Solidarity Beyond Borders: Ethics in a Globalising World 9781472507952, 9781474218733, 9781472510754

Table of contents :
FC
Half title
Bloomsbury Studies in Global Ethics
Title
Copyright
Contents
List of Contributors
Preface Roger Scruton
1 Solidarity Beyond Europe? Steinar Stjernø
2 Justice as Solidarity: Between Statism and Cosmopolitanism Sebastiano Maffettone
3 Moral Imagination and the Art of Solidarity Anna Abram
4 Human Solidarity in Need and Fulfilment: A Vision of Political Friendship Patrick Riordan SJ
5 What Are They Doing Here? – Jews in the Global Apartment House Jerome Gellman
6 Muslim Ethics in an Era of Globalism: Reconciliation in an Age of Empire Ebrahim Moosa
7 Morality and Social Solidarity from the Perspective of Chinese Philosophy Yang Guorong
8 Is Universal Solidarity Possible? Gerald J. Beyer
9 Towards a Global Ethics of Non-violence Charles P. Webel and Sofia Khaydari
10 Global Justice, Value Pluralism and Narrative Solidarity Janusz Salamon
Index

Citation preview

Solidarity Beyond Borders

Bloomsbury Studies in Global Ethics Bloomsbury Studies in Global Ethics is dedicated to the advancement of debates on the contemporary ethical global challenges embedded in social, political, cultural, religious and economic contexts of our world. It covers areas of research and teaching such as moral philosophy, various subgroups of practical (applied) ethics and religious ethics. The series covers a wide range of problems and perspectives in practical ethics, starting from traditional problems of international ethics (such as global distributive justice, human rights theory, martial ethics, and global environmental ethics) to gender ethics, healthcare ethics, ethics of education, and ethics of inter-cultural and inter-religious relations. Series editors: Anna Abram and Janusz Salamon Editorial Advisory Board: Professor Raimond Gaita (University of Melbourne; King’s College London) Professor Tazim R. Kassam (Syracuse University) Professor Heup Young Kim (Kangnam University, South Korea) Professor Susan Neiman (Einstein Forum, Potsdam) Professor Graham Parkes (University College Cork) Professor Guoxiang Peng (Peking University) Professor Joseph Prabhu (California State University, Los Angeles) Professor Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad (Lancaster University) Professor Jonathan Schofer (Reed College, Portland, Oregon) Professor Roger Scruton (Visiting Professor, University of St Andrews, University of Oxford) Professor Godfrey B. Tangwa (University of Yaounde, Cameroon) Professor Tu Weiming (Peking University, Harvard University) Professor Keith Ward (Oxford University; Heythrop College, University of London) Also available in this series: Global Ethics and Global Common Goods, Patrick Riordan

Solidarity Beyond Borders Ethics in a Globalising World Edited by Janusz Salamon Bloomsbury Studies in Global Ethics

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2015 © Janusz Salamon and contributors, 2015 Janusz Salamon has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Editor of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the authors. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-47250-795-2 ePDF: 978-1-47251-075-4 ePub: 978-1-47251-444-8 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN

Contents List of Contributors Preface  Roger Scruton

vi ix

1

Solidarity Beyond Europe?  Steinar Stjernø

2

Justice as Solidarity: Between Statism and Cosmopolitanism  Sebastiano Maffettone

27

3

Moral Imagination and the Art of Solidarity  Anna Abram

47

4

Human Solidarity in Need and Fulfilment: A Vision of Political Friendship  Patrick Riordan SJ

65

What Are They Doing Here? – Jews in the Global Apartment House  Jerome Gellman

83

Muslim Ethics in an Era of Globalism: Reconciliation in an Age of Empire  Ebrahim Moosa

97

5 6 7

1

Morality and Social Solidarity from the Perspective of Chinese Philosophy  Yang Guorong

115

8

Is Universal Solidarity Possible?  Gerald J. Beyer

129

9

Towards a Global Ethics of Non-violence  Charles P. Webel and Sofia Khaydari

153

10 Global Justice, Value Pluralism and Narrative Solidarity  Janusz Salamon

171

Index

191

List of Contributors Anna Abram is a Senior Lecturer in Ethics and is Head of the Department of Pastoral and Social Studies at the University of London’s Heythrop College. She is a co-editor of Bloomsbury Studies in Global Ethics and of Forum Philosophicum International Journal. Her academic interests include meta-ethics, comparative religious ethics, corporate social responsibility and medical ethics. Her recent publications include Word Becomes Flesh: The Embodiment of Imagination for Moral Theology (2012) and Is Morality Without God Possible? (2012). Gerald J. Beyer is an Associate Professor of Christian Ethics at Villanova University, Pennsylvania. His research explores the theoretical underpinnings of the Catholic social tradition and applies them to social issues. His publications include Recovering Solidarity: Lessons from Poland’s Unfinished Revolution (University of Notre Dame Press, 2010) and articles in outlets such as Journal of Catholic Social Thought, Political Theology, Heythrop Journal, Journal of Religious Ethics, Notre Dame Journal of Law, Ethics, and Public Policy, Huffington Post, National Catholic Reporter and America. He is an Executive Committee member of Catholic Scholars for Worker Justice. His current book project is tentatively titled Solidarity or Status Quo? Catholic Social Teaching and the Mission of Catholic Universities. Jerome (Yehuda) Gellman is an Emeritus Professor of Philosophy at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Israel. He is Editor-in-chief of Brill’s Philosophy of Religion – World Religion book series. He is the author of the following books: The Experience of God and the Rationality of Theistic Belief (1997); Mystical Experience of God: A Philosophical Inquiry (2002); Abraham! Abraham!: Kierkegaard and the Hasidim on the Binding of Isaac (2003); God’s Kindness Has Overwhelmed Us: A Contemporary Doctrine of the Jews as the Chosen People (2012). Yang Guorong is a Professor of Chinese Philosophy and Director of the Modern Chinese Thought and Culture Institute at East China Normal University, Shanghai. During the 23rd World Congress of Philosophy held in Athens he was elected President of the International Society for Metaphysics. He is the author of Rationality and Value; The Development of Confucian Value-System and Its Transformation in Modern Times; The Metaphysical Dimension of Science; Positivism with Modern Chinese Philosophy; Treatise on Wang Yangming’s Philosophy; New Exposition on Mencius; Reason versus Value; Ethics and Existence; Thinking in History. Sofia Khaydari, from Murmansk, Russia, is a recent graduate of the University of New York in Prague where she studied Business Administration and Political Philosophy



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and was a student of Professor Charles Webel. She graduated with honours and with four Academic Achievement Awards for excellence in scholarship. She is a member of the CFA team and represented the Czech Republic in the regional round of the CFA Institute Research Challenge in Milan in 2014. Sebastiano Maffettone is a Professor and Dean of Political Science at LUISS Guido Carli, University of Rome, where he teaches Political Philosophy and Theories of Globalization. In the late 1970s, Maffettone translated into Italian Rawls’s A Theory of Justice. He is a public intellectual collaborating with the major Italian newspapers. His publications include: Rawls: An Introduction (2010); I fondamenti del liberalismo, co-authored with Ronald Dworkin (2008); La pensabilità del mondo (2006); Etica pubblica (2001); and Il valore della vita (1998). Ebrahim Moosa is a Professor of Islamic Studies at the University of Notre Dame’s Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies and also in the Department of History. He was previously Professor of Religion and Islamic Studies at Duke University. He is considered a leading scholar of contemporary Muslim thought and one of the most prominent intellectual theoreticians behind progressive Muslim thought. He is the author of Ghazali and the Poetics of Imagination (2005), which won the American Academy of Religion’s Best First Book in the History of Religions Award. He has also co-edited Islam in the Modern World (2013); Muslim Family Law in Sub-Saharan Africa: Colonial Legacies and Post-colonial Challenges (2010); and Fazlur Rahman’s Revival and Reform in Islam: A Study of Islamic Fundamentalism (1999). Patrick Riordan is Lecturer in Political Philosophy at Heythrop College, University of London. He is a member of the Heythrop Institute: Religion and Society. His previous publications include Global Ethics and Global Common Goods (2014); A Grammar of the Common Good: Speaking of Globalization (2008); Values in Public Life: Aspects of Common Goods (2007); A Politics of the Common Good (1996). Janusz Salamon is a Senior Lecturer in Moral and Political Philosophy at Charles University in Prague and Adjunct Professor at New York University. He is Editorin-Chief of the European Journal for Philosophy of Religion. He co-authored and edited the following books: Companion to Philosophy of Religion (2015); Knowledge, Action, Pluralism: Contemporary Perspectives in Philosophy of Religion (2013); Brothers Reunited: Catholic-Jewish Dialogue (2009); Future Christianity (2008); George Berkeley’s A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge (2005). Roger Scruton is currently a Visiting Professor in Philosophy at the University of Oxford and a Visiting Professor in the School of Philosophical, Anthropological and Film Studies at the University of St Andrews. He is also a Senior Fellow at the Ethics and Public Policy Center in Washington and a contributing editor to the New Atlantis. He is a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and a fellow of the British Academy. Among his recent books are The Face of God (Gifford Lectures) (2012); Our Church: A Personal History of the Church of England (2012); The Uses of Pessimism (2010); Beauty:

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A Very Short Introduction (2009); Green Philosophy, published in USA as How to Think Seriously About the Planet (2012). Steinar Stjernø is a Professor of Social Work and Social Policy and a former Rector of Oslo University College. He is a member of several research committees of the Norwegian Council of Research. In 2006 he was appointed by the Norwegian government to head a commission on reform of higher education. He has been active in the Socialist Left Party, becoming its deputy leader. He has published a range of books on poverty, social welfare agencies and comparative social policy, including Solidarity in Europe: The History of an Idea (2005); Work, Oil and Welfare: The Welfare State in Norway, co-authored with Knut Halvorsen (2008). Charles Webel is a Professor of International Economic Relations at the University of New York in Prague, which is affiliated with the State University of New York. He studied and taught at Harvard University and the University of California at Berkeley, where he obtained his PhD in Philosophy, Political and Social Thought. A three-time Fulbright Scholar, he  is also a graduate of the Psychoanalytic Institute of Northern California. He  has published many scholarly articles and seven books, including Peace and Conflict Studies (with David Barash), the standard text in that field; Terror, Terrorism, and the Human Condition; and The Politics of Rationality: Reason through Occidental History, which has been nominated for the David Easton Award. He is now working on its sequel, The Rationalization of the World.

Preface Solidarity: Unity or Diversity? Roger Scruton

What is the source of social cohesion, and how is cohesion achieved? Old ideas of social unity are now being replaced by an officially prescribed ‘diversity’ that makes little room for the experiences and emotions that have in the past held societies together. And the invocation of ‘solidarity’ is in part a response to this. It seems to express a condition of mutual commitment, without all the divisive loyalties among competitive groups. The term entered sociology with Durkheim, who saw the cohesion of human societies as founded on an unspoken sense of shared interests, common dangers and the need to stay together as a group. Peter Kropotkin’s philosophy of ‘mutual aid’ made use of a similar idea, and gave it an evolutionary significance that is being revived today in theories of ‘group selection’. On this understanding solidarity is the force that binds human beings together as a ‘we’, makes them alert to each other’s hopes and fears, and summons an immediate outrush of sympathy towards the one who is hurt or in need and also (though this is less often emphasised) a spontaneous desire to join forces with the successful. But a spectre haunted the world of Durkheim, the spectre of communism, busily recruiting people, ideas and theories to its comprehensive purpose. The term ‘solidarity’ entered the discourse of international socialism attached to the Marxist theory of the ‘class struggle’. It was the ‘solidarity of the working class’ that was to call upon our sympathies, not the solidarity of the bourgeoisie, or that of the nation-state, the church, the school or the ‘little platoon’. The promise of solidarity became an exclusive thing, tied to a political goal, and authorising the violent ‘struggle’ against all those who did not belong to it. This newspeak took up residence in the sociological language of postwar Britain, and in the Soviet propaganda machine of which British sociology was, in many ways, an offshoot. Solidarity was what we – the workers and the intellectuals – had; they – the bourgeoisie, the capitalists and the Americans – merely had deals. They lived by markets, whereas we lived by that warm, selfless bond that united the professor of sociology with the miner, the social worker with the immigrant and the editor of the New Left Review with the man who spent his holiday in a caravan. For ordinary English conservatives ‘solidarity’ became a threatening word. We could declare our ‘solidarity’ with the miners in their ‘struggle’ against Mrs Thatcher,

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but not with our country in its attempt to re-take the Falkland Islands from the Argentine Generals. It was, of course, a stroke of genius on the part of the Polish anti-communist movement (a) to declare itself as a trade union, and (b) to name itself ‘Solidarity’. For half a century the communists had built their claims to legitimacy on the idea of the ‘solidarity’ between the ‘vanguard party’ and the ‘working class’. And here was the working class, joined in a trade union, and declaring its ‘solidarity’ against the ‘vanguard party’! What were those well-meaning people, who had censored, imprisoned, tortured and where necessary ‘liquidated’ the surviving members of the ‘bourgeoisie’, to do when faced with this quite unexpected turn of events? They could try thinking of these shipyard workers and bus-drivers as ‘bourgeoisie’; but it did not really work. And they could express their ‘solidarity’ with the international workers’ movement, at its well-oiled meetings in Moscow; but they knew that the world was scorning them, and that it was only here and there, in British sociology departments, for example, that they were taken seriously. Well, we are all familiar with that bit of modern history. But where does it leave the concept of solidarity? When I first visited Poland and Czechoslovakia in 1979 I did not understand very much about how people lived under communism. But the feeling of communism came to me immediately like a slap in the face. I saw faces that did not smile except sarcastically, that did not look at you except suspiciously, that did not speak except in whispers. And in everything I felt the touch of a mysterious aggression. It was as though there were an omnipresent but secret enemy, and no one knew when or from where its blows would come. The communist world, as I encountered it, was haunted by fear. You would catch sight of it in the eyes that looked at you across a restaurant, in a tram, on a train – is that person watching me, following me? You would start awake in the night because the phone was ringing in your hotel bedroom, and be greeted by silence when you picked it up. In the street people hurried past each other, avoiding eye contact. In restaurants they whispered or murmured, or just sat in silence. At night, when the streets were deserted, you often heard the footsteps behind you, which stopped and started when you did. In the middle of a conversation you would realise that the other person was avoiding your questions or concealing the truth. And hanging in every plate-glass window, strung across the façades of buildings and displayed in red letters on the rooftops were the official slogans. ‘Forward with the Soviet People’, ‘Fight for Peace’, ‘Forward with Socialism for a Peaceful Future’, etc. Newspaper stories were more elaborate versions of the same nonsensical slogans. As Václav Havel wrote in his famous essay, ‘The Power of the Powerless’, people had learnt to ‘live within the lie’, since there was no safety outside it, and a manageable fear within. It is hard to convey that fear now, or the daily humiliations that it imposed. But at the time of my first visit to Poland Pope John Paul II had just been elected, and there was everywhere a sense that the time of truth had come. Within a few months Poland experienced the first stirrings of the Solidarity movement, and there was a sense – tentative as yet – that truth can burst through the veil of lies, however violently the lies are imposed. Lies can endure for a long time: but they require an ever-increasing



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force to maintain them. And eventually that force will be weakened from within by its own habit of lying to itself. The threat to its monopoly of power, the Party announced, had nothing to do with the Pope, or with popular feeling, or with the fact that the Polish people enjoyed other and more important sources of solidarity than the communists had provided them. The threat was brought about by ‘agents of imperialism’: the people were the dupes of external forces, briefly distracted from their underlying devotion to their Vanguard Party. And so it remained until 1989, as lie upon lie was heaped on the original one, and the truth was all but forgotten. In the Europe created by the new political class there is a kind of silence about communism – a refusal to discuss what it meant or to acknowledge the very great guilt of our political and intellectual elite in giving strength to it. We British are by no means innocent. The same lies that were spread in red letters on the buildings of Eastern Europe until 1989 were repeated by our leftist intellectuals and politicians – of course, in more ‘academic’ and scholarly versions. And most of those people would like to draw a veil over the past, and to downplay the very real crimes of which they were the accomplices. If you do not believe me I would recommend a reading of Eric Hobsbawm’s history of the twentieth century, The Age of Extremes. Hobsbawm was a lifelong member of the Communist Party, darling of the intellectual left in Britain, who was rewarded for his unswerving loyalty to the Soviet Union by being appointed a Companion of Honour, when Tony Blair was Prime Minister. His history books are standard texts in our schools, and if our children know anything about the twentieth century at all it is because they have picked up some fragments of information from Hobsbawm. So it is interesting to discover that, in The Age of Extremes, published in 1994, five years after the communist collapse, Hobsbawm summarises the Bolshevik Revolution in the same Marxist Newspeak that was taught to the Poles and the Czechs in their ‘official’ histories. He writes that Lenin acted on behalf of ‘the masses’, in the face of ruthless opposition from the ‘bourgeoisie’: ‘Contrary to the Cold War mythology, which saw Lenin essentially as an organizer of coups, the only real asset he and the Bolsheviks had was the ability to recognize what the masses wanted … (p. 61)’, and ‘if a revolutionary party did not seize power when the moment and the masses called for it, how did it differ from a non-revolutionary one?’ (p. 63)

Hobsbawm brushes away the question of who the ‘masses’ were, and whether they really called for the violence that the Party was about to impose on them. He quotes Lenin’s own sinister Newspeak with approval: ‘Who – he said so often enough – could imagine that the victory of socialism “can come about … except by the complete destruction of the Russian and European bourgeoisie?”.’ And without pausing to consider what that ‘complete destruction’ amounted to, Hobsbawm dismisses all objections to Lenin’s methods as though no question had ever been raised about them: Who could afford to consider the possible long-term consequences for the revolution of decisions which had to be taken now, or else there would be an

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Solidarity: Unity or Diversity? end to the revolution and no further consequences to consider? One by one the necessary steps were taken … (p. 64)

Whatever the Bolsheviks did was achieved by ‘the necessarily ruthless and disciplined army of human emancipation’ (p. 72), and on those grounds Hobsbawm is able to pass over all that Lenin actually did on his way to the ‘complete destruction’ of the bourgeoisie. And what a strange form this ‘emancipation’ took! Because Marxist history does not bother with things like law and judicial process, Hobsbawm sees no need to mention Lenin’s decree of 21 November 1917, which abrogated the courts, the bar and the legal profession, and left the people without the only protection that they had ever had from arbitrary intimidation and arrest. After all, it is only the bourgeoisie, who were in any case on their way to ‘complete destruction’, who would have recourse to law courts. Lenin’s founding of the Cheka, precursor of the KGB, and his empowering it to use all the terrorist methods required in order to express the will of the ‘masses’ against that of mere people, is of course not mentioned. Nor is the famine of 1921, the first of three man-made famines in early Soviet history, used by Lenin in order to impose the will of the ‘masses’ on those recalcitrant Ukrainian peasants who had yet to accept that description of themselves. Reading those pages of The Age of Extremes I found myself astonished that the book had not been dismissed as a scandal of the same order as David Irving’s whitewash of the Holocaust. But I was forced to acknowledge that the lies that had been briefly dispelled during the 1980s, when the real solidarity of the Polish people was visible to the world, have an awkward habit of returning. Those lies make people and their history so much easier to understand. They divide the world into ‘good’ and ‘evil’ forces, and dress up the good in a warm and sentimental language that justifies the resentment of the underdog and the exultant self-opinion of his intellectual champion. And this, I think, is what is so dangerous in the concept of solidarity: it can lend itself as easily to the expression of resentment as to the propagation of love. And it can provide a mask for the kind of belligerence that comes to the surface in revolutionary moments, and which enables hatred of ‘the bourgeoisie’, the ‘capitalists’, the ‘ruling class’ to disguise itself as love for ‘the working class’ or ‘the people’. But we must surely acknowledge that there is a radical difference between true solidarity, in which people join together for their common good, from solidarity shaped by aggression towards the ‘enemy within’. So let us look back at what the Polish workers actually meant when they adopted that label. The first thing to understand is that, although Solidarity described itself as a trade union, it was in fact a social movement, which included people of all professions and all walks of life. If it was also the voice of the ‘working class’ that was in part because, under communism, no other class was permitted to exist. To be more precise, it was the voice of a nation, which was rediscovering in itself the pre-political ties that bound it together: the Catholic Faith, the Polish language, the history and culture of a much violated ‘homeland’. It was affirming this national identity against a Party that had been imposed upon it by a foreign power. And the true solidarity that it expressed was the old-fashioned solidarity that we connect with the idea of the nation. It was not



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that sentimental bond between the proletariat and the intellectual which was the stuff of Soviet propaganda, and which could exist only by a constantly renewed suspicion of the ‘bourgeois’, ‘imperialist’ or even ‘Zionist’ conspirator who must be rooted out and liquidated. My experience of communism persuaded me that solidarity maintained in being by the fiction of an ‘enemy’ is not a unifying but a dividing force. The eerie sensation that hit me when I got off the plane in Warsaw in 1979, and which was amplified a hundredfold as I queued for a ticket at the grim concrete railway station amid silent crowds watched over by armed policemen, was of a society that had been entirely atomised by suspicion and fear. And this impression was confirmed time and again over the next ten years, as I came to know what life is like under the unblinking gaze of the communist panopticon. Nobody could be trusted, anybody might be reporting on you, and all the normal ways of associating peacefully – churches, clubs, discussion groups, musical evenings, dances, parties – were either controlled by the party or banned. And this had been brought about in the name of solidarity: a unity of the workers and the intellectuals in the face of the ‘imperialist’ threat. What the Poles themselves were seeking was another kind of unity, a creative rather than a destructive unity, a togetherness that enabled them to say ‘we’ and mean it. They found this in their faith and their sentiments of nationhood. These were, for most of them, objects of sincere affection, things on which they depended and which they could trust. Through them the spirit of cooperation once again entered their devastated world. People began to care about each other – to help those in need and to pool their resources for the common good. This was perhaps one of the most fascinating aspects of the changes that came about during the 1980s. The communists had closed down all the ‘little platoons’ of civil society, and made charity illegal – that, apparently, is what their kind of ‘solidarity’ required. But, in the new and awakening Poland, people began again to give to local causes, to raise money in secret for those in need, to organise private discussion groups and to join in pilgrimages and retreats. It was this reawakening of civil society that the communists most feared, and it should be seen for what it was – a rebirth of national sentiment. Underlying the Solidarity movement was the sense that ‘we’ are together in this world, not as members of the working class, not as communists, not even as Catholics, but as Poles. This positive solidarity is of enduring interest to us today. For we are witness to the fact that it is absent from large areas of our world. Iraqis do not feel about their country, its past and its people, what the Poles in the 1980s felt about theirs. At this moment there are people going from house to house in towns like Tikrit and Mosul, asking whether the inmates are Sunni or Shi’a, Muslim or Christian, and shooting those who give the wrong reply. Membership, in those places, is not defined in national or historical terms, but in terms of faith. And the evidence is that, when this happens, solidarity dwindles or disappears, as it did under communism. Solidarity switches from the positive sentiment, which causes each person to take the interests of his neighbour to heart, to the negative sentiment, which is fear of a common enemy. And soon the fear becomes ubiquitous, and all trust dissolves. Now that the spectre of communism has vanished, therefore, we have another spectre to deal with, which is radical Islam, and in particular the kind of Sunni Islam

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that puts ‘submission’ at the heart of the social order. In the nation states of Europe social unity is not imposed from above, nor is it generated by submission. It arises through free transactions, through give and take, and through the recognition of the right of individuals to have separate interests, separate beliefs and separate ways of life. It is my view that this ‘free solidarity’ is possible only when people relate to each other in something like the way the Poles related to each other, in those interesting days of their reawakening. Although the Catholic faith had a large part to play in the regeneration of trust between them, it was their assumption of a shared national identity that enabled them to create a civil society in which Atheists, Protestants and Jews were also included. The great question that European societies have wrestled with since the Enlightenment is how far, and with what strength, can this new form of solidarity extend. Can it become a universal sentiment, which makes no distinction between ‘us’ and ‘them’? But how could it abandon that distinction, without losing the sentiment of ‘we’? This is the question that the Poles now have, in a European Union that offers them the chance to flee their country forever. What room is there, in these new circumstances, for a form of solidarity based not in fear but in love? Or is solidarity finally to disappear, in a society founded on self-interest alone? Those, surely, are the great political questions of our time. And one proof of their importance is the eagerness with which the new political class avoids them. In the chapters that follow the issue of solidarity is approached from many angles and in many contexts. But an important question emerges from the discussions, which is that of the universal versus the particular. The universalist philosophy of communism, which recognised no borders, no privileged national identities, no traditional loyalties or ‘little platoons’, proved to be the most divisive and atomising force in recent history. The universal ummah of the Sunni Muslims, when made into the premise of politics and attached to a belief system that recognises no national boundaries, no dissent from orthodox doctrine, and no merely secular law, is also proving divisive in just the same way. On the other hand, the particular loyalty that defines the Western democracies – loyalty to a nation confined within legally recognised boundaries and ruled by a secular law that makes no distinctions on grounds of race, sex or religion – seems to have a remarkable ability to maintain social coherence and enduring peace among those who share it. When we look to solidarity as a universal motive, and as the solution to the great conflicts that threaten us, are we looking in the wrong place? Ought we to be looking for the small, the local, the committed and the neighbourly, rather than the global, the inclusive and the ‘non-discriminatory’? But in that case, what should be our attitude to those who fall outside the reach of our particular group – those to whom the ‘we’ does not extend? Can we not reach out to them nevertheless, from the premise of our shared humanity? Just what does that premise demand of us? The question is as urgent now as it was when Christ told the parable of the Good Samaritan. And the worst possible answer to it is that which seems to be currently most favoured, namely that the duty of care that we owe to others falls not on us but on the state.

1

Solidarity Beyond Europe? Steinar Stjernø

Introduction At the end of the eighteenth century in France, the concept of solidarity was transformed from being a legal concept, referring to a common responsibility for debts incurred by one of the members of a group, into a sociological and political one.1 During the French revolution, revolutionaries occasionally used ‘solidarity’ instead of ‘fraternity’ to denote a feeling of political community (Zoll 2000). In the early nineteenth century, French utopians and social philosophers such as Charles Fourier began to use solidarity as a concept denoting attitudes and relations characterised by reciprocal sympathy among persons who were bound together in a community. Fourier argued that solidarity should include sharing resources with people in need, a guaranteed minimum income, and public support for families. Pierre Leroux was the first to elaborate on the concept of solidarity in a systematic way when he published De l’humanité in 1840. Leroux’s point of departure was his criticism of a position that solidarity had to confront – Christian charity. He criticised Christian charity for being unable to reconcile self-love with the love of others, for considering the love of others as an obligation and not the result of a genuine interest in community with others. Besides that, equality played no role in Christian charity. Leroux wanted to supplant the concept of charity with the concept of solidarity, arguing that the idea of solidarity would be a more able component in the struggle for a justly organised society. He also rejected Hobbes’s and Rousseau’s idea of a social contract, and saw such a contract as a misconceived notion because it presupposed an atomised view of the individual (Leroux 1985 [1840]). Others used the term ‘solidarity’ to denote the social integration found in small peasant communities. Most often, this form of solidarity was romanticised, and was seen as being threatened by capitalism, industrialisation and liberalism. The common concern of French social philosophers was to find a way to combine individualism and collectivism. Solidarity was seen as a solution, both for those who cherished romantic or reactionary ideas about returning to the harmony and stability that allegedly ruled in the old society, and for utopian radicals and the emerging socialist movement. The concern about solidarity and social integration, and opposition to

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liberalism, came to be an enduring characteristic of sociological and political thought in France. Two hundred years later, solidarity has become a key concept not only in social democratic and socialist parties in Europe, but also in Christian democratic parties and in key EU documents. At the same time, it is a concept to which central social philosophers such as Jürgen Habermas and Richard Rorty devote considerable attention. In this chapter, I discuss the meaning of solidarity in European party politics. I further examine the extent to which the idea of solidarity is found in EU documents. Finally, if there is a European concept of solidarity, to what extent does it have political and practical implications in the relationships of the EU with developing nations?

1 Aspects of solidarity From its earliest usage, there were several ideas incorporated into the term solidarity. These ideas may be analysed by identifying four different aspects of the concept: The boundaries of solidarity – and its degree of inclusiveness. With whom should we show solidarity? Who should be included and who should be excluded? Is solidarity limited to the family, a social class, the nation? Should we draw the line at our national frontiers or should solidarity include those who are oppressed in the poor parts of the world? The foundation or sources of solidarity. Is solidarity built upon self-interest, class or religion? Is it founded on ‘sameness’, homogeneity and equality? Or does it spring from our interaction with other human beings, ethics, altruism, or the empathy we have with those who are suffering or are oppressed? The goal of solidarity. Should solidarity strengthen the working class in the struggle between classes? Should it unite different classes or the nation? Should it contribute to social change, reform or revolution, or should it create harmony and social integration and surmount class conflict and differences? The degree to which collective interests pre-empt individual interests. To what extent does solidarity imply that the individual should relinquish his or her autonomy and freedom in order to secure collective interests? To what extent does it permit individual freedom and self-realisation? How these four aspects were combined and structured determined the content of the many different ideas of solidarity that developed in Europe. Here, I concentrate on the two most important concepts of solidarity in European politics. First, the labour movement and social democratic parties developed a concept of solidarity in the struggle for justice and more equality. Second, social Catholicism and the Christian democratic parties formed an alternative concept of solidarity which was linked to justice and subsidiarity (see below). Today, the values of the umbrella organisations of the two types of parties, the European Socialist Party and the European People’s Party, reflect these two concepts of solidarity. We can distinguish between basic values, adjacent values and peripheral values (Freeden 1996). Basic values are those which the political party has declared to be



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precisely that, as indicated by the use of the terms ‘basic’, ‘fundamental’, ‘core’, ‘central’ or equivalent adjectives in the party programme. Adjacent and peripheral values are other values mentioned in the programmes without the same accolade. Basic, adjacent and peripheral values are what Gallie (1956) sees as being essentially contested concepts. Their meanings are not given and they are the object of continuous struggle, interpretation and re-interpretation by contesting participants. Values are identified by terms such as ‘freedom’, ‘justice’, ‘equality’, ‘solidarity’, ‘responsibility’, ‘human dignity’, ‘subsidiarity’, ‘love of one’s neighbour’, etc. When a set of basic values is linked together and defined in a stable way, we have a complete political language. The analysis is based on key documents – texts that have been authorised by social democratic and Christian democratic parties and their transnational organisations, such as platforms and programmes, and by the Catholic Church through papal encyclicals. In addition, I discuss values in key documents of the European Union (for a discussion of the sources, see Stjernø [2004]).

2 Labour movement solidarity The prototype for solidarity became the working-class solidarity that developed during and after the industrial revolution. Working-class solidarity was based upon the fusion of self-interest with the interests of the class. The individual was expected to subordinate himself to the collective and to realise his interests as a member of that collective. This idea of solidarity became known as class solidarity. It is based upon the common interest that workers have in opposing their class adversaries: it is solidarity between workers across national borders, epitomised in the famous slogan of the Communist Manifesto of 1848, ‘Workers of the world, unite’. Others, including farmers, the jobless poor, and all those people living in non-industrialised countries which were overwhelmingly populated by the poor, were excluded. Karl Marx rarely applied the term solidarity in his writings or in his speeches. He was generally reluctant to apply emotive terms, but seems to have to preferred ‘fraternal feelings’ when he found it necessary. Supporters of Marx adopted the term in the 1860s, but during the last part of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth century, concepts such as brotherhood, fraternity and unity were applied as frequently as solidarity. The revisionist of Marxism, Eduard Bernstein, contributed most to the modern idea of social democratic solidarity which became so influential, especially in Northern Europe. In his Preconditions of Socialism, published in 1899, Bernstein noted that Marxist predictions had not been fulfilled. Capitalism had survived a number of economic crises and recessions, and the working class had achieved higher wages and better working conditions. Social democracy could no longer wait for the breakdown of capitalism, but had to develop a concrete policy of reform and seek alliances with other classes and groups to establish a new majority in parliament. From this perspective, a restricted idea of class solidarity was not functional. In 1910, Bernstein published his book Die Arbeiterbewegung (‘The Labour Movement’). Here, a whole chapter was devoted to ‘concepts of rights and the ethics of the labour movements’. By and large, these were concepts which, until then, had been

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alien to Marxist theory. According to Bernstein, socialist ethics should be built upon three core elements – equality, solidarity, and freedom. The problem was, however, that equality and solidarity had to be balanced against freedom. He argued that it was not possible to have a strong measure of equality and solidarity if one wanted to have freedom at the same time (Bernstein 1910). Thus, a new and more complex idea had been presented, the idea of social democratic solidarity. The same year, the Nestor of Swedish social democracy, Ernst Wigforss, published ideas that were similar to those of Bernstein. In France, Jean Jaurès did the same, albeit with a somewhat different emphasis. In the United Kingdom, Richard Tawney formulated a social philosophy that furnished the Labour Party with a set of ethical elements (Padgett and Paterson 1991), but here social democracy developed without making solidarity such a key term. In the following decades, socialists in other countries contributed their own articulations. Later, a fourth value or core element – justice – was added to the construction of socialist ethics. Only a few socialist and social democratic parties introduced the concept of solidarity in their programmes before the conclusion of World War I. The establishment of solidarity as hegemonic among functionally equivalent terms such as ‘brotherhood’, ‘fraternity’, ‘worker unity’ took place at the same time that the meaning of solidarity was changed. Solidarity became a dominating value when the socialist parties of Europe became de-radicalised. From an early stage, socialist parties had been preoccupied and engaged with international issues, and believed in international cooperation, international classconsciousness, and anti-militarism in foreign affairs as guiding principles. For instance, the German SPD refused to support Germany’s attempt to extinguish the revolt in Southwest Africa in 1905. Nevertheless, with some exceptions, European socialists generally did not condemn colonial policy, and even supported it until 1914 (Eley 2002). The First World War, when workers fought against workers, was a strong setback for international worker solidarity. During the first part of the twentieth century, socialist and social democratic parties continued to support the colonial system and resisted national independence for the peoples of the Third World, although they often expressed sympathy for the living conditions of people in the colonies. When in power, the Labour Party granted independence to India and Pakistan. The French socialists (Section Française de l’Internationale Ouvrière) fought against independence for Algeria and supported the Suez intervention in Egypt in 1956. Thus, solidarity in this period was primarily a solidarity within national borders, with the aim of reducing social risks and constructing a welfare state. With increasing affluence, attention to suffering in poor countries of the South grew. The Norwegian Labour Party was a forerunner in using the language of solidarity about the relationship with poor nations in the 1953 election manifesto. For the protagonist of European social democracy – the German Social Democratic Party (SPD) – the concept of solidarity changed in 1959 with the Bad Godesberg Programme, which proclaimed solidarity as a basic value of socialism in association with justice, freedom, and responsibility. The programme declared that the basis for democratic socialism was Christian ethics, humanism, and classical philosophy. At the same time, the programme abandoned the socialist principle requiring the



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nationalisation of industry, and accepted the market economy. The programme argued for solidarity in the relationship between Germany and ‘underdeveloped nations’. In Scandinavia, the social democratic parties broadened their idea of solidarity to include not only workers, but also smallholders, small merchants, and white-collar employees, and subsequently to include the whole nation. At the same time, they shifted their conception of the basis of solidarity from class to ethics and altruism. These were key elements in their abandonment of Marxism and part of their social democratisation, which took place earlier in these parties than in the SPD. From the 1960s to the 1980s, solidarity with the Third World gradually became part of the modern social democratic ideology in party programmes. In France, it was the master of socialist rhetoric, François Mitterrand, who made solidarity an important concept in socialist programme vocabulary and in his own speeches during the presidential elections of 1981 and 1988. In Spain and Italy, socialist and social democratic parties incorporated solidarity into their programmes even later. As part of this process, the concept of solidarity was redefined and the basis of solidarity changed from that of class interest to acceptance of interdependence and empathy with the underprivileged and suffering. At the same time, the concept was broadened to include other social classes – the middle class, women, minorities of different kinds, and the Third World. Today, all social democratic parties in Western Europe regard the concept of solidarity as a basic value together with freedom and justice and, to a varying degree, equality. The different aspects of solidarity were changed and structured in a new way during the first part of the twentieth century as follows (Table 1): Table 1  Marxist and modern social democratic concepts of solidarity Foundation

Objective/ function

Inclusiveness

Collective orientation

Classic Marxist solidarity

Class interests Recognition of sameness

Realise class interests Revolution Socialism

Restricted: Strong: Individual Only the autonomy is not a working class, theme but in all nations

Modern social democratic solidarity

Interdependence Acceptance of difference Empathy Compassion Ethics and morality

Create sense of community/ social integration Share risks Self-interest?

Very broad: The entire nation The Third World Women Minorities

Medium to weak? Individual freedom is an accepted value that limits the collective orientation of solidarity. Increasing emphasis on the individual freedom to choose and on flexibility

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For most of its history, the British Labour Party has been different from the other social democratic parties in Europe in terms of programme language. The programmes of the Labour Party have been written in a more down-to-earth style, avoiding Marxist language in the early phase of its development from 1900 to World War II and, in recent decades, avoiding any declaration of any set of values as being basic. It has never adopted the standard values that make up the political languages of other European social democracies (McKibbin 1990). When the Labour Party came into power in 1997 with Tony Blair as Prime Minister, it was with a programme that lacked traditional and highly valued terms such as ‘solidarity’ and ‘justice’ in the party election manifesto.

3 Catholic social teaching The labour movement and social democracy did not monopolise the concept of solidarity. A permanent challenger came to be social Catholicism, which developed another ideology to meet the challenges of industrialisation, liberalism and individualism. In the latter part of the nineteenth century, the Catholic Church witnessed with alarm that competitive capitalism uprooted local communities, concentrated workers in miserable conditions in the cities, and created great wealth for the few. Both increased individualism and the working-class struggle for socialism threatened the position of Catholicism and the Church. In Germany, social philosophers such as the Catholic bishop von Ketteler in the second part of the nineteenth century, Heinrich Pesch during the early decades of the twentieth century and Oswald von Nell-Breuning and Franz Klüber in the postSecond World War period developed Catholic social philosophy by discussing values such as justice and solidarity. Von Ketteler’s ideas became the basis for the development of a Catholic idea of solidarity and influenced the encyclical Rerum Novarum issued by Pope Leo XIII in 1891. It denounced both liberalism and socialism, and argued for social integration on the basis of justice. Leo XIII’s concerns for promoting social integration represented an attempt to modernise the Church, and brought the Church closer to participation in practical politics. He promoted social reforms and just wages based upon family values. A network of intermediate institutions should exist between the families and the state. Thus, the state should not monopolise social responsibility, but assist such institutions in fulfilling their role as intermediate institutions. None the less, Leo affirmed the paternalist tradition, and he rejected the idea that the working class should take political action. Change should not be forced by concerted actions of the underprivileged. Instead, those who enjoyed privileges and benefited from the existing order should initiate necessary changes. His key concepts were friendship and fraternal love. One hundred years later, Pope John Paul II regarded the idea of friendship in the Rerum Novarum as a precursor to the Catholic concept of solidarity. After the turn of the century, Heinrich Pesch, the spiritual father of what was labelled Christlicher Solidarismus (‘Christian solidarism’), developed an extensive theory about how a market economy could be reconciled with solidarity – and avoiding the weaknesses of both individualism and collectivism.



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In his 1931 encyclical entitled Quadragesimo Anno, Pope Pius XI, like Leo XIII, directed his encyclical against the reckless competition and untamed individualism of capitalist society. Pius had witnessed the establishment of the modern state in its totalitarian version and worried that the state might destroy civil society by absorbing the functions of professional and social organisations. On the other hand, he recognised that many problems could only be solved by the state. He warned that ‘as it is wrong to take from the individual and entrust to society what may be managed by private initiative, it is an injustice, a sin, and a disturbance of the right order if larger and higher organisations usurp functions that might be provided by smaller and lower instances’. This became a classic formulation of the principle of subsidiarity, and this idea was now definitively integrated into Catholic social teachings. Pius’s elaboration of the idea of subsidiarity implied a careful balance between the rights and responsibilities of the individual, the family, and of other societal organisations, including the state. However, he sought to transcend, and not to supplant, personal and private charity and introduced the notions of justice and of social charity. Because market economy was a blind force and a violent energy, it had to be restrained and guided wisely to be useful, he wrote. Justice should inspire the institutions and social life of society and constitute the social and legal order to which the economy should conform. Social charity should be the spirit of this order, guarded and maintained by public authority. This combination of justice, social charity and public authority represented a new step in the direction of a Catholic concept of solidarity. The term ‘solidarity’ found papal authorisation in Pius XII’s encyclical Summi Pontificatus (‘On the Unity of Human Society’) – directed against the German and the Soviet Union invasion of Poland (Beyer 2014). Here, Pius condemned totalitarianism and racism, arguing for the ‘unity of the human race’ and for the law ‘of solidarity and charity, which is dictated and imposed by our common origin and by the equality of rational nature in all men …’ When the great moderniser of the Church John XXIII was elected pope in 1958, he reoriented the relationship between the Church and the world by emphasising that the Christian form of presence in the world should not be one of power, but one of service. In the encyclical Mater et Magistra in 1961, he elaborated on solidarity in a more concrete way than Pius XII. The idea of solidarity had to be balanced against the already fully developed concept of subsidiarity. The relationship between the two was to be a distinguishing mark of Catholic social ethics, and later, of Christian democracy. Here, John called for government action to assist those in need and to reduce economic inequalities in society and the world. The solidarity of mankind and the awareness of brotherhood to which Christ’s teaching leads, demands that the different nations should give each other concrete help of all kinds, not only to facilitate movement of goods, capital and labour, but also to reduce inequalities between them (John XXIII 1964). In these short sentences, the essence of the Catholic concept of solidarity is made clear. Compassion and collective action are called for to help the poor and the underprivileged. Individual charity is transcended because the needs of the poor are simply too massive. Mediating institutions, or the state if necessary, are needed to act in order to reduce the inequalities found in the world community. Solidarity is

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called for to integrate the different classes in society; their conflicting interests must be transcended in order to establish peace and harmony. Mater et Magistra linked solidarity to justice, and pointed out that justice was a central concern for the issues of poverty and peace, and insisted that the rich should do much more than simply give alms. Moreover, John argued for the establishment of a new economic world order. In the ensuing decades, successive popes developed a full language of solidarity in their encyclicals. John XXIII’s successor, Paul VI, had travelled extensively in Africa and in Latin America before he was elected pope. He called for solidarity and more concrete and concerted action in the struggle against hunger and misery in the world. His encyclical Populorum Progressio in 1967 devoted an entire chapter to the development of humanity based on solidarity and argued that free trade was unfair if it was not subordinated to the goals of social justice. John Paul II, who succeeded Paul VI in 1978, was a pioneer in making solidarity a dominant theme and a key concept in the social teaching of the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church in Poland saw itself as representing the Polish people against the Communist regime (Osa 1997), and John Paul II’s close ties with Polish Catholicism contributed to his preoccupation with solidarity. The election of Karol Wojtyła as pope in 1978 and his subsequent visit to Poland the following year inspired hope for change, and released civic engagement for the promotion of civil rights. In his book The Struggle and the Triumph, Lech Walesa (1992) describes how striking workers in Gdansk in 1980 fastened a cross, an image of Virgin Mary and a portrait of John Paul to the gates of the shipyard. When Solidarity (Polish: Solidarność) was established the same year, the name represented the confluence of two concepts of solidarity described above – working-class solidarity and Catholic solidarity. A third idea should be mentioned as well – that of solidarity between two of the key groups in this movement – the skilled workers and the intellectuals. Cirtautas (1997) has shown how the ideas of the left-wing intellectual Adam Michnik and the Catholic humanist Józef Tischner developed in tandem during the 1980s.2 Both emphasised human dignity, human rights, freedom, tolerance, inclusiveness, and solidarity. The statements and statutes of Solidarity reflected these values, elaborated on them and gave them expression in the programme as demands for social justice, social equality, right to work and social protection. In Sollicitudo Rei Socialis (‘On Social Concern’), John Paul II declared that solidarity was a key value of the Church and defined the relationship between solidarity and other key concepts in Catholic social teaching. Since nations and individual human beings are dependent upon one another economically, culturally and politically, solidarity is the adequate moral and social attitude, he wrote. Solidarity is not a diffuse feeling of compassion, but a firm and lasting commitment to the best for all. Solidarity helps us to see the other, whether the other is a person, a people or a nation (John Paul II 1989). In Centesimus Annus, in 1991, he developed a complete language of solidarity close to that of Tischner. On the basis of his re-reading of Rerum Novarum 100 years after it was first published, he linked solidarity to a defined set of other key concepts: personalism, love, the common good, subsidiarity, freedom and justice. Personalism means that an individual becomes a person through his or her relationships to others, and the social character of a human being is realised in different intermediary groups,



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beginning with the family. The concept of solidarity is closely associated to the concepts of the common good and to the idea of justice. Today, justice means aiding entire marginalised nations and allowing them to enter into the circle of economic and human development. To achieve this, it is necessary to change life-style, ways of production and consumption, and the structures of power that govern the societies of today, John Paul II argued. With the publication of Centesimus Annus, John Paul II authorised a complete language of solidarity in Catholic social teachings, and had defined the relationship of solidarity to other key concepts such as the person, the common good, justice and subsidiarity.

4 From social Catholicism to Christian democratic political theory In the latter part of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth, parties inspired by Catholic social teaching were established in some European countries, for instance Das Zentrum in Germany and Partito Popolare Italiano in Italy. These parties drew a boundary against liberalism and made the conditions of labour a key issue. For these parties, solidarity was a cross-class feeling, not a class solidarity against a defined enemy. After World War II, Christian democratic parties took up the traditions from these parties and from Catholic social teaching. German Catholic theologians continued to be preoccupied with solidarity. Oscar von Nell-Breuning argued in his Zur Christlichen Gesellschaftslehre (‘On Christian Teaching about Society’) that the basic law of Christian solidarity is opposed to individual and group egoism which encourages people to place self-interest above the common good, and blocks social commitment. Franz Klüber, a professor of Christian sociology, listed three basic principles of Catholic social teaching: the principle of the person (distinct from that of the individual), the principle of solidarity, and the principle of subsidiarity. In Italy, the leader of the Christian Democratic Party (DC), De Gasperi, linked solidarity closely to the key value of social justice. Human solidarity and social justice meant fraternity between human beings, and these concepts should work in minds and conscience. What we need is a people’s ‘solidarism’ in which labour and capital are interwoven and the prevalence of labour is increasing, he said (De Gasperi 1956 [1949]). In the succeeding years, DC programmes and key documents repeated and elaborated upon these values and concepts. Family values, ethical values, moral conscience, agricultural reform, defence of small property and business, and social justice were established anew as Christian democratic ideology. Christian fraternity was once again emphasised as the social cement of society – directed against unfettered egoism and individualism as well as against socialism and collectivism. In the first years after the war, the DC campaigned for reforms to social security that confirmed the principle of solidarity to both subordinated and independent workers. It further declared that solidarity should rule between the peoples of the old Europe, and that solidarity with all peoples of the world should be established.

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In Germany, the Christian Democratic Party (CDU), which was established in 1945, gradually integrated these values into its programmes. The Berliner Programm of 1971 introduced most key concepts of the modern Christian democratic ideology. The programme stated that CDU politics should be based on the principles of Christian responsibility, and that the aim of CDU politics should be the freedom of the individual, the responsibility of the person, justice, equal opportunity, recognition of the commitment to society, and solidarity between all citizens. Four years later, the programme declared freedom, justice and solidarity to be the basic values of the party. For the first time, a CDU programme applied solidarity to the relationship with the Third World, although papal teaching had already been doing this for a long time. Thus, a broad concept of solidarity had been established. Social democratic parties at this time had not started to use the concept to describe relationships with the poor peoples of world. Nor did they use it to describe the relationship between the peoples of Europe in the way that the DC frequently came to do in the following years.

5 The common basic values of competing parties There are some common elements in the two concepts of solidarity described above. First, they share the idea that human beings are bound together in interdependence, and that ethics is a key part of the foundation of solidarity. Second, solidarity implies a willingness to mitigate the negative social effects of the market and to use the state to protect individuals against social perils. Thus, it is associated with a positive attitude towards the use of government power to intervene actively in society through economic and social policies. Third, both concepts of solidarity see social integration and social inclusion as an objective. Fourth, citizens and states should exercise solidarity with poor people in nations beyond the borders of Europe. This does not mean that these parties have identical views of solidarity. As shown in Table 2 there are different concepts of certain aspects of solidarity. Not surprisingly, social democratic and Christian democratic parties see the basis of solidarity from different viewpoints. Whereas social democratic solidarity is based on secular conceptions of ethics and morality, altruism and compassion, Christian democratic conceptions mirror Catholic social teaching. Christian ethics are emphasised and associated with the dignity of human beings and their personal responsibility to what God has created. Whereas the objective or function of solidarity is seen in a similar way, Christian democratic solidarity emphasises inter-class integration, while social democracy more frequently emphasises solidarity with women and minorities. The greatest difference is the degree of collective orientation of the two concepts, where social democratic solidarity is the more collective. How solidarity is associated with other key concepts refines its meaning and clarifies the difference between social democratic and Christian democratic solidarity. The configuration of justice, equality, and solidarity conveys different message from the configuration of justice, solidarity, subsidiarity and personal responsibility. Whereas the first signals a political will to use government power to redistribute and give priority to collective values, the second signals more reluctance to public engagement



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Table 2  Modern social democratic and Christian democratic concepts of solidarity Foundation

Objective/ function

Inclusiveness

Collective orientation

Modern social democratic solidarity

Interdependence Acceptance of difference Empathy Compassion Ethics and morality

Create sense of community/ social integration Share risks Self-interest?

Very broad: The whole nation The Third World Women Minorities

“Medium/weak?” Individual freedom is an accepted value that limits solidarity Increasing emphasis on the individual freedom to choose and on flexibility

Christian democratic solidarity

Man is created in the image of God. Ethics are inspired by the Christian understanding of humankind. Human dignity Interdependence Individual responsibility to participate and contribute to God’s work

Social Broad integration Inter-class Social harmony Poor people Justice

Weaker The idea of the person and the idea of subsidiarity balance the collective aspects of solidarity

in social services and a propensity to use tax policy to stimulate personal initiative and responsibility. The set of values in social democratic programmes may still be distinguished from the configuration of basic Christian democratic values – primarily by Christian democracy’s linking of subsidiarity, the person and personal responsibility to freedom, justice and solidarity. What about Norberto Bobbio’s (2004 [1994]) claim that equality is the primary dividing line between the left and the right in European politics? Equality has been declared a basic value in most social democratic parties, but has not been assigned such in most Christian democratic parties. Besides, an analysis of party programmes also demonstrates that social democratic parties are more inclined to demand redistribution through the tax system than are Christian democratic parties. Thus, we can support Bobbio’s claim – at least partially. The demand for more equality – or, less inequality – distinguishes the rhetorical positions of parties on the left and right.

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Nevertheless, we should note that the social democratic concept of justice seems to drift towards the Christian democratic concept of justice – reducing the emphasis of redistribution and increasing the emphasis on balance between effort or contribution and benefits as recent reforms of old age pensions in Europe illustrate. Such redefinitions will have implications for the concept of solidarity as well, bringing the social democratic concept closer to the Christian democratic concept. Thus, we may note tendencies towards convergence, making political ideologies less clear-cut and giving them a more hybrid character.

6 A European concept of solidarity? The motives behind the creation of the European Community are controversial. Urwin (1991) asserts that the founding fathers saw their undertaking as both an economic and a political undertaking. Anderson (2009) emphasises the Realpolitik and argues that different national interests resulted in a common ambition of securing stability and economic growth. Most politicians saw peace as a precondition for economic growth, and for most politicians the economic advantages of a customs union or a looser concept of a free trade area were decisive. There was a strong Christian democratic presence in continental governments during the discussion on the European Coal and Steel Community in the early 1950s, and Christian democratic politicians took part in a transnational network that contributed to shared views on European collaboration (Kaiser 2007, 2009). For some of these, such as the Italian De Gasperi, their Christian democratic ideology and the idea of European solidarity were notable.3 However, most authors do not emphasise values or political ideology as a central issue (Patel, 2012), and the Treaty of Rome did not reflect specific Christian democratic values. The text contained no direct reference to values at all, but concentrated upon the implementation of the four freedoms, customs and the institutional setup of the common market, and it took some time until the EC started developing a common normative framework. Christian democratic and social democratic parties developed their ideologies within their national contexts, but in frequent contact with their sister parties in other countries. Already by 1953, Christian democratic members of parliament in the six member states founded a European group within the parliamentary assembly of the European Coal and Steel Community. In the 1950s, centre-left positions within Christian democracy were weakened, and centre-right politicians with a strong belief in subsidiarity and the market became more influential (Kaiser 2007). Christian democrats actively supported the establishment of the European People’s Party (EPP) in 1976, and the common adherence to the EPP of Conservative and Christian democratic parties contributed to an increasing similarity in programme ideology of European centre-right parties. At the Athens congress in 1992, the EPP approved a platform that spelt out Christian democratic values. This platform declared the core values in Catholic social teaching to be basic values for the EPP – personalism, freedom and responsibility, equality, justice, subsidiarity and solidarity. These values are said to be interdependent, of equal importance and universally applicable. The



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programme declared that freedom was the basis for justice and solidarity, and these values were indissolubly linked to each other. The platform criticised neoliberalism because it ignored the social dimensions of the free market, and argued for a federal Europe. However, the formulations about subsidiarity were more prominent than references to solidarity between the peoples and member states. A similar development took place among European social democratic parties, although the road to set up a transnational European social democratic party was more troublesome than for the Christian democrats. This did not take place until 1992 following the establishment of the Party of European Socialists (PES), stimulated by the trends towards integration in the EU. The PES inherited a language of solidarity from the Socialist International, which the SI had adopted in 1976, applying it to the relationship with the Third World, future generations and the environment, occasionally associated with justice. Gradually, these normative changes within the two most influential political blocs in the EC were reflected in EC documents. With the Treaty of Maastricht, the name of the community was changed from the European Community to the European Union to signal a more ambitious objective of cooperation and integration. Article 2 of the Treaty emphasised not only economic goals such as non-inflationary growth, but a high level of employment and of social protection, economic and social cohesion and solidarity. Finally, the Treaty of the European Union in 2009 included all the positive terms from the ideological vocabulary of the three main political strands in European politics – liberalism, Christian democracy and social democracy. Besides competitiveness and free and just trade, ‘The Union is founded on the values of respect for human dignity, freedom, democracy, equality …’ Pluralism, tolerance, justice, solidarity and equality between men and women were to prevail (Article 2). The preamble to the treaty declared the desire of the member states ‘to deepen the solidarity between their peoples’. It further confirmed their attachment to ‘fundamental social rights’ as defined in the European Social Charter and in the Community Charter of Fundamental Social Rights of Workers. These documents contained a long list of social rights for workers, children and the disabled. Among these was the right to organise and bargain collectively, the right to vocational training, to social security, to benefit from social welfare services, social and medical assistance. Thus, the treaty depicted a European social model, in contrast to the neoliberal view that trade unions are a threat and that social security is a burden on a productive economy. The analysis of EU documents has demonstrated that a European concept of solidarity exists and is located in a specific political language with other normative concepts. The common core of all interpretations of solidarity is that some restrictions on the free market are legitimate and sometimes necessary. On the one hand, this discourse is distinguishable from both Anglo-Saxon, particularly American liberalism, and from Northern social democratic political discourse. On the other, it consists of a series of ideological concepts from all the three strands of European political thought. Subsequently, it is a part of a hybrid ideology with a set of flexible concepts, making it possible to stretch solidarity in different directions and redefine it

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according to the needs and circumstances and redefinitions of other key concepts such as justice, subsidiarity and freedom.

7 Testing European solidarity: the financial crisis In the years following the financial crisis of 2008, the idea of solidarity in the treaty was tested, and the flexibility and the continuing contestability of the European concept of solidarity became distinct. The treaty emphasises the importance of the solidarity between member states and citizens, but this idea has not been influential in the years following the outbreak of the financial crisis of 2008. The idea of a social market has been played down or redefined, with less emphasis on ‘social’ and more on ‘market’ and ‘financial stability’. The German demand for economic responsibility has made Keynesian countercyclical economic policy impossible. Austerity policies in Southern European member states have resulted in cuts in pensions and other social and health benefits, privatisation of public services, increasing unemployment, poverty and inequality, contrary to most meanings of solidarity. On the other hand, the German and EU demand for austerity was coupled with the creation of the European Financial Stability Facility financed by Germany and other relatively affluent euro-area member states. This can be considered as an expression of solidarity with the crisis-ridden member states. It was based not only on altruism in the contributory states, but also on the feeling of a common destiny and common interests, since the bankruptcy of Greece (for instance) could have a strongly negative impact on the contributory states as well. This was also the case when the European Central Bank decided to assist Italy by buying Italian bonds. Demands for austerity do not conform with the concept of solidarity and with the key role of Keynesian economic policy of the social democratic and socialist parties. It is this concept of solidarity Habermas calls for when he says that a Europe-wide solidarity cannot develop if social inequalities between the member states become permanent structural features and hence reinforce the lines separating rich and poor nations (Habermas 2012). However, austerity conditions could be reconciled with a Christian democratic concept of solidarity. This concept is modified by responsibility and justice, and in this context responsibility could mean that states which have behaved irresponsibly should take action themselves. The Christian democratic and the liberal concept of justice implies that there should be a balance between the assistance that one receives and one’s own contribution or effort. In this perspective, it is difficult to blame Germans (who may retire at 67) for their reluctance to assist Greeks to retire with a pension at 65. The political language of European solidarity in EU documents may have contributed to a more common political language among political elites, but it is certainly not firmly rooted in the populace of the member states. The German debate, where complaints about the ‘lazy Greeks’ could be heard, was reflected in Greece by corresponding negative feelings towards Germany. Thus, it is highly doubtful that the crisis contributed to solidarity at the grass roots level in the two member states. The Eurobarometer polls demonstrate that the crisis has had a negative impact on the trust



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and image of the EU among its citizens and reduced the belief that their voices count in the EU. Whereas, prior to 2008, between 44 and 50 per cent of EU citizens said that they tended to trust the EU, only 31 per cent held the same view in 2013. The same proportion said that they had a positive image of the union, while 66 per cent totally disagreed that their voice counted. In Southern Europe, the proportion of those totally disagreeing was largest – around 80 per cent (European Commission 2013). This hardly corresponds with the ambitions of the Treaty of Maastricht of an ‘ever closer union’ among the peoples of Europe. Habermas (2013) maintains that the assumption that unrestrained competition in accordance with fair rules would lead to similar labour costs and equal levels of prosperity has proved wrong. Neither has the provision of loans been helpful to over-indebted states so that they could improve their competitiveness. Instead, what is required is solidarity as a cooperative effort from a shared political perspective to promote growth and competitiveness for the euro-zone as a whole. This would require that Germany and other prosperous countries should accept a redistribution of resources from these states to less affluent states in the long-term interest of the former as well.

8 The EU, developing countries and global solidarity The EU is the largest trading bloc in the world. With imports of almost 2000 billion euros a year and one third of all foreign direct investment in the world, the EU as a market participant4 cannot but have a global influence, and its trade policies have major consequences for the developing world. First, I shall briefly describe the role of global solidarity and other values in EU documents. Second, I shall comment on its positions in international organisations such as the WTO where the interests of the EU can conflict with the interests of developing countries. Third, I describe the volume of development aid of its member states compared to that of other nations, and further compare the attitudes towards developmental aid of citizens of EU member countries with those of other countries. As noted earlier, a number of key concepts in EU documents are ambiguous. They are often easy to redefine according to the position of the stakeholders. This applies to international solidarity as well, where solidarity with people of other nations – as stated bluntly in the treaty – should be balanced in relation to the interests of EU citizens as well as its member states. Ian Manners (2008) has argued that the EU is a normative power in world politics. In the years following Manners’s early article ‘Normative Power Europe’ (2002), there has been a growing number of contributions about the normative influence of the EU in different fields of international politics and the relationship between normative statements in EU documents and its political behaviour on the international scene.5 In his analysis of EU documents approved prior to the 2009 treaty, Manners identified nine principles constituting the normative basis of the European Union, including social solidarity, human rights and sustainable development. In contrast, in their The Political History of European Integration, historians Schulz-Forberg and Stråth (2010) argue that there is a gap between European

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integration and democracy on the one hand and its institutional capacity to follow up what is mapped out by language on the other. Without entering into a debate about building democracy through the expansion of the market, I will briefly discuss the extent to which a discrepancy does exist between what the treaty stipulates about international solidarity and EU policies towards developing countries.6 Under the heading ‘Development Cooperation’, the Treaty of Maastricht stated that EU policy should foster sustainable economic, social development as well as the campaign against poverty in the developing countries. However, many non-aid EU policies in the 1990s failed to take into account the needs and interests of developing countries. In 2005, however, there was a change of EU interest in developing countries marked by the adoption of the European Consensus on Development, followed three years later by an increase in the volume of foreign aid (Carbone 2008). Two years later, the Treaty of Lisbon included this article about international solidarity, which later became part of the Treaty of the European Union as well: In its relations with the wider world, the Union shall uphold and promote its values and interests and promote the protection of its citizens. It shall contribute to peace, security and the sustainable development of the Earth, solidarity and mutual respect among peoples, free and fair trade, eradication of poverty and the protection of human rights, in particular the rights of the child, as well as to the strict observance and the development of international law, including respect for the principles of the United Nations Charter. (Articles 3, 5)

The Treaty of Maastricht introduced a new framework for development policy with the principles of coordination, complementarity and coherence. Coordination meant that member states and the Commission were obliged to coordinate their aid programmes while complementarity meant that the programmes of the Commission should complement those of the member states. Most relevant here is the principle of coherence requiring that the EU should take development objectives into account in all policies affecting poor countries outside the EU.

9 EU trade policy As already noted, there are potential inherent conflicts concerning the role of the EU on the international scene. According to the treaty, the EU’s policy is to be guided by the interests of EU citizens, international solidarity, as well as principles of free and fair trade. It should be no surprise that self-interest plays a central role in government action – or in this case the actions of the European Commission. Thus, the question is not whether the EU has abandoned self-interest, but to what extent it has taken into consideration the interests of developing countries in international organisations and negotiations such as GATT and the WTO. After the Treaty of Maastricht, African analysts expressed concern that the internal market and a common EU trade policy would have negative consequences for African countries (Kwarteng 1993). The fear was that African countries would encounter EU protectionism in some fields and ‘ultra-liberalisation’ in others. In 1995, the WTO



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succeeded GATT as the most important meeting place for negotiations on agricultural and industrial commodities, services, patent rights and foreign investments, and this had implications for the EU. Following up the Treaty of Lisbon, the Commission in 2009 published Global Europe. This document defined in detail the goals and principles for EU trade policy. The former were to increase EU global competitiveness and job growth, while the latter were defined as involving ‘free and fair trade’. Tariffs were to be abandoned, and markets abroad were to be opened for EU exports. Except for a comment that the EU should encourage its free-trade partners to facilitate access for the least developed countries to their markets, nothing was said about solidarity or other normative aspects of trade between developed and non-developed nations. The current neoliberal position of the EU and US has been that free trade and economic openness will ultimately be to the advantage of all. Birdsall (2007) argues that openness is not necessarily good for the poor, but that does not imply it is necessarily bad for the poor either. In brief, it depends on the timing and the definition of openness. The conventional view is that EU-subsidised exports compete unfairly with developing country production and that high tariff barriers prevent developing countries from exporting agricultural products to the EU (Carbone 2008). The EU has sided with the US in resisting liberalisation of trade in agricultural products, while simultaneously requiring liberalisation of trade for industrial products and services, often against the interests of developing countries.7 Recently, Bretherton and Vogler (2012) have criticised EU fishing policy for being incompatible with notions of equity between North and South. Slocum-Bradley and Bradley (2010) concluded in an analysis of EU partnerships with African, Caribbean and Pacific states (ACP) that EU policies failed to promote sustainable development and did not encourage a reduction of poverty and the gradual integration of developing nations into the world economy. Others have maintained that the EU has abused its power advantage and imposed its political will and economic agenda, behaved paternalistically, dictated how aid should be used, and ‘in some ways contributed to further deprivation in ACP states and regions’ (Slocum-Bradley and Bradley 2010). The analysis of the European Union as a trade power by Meunier and Nicolaïdis (2011) concluded that the EU increasingly uses market access as a bargaining instrument in the domestic arena of its trading partners, and that it seeks to spread the ‘European model’ to the rest of the world in a manner akin to neo-colonialism. These researchers describe a conflict between a professed commitment to multilateralism and the EU’s practice of liberalism, and between free trade as an end in itself and trade as a weapon by which to pursue self-interested goals.

10 Development aid European countries provide more than half of the world’s development aid. Whereas the Commission has a sole responsibility for trade policy on the international scene, development policy is a shared responsibility between the Commission and the member states, and the aid of the member states is by far larger than that of the EU

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institutions (Grimm, Gänzle and Makhan 2012). A change of EU development policy took place after 2000 when poverty eradication and partnership came higher on the EU agenda. The Commission became more active in this field, and the volume of development aid increased. In 2002, the Commission and other EU institutions signed the European Consensus on Development. Poverty eradication was to be a prioritised goal and EU values should be the foundation of dialogue and the relationship with developing countries: EU partnership and dialogue with third countries will promote common values of respect for human rights, fundamental freedoms, peace, democracy, good governance, gender equality, the rule of law, solidarity and justice. The EU is strongly committed to effective multilateralism whereby all the world’s nations share responsibility for development. (Article 13)

Representatives from the EU Commission, EU member states and other industrialised and non-industrialised countries as well as civil society organisations have met at international conferences on several occasions to discuss partnership for development. In 2011, representatives at the High Level Forum held at Busan, Korea, reaffirmed their respective commitments to scale up development cooperation (Fourth High Level Forum on Aid Effectiveness 2011). Unfortunately, after a long period of growth, many EU countries and other developed countries deemed it necessary to reduce their development aid in 2011. In spite of the ambitions of the Commission, it has not succeeded in having a more significant role in coordinating aid and forging a common EU development policy. Makhan, Gänszle and Grimm (2012) call for a less rhetorical and more pragmatic approach. Contrary to trade policy, development aid seems to be more disputed within the EU. Non-governmental organisations and some small member states such as the Netherlands and the Scandinavian countries have criticised the EU for not responding with adequate aid to the need of the developing countries (see Carbone 2011). Carbone (2011) considers the results of the EU’s reinforced attention to development as mixed because it conflicts with the EU’s emphasis on dialogue in negotiations on the one hand and conditions for aid on the other. Asymmetric power between the EU and governments of developing countries characterises these negotiations. However, the EU has continued to claim that poverty eradication should be a main objective for development aid. OECD data demonstrate that although the US is the largest donor by volume, aid from EU countries (27) constitutes twice as much in terms of GNI compared to the US.8 However, only the development aid of Sweden, Denmark and the Netherlands (0.71 – 0.99 per cent of gross national income) constitutes more than the UN target (0.7 per cent of GNI). The variation between EU countries is considerable, with the Southern European countries far below average (0.13–0.27 per cent of GNI). However, the development aid of most EU15 countries constitutes relatively more of GNI than that of AngloSaxon countries outside the EU (the US, Canada, Australia).9 Hence, we must conclude that to the extent development aid is an institutional indicator of solidarity, European solidarity with poor nations is modest, but stronger than that of other developed countries.



Solidarity Beyond Europe? Sweden Denmark Netherlands UN-Target UK Finland Ireland Belgium France Germany Australia Canada Austria Portugal US Japan Spain Italy Greece

19 0.99 0.84

0.71 0.7 0.56 0.53 0.48 0.47 0.45 0.38 0.36 0.32 0.28 0.27 0.19 0.17 0.15 0.13 0.13 0.2 0.4 0.6

0

0.8

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Figure 1.1  Official Development Aid 2012. Per cent of gross national income Source: OECD DAC statistics www.oecd.org/stats/oda2012-interactive.htm (accessed 15 January 2014)

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25.3

41.9

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20.60

31.9

50.6

50.9

64.7

To what extent do the attitudes of European citizens to global issues reflect solidarity? Unfortunately, comparable data may help us to answer this question to only a limited degree. However, World Values Survey 2005–8 contains some questions about citizens’ attitudes to foreign aid.

Figure 1.2  Willingness to pay higher taxes in order to increase foreign aid. Per cent who agree that taxes should be increased. World Values Survey 2005–8. Source: http://www.worldvaluessurvey.org/ (accessed 15 January 2014)

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Figure 1.2 demonstrates broad variations in the willingness of citizens of EU countries to pay more taxes in order to increase aid to other countries. Among the countries that took part in this survey, there are considerable differences of attitude to development aid between people in EU member states. The Swedes, Italians and the British are more positive than citizens of other EU countries. In most countries, most citizens tend to support the actual level of foreign aid. We note the strong support among citizens of Italy and Spain, countries that have scored very low on actual development aid. Sweden combines high ranking on both actual development aid and positive attitudes among the citizens to increasing development aid. In short, the disparity between ideology and reality in EU development policy is less significant than in trade policy. Europeans have more positive attitudes to development aid than citizens of other states, although attitudes vary between European states. The influence of civil organisations seems to be larger in development aid than in trade policy, and NGOs appear to have high expectations of the EU in development policy.10 As long as development policy does not interfere with the principles of free trade, the EU Commission and member countries accept dialogue to a somewhat higher degree, although developing countries frequently accuse the EU and some EU countries of paternalism. Unfortunately, as mentioned, development aid is vulnerable in times of recession and austerity in Europe.

11 Collective interest and ethics I have demonstrated that solidarity is a key concept in European political thinking. Two of the most influential political strands – social democracy and Christian democracy – have declared solidarity a basic value, something frequently mentioned in the Treaty of the European Union and other EU texts. The core of solidarity is the willingness to share resources with other people. This can be distinguished from compassion and charity by the preparedness to use the state to organise redistribution of resources and by the acceptance of contributing through personal activity or by paying taxes. However, as the meaning of the concept is often disputed, it is easily open to redefinition according to how it is related to other contested concepts, such as freedom, justice and personal responsibility. The long and gradual transformation of the working-class concept of solidarity made it more inclusive, but at the same time dissociated it from collective self-interest, and transformed it to an idea that is based more on ethics, altruism and compassion. The challenge is that ethics and altruism are a more insecure foundation than self-interest. The other main concept of solidarity – the Christian democratic concept – was from the beginning in the last part of the nineteenth century founded not on selfinterest, but on Christian compassion. However, the influence of Catholic social ethics on Christian democratic and conservative parties has been dwindling. In Germany, the Catholic Arbeitnehmerflügel (‘employee wing’) has lost influence in the CDU, and the Protestant Angela Merkel represents individualism more than the collective aspects of Catholic social teaching. In Italy, Christian democracy has almost ceased



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to exist. Besides, in the last decades, Anglo-Saxon neoliberal ideas have influenced Christian democratic ideology and, to some extent, social democratic parties as well. Generally, the concept of justice has shifted from implying a more even distribution to emphasising more strongly personal responsibility and a balance between obligations and rights. All this has weakened the conception of solidarity. As mentioned, the central texts of the European Union have adopted a political language which combines key concepts from Christian democracy, social democracy and neoliberalism. The broad support in Europe and in EU texts for social rights and a welfare state distinguishes the EU from neoliberalism. Habermas (2013) describes EU economic policy as based on ‘ordoliberalism’ – a version of neoliberalism which is more positive towards state intervention than neoliberalism, and the idea of solidarity between member states and citizens of EU countries did not stand the test of the financial crisis in which national interests in Germany and Northern Europe were overriding. In international politics, we find a similar discrepancy between political rhetoric and politics. Trade policy is not identical to US trade policy, but EU positions in the WTO can clearly be regarded as neoliberal. On the other hand, the volume of development aid from EU and EU member states indicates a higher degree of solidarity than that of other rich nations. Besides, citizens’ attitudes in most European countries are more positive towards assisting developing countries than in other large countries. Even if European ideas of solidarity have become weaker, they still exist. From a normative point of view, we should hope for a more widespread and vigorous public debate on what solidarity should mean in an increasingly globalised world. What can be the foundation of solidarity? Who should be included, and what should be the objectives of solidarity – and how should collective interests and individual freedom be reconciled? Solidarity cannot be founded on homogeneity. Increasing pluralisation and individualisation of society due to changes in the labour market, family structure, lifestyle and cultural identity call for solidarity based on the acceptance of diversity. What is needed is that the majority of Europeans demonstrate solidarity with minorities in Europe – the poor, the unemployed, ethnic, religious, and sexual minorities. In addition, the majority in the rich world constitutes only a minority and should be expected to show solidarity with the poor in the Third World. Nancy Fraser (1995) suggests that recognition of differences should be a key value. Yet, this cannot replace the concept of solidarity, but only supplement it, because solidarity is a stronger and more encompassing concept than recognition. Solidarity means recognition, not vice-versa. If, as Baldwin (1997) argues, the solidarity of the postwar European welfare states was based on the premise that their populations were stable and homogeneous, the increasing multicultural character of European societies makes recognition of difference as well as solidarity more precarious and more difficult. Although solidarity certainly is most effectively and solidly based on the combination of rational self-interest and collective interest, a narrow conception of self-interest may not be the primary basis of solidarity in Europe today. It is still in the interest of underprivileged groups or discriminated-against minorities to stand together in solidarity, but for large segments of the population increasing wealth and

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levels of consumption have solved urgent material problems. Moreover, environmental problems set limits to increased personal consumption, and consequently, demands for improved standards of living are legitimate only for segments of the population in Europe – the increasing number of poor and unemployed, those outside the labour market, low-wage categories of the working and lower middle classes. Of course, one could argue for another conception of self-interest: that self-interest must be ‘informed’ or ‘enlightened’, i.e. based on knowledge about society and insight into the long-term effects of personal choice. Thus, everyone has a personal interest in paying taxes to finance policies that reduce unemployment and secure a welfare state without poverty because this prevents crime, which again makes society safer also for the well-off. Or one could argue that the citizens of a more globalised world have an enlightened self-interest in assisting developing countries to protect and develop their economies and increase aid so as to prevent conflicts and emigration that might make developed nations less stable. However, this is to stretch the concept of self-interest and deny that most people are capable of defining their self-interests even when they do not want to take into account the long-term effects of personal choice. Many persons in modern society can very well understand the long-term effects of personal choice, but still prefer to base their choices on short-term considerations because they do not expect to experience the consequences in the long run. People who define their self-interest as preserving their income in their own pockets, fighting taxation and living in protected areas should not be dismissed as uninformed or ‘unenlightened’, only as individualistic and egoistic. When individuals in affluent nations are called upon to exercise solidarity with the weak, poor or oppressed, it is hard to see the relationship between the donor and the recipient as one of reciprocity and symmetry. Most often relationships that require solidarity are not symmetrical. One party, the well-to-do citizen in Europe, is in a privileged situation and the other is not. What do we expect the poor or oppressed in European nations or in the Third World to give in return when we argue that economic and social policy or development cooperation should be founded on solidarity? Clearly, we must not expect gratitude because this constitutes a relationship characterised more by charity than by solidarity. This problem is even more acute in situations where we see no collective subject in active struggle. Thus, we must tone down the emphasis on reciprocity, but perhaps we should emphasise the existence of a struggling subject. This is a sympathetic idea, but also this creates difficulties for concepts of solidarity that have been described above. If we require a struggling subject, then we cannot talk about solidarity with nature or coming generations, and hardly when we see groups in need that do not constitute themselves as struggling individuals or groups, such as immigrants and the poor, and in some cases Third World nations. If, on the other hand, we abandon criteria of reciprocity and struggle, the distinction between solidarity and compassion becomes blurred. The main conclusion has to be that, in modern society, solidarity must be based on altruism for large segments of the population. As mentioned above, self-interest may still be the basis for collective actions of underprivileged and discriminated-against groups, but, for the affluent members and the middle class, solidarity must be based on a minimum of insight and compassion for the plight of others. This should not be



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confused with paternalistic altruism: solidarity should be based on political altruism. This means that solidarity must be exercised collectively, be directed towards social change or change of power relations, and not based on the individual interests of the persons involved (Passy 2001). Both empathy and cognition are needed, but the relationship between the two is highly complicated and cannot be postulated theoretically. If individuals do not have any empathy at all, cognition will most probably not be conducive to altruist solidarity. On the other hand, empathy without knowledge and insight may lead to a solidarity with unforeseen and unwanted consequences. The more political altruism is combined with a broad conception of interest, the stronger will be solidarity. As self-interest is socially constructed, the extent to which people see their interest as strictly economic, or as a wider interest in developing a better world for their children and successors, is not given. None the less, in this way the narrow concept of self-interest in rational choice theory is transcended by an element of empathy or identification with others. The concept of political altruism is no panacea and provides no hope of constructing a strong solidarity that includes a broad segment of the population, the poor and excluded, the working class and parts of the middle strata, even if this must be the goal. Its weaknesses are obvious. It is anchored neither within a strong individual self-interest nor in a strong class interest, although supporters of this idea should seek both types of anchoring. Nevertheless, it is the most adequate and realist idea of solidarity in contemporary society. Solidarity will not grow automatically out of the social structure of modern individualised society. It never did, not even in the rise of industrial society. Solidarity has to be constructed socially and politically through the practice of individuals, groups, professional and political organisations, churches, and networks nationally and internationally. In a world where the market colonises ever more aspects of life and society and where globalisation makes us all more vulnerable, a welfare state and regulation of international markets is needed to protect us against old and new social risks.

Notes 1

I am grateful to an anonymous referee for helpful comments and particularly for directing my attention to the encyclical of Pius XII, which I was not acquainted with when writing earlier contributions on solidarity (Stjernø 2004, 2011). 2 This does not that mean that there were not different views between the intelligentsia and the Church or within Solidarity, but this is not the theme here. See for instance Goodwyn (1991), Cirtautas (1997) or Beyer (2010). 3 Altiero Spinelli, who was not a Christian Democrat, but close to the Italian Communist Party, drafted a document which argued for a federal supranational government directly responsible to the people of Europe, a constitution and a federal army (Urwin 1995). 4 See http://ec.europa.eu/trade/policy/eu-position-in-world-trade/ (accessed 23 January 2014). 5 Cooperation and Conflict, vol. 40, no. 2 was a special issue focusing on the concept of ‘normative power Europe’ – see for instance Whitman (2013) and Manners (2013).

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6

Manners (2008) argues that these values should be measured by the principles ‘living by example’, by duty of its actions ‘being reasonable’, and by consequences of its impact in ‘doing least harm’. There is insufficient space here to discuss whether development aid locks developing countries into dependence on the club of rich donors, as has been argued by Tandon (2008). 7 See Cronin (2013) for a scathing critique of Peter Mandelson, who was EU Commissioner for Trade 2004–8 and drafted Global Europe and a cover story ‘Behind the Scene’ in New African no. 18, November 2004, which describes the methods of the US and EU behind the scenes at the WTO. 8 See http://www.oecd.org/dac/stats/developmentaidtodevelopingcountriesfalls becauseofglobalrecession.htm (accessed 23 January 2014). 9 In absolute numbers, prosperous nations such as the US, Germany, and Japan give most. 10 Development non-governmental organisations in Europe titled their analysis in 2013 ‘The Unique Role of European Aid’ (Concord AidWatch 2013).

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Justice as Solidarity: Between Statism and Cosmopolitanism Sebastiano Maffettone

Introduction Vaclav Havel, in his The Power of the Powerless, presents the dawn of dissent in Eastern Europe as a consequence of a historical phase of a post-totalitarian system. This system could no longer base itself on the ‘unadulterated, brutal, and arbitrary application of power …’ (Havel 2010, p. 10). Havel’s narrative focuses on the owner of a grocery shop who places the slogan ‘Workers of the world, unite!’ in his window, among the onions and carrots. The slogan is really a sign that helps to hide the foundations of the greengrocer’s obedience and of the power behind the façade of something. And that something is ideology. The primary function of such ideology is to provide people ‘with the illusion that the system is in harmony with the human order …’ (Havel 2010, p. 14). One day our greengrocer stops putting up the slogan and begins to behave in a different way: he stops voting in fake elections and begins to say what he really thinks at political meetings. Finally he is able to express solidarity with those whom his conscience commands him to support in the name of justice. One of the merits of Havel’s story consists in showing how individual morality becomes public ethics. This process is long and risky. It ends with solidarity in justice. Perhaps analogous processes take place everywhere there is an anti-totalitarian revolt (like recently in North Africa). What is at stake here is the moral path leading from the individual to the community. There is a kind of catastrophe point from which what before was private and minoritarian becomes public and majoritarian. In this process pluralism works like a filter: even if you are convinced of a view, you must take into consideration the presence of others with different convictions. We learnt from political theory that to make really public a view one has to meet the challenge of pluralism. Pluralism trumps monism by showing how a moral claim can be converted into a political claim. This is true even for the noblest ideals, like the one that aims to create more global justice in an unjust world. Starting with this premise, I took the title of this chapter – ‘Justice as Solidarity: Between Statism and Cosmopolitanism’ – seriously. Granting that global justice starts with solidarity, I try answer the question of how a utopian goal based on global

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justice can be made a shared ideal in a world like the one we live in, characterised by enormous inequality. Many think that such an inequality is unjust. Injustice is even more outrageous when there is urgency, for example, when a crisis causes many human beings to die or makes it impossible for them to lead a dignified life. Such urgency creates a strong demand for global justice. Consensus however ends here: for cosmopolitans conceive of global justice in terms of individuals, whereas statists conceive of global justice in terms of nation-states. This chapter presents a criticism of both cosmopolitanism and statism. In what follows, I will opt for a third view of global justice called ‘liberal internationalism’. My view of global justice aims to be more coherent with political liberalism than theses endorsed by the cosmopolitans and the statists. I claim that in cases of urgency, solidarity transforms humanitarian sentiments in collective duties of justice. The argument I present for this view has two stages: (i) a deconstruction of cosmopolitanism; (ii) a reconstruction of an emergent practice of global justice based on the ideas of urgency and solidarity. This reconstruction is inspired by the transforming power of moral consciousness during human crises, which Vaclav Havel understood so well. The core of my thesis is an interpretation of the relation between pluralism and global solidarity, in which the moral aspect of this relation is central. In the background I assume a version of (Rawlsian) liberal public ethics. Within this domain, I start with a pivotal notion, the one that John Rawls called ‘priority of the right’ (Rawls 1988, pp. 251–76; also Maffettone 2010, pp. 19–21). Considerations based on justice – according to the priority of the right thesis – take precedence over considerations based on goodness. So, beyond pragmatic objections, the ideal of global justice must also meet the priority of the right requirement. It is exactly for this reason that cosmopolitanism is in trouble. Or at least, so I will argue. Does this imply that we must rely on statism? I deny this conclusion. Statism is the thesis according to which beyond the state we cannot even speak of justice. I maintain (without arguing it here) that such a thesis does not correspond to the needs of a globalised world. To meet these needs, I present a view based on the idea of justice as solidarity. Solidarity, as I conceive of it, is based on urgency. Urgency is a scalar notion. In other words, we can imagine a continuum – from zero to one – of degrees of solidarity. Solidarity begins with urgency when we are confronted with crises of global significance.

1 Between statism and cosmopolitanism Many of the problems we observe on the international scene contain a basic paradox. The states, the main characters of the scene, are often jealous (the word is Hobbes’s) of their sovereignty. From this sovereignty, however, come the legitimacy and the effectiveness of many actions with international relevance. Globalisation continually increases the significance of the amount of legitimacy and effectiveness required by states directly in relation to the rise in quantity and quality of international exchanges involved. On the other hand, states’ reluctance to concede sovereignty to international organisations does not permit them to treat the problem of global governance in a way that could be consistent with the actual necessities. And so it goes.



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States’ reluctance towards conceding sovereignty to international organisations is hardly an original element. On the contrary, we are confronted here with a typical déjà vu, which deserves to be mentioned, since we feel a sort of new urgency. The modern vision of international relations is centred on the idea that the system of international relations, coherent with its statist premises, cannot avoid a form of basic anarchism. The argumentative structure, made famous by Hobbes’s Leviathan, explains adequately the nature of the puzzle. On one side, sovereignty, from a foundational point of view, can only be unique and omnipotent. On the other side, such a type of sovereignty is unimaginable at the global level in the international relations system. That is why it is inevitably anarchic. The remains are just superficial remedies in that they can cure only some symptoms, but not the deep cause of the malady. If the international relations system after being philosophically investigated requires the exercise of justice, which is the prevailing virtue within the practical domain, then beyond the state, there is no justice within the limit of the modern conception. The main subject of this chapter is primarily the way in which we can substitute modern statism, which is the thesis according to which beyond the state there is no justice, with an alternative supposedly more coherent with the needs and aspirations of our times. I assume that people usually substitute statism with some form of cosmopolitanism that is the thesis according to which justice in international relations concerns relations between persons rather than between states. I maintain that this kind of cosmopolitanism, which is more or less standard within the contemporary vision, does not work adequately. Better, it seems philosophically unable to obtain its main goals. This chapter is dedicated to showing the plausibility of this critical thesis. In the second section, I will re-propose the paradox of global governance in a way that can be considered coherent with a liberal approach. In the third section, I will present a philosophical interpretation of cosmopolitanism, called ‘pure cosmopolitanism’. I contrast pure cosmopolitanism with statism, emphasising the reasons for which cosmopolitanism so understood is compatible with the contemporary vision of international relations. In the fourth section, however, I will stress the limits of cosmopolitanism. These limits are of an economic, political and cultural nature. Nevertheless, they all depend on the philosophical core of pure cosmopolitanism. My criticism of cosmopolitanism could be summed up by saying that the world we live in is a community not only of abstract individuals, but also of collective historical entities. The cosmopolitan perspective does not consider this fact thoroughly enough. In the remaining sections of this chapter, I will present my position that tries to fill up the theoretical and practical space created by the symmetric weaknesses of both statism and cosmopolitanism. It is a thesis based on something that already exists and is able to gradually transform our world in a plausible ‘basic structure’ (Rawls 1999, pp. 6–10): the validity of some basic human rights as bases for the international recognition of the sovereignty of every state. This position in a way does not contain any original claim, because it substantially reformulates the Rawlsian idea of a ‘realistic utopia’ (Rawls 1999, pp. 11–23). There is, however, something new concerning the philosophical structure of the argument, here based on the appeal to urgency and the distinction between legitimation and justification. This last

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distinction is of particular importance for appreciating the real nature of the problem discussed in the chapter.

2 Statism Within a liberal political philosophy, statism exploits the symmetry between the state on one side and basic structure on the other. The basic structure is, according to Rawls, the primary subject of a theory of justice. We know what its main characteristics are. Quoting Rawls, from the second section of his A Theory of Justice (later: Theory): ‘For us the primary subject of justice is the basic structure of society, or more exactly, the way in which the major social institutions distribute fundamental rights and duties and determine the division of advantages from social cooperation’ (Rawls 1999, p. 6). Major institutions, as here conceived, include the constitution and the main social and economic arrangements. All together, they define the rights and duties of individuals, influencing their life prospects in decisive ways. So interpreted, the basic structure can favour some social positions over others. Inequalities deriving from the basic structure are particularly pervasive. Their consequences are deep and cannot be attributed to more primitive factors, such as merit or individual talent. As a result, the justice of a social system depends heavily on how rights and duties, opportunities and life chances have been distributed through its basic structure. In the Theory, just after having defined the concept of basic structure, Rawls limits its scope, in the following way: ‘I shall be satisfied if it is possible to formulate a reasonable conception of justice for the basic structure of society conceived for the time being as a closed system isolated from other societies’ (Rawls 1999, p. 7; italics mine). In this interpretation a conception of social justice provides a normative standard through which we can evaluate the distributive features of the basic structure of a national or state society. To be frank, it is not clear whether this limitation is substantive for Rawls rather than provisional (as we could argue from the sentence above that I quoted in italics), or something else like a mere simplificatory device (after having declared the statist nature of justice, Rawls quite mysteriously maintains: ‘With suitable modifications such a theory should provide the key for some of these other questions’ (Rawls 1999, p. 7). Independently from our preferred interpretation, if we follow the text of the Theory there is no doubt that a theory of justice aims to be intra-national or intrastate. All right, then? Can we therefore conclude that Rawls repeats Hobbes, albeit in liberal jargon, and that also for contemporary political philosophy, not differently from modern thought, the limits of justice coincide with the limits of the state? Can we simply maintain that contemporary political philosophy keeps the same anarchic mentality of the modern one, as far as we discuss international relations? Can we accept such a ‘continuist’ thesis with all that is changing just under our eyes? These are – as it is not difficult to understand – rhetorical questions. And the answer to all of them is a flat out ‘no’. The sirens of the old statism, the thesis according to which beyond the state there is no justice, are not so tempting for us anymore. The way in which the world is going and the international developments in human



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relations, have made all of us, I would say quite instinctively, less statist than people used to be. Of course, it is interesting to try to grasp why it is so. I think that the main reasons for which statism is less tempting today than in the past are substantially two; the first being positive or descriptive in nature and the second being normative or prescriptive in nature: (i) The first of these reasons suggests that the level of global cooperation overcame the level in which states – as conceived by the modern version – can be the only subjects of international relations and the only sovereigns. Economic, political, cultural globalisation, if we would like to reformulate it, made implausible the coincidence of basic structure and state that we took as a heritage from the modern conception. Moreover the relation between basic structure and state does not repeat itself today within the international community in terms of radical discontinuity (yes or no), but rather in terms of relative continuity (less than before, but how much less?). Our rights and duties, our opportunities and life chances, in other words, no longer derive only from the state, but also from the international community. To repeat David Held’s elegant expression, we are today all members of the same ‘overlapping community of fate’ (Held 2003, p. 524). (ii) The second reason assumes that, within the standard contemporary vision of politics, a significant element of liberal democracy is implicit. Within the realm of political philosophy, this primacy of liberal democracy can be defended in two different but complementary ways (to understand this distinction we could make reference to the second and third chapters of Rawls’s Theory (Rawls 1999, pp. 47–168). The first of these two ways assumes an egalitarian ethical perspective, whose core consists in saying that distinctions between persons considered ‘arbitrary from a moral point of view’ are not acceptable (Rawls 1999, p. 274). That way, we cannot easily accept distinctions depending on the social lottery, like being born in a rich or poor family, or depending on the natural lottery, like being born particularly gifted and talented. As a matter of fact, we generally believe people do not morally deserve such advantages. However, this argument can be easily expanded to cover our case: actually, it is difficult to imagine some merit behind the mere causality for being born in New York rather than in the middle of sub-Saharan Africa. The second way assumes a liberal democratic political background to negate the classical opacity of sovereignty that characterises the modern vision. Within the contemporary vision, a democratic and constitutional legitimacy of sovereignty is quintessential. This thesis could be reformulated with some irony (because it re-proposes it within the contemporary vision) in terms of what is normally considered the most typical analytical device within modern political theory, the idea of the social contract. According to the social contract theory, the legitimacy of liberal democratic institutions depends on the ideal consensus of the members of the basic structure. If we extend such a thesis to the global community, then by the day, it becomes increasingly clear that the relevant subjects cannot be just states. And, coherently, sovereignty can no longer be a kind of impenetrable barrier. Relevant subjects of this new-coming

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‘overlapping community of fate’ are also individuals and groups. We can restate this by saying that whereas modern contractarianism, seen from a global point of view, was molecular, contemporary contractarianism is at least in part atomistic. It is interesting to note that these two elements sum up reciprocally, or vice versa tend to eliminate one another. We do not know, in other words, whether the basic structure can be expanded beyond the state and within what limits, given that this is surely part of the problem and not its solution. Furthermore, and for the same reasons, we do not know whether the good luck that caused some of us to be born in relatively affluent countries is comparable with the less fortunate destiny of people resident beyond the borders of our nations. Similar complications are no doubt intellectually interesting and perhaps philosophically determinant. Nevertheless, I would like to leave them apart. It seems to me in fact theoretically more urgent to try to understand in the most direct way in what sense the reason (i) can influence the reason (ii). In other words it seems important to try to understand whether, and if so, how, the empirical side of the matter determines the way in which we face the normative side of it. More explicitly, it must be investigated whether the relational element of empirical nature, that is in what sense we participate in the same basic structure, is necessary and/or sufficient to make clear the nature of the normative relations between the persons. In other words, what is the relation between recognition, that is participation in the same basic structure, and distribution, that is the way in which we draw from it consequences of normative significance? (Note here that the term ‘distributive’ is partially improper … in fact by distribution I mean ‘social justice’.) Having this in mind, we can begin by distinguishing between an institutional and an interactional conception (Pogge 1992, pp. 48–75), or rather similarly between an associative and an allocative conception (Julius 2003, pp. 321–55). If we select the institutional or associational conception, then we are obliged to settle a priori – to go beyond the limits of statism – whether the subjects of the global community can also be considered as members of the same basic structure. In this case, the fact of membership precedes the substance of the relation. The way we treat people will be parasitical on this initial decision. To put it in terms of a more traditional distinction, here recognition implies distribution. If, on the other hand, we opt for an interactional or allocative conception, then we can find relations of ethical nature among persons that do not belong to the same basic structure. Here, it is the substance of the relation to precede membership. And, in some way distribution is recognition independent. This distinction, however, must be, according to my advice, treated together with another one that separates the way in which the institutional or associative conception can have practical consequences in some way different from the consequences we normally attribute to the interactional or allocative conception. Note these two distinctions (recognition–distribution on the one hand; the nature of consequences on the other) are different and, so to say, they can be considered reciprocally orthogonal. For what concerns the nature of the consequences, I make here a distinction between an egalitarian position and a sufficientarian position. If we follow the egalitarian position, relations of equality between persons are, so to say, absolute, in the sense that they are conceived as independent from the prior assumption of an interactional (institutional) or allocative (associative) conception. This implies that the normative



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side of the matter is considered independent from the empirical one. It does not matter how tight the institutional constraint binding people is, because the distributional consequences in terms of equality will always be analogous. If we follow the sufficientarian position, on the contrary, the validity of ethical claims between ‘strangers’ is only minimal. There could be a minimal threshold, able to guarantee basic liberties and subsistence for all, but we cannot conceive an egalitarian paradigm. If now we keep in mind what we said before, namely that the distance between the structure of the state and the global community can be better understood in terms of continuity rather than in terms of discontinuity (not ‘yes or no’, but rather ‘more or less’), then we can formulate a working hypothesis. We can suppose, according to this hypothesis, that the nature of the link between the subjects of a different structure (national–international) can influence the normative level that is the nature and the limits of our rights and duties. In this eventuality, we can imagine that the nearer the relation is, the more normative egalitarianism should prevail, and on the contrary the more distant people are relationally, the more sufficientarianism should prevail. The main consequence of this hypothesis is the following: if we assume gradualism and continuity for what concerns the expansion of the basic structure, then a position regulating relations between strangers should be normally sufficientarian. As we will see in the next section, one of the problems of cosmopolitanism consists in its inability to be sufficientarian: just the opposite for the human rights approach, whose tendency seems to be intrinsically sufficientarian.

3 Pure cosmopolitanism The Greek word cosmopolitēs means citizen of the world. Cosmopolitanism, however, can be used in many ways, from its Greek origin until now. One can be a strong or weak, total or partial, simple or complex, rooted or not rooted cosmopolitan. International political theory presents – more frequently by the day – all of these options. In the following, I will limit my considerations to what I call ‘pure’ cosmopolitanism. Pure cosmopolitanism is presented here under two main constraints: (i) I will only deal with liberal democratic cosmopolitanism. (ii) I will emphasise some philosophical characteristics of the cosmopolitan model. I have indeed little to say on what concerns the first constraint. A sort of planetary dictatorship is not interesting for me, and, as far as I can state this, is not interesting for ‘us’. Cosmopolitanism, as interpreted here, can be easily imagined – as mentioned above – as a kind of social contract (partially) expanded so as to cover the global community. For what concerns my second constraint, on the contrary, there is much to say. So much, that it is impossible to fully justify here the sense of this assumption. In some way, it is also evident that cosmopolitanism cannot be considered exclusively a philosophical thesis, as by the way we will see examining some of the problems cosmopolitanism – according to my own reading of it – carries with it. I think that

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we can construe a political, an economic and a cultural form of cosmopolitanism, all these forms being coherent with some institutional assets. I can only claim here that my reduction of cosmopolitanism to a sort of philosophical silhouette is able to properly highlight the very nature of cosmopolitanism and consequently its most relevant theoretical difficulties. According to my philosophical reading of what I call pure cosmopolitanism, from where I start, we can state that pure cosmopolitanism is characterised by three main philosophical assumptions. Pure cosmopolitanism is so: (i) individualist (ii) universalist (iii) egalitarian. Pure cosmopolitanism is typically individualist, because it sees the relations between persons on the planet as the very starting point of every inquiry and practice. All the relevant relations are so inter-individual ones, being states, ethnicities and traditions more or less a mere complication within the model. Pure cosmopolitanism is also universalist in the Kantian meaning of the term. Its ethical and political norms are valid for all persons – that is, the totality of the subjects within this IR paradigm – in the same way. From this point of view, it seems that cosmopolitanism is too indifferent towards the particular natures of human beings. Human beings do not normally live in the void, but rather they develop their own, main characteristics within specific groups and traditions. Democracy itself was not born globally, but rather within rather peculiar national traditions. Pure cosmopolitanism is finally egalitarian, even if often in a sophisticated way. It maintains that all people must be treated equally, like universalism itself requires. It does not maintain however that all people have a right to the same amount of resources. Some inequalities, for example, can be justified within pure cosmopolitanism in the light of a plausible incentive system. To keep the egalitarian assumption, it is sufficient here that these inequalities have effects that can be considered beneficial for everybody. To be frank, I do not doubt that this interpretation of pure cosmopolitanism, as proposed, can appear extremely abstract, too schematic and even imprecise (it does not give proper justice to what we usually mean by cosmopolitanism). It is based, as we admitted, on very general principles of philosophical nature or metaprinciples. And no doubt to have a reasonable interpretation of cosmopolitanism, we need more, like intermediate, general principles and applicative principles. Intermediate principles are like the ones founded upon consent and imply that public decisions are legitimated by electoral procedures of a democratic nature. Applicative principles are the legal, political and economic principles that permit the progressive formation of a global legal system, of decisional authorities characterised by multilayered governance, of systems of incentives and taxation at the global level. Nevertheless, I think that – even conceding these limits – my interpretation of pure cosmopolitanism can be useful to understand some criticisms I advance against it.



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4 Problems of cosmopolitanism In this section, I will present some basic problems of pure cosmopolitanism, interpreted like we did in the previous section. I have in mind problems of an economic, political and cultural nature. From an economic point of view, pure cosmopolitanism does not make clear the way in which we are supposed to interpret global justice. Is it plausible that, in a world similar to the one in which we live, a citizen from Illinois would treat a person from Wisconsin and one from Uganda equally? (There are of course no polemics here with Illinois citizens in particular and with US citizens more generally. The same thing could be said putting European citizens and East Asian citizens in their shoes.) Pure cosmopolitanism gives a positive answer to this question. And I frankly think that this positive answer is wrong. It seems much more natural to imagine more complex and differentiated duties of justice, which range from full intra-state egalitarianism to minimal natural duties towards strangers. Pure cosmopolitanism – in similar cases – fails to consider the two levels we mentioned before, the empirical level of the membership and the normative level of the treatment (what I previously called recognition and distribution). Pure cosmopolitanism, in other words, takes for granted – assuming individualism and universalism – that the institutional or associative element is irrelevant. The model of global justice I have in mind starts, on the contrary, from the idea that our main obligations towards strangers stem from natural duties we have towards all members of our species. In such a way, these duties do depend on an assumption of interactional or allocative type, an assumption which permits bypassing the problems of membership. Here, the model is, to use Allen Buchanan’s expression, ‘subjectcentred’ (Buchanan 1990, pp. 227–52), meaning that obligations of justice depend straightforwardly on the nature of the considered subjects. Note that this thesis does not imply that the consequent obligations are supererogatory. Rather they are obligations of justice derived by a sui generis duty of justice. In my interpretation, the passage from a mere natural duty to a proper obligation of justice is based on the idea of urgency and can be captured by a model based on human rights. Similar arguments can be advanced against pure cosmopolitanism in politics. Its individualist, universalist and egalitarian structure invites us here to underestimate the many constraints that separate individuals at the global level. First of all, I have in mind the constraints imposed by national sovereignty and self-determination of people. Is it really possible to imagine a world in which sovereignty barriers do not constitute an obstacle to inter-individual relations? I am afraid that such a hypothetical world, which by the way does not exist in practice, is also a world we cannot auspicate. It is, under the guise of cosmopolitan liberty, the world all imperialists desire, a world in which a great superpower has a moral right to intervene everywhere to re-establish law and order. Or, put in another way, given the fact that human beings are intrinsically different, we do not want to run the risk that a pure cosmopolitan mentality would force a false similarity among them. I do not mean here, of course, that we must be content with pure statism.

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Pure cosmopolitanism, individualist and universalist as it is, appears also unable to show adequate respect for the diversity of traditions, ethnic and religious, that characterise international cultural relations. These relations are never purely inter-individual. They are rather intergroup. Here, pure cosmopolitanism risks imposing a forced homogenisation. The philosophical problem consists in trying to protect these differences between peoples and cultures but without any appeal to a kind of indifferent relativism. I think it is plausible to imagine that here again the human rights model seems the best option we can rely upon. This model must be discussed, from this point of view, starting from its most difficult aspects, similarly are the ones connected with the so-called ‘Islamic Exceptions’ and the so-called ‘Asian Values’. To sum up this section, I have stressed some key problems with pure cosmopolitanism. These problems are of an economic, political and cultural nature. Very often the rival views of cosmopolitanism, like political realism and communitarianism, emphasise them. My thesis is that there is no need to accept these rival views to admit some limits of pure cosmopolitanism. All things considered, pure cosmopolitanism tends to force a unifying and rationalistic view of humanity that does not exist in practice, with the consequence that a similar way of reasoning cannot only be antihistorical but also dangerous, if for no other reason than because it provokes the temptation to make the real world similar to the model. As Michael Walzer has put it, ‘perverted cosmopolitans’ have been the cause of no fewer disgraces for humanity than have ‘perverted patriots’ (Walzer 1996, p. 125). All these weaknesses can be jointly noted if we look at cosmopolitanism from an ethical point of view. From this point of view, cosmopolitanism is typically monist. Monism here can mean two different positions. On the one hand, to say that cosmopolitanism is usually monist implies that cosmopolitanism pretends to adopt the same kind of principles independently from their applicative scope. In such an interpretation, cosmopolitanism cannot separate local, national and global justice principles. On the other hand, to say that cosmopolitanism is monist amounts to saying that it is perfectionist (in the Rawlsian sense), and that for this very reason it does not distinguish between a moral option and institutional behaviour. According to this perfectionist interpretation, cosmopolitans believe that collective institutions are designed to straightforwardly realise a moral thesis within the political realm.

5 Human rights The weakness of pure cosmopolitanism makes it particularly significant to present human rights as a principle of what we could call a process of global constitutionalisation in progress. Moreover, human rights are normally divided into categories that are analogous to what – within my reconstruction – are the standard problems of pure cosmopolitanism. That is why we distinguish within the family of human rights, civil and political rights, socio-economic rights and cultural rights. In my view, the human-rights-based approach is interactional (or allocative) and sufficientarian. Being interactional (or allocative) and sufficientarian, this approach does not take membership directly into consideration, but at the same time does not



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consider membership like an already solved problem. We could say that the human rights approach so conceived sees a sort of basic structure in progress between the state and the global community. As a consequence, we are supposed to deal with this empirical situation starting from basic rights that all human beings share independently from their individual memberships. This is surely a loose link between human beings. But just this loose link between individuals makes every commitment, deriving from it, different from the egalitarian commitment that in some way characterises a proper basic structure. Rather, this kind of commitment implies an obligation which is typically sufficientist, and consists in creating minimal conditions for liberty and subsistence. That is why, in this section, I look for a sort of philosophical counterpart to pure cosmopolitanism, which accepts the primacy of human rights. This philosophical counterpart is based on the dichotomy of legitimation and justification. These terms usually overlap in the political, theoretical literature, but I think it is important to distinguish between them. According to my interpretation, justification looks for the best theoretical argument, is intrinsically substantive, goes top-down, and is rooted in the moral and metaphysical bases of a specific culture. Legitimation, on the contrary, is normally based on a successful practice, is procedural and factual, concerns the inputs of a political process, goes bottom-up, and does not appeal to the deep roots of a culture (Maffettone 2010).1 Human rights constitute together a legal entity and an ethical project. Just for this reason, if we start from a human-rights-based approach, ethics does not precede too much politics, and we do not pay the unliberal consequences of perfectionist monism. Human rights are already an essential part of IR politics, even if their full and satisfactory realisation is far away. Given their hybrid nature, in part legal objects and in part moral objects, human rights join facticity and validity, or, to use my terminology, justification and legitimation. Justification comes from the ethical argument according to which we should respect some basic rights of every human being. And legitimation comes from the fact that human rights are already a (relatively) successful practice within IR. This capacity to join justification and legitimation is not present within the cosmopolitan vision, and allows adopting a normative perspective bypassing any prior solution of the empirical problems. The human rights approach, finally, assumes continuity and gradualism in the passage from the national, basic structure to the global, basic structure. In such a way, sufficientarianism appears as the natural horizon within which human-rights-based strategies collocate.

6 Urgency This notion of urgency seems to be an attractive bridge between statism and cosmopolitanism. Thomas Scanlon presents urgency as a doctrine capable of comparatively assessing benefits and burdens from the point of view of political morality (Scanlon

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1975). Thus conceived, this doctrine is required to satisfy some properties: (i) it must represent a kind of consensus among those to whom justification is addressed; (ii) it must allow for the fact that individuals have different tastes and interests. Such doctrine cannot be – for Scanlon – formulated in terms of subjective criteria like many utilitarians would, basing their models on preference satisfaction. On the contrary, it requires an objective criterion coherent with the objective idea of moral judgment. Urgency is assessed in terms of increments or decrements along the different scales on which we locate our concerns. The idea is that – once we begin to understand the desirability of the benefits and the undesirability of the burdens at stake – one can create a ‘hierarchy of relative urgency’ (Scanlon 1975, pp. 660–1). Interesting enough, this conception of urgency is rather naya, to use Sen’s dictionary, in the sense that it depends on the comparisons of different lives in various contexts around the world (Sen 2009, p. xv). Rawlsian liberal contractualism can work like an obstacle when questions of global justice are at stake. Difficulties derive from the necessity of this paradigm to separate ethics from politics. Within a Rawlsian view, political justice must be coherent with the ‘basic structure’ of the society it addresses. The basic structure being a network of institutions, political justice presupposes reliable institutions. In the global domain, however, institutions are often not reliable. This makes the ethical appeal, implicit in the idea of justice, contrast with its political basis. We know that global justice is needed but we do not know how to make it properly political. The naya path Sen indicates can function here as a strategy to go from our ethical intuitions – supposed to be in favour of global justice – to the construction of a renewed basic structure more coherent with global justice. Sometimes, ethical evidence must anticipate the political structure. This is so – in a vague and provisional sense – whenever human inter-subjective relations create substantive problems of justice incapable of receiving an immediate institutional response. It is extremely so in case of urgency (think of the Holocaust). We could investigate further possibilities of reconciliation between the paradigms I have discussed. Reflecting on them, it is difficult to avoid the impression that Rawls’s theory of justice originates from a wealthy nation. In the United States, to protect liberty as individual choice is more important than elsewhere. For example, it is more important than in rural India. So, the idea is that whenever we expand the original Rawlsian paradigm from the US setting to the globe or to a particular region of it, we should be more careful in redesigning the relation between persons and institutions. This is, after all, what Sen recommends. Mine is an invitation to take history more seriously than many analytically trained political theorists usually do. I imagine indeed that such an argument is coherent not only with the position of Sen but also with that of Rawls. If we consider Rawls’s vision of justice, we note that the concept of basic structure must not be an invariant. It is rather a historical notion that presupposes a link between civil society and institutions. In extraordinary difficult circumstances – when there is urgency – we can comparatively assess people’s well-being coherently with a general liberal outlook. But, for the rest, we need to reject neither institutionalism nor contractualism. Perhaps, however, we can use the naya approach also to expand the possibilities of a too severe institutionalist approach in the direction of a more human centred view.



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Even if we were convinced of the wrongness of the cosmopolitan thesis that upholds the presence of a global basic structure, this would not entail the acceptance of statism. The obligations I have in mind do not need to have associative nature, as claimed by Nagel about the obligations deriving from justice and implicitly accepted by his cosmopolitan critics (Nagel 2005). In my thesis, there is another source of moral obligations towards the poor of the earth, a source that establishes duties independently of the alleged existence of an actual structure of cooperation at a global level. It consists in a duty of justice connected with urgency. According to the claims of urgency, we have a duty to protect human dignity and fragility, regardless of the presence of a real global basic structure.2 Besides, we must make sure that a few fundamental basic rights are guaranteed. Quite naturally, these basic rights include a few socio-economic human rights such as those to subsistence and health. Indeed, as Primo Levi wrote in If This is a Man, when one is in the presence of a systematic ‘demolition of a man’ there is little reason to argue and to wait (Levi 1959). There are human rights, including the main socio-economic rights, failure to protect which renders it impossible to live life in full. Something similar is reflected in the main human rights that guarantee fundamental functionalities. We may call this type of rights ‘basic rights’ (Shue 1996). We may conceive of them as a sort of metarights, namely rights without which no other rights may be enjoyed. This is the reason they are not subject to the scrutiny of pluralism and do not depend on a single specific conception of the good. It rather precedes the conceptions of the good or is supposed to be a part of all of them. The basic rights and the corresponding duties rest on the characteristic of human vulnerability.3 They are imposed by (virtue of) the fact of our weakness as human beings. It is indeed this type of argument that offers a valuable solution to liberals who are affected by the priority of the right argument. Pluralism makes the direct passage from a given view of the world to the institutional realisation of its fundamental principles impossible for a liberal Rawlsian. All this is connected with the distinction between what is good and what is right. The thesis that founds a duty of justice on urgency predicates an overlapping of the good and the right in a specific ambit and in limited cases. When the vulnerability of human beings is not adequately protected, then the good of ensuring basic rights to those who lack everything turns also into a duty of justice. This happens because the good and the right together presuppose that general moral community. As a rule, in a post-metaphysical world, as Habermas calls it (Habermas 1994), group ethics may not be transferred – in the name of pluralism defended by the priority of the right – into the morality of justice. There are exceptions. The Holocaust, as dealt with by Primo Levi, is perhaps the most typical exception. In the presence of such an event, whether or not we are responsible for it and whatever our opinions, we cannot wash our hands of it. The genocide of millions of persons who lack basic rights to security and subsistence – that is the core problem of global justice – is similar to the Holocaust. In the horizon of such a far-reaching drama, it is reasonable to transform a good into a right, that is a binding obligation. In other words, the exceptionality at stake here allows liberal anti-perfectionism to be overcome.

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Thomas Pogge recognised that liberal anti-perfectionism applies when we set ourselves ambitious targets (Pogge 2000). The priority of the right is much less justified when goals are minimal and dramatic. Security and survival are minimal and dramatic objectives and, therefore, to resort to the defence of pluralism against those who propose them seems specious and unreasonable. The consequence of this reasoning is both theoretically and practically relevant. If in a few special cases – such as the genocide of the poor – the good coincides with the right, then the obligations deriving from the duty of justice based on urgency are binding. There is nothing supererogatory in them. Indeed, they legitimately fall within a concept of justice that is less strong than the one based on cosmopolitan assumption, but not as minimal as the statist postulation. It should be said that one could legitimately ask what the liberal priority of the right has to do with global justice. First, one can wonder why we should be worried about the priority of the right only at the global level. What, in other words, makes this global level particularly sensitive to the risk of incurring the pitfalls connected with the priority of the right? My answer here is that cosmopolitans moralise global politics and that is why they run into the problem of the priority of the right. Second, one may think that a liberal political conception in the manner of Rawls already sought to avoid the risk of incurring the priority of the right at the domestic level. Why should this risk come back when we leave the domestic level to approach the global one? My answer here is more articulated. On the one hand, I could repeat what I have already said about the first objection. It is the attempt to moralise global politics that pushes many cosmopolitans towards reintroducing at the global level comprehensive visions of politics already discharged at the domestic level. On the other hand, I also believe that often cosmopolitanism avoids considering how much the ‘reasonable’ is context dependent. When we leave the safe benches of the domestic basic structure, we will find another political situation, in which we cannot take for granted that our vision of what is reasonable and what is comprehensive is widely shared. Behind the will to hold a liberal position, there could be also a desire to avoid imperialism. The main source for obligations of global justice consists of a duty to protect the security and the subsistence of all human beings. On the one hand, this duty is not a purely humanitarian duty – as could be accepted even by statists – because the political substance of it corresponds to the content of important human rights. On the other hand, this duty captures the ethical appeal of cosmopolitanism: we often believe there are normative constraints exceeding mere humanitarianism at the global level. However, it does so but without getting into trouble with the liberal priority of the right. Perhaps, I suggest, global politics requires more demanding norms than those dictated by mere humanitarianism, but less demanding norms than the ones recommended by a cosmopolitan egalitarian approach.

7 Sufficientarian global justice In previous sections, we defended a natural duty of justice – triggered by solidarity – to ensure security and subsistence for all human beings, achieved through the



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protection of basic human rights. This obligation respects a proviso concerning the limits of global justice. The duties of egalitarian domestic justice appear not to have any cut-off point. That is, egalitarian justice requires that any inequality – no matter how minuscule – be rectified, if justice is to be realised. Despite this lack of limits, egalitarianism can be defended in the national context. However, this is not the case in a global sphere – and this is another criticism raised by statists against cosmopolitans. Because of its focus on urgency, duties of global justice are directed first and foremost only to alleviate the direst conditions of poverty and lack of basic rights at the global level. Once basic rights are ensured, the duties of global justice defined here have been met and so fall silent. Accordingly, unlike the duties of domestic justice, the obligations of global justice are limited in their scope. Because this view establishes limits in terms of our duties, it is a sufficientarian view of justice. Sufficientarianism is the claim that what matters as an issue of justice is whether individuals have enough, i.e. whether they fall below a certain threshold of advantage (Casal 2007, pp. 297–8). In our understanding, this is taken to be a certain threshold of basic rights enjoyment. Sufficientarianism also implies that there is a threshold above which duties of distributive justice lose much of their stringency, even though they can still hold – or, to put it another way, there is a threshold above which duties of distributive justice change their shape, shifting from a sufficientarian to an egalitarian mode (Dorsey 2008; Shields 2012). My liberal internationalism amounts to a claim that, in the global sphere, justice requires redistribution until a certain level of goods or resources is ensured to everyone – or better, until a certain standard of protection of basic human rights is ensured to everyone. Above that level, global justice is silent and makes no demands. These limits on the demands of global justice constitute its most distinguishing feature – in particular, the limits of global justice are those which distinguishes it from domestic justice. To clarify better the core idea of sufficientarianism, we assume the following. Let x be a given level of benefits. In the context of the present chapter, x will be a certain amount of basic rights enjoyment. Assuming that x is the level where an amount of enjoyment of basic rights is universally ensured, let us call the group of individuals placed at inferior levels sub-minimum people and the group of individuals living above x super-minimum people. Sufficientarianism in our vision of liberal internationalism amounts to the claim that, in the global arena, one has a more stringent duty to help sub-minimum people than super-minimum people. To put it otherwise, the same unit of benefit can have more moral weight depending on the position of the individual to whom it is given. Benefits given to sub-minimum people should be lexically preferred to benefits given to super-minimum people.4 In the light of this, global justice amounts to benefits given to sub-minimum people, whereas domestic justice is mainly constituted by benefits going to super-minimum people. Accordingly, global justice as it is understood here requires us to give benefits to sub-minimum people abroad, whereas there is no demand that we benefit super-minimum people abroad. Global justice is therefore not global egalitarianism. Global egalitarianism demands that we undertake every equality-enhancing action across the world, whereas global justice, as it is understood in liberal internationalism, requires only that benefits

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should be given to sub-minimum peoples, and that this constitutes our duty of global justice. One of the attractions of cosmopolitanism lies in the fact that we often believe that even in the global sphere there are duties exceeding mere humanitarianism. It seems that global politics requires more demanding norms, norms which are however less demanding than those recommended by a cosmopolitan egalitarian approach. A sufficientarian approach can provide a framework for such an intermediate standard. This sufficientarian view of global justice can be given the following rationale. According to some authors, equality is intrinsically just.5 By contrast, other authors claim that what is politically relevant is that everyone should have a minimum amount of resources, enough to ensure relative independence from circumstances – i.e. a good degree of personal autonomy. Liberal internationalism is, again, a middle way between those two contrasting approaches. More specifically, it provides a middle path aimed at securing a distinctive and dynamic relation among citizens, yet without forfeiting entirely some degree of continuity between domestic and global justice. Among fellow-citizens, equality has clear and appropriate political value, whereas abroad, giving everyone a minimum of basic rights has political value. As a consequence, in the international sphere, relative levels of well-being are not relevant, whereas absolute levels of primary goods are: what matters is not reducing the gap between the worstoffs and the best-offs, but simply helping the worst-offs. Liberal internationalism joins equality and sufficiency. It provides a hybrid view based on the core assumption that equality cannot be unaccompanied by sufficiency.6 Sufficientarianism should answer to (at least) the following objections. First, a rationale is needed to account for the shift of the demands of justice when going above the threshold. Why, once a given threshold is trespassed, does global justice go silent, and further, why should equality across the world not be demanded? In other words, why does the threshold have sufficient political and moral relevance such that it can set the limits of global justice? This objection amounts to two different, but related, questions. First, how is it that a given threshold can lower, or even nullify, the demands of justice? (This is the relevance of the threshold objection.) Second, where exactly should the threshold be placed, and why? (This is the location of the threshold objection.) Without answering these questions, the claim that justice is less stringent, or even silent, for super-minimum people abroad risks being arbitrary. Let us call these two objections the arbitrary threshold issue (Casal 2007, p. 304). Second, and related, sufficientarianism seems to imply that striking and gross inequalities above the threshold for super-minimum people abroad are less important that even minuscule differences to sub-minimum people outside one’s own country. This claim suggests that giving the tiniest amount of protection or goods to the extremely poor is more important than rectifying the widest inequalities among nations or individuals who lie anywhere above the established threshold. This, makes sufficientarianism seem unduly blind to the value of equality. Let us call this the blindness to equality objection.7 Third, sufficientarianism can create another problem, one related to upward distribution. Whenever a sub-minimum person is nearer to the threshold, a benefit given to her seems to count more than an equal benefit given to a sub-minimum person lying



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further from the threshold. But this seems intuitively unjustifiable and wrong, for the person further away is being sacrificed in the interests of the nearer one. Let us call this the upward distribution objection. A complete discussion of the above criticisms would require more space than a single chapter. However, we would like to argue that liberal internationalism, as formulated here, provides some tools to resist these criticisms. First, the idea that basic human rights should be protected – and that enjoyment of basic human rights indicates the threshold of global justice – is intrinsically sensible. It is intuitively plausible that, once the protection of human rights has been ensured, the demands of justice decrease in strength. Moreover, the list of basic human rights, for instance as specified in the 1948 United Nations Declaration, provides detailed content for the threshold, thereby answering the location objection. Second, liberal internationalism rests on two distinct but related moral standards, one for global justice and another for domestic justice. The latter is held to an egalitarian standard, and the former to a sufficientarian one. Because liberal internationalism requires equality within states it acknowledges inequalities above the threshold, And one might plausibly assume that in a world of domestically egalitarian states there would be a lesser degree of overall global inequality. Therefore, because it endorses an egalitarian standard of domestic justice, liberal internationalism is more concerned with equality than other sufficientarian views. This provides an answer to the blindness objection. Third, upward distribution is less likely to occur when the protection of basic human rights is assumed to be the currency of justice. Basic rights protection cannot be easily fragmented or divided. Global justice as defined here dictates the complete protection of basic human rights; however, any individual having less than complete enjoyment of basic human rights is simply disadvantaged, not less disadvantaged than others. As a consequence, there is no possibility that someone is below the threshold, but nearer to it than another person. Therefore, no upward distribution is possible, nor is it required. Global justice simply requires the complete protection of basic human rights, for everyone. Notice, also, that in our formulation global justice is not a maximising view: global justice requires that everyone has their own rights protected, not that the amount of individuals with their own rights protected be maximised. This answers the upward distribution objection.

Conclusions The debate between cosmopolitans and statists has been waging for almost 30 years. Both views have been defended, refined and re-stated. However, it is our contention that no single version is entirely convincing. Globalisation renders implausible the old Westphalian image of a world of autonomous states. However, the prospect of a unified government and globally shared political principles is still faint, in our world of conflicting legal, religious and political worldviews. Nevertheless, there is a common humanity we share, and with that come standards of decency, or at least such standards have evolved out of the moral history of humankind. Liberal

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internationalism relies on three ideas: first, supra-national institutions are possible and significant, even though they stop before anything one might term a ‘world government’; second, in certain conditions of urgency, duties of justice emerge and demand that gross deprivations and violations of basic human rights be rectified; lastly, global justice has a limit, that is, it focuses on absolute deprivation below an established threshold in the international arena.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

For an in-depth discussion of the legitimation/justification distinction see Scanlon (2012). Within a contractarian framework a similar thesis is defended by D. Richards (1982). The term is used in a consequentialist framework by R. Goodin in Goodin (1985). So stated, sufficientarianism amounts to discontinuous prioritarianism. On this issue, see Shields (2012). On the distinction between intrinsic and instrumental equality, see D. Parfit (1997). Along the lines suggested by Casal (2007), p. 318. On this kind of criticism, see Casal (2007), Shields (2012) and Dorsey (2008).

References Buchanan, A. (1990), ‘Justice as Reciprocity versus Subject-Centered Justice’, Philosophy and Public Affairs, 19 (3): 227–52. Casal, P. (2007), ‘Why Sufficiency is not Enough’, Ethics, 117 (2): 296–326. Dorsey, D. (2008), ‘Toward a Theory of the Basic Minimum’, Politics, Philosophy and Economics, 7 (4): 423–45. Goodin, R. (1985), Protecting the Vulnerable: A Reanalysis of Our Social Responsibilities, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Habermas, J. (1994), The Post-Metaphysical Thinking, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Havel, V. (2010), The Power of the Powerless, London and New York: Routledge. Held, D. (2003), ‘Cosmopolitanism: Taming Globalization’, in D. Held and A. McGrew (eds), The Global Transformations Reader (2nd edn), Cambridge: Polity, pp. 524–9. Hobbes, T. (2009 [1651]), Leviathan, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Julius, J. (2003), ‘Basic Structure and the Value of Equality’, Philosophy and Public Affairs, 3 (4): 321–55. Levi, P. (1959 [1947]), If This is a Man, New York: Orion Press. Maffettone, S. (2010), Rawls. An Introduction, Cambridge: Polity. Nagel, T. (2005), ‘The Problem of Global Justice’, in Philosophy and Public Affairs, 33 (2): 113–47. Parfit, D. (1997), ‘Equality and Priority’, Ratio, 10 (3): 202–21. Pogge, T. (1992), ‘Cosmopolitanism and Sovereignty’, in Ethics, 103 (1): 48–75. —(2000), ‘On the Site of Distributive Justice: Reflections on Cohen and Murphy’, Philosophy and Public Affairs, 29 (2): 137–69. Rawls, J. (1988), ‘The Priority of Right and the Ideas of the Good’, Philosophy and Public Affairs, 17 (4): 251–76.



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—(1999), A Theory of Justice (revised edition), Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Richards, D. (1982), ‘International Distributive Justice’, Nomos, 24: 275–99. Scanlon, T. M. (1975), ‘Preference and Urgency’, Journal of Philosophy, 72 (19): 655–69. —(2012), ‘Justification and Legitimation: Comments on Sebastiano Maffettone’s Rawls: An Introduction’, Philosophy and Social Criticism, 38 (9): 887–92. Sen, A. K. (2009), The Idea of Justice, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Shields, L. (2012), ‘The Prospects for Sufficientarianism’, in Utilitas, 24 (1): 101–17. Shue, H. (1996), Basic Rights (rev. edn), Princeton: Princeton University Press. Walzer, M. (1996), ‘Spheres of Affection’, in J. Cohen (ed.), For Love of Country, Boston: Beacon Press.

3

Moral Imagination and the Art of Solidarity Anna Abram

Introduction In one of the finest market squares in Rome, Campo dei Fiori, a crowd is witnessing a public execution. The man is Giordano Bruno, a 52-year-old Italian Dominican friar, philosopher and scientist whose thoughts and ideas, we are to believe, influenced such philosophers as Spinoza and Hegel. This tragic event (alongside the ‘liquidation’ of the Jewish Ghetto in 1943 in Warsaw) is recorded by Czeslaw Milosz in his poem ‘Campo dei Fiori’. Bruno was burnt at the stake by the civil authorities after eight years of imprisonment and after the Venetian and Roman Inquisition found him guilty of heresy. Milosz, as we shall see later in this study, draws our attention to different ways of witnessing to the event. We are presented with two opposing attitudes to the scene: engagement and disengagement. There are those who react to the terrible death of Bruno with indifference and there are those (at least one, the poet himself) who show sympathy with the victim and display a deliberate choice to attend to Bruno’s suffering and death. How is it possible that some observers are engaged while others, seeing the same event, seem disconnected and indifferent? What is going on in the compassionate observer which is missing in the disinterested bystander? Is it solidarity? If it is, what exactly is solidarity? What are its characteristics and preconditions? This study will consider these and similar questions. First, however, we shall explore the meaning of the word ‘solidarity’ and consider some basic ideas associated with it. ‘Solid’ is the root of the word ‘solidarity’. It suggests that solidarity has something to do with strength and reliability. In Latin solidum connotes wholeness or entirety. The social or cultural meaning of ‘solidarity’ is perhaps more elusive or even sometimes exclusive. The term itself is relatively new. Even if its origin can be traced to Roman and feudal law, denoting a joint (correal) obligation of a group for a debt incurred by its members,1 it post-dates the French Revolution. The French solidarité – referring to a particular form of unity, bond or brotherhood in the struggle of the working class for social inclusion – is associated with the work of Pierre Henri Leroux, De l’humanité, published in Paris in 1840 and with the political movement, Republican Solidarity (Solidarité républicaine) in France in 1848 (Pilbeam 2000, pp. 39–53). In the nineteenth century, in his The Division of Labour in Society, Émile Durkheim

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uses the term freely although without defining it. He writes about ‘mechanical’ and ‘organic’ solidarity and explores the concept of ‘human fraternity’. Are solidarity and fraternity the same? For Durkheim, they are. He is concerned with social harmony as the outcome of successful structuring of labour relations. This type of solidarity as fraternity can be designated as ‘social solidarity’. It depends on the existence of personal bonds which are needed for realisation of common goals or ideals within groups. Unlike other concepts – such as justice, which tend to focus on rules and principles without specific references to personal bonds – social solidarity requires an acknowledgement of subjective bonds. It involves a degree of feeling (a fellow-feeling) which is shared by subjects within or between groups. In the past few decades our vocabulary gained another category of solidarity: global solidarity. Lawrence Wilde offers an appraisal of this idea, especially if grounded in virtue ethics, in his Global Solidarity (Wilde 2013, p. 2). Exploring the politics of globalisation and the conditions for the development of global solidarity, Wilde focuses his discussion on areas of social division associated with nationalism, gender, religion and culture. There is also a third type with which this study is concerned, simply ‘human’ solidarity. ‘Universal’ solidarity could belong to this category, providing the adjective ‘universal’ is used in a meta-ethical sense (of moral universalism) and is not reduced to a ‘local and biased’ versus ‘universal and unbiased’ type of debate.2 In order to avoid confusion, we shall concentrate on the idea of human solidarity or the solidarity of the human qua human (an expression used by David Wiggins) which can be broadly understood as an inner attitude or disposition to connect with the other-as-human. This is not to say that the above types of solidarity are completely distinct. They are connected in the sense that each depends on the existence of the subjective bond. Distinguishing between them, however, can be useful, especially for political and cultural analyses, understanding of successes and failures of social or political movements such as Republican Solidarity in France in 1848 or Solidarity (Polish: Solidarność) in Poland in the 1980s, and considering future attempts to promote solidarity. The third type (human solidarity), none the less, as this chapter aims to show, is fundamental to informing and forming other types, social as well as global. Earlier I suggested that solidarity can be understood as fraternity – bonding within a group or between groups on the basis of shared goals and ideals. Following Wiggins’s philosophical exploration of solidarity in which he views solidarity as ‘the root of the ethical’ (Wiggins 2009), I shall argue that solidarity understood simply as fraternity is limited. I will attempt to illustrate this argument by looking into the poem ‘Campo dei Fiori’ by Milosz and argue that the central obstacle to realising solidarity in human interactions – at different levels of human relationality whether personal, local or global – is not so much rational ignorance of commonalities in human nature but an inability to adequately imagine human inter-connectedness. If solidarity is to be designated as ‘human’, it has to involve passion for the human form. This chapter aims to unfold what such passion means. I shall claim that human solidarity, when truly embraced and practised, helps us establish that there are moral non-negotiables to which, by virtue of being human, we should be responsive. I will conclude that fostering human solidarity is a form of art (art is used broadly, as the art of good life); its medium is moral imagination. Moral imagination, through connecting the



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narrative of the other with our own, enables us to visualise solidarity. Ultimately, the art of solidarity is achieved through the imaginative realisation of our human interconnectedness and interdependence.

1 Moral imagination as a conceptual tool for exploring human solidarity ‘Imagination’ (as in the case of ‘solidarity’) is an elusive term. Despite its existential evidence and significance, imagination, often confused with fantasy, has been variously evaluated in scholarly works. It was often considered to be a faculty reserved for artists rather than serious academic thinkers (with a few exceptions to be mentioned later). Neuroscientists tell us that imagination is closely linked to cognitive, emotional and sensory activities. A respected study by Arnold Modell, Imagination and the Meaningful Brain (Modell 2003), considers these activities and attempts to explain how the brain turns sensory data into imagination. At its most basic level, imagination is the ability to form mental images of real or unreal phenomena or events and to develop different scenarios or different perspectives on those phenomena or events. For Aristotle, imagination was afforded a central role in how humans piece together their world.3 In the history of Western philosophy, up until Kant, many philosophers held that the imagination was a secondary movement following upon perception; its role was deemed to be essentially reproductive, in the service of memory and reason.4 As a consequence, imagination, often regarded as a subjective ‘sense’, was viewed as incapable of contributing to objective moral claims. Admittedly, there could be problems of distortion when it comes to making moral judgments on the basis of imagination but imagination does not have to be either dangerously misleading or subjective, for we share appreciation of imaginative works, such as the works of art. We do not have to live in Rome in 1600 or Warsaw in 1943 in order to work out what Milosz is describing and warning us against in his poem ‘Campo dei Fiori’. This is not to say that the works of art have a completely privileged role in understanding moral issues. I am not suggesting that one cannot be moral without turning to art for moral guidance. Nor am I putting forward a claim that all art is morally significant. Examining these claims would involve us in a complex discussion between ethics and aesthetics, but this would be beyond the scope of this chapter. My use of the term ‘imagination’ is broad and based on the understanding that imagination is what bridges cognition and affectivity with experience. In contemporary moral philosophy, scholars such as Mark Johnson prefer to focus on the moral significance of the imagination rather than try to resolve ambiguities and tensions relating to the imagination, and so avoid conceptual misunderstandings by the use of the phrase ‘moral imagination’ (Johnson 1993). Johnson describes ‘moral imagination’ as ‘self-knowledge about the imaginative structure of our moral understanding, including its values, limitations, and blind spots’, ‘similar knowledge of other people’, ‘the ability to imagine how various actions open to us might alter our self-identity, modify our commitments, change our relationships, and affect the lives

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of others’, ‘the ability to imagine and to enact transformations in our moral understanding, our character, and our behavior’ (Johnson 1993, p. 187). ‘Moral imagination’ is what makes us sensitive to the slightest whisper of meaning’ (Barbieri 1998, p. 386), so that the transformation in our seeing and acting can take place. Admittedly, not all ethicists are comfortable with giving much space in their moral reflection to imagination. Yet there are numerous contemporary thinkers who are determined to stretch the boundaries of ethics and ensure that literature, poetry, story-telling, music and architecture have a more legitimate place in ethical reflection. Martha Nussbaum, in the Introduction to her Love’s Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and Literature, talks more positively about her experience of high school when she was learning to ask philosophical questions when reading literary works than about her graduate studies which made her aware of the hostility of ethical theories towards literature. Hence in Love’s Knowledge she is determined to return to the fiction of Proust, Henry James and Dickens (Nussbaum 1992). Dickens (especially, his Hard Times) features in Nussbaum’s Poetic Justice (Nussbaum 1997). She considers the theme of solidarity in many of her philosophical discussions. Vigen Guroian, a theological ethicist, refers to children’s stories in his work and sees imagination as a key moral faculty.5 Following the example of these scholars, this chapter will turn to a poem in order to substantiate the claim that human solidarity is conditioned by the quality of our moral imagining. Prior to that we shall establish philosophical grounds for the understanding of human solidarity.

2 Solidarity as the root of the ethical David Wiggins in his influential paper ‘Solidarity and the Root of the Ethical’ argues against a reductionistic view of solidarity as fraternity or narrowly understood benevolence. He bases his argument on an observation made by Chateaubriand in the early 1790s in France: It was a point of honour for the conventionnels [the spawn members of the National Convention, which governed France from 21 Sep 1792 till Oct 26th 1795] that they were the most benevolent of men. Like good fathers, good sons, good husbands, they walked out with small children. They looked after their nursemaids, and wept fond tears at the simple games the little ones played. They took the little lambs in their arms and dandled them in gentle imitation of the gee-gee which pulled the tumbrel that took the victims of the Revolution to their final end. The conventionnels sang of Nature, of Pity, of Beneficence, of Plain Speaking or Artless Simplicity, and of Domestic Virtue. It was with deep compassion that these devotees of philanthropy had their neighbours beheaded for the sake of the greater happiness of the human race.6

Wiggins through the words of Chateaubriand draws our attention to the incongruity between the conventionnels’ ‘preoccupation with their own benevolence and their repeated acquiescence in judicial killing justified only if at all in the name of the greatest happiness’.7 Can we be benevolent and at the same time prepared to impose



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misery or even death on others? Wiggins explains that, properly understood, benevolence (which goes beyond fraternity in the name of greater happiness as displayed by conventionnels) does seek the happiness of others but also (and importantly) resents the misery of others: ‘thoroughgoing and rational benevolence must hold that, in the fulfilment of its commitment to the greatest happiness, nobody’s happiness or misery can matter more than the happiness or misery of anyone else’ (Wiggins 2009, p. 240). In other words, how is it possible that in cases such as the one Chateaubriand is recalling benevolence is not offered to the ‘victims of judicial murder, wrongful indictment, unprovoked violence, etc.’ (Wiggins 2009, p. 240)? Conventionnels have failed to adequately recognise human inter-connectedness. What can ensure that each and every one by virtue of being human can be cared for? It is beyond the scope of this study to give a comprehensive answer to this question. However, any answer has to be built on the premise that ‘solidarity of the human qua human’, as Wiggins terms it, is what true benevolence cannot dispense with. By referring to Philippa Foot, David Hume and Simone Weil, Wiggins searches for a demand that arises from a simpler way of ethical thinking and looks for the kind of ‘response that might be expected from almost anyone who is party to the ethical’ (Wiggins 2009, p. 243). Together with Foot he rejects a morality, permitted by utilitarians, that allows one to sanction the automatic sacrifice of the one for the good of the many. He borrows from Foot the idea of the ‘moral space’ – a space which others are not allowed to invade – and supplements it with a Humean approach to human nature. According to Hume, human nature is characterised by two sentiments: sentiment of benevolence and sentiment of self-love. Hume finds in human nature ‘some spark of friendship for human kind’ or some ‘particle of the dove kneaded into a frame along with the sentiments of the wolf and the serpent’ (Hume 1902 [1777], p. 223). Weil inspires Wiggins to notice the power of human presence through which a person can be recognised as a person. Weil explains poignantly what she means by that power: ‘anybody who is in our vicinity exercises a certain power over us by his very presence, and a power of halting, repressing, modifying each movement that our body sketches out. If we step aside for a passer-by on the road, it is not the same thing as stepping aside to avoid a bill-board. Alone in our rooms we get up, walk about, sit down again quite differently from the way we do when we have a visitor […] But this indefinable influence that the presence of another human being has on us is not exercised by men [such as one’s adversary in warfare] whom a moment of impatience can deprive of life, who can die before even a thought has a chance to pass sentence on them. In their presence people move about as if they were not there’.8 This human presence, according to Weil and Wiggins, even if at times suspended, is something unique or sacred. It seems that, without realising its power, we are in danger of losing something morally important. The three notions – the moral space, human nature as in part benevolent or othercentred (and in part self-centred or self-loving) and the human presence – inform Wiggins’s account of solidarity. He is interested in ‘what goes on when a person finds or happens upon another person’ (Wiggins 2009, p. 249). He points out that ‘in confrontation with the human form, in recognizing another person, we recognize not merely a subject of consciousness but a being who will try to make sense of us even

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as we try to make sense of him or her, each of us bringing to bear more or less similar expectations, a canon of the reasonable not entirely at variance with our own, and a comparable proclivity to reciprocity or retaliation’ (Wiggins 2009, p. 249). For Wiggins (as for Foot and Weil), it is important that we do not invade or that we preserve that space in which our humanness becomes conscious and creates something like a benchmark for all our moral activities. In other words, it is important that we do not miss what I call the ‘opportunity of human recognition’ that I and the other are being human and that the other thinks (or at least is capable of thinking) of me in the same way. Although we have used the word ‘thinking’, ‘recognition’ seems more appropriate as it involves seeing with all our capacities, cognitive, affective and sensual. This kind of seeing employs moral imagination. Moral imagination is a key to forming a disposition of solidarity. Through its self- and other-knowledge, understanding of (our own and the other’s) values and blind spots, openness to self-transformation, the imagination that is moral creates and guards the moral space. Vincent MacNamara in The Call to Be Human: Making Sense of Morality makes the insightful suggestion that ‘it may be that we are more open to the soul and to goodness through poetry, liturgy and art than through rational investigation or speculation’ (MacNamara 2010, p. 28). MacNamara uses ‘soul’ as the place through which something profound can unfold. But this place can be the moral space in which moral imagination is exercised. We shall next test the proposition that opening to goodness can take place through art, by means of a test-case focused upon the Campo dei Fiori message, lyrically presented by Czeslaw Milosz. We will attempt to find out what ‘opening to goodness’ through imagining solidarity of the human qua human might mean and what precisely is going on in the compassionately-engaged observer as well as what is missing in the disinterested bystander.

3 The presence and absence of solidarity in Czeslaw Milosz’s ‘Campo dei Fiori’ Czeslaw Milosz (1911–2004), a Polish poet and the winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature (1980), in his poem ‘Campo dei Fiori’,9 through a powerful use of scenes and symbols, helps us explore the nature of solidarity, its cultural expressions, strengths and limitations. Milosz (unlike Hume) is not very positive about the human condition: the sentiment of benevolence is weaker than the sentiment of self-love. Conditioned by his own experiences of World War II, exile in France and then in the United States, Milosz is sceptical about human nature. This scepticism is visible in the way he juxtaposes in the poem two historical events: the burning of Giordano Bruno in 1600 in the Campo dei Fiori in Rome and the burning of the Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1943. Nevertheless, Milosz does not dismiss the possibility of the existence of a ‘solidarity of the human qua human’ – careful attention might result in finding some cues about the practice of this kind of solidarity.



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Campo dei Fiori In Rome on the Campo dei Fiori baskets of olives and lemons, cobbles spattered with wine and the wreckage of flowers. Vendors cover the trestles with rose-pink fish; armfuls of dark grapes heaped on peach-down.

Someone will read as moral that the people of Rome or Warsaw haggle, laugh, make love as they pass by martyrs’ pyres. Someone else will read of the passing of things human, of the oblivion born before the flames have died.

On this same square they burned Giordano Bruno. Henchmen kindled the pyre close-pressed by the mob. Before the flames had died The taverns were full again, baskets of olives and lemons again on the vendors’ shoulders.

But that day I thought only of the loneliness of the dying, of how, when Giordano climbed to his burning

I thought of the Campo dei Fiori in Warsaw by the sky-carousel one clear spring evening to the strains of a carnival tune. the bright melody drowned The salvos from the ghetto wall, and couples were flying high in the cloudless sky. At times wind from the burning would drift dark kites along and riders on the carousel caught petals in midair. That same hot wind blew open the skirts of the girls and the crowds were laughing on that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.

he could not find in any human tongue words for mankind, mankind who live on. Already they were back at their wine or peddled their white starfish, baskets of olives and lemons they had shouldered to the fair, and he already distanced as if centuries had passed while they paused just a moment for his flying in the fire. Those dying here, the lonely forgotten by the world, our tongue becomes for them the language of an ancient planet. Until, when all is legend and many years have passed, on a new Campo dei Fiori rage will kindle at a poet’s word.

The poem presents us with two key scenarios: the execution of Giordano Bruno and the burning of the inhabitants of the Jewish Ghetto in 1943 in Warsaw. Bruno was a member of a religious order, a scientist and thinker. He was accused of heresy by the Roman Inquisition and burnt at the stake by civil authorities. The Warsaw Ghetto was the largest ghetto in Nazi-occupied Europe during World War II. Over 400,000 Jews were crammed into an area of 1.3 square miles. The Nazis were systematically ‘liquidating’ the Ghetto by burning its buildings and murdering its inhabitants, especially

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after the Ghetto Uprising in April 1943. The poem captures the deaths of both Bruno and the Jews and describes the bystanders’ reactions to these two tragedies. Milosz is one of a very few poets and writers who react directly, powerfully and immediately (already during the War) to the situation around him. Marek Edelman, one of the commanders of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, finds Milosz’s poem an expression of solidarity with the Jews: ‘Milosz’s writing about the tragic aloneness of the Jews during the uprising meant a great deal to the Jewish people; […] we were second category people, Milosz with his poem didn’t make us feel that’.10 Milosz, conditioned by a sense of indifference that characterised Polish–Jewish relations in prewar Poland, stands above his cultural inheritance and shows solidarity the human qua human by choosing to stand on the side of the Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto. Indifference, separation and mutual exchange, primarily at the level of economic dealings were the predominant traits of cultural or ‘social’ imaginaries of the prewar Poland. Charles Taylor’s description of the ‘social imaginary’ is helpful in exploring the notion of social bonds, ways of fitting together, even if not always with the display of the human qua human bond. By ‘social imaginary’ he means: the ways in which people imagine their social existence, how they fit together with others, how things go on between them and their fellows, the expectations that are normally met, and the deeper normative notions and images that underlie these expectations. […] I speak of imaginary because I’m talking about the way ordinary people ‘imagine’ their social surroundings, and this is often not expressed in theoretical terms; it is carried in images, stories, and legends. (Taylor 2004, p. 106)

Taylor’s concept of ‘social imaginary’ allows for people’s practices and ways of living to make sense and have legitimacy. In the Polish context, Catholics and Jews managed to have a common understanding of how to interact with each other while keeping as separate as possible. Each culture within the overall culture had its own ways of making sense and having legitimacy. Cultural imaginaries are socially constructed to fit the needs of a particular group. Both Catholics and Jews had constructed their own cultural imaginaries in order to foster solidarity within the group but did not always foster solidarity with those from outside the group. The architecture of Polish towns, with shtetls on one side and Catholic churches on the other, expresses something of the prewar Poland. At the time of the war the internal bonds and external antagonisms are even more visible. Each group had to idealise itself to keep the internal bonds while making not much effort to create external bonds. The war highlights this separation even further and tests human solidarity. The underlying emotions of the time are fear (fear of the enemy, fear of loss, including the loss of loved ones and one’s own life), anxiety about the unknown future, and desire to survive. But it is in these difficult situations that human solidarity is tested most profoundly. What is clear in the poem is that although there is a sense of social solidarity in the scenarios the poem describes, solidarity of human qua human is missing in both the Campo dei Fiori and in the Warsaw Ghetto. Internal bonds within groups are organised around external symbols represented by food (baskets of olives and lemons) and entertainment (taverns and a carousel). These material realities bond and blind at the same time.



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There are many Polish-Jewish stories of cooperation and altruism recorded in the postwar archives. But, we are also aware that anti-Semitism during the war was alive (even if there is no trace of anti-Semitism recorded in Milosz’s biography). The situation of the war colours Milosz’s imagination when he writes the poem. He must have been familiar with a large sign on the wall of the Warsaw Ghetto: ‘Jews, lice, typhus’. To counter this inhumane attitude, it was necessary to challenge Polish cultural imaginaries and the imaginary of Nazi politics. Expressing solidarity of the human qua human type was a test of courage. Edelman is aware of this test when he says: ‘yes, we did have lice and we were dirty and we carried diseases but each of us was a human being who spoke and thought as a human being and Milosz in his Campo dei Fiori poem affirms our humanity’. He does so by presenting the outrageous fact of the existence of the carousel on Krasinski Place near the Ghetto in the following words: At times wind from the burning would drift dark kites along and riders on the carousel caught petals in midair. That same hot wind blew open the skirts of the girls and the crowds were laughing on that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.

This verse is a metaphor11 which is meant to shock and awake the reader from the attitude of indifference to a positive action of solidarity. Images like these are powerful; they can put the reader in touch with deeper realities and through their imaginative shock bring about a change, the kind of transformation of one’s self-understanding as well as awareness of the other which Johnson highlights in his description of moral imagination to which we alluded earlier. Moral imagination exposes cultural imaginaries to scrutiny. Taylor admits that cultural imaginaries can be problematic and this is what Milosz conveys to us too:12 ‘baskets of olives and lemons’ bond the visitors to the Campo but they also prevent them from engaging with the whole situation, especially with uncomfortable realities of the suffering other (Giordano Bruno and the inhabitants of the Ghetto). What exactly do the ‘the people of Rome and Warsaw’ in the two scenarios have in common? We have already noted that in both cases the indifference towards the suffering and different other as well as the lack of the solidarity of the human qua human type are the common attitudes of the bystanders. Milosz does not seem to be interested in cultural similarities but in the common human condition which, according to him, remains unchanged or does not change easily. Although the images evoked in this poem portray events differentiated in time and space, they are profoundly linked. Four hundred years after the execution of Bruno for holding officially unacceptable views, Jews of the Warsaw Ghetto were executed for being an unacceptable race. In both scenarios, as Milosz points out, those around the victims do not protest against the clearly visible atrocities. Moreover, some of them (as conventionnales in France) in the name of greater happiness support the inhuman acts.

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Milosz seems to think that humanity does not learn from the violence of the past. He observes that human beings do not find it easy to pay attention to the misery of others, especially those who are different (different worldviews, different religion and different race). Paying a proper attention to the suffering other would involve going against the stream (of the crowd’s behaviour), stretching the boundaries of cultural and social imaginaries and seeing the human form in everyone. As two thirds of the poem suggests, Milosz does not think that human beings are inclined towards a universal benevolence. The moral space is an uncomfortable ground and it is easily escapable. The poem, in its sixth stanza, none the less, does offer the possibility of taking a less common and comfortable stance to remain in the moral space and recognise the human presence. This is the option the poet himself chooses to follow: But that day I thought only of the loneliness of the dying, of how, when Giordano climbed to his burning he could not find in any human tongue words for mankind, mankind who live on.

The choice to remain at the scene is conscious and involves a careful exercise of moral imagination. The poet decides to engage and think only of one thing: ‘of the loneliness of the dying’. The exercise of the moral imagination entails making a choice to connect with others on the human qua human level. The poet consciously connects in his imagination with those who are victims, Bruno and the Warsaw Jews. He makes an effort to feel in his inner being what it is like to climb as Bruno did ‘to his burning’. This exercise requires an emotional engagement: the poet wants to understand what it is like to be alone, misunderstood and marginalised. Unlike the people with ‘baskets of olives and lemons’ who turn to their daily routine soon after the tragic ‘spectacle’ is over, the poet engages both rationally and emotionally with the reality of the ‘loneliness of the dying’: Already they were back at their wine or peddled their white starfish, baskets of olives and lemons they had shouldered to the fair, and he already distanced as if centuries had passed while they paused just a moment for his flying in the fire.

The result of this engagement is the poet’s discovery of speechlessness. There are no words left ‘in any human tongue’ which could adequately express the moral climate of what he sees:



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Those dying here, the lonely forgotten by the world, our tongue becomes for them the language of an ancient planet. Until, when all is legend and many years have passed, on a new Campo dei Fiori rage will kindle at a poet’s word.

The poet accepts that one has to live with the aftermath because ‘mankind lives on’. The poem seems to suggest that ‘the loneliness of the dying’ is the moral failure of the living. The lyrics pierce our imagination with the same picture of baskets of olives and lemons which like a chorus reminds us of what human beings are like, how little they change, how scarce their compassion is, how scantily they exercise their moral imagination. He predicts a new Campo dei Fiori. He expects that cultured people will read his poem with interest, will analyse it (as we are doing in this chapter), will learn the Campo dei Fiori legend, will even be able to spot a new Campo dei Fiori, but will continue to go in moral circles like the riders of the carousel. Milosz predicts rage at a poet’s word because the kind of analogy he is offering is morally uncomfortable. This is how Milosz presents our human condition and, within it, the failure of solidarity of the human qua human. Shall we accept Milosz’s verdict in this poem? Is it not similar to the observation by Chateaubriand that Wiggins brought to our attention about conventionnels? Can the human form and the moral space take priority over narrowly conceived fraternities? Milosz, despite his overall scepticism, believes that this is possible, provided that the marginalised and the uncomfortable other is allowed to enter the moral space in which (through imagination) his or her human form is fully recognised. It seems that moral transformation (and the transformation of the existent cultural imaginaries) starts at the level of imagination. It involves doing what the poet did: stepping into the uncomfortable shoes of the other, seeing things from their perspective, going against the instinct to escape. For the poet it was stepping into Giordano’s shoes, taking an imaginative stride behind the walls of the Ghetto. Stretching of the imagination seems to be a condition of human solidarity. The action that springs out of that ‘solid’ moral space is a true moral action. This kind of action involves deliberately looking for what is invisible, trying to notice the background but also looking for finer detail. This stress on detail and moral attentiveness to the human qua human is what Milosz is trying to arouse in the readers of his poem. Zoe Bennett in her paper ‘Creation Made Image and Image Made Word’13 makes a useful distinction between ‘eye-sight’ and ‘heart-sight’ (or ‘sight’ and ‘insight’). To understand the human condition, Bennett implies, one has to have both: ‘providing the eyesight is “clear” there is a correlation between what is seen and what is the truth’.14 Milosz seems to suggest that we tend to operate at the level of eyesight and often lack heart-sight. Until these two ways of seeing (eyesight and heart-sight) merge and become what we can call a ‘moral seeing’, the openness to solidarity of the human qua human cannot take place. Milosz’s poem helps us appreciate that the

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moral imagination is a key human faculty that can foster ‘moral seeing’ and nurture the development of human solidarity. ‘Campo dei Fiori’ facilitates a recognition that only when we imagine ourselves to be capable of resisting distractions by ‘the baskets of lemons and olives’ (which symbolise goods and, at the same time, obstacles to obtaining greater goods) and think of the loneliness of today’s Giordano Brunos and today’s ghettos, can we understand what solidarity of the human qua human truly mean.

4 Solidarity as art? Wiggins’s account of solidarity of the human qua human and Milosz’s approach to a compassionate attentiveness to the suffering other help us to establish the starting point for any ethical discussion. If we want to be truly ‘party to the ethical’ we have to accept that there are certain moral non-negotiables.15 Failure to recognise the human form in everyone is a moral failure. We are inter-connected and inter-dependent. Zygmunt Bauman reminds us that humanity is a matter of human social relationships but so is inhumanity: as social relationships ‘are rationalised and technically perfected, so is the capacity and the efficiency of the social production of inhumanity’ (Bauman 1989, p. 154). As we have noted in Milosz’s poem, the moral imagination is what can help us to resist inhumanity by turning our attention to the disabled, alienated, victimised and marginalised other. This means that solidarity of the human qua human requires us to go to the core of the structures of division and exploitation in order to find out whether any person, any group within society, is made the means of another’s end or used for the greater happiness of the other. Fostering human solidarity involves keeping one’s eyes open to the reality of the other so that we become sensitive to those structures and situations which leave people disabled, alienated and marginalised and which suspend the recognition of the human form in all and everyone. Amartya Sen understood the danger of the suspension of the human-formrecognition in everyone when he was critiquing the idea of seeing people as beings with single identities. In his paper ‘Finding Our Common Ground’ Sen recalls how witnessing a murder as an 11-year-old child made him aware of the ‘violence of identity’, of keeping people morally disabled and marginalised and failing to build solidarity with the other.16 An injured man, Kader Mia, came to the gate of his family’s garden, asking for water. Sen attended to him first, then his father rushed the man to the local hospital, but the man died because of his injuries. Sen later learnt that Kader Mia, a Muslim labourer, was knifed when he was on his way to a neighbouring house, where he was working for a small wage. The incident occurred in the area where Hindu-Muslim riots were taking place and Kader Mia being a Muslim should not have come to this area. Sen frequently alludes to this tragic episode to make a point about the need for solidarity of the human qua human which is above any other types of association with the other. The image of Kader Mia and the whole episode has been a powerful resource for Sen; one of the reasons he returns to it is to argue that viewing the other through one (usually religious) identity can be detrimental to solidarity. Sen



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stresses that for a ‘bewildered child, the violence of identity was extraordinarily hard to grasp. It is not particularly easy even for a still bewildered elderly adult’.17 According to Sen, one way to practise human solidarity in our social, cultural and global relations is by refusing to view others in terms of their singular identities. Human beings have multi-identities. Sen is keen to take into account diverse identities of human beings. In the context of his own country, he says: civilisational classifiers have often pigeonholed India as a ‘Hindu civilisation’ – a description that, among other things, pays little attention to India’s more than 145 million Muslims (not to mention Indian Sikhs, Jains, Christians, Parsees and others), and also ignores the extensive interconnections among the people of the country that do not work through religion at all, but through political, social, economic, commercial, artistic, musical or other cultural activities.18

Sen’s own life and achievements are testimony that it is not only possible to imagine another world but the product of this imagining is a true affirmation of multi-identity of the other. Building human solidarity requires training the imagination to synthesise different identities of people and seeing the other as the multi-storey of personal, religious, social, economic, and cultural stories. According to Sen, if a person can have only one identity, then the choice, for example, between the national and the global becomes an ‘all or nothing’ contest. This kind of contest disables the imagination and discourages solidarity. Another important task in building human solidarity (in a more global context), according to Sen, is in the area of education. He discusses ‘intellectual fairness’ and learning ‘global’ history, which is important both for a fuller understanding of humanity’s past and for overcoming the false sense of comprehensive superiority of the west. For example, while there has been some discussion recently about the need for people of immigrant backgrounds in Europe or America to learn more about western civilisation, there is still extraordinarily little recognition of the importance of the need for the ‘old Brits’, ‘old Germans’, ‘old Americans’ and others to learn about the intellectual history of the world.19

Knowledge of such history is conducive to a different way of seeing cultures, nations and religions. It challenges and expands existing cultural or social imaginaries or simply replaces them with better ones. A similar point on global or plural identity and the educational task is made by Bauman. Using the concept of the ‘fullness of the world’ he calls for not simply a recognition but a serious espousal of solidarity as inter-connectedness.20 Bauman speaks of a positive ‘there is no alternative’ approach. According to him, we have no option (‘no option’ understood not in the sense of some painful constraint, more in a sense of free acceptance) but to recognise the ‘solidarity of fate’ and move even beyond it, to the ‘solidarity of purpose and action’. What does he mean by the ‘fullness of the world’ or, in his own words: ‘although it has been unnoticed, ignored, or played down by most of us, the truth is that the world is full’? In his view, the great dream of the West that there is always a new place to discover, a new land to colonise, has dissolved. The great hope that a nation could shut itself

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off from the others is likewise over. The era of building walls such as the Berlin Wall, according to Bauman, is at an end. He argues: ‘You know that fullness from the inside. That fullness is not just another item of information. You feel that fullness, you live it daily, and whatever you do or may yet do, that experience of fullness won’t go away’.21 Bauman compares our current situation to the one at the time of the French Revolution which was, in his view, a response to the inability of municipalities, guilds, and other forms of local government to contain and control powerful economic forces that rose above the local level and moved beyond local control which was the only control then in operation: Just like then, our current institutions of democratic, political, and ethical control, territorially confined and tied to the ground as they are, are no match for the increasingly extraterritorial and free-flowing forces of finance, capital, and trade. Just like then, our task now is to create such institutions of effective political action as could match the size and the power of the already global economic forces and bring them under political scrutiny and ethical supervision.22

Bauman predicts that if we do not match the size and the power of the current economic forces, the following will happen: the continuing – and deepening – of the disastrous effects of venture capital: the growing inequality and polarization of the globe, massive destruction of livelihoods, impoverishment of entire lands and populations, and revival of tribal sentiments and animosities with all their murderous, often genocidal, consequences.23

This alternative sounds catastrophic. It would be beyond the scope of this concluding part of the chapter to unpack this point further except than to note that Bauman seems to appeal to moral imagination in his call for the right choice between solidarity of common humanity and solidarity of mutual destruction: on this planet, we are all dependent on each other, and nothing that we do or refrain from doing is indifferent to the fate of everyone else. From the ethical point of view, this makes us all responsible for each other.

The concepts (or one may call them ‘inner attitudes’) of co-responsibility, interconnectedness and interdependence are key dimensions of human solidarity. These inner attitudes as well as an aforementioned idea of moral imagination have not been fully embraced in many of our ethical discussions. My feeling (I use this term intentionally) is that we have been overemphasising the importance of ethical theories (such as Kantianism or utilitarianism), treating ethics as science, in a narrow sense of the word. Ethics as science formulates theories and explains matters of rightness and wrongness. Ethics as art more easily deals with the issues we touched upon in the analysis of the ‘Campo dei Fiori’ poem. It embraces contingency, mystery, intuition and emotions. Science aims at precision; art accepts ambiguity. Science wants to answer; art wants to question; science clarifies old realities by explaining what already exists; art creates new realities. In the discourse of ethics, there is little space for free improvisation, dealing creatively with the ad hoc realities, for embracing unpredictability and



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accepting ambiguity. In not giving attention to these realities we are missing the core of what creates and sustains the existence of the moral space, promotes the recognition of the human presence and fosters a constructive moral change in ourselves and in our societies. Co-responsibility, inter-connectedness and interdependence are necessary for the maintenance of the three categories highlighted by Wiggins: the moral space, the moral presence and human nature as partly benevolent. In our moral theorising we have been focusing primarily on the acts, especially on what is forbidden, punishable (in order to temper the other side of our nature which has to do with over-focusing on the self and the neglect of the other) and not enough on what expands our understanding of human solidarity. And, even if – thanks to the renewed interests in virtue ethics – we have returned to the concepts of character and the virtues, we have not concentrated enough on creative moral qualities which can be captured imaginatively by turning to a poem such as Milosz’s ‘Campo dei Fiori’. The corrective is not to ‘throw the baby out with the bathwater’ but to seek the genuine connection between what can be termed as ‘the science of ethics’ with ‘the art of ethics’.

Conclusion In this study I have appealed to moral imagination and attempted to illustrate the exercise of it through the analysis of a poem. In addition, examining Milosz’s own response to the situation of the Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto as recalled by a survivor of the Ghetto’s Uprising, Marek Edelman, has not only helped us to grasp some of the meanings of human solidarity but it has also drawn our attention to different powers of imagination. Imagination has a moving power, especially in the way images can stir us and connect with our deepest desires. It has also a creative power: it can create a picture which has a power to direct us towards some vision, including a vision of the more ‘solid’ self and a more benevolent world. In other words, imagination has a power of creative self-direction which is not at odds with a solid communal vision. Only when we imagine ourselves as being able to step into Bruno’s shoes or behind the walls of the Warsaw Ghetto (as the poet did) or into the shoes of Kader Mia (as Sen did) can we really understand what solidarity of the human qua human is about. Much of what we value depends on what we notice through imagination. If we are not able to see someone of a different race, religion, culture, sexual orientation as equal to ourselves and ourselves as equal to him or her, we will not be able to see anything wrong with racism and all kinds of social phobias. The lack of moral imagination is a serious obstacle to human solidarity. Building or practising solidarity is an art which requires free improvisations, dealing creatively with the ad hoc realities, asking questions without rushing to answer them, embracing unpredictability and accepting ambiguity. The art of solidarity starts with the moral space and recognises the true human presence or human form in all contexts of life. Through the moral imagination, it asks questions about what we as human beings value and share in common, what is different and whether the difference matters and if so which difference matters most, what our identities (which are more than one) are and how they fit into the reality of interdependence

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and inter-connectedness. Solidarity as art is open to acknowledge strengths as well as weaknesses in our moral vision. It is mindful of the blind spots and gaps in our self as well as other-understanding. Perhaps some gaps cannot be eliminated but through moral imagination they can at least be acknowledged or bridged. How does one practise the art of building global solidarity? As with all art, there is no single technique. Different theories of ethics can be seen as different tools or techniques. Utilitarianism or deontology can be seen as one of them. As we practise the art of solidarity we discover that some techniques are more useful than others; the end product will enable us to assess which tool is most useful, as long as we are prepared to listen to ourselves and others who are party to the ethical. Moral imagination empowers us to be morally attentive and to see ‘beyond and underneath’ in the context of our interdependence. Paul Lederach in his book The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of PeaceBuilding tells us what it means to bring moral imagination to the area of conflict resolution (an area of his profession and passion): ‘one way to understand cycles of violence and protracted conflict is to visualise them as a narrative broken’ (Lederach 2010, p. 146). He talks about the importance of restoring the people’s place in history, in relationships with others. Lederach suggests that visualisation of the self in the brokenness of the relationships helps us to restore peace. The same I think is true about solidarity: visualisation of the self as alienated from the oppressed, the marginalised, the hungry may help us notice what is not right in our communities or society. In order to be involved in the art of building solidarity we need to visualise rightly, exercise the imagination of the past Campo dei Fiori(s) and of Warsaw Ghetto(s), and picture a different future. Finally, art is a form of love. If building solidarity can be viewed as art then for it to be effective we have to be passionate: passionate about the other, passionate about our interdependence and passionate about our interconnectedness. Everything else has to be secondary and at the service of solidarity of the human qua human. Pope Francis reminded the participants of the G8 summit in 2013 that ‘money and other political and economic means must serve, not rule, bearing in mind that, in a seemingly paradoxical way, free and disinterested solidarity is the key to the smooth functioning of the global economy’.24 Solidarity of the human qua human is free, imaginative and disinterested in anything that prevents the creation of the moral space and fosters the recognition of the human form in everyone and anyone. This kind of solidarity is what was missing in conventionnels, indifferent bystanders in Campo dei Fiori and the Warsaw Ghetto. This type of solidarity is what is desperately needed if we are to address constructively our social conflicts, pains, phobias, extremism and any form of fundamentalism in our contemporary world.

Notes 1 2

See ‘Solidarity’ in Hunter (1885), p. 561. See David Heyd’s objection to universalising solidarity in his ‘Justice and Solidarity: The Contractarian Case against Global Justice’, Journal of Social Philosophy, 38 (2007), 112–30.



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3 Aristotle, De Anima http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/soul.mb.txt (accessed on 5 February 2015); see, in particular, his Part III. 4 According to David Hume, the imagination allows us to see the world as made up of objects that are continuous in time and space. He worries, however, whether the imagination could really perform this task: ‘I cannot conceive how such trivial qualities of the fancy, conducted by such false suppositions, can ever lead to any solid or rational system’ (Hume 1888 [1739–40], p. 218). Hegel balances the Humean scepticism with Kantian optimism. For Hegel, as Jennifer Ann Bates explains, imagination is the key to how we represent what we take to be real (Bates 2004, p. xxvi). For a good overview of these positions see Mary Warnock (1994). 5 See Guroian (1998). Also, Vincent MacNamara makes useful points about the relationship between morality and literature in MacNamara (2010). 6 François-René de Chateaubriand, Memoires d’outre-tombe, IX, ch. 2, quoted in Wiggins (2009), p. 239. 7 Wiggins (2009), p. 240. 8 Weil, ‘The Iliad or The Poem of Force’, quoted in Wiggins (2009), p. 250. 9 The poem ‘Campo dei Fiori’ is one of eight poems published in the volume ‘Ocalenie’ (‘Rescue’) in 1945. The volume includes his other well-known poems such as ‘The river’ or (not as fatalistic as other poems) ‘The Song about the End of the World’. Jan Blonski, one of the renowned Polish literary critics, speaks of these poems as ‘factories of cultural senses’. Some of Milosz’s poems were known even before the end of the war – some of them were published (in 1944 by the Jewish National Committee) in the anthology From the Abyss edited by T. J. Sarnecki. This anthology was published again under its new title ‘Polish-Jewish Triptych’, edited by Wladyslaw Bartoszewski, on the 60th anniversary of the Jewish Ghetto uprising. See Ryszard Matuszewski, in Rzeczpospolita, 10 maja 2003 (10 May 2003). It is worth mentioning that the volume Rescue (especially the poems ‘Campo dei Fiori’ and ‘A Poor Christian Looks at the Ghetto’) is considered as a first (in Polish literature) witness to the Holocaust, published in 1945. 10 See http://www.dialog.org/dialog_pl/campo-di-fiori.html (text in Polish) (accessed 20 May 2014). 11 The historical existence of the carousel itself is a point of controversy though the Warsaw Ghetto survivors often talked about the music played by the organ grinder outside the walls. 12 Taylor says that ‘the current imaginary itself can only be judged problematic in light of an idealized image of itself. It is through that image that the modern imaginary has arisen, and thus it is through it, through the ideals intrinsic to it, that new images which are better than the present images can take shape. These new images often come to us as theories at first, but if persuasive enough are put into practice by certain portions of society – e.g. religious groups, the elite – and can eventually spread into the larger population’. Taylor (2004), pp. 28–9. 13 See Zoe Bennett, ‘Creation Made Image and Image Made World: John Ruskin on J. M. W. Turner’s Snow Storm’, in Pezzoli-Olgiati and Rowland (2011), pp. 249–60. 14 Ibid., p. 255. 15 Wiggins (2009), p. 243. 16 Amartya Sen, ‘Finding Our Common Ground’, New Statesman, 31 July 2006, 135 (4803). 17 Ibid. 18 Ibid.

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19 Ibid. 20 Zygmunt Bauman, ‘Global Solidarity’, Tikkun, 17 (2002), 13. 21 Ibid., 15. 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid. 24 Letter of the Holy Father Francis to H. E. Mr David Cameron, British Prime Minister on the Occasion of the G8 Meeting (17–18 June 2013): http://w2.vatican.va/content/ francesco/en/letters/2013/documents/papa-francesco_20130615_lettera-cameron-g8. html (accessed 20 June 2013).

References Barbieri, W. A. Jr (1998), ‘Ethics and the Narrated Life’, The Journal of Religion, 78 (1998): 386. Bates, J. A. (2004), Hegel’s Theory of Imagination, New York: State University of New York Press. Bauman, Z. (1989), Modernity and the Holocaust, Cambridge: Polity Press. Guroian, V. (1998), Tending the Heart of Virtue: How Classic Stories Awaken a Child’s Moral Imagination, New York: Oxford University Press. Hume, D. (1888 [1739–40]), Treatise of Human Nature, L. A. Selby-Bigge (ed.), Oxford: Clarendon Press. —(1902 [1777]), Enquiries Concerning the Human Understanding and Concerning the Principles of Morals, L. A. Selby-Bigge (ed.) (2nd edn), Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hunter, W. A. (1885), Systematic and Historical Exposition of Roman Law in the Order of a Code, London: Sweet & Maxwell. Johnson, M. (1993), Moral Imagination, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lederach, P. (2010), The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Peace-Building, Oxford: Oxford University Press. MacNamara, V. (2010), The Call to Be Human: Making Sense of Morality, Dublin: Veritas Publications. Milosz, C. (2003), ‘Campo dei Fiori’, trans. L. Irribarne and D. Brooks, in C. Milosz, New and Collected Poems, 1931–2000, New York: HarperCollins, pp. 33–5. Modell, A. (2003), Imagination and the Meaningful Brain, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Nussbaum, M. (1992), Love’s Knowledge: Essays on Philosophy and Literature, Oxford: Oxford University Press. —(1997), Poetic Justice, Boston: Beacon Press. Pezzoli-Olgiati, D. and C. Rowland (eds) (2011), Approaches to the Visual in Religion (Research in Contemporary Religion), Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Pilbeam, P. (2000), French Socialists before Marx: Workers, Women and the Social Question in France, London: Acumen. Taylor, C. (2004), Modern Social Imaginaries, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Warnock, M. (1994), Imagination and Time, Oxford: Blackwell. Wiggins, D. (2009), ‘Solidarity and the Root of the Ethical’, Tijdschrift voor Filosofie, 71: pp. 239–69. Wilde, L. (2013), Global Solidarity. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Available from http://www.questia.com/read/122588294 (accessed 26 May 2014).

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Human Solidarity in Need and Fulfilment: A Vision of Political Friendship Patrick Riordan SJ

1 Introduction Solidarity is a complex notion. I rely on three distinctions to clarify the concept and break down its complexity. An initial distinction is between people united by shared awareness and feeling, and people who have common interests of which they may be unaware. The first may be labelled epistemic and the second may be called ontic. With epistemic I refer to the shared consciousness of a number of people that they are united in having a common interest. With this use of the term the emphasis is on the shared consciousness, the awareness of all members of the relevant group that they are linked with all others who share in the common interest. When the emphasis is on the knowledge and attitude of participants, the nature of the shared interest is secondary. As one moves from the ephemeral, as for instance the interest shared by the supporters of a football club that their team win this year’s competition, to the more enduring, as for instance the interest shared by citizens and residents of a country that the rule of law prevail, one notices that there are inverse scales of urgency and importance with which the interest is embraced by members. Very significant interests in the quality of social and political life may not be viewed with the same passion and personal engagement as other more contingent interests. So the depth of feeling common among those in solidarity in some interest is not necessarily a good indicator of the importance of the interest in question. This is all the more evident from the fact that circumstances can change and common interests normally taken for granted as secure which are then suddenly jeopardised can be pushed to the forefront of consciousness and become the focus of passionate commitment. The ontic version of solidarity considers the nature of the interests in question and their correlation with relevant populations, regardless of whether the people involved are aware of their interests and deliberately pursue them. For instance, in the example of the rule of law used above, it may be questioned whether in fact all the citizens and residents of a country are aware of the rule of law and of their interest in its being operated. As used above, the presupposition was that there will be some minimal awareness, at least to the extent that people (everyone, or most?)

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in answer to a questionnaire would declare a preference for justice over injustice. But the assertion of solidarity in an ontic sense explores the real interests of populations regardless of the relevant participants’ awareness of those interests. The emphasis on interests tends to be overlooked given the stronger claims to attention of the passion and feeling typical of the epistemic dimension. However, it is worth noting how often campaigning groups who are seeking to mobilise support in some matter begin with the nature of the interest and then work to make the affected people aware of it. This process, associated with the work of Paulo Freire (1985), has been given its own name: conscientisation (Elias 1976). Becoming aware of the plight of women, or the poor, or the homeless, campaigners work at informing their relevant target group and increasing their knowledge of their situation, with the hope that recognition of the problem as a shared plight will lead the group to act together to change their situation. The ontic carries over to the epistemic. Only when recognised and espoused can the sharing of an interest become effective. A contemporary example is the fostering of awareness of environmental issues as being of interest to every person on the planet, since none can remain unaffected by contaminated air, earth and water. One might recognise the same pattern in a religious context: the efforts of preachers are directed to conscientising people as to their real interest and so embracing in common with others a solidarity in pursuing the promised fulfilment. Beyond the basic distinction between the epistemic and the ontic there is a second distinction of solidarity drawn in terms of the beneficiaries. On the one hand there are cases in which the relevant common interests are in fact the interests of each individual the satisfaction of which does not require the satisfaction for all other members of the group. For instance, all those who are in need of kidney transplants share a plight and have common interests such as that the method of allocating kidneys be transparent and fair. But when any individual patient successfully receives a transplanted kidney her need is met, and it does not require the satisfaction of others’ needs. Contrasted with this on the other hand is the case of a labour movement agitating for more humane working conditions. The solidarity of trade-unionists in the campaign is such that only an improvement of the conditions of all affected workers can satisfy the demands of any individual participant in the campaign. The satisfaction of the interests of all is a condition for the satisfaction of the interests of any one campaigner. Sometimes the use of the term solidarity is confined to this latter case in which the interest is shared and common in the sense that the individual’s goal includes the achievement of the goals of others. It can of course be meaningful to address such cases, but it seems an unwarranted restriction of the term to demand that it be applied only to such cases and not others. For instance, in the case of the kidney transplant, the successful patient does not have to await the provision of treatment for all other patients to have her goal satisfied. At the same time experience shows that the beneficiaries of such treatments and their relations are often the most ardent campaigners for the relevant cause, that the treatment be widely available to all sufferers. Are they to be excluded from the community in solidarity because their own individual need has already been met? One can extend the question to embrace cases in which the solidarity invoked is grounded in affirmation of a shared humanity. People who work for the benefit of distant unknown others, whether in response to catastrophe or in



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contributing to development so as to alleviate their circumstances of deprivation identify with the suffering of those they seek to help. The identification is explainable in terms of a common humanity in which the pain and vulnerability are seen as belonging to a shared lot, even if the benefactors are not personally affected by the relevant deprivation. Solidarity as a term can meaningfully include such cases, since the interests are real and are common. The distinction between epistemic and ontic versions of solidarity is not exactly the same as the third distinction, between the normative and the descriptive, but there are overlaps. When members of groups are conscientised so as to appreciate the reality of their situation it usually follows that they undertake steps to change and improve their circumstances. They address each other in normative terms, speaking of what ought to be the case, and what they see themselves as obliged to do. They address relevant others including authorities also in normative terms, drawing out implications of what those others ought to do. However, it would be a mistake to parallel the two pairs as if the ontic were descriptive merely, and the epistemic were normative. The real interests identified ontologically also carry normative implications, and the normative demands of particular interest groups may be described empirically. With the help of these three relevant distinctions (1. between the epistemic and the ontic; 2. between interest in benefits enjoyed by all together, and the interest in benefits to be enjoyed by individuals severally; and 3. between the normative and the empirical), it becomes possible to specify more clearly the objective of this investigation. Let us take it that we can meaningfully speak (ontically) of a solidarity of shared interest between people otherwise strangers to each other which does not presuppose their conscious embrace of the particular interest. Let us further accept that the interest in question in the solidarity may be rooted in a sense of shared vulnerability due to a common humanity. The question to be addressed, whether there can be a solidarity in the good, takes the issue further on three points. First, is it conceivable that the interests in question considered ontically are not merely linked to the overcoming of deficiency, the satisfaction of need, as rooted in a shared vulnerability, but are in fact interests in flourishing or fulfilment, beyond the threshold of a minimum assuring satisfaction of need? Second, is it conceivable that there be a solidarity in these interests of such a kind that the flourishing of all becomes a condition for the flourishing of each? And third, if such a solidarity in the good may be accounted for ontically, and if it is viable or at least meaningful to attempt to conscientise people such that their awareness of their bondedness with others is heightened and they actively pursue the realisation of such interests, what kind of solidarity (epistemically understood) is relevant? These questions amount to a query whether a fourth distinction between solidarity in need and solidarity in fulfilment is applicable. This complex of questions will be pursued in the following, locating the issues in the history of political thought (Section 2), the preponderance of emphasis on solidarity in need (Section 3), the flawed answer offered by some ideologies (Section 4), and the attempted solution in terms of political friendship (Section 5).

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2 Situating the question Plato in The Republic has Socrates and his partners in dialogue face the problem of unity in the city they are designing. Given that there will not only be a great variety of trades and functions represented in the city, but also significant differences of lifestyle, with the armed guardians and the philosophically trained rulers segregated and subjected to a different way of life, disunity will be inevitable. How can they ensure that the disunity resulting from such inequality will not be destructive and lead to disintegration? Socrates recommends various measures among which is the promulgation of a majestic or noble lie. The many different members of the city must be brought up believing something that is not literally true, namely, that they are all children of the same mother, the earth, and so are all related to one another. The knowledge of their fundamental kinship should be strong enough to sustain bonds of unity despite the enormous differences among them. The centripetal forces bonding members of a family might serve a political purpose in uniting the members of a city such that the centrifugal forces tearing people apart could be countered. Even if it might not literally be true, could one not wish it to be true, such that once accepted and acted upon it would effectively become true? This is Socrates’ promise: although begun as wishful thinking, once believed and established as a principle of social order it would be a self-fulfilling prophecy. This is not the only untruth on which Socrates’ ideal city would be constructed: another is the myth told to couples deliberately paired off for eugenic reproductive reasons, that the gods or fate had chosen them for each other (Plato, The Republic, 414d–e; 460a). From our perspective today the strategy would seem to have worked. ‘Something bigger than both of us’ is acknowledged by many lovers to be the driving force of their attraction, at least as depicted in romantic literature and film. And it is commonplace for citizens to speak of their country as the mother- or fatherland. This is a spontaneously expressed metaphor for the relationship between citizens and their countries. It is taken for granted as the normal, appropriate way to consider the obligations that are owed. Acceptance of difference and tolerance of inequality were the objectives for the sake of which Socrates was prepared to propound the majestic or noble lie so that unity in the city would be secured. It is remarkable that in current debates a similar concern arises, now not so much about the unity of any one city, but more about the unity of humankind. The question is raised about the duties in justice owed to any fellow human being and why they might be any different from the duties fellow citizens owe to each other (Goodin 1988). It is as if the problem addressed by Plato is raised on a global scale. The forces militating against the unity of humankind today, apart from the possessiveness and greed which resist demands to share, are the loyalties of patriotism, love of one’s own, and the sense of identity which gives preference to the local over the global. But the global has its advocates, cosmopolitans, who see no essential difference between people near or far. In so far as duties in justice are owed, it makes no difference on which side of national borders the people to whom the duties are owed happen to be. But what majestic lie might be invented to motivate the commitment to love of a neighbour who is far distant? The question is formulated in the context of reflection on obligation. Assuming that people have obligations to one another, how



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might they be brought to accept those obligations and be motivated to do what is required? This is not quite the same question as that about unity and disunity formulated by Plato, but it is not totally dissimilar. Are not both questions about solidarity, in the double sense of the basis of unity, and the motivation to care for the fate of the other? Cosmopolitans argue for their perspective by appealing to the truth of a shared humanity, which might be the basis of obligation. Andrew Dobson (2006, p. 169) points out that there is a motivational problem with cosmopolitan principles, and that in particular the fact of a common humanity is not effective in getting people to fulfil their obligations in justice. He contrasts thin and thick motivators and considers the ties of common humanity to be thin. Thick motivators by contrast depend on proximity. ‘Nearness has a bearing on our motivation to respond to the prompts of obligation. Cosmopolitanism requires nearness to vulnerable, suffering, disadvantaged others, and the recognition that we are all members of a common humanity seems not to bring such others near enough’ (Dobson 2006, p. 171). I do not follow Dobson in the search for effective motivators as such, but instead seek to understand the reality of bonds with anonymous distant others. It may be the case that discovered and acknowledged bonds turn out to be effective motives in caring for others, but that is not the primary focus. More specifically, I focus on the question whether the common humanity grounding solidarity might be understood in terms of fulfilment and not only in terms of need. Is there a solidarity in the good? John Donne’s meditation (XVII) has provided the titles of several books: ‘No man is an island’, ‘For whom the bell tolls’. It reflects on the solidarity of all humankind such that the loss of one has its impact on everyone else. No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. (Donne 1987, p. 87. The spellings have been modernised)

So beautiful and well-crafted is the language in this text that it is often thought to be a poem. In fact it is a meditation. The Christian context of this meditation is usually overlooked when the central text is quoted out of context. Donne meditates on the Church as catholic – all that she does belongs to all. It is in the context of the bonds created by baptism that each is part of the whole, and all are linked to all. The meditation focuses on death as the common destiny of humankind. The tolling bell announces the death of a member of the parish. But in the Christian worldview death is not the end. Donne explains: ‘When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.’ This is a beautiful image comparing the participation of each one in the whole community with the part which a chapter plays in a book, and with the added analogy for the change effected by death and resurrection. That process is the translation of the whole story, in all its chapters and parts, into a different language.

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3 Solidarity in need The context of Donne’s meditation is a reflection on the human good. Is there a solidarity of all humankind in the good? This question seeks a philosophical account which could make sense to people whose spontaneous attitude is that the success or failure of others in terms of their own life projects does not impact on them. John Donne’s meditation points to our solidarity in our common mortality. Solidarity in this sense is most easily recognised and most easily expressed in so far as it is rooted in common dangers, risks and vulnerability. There are many examples where the spontaneous response of people to the report of tragedy and disaster reflects an awareness of being bonded with the victims. Reports of earthquakes, tsunamis, drought, famine and war evoke this sense of concern for those who suffer. Those bonds uniting people with distant unknown others are rooted in a common humanity with its familiar vulnerability, neediness and fragility. Solidarity in pain is recognisable, compassion with suffering is undeniable. But is there a comparable bond in the good? In Donne’s terms, Europe is the less for the loss of anyone, but is Europe the greater for the flourishing of anyone? Is there an enhancement of the whole parallel to the diminishment of the whole? If Donne has grasped something valid in affirming ‘any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind’, is it equivalently valid to assert that the flourishing of anyone enriches me, because I am bonded with that person in humankind? There are some examples of the spontaneous solidarity of strangers in enjoyment. It can occur, of course, where people can enter into the joy of others and share their delight, as for instance in the party atmosphere associated with mass participation events such as the Olympic Games or the football World Cup competition. The public nature of such events gives the permission to break through the inhibition which makes it more difficult to express solidarity of joy than compassion to strangers. It is curious that the English word ‘sympathy’ with its Greek roots is used almost exclusively for the communality in negative feelings linked to suffering, pain, loss and bereavement, while the equivalent term in the other European languages tends to have the positive emphasis. In German, ‘sympatisch’ as an adjective qualifies one with whom one feels a bond in enjoyment of the goods of life. The Italian ‘simpatico’ and the French equivalent also qualify the partner in ‘joie de vivre’. The socialist perspective on solidarity to the extent that it is inspired by Karl Marx gives priority to the solidarity of suffering, pointing to the common needs of humankind. Writing in his more philosophical early phase, Marx characterised the proletariat as the bearer of human destiny, not simply because it was emerging as a universal class in the sense of a trans-national phenomenon, but because it exhibited universal in the sense of total human need. Unlike the bourgeoisie whose interests were particular (the protection of their property), the proletariat represented universal human interest. As Marx expressed it in his essays ‘On the Jewish Question’, the bourgeois revolutions asserted particular interests, expressed in the language of liberal rights, freedom of property, freedom of religion, freedom of trade, and freedom of speech (Marx 1977, pp. 39–62). The proclaimed revolution of the proletariat would assert universal human interest, and so achieve complete liberation, unlike the



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bourgeois revolutions which had secured the interests of the propertied class only. This is the core of Marx’s rejection of the talk of human or natural rights as ideology. Posing in the universalist language of rights, the particular interests of the bourgeoisie were secured – the freedom to own property and the freedom to trade, liberties which were of no benefit to those who remained dependent on the propertied for their chance to earn a living. With rather chauvinistic claims for Germany’s role in world history, Marx, in his ‘Towards a Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right: Introduction’, expressed his expectation that the liberation would begin … in the formation of a class with radical chains, a class in civil society that is not of civil society, of a social group that is the dissolution of all social groups, of a sphere that has a universal character because of its universal sufferings and lays claim to no particular right, because it is the object of no particular injustice but of injustice in general. … In a word, it is the complete loss of humanity and thus can only recover itself by a complete redemption of humanity. This dissolution of society, as a particular class, is the proletariat. (Marx 1977, p. 72)

Relying more on Engels’s description of working conditions than on his own observation Marx made various attempts to express the horror of the complete loss of humanity which the industrial forms of production had caused. In his ‘Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts’ he attempted to analyse the observed dehumanisation in terms of alienation. His language is strong and pictorial, contrasting the palaces produced by human work with the hovels in which the workers must live, contrasting the products of culture and civilisation with the ‘imbecility and cretinism’ which result from the mindless forms of work in which workers are made to be extensions of machines (Marx 1977, p. 80). His forceful language reaches a peak of horror in his book written with the collaboration of Friedrich Engels, The Holy Family, in which he describes the class of the proletariat as feeling ‘annihilated in its self-alienation; it sees in it its own powerlessness and the reality of an inhuman existence’. He explains the dialectic whereby the bourgeoisie brings into existence the class which will ensure the destruction of the propertied class, namely, the proletariat, ‘that misery conscious of its spiritual and physical misery, that dehumanization conscious of its dehumanization and therefore self-abolishing’ (Marx 1977, p. 134). Commentators have noticed the discrepancy between this lively, seemingly evaluative language which Marx uses, and his explicit denial that this is a matter of moral condemnation (Elster 1985). But it is clear that the dynamic of Marx’s analysis is from the universal in the sense of complete dehumanisation of the universal (trans-national) class to a recognition of the need for and inevitability of the reversal of this situation in complete liberation. Marx offers only vague and inconclusive hints as to what life and work following the revolution would be like, as for instance in the Communist Manifesto: ‘an association, in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all’ (Marx 1977, p. 238). Such hints do not provide anything like as strong a basis for the solidarity of ‘working men of all countries’ as does the experience of misery and Marx’s analysis of it in terms of alienation. None the less, there is the suggestion that the style of life enjoyed by the bourgeoisie is no less alienated from a true human existence than is the miserable condition of workers.

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In the dialectic of the two experiences the comfortable, self-satisfied existence of the propertied is said to have a semblance of humanity in contrast to the conscious misery of the propertyless. Humankind is split between these two positive and negative poles of alienation, but both are forms of alienated existence. The bourgeoisie are unaware of their alienation, and so their solidarity is ontic, not epistemic, in contrast to the solidarity of impoverished workers. At this idealist stage of his development Marx could envisage the dynamic of the dialectic functioning to ensure the sublation (Aufhebung) of the opposed poles in a new reality. In that reality all humanity could have an interest, but its nature remained unknown. Marx’s vision of complete dehumanisation as the source of completed humanity has had a political impact and it still contributes to shaping our world, even if it appears to be the judgment of history that the short-lived experiment of MarxistLeninism was a failure. The attraction of Marxism must have relied first of all on the resonance with the description of the miserable conditions of workers, which Pope Leo XIII’s encyclical Rerum novarum also addressed. But second, and perhaps more importantly, the motivation to adopt communism as the guiding inspiration of one’s life must have relied on the hope it held out of overcoming all the listed negative elements in experience. In the popularised phrase of Hegelian dialectic, the ‘negation of the negation’ is and would be a positive. The solidarity in suffering would point to a solidarity of humankind in the achievement of its fully productive completion. Given the rather meagre references to the promised land of socialism in Marx’s writings, the motivating force of this attractive prospect must have relied on other sources. In fact, it is argued by Eric Voegelin among others that the promise of the realisation of the negation of the negation in a positive vision is a translation into a historical form of what is primarily a reality beyond history. The final completion, the eschaton, the end, the resolution of the polarised opposition of positive and negative alienation, is postulated as an event within history.

4 A transcendent eschaton reduced Eric Voegelin has analysed the typical political movements of modernity as immanentisations in history of a transcendent eschaton (Voegelin 1952). Socialism, nationalism, fascism, offer their adherents a vision of a glorious future in which whatever evil provoked their criticism of the present would be overcome. At the same time the human as understood in the preferred description would be perfected, and human association would be complete. The leaders of the movements claimed some knowledge of these matters, and so functioned as the prophets communicating a revelation. The achievement of the glorious future required a changing of circumstances, or of the system, or of the situation within which politics was conducted, but such change of the environment would be sufficient to ensure any necessary change of the persons involved. The religious nature of the symbols of these political movements is recognisable once pointed out. There is a deliverance from evil; there is a community of the blessed (and possibly a mass of the damned); there is an achievement of completion which,



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in one way or another, assures happiness and the realisation of human hope. There is the prophet who claims special knowledge; there is the requirement to struggle and even for the individual to sacrifice himself or be sacrificed for the sake of the common destiny, and there is the analysis of why some fail to share the faith. These modern political movements promise a flourishing of the whole nation, or of the proletariat in total, or indeed of all humanity, but how is such fulfilment to be imagined? To the extent that it happens within history, it would have to be confined to the wellbeing of those who are still alive to experience it. There will be a completion which will be enjoyed by some, but how might that be the fulfilment of those who did not live to see the success of their efforts? How might the achievement of communal flourishing at a certain point in time give meaning to the lives of those who contributed to the success without benefiting from it? Voegelin identifies this as a fundamental question for every movement which claims to represent something universal but always in a concrete place and time in history. The awareness of the universal finds expression in terms such as humanity or the universal class. ‘It is a theoretical problem for every philosophy of history, since the universal order of mankind can become historically concrete only through the symbolic representation by a community of the spirit with ecumenic intentions’ (Voegelin 1987, p. 192). This is as much a problem for religious as for political movements, to the extent that both claim to represent or encapsulate the universal. Voegelin insists that the achievement of a consciousness of a unity of mankind was an historical event. ‘There never was a mankind in evolution, its generations connected by cause and effect, accumulating a collective memory. Empirically, as far as we know, there were only concrete societies, geographically widely dispersed, with insufficient communications or none at all, their members blissfully ignorant of the supposed fact that they formed a unity of mankind accumulating a collective memory’ (Voegelin 1962, p. 181). The unity of humankind is real, but it is not to be represented as a linear story of progress, or enlightenment, or liberation. Any attempt to do so must face the questions which Voegelin formulates: ‘What profit is the perfect realm to those who do not live to see it? What happens to the generations of mankind who lived before the world became enlightened? Is it really the function of man to “contribute” to a Progress of which the profits will be reaped by future generations – to be a stepping stone for a rational world to come?’ (Voegelin 1962, p. 185). He sees the problem particularly apparent in an extreme form of Islam, which reveals ‘the danger that beset all of the religions of the Ecumenic Age, the danger of impairing their universality by letting their ecumenic mission slide over into the acquisition of worldimmanent, pragmatic power over a multitude of men which, however numerous, could never be mankind, past present and future’ (Voegelin 1987, p. 198). Despite the prevalence of symbols borrowed from the horizon of a transcendent eschaton, what these political forms reveal is the abandonment of a genuine relationship with the divine. In his discussion with Hannah Arendt about her book on Totalitarianism Voegelin attempted to raise the question whether liberalism was tainted with the same flaws as totalitarianism, despite all differences between them (Voegelin 1998). To the extent that liberalism espouses an agnosticism about the divine ground of human existence, and excludes questions about it from the agenda of public discourse, it contains on Voegelin’s view the same source of distortion that

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led to totalitarianism. Reason and revelation, philosophy and theology, symbolise in various ways the same openness to the divine ground. Where this openness is lived and achieves articulation, it exhibits a tentativeness and uncertainty, a humility and honesty which are in stark contrast to the certainty claimed by the modern prophet. There is always a temptation for those who live by religious faith to seek and to claim greater possession of the divine reality than is warranted. To live by faith is to live in hope of things not yet seen, and this is a source of discomfort and tension, since it is not easy to sustain. The political movements of modernity have offered certainty to their adherents as well as the sense of communal bonding in the common project. But in doing so they make immanent to human history a reality which can only be located beyond history in the transcendent. This needs longer elaboration to be fair to Voegelin’s views, and it requires some more analysis so as to avoid the exaggeration which would leave the eschaton only in the transcendent, and not at all in human history. But it is none the less useful as a critical tool to assess attempts to speak of the fulfilment through politics of human dreams. To recap my argument to this point: the solidarity of humans in need and in suffering is both spontaneously felt and easily understood. Common human nature is sufficient to make sense of the bonds which arise. Socialism in the Marxist form has built a political programme on this reality, postulating a common fulfilment on the basis of the shared alienation of humankind. This is one answer to the question whether there can be a solidarity among people in the realisation of the good, as there is a solidarity in the sharing of pain and suffering. However, it turns out to be illusory as a political programme, since there is no real basis for expecting that universal dehumanisation will of itself transform into universal human fulfilment. That such a transformation is thinkable in the first place is only possible against the background of a religious worldview in which a divine drama provides the context for a human history. Hence the criticism of secular eschatologies which present their stories dressed up in what is essentially a religious format. They are disguised theologies but without God. So the question remains: is there, or can there be, a solidarity of people in the good, parallel to the solidarity which can be and frequently is between people in the face of suffering and vulnerability? And how would such a solidarity translate into a political programme? This question requires a theological reflection. But within the confines of this more philosophical chapter I develop elements of Aristotle’s answer which might also be incorporated into a more comprehensive theological discussion.

5 Political friendship From the foregoing discussion it is evident that an adequate account of a political vision rooted in a solidarity in the good would have to avoid the danger of formulating an immanent reduction of a transcendent eschaton. The intellectual resources for such an account, I suggest, are available in the Aristotelian and Thomist tradition which can speak of political friendship. Aristotle had noted the complexity in the notion of friendship and in the corresponding visions of political community which



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are associated with the different dimensions of friendship. In Book III of The Politics he discussed political constitutions based on non-aggression pacts and on the mutual guarantee of rights. He understood also the notion of a bargain to ensure exchange of goods and services. We are familiar with more sophisticated versions of the same idea in modern and contemporary accounts of social contract theory. These forms of constitution are meaningful because they correspond to aspects of the human good. In terms of the reflections above on the solidarity which is grounded in recognition of a common vulnerability, it can be seen that the aspiration to guarantee security to ensure that rights are respected is rooted in an awareness of human fragility. Regulating relationships between people so that the threat of violence is minimised and the possibility of vindicating one’s rights is ensured makes sense to people who are all too aware of their vulnerability. However, as well as the recognition of a shared vulnerability, this way of conceiving political community reinforces the view of the other as a threat, and as a limit to one’s own possibilities. This had been the core of Marx’s criticisms of the liberal achievement in creating bourgeois society: it accepted as basic the selfish, self-centred individual, concerned about the fences around himself to secure his freedom and his property from the neighbour. Aristotle had anticipated Marx’s rejection of the narrow view of political relationships, for the similar reason that it constrained the breadth of the human good. Political relationships for Aristotle are forms of friendship. Friendship of whatever kind is always a partnership in the pursuit and enjoyment of some good. Constitutions which take the form of non-aggression pacts and mutual guarantee of rights are based on a kind of friendship which can recognise goods which are basic aspects of human wellbeing, in securing survival in an objective sense and a sense of security in a subjective sense. Aristotle warns of the danger that these basic aspects are taken to represent the whole of human wellbeing. That people are secure from attack, that their survival at a minimum level of security is secured, does not mean that they flourish. For Aristotle much more is at stake, which he would classify as the achievement of excellence in the performance of characteristically human activities. The kind of political constitution which would incorporate this more expansive account of the human good would correlate with a form of friendship in which each would be concerned about the wellbeing of the other for their own sake. Aristotle maintains that the purpose of the law is to make people good, and that the best constitution is concerned about the quality of its citizens. When this is translated into the categories of modern debate, it is usually received in terms of law and morality, the possibility of the state attempting to enforce particular norms, and the associated issues of personal liberty needing to be protected. This distortion reflects the extent to which the Aristotelian vision is foreign to the spontaneous reaction of readers today. The suggestion I make here is to consider Aristotle in these texts as a source of answer to the question I have posed about the possibility of a solidarity in the good. For Aristotle the distinctive factor of political community is that citizens are bonded by genuine concern for the quality of one another’s character (Aristotle, Politics, III.9). This is friendship in a full sense, beyond what is useful and what is pleasant. Friendly relations can be very useful in generating benefits (this is recognised in the analysis of social capital) and furthermore can provide a pleasant enrichment of life’s experiences.

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But beyond mutual material benefit and pleasure there can be concern for the other as living well, precisely for their own sake. This is friendship, and this is what Aristotle expected citizens of his polity would enjoy. The bonds of friendship would not simply be by-products of their involvement in the tasks of ruling and being ruled, but would be the essential dynamic of their citizenship. Their deliberation would be rooted in the concern to ensure that they lived well, out of a regard for one another as friends. The friendship of good people for one another, wanting each other and all together to enjoy a good life, and taking the steps to achieve it as far as they can, is the core of Aristotle’s idealised conception of politics. The highest good, the best life possible, is the basis for their solidarity. The contrast to a solidarity rooted in suffering is evident. When this Aristotelian scheme was received in a Christian worldview conditioned in the meantime to think of the problems of human sin and the human violation of good order, it underwent some adjustment. The main development was the recognition that the Aristotelian ambition of the polis being able to achieve the good life in an unqualified sense was misguided. Using the term ‘common good’ to name that which could be the objective of the pursuit by citizens in a political community who were genuinely concerned about one another’s wellbeing, it became clear that such a common good would not be the objective of a political community in which those with power no less than citizens were flawed characters with complex motivations. Aquinas found a solution to this in recognising the difference between types of law, which commanded different qualities of obedience (Finnis 1998b). Where human made law could be satisfied with external conformity in performance, God’s law required an interior disposition of submission to the divine order (Finnis 1998b, p. 177). Human law lacks the instruments as well as the competence to achieve a change of heart in its subjects, precisely the quality of conformity which the divine order calls for. In both cases, Aquinas wants to argue following Aristotle, the point of the law is to make people good and the concern of the lawmakers is for the quality of character of the subjects of the law. But in each case, the goodness in question is proportionate to the competence of the lawmaker and the effectiveness of the legal instruments. So while the divine law addresses an unrestricted common good of humankind, the law of human society ambitions a restricted version of a common good which is the public order of common life (Finnis 1998b). Where Aristotle employed a single concept of human flourishing, eudaimonia, Aquinas distinguished an imperfect and a perfect form of beatitude or happiness. These corresponded to the two versions of the common good corresponding to civil law and to divine law. John Finnis and others of the group labelled new natural law theorists proposed a notion of integral human fulfilment in terms of a range of human goods (Finnis 1980). Seven basic forms of good are suggested: life, knowledge, practical reasonableness, aesthetic experience, play, sociability and friendship, and finally religion. Taking this listing as an approximation it allows us to see that the pursuit of any of these values points always in the direction of more, and ultimately, to completeness. Beyond life is in Aristotle’s phrase ‘the good life’, or in the words of the New Testament, eternal life. Beyond knowing this or that is the aspiration to know it all. The realisation of friendship and community is between particular persons, but there are always others who might be included. The achievement of beauty in aesthetic



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performance or of delight in play points beyond the achievement to the more and the most. This account of the human good is open to the possibility of forms of friendship in which people would aspire to facilitating and supporting their friends in realising their good, for their own sake. That friendship can be religious, in the caritas, the love which wills the good, even of enemies, in the context of the love which God offers all of humankind in Jesus Christ. But the friendship can be simply political, conscious of the solidarity of all humankind in the capacities for love, knowledge, community, beauty and life which always point to more, but about which there is much dispute and uncertainty, so that the liberties of others to find and live their good are primarily promoted. Several points emerge in this discussion which are helpful for my question. There is nothing about the goods which requires a distinction between egoism and altruism. What is recognised as a good worth pursuing is recognised for what it is in itself, not precisely because of what it is for me, for the choosing and acting agent. Knowledge as good is a good for anyone. Recognition of its worthwhileness is prior to all questions of allocation or distribution. Hence the juxtaposition of egoism and altruism is a distortion. The universality in the worthwhileness of the goods as being goods for humans means that it is completely intelligible for anyone to be aware of and concerned for the realisation by any other person of her good. Finnis puts it well: So it is not merely a fact about the human animal, but also and more importantly a testimony to people’s practical understanding, that they can be interested in the wellbeing of a stranger, whom they will never meet again but now see taking the wrong turning and heading over a cliff; for it is the same good(s) that the stranger can share in or lose and that I can: specifically human good(s). (Finnis 1998a, p. 111)

This is a nice commentary on an idea from Aristotle on which Aquinas reflects. Finnis quotes Aquinas: ‘because all human beings share in the nature of the species, every human being is naturally a friend to every human being; and this is openly shown in the fact that one human being guides, and aids, in misfortune, another who is taking the wrong road’ (Finnis 1998a, p. 111). Here we have the familiar idea noted above that the common human nature is the basis for a common vulnerability, similar need, and ultimately mortality. This common nature grounds the solidarity in need and suffering. But Finnis draws attention to the fuller idea contained in Aquinas’ remark, namely, that common nature grounds not simply solidarity in need and pain, but also friendship. Friendship, in the Aristotelian tradition of reflection, is not a concern that the other merely avoid danger, but that the other prosper and do well. Modern readers may be inclined to overlook Aquinas’ remark about friendship and concentrate on the similarity of need. Many dismiss Aristotle’s idea that the political community is constituted by relationships of friendship as inappropriate to the modern state. Aristotle distinguished different forms of friendship: friendships of pleasure and of advantage, and friendships in the proper or full sense. These last are relationships between people who desire each other’s good for their own sake. That highlights the contrast to the other two forms, in which the friendships are for the sake of the pleasure given by the friend,

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or for the advantage that accrues from having this person as a friend. In friendships properly speaking, the wellbeing of the other is the good pursued, rather than simply the pleasure enjoyed in the friend’s company or the benefits deriving from the friend’s generosity or contacts. Such relationships presuppose virtuous characters whose love of the good is rooted in a high degree of achievement of virtue. In suggesting that relations between citizens of the (best) polis would be relationships of friendship Aristotle did not avoid the moral implications. The concern of citizens for each other would be for their moral quality, and the deliberation about the law and the forms of public life would be focused on what is conducive to producing good characters, making people good, and capable of participating in political life. The high moral demand in the conditions for such friendship suggests to modern readers that it cannot obtain between very many people (Cooper 2005). Against the background of more current accounts of political community, as based on the assurance of security (Hobbes), or the guarantee of rights (Locke), or the conditions for securing liberty or justice, modern thinkers are inclined to explain political cohesion in terms of the interests of citizens for the sake of which they submit to common laws and institutions. The interests of individuals carry the explanatory burden. Hence the reference to seemingly disinterested friendship as the key to political relations seems implausible. Added to that the impossibility of relating to very many people on the basis of friendship seems to rule this out as applicable in communities larger than what the scope for personal familiarity can embrace. In support of this argument they cite Aristotle himself who concedes that one cannot have many friends of the kind supposed in full friendship. Sybil Schwarzenbach challenges this modern dismissal of Aristotle’s espousal of political friendship. She does not deny the contrasts between the politics of ancient cities and that of modern states and the scale and heterogeneity of the population. However, she argues that while these differences require a revision of what Aristotle might be taken to mean, they do not warrant a complete dismissal of his view. ‘[R]ather than continuing to jettison the notion of civic friendship, perhaps we should acknowledge that the phenomenon to which it refers has not so much been extinguished as subtly altered its form’ (Schwarzenbach 1996, p. 113). Civic friendship in contemporary politics cannot be identical with personal friendship, but it does not follow that civic friendship reduces to friendship of advantage or utility business dealings between self-interested individuals. The basic Aristotelian insight can be preserved if the object of goodwill between the civic friends is reinterpreted. Her suggestion is that the civic friend wills the good of the other for her own sake, but that good is not the complete moral perfection of the other. Instead, it is a good appropriate to an existence in political community on terms of reciprocity and mutual respect. This echoes the distinction drawn by Aquinas discussed above between the two kinds of law, divine and civil, and their corresponding ends and forms of flourishing. To be partners in a liberal democracy under the rule of law requires of participants that they maintain attitudes of respect, toleration and reciprocal liberty towards one another. For relationships of such quality citizens require something more like Aristotle’s goodwill of friendship than an interest in advantage.



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Schwarzenbach draws on Aristotle’s remarks in the Rhetoric to outline the features of friendship: ‘Indeed, (i) mutual awareness and liking, (ii) a reciprocal wishing the other well for that other’s sake, and (iii) a reciprocal, practical “doing” of things for that other may be considered the denominators common to all friendships throughout Aristotle’s works’ (Schwarzenbach 1996, p. 100). These elements can be found transformed slightly in civic friendship. She maintains, working closely from Aristotle’s texts, that Aristotle himself did not identify intimate personal friendship with civic friendship. Willing the good of the fellow citizen, on Aristotle’s view, was expressed through support of the constitution and the vision of the good life which it fostered, and through adherence to the legal and social norms regulating the treatment of persons in that society (Schwarzenbach 1996, p. 109). In comparison with personal friendship civic friendship does not rely on close emotional bonds or on intimate knowledge. But there is none the less a degree of ‘mutual awareness, of wishing the other well for their own sake, and of doing things for the civic friend’ (Schwarzenbach 1996, p. 105). Sustaining the good will and the actions for the other is a general concern ‘expressed in socially recognized norms concerning the treatment of persons, say, in knowledge of the nature of the constitution, its quality, and its general level of support among the population, in what is publicly expected of persons in that society, what is concretely due them, and so on’ (Schwarzenbach 1996, p. 105). Such civic friendship can be translated into modern conditions of political community. The recognition and respect which citizens owe to each other as free and equal persons is much more than the willingness to abide by institutions and laws which ensure the conditions for achieving one’s interests. The other is recognised as being entitled, and the concern to grant what is due to the other is grounded in recognition of the other’s dignity, and not simply in acceptance of the necessity of conforming to norms so that one can benefit from the mutually satisfactory arrangements. Schwarzenbach summarises: ‘My fellow citizens must be tolerant (tolerance was not an ancient virtue), law abiding, they must acknowledge certain universal principles of respect between persons, have the ability to discern the rights of others, and … they should also explicitly recognize a universal value of friendship or care’ (Schwarzenbach 1996, p. 114). Schwarzenbach introduces a new term which brilliantly conveys a central Aristotelian insight: it is the characterisation of certain relationships as ‘reproductive’. By relating to one another in particular ways, including attitudes and actions, people reproduce the community of which they are part. This is a way of expressing the constitutive relationship, in contrast to the means–goal relation whereby the means is external to the goal. Constitutive or reproductive actions realise their goal in their very performance. Such activity requires care, care for the values of the relationship and for the persons in the relationship. The contributions of women to relationships exemplify the desired reproductive dynamics for sustaining community. As with the distinction between personal and civic friendship, she also warns against confusing care, ‘which must necessarily also be concrete – with its necessarily being personal’ (Schwarzenbach 1996, p. 121). Her conclusion then is that modern political community can be said to be based on friendship, once that is understood as civic and not personal friendship, and that a flourishing political community will be one in which care for the quality of the relationship will be an important and valued attribute of the citizen.

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The solidarity in question in political friendship is grounded in the potential which is given with the fact that human beings are of the same kind. The actualisation in political friendship requires a choice, a commitment arising from concern for the others’ realisation of the same human good. Where the former is given in the communality of nature, the latter relationship has to be willed. People choose friendship. And yet they do not have a choice about the fact that sociability, the being in relationships of concern and friendship, is a fundamental human good and therefore an integral part of the welfare of anyone. The person without friends, without a network of relationships of concern and mutuality, is deprived of real opportunities to flourish.

6 Conclusion This discussion began with the observation that the notion of a shared humanity was not sufficient to motivate commitment to the cosmopolitan projects of global justice. Encounter with the sufferings of others can indeed generate a sympathetic response but not such as carries over into the sustained political commitment to bring about change. The question pursued about the possibility of a solidarity in fulfilment sought to develop a more expansive sense of solidarity than one grounded in shared vulnerability, but without the expectation that it would be a more effective motivator. A sense of solidarity in the good such that the wellbeing of each one is a constitutive part of the wellbeing of all others faced a hurdle of implausibility since it is not easily demonstrable to anyone that they are indeed enriched by the flourishing of unknown others. This situation is similar to the description Marx provided of the alienation of the bourgeois capital owners, who are totally unaware of their alienation, being content in their enjoyment of what they take to be a human existence. Ignorant of how the dehumanisation and suffering of their workers impacts on their own humanity, and comfortable in their self-satisfied lifestyle, they are blind to their own diminishment. The question then is not focused on finding a more effective motivator, how to shake the self-satisfied out of their complacency and into commitment for global justice. The focus is much more on exploring how it might be made intelligible that the wellbeing and fulfilment of anyone might be constitutive for the wellbeing of all. The solution proposed is friendship in the sense developed by Aristotle as relevant to civic and political life. Civic friendship, like full or complete friendship, seeks the good of the other for the other’s own sake, but the good in question is a narrower good than that involved in more personal and intimate friendships. Civic friendship cannot be imposed as an obligation from without, but it can be achieved in contexts where people have been raised or have learnt to care for other people. The potential for friendship as a concern for the wellbeing of others for their own sake is given with the reality that the goods which comprise the elements of human flourishing are the same goods for all humans and their cultures, and the potential is rooted in the capacity of all humans to have such relations of concern for others. The realisation, the actualisation of the forms of civic friendship, presupposes of course the prior potential, but it depends also on the actual choices made by human beings to be friends to each other. Their spontaneous inclination alone is not enough to ensure the attitudes of



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good will; choice and commitment are required. Attention to the actual achievements of human communities can make us aware of how much we depend on the choices made by people in favour of friendly relations with their neighbours. Those who make the wellbeing of others part of their own concerns are in a position to appreciate the truth of the claim that the flourishing of others benefits them. Those whose focus is on securing their own interests, and for whom the partnership with others may be a useful means to achieving their own goals, will have difficulty in appreciating that they are diminished by the deprivation of the other. Hence the answer to the question about solidarity in the good is complex. It requires the traditional categories of potency and act. Potentially, there can be such solidarity. Actually, its realisation depends on people’s choices. So in terms of the initial distinctions drawn above, the ontic sense of solidarity is given with the analysis of the potential. We humans are of such a kind that the relations of friendship, whereby the flourishing of others becomes a constitutive part of our own flourishing, enhance us, and contribute to our wellbeing. The potential is there. But solidarity in the epistemic sense, presupposing conscious adoption and awareness of being bonded in joint interests, requires decision, choices, making friends with others, and adopting an attitude of good will towards them. Conscientisation alone, in the sense of making people aware of their potential for civic friendship, will not be sufficient to shift them from a stance of ontic solidarity to epistemic solidarity. Their own free acts of choice, of love of neighbour, are called for in this transition. No man is an island, entire of itself. Is Europe the more for my flourishing? Is there a human solidarity in fulfilment? I want to answer yes, potentially, because of the communality of human nature, because human goods are recognisably good for others as well as for myself. And yes, because friendship, being in relationships of care and concern, is a genuine good for any human being. But that all are concerned and caring about all others, in solidarity in the epistemic sense, is not in fact given with our common human nature. This requires additional choice on our part, but the reflection on our shared humanity and on the intrinsic worthwhileness of our goods (life, knowledge, play, religion, aesthetic experience, practical reasonableness, friendship and sociability) underlines the appropriateness of people making the choice. Those who respond to the needs of others, those who delight in the success of others, those who hope and pray for the salvation of others, are responding to a real good. Friendship can be the core of political existence. If grace can be said to build on nature, this exploration of solidarity in fulfilment, relying on Aristotle’s discussion of civic friendship, opens up the element of humans’ sociable nature such that it can be seen how the divine gifts of faith, hope and charity may bring about the realisation of epistemic solidarity in fulfilment among peoples and cultures whose potential for friendship with each other is to date blocked by rivalry, envy, fear and desire for revenge.

References Aristotle (1962), The Politics, trans. T. A. Sinclair, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Cooper, J. (2005), ‘Political Animals and Civic Friendship’, in R. Kraut and S. Skultety

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(eds), Aristotle’s Politics: Critical Essays, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, pp. 65–89. Dobson, A. (2006), ‘Thick Cosmopolitanism’, Political Studies, 54: 165–84. Donne, J. (1987), Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, in A. Raspa (ed.), Oxford: Oxford University Press. Elias, J. L. (1976), Conscientization and Deschooling: Freire’s and Illich’s Proposals for Reshaping Society, Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Elster, J. (1985), Making Sense of Marx, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Finnis, J. (1980), Natural Law and Natural Rights, Oxford: Clarendon Press. —(1998a), Aquinas. Moral, Political and Legal Theory, Oxford: Oxford University Press. —(1998b), ‘Public Good: The Specifically Political Common Good in Aquinas’, in R. P. George (ed.), Natural Law and Moral Inquiry: Ethics Metaphysics and Politics in the Work of Germain Grisez, Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press, pp. 174–209. Freire, P. (1985), Pedagogy of the Oppressed, London: Penguin. Goodin, R. E. (1988), ‘What is So Special about Our Fellow Countrymen?’, Ethics, 98 (4): 663–86. Marx, K. (1977), Karl Marx Selected Writings, edited by D. McLellan, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Plato (1970), The Dialogues of Plato, Vol. IV: The Republic, trans. B. Jowett, London: Sphere Books. Pope Leo XIII, Rerum novarum (2000 [1891]), in D. J. O’Brien and T. A. Shannon (eds), Catholic Social Thought: The Documentary Heritage, New York: Orbis. Schwarzenbach, S. A. (1996), ‘On Civic Friendship’, Ethics, 107 (1): 97–128. Voegelin, E. (1952), The New Science of Politics: An Introduction, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —(1962), ‘World-Empire and the Unity of Mankind’, International Affairs, 38 (2): 170–88. —(1987), Order and History, Vol. IV: The Ecumenic Age, Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press. —(1998), The Collected Works of Eric Voegelin, vol. 23: History of Political Ideas, vol. 5: Religion and the Rise of Modernity, J. L. Wiser (ed.), Columbia and London: University of Missouri Press.

5

What Are They Doing Here? – Jews in the Global Apartment House Jerome Gellman

Introduction There was a time when we lived in a global village. Nowadays we live in a global apartment building. We hear other tenants through global thin walls and ceilings and from open windows on other floors, meet them in the global hallways, crowd with them on the global elevator, invite them into our homes, as they invite us, have some most satisfying cooperative efforts, like the time we placed flowers in everybody’s windows, and fight with them like mad about all sorts of imagined and real rights and hurts in our global apartment building. The tenants in my building are a mixed group. My downstairs neighbour is Irish Catholic. Across from her is a Muslim family. Above me is a Hindu couple from India. On one side of me lives a family from Brazil, with four children and a huge statue of Jesus in the window, and on the other side a couple from China, with one child. Down on the lowest floor, half below ground, in a tiny apartment, lives a poor family from Myanmar (Burma), and just above them, in an apartment the owner has not fixed up for years, lives a dejected man from Ghana who is having a hard time finding a job. Just above him lives a family from Borneo, with rather unusual dress. (It is lucky the sun shines so much on their side of the building!) They do not make much noise in the building. There is always a racket on the third floor, though, where it seems an Israeli family has been trying for years to enlarge their apartment and where Arab families are having really big squabbles. On the fifth floor it is close to civil war between two families from Madagascar. Two British women live together on a high floor in style, quietly, and across the hall from them lives an equally quite, reclusive Zen master. An American man who trades on Wall Street and winters in the Bahamas occupies one of the penthouses, and a prince from one of the Gulf States, who owns three more apartments elsewhere in the apartment building, lives in another. And I? I am an old-fashioned, traditional, religious Jew, living on the third floor, and also living on several of the other floors of the global apartment house. Whenever I meet one of my neighbours I am always cordial. I try to be especially nice to the man from Ghana when I see him, poor man. And I always make sure to

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smile to the people from Myanmar when we meet in the lobby, so sad. Once I even invited in the Muslims from downstairs. We did not have much to talk about, so they left early. I get along famously with the guy from Wall Street, and have a good relationship with the Chinese neighbours. But try as I will, there always seems to be an invisible barrier between the tenants and me, except maybe with the Israelis, who are also Jewish. Perhaps it is because I am afraid that my neighbours do not like Jews. You can sometimes get a whiff of that in the elevators, you know. There are still places in the building I try to avoid. And there are even signs on some apartments that say Jews are not allowed in! But it must be more than that. It must also be because I have been taught that the Jews are different, that the Jews are special, that the Jews are God’s Chosen People. And I believe it. That must be it. Yes. That is it. Since the Jewish Emancipation in Europe, Jews have increasingly become part of their general cultures and societies. Today, a minority of Jews would believe the Jews are chosen in any sense. Most Jews are either more or less secular or affiliated with liberal Judaism. In either case, chosenness does not figure much in their thinking. Indeed, in a 2013 report by the Pew Research Center on American Jews, while a great majority of American Jews says they are proud to be Jewish, most instructive is what being Jewish means to them. Remembering the Holocaust is what it means to 73 per cent of respondents to the Pew poll, leading an ethical life to 69 per cent. Fifty-six per cent say that working for justice and equality is essential to what being Jewish means to them. Forty-three per cent say caring about Israel is what it means, while a hefty 42 per cent believe having a good sense of humour is what makes for Jewish identity!? Only 19 per cent thought observing the Jewish religion was important to them.1 That Jews are the Chosen People does not surface in these statistics. And I? I am an old-fashioned, traditionally religious Jew, who lives with the conviction that in some important sense the Jews are the Chosen People. My situation, I became convinced, was deplorable. I could not squeeze into the global elevator with all those people, century after century, and continue to feel that way. I could not plant beautiful flowers in the windows with the other tenants and see them as less worthy than I am. It could not be that I merely smile to the Myanmar tenants and just leave it at that. It’s not right that I let the Muslim family disappear from my life merely because we found so little to talk about then. It is not right that the recluse with his saffron robes has been passing me in the lobby for over a century and I do not even know his name. That the Jews are the Chosen People in some important sense is central to my religious belief. It makes sense for me of the Jewish religion, of the panorama of Jewish history, yes, even with/of the Holocaust. It is why we have our own national religion and why we have stayed alive for all this time. It makes sense of my people’s historic entanglement with God. We are different from the rest of the building in some important way. Yes. Yet, the barrier between others and me, I came to understand, had to have permeability to it. I had to be able to say that I, as a Jew, have been chosen by God, and yet that fact must not make me in any way superior to any of the others – the Muslims I invited to my apartment, the two women living together up high, the Brazilians with



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their huge Jesus statue in the window, the Myanmar unfortunates, or the Zen recluse. The time had come for me to fundamentally redecorate my apartment. And the time had come for me, after that redecoration, to think through a new protocol for how I should be living in the global apartment building. Here, then, is a report on how I have rethought how to behave when I step out of my apartment into the halls of this claustrophobic global apartment building. Yes, I said to myself, I am part of and want to contribute to global culture, but I do not want my presence there to be at the price of a nameless sameness.

1 Barrier and permeability My understanding of Jewish chosenness requires a conception of both the nature of the barrier and the nature of its permeability. In the past, often the idea of the Chosen People entailed a negative judgment of, endowing inferior status to, Gentiles. It was commonly taught that God loved only the Jews or loved them more than anybody else. Now, no doubt such attitudes were fed by the long history of Jewish suffering under Christianity, but they are not to be raised up to eternal theological verities. That Jews had superior souls, for example, might have seemed rather obvious to a great many Jews in Medieval Europe. Economic and social abuses, pogroms, murderous Crusades, and rabid religious persecution, all at the hands of Gentiles, made that conclusion seem real. The words of Søren Kierkegaard come to mind here: Everyone who is in despair has clung to one or another of the dissimilarities of earthly life so that he centers his life in it, not in God, also demands that everyone who belongs to the same dissimilarity must hold together with him. … The one in despair calls it treason to want to have fellowship with others, with all people. (Kierkegaard 1995, p. 73)

God is supposed to act from perfect goodness, perfect knowledge, and perfect ability. And God, in God’s infinity, has the capacity to love each and every nation and each and every individual, fully, warmly, and in justice to their individual uniqueness. Consequently, I cannot agree that God loves the Jews and not the Gentiles, or that God loves the Jews more than God loves the Gentiles. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, former Chief Rabbi of the British Commonwealth, has provided an eloquent and noble conception of the barrier between the Jews and the others. His approach is worth quoting at length. Taking as his proof text, ‘Behold it is a people that dwells alone, not reckoned among the nations’ (Num. 23.9), the rabbi writes:2 God is wholly Other. Therefore, He chose a people who would be humanity’s ‘other’. That is what Jews were – outsiders, different, distinctive, a people who swam against the tide and challenged the idols of the age. Judaism is the countervoice in the conversation of mankind. During two thousand years of dispersion, Jews were the only people who, as a group, refused to assimilate to the dominant culture or convert to the dominant faith. They suffered as a result – but what

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Solidarity Beyond Borders they taught was not for them alone. They showed that a nation does not need to be powerful or large to win God’s favor. They showed that a nation can lose everything else – land, power, rights, a home – and yet still not lose hope. They showed that God is not necessarily on the side of great empires or big battalions. They showed that a nation can be hated, persecuted, reviled, and yet still be loved by God. They showed that to every law of history there is an exception and what the majority believes at any given moment is not necessarily true. Judaism is God’s question mark against the conventional wisdom of the age.

The singularity of the Jews, according to Rabbi Sacks, comes from their being a counter-culture, being a people looking in from the outside onto the societies in which they find themselves. As such, they represent that there is another way besides the ways of power, of domination, and of material gain, to be favourable in the eyes of God. Here is one way in which Jewish separateness can contribute to global ethics, as a signpost for possible alternative thinking, for not following fads and trends but to look deeply into the situation of humanity and to think through our values, preconceptions, and biases to the ground of our being and what it demands. Alas, this conception of the barrier, while valuable, does not suffice. This proposal describes a barrier that existed for a large part of Jewish history. It existed during a Jewish Diaspora in which the Jews became scattered in numerous cultures. But it did not exist, at least to a significant enough extent, when the Jews were the ancient Israelites in their own land. In addition, since the creation of the country of Israel in 1948, the time has passed when Jewish existence could be defined as being without a country, without power, and without a voice of its own as one within the cacophony of voices in this so noisy global apartment house. (I never sleep well at night because when I go to sleep there is a whole other side of the building that thinks it’s daytime! What a rumpus!) With a great proportion of the world’s Jews living in Israel, and with support of Israel by most Jews worldwide, the Jews have to a great extent become another participant in the international community’s needs for power over adversaries. Finally, nowadays the barrier of separateness is far less visible with hefty contemporary rates of Jewish assimilation and with large-scale Jewish absorption into the cultures of host countries. Israel maintains a Jewish sense of separateness, but until now has not been given nor grasped the opportunity to embody chosenness in a way that impresses much of the world. My conception of Jewish chosenness does not depend on what or how the Jews themselves carry out a mission to the world. It does not depend on whether Jews have a country of their own. As a traditionally religious Jew, I believe that our chosenness should be entirely what God does, or has done. And as a traditionally religious Jew, I believe that our chosenness has to do with our religious particularity and what it should mean to Jews and to the non-Jewish world. For that purpose I have formulated a contemporary theology of Jewish chosenness, which here I can only summarise.3 An appropriate relationship to God can come only when humanity comes to God in freedom and joy. Hence, God wants humanity to come to God freely and in joy. As a result, God must restrain God’s open manifestation to them of God’s love, so as



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not to overpower them. To overpower is to deprive them of freedom and joy. So, after six proverbial days of hands-on involvement with the world, God must withdraw, to create a place for creatures to choose God freely. This is the meaning of God resting on the Seventh day. In Philosophical Fragments, Kierkegaard presents a parable of a king who falls in love with a humble maiden. The king fears he will overwhelm the maiden with ‘all the pomp of his power’, thereby depriving her of her autonomy and sense of self-worth necessary for their mutual love. So the king himself becomes a humble servant, so as to join with her in love, freely given. Just so, says Kierkegaard, ‘God picks His steps … lest he trample human beings in the dust’. God limits Himself so that people will come to him freely. The contemporary Christian philosopher, Michael Murray, wrote: ‘To preserve the exercise of robust, morally significant free will, God cannot provide grand-scale, firework displays in an effort to make His existence known’ (Murray 1993, p. 37). The Christian theologian, Paul K. Moser, believes God approaches us with a ‘call’, unlike ‘the coercive evidence of a splitting headache that just won’t go away’. God’s call … may intrude a bit into our experience, but it can readily be overlooked, ignored, suppressed, or dismissed by us, because it’s intended by God not to coerce a will … but to be willingly received by humans. In particular, it’s designed to woo or invite us rather than to force or dominate us. (Moser 2008, p. 243)

Other Christian thinkers who advance a similar idea include John Hick, Ronald Hepburn and C. Stephen Evans. Similarly, the anonymous Medieval Jewish work Sefer Hachinuch explains the Biblical commandment to keep a fire burning on the altar in the Tabernacle as follows: In great miracles that God performs with His goodness to people, He will all ways do them in a way of hiddenness, so that it appears somewhat as though they are plainly natural, or nearly natural. Even with the miracle of the parting of the Red Sea, which was a demonstrative miracle, it is written that God moved the sea by way of an easterly wind the entire night, making the sea dry. For that reason, we are commanded to burn a fire on the altar, even though a fire would descend from heaven, in order to hide the miracle [of the fire descending from heaven], so that the fire that came from heaven would not be visible in its descent. (My translation and my emphasis)

Had the miracle of the fire descending from heaven been open to plain view, people would have found it difficult to be freely in relationship with God. Just so, with all miracles, God performs them in such a way that there is enough of an ambiguity in them to allow for a discerning heart to have to make the effort to discern them on her own. In this way God preserves human freedom towards God. That idea reflects the notion found in Jewish literature of God giving people ‘an opportunity to make a mistake’ concerning divinely guided events, always leaving the possibility of attributing such events to chance, or the like. It takes an open soul to find God in the world. God might be present everywhere but often that presence is like the faces hidden in the scenery of a children’s puzzle page asking to find the faces hidden

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in the trees and bushes. The faces are there to be seen, but you will see them only if you choose to look for them carefully. The story is told of a great Hasidic master who when a boy was playing hide-andseek with his friends. He ran home crying to his father. When his father asked him, ‘Why are you crying?’ he replied: ‘I was hiding and nobody came to look for me!’ To which his father replied: ‘Now you know how God feels! God hides and people do not come looking for him!’4 This is what can happen to God once God has withdrawn from the world – a person might have no idea that God wants a close relationship to her. She might not understand that God is hiding only to give her the possibility of finding God, of coming to God in freedom, a prerequisite for the desired type of relationship between God and a person. She can confuse that divine motivation with God’s indifference, or might even not know of God at all. God wants humanity to know of God’s great desire that they come to God in freedom and joy, but without overwhelming them with God’s presence. God has a problem. So, God chooses one nation to whom to exhibit God’s great love for all humanity, a love which, on account of its magnitude and intensity, is overwhelming to that nation. These are the Jews at the revelation at Mt Sinai, when God speaks to them face to face. They are overwhelmed. They feel as though a mountain is shaking inside them, and loud sounds fill their inner senses. The people respond in love, declaring they will do what God wants for them. In this, God provides a real-life demonstration, a figure, a model, of God’s intense desire for intimacy with all humanity. God says to the world: ‘My demonstrative love of this people is a concrete figuration of my desire for all of humanity.’ In this way, God informs humanity of God’s love for all people, without overwhelming them. The peoples of the world remain free to come to God in joy. God chooses an entire nation, rather than scattered individuals, so as to express God’s love both on an individual level and within an entire social-political structure, in which divine revelation has an imprint. In this way, God’s care for humankind becomes manifest in all of its facets.5 The Jews are in no way greater than others prior to being chosen. When God first speaks to Abraham in Genesis 12:1 it is totally unexpected. Nothing has been written about Abraham up to this point that would give the reader any idea of what is coming. We have only a quite prosaic snippet about family travel towards Canaan. It remains a mystery within the inscrutable mind of God why God chose specifically the Jews for God’s purposes. My theology accounts only for why God would choose any nation for God’s purposes. Every act of God’s love towards the people he has chosen speaks to all people. Each such act is an invitation by God to all people to come to God in freedom, to have a relationship with God that God has to the people by means of which God has chosen to demonstrate God’s love. The Chosen People serve God as witnesses to humanity that God desires the hearts of all peoples, in a Divine invitation, preserving the freedom for humanity to choose to come to God. Jewish history is a mirror of the human condition, with all of its joys and sorrows. It declares that through all the vicissitudes of life, from the heights of religious ecstasy to the depths of unbearable suffering, despite all appearances, God’s promise will never



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expire. Thus the Jews are a figuration of the life of humanity. God’s love for the Jews is a sign of God’s love for all. Walker Percy, a non-Jew, sees this aspect of Jewish chosenness clearly, when he asks, ‘Where are the Hittites?’: Why does no one find it remarkable that in most world cities today there are Jews but not one single Hittite, even though the Hittites had a great flourishing civilization while the Jews nearby were a weak and obscure people? When one meets a Jew in New York or New Orleans or Paris or Melbourne, it is remarkable that no one considers the event remarkable. What are they doing here? But it is even more remarkable to wonder, if there are Jews here, why are there not Hittites here? Where are the Hittites? Show me one Hittite in New York City. (Percy 1984, p. 6)

Above all, the Jews are God’s real-live teaching of what God’s love means, namely: ‘I will be with him in trouble’ (Ps. 91.15). God’s love does not mean that if you believe in God and trust God you will never be in trouble. No. That is a religiously dangerous idea. The existence of the Jewish people teaches that God’s love means that in ultimate terms more than never being in trouble is the value of God’s being with you when you are in trouble. So, Eastern European Jews developed the ironic habit of saying, when things would go wrong, ‘God helped – and things went wrong!’ (‘I ran to catch the train, and God helped – and I missed it!’) No anticipation that things would go ‘right’, at least in the short run. The foundational Jewish experience of God in revelation and history contributed to humankind being able to detect God’s presence when only hinted at, and not clearly in view.6 God’s relationship with Israel has helped others detect the subtle nature of God’s presence and love in their own lives. Consider that you are presented with a picture. In it are impressionistic elements of a Dalmatian dog in the grass, elements so sparse as to make it difficult for you to see there is a dog there. You must look very closely and be open to the possibility of the dog being there if you are to see it. You see nothing. Suppose now that alongside that picture you are given a second, fully detailed picture of the same dog in the same grass. Once you have seen the second image it will be easier for you to see the Dalmatian in the first picture. When you do find it, you will be able to say with confidence that there was a Dalmatian there all along. Non-Jews who see God’s relationship with the Jews over a long history will more easily be prepared to discover God’s presence in their own lives. I realise that many non-Jews do not see this at all. Some, in an Augustinian tradition, have seen the difficult Jewish existence as no more than a warning from God of what happens to those who will deny God’s Son. I have no illusions about this in practice. However, what I am presenting is a proposal for a religious Jewish self-understanding of what their chosenness is about: chosen not for an ethnocentric purpose, but a hope, a commitment, to be God’s (suffering?) servant in making God accessible to all humanity in freedom and joy. I realise as well that my Zen recluse neighbour will not at all buy my talk about God and what God does in history. For him, there is no place for God and no place for Divine Providence. So, especially with regard to him, I do not expect agreement.

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Elsewhere I have discussed my understanding of the theological relationship between Judaism and Buddhism, and have also discussed the issue of Buddhism and Jewish chosenness, and I will not enter that topic here.7 In any case, I do want to tell my Zen neighbour my story so that he can at least understand how I, as a Jew, regard him. I want him to know that for me, a traditionally religious Jew, there is indeed a barrier between us, but that it is a permeable barrier. On my conception of Jewish chosenness, being chosen encompasses entirely something that begins and ends with God’s doing. The Jews being chosen is not something at which they can succeed or fail. They were not superior before or after on account of being chosen. What we are charged with is to maintain our separate identity, to continue to live, and to highlight God’s love for us to each other and to others by studying and observing God’s Torah for the purpose of becoming merciful and loving, as is God. The Jewish people best serves humanity by preserving its distinctiveness. From a traditional Jewish point of view this consists of being the instance in which God showed God’s love to a people in a national revelation so as to serve as a model for all humanity that if they come to God in freedom they would experience that same love.8 Given this theology of the Chosen People, I turn to the practical implications of being on one side of a barrier: my protocol for the global apartment building.

2 Jewish law and communal practice Jewish law includes a detailed civil code. This code includes laws concerning relationships between Jews and non-Jews. Since these laws were promulgated and practised at times when Jews suffered greatly from their non-Jewish environment, we find there some antagonistic notions about non-Jews, and laws following from those notions. It was not irrational for Jewish law to reflect the fear that every Gentile was a potential murderer, for example. And it was not irrational for Jews to consider Gentiles, i.e. Christians, to be idol worshippers. Today, you will find some who wish to apply these laws to contemporary non-Jews across the board. However, we can no longer apply all of these laws to non-Jews as though they are all suspected of being murderers and as though they are all idol worshippers, as of old. In this I, and increasingly others, follow Rabbi Menahem ha-Meiri, who lived in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Ha-Meiri plainly declared religions like Christianity not to be idol worshippers since they believe in one Creator and since they fulfil his requirements for commitment to fostering a decent human society. This attitude to Christianity covers as well Buddhism, Hinduism, as well as most forms of Islam.9 From my Jewish point of view, world religions other than Judaism were freely given responses to God, granting them a valuable quality not found in the foundational experiences of Judaism, where freedom was limited by God’s overwhelming revelation to the people. The rich variegation of world religions other than Judaism represents, in principle, manifold appropriate responses to God, given the complexity of the human psyche and the wide variances in human culture. This makes a great number



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of laws against Gentiles inapplicable or requiring modification. The task of careful re-definition largely lies before us on the communal level. I want to take up two particular practical issues pertaining to the barrier: the practice of eating kosher food and the prohibition on Jewish–Gentile intermarriage.

3 Kosher food People eating together comprises a potent expression of friendship and solidarity. A good way to symbolise practical issues of the barrier is through the kosher diet of a traditional Jew. We Jews have our little laws about what we can and cannot eat. I will not eat pork or seafood. I will not eat meat from a kosher animal (such as a cow, a lamb, a goat) unless ritually slaughtered in the right way, and I will not eat meat and milk together. Also, I will not eat food from a kitchen where such foods have been prepared, even if it does not involve my eating prohibited foods. As a result, when, for example, I attend a conference away from home, usually on a different floor of the global apartment building, I do not eat much of the food served at the banquet or much of the food offered at receptions. Sharing a non-Jew’s food is not available to me as an expression of friendship and solidarity. Jews not eating at table with non-Jews was a serious issue for Daniel, when he dared to refuse to eat with the king (Dan. 1.8). Jews not eating at the table of non-Jews plays an important role in the New Testament, where it symbolises a refusal to allow Gentiles into the early Church on an equal footing with Jewish Christians. Paul rebukes Peter, the Jew, for refusing to eat together with Gentiles who have faith in Jesus (Gal. 2.11–14). Paul’s grounds are that both the Jews and those Gentiles are justified by faith in Jesus alone, and not by the Law. When some Jews censure Peter for eating with Cornelius, the Gentile (Acts 10–11), Peter defends himself because of a vision he had. He was about to be invited to the home of Cornelius, by messengers, when Peter had a vision, the gist of which was this: There was something like a large sheet coming down from heaven, being lowered by its four corners; and it came close to me. As I looked at it closely I saw fourfooted animals, beasts of prey, reptiles, and birds of air. I also heard a voice saying to me, ‘Get up Peter; kill and eat’. (Acts 11)

The list of animals in the sheet includes those prohibited by the laws of kosher food. When Cornelius’ messengers arrive to invite Peter, the Spirit tells Peter to go with them and to make no distinction between Gentile and Jewish believers. Paul himself regularly shared meals with Gentiles to whom he was reaching out for conversion. Jewish separateness, as expressed in the laws of kosher food, requires me to refrain from eating much of the food ordinarily served by non-Jews. So, there is a social barrier between non-Jews and me. Yet, this barrier no longer serves an exclusionary agenda, as it did in the New Testament. Rather, it is now consistent with separateness within friendship and camaraderie. One expression of this is my initiating requests and receiving specially prepared, lean, boxed kosher meals that I eat at table together with my Christian colleagues in philosophy of religion, at conferences.10 We table

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together, yet eat apart. Eating only kosher food becomes a symbol of the barrier not being an obstruction.

4 Intermarriage There was a time, when I was growing up in the United States, when it was rare for a Jew and non-Jew to marry. Today, in the United States, 71 per cent of all marriages involving a Jew are between a Jew and a non-Jew, not counting the Orthodox Jewish population. According to the European Centre for Jewish Students, intermarriage is on a sharp increase in Europe, if not reaching its extent in the United States. In Germany, Jewish intermarriage is estimated to be over 50 per cent.11 When considering intermarriage between Jew and non-Jew from a non-religious Jewish point of view or for a Jew only nominally religious, rejection of intermarriage is only an ethnic desire. As such, Jewish resistance to intermarriage comes from an in-group–out-group mentality built on ingredients such as language, history, foods, ethnic symbols, perhaps a common homeland, and similar physical features. However, several of those ingredients have become rather inconspicuous in the lives of non-traditional Jews living outside of Israel, while others of those ingredients have been weakened among Jews in the global apartment house. So, what we have for them is essentially a tribal relic, built on echoes of the past, with, possibly, a lingering feeling of some commitment to traditional parents or grandparents, loyalty to the country of Israel, and celebration of the Holocaust as making the Jews unique in the world. From a seriously religious point of view, intermarriage is a threat to the flourishing of the Jewish people as the subjects of God’s choosing. My theology of Jewish chosenness makes the continued existence and flourishing of the Jewish people essential for God’s purposes. Those, in turn, must exist so as to continue the symbol of God’s love for all peoples. When a Jew marries a non-Jew, in a generation or two their children will no longer be Jews. And when a Jew marries a non-Jew it is not possible to have a fully traditional, flourishing Jewish home life. A religious outlook on intermarriage should ideally transform resistance to it from being a tribal, exclusionary practice into a religious commitment to further God’s purposes. Objection: whichever way you dress it up, the prohibition on Jewish–Gentile intermarriage is purely racist! Of all people, we should expect the Jews to be the last to endorse racist policies of ‘pure blood’. Such practices have no place in the global apartment building where Jews and non-Jews mix together as a matter of daily life. Reply: a policy should be considered ‘racist’ only when it distinguishes between races for the purpose of elevating some races over others. Some policies would better be defined as ‘racial’ rather than ‘racist’, this being when they distinguish between races but not for any purpose of creating hierarchal racial rankings. The policy of ‘affirmative action’ in the United States, for example, was racial, because aimed exclusively at helping black Americans. But it was not racist, since not enacted for the purpose of lowering the rank of black Americans. Quite the contrary.12 Ideally, and according to my theology of chosenness, the rejection of intermarriage should be at most racial, and not racist. But that description is not correct either,



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because there is no racial barrier preventing a Jew from marrying a non-Jew. The barrier is religious only. A religious Jew may marry a non-Jew of any kind – black, Chinese, South American Indian, Inuit, Arab, whatever – who converts to the religion of the Jews. Once they convert, Abraham becomes their father and Sarah their mother. The religious purpose is determinative, not race. Therefore, religious Judaism today should know nothing of the Spanish Catholic distinction of old between those who had ‘purity of blood’ and Jewish converts to Christianity, called by the Spanish ‘marranos’, or ‘pigs’. Defending a ban on Jewish–non-Jewish intermarriage thus retains an admittedly impermeable stretch of the barrier. But even that section of the barrier cannot be quite as impermeable as it once was among religious Jews. There was a time when religious parents would sit shivah, ‘the seven’ days of mourning for a deceased close relative, if their child married a non-Jew. The child was dead to them. (The Ultra-Orthodox still often observe this custom.) This can no longer be the attitude towards Jews who marry non-Jews. The time has passed when a family could cut themselves off from the offender, guaranteeing their loss to Judaism and their permanent hostility to the religion. In the global village, Jews should retain loving relations with such people, but without that embrace necessarily signalling a religious acceptance of the practice. Global ethics must be nuanced to the diversity of ethical and religious requirements of the global tenants. It should not impose a levelling political correctness that slides from keeping distinction between peoples to quick charges of racism. Such selfrighteousness does not serve a global ethics very well. My theology of chosenness cannot remain on an abstract theological level – love them from afar, as it were – but must engage with non-Jews in love and care. In this connection I can do no better than turn to the words of one of the greatest of rabbinic figures of the twentieth century, Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook (1865–1935). Rabbi Kook was the first Chief Rabbi of Palestine under the British Mandate, a strictly Orthodox rabbi, great legal scholar, mystic, and beloved leader. Addressing his Jewish reader, Rabbi Kook wrote: ‘The love of all people requires great effort, to widen it to the width fitting for it’. Rabbi Kook realises it is natural that love for others be narrowly defined,13 remaining confined to my love for my people, my country and my religion. When Jewish love is tribal and not religious it comes up against a barrier of steel. We Jews must make the effort to cultivate a love for all, the rabbi is saying, beyond the narrowness of our natural inclinations. To this I would add: and beyond the dangers of theological narrowness lurking in the notion of chosenness. Rabbi Kook continues: ‘The supreme status of love will be obtained when love spreads to all peoples, despite differences in ideas, religions, and beliefs, and despite all the differences in climates and races’. This tells us that love of others must spread to cultures and religions that might look bizarre and incomprehensible to the Jew. The strangeness of another culture or religion must not be an impediment to the effort to come to know others intimately. The love of others is to be concretely situated, in their life milieu. And so: ‘It is correct to understand deeply the nations and different groups, as much as possible to study their character and their attributes, in order to know how to ground love of humanity in a practical way’.

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To love my Zen neighbour I must know him from the inside, not abstractly simply as ‘that man in the robes’. Rabbi Kook would have me study the way Zen monks think and act, and Buddhist culture in general, in addition to learning how this man appropriates all of that into his life. Only then can I optimally ground my love for him. For me to love people living in Haiti means to learn their ways, means for me not only to send a cheque for disaster relief when an earthquake destroys their homes. The love of which I write is not the love that comes from pity, which obviously has its place, but the love that comes from an appreciation of the humanity and dignity of the other. Alas, given the vast amount I would have to know only about the people on my own floor, let alone the whole crowded building, the mandate to ground love on intimate knowledge of the others is of very limited practical application. I therefore take this directive to be more of an attitude of openness to others and their distinctiveness, in recognition of their dignity and thus their claim on our love.14 My theology of chosenness must not allow a Jew to reduce all who are not Jewish to simply being ‘Gentiles’. This is not yet the full story. So far, I have urged my sister and brother Jews to know others well so as to learn how to love them. This, however, could be no more than a policy, however admirable, aimed solely at the good of the non-Jew: get to understand Catholicism, for example, so that you can understand what your Catholic neighbour is like. Then you will be able to know what he needs and what will make him happy. Know his religion for his sake. This is not enough. My understanding of being the Chosen People must include encouraging enrichment of the Jews from the outside. Of course this has been happening for centuries, at times too much for my taste, but here I am speaking especially of religious enrichment. The late Krister Stendahl, former Bishop of Stockholm, used to encourage what he called ‘holy envy’. He meant to encourage appreciation of religions other than your own for content or practices they have that yours does not have. Holy envy should be extended beyond Stendahl’s definition to include envy for what another religion has right up in the centre which your religion might have only in its neglected shadows or at its edges. We Jews should not stop with envy, though. We should, cautiously and responsibly, weigh how we can bring closer to the centre of Judaism, from its periphery, what we have come to appreciate for being central in another religion. To a large extent, for historical reasons, Jews were unable to even think of holy envy, let alone be influenced by it in a positive way. And in recent centuries, for those who overcome historical confines holy envy has been too often a springboard to conversion by Jews to other religions, to adopting an eclectic confusion of religious motifs, or to an alienation that refuses to commit to any one religion. What I am urging is sincere religious understanding of other religions for the sake of Jewish religious enrichment. And I am urging this not from a stance of grossly liberal Judaism, but from the point of view of traditional Judaism. Not a borrowed hodgepodge of incoherent ideas and practices do I have in mind, but an appreciation of components of the religions of others in a strong, coherent, Judaic framework. From Buddhism I could learn the importance of grabbing a snake by the head and not by the tail. If you grab a snake by the tail, the Buddha taught, it would turn around and bite you. Just so, the Buddha taught, if you grab his teachings by the tail, as literal,



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as banal, they will turn around and bite you, harming instead of benefiting. That image could guide me through periods of religious difficulties surely due to my grabbing my Judaism by the tail. When I do that, it turns around, every time, and bites me. From the classic Tao work, Tao Te Ching, I could learn what it might be like wondrously to flow like a mighty river, while remaining calm and still. Sri Ramakrishna, the ‘Hindu’, could teach me how to see God everywhere, even in the lowly cat. That was why he fed to the cat the offering that had been given for the Divine Mother. From the Christian Cloud of Unknowing I could learn deeply impressive contemplative prayer and then I could try to adapt it to my Jewish prayers. I have observed Muslims outdoors, stop whatever they are doing, spread out a carpet, and kneel to pray, with no self-consciousness whatever before the eyes of passers-by. When praying, they are self-conscious only before God. From that image I could well learn to want to pray with a similar unconcern for what is transpiring around me, too concerned about God to give it attention. From Native North Americans I could learn how to block my bad dreams with a dream catcher. And I could learn how to fetch my good dreams to come down close to me. From that I would learn how to appropriate hope, optimism and faith in God, and at the same time to let go of fear, dread and morbidity. Sorry, now, but I must leave off from writing this essay. I want to walk over to knock on the door of the Muslims’ apartment to invite them over to my place again. And the family from Myanmar. I have got to get to know them. The family from Brazil has invited me several times, but I always gave them an excuse for not coming. Now, I am going to talk to them right after speaking with the Muslims, to work out my food for a good visit at their place. And that Zen guy … Please excuse me. I must go now.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

6 7 8

See the Pew Report on American Jewry, http://www.pewforum.org/2013/10/01/ jewish-american-beliefs-attitudes-culture-survey/ (accessed 2 February 2015). Available from http://www.chiefrabbi.org/ReadArtical1520.aaspx For a full statement of my theology see Gellman (2013). The story is told about various masters, so I refrain from attributing it to any one person. Whether true or not in an historical sense, it is quite true in a spiritual sense. This does not at all preclude God from also choosing various individuals from among non-Jews who serve a similar role to that of the Jews of making known God’s desire for people to come to God in freedom. However, it was also needed to choose a nation as a visible expression of God’s concern in social-political reality. For the ideas of this and the next few paragraphs, I am greatly indebted to Berel Dov Lerner. I am also grateful to his good comments on an earlier draft of this chapter. For the theological relationship see Gellman (2012). For Buddhism and Jewish chosenness, see Gellman (2013). Objection: if God loves all of humanity, then why is God not acting with love to everybody at all times? God should not wait for people to come to God before God

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Solidarity Beyond Borders loves them! Reply: we must distinguish between God loving a person and God manifesting that love within a person’s consciousness. God acts with love at all times but that love becomes manifest to a person when the person comes freely to God. Otherwise, that person will not be able to form an authentic relationship with God. For a study of ha-Meiri on Christianity, see Halbertal (2001). There was that time in Hong Kong when I got my comeuppance. There I was eating one of my boxed, Spartan meals together with Christian philosophers of religion who were enthusiastically gorging themselves on a grand array of Chinese delicacies served on a revolving table centre. When I later jokingly chastised my Christian friends that their gorging was not becoming to devout Christians, I was told, defensively, that there was nothing in the New Testament against gorging! European Jewish Press, 30 October 2013. http://www.ejpress.org/index. php?option=com_content&view=article&id=47400&catid=9:germany&Itemid=5 (accessed 4 February 2014). I have learnt the terminological distinction between ‘racist’ and ‘racial’ from Bodoff (1989) and Jospe (2008, pp. 257–9). All quotations from Rabbi Kook are from his Hebrew work, Midot Haraayah (Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook Publishing, 1970/71), p. 96. My translation. Since I am not a Christian, I do not believe in turning the other cheek. Hence, there are limitations on love, on the ground.

References Bodoff, L. (1989), ‘Was Yehuda Halevi Racist?’, Judaism 38: 174–84. Gellman, J. (2012), ‘Judaism and Buddhism’, in A. Goshen-Gottstein and E. Korn (eds), Judaism and World Religions, Littman Library: Oxford University Press. —(2013), God’s Kindness Has Overwhelmed Us: A Contemporary Doctrine of the Jews as God’s Chosen People, Boston: Academic Studies Press. Halbertal, M. (2001), ‘“Ones Possessed of Religion”: Religious Tolerance in the Teachings of the Meiri’, The Edah Journal, 1 (1). Jospe, R. (2008), Jewish Philosophy in the Middle Ages, Boston: Academic Studies Press. Kierkegaard, S. (1995), Works of Love, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kook, A. I. (1970–1), Midot Haraayah (Hebrew), Jerusalem: Mosad Harav Kook Publishing. Moser, P. K. (2008), The Elusive God: Reorienting Religious Epistemology, Cambridge: Cambridge University. Murray, M. (1993), ‘Coercion and the Hiddenness of God’, American Philosophical Quarterly, 30: 27–38. Percy, W. (1984), The Message in the Bottle, New York: Farrar Strauss & Giroux.

6

Muslim Ethics in an Era of Globalism: Reconciliation in an Age of Empire Ebrahim Moosa

Introduction When events occurring in a variety of Muslim societies around the globe are projected in the media on a daily basis, then it does momentarily appear that Islam has ‘bloody borders’, to use Samuel Huntington’s now widely criticised description of Islam as a world civilisation. Given the diversity of Muslims around the world, the multiple conflicts, civil wars, revolutions, worldwide migration of people and continuing power struggles, surely these events must by necessity create multiple vortexes of conflict and instability. Often these media portraits cast Islam and Muslims as a people without ethics. Observers of the events of 9/11, reports of hostage taking by pirates in Somalia, the abduction of young girls by the insurgency group Boko Haram to the menace of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria could reach the conclusion that ethics is an oxymoron in Islam. Yet, the ethical is deeply entrenched in Islam from the personal level to the communal. How Muslims can both practise and project an ethics that is consistent with the temporality of globality is both a challenge internal to Muslim communities and a work-in-progress. This chapter will examine a few kernel ideas for consideration.

1 Imperialism: post-modern style Can we still speak of a global ethics when there is such a profound absence of a moral consensus on some of the most fundamental issues of life? Can one identify a modus vivendi for governance, a balanced international order and the accountability of the powerful? Rhetorical questions posed in this vein do not only identify the aspirations for global ethics, but also point to what the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze called an emerging ‘chaosmos’, a cosmos or world marked by chaos as a distinctive feature. While nation-states partake in traditional forms of ‘vertebral globalisation’ there is a marked growth in what Arjun Appadurai described as ‘cellular globalisation’. The

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latter is a rapidly growing form of globalisation where transnational networks can effectively replicate themselves without central messaging (Appadurai 2006, p. 131). This condition only adds to the ‘chaosmos’ since cellular globalisation flourishes in complex global networks as different as the World Social Forum as a positive exemplar, and grows in dangerous networks sustained by groups like al-Qaida/Islamic State activists, as deplorable examples. Global corporate capital too is operating in cellular globalising modes and altering the habits and practices of publics beyond the control of the state and with little accountability. And the intensification of social media and the growing power of cyberspace and its technologies have only enhanced cellular globalisation and diminished accountability.

2 Globalisation and emergent imperialism Given some very real asymmetries in power between existing global cultures, the question that arises is this: is there a need to hit the restart button and contemplate the need for reconciliation between the relatively powerful and the relatively powerless? What options do ordinary people around the world have in choosing between fratricidal foot soldiers who deploy archaic means of warfare from suicide bombings to the use of missiles to down passenger airliners in different theatres of conflict versus the sophisticated armoury of imperial powers who utilise drone technologies and devastating air-power in order to vanquish their adversaries? For the dispossessed of the world, however, to seek reconciliation with both imperialist powers and nihilistic insurgencies borders on the burlesque. The rise of the Islamic State across Syria and Iraq and the growth of the Taliban in Pakistan are both directly related to failed imperial ventures in the Middle East and South Asia prior to the 11 September 2001 attacks and developments after that fateful onslaught on innocents in the United States. For millions of people around the world, the imperial ventures of the twentieth century still linger vividly in their living memories. Yet, imperial ambitions have yet to abate. It is as if we had failed to learn from history; Karl Marx’s improvisation on Hegel’s idea, that history often repeats itself, the first time as tragedy and the second time as farce, is an apt reminder. Let me remove all ambiguity about the farce in point. The United States’s imperial ventures have brought with them a bitter harvest and an unstoppable afterlife of violence in the regions it attempted to reshape with force. The farce stretches from the savage and illegal wars in Afghanistan and Iraq that culminated in the occupation of both countries with devastating consequences. That is aside from the extra-judicial executions of terrorist suspects and the inhumane and indefinite imprisonment of hundreds of Muslim men in violation of international law at the US base in Guantanamo Bay, all events that US lawmakers and the public at large have sought to ignore. These events are one large tragedy that has already placed the fragile international political order and our tenuous inter-cultural ethical system in mortal danger. American imperium has been long in the making, wrote the renowned but often conflicted political writer Michael Ignatieff. It is an imperium that has been acquired



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in a state of deep denial (Ignatieff 2003). It took a cataclysmic event for this illegitimate child of the republic to be acknowledged, publicly adopted and immodestly paraded in demonstrations of awesome power, first in Afghanistan and then followed in Iraq. Morally, the whip of imperial power is ambiguous: was it in self-defence or just pure revenge against anyone who silently cheered the 9/11 hijackers with their box-cutters into the netherworld? The sanctimonious claim made by the former US president George W. Bush and former British prime minister Tony Blair that the ‘war against terrorism’ was not a battle against Islam does indeed ring hollow. The facts on the ground and the real-life reality only revealed one monotonous picture: it was a war waged against entities that identified as ‘Muslim’, and no amount of massaging could alter those facts. One could not miss the hidden subtext of Bush’s speech from USS Abraham Lincoln on 1 May 2003: ‘We have not forgotten the victims of September 11, the last phone calls, the cold murder of children, the searches in the rubble’, he said. ‘With those attacks, the terrorists and their supporters declared war on the United States. And war is what they got.’ Replace the word ‘terrorists’ with ‘Muslims’ and you hear this: ‘With those attacks, the Muslims and their supporters declared war on the United States. And war is what they got.’ In fact, the Bush–Blair rhetoric, according to experts, was nothing but double-speak and part of the ruthlessness of the Bush administration’s policies against all and sundry, especially the heavy-handed government treatment of Muslims living in the United States with regular harassment and witch-hunts that has now abated but has morphed into the practices of influential elements of civil society. Almost in unison all pro-Bush commentators were unanimous in their motive for going to war in Iraq, once the fig-leaf of weapons of mass destruction withered in Iraq’s desert sun: this was a war to teach the ‘Muslims’ everywhere in the world a lesson for the terrorist attacks against the United States.1 The courageous writer Norman Mailer indicted the American political leadership in the form of a rhetorical question: ‘Can leaders who lie as a way of life protect any way of life?’, he asked (Tiersky and Mailer 2003). Islam is a religious tradition with a long and complex history that encompasses almost all the major cultures of the world, including Europe and North America. It has some semblance of uniformity from the outside but is immensely varied from within. The only Islam one can talk about is an embodied Islam: one that takes shape in flesh and blood; actions and consequences. What Karl Marx once said about small-holding peasants in so far as that ‘they cannot represent themselves, they must be represented’, rings truer when used to describe a complex discursive tradition like Islam.2 Practically and theoretically speaking, Islam cannot represent itself; it is always represented by Muslims themselves or by actors claiming to represent it on a spectrum of diversity. In truth ‘Islam’ only manifests itself when it is embodied and represented by Muslims and when it is discursively articulated. Therefore, a great deal of demagoguery and downright ignorance is involved when actors and spokespersons speak for the whole religion, culture or civilisation. It makes no sense to talk about ‘Islam’, when it is in fact more accurate to speak about the specific acts of persons who are accountable for their deeds. If there is going to be any hope for reconciliation between communities, it begins with getting the vocabulary right when speaking about the ‘other’.

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In what appears to be an indirect and belated mea culpa for his ‘clash of civilisations’ thesis that generated so much anti-Islam hysteria, the late Harvard political scientist Samuel Huntington admitted US culpability in world affairs after 9/11. In his words, US foreign policy was to blame: ‘To a considerable extent we ourselves have generated these attitudes by our efforts to impose our values and institutions on other countries. We suffer from what can be called the universalist illusion that people of other countries have the same values and culture that we do; or if they do not have them, then they desperately want to have them; or if they do not want to have them, that something’s wrong with them, and we have the responsibility to persuade or coerce them into adopting our values and culture’ (Huntington 2003, p. 18). This is an astonishing admission on the part of a man whose wrongheaded intellectual contribution was crafted at the time when brave colleagues in the US academy and beyond challenged the ‘universalist illusion’ he later chastised. If there are concrete issues which Muslim and Euro-American partners in any dialogue need to discuss, then they must include questions about equity in the international political and economic order. The equitable sharing of the world’s resources in a peaceful and non-hegemonic manner is long overdue, and to ignore it is to invite peril on a global scale. And an effective end to direct and indirect Euro-American colonisation of Muslim lands would be the first step in the right direction. Euro-American support and tolerance for ruling elites and dictators lacking in legitimacy in the Muslim world, from Saddam Hussein previously in Iraq, Hosni Mubarak to Abdelfattah el-Sisi in Egypt, to name but a few, must come to an end. The post-Arab Spring political leaders present themselves as buffers against an exaggerated threat of political Islam, but actually serve as proxies for a range of imperial interests that are pitted against the democratic interests of the people. There is a reason why some parts of the Muslim world incubate so much political violence and totalitarianism, especially the metastasising menace of ISIS in Iraq and Syria. This is because the rule of law and human rights were never effectively enforced in governance and hence the severest of solutions are presented as alternatives. In fact, the violation of the most fundamental norms of governance was almost silently abetted by foreign powers – to their own advantage, of course. Should there be any surprise if extremist violence targets foreign forces who present themselves as liberators from despotism when they had actually colluded with local dictators until recently? The remedy the United States had adopted to rid tyranny by imperial conquest has monumentally backfired with unpredictable and unintended consequences. In order for a global ethics to succeed one would need the following elements in a cross-cultural dialogue: fostering an ethos of accountability and responsibility that begins with self-critique; transcending the nation-state structure in nurturing an ethos of cosmopolitan citizenship focused on people-to-people relations; and promoting an inclusive ethical content in the international legal and political order that goes beyond the limitations of liberal ethics.



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3 Inclusive and meaningful reconciliation However, we need to ask a more fundamental question: why dialogue and reconciliation? Can people be reconciled with each other when fundamental suspicion is about the only tangible substance that sustains the conversation between antagonists? Far from the rhetoric of Samuel Huntington about an impending clash of civilisations or Francis Fukuyama’s end of history thesis, we have now possibly reached a point of irreconcilable differences in our globalised and interdependent world. In other words: do we face the ominous prospect of globalised apartheid? Let us face it, the gulf in perception between communities on political, economic, cultural, political and religious issues reflects deep fissures within our pluralistic global community. The burden of reconciliation is to lift the veil of suspicion on crucial issues that affect the real interests of people and their ultimate values and ideals. Thus, the idea of reconciliation itself requires re-definition. Any act of reconciliation requires justice as a pre-requisite. Without justice, reconciliation is not only elusive, but can lead to a greater blindness of the soul. At least in the Islamic tradition, the conventional view is that the absence of justice can only pave the way for greater injustice and tyranny. While aggrieved parties can forgive their perpetrators for offences, the right to retributive justice cannot be abrogated in advance of the reconciliation process. The mere disclosure of the crime and knowledge of the offence may provide the victim with some relief but it cannot compensate for true reconciliation. In a true reconciliation the consent of the victim is explicit. South Africa’s historic Truth and Reconciliation Commission is often held out as a beacon of reconciliation. But despite all it virtues, this process denied victims to effectively be part of the process of reconciliation. It simulated reconciliation, without truly reconciling victim and persecutor. Victims knew in advance that they would not be able to exact justice from their persecutors. The South African experience tried to pass off the political truce reached between the apartheid government and the liberation movement to negotiate a future political dispensation as a process of personal and individual reconciliation. Personal reconciliation is not identical to social and political reconciliation. While individual victims told their stories of suffering and got relief through catharsis by hearing their persecutors confess their guilt, the individual was a cipher, if not an instrument, for greater social and political reconciliation (cf. Moosa 2000). And thus one has to then concede that the South African-style reconciliation process has its limitations. It is then not about retributive justice. Rather, it is reconciliation designed to kick-start a political truce. Reconciliation at the beginning of the twenty-first century means something more than what we are accustomed to thinking of when evoking that term. We require reconciliation at a macro-scale: it goes beyond reconciliation within or between religious or ethnic communities, groups, families, or, in relation to God. Our moment in history requires nations, transnational, cultural, political and religious communities to reconcile with each other. In order to talk meaningfully about reconciliation we need to answer the critical questions: reconciliation for what breach? Reconciliation with whom? Reconciliation towards which ends?

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Can the religious imagination teach us how to maintain global community at a time when imperialism, insecurity, terrorism and the breakdown of global order are all rapidly on the ascendant? More importantly, can anything be retrieved from the complex diversity of Muslim traditions? What are the resources within Islam for reconciliation between ‘self ’ and ‘other’? Who is the ‘self ’? Who is the ‘other’? Are we both ‘self ’ and ‘other’ simultaneously within ourselves and in relation to others?

4 Hope and despair On 16 June 2001, roughly three months before the tragic events of 11 September 2001, I warned a distinguished audience of Stanford University graduates and their parents of looming threats. I identified a few issues that required urgent attention such as the double standards in international affairs, especially the lack of equity in global economic and political governance; the absence of accountability on the part of the powerful; the inability of the powerless to own up to their responsibilities and to end playing the blame game; the reluctance of powerful nations to lead by example in the crucial task of disarmament of weapons of mass destruction; and of the threat of terrorism menaces all on a global scale.3 Early signs of the rising spectacle of terror in recent years were the US embassy bombings in Daressalam and Nairobi in 1998. Informed observers knew that a showdown between al-Qaida and its former handlers in the US security establishment was inevitable. However, it was the gravity, scale and spectacle of 9/11 that was unnerving as fortress America was being conquered from the air. America, a country that dropped Agent Orange and atomic bombs in Asia and ruthlessly gerrymandered the international political order for its own interests was suddenly vulnerable. The vulnerability of a giant, it is said, is always more terrifying and unpredictable than the pain caused by the thorn in the giant’s paw. Since that fateful day one is conflicted by two sets of emotions in a phrase made famous by the Sicilian theorist of Marxism, Antonio Gramsci, who talked about the optimism of the spirit versus the pessimism of the will. The optimism of the spirit proclaimed that a wounded America could serve at least two broad purposes. One had hoped that the communities to which the 19 hijackers belonged, namely a medley of Muslim countries in the Middle East with competing interpretations of Islam, starting with Saudi Arabia, could take a critical and comprehensive look at themselves.4 With this they could begin the difficult but necessary process of self-critique. They would have to answer questions such as: why do our societies produce young people bent on such spectacular violence against innocents at home and abroad? What are the root cause of violence, political and otherwise in Muslim societies? What are the possible solutions? Is it due to the absence of democracy? Is democracy a mask for dictatorship in many post-independence Muslim states? What is the role of foreign powers, especially the United States and Europe, in perpetuating these dictatorships? Yet, these questions were never seriously asked and the shortlived Arab Spring was suffocated by reactionary powers and morphed into an Arab freeze.



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The other hope was that Americans would take the opportunity to do some introspection. How and why did a society that once offered itself as a model for democracy over time become such a despised entity among people of conscience the world over? What is it that the US government and state does to offend more than one nation, more than one culture or civilisation? Why is its influence and power actively opposed by Christian Latin Americans, secular Europeans, traditionalist Africans, Taoist Chinese and Muslims of almost all stripes? Is it really true that America aids and abets other people’s miseries in order to secure its own interests? How does the desire for mahogany toilet seats and cheap fuel in the developed world dictate that all civilised values be abandoned in order to procure cheap goods from the developing world? Do First World nations acquire their comforts and increase their consumption in flagrant violation of international human rights? Does ‘stability’ in the Middle East translate into a US national interest that means the continued uncritical support of Israel? Since 11 September 2001, only an endangered species of writers, thinkers and activists in the United States and Western Europe, together with only a small number of rare politicians, have dared to ask the question as to why former US proxies from Osama bin Ladin to Saddam Hussein had turned so violently on their former handlers. Convulsed by a wounded nationalism both the populace and the elite in the United States embarked on revenge anywhere in the Muslim world. Striking at potential sources of threat before they even became real, to use John Quincy Adams’s prescient 1821 phrase, America turned into the ‘dictatress of the world’. Bombing a war-ravaged and impoverished Afghanistan into the Stone Age was for all intents and purposes, as the late actor and satirist Robin Williams cynically put it, possibly welcomed by many Afghans as an upgrade!5 Unable to find satisfaction for their bloodlust, the hawks and neo-conservatives in the Bush administration unveiled their long prepared imperial plan for the Middle East. Beyond the vacuous promises of democracy for Iraqis lay the sinister plan: the Anglo–American plan to occupy Iraq was to teach Arabs and Muslims in the region to wear their chains with less reluctance as the prospect of freedom and liberty is removed before their very eyes from Baghdad to Bethlehem, and from Kabul to Karachi. Some institutions of American civil society are interested in ostensibly fostering dialogue with Muslims. However, these are largely self-serving and uni-directional efforts aimed at selling American foreign policy to Muslims. Since these are not genuine efforts in pursuit of effective dialogue and mutual learning, one can confidently predict the failure of such projects. Part of the problem is that the ‘Islam industry’ wishes to foster dialogue between the West and ‘Islam’ or the ‘Muslim world’. This is a total misnomer, nevermind a faulty diagnosis, since it does not have reconciliation as an end. At worst it is an attempt to prescribe to Muslims; at best it is a subtle civilising mission. New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman has perfected this art from his newspaper pulpit. The war in Iraq, said Friedman, was to ‘unleash a process of reform in the Arab-Muslim region’ and help it embrace modernity (Friedman 2003). It takes some chutzpah to make such muscular claims, almost as preposterous as it would be for an Ayatollah to propose that the next Pope be a female from France! Does reconciliation have more limited prospects for success? It depends largely whether the right issues are identified that lead to meaningful outcomes for both

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parties. No two cultures, religions or civilisations have to date in history ever fully reconciled. Had they done so, they would have both ceased to exist. Yet, people, as individuals and sometimes as part of representative groups, can reconcile with each other on concrete issues and substantive matters. And collectivities too can be held to standards of accountability.

5 Ethics of accountability Most, if not almost all, ethical communities and systems of moral reasoning recognise some notion of responsibility and accountability. An ethics of responsibility is not only the burden to be shouldered by an individual. Beyond the law, larger collectivities, especially nations and countries, ought to be held accountable for their actions as part of an ethic of responsibility. Threatened by global warming and ecological threats there is now a greater awareness than ever before that we cannot shed our shared responsibility and collective accountability as stewards of the globe. Mystics often have an arresting way of explaining complex themes with their successful use of imagery to drive a point home. Jalaluddin Rumi (d. 1273), the famed mystic, reminded us to be aware of those who obfuscated reality and urged us not to be intimidated by our own fears. No matter how large and dreaded the challenge, human beings do have the ability to overcome and conquer. But if we do not confront the challenge then indeed the problem will metastasise. Rumi uses the parable of the snake known for its deadly venom. But something more happens if the snake is not confronted. ‘It is said’, says Rumi, ‘that when a snake does not see a human being for forty years it turns into a dragon. That is, it sees no one who would cause its evil and vileness to melt. A big lock indicates that there is something valuable and costly inside. The greater the obfuscation, the better the essence – like a serpent guarding a treasure trove. Don’t look at the ugliness of the serpent; look at the value of the treasure’ (Rumi 1999, p. 245). One moral from Rumi’s multivalent uses of parables can be the following reading of mine. If one does not confront a problem, then a venomous, but comparatively harmless snake can turn into a dragon to become a bigger problem. For Rumi the serpent is a metaphor for the animal soul or lower self: if this self that often covets everything is left unrestrained, then it will turn into a dragon. Hence, Rumi says, the inner workings of the human being are predisposed to go out of control and therefore require constant vigilance and regulation.6 Since no human being confronted the snake, namely the lower self, to curb its vileness, it turned into something more grotesque – a dragon. Now the human being will need a rare talent in order to combat the menacing dragon: instead of needing the elementary skills of a snake-charmer, the human being now has the Herculean task of becoming a dragon-slayer. Yet, it is worth killing the snake or the dragons for the dividends are rich. Often in Rumi’s stories, the serpent guards the precious treasure of emeralds found in ruins. Those emeralds are the gems that make a human being: they are the capacity to love, and this is the essence of the human being. Of course, the treasure in every instance could be different and thus it is situational. When Rumi is applied to our context then the dragon guards the



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treasure of love. With love comes responsibility and for twenty-first-century Muslims there is nothing greater than the question of responsibility and accountability. And if it means that in order to acquire responsibility one has to be exposed to some risk, then Rumi encourages us to make that leap of courage, and become the dragon-slayers in order to unleash the potential of love and its consequences. Instead of being intimidated by the ferocity of a snake turned dragon, he encourages us to value the treasure. If people are derelict in their responsibilities, then the Muslim tradition treats such a disregard of duty to be the equivalent of the day of judgment. In a famous tradition, the Prophet Muhammad said: ‘When responsibility/trust (amāna) is destroyed then surely expect the hour [of judgment]’. When he was asked, how responsibility was destroyed, he provided a devastating but insightful explanation. Responsibility, he implied, is not destroyed willy-nilly. Responsibility is established through elaborate processes of institutions and networks of trust, obligations and responsibilities. Human beings are responsible and accountable for what they do. Hence, in reply to the question of how responsibility is destroyed, Prophet Muhammad replied: ‘When matters are entrusted to the incompetent then expect the hour!’7 Responsibility begins with competence. So could one begin with the global solidarity of responsible people and the alliance of competent people? Even if one is agnostic about Western governments in their conduct, especially towards the Muslim world, one must ensure that the alliances and solidarities in America’s and Europe’s civil societies will be rooted in an ethic of responsibility, preceded by trust and competence. It is at that level that individuals and communities will identify their interests in global solidarity and begin their reconciliation with communities and individuals of their choice on a global scale. Already thousands of courageous Americans and Europeans are engaged in self-questioning their countries’ imperial and unethical global postures. Similarly, citizens of Muslim majority countries and those living in minority contexts can earnestly engage in reconciliation processes with citizens elsewhere in the world. Surely, in a world of cellular globalisation, relationships of trust and responsibility at a people-to-people level would prove to be a giant step in the right direction. Muslims located in countries like India, Nigeria, Bosnia-Herzegovina, South Africa, the United States and Israel could take the lead. Often these are deeply divided societies and are in dire need for reconciliation. Here Muslims of goodwill can become key role players in cellular globalisation for the good, rather than cellular globalisation in pursuit of the nefarious ends of terror that the foot soldiers of al-Qaida and the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria pursue. Reconciliation demands a radical posture of self-critique; and those of us living in the imperium may have to engage in even more rigorous self-scrutiny. Self-critique can begin with the longer memory of the past or a more immediate context. Take the attitude of the West, and with America insisting that the nations of the global south disarm and get rid of nuclear weapons, especially Iran and North Korea. In the streets of different parts of the global south this demand is met with much dismay and greater questioning. They range from: Is the United States not the owner of the largest stockpile of the most advanced weapons of mass destruction? Was the United States not the first country in human history to use a devastating atomic bomb in order to kill thousands of civilians, not combatants, in Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Furthermore,

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the United States frequently tries to undermine the most effective international instrument, namely the International Criminal Court of Justice formed to prosecute dictators and international terrorists for war crimes. In other words, if one returns to Rumi’s parable, then surely even nations are like serpents who have morphed into dragons and are out of control. Reconciliation does not only involve the need to identify the causes of moral and political harm, but it must simultaneously involve self-correction, self-improvement and social reform. Muslim countries, especially at the level of individual, community and society, will have to take the lead in changing their own condition. Such change begins with governance. The lack of good and responsible governance creates a growing pool of disgruntled and frustrated people in Muslim societies whose futures are bleak, if not non-existent. These pools of young people become the incubators for radicalism that morphs into frightening swamps of militancy and terror. In several Muslim countries attention will have to be given to the treatment of religious minorities. Platitudes will not be sufficient. Discriminatory laws and practices that make non-Muslim minorities into effective second-class citizens in countries like Pakistan, Egypt, Malaysia, Iran and Saudi Arabia to mention but a few, are intolerable. Ordinary citizens will have to be empowered in order to show zero tolerance for autocratic regimes. But such change can only take place if people in those very societies promote transformation according to their own values and standards. Many Muslim countries might have to consider establishing truth and reconciliation tribunals as in South Africa in order to come to grips with atrocities of the past, acts of genocide and massacres undertaken by governments and military rulers. The disclosure of past atrocities might be sufficient and more healing rather than Nuremberg-style justice for offenders in order not to create further divisions. These kinds of procedures will set the gold standard for accountable governance so that future rulers can be held responsible for their deeds.

6 Reconciliation and re-covenanting In the Muslim tradition reconciliation is a public act; one can actually say it is a political act, where politics means an act or demonstration of power or will. Reconciliation is the restoration of public morality, values and ethics, after these elements had been wilfully distorted and perverted. Therefore, it requires an equal act of will to restore the normative moral order. Thus the offender and aggrieved must publicly reconcile their differences and announce their commitment to restore what had been breached. The Qur’an suggests a three-pronged approach for reconciliation. It involves a personal act of repentance; a change in the self; followed by restitution and the full disclosure of the truth.8 Even though the German jurist and political thinker, Carl Schmitt, has an unsavoury record as a Nazi-sympathiser, he has paradoxically produced some of the most illuminating writings on politics and law. From him we learn that underlying reconciliation is a deeper sense of the political. Reconciliation has in focus a concrete situation, a specific conflict, identifiable causes, persons and events. Schmitt is known



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for his thesis that the ‘friend–enemy’ antithesis and antagonism is the grounds for the political (Schmitt 1996, pp. 25–37). Political actions and motives, he argues, are shaped by the friend–enemy metaphor. Reconciliation, he points out, must also take into account the friend–enemy political antagonism. To use Carl von Clausewitz’s famous phrase on war, we can then say that reconciliation is nothing but a continuation of political intercourse by other means, or would it be war by other means? So, how can reconciliation be possible if it is rooted in friend–enemy paradox? It appears that political reconciliation at the level of public morality will always be challenging given the status of the ‘outsider’, which is different from that of the ‘insider’. Nations do not reconcile into friendship or surrender to the other out of love for each other. ‘Never in the thousand-year struggle between Christians and Moslems [Muslims] did it occur to a Christian’, says Schmitt, ‘to surrender rather than defend Europe, out of love towards the Saracens or Turks’ (Schmitt 1996, p. 29). Retaining the figure of the enemy is indispensable for Schmitt. For in his view to lose the enemy would simply amount to the loss of the political itself. Commenting on Schmitt’s need for the figure of the enemy, the French philosopher Jacques Derrida observes that the ‘invention of the enemy is where the urgency and the anguish are; this invention is what would have to be brought off, in sum, to repoliticize, to put an end to depoliticization’ (Derrida 1997, p. 84). Where such an enemy is nowhere to be found then one has to conjure one up, and proceed to identify as potential enemies, who in their multiplicity are interchangeable from day to day, turning them into metonymic enemies in alliance with one another (Derrida 1997, p. 84). What makes Schmitt’s idea so compelling is his obsession with pure theory that drives him to find the metaphysics and theology underlying the ‘political’. As a rejoinder, one may say in agreement with Derrida that we must depoliticise the ‘political’ and loosen the friend–enemy antagonism, contrary to Schmitt who deplored such a weakening of his vigorously defined ‘friend–enemy’ boundaries. We may have to explore other kinds of social bonds such as ‘community’ and ‘friendship’ in which to anchor the ‘political’ in an age of cellular globalisation without central messaging. Thus, by deconstructing Schmitt’s sense of the political, we are in a position to re-imagine and re-conceptualise politics and imagine another kind of democracy that is different and not obsessed by his desire for homogeneity. In other words, one of the first steps towards reconciliation is not only to invent a new vocabulary, but also to re-covenant to a whole new idea of the political: a political premised on difference, diversity, cosmopolitanism and the ethical. For Schmitt homogeneity is necessary in a democracy in order to describe the kind of bond required for a democratic political community. It is homogeneity that defines the nature of the friendship, or the ‘us’, in a democracy. Schmitt is opposed to liberalism that does not recognise the need for such a commonality and is critical of liberal pluralism that is based on the negotiation of the common interests. In liberalism there is no need for a common and homogenous identity; for here citizenship is reduced to a legal citizenship. While political theorist Chantal Mouffe appreciates Schmitt’s point on the need to identify what constitutes the people (demos) politically, she points out

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that he presents us with a false dilemma if he forces us to abandon pluralism (Mouffe 1999, p. 49). For if we go along with Schmitt then there will either be a unity of the people, which in turn requires that every division and antagonism be purged; or, one accepts certain divisions, which leads to a political pluralism but negates the sought-after homogenous political unity and dissolves the very existence of the people (Mouffe 1999, p. 49). Schmitt’s challenge is helpful in that he forces us to re-imagine and re-conceptualise the political without being hostages to his demands. As Mouffe points out, Schmitt’s notion of homogeneity can also be called ‘commonality’. The challenge he poses is ‘how to envisage a form of commonality strong enough to institute a “demos” but nevertheless compatible with certain forms of pluralism: religious, moral and cultural pluralism, as well as a pluralism of political parties’ (Mouffe 1999, p. 50). Thus, if we take Schmitt’s text seriously, then ‘Islam would remain an enemy’, Derrida observes paradoxically, ‘even though we Europeans must love the Muslims as our neighbors.’9 An excursus of Schmitt’s ideas helps to demonstrate what kind of psychological drives animate our political thinking and what kinds of challenges would have to be met in order to move toward reconciliation. If the ‘political’ requires a homogeneity or commonality, then it would not be an ethnic and linguistic homogeneity, but rather a commonality of people who share cosmopolitan ethical values. For, surely, in today’s world to think local exclusively, without thinking global, is to perpetuate a kind of ‘apartheid’ and an exclusion that will come to haunt us, as is the predicament of the current neo-liberal global order. Historically speaking, Muslim ethics promoted political associations that are shaped by the hegemony of faith, with a preference for the homogeneity of the political, but one that could also accommodate pluralism and diversity. The transnational ‘community of believers’ (umma) has the dualistic feature of being both a political entity, and a community that transcends politics. In this latter role, it is a community that is committed to a moral responsibility and stewardship towards humanity.10 What the Qur’an, and in turn Muslim ethical teachings in the past, strongly resisted was when believers undermined or abandoned their own political entities in order to make alliances with interests that were hostile to the interests of their communities. In other words, at a time when one’s religion was also one’s political badge, reaching out to other religious groups was seen as an act of sedition. But with the separation of religion and politics in modern nation-states, that concept by itself has disappeared. In the absence of hostilities, it is not only permitted for Muslims to collaborate and participate along with people, including non-Muslim political polities, but Muslim moral guidelines scrupulously encourage the advancement of virtue and justice in dealing with the religious ‘other’. While the friend–enemy metaphor does come into play, it is not absolute as in the case of Schmitt’s reading of the political. Rather, the political ought to be mediated by the ethical. One can possibly make the case that in the past Muslim ethics, especially public morality, was treated differently from individual or private morality, in the same way that a public enemy was different from a private adversary. With a private adversary one quarrels and the possible psychological reaction is hate. In engaging a



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public enemy the result is conflict and the psychological expression of such hostility is demonstrated by going to war with such an entity.11 Only the return of justice, conceived historically, mediates the public space. Thus when Muslims create alliances and friendships (wali, pl. awliya) and participate in a plural moral and ethical context, then the key ethical register in their public morality would be the application of justice. Conventional wisdom teaches that the demonstration of love belongs to the private sphere as the act of an individual. For individual and private morality has an altruistic dimension to it. An individual can engage in an act of self-sacrifice towards friend and enemy. Love could be the motivation to befriend the private adversary which in turn could turn hate into friendship. ‘Love your enemies’ (Mt. 5.44, Lk. 6.27). Or, as the Qur’an, 41:34–5, states: ‘Good can never be the equal of evil. Thus, repel [evil] with that which is [aesthetically] beautiful or better (ahsan); then you will find that your enemy will turn into bosom friend (wali hamim).’ Yet, we are challenged in the present to think of a notion of justice that is permeated with love; a justice that does not only correct or provide retribution, but also heals. In that sense reconciliation in South Africa provides many lessons. Muslims should also have less difficulty in entering into relationships of integrity with the ‘other’. Philosophically and theologically-speaking Muslim dogma does not create an impermeable wall between its own revelation and those revelations that preceded it. The closest association is of course with the other Abrahamic faiths of Judaism and Christianity, while also generically including other monotheistic and species of divine life forms. In fact, to exclusively claim the truth of the Islamic revelation and deny the truth in others would contradict both the letter and the spirit of the Qur’an. While Muslims may have differences on specifics of Christian and Jewish doctrine, it is a requirement of one’s Muslim-ness to accept the theological and doctrinal ‘other’ as precursors that are integral to one’s own faith. How is it possible that a culture and tradition like Islam that is so demonised in contemporary Euro-American culture can produce figures like the mystic thinker Muhi al-Din Ibn ‘Arabi (d. 1240) who could say to the world in his Translator of Desires: My heart can take on any form: for gazelles a meadow, a cloister for monks, For the idols, sacred ground, Ka‘ba for the circling pilgrim, the tables of the Torah, the scrolls of the Qur’an I profess the religion of love. wherever its caravan turns along the way, that is the belief, the faith I keep.12

In a tradition that views communion with the ‘other’ as part of the ‘desire’ of the self, there can be no shortage of ethical and moral resources to make a truly cosmopolitan existence possible. At least Muslims living in European and North American

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democracies should have fewer difficulties to make an ethical contribution to cosmopolitan thinking. In alliance with likeminded people from other traditions, Muslims ought to ensure that foreign policies of their respective countries are consistent with justice and global equity. In particular, they will have to be alert to the growing global gulf in economic antagonisms. Walter Rathenau pointed out some time ago that our destiny today is not politics, but economics. Economics has become the political and hence the destiny of humanity. One has to ponder the morality of efforts to sustain the prosperity of Euro-American democracies at the expense of the impoverishment and exploitation of the developing world. The developing south is a world that is held hostage by the overwhelming military might of the developed world. Reconciliation can only take place in terms of specifics. One area in which efforts in reconciliation have to be focused is on the asymmetrical Euro-American economic consumption of the world’s resources and the depletion of vital ones. It is the insatiable capitalist consumption that drives Western governments to seek raw materials and economic power at whatever cost to the human rights of others and regardless of the miserable living conditions of people in the South. Imperialist powers will go to war to procure these cheap goods for their citizenry. In this respect the citizenry in Europe and North America, including their growing numbers of Muslim citizens, are equally responsible and have a duty to restrain the deeds of their governments who represent them. It is a gross fallacy perpetuated by self-serving political pundits that American or even European electoral politics largely focuses on domestic issues. For it ignores the fact that foreign policy dividends keep voters’ wallets filled and their appetites sated thanks to cheap oil and to even cheaper imported consumer goods. Hence, it is just not sufficient to blame the multinational corporations like Bechtel and Haliburton for peddling their interests and perverting the international political and economic order; the consumers and citizens in the West equally share the burden of responsibility; for they are the key constituencies that sustain the web of political, economic and cultural interests. If one of the goals of reconciliation is to put an end to imperialism, then it must address this knot of economic issues. Anyone threatening the economic peace of Euro-American hegemony is a ‘disturber of the peace’. The adversary, in the words of Schmitt, as a disturber of the peace is designated an ‘outlaw of humanity’. With almost prophetic prescience for our times Schmitt added: ‘a war waged to protect or expand economic power must, with the aid of propaganda, turn into a crusade and into the last war of humanity’ (Schmitt 1996, p. 79). The exploitation of the developing world of course takes place with the collusion of the elites from the global South. These elites manage failed states or advance their narrow economic interests at the expense of the majority of people in their countries. Not only is it immoral to sustain such people in power, but also their misrule produces the menace of terrorism that affects the West. Western global hegemony is not only sustained by economic imperialism; economic imperialism must be preceded by cultural and political imperialism. Therefore, all peoples and nations must have the free right to choose cultural and political systems that are consistent with their history and culture and free from external meddling.



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Reconciliation must be directed at the under-classes of the developing world and not the elites, who are often in cahoots, consciously or unconsciously, with international capital and imperialism. The underclass and non-cosmopolitan constituency, if given the opportunity, is most likely to bring about effective social change in the developing world. For they have the most to gain from social change. The middle classes in the short term may rightfully fear that they have everything to lose with social change, even though their long-term prospects would improve if their entire societies improve. Just as religious communities adopted creeds, edicts and covenants in the past to create a sense of commitment to goals and values, similarly we too in our age may require a covenant for cosmopolitan co-existence, one that will commit us to the fundamental respect and integrity of the ‘other’ and co-existence without hegemony. As Walter Mignolo, Abdelkabir Khatibi and Richard Falk, among others, have pointed out, cosmopolitan citizenship can be built over language, cultural, ethnic and religious divides in ways unimagined before, thanks to increasingly innovative information technology, interdependency and cellular globalisation (Mignolo 2000). Globalisation without domination may have to be the ethical creed of such a new movement, where the contributions of local cultures and practices are treated with integrity and viewed as sustainable knowledge for life forms that are significant to the diverse groups of humanity.

Conclusion If terrorism is one of the most serious problems of the twenty-first century, then it is symptomatic of larger, deeper and invisible causes; causes that imperialist powers are reluctant to address since it will affect their interests. In order to assist failing societies we need much more comprehensive plans and remedies, plans that go beyond aid, the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. It requires the deepening of cosmopolitan citizenship and re-covenanting to values that go beyond the Universal Declaration of Human Rights of the United Nations. Foreign policies can no longer be premised on self-interest, the absence of ethics and by viewing other nations as potential enemies. Neither is imperialism the remedy for failed states. Imperial ventures only cause greater failures as the cases of Afghanistan, Iraq and now Syria have played out before our very eyes in the span of just over a decade. When the interests of imperialism and those at the helm of failed states coalesce, they create the fertile conditions for the growth of terrorism. Therefore, under these circumstances, it is alarming to note that not all people in the world see terrorists as criminals. In many instances Western powers, especially the United States, have dubbed legitimate freedom struggles against tyranny and dispossession as terrorism. For millions of people, liberation movements, and regrettably even those who espouse violence as an end, are viewed as the allies of the defenceless and offer hope for alternative life conditions. In the light of these very desperate but largely invisible conditions that bring about globalised spectacles of violence, reconciliation is the only hope in times of despair.

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But the end of reconciliation must result in re-covenanting to values and practices that will turn the conciliation into meaningful life forms. These may be very small steps as intra-cultural covenants between micro-units of people, but it at least begins to restore hope and alternative lifestyles and values among those determined to change and make a beginning. This hope, as writer Anne Lamott points out, is a revolutionary patience (Lamott 1995, p. xxiii). Reconciliation could be the beginning of such a silent revolution.

Notes Thomas Friedman, New York Times columnist, in an interview with Terry Gross on her program Fresh Air on 21 April 2003, http://freshair.npr.org/ who in the American context is seen as a moderate, unequivocally and supportively confirms that the war on Iraq had an underlying message. The message was to go into the ‘heart of the Muslim world and going door to door’ in order to effectively teach Muslims a lesson in response to 9/11 as a way to puncture what he calls the ‘terrorism bubble’, even though there is no evidence of Saddam Hussein supporting terrorism or possessing weapons of mass destruction. The difference between Friedman’s viewpoint and those of the neo-conservatives from William Kristol to Doug Freith and others, is that he presents the neo-conservative agenda in a velvet glove. See Robert Worth, ‘The Deep Intellectual Roots of Islamic Terror’, Arts and Ideas, The New York Times, 13 October 2001; Holland Cotter, ‘Beauty in the Shadow of Violence’, Arts and Leisure, The New York Times, 7 October 2001. In this sample of press articles and countless others, everything in Islamic history from the Prophet Muhammad to Muslim art is associated with violence and criminality in a sleight of hand that can only be described as sinister Islamophobia. 2 Karl Marx, The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, trans Saul K. Padover (Moscow: Progress Publishers, 1937), Part VII. 3 Ebrahim Moosa, Baccalaureate Celebration address, titled Globalizing the Humanum: The Continuous Struggle for Justice. http://news-service.stanford.edu/ news/june20/moosatext-620.html (accessed 4 February 2014). 4 See Amir Hussain, ‘The Outer Edges of Islam,’ in UC Observer, http://www. ucobserver.org/features/2014/12/islam/; Mahmood Mamdani, Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, the Cold War, and the Roots of Terror (New York: Pantheon Books 2004). 5 Robin Williams on Broadway, HBO Video, 2002. 6 I want to thank Nargis Virani for her insights in deciphering Rumi’s metaphors. 7 Ibn Hajar al-‘Asqalānī, Fatḥ al-bārī sharḥ ṣaḥīḥ al-Bukhārī (Beirut: al-Maktaba al-‘Aṣrīya, 1428?2007), 13:7822. 8 Qur’an 2:160 ‘…Those who repent, make amends and disclose the truth: it is they whose repentance I accept …’ Repentance is tawba; corrective action and making amends is islah; disclosure, making manifest and known is tabyin. 9 Derrida, Politics of Friendship, 89. Derrida adds: ‘At a determining moment in the history of Europe, it was imperative not ‘to deliver Europe over to Islam’ in the name of a universal Christianity … Defending Europe against Islam, here considered as a non-European invader in Europe, is then more than a war among wars, more than 1



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a political war. Indeed, strictly speaking, this would not be a war but a combat with the political at stake, a struggle for politics’. 10 Qur’an 3:110: ‘you are best of communities delivered unto humankind, for advancing the good and restraining wrong’, khayra ummatin ukhrijat li ‘l-nas. 11 These ideas are intuited from Schmitt’s notion of the friend–enemy antagonism (Schmitt 1996, p. 29). 12 Muhi al-Din Bin ‘Arabi, Tarjuman al-Ashwaq (Beirut: Dar Sadir, 1418/1998), 43–4. I have used the translation of Michael A. Sells, Stations of Desire: Love Elegies from Ibn ‘Arabi and New Poems (Jerusalem: IBIS Editions, 2000), 74–5.

References Appadurai, A. (2006), Fear of Small Numbers: An Essay on the Geography of Anger, Public Planet Books, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Derrida, J. (1997), ‘The Phantom Friend Returning’, in Politics of Friendship, trans. G. Collins, London: Verso, p. 84. Friedman, T. (2003), ‘The War Over the War’, The New York Times, op-ed, Sunday 2 August 2003. Huntington, S. P. (2003), ‘America in the World’, The Hedgehog Review: Critical Reflections on Culture, 5(1): 18. Ignatieff, M. (2003), ‘The Burden’, The New York Times Magazine, 5 January 2003. Lamott, A. (1995), Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, New York: Anchor Books. Mamdani, M. (2004), Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, the Cold War, and the Roots of Terror, New York: Pantheon Books. Marx, K. (1937), The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte, trans. S. K. Padover, Moscow: Progress Publishers. Mignolo, W. (2000), Local Histories/Global Designs: Coloniality, Subaltern Knowledge and Border Thinking, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Moosa, E. (2000), ‘Truth and Reconciliation as Performance: Spectres of Eucharistic Redemption’, in C. Villa-Vicencio and W. Verwoerd (eds), Looking Back, Reaching Forward: Reflections on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of South Africa, Cape Town: Juta, pp. 113–22. Mouffe, C. (1999), ‘Carl Schmitt and the Paradox of Liberal Democracy’, in C. Mouffe (ed.), The Challenge of Carl Schmitt, London: Verso. Rumi, J. (1999), Signs of the Unseen, trans. W. M. Thackston Jr, Boston: Shambhala, 245. Schmitt, C. (1996), The Concept of the Political, trans. G. Schwab, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sells, M. A. (2000), Stations of Desire: Love Elegies from Ibn ‘Arabi and New Poems, Jerusalem: IBIS Editions. Tiersky, R. and N. Mailer (2003), ‘Bush and Terror: An Exchange with Norman Mailer’, New York Review of Books, 14 August 2003, 41–2.

7

Morality and Social Solidarity from the Perspective of Chinese Philosophy Yang Guorong

1 Social solidarity involves multiple dimensions. First of all it is about social identity, including generally cultural identity, national identity, state identity, group or organisation identity as well as the role of the identity of an individual, and so on, which implies accepting the cultural form, lifestyle, and social organisation system in a certain society, admitting its rationality and legitimacy, and belonging to it. In the absence of social identity, members of the society tend to retreat from it, instead of participating in the pursuit of the social ideal. Taoist rejection of the etiquettes has illustrated this point. To acknowledge a certain socio-cultural value system and gain a corresponding sense of belonging is one of the preconditions for overcoming the centrifugal tendencies in a society. The other form of social solidarity is to control social conflicts. In general, social differentiation, and its resulting beneficial differences, etc., tend to cause a variety of social conflicts. Such conflicts between members of society or their intensification cannot be avoided without commonly accepted social norms: social norms put some restrictions on potential social conflicts by admitting public or universal social values and prescribing the relation between rights and obligations. Conflict control also has its negative consequences, of course. But on the positive side, social solidarity is more often manifested as mutual understanding and communication between members of society, as well as cooperation in various practical areas. At this point, social identity and social solidarity serve both as the factors to prevent society from disintegration in severe social unrest and as the preconditions to make the production and reproduction of the social life in a broad sense possible. Social identity and social solidarity are associated with the legitimacy of the social system and social order in the meantime. Cooperation in social practice first points to the relationship between members of a society, while, in contrast, legitimacy is more involved with the relationship between social members and social systems. Of course, legitimacy itself is merely a relative term, which usually has different historical contents in different historical periods. However, the social system and social order

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will be supported from their members and thus become stable only if they can be recognised as legitimate. Social integration in various senses not only demonstrates, from the public sphere, the concretely relevant contents of beings,1 but also provides social foundation for their realisations. If we further explore the possibility of social integration, then morality has to be taken into consideration. First, moral consciousness or moral ideas in the general sense should have attention paid to them. As the product of history, moral consciousness or moral ideas are undoubtedly historical and relative. However, history itself is always penetrated by relations with universal meanings, instead of a mixture merely made up of special or respective phenomena as the Neo-Kantian believes. Corresponding to the historical dimension, moral consciousness and moral ideas also usually include universal contents. From the synchronic point of view, usually there are moral consciousness and moral ideas in a community within a given historical period which perform universally restrictive functions on their members; from the diachronic point of view, some moral consciousness and moral ideas often take effect in different historical periods or over a long historical period rather than in a specific historical phase. Moral consciousness and moral ideas, promoted and guided by education, evaluation, public opinion, and such, gradually become psychological dispositions within a historical period. The latter is related to Durkheim’s concept of collective conscience, and provides some assistance to social integration in social psychology. In Chinese traditional society, the relationships between parent and child, ruler and minister, husband and wife, the elder and the youth, and between friends are held as basic ones of social ethics and politics, and simultaneously the concepts like ‘For the relation between father and son, what ought to be is affection; for the relation between ruler and minister, what ought to be is loyalty and righteousness; for the relation between husband and wife, what ought to be is the adherence to their separate functions; for the relation between the elder and the youth, what ought to be is a proper hierarchical order; and for the relation between friends, what should be is faithfulness’ (3a of The Book of Mencius) are taken as the mainstream moral ideas. Having been obviously printed with the brandings of that time, all those moral codes undoubtedly have historical limitations. Meanwhile, they are always embraced in benevolence, and such universal principles maintain social identity and stability on a conceptual level. In contrast with Chinese traditional morality’s attention to benevolence and its specific form in a certain historical stage, the Western ethical tradition tends to pay more attention to fairness and justice. Fairness has been listed as one of the four basic moral consciousnesses by Cicero, and is deemed to play a role in what ‘holds society together’ (Ryan 1993, p. 9). As a universal moral idea, the historical functions of fairness in restricting social conflicts and keeping social order should not be ignored and it is somewhat reflected in Cicero’s above-mentioned view. The relationship between fairness and social integration, however, is not only confined to the Roman times in which Cicero lived, but can still be found in modern society as well. From the perspective of individuals, in addition to recognising the legitimacy of the given order and affirming the community’s values, social identity is also related



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to the general moral ideal and faith in life, etc., by which individuals’ reception of (and participation in) society is conditioned. In the so-called solitary situation, an individual is inclined to retreat from society to the world of self-isolation. Among the factors shaping this isolation, communication barriers which separate the individual from others is only subordinate, while lack of morality resources, including a positive faith in life, a positive understanding in the meaning of life, and a positive attitude to the existence of value, etc., is much more profound. Those who have no moral ideal or hold a negative attitude towards life usually find it difficult to ward off depression, despair, senselessness and such emotional experiences, which logically leads to their indifference towards others or to the rejection of society. Moral consciousness, conception, set, etc., not only exist in spiritual form, but are also further transformed into institutional facts2 along with social development and repetition of life practices. Take the common phenomenon of debit and credit as an instance: when a credit relationship is generally affirmed, the act of borrowing contains a promise to pay back on schedule. Borrowing here is first a fact, but it differs from the fact in nature, for it implies a concept of obligation ‘to pay back on schedule’, which is involved in the moral sphere. Here the concept of obligation in morality is integrated into institutional facts in social interaction. More broadly, once an individual takes on a certain social role, he promises to undertake his obligation. To play a role is a fact, but implies a concept of obligation as well. Confucius (551–479 bc) says, ‘Let the ruler be a ruler, the minister be a minister, the father be a father, and the son be a son’ (12.11 of The Analects), which can be regarded as his summary of the specific relation between role and obligation in his times. Here the concept of obligation has been permeated by the fact of ethical politics. The penetration of the moral idea to the fact or its institutionalisation indicates the relationship between morality and being on the one hand: morality has become a concrete content of being in the institutional facts. Meanwhile by doing this, the moral idea and consciousness form a real mechanism to integrate society. To begin with, let us analyse the order of behaviour or the priority sequence of behaviour. Generally speaking, an individual often takes more than one role and is involved in multiple relations, and thus it is difficult for behaviours under different roles to be compatible with each other at the same time. In order to avoid the potential resulting conflicts, it is necessary to establish certain orders between obligations and behaviours. Behind such orders it is not difficult to see the restriction of moral ideas, and also see moral consciousness penetrate the social system. Furthermore, by being institutionalised, the general moral consciousness and concept become actual powers to participate in social integration and avoid social conflicts. Moral consciousness is mostly integrated into the social system by consciousness in the form of institutional facts. Besides, moral consciousness and concepts usually influence the social life in the form of habits. Compared with the theory, principle, regulation, and system by consciousness, habit is more closely related to daily life and subtly affects social members’ behaviour in a natural way. Habit, as socialised second nature, certainly has rich contents, but meanwhile it always contains moral consciousness and concepts developed in history. The so-called ‘sprinkling and sweeping the ground, answering and replying’ by Neo-Confucians is part of daily

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habitual activities, in which fulfilment of basic moral obligations (such as respect for teachers and elders, etc.) is permeated. In the aspect of moral practice, habit could be taken as a natural tendency in the way of thinking and behaviour which is influenced by moral consciousness and concepts. As to its relation to social life, habit is very important in organising daily life in a natural way – it keeps daily social life in order without artificial constraints or guidance from regulations and principles. Precisely by this blending in daily habits, moral consciousness and moral ideas provide a guarantee for the realisation of social integration and the construction and sustaining of social order. Moral consciousness contains value affirmation. In fact, goodness (shan) and evilness in the moral sense are historically related to the general values such as good (hao) and bad, etc. As the affirmation and confirmation to being and its relations, values and principles constitute the core contents of moral consciousnesses. Moral consciousness and values usually interlace with each other in reality, such that it is difficult for them to be entirely separated. In terms of Confucian benevolence, it is both the moral idea of respect for persons as an end and a value principle which affirms that everybody has his inner value. Corresponding to this interlacement, moral influences on social life frequently relate to the restraints of value concepts. Common values lay the foundation for members of a social community to connect with each other while social consensus and thus behaviours in harmony cannot do without joint commitments in significance and value as well. This fact demonstrates the profound impacts of value concepts on realising cultural identity and social consensus (including coordination between positions and behaviours within a community) from one perspective. Cultural identity and position-coordination in a community promote social integration primarily in value orientation. Essential values and moral ideals combine with each other and serve as foundations to confirm legitimacy. Members of a certain society, or those within a certain historical period, tend to judge the rationality and legitimacy of social formations or social order on the basis of the commonly accepted values of that time. Rationality and legitimacy certainly have different meanings, though not at opposite poles. When used at the level of essence or value, instead of the formal or implemental level, rationality is somewhat similar to legitimacy. To conform to the basic values at certain times is surely not the exclusive precondition of an affirmation of legitimacy, but it does lend a helping hand. On the contrary, a lack of such support will easily result in a crisis for the legitimacy of the social system. In traditional society, the authoritarian value principles provide a basis for social order keeping. Since modern times, freedom, equality, justice, etc., have gradually become prevailing values and turn out to be the criteria by which to judge the legitimacy of the social system: both of them illustrate that when a certain regime is considered as conforming to these principles, its legitimacy will be justified; whereas when they conflict with each other, its legitimacy will be questioned. Legitimacy confirmation is one of the logical premises of social identity. It is hardly surprising if you find that value principles, as profoundly the content of moral consciousness, act on social integration in the same process of supporting legitimacy confirmation. Social systems are not only some structures but also processes from a dynamic point of view. When a social system still has its reasons to survive, social identity



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helps to consolidate and realise its established values. When the opposite occurs, to reform is a much more rational historical tendency. Corresponding to this social evolution process, general social integration shows two aspects: a synchronic form and a diachronic form. The former is about the preservation of the established social order while the latter is about social transformation. The functions that moral consciousness and value principles have on social integration present in double dimensions as well. In addition to providing the support that has been mentioned above, moral consciousness and value principles strengthen social integration in social change. Over the course of modernisation, the value principles and moral ideas of individual emancipation, freedom, equality, democracy, and justice become banners to unite various social forces and encourage them to strive to break the shackles of tradition and achieve historical transformation. Moral ideas and value principles, in a particular way, show another means of social integration here.

2 Moral norms have more features of formalisation and systematisation than moral consciousness, moral ideals and values, and they could be regarded as part of general social rule systems in a sense. As one of the basic constituents of the social system, the function of moral norms is primarily embodied in the process of social integration. Like other forms of as-it-should-be principle (dang ran zhi ze), moral norms, with a characteristic of universality, stipulate obligation and responsibility for members of a social community: once becoming a member of a community, it implies a promise to fulfil obligations regulated by norms, although not always in formal assurance. It is such shared obligations that unite social members together on the one hand. While assigning obligations and responsibilities, moral norms further provide general criteria by which to judge behaviours: when a specific behaviour conforms to norms, it will be affirmed, praised, and encouraged due to its rightness or fairness; once deviating from norms, such behaviour will be condemned due to its wrongness or unfairness. Moral evaluations on the basis of norms often come to be widespread public opinion, which in turn simultaneously serves as a general constraint mechanism for social members in a community. On the other hand, norms mean measure (du) on behaviour. Xunzi (313–238 bc) has already noticed this point. When talking about the originality of ritual, he said: Humans are born having desires. When they have desires but do not get the objects of their desires, then they cannot but seek some means of satisfaction. If there is no measure or limit to their seeking, then they cannot help but struggle with each other. If they struggle with each other then there will be chaos, and if there is chaos then they will be impoverished. The former kings hated such chaos, and so they established rituals and the standards of righteousness in order to allot things to people, to nurture their desires, and to satisfy their seeking. They caused desires never to exhaust material goods, and material goods never to be depleted

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by desires, so that the two support each other and prosper. This is how ritual arose. (19 of The Book of Xunzi)

Ritual here refers to a moral political system and the relevant norm system in general, including but not limited to moral norms. In Xunzi’s view, the character of ritual lies in establishing certain rights and duties for every social member, which becomes behaviour’s measure (du) or limit: A behaviour is rational and permitted within the relevant range, including the pursuit of interests, but will be forbidden when crossing the line. In the perspective of modern social theory, what is called measure (du) or limit actually implies an idea of order. It is the different rights limits and behaviour limits that keep society in order and avoid chaos. Moral norms together with other social norms provide a guarantee for the possibility of social order. What is complementary to order keeping is to restrain social disorder or anomie. Disorder often relates to anomie or deviance, and if the later spreads to a certain extent, a well-organised social system is likely to end up in confusion. This problem could not be resolved without norms, including moral norms. Before anomie and deviance emerge, moral norms, demonstrating moral duties, and rights and behaviour standards, deal with the potential intention of deviance. If anomie and deviance occur, as the basis of behaviour evaluation, norms take part in external public condemnation and internal conscience condemnation, and other such moral sanctions, and in this way promote and push behaviours to get back on track. As a member of society, an individual always goes through a process of socialisation, which is contrary to natural existence. A man who has just come to this world is quite a biological being, with natural prescriptions or nature as his main aspects. Corresponding to such a state of being, the individual’s socialisation means that he exceeds natural limitations and cultivates himself to become a social being, which includes the social acceptance of the individual and the confirmation of his membership, and implies his developing a social identity and taking himself as one of the social members. Complementary with this, socialisation is involved with the interaction of universal norms with individual consciousness. Through participation in social life, education, learning and so on, universal norms, including moral norms, are accepted by the individual and internalised and integrated into the individual’s consciousness. This is also the transforming of natural instincts into virtue. Virtue, as the integration of social norms and individual consciousness, has a personal dimension and relates to the concept of ego while it surely has universal regulations as the product of socialisation. Before exceeding the natural (in a biological sense) state of being, a man is meanwhile identical with the original world without the concept of object and genuine self-awareness, thus let alone social identity. Social identity is logically premised on the awareness of ‘ego’: it is ‘ego’ who achieves social identity. In this way, social identity and the formation of the ego concept are two different aspects of the same procedure, which means sublating the original identity and to reach the dialectical interaction of individuals and society. This interaction is carried out concretely in the process of virtue’s constraints on social behaviours. Relative to the changeability of individual situations and diversity



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of their behaviours, virtue has a character of unity and stability, and will not change with each particular situation but maintains relative duration and unity in the process of individual existence: The true virtue of ‘I’ in different spatiotemporal situations does not move along with material things and change with circumstances. Wang Yang-ming (Wang Shou-jen, 1472–1529) had already noticed this point, distinguishing mind (yi) from the innate knowledge of the good (liang-chih) and said: ‘Yi and the innate knowledge of the good (liang-chih) should be approached separately. What is occurring in response to objects is called yi. There are right and wrong in yi. The one which sees clearly what is right and wrong is the innate knowledge of good (liang-chih). You never go wrong if you follow it’ (Wang Yang-ming 1992, p. 217). Mind here means the occasional idea or consciousness in experience while the innate knowledge of the good constitutes specific contents of virtue. Ideas as occurring in response to objects are characteristic of spontaneity and contingency. The so-called ‘occurring in response to objects’ means that ‘ideas’ arise from circumstances (objects) and change with things, which are totally swayed by external objects without internal certainty. Different from ideas, the innate knowledge of the good, as the true virtue, is not accidentally brought out in certain external circumstances, and neither arises nor disappears with objects. It is internal personality that is possessed in action with understanding and examination, and as a result has an undivided and constant character, which can judge between right and wrong (Yang 1997). His view has shown insight into the duration of virtue and personality from the temporal dimension and their consistency in behaviour. As mentioned previously, moral norms have universal constraints on social behaviours, whereas when not yet accepted by an individual they turn out to be external imperatives with a distance to individual behaviours. To change norms to concrete behaviours requires rational cognition (to understand norms) as well as volitional choice and emotional identity, during which rationality, will and emotion as different aspects of a unified virtue structure affect the receptive process of norms. There seem to be some interactions: the shaping of virtue includes the internalisation of norms, while after its formation it becomes one of the premises for norms to come into play. While providing support for norms’ practical function, virtue participates in the process to put behaviour into order in the social system from one perspective. Individuals as different specific historical beings have different social relationships and environments. So far as a behavioural process is concerned, the specific situation in which it occurs often changes. In order to choose rational behaviours, it is obviously not enough to rely simply on the general behaviour norms, for they cannot exhaust the diversity and changeability of behaviours and circumstances. Therefore, it is quite important to make a concrete analysis of a circumstance. Pragmatists, like John Dewey (1859–1952), and existentialists, like Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980), have already noticed this point. Dewey prioritised the exploration of the specific situation and the solving of the specific issue, while Sartre emphasised the decisive role that the individual played in behavioural choice. However, when focusing on the peculiarities of circumstances and the roles of an individual, they usually took the peculiarities of circumstances and the universality of norms as mutually exclusive, and tended to dissolve the latter with the former. Logically, from this standpoint it is hard to avoid

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relativism. By contrast, it is not difficult to see the effects of virtues to overcome the above-mentioned deviation. As mentioned above, virtues contain the general contents of norms, as well as the unifying individual consciousness structure of reason, will, emotion, and so on. Such duality makes it possible for virtues to combine specific situation analysis with the citation of general norms. As the steady and unified personality, virtues enable individuals to avoid dogmatism that ignores the peculiarity of circumstances, and to transcend relativism that despises the constraints of universal norms when they are under various circumstances. The Confucian theory of unifying principle (jing) with expedience (quan) has already brought an insight on this point. Principle (jing) refers broadly to universality while expedience (quan) is involved with the analysis of circumstances. The complementarity between both sides implies that principle orientation is compatible with specific situation handling. And for Confucians, such unity is achieved in the process of personality and virtue (Yang 1994). This point of view has undoubtedly noticed the significance of virtue to link up general norms with specific circumstances in moral practice. In realistic behavioural processes, citation of norms, analysis and judgment of circumstances, as well as weighing and selection of the potential behaviours in the specific situations, and so on, are all subject to the united personality structure (including virtue) of an agent. So to speak, the governing of personality and virtue provides an internal mechanism for social behaviour to move towards a unity between a flexible response and a stable order. As mentioned above, an orderly social life cannot be separated from the controlling of deviant and abnormal behaviour. As far as restraints on anomies or disorders are concerned, the functions of norms are mainly reflected in the external public arena, while virtues are more reflected in the internal consciousness of individuals. Virtue, as a unified conscious structure, includes not only conscious rationality and Kant’s so-called good will, but emotion as well. In the aspect of moral consciousness, emotions usually take the form of sympathy, humiliation, and compunction, etc. David Hume analysed sympathy in detail and held it as the foundation of the whole moral system. This view shows his empiricist standpoint, which is undoubtedly limited, but it is an ethical fact of sympathy’s effect on moral behaviour. Generally speaking, the sense of sympathy is first to lay an emotional foundation for the realisation of benevolence (to adhere to the guidance of benevolence in practical behaviour). In addition, by respecting and caring for others and groups, it rejects various tendencies of behaviours hostile to society (anti-society) and hazardous to groups, and thus promotes the social integration of members. Humiliation and guilt are different emotions. As a kind of moral consciousness, humiliation seemingly relates more to defending dignity, and its emergence and development always accompanies attention on dignity. Such dignity depends less on the perceptual or biological prescription of individuals than on the inner values of a man. It is for this reason that Confucians think highly of humiliation. Confucius has already called for the ‘undo[ing of] what one regards disgraceful’ (13.20 of The Analects). Mencius (371–289 bc) further put it into a more prominent position, saying: ‘humiliation is of vital importance to human beings’ and ‘man cannot do without humiliation’ (7a of The Book of Mencius). Until Wang Fu-chih (Wang Ch’uan-shan, 1619–92) and



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Gu Yan-wu (1613–82), there is still a repeated emphasis on the significance of knowing humiliation: ‘classical cultivation is declining, and to practice is not attractive to multitudes. “Introspect yourself when you see immorality” – How great is the contribution of the sense of shame!’ (Wang Fuzhi 1992, p. 408). Human beings, as social existences, have inner dignity, and the sense of shame is precisely the protection of such dignity on the emotional side, while shamelessness indicates utter contempt for such dignity (willing to lose dignity as human beings). From the perspective of the relation between moral emotion and social behaviour, absence of the sense of shame means releasing all the internal and external moral restraints, and thus a person is free from both inner compunctions and condemnations from public opinion; all kinds of behaviours such as losing dignity, challenging society, and breaching order are possible for him. On the contrary, the establishment of sense of shame enables an individual to attend to human dignity in behaviour all the time, and prevents and rejects all motives and behaviours that potentially cause negative effects on inner dignity. As far as the social system is concerned, defence of dignity always leads one to consciously fulfil one’s obligations as a social member, and confines one’s behaviour within what is prescribed by norms and feels shamed of deviance. It could be seen that shame-awareness, as the contents of virtue, constitutes one of the internal psychological mechanisms to keep social order by suppressing deviant behaviour in the bud.3 What is similar to shame-awareness and constitutes another part of virtue is guiltiness. Different from the former’s asserting dignity, guiltiness is more directly involved with whether one has carried out moral obligations or not.4 Guilt, as a kind of moral emotion, is also premised on commitments of responsibilities and duties. As responsibilities and duties are first of all for groups and others, guiltiness is always involved with inter-subjective relationships or those between individuals and society, though it originally manifests as an inner psychological experience. To feel guilty for failing to fulfil obligations not only makes one’s inner mind and consciousness baptised and sublimated by reflection, but also directly influences one’s social behaviours: it urges the subject to suppress motivations that conflict with moral obligations and responsibilities from the lever of inner consciousness. In this sense, like shame-awareness, guiltiness provides a guarantee to keep social life in order via an internal psychological mechanism. In short, general norms and inner virtues, as two interrelated aspects of the moral system, constitute one of the possible conditions for social order, and promote the orderly operation of social life from different perspectives. The original relation between morality and being has been concretely demonstrated here.

3 As the background of being, the orderly structure of society has various manifestations. As mentioned above, it is first a life-world,5 which, having to do with the production and reproduction of life, stems from family ties, unfolds itself in the whole process of life, and provides close space for daily existence. Another aspect of social structure is

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institutional being in a broad sense. Institutional system or structure in a broad sense is carried out in all aspects of social life, from groups like an academic community, arts group, and religious group, etc., to organisations such as business organisations in the economic sphere, party organisations in the political sphere and so on, from public scientific, educational, cultural institutes such as schools, research institutes, and other management agencies of public education and culture infrastructure to national political power such as various levels of legislatures, administrations, judiciary and so on. Relative to the spontaneity of daily life, institutional being is more characterised as organisation, whose operation appears to be an organised and relatively conscious process. A united social system, on the whole, includes life-world and system organisations.6 As has been noted, life-world and system organisations surely have different regulations and existential orientations, but as two dimensions of the united social system they are not entirely isolated or separated from each other. From the perspective of an actual form of being, they are usually characteristic of mutual infiltration and syncretism. Family is one of the basic carriers of daily life. However, it involves different types of marriage systems, and the latter (marriage systems) is one of the general institutional organisations; meanwhile family members often participate in various activities of economy, politics, religion, education, and so on, and thus the family is correspondingly related to institutions and organisations in political, economical, religious, educational and such fields. Likewise, political power is not merely limited to institutions such as state power, and its impact could also be witnessed in many fields such as economic institutions (e.g. enterprise), educational institutions (e.g. school), and family. Even religious groups and organisations usually exist among life-world and system organisations. Take the Western church groups for example; they hold daily religious events (e.g. prayer), as well as activities in politics and economy (e.g. their influences on temporal power and operations of church property). In brief, life-world and institutional organisations, as relevant aspects of the united social system, not only correlate but also interact with each other. Of course, such close correlations do not prevent us from exploring them separately in a relatively independent sense. As far as institutional organisations are concerned, their existential forms share traits of impersonality. In life-world, social relations among family members, neighbours, and friends usually take people as direct relation terms, namely, what we are faced with are concrete persons in daily communication. In contrast, institutional beings are often manifested in systems beyond human beings. In various administrative organisations aimed at efficiency, instrumental rationality is usually taken as their principle; and the latter is different from value-rationality concerned with human existential significance. Institutional organisations form their operational mechanism characteristic of various extents of formalisation. This is only one side of the coin, however. The practical operation of institutional organisation is always involved with participations of people and its function cannot be realised without the activities of people. A system itself is a lifeless being and it must gain vitality from human beings. When we make contact with types of groups, organisations, institutions and systems, we are dealing with people who bring with



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them energy, more than impersonal objects. As operators of an institution, such people have duality: they are representatives of institutions as well as concrete individuals. Corresponding to this, what we are faced with is not only the formalised structures, but also the existence of others; and the inter-subjective communications are not only living environments in life-world, but ontological facts of institutional operations as well. The core of institutional organisations is in some sense the human being. Therefore, it is not difficult to find the double characters of institutional beings: they are formalised structures beyond human beings, and yet closely bound up with their roles (lifeless without participation of humans). As the condition of institutional operations, the participation of a human being is accompanied by the impact of virtue all along. This has long been noticed by Confucians. When talking about the functions of propriety, The Analects puts forward a famous view, saying: ‘Among the functions of the most valuable is that it establishes harmony (he)’ (1.12 of The Analects). Propriety here, as mentioned, refers not only to general norm systems, but also to social political systems. Thus, the propriety of Zhou, highly admired by Confucius, means even more than the social political institution of Zhou, while harmony (he) mostly appears as ethical principles in communications: on the negative side, it requires mutual understanding and communication among subjects so as to dissolve tensions and restrain conflicts; and on the positive side, it means collaboration with a common purpose among subjects. Propriety originally refers to operations at the institutional level (including performing common ceremonies, setting up hierarchy structures, issuing and implementing executive orders, and relationships between a ruler and his ministers and between the superiors and the subordinates). However, such institutional operation is associated by Confucians with ethical principles like harmony, with an emphasis on following or reflecting the principle of harmony in the function of propriety, which has already noted the interpersonal relationships behind the institutional systems; the system cannot work without a proper handling of the interpersonal relationships (to acquire mutual understanding and communication by the principle of harmony, and thus to unite as one while removing conflicts). In brief, the operation of a system (propriety) needs a guarantee of virtue principles (harmony). As the conditions for the proper operation of institutional organisations, moral guarantee is involved with multiple principles, among which a justice principle and a benevolence principle are essential and primary. Justice first means respecting right, and concretely it requires treating everyone properly and ensuring their inherent rights in a certain society. The institutional system, aimed at various social members in a certain society, takes on a public quality, thus the precondition for a system’s rationality is to treat social members in a fair way. The so-called society itself is certainly a historical category, and has different contents in different social periods. Since modern times, the above requirements are necessary topics at the level of formalised structure, for the establishment of institutional organisations itself has already been given such functions. This embodies the restrictions of moral principles on social institutions. To what extent such principles could be reflected in running processes of institutions, however, still depends on the communications of operators (representatives of institution and organisation, etc.) and the targeted service and action objects of institution.

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Whether the principle of justice could actually be carried out or not is directly relevant to the rational implements of institution functions. In contrast with the justice principle, a benevolence principle points more to the existence values of human beings themselves. As early as the pre-Qin period, Confucius, the creator of Confucianism, had already put forward the theory of benevolence (ren), and defined it as ‘loving people’. Mencius further connected the theory of the innate goodness of human nature (everyone has ‘a merciful heart’) with the policy of benevolence, and expanded the concept of benevolence advocated by Confucius in the relationship between internal feelings and the external society. The principle of benevolence has been elaborated more specifically by Confucians in the Han and Song dynasties, like saying: ‘To take the lead in practicing universal love is precisely the lesson to teach others the principle of humanity’ (The Luxuriant Dew of the Spring and Autumn Annals), and ‘all people are my brothers and sisters and all things are my companions’ (chapter 17 of the Cheng-meng) and so on. In fact, harmony, as the action mode of propriety, has already shown the principle of humanity. The basic spirit of humanity lies in respecting and affirming each subject’s inner values. It not only acknowledges the subject’s willingness for self-fulfilments, but also requires subjects to genuinely recognise each other’s existential meanings. Confucius defined humanity as loving people, while Mencius took compassion as its starting point, and all such views unexceptionally demonstrate an emphasis on the inherent values of subjects. In a manner of speaking, the principle of humanity points primarily to the essential rationality while the justice principle simultaneously tends towards the formal one. The character of institutional organisation makes it appear cold and impersonal in its operation, which is easy to give people a sense of alienation. If the communication of operators and service or action objects of institutions is guided on the principle of humanity, it will help to restrict or erase such alienation. In the economic field, economic organisations (e.g. enterprise, corporations, etc.) mainly target interest and the market itself follows the principle of utility and efficiency: its rewards are simply based on the real efficiency of competitors. Driven by interest, various economic organisations tend to carry out business activities such as exploitation and production, regardless of the environment, ecology, the working conditions of employees, and the long-term developments of society. They usually pursue economic benefits at the sacrifice of the human environment, external ecology, and the health of producers, and so on. As a mode of production and reproduction of material goods, these organisations by nature are the conditions of human existence, but they turn out to be a threat to their existence when out of control, which could be taken as alienation in a specific sense. How can one avoid or overcome such possible tendencies towards alienation of economic institutions? Here, moral checks and balances including the humanity principle seem to be all-important. As mentioned above, the humanity principle asks for attentions on values and meanings of human existences, which also means providing a rational, perfect and everlasting development space, and to avoid partial pursuit of interest that causes danger to the living of human beings. Such a moral set undoubtedly provides a support from the perspective of values for regulating the function of economic institutions and refraining from excessive utility impulse and so on.



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As products of social differentiation, economy, politics, law and other different forms of institutional organisations constitute the background and premise of human existence: social order and the production and reproduction of social life cannot do without the guarantee of institutions. With a duality of impersonal formalised structures and man’s participation in operational processes, the rational running of institutional organisations has not only its formal and procedural premise, but also the guarantee and balance of morality. By participating in and restricting the operational process of institutional organisations, morality is meanwhile established in historical process, which responds in one way to the question of how social integration and solidarity is possible.

Notes 1 2 3

4

5 6

When I deploy ‘being’ or ‘beings’ in this chapter, I mean different entities, whether they are human being or human beings, or an abstract institutional organisation or abstract institutional organisations. John Searle (1967) has analysed ‘institutional fact’ from the perspective of the relation between facts and value and elucidated it further in his later book The Construction of Social Reality (1995). Excessively strong shame-awareness may sometimes cause inferiority complex or heavy psychological burden, thus resulting in a negative impact on social communication. So, at this point, a suitable position of shame-awareness is important. Chinese traditional philosophy pays close attention to shame-awareness, while Western philosophy is concerned more with guilt. The latter is possibly associated with the original sin-awareness of Christianity in a broader cultural background, and therefore, not limited to daily use. A deep guilt-awareness has already been presented by Augustine (Aurelius Augustine, 354–430), an early Christian thinker, in his Confessions. The term ‘life-world’ in this chapter refers to the inter-subjective social reality in which the everyday life takes place. As such, ‘life-world’ can be thought of as the horizon of all our experiences. The term ‘system organisations’ in this chapter refers to various social institutions or social organisations.

References Ryan, A. (1993), Justice, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Searle, J. (1967), ‘How to derive “ought” from “is”’, P. Foot (ed.), Theories of Ethics, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 101–14. —(1995), The Construction of Social Reality, New York: The Free Press. Wang, F. (1992), ‘Book 6’, Collected Works of Chuanshan, Changsha: Yuelu Shushe. Wang, Y. (1992), Complete Works of Wang Yang-ming, Shanghai: Shanghai Guji Chubanshe.

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Yang, G. (1994), The Good as an Unfolding Process: Studies of the Value System of Confucianism, Shanghai: Shanghai Renmin Chubanshe. —(1997), Search For Mind: Studies of Wang Yang-ming’s Philosophy, Beijing: Sanlian Shudian.

8

Is Universal Solidarity Possible? Gerald J. Beyer

Introduction Many contemporary philosophers and theologians posit the ability of human beings to achieve solidarity with one another on a large social scale.1 Catholic theologians dating back to Heinrich Pesch in the 1920s have explicitly championed universal solidarity, which extends to all persons (Stjernø 2005, p. 66). Pope John Paul II argued that it is both possible and necessary for all people to commit themselves to solidarity and the global common good. He thus advocated ‘globalization in solidarity’.2 Although most secular thinkers historically spoke of solidarity restricted to certain groups, contemporary philosophers such as Jürgen Habermas and Richard Rorty envision a solidarity that can reach ever expanding circles of people.3 Józef Tischner, the chaplain and philosopher of the Solidarność movement, stated ‘solidarity turns towards all, and against none’ (Tischner 1981, p. 7). However, many philosophers over the ages have echoed Thomas Hobbes’s view that ‘man is a wolf to man’ (Homo homini lupus) and that the human natural state is a ‘war of all against all’. In the contemporary era, many people, including politicians and key decision-makers, have argued that universal solidarity is not possible. Several currently regnant anthropological theories, such as those undergirding neoclassical economic theory and the realist school of international relations, maintain that individuals and nations essentially act in their own interest. ‘Selfish’ human nature discounts the possibility of broad and sustained solidarity. Proponents of an ethic of solidarity often point to successful nonviolent movements such as Solidarność in Poland, the People’s Power Movement in the Philippines, and the US Civil Rights Movement as evidence of the possibility of embodying solidarity on a large social scale. However, might such examples be isolated anomalies in the grand scheme of human history? Has most of human history been characterised rather by strife and violence among peoples and nations? Are human beings essentially selfish, occasionally masquerading as altruists who are really acting in their own interest, as some biologists contend? This chapter looks to insights from evolutionary biology to examine whether or not human beings can embody solidarity sustainably on a broad scale.4 It aims to

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demonstrate that striving for universal solidarity is not contrary to human nature. Rather, social solidarity is an expression of inherent tendencies built upon the evolved biological origins of the human species. This chapter also argues that the biological basis of solidarity may be stronger than most thinkers engaged with evolutionary theory have recognised. Even though the tendency to act selfishly is deeply rooted, it is counterbalanced by caring, empathic drives, firmly embedded in human nature by the process of evolution. The argument unfolds in several stages. First, this chapter briefly introduces the key elements of the Catholic ethic of solidarity. Catholic thought provides a useful ‘measuring stick’ by which to gauge whether or not universal solidarity coheres with human nature. As Stjernø states in his treatment of various understandings of solidarity, the Catholic concept represents ‘the broadest and most inclusive sort’ and ranks among the most clearly-defined and fully articulated conceptualisations of solidarity (Stjernø 2005, p. 74; see also pp. 70–82). The subsequent section summarises views among sociobiologists who deny the compatibility between human nature and solidarity to one degree or another.5 Next, the chapter analyses the work of renowned evolutionary biologists Frans de Waal and David Sloan Wilson, both of whom have done some of the most important work in evolutionary studies of morality in recent times. This core section of the chapter reveals the substantive overlap between the Catholic tradition’s ethic of solidarity and these scientists’ understanding of human nature and its potential for universal solidarity. Prior to turning to the heart of the matter, it is important to clarify the purpose of the argument herein. Science does not definitively prove the possibility of universal solidarity. Such a lofty goal certainly exceeds the aim of this chapter. None the less, the burgeoning field of evolutionary studies of morality may provide important clues about whether pursuing universal solidarity is unrealistic.6 Proponents of radically individualistic and Social Darwinist agendas have employed evolutionary theory for decades to bolster their views of human nature as essentially conflictual and selfish. Thus, advocates of an ethic of solidarity and societies founded upon it should appeal to evolutionary biology, if possible, to change the terms of the debate and counter the ‘excessive individualism’ that undergirds ‘the plethora of perverse theories and bad practices from which our economies and societies suffer today’ (Sibley 2011, p. 29). At the very least, the work of evolutionary biologists such as Wilson and de Waal demonstrates that science has not proven that human solidarity on a broad scale should be dismissed as utopian because it is contrary to human nature.

1 Solidarity in the Catholic tradition A thorough exposition of the Catholic ethic of solidarity exceeds the scope of this chapter.7 However, a brief sketch of the key normative claims of the Catholic conception of solidarity will set the stage for an examination of solidarity in the light of Wilson’s and de Waal’s evolutionary perspectives. Succinctly stated, the Catholic social tradition postulates three key elements of solidarity:



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i.

The recognition of human interdependence and corresponding obligations to others that flow from it, especially obligations to the marginalised. ii. A firm commitment to the common good, which requires creating social structures that promote the participation and rights of all. iii. A willingness to work with others across boundaries of class, gender, race, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, and nationality to foster an inclusive common good. The first aspect of solidarity entails the recognition that human beings are by nature interdependent. As Franciszek Kampka writes, solidarity involves ‘… the attitude of mutual empathy among members of a community, becoming aware of their deep similarities and interdependence, and deepening them by experiencing the needs of others just as we experience our own needs’.8 This recognition of a shared humanity and common fate with all people disposes us to ‘hear the cry of the wounded’ among us (Tischner 1992, p. 18). The fact of interdependence gives rise to ethical obligations towards others in the personal, social, economic, cultural, political, and religious spheres of life.9 Direct, immediate aid is necessary when a situation gravely threatens a person’s or group’s health, bodily integrity, or psychological well-being. However, solidarity requires moving beyond temporary assistance to ‘a firm and persevering determination to commit oneself to the common good …’ as Pope John Paul II maintained. Solidarity is much more than ‘a feeling of vague compassion or shallow distress’.10 It must go beyond short-term aid to be embodied in policies, institutions and social structures that eliminate the causes of the suffering of the wounded, the poor and the oppressed.11 In other words, solidarity must be ‘institutionalised’ so that all people, including the marginalised, can participate in and benefit from the common good.12 Genuine participation entails using one’s abilities and resources to promote both one’s own rights and flourishing, and those of the community (Wojtyła 2000, p. 307). In this regard, solidarity differs from compassion and almsgiving, which assist passive recipients. Solidarity empowers the marginalised to become active members of the community in order to be able to ‘bear another’s burdens’ (Tischner 1992, p. 18).13 Unlike Weberian, Marxist and other exclusivist conceptions of solidarity, the Catholic tradition posits the possibility of highly inclusive solidarity across classes, genders, races, religions and nations.14 All persons – oppressors, the oppressed and defenders of the oppressed – should exercise the virtue of solidarity towards one another and for the sake of the common good. The oppressed unite in solidarity to promote one another’s rights and well-being, together with those who join them in their struggle. They also challenge oppressors to undergo conversion and begin to cultivate solidarity with the victims of their wrongdoing. Once the oppressed overcome the shackles of injustice, they in turn must ‘carry the burden’ of other oppressed persons. This is how communities of solidarity are formed.15 Catholic thought envisions such communities of solidarity existing on the local, national and global levels.16 In this vein, John Paul II called for ‘globalization in solidarity’, which would allow all nations to be full and equal participants in the global market economy and in the governance of international institutions.17

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In short, the Catholic tradition sees solidarity as both a virtue that individuals should possess and a characteristic of institutions and social relations. Solidarity should shape various aspects of economic, political and social life both within and among nations. While not denying the possible necessity of conflict for the sake of justice, Catholicism holds that solidarity is possible across the full spectrum of social relations.18 In other words, the Catholic ethic of solidarity requires creating and sustaining the common good and the rights of all people on the local, national and global levels.

2 Solidarity in the light of evolutionary theory Religious ethicists and spiritual leaders who advocate this kind of universal solidarity have largely ignored the question of whether or not it is possible given what other branches of knowledge, including evolutionary theory, postulate about human nature. They tend to assume that humans can achieve solidarity on ever-greater scales, without considering that much of human history tells a different story. In the twentieth century alone, more than 167,000,000 people were killed in the name of political ideologies, thus making it arguably the bloodiest century in human history.19 It may appear that in our fragmented, globalised world differences divide people so severely that the concept of solidarity has become obsolete.20 When theologians and religious leaders call for economic, political and international relations to be governed by the principle of solidarity, many respond that communities and nations do not and cannot possibly behave in this way. As the realist school contends, self-interest dominates the decisionmaking process of both nations and individuals.21 In addition, much of modern economic theory eschews the social anthropology of solidarity in favour of Homo economicus. This view of the human person holds that humans always act rationally in order to maximise self-interest (Sen 1987, pp. 1–23).22 Unfortunately students who are exposed solely to this individualistic anthropology in economics and business courses tend to adopt a more egoistic outlook and make decisions in their own lives as selfinterest ‘maximizers’ (de Waal 2005, p. 243; also Pope 2007, p. 214). In other words, being told repeatedly that we are Hobbesian brutes becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

2.1 Human solidarity as a biological impossibility In addition to these social scientific perspectives, many people contend that human beings are biologically ‘hard-wired’ to behave in self-serving ways. Evolution and our genes dictate that we are selfish to the core, they assert. In this vein, those who promote Social Darwinist political agendas have enlisted the work of evolutionary biologists such as Richard Dawkins to bolster their cause.23 Former Enron CEO Jeff Skilling was so enamoured by Dawkins’s The Selfish Gene that he moulded a corporate culture based on the assumption that humans are motivated by ‘greed and fear’ (de Waal 2009, pp. 38–9). According to de Waal, it is no coincidence that the ‘selfish gene’ theory gained prominence at the height of the Thatcher and Reagan neoliberal



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capitalist revolution and the ‘greed is good’ era. Thus, biologists who touted the ‘selfish gene’ idea facilitated – whether willingly or not – the promotion of cut-throat competition as an irrepressible part of human nature in the business and political arenas.24 As D. S. Wilson has pointed out, the moniker ‘selfish gene’ ensured a lot of attention, but also caused ‘a lot of confusion that persists to this day’ (Wilson 2008, p. 40). Often labelled sociobiologists, many of these evolutionary theorists maintain that concern for others is a mirage.25 In their view, acts that appear to be altruistically motivated are in actuality driven by self-interest.26 Michael Ghiselin famously encapsulated this motif as follows: No hint of genuine charity ameliorates our vision of society, once sentimentalism has been laid aside. What passes for co-operation turns out to be a mixture of opportunism and exploitation … Given a full chance to act in his own interest, nothing but expediency will restrain [a person] from brutalizing, from maiming, or murdering – his brother, his mate, his parent, or his child. Scratch an ‘altruist’ and watch a ‘hypocrite’ bleed.27

To be clear, sociobiologists do not argue that genes alone determine how humans behave. ‘Genes cannot function by themselves, and there is broad agreement that behavior is influenced by a constant interplay of learning and culture with biological predispositions and potentials rather than caused by rigidly determined behavior traits’ (Pope 2007, p. 163). Yet, according to Dawkins, natural selection is a process by which genes replicate themselves in human hosts. Genes drive the process of evolution, while ‘individual humans simply function as “vehicles” for the replicators’ survival’.28 When humans, who are essentially the ‘survival machines’ of genes, act in apparently altruistic ways, they do so because it leads to the best outcome for their genes. In other words, human beings only appear to act for the sake of others, while the evolutionary process is really prompting them to promote the fitness of their genes (Flescher and Worthen 2007, p. 9).29 Frans de Waal has labelled a related claim about human nature ‘the veneer theory’. This view, long held by most evolutionary biologists, sees morality as ‘a cultural overlay, a thin veneer hiding an otherwise selfish and brutish nature’ (de Waal 2006, p. 6). This school of thought, traced back to T. H. Huxley, believes that morality is a ‘cultural innovation’ achieved solely by humans along the evolutionary chain. Proponents of the veneer theory maintain that the ‘thin crust’ of human morality conceals a deeper human nature, dominated by selfish passions. We deceive ourselves by thinking that we are moral creatures and by ignoring this truth about human nature.30

2.2 More natural than we think? Solidarity according to Frans de Waal and D. S. Wilson Recent work in evolutionary biology challenges the notion that the human tendency to act in solidarity with others is not as strongly rooted in our biological nature as selfish tendencies. Leading evolutionists David Sloan Wilson and Frans de Waal explicitly criticise those who defend the individualistic anthropologies of realism and Homo

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economicus. They also reject the ‘scientific’ conclusions of biologists such as Ghiselin and Dawkins pertaining to selfish human nature.31 Dawkins’s views still garner more public attention than the work of Wilson and de Waal. The Selfish Gene alone has been translated into 25 languages and has sold more than 1 million copies. However, Wilson and de Waal have gained ground in recent years by publishing their research in works accessible to non-scientists. Wilson, who is the SUNY Distinguished Professor of Biology and Anthropology at Binghamton University, has made significant headway among biologists. As Wilson acknowledges, not all biologists accept group-selection theory, the idea that undergirds much of his work, to this day. However, he has led a potent revival of the idea in recent decades (Wilson 2002, pp. 9–17).32 De Waal is regarded as one of the world’s foremost experts in primatology and ethology. A native of the Netherlands, he holds a dual appointment in the Department of Psychology at Emory University and the Yerkes National Primate Research Center, in Atlanta, Georgia. De Waal, of all scientists in the world is perhaps the most poised to end the dominance of a ‘scientifically-supported’ anthropology of excessive individualism. Thus, Time magazine named de Waal one of the world’s most influential people in 2007. The research of Wilson and de Waal pushes us to think beyond the claim that human solidarity is achievable, but unnatural. In the light of their work, solidarity may be more natural than heretofore acknowledged both among sociobiologists and in Christian theological discourse.33 The remainder of this chapter will engage de Waal and Wilson to address the three aspects of solidarity in Catholic thought in the light of evolutionary biology, thereby elucidating that universal solidarity may not be impossible in spite of what some ideologies cloaked in science have maintained to the contrary.

2.3 The first element of solidarity in evolutionary perspective: Human interdependence and corresponding obligations Frans de Waal’s research on the continuity between non-human primate and human morality provides a helpful corrective to inaccurate understandings of human nature cloaked in false science. De Waal regrets that these radically individualistic anthropologies pervade the worlds of politics and economics, undergirding nefarious Social Darwinist agendas (de Waal 2009, preface and chapter 1). Conversely, human nature evolved such that we are ‘group animals that are highly cooperative, sensitive to injustice, sometimes warmongering, but mostly peace loving’ according to de Waal (2009, p. 5). He bases this anthropological vision on his decades of observation of primates and other animal research. His view of the human person lends credence to the first element of solidarity, namely that humans are interdependent and that we innately possess the ability to empathise with others and the desire to help those in distress. According to de Waal, evidence of primate empathy and altruism has abounded for decades (de Waal 2006, p. 29; de Waal 2005, pp. 178, 90). His books Our Inner Ape and The Age of Empathy contain abundant stories from his own personal observations of chimps and bonobos aiding one another, only a few of which can be recounted here. Bonobos are particularly significant because they, along with chimpanzees, are



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our most closely related ape relatives (de Waal 2005, pp. 13–15).34 More importantly, bonobos and other animals possess many of the moral capacities that humans have (de Waal 2005, p. 23). De Waal argues that if apes can feel empathy and act with compassion, the veneer theory crumbles to pieces. The veneer theory has been buoyed by the assertion that morality, a complex and unnatural cultural construct, could only have been concocted by humans. Thus, outside of the human race the animal kingdom lacks moral instincts. One-sided portrayals of animals such as chimpanzees as ruthless predators have helped to sustain this fallacy (MacIntyre 2009; de Waal 2006, pp. 21, 25). However, de Waal convincingly demonstrates that non-human animals exhibit moral instincts, simultaneously calling into question the veneer theory. He points to continuity between human morality and animal pro-sociality, thereby inferring human pro-social capacities as evolved traits. Experiments have shown that empathy can be found in creatures such as rats and monkeys, which will deny themselves food if it requires causing pain to another rat or monkey (de Waal 2006, pp. 28–9). The empathic response of apes, our kindred primates, is much more complex, however. De Waal distinguishes between various basic and complex psychological/emotional reactions to the suffering of others. He refers to emotional contagion, personal distress, self-protective altruism, empathy and sympathy. Emotional contagion, according to de Waal, was likely the first mechanism to evolve in creatures, which eventually developed into the full-blown capacity for empathy in the most complex animals. Emotional contagion is a specific type of ‘unconscious synchrony’, or the pre-reflective bodily and emotional connection that animals have to one another. Another type is ‘yawning contagion’, whereby animals near yawning animals begin to do so themselves (de Waal 2009, pp. 48–50). Emotional contagion causes animals to ‘catch’ and experience the pain of others. It often prompts ‘personal distress’ in the creature witnessing the pain of another creature and causes animals to engage in ‘self-protective altruism’. In other words, mice, rats, and other animals primarily try to cease the pain of others in order to assuage their own distress and discomfort (de Waal 2005, pp. 186–7). De Waal also refers to this as ‘pre-concern’, a sort of blind attraction to ‘anyone whose agony affects you’ (de Waal 2009, p. 96). This is not yet the full-blown empathy and sympathy that apes exhibit, but surely serves as an evolutionary ‘building-block’ for it. De Waal argues that more developed forms of empathy and full-blown sympathy, which only animals with the largest brains can demonstrate, should be seen as ‘consisting of many layers added by evolution over millions of years’ (de Waal 2009, p. 96). These first layers of emotional contagion and pre-concern, which de Waal labels primitive forms of empathy, exist in most mammals. However, relatively few exhibit the more complex phenomenon of sympathy. Empathy entails deciphering the situation of another; it is the ‘projecting of one’s self into another’ (de Waal 2009, p. 65). Although scientists still debate this point, research has begun to demonstrate that empathy is not a cognitive phenomenon. As de Waal puts it, ‘we don’t decide to be empathic, we simply are’. The activation of neural circuits at the sight of another’s pain causes involuntary physical reactions (e.g. teeth-clenching) and an automatic emotional erasing of the self/other distinction (de Waal 2009, pp. 66, 76–81).35 Sympathy involves several further components. Sympathy differs from empathy because it is ‘proactive’; it entails care for the other and a ‘desire to improve the other’s situation’ (de Waal 2009, pp. 88, 90–3).

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Empathy is common in many animals, while sympathy is found in fewer. The ‘targeted helping’ that apes display is prevalent in even fewer animals (de Waal 2005, p. 192).36 According to de Waal, the ability of bonobos to understand the needs of others has often been witnessed (de Waal 2005, p. 190). This phenomenon is remarkable because the ability to ‘take someone else’s perspective represents a huge leap in social evolution’. It also reveals that humans are not the only animals capable of living out ‘the Golden rule’ (de Waal 2005, p. 178). Bonobos, for example, have even forsaken food offered to them by researchers while gesturing that it should be given to others (de Waal 2009, p. 190). De Waal maintains that the ‘higher forms of empathy’ found in both humans and apes developed together with self-awareness. Children begin to exhibit sensitivity to the needs of others between 18 and 24 months of age, which is about when they first recognise themselves in a mirror. Apes can also ascertain their image in a mirror (de Waal 2005, pp. 193–4).37 Dolphins have also recognised their image and they have been known to assist other sick dolphins, whales and humans under attack from sharks (de Waal 2005, pp. 195).38 One might ask how these caring creatures survived the process of evolution, which is often perceived as cruel to the kind and rewarding to the selfish. De Waal dispels the fallacy that because evolution is a cruel and heartless process of natural selection, its ‘products’ must be ruthless competitors that adapt to survive. ‘Natural selection favors organisms that survive and reproduce, pure and simple. How they accomplish this is left open’ (de Waal 2005, p. 35). In other words, ensuring the survival of one’s genes might be achieved by becoming less rather than more aggressive, more cooperative rather than selfish. Moreover, the compelling evidence of the pro-social capacities of animals from which we have evolved demonstrates that we are ‘nursing, caring, loving mammals … equipped with an internal compass that tells us how we ought to treat others’ (de Waal 2005, p. 199). That compass is rooted in our emotions and has led us to create societies that are ‘support systems within which weakness does not automatically spell death’ (de Waal 2005, p. 196). Of course de Waal would agree that some societies are more communally oriented and cooperative than others. None the less, human beings have evolved to avoid harming members of our group, on whom we depend for our survival. ‘Empathy and fellow-feeling are second nature to us …’ and to many other animals (de Waal 2005, p. 181). D. S. Wilson also moves us a step further towards the social anthropology that undergirds the Catholic ethic of solidarity. He argues that ‘organisms are themselves social groups’ (Wilson 2002, p. 18). For example, eukaryotic cells are ‘symbiotic communities of bacteria whose members led a more autonomous existence in the distant past’ (Wilson 2002, p. 17).39 Human beings, like all organisms, are composed of groups of cells, bacteria and genes, which all cooperate (Wilson 2008, p. 137). All life forms must cooperate with other living organisms to survive. This fact challenges the notion of individuals as isolated, independent monads. Perhaps evolutionary biology confirms what Catholic social thought has claimed for at least half a century, namely that human societies are undergoing an ever increasing process of socialisation, i.e. becoming more interdependent.40 Perhaps we are just now beginning, with the help of science, to fully recognise our radical degree of interdependence.



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Wilson argues that insights from evolutionary biology can provide answers to questions such as: is human society ‘a collection of self-seeking individuals, or can it be regarded as an organism in its own right?’ (Wilson 2002, p. 2). Moreover, he contends that a concept of ‘guarded egalitarianism’ is emerging from a growing body of research that one day may supplant the regnant view of human nature as Homo economicus. The latter view posits that humans have made evolutionary progress through acting out of self-interest. According to Wilson, however, this is a scientifically unjustified view of human nature (Wilson 2002, pp. 224–5; also de Waal 2005, p. 243). For example, Wilson points to the studies of Boehm and other anthropologists, who have demonstrated that a strong sense of egalitarianism exists in hunter-gatherer groups and almost every small-scale human society (Wilson 2008, p. 158). This research has shown ‘egalitarianism is not a cultural invention that began in ancient Greece … but is part of our genetic endowment that asserts itself whenever appropriate conditions are met’ (Wilson 2008, p. 159). As shall become clearer in what follows, genetic evolution has equipped human beings to work towards the common good (Wilson 2008, p. 165).

2.4 The second element of solidarity in evolutionary perspective: cooperation in the common good According to Wilson, human and non-human groups have survived the process of natural selection precisely because individuals within those groups have been willing to make sacrifices for the good of the whole. This process is called group selection. Group selection holds that the process of natural selection takes place at the level of groups, not only individuals and/or genes. Groups that contain members who are willing to sacrifice their own well-being, or fitness in biological terms (i.e. ability to replicate their genes in their offspring), will survive and reproduce more successfully than groups of purely egocentric numbers (Wilson 2008, pp. 7–11). In other words, commitment to the common good, not ‘rugged individualism’, ensures a groups’ success in evolution. Wilson contends that this kind of behaviour abounds in nature. For example, birds that call out to others in the flock to warn of a predator decrease their fitness. These birds may seal their fate (and the fate of their genes) by drawing the predator’s attention to themselves. From the perspective of individual-level selection this makes no sense; the birds would be better off eluding the predator and feeding themselves. However, ‘group selection favors vigilant callers’ that foster the survival of the group (Wilson 2002, pp. 9–11). Wilson finds evidence for this in birds and other animal species, as well as human communities. For example, he discusses the cellular slime mould Dictyostelium discoideum, which requires some cells sacrificing for the sake of the whole organism (Wilson 2008, pp. 129–32). He also describes an experiment on chickens, which revealed that the most aggressive groups produced the least amount of eggs. Conversely, those with cooperative traits produced the greatest abundance of eggs (Wilson 2008, pp. 33–5). This evidence challenges the contention that group selection might have a purely cultural rather than a biological basis for in-group solidarity (Pope 2007, p. 221). Moreover, Wilson also acknowledges that ‘genetic and cultural evolution are both multilevel processes that interact with each other’ (Wilson 2002, pp. 10–11; also Wilson 2008, p. 35). In other words, Wilson does

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not limit human evolutionary mechanisms to genes. Rather, human evolution takes place through genes and culture. Many people still agree with Hobbes that the ‘state of nature’ is a ‘war of all against all’ and that ‘man is a wolf to man’.41 However, Wilson argues that evolution occurs ‘by social groups becoming so functionally integrated that they become higher-level organisms in their own right’ (Wilson 2002, p. 17). Wilson contends that groups evolve into organisms when within-group selection is supplanted by group selection as the dominant force driving evolution (Wilson 2008, pp. 139, 144). When this happens, a group develops a communal ‘mind’ or psychology. Members of the group ‘coordinate their activities in organ-like fashion to perpetuate the whole’ (Wilson 2008, pp. 144). Social insect colonies, such as honeybees, demonstrate these qualities. While Wilson claims that groups become organisms relatively rarely in evolution, it is likely that humans are the most recent example of evolution’s fostering the transition of a group into an organism. In his view, this best explains how the superior human abilities of ‘cognition, culture, and cooperation’ evolved from ‘precursors’ in our ape ancestors. These capacities, which overlap with but far exceed those of other apes, enabled humans to gain ‘ecological dominance’ (Wilson 2008, p. 154).42 Perhaps group-selection theory and the understanding of societies as organisms indicates that the participation of all individuals, whether individual cells or animals, is required for the good of the whole. Evolved human nature appears to be geared towards participation in the common good, not an existence of isolation. Wilson maintains that throughout our evolutionary heritage mechanisms that enforced egalitarianism, such as rituals, myths and belief in supernatural beings that mete out justice, gained hold. These mechanisms enable the suppression of individual fitness in favour of the group as an adaptive unit. Wilson appeals to the body of research revealing the pervasiveness of egalitarianism among human groups to validate this claim (Wilson 2008, pp. 155–8). He also contends that research has demonstrated that our bodies and minds evolved to ‘function as team players’ (Wilson 2008, p. 165). For example, among 92 primate species, only humans have eyes designed to reveal information rather than conceal. The sharp contrast between the white sclera and the coloured iris of the human eye enables us to detect where another person’s eyes are pointing, regardless of the direction of their face, even from a distance. The sclera of all other primates is darker, thereby making it difficult to tell where they are looking (Wilson 2008, p. 166). As Wilson points out, among apes ‘where dominant individuals glare at their subordinates, who do not stare back, natural selection favours the concealment of information … In an egalitarian society [of humans], it becomes advantageous for members of the team to share information, turning the eyes into organs of communication in addition to organs of vision’ (Wilson 2008, p. 167). Thus, one-year-old children spontaneously follow the eyes of researchers, while other apes always follow the head instead of the eyes. In short, humans have evolved in order to cooperate in the common good. Although human biological nature contains the capacity to engage in egoistic behaviour, even devastating warfare, evolution has been kind to us because we have the ability to act for the sake of others. Frans de Waal shares Wilson’s view that humans have evolved to cooperate in the common good. However, he rightfully warns readers that in addition to our robust



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pro-social tendencies we have strong evolved tendencies to harm and do violence to others. Thus, de Waal deems humans the ‘bipolar ape’ (de Waal 2005, p. 233). The crucial point is that human beings are not ‘blind actors carrying out nature’s genetic programs’ (de Waal 2005, p. 234). We can choose how we build upon our natural ‘building blocks’. Clearly we, as well as our ape relatives, know and experience ‘solidarity’. We come to the assistance of those in distress. Sometimes humans even construct social systems that support the weakest among us (de Waal 2005, pp. 196; 228–9).43 However, both de Waal and Wilson also note that humans have evolved towards ‘in-group solidarity’ and ‘out-group hostility’ (de Waal 2005, p. 223). Thus, they raise an evolutionary conundrum for proponents of inclusive solidarity: while groups often experience internal solidarity, they often exclude outsiders. In language reminiscent of John Paul II, de Waal states that ‘[a]pplying morality beyond those boundaries is the great challenge of our time’ (de Waal 2005, pp. 223–4).

2.5 The third element of solidarity in evolutionary perspective: Inclusive solidarity and an inclusive common good De Waal describes a phenomenon akin to inclusive solidarity, or at least the first steps towards it, in his observations of bonobos aiding wounded animals such as birds (de Waal 2005, pp. 2, 178–81). Two particularly striking stories involve apes helping members of other species. At the Twycross Zoo in Great Britain, a bonobo named Kuni helped a fallen bird that had injured its wing. Remarkably, the bonobo ‘tailored her assistance to the specific situation of an animal totally different from herself ’. When the bird fell to the ground and did not move, Kuni picked it up and held it gently. Next, Kuni decided to climb a tree while holding the bird in one hand. She then set it free in order to let it fly away. Clearly, the bonobo had come to understand that birds fly by watching them. When the little bird plummeted to the ground again, Kuni watched over it for the rest of the day, until it was able to fly away on its own. In another striking incident, a gorilla picked up a three-year-old boy who had fallen into the primate exhibit. The gorilla picked the boy up, cradled him in her lap, and then took the boy to on-looking zookeepers (de Waal 2005, pp. 2–3). De Waal argues that a ‘helping tendency’ did not evolve in apes in order to assist members of other species. However, nature is such that an adaptive trait can evolve and ‘soar free from its origin’ (de Waal 2005, p. 180; also de Waal 2009, p. 129).44 Targeted helping across species can and does exist, and it is apparently not confined to bonobos or gorillas. Examples abound and evoke a sense of admiration for the innate goodness in animals. For example, a black Labrador saved its boy owner from a snake by warding it off and being bitten itself (de Waal 2005, p. 180). Eyewitnesses watched a seal push a drowning dog to shore in England. Dolphins and whales have often saved endangered human swimmers (de Waal 2009, p. 129). As de Waal notes, humans also show sympathy to other species, such as the great efforts people sometimes go to in order to save beached whales. In one remarkable instance, a 50-foot whale approached and gently touched several divers who had spent about an hour freeing it from fishing ropes. One diver contended that the whale seemingly

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wanted to thank them for their tremendous effort before swimming away (de Waal 2009, pp. 130–1). Although de Waal acknowledges that developing solidarity across boundaries is by no means easy or inevitable, he seems to believe that we may be moving in this direction. The relatively recent effort to promote universal human rights is an attempt to adapt a biological tendency that evolved within groups. We are now even attempting to apply rights to other animals (de Waal 2005, p. 224). De Waal, like Wilson, contends that culture and religion have a role to play in retraining our emotions to create inclusive solidarity. Yet, he stresses that the ‘building blocks’ of fairness and justice are already there, and that our innate moral emotions can override moral rules that demonise or remain indifferent to others (de Waal 2005, pp. 223–5). De Waal draws significant conclusions from his research about how to further inclusive solidarity. First, because apes exhibit both a competitive and communal spirit, neither capitalism nor socialism coheres perfectly with our inner nature. The inequalities generated by neoliberal capitalism in the United States, for example, ‘deny the basic solidarity that makes life bearable’ and go ‘against a long evolutionary history of egalitarianism’ (de Waal 2005, p. 245).45 He also claims that among primates ‘cooperation breaks down if benefits aren’t shared among all participants, and human behaviour likely follows the same principle’ (de Waal 2005, p. 245).46 Although he fluctuates between hope for inclusive solidarity and the strong biological tendency towards exclusive solidarity, he ultimately claims that we might be able to build upon our natural capacities, rather than going against them, ‘if we could manage to see people on other continents as part of us’ (de Waal 2005, p. 245). He recognises this is an arduous task. However, he concludes by saying that ‘truly beneficial intergroup relations’ may not be as impossible as many economists, political scientists and military planners argue. After all, most of human history has been peaceful. As anthropologist Douglas Fry has argued, war is a relatively new phenomenon and did not exist for roughly 99 per cent of human history (Fry 2007). Moreover, we have evolved equally from the chimpanzee, our more aggressive ancestor, and the bonobo, which does not exhibit warring tendencies, and relates well to members of out-groups (de Waal 2005, p. 248). Although biological evolution of the human race is likely complete, cultural evolution moves ahead. For example, it is unlikely our thumbs will grow longer to accommodate text-messaging; rather, texting developed so as to accommodate the anatomy of our thumbs (de Waal 2005, pp. 237–9). As culture continues to evolve, it builds on the natural capacities for empathy, sympathy and targeted helping that we already possess. Therefore, when Catholicism and other religions stress inclusive solidarity, for example, they are not ‘turning human behaviour around’. Rather, they only ‘underline pre-existing capacities’, as de Waal puts it (de Waal 2009, p. 181; also de Waal 2005, p. 245). A major question arising out of Wilson’s work is whether or not the pro-social behaviours and ‘moral virtues’ he ascribes to the group-level adaptation process can transcend group boundaries (Wilson 2002, p. 10). Wilson cautions those who wish to see a natural basis for phenomena like inclusive solidarity in group selection theory. He rightly claims that groups are ‘often adapted to behave aggressively toward other groups’ (Wilson 2002, pp. 10, 38). Does the willingness of individuals to sacrifice for



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the sake of the common good within groups require the existence of a common enemy to be defeated? Wilson argues that ‘working together as a group comes naturally to our species’ whenever the group faces a problem such as ‘a hostile environment or group’ (Wilson 2002, pp. 26–7). In War and Peace and War: The Rise and Fall of Empires biologist Peter Turchin contends that large societies have successfully formed high levels of cooperation when necessary to defeat an enemy (Turchin 2006).47 If, however, groups often unite in a common cause in the face of hostile groups or environments, as Wilson states, human groups might perhaps achieve solidarity without demonising outsiders. For example, might humans be capable of coming together across racial, ethnic, religious and national boundaries in the face of a global ecological crisis? What types of environmental conditions foster this kind of group effort, and can they be replicated without promoting between-group conflict? This question must be carefully addressed because the Catholic tradition maintains that ‘solidarity does not need an enemy’ to grow and ‘turns towards all and not against anyone’ (Tischner 1984, pp. 2–3). In my judgment, Wilson has not yet answered these questions definitively, but he provides helpful clues. He states that the search for ‘a universal morality that transcends group boundaries … does not follow automatically from group selection theory’. He also correctly points out that religious moral systems, including Roman Catholicism, have often promoted ‘out-group hostility’, not inclusive solidarity (Wilson 2002, p. 10). Moreover, the social cohesion and egalitarianism achieved in small groups and communities (e.g. hunter-gatherer bands) through adaptive evolutionary mechanisms, such as religion and morality, may not function at the level of large societies. ‘It is therefore an open question whether extreme status differences and other seeming inequalities in large-scale societies represent simple domination or rather design features that enable the society to function at a large-scale, especially in competition with other societies’ (Wilson 2002, p. 36). None the less, Wilson does not close the door on inclusive solidarity as an evolutionary possibility. He repeatedly states his belief ‘that goodness can evolve’, and he tries to demonstrate how (Wilson 2008, p. 32). In Evolution for Everyone, Wilson states that ‘the world can be a better place in the future’ and that he can ‘prove that evolutionary theory allows room for [his] kind of optimism’ (Wilson 2008, p. 29). In the introduction to Darwin’s Cathedral, he repeats his belief that human progress can make the world better. He explains later in the book that ‘moral systems include both an innate psychological component and an open-ended cultural component that enables groups to adapt to their recent environments’ (Wilson 2002, p. 44). This situation presents an opening for inclusive solidarity in the contemporary globalised world. As moral systems more greatly recognise the increasing human interdependence of our world, they may adjust their norms to this milieu. Wilson may have this in mind when he writes that ‘the larger human groups become, the more culture is required to channel the emotional outpourings of our innate psychology, which was originally designed to work primarily in small groups’ (Wilson 2002, p. 204). He argues that Christianity and ‘virtually all other religions’ have served as adaptive ‘glue’ binding communities and even whole cities such as Calvin’s Geneva together, but they have failed to promote ‘universal brotherhood’. From his perspective, this shortcoming should not be surprising, given that the

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evolutionary pressures of group selection tend to breed hostility towards out-groups (Wilson 2002, p. 217). For his part, Wilson surveys a number of religious systems to validate his basic argument about religion as an evolutionary adaptation that confers fitness advantages on its members. Wilson maintains, however, that the natural selection process predictably has led to the in-group/out-group dynamic found in all religions. Yet, he does not preclude a religion or another ‘social organization’ from successfully fostering inclusive solidarity (he uses the term ‘universal brotherhood’) in our evolutionary future. Given that strongly exclusivist religions have served their evolutionary purposes well, and conform to the group-selection model elegantly, Wilson assumes that this will be a difficult task. He chides those who overlook the ‘adaptive sophistication that already exists’ in religions, while also admonishing those who look for facile solutions to complex social problems like out-group hostility. None the less, Wilson states that a ‘cultural structure’ that promotes inclusive solidarity may or may not yet exist, ‘but can anyone prove that cultural evolution has already run its course, that all symphonies have been written and all structures built? I think not’ (Wilson 2002, p. 218). Furthermore, he thinks that the foundation for societies based on inclusive solidarity lies in our evolutionary past. Contrary to the images of our ancestors as brutal savages popularised by Hobbes, Freud and countless others, hunter-gatherer societies exhibited a ‘spirit of communitas’, willingness to ‘work for the common good’, and an aversion to exploitation. Even though large societies become ‘differentiated to function adaptively’, they must retain a sense of solidarity in order to remain ‘robust’. Wilson implies that when a deficit of solidarity arises due to individuals pursuing their own gain at the expense of others, members of that society will no longer remain loyal to it and actively pursue its demise. He thus states: ‘by a slow and halting process, marked by frequent reversals and by no means destined to move forward, social structures evolve that work roughly for the common good’ (Wilson 2002, pp. 224–5). Thus, Wilson concludes that inclusive solidarity on a greater scale than presently seen is consistent with, but not an inevitable conclusion to, the future of human evolution. Wilson’s musings about the interplay between genes, innate psychology and culture leave open the possibility of creating something like a ‘world culture’, which would foster universal solidarity. He rejects the notion that large societies are ‘unnatural’, as opposed to ‘natural’ small societies. Rather, large societies ‘require different cultures to make them hang together …’ (Wilson 2002, p. 198). Thus, nothing short of a shared culture among nations is required in order to realize John Paul II’s vision of ‘globalisation with solidarity’. To reiterate, Wilson believes that science does not deem this impossible.48 Moreover, human cooperation in the face of numerous threats to our own well-being – such as consumption of dangerous levels of fat, sugar and salt, which made sense in the past but not in the present environmental chaos created by our consumption patterns – is an urgent task. From a biological perspective, ‘we need to understand how adaptations function and attempt to intervene when they malfunction in our current lives’ (Wilson 2008, p. 57). Without cooperation to find solutions, we risk extinction as a species. However, humans have adapted to their environments in myriad ways throughout our history, and it is certainly possible to do so again (Wilson 2008, pp. 54–7).



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Wilson offers a number of concrete suggestions that might help us evolve towards an inclusive solidarity that promotes the universal common good. Only a few can be summarised here. He notes that human behaviour is not completely determined by genes. In Wilson’s view, the proper understanding of ‘genetic determinism’ holds that ‘… all creatures live in variable environments and are instructed by their genes to behave in a number of ways, depending on the specific conditions that they encounter’ (Wilson 2008, pp. 93–4). Generally speaking, ‘there are two very different pathways to evolutionary success’. We can either prosper by taking advantage of others, or by working together towards mutual gains. We can make the latter, i.e. ‘traits we associate with goodness’, more prevalent by providing the right environmental conditions (Wilson 2008, pp. 32, 63–4, 92–3). Wilson fundamentally argues that if we begin to understand human nature in evolutionary terms, we can move towards finding a ‘more sustainable way of life’ (Wilson 2008, p. 73). What conditions could foster broad cooperation? For starters, eliminating large social and economic inequalities appears necessary to create stable societies with lower homicide and teenage pregnancy rates. An evolutionary perspective reveals that males and females who perceive that their chances to succeed reproductively are meagre because of shorter life spans will rationally avail themselves of whatever means necessary to reproduce early. Males in this situation are willing to undertake risks, even violent confrontation, in order to achieve status in their community, which will boost their prospects for reproduction. Females will desire to get pregnant as early as possible if they perceive their life span to be relatively short. Margo Wilson and Martin Daly’s research in Chicago neighbourhoods confirmed this fact. According to their findings, income inequality was the best predictor of homicide rates. Life expectancy closely correlated to income inequality levels. In turn, lower life expectancy rates corresponded to higher teenage pregnancy rates. When asked why they were getting pregnant at an early age, the women in the study often responded that they hoped their own mothers would live to see their children, and that they would survive to see their own grandchildren (Wilson 2008, pp. 94–9). Wilson concludes that if communities want to reduce early pregnancy and violence, they must ‘create a stable social environment with high life expectancy and reliable means for obtaining status without violent conflict’ (Wilson 2008, p. 97). This evolutionary perspective clearly calls for an inclusive solidarity that crosses racial and socio-economic boundaries to promote the participation and rights of all. Wilson enumerates a number of other conditions (‘homespun evolutionary wisdom’) that point towards ‘political ideals’ contrary to Social Darwinism (Wilson 2008, p. 285). Although his ideas do not provide a blueprint for inclusive solidarity, they take steps in that direction. First, we should recognise that violent conflict is not endemic to the human condition. Like de Waal, Wilson argues that violence can be reduced or eradicated by eliminating the conditions under which it thrives (Wilson 2008, p. 285; also de Waal 2005, pp. 147–76, 241–50). Yet, because we have an evolved predisposition to demonise out-groups, we should avoid ‘pushing the psychological buttons’ that trigger aggression towards them (Wilson 2008, pp. 285–6). Leaders of nations should not use language such as ‘evil empire’ or ‘axis of evil’, which stimulates our in-/out-group tendencies by dehumanising our enemies. Citizens should choose

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leaders that exhibit temperance and caution in their thinking and rhetoric (Wilson 2008, p. 289). In addition, nations that use the rhetoric of fear and hatred to galvanise their citizens may succeed in the short term, but will fail in the long run. Negative emotions such as these wear away the immune system and deplete brain capacity. ‘Human potential can be developed only when we are not scared, angry or hungry’ (Wilson 2008, p. 290). Wilson also contends that in order to ‘take the global village seriously’, humans need to provide conditions that have enabled them to evolve into cooperating, egalitarian apes in our evolutionary past. Nations must first solve internal conflicts before they can become cooperating members of the larger organism. Moreover, because history reveals that nations are never purely altruistic, the global community must adopt ways of guarding egalitarianism, just as hunter-gatherer societies indemnified against self-promoters and free-loaders in their own contexts (Wilson 2008, pp. 290–2). Beyond this, just as small-scale societies flourish because they are ‘moral communities’, the international community must find a common moral system (Wilson 2008, pp. 291–2). According to Wilson, studying small-scale societies can provide guidelines for creating larger ones. For example, most small-scale societies value both autonomy and adherence to norms agreed upon by consensus (Wilson 2008, p. 293). Wilson also notes the wisdom in small-scale societies’ responding to negative behaviours first through gentle admonishment. In addition, they assume that wrong-doers are capable of changing and reintegrating into the community (Wilson 2008, p. 294). Small-scale groups also demonstrate that those who assume leadership are enabled to do so because they demonstrate humility. In hunter-gatherer bands, an arrogant leader will eventually be taken down by others in the group who band together against him (Wilson 2008, p. 292). Finally, introducing complex changes in a society is ‘like performing a major organ transplant’. In the complicated situation of an organ transplant, intimate knowledge of the patient as a complex organism is required. In likewise fashion, leaders of nations that wish to transplant their understanding of the good society must carefully understand the host nations and gain their consent (Wilson 2008, p. 295). In my judgment, Wilson’s evolutionary perspective provides knowledge that can help promote societies of inclusive solidarity. He draws many of the contours of a society of solidarity.49 However, Wilson’s thinking does not yet by itself provide the motivation for constructing such a society. Might religions in the contemporary era, or at least some of them, offer the kind of adaptive cultural structure Wilson posits as necessary for promoting ‘universal brotherhood’? For example, Roman Catholicism, which was certainly guilty of demonising the religious and cultural ‘other’ in the past, has undergone its own evolution.50 Greater emphasis on the unity, common bonds, and interdependence of humanity have developed rapidly in the last 50 years. Catholic popes once addressed their teaching to their ‘flock’ exclusively, and assumed that only the Catholic Church could ameliorate society’s afflictions.51 However, a major shift occurred with Pope John XXIII, who sought dialogue with ‘all men [sic] of good will’ and urged the creation of a ‘world-wide community of nations.’52 The Second Vatican Council made the call to solidarity between the church and the world explicit, and acknowledged the gifts and resources of other religious and secular traditions.53 This spirit of Vatican II spawned Pope John Paul II’s call for globalisation with solidarity.



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Although it has often been one step forward, one step back, Vatican II’s recognition of the goodness and truth in all religions has generated a great deal of collaboration and mutual respect between Roman Catholics and members of other traditions.54 Historian R. Scott Appleby agrees with Wilson’s claim that all religions have a strong tendency to demonise the other. However, Appleby persuasively argues that all religions exhibit internal diversity, or ‘ambivalence’, concerning the extension of their moral norms beyond coreligionists. Most traditional religious sources contain oppressive strands, but they also possess elements that promote equality, human rights and peace. Moreover, Appleby adduces numerous examples of ‘strong, but moderate religions’ that make key contributions to civil society via trade unions, independent media, civic organisations and private schools in recent decades (Appleby 2000, p. 76). He draws examples from many religious traditions, including Islam, which is often depicted as antithetical to democracy and universal human rights (Appleby 2000). Succinctly stated, perhaps humans are evolving towards ever-greater degrees of inclusive solidarity to foster a universal common good, and religions (as well as secular traditions) are now playing their role in cultural evolution to advance it. Although complete agreement among all religious believers does not exist, it is perhaps the case that the world’s religions have slowly evolved to recognise elements of a common morality, such as the belief in the equality and rights of all human beings.55 The 1998 Universal Declaration of Human Rights by the World’s Religions bears witness to this development.56 In other words, perhaps religions are slowly helping us to become the kinder, gentler bonobo that exists in all of us by revealing to ever-greater degrees that we are one human family. Perhaps science and religion are moving towards the view that solidarity across group boundaries may not be as unnatural as has often been claimed.

Conclusion In addition to enhancing our understanding of the biological roots of solidarity, a deeper appreciation of the insights of scientists like de Waal and Wilson has practical benefits. The contemporary world desperately needs a hopeful anthropology to undergird an ethic of solidarity, which in turn is needed to address problems such as world poverty, racism, sexism, homophobia and white privilege, prevention of treatable diseases and environmental destruction. As the chaplain and philosopher of the Polish Solidarność movement Józef Tischner maintained, human beings must cultivate hope in the possibility of solidarity in one another (Tischner 1992, p. 95; also Tischner and Żakowski 1996, p. 94). Because exaggerated and/or baseless ‘scientific’ claims about selfish human nature often undergird Social Darwinist agendas, appealing to evolutionary biology as a basis for solidarity may be a useful avenue for those who wish to advance the common good and the rights of all. It must be acknowledged, however, that detractors have objected to parts or all of de Waal’s and Wilson’s thinking. For example, Wilson’s defence of group-selection theory remains disputed.57 Against de Waal, Pinker argues that we should not rush to hasty conclusions about our evolutionary past and evolved human morality based on

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the relatively scant observations of bonobos, mostly confined to animals in captivity. Following Richard Wrangham, he also maintains that there is good reason to believe that humans did not evolve from the bonobo, but rather from chimpanzees (Pinker 2011, p. 39).58 Other researchers have concluded that the evidence for empathy in chimpanzees has been overblown, pointing to ‘the absence of other-regarding sentiments in chimpanzees’ (Vonk 2008, p. 1769). In addition to such challenges from the scientific community, history and present realities reveal that human nature has strong inclinations to in-group solidarity and out-group exclusion. While progress has been made on some fronts, recent human history discloses that this tendency remains robust. Dismantling the tendency to demonise ‘others’ – outside of one’s nation, religion, race or ideological group – will not be easy. While achieving anything like universal solidarity may be a Herculean task, it cannot be argued with certitude that it surpasses human potentiality. Evolved human nature may in fact contain the latent capacities for this transformation. At a minimum, we may say that evolutionary science has not proven otherwise; the disagreements among scientists indicate that theories abound on both sides of the debate. This fact may help us to dispense with the claim that we know that our evolved human nature cannot allow for universal solidarity, and that science tells us so. This statement may be a ‘baby step’ towards universal solidarity, but it is none the less an important one.

Notes 1

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A lengthier version of this chapter appeared as Gerald J. Beyer, ‘Solidarity by Grace, Nature or Both? The Possibility of Human Solidarity in the Light of Evolutionary Biology and Catholic Moral Theology’, The Heythrop Journal 55 (5) (2013): 732–55.  I am grateful to the journal and Wiley Blackwell for permission to reprint portions here.  The introduction here also draws on my article ‘Czy solidarność jest przeciwna ludzkiej naturze? Wgląd z perspektywy biologii ewolucyjnej’, Prakseologia, 153 (2012): 51–66. John Paul II, ‘Message of His Holiness Pope John Paul II for the Celebration of the World Day of Peace: “From the Justice of Each Comes Peace for All”’ nos 3–4. Available from: http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/messages/peace/ documents/hf_jp-ii_mes_08121997_xxxi-world-day-for-peace_en.html (accessed 8 February 2015). See also John Paul II, Redemptor Hominis, no. 16 and John Paul II, Sollicitudo Rei Socialis, no. 39. Of course, there are many others within and outside the Catholic tradition who also call for globalisation in solidarity. See the discussion of Rorty and Habermas in Stjernø (2005), pp. 302–7; 309–11. As is well known, Rorty rejected the ideas of human ‘nature’, and ‘essence’, yet he argued for a non-foundationalist account of solidarity. See Rorty (1991), p. 189. A number of studies have examined altruism in the light of the sciences. However, as Stephen Pope has argued, altruism is too ambiguous and vacuous a category to describe the multiple and complex moral obligations of Christians. Pope correctly states that ‘other-regarding action can be immoral’. For example, suicide-bombers, religious fanatics, and the like can act in ‘altruistic’ ways to preserve their group. Cf. Pope (2007), p. 227. This chapter therefore looks instead to the robust concept of



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solidarity, which can do more than altruism to bridge the gap between Christian and evolutionary accounts of human morality. In my article ‘Solidarity by Grace, Nature of Both?’ (2013) I also treat the positions of Christian theologians who posit that solidarity transcends our natural capacities. In this vein Wilson writes: ‘… in the past morality and evolution have tended to occupy opposite corners of human thought. Now it appears that they must be studied together, and even from a purely biological standpoint morality is part of the essence of what it means to be human’ (Wilson 2002, p. 223). This brief discussion of the Catholic understanding of solidarity draws on my fuller treatment in Gerald J. Beyer, Recovering Solidarity: Lessons from Poland’s Unfinished Revolution (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2010) and Gerald J. Beyer, ‘The Meaning of Solidarity in Catholic Social Teaching’, Political Theology, 15 (1) (2014): 7–25. See also Stjernø (2005), pp. 60–75; 311–16. Franciszek Kampka, ‘Solidarność w nauczaniu Jana Pawła II’, in Zuziak (2001), pp. 8–9. Heinrich Pesch SJ spoke of ‘factual solidarity’. See Anton Rauscher, ‘Źródła idei solidarności’, in Zuziak (2001), p. 25. John Paul II discusses the recognition of interdependence as an aspect of solidarity in Sollicitudo Rei Socialis, nos 38–9. Kampka, ‘Solidarność w nauczaniu Jana Pawła II’, pp. 8–9. See also Paul VI, Populorum Progressio, no. 17. John Paul II, Sollicitudo Rei Socialis, no. 38. Unless otherwise noted, all papal encyclicals are quoted from the Vatican website, http://w2.vatican.va/content/ vatican/en.html (accessed 8 February 2015). For a more thorough discussion of solidarity’s relationship to the option for the poor, see Beyer (2010), pp. 21–4. See Hollenbach (2002), pp. 159–65, 90–3; Kampka, ‘Solidarność w nauczaniu Jana Pawła II’, p. 9. Pesch, whose writing on ‘solidarist economics’ influenced the modern papal social tradition, emphasised that solidarity must be embodied in social and legal structures governing interpersonal relationships. Rauscher, ‘Źródła idei solidarności’, p. 26. I discuss this difference in Beyer (2010), pp. 88–96. See the discussion of various understandings of solidarity in Stjernø (2005), pp. 74, 85–8. This claim relies on the work of Józef Tischner. See Tischner (1984). I explain various ways of embodying solidarity with different persons in more detail in Beyer (2010), pp. 24–5. See for example John XXIII, Mater et Magistra, nos 23, 92; John XXIII, Pacem in Terris, no. 80; Paul VI, Populorum progressio, no. 62. I am indebted here to Franciszek Kampka’s analysis of solidarity as a regulatory principle in economic life according to Catholic social thought in Kampka (1995), pp. 60–1. John Paul II, ‘Message of His Holiness Pope John Paul II for the Celebration of the World Day of Peace: “From the Justice of Each Comes Peace for All”, nos 3–4. Available from: http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/john_paul_ii/messages/peace/ documents/hf_jp-ii_mes_08121997_xxxi-world-day-for-peace_en.html (accessed 8 February 2015). See also John Paul II, Redemptor Hominis, no. 16 and John Paul II, Sollicitudo Rei Socialis, no. 39. For example, in his pre-papal writing John Paul II argued that political opposition can be an expression of solidarity when it is ‘a form of participation in the common good’ and ‘aimed at attaining that which is true and just’. See Wojtyła (2000), p. 325.

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Solidarity Beyond Borders The pope also acknowledged ‘the positive role of conflict’ when it ‘takes the form of a struggle for social justice’. See John Paul II, Centesimus Annus, no. 14. Brzezinski (1993, p. 17). Conversely, Steven Pinker has argued that we perhaps live in the least violent time of human history. See Pinker (2011), pp. xxi–xxviii, 49, 193–200. For a critique of Pinker’s claims, see Fry (2012). For example, see Gunn (2001). For a classic statement of realism and its view of the human person, see Morgenthau and Thompson (1993), p. 4. See also Niebuhr (1986). See also de Waal (2005), pp. 22–3, 243; de Waal (2009), pp. 162–3; Wilson (2002), pp. 224–5. De Waal (2005), pp. 22–3; 217, 242 and de Waal (2009), pp. 28–9. De Waal also notes that Social Darwinism, the view that the progress of the strong at the expense of the weak benefits the whole of humanity, has little in common with Darwin’s own thinking about evolution and morality. For a more extensive scholarly account of Darwin’s views, see Peter J. Richerson and Robert Boyd, ‘Darwinian Evolutionary Ethics: Between Patriotism and Sympathy’, in Clayton and Schloss (2004). Dawkins contends this problem arose from misinterpretations of his work in the new introduction to the thirtieth anniversary edition of The Selfish Gene. See Dawkins (2009), pp. vii–xiv. I am using the terms ‘sociobiologist’ and ‘sociobiology’ here in accordance with one of the most common usages. However, the term has been understood in various ways. On this debate, see D. S. Wilson and E. O. Wilson (2007). Christopher Boehm, ‘Explaining the Pro-Social Side of Moral Communities’, in Clayton and Schloss (2004), p. 79; see also de Waal (2009), p. 43. Ghiselin (1974), p. 247. Cited in Holmes Rolston III, ‘The Good Samaritan and His Genes’, in Clayton and Schloss (2004), p. 240. Rolston provides an interesting and accessible account of sociobiology and a compelling critique of it in this article. Craig A. Boyd, ‘Thomistic Natural Law and the Limits of Evolutionary Psychology’, in Pope (2007), p. 227. On this topic, see Dawkins (2009), pp. 12–20. Dawkins uses the term ‘survival machines’ in Dawkins (2009), pp. xxi, 19, 24. Ibid., p. 10. Stephen Pope has pointed out that Huxley did not therefore conclude, like Spencer, that humans must resign themselves to life as inevitably ‘survival of the fittest’. Rather, ‘[d]ignity for Huxley is created in the human fight against base instincts rooted in evolution’. Pope (2007), p. 192. This confirms de Waal’s criticism that Huxley sees the quest for morality as overcoming our animal nature. See de Waal (2005), pp. 22–3, 242–3; de Waal (2009), pp. 28–9, 39–45; Wilson (2008), pp. 39–40; Wilson (2002), pp. 224–5. Darwin himself supported group selection theory, which retained its ascendancy until the 1960s. For an interesting and relevant defence of group selection, see Boehm, ‘Explaining the Pro-Social Side of Moral Communities’, in Clayton and Schloss (2004). I discuss Christian theological reflection on solidarity and human nature in Beyer (2013). According to Ben Macintyre, humans share 98.7 per cent of their DNA with bonobos. Ben Macintyre, ‘It’s a Bonobo-Help-Bird World, not Dog-Eat-Dog’, The Times, 22 October 2009. De Waal discusses here the discovery of mirror neurons in monkeys, which collapse the ‘distinction between the self and other’.



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36 De Waal states that elephants are capable of targeted helping, such as an elephant helping a sick elephant to its feet. Dolphins, and possibly dogs, are also capable of it. See de Waal (2009), pp. 92–3; 125–34. 37 See also de Waal (2009), p. 123, where de Waal refers to this as the co-emergence hypothesis. 38 For an extended discussion of the ‘mirror test’ and elephants, dolphins, apes and magpies, see de Waal (2009), pp. 121–49. 39 Wilson states Lynn Margulis first proposed this widely-accepted idea in 1970. See also Wilson’s lucid and more detailed discussion of this in Wilson (2008), pp. 133–8. 40 John XXIII introduced the idea of socialisation in his 1961 encyclical Mater et Magistra. He spoke of ‘… a daily more complex interdependence of citizens …’ See John XXIII, Mater et Magistra in O’Brien and Shannon (1992), nos 59, 93. 41 These famous quotations are from Hobbes’s Leviathan. De Waal notes that Hobbes not only inaccurately depicts human nature, he also distorts wolves, which are ‘among the most gregarious and cooperative animals on the planet’. De Waal (2006), p. 3. 42 Wilson explains how this works in much greater detail than can be provided here in the chapter intriguingly entitled ‘the Egalitarian Ape’. 43 De Waal explicitly uses the word solidarity in his books. See for example de Waal (2005), p. 228. 44 De Waal puts it simply in a video presentation: ‘other animals can trigger the empathy mechanism’. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UONxT4Tb3C0 (accessed 8 February 2015). 45 De Waal draws here on the anthropological studies of Christopher Boehm, whose work he explicitly discusses in de Waal (2009), p. 161. 46 Monkeys, for example, will stop cooperating when another monkey gets a better reward (grapes) than their own (cucumbers). See de Waal (2009), pp. 187–8. 47 This does not equate with the ‘man the warrior’ thesis, which holds that humans have engaged in frequent warring throughout the entire span of human history. See Fry (2007). 48 Readers of Teilhard de Chardin might recognise the points of similarity (and difference) between his and Wilson’s views of our evolutionary future. Wilson discusses his appreciation for Teilhard’s work in a fascinating interview on the American radio programme ‘On Being’, available at: http://www.onbeing.org/program/ teilhard-de-chardins-planetary-mind-and-our-spiritual-evolution/4965 (accessed 8 February 2015). See also Wilson’s related blog on the Center for Humans and Nature website, http://www.humansandnature.org/to-be-human---david-sloan-wilsonresponse-13.php (accessed 8 February 2015). 49 In his latest book, Wilson puts his ‘evolutionary tool kit’ into action by working with others to improve neighbourhoods in Binghamton, New York. See Wilson (2011). 50 I have neither the space nor the competence to consider other religions here. This does not imply that other religions may not play a similar role in promoting universal solidarity. However, I must leave that discussion to experts in those religions. I will make some general claims about all religions below. 51 See for example Leo XIII, Rerum Novarum, nos 18, 22. 52 John XXIII includes this formulation in the salutation of a papal encyclical for the first time in Pacem in Terris (1963). On the call for a ‘world community’ and the ‘universal common good’, see Pacem in Terris, no. 7, 139, 140. Catholic theologians such as Pierre Teilhard de Chardin preceded John XXIII in calling for a world community. See Teilhard de Chardin (1971), p. 37. The essays in this book were

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Solidarity Beyond Borders written much earlier than Pacem in Terris. On Teilhard’s influence on John XXIII, see Hebblethwaite and Hebblethwaite (2000), pp. 185, 217, 245. See especially the Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World, Gaudium et Spes. Available at http://w2.vatican.va/content/vatican/en.html (accessed 8 February 2015). See Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-Christian Religions, Nostra Aetate. Available at http://w2.vatican.va/content/vatican/en.html (accessed 8 February 2015). I provide a brief overview of the development in religious traditions towards modern conceptions of human rights in Beyer (2011). The text of this document, along with discussions of the world’s major religions and human rights, can be found in Runzo (2003). Wilson acknowledges (and laments) the ongoing debate. See: http://scienceblogs. com/primatediaries/2009/09/28/frans-de-waal-david-sloan-wils/ and http:// seedmagazine.com/content/article/altruism_vs._selfishness_case_closed/ (accessed 8 February 2015). I am indebted to Stephen Pope of Boston College for several of the critical references in this section to Wilson’s and de Waal’s work. I am also grateful to him for stimulating debate about my argument here. For philosophical critiques of de Waal, see the essays by Christine M. Korsgaard, Robert Wright, Philip Kitcher and Peter Singer in de Waal (2006). In my judgment, de Waal adequately replies to their critiques in his response.

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Ghiselin, M. T. (1974), The Economy of Nature and the Evolution of Sex, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Gunn, G. B. (2001), Beyond Solidarity: Pragmatism and Difference in a Globalized World, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hebblethwaite, P. and M. Hebblethwaite (2000), John XXIII: Pope of the Century, London: Continuum. Hollenbach, D. (2002), The Common Good and Christian Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kampka, F. (1995), Antropologiczne i społeczne podstawy ładu gospodarczego w świetle nauczania koscioła, Lublin: KUL. MacIntyre, B. ‘It’s a Bonobo-Help-Bird World, not Dog-Eat-Dog’, The Times, October 22, 2009. Morgenthau, H. J. and K. W. Thompson (1993), Politics among Nations: The Struggle for Power and Peace (brief edn), New York: McGraw–Hill. Niebuhr, R. (1986), ‘Augustine’s Political Realism’, in R. McAfee Brown (ed.), The Essential Reinhold Niebuhr: Selected Essays and Addresses, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. O’Brien, D. J. and T. A. Shannon (eds) (1992), Catholic Social Thought: The Documentary Heritage, Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Pinker, S. (2011), The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined, New York: Penguin Books. Pope, S. J. (2007), Human Evolution and Christian Ethics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rorty, R. (1991), Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Runzo, J., N. Martin and A. Sharma (eds) (2003), Human Rights and Responsibilities in the World Religions: Oxford: Oneworld. Sen, A. K. (1987), On Ethics and Economics, Oxford: Blackwell. Sibley, A. (2011), The ‘Poisoned Spring’ of Economic Libertarianism, Pax Romana/CM ICA – USA. Stjernø, S. (2005), Solidarity in Europe: The History of an Idea, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Teilhard de Chardin, P. (1971), Human Energy, trans. J. M. Cohen, New York: Harcourt. Tischner, J. (1981), Etyka solidarności, Kraków: Znak. —(1984), The Spirit of Solidarity (1st edn), San Francisco: Harper & Row. —(1992), Etyka solidarności oraz homo sovieticus, Kraków: Znak. Tischner, J. and J. Żakowski (1996), Tischner czyta katechizm, Kraków: Znak. Turchin, P. (2006), War and Peace and War: The Life Cycles of Imperial Nations, New York: Pi. Vonk, J., S. F. Brosnan, J. B. Silk, J. Henrich, A. S. Richardson, S. P. Lambeth, S. J. Schapiro and D. J. Povinelli. (2008), ‘Chimpanzees Do Not Take Advantage of Very Low-Cost Opportunities to Deliver Food to Unrelated Group Members’, Animal Behavior, 75: 1769. Waal, F. B. M. de (2005), Our Inner Ape: A Leading Primatologist Explains Why We Are Who We Are, New York: Riverhead Books. —(2009), The Age of Empathy: Nature’s Lessons for a Kinder Society, New York: Harmony Books. Waal, F. B. M. de, C. M. Korsgaard, R. Wright, P. Kitcher and P. Singer; Edited and introduced by S. Macedo and J. Ober (2006), Primates and Philosophers: How Morality Evolved, The University Center for Human Values Series, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

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Wilson, D. S. (2002), Darwin’s Cathedral: Evolution, Religion, and the Nature of Society, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —(2008), Evolution for Everyone: How Darwin’s Theory Can Change the Way We Think about Our Lives, New York: Delta. —(2011), The Neighborhood Project: Using Evolution to Improve My City, One Block at a Time, New York: Little, Brown and Co. Wilson, D. S. and E. O. Wilson (2007), ‘Rethinking the Theoretical Foundation of Sociobiology’, The Quarterly Review of Biology, 82 (4): 327–48. Wojtyła, K. (2000), Osoba i czyn oraz inne studia antropologiczne (3rd edn), Lublin: Towarzystwo Naukowe KUL. Zuziak, W. (ed.) (2001), Idea solidarności dzisiaj, Kraków: PAT.

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Towards a Global Ethics of Non-violence Charles P. Webel and Sofia Khaydari

Introduction About 80 years ago, at the height of the Great Depression, Albert Einstein and Sigmund Freud engaged in one of the twentieth century’s most famous epistolary exchanges, commencing on 30 July 1932, when Einstein addressed ‘the most insistent of all problems civilisation has to face …: Is there any way of delivering mankind from the menace of war?’ Both Einstein and Freud, who were ‘congenital pacifists’, agreed that the selfish and rapacious instincts of political and economic elites contribute significantly to warfare, and, to mitigate this, a supra-national organisation with the power to tame these belligerents should be created. In 1945, the United Nations came into existence in San Francisco, and central to its peace-making and peacekeeping mission was the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, based in part on the assumptions that non-violent means of conflict resolution are preferable to violence, and that there exist global human values all nations and transnational organisations need to affirm and institutionalise.1 Unfortunately, despite the creation of the United Nations, humanity has not been delivered from its bellicosity, and a ‘global ethics’ in general, with non-violence at its core, is far from realisation. To understand the desirability but seeming fancifulness of a ‘global ethics’ with non-violence as one of its cardinal values, it is helpful to examine the theoretical and empirical foundations, as well as the possible shortcomings, of global values in general and non-violence in particular. This can aid our understanding of human potentials that are everpresent but unseen in ordinary circumstances, in part due to the mass media’s obsession with ‘If it bleeds, it leads’ events and their consequent neglect of the many successes of non-violent resistance, revolution and related forms of peacemaking. Since our framework for addressing these questions is generally from the field of Peace and Conflict Studies (PCS), we will begin by explicating the utility of PCS for global ethics in general and the value of non-violence in particular.

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1 Framing a global ethic of non-violence through the lens of Peace and Conflict Studies Peace and Conflict Studies (PCS) investigates the reasons for and outcomes of largeand small-scale conflicts, as well as the preconditions for peace. PCS allows one to examine the reasons for and prevention of wars, as well as the nature of violence, including social oppression, discrimination and marginalisation, or what Johan Galtung and others call ‘structural violence’. Through the rigorous analysis of peace and conflict, one can also learn peacemaking strategies. PCS accordingly analyses individual and collective violent and non-violent behaviours as well as the structural mechanisms underlying social conflicts in order to understand and transform those processes that might lead to a more peaceful planet. In this way, the field is explicitly value-oriented, since it assumes and provides evidence for the claim that peace is (almost always) preferable to war, and the job of peace researchers is not merely to understand the dynamics of war and peace, but also actively to promote the latter. Peace and Conflict Studies also addresses the effects of political and social violence, the causes of this violence and what can be done to resolve conflicts peacefully. People concerned about violence are turning to peace education as a means to heighten awareness about the roots of violence and to promote non-violent alternatives to violent means of conflict resolution. Central to peace studies, peace education and peace research is a concern not just with understanding the world but with changing it. This is a bone of contention for academics who espouse ‘value neutrality and scientific impartiality’, especially by such more conventional disciplines as political science, international relations and strategic or security studies. PCS is thus normative (or prescriptive) and analytic (or descriptive). As a normative discipline, it often makes value judgments, such as peace and non-violence are better than war and violence. But it makes these judgments on the basis of both ethical postulates (i.e. humans should resolve conflicts as non-violently as possible) and analytic descriptions (i.e. most violent efforts to resolve conflicts in fact result in less social stability than non-violent means of conflict resolution). The explicit value commitment of peace studies to peace requires another value central to the very definition of PCS – that violence is undesirable and almost always unethical, and that where the same human goods can be achieved by them, non-violent means are preferable to violent ones. Accordingly, what distinguishes PCS from most academic fields are principally its subject matter – peace, violence, conflict and power – its multi-disciplinary methodology, and its aim of identifying, testing and implementing many different strategies for dealing with conflict situations. When Gandhi said that the theory and practice of non-violence was at the same level as electricity in Edison’s day, he was probably right. ‘Peace by peaceful means’ has taken the first step on the long road from being a slogan to becoming a reality. In part, the dream of peace is synonymous with the globalisation and legitimation of non-violent means of conflict resolution and transformation. To this end, a global



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ethic of non-violence is a necessary but insufficient condition, since action as well as theory is required to pacify the planet.

2 Global ethics? The idea of a ‘global ethics’ is as old as philosophical and religious ethics, and dates back to at least the fifth century bc. Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, Jews, Hindus and Buddhists, among others, asserted the existence of such universally desirable values as virtue, fortitude, compassion, temperance, self-control and integrity, among others. What the Greeks and Romans called ‘virtues’, unlike some Asian spiritual traditions (most notably Buddhism), did not explicitly include non-violence, but assumed that ethical values were universal, not subjective, and that reason and deliberation were almost always preferable to passion and wilfulness, especially when seeking fair and equitable means of conflict resolution. Christianity and Islam may be interpreted in text and in deed as preaching similar virtues, but in practice, like their secular equivalents, bequeathing a mixed legacy lasting to the present. The obstacles, inner and outer, to ‘practising what one preaches’, especially tolerance, love and doing no harm, are many. Aristotle’s notion of ‘weakness of the will’ (akrasia) captures the difficulty at the individual level, while recent social scientific work highlights situational and political constraints on ‘virtuous’ activity as well. Millennia after what the German philosopher Karl Jaspers called the ‘Axial Age’ (roughly the eighth century to the second century bc in the Greek-speaking, Indian, Persian and Chinese communities), and despite many sceptical, relativist and empiricist challenges and political obstacles, the idea of a global ethics has undergone something of a revival. The great wars, cold and hot, of the twentieth century, and the persistent problems of poverty, injustice and -isms of all stripes, have spurred the creation of such transnational organisations as the United Nations, the World Bank, the World Economic Forum, the World Health Organization, TRANSCEND and other NGOs dedicated to non-violent social transformation, and the like, whose official missions include the reduction of inequity, poverty, disease and related ills, and the promotion of social justice and world peace. In addition, philosophers, spiritual leaders, many political activists and numerous social and biological scientists have increasingly addressed the ‘practical’ (i.e. ethical, empirical and political) applications of such values as justice and equity. This has led to a proliferation of scholarly and non-specialist discussions of the existence and viability of a global set of values,2 moreover, one that, while disseminating what the Scholastics might have called ‘cardinal virtues’ (prudence, justice, temperance and fortitude for Thomas Aquinas), none the less promotes respect for most, but not all, cultural differences and practices, especially decrying as unethical and illegal under international law such crimes against humanity as genocide, ethnic cleansing and violence against women and children. What is usually called ‘globalisation’ has played as key role in both revitalising and inhibiting global ethics. Here, we take globalisation to denote all those processes

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by which the peoples of the world are becoming incorporated into a single, global society. Since its inception, the concept of globalisation has spawned competing definitions and interpretations, with antecedents dating back to the movements of trade and empire among Europe, Asia, Africa and the ‘New World’ from the fifteenth century onwards. Due to the complexity of the concept, people often focus on a single aspect of globalisation – cultural, economic, political, ethical and/or technological. Globalisation is the contemporary guise of what Max Weber, Karl Mannheim, Niklas Luhmann, Jürgen Habermas and others have called rationalisation. Most individuals and cultures are now subjected to the advantages and stresses of an increasingly rationalised, interconnected and disenchanted world. Contemporary capitalism, communications technologies and social media, and liberalism are examples of globalisation operating at the macro level, while making elaborate excuses and living in bad faith in order to defend oneself and to get by in everyday life demonstrate micro-level rationalisation in a globalised world. The spread of such Western values as pluralism, democracy and the (in principle) rule of law throughout the world has been interpreted as imperial overreach in some quarters (particularly by sectors within Islamic, Latin American and indigenous cultures) or as political, economic and social rationalisation by its proponents. But just as economic and technological globalisation have advantages (heightened trade and exchange of ideas) and disadvantages (uprooting of indigenous traditions and homogenisation of cultures), so, too, does what will be called ‘ethical globalisation’ have benefits and possible harms. Regarding the globalisation of ethics and the ethics of globalisation, if the dissemination of ‘Western’ values and institutions maximises equity, tolerance and non-violence and minimises injustice, discrimination (including sexism, racism and ageism) and violence, then from utilitarian, deontological and pacifist moral philosophies, globalisation produces more benefits then harms. Is this, however, the case? More empirical research is needed to answer this question, just as the assumptions that there either are or are not ‘global values’ need further validation.3

3 Non-violence as world-preserving value Violence does not mean emancipation from fear but discovering the means of combating the cause of fear. Nonviolence, on the other hand, has no cause for fear … It is nonviolence only when we love those who hate us. I know how difficult it is to follow this grand law of love. But are not all great and good things difficult to do? No man can be actively nonviolent and not rise against social injustice no matter where it occurred. (M. K. Gandhi)4

Non-violence is a word found in many contexts. In English, it consists of two words most people regard as negative: no(n) and violence.5 The first known use of ‘non-violence’ in English was in 1920. Non-violence has two related and sometimes reinforcing meanings:



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(i) It can refer, first, to a general philosophy of abstention from violence because of ethical or religious principles (e.g. ‘She believes in non-violence.’). This is called principled non-violence. (ii) It can also refer to the behaviour of people using non-violent action (e.g. ‘The demonstrators maintained their non-violence.’). This is called strategic non-violence. Non-violence can also be understood from two related perspectives. First, it denotes the idea of non-participation in violent activities because of one’s ethical and/or religious principles. Second, it refers to the active and constructive participation of people involved in non-violent action to resist an unjust political or social order and to transform the violent status quo into one that is more equitable and peaceful. There are also two pacifistic traditions that conceptualise and operationalise non-violence. Absolute pacifists maintain that there is no goal in the world that could justify killing human and other living beings. Pragmatic pacifists become involved in non-violent actions if they are important and efficient for political tools, such as means of communication, social movements (e.g. ‘peace’ and/or ‘antiwar’) or systems of civilian-based defence. Non-violence is often misunderstood as mere passive resistance, as an accommodating and non-threatening response to an initial action that is, as Johan Galtung might put it, based on direct, structural and/or cultural violence. However, two of the most prominent twentieth-century advocates and practitioners of non-violence, Mohandas Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr., believed non-violence to be an active ‘force more powerful’, ethical and efficacious than violence. Gandhi, for example, considered non-violence and truth to be probably the most active forces in the world and definitely much more ‘active’ than social and political movements based on the use of weapons. His non-violence is the non-violence of the strong and courageous, not merely passive consent by the weak and cowardly to existing political power. The most important and well-known Gandhian concept is Satyagraha, which means ‘soul-force’ or ‘soul-truth.’ The pursuit of truth does not imply violent actions towards one’s opponent, but instead suggests patience, compassion and the infliction of suffering on oneself. Gandhi also believed it is important not to comply with laws that are unjust. However, by doing so, one should not break the heads of the lawmakers and their security and police forces. Rather, if one chooses not to obey the laws, one should accept all the penalties coming as a result of acts of civil disobedience. Hence, political Satyagraha entails civil disobedience, passive resistance and non-cooperation. The Gandhian notion of Satyagraha is closely related to his idea of Ahimsa, or ‘doing no harm’, which is non-violent love requiring deep sympathy, kindness and absolute respect for all living creatures. Ahimsa implies the willingness of each individual to take the responsibility for reforming the planet and, if necessary, to suffer in the process. The idea of suffering (or Tapasya) is central to all the concepts developed by Gandhi. Unless one is ready to suffer, his or her commitment to non-violence is not strong or deep enough. It is important not to shift the burden of suffering to anyone

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else, but to bear it oneself with dignity. The necessity of suffering is very difficult for many people to understand and accept. Yet the concept is not altogether foreign to Westerners, particularly to those in a Christian pacifist tradition. Importantly, Gandhi rejected any doctrine in which the ends ‘justify’ the means. For Gandhi, violence is reactionary: the more violence in the world, the less possibility of revolution. Violence provokes violence by building the foundations for additional injustice and hatred. Violent political extremists often make moral compromises based on the idea that their ‘better’ vision of the world justifies any means. This concept is in no sense related to Gandhi’s view of the relationship between means and ends. Gandhi thought it would be considered foolish and ignorant for one to say ‘I want to worship God; it does not matter that I do so by means of Satan.’6 For the Dalai Lama, the problem of violence is basic to our condition, and so far it has not been solved, either by universal education or by material progress and technology.7 Science and technology are capable of creating a certain level of material comfort, but they cannot replace spiritual and moral values, which have shaped the world we know today. The Dalai Lama believes that humanity has to focus on these humanitarian values in order to bring about important political, social and economic changes. Compassion should be regarded as essential for world peace, and each individual has a universal responsibility to reform political and social institutions so that they serve human needs. The Dalai Lama assumes that all beings primarily seek peace, comfort and security. The idea of happiness is a combination of inner peace, economic development and, importantly, world peace. It is, therefore, necessary for people to develop a sense of universal responsibility and concern for all human beings, irrespective of their colour, gender or nationality. The happiness of one person or group cannot be achieved at the expense of others. The Dalai Lama suggests that a universal humanitarian approach to world problems, based on compassion, is the only real path to world peace. For the Dalai Lama, true compassion should be a response to suffering, and it is based on altruism, not personal attachments. We should advocate and practise a kind of wider love, which also spreads to our enemies. If we consider that in the long-term everyone wants to be happy and to avoid suffering, it becomes important to share what we possess with others, as the individual ‘I’ is relatively unimportant compared to the countless ‘We’s’. We should also maintain calmness and presence of mind in our day-to-day lives. Like many great spiritual and religious thinkers, the Dalai Lama believes that all the world’s major religions, including Buddhism, Christianity, Confucianism, Hinduism, Islam and Taoism, aim at leading their followers away from the negative path of ignorance and towards the path of moral goodness. All religions are essentially similar because they advocate the necessity of controlling undisciplined minds and focus on a spiritual state that is peaceful, ethical and wise. In order to achieve world peace, all religious practitioners have to promote better interfaith understanding, so that a feasible degree of unity among all religions is created to bring about a global consensus on common basic spiritual values that enhance general human happiness. Finally, according to the Dalai Lama, since all countries are becoming



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more economically interdependent, due to globalisation, our understanding should go beyond national boundaries and should embrace the international community at large. From within the Western philosophical tradition, Immanuel Kant contributed greatly to the ‘liberal idea’ of peace in general, via his analysis of the preconditions for peace between nations, as well as to the global framework needed to institutionalise what he called ‘perpetual peace’. First, Kant states that ‘no treaty of peace shall be held to be such, which is made with the secret reservation of the material for a future war.’8 Kant believes that this would be just a postponement of hostilities, not enduring peace, for peace means the end of all hostilities. He also argues that ‘no state having an independent existence, whether it be small or great, may be acquired by another state, through inheritance, exchange, purchase, or gift.’9 For Kant, a state is not a possession, but a society of independent and free men. To incorporate or graft one state into another is to transform its existence as a moral community into a thing. Kant also argues that ‘standing armies should gradually disappear’, since they threaten other states with the possibility of war. Their existence impels states to strive to fight with one another with a virtually unlimited number of soldiers. Standing armies are a main cause of wars since their expense makes peace more burdensome. Kant also desires that ‘no state shall interfere by force in the constitution and government of another state.’10 Here, however, Kant admits that it would be a different case if one state is split into two parts, each of which, while being a separate state, would account to the whole. Interference by outside powers in the internal affairs of a state would be a violation of the rights of people struggling with their internal problems. Finally, Kant suggests that ‘no state at war with another shall permit such acts of warfare as must make mutual confidence impossible in time of future peace …’11 These include, for instance, a state’s deployment of assassins or poisoners. For Kant, states at war must have some confidence in their enemy’s frame of mind, as no peace is possible otherwise and the conflict will last forever. Importantly, Kant also supported the idea of a federation of independent states. Such an international organisation would lead to the creation of a pacified union of all states, which would be different from a peace treaty in the sense that it would try to end all wars forever, not just one war. This type of union would ensure the freedom of each sovereign state as well as the sovereignty of allied states. Kant believed that this idea of a global federation can be extended to all states and can lead to eternal peace. Another important Kantian principle is the idea of universal law, which, inter alia, provides the conditions for what Kant calls universal hospitality. Hospitality implies the right of a foreigner not to be humiliated on the territory of another. According to Kant, this form of international hospitality is a human right. Despite his ‘liberal idealistic’ ethical and political convictions, Kant also claims that war itself does not require any special motivation, because it is inherent in human nature. For Kant, humankind is regarded as (a special kind of) animal species. However, our bellicose nature can, to some extent, be restrained by our rational wills, as well as by constitutional, international law, and by cosmopolitan or world law. The global establishment and (mysterious) enforcement of legal norms and duties

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is a necessary condition for eternal peace, according to Kant (and, much later, for Habermas as well).

4 The efficacy of non-violence Philosophical and spiritual justifications of non-violence as the ethical and political road to global peace would remain merely theoretical if there were no sufficient practical examples of the efficacy of non-violence in political and social transformation. There is now significant historical and empirical evidence of the widespread, effective use of non-violent techniques. Despite the fact that the international media cover mostly violent and spectacular events, it is the rule rather than the exception that revolutionary and resistance movements use non-violent techniques. Martin Luther King, Jr., for example, began to question orthodox Western liberal theology and philosophy once he became aware of the reality of sin and collective evil at every level of human existence. He still supported the ideal that liberalism is devoted to the search for truth, but he came to realise that liberalism tended to verge on a kind of false idealism in its overly optimistic view of human nature. Liberal Protestantism, according to King, tended to regard people in terms of their essential capacity for good. According to King, the problem of liberalism was that it overlooked the fact that reason alone is little more than an instrument to justify human rationalisations. At the same time, he never fully supported Christian neo-orthodoxy, which was, for King, too pessimistic regarding human nature. Thus, these two theological doctrines each presented a partial truth for King, who supported their synthesis. King also believed that existentialism presented a certain truth about the human condition. It pointed to the ultimate freedom of all people and regarded human conflict as a result of obstacles imposed on our freedom. Like the young Marx of The Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts and the psychological dimension of Frankfurt School Critical Theory, King regarded our existential situation as a result of our alienation from our ‘essential nature’ (or ‘species-being’ for Marx and Erich Fromm). King later focused on a social ethics dealing, inter alia, with racial, economic, political and legal forms of injustice. He emphasised the importance of the overall wellbeing of people, both spiritual and material. At the point when King started to search for ways to eliminate social evil, namely racial and violent conflict, he was deeply influenced by the teachings of Gandhi. Non-violent resistance and Satyagraha became profoundly important to him. The Gandhian method of non-violence appeared to King as the most potent and ethical tool available to people in their struggles for freedom. King’s first sustained experience with non-violent resistance occurred in 1954 in Montgomery, Alabama. He served as a spokesperson for the black movement spearheading the bus boycott, and he convinced many people, including whites, that it is more honourable to walk the streets in dignity than to ride the buses in humiliation. Non-violent principles of civil disobedience and active resistance became the guiding light of the movement. King’s later trip to India made him even more convinced of the power of non-violence. While he admitted that non-violence does not change the



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hearts of its opponents overnight, it does give its followers new self-respect, courage and dignity. Ultimately, King suggested that the choice today is not between violence and non-violence, but rather between non-violence and non-existence. He remained confident that the established systems of exploitation and oppression would be replaced in the future by new systems of justice and equality. Inspired by King, the extremely influential analyst and practitioner of non-violence, Gene Sharp, describes over 200 methods of non-violent action, which he organises into three types: protest and persuasion; non-cooperation; and intervention.12 When carefully chosen, applied persistently, and supported by wise strategy and appropriate tactics, non-violent methods usually overturn any illegitimate regime. Unlike military actions, non-violent struggle can focus directly on the issue. If the issue is primarily political, then non-cooperation with the regime as well as public demonstrations and strikes can work best. Similarly, if an economic issue is at stake, then boycotts, strikes and slowdowns can be appropriate resistance methods. Sharp suggests that all non-violent methods usually go through several dynamic stages, one of which is ‘political jiu-jitsu’. Political jiu-jitsu describes the dynamic of effective non-violent action in psychological, political, social and economic domains. All governments need a replenishment of the sources of their power by the cooperation and obedience of civil society, for only then can they rule. Non-violent mass political disobedience (and not violence) can most effectively serve to deplete the sources of state power. According to Sharp, non-violence and violence operate in fundamentally different ways and, therefore, even limited violence during a political resistance campaign will be counterproductive because it will shift the struggle to the advantage of dictators, where they have the overwhelming military advantage. Non-violence can be successful only if maintained, notwithstanding provocations and brutalities by the state. Historical records indicate that, although there are deaths and victims of political defiance during non-violent resistance campaigns, their numbers are far smaller than the casualties caused by military warfare. Moreover, according to Sharp, non-violent types of struggle do not contribute to the endless cycle of killing and cruelty. Brian Martin also shows that there is sufficient historical evidence to demonstrate that non-violence can be an effective method of social and political transformation. Examples of successful non-violent campaigns include the fall in 1986 of Philippines’ dictator Ferdinand Marcos; the collapse of communist regimes in Eastern Europe and the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989; and the end of apartheid in South Africa in the 1990s, among others. Martin also mentions less successful examples of non-violent resistance, namely the Chinese pro-democracy movement in 1989, and the initial movement led by Aung San Suu Kyi to overthrow the Burmese military regime. Nevertheless, the track record for non-violent movements is significantly better than for violent ones. Martin illustrates the mechanisms by which non-violence works. He points out that it is effective not only against less ruthless opponents, such as the British in India, but also against more brutal oppressors, such as the Norwegian and Danish resistance movements against Nazi occupation. Norwegian school teachers, for example, refused

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to permit the teaching of Nazi doctrine in their schools, even though many were sent to concentration camps. Martin also examines Gandhi’s, Donald Gregg’s and Gene Sharp’s analyses of non-violent resistance. He believes that Gandhian non-violence is aimed at challenging injustice, but its operational dynamics are complicated. Gregg, for instance, introduced the important concept of ‘moral jiu-jitsu’, which is a psychological process by which non-violent activists take the moral initiative, do not become surprised or suggestible, and also refrain from anger in confronting their opponents. While Gregg’s idea of the psychological conversion of attackers is not sufficiently backed by observations, it none the less spurred Sharp to develop his idea of political ‘jiu-jitsu’. Finally, Martin, following Sharp, examines the concept of political jiu-jitsu from the perspective of ‘backfire’ rather than from a more traditional violence-versus-nonviolence scenario. Backfires are contingent, since aggressors usually try to prevent them, while opponents try to intensify them. Martin believes that this struggle over political outcomes can be a social version of the individual struggle of how to respond to an unjust event. There are many examples of successful non-violent movements in addition to the American civil rights movement and Gandhi’s movement for Indian independence. In 1986, for example, the government of the Philippines autocrat Ferdinand Marcos collapsed due to the ‘people’s power’ of mass non-violent resistance. This was catalysed as a bloodless response to Marcos’s attempt to falsify elections results. Civilians intervened and placed themselves between the armed forces of Marcos and a small group of non-conformists. As a result, Marcos surrendered his power and went into exile when it became clear that his own military forces would not fight peaceful citizens. In 1968, during ‘The Prague Spring’, the Czechoslovakian government began establishing increased political and economic freedoms in order to create ‘Socialism with a Human Face’. In response, the Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. The people of Czechoslovakia mounted a remarkable campaign of non-violent resistance. There were no militant actions by the opposition, except for general strikes, work slowdowns, and non-cooperation by government employees in order to prevent the installation of a collaborationist government. After eight months of struggle, a compromise of sorts was reached with the signing of the so-called Moscow Protocol, which allowed most of the reform leaders temporarily to remain in power. However, this was short-lived. It took another generation after the ‘68ers’, the non-violent ‘Velvet Revolution’ of 1989, finally to replace Soviet authoritarianism with a nascent version of liberal democracy. The Polish trade union movement Solidarity essentially followed a non-violent path of strikes, work slowdowns and civil resistance against the Soviet-installed government. After many years of struggle, in 1989 this strategy eventually resulted in the peaceful transition to a democratic Polish government. Solidarity’s strategy also served as a model for the related emancipatory movements elsewhere in Eastern Europe and in East Germany. There are also notable examples of the successful use of non-violent resistance between states. During the nineteenth century, Austria sought to dominate its trading partner and imperial subordinate, Hungary. The Hungarians realised that physical force would be useless and counterproductive since they were militarily weaker



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than the Austrians. Accordingly, the Hungarians boycotted Austrian goods, refused to cooperate with or to recognise Austrian authorities, and established their own independent systems of education and agriculture. The Hungarians also refused to pay taxes to Austrian tax collectors or to buy or sell property from or to Austrian traders. These non-violent resistance actions resulted in an unfavourable financial situation for Austria and forced its emperor to consent to a kind of Hungarian independence within their imperial union. Another example of successful non-violent mass resistance to foreign invasion and occupation was Denmark’s non-cooperation campaign with Nazi Germany during World War II. Large numbers of Danes prevented the Nazis from seizing 94 per cent of the 8,000 Danish Jews and from sending them to concentration camps. By using creative methods of communication and transportation, the Danes were able to smuggle most of the possible victims of the Nazi regime to Sweden. During the Nazi occupation, in order to defy the German authorities, many Danes, including the king, also wore the Star of David, used by the Germans to identify Jews. More generally, is non-violence effective and can non-violence work at a global level? In order to answer this question, we have to understand what it means for non-violence to ‘work’. Non-violence does not always succeed in pursuit of one’s short-term political goals or as a means to transform society, though it does so more often than violence and with far fewer victims. As to the improvement of human condition and the preservation and enhancement of life on Earth, it is evident that non-violence works in the short and medium term. Recent research by Maria J. Stephan and Eric Chenoweth demonstrates that non-violent struggles against despotism and for self-determination are more likely than violent resistance to achieve their political objectives, even against dictatorships and highly repressive regimes.13 They studied 323 social-change campaigns from 1900 to 2006. Among their significant findings are: campaigns of non-violent resistance are about twice as likely to succeed as violent uprisings, even in the Middle East; far greater numbers of people from more diverse parts of society joined non-violent campaigns than violent ones. This greater level of participation translates into more people who can demonstrate for change, and withdraw their cooperation from an unjust regime. In short, numbers matter; and when non-violent movements overthrow an unjust regime, the victorious resistance groups are far more likely to establish democracies and protect human rights and far less likely to lapse into civil war than their violent counterparts. Overall, Chenoweth and Stephan found that major non-violent campaigns against brutal regimes were successful 53 per cent of the time. On the other hand, violent resistance campaigns against state oppressors succeeded only 26 per cent of the time. Chenoweth and Stephan suggest two reasons for the success of non-violent strategies. The first is that non-violent campaigns are domestically and internationally legitimate, which encourages more broad-based participation. The second reason is that, while violent counter-attacks by the opposition may also be justified, non-violent responses to violent attacks enhance popular support for the resistance movement by a potentially sympathetic public.

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Stephan and Chenoweth also found that non-violent campaigns are more likely than violent resistance to produce loyalty shifts by security forces and civilian officials. Also, broad-based campaigns tend to undermine the legitimacy of the opponent. State repression of non-violent campaigns often backfires. An unjust act often results in civil disobedience by the regime’s supporters, mobilisation of the population against the regime, and international criticism of the government. Moreover, non-violent resistance campaigns make their leadership seem more open to negotiation and bargaining than the government because they do not threaten the lives or well-being of members of the regime. If resistance campaigns fail to achieve widespread and decentralised mass popular mobilisation, it is unlikely that they will evoke international sanctions, as it is more costly for the state to repress thousands of activists who represent the entire population than to deal with a few dozen violent extremists. The international community is more likely to censure and sanction states for repressing non-violent than violent campaigns, which makes it more costly for a government to repress non-violent than violent protest movements. Finally, recent work by the noted psychologist Steven Pinker and the military historian Joshua Goldstein indicates, perhaps surprisingly, that humanity is ‘winning the war against war’, principally by non-violent means, because long-term historical trends indicate:14 (i) Wars today are measurably fewer and smaller than 30 years ago. (ii) The number of people killed directly by war violence has decreased by 75 per cent in that period. (iii) Interstate wars have become very infrequent and relatively small. (iv) Wars between ‘great powers’ have not occurred for more than 50 years. (v) The number of civil wars is also shrinking, though less dramatically, as old ones end faster than new ones begin. Based on these recent trends, Goldstein concludes that, ‘For now peace is increasing. Year by year, we are winning the war on war.’ Why? Because, according to Goldstein, of the ‘efforts of international peacekeepers, diplomats, peace movements, and other international organizations’ (such as the UN, EU, NATO, the African Union, as well as other nongovernmental actors and individuals) ‘in war-torn and postwar countries …’ Bottom line: ‘World peace is not preordained and inevitable, but neither is a return to large-scale war.’ And Pinker argues that ‘believe it or not … today we may be living in the most peaceable era in our species’ existence … This ‘makes the present less sinister and the past less innocent.’ His evidence for this possibly striking and counter-intuitive claim includes the following: (i) Homicide rates in Europe have declined 30-fold since the Middle Ages. (ii) Human sacrifice, slavery, punitive torture and mutilation have been virtually abolished around the world. (iii) Wars between developed countries have vanished, and even in the developing world (civil) wars kill a fraction of the numbers they did decades ago. (iv) Rape, battering, hate crimes, deadly riots, child abuse, cruelty to animals



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– ‘every category of violence from deaths in war to the spanking of children to the number of motion pictures in which animals were harmed … declined.’ (v) ‘Forms of institutionalized violence that can be eliminated by the stroke of a pen – such as capital punishment, the criminalization of homosexuality … and the corporal punishment of children in schools – will continue to decline.’ Pinker believes that non-violent factors may provide the best possible explanation for these encouraging historical trends. These are what Pinker calls our ‘Four Better Angels’, which take their roots in the best features of human nature. Our first ‘better angel’ is the ability to sympathise with the pain and suffering of other human beings. The second is being able to restrain one’s animal and belligerent inclinations by anticipatory acts and behaviours. The third is having a moral sense, or being able to perceive good from bad, especially when violence may violate one’s humanity. And Pinker’s last ‘better angel’ is the existence of human reason, which enables us to be objective and realistic. Thus, non-violence is not only effective in preventing war and other forms of armed conflict, and in replacing autocratic and dictatorial regimes with less repressive governments, but it also leads to the establishment of social justice, environmentally friendly policies, the protection of human rights and the cultivation of the best features of human beings.

5 Global peace The global application, and demonstrated success, of non-violence leads to a discussion of global peace. The superiority of peace as opposed to war as a means of conflict resolution should also be connected with equitable economic development, social justice and environmental sustainability. These policies set the foundation for the most commonly addressed concept of peace in the West today – the notion of ‘liberal peace’.15 Global peace, or non-violence on a planetary scale, would be based on such ‘liberal democratic’ values as the welfare of individuals and society, international justice, participatory institutional development, transnationalism and globally accepted legal norms. In the context of international relations, global peace entails the gradual reduction and eventual elimination of violence, eventually leading to the development and transmission of ideals, institutions and policies culminating in self-sustaining peace, both positive and negative. Often, peace is related to an achievable global objective, like the reduction of inter- and intra-state wars, based on such universal norms and the defence of inalienable human rights. This conceptualisation of peace incorporates different, but compatible, ethical and political philosophies. One is idealism, which, in the Kantian tradition, depicts peace as something complete and ‘eternal’, and, accordingly, probably unattainable. From this perspective, an enduring global peace would incorporate social, political and economic international agreements, ensured by a federated world government. Such an idealistic concept of peace does not mean, according to idealists themselves, that

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it should not be attempted. Some pragmatic idealists consider the UN’s attempts at disarmament as a possible way of achieving such a peace. Another strategy is liberal-realism, which focuses on an allegedly more realistic form of peace, one that is supported and provided by international institutions and organisations on the basis of global agreements and accepted norms. The main components of this strategy are social, economic and political rights and responsibilities, as well as transnational legal norms and institutions, and regional organisations (such as the European Union). One possible problem with this version of global peace is that it is often restricted by geographical boundaries, as not all local actors accept the norms and frameworks produced by such globally-binding agreements. Perhaps the dominant ‘peace-making’ strategy on offer today is Realpolitik, or mainstream political realism, which assumes the persistence of a geographicallybounded order preserved by ‘soft power’ wherever possible and by ‘hard power’ when ‘necessary’. Negative peace is possible, from this perspective, under a powerful hegemon or institution, whose mission is to manage territorial, ethnic, religious and other identity conflicts. It is achieved by balancing national interests and power in relation to military might. One of the many examples of such a negative peace is the Hellenistic world of the late fourth century bc, based on Alexander the Great’s conquest of the ancient Greek-speaking communities and the Persian Empire. A Marxian way of looking at peace is based on the prior establishment of social justice, participatory political democracy and a socialised mode of economic production. Here, negative peace, or the elimination of war, follows the globalisation of positive peace, including the abolition of hierarchical class systems and ‘bourgeoisdemocratic’ states. For Marxists, there is a clear need for a (temporary?) violent revolutionary elimination of global capitalism and the states that serve it, in order to promote and universalise the ‘true’ interests of workers everywhere. Only after the violent overthrow of the capitalist world system can peace be either desirable or possible. Finally, Critical Theory (from a Frankfurt School orientation) posits (like the ‘early’ Habermas and the ‘later’ Marcuse) an emancipatory interest in human liberation from political repression and economic exploitation. Moreover, critical theories more generally support the idea that minorities, women and children must be privileged actors and beneficiaries of ‘progressive’ legislation and ‘emancipatory’ political movements in order to actualise their individual and collective ‘identities’. Recognition of these marginalised actors has to be achieved through the removal of hegemonic practices of domination via radical reforms and revolutionary insurgencies. Critical theorists of all stripes, like their Marxian fellow-travellers, tend to conceive of negative peace as subordinate and subsequent to the positive peace they envision of a socialised global world system.

6 Conclusion: A global ethic of non-violence or no globe? A perennial question is whether global peace, both negative (the absence of widespread violent conflict) and positive (the presence of equitable and sustainable social,



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political, legal and economic institutions), is possible in a ‘postmodern’, globalised world. One obstacle to global peace is the widespread and usually unarticulated ideological assumption that, irrespective of one’s culture, historical background, political or economic views – ‘human nature is the same everywhere, can’t be changed, and is inherently aggressive, acquisitive and unredeemable.’ Accordingly, from this Hobbesian or Realpolitik perspective, the concept of universal peace is contested and labelled ‘utopian’, in part because different actors define it in various and ostensibly incompatible ways, depending on their personal interests, identities, political views and socio-economic resources. Therefore, in practice, it seems a difficult and allegedly insurmountable challenge to connect such varied and often conflicting intersubjective concepts from the many different economic, political and social environments around the world with the idea and actualisation of global peace. In order to legitimise and actualise global peace, based on the value of non-violence, social and political institutions, ethical norms, economic forms of production and distribution, and legal rules have to be applied equitably and uniformly across the globe. This will be a major task for the peacemakers of the twenty-first century. But, despite the formidable inner and outer challenges, there is some reason for optimism, in large part based on the successes of non-violent social and political movements in overcoming tyranny and injustice and in creating emancipatory and participatory democratic forms of individual and collective governance. Given the ongoing existential anthropogenic threats of climate change and thermonuclear war, a global ethic of non-violence is a necessary precondition of our individual and collective survival. But it is not sufficient. For ethics without effective political action rings hollow. And political action without an ethics of compassion and forgiveness is blind. To survive, humanity must learn both to see clearly and to act forcefully but non-violently.

Notes 1

2

The UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights http://www.un.org/en/documents/ udhr/PREAMBLE (accessed 30 January 2014): ‘Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world. Article 28: Everyone is entitled to a social and international order in which the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration can be fully realized. Article 29: (1) Everyone has duties to the community in which alone the free and full development of his personality is possible; (2) In the exercise of his rights and freedoms, everyone shall be subject only to such limitations as are determined by law solely for the purpose of securing due recognition and respect for the rights and freedoms of others and of meeting the just requirements of morality, public order and the general welfare in a democratic society.’ Cf. C. Ryan, ‘The Dialogue of Global Ethics’, pp. 43–7; M. Ignatieff, ‘Reimagining a Global Ethic’, pp. 7–19; and D. Rodin, ‘Toward a Global Ethic’, pp. 33–42, all in: Ethics & International Affairs, 26 (1), (Spring 2012).

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3

Peter Singer, Ferrell et al. and Hans Küng, among others, argue that there exist global common values, or ethical universals, including but not limited to kinship preference, honesty and integrity, and justice. Only one study we could find, however, which was spearheaded by Küng on behalf of a group of religious and spiritual leaders, explicitly includes non-violence as a global value (Towards a Global Ethic – An Initial Declaration, Parliament of the World’s Religions, http:// universespirit.org/towards-a-global-ethic-an-initial-declaration (accessed 4 February 2014); Singer (1995), passim; Ferrell et al. (2011), pp. 278–9. And while we could find virtually no empirical documentation of these claims, neither could we find any persuasive conceptual or empirical refutation of them. 4 M. K. Gandhi in Barash and Webel (2014), p. 507. 5 See Barash and Webel (2014), esp. chapter 23; Jørgen Johansen, ‘Nonviolence: More than the Absence of Violence’, in Webel and Galtung (2009), pp. 143–59; C. Webel and J. Johansen, ‘Nonviolent Action and Political Change’, in Webel and Johansen (2011), pp. 267–72; M. K. Gandhi, ‘Home Rule’, in Webel and Johansen (2011), pp. 272–84; Martin Luther King, Jr., ‘Pilgrimage to Nonviolence’, in Webel and Johansen, pp. 285–8; B. Martin, ‘How Nonviolence Works’, in Webel and Johansen (2011), pp. 292–4; and K. Schock, ‘Nonviolent Action and Its Misconceptions: Insights for Social Scientists’, PSOnline. Available at: www.apsanet.org (accessed 18 February 2014). 6 M. K. Gandhi, in Somerville and Santoni (1963), p. 503. 7 The Dalai Lama, ‘A Human Approach to World Peace’, in Webel and Johansen (2011), pp. 111–17. 8 Kant, ‘Eternal Peace’, in Webel and Johansen (2011), p. 89. 9 Ibid., p. 90. 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid., p. 91. 12 Cf. Sharp (1973); Sharp and Paulson (2005); Sharp (2010). 13 See Messman (2012). Also see: M. J. Stephan (2009); and Chenoweth and Stephan (2011). 14 Pinker (2011). Also see Lawler (2012), pp. 829–30; and Goldstein and Pinker (2011), p. 17. 15 See Oliver Richmond’s recent books and articles on the idea of ‘liberal peace’, especially The Transformation of Peace, Peace in International Relations, and A Post-Liberal Peace, all published by Routledge between 2005 and 2011.

References Barash, D. and C. Webel (2014), Peace and Conflict Studies (3rd edn), London and New York: Sage Publications. Chenoweth, E. and M. J. Stephan (2011), Why Civil Resistance Works: The Strategic Logic of Nonviolent Conflict, New York: Columbia University Press. Ferrell, O. C., J. Friedrich and Linda Ferrell (2011), Business Ethics (8th edn), Mason, OH: South-Western CENGAGE Learning. Goldstein, J. and S. Pinker (2011), ‘War Really is Going Out of Style’, New York Times, December, p. 17. Lawler, A., ‘The Battle Over Violence’, Science, 336: pp. 829–30.



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Messman, T. (2012), Discovering the Unexpected Power of Nonviolence: Street Spirit Interview with Erica [Chenoweth]. Available from http://www.thestreetspirit.org/ discovering-the-unexpected-power-of-nonviolence-street-spirit-interview-with-ericachenoweth-4/ (accessed 28 January 2014). Pinker, S. (2011), The Better Angels of Our Nature, New York: Viking. Sharp, G. (1973), The Politics of Nonviolent Action, Boston: Porter Sargent. —(2010), From Dictatorship to Democracy (4th U.S. edn), East Boston: The Albert Einstein Institution. Available from http://www.aeinstein.org/organizations/org/ FDTD.pdf (accessed 28 January 2014). Sharp, G. and J. Paulson (2005), Waging Nonviolent Struggle: 20th Century Practice and 21st Century Potential. Manchester, NH: Extending Horizons Books Porter Sargent. Singer, P. (1995), How Are We to Live?, Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books. Somerville, J. and R. Santoni (eds) (1963), Social and Political Philosophy: Readings from Plato to Gandhi, New York: Anchor Books. Stephan, M. J. (ed.) (2009), Civilian Jihad Nonviolent Struggle, Democratization, and Governance in the Middle East, New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Webel, C. and J. Galtung (eds) (2009), Handbook of Peace and Conflict Studies, London and New York: Routledge. Webel, C. and J. Johansen (eds) (2011), Peace and Conflict Studies: A Reader, London and New York: Routledge.

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Global Justice, Value Pluralism and Narrative Solidarity Janusz Salamon

1 Introduction: The new face of international anarchy However one conceives global justice – in a more cosmopolitan and individualistic or a more anti-cosmopolitan and communitarian fashion – its realisation in practice is bound to be made difficult by various conflicts of interest and conflicts of values. The confusing world order that is emerging before our eyes, in which tendencies towards political and ideological multipolarisation coexist with growing interdependence resulting from economic and cultural globalisation, carries with it little promise of imminent de-escalation of the current transnational conflicts of interest and conflicts of values. In this chapter I want to suggest that the transformation of conflicting identity narratives may be one possibility of easing transnational conflicts, thus paving the way to peaceful co-existence and constructive collaboration across ethnic, national, cultural and religious borders. The context for this thesis is provided by the recent developments on the world stage that are threatening the system of global security. These include: (a) the refusal of some countries to fall in line and play according to the rules agreed by the international community; (b) the growing influence of violent and ideologically motivated non-state actors such as ISIL; and, perhaps most importantly, (c) the ‘global political awakening’ – to use the phrase coined by the leading American geostrategist Zbigniew Brzezinski (2002) – exemplified by the events of the ‘Arab Spring’ and the ‘colour revolutions’ in the former Soviet Republics. All these developments that make the future course of global affairs difficult to predict have two common denominators that are highly relevant to the subject matter of this chapter. First, they are all at least in part born of the rejection of these aspects of globalisation that (allegedly) require conformity with the dominant (Western) social, cultural and political paradigms, and as such threaten the local self-identities and undermine the local value systems. The popular support that these developments enjoy is clearly a manifestation of an allegiance to certain values that lie at the basis of communal and individual identity, and unlike the behaviour of the ruling regimes cannot be explained solely by reference to pragmatically calculated political interests. These values inform

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the way people perceive their interests, and, by extension, their country’s interests, so that the interests that motivate them to social and political action in the domestic and transnational realm are always ‘perceived interests’, constructed by the subjects against the background of some particular ‘conception of the good’ (that is why many social theorists construe the ‘welfare’ or ‘well-being’ that people care about in terms of satisfaction of preferences). Second, the aforementioned developments contribute to the anarchy of the international system. However, it is a new kind of anarchy than the one that the political realists who envisage international relations as being relations between unitary states talk about. The new anarchy is not a consequence of the conflict of interests between competing states as perceived by the ruling regimes of these states, but a consequence of the ruling regimes losing their grip on large segments of the populations of their states and becoming much more dependent on the satisfaction of the interests of the multitude of individuals as perceived by these individuals (also as members of various groups defined by value-laden group identities). This new kind of ‘ideological anarchy’ cannot be tamed solely by way of formal and informal intergovernmental agreements reached over the heads of millions of passive citizens, while ignoring their interests (as perceived by them), their concerns, and their values, as was often practised even in the recent past, sometimes with controversial long-term results (the pre-revolutionary Iran of Reza Shah Pahlavi or the Egypt of Hosni Mubarak may serve as examples). In fact, this tendency of state leaders concerning themselves primarily with securing their countries’ interests in the realpolitik zero-sum-game, while largely ignoring ideological concerns of the public, could be observed even in the case of states founded on ideology, like the Soviet Union and China, as Henry Kissinger (2011) testifies. The currently observed surge of ideology in the international context – which for the reasons stated above would perhaps be rendered more adequately as ‘ideological turn’ rather than as ‘return of ideology’ (cf. Kagan 2008) – is in all probability not a temporary phenomenon, but a permanent feature of the newly emerging world order. The importance of value-laden political narratives is likely to grow not only because state leaders will have to be more responsive to the ideological concerns of the public in order to stay in power, otherwise in an ideologically charged atmosphere the public will bring to power new leaders which themselves will be strong ‘believers’ in the ideology favoured by the public (or more precisely by a part of the public that for some reason will dominate the current public discourse). Another scenario that we are likely to observe more frequently in the future is the one exemplified by presentday Russia, Turkey and Hungary, when an ambitious leader enjoying strong popular support of the public and seeking an exalted place in the history of his people kindles the flames of ideology to mobilise the public behind a radical reformist agenda, often with quasi-imperial overtones. All the above scenarios may be a cause of worry and do not allow one to see the global political awakening, occasioned by widespread education and the global informational revolution, as a purely positive development, even though it creates conditions in which a far greater number of people around the world can at least to some degree exercise their autonomy in the political sphere. The newly discovered autonomy may all too easily be overpowered by narratives of ethnic,



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national, and religious hatred preached by extremist leaders, whether they appear out of nowhere and have no track record, as in the case of ISIL, or are well established populists who use the divisive and xenophobic facets of the narrative identity of their people to garner political support. The mixed picture of the new global political dynamics that is currently emerging contains an element of what could be coined as ‘narrative anarchy’. On one hand, the return to the model of governance, according to which national and international politics is the domain of elites that either ignore or manipulate the identity narratives of their peoples to secure their monopoly on political decision making, is no longer possible, certainly not in the long run. On the other hand, making space for such a model of governance which would encourage citizens to contribute to the process of shaping the identity narratives that motivate them to social and political action is not a simple matter, since people’s freedom to shape their group identity narratives in a way that would respect their ‘narrative autonomy’ may quickly degenerate into a clash of narratives that may produce profound social and political conflicts, as it happens not only in the regions of the world in which the democratic culture had no time to take root, but also in the European Union and the United States. But once the genie is out of the bottle and the public take ownership of their identity narratives, which in turn shape their expectations in the social and political realm, there is no other option but to take for granted the importance of the narratives of identity as key elements of the motivational structure of social and political action, and to work on them with a view to overcoming narrative anarchy without violating the narrative autonomy of the participants in the public sphere. Instead of blocking the political efficacy of the identity narratives of the peoples by re-imposing a tight control, a more sensible solution may be to accept the fact of the uncontrollability of identity narratives, and engage in the never-ending work of freeing and fostering the potential for human solidarity lurking in the existing cultural and religious identities. And while it is not the job of political theorists to shape people’s identity narratives, it is certainly alarming that various extremists gain a growing influence on the shape of identity narratives of their peoples, activating the radicalised fringes of populations and crowding out the moderate mainstream from the public discourse about the just domestic and international order. To sum up, to counter the growing ideological anarchy, an appeal to the positive layers of the value-laden identities of both the moderate mainstream and the radical fringes may be necessary.

2 Conflicts of values, religious inclusivism, and narratives of moral closeness Given the nature of the task outlined above, conflicts of values and value pluralism will have to be acknowledged as a significant factor in transnational conflict analysis and conflict resolution, since without conceiving and reshaping the world order in a reasonably non-conflictual manner, there is little chance for the realisation of global justice understood in minimalistic terms as securing the fundamental human rights

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of all. Since the conflictual nature of the current global order prevents the establishment of an effective transnational regime of human rights as a framework for global justice, I submit that theorising about global justice would benefit from paying greater attention to the potential of value-laden identity narratives to contribute to transnational conflict resolution and so generate transnational support for a more just global institutional order that would be conducive to peaceful co-existence and constructive collaboration across ethnic, national and religious borders. With the exception of extreme interpretations of the international significance of value pluralism (e.g. in the form of the ‘clash of civilisations’ thesis), until recently the mainstream approaches to the analysis of political conflict tended to rely on the assumptions of the rational choice theory which suggests that conflicts can be ultimately explained by reference to the decisions of self-interested rational actors in which ethical and axiological concerns are treated as exogenous. However, given that before our eyes world leaders, enjoying huge popularity among the electorate, make choices that clearly go against the national self-interest, and justify them by reference to grand and value-laden visions, it is very likely that the interest in the motivational power of values in international and transnational politics will be growing. Having said that, it is important to stress right away that while the narrative approach to political conflict analysis advocated here may help to explain some phenomena observed in value-laden identity-based conflicts, it is not meant to be a comprehensive tool of political analysis that might explain all aspects of all sorts of social and political conflicts. On the contrary, it is meant to serve as a methodological device complementing other approaches applied in the conflict studies, some of which may be more appropriate to explore other factors which may be in play in a particular context, such as conflicts of economic interests or conflicts of strategic interests, each of which may call for different conflict resolving measures. However, the significance of the narrative approach to transnational conflict resolution (as a condition sine qua non and a necessary element of global justice) can be quite considerable given the current ‘ideological turn’. It is the capacity of taking into account the axiological, ethical, psychological and other non-rational elements of the motivational structure of social and political action that makes this approach worth exploring. Since the value-laden identity narratives that we concern ourselves with here are typically shaped directly or indirectly by religious values – often taking some ethno-religious form – the position on global justice I advocate in this chapter, while essentially cosmopolitan in spirit, differs in one respect from the currently most influential theories of global justice whose proponents, such as Thomas Pogge (2008) or Martha Nussbaum (2007), draw inspiration from John Rawls. While ‘globalising’ his theory of justice, which Rawls restricted to the domestic sphere, they tend to agree with Rawls that due to irreducible value pluralism, ‘comprehensive doctrines’ – as Rawls calls them, having religious worldviews primarily in mind – can make only a limited contribution to the debate about justice, namely within the sphere circumscribed by ‘overlapping consensus’ between all ‘reasonable’ comprehensive doctrines. The critics of Rawls’s restriction of justice to the domestic realm tend to explain his move by pointing to his inability to appreciate the profound changes in transnational relations resulting from economic globalisation whose impact before the end of the



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Cold War was still limited. In a similar vein, I suggest that one could explain Rawls’s reluctance to give religions and other ‘comprehensive doctrines’ an important voice in a debate about justice by reference to the historical context in which (a) the effective separation of church and state in the United States was still a work in progress, so that Rawls was well aware of the possible negative impact of organised religion on the practice of social justice; (b) in most of the global conflicts of the post-World War II era, religious beliefs and values played a very limited role; and (c) the secularisation thesis that saw secularisation as an unavoidable consequence of modernisation, which was being taken for granted in the second half of the twentieth century, made the idea of accommodating religious voices in the public discourse about the future shape of a just liberal democratic state far from obvious. However, as economic globalisation has arguably generated a level of transnational interdependence and transformed the understanding of national sovereignty to the point that it makes sense to claim – pace Rawls – that there exists a global ‘basic structure’ which calls for adequate theories of global justice, so the apparent resilience of religious worldviews in which individual and group identities of billions of our contemporaries are rooted, calls for serious attention to the potential of religions to be both a breeding ground of social and political conflicts, and a source of solutions to such conflicts. Enough ink has been spilt over the negative impact of religions on societies and transnational relations, and not without good reason. It suffices to note that most of the ongoing violent conflicts around the world that undermine transnational justice are at least in part motivated by factors having to do with religious aspects of the valueladen identities of the parties to the conflict (and this appears to be the case not only with the conflicts in the Middle East or Africa, but also with the Russian–Ukrainian conflict). There is little doubt that the suspicion that religions are incurably conservative when it comes to moving beyond the age-old ideological divisions that generate hostility between peoples explains at least in part the scarcity of scholarly publications envisaging a peaceful world order in which religions play an important positive role, rather than just being tamed and forced to adapt to the progress of humanity. Going to the heart of the matter, I submit that not only when it comes to the conflicts of interest, but also in the case of the conflicts of values, including religious values, non-zero-sum solutions are both thinkable and feasible. Building on the indisputable achievements of the five decades of intense interreligious dialogue that discarded the old exclusivist paradigm and produced a new inclusivist paradigm of interreligious relations that is perceived as uncontroversial by a growing number of religious adherents across the globe, it should be possible to make the next step by translating the newly discovered non-conflictual approach to the ‘religious other’ to a non-confrontational attitude towards any ‘human other’. One of the chief virtues of ‘religious inclusivism’ is that it is a middle-of-the-road position between the extremes of exclusivism, which denies the validity of other religious traditions thus generating conflict, and pluralistic relativism, which risks undermining the commitment to one’s own tradition which might result in a weakening of the motivational force on which we want to build, expecting a positive contribution from religions to the work of global justice. Religious inclusivism embraces pluralism without giving up the commitment to truth, which leaves us with a residue of the conflict of truth-claims made by various

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traditions. However, my main point is that this conflict of religious truth-claims does not have to have negative bearing when it comes to the joined contribution of religions to shaping a peaceful and just global order. The inclusivist solution to the conflict of values is an exact counterpart to a non-zero-sum solution to conflicts of interests in that it does not require any of the parties to give up anything that is of vital concern for them. In fact, as is the case in non-zero-sum solutions to conflicts of interest, moving away from exclusivism and adopting an inclusivist attitude towards adherents of other religious traditions may be said to benefit both parties, since it brings out the positive potential of religious traditions for motivating human solidarity across religious, ethnic and national borders, which was there all along but was buried under the rubble of negativity inherent in religious exclusivism. This is not to say that the situation on the ground is already satisfactory. Moving from the exclusivist to the inclusivist position is for most religious traditions a work in progress, and for some a programme of action more than a lived reality. That being said, to the extent religions are responsive to the social and cultural tendencies that affect the lives of their adherents, they are bound to adapt to the demands of the globalising world which cannot accommodate for too long any excessively parochial and tribal patterns of thought and behaviour. They can adapt by re-reading their religious narratives in the spirit of moral reformation in order to make space in their identity narratives for the ‘human other’, whatever his or her identity. What is thus required of religions is a kind of narrative solidarity with the other, the same that is required of everybody if humankind is to avoid the threat of self-annihilation. While we assume that the potential for human sympathy, and for the expansion of this sympathy beyond one’s own kin, is rooted in human nature, however construed, and thus is not essentially affected one way or the other by one’s particular comprehensive doctrine, it seems fair to say that both the Western religious tradition with its conception of creation, and the Eastern religions with their monistic metaphysical framework, poses exceptionally abundant resources to generate narratives of the unity of humankind, narratives of sympathy and compassion towards other sentient beings, narratives of moral closeness. It is for this reason that when religions generate narratives of hatred, division and estrangement, the intuitive reaction of impartial spectators is that something went wrong. This ability to ground for a multitude of individuals the narratives that establish the bonds of moral closeness among strangers could be an invaluable contribution of religions to global ethical discourse and to the work of global justice. As many moral philosophers are prepared to grant, the cosmopolitan vision of human relations in which all human beings are ascribed equal worth has to be complemented by a more realistic moral psychology, in which ascription of equal worth is not necessarily accompanied by giving equal concern to everyone.1 Given not just our legitimate self-interests, but above all our limited ability to concern ourselves with the welfare of many other people, it is the category of moral closeness that defines realistic limits of our concern. This approach that envisages the gradation of our moral duties to others as a set of concentric circles with ourselves in the centre, and the family in the first of the circles, has governed the moral imagination of East Asians for millennia. And yet we need to note that the technological progress and the resulting growth of



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the global product to levels that would be unimaginable to the ancient civilisations that gave birth to our religions and our moral codes pushed the boundaries of what is possible, also when it comes to the concern for strangers, those nearby and afar. What apparently has not changed is the motivational structure of our moral behaviour. We still tend to be concerned above all with our own well-being and we give preference to those ‘morally close’ to us when we concern ourselves with the well-being of others. However, as our capacity to express our concern for others grows, it becomes more important that our identity narratives motivate us towards including many more ‘strangers’ into the circle of moral closeness. Otherwise we risk the situation that humanity at large possesses sufficient resources to express concern for every human being, and yet this concern remains unexpressed, because, due to a lack of the bond of moral closeness, those who have a lot choose to share it only with a much narrower circle of people than they could. In fact, it may be the case that we already live in such a world.

3 Global ethical discourse and global justice My suggestion to look at the debate about the just global order and at the conflicts that prevent its implementation through the lenses of the value-laden identity narratives which motivate social and political action, seems to me consistent with Jürgen Habermas’s idea of discourse ethics, which postulates that the very logic of interpersonal communication presupposes an inclusive approach to what participants in the discourse are allowed to bring to the table of public deliberation, as the only acceptable tool of public conflict resolution. In this respect, Habermas – even though coming from an arguably more secular setting and addressing a more secular public than John Rawls – is more inclusive in the way he envisages a debate aimed at the formulation of principles of justice. It was Habermas who made the explicit connection between justice and solidarity, by postulating that the inviolability of the individual presupposes equal respect for each other’s perspective, and stating that for this reason ‘solidarity is simply the reverse side of justice’.2 Since my concern in this chapter is with global justice, I would like to propose a different formulation of the relationship between justice and solidarity, one which takes into account the difference between the domestic and transnational context that at least in the present state of global affairs is by no means insignificant. I submit that while theories of domestic justice may do quite well without the recourse to solidarity, there cannot be global justice without global solidarity. In other words, I hold that solidarity has a much more important role to play in the global than in the domestic context. The reasons for this claim are threefold. First, justice in the domestic realm is, by most people, explicitly or implicitly understood against the background of the idea of a social contract that benefits all parties to the contract, and it seems that it is this idea – in its post-Hobbesian form humanised by Locke, Rousseau, Kant and Rawls – that subsumes much of what is connoted in the term ‘solidarity’, so that little seems to be missing from a theory of domestic justice in which the term ‘solidarity’ does not appear at all. However, since

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speaking about the existence of a ‘global society’ would in the present international circumstances clearly be a stretch, there is little to be recommended for a theory of global justice that would be based on the idea of global social contract. Therefore something less definite and differently grounded from the social contract has to fill the motivational void that needs to be filled, if human beings are expected to share the social benefits and burdens across national borders, and I suggest that human solidarity is the best candidate for this role. Second, as John Rawls and other authors who think that those who talk about transnational justice simply misuse the term have pointed out, justice may remain an empty word if it is not administered by the appropriate institutions, and these institutions can only be successful in their mission of the administration of justice when they enjoy the broad support of the public affected by the decisions taken by these institutions. It is the deficit of public support that makes the existing transnational institutions unable to play this role in the way that would at least come close to how state institutions administer criminal and social justice, and makes the defenders of the idea of global justice propose that the adequate transnational institutional regime has yet to be established. Now the point is that in the absence of global society, and moreover in the absence of the transnational social bonds which in the domestic context are often generated by national and patriotic sentiments, human solidarity can again provide the necessary motivational basis that is needed to generate support for an effective transnational institutional regime that would secure the administration of global justice. Lastly – and this is a less obvious point that increases in significance in the context of the recent developments on the world stage – human solidarity may be the only force enabling humanity to counter the centrifugal tendencies that drag us back into an anarchic zero-sum-game international system as conceived by advocates of political realism. Given the apparent twilight of the unipolar world of Pax Americana and the resulting inability of any party to impose by force limits on what state and non-state actors are allowed to do in the international arena, this is no doubt a prospect that with the passage of time and technological progress is bound to become more and more frightening. Among the first consequences of the international system subsiding into anarchy and chaos would be the increase of isolationist tendencies, and transnational justice would be among their first victims. It seems, however, that this time the challenge is new and calls for unconventional responses, since the threat of force may in time be in most cases out of the question. For this reason the present-day detractors of global justice may wish to alter Garrett Hardin’s metaphor of lifeboat earth and argue that what today threatens the survival of humanity, and calls for an exclusive rather than an inclusive approach when it comes to concern for the wellbeing of the others, is not so much the scarcity of resources, but the inability to overcome the conflicts of values that in the long run are bound to fuel violent strife among the passengers of the lifeboat. In other words, the reason why some people have to be kept outside the lifeboat (presumably the ‘boat’ of Western civilisation and its allies) is not because the boat may go under because it will become overpopulated, but because the boat would sooner or later go under as a result of a violent conflict on the boat, if the unwanted passengers are allowed to board and thus empowered to pose a



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mortal threat to humanity at large. Needless to say, this interpretation of the lifeboat metaphor implies that it might at least be imprudent not to care about global justice. It is against this background of the urgency to alleviate the global conflicts of values, and the conflicts of perceived interests informed by preferred values, that the importance of global solidarity across national, cultural, and religious borders can be appreciated. However, transnational solidarity cannot be decreed or imposed from above. It is also unlikely to be generated by transnational institutions (while it can be argued that institutions of a nation-state do help to generate intra-state social solidarity). Global solidarity has to be generated from below, starting with the ethical impulses of human sympathy in individuals and communities sharing common value-laden narratives of identity, and gradually transforming these typically exclusive and conflictual narratives of local identity into inclusive global narratives of moral closeness which can provide the basis for voluntary commitment to principles of justice across borders. Since in practice self-identities tend to be expressed, communicated and appropriated in the form of identity narratives, I suggest that transformation of local identity narratives by making them less exclusive and conflictual may be an effective means of easing identity-based conflicts. In certain regional contexts, such as the European Union, where the basic structure of economic and political interdependence is already at least to some degree in place, inclusive transnational (pan-European) identity narratives may facilitate transnational social cohesion by nourishing common transnational identity, and making it easier to identify common transnational good and to define common transnational interests. Such regional examples of identity narratives that might be revised in this way are meant to serve exclusively as thought experiments, since our ultimate goal is to apply their conclusions to global affairs. Thus by way of analogy I will argue that as pan-European identity narratives would greatly facilitate transformation of the local (say, French and German) national narratives in a way that would redefine the mutual neighbourly relationships by reinterpreting the common past and re-imagining the common future, so global identity narratives might play the same positive role on a larger scale, enabling transformation of the local and regional narratives which underlie the conflicting claims of parties involved in various violent struggles with global ramifications. In particular, global identity narratives could encourage a focus on the common humanity, on the shared global interests, and on the common uncertain future of humanity inhabiting an overpopulated planet, facing a variety of global challenges, and torn by interrelated conflicts of interests and conflicts of values. It is against this background that the relationship between global justice and value pluralism needs to be addressed. Anti-cosmopolitan theorists who reject the very idea of global justice, and those who are simply sceptical about its practical applicability, tend to quote two fundamental reasons for their position. (i) The concept of global justice is incoherent because the conceptions of the good and moral values underlying a particular understanding of justice are relative to local cultural and religious traditions and cannot be universalised without the violent imposition of the values of one culture on another. (ii) Even if the challenge of ethical pluralism could somehow be met and a global conception of justice could be conceivable, global justice understood

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in terms of giving to every person what is due to her (whether this will be expressed in the language of universal human rights or in equivalent terms) will remain but an empty word in the absence of a global political regime that would have the power and resources to secure its execution, and this is impossible in the world of nation-states in which politics is a never-ending struggle for absolute gains in a zero-sum game of conflicting interests. The narrative approach to conflict analysis I recommend in this chapter suggests a response to both of the above concerns. First, I hold that global identity narratives can accommodate value pluralism by bringing to the fore within the context of revised narratives the elements of the overlapping ethical consensus, while leaving space for particular (local) interpretations and applications of the shared values, as well as allowing for the shared values being grounded in variety of philosophical, cultural and religious traditions or ‘comprehensive doctrines’. Due to space constraints, let me only indicate the logic of my solution to the problem of value pluralism as seen in the context of transformation of conflicting value-laden identity narratives. It is in fact the same logic that is employed in interreligious dialogue, as discussed above, that is the logic of inclusivism as applied to the problem of value pluralism (as opposed to the problem of conflicting religious truth-claims). As Isaiah Berlin, John Kekes, William Galston and other authors tackling the problem have noticed, pluralism of values does not need always (or even most of the time) to lead to conflict of values, since many values are incomparable or incommeasurable and as such they cannot come into conflict with each other. There are of course cases of genuine conflict of values (the area of gender equality would be a fruitful ground for such cross-cultural conflicts). But in such cases, given that our aim is to mitigate conflicts that lead to violation of human rights and denial of justice rather than to settling the truth of the matter once and for all, one does not need to expect that the parties to the conflict would give up their convictions (although we may expect that everybody will be open to critical analysis and revision of one’s position from within their cultural or religious traditions, which is also a condition sine qua non of transformation of identity narratives). What will be required is certain epistemic humility that is consistent with a pragmatic (and pragmatist) approach to any social or political conflict, namely readiness to suspend temporarily one’s absolute claim to infallibility and give the reality a chance to prove whether pluralistic accommodation leads to the overall negative or positive consequences. Second, I suggest that since – as I have already mentioned in the Introduction – self-interest is always a ‘perceived interest’ and as such self-interest is always valueladen, transnational identity narratives can help to lessen transnational conflicts of interest by helping to negotiate the underlying conflicts of values. As is evident in countless cases of identity-based conflicts in which the parties are prepared to act against their apparent interest (as arguably did the Japanese and the Germans during World War II, fighting until the end, until their cities were turned into rubble), the motivational power of identity narratives to move groups to such collective selfdestructive action cannot be explained but by reference to underlying group values against the background of which what is or is not in the interest of the group in a given circumstance is being defined. For this reason it is a mistake to presume that



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parties of actual conflicts (say, conflicts between nation-states or between religious or ethnic groups in multicultural states) have objectively definable interests, and once the interests of two conflicting parties are identified, there is no other way to resolve the conflict but by negotiating the so defined interests of the parties. If a common understanding of the collective interest that is able to move individuals to coordinated collective action is, at least to a point, a function of explicitly or implicitly held moral values (and in this case we also should speak about ‘perceived values’), then what a group perceives as its vital interest may change when the relevant factors will be judged against the background of changing ‘perceived values’. Consequently I will suggest that in the case of many global conflicts the equation can be changed by a shift in ‘perceived values’ underlying the ‘perceived interests’ of the parties to the conflict, and this I will argue can be facilitated by a transformation of identity narratives that can provide a space for negotiation of (initially) conflicting values that underlie the (initially) conflicting interests. Transformed identity narratives can imbue the past experiences of members of the conflicting parties with a new meaning linked to re-conceptualised self-identities that will transcend the initial binary opposition of the conflicting identities, and will in turn help to re-imagine a common future, centred not on past conflicts but on a cooperation in the name of the (rediscovered) shared values, the (redefined) common good, and the (re-evaluated) common interests. The possibility of the transformation of the relationship of the conflicting parties from a zero-sum-game struggle to a non-zero-sum cooperation prompted by the change of their perception of their interests by way of altering their perception of the underlying values opens the prospects of expanding the circle of human sympathy beyond ethnic, national, cultural, religious, gender and class or caste borders, thus making the world ‘safe for justice’, to paraphrase Woodrow Wilson. In the absence of such transformation one would have to agree with the supporters of the realpolitik approach to the political conflict analysis, that the odds that conflicts between parties which perceive their interests as exclusive can in the long run be avoided are slim. The point, however, is that even such a leading proponent of political realism as Hans Morgentau has admitted that given the technological advances that make the international realpolitik power struggle increasingly threatening for humanity at large, it may be necessary to construct in the future an international order that will be able to prevent the self-destruction of humanity. It is my contention that such a process of construction of a non-zero-sum collaborative framework for international relations (or perhaps better to speak about ‘transnational relations’, given the likely decline of Westphalian sovereignty under the condition of economic globalisation) will have to include profound transformations of local and regional identities against the background of new inclusive global identity narratives which will facilitate negotiation of these seismic changes. It is in this context that the concept of ‘solidarity beyond borders’ becomes illuminating. There is a sense in which solidarity between members of a given group (be it tribe, religious community, nation or society) is a natural outcome of the realisation of the commonality of fate. There is a good reason to believe that the new economic, security and environmental conditions of a globalising world will make it much more natural for an unforced sense of global solidarity to emerge in the near future, than

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could be expected even in the quite recent past. As at some point in the European history, local/tribal solidarities were superseded (or at least supplemented) by national solidarities, and these in turn may gradually be superseded or supplemented by a pan-European solidarity (rooted in the growing economic, political and security interdependence), so it is thinkable that such regional solidarities (already existing or taking shape also beyond Europe, e.g. among the countries belonging to the Arab League) may in time be supplemented by a sense of global solidarity. However, it is clear that a tendency towards solidarity with the members of the group to which one belongs is not as ‘natural’ as seeking one’s self-interest through cooperation with people with whom we share a collective interest. Solidarity is ultimately a moral motive existing in the first place in an individual that moves individuals towards overcoming the temptation to free-riding on the contribution of other members of the group to the common good, and only then leads to the establishment of the bonds of unity of purpose in the group. For this reason solidarity is a fragile accomplishment, easily dissolving under the pressure of the conflict of interests and the conflict of values. On the other hand, nothing helps more to sustain group solidarity than the bonds of common identity embedded in shared narratives of identity. The very logic of global justice expressed in the language of universal human rights presupposes as its necessary condition the underlying bonds of global solidarity, since in the absence of a transnational solidarity that will motivate individuals and societies in the nation-states to support global efforts to establish a transnational regime aimed at guaranteeing human rights wherever they are violated, global justice will remain a futile ideal, while ethical pluralism will always serve as a convenient excuse for sovereign powers justifying human rights violations within their domain. However, as the degree of social (domestic) justice achieved in our times in some developed countries would appear a sheer fantasy to cool heads considering such matters as recently as two centuries ago, so a significant progress in the globalisation of justice may prove to be within our reach, and in a not dissimilar way as was the case with the progress in the area of social justice. That in both cases the availability of basic resources is a condition of justice goes without saying, but it is far from clear that this is today the main impediment to global justice. What seems to be called for in the first place is a gradual transformation of transnational relations which will limit the impact of the logic of partisanship rooted in the Hobbesian view of the human world as the space of struggle for individual survival and individual gains, and will leave more space for cooperation across national, cultural and religious borders governed by the logic of solidarity aimed at the global survival and the common global good. The above-mentioned fundamental transformation of transnational relations as a condition sine qua non of global justice calls for nothing less than re-imagining the human world as a common home of every human person and of the human family, rather than as a Hobbesian–Darwinian jungle. Given the narrative approach to identity presupposed in this chapter, we could say that what is required is nothing less than the transformation of all identity narratives. But the hard question which looms in the background here is why we should be optimistic about the possibility of replacement of the present, often particularist, parochial and exclusive identity



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narratives by the new ones, more inclusive and more global. After all, there can be no doubt that nothing so much animates and cements groups as a ‘common enemy’, as a sense of self-identity defined according to the logic of simple binary opposition ‘us – them’. People are simply attached to their present conflictual identities. What then could attract them in the revised, more open-ended, more inclusive and more global narratives of their identity? What could move them towards supporting the transformation of identity narratives advocated in this chapter? There is no other answer to these questions than: solidarity. Willingness to make, as it were, space for others in one’s own narrative is itself an expression and a result of one’s solidarity with others (hence we will refer to this kind of solidarity as ‘narrative solidarity’). Solidarity is a primordial moral motive that moves individuals and groups to take notice of the good of other individuals and groups and as such it cannot be explained by reference to anything other than good will alone. It cannot be reduced to some other motive, like self-interest (so when we argue that solidarity can help to dissolve destructive conflicts of interests by motivating the parties to re-conceptualise their self-interests, we mean to suggest that solidarity is reconcilable with seeking one’s own interest, not that solidarity itself is just a different name for self-interested cooperation with others). Thus ultimately we have to admit that the transformation of transnational relations by means of revision of identity narratives cannot be bought cheaply. As in the case of the abolition of slavery and serfdom, or the recognition of gender equality, progress in global justice cannot be conceived differently from an expression of moral progress, and therefore cannot take place until moral progress occurs. Needless to say, positive economic circumstances may ease and encourage social changes of this kind, but the initial impulse to change tends to be moral. While moral progress in the history of humanity – measured by the ever-expanding circle of human sympathy – was, as often as not, initiated by individual geniuses of moral imagination, re-imagining humanity’s common future along the lines of the non-zero-sum logic is a task that has to be taken up by all parties that have a stake in it. For obvious reasons, such a process of global moral transformation has to be culturally inclusive and sensitive to the conceptual diversity and ethical pluralism that is characteristic of our increasingly multipolar world. While the post-Cold-War prophecies of the political theorists who, like Francis Fukuyama, expected the accelerating forces of globalisation to result sooner rather than later in economic, social and political homogenisation of the world, preserved a degree of plausibility until the late 1990s, today it seems clear that diversity is the order of the day. If there is any hope for unity of humankind and peaceful co-existence of nation-states within the multipolar world order, it is likely to be a ‘unity in diversity’ governed by a principle of ‘overlapping consensus’ expressed in a transcultural language of global narratives, which in order to be effective have to be willingly appropriated by all the relevant parties, and this will be possible only if the parties will have a clear sense that these are global narratives of their identity. The process of the creation of global identity narratives, as well as of the revision of ‘local’ or regional identity narratives, cannot be formalised. Narrative identity is not the kind of reality which can be negotiated by diplomats, hence we do not imagine representatives of nations, cultures or religions sitting at the round table and discussing

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the details of the transformation of their identity narratives against the background of mutually agreed global identity narratives. Having said that, the processes of creation and transformation of group identity narratives is not some natural phenomenon that is not and cannot be led or guided by concrete human beings acting with deliberate intention to bring about a change of some dominant narrative. For example, arguably national identities of the European nations as they are understood today, or for that matter the present-day European identity, are ultimately to a large degree a co-product of a contribution of individual thinkers, writers, moralists, artists, political theorists and political leaders, some of which consciously wanted to impact the way their contemporaries perceive themselves as members of a national community or human beings in general. For this reason there is a sense in which – given the democratic and pluralistic context of the multipolar world order – the transformation of transnational relations with the help of new identity narratives has to emerge from a process that in some way has to possess the characteristics of something like transnational ‘deliberation’, even though the ‘deliberation’ that is implied here will be informal and implicit, rather than formal and explicit. I suggest that this transnational dialogue leading to a gradual revision of identity narratives will need to be reminiscent – in the spirit, if not the letter – of something like a global ethical discourse in the manner of Habermas. Among the virtues underlying Jürgen Habermas’s idea of discourse ethics which makes it more relevant than the Rawlsian ‘original position’ thought experiment to our task of formulating revised identity narratives that would embody principles of global justice is that, while retaining John Rawls’s concern for impartiality, it encourages rather than proscribes drawing consciously and explicitly on the moral resources of one’s own particular ethical tradition. In the global ethical discourse required for our purposes the parties involved need to know as much as possible about their own and others’ ethical traditions, as well as their interests, needs, concerns, fears, etc., so that motivated by solidarity they could revise their own identity narratives in the way that would take into account the expectations of the others’. For this reason, unlike in the context of the Rawlsian ‘original position’, in our case impartiality will have to be motivated not by ignorance about persons represented in the deliberation, but rather by solidarity with those about whom we should know a lot, including the knowledge about their different interests and values. (The Rawlsian idea of ‘reflective equilibrium’ will also be relevant to the moral justification of the principles of global justice, but the absence of ignorance about persons represented in the deliberation – precisely because it will be more of a deliberation than in the case of the Rawlsian original position thought experiment – will significantly affect the way reflective equilibrium will apply to our case). A Habermasian approach to ethical discourse, with its absence of anything like the Rawlsian ‘veil of ignorance’, seems to be particularly well suited to our case when the dialogue and deliberation has to be conducted across philosophical, cultural and religious ‘borders’, because on one hand the basic principles that will govern this deliberation are implicit in the very rationality of the (meaningful) discourse, so we can hope to come to an agreement regarding these principles without risking the charge of cultural bias. However, on the other hand, in the course of deliberation



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(informal and implicit as it will be in practice) the parties will be expected to draw on the resources of their own philosophical, cultural and religious traditions in order to revise their own identity narratives in the spirit of transnational solidarity in order to facilitate the transformation of transnational relations which would in turn make the globalisation of justice possible. It is the centrality of solidarity in this equation that makes the explicit connection with the ethical heritage of each party involved in this ‘ethical dialogue of narratives’ indispensable. The parties will need to draw on the moral resources of their own traditions not so much to provide the content of the revised local or global narratives, but to justify the inclusion of the others’ in their own identity narratives, with their particular interests and values.

4 Transcultural narratives and the need for an inclusive language of global ethics The last important suggestion I want to make in this chapter is that, in order for global ethical discourse aimed at establishing just world order to become genuinely effective as a tool of ethical dialogue across political and cultural borders, it has to be conducted in a language that will be culturally inclusive. But given all that we said about the central importance of identity narratives in motivating political action, this culturally inclusive language of global ethics will have taken advantage of the narrative resources of various cultures in order to communicate its message of global peaceful co-existence and global solidarity in the language of transcultural narratives that will have a power to inspire and motivate desirable political action. While I welcome the fact that the two dominant strands of contemporary global ethics (broadly Kantian and Aristotelian, well represented by Thomas Pogge and Martha Nussbaum, as mentioned above) stress the universality of the ethical discourse (e.g. when defending universality of human rights and human capabilities), and tend to resist the postmodern tendency towards ‘localisation’ of the ethical discourse (for the reasons spelt out by Jürgen Habermas, namely that it undermines emancipatory social theory), I am inclined to think that the recent escalations of the international and transnational conflicts which are at least partly identity-based, expose the pragmatic limitations of an ethical appeal to the parties of such conflicts which assuming rationality of the subjects invokes universal ethical values and norms. Apparently the parties to these conflicts – while not pathologically irrational – perceive the reality through the lenses shaped by their respective narrative identities and for this reason communicate at cross-purposes. As a result they are unable to engage in a meaningful ethical discourse that could be analysed with the tools of rational choice theory (with its assumption of self-interested rationality of social actors). It is in this ability to take into account the messiness of the real-life moral thinking of social actors and the non-rational motives that inform their moral choices, that the narrative approach can supplement the dominant ethical theories typically utilised by global ethicists. Indeed, without challenging or replacing deontology, utilitarianism, virtue ethics and care ethics as the tools of global ethics, the narrative approach

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provides a communicative context in which an implicit presence of the moral intuitions underlying these dominant ethical theories can be acknowledged without giving too much credit to any of them as infallible guides in solving moral dilemmas and the related social and political conflicts. Perhaps the best way to capture the positive contribution of the narrative approach to global ethics as a tool of social and political conflict resolution is by suggesting that this approach is able to accommodate the insights of the social psychologists and of the advocates of ethical externalism who separate the rational moral justification of an action from the psychological motivation of that action. As Thomas Nagel has put it: ‘Externalism holds … that the necessary motivation is not supplied by ethical principles and judgments themselves, and that an additional psychological sanction is required to motivate our compliance.’3 The chief explanation of the unprecedented attention that social theorists and moral philosophers have paid to narrative identity, especially after the 11 September attacks, was exactly the realisation that identity narratives have enormous motivational power that is hard to account for by attending to reasons for these actions. The motivational power of identity narratives is apparently at least in part rooted in their immunity to rational argument. Such narratives typically appeal to the relevant non-rational psychological factors and provide the required psychological sanction of action that Nagel is talking about. They successfully motivate action irrespective of whether they also provide reasons for that action or not. It is my contention that the processes of identity narrative creation do in fact involve moral reasoning, but this reasoning is implicit and informal, which means that the moral subject is typically not conscious of the reasoning taking place, and moreover is typically unable to analyse this reasoning even when asked post factum. In most cases, a moral subject is accepting conclusions of some implicit moral reasoning without being able to quote reasons for these conclusions, especially the actual reasons which led to this conclusion. If to this hypothesis of mine about the (predominantly) implicit nature of moral reasoning we add the aforementioned externalist hypothesis that moral reasons typically do not by themselves motivate actions, we are left with a puzzling question. How can this awareness of the presence of non-rational factors in human agency contribute to our understanding of human moral identity in a way that would help us to solve or prevent social and political conflicts? My answer is in the affirmative. The recognition of partial non-rationality of identity narratives and implicit rationality of moral reasoning suggests a pragmatic maxim: identity narratives which apparently motivate undesirable social behaviour cannot be fully rationalised or replaced by sets of action-guiding rational moral principles. They can only be transformed, reconceptualised or replaced by other narratives whose epistemic status will be similar to the old ones, except that they will now have a power to motivate desirable social behaviour. At this junction two questions may come to mind. Who is supposed to do the job of transforming narratives into more moral ones? And on what basis is one to make a critical judgment of a narrative in order to advocate a change of the narrative in the first place? As to the latter question, I take Jürgen Habermas’s discourse ethics4 to be the most appropriate model of inclusive social procedure of ethical



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deliberation that can be utilised in this context, since (a) in defending argumentative reason in inter-subjective communication Habermas occupies a middle-of-the-road position between the extremes of the ‘modern’ view of the subject as an autonomous consciousness and the postmodern rejection of reason’s claims to universal validity, both of which are unhelpful as tools of the analysis of identity-based conflicts, and (b) Habermasian communicative rationality is more open than the Rawlsian model to contributions that are rooted in what John Rawls calls ‘comprehensive doctrines’, which happen to play a major role in formation of identity narratives that give rise to social conflicts. As to the other question, it is my contention that the narrative approach can be made consistent with a balanced view of the nature of identity which will take account of strengths and weaknesses of both liberal individualism and communitarianism. On one hand it would be unrealistic to presuppose that each individual shapes his or her narrative identity to such a degree that it makes him or her fully responsible for the moral quality of the narrative he or she subscribes to. On the other hand Michael Sandel seems to go too far when he insists that identity is always something we discover rather than invent, construct or choose.5 It seems that the process of narrative identity formation can be conceived in a way that leaves space for individual autonomy, by acknowledging the dynamic/evolutionary nature of all identities, and the resultant variety of identities shaped by external circumstances and interactions between individuals, but also by internal volitions of individuals who from time to time may realise – sometimes only implicitly, without much reflection – that certain aspects of their former identity (and thus certain elements of their identity narratives) no longer express how they perceive and understand themselves. Such identity changes are typically gradual and do not involve renunciation of one’s membership of a group. In fact it is this kind of gradual shifts in identities of individuals that constitutes the engine of change of the group’s master narrative. For this reason, denying that it is the exercise of individual autonomy in acts of affirmation of one’s (partly) distinct identity that explains how evolution of group identities and identity narratives takes place would amount to denial that group identities are at all open to transformation and thus would have to entail some extreme form of essentialism (a view that identity is inherited once and for all). However, affirmation of individual autonomy and of the right to self-definition does not necessarily entail a metaphysical view of persons as radically autonomous selves that would be contrasted with a view of persons as relational individuals or connected selves (as espoused by advocates of relational sociology6). The narrative identity is definitely embedded in relationships, and is concrete and contextual, but it still can be conceived in a way that leaves enough space to autonomy that is at the same time genuinely relational and genuinely individual. It seems that for all practical purposes the importance of autonomy manifests itself not so much in all layers of someone’s identity being always autonomously chosen by the individual, but rather that the individual in question is free in the relevant way to affirm his or her distinct identity when this becomes a matter of genuine concern for him or her. To put it differently, without preservation of individual autonomy so understood, identity could become a prison, rather than the basis for positive self-identification and a source

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of self-esteem, hence the ability of the narrative approach to identity to preserve individual autonomy is one of its major strengths. Despite this and other advantages, the narrative approach carries with it no promise of a magical solution of such conflicts. On the contrary, what is intended as my original contribution in this chapter to the narrative analysis of conflicts is exactly a conjecture that an exercise of human solidarity enables individuals and groups to counter tribal inclinations. The conflict-solving strategy according to this approach boils down to making in one’s own identity narrative a space for the elements of the alien narratives, thus allowing the process of at least partial de-alienation to take place. It is in these acts of inclusion of the elements of alien identity into one’s own that an inclusive language of global ethics can take shape. These acts of inclusion are the work of moral imagination7 that is able to achieve such transformation of identity narratives which makes them genuinely our own, i.e. always unique, particular and local, and at the same time genuinely inclusive, universal and global.

5 Conclusion To a Western observer who may be surprised by the rejection of the Western cultural, social and political paradigms that constitute an element of the narrative package of globalisation driven by Western multinationals, one might suggest that this rejection is a voice of protest of the non-Western peoples demanding, be it in a confused and sometimes violent way, greater inclusion in the global narratives of their own values, interests and concerns. This call for more inclusive global narratives of identity may in the end be nothing else but a call for global justice and global solidarity.

Notes 1 2 3 4 5

Cf. Richard W. Miller, ‘Moral Closeness and Word Community’, in D. K. Chatterjee (ed.), The Ethics of Assistance: Morality and the Distant Needy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 101–22. Jürgen Habermas, The Inclusion of the Other: Studies in Political Theory, C. P. Cronin and P. De Greiff (eds) (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998), p. 29. Thomas Nagel, The Possibility of Altruism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970), p. 7. Jürgen Habermas, ‘Discourse Ethics: Notes on Philosophical Justification’, in Moral Consciousness and Communicative Action (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), pp. 43–115. As Sandel put it in a much quoted passage: ‘[C]ommunity describes not just what they have as fellow citizens but also what they are, not a relationship they choose (as if in voluntary association) but an attachment they discover, not merely an attribute but a constituent of their identity.’ (Cf. Michael J. Sandel, Liberalism and the Limits of Justice [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982], p. 150.)

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Cf. Margaret R. Somers and Gloria D. Gibson, ‘Reclaiming the Epistemological “Other”: Narrative and the Social Constitution of Identity’, in Social Theory and the Politics of Identity, Craig Calhoun (ed.) (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), pp. 37–99. In stressing the crucial importance of moral imagination and solidarity in moral and political theory, I acknowledge the inspiration of the American Pragmatist tradition, especially in the persons of John Dewey and Richard Rorty, though without sharing Rorty’s resistance to objectivist tendencies in moral and political theory.

References Brzezinski, Z. (2002), Strategic Vision: America and the Crisis of Global Power, New York: Basic Books. Habermas, J. (1990), ‘Discourse Ethics: Notes on Philosophical Justification’, Moral Consciousness and Communicative Action. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Habermas, J. and S. Ben-Habib (1981), ‘Modernity versus Postmodernity’, New German Critique, 22, Special Issue on Modernism (Winter): 3–14. Kagan, R. (2008), The Return of History and the End of Dreams, Conshohocken, PA: Atlantic Books. Kissinger, H. (2011), On China, New York: Penguin Press. Nagel, T. (1970), The Possibility of Altruism, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Nussbaum, M. (2007), Frontiers of Justice: Disability, Nationality, Species Membership, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Pogge, T. (2008), World Poverty and Human Rights: Cosmopolitan Responsibilities and Reforms (2nd expanded edn), Cambridge: Polity Press. Sandel, M. J., (1982), Liberalism and the Limits of Justice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sen, A. (2006), Identity and Violence: The Illusion of Destiny, New York: W. W. Norton. Somers, M. R. and G. D. Gibson (1994), ‘Reclaiming the Epistemological “Other”: Narrative and the Social Constitution of Identity’, in C. Calhoun (ed.), Social Theory and the Politics of Identity, Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 37–99.

Index This index covers global and local solidarity, justice, ethics and religion; these principal topics are also categorised by other headings. An ‘f.’ after a page number indicates a figure; an ‘n.’ indicates an endnote; a ‘t.’ indicates a table. accountability 104–6 Afghanistan 98, 103 African, Caribbean and Pacific (ACP) states 17 Age of Extremes, The (Hobsbawm) xi–xii al-Qaida 102 alienation 85–6, 117, 126 engagement and 56 misery and 71–2 speechlessness and 56–7 altruism 22–3, 146–7n.4 anarchy 29, 172, 173, 178–9 anti-Semitism 55 Appleby, R. Scott 145 Aquinas, Thomas 76, 77 Aristotle 74–6, 77–9 art 52–3, 60–2 see also imagination Austria 162–3 autonomy 172–3, 187–8 awareness 65–6, 81, 122–3 conscientisation 66, 67 self-recognition and 136 Bad Godesberg Programme 4–5 Bauman, Zygmunt 59–60 beneficiaries 66, 73 benevolence 50–1, 126 Berliner Programm 10 Bernstein, Eduard 3–4 birds 137, 139 Blair, Tony 99 bonobos 134–5, 136, 139, 145–6 bourgeoisie ix–x, xii alienation and 71–2 freedom and 70–1 masses and xi–xii revolution 70–1

Bruno, Giordano 47, 56 Buddhism 89–90, 94–5 non-violence 158–9 Bush, George W. 99 campaigning 66 ‘Campo dei Fiori’ (Milosz) 47, 52–4, 55–8 capitalism 6–7, 110, 132–3 Catholicism 6, 7, 8–9, 10, 129, 130, 132, 144–5 charity 7 equality 7 goodness and 131 imaginaries 54 individualism and 6–7 interdependence 131 poverty 7–8 universalism 131 see also evolutionary theory CDU (Christian Democratic Party) (Germany) 10 cellular globalisation 97–8, 105 Centesimus Annus (John Paul II) 8–9 chaosmos 97 charity 1, 7 Chateaubriand, François-René de 50 Chenoweth, Eric 163–4 chimpanzees 134–5 China 116 choice and chosenness 80–1, 84, 86–7, 88–9, 90, 92–3, 121, 174 cultural factors 84–5 superiority and 85 Christian Democratic Party (CDU) (Germany) 10 Christian Democratic Party (DC) (Italy) 9 Cicero 116

192 Index civil rights movement 160–1 ‘clash of civilisations’ 100 class see bourgeoisie; working class colonialism 4 common good 76, 131, 137, 142 communism xiii, 3, 5t., 72 class ix–x, xi–xii, 70–2 fear x, xiii identity and xii–xiii lies x–xi non-violence and 162, 166 Community Charter of Fundamental Social Rights of Workers (1989) 13 conflict resolution 62, 115, 154, 173–4, 176 identity and 174, 179, 188 Confucius/Confucianism 117–18, 122, 125, 126 conscientisation 66, 67 consumerism 110 cosmopolitanism 29, 33–4, 36, 40, 68–9, 109–10, 111 cultural factors 36 duty and 35 equality and 34, 35 homogeneity and 36 human rights and 36, 37 individualism and 34, 35 monism 36 universalism 34 urgency and 39 cultural imaginaries 54, 55, 63n.12 Czechoslovakia x, 162 Dalai Lama 158–9 Daly, Martin 143 DC (Christian Democratic Party) (Italy) 9 death 39, 53–4, 58–9, 69, 90 benevolence and 50–1 engagement and 47, 55 intermarriage and 93 isolation and 56–7 Denmark 163 Derrida, Jacques 107 desires 119–20 development aid 16, 17–20, 19f. Dewey, John 121 Diaspora (Jewish) 86 dignity 122–3 disasters 70

Dobson, Andrew 69 Donne, John 69–70 Durkheim, Émile 47–8 eating 91–2 EC (European Community) 12 education 59 egalitarianism 31, 32–3, 34, 35, 41–3, 137, 144 seeing and 138 Einstein, Albert 153 empathy 23, 57, 134–5, 136 emotional contagion 135 pre-concern 135 sympathy and 70, 122, 135–6, 176 enemies 107, 108–9 envy 94 EPP (European People’s Party) 12–13 equality 7, 11–12, 14, 15, 100 egalitarianism 31, 32–3, 34, 35, 41–3, 137, 138, 144 lies and 68 reproduction and 143 eschaton 72–4 ethics 27, 38, 60–1, 116, 117, 119, 120, 121–2, 155–6, 185–6 discourse 177, 184–5, 186–7 legitimacy confirmation 118 value affirmation and 118–19 virtue 120–1, 122, 155 EU (European Union) 13–14, 15–16, 20–1 development aid and 16, 17–18, 20 financial crisis 14–15 self-interest 16 trade policy 16–17 European Coal and Steel Community 12 European Community (EC) 12 European Consensus on Development (2005) 16, 18 European People’s Party (EPP) 12–13 European Social Charter (1961) 13 European Union see EU European Union Treaty (2009) 13 evolutionary theory 129–30, 134, 136, 137, 138–9, 140–2, 144, 145–6 awareness 136 empathy 134–6 equality and 137, 138, 143, 144 genes 137–8, 143

Index goodness 137, 142 human rights and 140 inclusion 139–40, 141, 142, 143–4 interdependence 136 self-interest and 130, 132–4, 136, 137 veneer theory 133, 135 existentialism 160 eyesight 57, 138 fairness 116 family 68, 124 fear x, xiii federations 159 financial crisis (2008) 14–15 ‘Finding Our Common Ground’ (Sen) 58–9 Finnis, John 76, 77 food 91–2 Foot, Philippa 51 France 1–2, 60 fraternity 48 free trade 17 freedom 4, 12–13, 87, 160, 166 alienation and 71 autonomy 172–3, 187–8 choice and chosenness 80–1, 84–5, 86–7, 88–9, 90, 92–3, 121, 174 universalism and 70–1 visualisation and 87–8, 89 French Revolution 60 Freud, Sigmund 153 Friedman, Thomas 112n.1 friendship 74–6, 77–8, 79, 80, 81 choice and 80–1 eating and 91–2 enemies and 107, 108–9 goodness and 75, 76–7, 78, 79, 80–1 homogeneity and 107–8 love and 109 obedience 76 reciprocity 78–9 reproductive 79 self-interest and 81 vulnerability and 75 Gandhi, Mohandas 156, 157–8, 162 genes 132–3, 136, 137–8, 143 genocide 39, 53–4 Germany 4–5, 14

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Ghiselin, Michael 133 Global Europe (EU) 17 global justice 27–8, 40, 41, 80, 171, 173–4, 177–80, 182 basic structures and 38 duty and 35, 39, 40, 41 global peace 165–7 global security 171–2 global solidarity 15, 48, 105, 179, 181–2 God 85, 86–9, 90 Goldstein, Joshua 164 goodness 70, 74, 75, 76–7, 78, 79, 80–1, 121 common good 137, 142 openness 52 universalism 76, 77, 80, 131 gorillas 139 Gramsci, Antonio 102–3 Greece 14 greed 132–3 Gregg, Donald 162 group selection 137, 138, 140–2 guiltiness 123 ha-Meiri, Rabbi Menahem 90 Habermas, Jürgen 177, 184, 186–7 habit 117–18 happiness 158 benevolence 50–1 joy 70, 86–7, 88 misery and 50–1, 56, 71–2, 74 harmony 125 Havel, Vaclav 27 heart-sight 57 Hinduism 58–9 Hittites 89 Hobsbawm, Eric xi–xii Holocaust 39, 53–4 holy envy 94 Holy Family, The (Marx and Engels) 71 homeland 86 horror 71 human nature 51, 77 human presence 51 human rights 36–7, 43, 140, 153, 167n.1, 182 basic rights 39, 43 duty 39 justification 37

194 Index legitimation 37 urgency 39 vulnerability and 39 human solidarity 48, 51–2, 54, 57–8, 61, 62, 66–7, 177–8 benevolence 50–1 education and 59 empathy 23 fullness and 59–60 love and 62 see also friendship; imagination Hume, David 51, 122 humiliation 122–3 Hungary 162–3 Huntingdon, Samuel 100 Ibn ‘Arabi, Muhi al-Din 109 idealism 165–6 identity xii–xiii, xiv, 59, 84, 115, 120, 171, 173, 174, 179, 180, 181, 182–5, 186, 187 chosenness and 84–5, 86, 88–9, 90, 92–3 freedom and 187–8 inclusion 185, 188 self-interest and 180–1 violence 58–9 idol worship 90 imagination 49, 54, 63n.4, 63n.12 see also moral imagination imperialism 98–9 colonialism 4 economic 110 non-violence and 162–3 terrorism and 98, 100, 111 see also warfare inclusion 131, 139–40, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 183, 185, 186–7, 188 common good 76, 131, 137, 142 violence and 143–4 India 59 individualism 6–7, 34, 35 industrialisation 71 institutional facts 117 intermarriage 92–5 Iraq xiii, 98, 103, 112n.1 Islam xiii–xiv, 99 see also Muslims isolation 56–7, 85–6, 117 Israel 86

Jews 89–90, 109 coded law and 90–1 cultural factors 83–4, 95 eating and 91–2 freedom and 87–8 homeland and 86 identity and 84–5, 86, 88–9, 90, 92–3 imaginaries 54 intermarriage and 92–5 isolation and 85–6 love and 86–7, 88–9, 90 persecution and 39, 53–4, 55, 85–6, 163 jiu-jitsu 161, 162 John XXIII 7 John Paul II 8–9, 131 Johnson, Mark 49–50 joy 70, 86–7, 88 Judaism see Jews justice 6, 9, 10–11, 27, 40–1, 101, 125–6, 174–5 basic structure and 30 duty and 30, 68 Kant, Immanuel 159–60 Ketteler, Bishop Wilhelm von 6 Kierkegaard, Søren 85, 87 kindness 50–1, 126 King, Jr., Dr. Martin Luther 160–1 Kook, Rabbi Abraham Isaac 93–4 kosher food 91–2 Labour Party (UK) 6 Lederach, Paul 62 Lenin/Leninism xi–xii Leo XIII 6 Leroux, Pierre 1 liberal internationalism 41–2, 43–4 lies and denial x–xii, 99, 112n.1 noble lies 68 life-world 124, 125 lifeboat earth 178–9 Lisbon Treaty (2009) 16 love 62, 109 accountability and 104–5 benevolence and 126 freedom and 86–7, 88–9, 90 intermarriage and 93–4 joy and 86–7, 88 lies and xii

Index trouble and 89 Maastricht Treaty (1992) 13, 16 majestic lies 68 Manners, Ian 15 Marcos, Ferdinand 162 marriage 92–5 Martin, Brian 161–2 Marx/Marxism 3, 5t., 72 class xi–xii, 70–2 non-violence and 166 Mater et Magistra (John XXIII) 7 media 97 meditation 69–70 Milosz, Czeslaw 47, 52, 54, 55–8, 63n.9 miracles 87 misery 71–2, 74 benevolence and 50–1 engagement and 56 horror and 71 monism 36 moral closeness 176–7 moral imagination 49–50, 52, 57, 58, 60, 61–2 conflict resolution 62 cultural imaginaries and 55 empathy 57 engagement and 55, 57 goodness 52 identity and 58–9 isolation and 56–7 misery and 56 seeing and 57, 62 shock and 55 moral space 51, 52, 56, 57 Mouffe, Chantal 107–8 Muhammad 105 Muslims 97, 99, 102, 103, 109 accountability and 104, 105, 106 ‘clash of civilisations’ and 100 cosmopolitanism 109–10 enemies and 108–9 equality and 100 friendship 109 homogeneity and 108 identity and 58–9 imperialism and 98, 100 love and 104–5 media and 97

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persecution and 100, 106 public reconciliation 106 violence and 102 warfare and 98, 99, 102, 103, 112n.1 mystics 104–5 Nagel, Thomas 186 narratives 176, 185–6 anarchy and 173 freedom and 172–3 identity and 173, 174, 179, 180–1, 182–5, 186, 187–8 ideology and 172 inclusion 186–7 moral closeness and 176–7 natural selection 136, 137, 138, 140–2 Nazism 39, 53–4, 55, 163 neoliberalism 17, 21, 132–3 9/11 attacks 99, 102 noble lies 68 non-violence 129, 153, 154–5, 156, 157–9, 160–2, 163–4, 165–7 abstention and 157, 161, 162–3 action and 157, 160, 161 federations 159 freedom and 160, 166 happiness and 158 idealism 165–6 jiu-jitsu and 161, 162 mass resistance 162–3, 164 negative and positive peace 166–7 perpetuity and 159–60 truth and 157, 160 nuclear disarmament 105–6 Nussbaum, Martha 50 obedience 76 openness 17, 52 pacifism see non-violence paranoia x, xiii Party of European Socialists (PES) 13 peace see non-violence Peace and Conflict Studies (PCS) 154–5 see also non-violence Percy, Walker 89 PES (Party of European Socialists) 13 Pesch, Heinrich 6 Pew Research Center report (2013) 84

196 Index Philippines 162 Pinker, Steven 164–5 Pius XI 7 Plato 68 Poland xii, xiii, 8 class x fear x, xiii identity and xii–xiii, xiv imaginaries 54 lies and x–xi non-violence and 162 persecution and 55 poverty 7–8 development aid and 16, 18 equality and 14 reciprocity and 22 Power of the Powerless’, ‘The (Havel) 27 Prague Spring 162 pregnancy rates 143 primates (hominids) 134, 145–6 empathy 134–5, 136 inclusion 139, 140 seeing and 138 proletariat see working class propriety 125 protectionism 16 Quadragesimo Anno (Pius XI) 7 racism 92–3, 160 rationalisation 156 Rawls, John 30, 38, 174–5, 184 realpolitik 166, 181 relationships 68, 92–5, 116, 124 see also friendship religion xiii, 74, 145, 175–6 comprehensive doctrines 174–5 Republic, The (Plato) 68 Rerum Novarum (Leo XIII) 6 Rescue (Milosz) 63n.9 rituals 119–20 Rumi, Jalaluddin 104–5 Sacks, Rabbi Jonathan 85–6 Sartre, Jean-Paul 121 Scandinavia 5 Scanlon, Thomas 37–8 Schmitt, Carl 106–8 Schwarzenbach, Sybil 78, 79

Sefer Hachinuch 87 self-interest 16, 21–2, 23, 81, 129, 130, 132, 133–4, 137, 176–7, 180–1 genes and 132–3, 136 greed 132–3 individualism and 6–7, 34, 35 self-recognition 136 selfish gene theory 132–3, 136 Sen, Amartya 38, 58–9 September 11 attacks 99, 102 shame 122–3 Sharp, Gene 161, 162 shock 55 social imaginaries 54 socialism 3–4 see also communism; working class Socrates 68 solidarity ix, 2–3, 5, 5t., 10–11, 11t., 21, 47–8 economic systems and 110, 126 epistemic 65, 66, 67, 81 impossibility and 132–3 institutional organisations 123–6, 127 introspection and 102–3 legitimacy and 115–16 ontic 65–6, 67, 81 reciprocity and 22 reconciliation and 101–2, 103–4, 106–7, 111–12 socialisation and 120 system organisations 124 ‘Solidarity and the Root of the Ethical’ (Wiggins) 50–2 Solidarity movement x, xii–xiii, 8, 162 South Africa 101 sovereignty 28–9, 31, 35 speechlessness 56–7 statism 29, 30–2 basic structure and 30, 31, 32 equality and 31, 32–3 sovereignty and 28–9, 31 sufficientarianism and 33 Stephan, Maria J. 163–4 subsidiarity 7 sufficientarianism 33, 41–3 sympathy 70, 122, 135–6, 176 tax 19f., 20 Taylor, Charles 54, 63n.12

Index terrorism 98, 99, 100, 102, 111 legality and 111 lies and 99, 112n.1 Theory of Justice, A (Rawls) 30 Tischner, Józef 8 totalitarianism 73–4 trade policy 16–17 trade unions x Translator of Desires (Ibn ‘Arabi) 109 transparency 17 Treaty of Lisbon (2009) 16 Treaty of Maastricht (1992) 13, 16 Treaty of the European Union (2009) 13 truth 157, 160, 175–6 lies and x–xii, 68, 99, 112n.1 Truth and Reconciliation Commission 101 UN (United Nations) 153 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948) (UN) 153, 167n.1 universalism xiv, 34, 66, 70–1, 73, 77, 80, 116 choice and 93 common good 76, 131 inclusion 131 see also evolutionary theory; human solidarity urgency 28, 37–40 value pluralism 173–4, 179–80 Vatican II 144–5 veneer theory 133, 135 violence 58–9, 102, 143–4, 154, 158, 161, 163, 164–5, 171 anarchy 29, 172, 173, 178–9 conflict resolution 62, 115, 154, 173–4, 176, 179, 188 revolution 60, 70–1, 166 see also death; non-violence; warfare

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visualisation 62 eyesight 57, 138 hiddenness 87–8, 89 Voegelin, Eric 72, 73 vulnerability 39, 67, 70, 75 Waal, Frans de 132–6, 138–40 Wang, Yang-ming 121 war against terrorism 99 warfare 98, 103, 153, 154, 159, 164–5, 175, 185 enemies and 107 identity and 180–1 legality and 98 modernity and 103 nuclear disarmament and 105–6 power strategies 98 terrorism and 99, 102, 112n.1 Warsaw Ghetto 53–4, 55 Weil, Simone 51 whales 139–40 Wiggins, David 50–2 Wilson, David Sloan 133–4, 136, 137–8, 140–4 Wilson, Margo 143 working class ix–x, 3 alienation 71–2 freedom and 70–1 masses and xi–xii revolution 70–1 trade unions x World Trade Organization (WTO) 16–17 Xunzi 119–20 Zen Buddhism 89–90