Archives for posts with tag: morality

Suicide isn’t all that difficult to condemn. It’s like murder. Nobody likes murder. Except it’s sad feels rather than angry feels because the person is killing themselves rather than the countless other people who deserve it far more. I mean some might say that all life is sacred, and all killing, the self or otherwise, is reprehensible. We’re going to ignore this because black and white morality is mind-numbingly dull. Suicide is at best seen as a crushing tragedy, and at worst as a selfish act ignoring the impact on those who care about the suicidee. But let’s look at some suicides that people look upon favourably, just to spice things up a bit.

Jesus Christ killed himself. I mean, not like Kurt Cobain-style which would have made for some much more interesting Christian iconography, but as an omniscient God, He is commonly believed to have been aware of His pending fate and lovingly allowed it to happen as a means of forgiving humanity our sins. He allowed His death when He could have easily prevented it. Sure, it was on some boring ol’ cross, but God sacrificed His son (which is to say, Himself). That’s suicide, baby.

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Can you imagine this decorating beautiful stained glass windows? Tell me it’s not the better imagery.

Next, in his penultimate life before he became the prince Gautama, the Buddha came across a family of starving tigers. Judging by my theme so far, you can probably guess that the Buddha gave himself to this family of tigers to sustain them… as their food. The tigers ate the Buddha. That’s literally how the story goes. Though much more personal than Christ’s sacrifice, the idea of allowing death for the sake of others is a common theme in divinity.

Bringing things back down to earth, in the Jain tradition where non-harm is considered the paramount duty, it is not uncommon for the fundamentalists who have reached the final stage of their life to go out into the wilderness, and simply meditate until their death. There is life within even the vegetation, (and the water supply, as microscopic organisms have the same life within them as everything else), and Jains don’t harm life. This devotion to non-harm at the appropriate time comes to its obvious culmination: the least harm one can do is to allow oneself to die.

In Japan, Seppuku is the honourable way to die for samurai who supremely fucked up in life. For those who don’t know, Seppuku is ritualistically stabbing yourself in the belly, and disemboweling yourself. This form of suicide was considered the opposite of selfish, as it restored honour rather than removed it. Also in Japan, the Kamikaze pilots would kill themselves for the glory of Japan. Again, a great honour.

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Japan stopped with Seppuku, and now we have anime. Go figure.

Soldiers throw themselves upon grenades to save their comrades-in-arms. Secret service get shot in the belly to protect the president. People shield others with their bodies during mass shootings. Suicide can be heroic. It can be divine. So why, when we say the word suicide, do we automatically assume negativity? Readers might want to suggest a difference between suicide and self-sacrifice, so let’s look at that distinction.

Self-sacrifice is a utilitarian measure. Utilitarianism is the moral system of creating the greatest good for the greatest number of people: maximize happiness, well-being, utility, whatever word you want to use, make the most of that thing. Though one life is snuffed out, the overall well-being of the rest of the world is increased. Jesus may have died, but now humanity is redeemed forever. That’s a pretty good trade. People dying for a good cause, self-sacrifice, creates better worlds. The good outweighs the bad. That is classic utilitarianism. That is trolley problem utilitarianism.

However, utilitarianism works both ways. If someone sacrifices themselves, and they possess great suffering, eliminating that suffering means that the world now has more well-being within it. The average goes up. If the suffering of the sacrificee outweighs the suffering of those who would be impacted by that sacrifice, utilitarianism would say that it is moral. There is no ethical difference between the two. Suicide and self-sacrifice are indistinguishable if the measurements come through. Boom. Ethics.

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See kids? Suicide is great because everyone will finally respect you, they’ll all realize how poorly they treated you, and the world will be a better place without you because everyone will learn a valuable lesson.

Now, you might be saying, that’s dumb; if that’s ethics, ethics is dumb. And you’re right. Utilitarianism is a terrible ethical system, but what makes it so terrible? I’ll give you another example. If a rapist enjoys rape more than the person being raped doesn’t enjoy it, then it’s moral. That’s how rapists think, and that’s how rape happens. The person who decides how happiness, well-being, whatever, ought to be maximized is going to be biased. I kinda think that any potential victim of rape would never reach that same conclusion, and yet they don’t get consulted. If they did, it wouldn’t be rape, because that’s how consent works.

What this means is that if you get feedback from your friends and family about how they’d feel if you killed yourself, and they came back to you either ambivalent or in favour, then sure, go for it. In Canada, we see this most commonly in what is termed medically-assisted death. People with terminal illnesses are able to commit suicide because the suffering that they endure is greater than the suffering of the loss felt by their friends and family. Loved ones should be consulted, obviously, but the utilitarian premise with the caveat of consent holds firm.

See? There can be a moral suicide. Just gotta make sure you talk it out with your loved ones first.

Huge spoilers for The Good Place. Just a heads up. Really you shouldn’t read this if you haven’t seen the show.

As is made explicitly clear within the show, the Good Place/Bad Place distinction is inherently an immoral system. Frequent reference is made to the need for a Medium Place for those whose behaviour does not lie at either extreme. The show also raises the question about the potential for change within every human, and how their ethical existence might evolve if they evade death and are given enough time and opportunity to do so. Eternal punishment for sins committed in a finite world is thus grossly disproportionate.

There are further problems that the show does not illustrate. For example, Chidi has no intention to harm, but his actions nonetheless cause harm to those around him. He is qualified for eternal punishment. Tahani raises considerable amounts of money for charity, but does not do so out of pure altruism. She too “deserves” eternal punishment. This means that both the intent and the consequences must equally be measured, and there seems to be no margin for error.  Preventing every harmful accident is an extreme that few if any would be able to accomplish. This system also heavily disadvantages those not born into privilege, as the obstacles to walking the tightrope of sufficient morality would become nigh insurmountable. Stealing to eat has both negative intentions and consequences, reserving the hottest spot in the Bad Place for those unlucky enough to be born into poverty. Immanuel Kant, Chidi’s go-to moral philosopher, famously stated that ought implies can, which means that in order for an action to even be measured morally, one must possess the capability to perform it in the first place. If ability is neglected in moral measurement, that measurement ought to be rejected.

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Kant went to the Bad Place for telling the truth to a killer at the door.

Chidi ought to be smart enough to reject the Manichean dichotomy of the Good Place, but he does not. His aim, once he learns he is not in the Good Place, is to get in. He wishes to participate in this unjust system; not only participate, he believes he is entitled to benefit from it. Chidi wishes to benefit from a system that privileges an arbitrary elite at the expense of the vulgar majority. The question is why. The show, amazingly, answers this question as well.

Chidi was born in Nigeria, and was raised in Senegal. Chidi’s parents likely would have been alive and young enough to intimately experience the civil war that tore Nigeria apart shortly after it won its independence out from under British colonialism. They emigrated to Senegal and spoke French, which likely means that his parents would have been supporters of the Biafra and would have fled shortly after the war ended due to their position on the losing side. They chose Senegal, a former French colony used to bolster their slave trade. Chidi must have been raised by parents who spoke of an enlightened France that sought to protect the Biafra minority, all the while ignorant of France’s motives to maintain a competitive edge in their African imperialism against the waning British Empire.

Chidi is an intellectual, and a moral philosopher, raised in a former French colony, and it is almost certain that he would have read Frantz Fanon, an intellectual raised in the French colony in Algeria. Similarly he would have read Albert Memmi, from Tunisia under again, French colonialism. Fanon describes the reaction to the unjust system of colonialism as necessarily revolutionary, often violent, while Memmi offers one alternative: assimilation. Given his exposure and his race, Chidi would have had a reaction toward these calls to rebel given by his peers.

Chidi taught at universities in France and Australia: his colonizers, and another colony that effectively eliminated its colonized. Every single philosopher he mentions throughout the show is European. This shows that he rejects revolution against unjust systems, and indeed prefers to assimilate. What he must have missed, or purposefully ignored, in Memmi’s The Colonizer and the Colonized is that those who choose to assimilate neglect the fact that the racism of the colonial system will never allow complete assimilation. The colonized, the Other, will never be welcome in the colony because the system was designed around the notion of their inherent inferiority. His constant global migration could be a reaction to the racism he continued to face, even in the academic elite, as he battled the cognitive dissonance of European exceptionalism against his lived reality.

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Chidi, on the road to the Good Place, believes he is entitled to finally benefit from an unjust system. He had been trying to assimilate for so long that when he finally reaches what he believes is the Good Place, he never once questions it. In the 800+ reboots that the “Good Place” endures, Chidi is never the one who ever raises the question of the Good Place’s legitimacy. Even Jason figures it out, but Chidi is so blind by his desire for assimilation that he embraces his position within it every time. Chidi has internalized colonial racism to the extent that he can no longer question obviously and explicitly illegitimate systems.

The ethical response to an unethical system is revolution. Fanon quotes the famed Good Place entrepreneur Jesus Christ, “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” Rather than attempting to obtain a position of privilege over the oppressed majority, Chidi should voluntarily walk among those in the Bad Place, for they have nothing to lose and everything to gain, and organize them against the Architects of their fate. Chidi would be quite happy in a library reading books for eternity, but to quote Fanon (referencing Marx) in Black Skin, White Masks, “What matters is not to know the world but to change it.”

I mean, that would never happen because the Good Place is written by liberals who think that charity is the epitome of moral excellence, but hey. Season 3, prove me wrong. Vive la révolution!

It seems almost unconscionable to ascribe a moral quality to ill health. It’s absurd to think that someone who has caught the common cold is some kind of sinister deviant, but as far back as the lepers being shunned and shuttered out of society, humanity has pointed at the unwell and called them devils.

Europe blamed the Black Death on the wrath of God, who was furious over the alleged impiety of His people. The mentally ill used to be incarcerated alongside criminals, their characters indistinguishable. Even lately, the AIDS epidemic of the 1980s seemed only to punish those considered perverse. Consider how we inquire after cancer: did they smoke? Did they eat processed foods? Did they stay too long in the sun? What was their lifestyle like that earned them a terminal illness?

Disease is an unquestionable evil, but why are we so quick to point to its host as having responsibility for it? When disease becomes a moral choice, the pure among us become immortal. The myth that bad things only happen to bad people convinces us that if only we maintain our righteousness, we will be spared. Righteousness only as a veneer, of course, as compassion for the ill could only ever be a supererogatory act. Far simpler to pillory the sick and use the blind luck of our good health as evidence of our sanctity.

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A meritocracy of health. God, I hate memes.

Where this demonization of illness is most prevalent is the disease that seems to be built on a long series of choices: addiction. It’s so immoral that it is literally a crime. Mitch Hedberg satirizes this mentality with his quip:

Alcoholism is a disease, but it’s the only one you can get yelled at for having. “Goddamn it, Otto, you’re an alcoholic!” “Goddamn it, Otto, you have lupus!”

One of those two doesn’t sound right.

Addiction is a reaction to trauma, neglect, and mental illness. Addiction is what happens when reality is so brutal that the body seeks any kind of escape from it. Addiction isn’t so much of an illness as it is the medication for when life is a sickness, and then through the obsession of escape it becomes a part of that sickness. Any sense of “choice” in the matter is illusory, any kind of “morality” illegitimate.

But people continue to yell at those whose lives have become diseased. Consider the top rated comment on a CBC article saying that in the first 8 months of 2017, the number of overdose deaths in BC had reached 1,013, compared to the entirety of 2016 which was 922:

I have a real hard time feeling sympathy for these people who have died. They knew fentanyl was out there. They knew that over doses were on the rise and out of control. There’s absolutely no way they didn’t know the risk that they were taking! Yet, they chose to anyways. So no. Finding sympathy is very hard for me.

1,013 human lives extinguished. That’s 1,013 families that have to deal with the grief and guilt of a loved one they will always wonder if they could have done more to save. Of course addicts know that there is Fentanyl in the streets. Some of them ask for it directly. The “risk” isn’t the point. The cure may be worse than the disease, but for many of them it’s the only option available, and some might see the risk of overdose as a potential escape from their sickness altogether. Can we truly judge those adrift at sea who drink saltwater rather than endure the agony of thirst?

But it’s fine. Sympathy is for the bleeding hearts. That could never happen to me because I am morally righteous. I am pure. I am better than them because I wasn’t raped, or abandoned, or abused, nor do I have voices in my head that only shut up when I shoot heroin into my veins. I get to tell myself that it’s my choices that make me noble. My fear of death, a bold reminder in the face of an addict, is well hidden behind the vitriol I espouse. But death cannot come for me. I am pristine. I am immortal.