Note on Indonesian Posts

All these posts are from my university studies, and are ‘as submitted’ – so they are likely to contain errors. They are mainly to show where I am progressing, and where I am going backwards. I’m happy to receive criticism, though – particularly if I have used words incorrectly (i.e. No-one would really say things in that way)

Time for a Tea-Party? The U.S. Politics of Ressentiment

This is one of my favourite university assignment topics – intertwining my two favourite subjects; politics and philosophy.  This context of this assignment was October 2013; Obama was the POTUS, and the US Ultra-Right wing Tea Party groups were ‘rising up’.  The issues in the USA now reminded me of this assignment – and I realised how it was still quite applicable in the age of “MAGA” and Donald Trump.


Fellow Patriots! It’s time to stand up and “Take America Back!”[1]

There was once a ‘land of the free and home of the brave’[2], where men were judged not by their level of education, but by their hard work and productivity.  They were exceptional people, with an exceptional purpose.  However, this idyllic, mythical history is not the world in which the US Tea Parties call home.  Since the 1960s, the ‘pace of contemporary social, cultural, economic, and political change [has been] unprecedented’[3]; this world is increasingly filled with egalitarianism, sexual liberation, differing cultures and moral values.  As their myth is challenged by this reality, they feel threatened, and become disillusioned.  Democracy, the government ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’, has seemingly failed them.  The State is no longer the neutral, impartial arbiter, but now has become an agent of minority interests.  Their great nation has been weakened by ‘un-Americans’.  Their identities, based on these myths and moralities, have been profoundly affected by modernity, leading them to an anomic dissonance caused by the realisation of transience, the ‘it was’[4].

These factors demonstrate what Nietzsche called ressentiment, and it is the task of this essay to provide a narrative explaining ressentiment, particularly its manifestation in the contemporary extreme-right conservative ‘Tea Party’ movement in the United States of America (US), which originated in 2009 with a ‘carefully planned “spontaneous” outburst of anger’[5] over economic and social issues[6].   It will be shown that this ressentiment has been directed at the State through an articulation of ressentiment nationalism; the State has been perverted from the inside, and has become ‘un-American’.

The US was formed around a national mythos of a Promised Land, and an American Exceptionalism.  These myths were based on a ‘White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant (WASP)’ ethnic core[7].  The ‘Promised Land’ for an ‘Ethnic Christian Nation’ was a deeply religious myth rooted in the beliefs of the population of the ‘New World’ of Early American history[8].  Between the first colonial arrivals, and the War of Independence; civil society was inextricably intertwined with the protestant religion[9], and one’s place in this society was ordained by God[10].  This new nation was granted by God, a ‘new Canaan’ and was thus sacred; a new Eden, which would succeed or fail according to the actions of the ‘American Adam’[11].

This ideology became embedded with the Puritans, and ‘Protestant Work Ethic’, then so with ‘The Spirit of Capitalism’[12].  Through hard work, they could obtain the ‘Promise’ of America – the ‘American Dream’: unlimited progress, social mobility, wealth[13].  This connection of social life with the religious ideology of the early American colonies was, in Weber’s thought, suggestive towards an ‘ascetic ideal’[14], which promoted the idea of working hard and saving money to prove God’s Grace; supporting the poor through taxation was seen as going against God’s purpose; ‘Unwillingness to work [was] symptomatic of the lack of grace[15].  This emergent ‘American’ identity was bolstered by the events around the ‘Great Awakening’ and the Revolution.  They were the ‘chosen people’ of God[16], who would dominate the land[17], and, without falling prey to immoral intellectualism[18], would create the ‘city on the hill’ that Winthrop, and later Regan, articulated[19].  Much as then, today this manifests as the laissez-faire individualist, allowing the capitalist ‘marketplace’ to be the determinant of one’s moral worth.

Furthermore, America would not be party to the ethnic strife of the Old World; their focus on individualism and liberty meant they could be the civic, cosmopolitan ‘smelting pot’ which transformed diverse individuals into ‘Americans’[20].  Unlike Europe, America was unburdened by the hierarchy and identity formed from a ‘common history’[21]; instead, one could be ‘American’ through adopting the ideology[22].  This myth suggested that America was the land of the noble, common people[23], brought together by a civic ideal and unhindered by ‘ethno-cultural nationalism’[24].  The tensions between their demanded individualism and the community of ‘Americans’ was discarded by the belief that no single culture would be dominant; each new arrival would be subtly changed by the ‘natives’, as would the natives be subtly altered.  The American nation thus could be truly diverse[25].  This was the ‘egalitarian, populist’ America, where their unique political history, with the importation of Locke’s political philosophy, and the ‘republican’ safeguards on democracy[26] made the US doubly special:  all were endowed with natural rights, and so were equal[27], and this equality plus the diversity of the people made majority rule work.

This established the idea of the ‘American Nation’ as ‘Exceptional’.  The nation’s ‘ideology [could] be described in five words: liberty, egalitarianism, individualism, populism, and laissez-faire’[28].  These ideals were enshrined in the US Constitution, and as has been seen, stemmed from their history.  Even as the emphasis on religion declined, with the avowal of secularism, the constructed national imagination promoted the idea that ‘America’ had a great purpose: to advance their republic, and be the model of the world[29].  These were the myths ‘of origin, history and destiny’[30] that formed the basis of their nationalism.

The ‘Glorious Past’ represented by this mythologised history no longer exists, if indeed it ever did.  It has been washed away by the new social milieu.  On one side, the various rights movements and immigration significantly affected social demographics[31]; since the womens rights, and civil rights movements, Women, African-Americans, and Immigrants from diverse countries are now capable of full citizenship[32], rather than the implicit, and sometimes explicit, discrimination allowed[33].  The projected demographic changes in American society, via birth-rate of minority groups, and legal (and ‘illegal’) immigration have suggested that by 2050, ‘whites will become a minority’ in America[34], which challenging the supremacy of the ‘White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant (WASP)’[35] ethnic core[36].  Likewise, the rising secularism and religious pluralism in the US has highlighted the divide between the past, and the present. On the other side, industrialisation and globalisation have destabilised the mythological notion of the adaptable, self-made, self-educated, self-reliant man[37], and replaced it with a [white] ‘wage slave’[38].  The days of the yeoman farmer, or even skilled manufacturing, are gone.  Rising wealth inequality, and job losses through corporate outsourcing overseas have eroded the great promise of America[39], and the bureaucratic state is ubiquitous[40].

Ressentiment and the US Tea Party

Ressentiment is an enduring, reactive attitude towards a hostile external stimulus experienced by the marginalised or powerless[41].  It is fertile amongst ‘[p]eople who yearn to be someone else’[42], or perhaps somewhere or some-when else[43].  Nietzsche argued that ressentiment was the basis of ‘herd’ morality[44], where the ‘plebian masses’ would band together against those who were truly noble.  The narrative includes three ‘character types’: Nobles, Slaves, and Priests.

On Nietzsche’s account, the noble’s morality was given under the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ dichotomy, where the ‘good’ was defined by, and expressed as, what they did and wanted; they actively assert themselves in the world, expressing themselves fully and honestly.  They ‘are’ the expression of their ‘will to power’, and act in a manner that is life-affirming.  Their morality affirmed the self; their qualities they had, like power, wealth, health, and ‘all things that involves vigorous, free, joyful activity’[45]. They were ‘good’; ‘Bad’ was merely an afterthought – it was whatever was ‘not good’.  Whilst not perfect, the nobles did not suffer from their lack, or feel thwarted in achieving their goals.

The Slaves, the ‘plebeian masses’, are poor, sick, or weak.  They are ‘bad’ in that they are ‘not good’, i.e., not ‘noble’.  Whilst barely existing in the nobles’ conception of the world, the slaves’ entire existence is framed in reference to the nobles.  They feel both admiration and hatred for the nobles; they believe they neither have their attributes, nor have the ability to get them.  Being unable to relieve the resultant anger and envy, they turn it inwards, where ‘hatred grows to take on a monstrous and sinister shape’[46].  This is ressentiment; ‘an emotion that does not promote personal excellence [like in the ‘noble’ morality] but rather dwells on competitive strategy and thwarting others’[47].  The Other[48] is perceived as all powerful, while they are ‘powerless to express these feelings actively against the person or social stratum evoking them… [This leads to] a continual re‐experiencing of this impotent hostility’[49].  Their belief that they are lacking causes them to repress their ‘whole negative impulse’ towards the source of their pain, which enables the detachment of ‘negative sentiment’ from its initial object, and the absorption of other qualities into these sentiments[50].  The ‘slaves’ resign; they cultivate their grievances, revel in their ‘ressentiment complaints’, and take comfort in blaming and shaming the ‘evil Other’, their ‘imagined revenge’.

There is one other class – The transitional ‘priestly caste’.  In Nietzsche’s narrative, the priest is a subset of the nobles, and so shares some ‘noble’ traits, but due to their desire for the power of the nobles, and their ‘incurable’ impotence[51] in achieving it, they also share the ressentiment of the slaves[52].  They hold this impotence responsible for the loss of their political supremacy.  Unlike the ‘slaves’, the priests cannot resign themselves to their impotence, because like the nobles, they see ‘themselves to be of a higher rank’, and so, unlike the slaves, expect to be able to realise their goals[53].  This makes them all the more dangerous; those of the noble morality had no requirement for cunning[54], but, in a backhanded compliment, Nietzsche writes that ‘[a] race of such men of ressentiment will inevitably end up cleverer than any noble race’[55].  They are willing to wait for their revenge, and they don’t forget.

The interplay between these three classes is Nietzsche’s ressentiment argument.  While modernity has been threatening for many in the US, those who identify with the ‘Tea Party’ movement feel particularly distressed over the path their ‘nation’ is taking.  Their ‘grassroots’ membership predominantly consists of older, educated, white, middle class, Christian men[56] with ‘internally generated’, ‘ethnic pride’[57] of their nation. It is an almost ‘primordialist fantasy’[58] of the ‘American Nation’; they see themselves as the ethnic descendants of the ‘Founders’, who are ‘the greatest group of Americans to ever live’[59].  They envision themselves as heirs to a proud, wholly ‘American’ culture, as well as the inheritors of strong civic values[60] which had been vindicated across US history; they[61] had conquered and tamed the New World[62], ‘settled’ the ‘European’ wars by their moral leadership and might[63], and had become the ‘leader of the free world’[64].  They were the ‘beacon on the hill’ that Winthrop saw them becoming[65].

The new nobility which has taken over US society since the civil rights movement has displaced the culture which the Tea Party supporters hold dear; their identities are tied into this idea of the nation, and the challenge to the hegemony of their cultural ideals, and a relative loss of cultural and economic power, is anomie-inducing.

“[E]very sufferer instinctively looks for a cause of his distress; more exactly for a culprit, even more precisely for a guilty culprit who is receptive to distress – in short, for a living being upon whom he can release his emotion … on some pretext or other: because the release of emotions is the greatest attempt … at anaesthetizing on the part of the sufferer … In my judgment, we find here the actual physiological causation of ressentiment  … in a yearning … to anaesthetize pain through emotion”[66].

The State, which once protected and entrenched their privilege and control, has been unable to maintain this stance in a post-civil rights world.  Their privileges have been equalised and spread to previously subjugated groups, leading to a downward trend in their position, relative to these other communities[67].  The loss of their imagined nation to this ‘usurper’ nation makes them feel angry, and they feel powerless to act.  Instead of recognising this as the ‘equality’ espoused by their treasured constitution, they perceived this as marginalisation, or discrimination against them[68].  “[I]t’s not the past that’s a ‘foreign country’”, writes Lepore, ‘[i]ts the present’[69].  They feel ashamed that they could do nothing to stop this decline, and admiring, because it hasn’t seemed to fail, despite its faults[70].  There is also a sense in which they admire the capacity of the State to provide them with benefits[71] – and resent the power this gives over them.  Theirs is an ‘orientation to the outside’[72], with an inability to face the existential pain of transience.  Despite the vocal impression of the Tea Party as the ‘voice of the nation’, their support is small.  Without significant backing, there will be no ‘anaesthetisation of pain’ via political channels.  They must be satisfied with their ‘imaginary revenge’, labelling any and all liberals, particularly the President, as ‘un-American’.

The ‘priestly caste’, the Tea Party Leadership, feel this pain also; the changes to society have been profound, and the necessity to ‘pander’, in varying degrees, to public opinion limits their capacity to roll-back or reshape the US in their own image.  However, they cannot be satisfied with mere ‘imaginary revenge’.  It is the priestly caste which acts as the catalyst for the ‘slave revolt in morality’, a ‘radical revaluation of their values… an act of the most deliberate revenge’[73].  They turn ressentiment creative; it at once negates all noble values, and replaces them with that of the ‘slave morality’.  It says ‘NO!’ to whatever is not of it; the hostile, evil ‘Other’ is to blame for their place in the world.  The priestly caste rejected ‘the aristocratic value equation (good = noble = powerful = beautiful = happy = blessed)’[74], and replaced it with a slave morality where ‘those who suffer are good, only the poor, the powerless, the lowly are good’[75]!  They no longer would see any good in those former values; they deigned them evil, and could thereby deign themselves ‘good’ since they did not possess them.  Since they, the Tea Party, don’t have the power to enact their will over the people, power over people must be evil.

The priest, via his respected image amongst the masses, also has the power to change the focus of ressentiment.  The ressentiment sufferers are

[F]righteningly willing and inventive in their pretexts for painful emotions… they rummage through the bowels of their past and present for obscure, questionable stories that will allow them to wallow in tortured suspicion, … they make evil-doers out of friend, wife, child and anyone else near to them. ‘I suffer: someone or other must be guilty’ – and every sick sheep thinks the same. But his shepherd … says to him, ‘Quite right, my sheep! Somebody must be to blame: but you yourself are this somebody … one thing has been achieved by it, the direction of ressentiment is… changed[76].

In turning ressentiment, the priest can manipulate the energy of the slaves toward the priest’s ultimate goal; a return to power, and their expected glory.  Their ressentiment can be directed inward, so as to consolidate a community of sufferers who will learn and pass on the priests values; this is clearly highlighted in statements by the TeaPAC:

Our mission is to restore a limited, constitutional government through effective, ongoing citizen participation. As citizens, we must accept ultimate responsibility for what has happened and what will happen in the future[77].

They direct the ressentiment inwards, citing the lack of ‘professional citizens’[78], in order to keep the ressentiment festering, and impress their value structure.  Since Tea Party supporters tend to be more authoritarian, libertarian, and nativist, as well as more fearful of change[79], the direction by their leaders provide a measure of security.  However, it also allows the ‘priests’ to manipulate them by simplifying all the issues into an ‘evil Other’– the State –, vs. the ‘moral Us’, and providing simplified solutions to fix any and all problems.

Since the nature of the modern world is such that ‘most people [have] few spaces for the joys of agency’, through a ‘national self-identity linked to a valorized and idealized nation-state’, and participation in nationalist causes[80], people could feel empowered, rather than powerless.  Populist politicians, including the Tea Party ‘priests’ have been able to mobilise the ressentiment nationalism of this group by appealing to their sense of belonging; their ‘nation’ is under siege by forces outside the ‘real’ American Nation[81]. Those forces are not merely construed as external to the State, but of it, and within it; they are the ‘undeserving poor’ who live off ‘our hard earned taxpayer dollars’; the ‘illegals’ who come in and take jobs, homes and welfare; in fact, anyone that doesn’t fit to their narrow sense of who the ‘real Americans’ are.  Even the State itself is evil – it has given itself powers in excess of what the founders intended.  These Others are construed as immoral merely through this ‘persuasive definition’[82] of them as such. This implicitly and explicitly directs the ‘slaves’ ressentiment outwards, providing a route for collective action[83]. They call for an ‘American Jeremiad’[84], identifying their idyllic past, the immoral present, and promoting a return to their beloved ‘America’.

This essay has argued that the U.S. ‘Tea Party’ movement exemplifies the attitude that Nietzsche described as ‘ressentiment’.  Their slogan, to ‘Take Back America’ is, in a sense, an attempt to take America back in time, and from, those they see as gaining, via illegitimate means, the fruits of their, and their forefathers, labours.  Seeing themselves as the rightful inheritors of the ‘American Dream’, enshrined in a series of national myths, the ‘Tea Party are sufferers of ressentiment railing against the States’ inability to manage the pace and direction of cultural and economic change.




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[1] Or its other variation ‘Take Back America’: Tea Party Campaign slogan.  See “TeaPAC: About Us,” TeaPAC,

[2] From the US national anthem, ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.

[3] Wendy Brown, “Specters and Angels at the End of History,” in Vocations of Political Theory, ed. J.A. Frank and J. Tambornino (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000), 25.

[4] ‘It was’: that is what the will’s gnashing off teeth and loneliest tribulation is called.  Helpless against what has been done – of all things past it is an angry witness.  Backwards the will cannot will: that it cannot break time and time’s inordinate desire,- that is the will’s loneliest tribulation […] That time does not run backwards, this is its anger; ‘That Which Was’ – this is what the stone it cannot roll is called. Friedrich Nietzsche and Thomas Wayne, Thus Spake Zarathustra, (New York: Algora Publishing, 2007), 107.

[5] Lauren Langman, “Cycles of Contention: The Rise and Fall of the Tea Party,” Critical Sociology 38, no. 4 (2012): 470.

[6] “Cycles of Contention: The Rise and Fall of the Tea Party,” Critical Sociology 38, no. 4 (2012).

[7] Eric Kaufmann, “American Exceptionalism Reconsidered: Anglo-Saxon Ethnogenesis in the Nation, 1776 – 1850,” Journal of American Studies 33, no. 03 (1999); see also Matt A. Barreto et al., “The Tea Party in the Age of Obama: Mainstream Conservatism or out-Group Anxiety?,” in Rethinking Obama, ed. J. Go (Emerald Group Publishing Limited, 2011), 10.

[8] Kaufmann, “American Exceptionalism Reconsidered: Anglo-Saxon Ethnogenesis in the Nation, 1776 – 1850,” 442.

[9] Ibid.

[10] J. Winthrop, “A Modell of Christian Charity,”  Collections of the Massachusetts historical society, no. 3rd series 7 (1630/1838),

[11] Ibid; S. Bercovitch, The Rites of Assent: Transformations in the Symbolic Construction of America  (Routledge, Chapman & Hall, Incorporated, 1993), 8, 9; R.W.B. Lewis, The American Adam: Innocence Tragedy and Tradition in the Nineteenth Century  (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955).

[12] M. Weber, Weber: The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of the Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, trans. T. Parsons, Routledge Classics (London: Routledge, 2001).

[13] In the thought of many, this was obviously granted by the grace of God; whereas idleness would lead one in a downwards spiral into poverty, due to ones personal failures and lowering in the eyes of God. Erich Fromm discusses this in To Have or to Be?  (New York: Continuum, 2005).

[14] Weber: The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of the Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, Ch5:159.

[15] Weber: The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of the Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.

[16] S. Bercovitch, The American Jeremiad  (University of Wisconsin Press, 1978), 105; See also Thomas  Jefferson, “Notes on the State of Virginia,” Lillian Goldman Law Library,

[17] Bercovitch, The Rites of Assent: Transformations in the Symbolic Construction of America, 32.

[18] See Cotton, cited in R. Hofstadter, Anti-Intellectualism in American Life  (Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2012), 46; Sowell argues that the ‘common man’ triumphed against the ‘presumptions of the arrogant.  See T. Sowell, The Quest for Cosmic Justice  (New York: Free Press, 2001), 187.

[19] Winthrop, “A Modell of Christian Charity”; Ronald Regan, “Remarks Accepting the Presidential Nomination” (at the the Republican National Convention, Dallas, Texas, August 23 1984), sourced at:

[20] Emerson, as cited in Kaufmann, “American Exceptionalism Reconsidered: Anglo-Saxon Ethnogenesis in the Nation, 1776 – 1850,” 452.

[21] David Brown, Contemporary Nationalism: Civic, Ethnocultural, and Multicultural Politics  (London: Routledge, 2000), Ch 3; see also S.M. Lipset, American Exceptionalism: A Double-Edged Sword  (W.W. Norton, 1997); and Thistlethwaite, in The First New Nation: The United States in Historical and Comparative Perspective  (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1963).

[22] American Exceptionalism: A Double-Edged Sword, 1-3.  This is also part of the critique of American Exceptionalism.

[23] M. Kazin, The Populist Persuasion: An American History  (Cornell University Press, 1998), 1.

[24] Brown, Contemporary Nationalism: Civic, Ethnocultural, and Multicultural Politics, Ch 3.

[25] Though, this idea of course has been challenged.  See Bercovitch, The American Jeremiad, 154; A. de Tocqueville, Democracy in America  (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1959), Ch 14.

[26] See James Madison, “The Federalist Papers No. 10: The Union as a Safeguard against Domestic Faction and Insurrection,” Lillian Goldman Law Library,

[27] Thomas Jefferson et al., “The Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776,” ibid.

[28] Lipset, American Exceptionalism: A Double-Edged Sword, 1.

[29] This can be seen in POTUS Wilson, and his ‘moral imperative’ to make the world ‘safe for democracy’, in Woodrow Wilson, “Request for Declaration of War” (at the Joint Session of the Two Houses of Congress, Washington, April 2 1917), sourced at: 7.

[30] Lauren Langman, “The Social Psychology of Nationalism: To Die for the Sake of Strangers,” in The Sage Handbook of Nations and Nationalism, ed. G. Delanty and K. Kumar (London: SAGE, 2006), 74.

[31] Barreto et al., “The Tea Party in the Age of Obama: Mainstream Conservatism or out-Group Anxiety?,” 10.

[32] In theory, even if this is still sometimes lacking in practice.

[33] Slavery being the most prominent example of explicit discrimination; there is also the lack of women’s political and personal rights, and lack of institutionalised anti-discrimination even against Catholics, or the Irish to consider.  Bart Motes, “The Tea Party Wants You to Call Them Racist,” (2010),; Joan Dowlin, “The Tea Party Movement Vs. The Civil Rights Movement,”  The Blog(2010),

[34] Jeffrey S.  Passel and D’Vera Cohn. “U.S. Population Projections: 2005-2050 “. (Washington DC: Pew Research Centre, 2008),

[35] Kaufmann, “American Exceptionalism Reconsidered: Anglo-Saxon Ethnogenesis in the Nation, 1776 – 1850.”

[36]Barreto et al., “The Tea Party in the Age of Obama: Mainstream Conservatism or out-Group Anxiety?,” 10.

[37] Bercovitch, The American Jeremiad, 342.

[38] See M.J. Sandel, Democracy’s Discontent: America in Search of a Public Philosophy  (Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1998), Ch 6, esp. 172-173.

[39] Henry Blodget, “Here’s the Biggest Problem in the American Economy,”  Business Insider Australia(2012),

[40] W. Brown, States of Injury: Power and Freedom in Late Modernity  (Princeton University Press, 1995), 68.

[41] Friedrich Nietzsche, Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, ed. Keith Ansell-Pearson, trans. Carol Diethe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), GM1:7-10. Scheler, as cited in Lita Crociani-windland and Paul Hoggett, “Politics and Affect,” Subjectivity 5, no. 2 (2012): 166.

[42] J. Portmann, When Bad Things Happen to Other People  (Taylor & Francis, 2000), 119.

[43] It is interesting to ask the meaning of the Tea Party wish to ‘Take America Back’? To when? From whom?

[44] Nietzsche, Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, GM7-10.

[45] Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition.

[46] F. Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morals : A Polemic., trans. D. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), GMI:7. Parts of this translation are more eloquent.

[47] Robert Solomon, “Nietzsche Ad Hominem: Perspectivism Personality and Ressentiment Revisited,” in The Cambridge Companion to Nietzsche, ed. B. Magnus and K. Higgins (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 210.

[48] Scheler suggests that ressentiment ‘is not in the same sense tied to definite objects… On the contrary, this affect seeks those objects, those aspects of men and things, from which it can draw gratification’.  See M. Scheler, Ressentiment  (Milwaukee, Wisconsin: Marquette University Press, 1994), 30.

[49] Merton, in Jock Young, “Moral Panic: Its Origins in Resistance, Ressentiment and the Translation of Fantasy into Reality,” British Journal of Criminology 49, no. 1 (2009): 12.  Following Reginster, I disagree with the final portion of the Merton quote.

[50] Panu Minkkinen, “Ressentiment as Suffering: On Transitional Justice and the Impossibility of Forgiveness,” Law and Literature 19, no. 3 (2007): 521.

[51] Bernard Reginster, “Nietzsche on Ressentiment and Valuation,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 57, no. 2 (1997): 8.

[52] Nietzsche, Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, GMI:6-7.

[53] Reginster, “Nietzsche on Ressentiment and Valuation,” 287 – 288. See also note 9.

[54] However, it ought to be said that those of the ‘noble’ morality did not see this lack as an obstacle to obtaining their values.

[55] Nietzsche, Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, GMI:10.

[56] Barreto et al., “The Tea Party in the Age of Obama: Mainstream Conservatism or out-Group Anxiety?; Langman, “Cycles of Contention: The Rise and Fall of the Tea Party.”

[57] David Brown, “The Ethnic Majority: Benign or Malign?,” Nations and Nationalism 14, no. 4 (2008): 771; Adams calls this ‘racial pride’, in J.T. Adams and H. Schneiderman, The Epic of America  (Transaction Publishers, 2012), 46.

[58] Matthew Levinger and Paula Franklin Lytle, “Myth and Mobilisation: The Triadic Structure of Nationalist Rhetoric,” Nations and Nationalism 7, no. 2 (2001): 177.

[59] Glenn Beck, as cited in Jared A. Goldstein, “The Tea Party Movement and the Perils of Popular Originalism,” Arizona Law Review 53(2011): 849.

[60] Brown, “The Ethnic Majority: Benign or Malign?,” 772.

[61] At least, they were descended from those who did – see Stephen Pinker, The Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined  (London: Penguin Group, 2011), 521. for an interesting discussion on these lines.

[62] D.H. Murdoch, The American West: The Invention of a Myth  (University of Nevada Press, 2001), 18.

[63] Woodrow Wilson, “President Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points,” Lillian Goldman Law Library,; Truman, in J. Fousek, To Lead the Free World: American Nationalism and the Cultural Roots of the Cold War  (University of North Carolina Press, 2000), 19-23.

[64] To Lead the Free World: American Nationalism and the Cultural Roots of the Cold War, 130.

[65] Winthrop, “A Modell of Christian Charity”; Regan, “Remarks Accepting the Presidential Nomination.”

[66] Nietzsche, Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, III:15.

[67] Though this trend is merely relative; substantively, the Tea Party Supporters are still economically better off. Liah Greenfeld and Daniel Chirot, “Nationalism and Aggression,” Theory and Society 23, no. 1 (1994): 85. suggest this is an inspiration for ressentiment.

[68] Gary Younge, “Race Is Central to the Fear and Angst of the Us Right,” (2013),

[69] {Lepore@137}

[70] There has been admitted failure on both Democrat and Republican sides.

[71] “Hands off our Medicare!” is an odd placard noting Tea Party philosophy, yet when queried, they defend their receipt of government benefits by claiming that they deserved it because they paid into the system.  See Paul Briand, “Average Tea Party Member Is Baby Boomer,”,

[72] Keith Ansell-Pearson, Carol Diethe, and Friedrich Nietzsche, Nietzsche : ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), GMI:10.

[73] Nietzsche, Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, GMI:7.

[74] Ibid.

[75] Ibid.

[76] Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, GMIII:15.

[77] “TeaPAC: About Us”.

[78] Ibid.

[79] Andrew J. Perrin et al., “Cultures of the Tea Party,” Contexts, Spring 2011, 74.

[80] Langman, “The Social Psychology of Nationalism: To Die for the Sake of Strangers,” 72.

[81] The ‘garrison nationalism’ discussed in Brown, “The Ethnic Majority: Benign or Malign?,” 783.

[82] Stevenson, in John Hill, “The Grammar of Restorationism,” The Australasian Catholic Record 88, no. 2 (2011): 179. Daly defines ‘persuasive definition’ as a definition which ‘gives a new conceptual meaning to a familiar word without changing its emotive meaning; and which is used with the conscious or unconscious purpose of changing the direction of people’s interests’.  Ibid.

[83] Nietzsche, Nietzsche: ‘On the Genealogy of Morality’ and Other Writings Student Edition, GMIII:15,20; Patrik Aspers, “Nietzsche’s Sociology,” Sociological Forum 22, no. 4 (2007): 484.

[84] Bercovitch, The American Jeremiad.


Vygotsky and Learning

Learning happens. It happens so often, in fact, that we regularly fail to call it ‘learning’, except in the narrow field of ‘schooling’. Theories of learning aim to explain the process of how we learn; in so far as they succeed, they can be used to guide teachers towards better practice. While no one learning theory has been shown to be universal, or flawless, Constructivism, specifically the ‘Social Constructivism’ of Vygotsky (Vygotsky & Cole, 1978), provides useful insight into this learning process. His theory suggests that learning occurs through collaboration with ‘More Knowledgeable Others’ (MKOs), within a ‘Zone of Proximal Development’. This view of learning has both challenging and exciting implications for effective praxis; on this view, teachers must work towards providing: engaging, immersive and expressive teaching; a safe, supportive, and diverse social environment that includes family and community connections; holistic learning tasks, set in a ‘real world’ contexts; and predominantly dynamic, formative assessment.

Vygotsky is a Social Constructivist; while accepting Piaget’s claim that learners were actively constructing their knowledge (McInerney & McInerney, 2009, p. 53), Vygotsky did not accept Piaget’s noting of the learner as a solo explorer, constructing their knowledge through self discovery (McInerney & McInerney, 2009, p. 53). Vygotsky saw that whilst learning takes place within the mind, and skills are often practiced and mastered alone, learners were never truly ‘solo explorers’; their learning is never completely ‘individual’, but is socially mediated by ‘MKOs’, and through the use of various physical and cognitive tools, e.g. books/reading (language), equipment, rules, and strategy (Salomon & Perkins, 1998, p. 2). This ‘mediation’ begins from our earliest experiences, and continues indefinitely.

The learning process follows the same basic pattern, regardless of the age of the learner. Where a learner comes across a problem that they cannot solve alone, a ‘Zone of Proximal Development’ (ZPD) is generated (Newman, Griffin, & Cole, as cited in Hausfather, 1996). The ZPD is a theoretical construct to highlight the ‘zone’ between the knowledge and skills that a learner has already developed, and can use without assistance (the ‘Actual Development Level’), and the things the learner cannot do even with support (John-Steiner & Mahn, 1996). This ‘zone’ helps to identify current knowledge, the knowledge and skills that are as yet immature, but in potentia, and skills and knowledge that the learner is not yet ready for; it is here that there are opportunities for learning and development[1].

Each learner, in every domain, has a ‘ZPD (Hausfather, 1996; Vygotsky, 1997; Vygotsky & Cole, 1978). On this view, the learner is a ‘cognitive apprentice’ that is supported by ‘tools’, such as books and computers, and ‘mediators’, such as MKOs, to co-construct new knowledge, or to ‘bridge’ the gap between old knowledge used in a new situation. In Vygotsky’s learning theory, it was the role of an MKO to support the ‘cognitive apprentice’ in a learning task through their ‘ZPD’ (Vygotsky, 1997; Vygotsky & Cole, 1978); building their capacity by setting tasks that were neither too easy, or too challenging. Depending on the level of development of particular skills within the ZPD, MKOs’ support may be graduated through a series of ‘stages’, including modelling, scaffolding, fading, and coaching (Collins, 1991).

The collaborative nature of meaning-making makes learning bi-directional; despite the apparent ‘transmission’ of knowledge from the MKO to a learner, the knowledge co-created does not merely affect the learner, but also the MKO, and others. By teaching, the MKO is also learning; sometimes gaining new ‘content’ knowledge, from the learner’s experience, at other times, the learning is a deeper understanding of the subject, and knowledge of how to teach. Meaning is neither ‘transmitted’, nor ‘independent’, neither ‘nature’ or ‘nurture’; instead, it is a little of both. The learner is both shaped by, and shapes, the environment around them (Bodrova, 1997, p. 16).


Vygotsky’s theory has some challenging, but exciting implications for my teaching. The first is that, particularly in my LOTE classroom, I need to be engaging, immersive, and expressive, because Vygotsky’s theory suggests that

“…children observe conversation and […] it is the unity of perception, speech and action which leads them to make sense of situations… Children do not simply react to the words that are used but interpret the context, facial expression, and body language to understand meaning.” (Pound, 2012, p. 39)

While teaching and learning a second language, context, expression, and body language are key strategies to ‘decoding’ unfamiliar vocabulary and grammatical structures. Similarly, in my SOSE classes, it will be important to recognise the context, expression and body language of my learners who speak the same language; we sometimes need to interpret their terminology due to unfamiliar subgroup differences. This will require attending and questioning skills.

The second key implication for my teaching is that the learning environment must be a safe, supportive place, which encourages diversity and collaboration with family and community. Vygotsky’s emphasis on the social nature of learning, and the contexts in which it happens, promotes both interactive, collaborative activities at school, and strong relationship building with family and community outside of it. Firstly, encouraging, and developing the skills for group work demand the use of multiliteracies (including social/emotional literacy) and metacognition. I will have to model these multiliteracies, and, through attention to my feedback and teaching styles, must develop a space where learners feel safe and supported, by both myself, and their peers. Secondly, Vygotsky’s theory demands attention on partnerships with families and communities; learning and development are mediated by a variety of social actors, and without collaboration with, and reinforcement from, family connections, learning will not occur at the optimum level.

Similarly, while diversity in our classrooms can present challenges, it can also provide benefits in a Vygotskian framework. Vygotsky suggests that different cultures develop different mental tools and strategies (Davidson & Davidson, 1994; Vygotsky, 1997). This provides additional reasons to support multicultural awareness and cross-cultural support networks. By utilising the diversity in the classroom, additional opportunities for peer- and teacher support would be created, and strategies and ‘tools’ could be shared cross-culturally; this is seen when we consider the ‘8 Ways of Learning’ (Bangamalanha Centre via the Traditional Owners of Western New South Wales, 2011) that has been promoted to assist with Aboriginal perspectives across the curriculum[2]. Sharing cognitive and metacognitive strategies opens these resources to all, and allows them further opportunity to internalise a range of strategies that will assist them in achieving their educational goals (Kozulin, 2003, p. 16). It also promotes recognition of the value of diversity, and respect for all.

The third key implication for my teaching is that tasks should be holistic, and based in the ‘real world’. When requiring a product of learning, whether in social sciences or in the L2, learning and assessment tasks should be holistic. This is due to the contextual nature of learning; abstraction from one field to another is not automatic. Rather than demanding demonstration of individual skill or memory of an isolated fact, teachers need to look at them in a holistic way, to embed the tasks in as ‘real-world’ a context as possible. This also connects to the activation of the students’ prior learning/knowledge, in that the use of skills and facts in new ways supports the abstraction of this learning into new areas.

Vygotsky’s emphasis on context was to bridge the gap between learners’ real world experience, and the learning done in school. As their knowledge is ‘deconstructed’ in the classroom, and new knowledge co-constructed, students develop their ability to analyse, formalise and abstract their experience to novel situations (Smagorinsky, 2013). This will be important in both LOTE and SOSE. In LOTE, there is little point in teaching young adolescents the vocabulary and constructs for discussions about advanced science, or political theory; teaching topics should be predominantly within the students’ range of experience, relevant and relatable to their lives. It is also important to avoid breaking tasks down into components; learners need to be focused on the ‘whole’ (McInerney & McInerney, 2009, p. 55). Similarly, in the study of SOSE, particularly history, it is important to bring students experiences of the world now, to see their world reflected in the world of the past. Through their experiences, they will relate, and investigate differences between then and now; they will also have the opportunity to reflect on where we can go from here, and the impact they can have in affecting the world around them. Everything they experience in their world today must be used to provide connections between their understandings, and the abstracted historical knowledge.

The other aspect of this worth mentioning relates to the idea that cultural tools do not merely shape us, but we use these tools to change our environment (Salomon & Perkins, 1998). As a LOTE teacher, I want to develop learners who find their own ‘space’ between two cultures, with due consideration of ‘correct’ language in the classroom, but also with the confidence to experiment with the modes and registers of their counterparts in the target culture. This implies a careful balance between requiring ‘school’ language, and allowing students to make the L2 ‘their own’, in conjunction with other speakers in the community.

The fourth key implication of Vygotsky’s theory for my teaching is that it implies a much more nuanced view of assessment; not only do we require knowledge of what a student can do now, but we need to know where that student is going, and what they need assistance with to get there. Tasks must be pitched at the correct level, and the appropriate level of support needs to be given. I will need to gain knowledge of my students’ capabilities very quickly, and, particularly in LOTE, be capable of providing multi-levelled tasks. Formal assessment needs to be dynamic, rather than static, and focus on the formative elements of assessment, rather than all attention on the summative elements. In all my classes, formative assessment will be paramount; regular feedback will be given to students both formally and informally. Assessment, particularly in my LOTE classes, will by as ‘dynamic’ as I can make it, with individual/paired activities that are assessed and progression that is plotted over time. This will assist me as the teacher, in knowing my students; It will assist in determining what, when, and how much assistance to provide to individuals and the class as a whole. Summative assessment is necessary, but will eventually only demonstrate what I already know about my students, and what they already know about themselves.

For Vygotsky (Vygotsky, 1997), learning was not limited to formal education; it began almost immediately after birth, and didn’t really stop until – one assumes – death. While His Social Constructivist theory, like all learning theories, has flaws, it does provide a useful conception of learning that can support praxis. The implications for teaching are at once challenging and exciting; they are also admittedly complex in practice, noting the constraints in classrooms. This difficulty, however, should not be cause for discarding the theory; striving for greater incorporation of social constructivist ideas is worthwhile for both ‘learning teaching’, and ‘teaching learning’.


Bangamalanha Centre via the Traditional Owners of Western New South Wales. (2011). 8 [Aboriginal] Ways of Learning. from

Bodrova, Elene. (1997). Key Concepts of Vygotsky’s Theory of Learning and Development. Journal of Early Childhood Teacher Education, 18(2), 16-22. doi: 10.1080/1090102970180205

Collins, A. (1991). Cognitive Apprenticeship: Marking Thinking Visible. American Educator, 15, 38-39.

Davidson, John, & Davidson, Frances. (1994). Vygotsky’s Developmental Theory: An Introduction: Davidson Films, Inc.

Hausfather, Samuel J. (1996). Vygotsky and schooling: Creating a social context for learning. Action in Teacher Education, 18(2), 1-10.

John-Steiner, Vera, & Mahn, Holbrook. (1996). Sociocultural approaches to learning and development: A Vygotskian framework. Educational psychologist, 31(3-4), 191-206.

Kozulin, A. (2003). Psychological Tools and Mediated Learning. In A. Kozulin, B. Gindis, V. S. Ageyev & S. M. Miller (Eds.), Vygotsky’s Educational Theory in Cultural Context. Learning in Doing: Social, Cognitive, and Computational Perspectives (pp. 15 – 38). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

McInerney, D.M., & McInerney, V. (2009). Educational Psychology: Constructing Learning: Pearson Education Australia.

Pound, Linda. (2012). How Children Learn : From Montessori to Vygosky – Educational Theories and Approaches Made Easy  Retrieved from

Salomon, Gavriel, & Perkins, David N. (1998). Chapter 1: Individual and Social Aspects of Learning. Review of Research in Education, 23(1), 1-24. doi: 10.3102/0091732×023001001

Smagorinsky, Peter. (2013). What Does Vygotsky Provide for the 21st Century Language Arts Teacher? Language Arts, 90(3), 192 – 204.

Vygotsky, L.S. (1997). Interaction Between Learning and Development. In M. Gauvain & M. Cole (Eds.), Readings on the Development of Children (2nd ed.). New York: W. H. Freeman and Company.

Vygotsky, L.S., & Cole, M. (1978). MIND IN SOCIETY: Harvard University Press.

[1] Which, on this theory, is intimately connected with development – learning is not the same as development, but learning can result in development (Hausfather, 1996).

[2] Correct citation unknown; contact with the Bangamalanha Centre was attempted, but failed. Suggested citation was extrapolated from the wiki protocol page.

The Battle of Midway: The not-so decisive battle

Between 4-7 June, 1942 just a month after the Battle of the Coral Sea, and six months after Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese developed a battle plan to try to take the Midway Atoll, and draw the American carrier fleet into a trap.   This plan was named ‘Operation MI’, whereby Japan hoped to crush the American Pacific Fleet decisively.  The plan would allow them to take the Midway Atoll to assert their dominance in the Pacific, closing the gap in their northern defences[1] and forcing the US into a negotiated peace.  Unfortunately for the Japanese, instead of a decisive win, the Imperial Japanese Navy indisputably lost.  The Battle of Midway was a won decisively by the US fleet.

Decisive /dɪˈsʌɪsɪv/1. settling an issue; producing a definite result [2]

That the US won this battle ‘decisively’ is uncontentious, however when discussing the Battle of Midway, there are many who claim this win was something more; not only was the battle won decisively, but that this battle was ‘decisive’ for the outcome of the Pacific War itself.  Could Midway really have been ‘decisive’ for the Pacific War? H. P. Willmott says no.  He argues that the Battle of Midway should not be considered ‘decisive’ for the Pacific War, because this would be to use the term in a way different to its accepted meaning.  For Midway to have been ‘decisive’ for the Pacific War, Willmott suggests that it must satisfy at least one of three primary conditions:  A Japanese win must have been able to change the outcome of the war; The American victory must have caused a ‘death knell’ for Japanese forces; or that the Pacific War for the US hinged on such a victory, without which their situation could not have been reversed.  Willmott suggests, and this essay concurs, that none of these conditions are sufficiently met to consider Midway ‘decisive’; rather, Midway should be seen as a (large) part of a campaign which started with the Battle of the Coral Sea, and ended with the Battle of Guadalcanal.

A Japanese win at Midway, a different outcome for the Pacific War?

Implicit in the choice of Midway as the ‘decisive moment’ in the Pacific war is the judgment that from this point defeat was inevitable for Japan. This idea of inevitability hinges on the assumption that there were genuine alternatives to the outcome of the war, and that Midway created the conditions for the US victory. However this is highly doubtful, because Midway was only a naval battle, and ‘even great victories do not necessarily decide the outcome of conflict at sea, let alone on land’[3].  Likewise, it can be argued that there were only two outcomes possible in the Pacific War; a US military win, or a win/win negotiated peace, since a mere prolongation of the Pacific War, without affecting the final outcome, would have been insufficient to be considered ‘decisive’.

It must be considered if the Japanese could have been victorious against the US. Realistically, the US decision to implement a ‘total war’ strategy meant that the US was not in significant danger of ‘losing’ the Pacific War.  This may have prolonged the timeframe for victory, and been achieved with greater human and materiel losses on both sides[4], though it was highly doubtful that the Japanese could have overcome the significant economic and resource issues they had.  The Pacific war was never really militarily ‘winnable’ by the Japanese; they simply did not have the economic power, industrial strength, or the materiel or human resources to win a total war against the US.  The industrial power of the U.S gave them the capacity to inflict their revenge upon the Japanese; it was merely a matter of time.

If Japanese defeat was inevitable, then there could be no ‘decisive’ battles at all, save for perhaps the initial attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941; as Willmott notes, ‘the notion of an inevitable victory is irreconcilable with that of a decisive battle’[5].  If there was a possibility of a different outcome, it was in a possible negotiation of peace, which, all things considered, was highly unlikely to have been successful[6]. The Pacific War, for the Japanese, was never supposed to be a militarily won engagement.  Japan knew they would be unable to keep pace with the Americans; Yamamoto is purported to have understood this well, given his time at Harvard, in the USA.  He is purported to have said ‘Anyone who has seen the auto factories in Detroit and the oil fields in Texas […] knows that Japan lacks the national power for a naval race with America’[7]. Instead, the Japanese objectives in the war, at least initially, were to gain leverage for recognition of their political objectives.  The Midway operation, like the attack on Pearl Harbor six months earlier, was not part of a campaign for the conquest of the United States, but was aimed at its elimination as a strategic Pacific power, thereby giving Japan carte blanche in establishing its Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.  The aim was to encourage the US to deem the Pacific too costly to be worthwhile.

American victory, Japanese ‘death knell’?

That was their primary reason for Midway – they aimed to force the Americans to agree to a favourable peace deal through a ‘decisive’ win.  Instead, Midway exacerbated an already problematic asset gap, since Japan had far less capacity to recoup those losses.  At Midway, the US lost one destroyer, one aircraft carrier and 147 aircraft, but for these losses, they destroyed Japans four best aircraft carriers, along with their entire crews, air crews, and aircraft, and a cruiser[8]. However, while these losses at Midway were devastating, ‘the American victory […] did not immediately alleviate the Japanese threat in the Central and South Pacific, nor did it win back one foot of conquered soil’[9].  According to Willmott, for a standalone naval victory like Midway to be ‘decisive’, it would have been necessary to prove to the other side that the costs of engaging were too high, forcing a negotiation for surrender or bilateral peace.  Midway did not meet this ‘death knell’ criteria; in order to create this situation, assets that were never at risk at Midway would have needed to be under threat or lost; troops, industry, and infrastructure.

According to Spector, the Japanese still had sufficient forces after Midway to again take the initiative for another try at the US fleet[10]. The Japanese still held the overall balance of power in the Pacific, and at best, still retained a degree of naval superiority in the Pacific after Midway; at worst, they had a rough parity.  This meant that if they had maintained the initiative, and pursued aggressively, they may have been able to break the American sea lines of communications to Australia[11].  This superiority, as discussed previously, was known to be time sensitive; they knew they would have to act before the US could use their economy to full effect.  In spite of this, the Japanese were still a strong threat to any action in the Pacific after Midway. They could still perform offensive operations, both naval and land-based; they had not wagered enough at Midway to force them to surrender; and their appropriated territories in the Pacific had defences strong enough to cause concern.  While the loss of four carriers made it difficult for the Japanese to support their ground forces, it was not a significant enough loss for them to deem it too costly to continue the war – they still had those other forces, and control of resources in South East Asia.  The Pacific War was far too extensive to have been decided on the basis of one single, purely naval battle. It is difficult, therefore, to justify Midway as the ‘decisive’ point in the Pacific; it merely provided a ‘short breathing space’[12] for the Americans.

Victory in the Pacific hinged on Midway?

Since it has been shown already that it is highly doubtful that there could have been a different outcome to the Pacific War overall, how could a victory at Midway be required to win the Pacific War?  While it is certainly true that the US may not have been confident of committing to the later battle at Guadalcanal without a win at Midway[13], it is certainly likely that they would have continued the war; a ‘victory’ for Japan, consisting of their desired negotiated peace, was unlikely with the US emphasis on ‘absolute victory’[14], and later, with the joint Allied doctrine of ‘unconditional surrender’[15].  Given the differences in industrial strengths noted previously, there was little doubt that the US could out produce Japan; this alone meant that Midway would not prove ‘decisive’ in the context of the war.

There is also the follow on from their industrial capacity; even a US loss at Midway could have been made good in a short period of time[16].  The US had, or had the capacity to produce, replacements for every unit they fielded at Midway.  A loss at Midway would not have been critical to the US economy; perhaps the greatest difficulties with a loss at Midway were political.  In a counterfactual scenario posed by Isom, the additional time and materiel fielded by Japan in 1945 may have led to a greater reliance upon the support provided by the Soviet Union[17].  This could have led to a brokered occupation policy with the Soviets, providing a measure of control in Japan much as happened in Germany after the end of the War in the European theatre. This would have forced similar ideological concessions as those made in the European Theatre with the Soviet Union.  What this shows, though, is that even had greater effort been required without a Midway, or with a loss at Midway, the US would still be in a position to secure a victory in the Pacific.

Midway: Only ‘decisive’ as a component of a campaign

If Midway is to be considered ‘decisive’, Willmott convincingly argues that this could only be true if seen as an ‘admittedly large’[18] component of a campaign, which included the Battle of the Coral Sea beforehand, and the Battle of Guadalcanal after it.  The battle of the Coral Sea provided the benefit to morale, and reduced the pressure on the US. It also shifted the balance of power away from the Japanese, though not yet ‘to’ the US[19].  While the losses at the Battle of the Coral Sea favoured the Japanese, Willmott argues that it is not merely the numbers that matter[20]; it is, instead, the fact that at this stage of the war, the Japanese simply could not afford the waste of time and resources that they could not have recouped.  Their loss, while giving the appearance of a tactical victory, Willmott suggests actually created a strategic loss to their potential[21].

The Battle of Midway shifted the balance of power again; it created an increasingly significant asset gap in the Japanese forces, and the loss of carriers, along with their aircraft, damaged both Japanese air superiority, and offensive capability[22].  The Japanese lost the initiative; however it was not yet taken up by the US.  It was these factors that made Midway important, however they did not show their true impact until combined with the Battle of Guadalcanal, and the Island hopping campaign.

The Battle of Guadalcanal saw the Americans take up offense, and placed Japan on the defensive; it allowed the Americans exploit the losses of the Japanese in both the Coral Sea, and Midway to their full strategic potential.  While the battles in the Coral Sea and at Midway tore away Japanese assets, and damaged their defensive perimeter[23], the US needed these wins backed up at Guadalcanal in order to support the Solomons’ campaign, and to begin the hard trek to the end of the war in the Pacific.


This essay has argued that Willmott’s thesis that Midway alone was not decisive for the outcome of the Pacific War. Midway alone could not be decisive, because it could not have fulfilled the implications of the term; It could neither change the outcome of the war, cause a ‘death knell’ for Japanese forces, or been an irreversible hinge on which victory rested.  However, together with the battles of the Coral Sea, and of Guadalcanal, Midway can be seen as a piece of an important campaign that acted towards creating the conditions for victory in the Pacific.




Asada, S. From Mahan to Pearl Harbor: The Imperial Japanese Navy and the United States.  Annapolis, MD: US Naval Institute Press, 2013.

“Decisive.” In Oxford Dictionary of English, edited by Angus Stevenson Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010.

Isom, D.W. Midway Inquest: Why the Japanese Lost the Battle of Midway.  Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2007.

Lillian Goldman Law Library. “Casablanca Conference, Feb 12, 1943.”

———. “Joint Session of the Congress Monday, December 8, 1941.”

Murray, Williamson. “Allied Strategy in the First Phase of the Pacific War: Pearl Harbor and the U.S. Reaction.” In Eighth Forum, International Forum on War History: Strategy in the Pacific War. Tokyo, Japan: National institute for Defense Studies, 2009.

Roehrs, M.D., and W.A. Renzi. World War Two in the Pacific. M E Sharpe Incorporated, 2004.

Spector, R.H. Eagle against the Sun: The American War with Japan.  New York: Free Press, 1985.

Till, Geoffrey. “Midway: The Decisive Battle?”. Naval History 19, no. 5 (2005): 32-36.

Willmott, H.P. The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942.  Annapolis, Maryland: Naval Institute Press, 1983.


[1] H.P. Willmott, The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942  (Annapolis, Maryland: Naval Institute Press, 1983), 67.

[2] “Decisive,” ed. Angus Stevenson, 3rd ed., Oxford Dictionary of English (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010),

[3] Geoffrey Till, “Midway: The Decisive Battle?,” Naval History 19, no. 5 (2005): 33.

[4] D.W. Isom, Midway Inquest: Why the Japanese Lost the Battle of Midway  (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2007), 293.

[5] Willmott, The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942, 519.

[6] Isom, Midway Inquest: Why the Japanese Lost the Battle of Midway, 207.

[7] S. Asada, From Mahan to Pearl Harbor: The Imperial Japanese Navy and the United States  (Annapolis, MD: US Naval Institute Press, 2013), 183.

[8] R.H. Spector, Eagle against the Sun: The American War with Japan  (New York: Free Press, 1985), 176.

[9] M.D. Roehrs and W.A. Renzi, World War Two in the Pacific  (M E Sharpe Incorporated, 2004), 105.

[10] Spector, Eagle against the Sun: The American War with Japan, 178.

[11] Williamson Murray, “Allied Strategy in the First Phase of the Pacific War: Pearl Harbor and the U.S. Reaction,” in Eighth Forum, International Forum on War History: Strategy in the Pacific War (Tokyo, Japan: National institute for Defense Studies, 2009), 53.

[12] Ibid.

[13] Willmott, The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942, 514.

[14] Lillian Goldman Law Library, “Joint Session of the Congress Monday, December 8, 1941,”

[15] “Casablanca Conference, Feb 12, 1943,”

[16] Willmott, The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942, 522.

[17] see Isom’s counterfactual scenario in Isom, Midway Inquest: Why the Japanese Lost the Battle of Midway, 290-92 especially.

[18] Willmott, The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942.

[19] The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942, 514.

[20] The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942, 517.

[21] The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942, 518.

[22] The Barrier and the Javelin: Japanese and Allied Pacific Strategies, February to June 1942, 514, 23.

[23] Till, “Midway: The Decisive Battle?.”

Principlist and Particularist Ethics: Strengths and Weaknesses

What kind of person do we aim to be? Persons of principle, who (aim to) uphold a set of standards, a ‘moral code’?  Perhaps we aim at being someone who is sensitive to situations, with no set rules, but determining right or wrong depending on each new situation they find themselves in? This will depend on whether you think rules or principles are essential, or whether the specific facts of an individual situation has greater import, when considering whether an action is moral.  This is the argument between moral principlists[1], and moral particularists.  After a brief introduction to the problem, two key principlist positions, Kantian deontology and Utilitarianism, will be explored along with particularism to find the strengths and weaknesses of these positions.  It will be shown that in spite of the strengths of principle-based theories, particularism still poses a significant challenge to them.

Principle based ethical systems claim that there are one or more true, general, and universal principles that are ontologically prior to action, and which serve as guides or directives on ethical behaviour.  Without principles, they suggest, there can be no morality, for there would be no standards by which they can be determined[2].  While they disagree on the content and structure of an ethical system, two of the most recognised principle based systems are Kantian Deontology and Utilitarianism.  Each of these ethical systems provide methods of judging actions based on their observance of a general principle.  They are the ‘moral reasons’ for acting in any particular case, which may be held to be a priori, known through reason alone, or known a posteriori, through experience of similar cases.  Regardless of any additional features, whenever a ‘moral reason’ appears, this will always have the same moral value, moral ‘polarity’[3].  That is, for a Kantian, false-promising will always be morally wrong; perhaps for a Utilitarian, buying expensive cars instead of donating to charity would be.  They share a demand for application of a principle[4] in each scenario one finds oneself in, though may disagree on specifics[5].

Particularists disagree with this principle approach.  Rather than a rule being ontologically prior, a moral particularist suggests that moral reasons are particular to their context, and are ontologically prior.  Rational moral judgement, under particularism, does not depend on a ‘suitable provision’ of principles[6]. the moral reasons for an action can also be affected in polarity by their relations and wider interconnections[7].  What might have been a ‘moral reason’ for acting in one case, may not have the same relevance, or support the same polarity in another case.  While a principle of ‘don’t cause pain’ might indeed suggest a good moral reason not to hit your mother with a bokken[8], in another case, causing pain in this manner might be morally neutral[9].  There are also cases whereby causing pain is the morally right action; when encountering a gunman threatening to kill a group of people, hitting the gunman’s[10] arm with a bokken will certainly cause pain, but in that situation, it would be morally required.  Perhaps an onlooker, seeing the event from a distance, may see you hit your mother with a bokken, and evaluate your action as immoral, without seeing the gun in her hand that threatened the others present; likewise, we may also retain some moral guilt for this act, despite the circumstances[11].  What is apparent though, to a particularist moral agent fully cognisant of the context, is that the same action ‘causing pain’ has switched polarity based on a holism of reasons; it must be evaluated based on the situation, not against a general rule.

Strengths and Weaknesses of these Views

Both principlism and particularism have several strengths and weaknesses.  A principle based ethical system is seen as having universals which are rationally calculable and objective.  To their credit, and to the extent they match our expectations, these strengths make principle based theories very attractive. However, principle based systems are also heavily criticised for failing to factor for complexity, being too rigid in their demands, and too impartial.  For its part, particularism is accused of not having the strengths of principles based morals.  It does not have the capacity for universals, cannot straightforwardly guide action, and is not objective, but subjective; the very antithesis of principles based theories.  However, these weaknesses can be forceful strengths: while not offering a universal, it highlights the natural complexity of human endeavour; while generally more difficult to apply, and more labour intensive, particularism can offer a more satisfying outcome through a comprehensive and sensitive consideration of the situation; and while less objective, particularism can factor for the inherent nature of human relationships.  To the extent that principle based theories do not match our moral expectations, particularist ethics can.  These are the key elements which will be unpacked here.


The moral directives of principlist theories submit that they are action-guiding for all moral agents, and all times, regardless of self- or other- interests.  These universals are grounded for Kant, in universal reason, and for Utilitarians, in a shared capacity for pleasure and pain.  This universalism offers a degree of certainty in moral judgment, and, since it is grounded on alleged shared capacities, it is universally applicable.  In this realm, however, there are some differences between the principlists.  For Deontological principlists, the situation, culture, and historical position one finds oneself in bears little to no influence on the morality of an action; theirs is a universal, duty- and intention- based doctrine.  It is for this reason that Kant outlines the Categorical Imperative’s (CI) edict against making false promises[12].  According to Kant, One cannot universalise a maxim that suggested false promises were morally permissible, because it is not rational, nor does it respect individual autonomy.  It would remove the very institution of promising.  For teleological principlists, as a consequentialist doctrine, the situation will affect the morality of an action; False promising, contra Kant, can be morally permissible if the expected positive outcome is sufficiently good, based on the Utility Principle.  However, the principle will still be universalisable to any and all others in a situation that is relevantly similar; similar situation will have a similar ‘right’ action.

To a particularist, as briefly outlined previously, this view is false.  Each situation is new; the features are never completely the same.  While they may be small or great, the ‘[d]ifference[s], idiomaticity, singularity, exceptionality’ are the hallmarks of real life situations[13].  The Universals, if they exist, attempt to pronounce a clear judgement, subsuming any and all particulars within a singular situation under an overarching universal principle.  However, this is rarely appropriate; in all but the most banal situations, principles cannot suffice alone, and it is in banal situations that we do not have need of the guidance from a principle[14].  Real situations don’t conform or reduce naturally to cases[15]; principles, even by their proponents, are modified and adjusted[16].  This leads to problems of application, discussed in the next section.

This also leads to the question of where the universals came from; under these principlist views, as mentioned, universals are known a priori through reason, or a posteriori through a shared experience of pleasure and pain.  However, particularists recognise that both of these universals assume a key point; rationality and shared features rely upon particulars.  Particular instantiations of rationality point to a universal shared feature, not the other way around: ‘[e]very concept originates through our equating what is unequal’[17].  Seeing one thing as equal to another, ‘[tying] down […] a single item [that] is carried over and used to refer univocally to other items which are not identical with the original one’[18] serves to emphasise certain aspects, whilst hiding others.  Principles force a narrow viewpoint, and miss the distinct features of particular situations, and can further exacerbate problems of power; framing issues in a specific way points to one principle, though looking at it through another lens can privilege another.  Subsuming the particular can have deleterious effects on morality.  At their best, principles can merely signpost possible moral reasons or relevance of situational features[19].

Application / Calculation of Morality

Principle based theories are often lauded for being easy to apply.  There is a clear system in place for judging right from wrong.  They provide of a degree of certainty about what is ‘right’ which impacts greatly on humanity; these principles are, broadly speaking, the basis of law and government, and follows the contours of a common approach to moral argument[20].  For a Kantian Deontologist, their moral reasoning process to enable good moral decision-making consists of measuring an action against the Categorical Imperative (CI); provides an effective and simple method for determining the moral worth of an action– simply measure an action against the principle, and obtain an answer.  If I want to know whether withholding information when trying to sell my car would be morally permissible, I merely need only to consider the first two formulations of the CI.  Perhaps considering the first formulation, ‘act only on the maxim whereby thou canst at the same time will that it should become a universal law’[21], perhaps you could rationalise that, at least in the realm of car sales, withholding information is already a universal law[22].  However, the second formulation of the CI will remove any doubt, and subjective bias; one could not be acting ‘as to treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of any other, in every case as an end withal, never as means only’[23] by the universalisation of this act, because it removes the autonomy and respect for persons which this formulation stands to guard.  I would be duty-bound to give a full and honest sales pitch.  Similarly, if perhaps I am a Utilitarian preparing a last Will and Testament, I may want to determine who to leave my riches to; perhaps I like the West Australian Symphony Orchestra, but I also think that UNICEF does important work worldwide.  As a Utilitarian, I could calculate the moral worth of these options; all I have to determine is which would provide the ‘greatest happiness for the greatest number’[24].  It would seem I am morally bound to willing my riches to UNICEF.  These principles provide a rational defence for a specific moral judgement, by an appeal to the principle(s).

It is often this ‘calculation’ or ‘programmed response’ factor that, while supposedly making moral decisions easier, disturbs particularists.  This ‘principled irresponsibility’[25] takes moral agency out of the equation, and ignores the real complexity of each individual situation.  Real world situations are singular, not identical with one another.  While it may be correct to say that they share some similar features, this ‘looking away’[26] from the particulars of each situation is, to a particularist, of considerable concern.  As Caputo suggests, the use of principles can lead to an ‘abdication of responsibility’[27], leaving moral judgement to simply determine the action that ‘comes out’ of a formulaic response to inputs, and come what may.  Rather than principles which create moral responses, following principles can lead to immoral outcomes.  Consider the scenario often directed against Kant:

A friend of yours comes to you for help, due to being chased by an alleged murderer.  Your friend is, by all accounts, innocent of any crime.  Not wanting your friend to be murdered, you provide a place for them to hide, and so you know where this hiding place is located. Shortly after, the alleged murderer comes to your door and asks you where your friend is[28].

According to Kant’s principlism, lying is always morally wrong[29], so you must either refrain from saying anything, with its possible ramifications, or tell the truth, and face those consequences.  This certainly does not follow common moral reasoning, and particularism offers us an explanation.  Lying to someone in one situation, say, for personal gain[30], would likely be morally wrong[31]; however that same action, in the case of the murderer at the door, would be morally right.  The valence of lying has a moral reason in favour of performing the action.  A Utilitarian would not necessarily agree with Kant on this issue, since theirs is a consequentialist doctrine, and their emphasis is on maximising the welfare of the greatest number; a Utilitarian would perhaps say it was fine to lie in that situation.  However if the murderer subsequently threatened to replace his original target (your friend) with a family in the next town, whom you have never met, then Utilitarianism would also demand you give up your friend[32].  Particularists point to the difficulty of moral application of a formula; it is never as easy as it appears because multiple different cases can appear to be relevant.  Principles, even by their most ardent proponents, are modified and adjusted in application, and it is at this point, personal judgement then becomes necessary to determine which principle to apply.  This can be affected by our perspective, and serve to demonstrate our own bias.  It becomes possible to restate a maxim in such a way that your desired end is approved[33]; as Caputo suggests, this can make principles become simply a means to ‘getting our way’; a ‘thinly disguised weapon of the will to power’[34].

However, this is not to say the particularist doctrine can, alone, fully meet the challenge of a complete theory, replete with an understanding of what the relevant moral reasons in any given situation might be.  This makes application of a particularist ‘moral calculus’ difficult for individuals looking to determine their right course of action, as well as problematic for analysis of action post-event.  This is a significant hurdle for particularism, which, in its current form, essentially amounts to a ‘critical theory’[35] of principlist ethical systems.  This difficulty, however, does not suggest that we should appeal to principles, because it ethics is too difficult;

Objectivity, Subjectivity and (Im)Partiality

Objectivity is seen as very important for morality, and so is another clear strength of principle-based ethics.  Both Kantian deontology and Utilitarianism suggest this as a matter of course.  As discussed previously, the first formulation of the CI maintains that only actions which could be universalised can be moral.  Furthermore, the second formulation of the CI ensures the absolute autonomy and respect for individuals that comes from impartial application of principle; no exceptions for yourself or anyone else.  Likewise, Utilitarianism informs that all are ‘to count for one, and none more than one’[36].  The objectivity, impartiality and egalitarianism of these theories are seen as a significant strength; it tells us that there is no provision for placing individual desires, over that of the desires of others.  One’s desire to sell a car does not outweigh the desire of the buyer to purchase a car that meets their needs; nor does one’s desire for an expensive car outweigh the greater good from purchasing a good bicycle and investing the excess funds into a benevolent society.  Principle based theories do not favour any one person over another, and avoids the subjective special pleading of a moral agent attempting to shirk their responsibilities.

This argument, against ‘partiality’, ‘special pleading’ and ‘backsliding’ can be a problem for particularism.  Firstly, the partiality of particularism is criticised, claiming that special treatment of persons based on their relationship to you is immoral.  On this view, morality requires universality, and so should be applied equally to all.  However, just as the framing of an issue can lead to particular decisions on the appropriate moral principle to use, framing the issues in an alternate way can point to a problem with impartiality.  A particularist viewpoint would generally disagree with the impartiality requirement at all.  Consider the impartial view: If a building is burning, with your partner, and an aloof, but brilliant scientist acquaintance who has just now found a cure for some insidious disease still inside and you could only save one of them, the greatest good would demand you ignore your partner’s pleas, and save the scientist, since they would offer greater value to the whole[37].  In the utilitarian calculus, humans are atomistic and need to be radically egalitarian; it expects us to place no value on those close to us. However, humans are not as atomistic as is assumed, and perhaps desired by principlist views; dependence and interdependence are key features of our existence.   Particularist views might instead call for a partialist stance, where those who stand in particular relations are afforded a greater degree of care[38].  Any moral system based on reference to rules and principles alone (and which thus discounts the emotions and intuitions, including empathy, as well as the proper satisfaction in doing good both immediately and habitually) is unliveable and necessarily leads either to hypocrisy or to the abandonment of morality itself[39].

Secondly, ‘special pleading’ suggests that the recognition of differences between cases can allow, or even promote the assumption that one has greater importance than another; almost a reversal of Kant’s CI.  Principles are supposed to stop, to provide a bulwark against this sort of attitude.  However, as Dancy suggests, instead of appealing to principles to allay bias in moral judgement, it rather should demand better moral judgement from moral agents[40].  While this is as yet an insufficiently developed area in moral particularism, it is unlikely that a principle based morality would not face this same issue; as has already been demonstrated, a deontological principle can be wielded to produce any desired outcome, and likewise, with a utilitarian view – all that is required is fudging the numbers, and since these individual ‘moral calculations’ are not public, then there is no guarantee of fidelity to the situation.  Dancy suggests that we implore self-critique[41], and while flawed, the appeal to principle cannot solve the problem either.  A promising direction for improving this in the direction of particularism is the use of features of other systems, in particular, the Virtue Ethics of Aristotle[42].

Backsliding suggests that a lack of principles would be liable to cause a failure to meet moral obligations all too often; responsibility for action would wane[43].  This is an interesting criticism, particularly when considering what it is to meet responsibilities under Kantian deontology.  Reflect that, under the dutiful nature of Kant’s doctrine, only acts done from duty have moral worth.  Our responsibilities are based on duty; compassion, generosity, and love may be fine things, but they cannot be moral things[44].   This stands in opposition to common conception of morality; acting in a certain way from a sense of obligation does not normally inspire moral praise[45] – in fact, in some positions, merely acting from duty can inspire moral blame, because it fails to demonstrate adequate sentiment for those other persons[46].  The divorced parent who collects their children once a fortnight and provides financial support for their care, for the sake of duty, does not often seem to be exemplars of moral virtue; on the contrary, it is the dutiful nature of their acts which serve to make them seem etiolated[47].  Particularists may be suggesting that the person of principle ‘has lost sight of the person among the general rules; perhaps indeed he is insufficiently aware of what the rules are for’[48].  Backsliding, if it so consists in seeing a duty but failing to carry it out, may not always be a negative; it could be neutral.  Even where it is negative, as in a case of failing in a ‘duty’ to act, other factors can provide information that modifies moral judgement; the person may lack of empathy, misunderstand the situation, inappropriately assist, or feel helpless.  If we happen onto a scene where someone is filming an assault, our initial reaction might suggest that the recorder is immoral; questions may be asked about why they have failed to intervene.  However, the act of recording an event like this could have greater potential value, than a failed attempt at rescuing the person – particularly where the physical conditions are seriously threatening.  It may simply be that the person felt unable to intervene, and so began recording in order to provide evidence to the police.  An intervening moral agent might simply have been assaulted or killed in addition to the initial victim, and so been unable to provide evidence of who committed the act, and what happened.  A duty to act, under Kantian deontology, still requires a determination of what a duty consists of in any particular situation.  A duty to help provides no guidance on what constitutes aid towards rescuing a person being attacked.  Purely relying upon principle will not be sufficient.

This essay has provided a brief discussion of the principlist and particularist systems of ethics, in conjunction with their strengths and weaknesses.  It has shown that the principlist systems, often lauded for being universal, easy to apply, and objective, and for those reasons are used in various streams of modern thought, have significant flaws; they fail to recognise the complexity in human life, they are more difficult to apply than is often suggested, and they are too impartial, and can lead to inappropriate judgements.  The particularist stream of thought has been shown to conform to many of our common, pretheoretical notions of morality; an understanding of context, the inability to apply single rules, and the need for recognition of our significant dependent and interdependent relations.  This approach too, has problems, which need to be dealt with more fully.  What is apparent, is that there is still scope for a great deal of improvement in our ethical theory, and that this theory will need to be focused on improving judgement, rather than providing an endless list of maxims, or impersonal appeals to calculation.


Baron, M.W. “Kantian Ethics.” In Three Methods of Ethics: A Debate, edited by M.W. Baron, P. Pettit and M. Slote. Oxford: Blackwell, 1997.

Bentham, J. An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation.  Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1907.

Blum, Lawrence. “Against Deriving Particularity.” Chap. 9 In Moral Particularism, edited by B. Hooker and M.O. Little, 205 – 26. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

Bohman, James. “Critical Theory.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N.  Zalta, 2013.

Caputo, John. “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics.” Chap. 9 In The Ethical, edited by E. Wyschogrod and G. McKenny. Blackwell Readings in Continental Philosophy, 169 – 80. Oxford: Wiley, 2003.

Dancy, J. Ethics without Principles.  Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006.

———. Moral Reasons.  Oxford: Blackwell, 1993.

Dancy, Jonathan. “Moral Particularism.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N.  Zalta, 2009.

Godwin, W. Enquiry Concerning Political Justice and Its Influence on Morals and Happiness.  London: J. Watson, 1842.

Hinman, Lawrence M. “Nietzsche, Metaphor, and Truth.” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 43, no. 2 (1982): 179-99.

Johnson, Robert. “Kant’s Moral Philosophy.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta, 2012.

Kant, Immanuel. “Appendix I:  On a Supposed Right to Tell Lies from Benevolent Motives.” In Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason and Other Works on the Theory of Ethics, edited  London: Kongmans, Green and Col, 1889.

———. “The Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals [1785].” In Ethical Theory: A Concise Anthology, edited by Heimir Geirsson and Margaret R. Holmgren, 113 – 30. Peterborough, Ont: Broadview Press, 2000.

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Millgram, Elijah. Ethics Done Right: Practical Reasoning as a Foundation for Moral Theory [in English]. Cambridge University Press, 2005.

Nietzsche, Friedrich. “On Truth and Lies in a Non-Moral Sense.” Translated by Daniel Breazeale. In Philosophy and Truth: Selections from Nietzsche’s Notebooks of the Early 1870s, 79 – 97. Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey: Humanities P International, Inc., 1997.

Raz, Joseph. “The Truth in Particularism.” Chap. 3 In Moral Particularism, edited by B. Hooker and M.O. Little, 48 – 78. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.

Rist, John M. Real Ethics: Reconsidering the Foundations of Morality.  Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

Shiu-Hwa Tsu, Peter “Moral Particularism.” In The Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited, 2013

Singer, Peter. “Equality for Animals.” In Practical Ethics, edited by Peter Singer, 44-71. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979.

Slote, M. The Ethics of Care and Empathy.  New York: Routledge, 2007.

Varden, Helga “Kant and Lying to the Murderer at the Door . . .  One More Time: Kant’s Legal Philosophy and Lies to Murderers and Nazis.” Journal of Social Philosophy 41 no. 4 (Winter 2010): 403-21.

[1] For my purposes, ‘Principlist’ is someone who follows a principle-based ethical system (principlism), following the use in Peter  Shiu-Hwa Tsu, “Moral Particularism,” The Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2013 ),  Literature sometimes also uses the term ‘moral generalists’, as in Elijah Millgram, Ethics Done Right: Practical Reasoning as a Foundation for Moral Theory  (Cambridge University Press, 2005), 178..

[2] Shiu-Hwa Tsu, “Moral Particularism.”

[3] J. Dancy, Ethics without Principles  (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006).

[4] Kantian Deontology’s Categorical Imperative has three formulations; there are doubts about whether these three ‘formulations’ constitute a monist or pluralist principle theory.  See Robert Johnson, “Kant’s Moral Philosophy,” ed. Edward N. Zalta, Summer 2012 ed., The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2012),

[5] Jonathan Dancy, “Moral Particularism,” ed. Edward N.  Zalta, Spring 2009 ed.Ibid. (2009),

[6] Ibid.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Japanese wooden sword, used for non-lethal, but still dangerous sword training.

[9] Perhaps bokken practice with your mother as a training partner.  It is not clear that causing pain is a morally relevant or necessarily charged factor in this sort of situation.

[10] Or woman – no gender implicit in this usage of (hu)‘man’

[11] This highlights an essential difference in the values of actions – between the ‘evaluation’ and ‘guiding’ functions of an action; Joseph Raz, “The Truth in Particularism,” in Moral Particularism, ed. B. Hooker and M.O. Little (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 60.

[12] Immanuel Kant, “The Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals [1785],” in Ethical Theory: A Concise Anthology, ed. Heimir Geirsson and Margaret R. Holmgren (Peterborough, Ont: Broadview Press, 2000), 120 – 25.

[13] John Caputo, “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” in The Ethical, ed. E. Wyschogrod and G. McKenny, Blackwell Readings in Continental Philosophy (Oxford: Wiley, 2003), 171.

[14] “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” in The Ethical, ed. E. Wyschogrod and G. McKenny, Blackwell Readings in Continental Philosophy (Oxford: Wiley, 2003), 175.

[15] “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” 172.

[16] The consequences of which will be discussed in the section ‘Objectivity, Subjectivity and (Im)Partiality’

[17] Friedrich Nietzsche, “On Truth and Lies in a Non-Moral Sense,” in Philosophy and Truth: Selections from Nietzsche’s Notebooks of the Early 1870s (Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey: Humanities P International, Inc., 1997).

[18] Lawrence M. Hinman, “Nietzsche, Metaphor, and Truth,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research 43, no. 2 (1982): 187, 88.

[19] Dancy, “Moral Particularism; Caputo, “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” 173,75.

[20] The common tendency to consider a general rule, and measure moral permissibility from it; “I promised to do the dishes, so I must do them” – the unstated ‘principled’ premise is ‘I must fulfil my promises’.

[21] Kant, “The Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals [1785],” 120.

[22] Irrationality aside.

[23] Kant, “The Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals [1785],” 124.

[24] J Bentham, An Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1907), 4 of 21, para I.1, note 6., with associated considerations, Chapter IV, para IV2-IV; John Stuart Mill, “Utilitarianism [1863],” in Philosophy: The Big Questions, ed. R. J. Sample, C. W. Mills, and J. P. Sterba (Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 385-89. Whilst Mill suggests greater moral worth in the higher pleasures, than the lower ones, it is highly unlikely he would allow for higher pleasures to take greater precedence over basic needs.

[25] Caputo, “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” 172.

[26] J. Dancy, Moral Reasons  (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), 63-63.

[27] Caputo, “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” 172.

[28] Reformulated version of the ‘Inquiring Murderer’ case by Constant, in Immanuel Kant, “Appendix I:  On a Supposed Right to Tell Lies from Benevolent Motives,” 4th revised ed., Kant’s Critique of Practical Reason and Other Works on the Theory of Ethics (London: Kongmans, Green and Col, 1889),

[29] This, of course, has been questioned, for example, in Helga  Varden, “Kant and Lying to the Murderer at the Door . . .  One More Time: Kant’s Legal Philosophy and Lies to Murderers and Nazis,” Journal of Social Philosophy 41 no. 4 (2010).However, as the author herself noted, this is not the traditional interpretation.

[30] Like above in the ‘false promise’ issue.

[31] Though a particularist would not generalise this, since there may be cases where lying for personal gain could be morally right.

[32] Utilitarianism is strictly impartial, as discussed in the next section

[33] M.W. Baron, “Kantian Ethics,” in Three Methods of Ethics: A Debate, ed. M.W. Baron, P. Pettit, and M. Slote (Oxford: Blackwell, 1997), 73.

[34] Caputo, “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” 172.

[35] In a broad sense: see James Bohman, “Critical Theory,” ed. Edward N.  Zalta, Spring 2013 ed., The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2013),

[36] J.S. Mill, Dissertations and Discussions: Political, Philosophical, and Historical, vol. 3 (Boston: William V. Spencer, 1865), 388; sometimes called the ‘equal consideration of interests’, pace Peter Singer, “Equality for Animals,” in Practical Ethics, ed. Peter Singer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 48.

[37] Reconstruction of Godwin’s thought experiment W. Godwin, Enquiry Concerning Political Justice and Its Influence on Morals and Happiness, (London: J. Watson, 1842), 60.

[38] M. Slote, The Ethics of Care and Empathy  (New York: Routledge, 2007), 21.

[39] John M. Rist, Real Ethics: Reconsidering the Foundations of Morality  (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 120.

[40] Dancy, “Moral Particularism.”

[41] Ibid.

[42] This relates to a future topic of personal interest – joining Particularism with Virtue Ethics for moral education.

[43] Dancy, “Moral Particularism.”

[44] Kant, “The Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals [1785],” 115; Lawrence Blum, “Against Deriving Particularity,” in Moral Particularism, ed. B. Hooker and M.O. Little (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 207.

[45] “Against Deriving Particularity,” 213.

[46] Caputo, “Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,” 179.

[47] Rist, Real Ethics: Reconsidering the Foundations of Morality, 121.

[48] Ibid.

Failed Revolutions: Hungary, 1956 and Czechoslovakia, 1968

Stalin’s death in 1953 sparked a new era in Cold War relations.  In spite of a leadership battle, the Soviets embarked on a series of reforms which began a thaw in East-West relations.  Khrushchev emerged as the leader in the Kremlin, and then in February 1956, gave a speech to the Twentieth Party Congress in which outlined his intent to carry out reforms towards ‘de-Stalinisation’.  Khrushchev inspired ‘de-Stalinisation’ of the Soviet bloc led to an increased hope for political and social change.   This speech sparked hope for political change, particularly in Eastern Europe.  This commitment to reform and move away from the ‘terror’ policies was tested in Poland between June and October that same year; riots and strikes occurred, and instead of being violently suppressed by a Soviet invasion, various concessions were granted[i].  The perception of success gave reformist communists, and the populations of the Eastern European nations hope, and increased expectations.  However, popular uprisings, like those seen in Hungary during 1956, and in Czechoslovakia in 1968, were crushed by a show of Soviet force.  

This show of force was the proximal cause of the failure of these revolts. There was a confluence of factors in the ultimate causes of their failure, so to find the ultimate cause(s) of their failure, it is necessary to consider the requirements for success.  The formation of the Post war world into two primary blocs was ‘the cornerstone of East-West relations’[ii], which led to the necessity of either Soviet benevolence, or support from the West in order for these revolts to succeed.  The Hungarian Uprising and the Prague Spring did not occur in a political vacuum; various preconditions and contemporary events played a role in the failure of these revolts. Nevertheless, three factors stand out: the geopolitical reality of the two rebellious States, the lack of outside support, and the increasingly radical demands of the population.  These three factors meant the revolts were doomed to failure.  First though, a brief outline of the two revolts.

The Revolts

On October 23, 1956, a peaceful student demonstration was held in Budapest, Hungary, in support of Polish reform.  As the crowd swelled to about two hundred thousand Hungarians, the demonstration quickly turned into a riot, and neither the AVH[iii], nor the Hungarian military could regain control[iv].  Erno Gero, Party Secretary in Hungary, formally requested Soviet military aid, which saw Soviet tanks in Budapest the next day.  Meanwhile, Imre Nagy, the former Prime Minister, was returned to the government in an attempt to placate the rebels.   Nagy called for a cease-fire on the 28th, and promised Soviet withdrawal, which was effected by the 30th October.  This, as it turned out, was not to last.  The Soviet Presidium, meeting 30th October, initially decided to withdraw and declared their willingness to negotiate with the new Hungarian government, however on 31st October the Presidium changed its mind; overnight they had decided to intervene.  The 1st November saw Nagy call for independence and a withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact, and when the Soviets re-entered Hungary on the 4th November, Nagy pleaded to the UN to support Hungary’s independence.  No significant support was provided, and the Soviets crushed the revolt; the fighting lasted until the final wave of suppression on the 10th November.

Twelve years later, another reform project started in Czechoslovakia, this time much more organised.  The ‘Prague Spring’ was an ‘eight-month-long experiment’[v] to humanise socialism, modifying it to suit Czechoslovak conditions.  It came about after the loss of internal KSC[vi] party support for the then leader in Czechoslovakia, Antonin Novotny, due to a lack of positive economic and political reform. In early 1968 the ‘Stalinist’ era leader was ousted with the consent of Brezhnev, then Soviet Premier, who refused to support Novotny. Replacing him as First Secretary of the KSC was Alexander Dubcek, and soon after as President by Ludvik Svoboda.  This prepared the ground for Dubcek’s ‘Action Program’, a series of liberalisations including removal of censorship, some privatisation and greater democratic processes.  These reforms were instituted across several months, beginning in February – March 1968, Repeated warnings for moderation and limits by the Soviets had been ignored, and an increasingly demanding population had caused concern; a conservative wing in the government ‘invited’ the Soviets to put down the reformist government August 20-21, 1968.

Geopolitical concerns – The ‘buffer zone’ and a ‘contagion’

At the end of World War Two (WWII), The Soviet Union had been invaded several times in their recent history, and so, they demanded a ‘buffer zone’[vii] of communist friendly states over which they would have influence.  Based on agreements and military reality, the Soviets had achieved de facto control of Eastern Europe; the West allowed the ‘Iron Curtain’ to descend[viii].  McCauley suggests that this bipolarity formed out of WWII actually created a situation where each side, through ‘either passive acquiescence or more active measures’, supported the other in maintaining the status quo.

In 1956, Khrushchev was concerned that a departure from Hungary would leave holes in Soviet defences.  The Hungarian Uprising only occurred the year after Austria’s independence and the Belgrade Declaration[ix], so the possibility of Hungarian independence was unthinkable.  Hungary played a vital role in facilitating communication and control over the southern Communist states.  It was a link to Tito’s Yugoslavia, and helped ensure Yugoslavia was not isolated from the Soviets, which would risk closer ties with the West, and Western expansion.  Furthermore, the Suez crisis created an additional problem; knowing their limited capacity to act in the Middle-East at the time[x], the additional loss of Hungary would appear as though they were on a retreat from Empire – that they would not only be seen as weak in the Suez crisis, but as though they had given it up to the ‘imperialists’[xi].  Czechoslovakia also held a crucial location for the Soviets.  Not only did the State border the Soviet Union, but was a direct link to Western Germany; if Czechoslovakia was lost to Communism, then once again, the Soviets would have to be concerned over West-Germany, and Western invasion.  The loss of Czechoslovakia would also limit the capacity for communication between northern and southern Communist states[xii].

Both Khrushchev and Brezhnev were under pressure from within the CPSU, and in the other Communist states to take a hard line in Hungary and Czechoslovakia.  There was still a strong conservative wing in the CPSU, and noting that the after Stalin, the CPSU restored a significant degree of ‘collective leadership’[xiii], pacifying this group was a factor in securing these two States by force.  These two states had defied Soviet policy, and their reforms risked encouraging the populations in other Communist states.  Against Hungary in 1956, the neighbouring states were near unanimous; many states offered troops to quell the Uprising[xiv].  In 1968, it was predominantly East Germany and Poland offering strong arguments for Soviet intervention[xv].  At least part of this support was to avoid the possibility of a contagion – of revolts.  Both Khrushchev in 1956 and Brezhnev in 1968 were trying to avoid allowing these revolutions to spark a ‘snowball’ effect[xvi]. There was a great concern, not unjustified[xvii], that surrendering one satellite state under these sorts of conditions would set off a chain reaction of revolts; the Hungarian Uprising began itself as a protest in support of Polish concessions.  Further demonstrations occurred in the Soviet Union[xviii], and in this way, the intervention in Hungary and Czechoslovakia can be seen as sending a message to the whole of the Eastern Bloc that they remained under Soviet influence.

Increasingly Radical Demands in an Unprepared Leadership

Noting that they were geopolitically positioned in the Soviet sphere of influence, the demands made by the rebelling population were extreme; they were both idealistic and far-reaching[xix].  Furthermore, the demands became increasingly more fervent and radical as it progressed[xx]; the reform movement was outpacing the attempts to appease.  This was exacerbated by the lack of party control over the population and the media, and a failure of the leaders themselves.

In Hungary, the students’ organisation MEFESZ included the withdrawal of all Soviet troops; the reorganization of the government under Imre Nagy’s leadership; free elections for a new multi-party national assembly; various economic reforms; the rehabilitation of all victims of past injustices; and full freedom of speech and press[xxi].  Nagy was ‘reformed’ to the Communist leadership, but lost the initiative in managing the demands of the rebels, and selling reforms to Moscow[xxii].  Lack of firm leadership as the revolution gathered pace led to a loss of confidence by Moscow; rather than subduing the uprising, Nagy was attempting to keep pace with the accelerating events and increasingly radicalized popular demands[xxiii].

In Czechoslovakia, the Dubcek ‘Action Plan’ was really quite modest, but was seen as having wider potential[xxiv]; this was seen as positive by those supporting the reforms, and negative by those against them.  The reforms included removal of censorship, economic reforms towards a mixed economy, and the breakup of the unitary state into two.  When, on June 27, Czech intellectuals produced a two-thousand-word manifesto that advocated civil disobedience in order to ensure the continuation of the reform movement, even to the point of using weapons[xxv], this alarmed the anti-reformists in the Czechoslovak government, as well as the Soviets[xxvi].  For Dubcek in Czechoslovakia, it was very much a case of the offers of liberalisation provided simply prompted desire for even more liberalisation.

There was a distinct lack of forward thinking on the part of the leadership, particularly noting that they knew the system and their ‘comrades’ in the Soviet Union.  Events had resulted in unrealistic demands and expectations from the rank and file of the Revolt, producing a situation that the Soviets could probably not accept.  Many of the insurgents were determined to achieve their goals immediately, rather than settling for ill-defined negotiations that, once under way, would be subject to delay or derailment[xxvii].  They were idealistic, rather than pragmatic and patient[xxviii].  However justified they were, as valid as their claims may have been, as understandable the frustration, and as appealing their idealism, they should have tempered their enthusiasm.  The demand for ever wider reforms and the unwillingness to compromise or be patient with particular demands placed significant stress on the reformist government.  The necessity of placating the public, and the commitment to a new way, meant that they were unwilling to call for temperance, or use their power to halt insurgency.  A degree of self-censorship may have lessened the severity of the suppression, or removed its necessity by highlighting the lack of a threat the reforms actually posed.

(Lack of) Western Intervention

The only exit from Soviet Influence would seem to be with Western support; with plenty of reasons for the Soviet Union to interfere, there was still one possibility that gave pause: Western intervention.  Even before their entry into WWII, the US and Great Britain had signed the ‘Atlantic Charter’, highlighting a commitment to ‘freedom’ of peoples[xxix].  This was further bolstered by the commitment to the provision of political, military and economic assistance to nations under threat from external or internal authoritarian forces, as indicated by the Truman Doctrine[xxx].  Still further, the United States zealouslypromoted their doctrines of ‘liberation’ and ‘rollback’, rather than mere ‘containment’[xxxi].  However this would be shown as purely propaganda, in their response to the crisis in Hungary and Czechoslovakia.  In spite of this rhetoric, and the highly propagandist messages broadcast by the Western sponsored radio[xxxii], It was made very clear that the West would not support the Hungarians, even to the point of then President Eisenhower personally contacting the Soviets to ensure this was understood.  Bekes argues that the US administration was duplicitous in their policy; while being committed to these ideals in theory, they were thoroughly pragmatic to the point of immobility in practice.  They recognised the implicit international status quo that was firmly established by 1956, and they had no intentions of challenging this system[xxxiii].

After events in Hungary, Western propaganda decreased in intensity.  However in the 1960s there were moves towards ‘bridge building’ between the West and Czechoslovakia[xxxiv].  This, and Czechoslovakia’s geopolitical location in Europe, which shared borders with NATO West Germany, meant there was more of a chance the West would become involved.  Brezhnev   was concerned about risks of the conflict extending beyond Czechoslovakian borders, and becoming involved in a much bigger war than was necessary[xxxv]. However, then US President Johnson preferred to aim for a modus vivendi with the Soviets, focusing instead on setting up the SALT talks; the US was also otherwise distracted with the Vietnam War[xxxvi].

The West’s involvement in the both crises consisted of speeches which highlighted solidarity with the people, but refusal to intervene[xxxvii].  The West was not willing to provide support the liberation of these nations in Eastern Europe; ‘Defections from one sphere [of influence] would be exploited by the other only when it was clear that the first either could not or would not reassert control. Hence, the United States took advantage of departures from the Soviet bloc of Yugoslavia […]; it did not seek to do so in the case of Hungary in 1956 [or] Czechoslovakia in 1968’[xxxviii]


Both Hungary and Czechoslovakia were integral to the Soviet Union’s ‘security’, and the loss of one, or both, would cause significant problems for it.  The leadership in both revolts failed to manage social and political expectations and the enthusiasm of the population and the radical demands noting their position in Eastern Europe quickly became threatening to the Soviet Union.  After attempting political measures to rein in the satellite states, the Soviets decided to intervene militarily to quell resistance.  Since the Western priority was taking tentative steps towards détente, support from the West was not forthcoming.


[i] Though there was a degree of violence internally, suggesting the capacity of the government to control dissent was a factor in Soviet non-intervention. Johanna  Granville, “Poland and Hungary, 1956: A Comparative Essay Based on New Archival Findings,” in Revolution and Resistance in Eastern Europe: Challenges to Communist Rule, ed. Kevin McDermott and Matthew Stibbe (Oxford: Berg, 2006), 59.

[ii] Csaba Bekes, “The 1956 Hungarian Revolution and the Great Powers,” Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 13, no. 2 (1997): 51.

[iii] AVO (Allamvedelmi Osztaly), 1946-1950 / AVH (Allamvedelmi Hatosag), 1950-1956 – State Security Department.  Johanna Granville, “From the Archives of Warsaw and Budapest: A Comparison of the Events of 1956,” East European Politics & Societies 16, no. 2 (2002): 536, 39., note 47

[iv] In the case of the military, many were also unwilling to try; many ‘defected’ to support the revolt Granville, “Poland and Hungary, 1956: A Comparative Essay Based on New Archival Findings,” 61 – 62.

[v] Mark Kramer, “The Kremlin, the Prague Spring, and the Brezhnev Doctrine,” in Promises of 1968: Crisis, Illusion, and Utopia, ed. V. Tismăneanu (Budapest, Hungary: Central European University Press, 2011).

[vi] KSC (Komunistická strana Československa), the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia

[vii] Alan K. Henrikson, “Distance and Foreign Policy: A Political Geography Approach,” International Political Science Review / Revue internationale de science politique 23, no. 4 (2002): 455 – 56.

[viii] Bruce Kuniholm, “The Origins of the First Cold War: Methodologies, Values, and Their Implications for East-West Relations,” in The Cold War: Past and Present, ed. R. Crockatt and S. Smith (London: Allen & Unwin, 1987), 45 – 49.

[ix] FERENC A.  SZABÓ, “Hungary’s Geopolitical and Geostrategic Situation at the Time of the Revolution and Fight for Freedom of 1956,” Academic and Applied Research in Military Science (AARMS) 5, no. 4 (2006): 704; Csaba Békés, “The 1956 Hungarian Revolution and the Declaration of Neutrality,” Cold War History 6, no. 4 (2006): 480.

[x] Brian McCauley, “Hungary and Suez, 1956: The Limits of Soviet and American Power,” Journal of Contemporary History 16, no. 4 (1981): 794-95.

[xi] Cold War International History Project (CWIHP), “Stenographic Record of a 4 November 1956 Meeting of Party Activists,”  Istochnik 6(2003),

[xii] J.R. Short, An Introduction to Political Geography  (Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1982), 76.

[xiii] J. Valenta, Soviet Intervention in Czechoslovakia, 1968: Anatomy of a Decision  (The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981), 17.

[xiv] SZABÓ, “Hungary’s Geopolitical and Geostrategic Situation at the Time of the Revolution and Fight for Freedom of 1956; Amir  Weiner, “The Empires Pay a Visit: Gulag Returnees, East European Rebellions, and Soviet Frontier Politics,” The Journal of Modern History 78, no. 2 (2006): 352.

[xv] Valenta, Soviet Intervention in Czechoslovakia, 1968: Anatomy of a Decision, 23.

[xvi] Kramer, “The Kremlin, the Prague Spring, and the Brezhnev Doctrine.”

[xvii] Protests occurred in support of both Hungary and Czechoslovakia in various places across the SU and East Europe.  Valenta, Soviet Intervention in Czechoslovakia, 1968: Anatomy of a Decision, 24.

[xviii] Weiner, “The Empires Pay a Visit: Gulag Returnees, East European Rebellions, and Soviet Frontier Politics,” 354-59.

[xix] C. Gati, Failed Illusions: Moscow, Washington, Budapest, and the 1956 Hungarian Revolt  (Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 2006), 158.

[xx] Laura Cashman, “Remembering 1948 and 1968: Reflections on Two Pivotal Years in Czech and Slovak History,” Europe-Asia Studies 60, no. 10 (2008): 1648.

[xxi] Document 24, in C. Békés, M. Byrne, and J. Rainer, “The” 1956 Hungarian Revolution: A History in Documents  (Central European.University Press, 2002), 188.

[xxii] Gati, Failed Illusions: Moscow, Washington, Budapest, and the 1956 Hungarian Revolt, 150.

[xxiii] Granville, “From the Archives of Warsaw and Budapest: A Comparison of the Events of 1956; Gati, Failed Illusions: Moscow, Washington, Budapest, and the 1956 Hungarian Revolt, 217.

[xxiv] J. Valenta, “The Soviet Union and East Central Europe: Crisis, Intervention, and Normalization,” in Communism in Eastern Europe, ed. T. Rakowska-Harmstone (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 1984), 334.

[xxv] Mitchell Lerner, ““Trying to Find the Guy Who Invited Them”: Lyndon Johnson, Bridge Building, and the End Ofthe Prague Spring*,” Diplomatic History 32, no. 1 (2008): 92.

[xxvi] {Valenta@40

[xxvii] Mark Kramer, “New Evidence on Soviet Decision-Making and the 1956 Polish and Hungarian Crises,” Cold War International History Project Bulletin 8-9, no. Winter (1996/1997): 368.

[xxviii] Gati, Failed Illusions: Moscow, Washington, Budapest, and the 1956 Hungarian Revolt.

[xxix] Lillian Goldman Law Library, “Atlantic Charter August 14, 1941,”

[xxx] “Truman Doctrine: President Harry S. Truman’s Address before a Joint Session of Congress, March 12, 1947,”

[xxxi] McCauley, “Hungary and Suez, 1956: The Limits of Soviet and American Power,” 779.

[xxxii] Radio Free Europe, Voice of America; space precludes significant discussion.

[xxxiii] Csaba  Bekes, “The 1956 Hungarian Revolution in World Politics,”  The Hungarian Quarterly 36 no. Summer (1995),

[xxxiv] In particular, trade/economic links with the US, but also wider social links; Lerner, ““Trying to Find the Guy Who Invited Them”: Lyndon Johnson, Bridge Building, and the End Ofthe Prague Spring*; John G. McGinn, “The Politics of Collective Inaction: NATO’s Response to the Prague Spring,” Journal of Cold War Studies 1, no. 3 (1999): 177.

[xxxv] Valenta, Soviet Intervention in Czechoslovakia, 1968: Anatomy of a Decision.

[xxxvi] Soviet Intervention in Czechoslovakia, 1968: Anatomy of a Decision, 129-31.

[xxxvii] E.g. Dulles, as cited in McCauley, “Hungary and Suez, 1956: The Limits of Soviet and American Power,” 784.

[xxxviii] J.L. Gaddis, The Long Peace: Inquiries into the History of the Cold War  (Replica Books, 2001), 239.


Békés, C., M. Byrne, and J. Rainer. “The” 1956 Hungarian Revolution: A History in Documents. Central European.University Press, 2002.

Bekes, Csaba. “The 1956 Hungarian Revolution and the Great Powers.” Journal of Communist Studies and Transition Politics 13, no. 2 (1997/06/01 1997): 51-66.

Békés, Csaba. “The 1956 Hungarian Revolution and the Declaration of Neutrality.” Cold War History 6, no. 4 (2006/11/01 2006): 477-500.

Bekes, Csaba “The 1956 Hungarian Revolution in World Politics.”  The Hungarian Quarterly 36 no. Summer (1995): 109-21.

Cashman, Laura. “Remembering 1948 and 1968: Reflections on Two Pivotal Years in Czech and Slovak History.” Europe-Asia Studies 60, no. 10 (2008/12/01 2008): 1645-58.

Cold War International History Project (CWIHP). “Stenographic Record of a 4 November 1956 Meeting of Party Activists.”  Istochnik 6, (2003): 63-75. Published electronically November 04, 1956.

Gaddis, J.L. The Long Peace: Inquiries into the History of the Cold War. Replica Books, 2001.

Gati, C. Failed Illusions: Moscow, Washington, Budapest, and the 1956 Hungarian Revolt. Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 2006.

Granville, Johanna. “From the Archives of Warsaw and Budapest: A Comparison of the Events of 1956.” East European Politics & Societies 16, no. 2 (May 1, 2002 2002): 521-63.

Granville, Johanna “Poland and Hungary, 1956: A Comparative Essay Based on New Archival Findings.” Chap. 4 In Revolution and Resistance in Eastern Europe: Challenges to Communist Rule, edited by Kevin McDermott and Matthew Stibbe, 57 – 77. Oxford: Berg, 2006.

Henrikson, Alan K. “Distance and Foreign Policy: A Political Geography Approach.” International Political Science Review / Revue internationale de science politique 23, no. 4 (2002): 437-66.

Kramer, Mark. “The Kremlin, the Prague Spring, and the Brezhnev Doctrine.” In Promises of 1968: Crisis, Illusion, and Utopia, edited by V. Tismăneanu, 285-370. Budapest, Hungary: Central European University Press, 2011.

———. “New Evidence on Soviet Decision-Making and the 1956 Polish and Hungarian Crises.” Cold War International History Project Bulletin 8-9, no. Winter (1996/1997): 358-84.

Kuniholm, Bruce. “The Origins of the First Cold War: Methodologies, Values, and Their Implications for East-West Relations.” Chap. 3 In The Cold War: Past and Present, edited by R. Crockatt and S. Smith, 37-57. London: Allen & Unwin, 1987.

Lerner, Mitchell. ““Trying to Find the Guy Who Invited Them”: Lyndon Johnson, Bridge Building, and the End Ofthe Prague Spring*.” Diplomatic History 32, no. 1 (2008): 77-103.

Lillian Goldman Law Library. “Atlantic Charter August 14, 1941.”

———. “Truman Doctrine: President Harry S. Truman’s Address before a Joint Session of Congress, March 12, 1947.”

McCauley, Brian. “Hungary and Suez, 1956: The Limits of Soviet and American Power.” Journal of Contemporary History 16, no. 4 (October 1, 1981 1981): 777-800.

McGinn, John G. “The Politics of Collective Inaction: NATO’s Response to the Prague Spring.” Journal of Cold War Studies 1, no. 3 (1999/09/01 1999): 111-38.

Short, J.R. An Introduction to Political Geography. Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1982.

SZABÓ, FERENC A. . “Hungary’s Geopolitical and Geostrategic Situation at the Time of the Revolution and Fight for Freedom of 1956.” Academic and Applied Research in Military Science (AARMS) 5, no. 4 (2006): 704 – 13.

Valenta, J. Soviet Intervention in Czechoslovakia, 1968: Anatomy of a Decision. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981.

———. “The Soviet Union and East Central Europe: Crisis, Intervention, and Normalization.” Chap. 11 In Communism in Eastern Europe, edited by T. Rakowska-Harmstone, 329-59. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University, 1984.

Weiner, Amir “The Empires Pay a Visit: Gulag Returnees, East European Rebellions, and Soviet Frontier Politics.” The Journal of Modern History 78, no. 2 (2006): 333-76.


Justifying Assassination: Heydrich and the Just War doctrine

Operation Anthropoid, the mission to assassinate Reinhard Heydrich, is simultaneously seen as one of the bravest and one of the most terrible acts of Czech defiance during World War Two (WWII).  The event was marked by extreme reprisals by the Nazi regime which has led to an ongoing debate over the legality and morality of the assassination.  After a brief look at the scenario which led to the assassination, followed by an outline and explanation of the basic principles of the Just War doctrine, it will be demonstrated that under the circumstances, In spite of the devastating reprisals, the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich was justified.


The Czechoslovak nation was born out of the ashes of the First World War, in accordance with Section VII of the Versailles Treaty[1], and would virtually disappear two decades later, in the lead up to World War II.  The Nazi regime exploited unrest in the Sudetenland[2], a majority German speaking area on the shared borders with Germany, to gain cause for invading Czechoslovakia for their industrial capacity and natural resources[3].  The major 5 European powers, in order to attempt ‘appeasement’, passed the ‘Munich Agreement’ without consulting the fledgling State, providing Hitler with the Sudetenland. This land also contained significant Czech border military defences.

After the Munich Agreement, Nazi Germany occupied the Sudetenland.  Slovakia broke away from the Czech lands, forming their own fascist government, and forming an alliance with Germany.  Shortly after, in contravention of the Munich Agreement, and Article 81 of the Treaty of Versailles[4], Nazi Germany forced agreement[5] with the interim President into subsuming the Czech lands into the German Reich as the ‘Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia’.  This was quite obviously not what was desired by Czech citizens, and several resistance groups formed and attempted passive and active resistance measures such as intelligence gathering and civil disobedience to indicate displeasure with the status quo[6].  There is some evidence that resistance activities were having more effect, and increasing in number around the time of Operation Barbarossa[7], however, according to MacDonald, much of this resistance work was uncoordinated, and ineffective.  Furthermore, the quantity of resistance activities had been exaggerated for political purposes on both sides[8].

For the Government in Exile, headed by Benes, it was exaggerated for favour with the Allies; on the German side, it prompted a regime change in the Protectorate, from a ‘diplomatic’ von Neurath[9] to Reinhard Heydrich – a regime change that had deadly consequences for many, and subjugation under oppressing terror for others[10].  After several years of exile, working with the Allies, and attempting to inspire resistance at home, Edvard Benes and Frantisek Moravec developed a mission to convince the allies that Czechoslovakia was worth saving.  Two men from their small military were selected and trained for the mission in Britain, in conjunction with SOE, then were parachuted into the Protectorate on 28/29th December 1941[11].  Their task: the assassination of the Reichsprotektor, Reinhard Heydrich.

The plan did not go smoothly, but finally, on 27th May 1942, these two men attempted to assassinate the Reichprotektor. Whilst the attack initially appeared unsuccessful, injuries sustained by Heydrich in the attack led to his death on 4th June.  The reprisals were swift and severe; it is estimated that around 5000 people lost their lives, two villages, Lidice and Lezaky, were targeted, and in the case of Lidice, completely wiped off the map.  These reprisals have led to an ongoing debate over the relative worth of the assassination, and whether it can be justified.   The ‘Just War’ doctrine can give the tools to investigate this possibility.

Just War Doctrine

The Just War doctrine is an ethical calculus to determine the moral standing of a war, the Jus Ad Bellum, and particular conduct within that war, the Jus in Bello. It begins from the assumption that war is wrong, and from this, attempts to proscribe specifics on when, and how, a state may wage war.  The requirements of Jus Ad Bellum are that the conflict is: authorised by a legitimate authority; for a ‘Just Cause’; as a ‘last resort’ when other methods have failed, or are unable to be tried; undertaken with the ‘right intention’; when the war is amenable to success; and there is proportionality between the positives and negatives. Proportionality is also a requirement of Jus in Bello, the rules of conduct within the conflict, as are the requirements to discriminate between combatants and non-combatants, conformity to law[12], and refrain from ‘reprisals’, a like-for-like abuse of jus in bello[13].


WWII was entered into with the agreements freely made between the allies, in response to the threat, and conduct of Germany.  There is no suggestion of incorrect authorisation for the larger context of WWII.  However, there may be some qualms about recognising the authority of ‘President’ Benes to order the Heydrich assassination.  President Benes resigned his post in 1938 under pressure from Germany, and went into voluntary exile prior to the annexation of the Czech lands.  He was replaced by Emil Hacha, who, following the Munich Agreement, and the secession of Slovakia, was coerced by Hitler into authorising the annexation of the remainder of the Czech lands.  Hacha remained in his post, largely as a figurehead; however this would present a prima facie case against the authority of Benes.

At the outbreak of WW2, Benes sought recognition as the leader of a Czech government in exile.  He managed the military actions of the Czech servicemen who had left during the takeover, as well as the negotiation of resistance activities in the Protectorate.  Together with other Czechs who had escaped, Benes formed a Government-in-Exile, and sought recognition by the Allies as the continuation of legal Czech Government.  With some hesitancy over legal status, Benes was recognised by France and Britain as the legal government of Czechoslovakia.  Based on the recognition of his Government-in-Exile, his former status as President, and the popularity of him at home[14], it would seem credible that Benes was suitably authorised to conduct military action against a hostile aggressor.

Just Cause and Last Resort

If it is granted that President Benes had the requisite authority to conduct war on behalf of the Czechs, the next consideration of the Just War principles is the reason for the conflict – and further, the reason for the particular action taken.  According to the Just War theory, a state may only engage in war ‘for a just cause’, which is usually limited to the resistance of aggression.  This can include defence of one’s own state, that of another, or punishment for a grievous wrongdoing[15].  Likewise, war should only be undertaken if all other possible avenues for peaceful resolution have been attempted, that is, as a last resort.

It is relatively uncontentious that WWII, on behalf of the Allies, was a war of self-defence that was only entered into after other diplomatic means had failed[16]. The Czechs had already attempted to use defence treaties with other nations as a disincentive to the Germans. They also did not contest the Munich Agreement, even though they were not party to the negotiations.  Arguably this was the most important attempt at diplomacy in the war; even the acceptance of German occupation was done with the intent to avoid mass casualties in war.  However, with the German response to occupation, and the severe repercussions of any act of civil disobedience, there was little hope of any alternative to a peaceful resolution of the occupation.

The appeasement was unsuccessful; following the annexation of the Sudetenland, Germany put pressure on Slovakia to secede, and then contravened the Munich Agreement, as well as the Treaty of Versailles, in occupying Czech lands.  Furthermore, the actions taken by both Reichsprotektors, but in particular Heydrich, not only killed and detained Czechs, but also placed the remainder constantly under threat. Therefore, it is clear to see that the Czechs had just cause, in defending their state from an aggressor.  More arguable is their just cause to punish, as in recent literature, the right to punish is considered eroded[17].  As noted by both Moravec and MacDonald, the primary service the Czechs were providing to the Allies was intelligence; they had largely steered clear of placing their people at greater risk than they already were – the decision of the Czech Government in Exile was clearly the last option available, and not a desired one[18].

Proper Intention

The proper intention, for the resort to war, is the aim to prosecute the states just cause.  According to the Just War theory, ‘[u]lterior’ or ‘irrational’ motives are inadmissible as motivation[19].  To determine whether the Czech decision to engage in assassination for the proper intention, it is necessary to consider the writing of Frantisek Moravec.  In his memoirs, he tries to give an account of the Government in Exile’s reasoning for the assassination.  He tells of two primary reasons: to highlight meaningful resistance to the Nazi regime, and to re-spark resistance efforts[20].  Both of these reasons aim at prosecution of a just cause – that of defending what was left of the Czech state from a hostile force.  However, these intentions can also be otherwise construed, particularly in the choice of assassinating Heydrich; ‘meaningful resistance’ in this context can be considered a purely political or punitive motive, just as ‘re-sparking the resistance’ can be seen as undertaking to intentionally risk harm to non-combatants.  This is an inherent difficulty in determining intent, and is difficult to resolve, since it ‘is largely based on perception and context’, and those using assassination as a policy tool ‘will deny they were motivated by politics’[21].  However, it should be noted that the presence of multiple motives does not necessarily delegitimise an attempt at self-defence[22].  Nor does it necessarily preclude defensive actions based on the probability of success.

Probability of Success

Just War theory aims to prevent needless deaths in service to a lost cause, and so under this theory, a state should only resort to war if the probability of success is high.  This would seem to indicate that the Czech leadership in exile may have ‘entered’ the war unjustly.  Nevertheless, there is some moral scope to consider even ‘hopeless’ actions to be undertaken in pursuit of justice, just as there are cases where inaction could be considered immoral[23], as the ‘success’ criterion fails to take into consideration the nature of the threat.  In some cases, the threat will justify an attempt that may not have immediate, measurable success[24].  In the case of WWII, against an aggressor with significantly greater power, the probability of success in war was quite low for the Czech nation, indeed, but for errors made, this point could have allowed the Nazi regime to overtake Western Europe.

Jus Ad Bellum


Proportionality must be considered at two stages in the Just War doctrine; as a feature of Jus Ad Bellum, and that of Jus in Bello.  Under Jus Ad Bellum, proportionality requires that the positive outcomes must be weighed against the expected negative outcomes, which includes foreseeable consequences to non-combatants.  The war must only take place if the benefits are proportional – the positives should exceed the negatives.

The main contention against the assassination is that the consequences outweighed the benefits.  Any attempt to justify the assassination will have to deal with the question of value: Was the life of one man, Heydrich, worth the lives of some 5000 civilians?  It is difficult to suggest, in considering the proportionality rule, that reprisals were an unforeseen side effect; resistance groups in Bohemia/Moravia had attempted to have the assassination called off due to what they saw as likely horrific consequences[25]. While it was clear to Benes and Moravec that reprisals would be severe, the answer must be yes.  They could not have foreseen the events that happened, nor can anyone see what may have happened in absence of the assassination.

While it is indeed possible that some of those targeted in reprisal may not have died, it is difficult to argue that if the assassination not taken place, then the majority would not have been targeted under some other auspice.  This is especially relevant noting that the figures suggest around 3500 of the some- 5000 people targeted in reprisal were Jews.  As Gerwarth explains, persecution of Jewish people in the Czech lands ‘had begun immediately after the German invasion’[26].  With an estimated 80,000 Jewish people killed from the Bohemia/Moravia area alone[27], it is difficult to claim the 3,000 Jews killed in reprisal would have escaped Nazi plans[28].  Likewise, with the infiltration of the underground in the Czech lands[29], every day brought the resistance members the chance to be discovered and either killed or detained.

Based on his previous positions and his actions while Reichsprotektor of Bohemia/Moravia, there was little doubt his influence and tactics would not continue – wherever he was positioned.  Heydrich’s task was not diplomatic, but one of combat[30], aimed at ridding the Protectorate of resistance, and increasing output for war efforts. Had he lived, it is entirely possible that his next position would be in France, which would have severely curtailed resistance there. Furthermore, noting his developing rapport with Hitler, he may have played a significantly greater role in the development of the war, and the efficiency of the holocaust[31].  Even granting that they died because of the assassination, which is not entirely uncontentious[32], the blame still cannot be morally ascribed to the Government-in-Exile in toto.  As Hauner has put it,

… those who argue that sparing Heydrich could have saved thousands of lives must also face the fact that every day of his service to the Third Reich meant the further perfection of the Nazi killing machine and the a more ruthlessly efficient genocide. By killing one of Hitler’s ablest lieutenants, the brutal regime and its collaborators were shaken, and the occupied peoples of Europe given hope[33].

There was a war going on: militaries were being decimated to defend their lands, and liberate those already forcibly taken; men, women and children were being killed or sent to concentration camps for arbitrary reasons; and even in areas under German rule, there were people risking, and losing their lives to resist the Nazi regime[34].  While being unsuccessful in its aim to re-spark the resistance, they did prosecute their main goal – meaningful resistance to an aggressor.  It removed not only the ‘local tyrant’, but also someone Hitler considered ‘irreplaceable’[35].  The assassination further enabled the continuity of the Czechoslovak state post-war, and removed the ‘stigma’ of dishonourable collaboration[36].

Jus in Bello

Proportionality and Discrimination (Non-Combatant Immunity)

Proportionality refers to the means, and degree to which a combatant may use force.  Under Jus in Bello, those in combat must only use only sufficient force to achieve their aims.  It would be unjust, therefore, to use nuclear weapons to terrorise a nation into unconditional surrender.  The assassins who killed Heydrich clearly fulfilled the requirements of proportionality for Jus in Bello; they killed only who they were sent for, using the minimum force required to complete their task, and did not kill another combatant, even when under threat[37].  The ‘assassins’ took great pains to minimise casualties amongst non-combatants; only targeting Heydrich, and firing warning shots into the air to avoid civilian incursion into the area.  This also shows their action to be just, under the requirement to discriminate between combatants and non-combatants.


The legality of assassination is usually the most difficult to overcome, since it appears to depend on how you present it.  There is sometimes a distinction made between assassination, seen as killing someone, particularly a civilian, for political motives, and ‘targeted killing’, defined as the elimination of a military threat[38].  Hauner even considers labelling the assassination of Heydrich as ‘state-sponsored terrorism’[39], which is aligned closer to how the ‘assassins’ themselves saw their actions[40].  However, there is not such a clear demarcation between these titles. Heydrich, for example, was clearly: a public figure in the Protectorate killed in part for political purposes, i.e. regime change; a combatant killed in part for defence from aggression and prevention of further oppression; and was a tyrant killed by the ‘resistance’ for his tyranny.

However the assassination is labelled, it is necessary to consider international law of the time. The Hague Conventions, Section IV, Article 23 states that ‘[i]n addition to the prohibitions provided by special Conventions, it is especially forbidden […] [t]o kill or wound treacherously individuals belonging to the hostile nation or army’[41].  Since combatants are traditionally marked by visual indications of allegiance, such as uniforms or insignia, and the assassins were in civilian clothes, this has led some to believe there is a prima facie case for the illegality of the Heydrich assassination; ‘treachery’ is usually seen as akin to giving an enemy cause to believe you were not a threat and since the assassins were not wearing uniforms, they gave the illusion of being civilians.  However, as noted by Parks, the prevailing conditions in WWII often required the reliance on local resistance members, not uniformed military[42], and following the Heydrich case, this deficiency was recognised, and prompted a number of states to clarify their ‘law of war manuals’ to ensure that activity by resistance movements was not precluded.  Furthermore, as a legal combatant, Heydrich had no claim to immunity from attack[43], and as noted by Spaight, surprise is not a form of treachery[44].

No Reprisals

This final requirement is based around the idea that ‘an eye for an eye leaves us both blind’[45].  For an act to be a ‘reprisal’ in this context, it must be a violation of jus in bello in retaliation for another’s previous violation[46].  This rule acknowledges that tit-for-tat abuses of law do not lead to positive, peaceful outcomes.  This is also a common issue with the Heydrich case; assassination, being viewed with its negative connotations, is seen as an abuse of law in retaliation – ‘because he did it first’[47].  However, as seen in the previous section, assassination is a contentious description in itself, and that the Heydrich assassination could, in our modern terms, take on either one of the two other descriptions.  If we grant the outcome of the previous section, that it was not an unlawful act, it is clear that while we may consider the act ill-advised, it was certainly not a reprisal in the Just War sense.

While acknowledging the terrible loss of life which came as retribution for Heydrich’s death, It has been shown, using the Just War doctrine, and relevant historical data that the assassination was justified through the satisfaction of the requirements of Jus Ad Bellum and Jus in Bello.  While it did not achieve all its aims, it was a brave, perhaps ill-advised attempt to remove a tyrant, to stand up against an aggressive regime, and to ensure the continuity of a state that was hard won.


Bikár, František. “Czech Senator Warns against Hatred, Racism, Nationalism, Xenophobia.” (2013).

Brownlee, Kimberley. “Civil Disobedience.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta.

Burian, Michal , Aleš  Knížek, Jiří  Rajlich, and Eduard Stehlík. Assassination: Operation Anthropoid 1941-1942.  Prague: Ministry of Defence of the Czech Republic – Military Information and Service Agency (AVIS), 2002.

Canestaro, Nathan. “American Law and Policy on Assassinations of Foreign Leaders: The Practicality of Maintaining the Status Quo.” Boston College International and Comparative Law Review 26, no. 1 (2003): 1 – 34.

Geary, Dick. “The Nazi State and Society.” In Hitler and Nazism, edited by Dick Geary, 37-61, 1993.

Gerwarth, Robert. Hitlers Hangman: The Life of Heydrich.  London: Yale University Press, 2011.

Gould, Harry D. “What Happened to Punishment in the Just War Tradition?”. Chap. 4 In Ethics, Authority, and War: Non-State Actors and the Just War Tradition, edited by Eric A. Heinze and Brent J. Steele, 73 – 100. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.

Gross, Michael L. “Killing the Innocent: The Dilemma of Terrorism.” Chap. 8 In Moral Dilemmas of Modern War: Torture, Assassination, and Blackmail in an Age of Asymmetric Conflict, 178 – 204. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.

Hauner, Milan. “Terrorism and Heroism: The Assassination of Reinhard Heydrich.” World Policy Journal 24, no. 2 (Summer 2007): 85-89.

Hays Parks, W. “Executive Order 12333 and Assassination.” edited by Office of the Judge Advocate General of the Army. Washington DC: Department of the Army, 2002 (Reproduction).

Knoepfler, Stephen “Dead or Alive: The Future of U.S. Assassination Policy under a Just War Tradition.” New York University Journal of Law & Liberty 5, no. 457 (“?

Lillian Goldman Law Library. “Laws of War: Laws and Customs of War on Land (Hague Iv); October 18, 1907.”

———. “The Versailles Treaty June 28, 1919: Part III.”

MacDonald, Callum. The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich. 1st ed.  New York: Da Capo Press, 1998. 1989.

Meisels, Tamar. “Targeting Terror.” [In English]. Social Theory and Practice 30, no. 3 (2004): 297-326.

Moravec, F. Master of Spies: The Memoirs of General Frantisek Moravec. Bodley Head, 1975.

Orend, Brian. “War.” In The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, edited by Edward N. Zalta, 2009.

Statman, Daniel. “The Morality of Assassination: A Response to Gross.” Political Studies 51, no. 4 (2003): 775-79.

Statman, Daniel “On the Success Condition for Legitimate Self‐Defense.” Ethics 118, no. 4 (2008): 659-86.

[1] Lillian Goldman Law Library, “The Versailles Treaty June 28, 1919: Part III,”  Section VII.

[2] Callum MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 1st ed. (New York: Da Capo Press, 1998), 45, 49.

[3] Robert Gerwarth, Hitlers Hangman: The Life of Heydrich  (London: Yale University Press, 2011), 218.

[4] Lillian Goldman Law Library, “The Versailles Treaty June 28, 1919: Part III”.

[5] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 64.

[6] The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 108.

[7] Gerwarth, Hitlers Hangman: The Life of Heydrich, 221.

[8] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 78.

[9] The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 62; Gerwarth, Hitlers Hangman: The Life of Heydrich, 219.

[10] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 107-18.

[11] Michal  Burian et al., Assassination: Operation Anthropoid 1941-1942, (Prague: Ministry of Defence of the Czech Republic – Military Information and Service Agency (AVIS), 2002), 44; MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 128; Interestingly, the testimony in F. Moravec, Master of Spies: The Memoirs of General Frantisek Moravec  (Bodley Head, 1975), 202. claims a scheduled departure in ‘late April’.  With several sources corroborating the December date, the given month is considered to be a mistake.

[12] Brian Orend, “War,” ed. Edward N. Zalta, Fall 2008 ed., The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (2009), In using the basic outline found here, I have merged 3 duties into one, so as to cover them all in a single discussion of ‘legality’.

[13] Ibid.

[14] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 102-03.

[15] Orend, “War.”

[16] Even considering the justifiable concerns over the severity of sanctions in the Treaty of Versailles post-WWI, as discussed in  Lillian Goldman Law Library, “The Versailles Treaty June 28, 1919: Part III”.

[17] Harry D. Gould, “What Happened to Punishment in the Just War Tradition?,” in Ethics, Authority, and War: Non-State Actors and the Just War Tradition, ed. Eric A. Heinze and Brent J. Steele (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009), 73.

[18] Moravec, Master of Spies: The Memoirs of General Frantisek Moravec, 197; MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 71, 92-98; see also Milan Hauner, “Terrorism and Heroism: The Assassination of Reinhard Heydrich,” World Policy Journal 24, no. 2 (2007): 86.  Hauner claims that Heydrich was the turning point in this policy.

[19] Orend, “War.”

[20] Moravec, Master of Spies: The Memoirs of General Frantisek Moravec, 196.

[21] Nathan Canestaro, “American Law and Policy on Assassinations of Foreign Leaders: The Practicality of Maintaining the Status Quo,” Boston College International and Comparative Law Review 26, no. 1 (2003): 11.

[22] Tamar Meisels, “Targeting Terror,” Social Theory and Practice 30, no. 3 (2004): 306-07.

[23] Daniel  Statman, “On the Success Condition for Legitimate Self‐Defense,” Ethics 118, no. 4 (2008): 666; Kimberley Brownlee, “Civil Disobedience,” ed. Edward N. Zalta, Spring 2010 ed., The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy

[24] Daniel Statman, “The Morality of Assassination: A Response to Gross,” Political Studies 51, no. 4 (2003): 778.

[25] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 156.

[26] Gerwarth, Hitlers Hangman: The Life of Heydrich, 220.

[27] František Bikár, “Czech Senator Warns against Hatred, Racism, Nationalism, Xenophobia,”,

[28] This is not to suggest the loss of Jewish life is unimportant, merely that noting the anti-Semitism at the heart of Nazi Germany intended the expulsion/extermination of the entire Jewish population, that these people would have been targeted even had the assassination not provided the opportunity to purge them.

[29] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 113; see also Gerwarth, Hitlers Hangman: The Life of Heydrich, 227.

[30] Hitlers Hangman: The Life of Heydrich, 226.

[31] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 165-66.

[32] Meisels, “Targeting Terror,” 318, 21-22.

[33] Hauner, “Terrorism and Heroism: The Assassination of Reinhard Heydrich,” 89.

[34] Resistance movements were dealt with harshly when found. Dick Geary, “The Nazi State and Society,” in Hitler and Nazism, ed. Dick Geary (1993), 40-42.

[35] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 182.

[36] The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 200-04; see also Statman, “On the Success Condition for Legitimate Self‐Defense,” 667.

[37] MacDonald, The Killing of SS Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, 172.

[38] Stephen  Knoepfler, “Dead or Alive: The Future of U.S. Assassination Policy under a Just War Tradition,” New York University Journal of Law & Liberty 5, no. 457: 467.

[39] Hauner, “Terrorism and Heroism: The Assassination of Reinhard Heydrich.”

[40] Burian et al., Assassination: Operation Anthropoid 1941-1942.

[41] Lillian Goldman Law Library, “Laws of War: Laws and Customs of War on Land (Hague Iv); October 18, 1907,”

[42] W Hays Parks, “Executive Order 12333 and Assassination,” ed. Office of the Judge Advocate General of the Army, Memorandum of Law (Washington DC: Department of the Army, 2002 (Reproduction)), 5.

[43] “Executive Order 12333 and Assassination,” ed. Office of the Judge Advocate General of the Army, Memorandum of Law (Washington DC: Department of the Army, 2002 (Reproduction)), 3.

[44] as cited in Canestaro, “American Law and Policy on Assassinations of Foreign Leaders: The Practicality of Maintaining the Status Quo.”

[45] Orend, “War.”

[46] Michael L. Gross, “Killing the Innocent: The Dilemma of Terrorism,” in Moral Dilemmas of Modern War: Torture, Assassination, and Blackmail in an Age of Asymmetric Conflict (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 191-95.

[47] Meisels, “Targeting Terror,” 306-07.

The mind-brain Identity thesis: Problems and solutions

What is the mind, which gives humans this rich conscious experience, and how is it related to physical bodies?  This ‘true nature’ of the ‘mind’ has intrigued man for centuries, and even now, with a much greater knowledge of the world, the answer still eludes those searching.  Many attempts have been made to answer these existential questions, and although none have been completely successful, there are theories regarded as more plausible. One such theory is the ‘mind-body identity thesis’, a fully materialist theory which claims that all mental states are physical states.  Like all theories, it has come against considerable opposition, with objections ranging from alleged contradictions of Liebniz’s law, through to problems of representation and identity.  The identity thesis (arguably) has a sound response to these objections, and so offers a clear, rational, and logical theory to answer the problem of how our mind and body are connected.  However, there are still some weaknesses that have not yet been recognised as successfully overcome.  In this, at least, the identity thesis is not alone; there are still problems with all other alternatives.  The problems faced by the identity thesis will be explored, along with its best responses.  Firstly it is necessary to explain the identity thesis, and place it in the wider context of theories of mind.

The identity thesis is a fully materialist theory claiming the contingent[1], a posteriori[2] proposition (Blackburn, 2008a, b, Carruthers, 1992) that all mental states and events are physical states and events (Carruthers, 1992); they are in fact referring to the same thing (Carrier & Mittelstrass, 1995).  Two versions of the theory can now be identified, largely in response to objections from several competing theories which to an extent has divided Identity theorists.  The ‘strong’ version of ‘type identity’ claims general types of mental states will be consistent with general types of physical (brain) states, while the ‘weak’ version, ‘token’ identity[3] has the lesser claim that each individual mental state will correspond with an individual physical state.  Lowe (2004) illustrates this ‘type/token’ distinction with the word ‘tree’, which contains 4 letter tokens, but only three letter types – t, r and e (p. 48).

There are several other contenders attempting to answer the mind-body problem; to place the identity theory among its challengers, short descriptions of the main objectors are provided here.  Antithetical to the identity thesis are the various dualist theories which posit two distinct ‘pieces’ to conscious beings – a physical body and a non-physical mind.  Other criticisms come from other theories with a materialist grounding, like functionalism, which ‘characterises mental states with the causal roles they play in determining how a subject behaves in different circumstances’ (Lowe, 2004, p. 45).  A range of objections to the identity theory will now be discussed, along with how these objections are mitigated (Carruthers, 1992, Heil, 2004, Crane, 2003).

The first set of objections stem from alleged contradictions of Liebniz’s law[4]; the issues of ‘certainty’, ‘privacy’ and ‘value’.  The responses here show Carrier and Mittelstrass’ point that unacceptable results are found from ‘extreme’ use of this principle. (1995, p. 83).

Certainty is primarily a dualist objection which stems from Descartes (Lowe, 2004, p. 11); it is essentially that ‘I’ am unable to be ‘certain’ of any physical states, but ‘I’ am able to be certain of my experiences; therefore by Liebniz’s law, conscious experiences cannot be equal to brain states (Carruthers, 1992).  However, the identity theory contends that since ‘I am certain’ is clearly intentional, this use of Liebniz’s law is fallacious (Carruthers, 1992, Carrier & Mittelstrass, 1995).

The ‘privacy’ argument claims that brain states are ‘public’ (not private), but conscious states are private, therefore conscious states are not identical to brain states.  This argument has problems of its own.  Carruthers (1992) notes an inherent ambiguity in this argument, since the meaning of ‘private’ can imply two different contexts; it can be understood as either a problem of ownership, or a problem of knowledge (Carruthers, 1992, pp. 139-140).  If privacy is taken in context of ownership then the argument is unsound, as the premise claiming that brain states are ‘public’ is false, since only ‘I’ can own my brain states.  If the context of this is taken as ‘private knowledge’ then this argument suffers from a fallacious use of Liebniz’s law, similarly to the certainty argument (Carruthers, 1992, p. 139, Taylor, 2005, p. 153, Heil, 2004, pp. 80, 85).  Further, Carrier and Mittelstrass inform that the ‘privacy’ of these mental states is simply by virtue of our ‘acquaintance’ with them, and that the ‘conscious awareness’ of these mental states ‘[do] not imply knowledge’ (Carrier & Mittelstrass, 1995, p. 85).

The value argument relates to the capability of assigning ‘value’ to mental states.  The argument contends that while mental ‘conscious’ states can have value, in that they can be good or bad, no brain ‘merely physical’ states are able to have a value (Carruthers, 1992, p. 40).  Carruthers (1992) points out that a response will ultimately depend on the context of this objection, since it is questionable that ‘physical’ states cannot be subject to value claims.  If the claim is that the physical states do not have value, because it is the intent behind the physical event, then this appears to be fallacious, since it appears to use Liebniz’s law in an intentional context.

Another category of problems faced by the identity theory are qualitative aspects of consciousness.  These objections are seen by David Chalmers as constituting the ‘hard problem’ of consciousness (Heil, 2004, p. 164).  Within this category, there are two main arguments: the sensory experience of colour, and ‘felt’ sensations.  Both these ‘problems’ stem from subjective experience, which, as Heil (2004) notes, must be allowed for in a theory attempting ‘to make minds parts of a single reality’ (Heil, 2004, p. 87).  This makes the issue of qualia to be one of difficulty, and of importance to fully document in order to make the identity theory successful.

The ‘experience’ of “what it is like” (Nagel, 2005) to see “x” colour’ is seen as a problem for the identity theory, since we have no way of knowing how someone else views a colour.  We would not know what it was like for someone else to ‘see red’.  Similarly, the second problem of ‘what it feels like’ is based around the subjective nature of ‘felt sensations’; that even with ‘complete knowledge’ of the physical (brain states), we would not be able to ‘know’ how it feels to have those experiences.  This is often the basis for considering there must be something more than just our physical selves; however it should be noted that many of these issues are similarly problematical for dualist theories.

The identity thesis has several responses to these problems.  The first relates to an apparent linguistic propositional error, in which the objectors treat sensation and visualisation experiences as a particular individual thing, or a property of the thing (Carruthers, 1992, Heil, 2004).  According to Carruthers (1992), this is incorrect; since no experience has a particular colour, or a particular sensation, it is simply the way in which the mind processes visual and sensory input.  This can be a particular brain state; the key is in understanding representation, which, as Crane (2003) notes, is a problem for both materialist and dualist theories (Crane, 2003).  This representation issue is an ongoing one.  The issue of complete knowledge, however, can be responded to by understanding that the proposition is flawed; there are two types of knowledge, factual (propositional) and practical (recognitional).  Carruthers vehemently states that there is no amount of factual knowledge that can provide ability; a person must be able to apply the factual information into the appropriate field, effectively requiring the practice in having those physical states, and being able to recognise them as what they are.

The ‘qualia’ problem is related to the intentionality problem.  Conscious states are seen as unique, they are intentional or representational states, whereas no ‘merely physical’ state can be intentional in its own right.  Detractors invoke Liebniz’s law, to conclude that conscious states cannot be identical to brain states.  This is indeed problematical for the identity thesis, since the argument is valid.  However, it can be postulated that the argument may yet prove unsound, since while the intentional status of conscious states can be accepted, the soundness of the argument hinges on the acceptance of physical states intentionality.  This, however, is currently unable to be answered; though again, it should be noted that no other theory (and in particular, dualist theories) have yet been able to answer this either.

Another issue for the identity thesis is spatial position; if all mental (conscious) states, like thoughts are physical states, then they must have a spatial position.  The argument however claims that since conscious states are not attributed spatial positions, but brain states must have them, then conscious states cannot be identical.  However, there is no real reason why they could not be, with a little more research.  Carrier and Mittelstrass (1995) inform that this is simply a result from a ‘conflict between the materialist and the everyday manner of speaking’ (1995, p. 84).  The current non-use of language for this purpose is not because of an implicit ‘wrong’; it is just a ‘peculiarity of everyday speech’ (Carrier & Mittelstrass, 1995, p. 84).    If the possibility of attributing spatial positions to thoughts is accepted, it becomes possible to investigate the brain event which corresponds to those thoughts, and the location of those particular brain state changes, and then it would be possible to nominate this spatial position.

An interesting argument against the identity theory is Putnam’s Multiple Realizability argument, which claims that ‘all mental kinds are ‘multiply realized’ by distinct physical kinds’ (Bickle, 2008).  The general view of Putnam’s claims is that it puts forward against the ‘type’ identity thesis that it is conceivable that a form of life could exist in the universe which is capable of being in a particular mental state, without being in the same physical state as the identity theorist would assume (Bickle, 2008, Heil, 2004, Lowe, 2004, Ravenscroft, 2005).  The argument states that if a mental kind is multiply realizable by distinct physical kinds, then it cannot be identical to any specific physical kind – however, as the multiple realizability thesis states, all mental kinds are multiply realizable by distinct physical kind.  Therefore, it follows that no mental kind is identical to any specific physical kind (Ravenscroft, 2005, Bickle, 2008).  The identity theory has a number of responses to this argument; there is the option to follow Lewis (as cited in Bickle, 2008) in claiming that this does not remove the option of restricting claims to ‘domains’, since reductive physicalism has always been domain based (Bickle, 2008).  Alternatively, as several theorists have done, recent successes in neuroscience can be alluded to; success from neuroscience would not be expected if there was no continuity of ‘neural mechanisms’ (Bickle, 2008).  Yet we do expect some continuity across species, and have been able to apply successes from other species to humans.  This neuroscience evidence suggests that ‘psychological functions are not as radically multiply realized as … suggest[ed]’ (Bickle, 2008).  Shapiro (Bickle, 2008) also provides another option to overcome this problem – with the claim that a case of multiple realizability must be argued, since the ‘realizing kinds’ must ‘genuinely differ in their causally relevant properties’.  If there is no difference, then there is no multiple realizability; However if there is difference, Shapiro argues that they are not the same kind, and so there is no multiple realizability (Shapiro, as cited in Bickle, 2008).  In effect, the multiple realizability argument is severely weakened in its claims against the identity thesis.

The final hurdle to the identity theory is that of ‘necessary identity’.  Kripke’s identity argument (Kripke, 1981, 1983) is recognised to be a very powerful argument against materialism (Skokowski, 2007).  Kripke contends that ‘identity is not a relation which can hold contingently between objects’ (Kripke, 1981); all identities are necessary, even where they are found a posteriori; they only give the appearance of being contingent.  This is seen as a serious problem since the identity theory attempts to identify as a contingent proposition, which, in Kripke’s view, is impossible; he calls upon identity theorists to ‘explain away’ the appearance of contingency. As Papineau (2008) acknowledges, this is hard for the materialist to do, since it does in fact seem possible that the identities of mental states and physical states could have been different (Papineau, 2008).  The identity thesis has not been able to reply with a sufficiently powerful argument, but there are several responses.  Carruthers (1992) argues that identity theorists must deny the ability to successfully imagine particular feelings; the imagined states are not more than qualitatively similar (Carruthers, 1992).  Smart (Smart, 2011) responds that the ‘rigid designator’ in Kripke’s argument appears ‘highly contextual’, this rigid designator could both appear to match and appear to differ depending on the context in which we place it.  While these do not respond fully to Kripke’s argument, they do go some way to reducing its full force.

The identity thesis is far from perfect, and this essay is by no means comprehensive; space has only allowed the coverage of a brief introduction to the identity thesis, along with a superficial discussion of the main objections to the theory.  It has been shown that the essential nature of the identity thesis is that the mind and body are not distinct; this is expected to be further supported through neurological research.  The many problems faced by the identity theory were discussed; while issues of apparent contradiction of Leibniz’s law appeared easily solved, and only of minor consequence; Others, like the problems of qualia and necessary identity are highly significant, and require serious attention.  However, in spite of the problems it faces, the identity thesis is capable of responding to those objections, and provides a coherent and logical philosophical position which can explain, and assist scientific researchers with a research program.




Bickle, J. (2008) ‘Multiple Realizability’ in E. N. Zalta, (ed.) The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy,Stanford University, [online], available:

Blackburn, S. (2008a) ‘necessary/contingent truths’ in The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy,Oxford University Press, [online], available:

Blackburn, S. (2008b) ‘a priori/a posteriori’ in The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy,Oxford University Press, [online], available:

Carrier, M. & Mittelstrass, J. (1995) Mind, brain, behavior : the mind-body problem and the philosophy of psychology, Berlin:Walter De Gruyter Inc.

Carruthers, P. (1992) ‘Mind and Brain’ in Introducing Persons: Theories and Arguments in the Philosophy of Mind,London: Routledge, 131-156.

Crane, T. (2003) The Mechanical Mind: A philosophical introduction to minds, machines and mental representation, 2nd ed., London:Routledge.

Heil, J. (2004) Philosophy of Mind: A contemporary introduction, 2nd ed., London:Routledge.

Kim, J. (2005a) ‘The identity theory of mind’ in The Oxford Companion to Philosophy,Oxford University Press, [online], available:

Kim, J. (2005b) Physicalism, or Something Near Enough, Princeton:Princeton University Press.

Kripke, S. (1981) Naming and Necessity, Oxford:Blackwell.

Kripke, S. (1983) ‘Identity and Necessity’ in S. Davis, (ed.) Causal Theories of Mind: Action, Knowledge, Memory, Perception, and Reference Berlin: Walter De Gruyter Inc.

Livingston, P. M. (2004) Philosophical History and the Problem of Consciousness, New York:Cambridge University Press.

Lowe, E. J. (2004) An introduction to the philosophy of mind, Cambridge:Cambridge University Press.

Moser, P. K. & Trout, J. D., (eds.) (2005) Contemporary materialism: a reader, London:Routledge.

Nagel, T. (2005) ‘What Is It Like to Be a Bat?’ in S. Cahn, (ed.) Exploring Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology,2nd ed.,  Oxford University Press, [online], available:

Papineau, D. (2008) ‘Kripke’s Proof That We Are All Intuitive Dualists’, London Philosophy Papers,  available:

Ravenscroft, I. (2005) Philosophy of Mind: A Beginner’s Guide, New York:Oxford University Press.

Skokowski, P. (2007) ‘Is The Pain In Jane Felt Mainly In Her Brain?’, The Harvard Review of Philosophy, 15, 58-71.

Smart, J. J. C. (2011) ‘The Mind/Brain Identity Theory’ in E. N. Zalta, (ed.) The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy,Stanford University, [online], available:

Taylor, R. (2005) ‘The Mind as a Function of the Body’ in S. Cahn, (ed.) Exploring Philosophy: An Introductory Anthology,2nd ed.,  Oxford University Press, [online], available:

[1] A contingent truth is one that is not ‘necessary’; that is, it could have been different.

[2] a posteriori refers to the requirement for empirical experience to ascertain this knowledge, as oppsed to a priori knowledge which can be developed conceptually.

[3] ‘Strong’ and ‘Weak’ here are not value claims; instead they refer to a kind of purity; ‘Strong’ is the more ‘pure’ form, along with its ‘diluted’ counterpart; however this ‘dilution’ should not necessarily be considered negative.

[4] Leibniz’s law contends the identity of two entities implies the sameness of their properties – identity implies indiscernibility.

Freedom of Speech and its ‘Appropriate Limitations’

‘I detest what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it’
(Voltaire, as described by Beatrice Hall, 1906)

As epitomized by Voltaire’s attitude, tolerance for opposing viewpoints is a fundamental necessity for social and political participation, especially in a world increasingly connected through globalisation and technological advancement. These connections have changed the world, not always for the better; serious culture clashes have occurred and still more can be expected, where difference is seen as threatening. These threats have led a number of societies to implement restrictions on their citizens’ freedom of expression1, through strong defamation and vilification laws, and the application of censorship to a wide range of media. By highlighting these issues, it will be shown that censorship is inappropriate and ineffective, because it does not address the cause of the issues. The best way to develop our societies, foster community cohesion and tolerance is through education, and the  encouragement for all to participate in civic life, with the widest possible freedom of expression within the law.

Australia’s diversity has been increasing since the remnants of the ‘White Australia’ policy were removed, discarding the ‘Australian Settlement’ (Kelly, 2004; Stokes, 2004). With no imposed state language or religion, and no direct insistence on cultural integration, Australia is called home by a wide variety of people, from many cultures. However, diversity highlights differences between Australians, sometimes leading to violence, such as seen in Cronulla in 2005 (Kennedy & Murphy, 2005). It is events like these which serve to show the utmost importance of free expression. Without it, the opportunity to educate, dispel fear and encourage tolerance is lost. This is even acknowledged by the United Nations (UN).

The United Nations (UN) acknowledges the importance of free expression within the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) Article 19 (United Nations, 1948)2. It sets out to enshrine the right to free expression for all, balanced by the responsibility to use it wisely. They recognise that this freedom is essential to many others; without the ability and willingness to speak out against the ‘prevailing trends’, democracy would not have come about, nor would many of our most important scientific discoveries. Democracy itself requires a commitment to freedom of expression; it requires the capacity for individuals and communities to inform others, particularly their politicians, of their views3 (see also Mill, 1859). However there is a perception that to ensure the security of social cohesion, restrictions on free expression are necessary. Recently, these restrictions have come to apply to the online environment.

From humble beginnings, the internet has grown to become the technology of our age, becoming a veritable marker of our society (Barker & Kelly, 2008). With near worldwide influence, the internet has developed its own ‘imagined communities’ (Anderson, 1991) within its virtual environment, and further supplements non‐virtual ones. The internet becomes more accessible worldwide, and grows in content every day. In Australia alone, the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) informs that over eighty percent of Australians now have access to the internet at home (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2008‐09); this is further amplified by the number of countries with figures similar to, or greater than Australia4. The internet exploits the growing globalisation trend, allowing all who access it the opportunity to connect and communicate with diverse communities of various interests.

However the internet has a dark side, too. The internet has seen a rise in criminal behaviour, along with less ‘savoury’ legal content. To combat these issues, particularly child pornography and material offending ‘standards of morality, decency and propriety’ (Department of the Attorney‐General, 2005), the Australian Government has announced an intention to apply the National Classification Code (Department of the Attorney‐General, 2005) to online content (Department of Broadband, 2011). While it is true that a number of countries implement a degree of censorship by removing or blocking illegal content5, the intentions of the Australian government go much further than other (Western) democratic states. They will apply a ‘blacklist’ to block material considered to fit the criteria for ‘Refused Classification’ material within the Code, and the Guidelines for the Classification of Films and Computer Games. These guidelines are sufficiently broad to include a great deal of content; applying this to the internet, both usergenerated and commercial content, will not only be costly and difficult to implement, it
will also be largely futile.

The ‘Clean Feed’ filter, as it is sometimes called, faces fundamental flaws from all sides; it will cost a great deal and still not do the job, as the material wanting to be blocked does not usually get transferred via webpages, and the avenues in which it does get distributed will not be ‘censored’. It will also block material that is not necessarily illegal, and be easily bypassed with only a little technical knowledge, easily found on the internet. Now, this of course may not itself cause concern – what is the problem with spending money spuriously? There are two fundamental problems with censorship of the internet.

Firstly, the purpose of the classification guidelines is to provide advice to the public. By applying the ‘clean feed’, there is a distinct possibility that the public, and particularly parents, will be less vigilant over their children’s online time, thinking that it is now somehow ‘safe’; however the majority of risks children face online will not be removed by the filter. There is also the fact that the money for the ‘filter’ could be better spent on real opportunities for combatting the online danger to children, through greater funding for finding and prosecuting the criminals behind these crimes.

The other issue with an acceptance of the ‘clean feed’ is that the content blocked will be ‘secret’, available only to very specific public servants. This is a fundamental breach of the freedom of speech, and places Australians in a position where they are in the dark to the true nature of censorship (Thompson, 2004). When other forms of media, such as books and films, are refused classification, indications of why they have been banned are provided, which affords the public to lobby for their release. With the proposed filter, there will be no visibility of reasoning, no way to get content released if inadvertent errors are made, and no opportunity for discussion on the constitution of the ‘standards of morality, decency and propriety’ they cite. The standards being applied to the code can also be questioned to their validity, noting how diverse Australian culture is. This limits the usefulness of a ‘one size fits all’
approach. Individuals and families are better placed, and have superior authority over their moral standards and children’s education, recognised even by the UDHR (See Articles 12, 19 & 26 in United Nations, 1948). The ability and opportunity to freely express issues in society are essential to the search for truth, and to the development of
potential. Our diversity provides a strong likelihood of mismatches between standards; this shows that “boundaries between acceptable and unacceptable speech are by definition ‘ideological’”(Post, as cited in Gelber, 2010), that is, based upon imposition of one person’s or group’s values on others. What may be highly offensive to one person
may be acceptable to another. This highlights another issue with broad and general application of restrictions to speech.

Australia has introduced broad based defamation and vilification laws. Unfortunately, the generality of these laws create unintended effects, including spurious lawsuits, and the ‘chilling’ of speech (Heinze, 2006) due to the inability to determine what is, and is not within the law. A recent example of this is on the internet forum ‘Whirlpool’. This website, one of the largest online forums in Australia, was recently targeted by a company for negative comments by anonymous users regarding their products (Staff writers, 2007). The case was discontinued; however events like this can break down communities, withhold valuable consumer information and serve to silence dissent. It could be argued that this was just a spurious case, and that we should be focused on damage caused by ‘hate speech’. Shouldn’t this be unlawful?

Within an apparently ‘civilised’ country, the normative expectation is for criticism to be mature and ‘appropriate’, not hostile. This is certainly worth encouraging, through praise for good ‘clean’ argumentation, or condemnation for hostile argumentation. However, while striving to improve the quality of speech is admirable, we should not
automatically discount opinions based on poor form. As noted by Summy (1998), many languages have deep‐seated attachments to metaphors which are violent and vitriolic (Summy, 1998). The use of strong language, rhetoric and metaphor can often be misconstrued. However, even if not misconstrued, it is impossible to force a ‘love thy neighbour’ approach. No external authority can dictate what citizens must love or hate, nor should they legislate against hatred. Outlawing ‘hate speech’ will not change opinion, since it does not address the root cause of the hatred, whether fear, bad experiences, or lack of education. In fact, it can do the opposite. It can breed
resentment, and drive opposition underground, removing the opportunity to ‘keep an eye on’ the lines of demarcation, potentially leading to violent outbursts. It is the threat, attempt or successful act which causes harm which is a crime, and it is this which should be punished. The answer to bad speech and ignorance is not silence ‐ it is rebutting it with good speech. Those with the freedom to speak are charged with a civic duty to enlighten these others with better views. Freedom of speech should not be limited on the basis of ‘hate speech’.

This however, is not a call for an immoderate, ‘anything goes’ attitude, or a call for ‘cultural relativity’. It is a call for Australians to unite under a shared culture of multiculturalism. It is a call for a standard independent of  ‘popularity’; rather than a top‐down approach that ‘x is wrong because we’ve made it so’. While it may be difficult
to find where the line is drawn, through the reasoning capacity all humans are capable of, and the capacity for free speech, the truth can be found. The truth is not always to be found with ourselves, or with our opponents; much of the time, it is somewhere in between. When the state decides on questions of truth, we have then moved from
democracy to tyranny. We must be prepared to re‐examine the standards; while it may be difficult to accept a changeable standard, societies are rigid or fixed, and so must be prepared to consider new options on receipt of new information. It is also a call for education, and a commitment to active participation in civic life.

Education is the key to solving many public issues. Discrimination, hate and fear of the ‘Other’ can be combatted through the education of each generation, and providing opportunities for widespread community participation. Through social and political debate, communities learn from each other; this can provide opportunities to dispel fears, and generate the tolerance that fosters mutual respect and social cohesion.

Tolerance is not neutrality ‐ taking the ‘middle ground’ on an issue; It is not meekly following orders for fear of being charged, or even moral or civic indifference to an issue not cared about. It requires much more; the courage to consider alternative opinions,
and the forbearance of opinions you don’t like. As Mill points out, no‐one is infallible (Mill, 1859); if we attempt to silence opinions because we don’t like them, use poorly worded or obnoxious language, or they show criticism (causing distress) to an individual or group, then we not only take from them, but we also lose opportunities for ourselves.

By having the courage to listen and understand opposing viewpoints, the opportunity is provided to understand both ourselves and others, to reconsider or concede positions, or to better develop arguments that demonstrate why the opposition is wrong. All sides are encouraged to engage in the debate and there is no silencing of objections; instead there is the encouragement to learn from each other, attempting to find common ground on which to compromise (see Habermas, in Gelber, 2010). Intolerance, on the other hand, rejects this; it dictates possibilities and peoples’ capacity for selfdetermination.


(Hu)Man’s capacity for self‐determination and reasoning can see social problems overcome without the need for censorship or limitations on free expression. Through discussion and debate, societies are provided with the opportunity to understand others, and develop ideas to improve themselves. There may never be clear delineation
between truth and falsity or morality and immorality; by allowing others to speak, and considering the value of their arguments, society is provided with the opportunity for critical reflection, heading towards the examined life Socrates (de Botton, 2000) hoped everyone would live. The outcomes of these debates may never bring everyone to one common opinion, nor should this be seen as necessary; societies are constantly evolving, and values, expectations and knowledge will change over time. For this reason, we should always be willing to consider the opinions of those we do not agree with; for by silencing them we lose opportunities for ourselves, and reject the diversity that defines us.


Australian Capital Television Pty Ltd and New South Wales v Commonwealth (1992a) HCA 45; 177 CLR 106.
Nationwide News Pty Ltd v Wills (1992b) HCA 46; 177 CLR 1.
Theophanous v Herald and Weekly Times Limited (1994) HCA 46; 182 CLR 104.
Anderson, B. (1991) Imagined Communities, London: Verso.
Australian Bureau of Statistics (2008‐09) ‘8146.0 ‐ Household Use of Information Technology, Australia ‘, available:
Barker, J. & Kelly, S. (2008) ‘Technology and Nationalism’ in G. Herb & D. Kaplan, (eds.), Nations and Nationalism: A Global Historical Overview 1, Santa Barbara: ABC‐CLIO, 126‐136.
Beatrice Hall, E. (1906) The Friends of Voltaire, Smith Elder & Co.
de Botton, A. (2000) ‘Consolation for Unpopularity’ in The Consolations of Philosophy, London: Penguin Books, 3‐42.
Department of Broadband, C. a. t. D. E. (2011) ‘Cybersafety plan’, [online], available: [1 November 2011].
National Classification Code 2005 (Commonwealth of Australia), ss.
Gelber, K. (2010) ‘Freedom of political speech, hate speech and the argument from democracy: The
transformative contribution of capabilities theory’, Contemporary Political Theory, 9 (3), 304‐304‐324.
Heinze, E. (2006) ‘Viewpoint Absolutism and Hate Speech’, The Modem Law Review Limited 69 (4), 543‐582.
International Telecommunication Union (25/10/2011) ‘Information and Communication Technology
(ICT) Statistics’, [online], available:‐D/ict/facts/2011/index.html
Jordan, R. (2002) Free Speech and the Constitution, Research Note 42 of Department of the Parliamentary Library, Canberra.
Kelly, P. (2004) ‘Comment: the Australian settlement’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 39 (1), 23 ‐ 25.
Kennedy, L. & Murphy, D. (2005) ‘Racist furore as mobs riot’, The Age (, 12 December 2005,‐furore‐as‐mobsriot/2005/12/11/1134235948497.html?page=2.
Mill, J. S. (1859) On Liberty, Everyman New York ed., 1992, New York: Random House.
Staff writers (2007) ‘2Clix sues Whirlpool founder’, [online], available: [12 Sep 2007].
Stokes, G. (2004) ‘The ‘Australian settlement’ and Australian political thought’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 39 (1), 5 ‐ 22.
Summy, R. (1998) ‘Nonviolent speech’, Peace Review, 10 (4), 573‐578.
Thompson, B. (2004) ‘Doubts over web filtering plans’, 11 June, 2004,
United Nations (1948) ‘Universal Declaration of Human Rights’, 60th Anniversary Ed, available:

1 Free expression and Free Speech are used interchangeably; however the former creates the impression of a
broader right, encompassing the latter.
2 While Australia is a signatory to this declaration, no government has introduced legislation to incorporate this
convention into Australian law. Jordan, R. (2002) Free Speech and the Constitution, Research Note 42 of
Department of the Parliamentary Library, Canberra..
3 This was recognised by the High Court of Australia in the early 1990’s through several legal cases, notably
Australian Capital Television Pty Ltd and New South Wales v Commonwealth (1992a) HCA 45; 177 CLR 106,
Nationwide News Pty Ltd v Wills (1992b) HCA 46; 177 CLR 1, Theophanous v Herald and Weekly Times Limited
(1994) HCA 46; 182 CLR 104.
4 This is not to say worldwide access is equally distributed – there is a recognised ‘digital divide’ between the
developed, and developing world. For more details, and world statistics, see International Telecommunication
Union (25/10/2011) ‘Information and Communication Technology (ICT) Statistics’, [online], available:
5 Canada and Great Britain are prominent examples. See and Thompson,
B. (2004) ‘Doubts over web filtering plans’, 11 June, 2004,

Why do States seek nuclear weapons? Can nuclear proliferation be prevented?

–Note —  I made several mistakes in this essay, most noticeably, the use of ‘Russia’ in place of the USSR.  Yes, I’m terribly stupid.


Nuclear weapons have the ability to kill or maim many people instantly, and even more over a period of time.  For this reason, nuclear weapons have developed a respect borne of fear, inspiring the development of social norms of non-use and non-proliferation.  However in the current socio-political climate, the prevention of nuclear weapon proliferation is unlikely to be successful.  In order to illustrate this, several key problems with non-proliferation measures will be discussed.  Firstly, however, it is necessary to outline why states may seek nuclear weapons.  This brief outline is based on a reconceptualization of Waltz (1981) and others (Khan, 2010; Krieger, 2006; Barnaby, 2005; Sagan, 1997), developing into four primary categories: Offensive, Defensive, Balancing and Social. These may act individually, or in combination, to entice a state to proliferate in nuclear weapons.

States interested in nuclear weapons for offensive reasons may be attracted to the destructive power shown through the use of these weapons on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the subsequent development of power through the Cold War.  Of particular concern is the possibility of ‘rogue’ states or terrorist groups obtaining ‘the bomb’ (Khan, 2010).  The likelihood of states pursuing nuclear weapons for offensive purposes is contested (Waltz, 1981; Krieger, 2006); however the possibility of their use is arguably necessary in order to establish the defensive use of nuclear weapons (Wilson, 2008; Khan, 2010) which is promoted by the current Nuclear Weapons States (NWS).

Defensive uses for the bomb are based around the idea that nuclear weapons deter conflict in its entirety (Waltz, 1981; Khan, 2010), forcing states to use alternate means of conflict resolution; however without the possibility of a state using these weapons, there would be no deterrent.  This ‘need’ for a deterrent may be required because a state fears their opponents’ current or future capabilities, or it may doubt the political will or capability of its allies to defend it in a time of need, especially in light of the allies other political interests (Waltz, 1981).  This ‘defensive’ use also leads to the concept of a ‘counterbalance’ of power.

States may seek nuclear weapons in order to ‘balance’ a particular states’ power, removing the capability of one state to have complete military dominance, with effectively unchecked power at either a global or regional level (Khan, 2010; Waltz, 1981).  This can be seen in Russia’s nuclear arms race with the US in the late 1940s, and more recently with India and Pakistan.  This adversarial desire can often be linked to social factors between the states concerned.

In spite of the military focus for proliferation, there are several social reasons why states may seek ‘the bomb’, particularly in relation to identity and power.  Firstly, identity factors relate to the development of technologies, and how they can become embedded in a states’ identity (Barker & Kelly, 2008), being equated with proof of their modernity and advancement, or their development towards this goal.  States ‘benchmark’ themselves against the latest technologies; the ‘nuclear age’ has led to perceptions that nuclear technology is at the height of modernity, providing significant success and power to nations with this capability.

It is arguably this relation to power which seduces some states to pursue nuclear weapons, though this power comes in different forms (Khan, 2010).  The US, wielding significant political and economic power, can be seen as a poster-child for success with nuclear weapons; with much of their power being perceived as pure military might from World War II and the Cold War.  The notion that significant success and power comes from development of this technology has been formed; however this is not the only form of power that can be gained through nuclear weapons.  Power can be used for bargaining; where a state uses their capacity to develop these weapons to bring other nations to the bargaining table, either through ‘forcing’ other states to take them seriously, or through offers to ‘give up’ their weapons under certain conditions (Khan, 2010; Hunter, 2004).  Obtaining nuclear weapons allows a state to be on an ‘equal footing’ with a great or hegemonic power, at least on that one level; without these weapons, those states have little to gain attention (Khan, 2010).

These categorised reasons point to the strength of Herz’s ‘security dilemma’ (as cited in Russett et al., 2010, p. 240).  So can nuclear weapon proliferation be prevented?  In order to provide an affirmative response to this, we would have to establish that all these factors can be fully answered in our current (or at least short to medium term future) socio-political environment, removing any perceived ‘need’ for these weapons, and for these conditions to remain so indefinitely.  However, while there is hope for this goal, it is unlikely that proliferation can be prevented in the short to medium term.  This is due to several problems within our socio-political environment, including the social factors of ‘prestige’ and power, problematic collective security measures, the lack of progress in disarmament by the NWS, and inherent discrimination within the Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT).

As already demonstrated, nuclear weapons can provide a state with prestige and power, from showing their nation has the smarts and capacity for developing these weapons, placing them in a relatively exclusive club, to ‘being equal’ to the most powerful states.  For proliferation to be prevented, these factors must be dealt with, and this is currently not being addressed.  It is quite evident to the world that those seen as the most powerful are also NWS (Barnaby, 2005, p. 10), which highlights a level of power and prestige correlated with nuclear weapons (Barnaby, 1998).  This also causes other difficulties; the NWS insistence on non-proliferation, combined with the lack of progress towards disarmament and various other proposals have led some to the belief that these powerful ‘western’ nations have ulterior motives for their insistence on non-proliferation (Hunter, 2004; Khan, 2010).   Mearsheimer (2001) puts this idea as where a great power attempts to ‘thwart rivals bent on gaining power at its expense’ (p. 3).  Even if the belief is wrong, and the NWS motives are pure, this perception can entice rebellion instead of acceptance and conformism.

Adding to these difficulties is the fact that nuclear weapons are not decreasing in importance to the NWS (Barnaby, 2005, p. 12; Ogilvie-White & Santoro, 2011).  They are played up in politico-military speeches on defence, and, perhaps unintentionally, promoted as necessary to their security.  In particular, the US in their position as the ‘global power’ has not used this position to downplay nuclear weapons.  While nuclear weapons are recognised as having such a degree of political and military utility, it is very difficult to encourage NNWS to avoid proliferation (Khan, 2010; Hunter, 2004; Barnaby, 1977).

In order to mitigate Non-Nuclear Weapons States (NNWS) fears of nuclear attack while demanding they remain non-nuclear, the NWS have provided variously worded negative and positive security assurances to the NNWS (Gallagher, 2011; Cortright & Väyrynen, 2009).  Negative security assurances provide for the conditional non-use of nuclear weapons against NNWS, while positive assurances provide for the provision of assistance, and in some cases retaliation, to NNWS if attacked or threatened by the use of nuclear weapons (Cortright & Väyrynen, 2009).  As Waltz (1981) notes, this is ‘the strongest means’ for persuading a state to ‘forgo nuclear weapons’, effectively placing the NWS in the position of ‘protectors’, and by doing so, it is assumed that the proliferation of these weapons becomes unnecessary.  However, this does not completely eradicate the desire to proliferate, since not all NNWS are covered by these assurances, nor are all completely confident that their ‘protectors’ other political or diplomatic concerns would not be prioritised over the defence of their state (Jo & Gartzke, 2007; Cortright & Väyrynen, 2009).  Further, the provision of security assurances can cause problems for the non-proliferation agenda, since the NWS claim an inability to disarm their nuclear weapons due to these assurances (Huntley, 2010).

These security assurances provided by the NWS have created other issues, especially for the goal of nuclear disarmament (Müller, 2011),. The NWS are concerned that through reductions or disarmament, ‘protected’ states may be less confident of their security, and so may consider proliferation (Cortright & Väyrynen, 2009; Gallagher, 2011).  However disarmament is the other side of the non-proliferation coin (Cirincione, 2009).  Promoting non-proliferation and requiring NNWS to undergo escalating monitoring of their nuclear activities can lead to problems, especially where NNWS consider that they not getting what they expected (Blechman & Bollfrass, 2010), creating a perception of, indeed arguably real and deliberate inequality written into the Non-Proliferation Treaty.

The Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty is widely considered to have an inherent inequality ‘built in’, though not all agree this is negative (Ogilvie-White & Santoro, 2011; Cortright & Väyrynen, 2009; Ware, 2008; Blechman & Bollfrass, 2010).  The NPT is generally taken as ‘a grand bargain’, whereby the NNWS trade their forgoing of nuclear weapons for the progress towards ‘nuclear zero’.  Several NNWS are concerned that they are taking on the biggest problems of proliferation and accepting considerable oversight and monitoring of their activities, while NWS do not accept similar constraints, nor are they seen as fulfilling their obligations towards disarmament objectives (Ogilvie-White & Santoro, 2011; Barnaby, 1998; Blechman & Bollfrass, 2010)(Perkovich, 1998; Ogilvie-White & Santoro, 2011). As noted by Perkovich (1998) “Nothing in politics animates people as much as perceived inequity and unfairness” (1998, p. 21).  This lack of progress towards disarmament reduces support for the arrangements under the Non-Proliferation Treaty, and for this reason, some claim the NPT will not survive, and a new treaty will need to be written (Ogilvie-White & Santoro, 2011; Barnaby, 1977; Blechman & Bollfrass, 2010).

Ultimately, it would not only take significant effort to resolve the ‘need’ for these weapons, but also the weaning off our current dependence on military solutions, and an increase in trust and transparency for the world to feel secure, combined with the political will to make it happen.  However the variation in reasons for states to pursue these weapons, and the numerous difficulties for non-proliferation and disarmament make the prevention of proliferation unlikely in the foreseeable future.


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Wilson, W. (2008) ‘The Myth of Nuclear Deterrence’, Nonproliferation Review, 15 (3), 421-439.

International Security Studies: Critical Security, Human Security and Copenhagen School Approaches


Within this changing world, new approaches to studying security have emerged.  Critical Security Studies, the Copenhagen School, and Human Security approaches all endeavour to broaden the concept of security and all are to a degree critical of the ‘traditional’ conceptualisation of security as the protection of the state against outside military threats.  Instead, they have attempted to expand ‘security’ vertically, to allow for different referent objects – the ‘who, or what’ which is to be secured (Krause & Williams, 1997, p. 34), as well as horizontally, through the recognition that outside military threats are not the only, nor the largest threats to security.  Philosophically they share much, however there are some important differences to be aware of, namely their epistemology of security, referent objects, purpose, and methodology.  These differences will be explored to develop an understanding of their implications.

Firstly, it is important to understand that ‘non-traditional’ studies like these three have been developed due to a belief in a fundamental error within the traditional approaches.  Within the dominant ‘traditional’ approach to security studies, security is largely considered to be the ‘military defen[c]e of sovereign territory’ within an anarchic system; ultimately ‘defending the state against, and deterring “external” military threats’ (Newman, 2010, 2001).  For the non-traditional approaches discussed here, this is an untenable statement; it ignores the group that gives the state legitimacy, and it ignores all other sources of threats to human survival.  This leads us into the first of many differences with these ‘schools’ of thought.

Critical Security Studies and Copenhagen scholars consider ‘security’, as an ‘essentially contested’ concept, since it gains meaning from society and context (Collins, 2010; Mutimer, 2010).  In contrast, Human Security scholars would be unlikely to accept these claims (Newman, 2010), since their conception of security is based on a set notion of ‘protection of the vital core of all human lives from critical and pervasive threats’ (Owen, 2004, p. 20).  These differing understandings of the nature of security underpin much of the other differences between these approaches.

Security Epistemology

Both Human Security and Critical Security Studies scholars are critical of the realist ‘objectivist’ epistemology.  They recognise a subjectivity and indeterminacy to knowledge, since they are neither ‘set apart’ from the world, nor is the world set apart from them; instead all participants are socially constructed (Mutimer, 2010).  Both of these approaches consider that this ‘constructed’ nature of human understanding, leaves things open for change.  This leads them to the belief that particular attention must be paid to the moral, normative dimension of their analyses, since they can affect the world.  Bringing about positive change, whether in developing better understandings of security, or bettering the lot of those most disadvantaged, is considered an important focus of their analyses.  These beliefs firmly place them in the ‘post-positivist’ camp.

This is in sharp contrast to the Copenhagen school approach, which is largely positivist.  While they agree with the socially constructed nature of world politics, they consider it possible to maintain this objectivity because of what they see as a stabilisation within this ‘social construction’ (Buzan et al., 1998).  They base their analyses on the premise that this will continue, and add to it the ‘facts’ they develop through a discourse analysis of manifested ‘securitizations’.  However analysts are not required to consider the ‘securitized’ threat claim real, since the ‘analyst and actor are fundamentally and conceptually different’ (Floyd & Croft, 2010, p. 45).

Referent Objects

Scholars from all three schools have rejected the ‘traditional’ concept of the ‘state’ as the exclusive referent, the ‘who, or what’ which is to be secured (Krause & Williams, 1997, p. 34).  Instead, to differing degrees, and for different reasons, they all accept a vertically expanding conception of the referent object.  For Critical Security Studies and Human Security, this extends ‘the security of nations [downwards] to the security of groups and individuals’, and ‘[upwards] to the security of the international system, or of a supranational physical environment’ (Rothchild, as cited in Alkire, 2003, p. 16; see  also Rothchild, 1995, p. 55).  Critical Security Studies is particularly critical of the ‘neo-realist’ focus on the state, and so does not prioritise the state at the expense of groups and individuals (Gustavsson, 2006; Krause, 1998).  This is based on the idea that ‘states are unreliable as primary referents because while some are in the business of security some are not; even those which are producers of security represent the means and not the ends; and states are too diverse in their character to serve as the basis for a comprehensive theory of security’ (Booth, 2005). Instead, they consider the referent to be multidimensional, but essentially centred on the individual, within a community (Krause, 1998; Krause & Williams, 1997, 1996).  This is similar to Human Security scholars, who have an ‘unapologetic focus on the person, on people and peoples and community’ (McIntosh & Hunter, 2010, p. 9), however, while essentially agreeing with many of the issues with the state, they are more pragmatic in their utilisation of it (Newman, 2010).  In contrast, while Copenhagen advocate a ‘deepening’ of security areas, and so allow for alternatives to the ‘traditional’ referent, they remain predominantly state-centric.  This limitation is largely due to their consideration that a large sub-group, a ‘limited collectivity’ which provides an understanding of ‘we’ (Buzan et al., 1998, pp. 36-37), is required to successfully frame, or ‘securitize’ an issue as a threat.

As this section identifies, though they differ in how far this willingness extends, all have a willingness to look beyond the referents in ‘traditional’ approaches.  This highlights the differences in the purpose and scope of the three non-traditional approaches, discussed below.

Purpose and Scope

These three approaches to security have differing purposes, and adjust their scope accordingly.  Critical Security Studies scholars research to gain ‘contextual understanding and practical knowledge’ (Krause, 1998, p. 321).  They seek to offset the dominance of ‘traditional’ security studies by highlighting their deficiencies by developing a greater understanding of security, and broadening and deepening the field of studies (Krause & Williams, 1996, p. 230; see also C.A.S.E Collective, 2006).  For some, it also attempts to promote norms for a ‘global community’, breaking down ‘identity politics’ to encourage a removal of the self-other dichotomy (McDonald, 2002, p. 9).

Whilst agreeing with Critical Security Studies on some of the deficiencies of traditional security studies, Copenhagen School analysts aim for objectivity.  Through analysis of past or emerging situations, the Copenhagen school seeks to explain the ‘securitization’ process, that is, how matters are made into issues of security; and how issues are ‘desecuritized’, by being returned from a ‘security’ agenda to the realm of normal politics.  They seek an understanding of how threats are constructed and developed into shared understandings that enable ‘extraordinary measures’ without claiming those threats are objective (Waever, 2004).The purpose of this is ‘closer to traditional security studies’ whereby they attempt to ‘grasp security constellations and steer them into benign interactions’ (Buzan et al., 1998, p. 35).

Benign interactions are not enough for Human Security proponents. Their ‘academic approach and … fledgling policy movement’ (Newman, 2010) seeks to develop arguments for and promote policies to create peace and stability for individuals and their communities, especially for the most disadvantaged.  In spite of their ‘human’ focus, Human Security proponents prefer to moderate existing assumptions and structures with ‘persuasive policy-relevant insights’ rather than ‘alienate’ those who could make the changes they desire (Newman, 2010, 2001).  Being ‘pragmatic’, they usually consider a ‘strong’ state to be an important tool for achieving their goals (Newman, 2010), highlighting a commitment to conditional sovereignty; if governments expect non-interference, and a ‘monopoly on the use of force’, then (normatively) they should accept their ‘duty to protect’ (Pettman, 2005, p. 144).

As can be seen here, the Copenhagen School approach is more about viewing the world as it is, while Human Security and Critical Security Studies seek change, through attempts to show how the world could be (Floyd & Croft, 2010, p. 23).  Their methodology should provide clues on how they produce the argument for change.


As Browning and McDonald (2010) inform, ‘these critical approaches differ … in terms of which … questions are prioritised and the answers that are produced’(Browning & McDonald, 2010, p. 4).  This can be seen by identifying the basic methodology of these three ‘schools’.

Of the three approaches, the Copenhagen School has developed the most coherent analysis methodology, with ‘Securitization’ theory.  Securitization is ‘a speech act’ producing a discourse claiming an ‘existential threat’ to a referent object, which upon ‘successful securitization’ will lead to the ability to take ‘extraordinary measures’ to secure it (Buzan et al., 1998, p. 21).  This theory maintains that “‘[s]ecurity’ signifies a situation marked by the presence of a security problem and some measure against it” (Waever, as cited in Friis, 2000, p. 3).  The Copenhagen school also broadens the conception of security with ‘sectors’ to provide alternative ‘views of the same issues’ in order to understand the interplay between units, sectors and levels (Buzan et al., 1998, p. 168).

In contrast to this relatively clear methodology, Critical Security Studies scholars are given wide latitude.  Since the purpose of Critical Security Studies is not to explain, but to understand, they instead focus on the ‘”how questions”: how the referent is constructed, how issues are ‘securitized’, and how might these issues be resolved, with an emancipatory or non-emancipatory goal’ (Krause, 1998).  The focus here is delving deeper to bring out the underlying assumptions, so they can be critically examined.

Even further contrasted is Human Security, with an almost non-existent methodology for analysing or measuring Human Security.  Recent attempts by Alkire (2003) and Owen (2004) have begun to specify measurement and analysis tools for this purpose, however there is no consensus on this as yet; much of the work in this area is heavily influenced by developmental studies.  This has not deterred Floyd (Floyd, 2007), who claims that analysis is not actually the purpose of Human Security, instead the purpose should be seen as the identification of existential threats, and the application of normative utility towards an ‘enabling capacity’ (Hoogensen et al., as cited in Floyd, 2007, p. 44) to highlight insecurities for those unable to speak for themselves.  Floyd (2007) points out the ‘activist’ side of Human Security with the claim that Human Security ‘offers an outlet to all those dissatisfied with security analysis, who are more interested in achieving securitization than simply analysing it’ (Floyd, 2007).  This has led Floyd to consider that Human Security ‘offers an alternative to security analysis per se’ (Floyd, 2007, p. 39).


There are many shared features within this broad ‘critical’ area, however they each have some important differences which set them apart.  These broad areas, including epistemology, referents, purpose and methodology have been shown to be quite different, not only in terms of concept, but also of coherence. These differences may lead to amalgamation, or creation of something entirely new from this beginning, however it is clear that these approaches are becoming increasingly relevant in our modern world.



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