When—if ever—is it right to choose a policy that will consign certain numbers of a population to a likely death, while presumably giving far greater numbers the opportunity to live a better life?
In a classic ethical thought problem, we are asked to envision an out-of-control train racing on a track toward a disastrous crash. Hundreds of passengers will be killed.
Fortunately, the train is approaching a switch where it can be shunted onto an emergency side track designed to slow it safely to a stop. You are standing in front of a button that controls the switch. It seems an easy decision—until you notice that there is a man, presumably a derelict, shuffling along the emergency track. It’s too late to warn him. You must make a choice.
Most of us would likely push the button, knowing that our action will save hundreds of lives while sacrificing one.
But what if, instead, it’s a group of schoolchildren playing on the seldom-used side track? Are you still prepared to make the choice based on numbers, to go ahead and save hundreds of faceless passengers while watching the children die? It’s a much more difficult decision to make this time.
What if you have no idea how many people are on the train that might be saved if you push the button—which will consign the cute little girls and boys to certain death—or lost if you don’t push it?
These increasingly thorny dilemmas help illustrate a conundrum faced when trying to make judgments about governance decisions: namely, when—if ever—is it right to choose a policy that will consign certain numbers of a population to a likely death, while presumably giving far greater numbers the opportunity to live a better life?
It is sometimes said that a hallmark of enlightened Western civilization is the emphasis on the rights and value of the individual. We love the sound of programs like “No Child Left Behind” (even if the reality is different), and admire the commitment of soldiers who will never abandon one of their own on the battlefield. Our creed is that every accused person—however lowly—is entitled to representation, habeas corpus, and trial by a jury of peers. We insist on the principle of presumed innocence.
All of that feels right in the abstract, but life often demands choices that allow no obviously right answers and no outcome that will guarantee good feelings.
Put yourself in the position of President Harry Truman in early August, 1945. You have a devastating new bomb that likely can end the war with Japan months if not years sooner than if you do not deploy it. But using the bomb means that tens of thousands of innocent civilians will be instantly killed, many thousands more horribly burned and disfigured, and still other tens of thousands will slowly die of radiation poisoning or cancer.
Dropping the bomb (or two bombs), while bringing unimaginable misery to so many Japanese, will almost certainly prevent a very large number of American casualties; lives can be spared that otherwise would be lost or irreparably harmed in a prolonged invasion of mainland Japan.
Truman made his choice. You might have done the same as he did, or made a different choice.
Let’s try another one. It is the year 98 AD. Your name is Trajan, and at 45 years old you have just been appointed Emperor of Rome.
If you’re the real Trajan, you embark on a historic expansion of your empire, conquering Dacia and Parthia, spreading Roman influence, increasing commerce, giving your citizens access to higher standards of living, and bringing the rule of law to most of the known world. Along the way, of course, many of your soldiers die, thousands of your enemies are slain, and more are enslaved or tortured.
By today’s standards, Trajan would be considered an evil despot. But by the standards of his time, he was actually quite progressive, and historians generally judge him as an honorable ruler. If you traveled back in time and took the place of Trajan, knowing what you know today about the long span of human history and the results of his actions, would you do the same? If not, what would you do differently?
It’s easy to state the phrase, “every person matters.” But it’s a lot more difficult to decide where to draw the line when applying that abstract principle to real world challenges. If you and those you live with are suffering under a horribly oppressive regime, most of us would readily defend your choice to rebel or foment revolution, even though you know with near certainty that many good people will die.
Can we say the same thing about the expediency of taking steps that will lead to the death of a million people to create or strengthen an empire that makes life qualitatively better for a hundred million? Or a billion?
You could respond that all of this is hypothetical or contingent, but I would suggest that we should think deeply about such decisions before we are ever in a position to make them (or to influence others who might make them). Emerging technologies may put much greater power into the hands of individuals, so it’s not unreasonable for you to imagine what you would do in certain situations and carefully consider the ethics you might apply.
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