Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Arah dan Kecenderungan Filsafat Barat Masa Kini: Sebuah Sketsa

Oleh Prof. Dr. Ignatius Bambang Sugiharto*

Masa kini” adalah titik temu masa lalu dan masa depan. Maka, tulisan ini seyogianya meneropong arus-arus filsafat mana dari masa lalu yang agaknya kini berpeluang menentukan kecenderungan-kecenderungan filsafat di masa depan. Meskipun demikian, tulisan ini sebetulnya tidak seambisius itu. Sebab, yang saya buat hanyalah sebuah sketsa kasar.

Sktesa Situasi
Bila kita ikuti perbincangan di berbagai jurnal maupun literatur filsafat, maka sebetulnya hampir semua filsuf yang pernah dikenal dalam tradisi filsafat Barat ternyata masih selalu dibicarakan. Barangkali ini keunikan bidang filsafat: nyaris tak mungkin menganggap seorang filsuf dari masa mana pun sebagai sungguh-sungguh “kadaluwarsa”.

Meskipun demikian, ada beberapa tema, tokoh, dan jalur tradisi yang toh terasa mendominasi arena wacana filsafat hari-hari ini. Oleh karena itu, tulisan ini hanya akan menyoroti tema-tema tersebut. Dan, berharap melalui itu terlihat pula filsuf dan tradisi mana yang kini dominan. Di antara demikian banyak tema, beberapa di antaranya yang menonjol, yakni: 1) Bahasa, 2) Kritik atas modernitas/isme, 3) Tentang “yang lain” (otherness), 4) Komunikasi/dialog.

1 Bahasa
Sejak beberapa dekade yang lalu beredar istilah “Linguistic Turn”. Meskipun istilah ini kini memang telah memudar, tapi esensinya masih berbunyi: bahasa adalah tema sentral filsafat abad 20. Kini banyak tema pokok tradisional filsafat memang berlabuh dalam persoalan bahasa. Tentu saja sejak zaman Yunani, bahasa sudah selalu berperan penting dalam filsafat. Namun, selama itu, bahasa itu sendiri tidak pernah sungguh-sungguh dipersoalkan sebagai tema utama. Baru pada awal abad 20, sejak G. E. Moore dan Bertrand Russell yang memuncak pada Wittgenstein, bahasa menjadi tema kajian utama, bahkan hingga kini (abad 21). Tradisi analitik ini mencoba menunjukkan bahwa banyak persoalan dasar filsafat tradisional hanyalah semu: hanya perkara logika dan bahasa belaka. Sejak itu, mulai ada kecenderungan kuat untuk memperkarakan hakekat “filsafat” itu sendiri dari sudut bahasa. Dengan kata lain, terjadi kesibukan menuju ke arah filsafat tentang filsafat: “Metafilsafat”.

Perspektif yang terakhir itu memunculkan issue baru seperti: apakah bahasa pengetahuan itu memang harus satu dan universal, katakanlah bahasa “ideal” seperti yang umum dicita-citakan filsafat modern, ataukah dibiarkan saja dalam berbagai “Language games” sesuai dengan bentuk-bentuk kehidupan yang memang beragam, sebutlah bahasa “natural”. Kebenaran dan penalaran dilihat erat berkaitan dengan bahasa. Persoalan ini kini masih juga digumuli oleh generasi mutakhir tradisi analitik macam H. PUTNAM, D. DAVIDSON dan M. DUMMET. Situasi ini pada gilirannya telah ikut memicu lahirnya issue kontemporer tentang “Berakhirnya Filsafat” (The End of Philosophy), khususnya pada pemikiran R. RORTY, yang mengolah persoalan filsafat analitik dari perspektif J. DEWEY.

Namun kendati tradisi WITTGENSTEIN telah memperkarakan hakekat bahasa, pada umumnya tradisi analitik tidak banyak mengolah aspek ontologis bahasa, tetapi aspek logis dan epistemologisnya saja. Aspek ontologis bahasa diolah terutama oleh HEIDEGGER dari perspektif tradisi Fenomenologi Husserlian: bagi manusia yang tinggal di dalam dunia, bahasa itu akhirnya apa. Bahasa baginya adalah cara makna “ada” yang tampil sekaligus bersembunyi. Karena itu, bagi HEIDEGGER berfilsafat berarti “mendengarkan” bahasa, terutama bahasa puisi alias bahasa metaforis. Tradisi ini selanjutnya menjadi semakin vocal pada H. G. GADAMER, yang mengolah kebahasaan manusia dalam konteks hermeneutika filsafat dimana bahasa menjadi semacam pusat gravitasi bagi filsafat, bahkan bagi segala bentuk pemahaman tentang “Ada”. Katakanlah bahasa di sini adalah “Ada yang bisa dimengerti”, bahkan bisa juga dikatakan bahwa bahasa adalah “pikiran” itu sendiri. Dengan kata lain, tak ada cara lain untuk memikirkan kenyataan selain lewat bahasa. Tradisi fenomenologi dan hermeneutika ini diperdalam juga oleh filsuf lain: P. RICOEUR dengan mendialogkannya pada Psikoanalisa dan Strukturalisme. Pada pemikiran Ricoeur aspek kreativitas bahasa dalam proses pemahaman menjadi lebih jelas lagi. Yang menarik bagi Ricoeur adalah bahwa ia berhasil mengangkat issue penting dalam persoalan bahasa, yang sempat dipicu Heidegger juga, yaitu posisi metafora. Penelitiannya yang mendalam tentang metafora ternyata kemudian mengakibatkan perhatian panggung filsafat kontemporer bergeser dari persoalan logika ke persoalan metafora.

Agak di luar jalur itu, tradisi teori kritis Frankfurt pun ternyata akhirnya ikut juga mengolah persoalan bahasa dan hermeneutika. Tokoh terakhir tradisi ini adalah J. HABERMAS, misalnya menggunakan pola logika hermeneutic di balik “model interaksinya” yang memupuk kepentingan berkomunikasi dan saling mengerti. Dan, bahasa dilihat sebagai tempat bersembunyinya kepentingan-kepentingan penguasaan dan distorsi-distorsi dalam komunikasi.

Di samping semua jalur di atas, tradisi Strukturalisme masih perlu dilihat, kendati kini tampil justru dalam sosok baru: Post-strukturalisme J. DERRIDA, yang merupakan kombinasi antara strukturalisme dengan inspirasi Heidegger. Strukturalisme sendiri sudah selalu menganggap bahasa sebagai model sistem dan struktur tanda yang sangat menentukan segala pola pemikiran manusia tentang makna. Namun, bila strukturalisme cenderung melihat bangunan-bangunan struktur itu sebagai statis, maka Post-strukturalisme melihatnya justru sebagai sangat dinamis. Unit dasar yang memungkinkan segala struktur makna adalah pasangan-pasangan oposisi biner bahas belaka. Namun, karena setiap kata mengandaikan dan menunjukkan kata lainnya (trace) menjadi mata rantai tanpa ujung, maka sebetulnya makna adalah produk bahasa itu sendiri, bukan ciptaan penulisnya/pembicaranya. Demikian pada Derrida, bahasa menjadi sesuatu yang otonom. Maka, terjadilah “Kematian sang Pengarang”, kata filsuf Post-strukturalisme lainnya, ROLAND BARTHES. Segala bentuk tulisan maupun tafsiran akhirnya hanyalah kegiatan “bermain” geser-menggeser dan mengombinasikan makna belaka. Dengan kata lain, pada Derrida seluruh kegiatan berbahasa akhirnya secara radikal bersifat metaforis.

2. Kritik atas Modernitas/isme
Kritik atas pola pikir modern sebetulnya sudah dilakukan sejak awal kemunculan filsafat modern dan selanjutnya. B. Pascal, Hegel, F. Schiller, dan Nietzsche misalnya, telah melakukan hal itu. Namun, kritik tersebut saat itu nyatanya hanya merupakan riak-riak kecil sesaat saja. Kritik atas kemodernan mulai menjadi riak agak besar kiranya baru sejak Heidegger yang – berdasarkan inspirasi Fenomenologi Husserlian – mengkritik tradisi filsafat Barat yang telah berjalan hingga Nietzsche dan Hegel. Kritiknya terasa serius oleh sebab ia berhasil menggugat pola berpikir dualistik Subjek-Objek yang bersifat penguasaan, kalkulatif, dan manipulatif, di balik Metafisika yang telah memuncak pada IPTEK. Di sisi lain, Eksistensialisme pun memanfaatkan Fenomenologi Husserl dan dengan berbagai cara mulai mencoba keluar dari pola berpikir filsafati modern juga. Lalu yang dilakukan para fenomenolog macam Merleau-Ponty dan Levinas pun sebetulnya adalah upaya yang sama.

Namun, kritik atas kemodernan tiba-tiba menjadi gelombang besar sejak tampilnya J. F. LYOTARD, terutama karena ia melontarkan istilah yang sangat eksplisit: “Postmodernisme” yang kontroversial itu. Secara eksplisit sebetulnya gelombang kritik atas kemodernan telah muncul dalam segala istilah “post”, misalnya post-metafisik, post-Hegelian, post-Analitik, post-Strukturalisme, post-industrial, post-western, dan sebut saja segala “post” lainnya. Dengan begitu, seolah istilah “postmodern” seperti merangkum semua gejala tersebut, dan itu pula sebabnya istilah “postmodern” cenderung dikait-kaitkan dengan semua “post” lainnya itu hingga isinya memang kabur. Gelombang ini semakin hiruk-pikuk dengan munculnya J. BAUDRILLARD, F. JAMESON, R. RORTY yang memperkarakan kemodernan secara eksplisit juga.

Dengan caranya sendiri, jalur tradisi genealogi Nietzsche pun ternyata bersuara kembali lewat inspirasi strukturalisme. Dan itu menghasilkan kritik yang sangat mendasar, meskipun ganjil, terhadap kemodernan. Ini nampak pada pemikiran MICHEL FOUCAULT, J. DERRIDA, G. DELEUZE, dan ROLAND BARTHES.

Dari tradisi teori kritis, yang sebetulnya dilakukan J. HABERMAS sebenarnya tiada lain adalah upaya merevisi kemodernan juga. Maka, sebetulnya perdebatannya tentang istilah “postmodern” di sini terasa semu.

Dari bidang filsafat moral, muncul pula kritik tajam terhadap tradisi modern umumnya, yaitu: A. MacINTYRE, lalu Z. BAUMAN. Sedangkan dari filsafat ilmu, kritik mendasar lahir dari THOMAS KUHN, I. LAKATOS, dan FEYERABEND.

Yang menarik adalah bahwa dari tradisi filsafat proses pun lahir jalur yang eksplisit menggunakan istilah “postmodern” yaitu kelompok Studi Proses: D. R. GRIFFIN, F. FERRE, dsb., yang sering bergabung dengan para fisikawan macam D. BOHM, I. PRYGOGINE, dsb. kelompok ini mengolah inspirasi WHITEHEAD dan perkembangan ilmiah terbaru. Dengan itu mereka lalu mengadakan revisi mendasar atas paradigma-paradigma dan menawarkan “worldview” baru. Agaknya kelompok ini adalah satu-satunya kubu yang berani merancang “metafisika” baru di tengah-tengah suasana skeptik dan pesimis dunia filsafat umumnya.

Demikian kritik atas kemodernan memang bukan sekedar kekhasan pemikiran Lyotard, Foucault, atau Derrida, melainkan merupakan kecenderungan umum para filsuf kontemporer. Tidaklah mengherankan karenanya bila “Postmodernisme” pun menjadi semacam umbrella term yang mudah dikenakan pada siapapun di antara mereka.

3. Yang Lain (Otherness)
Suatu hal yang mencolok di panggung filsafat hari ini adalah juga kecenderungan umum untuk memberi tekanan dan penghargaan pada “Yang Lain” atau “Lyan”. Itu bisa berarti “Ada” Heideggerian yang senantiasa mengelak dari kategori Metafisika dan IPTEK; bisa juga “Orang Lain” a la Levinas yang tak pernah diberi tempat layak dalam tradisi pemikiran modern yang subjektivistis (Egologis); atau bisa juga berarti peran sentral “irasionalitas”, “ketaksadaran”, unsur-unsur “pra-konseptual” dan “nonkonseptual” seperti dilacak para filsuf Frankfurt dan Strukturalisme; atau “kegilaan” dan “diskontinuitas sejarah” Foucaultian yang senantiasa dianak-tirikan dalam pola pikir modern; atau “instabilitas makna, struktur, dan sistem” Derridean yang jarang terpikir oleh para filsuf modern; atau peran sentral “hasrat (desire), kehendak untuk berkuasa (will to power)” dan “tubuh” a la DELEUZE (dirintis oleh Schopehauer, Nietzsche, lalu Merleu-Ponty dan P. Ricoeur). Bahkan yang termasuk dalam kategori “yang lain” adalah “rasionalitas komunikatif” Habermasian; “paralogi” a la LYOTARD; “segala bentuk pengetahuan non-ilmiah” versi Feyerabend; “aspek retorik dan sosiologis dunia ilmiah” menurut THOMAS KUHN; hingga berbagai bentuk gerakan Feminisme, holisme ataupun ekologi.

Demikian pendeknya pergeseran fokus terhadap “yang lain” itu, atau yang biasa dikenal sebagai Paradigm Shift beberapa dekade ini kiranya memang telah menggoncang secara radikal segala sistem kategori yang biasa kita gunakan dalam memahami realitas. Akibat yang paling serius agaknya adalah bahwa kita dipaksa mengkaji ulang hakekat konsep-konsep dasar seperti “rasionalitas”, “kebenaran”, “pengetahuan”, bahkan “filsafat” itu sendiri. Barangkali ini salah satu sebabnya mengapa zaman kita ini terasa sangat kontradiktif, over-skeptik, chaotic, bahkan mungkin tergelincir ke belukar schizophrenic.

4. Komunikasi/Dialog
Secara ringkas dapat dikatakan bahwa filsafat masa kini kehilangan kepastian-kepastian terutama tentang keniscayaan rasionalitas, otonomi subjek dan kemurnian objek. Sistem kategori, aturan, dan kriteria yang biasanya dianggap produk wacana dan tindakan rasional kini dianggap bersifat sementara dan konvensional saja. Makna dan validitas segala bentuk wacana ternyata banyak tergantung pada “bentuk-bentuk kehidupan” yang sangat partikular dan spesifik (Wittgenstein) tapi juga pada karakter “retoris” dan “metaforis” setiap wacana dan tindakan itu (Kuhn. Derrida, Rorty, H. Blumenberg). Cara subjek memahami realitas ternyata juga ditentukan sekali oleh keterikatannya pada dunia objek alias pada “Lebenswelt” yang pra-reflektif dan nonkonseptual (Husserl, Heidegger, Ponty, Tylor). Konsep tentang “evidensi” (self-evident givenness atau “presence”) ternyata sangat ditentukan oleh sistem differensial tanda-tanda kebahasaan (Derrida). Objek pengetahuan pun sebetulnya tak pernah sedemikian netral sebab selalu terbungkus pra-interpretasi, selalu telah disituasikan dalam suatu “skema”, yang merupakan bagian dari “konteks makna” tertentu (Donald Davidson) atau pun bagian dari sebuah “teks” yang juga mengacu pada teks-teks lain tanpa akhir (Derrida).

Ambruknya segala kepastian itulah kini yang agaknya membawa kecenderungan filsafat berubah dari pola monologis menuju dialogis. Itu bisa berupa dialog hermeneutis antar horizon tradisi dan horizon aktual (Gadamer, Ricoeur); dialogis politis yang kritis dan emansipatoris terutama di kalangan para ilmuan ataupun antara perspektif filsafat dan perspektif ilmu-ilmu empiris (Habermas); dialog antar berbagai model pemahaman (G. Madison); dialog antar “Language games” (Rorty, Wittgenstein); dialog dalam bentuk relasi etis asimetris antara saya dan “orang lain” (Levinas); dialog antara rasionalitas dan kegilaan (Michel Foucault), antara rasionalitas dan kehendak/hasrat (Deleuze), antara konsep literal dan metaphor (Heidegger, Ricoeur, Davidson, Madison), tapi juga antara diskursif (konsep) dan pola figural (imaji) sebagaimana diserukan Lyotard.

Posisi Filsafat Kini
Situasi ketidak-tentuan akibat ambruknya berbagai kategori dasar dan berubahnya paradigma tadi pada gilirannya memang membawa krisis mendasar pada jati diri filsafat itu sendiri. Orang suka menganggap bahwa setelah periode “post-metafisika” dan segala “post” lainnya, kini giliran filsafat itu sendiri lenyap, alias “Post-filsafat” (Rorty).

Tentu saja klaim tentang kematian filsafat sangat relatif: tergantung “filsafat” dalam arti apa. Bila filsafat diartikan sebagai “satu-satunya bahasa standard yang paling rasional dan paling mendasar, yang karenanya paling layak mendasari keabsahan segala bentuk pengetahuan”, maka boleh jadi ia kini hanya tinggal ilusi. Tetapi arti tersebut hanyalah menunjuk pada salah satu kemungkinan fungsi filsafat saja. Di sisi lain, kiranya jelas bahwa segenap issue yang telah dikemukakan di depan merupakan tantangan untuk memikirkan ulang dan merumuskan kembali hakekat dan posisi filsafat saat ini. Dalam rangka itu barangkali beberapa gagasan berikut bisa berguna.

Pertama, filsafat bisa tetap dilihat sebagai medan kegiatan dimana rasionalitas mengadakan kritik terhadap dirinya sendiri (Teori Kritis). Dan ini dapat dilakukan dengan cara menyingkap kondisi-kondisi intensionalitas dasar di balik berbagai pola pemahaman kita terhadap realitas (Fenomenologi, Hermeneutika). Artinya, salah satu tugas filsafat yang unik dan sangat penting barangkali terletak pada kecenderungannya untuk mengkaji kembali segala bangunan teoretis pengetahuan berdasarkan pengalaman konkret kita dalam lebenswelt (hidup sehari-hari yang kita alami). Dengan kata lain, filsafat di sini berfungsi sebagai upaya mengartikulasikan atau mengeksplisitkan dimensi-dimensi yang tersembunyi dalam lebenswelt itu (kepentingan, prasangka kebahasaan, kekuasaan, hasrat, sentralitas tubuh, keter-arahan pada orang lain, dll.) ke tingkat kesadaran, dalam rangka pemahaman diri yang lebih kaya tentang manusia. Upaya macam ini barangkali tak akan ada akhirnya.

Kedua, dalam rangka kritik-diri rasionalitas dan artikulasi Lebenswelt itu filsafat sebetulnya perlu bergaul erat dengan kesenian. Seni adalah bentuk refleksi kritis dan jalur artikulasi Lebenswelt juga namun dalam bentuk metaforik. Manakala filsafat menempuh jalur logika konseptual rasional, seni menempuh jalur logika imaji dan sensibilitas yang cenderung intuitif. Manakala filsafat menjelajahi medan kesadaran, seni berpetualang mondar-mandir antara medan kesadaran dan ketaksadaran. Antara keduanya sesungguhnya terdapat hubungan komplementer. Filsafat bisa mendapat nutrisi dan bahan lauk yang sangat vital-substansial dari seni, dan sebaliknya.

Ketiga, adapun terhadap ilmu-ilmu empiris (Human Sciences) filsafat dapat bekerjasama erat dengan berfungsi sebagai: pertama, ia dapat membantu menyingkapkan bentuk-bentuk kemampuan dan pengetahuan prateoritik di balik kompetensi-kompetensi manusia dalam berbicara, memahami, menilai, dan bertindak. Kedua, ia pun dapat memasok gagasan-gagasan yang dapat berfungsi sebagai hipotesa-hipotesa empirik. Ini inspirasi bagus dari Habermas.

Keempat, ketika dalam kehidupan kontemporer saat ini terdapat keterpisahan antara tiga pola reflektif penting yaitu seni, sains dan agama, maka filsafat sebetulnya dapat mengaktifkan hubungan dialetik dan dialogis antara ketiganya. Dengan cara ini filsafat dapat tetap berperan sebagai wahana keutuhan kemanusiaan dan integritas pengetahuan. Selamat membaca!

* Prof. Dr. Ignatius Bambang Sugiharto adalah Dosen Filsafat di Fakultas Filsafat Unpar, menyelasaikan S-3 Filsafat di Universitâ san Tomasso, Roma, Italia. Sekarang menjabat sebagai Presiden Asian Association of Catholic Philosophers dan Sekjen International Society for Universal Dialogue (New York)

Curriculum Vitae
Igantius Bambang Sugiharto lahir di Tasikmalaya, 6 Maret 1956. Menyelesaikan program S1 di Fakultas Filsafat Unpar tahun 1981. Pada tahun 1984 beliau menyelesaikan Program S1 di Fakultas Sastra, Jurusan Filsafat Universitas Indonesia. Mendapat gelar Licensiat (Magna cum Laude) dari Universitâ san Tomasso, Roma, Italia tahun 1992, dan meraih gelar Doktor Filsafat (Summa cum Laude) dari universitas yang sama tahun 1994.

Beliau mengajar di Universitas Katolik Parahyangan sejak tahun 1984 terutama di Fakultas Filsafat, kemudian mengajar juga di program Pascasarjana, sambil menjabat sebagai Pembantu Dekan I Fakultas Filsafat hingga saat ini. Selain itu, beliau mengajar di program Pascasarjana Fakultas Seni Rupa dan Desain ITB dan FSRD Maranatha.

Tulisan-tulisan beliau tersebar dalam berbagai buku, nasional maupun internasional, juga dalam berbagai media dan jurnal (Kompas, Tempo, Suara Pembaruan, Basis, Kalam, dsb). Beliau juga sering membawakan makalah dalam berbagai fora, nasional maupun internasional (Canada, Amerika, Denmark, Finlandia, Yunani, Korea, Jepang, China, Meksiko, dsb).

Aktif terlibat dalam berbagai organisasi dan proyek penelitian Internasional, antara lain: Presiden, Asian Association of Catholic Philosophers; Sekjen, International Society fo Universal Dialogue (New York); Research Fellow, Centre International Pour L’étude Comparée de Philosophie at D’esthétique (Tokyo & Copenhagen); Research Fellow, The Council for Research in Values and Philosophy (Washington DC); Research Fellow, Institute for Advanced Study of Asian Cultures and Theologies (Hongkong); anggota, International Society for Metaphysics (Washington DC); anggota, Asosiasi Ahli Filsafat Indonesia (ASAFI); Anggota, Himpunan Dosen Etika Indonesia (HIDESI). Ketekunannya di bidang filsafat membuahkan hasil. Pada tanggal 16 Desember 2006 beliau dikukuhkan sebagai Guru Besar Filsafat Universitas Katolik Parahyangan.


Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Pernyataan Menolak Praktik Hukuman Mati

Dengan ini dinyatakan bahwa saya sebagai pribadi:

1. menolak tegas praktik hukuman mati di Indonesia

2. mendesak untuk dilakukannya amandemen perundangan tentang vonis hukuman mati

3. mengganti hukuman mati dengan praktik hukuman lainnya yang lebih manusiawi

4. mendesak pemerintah untuk mengadakan serta memodifikasi penjara atau lembaga pemasyarakatan dengan level keamanan penuh dan terpencil
kepada terhukum vonis hukuman
mati

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Afterlife

Human beings, like all other organic creatures, die and their bodies decay. Nevertheless, there is a widespread and long-standing belief that in some way death is survivable, that there is “life after death.” The focus in this article is on the possibility that the individual who dies will somehow continue to live, or will resume life at a later time, and not on the specific forms such an afterlife might take. We begin by considering the logical possibility of survival, given different metaphysical views concerning the nature of the mind/soul, and then move on to consider possible forms of support for the belief in survival.

1. Survival and its Alternatives

It matters to us what happens to us after we die. This statement is a truism to most reflective adults, and it is confirmed rather than contradicted by the contemporary culture of death-denial. (America has been described as the only society in which death is viewed as a preventable illness.) One does not go to great lengths to deny, and avoid awareness of, that which is of little concern in the first place. It is also confirmed, against their intention, by the small band of philosophers who, ever since Epicurus, have maintained that “death is nothing to us.” A great deal of dialectical energy has been expended in order to sustain this deeply paradoxical assertion. But this effort tends to be self-defeating: things that really are “nothing to us” don't command that amount or intensity of attention.

In most cultures, this concern has taken the form of belief in some sort of personal afterlife, in which the same individual that lived and died nevertheless persists and continues to have new experiences. There are alternatives, however. The ancient Greeks are noted for having placed a high premium on “survival” in the memory and honor of the community — a practice reflected in our reference to deceased celebrities as (for example) “the immortal Babe Ruth.” (Strictly speaking, for the Greeks this was not a replacement for a personal afterlife, but rather a supplement to what was conceived as a rather colorless and unrewarding existence in Hades.) Such a hope, it would seem, provides a major consolation only if one is optimistic concerning the persistence and continued memory of the community, as well as the accuracy and justice of their judgments. An interesting variant of this is found in process theology, with its promise of “objective immortality” in the mind of God, who of course neither forgets nor misjudges the lives he remembers (Hartshorne 1962, p. 262). Another view, one whose implications for personal survival are unclear, is found in the Buddhist ideal of Nirvana. There are various accounts of Nirvana, and one widely held way of viewing it states that nothing can be said about it. Overall, it simply is not clear whether, and in what sense, it can be said that the same individual who lived on earth survives to experience Nirvana. It should not be overlooked, however, that the religious systems that posit Nirvana also have a need to affirm personal survival in a more straightforward sense. One must pass through innumerable cycles of the “wheel of rebirth” before one is ready for the final peace, and in these cycles the same individual must persist, otherwise the karmic outcomes would devolve on persons other than those who accumulated the karma in the first place.[1] With this in view, it may be said that belief in some sort of personal survival has been nearly universal among known human cultures, though obviously it has not been accepted by all individuals in those cultures.[2] Our primary topic in this article will be survival as such, rather than particular conceptions of the afterlife such as heaven and hell or reincarnation, and we begin by considering the logical possibility of life after death.

2. The Possibility of Survival — Dualism

The possibility of survival cannot be considered without taking into account the nature of the human person. A natural way of thinking would seem to be that mind-body dualism is a “survival-friendly” metaphysical view, whereas materialism is inimical to survival. This may or may not turn out to be correct. However, the logical possibility of dualist survival — specifically, of disembodied survival — has been seriously questioned. The general form taken by such questioning lies in the assertion that we have no “criteria of identity” for disembodied persons. When we make judgments about the identity of persons we are not making judgments about the identity of souls. We cannot make judgments about the identity of souls, because souls are said to be imperceptible. And because of this, the identity of a person over time cannot consist of the identity of the person's soul over time. What we are able to identify — and reidentify — is a person's body. But once the person has died that body decomposes in a grave, and can't be the basis for our identification of the person who is supposed to have survived disembodied (Perry 1978, pp. 6-18).

This objection is deeply confused. It conflates two quite distinct questions, of which the first, or metaphysical question is, What does it mean to say that x at t1 is the same φ as y at t2? The second, epistemological question is How can we tell that x at t1 is the same φ as y at t2? The failure to distinguish these questions (a failure which may be due in part to Wittgenstein) is the source of serious philosophical confusions. The short answer to the first question is that normally, when we know what a φ is, we know also what it is for a φ at t1 to be the same individual φ as a φ at t2. The abnormal cases are those in which the φ at t1 has undergone changes, and we are unsure whether those changes amount to the destruction of the φ, or its replacement by another object, so that the very same φ cannot possibly have persisted until t2. The classic example is the ship of Theseus,[3] but there are many others. In such cases, our first recourse is to seek to understand more accurately the concept of a φ — does our concept of a ship, for example, allow for the progressive replacement of all of the ship's parts, or not? But sometimes there may be no determinate answer to this question. Our concepts, after all, have been developed to deal with the sorts of contingencies that normally arise, and it may sometimes be possible to invent scenarios (or even to discover them empirically) that are not provided for in our ordinary usage of a concept. In that case, we must either provide for ourselves criteria to cover the novel situation (thus modifying our previous concept of a φ), or else admit that the question we were asking has no answer.

When we pose this question with regard to the persistence of immaterial souls, what we find is that there is no problem that needs a solution. We know what it is to be a subject of experience — to be a being that thinks, and believes, and desires various things, for example — and prima facie at least this does not entail being embodied. If we think of the immaterial soul in Cartesian terms, there simply isn't anything that can happen to such a soul (barring its being annihilated by God) that could cause it to cease to exist; Cartesian souls are “naturally immortal.” Some other dualist views may not opt for natural immortality of the soul, and if so they will need to say something about the sorts of changes that a soul can and cannot sustain if it is to remain in existence as the individual it was. But there is no problem here for the general hypothesis of survival as an immaterial soul (Hasker 1999, pp. 206-11).

The metaphysical question having been disposed of, it becomes apparent that the epistemological question is less significant than it may previously have appeared. How do we re-identify immaterial souls over time? Under normal circumstances, we do this by re-identifying the body that is animated by the soul in question. But not always: prior at least to the advent of DNA testing, cases of disputed identity could not always be settled by re-identifying bodies. Sometimes the subject's memory of events is an important clue, though not of course an infallible one. But can any tests establish the identity of a completely non-embodied subject? Evidently, the question of the identity of a non-embodied subject makes sense; those who consult spiritualist mediums certainly understand the question, whether they are conversing with dear departed Aunt Susie, or merely with a manipulative practitioner. But again, once it is seen that there is no metaphysical problem here, the epistemological question becomes purely a practical one, requiring to be answered if and when we have the need in practice to make such identifications.

There may still be an objection to this, to the effect that the idea of disembodied survival, even if not logically incoherent, is one we have don't have a sufficient grasp of to allow it to count as a real possibility. What would such survival amount to, anyway? Of course, if the souls of the departed are assumed to be fitted out immediately with resurrection bodies, this difficulty is greatly alleviated. But if the notion of an immaterial soul is to do any philosophical work, we need to be able to think what it might be like for such a soul to exist on its own, unembodied.

This challenge has been met in an interesting article by H. H. Price (Price 1953). Price spells out, in considerable detail, a notion of disembodied souls existing in a “world” of something like dream-images — images, however, that would be shared between a number of more or less like-minded, and telepathically interacting, souls. Included among these images would be images of one's own body and of other people's bodies, so that one might, at first, find it difficult to distinguish the image-world from the ordinary physical world we presently inhabit. The conception is similar to Berkeley's, except that Price does not invoke God directly as the sustainer of regularities in the image-world. He does say, however, that “if we are theists, we shall hold that the laws of nature, in other worlds as in this one, are in the end dependent on the will of a Divine Creator” (p. 390). I think anyone who reads, and seriously considers, Price's development of this idea will be forced to admit that he has given a reasonably clear account of what disembodied existence might be like. We need not follow Price in (what appears to be) his supposition that this is a plausible account of the actual state of persons who have died. It is enough if he has provided an account that makes plain the intelligibility of the notion of disembodied survival; the believer in an afterlife can then say, “If not in just this way, then in some other.”

Still other questions remain, of which the following is a sample: Suppose a person's soul were replaced instantaneously by another soul with the same memories, dispositions, and so on: how could we tell that this had happened? The conclusion drawn is that there is no difference between having a single soul and having a succession of souls, which reduces the notion of a soul to absurdity. But surely this moves too fast. Suppose a person's body were instantaneously annihilated, and after a gap of a nanosecond or so replaced by another body with identical characteristics. Again, how could we know this had occurred? (If the materialist can duplicate souls, the dualist can duplicate bodies.) These questions belong in the all-too-familiar category of evil-demon puzzles, and like other such puzzles the only appropriate response is to look them in the face and then move on. The mistake lies in assuming that they can be used to get rid of souls while leaving other, more respectable metaphysical beliefs unscathed.

3. The Possibility of Survival — Materialism

If mind-body dualism is true the logical possibility of survival is relatively unproblematic. But dualism has run upon hard times lately, so we need to consider also the possibility of survival given some variety or other of materialism.[4] Materialists, of course, will not affirm immortality of the soul, but they have available an arguably preferable alternative in the form of bodily resurrection. Resurrection is in fact the standard view of the afterlife in all of the major theistic religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. To be sure, there is no obvious, inherent incompatibility between the belief in an immaterial soul and the doctrine of bodily resurrection; in fact this combination has been the standard view in theology. But more recently a conflict has been discovered, or perhaps invented, between the views (Cullman 1955), and in any case those who are committed to materialism on the mind-body issue need to have their resurrection neat, uncontaminated by the suspect belief in immaterial souls.

The central logical problem for materialist versions of the resurrection is personal identity. On dualist assumptions, personal identity is preserved by the persistence of the soul between death and resurrection. But for materialism, nothing bridges the spatio-temporal gap between the body that perishes and the resurrection body; how then can the “resurrected” person be identical with the person who died? Considerable ingenuity has been expended in the search for an answer to this question.

Without doubt, the most popular materialist option here is the “re-creation” theory, according to which, at some time after a person's death, God re-creates the person by creating a body with the identical characteristics of the body that perished (Hick 1983, pp. 125-26). (Immediately thereafter God may proceed to improve the body in certain respects, such as correcting the disease or injury that led to death in the first place.) The problem is that this move does not seem to secure the necessity of the identity relation — and “identity” that is merely contingent is not identity at all. If God could create one body that is exactly similar to the body that died, why not two or more? It is not a satisfactory answer to this to say that God, being good, would not (and perhaps could not) do such a thing. On the view in question, what is necessary for resurrection is merely that material particles be arranged in the correct fashion, and it is hardly a necessary truth that only God could do this. (Perhaps a really smart rogue angel could pull it off!) Nor is it feasible to guarantee uniqueness by requiring that the identical particles present in the dead body make up the resurrection body. On the one hand, the body has no doubt shed, during its life, enough particles to make several bodies, and it is hardly credible that the replacement of one of the atoms present at the time of death with an atom shed by the body a few seconds before death would mean we have a different body (assuming other requirements to be satisfied). If, on the other hand, only particles from the body at the time of death may be used, there are the long-recognized problems about the availability of some of these particles, which within a few years may have made their ways into a large number of other human bodies. In any case there is a hard-to-quell intuition that reassembly, no matter how expertly completed, would at best produce a replica rather than the identical body that perished. Peter van Inwagen offers a compelling example:

Suppose a certain monastery claims to have in its possession a manuscript written in St. Augustine's own hand. And suppose the monks of this monastery further claim that this manuscript was burned by Arians in the year 457. It would immediately occur to me to ask how this manuscript, the one I can touch, could be the very manuscript that was burned in 457. Suppose their answer to this question is that God miraculously recreated Augustine's manuscript in 458. I should respond to this answer as follows: the deed it describes seems quite impossible, even as an accomplishment of omnipotence. God certainly might have created a perfect duplicate of the original manuscript, but it would not be that one; its earliest moment of existence would have been after Augustine's death; it would never have known the impress of his hand; it would not have been a part of the furniture of the world when he was alive; and so on.

Now suppose our monks were to reply by simply asserting that the manuscript now in their possession did know the impress of Augustine's hand; that it was a part of the furniture of the world when the Saint was alive; that when God recreated or restored it, He (as an indispensable component of accomplishing this task) saw to it that the object He produced had all these properties.

I confess I should not know what to make of this. I should have to tell the monks that I did not see how what they believed could possibly be true (van Inwagen 1978, pp. 242-43).

Given these difficulties with the re-creation view, attempts have been made to find other ways of accounting for resurrection in materialist terms. One of the more interesting of these is Lynne Rudder Baker's invocation of a constitution view of persons (Baker 2000, 2001, 2005). On this view persons are not identical with, but are constituted by, their bodies. (She discusses the constitution relation at considerable length; the details of this are not relevant here.) What is distinctive of persons is a “first-person perspective,” roughly, the capacity to think of oneself as oneself. This ability, which humans possess but other animals seem to lack, is an essential component of moral responsibility as well as of our ability to plan for the future and to perform many other distinctively personal activities and functions.

According to Baker, the constitution view opens the way for a doctrine of resurrection that avoids the difficulties of the re-creation theory. Since persons are not identical with their bodies, it need not be maintained that the resurrected body is the same identical body as the body that died. What is required, however, is that the first-person perspective of the resurrected body be the same: “if a person's first-person perspective were extinguished, the person would go out of existence” (2005, p. 385). So the first-person perspective must somehow be transferred from the original body to the resurrection body: “person P1 at t1 is the same person as person P2 at t2 if and only if P1 and P2 have the same first-person perspective” (2000, p. 132). Baker holds that there is indeed a fact of the matter as to whether a given future person has the same first-person perspective as I now have, though there is no “informative” way of specifying criteria of identity between the two.

Unfortunately, this criterion is not merely uninformative but is in fact entirely vacuous. To have a first-person perspective is to have the capacity to perform certain intentional acts of thinking and speaking. Such acts can in principle be qualitatively identical in different thinkers and speakers; what individuates them is the person who thinks or speaks. Which is to say: intentional acts derive their identity from the person performing them. But if this is true of the acts themselves it is also true of the first-person perspectives, which are nothing but the capacities of various persons to perform such acts. So to say that P1 and P2 have the same first-person perspective is just to say that P1 and P2 are the same person, and the criterion reduces to a tautology. We have not been given any help at all in understanding how a person, with her first-person perspective, can occupy first one body and then another.

Another proposal is offered by Kevin Corcoran (Corcoran 2005). Corcoran, like Baker, is a constitution theorist, but unlike Baker he does not believe persons can be transferred from one body to another. So the resurrection body does need to be identical with the body that died, and Corcoran has several different suggestions about how this might be possible. The one to be noted here, however, is what might be termed a “brute force” solution: “If God causes that body to exist once, why could God not cause it to exist a second time? … But what makes the first stage of the postgap body a different stage of the same body that perished is just that God makes it so” (p. 172). This comes extremely close to making identity over time a matter of convention – divine convention, to be sure, but convention all the same. (It is reminiscent of Jonathan Edwards' view that we are justly punished for Adam's sin in the Garden of Eden because God has decreed that the segment of Adam's life including the sin is a segment of our own lives also.)

I have left until last van Inwagen's own proposal for a materialist resurrection. For in spite of his criticisms of the common view, van Inwagen is himself a Christian and a believer in the resurrection. His proposal is stated as follows:

Perhaps at the moment of each man's death, God removes his corpse and replaces it with a simulacrum which is what is burned or rots. Or perhaps God is not quite so wholesale as this: perhaps He removes for “safekeeping” only the “core person” — the brain and central nervous system — or even some special part of it. These are details (van Inwagen 1978, pp. 245-46).

Continuity is maintained, then, through the preservation of the body (or crucial body-part, such as the brain), and when the time comes for resurrection to occur, God restores life to the body in question and one's resurrected life can begin. In fairness, it should be pointed out that van Inwagen originally stated this proposal only in order to demonstrate the logical possibility of a materialist resurrection. In this, I believe he succeeds. But as a proposal which is supposed to represent the actual way in which God enables humans to live again, the account has very little to recommend it. (In this view, God assumes the role of contemporary practitioners of cryonics, preserving the dead body until such time as it is revived and restored to health. But this is bad news for the actual practitioners, since the “bodies” they are preserving are mere simulacra and presumably incapable of being revived, even if all the technology functions flawlessly!) Furthermore, the feature of the account that makes it unacceptable — that God “spirits away” the crucial part of the person's body, leaving behind a simulacrum — is essential to the view's success in depicting a possible way of resurrection. More recently, van Inwagen admits that his story “probably isn't true” (2006, p. 9 — see Other Internet Resources); nevertheless, he insists that “the materialist who believes in the general resurrection is, so to speak, stuck with saying that there must be some sort of physical continuity between the person who dies in the present age of the world and the person who is raised on the day of resurrection” (p. 13). He further says, “I am now inclined to think that there are almost certainly other ways in which an omnipotent and omniscient being could accomplish the resurrection of the dead than the way that was described in the story I told, ways I am unable even to form an idea of because I lack the conceptual resources to do so” (p. 8). This entails that if we reject van Inwagen's story as implausible, other ways in which resurrection could be accomplished are at present inconceivable to us. It would seem that this offers at best minimal comfort to materialists who would like to believe in the resurrection!

It has not been shown conclusively that an identity-preserving materialist resurrection is impossible, but the difficulties, as outlined above, are formidable (Hasker 1999, pp. 211-31). Proponents of an afterlife, it seems, would be better served if they are able to espouse some variety of mind-body dualism. Whether any form of dualism is tenable, and perhaps preferable to materialism even apart from considerations of an afterlife, is a question that cannot be addressed here.

4. Empirical Support for Survival: Near-Death Experiences

Supposing that an afterlife is at least logically possible, is there any empirical evidence that might offer support for such a belief? Historically, much of the interest in psychical research, on the part of eminent philosophers such as William James, H. H. Price, and C. D. Broad, was motivated by a search for such evidence. However, it is arguable that a superior source of evidence lies in so-called “near-death experiences” (Bailey and Yates eds., 1996). These are experiences of persons who were, or perceived themselves to be, close to death; indeed many such persons met the criteria for clinical death. While in this state, they undergo remarkable experiences, often taken to be experiences of the world that awaits them after death. Returning to life, they testify to their experiences, claiming in many cases to have had their subsequent lives transformed as a result of the near-death experience. This testimony is especially compelling in that (a) large numbers of persons report having had such experiences; (b) the experiences come spontaneously to those near death, they are not sought out or deliberately induced; and (c) normally no one stands to benefit financially from either the experiences or the reports.

These experiences, furthermore, are not random in their contents. There are recurring elements that show up in many of these accounts, forming a general (but far from invariable) pattern. Typical elements include a sense of being dead, peacefulness and absence of pain; “out-of-body experiences” in which the subject views his or her own body “from outside” and witnesses various events, sometimes at a considerable distance from the location of the person's body; passing through a dark tunnel towards intense light; meeting “beings of light” (sometimes including friends and relatives who have died previously); and the “life review” in which the events of one's life pass before one and are subjected to evaluation. The subject may be initially disappointed or reluctant to return to the body, and (as already noted) many testify that the experience has been life-changing, leading to a lessened or absent fear of death and other beneficial results.

These experiences are surprisingly common. A Gallup poll taken in 1982 concluded that eight million Americans (about five percent of the adult population at that time) had survived a near-death experience. The experiences occur regardless of age, social class, race, or marital status. Probably the improvements in medical technology, which enable many to return from a state of “clinical death,” have increased the numbers in recent times. But NDEs have been reported throughout recorded history and from all corners of the earth . Since the publication in 1975 of Raymond Moody's book, Life After Life (Moody 1975), there have been numerous studies of the phenomenon, some of them carried out with careful attention to scientific objectivity (e.g., Ring, 1980; Sabom, 1982).

As one might expect, there is a wide variety in interpretations of NDEs, from those which take the experiences to be literally revelatory of a state that lies beyond death to debunking interpretations which see the experiences merely as a reflection of abnormal brain states. Neither of these views is compelling, for reasons that will be developed. Clearly there is no one medical or physiological cause; the experiences occur for persons in a great variety of medical conditions. Susan Blackmore employs a “divide-and-conquer” approach, assigning different medical causes to different aspects of the experience, but her conclusions are speculative and appear to outrun the data (Blackmore 1993). An interesting counterexample to explanations in terms of the “dying brain” is found in the NDEs experienced by mountain climbers in the midst of what they expected to be fatal falls (Heim 1892); it is hardly credible that these experiences can be put down either to drugs or to oxygen deprivation!

On the other hand, interpretations of NDEs as literally revelatory of the life to come, though common in the popular literature, are also suspect. Carol Zaleski has shown, through her comparative studies of medieval and modern NDEs, that many features of these experiences vary in ways that correspond to cultural expectations (Zaleski 1987). A striking instance of this is the minimal role played by judgment and damnation in modern NDEs; unlike the medieval cases, the modern life-review tends to be therapeutic in emphasis. In view of this, Zaleski ascribes the experiences to the religious imagination, insisting that to do so enhances rather than diminishes their significance.

It may be that some of the difficulty in interpretation arises from the attempt to ask, and answer, a single explanatory question. It may be more helpful to recognize that there are several distinguishable aspects of the experiences, each of them requiring explanation, though the explanations may not be unrelated. First, there is the inception of an NDE: what is it that triggers the experience? Second, there is the pattern — what Zaleski refers to as the “syntactic structure” — of NDEs, the repeated themes and elements that reappear time after time. While the pattern is far from invariable, and it may be rare for a single experience to exhibit all of the aspects, there is enough consistency in reported experiences to call for explanation. Third, there is the specific content of the experiences — what in particular is said to have been experienced by those who make the reports. Finally, there is what I shall term the evidential aspects of NDEs — those aspects of what is reported that can in principle be verified objectively, in such a way as to show that something has occurred that is not explainable through normally recognized natural processes.

What can be said, then, about the explanatory questions posed by these different aspects? With regard to the triggering event, the most plausible answer may be that the trigger is simply the perceived nearness of death. A specific physiological trigger is perhaps not ruled out, but there are no especially plausible candidates. (Once again, the cases of the falling mountaineers provide counterexamples to most medical explanations that could be offered.) One of the more deeply puzzling aspects of the situation lies in the pattern or general sequence of events that is common to many NDEs. If the experiences were random in character, they could more easily be dismissed as the result of a cognitive/sensory system gone haywire as a result of stress. But why just this specific pattern of experiences should often result, is a question that demands further consideration. (At this point explanations in terms of Jungian archetypes may be proffered. But for some of us, an appeal to Jungian archetypes does not constitute much of an advance in intelligibility.) With regard to the third aspect, the specific content of NDEs, we may be somewhat better placed. Zaleski has shown conclusively, by her comparison of modern with medieval and other pre-modern narratives, that the content is strongly influenced and conditioned by cultural expectations and assumptions concerning the “other world.” Zaleski does not, however, seem to recognize that an explanation is still called for as to why the religious imagination produces such a narrative now (that is, at the time of a near approach to death), and with this structure, as opposed to countless other patterns that might seem equally possible.

Finally, there is what may be the most neglected feature of all, what I have termed (following Gary Habermas) the evidential aspect of NDEs. These are phenomena that, provided they can be verified, indicate strongly that something is occurring that is not susceptible of an ordinary naturalistic explanation. It would seem that this is the direction we ought to look if we desire to arrive at least at the beginning of an objectively compelling assessment of NDEs. As we have seen, a survey of the literature will reveal a full range of interpretation of the typical features of the experiences, ranging all the way from naturalistic debunking to acceptance of the experiences at face value as revelations of the postmortem state, and it may seem a futile endeavor to arrive at an objective basis for deciding between the many alternatives. But if it is possible to verify objectively certain paranormal aspects of NDEs, fully naturalistic explanations can be ruled out and the way is open for further exploration concerning the meaning of the experiences.

Evidential aspects of NDEs fall into several categories. First, there are out-of-body sensory experiences, in which patients, often while comatose, observe accurately features to which they have no access through normal sensory channels. (One boy decided to “remain behind” while his body was transported to the hospital; he reported on the actions and reactions of the remaining family members with an accuracy which astounded the family members themselves (Moreland and Habermas 1998, p. 158).) Second, there are accounts of sensory experiences which accurately report events that occurred during periods in which the subject's heart had stopped, and even during “flat EEG” periods in which there was no detectable brain activity. Finally, there are “surprise encounters” during the NDE with friends and relatives who had in fact recently died, but where the subject had no knowledge of this prior to the time of the experience.

Evidently a careful assessment of this evidence would require extended discussion; only a few remarks can be offered here. If the information gained in the out-of-body experiences can be independently verified, and was demonstrably unknowable to the subject through ordinary means, then at the least we have some rather spectacular cases of extra-sensory perception. (And in a number of cases the verification has in fact been carried out, with positive results (Moreland and Habermas 1998, pp. 210-16).) Even more striking is the evidence of experiences that occurred, and information that was acquired, during periods with no detectable brain activity. Admittedly, a flat EEG is not absolute proof that there is no residual activity going on in the brain that could be the locus for the experiences. But this is the best evidence we presently have; to posit residual activity in spite of this has about it a strong air of special pleading. If this evidence is accepted at face value, it shows that the human mind can function, at least for a time, without the support of brain activity, and that is indeed a dramatic result. Finally, the surprise encounters with recently deceased persons come the closest of all to providing direct evidence of postmortem survival. The crucial question, of course, is Where did the subject obtain knowledge of the other person's death? If ordinary channels of communication are ruled out (as they sometimes can be), the most natural conclusion is that this knowledge was obtained from the deceased person, who is somehow still alive. A possible alternative, if extra-sensory perception is accepted, is that the information could have been extracted telepathically from the mind of some still-living person who knew about the death. This seems, however, to be very much an ad hoc maneuver — and in any case, it requires paranormal powers that naturalistically-inclined thinkers will be loath to acknowledge.

In the light of this it is clear that the evidential aspect of NDEs needs to be taken more seriously than has often been done.[5] Even if these experiences do not constitute full proof of post-mortem survival, they put severe pressure on naturalistic views of the mind/brain. And it is precisely these naturalistic views that, for many persons, constitute the greatest obstacle to belief in an afterlife.

5. Metaphysical Support for Survival

Leaving aside such empirical evidence, are there general metaphysical considerations that tell in favor of survival? Clearly, belief in mind-body dualism would offer such support, at least in the sense that survival seems far more likely if dualism is true than it does on materialist assumptions. Still, dualism by no means guarantees survival; the old arguments from the simplicity and alleged indestructibility of souls have for good reason gone out of favor. (As Kant observed, a “simple” soul, which cannot be dissolved into its constituent parts, might still fade away gradually until it has completely disappeared.) What often is not sufficiently appreciated, however, is the close tie between theism and belief in an afterlife. The point is not merely that theistic religions incorporate belief in an afterlife and many persons accept the belief because of this religious teaching. The tie is closer than that, and it has considerable force in both directions.

Suppose, on the one hand, that the God of theism does in fact exist. God is said to be both all-powerful and perfectly good, and this goodness is supposed to be of a sort that is relevant to the welfare of human beings (and other rational creatures, if there are any). Indeed, it is actually said that God loves us. If this is so, then it is highly plausible, to say the least, that he would wish to provide his creatures with the opportunity for a greater, and longer-lasting, fulfillment than is possible within the brief scope of earthly existence. This is especially true, one would think, for those who, through no fault of their own, find their lives blighted by disease, or accident, or war, or any of the other natural or man-made disasters to which we are vulnerable. But even those who enjoy relatively good and satisfying lives are conscious of far, far more that could be accomplished and enjoyed, given more time and the vigor and energy to use it well.

This argument can also be reversed to telling effect. If there is no afterlife, no realm in which the sorrows of this life can be assuaged and its injustices remedied, then the problem of evil becomes impossible to solve in any rationally intelligible way. That is not to say, of course, that allowing for an afterlife makes the problem easy; that is far from being the case. But it does provide a way in which the injustices of this life can be compensated and its evils defeated, and thus brings us at least to the beginning of a feasible solution. For the reasons given, one would be hard pressed to find very many theists (as opposed to deists) who do not also affirm belief in an afterlife.

The argument in the opposite direction might seem to be weaker. There are, after all, major non-theistic religious traditions that affirm an afterlife. Noteworthy in this connection are Jainism, Buddhism, and non-theistic varieties of Hinduism, all of which affirm an afterlife in the form of the doctrines of karma and reincarnation. However, these traditions face a major internal difficulty, which if recognized would tend to push them in the direction of theism. This difficulty is what Robin Collins has termed the “karma management problem.” He writes,

Traditionally Buddhists have believed that by and large the circumstances of one's rebirth are determined by one's karma — that is, one's deeds, whether good or bad in this and previous lives. This, however, seems to require that there exist something like a “program” that arranges your genes, the family conditions you are born into, and the like to correspond to the moral worth of your past deeds (Collins 1999, p. 206).

For theists, such as many Hindus, this minute arrangement of one's life circumstances to match one's karma can be viewed simply as the work of God. But if there is no God, what is this “karma program,” and how was it initiated? We know today, by means that were not available to the ancient Hindus and Buddhists, that “nature” — the nature that is known and studied in the natural sciences — simply doesn't work this way. The laws of nature are subtle and marvelously complex (though also, in their own way, “simple”), but it is abundantly clear that they do not work in such a way as to determine physical situations in accordance with the moral worth of persons, or in accordance with any moral considerations whatsoever. The laws of nature, we might say, are no respecters of persons — or of morality. Rather, they are impersonal in character, and in many cases are expressible in mathematical formulae that are far removed from the teleology that permeates human existence. So if there is a “karmic moral order” of the sort postulated by the Indian traditions, it must be something radically different from the order of nature that (so far as science can discern) governs the physical processes of the world. And yet the two orders must be intimately related, for it is precisely these physical processes which, in the end, are said to be disposed in accordance with one's karma. It is wholly implausible that two diverse systems of cosmic order such as this should arise from unrelated sources and come together accidentally; they must, then, have a common source. If the common source of the natural order and the karmic order is impersonal, we are still in need of some account of how and why it would be such as to produce these two quite different sorts of order in the cosmos. These questions, it would seem, are much more readily answered if we postulate a personal source of both the natural and the moral order — that is to say, a God who desired that there be created persons, and who wished to provide a stable natural order within which they could live and exercise their varied powers.

This is of course a mere sketch of an argument which would require much more space for its full development. Still, it is hoped that even such a brief sketch provides some support for the claim that the doctrines of karma and reincarnation point towards theism rather than away from it. To be sure, not everyone who affirms an afterlife views it in terms of karma and reincarnation. Fortunately, the general line of argument given is not dependent upon this particular view of the afterlife. On the contrary, all known views require that conditions in the afterlife — whether in this world or another — be governed by some sort of moral order. This is evident for views that conceive the afterlife in terms of rewards and punishments for deeds done in one's previous life. But even in modern perspectives that downplay reward and punishment, it is taken for granted that conditions in the afterlife are morally benign — that persons are enabled to continue their lives in circumstances that are at least morally tolerable, and at best dramatically life-enhancing. Seldom if ever is it suggested that the afterlife will be the scene of tragedy, cruelty and injustice such as are all too common in our present existence. That kind of afterlife might well be seen as hellish rather than heavenly, at least for the less fortunate participants. (And if we contemplate the possibility of an endless series of such lives, this may help to elicit some appreciation for the Hindu and Buddhist view that the “wheel of rebirth” is an evil from which we should wish to be delivered.) So the upshot is this: On all commonly held views of life after death there is a moral order governing the afterlife, whatever its precise details may be. And if this is so, we are confronted with the question of the nature and source of such an order, a question which invites, and may in the end require, a theistic answer.

The close connection between theism and an afterlife is further confirmed by Kant's arguments for the “postulates of practical reason.” To be sure, Kant gives different reasons for postulating God and for postulating an afterlife, and the ends to be served by these postulations are ostensibly different. In actuality, however, it is highly plausible that the two postulates are inseparable. We ought to postulate God, because only in this way is it possible that in the end happiness should be enjoyed by persons in proportion to their moral desert. But given the actual conditions of the present life, it is evident that this end can be secured, if at all, only in a future existence. We are told to postulate immortality, because only an endless life makes possible continued progress towards the goal of a coincidence of one's will with the requirements of the moral law. But for such continued progress to be at all likely to occur would seem to require some kind of morally benign conditions in the afterlife, and Kant implicitly assumes that such conditions will obtain. As noted above, the existence of a moral order in the afterlife is something that requires explanation, and a theistic explanation may well be the best available.

Pointing out the close connection between theism and life after death does not constitute a decisive argument for or against either hypothesis. Rather, it invites philosophers to consider the two beliefs together as a package — to consider arguments for and against theism as arguments for and against an afterlife, and vice versa. One interesting consequence is that the “argument from desire” for an afterlife may after all turn out to be sound! Without question, many persons strongly desire that there should be an afterlife, and believe in one largely if not entirely for that reason. It is also beyond question that most philosophers would regard this as a classic case of wishful thinking. But this conclusion is too hasty; indeed, it commits the fallacy of begging the question. To be sure, if the universe is naturalistic, then the desire that many persons have for an afterlife does not constitute any kind of evidence that an afterlife exists. One might inquire about the causes of such a desire and, given its widespread occurrence, might wonder about its possible Darwinian survival value. But no evidential weight would attach to the desire on the assumption of naturalism.

Suppose, on the other hand, that theism (or some view close to theism) is true. On this supposition, human life is not the accidental product of mindless forces that have operated with no thought to it or to anything else. On the contrary human life (and the life of other rational creatures, if there are any) is the product of an evolutionary process which was itself designed to produce such beings, by a God who loves them and cares for them. If this is so then there is a strong case to be made that desires which are universal, or near-universal, among human beings are desires for which satisfaction is possible. The inference does not amount to a certainty; it is possible that humans have distorted God's purpose for them, and certainly human conceptions of the way in which certain desires could be satisfied may be wide of the mark. But the presumption must be that desires which are widespread or universal are aimed at some genuine and attainable good, however inadequate may be the conceptions of that good held by many individuals. And if this is so, persons who take the desire for an afterlife as a reason to believe in one are on the side of right reason in doing so. Only if one assumes from the outset that the universe is not human-friendly, can the charge of wishful thinking be sustained.

Without doubt, a great many persons who believe in life after death do so because of reasons that are internal to their own religious traditions. Hindus and Buddhists have their accounts of persons who remember in detail events of their previous lives. Jews will rely on the visions of Ezekiel and the traditions of the rabbis; Muslims on the prophecies of the Koran. Christians will think of the resurrection of Jesus. Whether any of these appeals has serious evidentiary force is a question that cannot be pursued within the scope of this article; they must all the same be included in any overall assessment of the rationality of belief in an afterlife.

Bibliography

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Self-Deception

Virtually every aspect of the current philosophical discussion of self-deception is a matter of controversy including its definition and paradigmatic cases. We may say generally, however, that self-deception is the acquisition and maintenance of a belief (or, at least, the avowal of that belief) in the face of strong evidence to the contrary motivated by desires or emotions favoring the acquisition and retention of that belief. Beyond this, philosophers divide over whether this action is intentional or not, whether self-deceivers recognize the belief being acquired is unwarranted on the available evidence, whether self-deceivers are morally responsible for their self-deception, and whether self-deception is morally problematic (and if it is in what ways and under what circumstances). The discussion of self-deception and its associated puzzles gives us insight into the ways in which motivation affects belief acquisition and retention. And yet insofar as self-deception represents an obstacle to self-knowledge, which has potentially serious moral implications, self-deception is more than an interesting philosophical puzzle. It is a problem of particular concern for moral development, since self-deception can make us strangers to ourselves and blind to our own moral failings.

1. Definitional Issues

What is self-deception? Traditionally, self-deception has been modeled on interpersonal deception, where A intentionally gets B to believe some proposition p, all the while knowing or believing truly ~p. Such deception is intentional and requires the deceiver to know or believe ~p and the deceived to believe p. One reason for thinking self-deception is analogous to interpersonal deception of this sort is that it helps us to distinguish self-deception from mere error, since the acquisition and maintenance of the false belief is intentional not accidental. If self-deception is properly modeled on such interpersonal deception, self-deceivers intentionally get themselves to believe p, all the while knowing or believing truly ~p. On this traditional model, then, self-deceivers apparently must (1) hold contradictory beliefs, and (2) intentionally get themselves to hold a belief they know or believe truly to be false.

The traditional model of self-deception, however, has been thought to raise two paradoxes: One concerns the self-deceiver's state of mind — the so-called ‘static’ paradox. How can a person simultaneously hold contradictory beliefs? The other concerns the process or dynamics of self-deception — the so-called ‘dynamic’ or ‘strategic’ paradox. How can a person intend to deceive herself without rendering her intentions ineffective? (Mele 1987a; 2001)

The requirement that the self-deceiver holds contradictory beliefs raises the ‘static’ paradox, since it seems to pose an impossible state of mind, namely, consciously believing p and ~p at the same time. As the deceiver, she must believe ~p, and, as the deceived, she must believe p. Accordingly, the self-deceiver consciously believe p and ~p. But if believing both a proposition and its negation in full awareness is an impossible state of mind to be in, then self-deception as it has traditionally been understood seems to be impossible as well.

The requirement that the self-deceiver intentionally gets herself to hold a believe she knows to be false raises the ‘dynamic’ or ‘strategic’ paradox, since it seems to involve the self-deceiver in an impossible project, namely, both deploying and being duped by some deceitful strategy. As the deceiver, she must be aware she's deploying a deceitful strategy; but, as the deceived, she must be unaware of this strategy for it to be effective. And yet it is difficult to see how the self-deceiver could fail to be aware of her intention to deceive. A strategy known to be deceitful, however, seems bound to fail. How could I be taken in by your efforts to get me to believe something false, if I know what you're up to? But if it's impossible to be taken in by a strategy one knows is deceitful, then, again, self-deception as it has traditionally been understood seems to be impossible as well.

These paradoxes have led a minority of philosophers to be skeptical that self-deception is possible (Paluch 1967; Haight 1980). In view of the empirical evidence that self-deception is not only possible, but pervasive (Sahdra & Thagard 2003), most have sought some resolution to these paradoxes. These approaches can be organized into two main groups: those that maintain that the paradigmatic cases of self-deception are intentional, and those that deny this. Call these approaches intentionalist and non-intentionalist respectively. Intentionalists find the model of intentional interpersonal deception apt, since it helps to explain the apparent responsibility of self-deceivers for their self-deception, its selectivity and difference from other sorts of motivated belief such as wishful thinking. Non-intentionalists are impressed by the static and dynamic paradoxes allegedly involved in modeling self-deception on intentional interpersonal deception and, in their view, the equally puzzling psychological models used by intentionalists to avoid these paradoxes, such as semi-autonomous subsystems, unconscious beliefs and intentions and the like.

2. Intentionalist Approaches

The chief problem facing intentional models of self-deception is the dynamic paradox, namely, that it seems impossible to form an intention to get oneself to believe what one currently disbelieves or believes is false. For one to carry out an intention to deceive oneself one must know what one is doing, to succeed one must be ignorant of this same fact. Intentionalists agree on the proposition that self-deception is intentional, but divide over whether it requires the holding of contradictory beliefs, and thus over the specific content of the alleged intention involved in self-deception. Insofar as even the bare intention to acquire the belief that p for reasons not having to do with one's evidence for p seems unlikely to succeed if directly known, most intentionalists introduce temporal or psychological divisions that serve to insulate self-deceivers from the awareness of their deceptive strategy. When self-deceivers are not consciously aware of their beliefs to the contrary or their deceptive intentions, no paradox seems to be involved in deceiving oneself. Many approaches utilize some combination of psychological and temporal division (e.g., Bermúdez 2000).

2.1 Temporal Partitioning

Some intentionalists argue that self-deception is a complex process that is often extended over time and as such a self-deceiver can consciously set out to deceive herself into believing p, knowing or believing ~p, and along the way lose her belief that ~p, either forgeting her original deceptive intention entirely, or regarding it as having, albeit accidentally, brought about the true belief she would have arrived at anyway (Sorenson 1985; Bermúdez 2000). So, for instance, an official involved in some illegal behavior might destroy any records of this behavior and create evidence that would cover it up (diary entries, emails and the like), knowing that she will likely forget having done these things over the next few months. When her activities are investigated a year later, she has forgotten her tampering efforts and based upon her falsified evidence comes to believe falsely that she was not involved in the illegal activities of which she is accused. Here the self-deceiver need never simultaneously hold contradictory beliefs even though she intends to bring it about that she believe p, which she regards as false at the outset of the process of deceiving herself and true at its completion. The self-deceiver need not even forget her original intention to deceive, so an unbeliever who sets out to get herself to believe in God (since she thinks such a belief is prudent, having read Pascal) might well remember such an intention at the end of the process and deem that by God's grace even this misguided path led her to the truth. It is crucial to see here that what enables the intention to succeed in such cases is the operation of what Johnston (1988) terms ‘autonomous means’ (e.g., the normal degradation of memory, the tendency to believe what one practices, etc.) not the continued awareness of the intention. Some non-intentionalists take this to be a hint that the process by which self-deception is accomplished is subintentional (Johnston 1988). In any case, while it is clear that such temporal partitioning accounts apparently avoid the static and dynamic paradoxes, many find such cases fail to capture the distinctive opacity, indirection and tension associated with garden-variety cases of self-deception (e.g., Levy 2004).

2.2 Psychological Partitioning

Another strategy employed by intentionalists is the division of the self into psychological parts that play the role of the deceiver and deceived respectively. These strategies range from positing strong division in the self, where the deceiving part is a relatively autonomous subagency capable of belief, desire and intention (Rorty 1988); to more moderate division, where the deceiving part still constitutes a separate center of agency (Pears 1984, 1986; 1991); to the relatively modest division of Davidson, where there need only be a boundary between conflicting attitudes (1982, 1985). Such divisions are prompted in large part by the acceptance of the contradictory belief requirement. It isn't simply that self-deceivers hold contradictory beliefs, which though strange, isn't impossible. One can believe p and believe ~p without believing p & ~p, which would be impossible. The problem such theorists face stems from the appearance that the belief that ~p motivates and thus form a part of the intention to bring it about that one acquire and maintain the false belief p (Davidson 1985). So, for example, the Nazi official's recognition that his actions implicate him in serious evil motivates him to implement a strategy to deceive himself into believing he is not so involved; he can't intend to bring it about that he holds such a false belief if he doesn't recognize it is false, and he wouldn't want to bring such a belief about if he didn't recognize the evidence to the contrary. So long as this is the case, the deceptive subsystem, whether it constitutes a separate center of agency or something less robust, must be hidden from the conscious self being deceived if the self-deceptive intention is to succeed. While these psychological partitioning approaches seem to resolve the static and dynamic puzzles, they do so by introducing a picture of the mind that raises many puzzles of its own. On this point, there appears to be consensus even among intentionalists that self-deception can and should be accounted for without invoking divisions not already used to explain non-self-deceptive behavior, what Talbott (1995) calls ‘innocent’ divisions.

Some intentionalists reject the requirement that self-deceivers hold contradictory beliefs (Talbott 1995; Bermúdez 2000). According to such theorists, the only thing necessary for self-deception is the intention to bring it about that one believe p where lacking such an intention one would not have acquired that belief. The self-deceiver thus need not believe ~p. She might have no views at all regarding p, possessing no evidence either for or against p; or she might believe p is merely possible, possessing evidence for or against p too weak to warrant belief that p or ~p (Bermúdez 2000). Self-deceivers in this minimal sense intentionally acquire the belief that p, despite their recognition at the outset that they do not possessing enough evidence to warrant this belief by selectively gathering evidence supporting p or otherwise manipulating the belief-formation process to favor belief that p. Even on this minimal account, such intentions will often be unconscious, since a strategy to acquire a belief in violation of one's normal evidential standards seems unlikely to succeed if one is aware of it.

3. Non-Intentionalist Approaches

A number of philosophers have moved away from modeling self-deception on intentional interpersonal deception, opting instead to treat it as a species of motivationally biased belief. These non-intentionalists allow that phenomena answering to the various intentionalist models available may be possible, but everyday or ‘garden-variety’ self-deception can be explained without adverting to subagents, or unconscious beliefs and intentions, which, even if they resolve the static and dynamic puzzles of self-deception, raise many puzzles of there own. If such non-exotic explanations are available, intentionalist explanations seem unwarranted.

The main paradoxes of self-deception seem to arise from modeling self-deception too closely on intentional interpersonal deception. Accordingly, non-intentionalists suggest the intentional model be jettisoned in favor of one that takes ‘to be deceived’ to be nothing more than to believe falsely or be mistaken in believing (Johnston 1988; Mele 2001). For instance, Sam mishears that it will be a sunny day and relays this misinformation to Joan with the result that she believes it will be a sunny day. Joan is deceived in believing it will be sunny and Sam has deceived her, albeit unintentionally. Initially, such a model may not appear promising for self-deception, since simply being mistaken about p or accidentally causing oneself to be mistaken about p doesn't seem to be self-deception at all but some sort of innocent error — Sam doesn't seem self-deceived, just deceived. Non-intentionalists, however, argue that in cases of self-deception the false belief is not accidental but motivated by desire (Mele 2001), anxiety (Johnston 1988, Barnes 1997) or some other emotion regarding p or related to p. So, for instance, when Allison believes against the preponderance of evidence available to her that her daughter is not having learning difficulties, the non-intentionalist will explain the various ways she misreads the evidence by pointing to such things as her desire that her daughter not have learning difficulties, her fear that she has such difficulties, or anxiety over this possibility. In such cases, Allison's self-deceptive belief that her daughter is not having learning difficulties, fulfills her desire, quells her fear or reduces her anxiety, and it is this function (not an intention) that explains why her belief formation process is bias. Allison's false belief is not an innocent mistake, but a consequence of her motivational states.

Some non-intentionalists suppose that self-deceivers recognize at some level that their self-deceptive belief p is false, contending that self-deception essentially involves an ongoing effort to resist the thought of this unwelcome truth or is driven by anxiety prompted by this recognition (Bach 1981; Johnston 1988). So, in Allison's case, her belief that her daughter is having learning difficulties along with her desire that it not be the case motivate her to employ means to avoid this thought and to believe the opposite. Others, however, argue the needed motivation can as easily be supplied by uncertainty or ignorance whether p, or suspicion that ~p (Mele 2001, Barnes 1997). Thus, Allison need not hold any opinion regarding her daughter's having learning difficulties for her false belief that she is not experiencing difficulties to count as self-deception, since it is her regarding evidence in a motivationally biased way in the face of evidence to the contrary, not her recognition of this evidence, that makes her belief self-deceptive. Accordingly, Allison need not intend to deceive herself nor believe at any point that her daughter is in fact having learning difficulties. If we think someone like Allison is self-deceived, then self-deception requires neither contradictory beliefs nor intentions regarding the acquisition or retention of the self-deceptive belief.

On such deflationary views of self-deception, one need only hold a false belief p, possess evidence that ~p, and have some desire or emotion that explains why p is believed and retained. In general, if one possesses evidence that one normally would take to support ~p and yet believes p instead due to some desire, emotion or other motivation one has related to p, then one is self-deceived.

3.1 Intentionalist Objections

Intentionalists contend these deflationary accounts do not adequately distinguish self-deception from other sorts of motivated believing, cannot explain the peculiar selectivity associated with self-deception, and lack a compelling explanation for why, typically, self-deceivers are thought to be responsible and open to censure in many instances (See section 5.1 for this last item).

What distinguishes wishful thinking from self-deception, according to intentionalists just is that the latter is intentional while the former is not (e.g., Bermúdez 2000). Non-intentionalists respond that what distinguishes wishful thinking from self-deception is that self-deceivers recognize evidence against their self-deceptive belief whereas wishful thinkers do not (Bach 1981; Johnston 1988), or merely possess, without recognizing, greater counterevidence than wishful thinkers. Some contend wishful thinking is a species of self-deception, but self-deception includes unwelcome as well as wishful belief, and thus may be motivated by something other than a desire that the target belief be true (See section 4 for more on this variety of self-deception).

Another objection raised by intentionalists is that deflationary accounts cannot explain the selective nature of self-deception, termed the ‘selectivity problem’ by Bermúdez (1997, 2000). Why is it, such intentionalists ask, that we are not rendered bias in favor of the belief that p in many cases where we have a very strong desire that p (or anxiety or some other motivation related to p)? Intentionalists argue that an intention to get oneself to acquire the belief that p offers a relatively straightforward answer to this question. Mele (2001), drawing on empirical research regarding lay hypothesis testing, argues that selectivity may be explained in terms of the agent's assessment of the relative costs of erroneously believing p and ~p. So, for example, Josh would be happier believing falsely that the gourmet chocolate he finds so delicious isn't produced by exploited farmers than falsely believing that it is, since he desires that it not be so produced. Because Josh considers the cost of erroneously believing his favorite chocolate is tainted by exploitation to be very high — no other chocolate gives him the same pleasure, it takes a great deal more evidence to convince him that his chocolate is so tainted than it does to convince him otherwise. It is the low subjective cost of falsely believing the chocolate is not tainted that facilitates Josh's self-deception. But we can imagine Josh having the same strong desire that his chocolate not be tainted by exploitation and yet assessing the cost of falsely believing it is not tainted differently. Say, for example, he works for an organization promoting fair trade and non-exploitive labor practices among chocolate producers and believes he has an obligation to accurately represent the labor practices of the producer of his favorite chocolate and would, furthermore, lose credibility if the chocolate he himself consumes is tainted by exploitation. In these circumstances, Josh is more sensitive to evidence that his favorite chocolate is tainted, despite his desire that it not be, since the subjective cost of being wrong is higher for him than it was before. It is the relative subjective costs of falsely believing p and ~p that explains why desire or other motivation biases belief in some circumstances and not others. Challenging this solution, Bermúdez (2000) suggests that the selectivity problem may reemerge, since it isn't clear why in cases where there is a relatively low cost for holding a self-deceptive belief favored by our motivations we frequently do not become self-deceived. Mele (2001), however, points out that intentional strategies have their own ‘selectivity problem', since it isn't clear why some intentions to acquire a self-deceptive belief succeed while others do not.

4. Twisted Self-Deception

Self-deception that involves the acquisition of an unwanted belief, termed ‘twisted self-deception’ by Mele (1999, 2001), has generated a small but growing literature of its own, most recently, Barnes (1997), Mele (1999, 2001), Scott-Kakures (2000; 2001). A typical example of such self-deception is the jealous husband who believes on weak evidence that his wife is having an affair, something he doesn't want to be the case. In this case, the husband apparently comes to have this false belief in the face of strong evidence to the contrary in ways similar to those ordinary self-deceivers come to believe something they want to be true.

One question philosophers have sought to answer is how a single unified account of self-deception can explain both welcome and unwelcome beliefs. If a unified account is sought, then it seems self-deception cannot require that the self-deceptive belief itself be desired. Pears (1984) has argued that unwelcome belief might be driven by fear or jealousy. My fear of my house burning down might motivate my false belief that I have left the stove burner on. This unwelcome belief serves to ensure that I avoid what I fear, since it leads me to confirm that the burner is off. Barnes (1997) argues that the unwelcome belief must serve to reduce some relevant anxiety; in this case my anxiety that my house is burning. Scott-Kakures (2000; 2001) argues, however, that since the unwelcome belief itself does not in many cases serve to reduce but rather to increase anxiety or fear, their reduction cannot be the purpose of that belief. Instead, he contends that we think of the belief as serving to make the agent's goals and interests more probable than not, in my case, preserving my house. My testing and confirming an unwelcome belief may be explained by the costs I associate with being in error, which is determined in view of my relevant aims and interests. If I falsely believe that I have left the burner on, the cost is relatively low — I am inconvenienced by confirming that it is off. If I falsely believe that I have not left the burner on, the cost is extremely high — my house being destroyed by fire. The asymmetry between these relative costs alone may account for my manipulation of evidence confirming the false belief that I have left the burner on. Drawing upon recent empirical research, both Mele (2001) and Scott-Kakures (2000) advocate a model of this sort, since it helps to account for the roles desires and emotions apparently play in cases of twisted self-deception. Though non-intentional models of twisted self-deception dominate the landscape, whether desire, emotion or some combination of these attitudes plays the dominant role in such self-deception and whether their influence merely triggers the process or continues to guide it throughout remain matters of controversy.

5. Morality and Self-deception

Despite the fact that much of the contemporary philosophical discussion of self-deception has focused on epistemology, philosophical psychology and philosophy of mind, the morality of self-deception has been the central focus of discussion historically. As a threat to moral self-knowledge, a cover for immoral activity, and a violation of authenticity, self-deception has been thought to be morally wrong or, at least, morally dangerous. Some thinkers, what Martin (1986) calls ‘the vital lie tradition’, however, have held that self-deception can in some instances be salutary, protecting us from truths that would make life unlivable (e.g., Rorty 1972; 1994). There are two major questions regarding the morality of self-deception: First, can a person be held morally responsible for self-deception and if so under what conditions? Second, is there is anything morally problematic with self-deception, and if so, what and under what circumstances? The answers to these questions are clearly intertwined. If self-deceivers cannot be held responsible for self-deception, then their responsibility for whatever morally objectionable consequences it might have will be mitigated if not eliminated. Nevertheless, self-deception might be morally significant even if one cannot be taxed for entering into it. To be ignorant of one's moral self, as Socrates saw, may represent a great obstacle to a life well lived whether or not one is at fault for such ignorance.

5.1 Moral Responsibility for Self-Deception

Whether self-deceivers can be held responsible for their self-deception is largely a question of whether they have the requisite control over the acquisition and maintenance of their self-deceptive belief. In general, intentionalists hold that self-deceivers are responsible, since they intend to acquire the self-deceptive belief, usually recognizing the evidence to the contrary. Even when the intention is indirect, such as when one intentionally seeks evidence in favor of p or avoids collecting or examining evidence to the contrary, self-deceivers seem intentionally to flout their own normal standards for gathering and evaluating evidence. So, minimally, they are responsible for such actions and omissions.

Initially, non-intentionalist approaches may seem to remove the agent from responsibility by rendering the process by which she is self-deceived subintentional. If my anxiety, fear, or desire triggers a process that ineluctably leads me to hold the self-deceptive belief, I cannot be held responsible for holding that belief. How can I be held responsible for processes that operate without my knowledge and which are set in motion without my intention? Most non-intentionalist accounts, however, do hold self-deceivers responsible for individual episodes of self-deception, or for the vices of cowardice and lack of self-control from which they spring, or both. To be morally responsible in the sense of being an appropriate target for praise or blame requires, at least, that agents have control over the actions in question. Mele (2001), for example, argues that many sources of bias are controllable and that self-deceivers can recognize and resist the influence of emotion and desire on their belief acquisition and retention, particularly in matters they deem to be important, morally or otherwise. The extent of this control, however, is an empirical question.

Other non-intentionalists take self-deceivers to be responsible for certain epistemic vices such as cowardice in the face of fear or anxiety and lack of self-control with respect the biasing influences of desire and emotion. Thus, Barnes (1997) argues that self-deceivers "can, with effort, in some circumstances, resist their biases" (83) and "can be criticized for failing to take steps to prevent themselves from being biased; they can be criticized for lacking courage in situations where having courage is neither superhumanly difficult nor costly" (175). Whether self-deception is due to a character defect or not, ascriptions of responsibility depend upon whether the self-deceiver has control over the biasing effects of her desires and emotions.

Levy (2004) has argued that non-intentional accounts of self-deception that deny the contradictory belief requirement should not suppose that self-deceivers are typically responsible, since it is rarely the case that self-deceivers possess the requisite awareness of the biasing mechanisms operating to produce their self-deceptive belief. Lacking such awareness, self-deceivers do not appear to know when or on which beliefs such mechanisms operate, rendering them unable to curb the effects of these mechanisms, even when they operate to form false beliefs about morally significant matters. Levy also argues that if self-decievers typically lack the control necessary for moral responsibility in individual episodes of self-deception, they also lack control over being the sort of person disposed to self-deception. Non-intentionalists may respond by claiming that self-deceivers often are aware of the potentially biasing effects their desires and emotions might have and can exercise control over them. They might also challenge the idea the self-deceivers must be aware in the ways Levy suggests. One well known account of control, employed by Levy, holds that a person is responsible just in case she acts on a mechanism that is moderately responsive to reasons (including moral reasons), such that were she to possess such reasons this same mechanism would act upon those reasons in at least one possible world (Fischer and Ravizza 1999). Guidance control, in this sense, requires that the mechanism in question be capable of recognizing and responding to moral and non-moral reasons sufficient for acting otherwise. In cases of self-deception, deflationary views may suggest that the biasing mechanism, while sensitive and responsive to motivation, is too simple to itself be responsive to reasons. However, the question isn't whether the biasing mechanism itself is reasons responsive but whether the mechanism governing its operation is, that is, whether self-deceivers typically could recognize and respond to moral and non-moral reasons to resist the influence of their desires and emotions and instead exercise special scrutiny of the belief in question. At the very least, it isn't obvious that they could not. Moreover, that some overcome their self-deception seems to indicate such a capacity and thus control over ceasing to be self-deceived at least.

Insofar as it seems plausible that in some cases self-deceivers are apt targets for censure, what prompts this attitude? Take the case of a mother who deceives herself into believing her husband is not abusing their daughter because she can't bear the thought that he is a moral monster (Barnes 1997). Why do we blame her? Here we confront the nexus between moral responsibility for self-deception and the morality of self-deception. Understanding what obligations may be involved and breached in cases of this sort will help to clarify the circumstances in which ascriptions of responsibility are appropriate.

5.2 The Morality of Self-Deception

While some instances of self-deception seem morally innocuous and others may even be thought salutary in various ways (Rorty 1994), the majority of theorists have thought there to be something morally objectionable about self-deception or its consequences in many cases. Self-deception has been considered objectionable because it facilitates harm to others (Linehan 1982) and to oneself, undermines autonomy (Darwall 1988; Baron 1988), corrupts conscience (Butler 1722), violates authenticity (Sartre 1943), and manifests a vicious lack of courage and self-control that undermine the capacity for compassionate action (Jenni 2003). Linehan (1982) argues that we have an obligation to scrutinize the beliefs that guide our actions that is proportionate to the harm to others such actions might involve. When self-deceivers induce ignorance of moral obligations, of the particular circumstances, of likely consequences of actions, or of their own engagements, by means of their self-deceptive beliefs, they are culpable. They are guilty of negligence with respect to their obligation to know the nature, circumstances, likely consequences and so forth of their actions (Jenni 2003). Self-deception, accordingly, undermines or erodes agency by reducing our capacity for self-scrutiny and change. (Baron 1988) If I am self-deceived about actions or practices that harm others or myself, my ability to take responsibility and change are also severely restricted. Joseph Butler, in his well-known sermon "On Self-Deceit", emphasizes the ways in which self-deception about one's moral character and conduct, ‘self-ignorance’ driven by inordinate ‘self-love', not only facilitates vicious actions but hinders the agent's ability to change by obscuring them from view. Such ignorance, claims Butler, "undermines the whole principle of good … and corrupts conscience, which is the guide of life" ("On Self-Deceit"). Existentialist philosophers such as Kierkegaard and Sartre, in very different ways, viewed self-deception as a threat to ‘authenticity’ insofar as self-deceivers fail to take responsibility for themselves and their engagements past, present and future. By alienating us from our own principles, self-deception may also threaten moral integrity (Jenni 2003). Furthermore, self-deception also manifests certain weakness of character that dispose us to react to fear, anxiety, or the desire for pleasure in ways that bias our belief acquisition and retention in ways that serve these emotions and desires rather than accuracy. Such epistemic cowardice and lack of self-control may inhibit the ability of self-deceivers to stand by or apply moral principles they hold by biasing their beliefs regarding particular circumstances, consequences or engagements, or by obscuring the principles themselves. In all these ways and a myriad of others, philosophers have found some self-deception objectionable in itself or for the consequences it has on our ability to shape our lives.

Those finding self-deception morally objectionable, generally assume that self-deception or, at least, the character that disposes us to it, is under our control to some degree. This assumption need not entail that self-deception is intentional only that it is avoidable in the sense that self-deceivers could recognize and respond to reasons for resisting bias by exercising special scrutiny (see section 5.1). It should be noted, however, that self-deception still poses a serious worry even if one cannot avoid entering into it, since self-deceivers may nevertheless have an obligation to overcome it. If exiting self-deception is under the guidance control of self-deceivers, then they might reasonably be blamed for persisting in their self-deceptive beliefs when they regard matters of moral significance.

But even if agents don't bear specific responsibility for their being in that state, self-deception may nevertheless be morally objectionable, destructive and dangerous. If radically deflationary models of self-deception do turn out to imply that our own desires and emotions, in collusion with social pressures toward bias, lead us to hold self-deceptive beliefs and cultivate habits of self-deception of which we are unaware and from which cannot reasonably be expected to escape on our own, self-deception would still undermine autonomy, manifest character defects, obscure us from our moral engagements and the like. For these reasons, Rorty (1994) emphasizes the importance of the company we keep. Our friends, since they may not share our desires or emotions, are often in a better position to recognize our self-deception than we are. With the help of such friends, self-deceivers may, with luck, recognize and correct morally corrosive self-deception.

Evaluating self-deception and its consequences for ourselves and others is a difficult task. It requires, among other things: determining the degree of control self-deceivers have; what the self-deception is about (Is it important morally or otherwise?); what ends the self-deception serves (Does it serve mental health or as a cover for moral wrongdoing?); how entrenched it is (Is it episodic or habitual?); and, whether it is escapable (What means of correction are available to the self-deceiver?). In view of the many potentially devastating moral problems associated with self-deception, these are questions that demand our continued attention.

Bibliography

Books and Anthologies on Self-Deception

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Articles and Book Chapters on Self-Deception

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  • Darwall, S., 1988, "Self-Deception, Autonomy, and Moral Constitution", in Perspectives on Self-Deception, B. McLaughlin and A. O. Rorty (eds.), Berkeley: University of California Press.
  • Davidson, D., 1985, "Deception and Division", in Actions and Events, E. LePore and B. McLaughlin (eds.), New York: Basil Blackwell.
  • –––, 1982, "Paradoxes of Irrationality", in Philosophical Essays on Freud, R. Wollheim and J. Hopkins (eds.), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Demos, R., 1960, "Lying to Oneself", Journal of Philosophy, 57: 588-95.
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  • de Sosa, R., 1978, "Self-Deceptive Emotions." Journal of Philosophy, 75: 684-697.
  • –––, 1970, "Self-Deception", Inquiry, 13: 308-321.
  • Dunn, R., 1995, "Motivated Irrationality and Divided Attention", Australasian Journal of Philosophy, 73: 325-336.
  • –––, 1995, "Attitudes, Agency and First-Personality", Philosophia, 24: 295-319.
  • –––, 1994, "Two Theories of Mental Division", Australasian Journal of Philosophy, 72: 302-316.
  • Fairbanks, R., 1995, "Knowing More Than We Can Tell", The Southern Journal of Philosophy, 33: 431-459.
  • Fingarette, H., 1998, "Self-Deception Needs No Explaining", The Philosophical Quarterly, 48: 289-301.
  • Fischer, J. and Ravizza, M., 1998, Responsibility and Control. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
  • Hales, S. D., 1994, "Self-Deception and Belief Attribution", Synthese, 101: 273-289.
  • Lazar, A., 1999, "Deceiving Oneself Or Self-Deceived?", Mind, 108: 263-290.
  • –––, 1997, "Self-Deception and the Desire to Believe", Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 20: 119-120.
  • Jenni, K., 2003, "Vices of Inattention", Journal of Applied Philosophy, 20/3: 279-95.
  • Johnston, M., 1988, "Self-Deception and the Nature of Mind", in Perspectives on Self-Deception, B. McLaughlin and A. O. Rorty (eds.), Berkeley: University of California Press.
  • Hauerwas, S. and Burrell, D., 1977, "Self-Deception and Autobiography: Reflections on Speer's Inside the Third Reich", in Truthfulness and Tragedy, S. Hauerwas with R. Bondi and D. Burrell, Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press.
  • Levy, N., 2004, "Self-Deception and Moral Responsibility", Ratio (new series), 17: 294-311.
  • Mele, A., 2000, "Self-Deception and Emotion", Consciousness and Emotion, 1: 115-139.
  • –––, 1999, "Twisted Self-Deception", Philosophical Psychology, 12: 117-137.
  • –––, 1997, "Real Self-Deception", Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 20: 91-102.
  • –––, 1987b, "Recent Work on Self-deception", American Philosophical Quarterly, 24: 1-17.
  • –––, 1983, "Self-Deception", Philosophical Quarterly, 33 (1983): 365-377.
  • Moran, R., 1988, "Making Up Your Mind: Self-Interpretation and Self-constitution", Ratio (new series), 1: 135-151.
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  • Patten, D., 2003, "How do we deceive ourselves?", Philosophical Psychology, 16(2): 229-46.
  • Pears, D., 1991, "Self-Deceptive Belief Formation", Synthese, 89: 393-405.
  • Rorty, A. O., 1994, "User-Friendly Self-Deception", Philosophy, 69: 211-228.
  • –––, 1983, "Akratic Believers", American Philosophical Quarterly, 20: 175-183.
  • –––, 1980, "Self-Deception, Akrasia and Irrationality", Social Science Information, 19: 905-922.
  • –––, 1972, "Belief and Self-Deception", Inquiry, 15: 387-410.
  • Sartre, J-P., 1946, L'etre et le néant, Paris: Gallimard; trans. H. E. Barnes, 1956, Being and Nothingness, New York, Washington Square Press.
  • Sahdra, B. and Thagard, P., 2003, "Self-Deception and Emotional Coherence", Minds and Machines, 13: 213-231.
  • Scott-Kakures, D., 2002, "At Permanent Risk: Reasoning and Self-Knowledge in Self-Deception", Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 65: 576-603.
  • –––, 2001, "High anxiety: Barnes on What Moves the Unwelcome Believer", Philosophical Psychology, 14: 348-375.
  • –––, 2000, "Motivated Believing: Wishful and Unwelcome", Nous, 34: 348-375.
  • Sorensen, R., 1985, "Self-Deception and Scattered Events", Mind, 94: 64-69.
  • Talbott, W. J., 1997, "Does Self-Deception Involve Intentional Biasing", Behavoir and Brain Sciences, 20: 127.
  • –––, 1995, "Intentional Self-Deception in a Single Coherent Self", Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 55: 27-74.
  • Tversky, A., 1985, "Self-Deception and Self-Perception", in The Multiple Self, ed. Jon Elster. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
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  • –––, 1984, "Belief and Will", Journal of Philosophy, 81: 235-256.
  • Whisner, W., 1993, "Self-Deception and Other-Person Deception", Philosophia, 22: 223-240.
  • –––, 1989, "Self-Deception, Human Emotion, and Moral Responsibility: Toward a Pluralistic Conceptual Scheme", Journal for the Theory of Social Behaviour, 19: 389-410

Monday, July 30, 2007

Communitarianism

By: Daniel Bell

Modern-day communitarianism began in the upper reaches of Anglo-American academia in the form of a critical reaction to John Rawls' landmark 1971 book A Theory of Justice (Rawls 1971). Drawing primarily upon the insights of Aristotle and Hegel, political philosophers such as Alasdair MacIntyre, Michael Sandel, Charles Taylor and Michael Walzer disputed Rawls' assumption that the principal task of government is to secure and distribute fairly the liberties and economic resources individuals need to lead freely chosen lives. These critics of liberal theory never did identify themselves with the communitarian movement (the communitarian label was pinned on them by others, usually critics),[1] much less offer a grand communitarian theory as a systematic alternative to liberalism. Nonetheless, certain core arguments meant to contrast with liberalism's devaluation of community recur in the works of the four theorists named above (Avineri & de-Shalit 1992, Bell 1993, Berten et al. 1997, Mulhall & Swift 1996, and Rasmussen 1990) ,and for purposes of clarity one can distinguish between claims of three sorts: methodological claims about the importance of tradition and social context for moral and political reasoning, ontological or metaphysical claims about the social nature of the self, and normative claims about the value of community.[2]

This essay is therefore divided in three parts, and for each part I present the main communitarian claims, followed by an argument (in each part) that philosophical concerns in the 1980s have largely given way to the political concerns that motivated much of the communitarian critique in the first place.


1. Universalism Versus Particularism

Communitarians have sought to deflate the universal pretensions of liberal theory. The main target has been Rawls description of the original position as an ‘Archemedian point’ from which the structure of a social system can be appraised, a position whose special virtue is that it allows us to regard the human condition ‘from the perspective of eternity’,[3] from all social and temporal points of view. Whereas Rawls seemed to present his theory of justice as universally true, communitarians argued that the standards of justice must be found in forms of life and traditions of particular societies and hence can vary from context to context. Alasdair MacIntyre and Charles Taylor argued that moral and political judgment will depend on the language of reasons and the interpretive framework within which agents view their world, hence that it makes no sense to begin the political enterprise by abstracting from the interpretive dimensions of human beliefs, practices, and institutions (Taylor 1985, ch. 1; MacIntyre 1978, chs.18-22 and 1988, ch.1; Benhabib 1992, pp. 23-38, 89n4). Michael Walzer developed the additional argument that effective social criticism must derive from and resonate with the habits and traditions of actual people living in specific times and places. Even if there is nothing problematic about a formal procedure of universalizability meant to yield a determinate set of human goods and values, ‘any such set would have to be considered in terms so abstract that they would be of little use in thinking about particular distributions’ (Walzer 1983, 8; Young 1990, 4). In short, liberals who ask what is just by abstracting from particular social contexts are doomed to philosophical incoherence and liberal theorists who adopt this method to persuade people to do the just thing are doomed to political irrelevance.

Rawls has since tried to eliminate the universalist presuppositions from his theory. In Political Liberalism, (Rawls 1993) he argues in a communitarian vein that his conception of the person as impartial citizen provides the best account of liberal-democratic political culture and that his political aim is only to work out the rules for consensus in political communities where people are willing to try for consensus. In the Law of Peoples, (Rawls 1999) he explicitly allows for the possibility that liberalism may not be exportable at all times and places, sketching a vision of a ‘decent, well-ordered society’ that liberal societies must tolerate in the international realm. Such a society, he argues, need not be democratic, but it must be non-aggressive towards other communities, and internally it must have a ‘common good conception of justice’, a ‘reasonable consultation hierarchy’, and it must secure basic human rights. Having said that, one still gets the sense that the liberal vision laid out in A Theory of Justice is the best possible political ideal, one that all rational individuals would want if they were able to choose between the available political alternatives. There may be justifiable non-liberal regimes, but these should be regarded as second best to be tolerated and perhaps respected, not idealized or emulated.

Other liberal theorists have taken a harder line against communitarian concessions, arguing that liberal theory can and should present itself as a universally valid ideal. Brian Barry, for one, opens his widely cited book Justice as Impartiality by boldly affirming the universality of his theory: ‘I continue to believe in the possibility of putting forward a universally valid case in favor of liberal egalitarian principles’ (Barry 1995, 3). Barry does recognize that a theory of justice must be anchored in substantive moral considerations, but his normative vision appears to be limited to the values and practices of liberal Western societies. He seems distinctly uninterested in learning anything worthwhile from non-Western political traditions: for example, his discussion of things Chinese is confined to brief criticisms of the Cultural Revolution and the traditional practice of foot-binding. One might consider the reaction to a Chinese intellectual who puts forward a universal theory of justice that draws on the Chinese political tradition for inspiration and completely ignores the history and moral argumentation in Western societies, except for brief criticisms of slavery and imperialism.

Still, it must be conceded that 1980s communitarian theorists were less-than-successful at putting forward attractive visions of non-liberal societies. The communitarian case for pluralism for the need to respect and perhaps learn from non-liberal societies that may be as good as, if not better than, the liberal societies of the West may have been unintentionally undermined by their own use of (counter) examples. In After Virtue, Alasdair MacIntyre defended the Aristotelian ideal of the intimate, reciprocating local community bound by shared ends, where people simply assume and fulfill socially given roles (MacIntyre 1984). But this pre-modern Gemeinschaft conception of an all-encompassing community that members unreflectively endorse seemed distinctly ill-suited for complex and conflict-ridden large-scale industrialized societies. In Spheres of Justice, Michael Walzer pointed to the Indian caste system, ‘where the social meanings are integrated and hierarchical’ (Walzer 1983, 313) as an example of a non-liberal society that may be just according to its own standards. Not surprisingly, few readers were inspired by this example of non-liberal justice (not to mention the fact that many contemporary Indian thinkers view the caste system as an unfortunate legacy of the past that Indians should strive hard to overcome). In short, this use of ill-informed examples may have unintentionally reinforced the view that there are few if any justifiable alternatives to liberalism in modern societies. Communitarians could score some theoretical points by urging liberal thinkers to be cautious about developing universal arguments founded exclusively on the moral argumentation and political experience of Western liberal societies, but few thinkers would really contemplate the possibility of non-liberal practices appropriate for the modern world so long as the alternatives to liberalism consisted of Golden Ages, caste societies, fascism, or actually-existing communism. For the communitarian critique of liberal universalism to have any lasting credibility, thinkers need to provide compelling counter-examples to modern-day liberal-democratic regimes and 1980s communitarians came up short.

By the 1990s, fairly abstract methodological disputes over universalism versus particularism faded from academic prominence, and the debate now centers on the theory and practice of universal human rights. This is largely due to the increased political salience of human rights since the collapse of communism in the former Soviet bloc. On the liberal side, the new, more political voices for liberal universalism have been represented by the likes of Francis Fukuyama, who famously argued that liberal democracy's triumph over its rivals signifies the end of history (Fukuama 1992). This view also revived (and provoked) the second wave communitarian critique of liberal universalism and the debate became much more concrete and political in orientation.

Needless to say, the brief moment of liberal euphoria that followed the collapse of the communism in the Soviet bloc has given way to a sober assessment of the difficulties of implementing liberal practices outside the Western world. It is now widely recognized that brutal ethnic warfare, crippling poverty, environmental degradation, and pervasive corruption, to name some of the more obvious troubles afflicting the developing world, pose serious obstacles to the successful establishment and consolidation of liberal democratic political arrangements. But these were seen as unfortunate (hopefully temporary) afflictions that may delay the end of history when liberal democracy has finally triumphed over its rivals. They were not meant to pose a challenge to the ideal of liberal democracy. It was widely assumed that liberal democracy is something that all rational individuals would want if they could get it.

The deeper challenge to Western liberal democracy has emerged from the East Asian region.[4] In the 1990s, the debate revolved around the notion of ‘Asian values’, a term devised by several Asian officials and their supporters for the purpose of challenging Western-style civil and political freedoms. Asians, they claim, place special emphasis upon family and social harmony, with the implication that those in the chaotic and crumbling societies of the West should think twice about intervening in Asia for the sake of promoting human rights and democracy. As Singapore's Lee Kuan Yew put it, Asians have ‘little doubt that a society with communitarian values where the interests of society take precedence over that of the individual suits them better than the individualism of America’.[5] Such claims attracted international attention primarily because East Asian leaders seemed to be presiding over what a U.N. human development report called ‘the most sustained and widespread development miracle of the twentieth century, perhaps all history’.[6] In 1997-98, however, the East Asian miracle seemed to have collapsed. And it looks like Asian values was one casualty of the crisis.

The political factors that focused attention on the East Asian challenge remain in place, however. East Asian economies (with the notable exception of Indonesia) have been slowly recovering. China in particular looks set to become an economic and political heavyweight with the power to seriously challenge the hegemony of Western liberal democratic values in international fora. Thus, one hears frequent calls for cross-cultural dialogue between the West and the East designed to understand and perhaps learn from the other side. Failing to take seriously East Asian political perspectives risks widening misunderstandings and setting the stage for hostilities that could have been avoided.

From a theoretical point of view, however, it must be conceded that the official debate on Asian values has not provided much of a challenge to dominant Western political outlooks. The main problem is that the debate has been led by Asian leaders who seem to be motivated primarily by political considerations, rather than by a sincere desire to make a constructive contribution to the debate on universalism versus particularism. Thus, it was easy to dismiss — rightly so, in most cases — the Asian challenge as nothing but a self-serving ploy by government leaders to justify their authoritarian rule in the face of increasing demands for democracy at home and abroad.

Still, it would be a mistake to assume that nothing of theoretical significance has emerged from East Asia. The debate on Asian values has also prompted critical intellectuals in the region to reflect on how they can locate themselves in a debate on human rights and democracy in which they had not previously played a substantial part. Neither wholly rejecting nor wholly endorsing the values and practices ordinarily realized through a liberal democratic political regime, these intellectuals are drawing on their own cultural traditions and exploring areas of commonality and difference with the West. Though often less provocative than the views of their governments in the sense that few argue for the wholesale rejection of Western-style liberal democracy with an East Asian alternative these unofficial East Asian viewpoints may offer more lasting contributions to the debate. Let me (briefly) note three relatively persuasive East Asian arguments for cultural particularism that contrast with traditional Western arguments for liberal universalism (see Bell 2000, ch. 1):

  1. Cultural factors can affect the prioritizing of rights, and this matters when rights conflict and it must be decided which one to sacrifice. In other words, different societies may rank rights differently, and even if they face a similar set of disagreeable circumstances they may come to different conclusions about the right that needs to be curtailed. For example, U.S. citizens may be more willing to sacrifice a social or economic right in cases of conflict with a civil or political right: if neither the constitution nor a majority of democratically elected representatives support universal access to health care, then the right to health care regardless of income can be curtailed. In contrast, the Chinese may be more willing to sacrifice a civil or political liberty in cases of conflict with a social or economic right: there may be wide support for restrictions on the right to form independent labor associations if they are necessary to provide the conditions for economic development. Different priorities assigned to rights can also matter when it must be decided how to spend scarce resources. For example, East Asian societies with a Confucian heritage will place great emphasis upon the value of education, and they may help to explain the large amount of spending on education compared to other societies with similar levels of economic development.
  2. Cultural factors can affect the justification of rights. In line with the arguments of ‘1980s communitarians’ such as Michael Walzer, it is argued that justifications for particular practices valued by Western-style liberal democrats should not be made by relying on the abstract and unhistorical universalism that often disables Western liberal democrats. Rather, they should be made from the inside, from specific examples and argumentative strategies that East Asians themselves use in everyday moral and political debate. For example, the moral language (shared even by some local critics of authoritarianism) tends to appeal to the value of community in East Asia, and this is relevant for social critics concerned with practical effect. One such communitarian argument is that democratic rights in Singapore can be justified on the grounds that they contribute to strengthening ties to such communities as the family and the nation (see below, section III).
  3. Cultural factors can provide moral foundations for distinctive political practices and institutions (or at least different from those found in Western-style liberal democracies). In East Asian societies influenced by Confucianism, for example, it is widely held that children have a profound duty to care for elderly parents, a duty to be forsaken only in the most exceptional circumstances.[7] In political practice, it means that East Asian governments have an obligation to provide the social and economic conditions that facilitate the realization of this duty. Political debate tends to center on the question of whether the right to filial piety is best realized by means of a law that makes it mandatory for children to provide financial support for elderly parents as in mainland China, Japan, and Singapore or whether the state should rely more on indirect methods such as tax breaks and housing benefits that simply make at-home care for the elderly easier, as in Korea and Hong Kong. But the argument that there is a pressing need to secure this duty in East Asia is not a matter of political controversy.

Thinkers influenced by East Asian cultural traditions such Confucianism have also argued for distinctive as-yet-unrealized political practices and institutions that draw on widely-held cultural values for inspiration. For example, Korean scholars Hahm Chaihark and Jongryn Mo argue for the need to revive and adapt for the contemporary era such Choson dynasty institutions as policy lectures and the Confucian censorate, traditional institutions that played the role of monitoring the dealings of the Emperor (Hahm 2003, Mo 2003, Bell 2000, ch. 5).

In contrast to 1980s communitarian thinkers, East Asian critics of liberal universalism have succeeded in pointing to particular non-liberal practices and institutions that may be appropriate for the contemporary world. Some of these may be appropriate only for societies with a Confucian heritage, others may also offer insights for mitigating the excesses of liberal modernity in the West. What cannot be denied is that they have carried forward the debate beyond the implausible alternatives to liberalism offered by 1980s communitarian thinkers.

It is worth emphasizing, however, that contemporary communitarians have not been merely defending parochial attachments to particular non-liberal moralities. Far from arguing that the universalist discourse on human rights should be entirely displaced with particular, tradition-sensitive political language, they have criticized liberals for not taking universality seriously enough, for failing to do what must be done to make human rights a truly universal ideal. These communitarians — let us label them the ‘cosmopolitan critics of liberal universalism’ — have suggested various means of improving the philosophical coherence and political appeal of human rights.

In fact, there is little debate over the desirability of a core set of human rights, such as prohibitions against slavery, genocide, murder, torture, prolonged arbitrary detention, and systematic racial discrimination. These rights have become part of international customary law, and they are not contested in the public rhetoric of the international arena. Of course many gross violations occur off the record, and human rights groups such as Amnesty International have the task of exposing the gap between public allegiance to rights and the sad reality of ongoing abuse. This is largely practical work, however. There is not much point writing about or deliberating about the desirability of practices that everyone condemns at the level of principle.

But political thinkers and activists around the world can and do take different sides on many pressing human rights concerns that fall outside what Walzer terms the ‘minimal and universal moral code’ (Walzer 1987, 24; Walzer 1994). This gray area of debate includes criminal law, family law, women's rights, social and economic rights, the rights of indigenous peoples, and the attempt to universalize Western-style democratic practices. The question is: how can the current thin list of universal human rights be expanded to include some of these contested rights?

Charles Taylor has put forward the following proposal (Taylor 1999). He imagines a cross-cultural dialogue between representatives of different traditions. Rather than argue for the universal validity of their views, however, he suggests that participants should allow for the possibility that their own beliefs may be mistaken. This way, participants can learn from each others ‘moral universe’. There will come a point, however, when differences cannot be reconciled. Taylor explicitly recognizes that different groups, countries, religious communities, and civilizations hold incompatible fundamental views on theology, metaphysics, and human nature. In response, Taylor argues that a ‘genuine, unforced consensus’ on human rights norms is possible only if we allow for disagreement on the ultimate justifications of those norms. Instead of defending contested foundational values when we encounter points of resistance (and thus condemning the values we do not like in other societies), we should try to abstract from those beliefs for the purpose of working out an ‘overlapping consensus’ of human rights norms. As Taylor puts it, ‘we would agree on the norms while disagreeing on why they were the right norms, and we would be content to live in this consensus, undisturbed by the differences of profound underlying belief’ (Taylor 1999, 124).

While Taylor's proposal moves the debate on universal human rights forward, it still faces certain difficulties. For one thing, it may not be realistic to expect that people will be willing to abstract from the values they care deeply about during the course of a global dialogue on human rights. Even if people agree to abstract from culturally specific ways of justifying and implementing norms, the likely outcome is a withdrawal to a highly general, abstract realm of agreement that fails to resolve actual disputes over contested rights. For example, participants in a cross-cultural dialogue can agree on the right not to be subject to cruel and unusual punishment while radically disagreeing upon what this means in practice — a committed Muslim can argue that theft can justifiably be punished by amputation of the right hand,[8] whereas a Western liberal will want to label this an example of cruel and unusual punishment.

As we have seen, the debate on universalism versus particularism has moved from fairly abstract methodological disputes between Anglo-American philosophers to relatively concrete international political disputes between philosophers, social scientists, government officials, and NGO activists. The distinctive communitarian contribution has been to cast doubt on universal theories grounded exclusively in the liberal moralities of the Western world, on the grounds that cultural particularity should both make one sensitive to the possibility of justifiable areas of difference between the West and the rest and to the need for more cross-cultural dialogue for the purpose of improving the current thin human rights regime. Various contributions from East Asia and elsewhere have given some meat to these challenges to liberal universalism. In any case, let us now turn to the second main area of controversy between liberals and communitarians — the debate over the self that has similarly moved from philosophy to politics.

2. The Debate Over the Self

Communitarian thinkers in the 1980s such as Michael Sandel and Charles Taylor argued that Rawlsian liberalism rests on an overly individualistic conception of the self. Whereas Rawls argues that we have a supreme interest in shaping, pursuing, and revising our own life-plans, he neglects the fact that our selves tend to be defined or constituted by various communal attachments (e.g., ties to the family or to a religious tradition) so close to us that they can only be set aside at great cost, if at all. This insight led to the view that politics should not be concerned solely with securing the conditions for individuals to exercise their powers of autonomous choice, as we also need to sustain and promote the social attachments crucial to our sense of well-being and respect, many of which have been involuntarily picked up during the course of our upbringing. First, however, let us review the ontological or metaphysical debate over the self that led to this political conclusion.

In an influential essay titled ‘Atomism’, Charles Taylor objected to the liberal view that ‘men are self-sufficient outside of society’. (Taylor 1985, 2000) Instead, Taylor defends the Aristotelian view that ‘Man is a social animal, indeed a political animal, because he is not self-sufficient alone, and in an important sense is not self-sufficient outside a polis’ (Taylor 1985, 190). Moreover, this atomistic view of the self can undermine liberal society, because it fails to grasp the extent to which liberalism presumes a context where individuals are members of, and committed to, a society that promotes particular values such as freedom and individual diversity. Fortunately, most people in liberal societies do not really view themselves as atomistic selves.

But do liberal thinkers actually defend the idea that the self is created ex-nihilo, outside of any social context and that humans can exist (and flourish) independently of all social contexts? In fact, Taylor's essay was directed at the libertarian thinker Robert Nozick. As it turns out, the communitarian critique of the atomistic self does not apply to Rawslian liberalism: in Part III of Theory of Justice, Rawls pays close attention to the psychological and social conditions that facilitate the formation of liberal selves committed to justice. But few readers ever got to Part III of Rawls massive tome, so communitarians got quite a bit of mileage from their critique of liberal atomism. This charge didn't stick, however.

While liberals may not have been arguing that individuals can completely extricate themselves from their social context, the liberal valuation of choice still seemed to suggest an image of a subject who impinges his will on the world.[9] Drawing on the insights of Heidegger and Wittgenstein, communitarians argued that this view neglects the extent to which individuals are embodied agents in the world. Far from acting in ways designed to realize an autonomously arrived-at life-plan, vast areas of our lives are in fact governed by unchosen routines and habits that lie in the background. More often than not we act in ways specified by our social background when we walk, dress, play games, speak, and so on without having formulated any goals or made any choices. It is only when things break down from the normal, everyday, unchosen mode of existence that we think of ourselves as subjects dealing with an external world, having the experience of formulating various ways of executing our goals, choosing from among those ways, and accepting responsibility for the outcomes of our actions. In other words, traditional intentionality is introduced at the point that our ordinary way of coping with things is insufficient. Yet this breakdown mode is what we tend to notice, and philosophers have therefore argued that most of our actions are occasioned by processes of reflection. Liberals have picked up this mistaken assumption, positing the idea of a subject who seeks to realize an autonomously arrived-at life-plan, losing sight of the fact that critical reflection upon ones ends is nothing more than one possibility that arises when our ordinary ways of coping with things is insufficient to get things done.

Some liberals have replied by recognizing the point that vast areas of our lives are governed by unchosen habits and routines, that the deliberate, effortful, choosing subject mode may be the exception rather than the rule. They emphasize, however, that the main justification for a liberal politics concerned primarily with securing the conditions for individuals to lead autonomous lives rests on the possibility and desirability of normative self-determination, that is,on the importance of making choices with respect to things that we value (Doppelt 1989). While it may be true that certain communal practices often, or even mostly, guide our behavior behind our backs, it doesn't follow that those practices ought to be valued, or reflectively endorsed in non-ordinary moments of existence, much less that the government ought somehow to promote these practices. And what liberals care about ultimately is the provision of the rights, powers, and opportunities that individuals need to develop and implement their own conceptions of the good life.

This qualified version of the liberal self, however, still seems to imply that moral outlooks are, or should be, the product of individual choice. One's social world, communitarians can reply, provides more than non-moral social practices like table manners and pronunciation norms — it also provides some sort of orientation in moral space. We cannot make sense of our moral experience unless we situate ourselves within this given moral space, within the authoritative moral horizons. What Charles Taylor calls ‘higher, strongly evaluated goods’ (Taylor 1989) — the goods we should feel committed to, those that generate moral obligations on us regardless of our actual preferences are not somehow invented by individuals, but rather they are located within the social world which provides one's framework of the lower and the higher. Thus, the liberal ideal of a self who freely invents her own moral outlook, or private conception of the good, cannot do justice to our actual moral experience.

But once again, liberals need not deny the assumption that our social world provides a framework of the higher and the lower nor need it be presumed that we must regard our own moral outlook as freely invented. Will Kymlicka, for example, explicitly recognizes that things have worth for us in so far as they are granted significance by our culture, in so far as they fit into a pattern of activities which is recognized by those sharing a certain form of life as a way of leading a good life (Kymlicka 1989, 166). That one's social world provides the range of things worth doing, achieving, or being does not, however, undermine the liberal emphasis on autonomy, for there is still substantial room for individual choice to be made within this set. The best life is still the one where the individual chooses what is worth doing, achieving, or being, though it may be that this choice has to be made within a certain framework which is itself unchosen.

Communitarians can reply by casting doubt on the view that choice is intrinsically valuable, that a certain moral principle or communal attachment is more valuable simply because it has been chosen following deliberation among alternatives by an individual subject. If we have a highest-order interest in choosing our central projects and life-plans, regardless of what is chosen, it ought to follow that there is something fundamentally wrong with unchosen attachments and projects. But this view violates our actual self-understandings. We ordinarily think of ourselves, Michael Sandel says, ‘as members of this family or community or nation or people, as bearers of this history, as sons or daughters of that revolution, as citizens of this republic’, (Sandel 1981, 179) social attachments that more often than not are involuntarily picked up during the course of our upbringing, rational choice having played no role whatsoever. I didn't choose to love my mother and father, to care about the neighborhood in which I grew up, to have special feelings for the people of my country, and it is difficult to understand why anyone would think I have chosen these attachments, or that I ought to have done so. In fact, there may even be something distasteful about someone who questions the things he or she deeply cares about — certainly no marriage could survive too long if fundamental understandings regarding love and trust were constantly thrown open for discussion! Nor is it obvious that, say, someone who performs a good deed following prolonged calculation of pros and cons is morally superior than a Mother-Teresa type who unreflectively, spontaneously acts on behalf of other people's interests.

Liberals can reply that the real issue is not the desirability of choice, but rather the possibility of choice. There may well be some unchosen attachments that need not be critically reflected upon and endorsed, and it may even be the case that excessive deliberation about the things we care about can occasionally be counter-productive. But some of our ends may be problematic and that is why we have a fundamental interest in being able to question and revise them. Most important is not choosing our own life-plans; rather, liberalism founded on the value of self-determination requires only that we be able to critically evaluate our ends if need be, hence that ‘no end or goal is exempt from possible re-examination’ (Kymlicka 1989, 52; Dworkin 1989, 489; Macedo 1990, 247). For example, an oppressed woman has a fundamental interest in being able to critically reflect upon traditional understandings of what it means to be a good wife and mother, and it would be unjust to foreclose her freedom to radically revise her plans.

This response, however, still leaves open the possibility of a deep challenge to liberal foundations. Perhaps we are able to reexamine some attachments, but the problem for liberalism arises if there are others so fundamental to our identity that they cannot be set aside, and that any attempt to do so will result in serious and perhaps irreparable psychological damage. In fact, this challenge to liberalism would only require that communitarians be able to identify one end or communal attachment so constitutive of one's identity that it cannot be revised and rejected. A psychoanalyst, for example, may want to argue that (at least in some cases) it is impossible to choose to shed the attachment one feels for one's mother, and that an attempt may lead to perverse and unintended consequences. A feminist theorist may point to the mother-child relationship as an example of a constitutive feature of one's identity and argue that any attempt to deny this fails to be sensitive to women's special needs and experiences (Frazer & Lacey 1993, 53-60). An anthropologist may argue on the basis of field observations that it is impossible for an Inuit person from Canada's far north to suddenly decide to stop being an Inuit and that the only sensible response is to recognize and accept this constitutive feature of his identity. Or a gay liberation activist may claim that it is both impossible and undesirable for gays to repress their biologically-given sexual identity. These arguments are not implausible, and they seem to challenge the liberal view that no particular end or commitment should be beyond critical reflection and open to revision.

Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that we can identify one particular attachment so deeply-embedded that it is impossible to really bring to conscious awareness and so significant for one's well-being that an individual can only forsake commitment to its good at the cost of being seriously psychologically disturbed. This end is beyond willed change and one loses a commitment to it at the price of being thrown into a state of disorientation where one is unable to take a stand on many things of significance (Taylor 1989, 26-7). Does this really threaten liberal politics? It may, if liberal politics really rests on the liberal self. Fortunately, that is not the case. Rereading some of the communitarian texts from the 1980s, there seems to have been an assumption that once you expose faulty foundations regarding the liberal self, the whole liberal edifice will come tumbling down. The task is to criticize the underlying philosophy of the self, win people on your side, and then we can move on to a brand new communitarian society that owes nothing to the liberal tradition. This must have been an exhilarating time for would-be revolutionaries, but more level-headed communitarians soon realized that overthrowing liberal rights was never part of the agenda. Even if liberals are wrong to deny the existence of constitutive ends — even if the philosophical justifications for a liberal form of social organization founded on the value of reflective choice are rotten to the core — there are still many, relatively pragmatic reasons for caring about rights in the modern world. To name some of the more obvious benefits, liberal rights often contribute to security, political stability and economic modernization.

In short, the whole debate about the self appears to have been somewhat misconceived. Liberals were wrong to think they needed to provide iron-clad philosophies of the self to justify liberal politics, and communitarians were wrong to think that challenging those foundations was sufficient to undermine liberal politics. Not surprisingly, both sides soon got tired of debating the pros and cons of the liberal self. By the early 1990s, this liberal-communitarian debate over the self had effectively faded from view in Anglo-American philosophy.[10]

So what remains of the communitarian conception of the self? What may be distinctive about communitarians is that they are more inclined to argue that individuals have a vital interest in leading decent communal lives, with the political implication that there may be a need to sustain and promote the communal attachments crucial to our sense of well-being. This is not necessarily meant to challenge the liberal view that some of our communal attachments can be problematic and may need to be changed, thus that the state needs to protect our powers to shape, pursue, and revise our own life-plans. But our interest in community may occasionally conflict with our other vital interest in leading freely chosen lives, and the communitarian view is that the latter does not automatically trump the former in cases of conflict. On the continuum between freedom and community, communitarians are more inclined to draw the line towards the latter.

But these conflicts cannot be resolved in the abstract. Much turns on empirical analyses of actual politics — to what extent our interest in community is indeed threatened by excess liberal politics, to what extent the state can play a role in remedying the situation, to what extent the nourishment of communal ties should be left to civil society, and so on. This is where the political communitarians of the last decade have shed some light. Let us now turn to the politics of community, the third major strand of the communitarian thought.

3. The Politics of Community

In retrospect, it seems obvious that communitarian critics of liberalism may have been motivated not so much by philosophical concerns as by certain pressing political concerns, namely, the negative social and psychological effects related to the atomistic tendencies of modern liberal societies. Whatever the soundness of liberal principles, in other words, the fact remains that many communitarians seem worried by a perception that traditional liberal institutions and practices have contributed to, or at least do not seem up to the task of dealing with, such modern phenomena as alienation from the political process, unbridled greed, loneliness, urban crime, and high divorce rates. And given the seriousness of these problems in the United States, it was perhaps inevitable that a second wave of 1990s communitarians such as Amitai Etzioni and William Galston would turn to the more practical political terrain of emphasizing social responsibility and promoting policies meant to stem the erosion of communal life in an increasingly fragmented society.[11] Much of this thinking has been carried out in the flagship communitarian periodical, The Responsive Community, which is edited by Amitai Etzioni and includes contributions by an eclectic group of philosophers, social scientists, and public policy makers [this periodical, regrettably, folded in summer 2004 due to financial constraints]. Etzioni is also the director of a think-tank, Institute for Communitarian Policy Studies, that produces working papers and advises government officials in Washington.[12]

Such political communitarians blame both the left and the right for our current malaise (Bell 1997). The political left is chastised not just for supporting welfare rights economically unsustainable in an era of slow growth and aging populations, but also for shifting power away from local communities and democratic institutions and towards centralized bureaucratic structures better equipped to administer the fair and equal distribution of benefits, thus leading to a growing sense of powerlessness and alienation from the political process. Moreover, the modern welfare state with its universalizing logic of rights and entitlements has undermined family and social ties in civil society by rendering superfluous obligations to communities, by actively discouraging private efforts to help others (e.g., union rules and strict regulations in Sweden prevent parents from participating voluntarily in the governance of some day care centers to which they send their children), and even by providing incentives that discourage the formation of families (e.g., welfare payments are cut off in many American states if a recipient marries a working person) and encourage the break-up of families (e.g., no-fault divorce in the US is often financially rewarding for the non custodial parent, usually the father).

Libertarian solutions favored by the political right have contributed even more directly to the erosion of social responsibilities and valued forms of communal life, particularly in the UK and the US. Far from producing beneficial communal consequences, the invisible hand of unregulated free-market capitalism undermines the family (e.g., few corporations provide enough leave to parents of newborn children), disrupts local communities (e.g., following plant closings or the shifting of corporate headquarters), and corrupts the political process (e.g., US politicians are often dependent on economic interest groups for their political survival, with the consequence that they no longer represent the community at large). Moreover, the valorization of greed in the Thatcher/Reagan era justified the extension of instrumental considerations governing relationships in the marketplace into spheres previously informed by a sense of uncalculated reciprocity and civil obligation. This trend has been reinforced by increasing globalization, which pressures states into conforming to the dictates of the international marketplace.

More specifically in the American context, communitarian thinkers such as Mary Ann Glendon indict a new version of rights discourse that has achieved dominance of late (Glendon 1991). Whereas the assertion of rights was once confined to matters of essential human interest, a strident rights rhetoric has colonized contemporary political discourse, thus leaving little room for reasoned discussion and compromise, justifying the neglect of social responsibilities without which a society could not function, and ultimately weakening all appeals to rights by devaluing the really important ones.

To remedy this imbalance between rights and responsibilities in the US, political communitarians propose a moratorium on the manufacture of new rights and changes to our ‘habits of the heart’ away from exclusive focus on personal fulfillment and towards concern with bolstering families, schools, neighborhoods, and national political life, changes to be supported by certain public policies. Notice that this proposal takes for granted basic civil and political liberties already in place, thus alleviating the concern that communitarians are embarking on a slippery slope to authoritarianism. Still, there may be a concern that marginalized groups demanding new rights, e.g., homosexual couples seeking the right to legally sanctioned marriage, will be paying the price for the excesses of others if the communitarian proposal to declare a moratorium on the minting of new rights is put into effect.

More serious from the standpoint of those generally sympathetic to communitarian aspirations, however, is the question of what exactly this has to do with community. For one thing, Etzioni himself seeks to justify his policies with reference to need to maintain a balance between social order and freedom, (Etzioni 1996) as opposed to appealing to the importance of community. But there is nothing distinctively communitarian about the preoccupation with social order; both liberals such as John Stuart Mill and Burkean conservatives affirm the need for order. And when the term community is employed by political communitarians, it seems to mean anything they want it to mean. Worse, as Elizabeth Frazer has argued, it has often been used to justify hierarchical arrangements and delegitimize areas of conflict and contestation in modern societies (Frazer 1999).

Still, it is possible to make sense of the term community as a normative ideal.[13] Communitarians begin by positing a need to experience our lives as bound up with the good of the communities out of which our identity has been constituted. This excludes contingent attachments such as golf-club memberships, that do not usually bear on ones sense of identity and well-being (the co-authors of Habits of the Heart (Bellah et al. 1985) employ the term ‘lifestyle enclaves’ to describe these attachments). Unlike pre-modern defenders of Gemeinshaft, however, it is assumed that there are many valued forms of communal life in the modern world. So the distinctive communitarian political project is to identify valued forms of community and to devise policies designed to protect and promote them, without sacrificing too much freedom. Typically, communitarians would invoke the following types of communities:

  1. Communities of place, or communities based on geographical location. This is perhaps the most common meaning associated with the word community. In this sense, community is linked to locality, in the physical, geographical sense of a community that is located somewhere. It can refer to a small village or a big city. A community of place also has an affective component — it refers to the place one calls ‘home’, often the place where one is born and bred and the place where one would like to end one's days even if home is left as an adult. At the very least, communitarians posit an interest in identifying with familiar surroundings.

In terms of political implications, it means that, for example, political authorities ought to consider the existent character of the local community when considering plans for development (Jane Jacobs famously documented the negative effects of razing, instead of renovating, run-down tenements that are replaced by functionally adequate but characterless low-income housing blocs (Jacobs 1965). Other suggestions to protect communities of place include: granting community councils veto power over building projects that fail to respect existent architectural styles; implementing laws regulating plant closures so as to protect local communities from the effects of rapid capital mobility and sudden industrial change; promoting local-ownership of corporations; (Shuman 1999) and imposing restrictions on large-scale discount outlets such as Wal-Mart that threaten to displace small, fragmented, and diverse family and locally owned stores (Ehrenhalt 1999).

  1. Communities of memory, or groups of strangers who share a morally-significant history. This term — first employed by the co-authors of Habits of the Heart — refers to imagined communities that have a shared history going back several generations. Besides tying us to the past, such communities turn us towards the future — members strive to realize the ideals and aspirations embedded in past experiences of those communities, seeing their efforts as being, in part, contributions to a common good. They provide a source of meaning and hope in peoples lives. Typical examples include the nation and language-based ethnocultural groups.

In Western liberal democracies, this typically translates into various nation-building exercises meant to nourish the bonds of commonality that tie people to their nations, such as national service and national history lessons in school textbooks. Self-described republicans such as Michael Sandel place special emphasis upon the national political community and argue for measures that increase civic engagement and public-spiritedness (Sandel 1996). However, there is increased recognition of the multi-national nature of contemporary states, and modern Western states must also try to make room for the political rights of minority groups. These political measures have been widely discussed in the recent literature on nationalism, citizenship, and multiculturalism (Kymlicka 1995, Macedo 2000, Tamir 1993).

  1. Psychological communities, or communities of face-to-face personal interaction governed by sentiments of trust, co-operation, and altruism. This refers to a group of persons who participate in common activity and experience a psychological sense of togetherness as shared ends are sought. Such communities, based on face-to-face interaction, are governed by sentiments of trust, cooperation, and altruism in the sense that constituent members have the good of the community in mind and act on behalf of the communitys interest. They differ from communities of place by not being necessarily defined by locality and proximity. The differ from communities of memory in the sense that they are more ‘real’, they are typically based on face to face social interaction at one point in time and consequently tend to be restricted in size.[14] The family is the prototypical example. Other examples include small-scale work or school settings founded on trust and social cooperation.

Communitarians tend to favor policies designed to protect and promote ties to the family and family-like groups. This would include such measures as encouraging marriage and increasing the difficulty of legal marriage dissolution. These policies are supported by empirical evidence that points to the psychological and social benefits of marriage (Waite 1996). Communitarians also favor political legislation that can help to restructure education in such a way that peoples deepest needs in membership and participation in psychological communities are tapped at a young age. The primary school system in Japan, where students learn about group cooperation and benefits and rewards are assigned to the classroom as a whole rather than to individual students, could be a useful model (Reid 1999).

What makes the political project of communitarianism distinctive is that it involves the promotion all three forms of valued communal life. This leads, however, to the worry that seeking the goods of various communities may conflict in practice. Etzioni, for example, argues for a whole host of pro-family measures: mothers and fathers should devote more time and energy to parenting (in view of the fact that most childcare centers do a poor job of caring for children), labor unions and employers ought to make it easier for parents to work at home, and the government should force corporations to provide six months of paid leave and another year of unpaid leave (Etzioni 1993, ch.2 and Etzioni 1996, ch.6). The combined effect of these changes of the heart and public policies in all likelihood would be to make citizens into largely private, family-centered persons.

Yet Etzioni also argues that the American political system is corrupt to the core, concluding that only extensive involvement in public affairs by virtuous citizens can remedy the situation: ‘once citizens are informed, they must make it their civic duty to organize others locally, regionally, and nationally to act on their understanding of what it takes to clean up public life in America’ (Etzioni 1993, 244) But few can afford sufficient time and energy to devote themselves fully to both family life and public affairs, and favoring one ideal is most likely to erode the other. Surely it is no coincidence that republican America in Jeffersons day relied on active, public-spirited male citizens largely freed from family responsibilities. Conversely, societies composed of persons leading rich and fulfilling family lives (such as contemporary Singapore) tend to be ruled by paternalistic despots who can rely on a compliant, politically apathetic populace.

Communitarians who advocate both increased commitment to public affairs and strengthened ties to the workplace (to the point that it becomes a psychological community) also face the problem of conflicting commitments. Michael Sandel, for example, speaks favorable of ‘proud craftsmen’ in the Jacksonian era and of Louis Brandeis's idea of ‘industrial democracy, in which workers participated in management and shared responsibilities for running the business’ (Sandel 1996, 170, 213; Bell 1997b) Identification with the workplace and industrial democracy are said to improve workers civic capacities, but that may not be the case. In the same way that extensive involvement in family life can conflict with commitments to public life, few persons will have sufficient time and energy for extensive participation in both workplace and public affairs. Recall that the republican society of ancient Athens relied on active, public-spirited males freed from the need to work (slaves did most of the drudge labor).

It is also worth noting that devotion to the workplace can undermine family life. As Tatsuo Inoue of Tokyo University argues, Japanese-style communitarianism — strong communal identity based on the workplace — sometimes leads to karoshi (death from overwork) and frequently deprives workers of ‘the right to sit down at the dinner table with their families’ (Inoue 1993). Just as liberals (pace Ronald Dworkin) sometimes have to choose between ideals (e.g., freedom and equality) that come into conflict with one another if a serious effort is made to realize any one of them fully, so communitarians may have to make some hard choices between valued forms of communal life.

Still, there may be some actual or potential win-win scenarios cases where promoting a particular form of communal life can promote, rather than undermine, other forms — and political communitarians will of course favor change of this sort. For example, critics have objected to residential community associations, or ‘walled communities', on the grounds that they undermine attachment to the polity at large and erode the social cohesion and trust needed to promote social justice and sustain the democratic process (McKenzie 1994, Bell 1995).[15] Might it then be possible to reform urban planning so that people can nurture strong local communities without undermining attachment to the national community, perhaps even strengthening broader forms of public-spiritedness? Many practical suggestions along these lines have been raised. Architects and urban planners in the US known as the New Urbanists, for example, have proposed various measures to strengthen community building — affordable housing, public transport, pedestrian focused environments, and public space as an integral part of neighborhoods — that would not have the ‘privatizing’ consequences of gated communities. The problem, as Gerald Frug points out, is that ‘virtually everything they want to do is now illegal. To promote the new urbanist version of urban design, cities would have revise municipal zoning laws and development policy from top to bottom.’[16] This points to the need for public policy recommendations explicitly designed to favor complementing forms of communal attachments.

Just as it would be wrong to assume that communitarian goals always conflict, so one should allow for the possibility that individual rights and communitarian goals can co-exist and complement each other.[17] In Singapore, for example, it can be argued that more secure democratic rights would have the effect of strengthening commitment to the common national good.[18] The Singapore government does not hide the fact that it makes life difficult for many who aim to enter the political arena on the side of opposition parties: Between 1971 and 1993, according to Attorney General Chan Sek Keong, eleven opposition politicians were made bankrupt (and hence ineligible to run in elections).[19] Whether intended or not, such actions send an unpatriotic message to the community at large: Politics is a dangerous game for those who haven't been specially anointed by the top leadership of the ruling party, so you should stick to your own private affairs. As Singaporean journalist Cherian George puts it, one can hardly blame people for ignoring their social and political obligations ‘when they hear so many cautionary tales: Of Singaporeans whose careers came to a premature end after they voiced dissent; of critics who found themselves under investigation; of individuals who were detained without trial even though they seemed not to pose any real threat; of tapped phones and opened letters’. The moral of these stories: In Singapore, better to mind your own business, make money, and leave politics to the politicians.’[20] Put positively, if the aim is to secure attachment to the community at large, then implementing genuinely competitive elections, including the freedom to run for the opposition without fear of retaliation,[21] is an important first step.

The Singapore case, however, points to another dimension of the politics of community that brings us back to the communitarian defense of cultural particularism. Democratic reformers in Singapore typically think of democracy in terms of free and fair competitive elections what Western analysts often label ‘minimal democracy’. In Hong Kong, the situation is similar — the aspiration to ‘full’ democracy put forward by social critics turns out to mean (nothing more than) an elected legislature and Chief Executive. Put differently, it is quite striking that the republican tradition in communitarian thought with its vision of strong democracy supported by active, public-spirited citizens who participate in political decision-making and held shape the future direction of their society though political debate seems largely absent from political discourse in Singapore and Hong Kong, and perhaps East Asia more generally. Many East Asians are clamoring for secure democratic rights, but this rarely translates into the demand that all citizens should be committed to politics on an ongoing basis or the view that, as David Miller puts it, ‘politics is indeed a necessary part of the good life’ (Miller 2000). At one level, the relative absence of republican ideals can be explained by the fact that there are no equivalents of Aristotle and Jean-Jacques Rousseau in East Asian philosophy. It can also be argued that republicanism fails to resonate because East Asians typically place more emphasis on other forms of communal life — the family in particular has been important theme in Confucian ethical theory and practice (relative to Western philosophy). To the extent that different forms of communal life do conflict in practice, in short, it may the case that different cultures will draw the line in different places — and they may have a strong moral case in doing so, if these lines conform to the views shared by both defenders and critics of the political status quo.

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