Reading Leviathan has me thinking. Nothing new, mind you—just reinvigorated. Hobbes, bless his scowling soul, is the consummate pessimist. People, in his view, are untrustworthy sods, ready to stab you in the back at the first flicker of opportunity. He doesn’t believe in community. He believes in containment.
Audio: NotebookLM discussion about this topic.
And to be fair, he’s not entirely wrong. He captures a certain cohort with uncanny accuracy. You know the type. Type-A™ personalities: the Donald Trumps, Elon Musks, Adolph Hitlers, Shahs of Iran, and that guy in marketing who always schedules meetings for 8am. The ones who salivate at the mere whiff of power, who’d sell their grandmothers for a press release and call it vision.
This, in short, is why we can’t have nice things.
Now, I’ll concede that most people want more than they have. Economics depends on this assumption like religion depends on guilt. But not everyone is driven by an insatiable lust for money, dominance, or legacy. That, my friends, is not ambition. It is pathology—a malignant, metastasising hunger that infects the likes of Trump, Musk, Bezos, Sunak, and their ilk. The hunger to rule, not just participate.
The trouble is, the majority of the world’s population are idiots—not technically, but metaphorically. Soft-headed. Overstimulated. Easily distracted by flags, influencers, and “free shipping.” And there are flavours of idiots. Musk is a lucky idiot. Trump is a useful idiot. Most are a hair’s breadth from being cannon fodder.
And then we wonder why everything’s broken.
The world could be configured differently. It could consist of autonomous collectives, each minding its own business, each respecting the other’s boundaries like courteous houseplants. But this equilibrium is shattered—always shattered—by the predatory few. The outliers. The sharks in suits. The ones who mistake governance for domination and diplomacy for personal branding.
So we build mechanisms to defend ourselves—laws, institutions, surveillance, standing armies—but these mechanisms inevitably attract the same types we were trying to ward off. Power-hungry cretins in different hats. The protectors, it turns out, are rarely benevolent dictators. They are predacious politicos, wearing virtue like a costume, mouthing justice while tightening the screws.
And here lies the eternal problem. Not technology. Not ideology. Not even ignorance.
But the recurring infestation of pathological ambition in a species otherwise just trying to get on with its day.
I’ve read Part I of Hobbes’ Leviathan and wonder what it would have been like if he filtered his thoughts through Hume or Wittgenstein. Hobbes makes Dickens read like Pollyanna. It’s an interesting historical piece, worth reading on that basis alone. It reads as if the Christian Bible had to pass through a legal review before it had been published, sapped of vigour. As bad a rap as Schopenhauer seems to get, Hobbes is the consummate Ebenezer Scrooge. Bah, humbug – you nasty, brutish, filthy animals!*
Audio: NotebookLM podcast conversation on this topic.
In any case, it got me thinking of free will and, more to the point, of will itself.
A Brief History of Humanity’s Favourite Metaphysical Scapegoat
By the time Free Will turned up to the party, the real guest of honour—the Will—had already been drinking heavily, muttering incoherently in the corner, and starting fights with anyone who made eye contact. We like to pretend that the “will” is a noble concept: the engine of our autonomy, the core of our moral selves, the brave little metaphysical organ that lets us choose kale over crisps. But in truth, it’s a bloody mess—philosophy’s equivalent of a family heirloom that no one quite understands but refuses to throw away.
So, let’s rewind. Where did this thing come from? And why, after 2,500 years of name-dropping, finger-pointing, and metaphysical gymnastics, are we still not quite sure whether we have a will, are a will, or should be suing it for damages?
Plato: Soul, Reason, and That Poor Horse
In the beginning, there was Plato, who—as with most things—half-invented the question and then wandered off before giving a straight answer. For him, the soul was a tripartite circus act: reason, spirit, and appetite. Will, as a term, didn’t get top billing—it didn’t even get its name on the poster. But the idea was there, muddling along somewhere between the charioteer (reason) and the unruly horses (desire and spiritedness).
No explicit will, mind you. Just a vague sense that the rational soul ought to be in charge, even if it had to beat the rest of itself into submission.
Aristotle: Purpose Without Pathos
Aristotle, ever the tidy-minded taxonomist, introduced prohairesis—deliberate choice—as a sort of proto-will. But again, it was all about rational calculation toward an end. Ethics was teleological, goal-oriented. You chose what aligned with eudaimonia, that smug Greek term for flourishing. Will, if it existed at all, was just reason picking out dinner options based on your telos. No inner torment, no existential rebellion—just logos in a toga.
Augustine: Sin, Suffering, and That Eternal No
Fast-forward a few hundred years, and along comes Saint Augustine, traumatised by his libido and determined to make the rest of us suffer for it. Enter voluntas: the will as the seat of choice—and the scene of the crime. Augustine is the first to really make the will bleed. He discovers he can want two incompatible things at once and feels properly appalled about it.
From this comes the classic Christian cocktail: freedom plus failure equals guilt. The will is free, but broken. It’s responsible for sin, for disobedience, for not loving God enough on Wednesdays. Thanks to Augustine, we’re stuck with the idea that the will is both the instrument of salvation and the reason we’re going to Hell.
Cheers.
Medievals: God’s Will or Yours, Pick One
The Scholastics, never ones to let an ambiguity pass unanalysed, promptly split into camps. Aquinas, ever the reasonable Dominican, says the will is subordinate to the intellect. God is rational, and so are we, mostly. But Duns Scotus and William of Ockham, the original voluntarist hooligans, argue that the will is superior—even in God. God could have made murder a virtue, they claim, and you’d just have to live with it.
From this cheerful perspective, will becomes a force of arbitrary fiat, and humans, made in God’s image, inherit the same capacity for irrational choice. The will is now more than moral; it’s metaphysical. Less reason’s servant, more chaos goblin.
Hobbes: Appetite with Delusions of Grandeur
Then along comes Thomas Hobbes, who looks at the soul and sees a wheezing machine of appetites. Will, in his famously cheery view, is simply “the last appetite before action.” No higher calling, no spiritual struggle—just the twitch that wins. Man is not a rational animal, but a selfish algorithm on legs. For Hobbes, will is where desire stumbles into motion, and morality is a polite euphemism for not getting stabbed.
Kant: The Will Gets a Makeover
Enter Immanuel Kant: powdered wig, pursed lips, and the moral rectitude of a man who scheduled his bowel movements. Kant gives us the “good will”, which acts from duty, not desire. Suddenly, the will is autonomous, rational, and morally legislative—a one-man Parliament of inner law.
It’s all terribly noble, terribly German, and entirely exhausting. For Kant, free will is not the ability to do whatever you like—it’s the capacity to choose according to moral law, even when you’d rather be asleep. The will is finally heroic—but only if it agrees to hate itself a little.
Schopenhauer: Cosmic Will, Cosmic Joke
And then the mood turns. Schopenhauer, world’s grumpiest mystic, takes Kant’s sublime will and reveals it to be a blind, thrashing, cosmic force. Will, for him, isn’t reason—it’s suffering in motion. The entire universe is will-to-live: a desperate, pointless striving that dooms us to perpetual dissatisfaction.
There is no freedom, no morality, no point. The only escape is to negate the will, preferably through aesthetic contemplation or Buddhist-like renunciation. In Schopenhauer’s world, the will is not what makes us human—it’s what makes us miserable.
Nietzsche: Transvaluation and the Will to Shout Loudest
Cue Nietzsche, who takes Schopenhauer’s howling void and says: yes, but what if we made it fabulous? For him, the will is no longer to live, but to power—to assert, to create, to impose value. “Free will” is a theologian’s fantasy, a tool of priests and moral accountants. But will itself? That’s the fire in the forge. The Übermensch doesn’t renounce the will—he rides it like a stallion into the sunset of morality.
Nietzsche doesn’t want to deny the abyss. He wants to waltz with it.
Today: Free Will and the Neuroscientific Hangover
And now? Now we’re left with compatibilists, libertarians, determinists, and neuroscientists all shouting past each other, armed with fMRI machines and TED talks. Some claim free will is an illusion, a post hoc rationalisation made by brains doing what they were always going to do. Others insist that moral responsibility requires it, even if we can’t quite locate it between the neurons.
We talk about willpower, will-to-change, political will, and free will like they’re real things. But under the hood, we’re still wrestling with the same questions Augustine posed in a North African villa: Why do I do what I don’t want to do? And more importantly, who’s doing it?
Conclusion: Where There’s a Will, There’s a Mess
From Plato’s silent horses to Nietzsche’s Dionysian pyrotechnics, the will has shape-shifted more times than a politician in an election year. It has been a rational chooser, a moral failure, a divine spark, a mechanical twitch, a cosmic torment, and an existential triumph.
Despite centuries of philosophical handwringing, what it has never been is settled.
So where there’s a will, there’s a way. But the way? Twisting, contradictory, and littered with the corpses of half-baked metaphysical systems.
Welcome to the labyrinth. Bring snacks.
* The solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short quote is forthcoming. Filthy animals is a nod to Home Alone.
Humans, we are told, are exceptional—unlike the rest of the lowly animal kingdom. We alone possess reason, morality, and the ability to transcend our base instincts. And yet, curiously, this argument is rolled out only when convenient. At times, we are commanded to rise above our primal urges; at others, we are scolded for even thinking about resisting them. This ideological schizophrenia is no accident—it is a feature, not a bug, of our prevailing moral and economic order.
The contradictions of “human nature” arguments can be broken down into two key patterns:
A. We must transcend our animal instincts—but only when they threaten social or economic order.
B. We must accept our animal instincts as unchangeable—but only when they reinforce existing power structures.
This hypocrisy is especially visible in how capitalism and morality are framed. Let’s examine two case studies.
Case 1: Prostitution—A Market That Must Be Morally Suppressed
Sex is as fundamental a biological drive as hunger or thirst. One would think that in a world where everything is commodified, prostitution—the most direct transaction of supply and demand—would be embraced by free-market capitalists. But no. We are told that engaging in this “base” activity is degrading, immoral, and must be curtailed. The same capitalists who defend free enterprise at all costs suddenly become moralists, urging us to resist temptation and rise above our urges. Sex, despite being one of the most natural acts imaginable, is treated as an impulse to be tamed rather than an economic exchange to be normalised.
Case 2: Capitalism—A System We Must Accept as “Natural”
Contrast this with how we are told to think about capitalism. Greed, exploitation, and ruthless competition? Those are “just human nature.” The strong thrive, and the weak perish. We are warned not to question the system because to do so would be to fight against nature itself. Socialism? A naive fantasy. Economic cooperation? Impossible. Mutual aid? Utopian nonsense. We must accept that humans are selfish creatures, that hierarchy is inevitable, and that billionaires accumulating obscene wealth while millions starve is simply the way of things.
Why are we ordered to suppress our instincts in one case yet surrender to them in another? Because morality, in its institutional form, is not about virtue—it is about control.
The Convenient Flexibility of “Human Nature”
This selective logic is designed to keep power structures intact. The rules shift depending on whose interests are at stake:
If an instinct challenges profit or control, it must be suppressed.
If an instinct benefits the ruling order, it must be accepted as natural.
Thus, the same societies that demand moral restraint when it comes to sex, leisure, or pleasure suddenly rediscover their inner Darwinist when defending capitalist greed and economic cruelty.
The “Natural Order” Myth
The claim that capitalism is the inevitable result of human nature is one of history’s greatest ideological scams. If it were indeed “natural,” it would not require:
Constant propaganda to reinforce its legitimacy.
Violent suppression of alternative systems.
Trillions in government bailouts every time it fails.
Moreover, humans are not only competitive, selfish creatures. We are also wired for cooperation, altruism, and communal living—traits conveniently erased from discussions about economics.
Final Thought: Breaking the Cycle
If we can rise above base instincts for sex and violence, why can’t we rise above capitalist greed and exploitation? Why is overcoming “human nature” only demanded when it suits power? The truth is, we are only commanded to rise above when it keeps us obedient—and ordered to accept reality when it keeps the powerful in control.
The only real rebellion is to reject this hypocrisy entirely. The future belongs not to those who passively accept the contradictions of the present, but to those who refuse to play by its schizophrenic rules.
The assassination of Brian Thompson, CEO of UnitedHealth, has electrified public discourse. In the court of public opinion—and particularly on social media—the assailant has been lionised, hailed as a hero who slayed a corporate leviathan. Yet the metaphorical beast is no simple predator; it’s a hydra. Slice off one head, and two grow back.
Still, this act has stirred the waters. It forces us to reckon with a clash of titans: the corporate machine versus the rogue idealist. Both are acting rationally, but neither is acting morally—at least not in the conventional sense. The question, then, is whether the assassin’s actions might occupy the higher moral ground, particularly through the lens of Consequentialist ethics.
The Hydra: UnitedHealth and the Systemic Beast
To understand the morality of the act, we must first confront the monster. UnitedHealth didn’t invent the healthcare system; it merely exploited its flaws with cold, clinical efficiency. Thompson’s leadership was emblematic of an industry that sees human lives as variables in a profit-maximising equation. Claims denial, inflated premiums, and labyrinthine bureaucracy are not bugs—they’re features. And for every life saved by healthcare, countless others are destroyed by its financial and emotional toll.
Rational? Certainly. Morally defensible? Hardly. Yet from the corporation’s perspective, these actions are the logical byproducts of a system designed to prioritise shareholder value above all else. Blame the player, yes—but blame the game more.
The Assassin: Vigilante Justice or Trolley Ethics?
Now consider the assassin, who embodies a grimly utilitarian logic: sacrifice one life to spare the misery of thousands. It’s a brutal, visceral iteration of the trolley problem—or perhaps the “baby Hitler problem,” only carried out decades too late. This wasn’t mindless violence; it was a calculated act of symbolic retribution.
From a Consequentialist perspective, the act raises uncomfortable questions. If Thompson’s death leads to systemic reform—if it forces even one profit-hungry executive to hesitate before denying care—does the assassin’s action gain moral weight? In utilitarian terms, the calculus seems clear: one life traded for a net reduction in suffering.
But that’s a dangerous game. Symbolism doesn’t always translate to change, and the hydra analogy looms large. The industry won’t topple because one CEO fell. The machinery grinds on, indifferent to the blood spilled in Manhattan. Worse, the system might grow even more resilient, using Thompson’s death as justification for tighter security, greater secrecy, and more aggressive self-preservation.
Rationality vs. Morality
What makes this clash so compelling is the cold rationality on both sides. UnitedHealth’s actions, reprehensible as they are, make sense within a capitalist framework. The assassin’s actions, though violent and morally fraught, also make sense if viewed as a desperate attempt to restore balance to a world that prioritises profit over human life.
The difference lies in their moral standing. The corporation’s rationality is underpinned by greed; its actions perpetuate suffering. The assassin’s rationality, however misguided, is rooted in outrage at injustice. If morality is determined by intent and consequence, the assassin might indeed occupy higher moral ground—not because killing is inherently justifiable, but because the system left no other path for redress.
The Symbolism and the Hydra
The tragedy is that this act of violence, however symbolic, won’t solve the problem. The hydra will grow another head, as corporations close ranks and reform remains elusive. Yet the act remains a potent reminder of the power of individual resistance. Perhaps it will force a moment of reflection, a hesitation before the next denial stamp hits the desk. Or perhaps it will simply serve as another chapter in the grim saga of a system that turns suffering into profit.
The Final Question
In this clash of titans, one side wields institutional power and systemic exploitation; the other wields desperation and bullets. Both are rational. Neither is fully moral. But perhaps the assassin’s act—brutal, symbolic, and imperfect—offers a glimpse of what happens when systemic injustice pushes people past the breaking point.
The real question is whether this singular act of defiance will lead to change—or whether the hydra will simply grow stronger, hungrier, and more entrenched.
I am reading Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies, the first and likely most famous of an informal trilogy. I thought I had already read it, but I think I only saw the PBS show. Having recently finished Josephine Quinn’s How the World Made the West, I wanted to revisit this perspective. The two books are presented in different styles and represent different perspectives, but they seem to be complementary.
Where Diamond focuses on environmental factors (an oft-voiced critique), Quinn focuses on human agency.
Diamond takes a bird’ s-eye view, looking for universal patterns and systemic explanations, whilst Quinn adopts a granular, specific approach, highlighting the fluidity and contingency of history.
Diamond deconstructs European dominance by attributing it to environmental luck, but his narrative risks sidelining the agency of colonised peoples. Quinn critiques the very idea of Western dominance, arguing that the concept of the West itself is a myth born of appropriation and exchange.
Rather than being wholly opposed, Diamond and Quinn’s approaches might be seen as complementary. Diamond provides the structural scaffolding – the environmental and geographic conditions that shape societies – whilst Quinn fills in the cultural and human dynamics that Diamond often glosses over. Together, they represent two sides of the historiographical coin: one focusing on systemic patterns, the other on the messiness of cultural particularities.
Woman fired for refusing the COVID jab wins a jaw-dropping $12 million jury verdict against her ex-employer.
Lisa Domski has secured a $12 million award after a federal jury ruled that Blue Cross Blue Shield of Michigan violated her religious beliefs.
This all started when Lisa Domski, a veteran IT specialist with over 30 years at Blue Cross Blue Shield of Michigan, was terminated for refusing to take the COVID-19 shots, citing her Catholic faith.
Domski’s lawyer, Jon Marko, argued that the firing was a clear case of religious discrimination. “Lisa refused to renounce her faith and beliefs and was wrongfully terminated from the only job she had ever known,” Marko stated after the verdict, adding, “The jury’s verdict today tells BCBSM that religious discrimination has no place in America.”
Domski’s $12 million award marks the largest amount a single individual has won after suing their former employer for COVID jab discrimination.
As it becomes common knowledge that the shots were not safe nor effective, expect more future lawsuits to swing in favor of those wrongly fired for refusing the COVID jabs.
This is an X post by Vigilant Fox.
Enter ChatGPT
I don’t understand the ins and outs of religions, so I asked ChatGPT for some background.
The contention that a COVID-19 vaccination conflicts with Catholicism is a nuanced matter that has sparked significant debate within religious, medical, and legal contexts. Here’s a breakdown of the rationale and controversy:
Use of Foetal Cell Lines: A primary concern among some Catholics relates to the use of foetal cell lines in the development or testing phases of COVID-19 vaccines. Though none of the COVID-19 vaccines contain foetal cells, certain cell lines originating from abortions in the 1970s and 1980s were used in either development or testing. Some Catholics argue that any association with these cell lines—even decades removed—conflicts with the Church’s opposition to abortion.
Religious Freedom and Individual Conscience: Catholic doctrine also recognises the primacy of individual conscience, especially in complex moral decisions. While the Vatican has stated that vaccination is morally permissible and even a form of charity toward others, it has left room for individual conscientious objection. The U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops has echoed this view, suggesting that Catholics may have valid religious grounds for refusing the vaccine if it conflicts with their conscience.
Public Health vs. Individual Rights: The Catholic Church has historically advocated for public health and the common good, encouraging measures to protect vulnerable populations. The tension arises when this duty to protect others is perceived to clash with individual religious beliefs or objections, as in Domski’s case.
Legal and Institutional Responses: Legally, such cases often fall under the U.S. Civil Rights Act, which prohibits discrimination on religious grounds. If an employee can prove a “sincerely held religious belief” against vaccination, employers are generally required to offer reasonable accommodations unless doing so imposes undue hardship. The jury in Domski’s case evidently saw the termination as failing to reasonably accommodate her religious stance, leading to the multi-million dollar verdict.
In essence, this controversy reveals a complicated intersection of theology, ethics, and the law, where personal religious beliefs are weighed against public health imperatives and employment policies. The Catholic Church’s position supports vaccination broadly while recognising individual conscience, but when that personal interpretation of faith diverges, the law, as in this case, can side with the individual’s right to religious freedom over corporate policy.
Re-Enter ChatGPT
As an atheist, I feel this is a privilege afforded to the religious but not afforded to me.
Yes, the irony here is that religious exemptions sometimes operate as a kind of “philosophical privilege,” granting concessions based on faith-based reasoning while leaving secular beliefs in the dust. There’s a strange double standard: sincere secular beliefs, however deeply held, often don’t afford the same protections.
The way the law stands, religious accommodations hinge on the idea of “sincerely held beliefs,” a phrase that’s often used to distinguish bona fide religious convictions from mere preferences. This means that a religion-based objection—no matter how personalised or tenuous its doctrinal grounding—can carry more weight in court than a secular objection of equal conviction. Secular objections tend to lack this legal standing since they aren’t considered “protected beliefs” under statutes like the U.S. Civil Rights Act.
However, creative legal arguments have occasionally carved out paths for non-believers. Philosophical exemptions (which some states offer alongside religious ones) can, in certain contexts, allow individuals to opt out of policies based on personal ethical beliefs. But this is rare and largely regional. Another tactic some non-religious people have used is framing their objection as a matter of personal conscience, particularly if they can point to an ethical code or system that holds similar weight in their lives as religion does for believers—though this route is often tricky to argue.
There’s a structural bias favouring traditional, organised religious belief in these cases, with non-believers typically left navigating a legal landscape that assumes a lack of any ‘transcendent’ belief system is less legitimate. In short, the loopholes tend to shut firmly on atheists, as if secular values couldn’t be equally “sincerely held.”
It would make quite the polemic piece: exploring how some forms of legal exemption implicitly favour religious worldviews and whether atheists should have the option to claim a ‘philosophical exemption’ to level the playing field.
Closing Words
This is where I maintain an argument for the freedom from religion. I was threatened to be suspended without pay unless and until I got vaccinated in January 2021. I had initially refused on the grounds that I worked from home and quarantined myself in my home. I was at low risk of transmitting of recieving a COVID-19 infection. A lawyer from Human Reources videoconferenced me and asked if I had a religious exemption. I told him the the science did not support the vaccination, especially not the mRNA version, which was not and is still not FDA approved to my knowledge.
Long story short, I left my house to get innoculated with a Johnson & Johnson jab. I came down with Covid within days – likely from having ventured outdoors – and was down for about a week. To date, I’ve had COVID-19 three times, once being hospitalised with co-factors for nine weeks. This is despite being vaccinated and having had it previously. I won’t go off on a rant on how little ‘medical science’ knows about COVID to this day, but I would have liked to be able to have been shielded by a religious claim.
Reparations, Sovereignty, and the Enduring Legacy of Colonialism
The story of Indigenous peoples in the United States is a story of profound loss—loss of land, culture, and sovereignty. But perhaps the most painful and enduring losses are the broken promises: the hundreds of treaties signed in good faith and then systematically violated. These broken promises have not only left Native nations impoverished and disenfranchised but have also created a debt so immense that, by some estimates, it could run into the trillions if fully accounted for.
The Weight of Broken Treaties
From the earliest days of European settlement, treaties were used as a tool of diplomacy between the United States government and Native nations. These treaties, over 370 in total, were meant to secure peace, land agreements, and coexistence. In exchange, Native peoples were promised sovereign rights, land, and, crucially, compensation in the form of resources, healthcare, education, and protection. Yet, these promises were almost universally broken, often within years of being signed.
The true cost of these broken promises is impossible to measure in simple monetary terms.
The true cost of these broken promises is impossible to measure in simple monetary terms. Land, culture, and sovereignty are not commodities that can be easily priced. However, if one were to quantify the economic and material loss incurred by Native peoples—through stolen land, expropriated resources, and missed opportunities—the total would be staggering. Some estimates suggest the cost could run into the hundreds of billions if not trillions when factoring in centuries of economic injustice, treble damages, and interest.
Calculating Reparations: Land, Wealth, and Justice
Any serious discussion of reparations must start with the land. Native nations once held over 2 billion acres of land in what is now the United States, a vast expanse rich with natural resources. Through a series of coercive treaties, legislation, and outright theft, much of this land was lost, culminating in the General Allotment Act (or Dawes Act) of 1887, which further fragmented Native lands and opened millions of acres for white settlers.
Reparations would need to account for the value of this land and the resources extracted from it—timber, minerals, oil, gas, and agricultural produce
Reparations would need to account for the value of this land and the resources extracted from it—timber, minerals, oil, gas, and agricultural produce—that have enriched generations of non-Native Americans. The land itself is invaluable, not just in terms of its market price but as the foundation of Indigenous identity, culture, and sovereignty. The land is not only an economic asset but a spiritual and cultural one. In this context, mere monetary compensation seems inadequate.
However, if we were to calculate reparations based on these lost lands and resources, the numbers quickly skyrocket. Consider the Black Hills of South Dakota, illegally seized from the Lakota after the discovery of gold, despite an 1868 treaty guaranteeing their sovereignty over the region. The Lakota have refused financial compensation for the Black Hills, insisting instead on the return of the land. The value of the Black Hills alone, when adjusted for inflation and interest, would be immense. And this is just one example. If treble damages were applied—tripling the original valuation to account for the egregiousness of the theft—the total would become astronomical.
Interest on Injustice
A crucial factor in calculating reparations is the interest accrued over time. The land was not just taken, but taken centuries ago, meaning that any fair compensation would need to account for the economic opportunities missed due to that loss. Compounded interest, a financial mechanism commonly applied in lawsuits to reflect the time value of money, would exponentially increase the debt owed. This debt is not just economic but cultural, as the loss of land also meant the loss of a way of life.
Reparations could…easily run into the trillions.
Reparations could, therefore, easily run into the trillions. This is not merely hypothetical. In 1980, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in United States v. Sioux Nation of Indians that the U.S. government had illegally taken the Black Hills, and the Sioux were entitled to compensation. The sum awarded was $106 million—today, with interest, that figure exceeds $1 billion. Yet the Sioux have refused the payment, demanding the return of their land instead. Their stance underscores the inadequacy of financial compensation for the cultural and spiritual dimensions of the loss.
Beyond Dollars: The Moral and Ethical Case for Reparations
While the financial dimension of reparations is essential, the moral and ethical dimensions are equally important. Reparations are not simply about writing a cheque; they are about justice. The broken treaties were not merely legal failures but moral failures, reflecting a systemic disregard for Native sovereignty and human dignity. The U.S. government’s persistent violations of treaties reveal a deep-rooted pattern of exploitation and dishonour that continues to reverberate through Native communities today.
broken treaties were not merely legal failures but moral failures
Reparations, in this broader sense, must include the return of lands, the restoration of cultural and political autonomy, and a fundamental rethinking of the relationship between Native nations and the U.S. government. The return of land—such as in the Land Back movement—is a critical component of this. Land is not only a material asset but a living connection to identity, tradition, and the future. Restoring land to Native nations would not only right historical wrongs but also empower them to rebuild their communities on their own terms.
The Political Challenge of Justice
Despite the moral clarity of the case for reparations, political challenges remain immense. Many Americans are unaware of the extent of Native dispossession or may see reparations as impractical or divisive. Yet, as the fight for racial justice has shown, justice is often uncomfortable. The fact that reparations would be costly, complex, and difficult is not an excuse to avoid the issue. If anything, it highlights how deep and enduring the injustice is.
Reparations are not a “handout” but a payment of a debt long overdue.
Reparations are not a “handout” but a payment of a debt long overdue. Native nations were once economically, politically, and culturally self-sufficient. The disruption of their societies, through land theft and broken treaties, is the root cause of the poverty, health disparities, and political marginalisation they face today. Addressing this requires more than just policy tweaks; it demands a fundamental reckoning with the past.
Conclusion: Trillions Owed, Promises to Keep
The reparations owed for centuries of broken treaties, stolen land, and unfulfilled promises are not simply about money but about honouring the sovereignty and humanity of Indigenous peoples. The debt is vast—financially, morally, and ethically—but it must be addressed if there is to be any hope for genuine reconciliation. Justice, long delayed, can no longer be denied. This underscores the larger point that the United States rarely follow through on their commitments, but this is a story for another day. Meantime, they’ll continue running roughshod over their people and the world, bullying their way through it.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o published “Decolonising the Mind” in 1986. David Guignion shares a 2-part summary analysis of the work on his Theory and Philosophy site.
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s book Decolonising the Mind centres on the profound impact of colonialism on language, culture, and thought. It argues that imposing a foreign language on colonised people is a key tool of imperial domination. This linguistic imperialism leads to colonial alienation, separating the colonised from their own culture and forcing them to view the world through the lens of the coloniser.
Here are some key points from the concept of decolonising the mind:
Language is intimately tied to culture and worldview: Language shapes how individuals perceive and understand the world. When colonised people are forced to adopt the language of the coloniser, they are also compelled to adopt their cultural framework and values.
Colonial education systems perpetuate mental control: By privileging the coloniser’s language and devaluing indigenous languages, colonial education systems reinforce the dominance of the coloniser’s culture and worldview. This process results in colonised children being alienated from their own cultural heritage and internalising a sense of inferiority.
Reclaiming indigenous languages is crucial for decolonisation: wa Thiong’o advocates for a return to writing and creating in indigenous African languages. He sees this as an act of resistance against linguistic imperialism and a way to reconnect with authentic African cultures. He further argues that it’s not enough to simply write in indigenous languages; the content must also reflect the struggles and experiences of the people, particularly the peasantry and working class.
The concept extends beyond literature: While wa Thiong’o focuses on language in literature, the concept of decolonising the mind has broader implications. It calls for a critical examination of all aspects of life affected by colonialism, including education, politics, and economics.
It is important to note that decolonising the mind is a complex and ongoing process. There are debates about the role of European languages in postcolonial societies, and the concept itself continues to evolve. However, wa Thiong’o’s work remains a seminal text in postcolonial studies, raising crucial questions about the enduring legacy of colonialism on thought and culture.
The propensity to assign blame is deeply intertwined with human moral frameworks, often reflecting our need to ascribe responsibility and maintain social order. Blame allows us to identify transgressions, enforce norms, and establish accountability within our communities. But when it comes to non-human animals, the concept of blame becomes more complex.
Do Non-Human Animals Have a Sense of Blame?
Non-human animals certainly exhibit behaviours that suggest some rudimentary understanding of social rules and consequences. For example, studies on primates show that they can experience forms of moral emotions like guilt or shame. A chimpanzee might avoid eye contact or show submissive behaviour after breaking a social norm, such as stealing food from a dominant individual. Similarly, domestic dogs have been observed to display so-called “guilty” behaviours—such as avoiding eye contact or cowering—when they sense that their human is displeased. However, it’s debated whether this truly indicates guilt or simply a reaction to their owner’s emotional state.
However, the concept of blame as humans understand it—an attribution of moral responsibility that involves complex cognitive processes like intention-reading and understanding of moral rules—appears to be uniquely human. Non-human animals can recognise when another individual’s behaviour deviates from the norm and might react accordingly, but they don’t seem to hold others accountable in the same moral or punitive sense that humans do.
Blame and Morality in Humans vs. Non-Human Animals
In human societies, blame is often accompanied by a desire for reparation or punishment, as well as a cognitive understanding of intentions and causality. We don’t just react to actions; we interpret motives and hold individuals accountable based on our perception of their intentions. This is where non-human animals typically differ. Their responses to perceived wrongdoing are more likely driven by immediate social consequences—like changes in dominance status or access to resources—rather than a sense of moral outrage or an abstract concept of justice.
For example, if a wolf in a pack disobeys a social rule, it might be punished by the alpha, but this is more about reinforcing social hierarchy and cohesion than about assigning moral blame. Similarly, if a cat lashes out at another cat after being disturbed, it’s responding to an immediate violation of its personal space, not holding the other cat morally accountable.
Evolutionary Perspective
From an evolutionary standpoint, blame and moral emotions likely evolved in humans to facilitate cooperation and social cohesion in increasingly complex societies. As our ancestors formed larger and more intricate social groups, the ability to understand others’ intentions, enforce social norms, and hold individuals accountable would have been crucial for maintaining group stability and cooperative behaviours.
Non-human animals, even those that live in complex social structures, do not face the same cognitive demands as humans when it comes to maintaining large-scale social cohesion. Their social rules and enforcement mechanisms are typically less nuanced and more directly linked to survival and reproductive success.
Conclusion
While non-human animals demonstrate behaviours that hint at a basic understanding of social rules and can respond to transgressions, the uniquely human capacity for assigning blame—and the moral frameworks that arise from it—appears to be a product of our advanced cognitive abilities and complex social structures. Blame, in humans, is not just about responding to actions but involves a deeper understanding of intentions, responsibility, and justice—concepts that are foundational to our moral systems but beyond the reach of non-human cognition as we currently understand it.
I started writing a book on blame, agency, and retributive justice a few years back. Perhaps I should revisit it along with the dozen other books in progress.
A recent parody video making the rounds on social media shows a man at a kitchen table, his girlfriend, and their cat. In a desperate attempt to gain his girlfriend’s attention, he knocks a cup off the table. The moment it hits the floor, she turns on him, scolding him for his clumsiness. Quick to deflect, he blames the cat, and suddenly her anger dissipates. She shifts from reprimanding him to lavishing affection on the supposedly guilty feline. The tension lifts—until he sheepishly confesses that it was, in fact, his doing all along. Her response? An incredulous, “Are you kidding me?”
What’s fascinating about this skit isn’t the comedy of the man’s mischief or even the cat’s unknowing role in the charade. It’s the girlfriend’s starkly different reactions to the same act, depending on who she believes committed it. The cat, in her eyes, can do no wrong; the boyfriend, however, is immediately culpable. It’s easy to laugh at the scenario’s absurdity, but the dynamic it portrays is familiar and, dare I say, quite telling about human behaviour.
The Double Standard of Blame
Why is it that we’re quick to exonerate some and just as quick to indict others? The phenomenon is more than a quirk of personality; it reveals our deeper, often unconscious, biases. While it’s understandable that the girlfriend might think the cat incapable of intentional mischief, her reaction also suggests a predisposition to forgive certain actors—whether due to perceived innocence, attachment, or simply habit.
This dynamic isn’t limited to pets and partners. In families, workplaces, and social groups, we often see a similar pattern. One person becomes the perennial scapegoat, bearing the brunt of blame for any and all misdeeds, while another enjoys a seemingly unshakeable immunity. Think of the “golden child” and the “black sheep” within a family. One can rarely put a foot wrong, while the other’s every move is scrutinised, questioned, or condemned.
Beyond the Blame: Motivations and Consequences
The reasons behind these imbalances can be complex. Sometimes, they stem from past behaviour: if someone has repeatedly erred, we may be primed to expect the worst from them, even if they’ve reformed. Other times, they arise from emotional bonds or biases: we excuse those we love or admire because acknowledging their faults would cause us discomfort or cognitive dissonance.
This phenomenon isn’t just about playing favourites; it can have significant psychological consequences. For the person perpetually cast as the villain, the burden of unwarranted blame can lead to feelings of resentment, anxiety, or self-doubt. Meanwhile, those consistently exonerated may internalise a skewed perception of their own infallibility, which can be equally damaging.
A Broader Reflection on Accountability
Returning to the video’s context, the girlfriend’s swift switch from reproach to indulgence once she believed the cat was at fault, and her subsequent anger when the truth was revealed, invites us to question our own responses to perceived transgressions. Are we, too, guilty of selectively assigning blame based on who we think is responsible? How often do we let our preconceptions shape our judgments, favouring one actor over another without truly weighing the evidence?
The parody is amusing, no doubt, but it also serves as a subtle reminder: our reactions often reveal more about our biases and expectations than about the actions themselves. The next time we find ourselves quick to blame or forgive, it’s worth pausing to ask: are we reacting to the act, or to the actor?
In a world increasingly marked by polarised opinions and knee-jerk reactions, cultivating this kind of self-awareness is crucial. We need to be vigilant not only about how we judge others but also about why we do so. For, in the end, it’s not just about who knocked the cup off the table—it’s about who we believe deserves to be scolded for it.
Philosophics 