LNAT Philosophy

Britain is a country built on moral principles. The nation is held together by the values of equality, freedom, popular sovereignty, tolerance, the separation of powers between the legislature, executive and judiciary, and the rule of law. These values have been used to decipher whether an act is right or wrong, and have helped to guide our course during moments of crisis and when inspiration is needed to take us forward. Yet, here and abroad, morality is disappearing from political life and these principles are under attack.

The attack, undertaken by politicians, uses the familiar tactics of false promises, scapegoating, scaremongering, diversion and concentrating on short-term concerns. Lying is barefaced and commonplace. The rule of law is repeatedly challenged and the judiciary attacked. By these means, strongly supported by elements of the press, our government achieves widespread acceptance of the erosion of democratic structures, widening inequality and causing inaction on climate breakdown.

From the top down, public morality is corroded. If morality, not to mention competence, were valued by the electorate, the approval ratings of Boris Johnson (and Donald Trump) would surely have plummeted, but they haven’t. As others have noted, for many people truth has become unimportant. Selfishness is assumed and encouraged, and opponents, dissenters and people seen as “other” are denigrated and worse. The most important thing is one’s own short-term interest.

What can be done about the crisis? Of course a new government is needed, but even if a Labour government is elected, the divisions and the damage done to public morality will need to be repaired. Just as there is a need to promote physical and mental wellbeing, so morality could be promoted by means of the concept of moral wellbeing.

For physical wellbeing, we have the dietary advice of five-a-day; for mental wellbeing the New Economics Foundation’s five ways to wellbeing, as used by the NHS. For moral wellbeing there is a similar framework that could be useful: the psychological model developed by James Rest, outlining the four components of moral reasoning.

This is a framework for improving thoughtfulness and clarity about moral matters. The first stage is moral sensitivity – recognising when an issue is one of morality, rather than a personal preference or practicality. The second component is moral reasoning. Having identified that a question is one of right and wrong, you then decide what the right thing to do would be. Third comes moral motivation – acknowledging other interests and motives that influence your thinking about the issue, and then weighing up the conflicting motives. The fourth and final stage is moral implementation, which means bringing moral reasoning and moral motivation together to make and act on a decision.

As particular assumptions and attitudes (including moral attitudes) are assimilated, familiarity grows, habits form, and it becomes increasingly easy to use fast thinking to make decisions related to them. But fast thinking is less like what is ordinarily recognised as thinking – and more like assuming, or jumping to conclusions. The value of the four-component approach to moral reasoning is in slowing down moral judgments to make them deliberative and logical rather than automatic.

Most people want to do the right thing, but the right thing is sometimes not even properly considered. The diversions and scapegoating employed by government ministers are often intended to draw attention away from the right thing. As the evidence supporting the five ways to wellbeing campaign shows, doing good for others is good for one’s own wellbeing. In the longer term, concern and respect for others beyond one’s immediate circle, along with thoughtfulness and truthfulness, benefit all of us.

Britain is a country built on moral principles. The nation is held together by the values of equality, freedom, popular sovereignty, tolerance, the separation of powers between the legislature, executive and judiciary, and the rule of law. These values have been used to decipher whether an act is right or wrong, and have helped to guide our course during moments of crisis and when inspiration is needed to take us forward. Yet, here and abroad, morality is disappearing from political life and these principles are under attack.

The attack, undertaken by politicians, uses the familiar tactics of false promises, scapegoating, scaremongering, diversion and concentrating on short-term concerns. Lying is barefaced and commonplace. The rule of law is repeatedly challenged and the judiciary attacked. By these means, strongly supported by elements of the press, our government achieves widespread acceptance of the erosion of democratic structures, widening inequality and causing inaction on climate breakdown.

From the top down, public morality is corroded. If morality, not to mention competence, were valued by the electorate, the approval ratings of Boris Johnson (and Donald Trump) would surely have plummeted, but they haven’t. As others have noted, for many people truth has become unimportant. Selfishness is assumed and encouraged, and opponents, dissenters and people seen as “other” are denigrated and worse. The most important thing is one’s own short-term interest.

What can be done about the crisis? Of course a new government is needed, but even if a Labour government is elected, the divisions and the damage done to public morality will need to be repaired. Just as there is a need to promote physical and mental wellbeing, so morality could be promoted by means of the concept of moral wellbeing.

For physical wellbeing, we have the dietary advice of five-a-day; for mental wellbeing the New Economics Foundation’s five ways to wellbeing, as used by the NHS. For moral wellbeing there is a similar framework that could be useful: the psychological model developed by James Rest, outlining the four components of moral reasoning.

This is a framework for improving thoughtfulness and clarity about moral matters. The first stage is moral sensitivity – recognising when an issue is one of morality, rather than a personal preference or practicality. The second component is moral reasoning. Having identified that a question is one of right and wrong, you then decide what the right thing to do would be. Third comes moral motivation – acknowledging other interests and motives that influence your thinking about the issue, and then weighing up the conflicting motives. The fourth and final stage is moral implementation, which means bringing moral reasoning and moral motivation together to make and act on a decision.

As particular assumptions and attitudes (including moral attitudes) are assimilated, familiarity grows, habits form, and it becomes increasingly easy to use fast thinking to make decisions related to them. But fast thinking is less like what is ordinarily recognised as thinking – and more like assuming, or jumping to conclusions. The value of the four-component approach to moral reasoning is in slowing down moral judgments to make them deliberative and logical rather than automatic.

Most people want to do the right thing, but the right thing is sometimes not even properly considered. The diversions and scapegoating employed by government ministers are often intended to draw attention away from the right thing. As the evidence supporting the five ways to wellbeing campaign shows, doing good for others is good for one’s own wellbeing. In the longer term, concern and respect for others beyond one’s immediate circle, along with thoughtfulness and truthfulness, benefit all of us.

Britain is a country built on moral principles. The nation is held together by the values of equality, freedom, popular sovereignty, tolerance, the separation of powers between the legislature, executive and judiciary, and the rule of law. These values have been used to decipher whether an act is right or wrong, and have helped to guide our course during moments of crisis and when inspiration is needed to take us forward. Yet, here and abroad, morality is disappearing from political life and these principles are under attack.

The attack, undertaken by politicians, uses the familiar tactics of false promises, scapegoating, scaremongering, diversion and concentrating on short-term concerns. Lying is barefaced and commonplace. The rule of law is repeatedly challenged and the judiciary attacked. By these means, strongly supported by elements of the press, our government achieves widespread acceptance of the erosion of democratic structures, widening inequality and causing inaction on climate breakdown.

From the top down, public morality is corroded. If morality, not to mention competence, were valued by the electorate, the approval ratings of Boris Johnson (and Donald Trump) would surely have plummeted, but they haven’t. As others have noted, for many people truth has become unimportant. Selfishness is assumed and encouraged, and opponents, dissenters and people seen as “other” are denigrated and worse. The most important thing is one’s own short-term interest.

What can be done about the crisis? Of course a new government is needed, but even if a Labour government is elected, the divisions and the damage done to public morality will need to be repaired. Just as there is a need to promote physical and mental wellbeing, so morality could be promoted by means of the concept of moral wellbeing.

For physical wellbeing, we have the dietary advice of five-a-day; for mental wellbeing the New Economics Foundation’s five ways to wellbeing, as used by the NHS. For moral wellbeing there is a similar framework that could be useful: the psychological model developed by James Rest, outlining the four components of moral reasoning.

This is a framework for improving thoughtfulness and clarity about moral matters. The first stage is moral sensitivity – recognising when an issue is one of morality, rather than a personal preference or practicality. The second component is moral reasoning. Having identified that a question is one of right and wrong, you then decide what the right thing to do would be. Third comes moral motivation – acknowledging other interests and motives that influence your thinking about the issue, and then weighing up the conflicting motives. The fourth and final stage is moral implementation, which means bringing moral reasoning and moral motivation together to make and act on a decision.

As particular assumptions and attitudes (including moral attitudes) are assimilated, familiarity grows, habits form, and it becomes increasingly easy to use fast thinking to make decisions related to them. But fast thinking is less like what is ordinarily recognised as thinking – and more like assuming, or jumping to conclusions. The value of the four-component approach to moral reasoning is in slowing down moral judgments to make them deliberative and logical rather than automatic.

Most people want to do the right thing, but the right thing is sometimes not even properly considered. The diversions and scapegoating employed by government ministers are often intended to draw attention away from the right thing. As the evidence supporting the five ways to wellbeing campaign shows, doing good for others is good for one’s own wellbeing. In the longer term, concern and respect for others beyond one’s immediate circle, along with thoughtfulness and truthfulness, benefit all of us.

Britain is a country built on moral principles. The nation is held together by the values of equality, freedom, popular sovereignty, tolerance, the separation of powers between the legislature, executive and judiciary, and the rule of law. These values have been used to decipher whether an act is right or wrong, and have helped to guide our course during moments of crisis and when inspiration is needed to take us forward. Yet, here and abroad, morality is disappearing from political life and these principles are under attack.

The attack, undertaken by politicians, uses the familiar tactics of false promises, scapegoating, scaremongering, diversion and concentrating on short-term concerns. Lying is barefaced and commonplace. The rule of law is repeatedly challenged and the judiciary attacked. By these means, strongly supported by elements of the press, our government achieves widespread acceptance of the erosion of democratic structures, widening inequality and causing inaction on climate breakdown.

From the top down, public morality is corroded. If morality, not to mention competence, were valued by the electorate, the approval ratings of Boris Johnson (and Donald Trump) would surely have plummeted, but they haven’t. As others have noted, for many people truth has become unimportant. Selfishness is assumed and encouraged, and opponents, dissenters and people seen as “other” are denigrated and worse. The most important thing is one’s own short-term interest.

What can be done about the crisis? Of course a new government is needed, but even if a Labour government is elected, the divisions and the damage done to public morality will need to be repaired. Just as there is a need to promote physical and mental wellbeing, so morality could be promoted by means of the concept of moral wellbeing.

For physical wellbeing, we have the dietary advice of five-a-day; for mental wellbeing the New Economics Foundation’s five ways to wellbeing, as used by the NHS. For moral wellbeing there is a similar framework that could be useful: the psychological model developed by James Rest, outlining the four components of moral reasoning.

This is a framework for improving thoughtfulness and clarity about moral matters. The first stage is moral sensitivity – recognising when an issue is one of morality, rather than a personal preference or practicality. The second component is moral reasoning. Having identified that a question is one of right and wrong, you then decide what the right thing to do would be. Third comes moral motivation – acknowledging other interests and motives that influence your thinking about the issue, and then weighing up the conflicting motives. The fourth and final stage is moral implementation, which means bringing moral reasoning and moral motivation together to make and act on a decision.

As particular assumptions and attitudes (including moral attitudes) are assimilated, familiarity grows, habits form, and it becomes increasingly easy to use fast thinking to make decisions related to them. But fast thinking is less like what is ordinarily recognised as thinking – and more like assuming, or jumping to conclusions. The value of the four-component approach to moral reasoning is in slowing down moral judgments to make them deliberative and logical rather than automatic.

Most people want to do the right thing, but the right thing is sometimes not even properly considered. The diversions and scapegoating employed by government ministers are often intended to draw attention away from the right thing. As the evidence supporting the five ways to wellbeing campaign shows, doing good for others is good for one’s own wellbeing. In the longer term, concern and respect for others beyond one’s immediate circle, along with thoughtfulness and truthfulness, benefit all of us.

Britain is a country built on moral principles. The nation is held together by the values of equality, freedom, popular sovereignty, tolerance, the separation of powers between the legislature, executive and judiciary, and the rule of law. These values have been used to decipher whether an act is right or wrong, and have helped to guide our course during moments of crisis and when inspiration is needed to take us forward. Yet, here and abroad, morality is disappearing from political life and these principles are under attack.

The attack, undertaken by politicians, uses the familiar tactics of false promises, scapegoating, scaremongering, diversion and concentrating on short-term concerns. Lying is barefaced and commonplace. The rule of law is repeatedly challenged and the judiciary attacked. By these means, strongly supported by elements of the press, our government achieves widespread acceptance of the erosion of democratic structures, widening inequality and causing inaction on climate breakdown.

From the top down, public morality is corroded. If morality, not to mention competence, were valued by the electorate, the approval ratings of Boris Johnson (and Donald Trump) would surely have plummeted, but they haven’t. As others have noted, for many people truth has become unimportant. Selfishness is assumed and encouraged, and opponents, dissenters and people seen as “other” are denigrated and worse. The most important thing is one’s own short-term interest.

What can be done about the crisis? Of course a new government is needed, but even if a Labour government is elected, the divisions and the damage done to public morality will need to be repaired. Just as there is a need to promote physical and mental wellbeing, so morality could be promoted by means of the concept of moral wellbeing.

For physical wellbeing, we have the dietary advice of five-a-day; for mental wellbeing the New Economics Foundation’s five ways to wellbeing, as used by the NHS. For moral wellbeing there is a similar framework that could be useful: the psychological model developed by James Rest, outlining the four components of moral reasoning.

This is a framework for improving thoughtfulness and clarity about moral matters. The first stage is moral sensitivity – recognising when an issue is one of morality, rather than a personal preference or practicality. The second component is moral reasoning. Having identified that a question is one of right and wrong, you then decide what the right thing to do would be. Third comes moral motivation – acknowledging other interests and motives that influence your thinking about the issue, and then weighing up the conflicting motives. The fourth and final stage is moral implementation, which means bringing moral reasoning and moral motivation together to make and act on a decision.

As particular assumptions and attitudes (including moral attitudes) are assimilated, familiarity grows, habits form, and it becomes increasingly easy to use fast thinking to make decisions related to them. But fast thinking is less like what is ordinarily recognised as thinking – and more like assuming, or jumping to conclusions. The value of the four-component approach to moral reasoning is in slowing down moral judgments to make them deliberative and logical rather than automatic.

Most people want to do the right thing, but the right thing is sometimes not even properly considered. The diversions and scapegoating employed by government ministers are often intended to draw attention away from the right thing. As the evidence supporting the five ways to wellbeing campaign shows, doing good for others is good for one’s own wellbeing. In the longer term, concern and respect for others beyond one’s immediate circle, along with thoughtfulness and truthfulness, benefit all of us.

In normal times, a row between the EU, the UK and a private company over the timely delivery of a contract would be of interest to few apart from the two sides’ lawyers. But these are not normal times, and this is no ordinary contract.

The battle over the Oxford/AstraZeneca vaccine raises deeper ethical questions about who deserves priority access to a life-saving drug. It’s a discussion many countries have already had in a domestic context, where a consensus hasn’t been hard to reach: priority should be given to those who are most likely to catch or die of Covid-19, and therefore stand to benefit the most from a jab. But who should be prioritised for vaccination in the global context?

Vaccine Nationalism is the approach of the UK government so far: if the EU has problems with the supply of the AstraZeneca vaccine, then tough luck. This argument finds justification in communitarianism, the philosophy that argues our identities and values are intricately linked to the communities we belong to, and therefore our moral obligations are first and foremost to those who belong to our community – in this case, our political community.

But according to a different, more cosmopolitan, approach, moral responsibility doesn’t stop at a country’s borders. The value of a person’s life isn’t dependent on where they live: everyone has equal moral worth. Utilitarianism, the moral philosophy that measures the value of an act by measuring its impact on overall wellbeing, doesn’t discriminate between British, French or Brazilian wellbeing. It sees the preferential treatment of those close to us as immoral, and as an unfortunate feature of human nature. According to this framework, the UK shouldn’t prioritise its own citizens, but treat the citizens of the EU, and indeed of the rest of the world, as equally deserving of the vaccines it has secured. The most vulnerable from around the globe should, as in the domestic case, take priority.

So, which of the two ethical frameworks gets it right?

One way that philosophers assess ethical principles is by testing them in thought experiments. Imagine a neighbour asks you for a favour, say to help them move, and a stranger asks you the same. Would it be immoral to prioritise your neighbour? That doesn’t sound quite right. In fact, the special ties you have with your neighbour make helping them seem like a kind of obligation, one you don’t have towards a stranger. Now imagine a different scenario: your neighbour is again asking for help with moving, but a stranger is at the same time crying for help, drowning in the lake next to your house. Here your moral duty is to help the stranger, not your neighbour.

Both the ethical principle that says we should always prioritise those we have ties to, as well as the one that suggests it is always wrong to do so, have their limitations. No one moral rule can capture the particularities of every ethical conundrum; each case deserves its own attention. So, what about the particular situation the UK and the EU have found themselves in? By the time the UK had vaccinated over 10% of adults, including the vast majority of over-80s, the EU had vaccinated only 2% of adults. This means the proportion of people still highly vulnerable to Covid is much greater in the EU than in the UK. Should Britain let its neighbours have some of the 100m AstraZeneca doses it has secured?

Let’s consider the extreme cases. If, say, the UK had vaccinated exactly the same percentage of people as the EU, there wouldn’t be any moral demand for the UK to share its vaccines. But if the UK had managed to vaccinate all of the groups most vulnerable to Covid, while the EU was still lagging behind, there would be a good argument for the UK to allow some of its vaccines to be diverted to the EU. Doing so would almost certainly save more lives.

Given the current situation, and the fact the UK is suffering one of the world’s highest number of deaths relative to population size, there is a moral argument for prioritising its people. But it’s important to keep in mind that even though the political leadership of the country is democratically accountable only to its citizens, its moral accountability doesn’t stop with them. If and when the UK finds itself in better epidemiological shape than other countries, it will be time to help them out.

In normal times, a row between the EU, the UK and a private company over the timely delivery of a contract would be of interest to few apart from the two sides’ lawyers. But these are not normal times, and this is no ordinary contract.

The battle over the Oxford/AstraZeneca vaccine raises deeper ethical questions about who deserves priority access to a life-saving drug. It’s a discussion many countries have already had in a domestic context, where a consensus hasn’t been hard to reach: priority should be given to those who are most likely to catch or die of Covid-19, and therefore stand to benefit the most from a jab. But who should be prioritised for vaccination in the global context?

Vaccine Nationalism is the approach of the UK government so far: if the EU has problems with the supply of the AstraZeneca vaccine, then tough luck. This argument finds justification in communitarianism, the philosophy that argues our identities and values are intricately linked to the communities we belong to, and therefore our moral obligations are first and foremost to those who belong to our community – in this case, our political community.

But according to a different, more cosmopolitan, approach, moral responsibility doesn’t stop at a country’s borders. The value of a person’s life isn’t dependent on where they live: everyone has equal moral worth. Utilitarianism, the moral philosophy that measures the value of an act by measuring its impact on overall wellbeing, doesn’t discriminate between British, French or Brazilian wellbeing. It sees the preferential treatment of those close to us as immoral, and as an unfortunate feature of human nature. According to this framework, the UK shouldn’t prioritise its own citizens, but treat the citizens of the EU, and indeed of the rest of the world, as equally deserving of the vaccines it has secured. The most vulnerable from around the globe should, as in the domestic case, take priority.

So, which of the two ethical frameworks gets it right?

One way that philosophers assess ethical principles is by testing them in thought experiments. Imagine a neighbour asks you for a favour, say to help them move, and a stranger asks you the same. Would it be immoral to prioritise your neighbour? That doesn’t sound quite right. In fact, the special ties you have with your neighbour make helping them seem like a kind of obligation, one you don’t have towards a stranger. Now imagine a different scenario: your neighbour is again asking for help with moving, but a stranger is at the same time crying for help, drowning in the lake next to your house. Here your moral duty is to help the stranger, not your neighbour.

Both the ethical principle that says we should always prioritise those we have ties to, as well as the one that suggests it is always wrong to do so, have their limitations. No one moral rule can capture the particularities of every ethical conundrum; each case deserves its own attention. So, what about the particular situation the UK and the EU have found themselves in? By the time the UK had vaccinated over 10% of adults, including the vast majority of over-80s, the EU had vaccinated only 2% of adults. This means the proportion of people still highly vulnerable to Covid is much greater in the EU than in the UK. Should Britain let its neighbours have some of the 100m AstraZeneca doses it has secured?

Let’s consider the extreme cases. If, say, the UK had vaccinated exactly the same percentage of people as the EU, there wouldn’t be any moral demand for the UK to share its vaccines. But if the UK had managed to vaccinate all of the groups most vulnerable to Covid, while the EU was still lagging behind, there would be a good argument for the UK to allow some of its vaccines to be diverted to the EU. Doing so would almost certainly save more lives.

Given the current situation, and the fact the UK is suffering one of the world’s highest number of deaths relative to population size, there is a moral argument for prioritising its people. But it’s important to keep in mind that even though the political leadership of the country is democratically accountable only to its citizens, its moral accountability doesn’t stop with them. If and when the UK finds itself in better epidemiological shape than other countries, it will be time to help them out.

In normal times, a row between the EU, the UK and a private company over the timely delivery of a contract would be of interest to few apart from the two sides’ lawyers. But these are not normal times, and this is no ordinary contract.

The battle over the Oxford/AstraZeneca vaccine raises deeper ethical questions about who deserves priority access to a life-saving drug. It’s a discussion many countries have already had in a domestic context, where a consensus hasn’t been hard to reach: priority should be given to those who are most likely to catch or die of Covid-19, and therefore stand to benefit the most from a jab. But who should be prioritised for vaccination in the global context?

Vaccine Nationalism is the approach of the UK government so far: if the EU has problems with the supply of the AstraZeneca vaccine, then tough luck. This argument finds justification in communitarianism, the philosophy that argues our identities and values are intricately linked to the communities we belong to, and therefore our moral obligations are first and foremost to those who belong to our community – in this case, our political community.

But according to a different, more cosmopolitan, approach, moral responsibility doesn’t stop at a country’s borders. The value of a person’s life isn’t dependent on where they live: everyone has equal moral worth. Utilitarianism, the moral philosophy that measures the value of an act by measuring its impact on overall wellbeing, doesn’t discriminate between British, French or Brazilian wellbeing. It sees the preferential treatment of those close to us as immoral, and as an unfortunate feature of human nature. According to this framework, the UK shouldn’t prioritise its own citizens, but treat the citizens of the EU, and indeed of the rest of the world, as equally deserving of the vaccines it has secured. The most vulnerable from around the globe should, as in the domestic case, take priority.

So, which of the two ethical frameworks gets it right?

One way that philosophers assess ethical principles is by testing them in thought experiments. Imagine a neighbour asks you for a favour, say to help them move, and a stranger asks you the same. Would it be immoral to prioritise your neighbour? That doesn’t sound quite right. In fact, the special ties you have with your neighbour make helping them seem like a kind of obligation, one you don’t have towards a stranger. Now imagine a different scenario: your neighbour is again asking for help with moving, but a stranger is at the same time crying for help, drowning in the lake next to your house. Here your moral duty is to help the stranger, not your neighbour.

Both the ethical principle that says we should always prioritise those we have ties to, as well as the one that suggests it is always wrong to do so, have their limitations. No one moral rule can capture the particularities of every ethical conundrum; each case deserves its own attention. So, what about the particular situation the UK and the EU have found themselves in? By the time the UK had vaccinated over 10% of adults, including the vast majority of over-80s, the EU had vaccinated only 2% of adults. This means the proportion of people still highly vulnerable to Covid is much greater in the EU than in the UK. Should Britain let its neighbours have some of the 100m AstraZeneca doses it has secured?

Let’s consider the extreme cases. If, say, the UK had vaccinated exactly the same percentage of people as the EU, there wouldn’t be any moral demand for the UK to share its vaccines. But if the UK had managed to vaccinate all of the groups most vulnerable to Covid, while the EU was still lagging behind, there would be a good argument for the UK to allow some of its vaccines to be diverted to the EU. Doing so would almost certainly save more lives.

Given the current situation, and the fact the UK is suffering one of the world’s highest number of deaths relative to population size, there is a moral argument for prioritising its people. But it’s important to keep in mind that even though the political leadership of the country is democratically accountable only to its citizens, its moral accountability doesn’t stop with them. If and when the UK finds itself in better epidemiological shape than other countries, it will be time to help them out.

In normal times, a row between the EU, the UK and a private company over the timely delivery of a contract would be of interest to few apart from the two sides’ lawyers. But these are not normal times, and this is no ordinary contract.

The battle over the Oxford/AstraZeneca vaccine raises deeper ethical questions about who deserves priority access to a life-saving drug. It’s a discussion many countries have already had in a domestic context, where a consensus hasn’t been hard to reach: priority should be given to those who are most likely to catch or die of Covid-19, and therefore stand to benefit the most from a jab. But who should be prioritised for vaccination in the global context?

Vaccine Nationalism is the approach of the UK government so far: if the EU has problems with the supply of the AstraZeneca vaccine, then tough luck. This argument finds justification in communitarianism, the philosophy that argues our identities and values are intricately linked to the communities we belong to, and therefore our moral obligations are first and foremost to those who belong to our community – in this case, our political community.

But according to a different, more cosmopolitan, approach, moral responsibility doesn’t stop at a country’s borders. The value of a person’s life isn’t dependent on where they live: everyone has equal moral worth. Utilitarianism, the moral philosophy that measures the value of an act by measuring its impact on overall wellbeing, doesn’t discriminate between British, French or Brazilian wellbeing. It sees the preferential treatment of those close to us as immoral, and as an unfortunate feature of human nature. According to this framework, the UK shouldn’t prioritise its own citizens, but treat the citizens of the EU, and indeed of the rest of the world, as equally deserving of the vaccines it has secured. The most vulnerable from around the globe should, as in the domestic case, take priority.

So, which of the two ethical frameworks gets it right?

One way that philosophers assess ethical principles is by testing them in thought experiments. Imagine a neighbour asks you for a favour, say to help them move, and a stranger asks you the same. Would it be immoral to prioritise your neighbour? That doesn’t sound quite right. In fact, the special ties you have with your neighbour make helping them seem like a kind of obligation, one you don’t have towards a stranger. Now imagine a different scenario: your neighbour is again asking for help with moving, but a stranger is at the same time crying for help, drowning in the lake next to your house. Here your moral duty is to help the stranger, not your neighbour.

Both the ethical principle that says we should always prioritise those we have ties to, as well as the one that suggests it is always wrong to do so, have their limitations. No one moral rule can capture the particularities of every ethical conundrum; each case deserves its own attention. So, what about the particular situation the UK and the EU have found themselves in? By the time the UK had vaccinated over 10% of adults, including the vast majority of over-80s, the EU had vaccinated only 2% of adults. This means the proportion of people still highly vulnerable to Covid is much greater in the EU than in the UK. Should Britain let its neighbours have some of the 100m AstraZeneca doses it has secured?

Let’s consider the extreme cases. If, say, the UK had vaccinated exactly the same percentage of people as the EU, there wouldn’t be any moral demand for the UK to share its vaccines. But if the UK had managed to vaccinate all of the groups most vulnerable to Covid, while the EU was still lagging behind, there would be a good argument for the UK to allow some of its vaccines to be diverted to the EU. Doing so would almost certainly save more lives.

Given the current situation, and the fact the UK is suffering one of the world’s highest number of deaths relative to population size, there is a moral argument for prioritising its people. But it’s important to keep in mind that even though the political leadership of the country is democratically accountable only to its citizens, its moral accountability doesn’t stop with them. If and when the UK finds itself in better epidemiological shape than other countries, it will be time to help them out.

In normal times, a row between the EU, the UK and a private company over the timely delivery of a contract would be of interest to few apart from the two sides’ lawyers. But these are not normal times, and this is no ordinary contract.

The battle over the Oxford/AstraZeneca vaccine raises deeper ethical questions about who deserves priority access to a life-saving drug. It’s a discussion many countries have already had in a domestic context, where a consensus hasn’t been hard to reach: priority should be given to those who are most likely to catch or die of Covid-19, and therefore stand to benefit the most from a jab. But who should be prioritised for vaccination in the global context?

Vaccine Nationalism is the approach of the UK government so far: if the EU has problems with the supply of the AstraZeneca vaccine, then tough luck. This argument finds justification in communitarianism, the philosophy that argues our identities and values are intricately linked to the communities we belong to, and therefore our moral obligations are first and foremost to those who belong to our community – in this case, our political community.

But according to a different, more cosmopolitan, approach, moral responsibility doesn’t stop at a country’s borders. The value of a person’s life isn’t dependent on where they live: everyone has equal moral worth. Utilitarianism, the moral philosophy that measures the value of an act by measuring its impact on overall wellbeing, doesn’t discriminate between British, French or Brazilian wellbeing. It sees the preferential treatment of those close to us as immoral, and as an unfortunate feature of human nature. According to this framework, the UK shouldn’t prioritise its own citizens, but treat the citizens of the EU, and indeed of the rest of the world, as equally deserving of the vaccines it has secured. The most vulnerable from around the globe should, as in the domestic case, take priority.

So, which of the two ethical frameworks gets it right?

One way that philosophers assess ethical principles is by testing them in thought experiments. Imagine a neighbour asks you for a favour, say to help them move, and a stranger asks you the same. Would it be immoral to prioritise your neighbour? That doesn’t sound quite right. In fact, the special ties you have with your neighbour make helping them seem like a kind of obligation, one you don’t have towards a stranger. Now imagine a different scenario: your neighbour is again asking for help with moving, but a stranger is at the same time crying for help, drowning in the lake next to your house. Here your moral duty is to help the stranger, not your neighbour.

Both the ethical principle that says we should always prioritise those we have ties to, as well as the one that suggests it is always wrong to do so, have their limitations. No one moral rule can capture the particularities of every ethical conundrum; each case deserves its own attention. So, what about the particular situation the UK and the EU have found themselves in? By the time the UK had vaccinated over 10% of adults, including the vast majority of over-80s, the EU had vaccinated only 2% of adults. This means the proportion of people still highly vulnerable to Covid is much greater in the EU than in the UK. Should Britain let its neighbours have some of the 100m AstraZeneca doses it has secured?

Let’s consider the extreme cases. If, say, the UK had vaccinated exactly the same percentage of people as the EU, there wouldn’t be any moral demand for the UK to share its vaccines. But if the UK had managed to vaccinate all of the groups most vulnerable to Covid, while the EU was still lagging behind, there would be a good argument for the UK to allow some of its vaccines to be diverted to the EU. Doing so would almost certainly save more lives.

Given the current situation, and the fact the UK is suffering one of the world’s highest number of deaths relative to population size, there is a moral argument for prioritising its people. But it’s important to keep in mind that even though the political leadership of the country is democratically accountable only to its citizens, its moral accountability doesn’t stop with them. If and when the UK finds itself in better epidemiological shape than other countries, it will be time to help them out.

Why Philosophers Shouldn’t Sign Petitions

Our job is to persuade by argument, not by wielding influence.

Recently I was asked to sign a petition opposing the deplatformingof philosophers on the basis of their views on sex and gender. I refused to sign, because I believe that petitions, regardless of their content, compromise core values of intellectual inquiry. Here’s why.

Whether you call it a “petition,” an “open letter” or a “public statement,” this type of document is distinguished by the fact that after stating and arguing for a position, it lists the names of people who endorse the position. The petition aims to effect persuasion with respect to what appears in the first part not only by way of any argument contained therein but also by way of the number and respectability of the people who figure in the second part. Such a document tries to persuade you to believe (that it is right to do) something because many people, some of whom are authorities, believe it (is the right thing to do). It is not always wrong to believe things because many people believe them, but it is always intellectually uninquisitive to do so.

The problem here is not that what many believe can be false, though that is a problem. The problem is that even if it’s true, the fact that many believe it doesn’t shed any light on it why it’s true — and that is what the intellectually inquisitive person wants to know. Is this problem mitigated by the fact that the list is not about sheer numbers because authorities appear on it? I think intellectually inquisitive people do gravitate toward those with expertise, because they are in an especially good position to answer our questions. But this goes only for experts taken severally. One expert is a learning opportunity; being confronted with an arsenal of experts is about as conducive to conversation as a firing squad.

There is something aggressive about the way in which voices gain strength and volume by being joined together. Numbers generate a pressure to believe that isn’t grounded in explanatory force, because having more and more adherents to a view doesn’t give rise to better and better accounts of why the view is correct. Philosophers ought to be especially sensitive to introducing this element of belief imposition into our culture. As a philosopher, I want my influence to be philosophical, which is to say, I want to bring people to believe only what they, by their own lights, can see to be justified; I don’t want them to believe something because (I am one of the) many people who think it.

The idea that “the many” cannot be philosophical goes back to Plato’s dialogues: Socrates’ interlocutors frequently resist his counterintuitive conclusions as violations of “common sense,” and Socrates regularly replies, “why should we care so much for what the majority (“hoi polloi”) think?” (Crito 44c.) Socrates wants to know why the view is true, not who or how many hold it.

Just as doctors must commit to not doing any bodily harm, philosophers must commit to not doing a certain kind of epistemic harm. It is unacceptable for a doctor to use — or even advise someone to use — a medically unsound procedure. Persuasion by majority or authority is an unsound way to inquire; the employment of such a procedure constitutes a kind of philosophical malpractice.

Philosophical argument may not always bring about the largest number of mind-changes in your audience — the award on that front would go to mass propaganda of some kind — but it represents the kind of belief acquisition that we as philosophers are committed to: intellectually honest, conducive to knowledge, nonaggressive, inquisitive, respectful.

There is no greater threat to intellectual culture than the thought that when it really counts, when it actually matters to us, we philosophers give up on doing philosophy. If we don’t believe in what we’re doing, no one else will either.

Why Philosophers Shouldn’t Sign Petitions

Our job is to persuade by argument, not by wielding influence.

Recently I was asked to sign a petition opposing the deplatformingof philosophers on the basis of their views on sex and gender. I refused to sign, because I believe that petitions, regardless of their content, compromise core values of intellectual inquiry. Here’s why.

Whether you call it a “petition,” an “open letter” or a “public statement,” this type of document is distinguished by the fact that after stating and arguing for a position, it lists the names of people who endorse the position. The petition aims to effect persuasion with respect to what appears in the first part not only by way of any argument contained therein but also by way of the number and respectability of the people who figure in the second part. Such a document tries to persuade you to believe (that it is right to do) something because many people, some of whom are authorities, believe it (is the right thing to do). It is not always wrong to believe things because many people believe them, but it is always intellectually uninquisitive to do so.

The problem here is not that what many believe can be false, though that is a problem. The problem is that even if it’s true, the fact that many believe it doesn’t shed any light on it why it’s true — and that is what the intellectually inquisitive person wants to know. Is this problem mitigated by the fact that the list is not about sheer numbers because authorities appear on it? I think intellectually inquisitive people do gravitate toward those with expertise, because they are in an especially good position to answer our questions. But this goes only for experts taken severally. One expert is a learning opportunity; being confronted with an arsenal of experts is about as conducive to conversation as a firing squad.

There is something aggressive about the way in which voices gain strength and volume by being joined together. Numbers generate a pressure to believe that isn’t grounded in explanatory force, because having more and more adherents to a view doesn’t give rise to better and better accounts of why the view is correct. Philosophers ought to be especially sensitive to introducing this element of belief imposition into our culture. As a philosopher, I want my influence to be philosophical, which is to say, I want to bring people to believe only what they, by their own lights, can see to be justified; I don’t want them to believe something because (I am one of the) many people who think it.

The idea that “the many” cannot be philosophical goes back to Plato’s dialogues: Socrates’ interlocutors frequently resist his counterintuitive conclusions as violations of “common sense,” and Socrates regularly replies, “why should we care so much for what the majority (“hoi polloi”) think?” (Crito 44c.) Socrates wants to know why the view is true, not who or how many hold it.

Just as doctors must commit to not doing any bodily harm, philosophers must commit to not doing a certain kind of epistemic harm. It is unacceptable for a doctor to use — or even advise someone to use — a medically unsound procedure. Persuasion by majority or authority is an unsound way to inquire; the employment of such a procedure constitutes a kind of philosophical malpractice.

Philosophical argument may not always bring about the largest number of mind-changes in your audience — the award on that front would go to mass propaganda of some kind — but it represents the kind of belief acquisition that we as philosophers are committed to: intellectually honest, conducive to knowledge, nonaggressive, inquisitive, respectful.

There is no greater threat to intellectual culture than the thought that when it really counts, when it actually matters to us, we philosophers give up on doing philosophy. If we don’t believe in what we’re doing, no one else will either.

Why Philosophers Shouldn’t Sign Petitions

Our job is to persuade by argument, not by wielding influence.

Recently I was asked to sign a petition opposing the deplatformingof philosophers on the basis of their views on sex and gender. I refused to sign, because I believe that petitions, regardless of their content, compromise core values of intellectual inquiry. Here’s why.

Whether you call it a “petition,” an “open letter” or a “public statement,” this type of document is distinguished by the fact that after stating and arguing for a position, it lists the names of people who endorse the position. The petition aims to effect persuasion with respect to what appears in the first part not only by way of any argument contained therein but also by way of the number and respectability of the people who figure in the second part. Such a document tries to persuade you to believe (that it is right to do) something because many people, some of whom are authorities, believe it (is the right thing to do). It is not always wrong to believe things because many people believe them, but it is always intellectually uninquisitive to do so.

The problem here is not that what many believe can be false, though that is a problem. The problem is that even if it’s true, the fact that many believe it doesn’t shed any light on it why it’s true — and that is what the intellectually inquisitive person wants to know. Is this problem mitigated by the fact that the list is not about sheer numbers because authorities appear on it? I think intellectually inquisitive people do gravitate toward those with expertise, because they are in an especially good position to answer our questions. But this goes only for experts taken severally. One expert is a learning opportunity; being confronted with an arsenal of experts is about as conducive to conversation as a firing squad.

There is something aggressive about the way in which voices gain strength and volume by being joined together. Numbers generate a pressure to believe that isn’t grounded in explanatory force, because having more and more adherents to a view doesn’t give rise to better and better accounts of why the view is correct. Philosophers ought to be especially sensitive to introducing this element of belief imposition into our culture. As a philosopher, I want my influence to be philosophical, which is to say, I want to bring people to believe only what they, by their own lights, can see to be justified; I don’t want them to believe something because (I am one of the) many people who think it.

The idea that “the many” cannot be philosophical goes back to Plato’s dialogues: Socrates’ interlocutors frequently resist his counterintuitive conclusions as violations of “common sense,” and Socrates regularly replies, “why should we care so much for what the majority (“hoi polloi”) think?” (Crito 44c.) Socrates wants to know why the view is true, not who or how many hold it.

Just as doctors must commit to not doing any bodily harm, philosophers must commit to not doing a certain kind of epistemic harm. It is unacceptable for a doctor to use — or even advise someone to use — a medically unsound procedure. Persuasion by majority or authority is an unsound way to inquire; the employment of such a procedure constitutes a kind of philosophical malpractice.

Philosophical argument may not always bring about the largest number of mind-changes in your audience — the award on that front would go to mass propaganda of some kind — but it represents the kind of belief acquisition that we as philosophers are committed to: intellectually honest, conducive to knowledge, nonaggressive, inquisitive, respectful.

There is no greater threat to intellectual culture than the thought that when it really counts, when it actually matters to us, we philosophers give up on doing philosophy. If we don’t believe in what we’re doing, no one else will either.

Why Philosophers Shouldn’t Sign Petitions

Our job is to persuade by argument, not by wielding influence.

Recently I was asked to sign a petition opposing the deplatformingof philosophers on the basis of their views on sex and gender. I refused to sign, because I believe that petitions, regardless of their content, compromise core values of intellectual inquiry. Here’s why.

Whether you call it a “petition,” an “open letter” or a “public statement,” this type of document is distinguished by the fact that after stating and arguing for a position, it lists the names of people who endorse the position. The petition aims to effect persuasion with respect to what appears in the first part not only by way of any argument contained therein but also by way of the number and respectability of the people who figure in the second part. Such a document tries to persuade you to believe (that it is right to do) something because many people, some of whom are authorities, believe it (is the right thing to do). It is not always wrong to believe things because many people believe them, but it is always intellectually uninquisitive to do so.

The problem here is not that what many believe can be false, though that is a problem. The problem is that even if it’s true, the fact that many believe it doesn’t shed any light on it why it’s true — and that is what the intellectually inquisitive person wants to know. Is this problem mitigated by the fact that the list is not about sheer numbers because authorities appear on it? I think intellectually inquisitive people do gravitate toward those with expertise, because they are in an especially good position to answer our questions. But this goes only for experts taken severally. One expert is a learning opportunity; being confronted with an arsenal of experts is about as conducive to conversation as a firing squad.

There is something aggressive about the way in which voices gain strength and volume by being joined together. Numbers generate a pressure to believe that isn’t grounded in explanatory force, because having more and more adherents to a view doesn’t give rise to better and better accounts of why the view is correct. Philosophers ought to be especially sensitive to introducing this element of belief imposition into our culture. As a philosopher, I want my influence to be philosophical, which is to say, I want to bring people to believe only what they, by their own lights, can see to be justified; I don’t want them to believe something because (I am one of the) many people who think it.

The idea that “the many” cannot be philosophical goes back to Plato’s dialogues: Socrates’ interlocutors frequently resist his counterintuitive conclusions as violations of “common sense,” and Socrates regularly replies, “why should we care so much for what the majority (“hoi polloi”) think?” (Crito 44c.) Socrates wants to know why the view is true, not who or how many hold it.

Just as doctors must commit to not doing any bodily harm, philosophers must commit to not doing a certain kind of epistemic harm. It is unacceptable for a doctor to use — or even advise someone to use — a medically unsound procedure. Persuasion by majority or authority is an unsound way to inquire; the employment of such a procedure constitutes a kind of philosophical malpractice.

Philosophical argument may not always bring about the largest number of mind-changes in your audience — the award on that front would go to mass propaganda of some kind — but it represents the kind of belief acquisition that we as philosophers are committed to: intellectually honest, conducive to knowledge, nonaggressive, inquisitive, respectful.

There is no greater threat to intellectual culture than the thought that when it really counts, when it actually matters to us, we philosophers give up on doing philosophy. If we don’t believe in what we’re doing, no one else will either.

Why Philosophers Shouldn’t Sign Petitions

Our job is to persuade by argument, not by wielding influence.

Recently I was asked to sign a petition opposing the deplatformingof philosophers on the basis of their views on sex and gender. I refused to sign, because I believe that petitions, regardless of their content, compromise core values of intellectual inquiry. Here’s why.

Whether you call it a “petition,” an “open letter” or a “public statement,” this type of document is distinguished by the fact that after stating and arguing for a position, it lists the names of people who endorse the position. The petition aims to effect persuasion with respect to what appears in the first part not only by way of any argument contained therein but also by way of the number and respectability of the people who figure in the second part. Such a document tries to persuade you to believe (that it is right to do) something because many people, some of whom are authorities, believe it (is the right thing to do). It is not always wrong to believe things because many people believe them, but it is always intellectually uninquisitive to do so.

The problem here is not that what many believe can be false, though that is a problem. The problem is that even if it’s true, the fact that many believe it doesn’t shed any light on it why it’s true — and that is what the intellectually inquisitive person wants to know. Is this problem mitigated by the fact that the list is not about sheer numbers because authorities appear on it? I think intellectually inquisitive people do gravitate toward those with expertise, because they are in an especially good position to answer our questions. But this goes only for experts taken severally. One expert is a learning opportunity; being confronted with an arsenal of experts is about as conducive to conversation as a firing squad.

There is something aggressive about the way in which voices gain strength and volume by being joined together. Numbers generate a pressure to believe that isn’t grounded in explanatory force, because having more and more adherents to a view doesn’t give rise to better and better accounts of why the view is correct. Philosophers ought to be especially sensitive to introducing this element of belief imposition into our culture. As a philosopher, I want my influence to be philosophical, which is to say, I want to bring people to believe only what they, by their own lights, can see to be justified; I don’t want them to believe something because (I am one of the) many people who think it.

The idea that “the many” cannot be philosophical goes back to Plato’s dialogues: Socrates’ interlocutors frequently resist his counterintuitive conclusions as violations of “common sense,” and Socrates regularly replies, “why should we care so much for what the majority (“hoi polloi”) think?” (Crito 44c.) Socrates wants to know why the view is true, not who or how many hold it.

Just as doctors must commit to not doing any bodily harm, philosophers must commit to not doing a certain kind of epistemic harm. It is unacceptable for a doctor to use — or even advise someone to use — a medically unsound procedure. Persuasion by majority or authority is an unsound way to inquire; the employment of such a procedure constitutes a kind of philosophical malpractice.

Philosophical argument may not always bring about the largest number of mind-changes in your audience — the award on that front would go to mass propaganda of some kind — but it represents the kind of belief acquisition that we as philosophers are committed to: intellectually honest, conducive to knowledge, nonaggressive, inquisitive, respectful.

There is no greater threat to intellectual culture than the thought that when it really counts, when it actually matters to us, we philosophers give up on doing philosophy. If we don’t believe in what we’re doing, no one else will either.

Socrates on the Moral Authority of the State

In the Crito, Socrates makes some surprisingly strong claims about the moral authority of the state, which might even seem to be inconsistent both with another fundamental claim he makes in the Crito and with certain claims he makes in the Apology. I shall argue that although these claims seem to be in some tension with each other, the crucial claims about the authority of the state in the Crito can plausibly be interpreted in such a way as to remove any real inconsistency with the other claims. 

The first, rather striking claim about the moral authority of the state occurs at 51b of the Crito. Socrates argues that, because of the state’s role as a provider of security, education, and various important social institutions (such as marriage), the citizens of the state are its “offspring and servants”; and from this he concludes that citizens are subordinate to the state and its laws to such an extent that if a citizen ever disagrees with the state’s laws or orders, he “must either persuade it or obey its orders,” even if the latter amounts to suffering death. The implication for his own case is clear: Socrates had tried to persuade the court of his innocence and of the injustice of his execution (as detailed in the Apology), but he had failed; therefore, he argues, he must now obey the court and accept his death sentence–even though he still thinks that he is in the right on this matter. 

The second, closely related claim, comes only a few paragraphs later, in 51e and 52. Socrates there argues that by virtue of remaining in the state, a citizen enters into an implied contract with it to obey its commands. More precisely, the claim is again that a citizen who has a disagreement with the state must either persuade it that it is wrong, or else obey it. In the voice of the personified laws: “either persuade us or do what we say” (52a). The implication, again, is that if one fails to persuade the state to change its mind, for whatever reason, then one must obey its orders. A citizen has no moral right to continue to resist the state, even if he is convinced that he is in the right and the state is in the wrong.

Now as mentioned above, these claims seem directly opposed to certain other claims Socrates makes. Most importantly, earlier in the Crito itself, Socrates had stressed that “one must never do wrong” (49b). Indeed, this serves as the driving principle behind the rest of his argument in the Crito. But is this really consistent with maintaining that one must always obey the state, if one fails to persuade it that something it orders is wrong? 

Secondly, it might be objected that Socrates’ view of the moral authority of the state is inconsistent both with what he did when ordered by the Thirty to capture Leon of Salamis for execution, and with what he says he’d do if ordered by the state to cease practicing philosophy (both from the Apology). When the Thirty ordered him to capture Leon, he refused, on the grounds that this would have been wrong (unjust and impious). (Apology, 32c-d) This seems to be a recognition that one is morally obligated or at least permitted to disobey the state when what it commands is wrong–even if one fails to persuade it of its wrongness. And similarly, Socrates makes clear that he would disobey the state and continue philosophizing if it were to order him to stop–again, on the grounds that it would be wrong for him to stop philosophizing (recall that he saw philosophy as his life’s mission, given him by the god). (Apology, 29c-d) Again, this seems to contradict what he says in the Crito about the supreme moral authority of the state and its laws and orders. 

I believe, however, that it is possible to read the crucial passages about the authority of the state in the Crito in such a way as to render them consistent with Socrates’ exhortation never to do wrong, and with his remarks about disobedience in the Apology. To see this, it is necessary to distinguish first of all between two issues: (a) what the law might require you to do, and (b) what the law might require you to endure. With this distinction in mind, consider the following possible interpretations of Socrates’ claim about the moral authority of the state in the Crito: 

(i) Citizens must obey any law or order of the state, whatever it asks them to do or to endure; 

(ii) Citizens must endure whatever any law or order of the state says they must—but citizens need not and morally should not do what is prescribed by an unjust law.

Socrates on the Moral Authority of the State

In the Crito, Socrates makes some surprisingly strong claims about the moral authority of the state, which might even seem to be inconsistent both with another fundamental claim he makes in the Crito and with certain claims he makes in the Apology. I shall argue that although these claims seem to be in some tension with each other, the crucial claims about the authority of the state in the Crito can plausibly be interpreted in such a way as to remove any real inconsistency with the other claims. 

The first, rather striking claim about the moral authority of the state occurs at 51b of the Crito. Socrates argues that, because of the state’s role as a provider of security, education, and various important social institutions (such as marriage), the citizens of the state are its “offspring and servants”; and from this he concludes that citizens are subordinate to the state and its laws to such an extent that if a citizen ever disagrees with the state’s laws or orders, he “must either persuade it or obey its orders,” even if the latter amounts to suffering death. The implication for his own case is clear: Socrates had tried to persuade the court of his innocence and of the injustice of his execution (as detailed in the Apology), but he had failed; therefore, he argues, he must now obey the court and accept his death sentence–even though he still thinks that he is in the right on this matter. 

The second, closely related claim, comes only a few paragraphs later, in 51e and 52. Socrates there argues that by virtue of remaining in the state, a citizen enters into an implied contract with it to obey its commands. More precisely, the claim is again that a citizen who has a disagreement with the state must either persuade it that it is wrong, or else obey it. In the voice of the personified laws: “either persuade us or do what we say” (52a). The implication, again, is that if one fails to persuade the state to change its mind, for whatever reason, then one must obey its orders. A citizen has no moral right to continue to resist the state, even if he is convinced that he is in the right and the state is in the wrong.

Now as mentioned above, these claims seem directly opposed to certain other claims Socrates makes. Most importantly, earlier in the Crito itself, Socrates had stressed that “one must never do wrong” (49b). Indeed, this serves as the driving principle behind the rest of his argument in the Crito. But is this really consistent with maintaining that one must always obey the state, if one fails to persuade it that something it orders is wrong? 

Secondly, it might be objected that Socrates’ view of the moral authority of the state is inconsistent both with what he did when ordered by the Thirty to capture Leon of Salamis for execution, and with what he says he’d do if ordered by the state to cease practicing philosophy (both from the Apology). When the Thirty ordered him to capture Leon, he refused, on the grounds that this would have been wrong (unjust and impious). (Apology, 32c-d) This seems to be a recognition that one is morally obligated or at least permitted to disobey the state when what it commands is wrong–even if one fails to persuade it of its wrongness. And similarly, Socrates makes clear that he would disobey the state and continue philosophizing if it were to order him to stop–again, on the grounds that it would be wrong for him to stop philosophizing (recall that he saw philosophy as his life’s mission, given him by the god). (Apology, 29c-d) Again, this seems to contradict what he says in the Crito about the supreme moral authority of the state and its laws and orders. 

I believe, however, that it is possible to read the crucial passages about the authority of the state in the Crito in such a way as to render them consistent with Socrates’ exhortation never to do wrong, and with his remarks about disobedience in the Apology. To see this, it is necessary to distinguish first of all between two issues: (a) what the law might require you to do, and (b) what the law might require you to endure. With this distinction in mind, consider the following possible interpretations of Socrates’ claim about the moral authority of the state in the Crito: 

(i) Citizens must obey any law or order of the state, whatever it asks them to do or to endure; 

(ii) Citizens must endure whatever any law or order of the state says they must—but citizens need not and morally should not do what is prescribed by an unjust law.

Socrates on the Moral Authority of the State

In the Crito, Socrates makes some surprisingly strong claims about the moral authority of the state, which might even seem to be inconsistent both with another fundamental claim he makes in the Crito and with certain claims he makes in the Apology. I shall argue that although these claims seem to be in some tension with each other, the crucial claims about the authority of the state in the Crito can plausibly be interpreted in such a way as to remove any real inconsistency with the other claims. 

The first, rather striking claim about the moral authority of the state occurs at 51b of the Crito. Socrates argues that, because of the state’s role as a provider of security, education, and various important social institutions (such as marriage), the citizens of the state are its “offspring and servants”; and from this he concludes that citizens are subordinate to the state and its laws to such an extent that if a citizen ever disagrees with the state’s laws or orders, he “must either persuade it or obey its orders,” even if the latter amounts to suffering death. The implication for his own case is clear: Socrates had tried to persuade the court of his innocence and of the injustice of his execution (as detailed in the Apology), but he had failed; therefore, he argues, he must now obey the court and accept his death sentence–even though he still thinks that he is in the right on this matter. 

The second, closely related claim, comes only a few paragraphs later, in 51e and 52. Socrates there argues that by virtue of remaining in the state, a citizen enters into an implied contract with it to obey its commands. More precisely, the claim is again that a citizen who has a disagreement with the state must either persuade it that it is wrong, or else obey it. In the voice of the personified laws: “either persuade us or do what we say” (52a). The implication, again, is that if one fails to persuade the state to change its mind, for whatever reason, then one must obey its orders. A citizen has no moral right to continue to resist the state, even if he is convinced that he is in the right and the state is in the wrong.

Now as mentioned above, these claims seem directly opposed to certain other claims Socrates makes. Most importantly, earlier in the Crito itself, Socrates had stressed that “one must never do wrong” (49b). Indeed, this serves as the driving principle behind the rest of his argument in the Crito. But is this really consistent with maintaining that one must always obey the state, if one fails to persuade it that something it orders is wrong? 

Secondly, it might be objected that Socrates’ view of the moral authority of the state is inconsistent both with what he did when ordered by the Thirty to capture Leon of Salamis for execution, and with what he says he’d do if ordered by the state to cease practicing philosophy (both from the Apology). When the Thirty ordered him to capture Leon, he refused, on the grounds that this would have been wrong (unjust and impious). (Apology, 32c-d) This seems to be a recognition that one is morally obligated or at least permitted to disobey the state when what it commands is wrong–even if one fails to persuade it of its wrongness. And similarly, Socrates makes clear that he would disobey the state and continue philosophizing if it were to order him to stop–again, on the grounds that it would be wrong for him to stop philosophizing (recall that he saw philosophy as his life’s mission, given him by the god). (Apology, 29c-d) Again, this seems to contradict what he says in the Crito about the supreme moral authority of the state and its laws and orders. 

I believe, however, that it is possible to read the crucial passages about the authority of the state in the Crito in such a way as to render them consistent with Socrates’ exhortation never to do wrong, and with his remarks about disobedience in the Apology. To see this, it is necessary to distinguish first of all between two issues: (a) what the law might require you to do, and (b) what the law might require you to endure. With this distinction in mind, consider the following possible interpretations of Socrates’ claim about the moral authority of the state in the Crito: 

(i) Citizens must obey any law or order of the state, whatever it asks them to do or to endure; 

(ii) Citizens must endure whatever any law or order of the state says they must—but citizens need not and morally should not do what is prescribed by an unjust law.

Socrates on the Moral Authority of the State

In the Crito, Socrates makes some surprisingly strong claims about the moral authority of the state, which might even seem to be inconsistent both with another fundamental claim he makes in the Crito and with certain claims he makes in the Apology. I shall argue that although these claims seem to be in some tension with each other, the crucial claims about the authority of the state in the Crito can plausibly be interpreted in such a way as to remove any real inconsistency with the other claims. 

The first, rather striking claim about the moral authority of the state occurs at 51b of the Crito. Socrates argues that, because of the state’s role as a provider of security, education, and various important social institutions (such as marriage), the citizens of the state are its “offspring and servants”; and from this he concludes that citizens are subordinate to the state and its laws to such an extent that if a citizen ever disagrees with the state’s laws or orders, he “must either persuade it or obey its orders,” even if the latter amounts to suffering death. The implication for his own case is clear: Socrates had tried to persuade the court of his innocence and of the injustice of his execution (as detailed in the Apology), but he had failed; therefore, he argues, he must now obey the court and accept his death sentence–even though he still thinks that he is in the right on this matter. 

The second, closely related claim, comes only a few paragraphs later, in 51e and 52. Socrates there argues that by virtue of remaining in the state, a citizen enters into an implied contract with it to obey its commands. More precisely, the claim is again that a citizen who has a disagreement with the state must either persuade it that it is wrong, or else obey it. In the voice of the personified laws: “either persuade us or do what we say” (52a). The implication, again, is that if one fails to persuade the state to change its mind, for whatever reason, then one must obey its orders. A citizen has no moral right to continue to resist the state, even if he is convinced that he is in the right and the state is in the wrong.

Now as mentioned above, these claims seem directly opposed to certain other claims Socrates makes. Most importantly, earlier in the Crito itself, Socrates had stressed that “one must never do wrong” (49b). Indeed, this serves as the driving principle behind the rest of his argument in the Crito. But is this really consistent with maintaining that one must always obey the state, if one fails to persuade it that something it orders is wrong? 

Secondly, it might be objected that Socrates’ view of the moral authority of the state is inconsistent both with what he did when ordered by the Thirty to capture Leon of Salamis for execution, and with what he says he’d do if ordered by the state to cease practicing philosophy (both from the Apology). When the Thirty ordered him to capture Leon, he refused, on the grounds that this would have been wrong (unjust and impious). (Apology, 32c-d) This seems to be a recognition that one is morally obligated or at least permitted to disobey the state when what it commands is wrong–even if one fails to persuade it of its wrongness. And similarly, Socrates makes clear that he would disobey the state and continue philosophizing if it were to order him to stop–again, on the grounds that it would be wrong for him to stop philosophizing (recall that he saw philosophy as his life’s mission, given him by the god). (Apology, 29c-d) Again, this seems to contradict what he says in the Crito about the supreme moral authority of the state and its laws and orders. 

I believe, however, that it is possible to read the crucial passages about the authority of the state in the Crito in such a way as to render them consistent with Socrates’ exhortation never to do wrong, and with his remarks about disobedience in the Apology. To see this, it is necessary to distinguish first of all between two issues: (a) what the law might require you to do, and (b) what the law might require you to endure. With this distinction in mind, consider the following possible interpretations of Socrates’ claim about the moral authority of the state in the Crito: 

(i) Citizens must obey any law or order of the state, whatever it asks them to do or to endure; 

(ii) Citizens must endure whatever any law or order of the state says they must—but citizens need not and morally should not do what is prescribed by an unjust law.

Socrates on the Moral Authority of the State

In the Crito, Socrates makes some surprisingly strong claims about the moral authority of the state, which might even seem to be inconsistent both with another fundamental claim he makes in the Crito and with certain claims he makes in the Apology. I shall argue that although these claims seem to be in some tension with each other, the crucial claims about the authority of the state in the Crito can plausibly be interpreted in such a way as to remove any real inconsistency with the other claims. 

The first, rather striking claim about the moral authority of the state occurs at 51b of the Crito. Socrates argues that, because of the state’s role as a provider of security, education, and various important social institutions (such as marriage), the citizens of the state are its “offspring and servants”; and from this he concludes that citizens are subordinate to the state and its laws to such an extent that if a citizen ever disagrees with the state’s laws or orders, he “must either persuade it or obey its orders,” even if the latter amounts to suffering death. The implication for his own case is clear: Socrates had tried to persuade the court of his innocence and of the injustice of his execution (as detailed in the Apology), but he had failed; therefore, he argues, he must now obey the court and accept his death sentence–even though he still thinks that he is in the right on this matter. 

The second, closely related claim, comes only a few paragraphs later, in 51e and 52. Socrates there argues that by virtue of remaining in the state, a citizen enters into an implied contract with it to obey its commands. More precisely, the claim is again that a citizen who has a disagreement with the state must either persuade it that it is wrong, or else obey it. In the voice of the personified laws: “either persuade us or do what we say” (52a). The implication, again, is that if one fails to persuade the state to change its mind, for whatever reason, then one must obey its orders. A citizen has no moral right to continue to resist the state, even if he is convinced that he is in the right and the state is in the wrong.

Now as mentioned above, these claims seem directly opposed to certain other claims Socrates makes. Most importantly, earlier in the Crito itself, Socrates had stressed that “one must never do wrong” (49b). Indeed, this serves as the driving principle behind the rest of his argument in the Crito. But is this really consistent with maintaining that one must always obey the state, if one fails to persuade it that something it orders is wrong? 

Secondly, it might be objected that Socrates’ view of the moral authority of the state is inconsistent both with what he did when ordered by the Thirty to capture Leon of Salamis for execution, and with what he says he’d do if ordered by the state to cease practicing philosophy (both from the Apology). When the Thirty ordered him to capture Leon, he refused, on the grounds that this would have been wrong (unjust and impious). (Apology, 32c-d) This seems to be a recognition that one is morally obligated or at least permitted to disobey the state when what it commands is wrong–even if one fails to persuade it of its wrongness. And similarly, Socrates makes clear that he would disobey the state and continue philosophizing if it were to order him to stop–again, on the grounds that it would be wrong for him to stop philosophizing (recall that he saw philosophy as his life’s mission, given him by the god). (Apology, 29c-d) Again, this seems to contradict what he says in the Crito about the supreme moral authority of the state and its laws and orders. 

I believe, however, that it is possible to read the crucial passages about the authority of the state in the Crito in such a way as to render them consistent with Socrates’ exhortation never to do wrong, and with his remarks about disobedience in the Apology. To see this, it is necessary to distinguish first of all between two issues: (a) what the law might require you to do, and (b) what the law might require you to endure. With this distinction in mind, consider the following possible interpretations of Socrates’ claim about the moral authority of the state in the Crito: 

(i) Citizens must obey any law or order of the state, whatever it asks them to do or to endure; 

(ii) Citizens must endure whatever any law or order of the state says they must—but citizens need not and morally should not do what is prescribed by an unjust law.

So the prime minister says that with the removal of Covid restrictions we will now be able to make our own “informed decisions” about what we will and will not do. Generally, we might feel it’s a sign of a good government and a good society that it allows and enables its members to make their own informed decisions about how they want to live their lives. But it’s hard to rejoice at the removal of most Covid restrictions with the current dramatic rise in new infections. When more than 100 experts have signed an open letter in the Lancet calling the full easing of restrictions “dangerous and premature”, it can feel less like relief and freedom, and more like we’re being released into a wild unknown – and one that comes with ever-increasing ethical burdens on us as individuals.

For in this new chapter, we need to recognise that the transfer of decision-making powers from government to us is not just about practical decisions but also about important ethical ones. We’ll make decisions about what we choose to do as we continue to spread a harmful new disease to one another causing various kinds of harms. And the risk of dangerous variants increases with each new infection. Let’s not forget that the Alpha variant was created in the UK and quickly spread around the world. So the possibility of us creating new variants also has global implications.

One kind of ethical decision is how to balance risks and benefits. Many people, from those marching in anti-lockdown demonstrations to Lord Sumption, a former supreme court justice, have been decrying the unjustnessof Covid restrictions. A generous understanding of this view is that the costs in terms of loss of personal liberties as well as curtailment of so much social life, including economic activity, to lower the risk of infections are far greater than the benefits in terms of lives saved. Perhaps an extreme reading of the view would be that personal freedoms are so ethically important that nothing, no gain, is worth infringing on those freedoms.

While critics of the lockdowns respond to national policies, individuals can and will instinctively apply a similar kind of reasoning in thinking about how to go about their day in the new reality. On an hourly basis, we have the gift, or burden, of balancing risks and benefits with respect to ourselves, our household and beyond. Are the thousands of people who are deleting the NHS contact tracing app ahead of 19 July clearly showing that they value doing whatever they want – their freedoms – more than the potential harms to themselves or others from their actions, not to mention the social resources that may be affected? Or perhaps they don’t trust in its accuracy?

Another way to think about the ethics of our decisions is to recall the early part of lockdowns last year. The phrase “we are all in this together” reflected the idea that we are all vulnerable, and all of us must cooperate to contain the threat and minimise harm. Laws and regulations imposed restrictions to ensure that everyone fell into line. But how key were they? Perhaps many people would have adjusted their behaviour in order to protect themselves and one another with just a strong request from the relevant authorities. While we value personal freedoms, we also value staying alive, good health and the wellbeing of others.

However, it would be a mistake to think that changing the ethical norms of how we relate to one another is easy. As people become emboldened to do what they want, there will undoubtedly be greater interpersonal conflicts, as one person feels that their health is being put at risk by another’s activities.

In the face of unknown dangers, people may withdraw from social interactions. They will be less willing to go out or use public facilities if social distancing and masks are no longer obligatory. Then there is the burden of shame for doing the wrong thing. That is, shame for not protecting oneself better or for being identified as causing the illness in others. People will become more reserved in speaking with neighbours and social networks for fear of revealing too much of the “risky behaviours”, with the social censure that follows.

Without laws and regulations coordinating people’s behaviours, how effective we’ll be in protecting ourselves and others will depend, yes, on the ever-changing dynamics of the virus but also on the ethical values we express in dealing with one another.

Let’s remember this pandemic spreads through human interaction and the extent of the spread tracks not only government aptitude but also the nature of our relationships.

Do we want our social ethics to support personal freedoms, no matter the cost to ourselves and others. Or, do they support mutual respect, care and concern? We can come out of this pandemic stronger as individuals who take more control of our own health; we can also do justice to those who have died by building a fairer society. To achieve both, perhaps more than ever it’s wise to act like we are all in this together.

So the prime minister says that with the removal of Covid restrictions we will now be able to make our own “informed decisions” about what we will and will not do. Generally, we might feel it’s a sign of a good government and a good society that it allows and enables its members to make their own informed decisions about how they want to live their lives. But it’s hard to rejoice at the removal of most Covid restrictions with the current dramatic rise in new infections. When more than 100 experts have signed an open letter in the Lancet calling the full easing of restrictions “dangerous and premature”, it can feel less like relief and freedom, and more like we’re being released into a wild unknown – and one that comes with ever-increasing ethical burdens on us as individuals.

For in this new chapter, we need to recognise that the transfer of decision-making powers from government to us is not just about practical decisions but also about important ethical ones. We’ll make decisions about what we choose to do as we continue to spread a harmful new disease to one another causing various kinds of harms. And the risk of dangerous variants increases with each new infection. Let’s not forget that the Alpha variant was created in the UK and quickly spread around the world. So the possibility of us creating new variants also has global implications.

One kind of ethical decision is how to balance risks and benefits. Many people, from those marching in anti-lockdown demonstrations to Lord Sumption, a former supreme court justice, have been decrying the unjustnessof Covid restrictions. A generous understanding of this view is that the costs in terms of loss of personal liberties as well as curtailment of so much social life, including economic activity, to lower the risk of infections are far greater than the benefits in terms of lives saved. Perhaps an extreme reading of the view would be that personal freedoms are so ethically important that nothing, no gain, is worth infringing on those freedoms.

While critics of the lockdowns respond to national policies, individuals can and will instinctively apply a similar kind of reasoning in thinking about how to go about their day in the new reality. On an hourly basis, we have the gift, or burden, of balancing risks and benefits with respect to ourselves, our household and beyond. Are the thousands of people who are deleting the NHS contact tracing app ahead of 19 July clearly showing that they value doing whatever they want – their freedoms – more than the potential harms to themselves or others from their actions, not to mention the social resources that may be affected? Or perhaps they don’t trust in its accuracy?

Another way to think about the ethics of our decisions is to recall the early part of lockdowns last year. The phrase “we are all in this together” reflected the idea that we are all vulnerable, and all of us must cooperate to contain the threat and minimise harm. Laws and regulations imposed restrictions to ensure that everyone fell into line. But how key were they? Perhaps many people would have adjusted their behaviour in order to protect themselves and one another with just a strong request from the relevant authorities. While we value personal freedoms, we also value staying alive, good health and the wellbeing of others.

However, it would be a mistake to think that changing the ethical norms of how we relate to one another is easy. As people become emboldened to do what they want, there will undoubtedly be greater interpersonal conflicts, as one person feels that their health is being put at risk by another’s activities.

In the face of unknown dangers, people may withdraw from social interactions. They will be less willing to go out or use public facilities if social distancing and masks are no longer obligatory. Then there is the burden of shame for doing the wrong thing. That is, shame for not protecting oneself better or for being identified as causing the illness in others. People will become more reserved in speaking with neighbours and social networks for fear of revealing too much of the “risky behaviours”, with the social censure that follows.

Without laws and regulations coordinating people’s behaviours, how effective we’ll be in protecting ourselves and others will depend, yes, on the ever-changing dynamics of the virus but also on the ethical values we express in dealing with one another.

Let’s remember this pandemic spreads through human interaction and the extent of the spread tracks not only government aptitude but also the nature of our relationships.

Do we want our social ethics to support personal freedoms, no matter the cost to ourselves and others. Or, do they support mutual respect, care and concern? We can come out of this pandemic stronger as individuals who take more control of our own health; we can also do justice to those who have died by building a fairer society. To achieve both, perhaps more than ever it’s wise to act like we are all in this together.

So the prime minister says that with the removal of Covid restrictions we will now be able to make our own “informed decisions” about what we will and will not do. Generally, we might feel it’s a sign of a good government and a good society that it allows and enables its members to make their own informed decisions about how they want to live their lives. But it’s hard to rejoice at the removal of most Covid restrictions with the current dramatic rise in new infections. When more than 100 experts have signed an open letter in the Lancet calling the full easing of restrictions “dangerous and premature”, it can feel less like relief and freedom, and more like we’re being released into a wild unknown – and one that comes with ever-increasing ethical burdens on us as individuals.

For in this new chapter, we need to recognise that the transfer of decision-making powers from government to us is not just about practical decisions but also about important ethical ones. We’ll make decisions about what we choose to do as we continue to spread a harmful new disease to one another causing various kinds of harms. And the risk of dangerous variants increases with each new infection. Let’s not forget that the Alpha variant was created in the UK and quickly spread around the world. So the possibility of us creating new variants also has global implications.

One kind of ethical decision is how to balance risks and benefits. Many people, from those marching in anti-lockdown demonstrations to Lord Sumption, a former supreme court justice, have been decrying the unjustnessof Covid restrictions. A generous understanding of this view is that the costs in terms of loss of personal liberties as well as curtailment of so much social life, including economic activity, to lower the risk of infections are far greater than the benefits in terms of lives saved. Perhaps an extreme reading of the view would be that personal freedoms are so ethically important that nothing, no gain, is worth infringing on those freedoms.

While critics of the lockdowns respond to national policies, individuals can and will instinctively apply a similar kind of reasoning in thinking about how to go about their day in the new reality. On an hourly basis, we have the gift, or burden, of balancing risks and benefits with respect to ourselves, our household and beyond. Are the thousands of people who are deleting the NHS contact tracing app ahead of 19 July clearly showing that they value doing whatever they want – their freedoms – more than the potential harms to themselves or others from their actions, not to mention the social resources that may be affected? Or perhaps they don’t trust in its accuracy?

Another way to think about the ethics of our decisions is to recall the early part of lockdowns last year. The phrase “we are all in this together” reflected the idea that we are all vulnerable, and all of us must cooperate to contain the threat and minimise harm. Laws and regulations imposed restrictions to ensure that everyone fell into line. But how key were they? Perhaps many people would have adjusted their behaviour in order to protect themselves and one another with just a strong request from the relevant authorities. While we value personal freedoms, we also value staying alive, good health and the wellbeing of others.

However, it would be a mistake to think that changing the ethical norms of how we relate to one another is easy. As people become emboldened to do what they want, there will undoubtedly be greater interpersonal conflicts, as one person feels that their health is being put at risk by another’s activities.

In the face of unknown dangers, people may withdraw from social interactions. They will be less willing to go out or use public facilities if social distancing and masks are no longer obligatory. Then there is the burden of shame for doing the wrong thing. That is, shame for not protecting oneself better or for being identified as causing the illness in others. People will become more reserved in speaking with neighbours and social networks for fear of revealing too much of the “risky behaviours”, with the social censure that follows.

Without laws and regulations coordinating people’s behaviours, how effective we’ll be in protecting ourselves and others will depend, yes, on the ever-changing dynamics of the virus but also on the ethical values we express in dealing with one another.

Let’s remember this pandemic spreads through human interaction and the extent of the spread tracks not only government aptitude but also the nature of our relationships.

Do we want our social ethics to support personal freedoms, no matter the cost to ourselves and others. Or, do they support mutual respect, care and concern? We can come out of this pandemic stronger as individuals who take more control of our own health; we can also do justice to those who have died by building a fairer society. To achieve both, perhaps more than ever it’s wise to act like we are all in this together.

So the prime minister says that with the removal of Covid restrictions we will now be able to make our own “informed decisions” about what we will and will not do. Generally, we might feel it’s a sign of a good government and a good society that it allows and enables its members to make their own informed decisions about how they want to live their lives. But it’s hard to rejoice at the removal of most Covid restrictions with the current dramatic rise in new infections. When more than 100 experts have signed an open letter in the Lancet calling the full easing of restrictions “dangerous and premature”, it can feel less like relief and freedom, and more like we’re being released into a wild unknown – and one that comes with ever-increasing ethical burdens on us as individuals.

For in this new chapter, we need to recognise that the transfer of decision-making powers from government to us is not just about practical decisions but also about important ethical ones. We’ll make decisions about what we choose to do as we continue to spread a harmful new disease to one another causing various kinds of harms. And the risk of dangerous variants increases with each new infection. Let’s not forget that the Alpha variant was created in the UK and quickly spread around the world. So the possibility of us creating new variants also has global implications.

One kind of ethical decision is how to balance risks and benefits. Many people, from those marching in anti-lockdown demonstrations to Lord Sumption, a former supreme court justice, have been decrying the unjustnessof Covid restrictions. A generous understanding of this view is that the costs in terms of loss of personal liberties as well as curtailment of so much social life, including economic activity, to lower the risk of infections are far greater than the benefits in terms of lives saved. Perhaps an extreme reading of the view would be that personal freedoms are so ethically important that nothing, no gain, is worth infringing on those freedoms.

While critics of the lockdowns respond to national policies, individuals can and will instinctively apply a similar kind of reasoning in thinking about how to go about their day in the new reality. On an hourly basis, we have the gift, or burden, of balancing risks and benefits with respect to ourselves, our household and beyond. Are the thousands of people who are deleting the NHS contact tracing app ahead of 19 July clearly showing that they value doing whatever they want – their freedoms – more than the potential harms to themselves or others from their actions, not to mention the social resources that may be affected? Or perhaps they don’t trust in its accuracy?

Another way to think about the ethics of our decisions is to recall the early part of lockdowns last year. The phrase “we are all in this together” reflected the idea that we are all vulnerable, and all of us must cooperate to contain the threat and minimise harm. Laws and regulations imposed restrictions to ensure that everyone fell into line. But how key were they? Perhaps many people would have adjusted their behaviour in order to protect themselves and one another with just a strong request from the relevant authorities. While we value personal freedoms, we also value staying alive, good health and the wellbeing of others.

However, it would be a mistake to think that changing the ethical norms of how we relate to one another is easy. As people become emboldened to do what they want, there will undoubtedly be greater interpersonal conflicts, as one person feels that their health is being put at risk by another’s activities.

In the face of unknown dangers, people may withdraw from social interactions. They will be less willing to go out or use public facilities if social distancing and masks are no longer obligatory. Then there is the burden of shame for doing the wrong thing. That is, shame for not protecting oneself better or for being identified as causing the illness in others. People will become more reserved in speaking with neighbours and social networks for fear of revealing too much of the “risky behaviours”, with the social censure that follows.

Without laws and regulations coordinating people’s behaviours, how effective we’ll be in protecting ourselves and others will depend, yes, on the ever-changing dynamics of the virus but also on the ethical values we express in dealing with one another.

Let’s remember this pandemic spreads through human interaction and the extent of the spread tracks not only government aptitude but also the nature of our relationships.

Do we want our social ethics to support personal freedoms, no matter the cost to ourselves and others. Or, do they support mutual respect, care and concern? We can come out of this pandemic stronger as individuals who take more control of our own health; we can also do justice to those who have died by building a fairer society. To achieve both, perhaps more than ever it’s wise to act like we are all in this together.

So the prime minister says that with the removal of Covid restrictions we will now be able to make our own “informed decisions” about what we will and will not do. Generally, we might feel it’s a sign of a good government and a good society that it allows and enables its members to make their own informed decisions about how they want to live their lives. But it’s hard to rejoice at the removal of most Covid restrictions with the current dramatic rise in new infections. When more than 100 experts have signed an open letter in the Lancet calling the full easing of restrictions “dangerous and premature”, it can feel less like relief and freedom, and more like we’re being released into a wild unknown – and one that comes with ever-increasing ethical burdens on us as individuals.

For in this new chapter, we need to recognise that the transfer of decision-making powers from government to us is not just about practical decisions but also about important ethical ones. We’ll make decisions about what we choose to do as we continue to spread a harmful new disease to one another causing various kinds of harms. And the risk of dangerous variants increases with each new infection. Let’s not forget that the Alpha variant was created in the UK and quickly spread around the world. So the possibility of us creating new variants also has global implications.

One kind of ethical decision is how to balance risks and benefits. Many people, from those marching in anti-lockdown demonstrations to Lord Sumption, a former supreme court justice, have been decrying the unjustnessof Covid restrictions. A generous understanding of this view is that the costs in terms of loss of personal liberties as well as curtailment of so much social life, including economic activity, to lower the risk of infections are far greater than the benefits in terms of lives saved. Perhaps an extreme reading of the view would be that personal freedoms are so ethically important that nothing, no gain, is worth infringing on those freedoms.

While critics of the lockdowns respond to national policies, individuals can and will instinctively apply a similar kind of reasoning in thinking about how to go about their day in the new reality. On an hourly basis, we have the gift, or burden, of balancing risks and benefits with respect to ourselves, our household and beyond. Are the thousands of people who are deleting the NHS contact tracing app ahead of 19 July clearly showing that they value doing whatever they want – their freedoms – more than the potential harms to themselves or others from their actions, not to mention the social resources that may be affected? Or perhaps they don’t trust in its accuracy?

Another way to think about the ethics of our decisions is to recall the early part of lockdowns last year. The phrase “we are all in this together” reflected the idea that we are all vulnerable, and all of us must cooperate to contain the threat and minimise harm. Laws and regulations imposed restrictions to ensure that everyone fell into line. But how key were they? Perhaps many people would have adjusted their behaviour in order to protect themselves and one another with just a strong request from the relevant authorities. While we value personal freedoms, we also value staying alive, good health and the wellbeing of others.

However, it would be a mistake to think that changing the ethical norms of how we relate to one another is easy. As people become emboldened to do what they want, there will undoubtedly be greater interpersonal conflicts, as one person feels that their health is being put at risk by another’s activities.

In the face of unknown dangers, people may withdraw from social interactions. They will be less willing to go out or use public facilities if social distancing and masks are no longer obligatory. Then there is the burden of shame for doing the wrong thing. That is, shame for not protecting oneself better or for being identified as causing the illness in others. People will become more reserved in speaking with neighbours and social networks for fear of revealing too much of the “risky behaviours”, with the social censure that follows.

Without laws and regulations coordinating people’s behaviours, how effective we’ll be in protecting ourselves and others will depend, yes, on the ever-changing dynamics of the virus but also on the ethical values we express in dealing with one another.

Let’s remember this pandemic spreads through human interaction and the extent of the spread tracks not only government aptitude but also the nature of our relationships.

Do we want our social ethics to support personal freedoms, no matter the cost to ourselves and others. Or, do they support mutual respect, care and concern? We can come out of this pandemic stronger as individuals who take more control of our own health; we can also do justice to those who have died by building a fairer society. To achieve both, perhaps more than ever it’s wise to act like we are all in this together.