–136, 140, 144–145 humanistic psychology, 135 moving beyond self in, 142–144 Phenomenological Map and, 11, 138–142, 148–150, 154, 156–157 public goods, markets and, 166 public sphere, 257–259 Puritan Revolution, 252, 253 “pushpin-poetry” dilemma (Mill), 286 Pythagoreans, 273 qi, 209, 211, 212 Quadruple Alliance, 60 Qwest, 12 reality principle, 261–265, 267, 268 reasoned altruism, 23–24 recessive inheritance, 9 Rechtspflichten (duties of justice), 68 recombinant DNA technology, 106 reflective autobiographies, 40 reflexivity, 10–11 relativism, naturalistic fallacy and, 296 religion, 201–224 in ancient Mesopotamia, 35

Subject Index

Buddhism. See Buddhists and Buddhism Christianity. See Christians and Christianity Confucianism and NeoConfucianism. See Confucianism and Neo-Confucianism Daoism, 215–216, 301 defining, 203–214 in East Asia, 14–15, 201–224 folk religions, 204–206, 212–213, 216 freedom of, 277–279 Hinduism. See Hindus and Hinduism inclusion in democracy and, 240–247 Islam. See Muslims and Islam Judaism. See Jews and Judaism morality and ethics and, 14–15, 201–203, 204, 208–209, 215–224 religious nationalism, 228–229, 231, 232–247 Shinto, 204, 205–206 in Sri Lanka, 228–229, 234, 236– 237, 240 in Turkey, 234–236 in Western Europe, 201–202 Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason (Kant), 67–72, 75–76 Religion within the Limits of Reason Alone (Kant), 260–263 religious ethics, 14–15, 201–203, 204, 208–209, 215–224 in biblical ethics, 49 in China, 15 in Egypt, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 in Japan, 15 Kant on, 67–72, 75–76 in Korea, 15 in Mesopotamia, 3–4, 35, 38–39, 41, 44, 47, 51–52, 55 in Taiwan, 15 ren, 302 Renaissance, 320 repatterning the self, 10–11

353

reproductive genetics, 111–115 Republic, The (Plato), 191–192 republican government guarantees of peace and, 65–68 Kant’s ideal of, 64–65 nature of, 64 perpetual peace and, 77–78 worldwide spread of, 65 reputation, in prisoner’s dilemma games, 172, 192–193 revolution examples of, 61–62, 252, 253–255, 279–280 general theory of revolution (Marx and Engels), 266–268 See also warfare rights animal. See animal-rights movement appeal of, 283 evolution of, 19 human, 10, 247, 299, 304 individual, 254–255 institutionalization of, 279 justice versus, 1–2 minority, 45–46, 56 natural, 254, 266, 267–271 property. See property rights risk analysis, 12–13, 173–176 Risk Management Program (RMP), 167–168, 169 RNA, 119 rodeos, 93 rogue behavior, 162 Rome, ancient delegation of action to public sphere, 257 as liberal democracy, 238 mos (custom) in, 13–14, 181, 183, 192–194 Royal College of Physicians, 108 Russian Empire, anti-Islamic sentiment in, 60–61 seal hunting, 91 secular moral principles, 15, 55, 221–224

354

selective breeding, 87 self-actualization, 143–144, 147, 152–157 self-indulgence, 285–286 self-interest, 261–262 selfish action, 207 self-love, Kant on, 71, 77–78, 80 sentience components of, 136–138 defined, 136 Sovereign Self and, 138–144, 145, 150–151, 154–155 September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, 16, 90 Serbs, religious nationalism and, 230, 237 Seven Years’ War, 61 sexual ethics in biblical ethics, 48 in Mesopotamia, 37–38 Shinto, 204, 205–206 sickle-cell anemia screening, 116–117 Sinhala Buddhists, 236–237, 240 Sittlichkeit (Hegel), 282 slavery in ancient Egypt, 45–46 in biblical thought, 45–46 inequality between master and slave, 259 labor of slaves in ancient societies, 257 in Mesopotamia, 37, 45–46 in the U.S., 61 social capital, 159–160 social classes in ancient Egypt, 39–40, 52–53 biblical ethics and lack of, 45 economic division of labor and, 253 environmental justice and, 169–170 in Mesopotamia, 36, 51–52 social ethics in biblical ethics, 45–48 in Mesopotamia, 36–37 social identity, 11, 145–146, 151, 152–153 social norms, markets and, 166

Subject Index

sophia (theoretical wisdom), 287 South Korea relations with North Korea, 221 religion in, 203 sovereign identity, 231 Sovereign Self, 138–144, 145 communication at level of, 154–155 ethics and, 150–151 moving beyond, 142–144 nature of, 138–142 sovereignty, concept of, 195–196 Soviet Union, implosion of, 18 spirit tablets, 219 Sri Lanka fear and identity in, 234–236 religious nationalism in, 228–229, 236–237, 240 state classical origins of concept, 183 ethics and, 13–14, 194–196 political actors and, 191–192, 194–196 separation of civil society and, 254 stem cell research, 106 Stoic philosophy, 181 suffering, 35–36 Sumer, ethics in, 4, 35–36 superego, 151 Supreme Being, 205 Supreme Deity, 204 Supreme Ruler, 204 Switzerland, collective identity in, 231 taboos, universal, 305 tahwid, 302, 303 Taiwan religion in, 15, 203 secular moral education in, 221, 222–223 Tamil Hindus, 236–237, 240 Tay-Sachs disease, 105, 111, 112 technology in communication ethics, 20–21, 308–312 cybermedia, 294, 309

Subject Index

genetic testing and, 126–127 globalization of communication, 3, 20–21, 293–314 Hall effect, 309–310, 312–313 homeostasis and, 311–312 nuclear, 293, 320 threats to humanity, 11 terrorism cyber terror, 294 global war on terror, 16 self-righteous, 325 terrorist attacks (September 11, 2001), 16, 90 terror management theory, 146 theological chiliasm, 72–73 totalitarianism blackmail of, 251, 256–259 egalitarianism versus, 17–18, 251–271 in psychoanalytic approach, 251, 260–263 universal order and, 299–300 Toward Perpetual Peace (Kant), 6–7, 59, 62, 63–66, 67–70, 73, 74, 76, 77, 80–82 transformational ethic, 320–321 trapping, 91, 93 Treaty of Berlin (1878), 235 trust in biblical ethics, 50 in the corporate sector, 12–13 credible threat of punishment for wrongdoing and, 161 credit cards and, 160–161 energy markets and, 12, 162–165, 176–177 environmental justice and, 165–170 erosion of, 162, 164–165, 176–177 foundations of, 170–176 importance of, 159–160, 245 in interpersonal relationships, 159–160 markets and, 12–13, 159–178 in Mesopotamia, 37 money and, 160 in prisoner’s dilemma games, 170–176

355

in product quality and safety, 161– 162, 176 during uncertain times, 159 truth, as cosmic standard of order, 40 Tugendverpflichtung (obligation of virtue as motivation), 68 Turkey Bulgarian Turks and, 245 collective identity in, 231–232 fear and identity in, 234–236 religious nationalism in, 228–229, 234–236, 237, 239, 245 Tusculan Disputations (Cicero), 193 unintended consequences, 308 United Kingdom antivivisection in, 89 energy markets and, 163 United Nations UNESCO, 296–297, 305–306 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 304 World Commission on Environment and Development (WCED), 165 United States accounting scandals in, 12, 164–165, 176–178 American Revolution in, 61, 252 animals as food in, 92 biomedical research in, 89 chemical industry in, 12, 165–170 communication in, 306, 307 egalitarian democracy and, 17–18 energy markets in, 12, 162–165, 176–177 environmental regulation in, 167–170 freedom as protected by constitution, 281–282 freedom of religion in, 277 genetics in medicine and, 8–10, 103–104, 106–127 globalization of communication and, 294 legal thought in, 55 as liberal democracy, 238, 242

356

United States (cont.) Office of Technology Assessment, 309 pharmaceuticals industry in, 99, 127 practical wisdom and, 288–291 problem of democratic aspiration and, 275–281 product quality and safety regulation in, 161–162 slavery in, 61 system of checks and balances in, 78 terrorist attacks (September 11, 2001), 16, 90 U.S. Clean Air Act Amendments, 167 U.S. Department of Education, 191–192 U.S. Department of Energy (DOE), 8–9 U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), 167–168 U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA), 123 U.S. House Un-American Activities Committee (USHUAC), 323 U.S. National Institutes of Health (NIH), 8–9, 113 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 304 universal order, 33 abstract universal, 266, 267–271 commitment to universals, 300 concrete universal, 268, 269, 271 principled interactive, 298 sacredness of human life, 298–299 taboos in, 305 theories of universals, 296–300 totalitarianism and, 299–300 utilitarianism Benthamite, 284–286 democratic stability and, 284–287 human-animal relations and, 88–89 Millian, 286–287, 289 religion and, 202 Sidgwick and, 189–190 utility, clinical, 122–123

Subject Index

validity analytic, 122 clinical, 122 virtue character and, 185, 189 passions and, 185, 186 theory of, 79–81 virtue ethics, 287 volition, 137–138 Wall Street (motion picture), 2 warfare American Revolution, 61, 252 banning, 66–69 Civil War, 324 destruction and conflict among nations, 295–296 Enlightenment as background for peace grounded on justice, 59–63 French Revolution, 61–62, 252, 253–255, 279–280 globalization of communication and, 294 perpetual peace versus, 62, 63–69, 80–82 religious wars of Europe, 277–278 World War II, 320, 324 weapons of mass destruction (WMD), 147–148, 149 Weimar Republic, 285 wickedness, religion and, 260 wildlife management, 85, 90, 94–95, 100 winner-takes-all game theory, 149 wisdom concept of, 35 in Egypt, 40–41, 44 practical, and democratic stability, 287–289 questioning, 307 wisdom lover (Plato), 274 women in biblical law, 46 labor of, in ancient societies, 257

Subject Index

work emancipation from labor and, 257 nature of, 257 WorldCom, 12, 177–178 World Commission on Environment and Development (WCED), 165 worldview biblical thought, 3–4, 34, 41, 43–50 Egyptian ethical thought, 3–4, 39–41, 44, 45–46, 52–53, 55 legacy of ancient Near Eastern, 50–56 Mesopotamian ethical thought, 3–4, 35–39, 44, 47, 51–52, 55 See also religion worldview pluralism, 300 World War II, 320, 324 Xerox, 12 Yugoslavia, former, collective identity in, 230 Zum ewigen Frieden (Toward Perpetual Peace, Kant), 6–7, 59, 62, 63–66, 67–70, 73, 74, 76, 77, 80–82

357