War and Slavery — A Blog Journal on John Locke (Chapter 3a)

(Part VII of this series)

Locke introduces Chapter 3 with a new concept to consider, that of the “state of war.” This is less likely to refer to an actual “state” in a political sense, but in any case the idea is that one person (or group) enters the state of war against another when he/she acts to attempt destruction of the second party. Fair enough; in some sense even a singular murderer wages a microcosm of war, because despite the lack of a genuine war’s complexity and size, there is the same transgression against a social contract (Hobbes’s concept, but Locke would actually seem to agree with him on this) that makes force necessary — so the conventional wisdom goes — to reduce further damage.

Here Locke reiterates the justice of killing a murderer just as one would kill a hazardous beast. This is where we must recall the utility of psychological knowledge to aid us in optimal legal policy, because whether Locke’s analogy stands depends on the extent to which violent criminals are, as he puts it, “not under the ties of the commonlaw of reason, [and] have no other rule, but that of force and violence.” Less tied to science in this area is the degree of our value, as a society, of the well-being of people who harm others. After all, given two options with equal use for the protection of citizens from crime, we ought choose the one less cruel to the transgressor, but of course matters multiply in uncertainty when the more humane option is empirically less efficient. I don’t have the definitive answers, naturally, but half the battle is knowing what the right questions to ask are, and that of striking the balance between mercy and preventing further suffering to innocents seems like one of those questions to me. Inconsistent and flippant though Locke’s reasoning may be in this region, he does raise a point at least worth considering.

Interestingly, his next contention is that one of the most sinister and indirect ways one enters the state of war is by claiming absolute power. Noting that absolute power by definition precludes withholding consent from one who would use a person for his/her own ends, Locke states that such authority is tantamount to enslaving all one’s subjects. He adds that since freedom is the foundation of a person’s self-preservation, the denial of freedom (slavery) is therefore declaration of “war” against the person whose freedom is being denied.

If Locke evidently considers this form of war a violation of that which he believes people ought to have, we should suppose he was a critic of institutionalized slavery. That would depend on who exactly Locke regards as a person in this thesis, and although we’ll discover Locke’s views on slavery in the next chapter, we can consider at the moment how, in this context, the definition of a person is so important. I’ll probably give it a few more updates to get to the bottom of Locke’s perspective, but expect an interlude post exploring that question very thoroughly someday.

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Human Hubris

Quickie today, e’rbody. Take a look at this cartoon:

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This one panel says far more than a million Family Circus comic strips. I won’t make this a digression on WWJD, although that’s a fair discussion for another day.

It’s a clever, if dark, exposure of the deadliest vice that may turn against us if we lose sight of everything that doesn’t concern our collective ego — arrogance. One need not oppose the use of nuclear weapons in every possible circumstance to get the point. If the meek shall inherit the earth, those so vain to suppose they have every right to oust millions of sentient beings (human and otherwise) stand to lose it in mutually assured destruction.

I may be wrong, however, and that’s the point. Tell me what you see in this simple piece of artwork.

Giving Peace a Chance — For Real This Time (Part I)

For the majority of my life as someone capable of understanding violence, I failed to see the point of pacifism in its most serious, ambitious sense. Granted, most of us would prefer not to have to resort to bloodshed, and if it did prove necessary we would be better off not taking pleasure in it, yet World War II always seemed a strong counterexample to following John Lennon’s suggestion. I would tell myself I had no objections in principle to society utilizing force to achieve what was truly a greater good. Those who scoffed at “the ends justify the means” only did so because they disapproved of certain ends caused by the means, thereby unwittingly proving that point.

I suspect at least a significant number of readers who affirm the above stance do so, reasonably enough, because pacifism’s spokespeople have not tended to maintain a respectable track record of practicality. The stock pacifist justification for refusing to fight even in self-defense is that of Harry Potter, for whose unwavering nonviolence to the point of risking more lives Lupin scolds him. “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind,” “Why show people killing is unacceptable in society by killing them?”, and other such appeals to moral outrage derail the conversation before it can make any meaningful progress.

Meanwhile, the prominent voice for defensive violence fares no better in critical thinking. It has its own soundbites: “Don’t tread on me,” “Think of the children,” and all species of “They deserve it” rationales. If the error of strict pacifism is that it elevates a maxim (don’t kill no matter what) above victims’ lives, the sin of its opposite is a cruel disregard of the nuances of human psychology. A part of the pacifist thesis worth considering is that showing society’s aggressors the strength of our commitment to peace may, far from revealing exploitable weakness, give them reason to respect and even trust us. The skeptics have mostly ignored this.

Our goal, then, ought to be the transcending of these tunnel-vision biases. The most responsible replacement of dogmatic bumper-sticker policies is rational deliberation on the facts relevant to that which we value. Should it seem as if abandoning our hollow rationalizations for positions on this issue makes the task dauntingly complicated, we know we are doing something right, because if what we aim to optimize are real consequences for people’s well-being, we should afford care to thought that is proportional to the uncertainty of those consequences.

This should be common sense, but particularly in the domain of the ethics of violence, we have the all-too-human tendency to forget that what appears to be “cold logic” is the very instrument of justice Alan Turing used to assist the Allies’ victory over the Axis. Neither purely emotional nor exclusively rational means comprise the whole of ethical judgment, as Spock must have some value-based purpose to think for, and McCoy must have a system of discerning better ways to achieve what he values than others.

None of which settles the peace debate proper, you surely protest. We’ll come to that in time, although if we do this responsibly, the conclusion we reach will never be unduly certain, especially when history has never been in short supply of wrong answers. For today, I hope I have stressed the importance of method, lest the garbage put in become garbage out. Naturally, what I present here can never be totally free from its blind spots, yet we should — as people who, remember, desire a common vision in the most significant sense — find little controversial about the notion that identifying and interpreting the facts is better than talking past each other.

In Part II, we’ll consider what history can tell us about what best deters violence, in both the short- and long-term.