Author: George Baroud
In teaching ancient literature, I recognize that the substance of the material, because it is foreign temporally as well as culturally, can challenge first-year students; the task of remembering the value systems espoused by different moral philosophies, religions, or thought systems can indeed be overwhelming. To supplement lecture and discussion, and to help students connect more productively with the material, I have begun to employ moral dilemma exercises, a pedagogic tool of incredible versatility.
Moral dilemmas, because they are vivid representations of conflicting obligations or norms, are especially useful exercises for illustrating what is at stake in a particular argument or worldview. Although they present hypothetical situations, they are less abstract (or removed) from the scenarios we encounter in our texts; indeed, they can be articulated in a way that immediately appeals to the student, who is compelled to make a decision and explain it. It is this decision making – and the act of defending the process by which one has arrived at this decision – that makes this an especially engaging (and productive) exercise. Picture the scene:
You’re driving down a quiet street with your best friend, Carina, when a group of people suddenly step out in your car’s path. You have two options, and know for certain what the outcome of each choice will be: if you swerve to avoid the crowd, your crash will injure Carina, who will die, but if you don’t swerve, Carina will survive at the expense of everybody else’s life. Who would you choose to live?
Moral dilemmas of this sort, a variation of the Trolley Problem, are sometimes used in philosophy classes to teach virtue ethics (more recently, the Trolley Problem in particular has generated renewed interest on account of Google’s self-driving cars). But they are just as effective for teaching intellectual history because they illustrate how different thought systems might fundamentally view (and frame) this situation differently; consequently, they invite students to learn how to analyze an identical scenario in a multiplicity of ways. This tool, then, not only teaches students the actual substance of the different philosophies we engage with, but helps students apply the substance they have learned, such that they can ‘see’ the world through a Platonic, or Aristotelian, or Confucian lens.
To return to the dilemma: on the face of it, the scenario appears to be decidedly apolitical, the question at stake purely an ethical one. Indeed, the main question that this dilemma raises is with regards to obligation and valuation: what do you owe to whom? What are your obligations to your friend, and what are your obligations to strangers? But one can rephrase this more strongly to bring into focus another issue at stake: what do you owe to your friend, and what do you owe to your society? Whose life is more valuable (if indeed value is the criterion that determines the choice you make), and why do you privilege one choice over the other? Articulated in this way, the dilemma takes on a social and political hue, and reminds us that human relationships – even friendships – are simultaneously political relationships with implications for society at large: the importance (and obligations) you attach to your relationship with Carina will concretely impact the lives of your compatriots.
I have used this latter observation as an entry point into Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, a text that connects ethics to happiness and to friendship, but I have also used it to introduce or to illustrate (or have challenged my students to use it to introduce or illustrate) other concepts or ideas we have encountered, such as Confucian piety, the concept of dharma (duty, obligation), or Stoic apatheia. If you view the scenario through the frame of the Bhagavad Gita, you might think about what your dharma – your duty or role in life – is, and to accept that role: we all have a function to serve, and the stability of the cosmos depends on our accepting this. You would do well to remember that attachment to the material body, indeed the world, is delusional: we are only instruments of the gods, as Arjuna is an instrument of Lord Krishna. Marcus Aurelius might show a similar kind of equanimity and would remind us to accept the logos, the overarching rational principle that governs everything – fear or sadness will not change the situation. We must instead accept the circumstances and behave within the parameters they allow. Daoism, which emphasizes the interdependence of opposites, might advise that what you think is a horrible situation is simply a necessity of life, the correlative to happy events. The phrasing of the dilemma, of course, can be adapted to help bring out any one of these concepts or to contrast competing ideologies. Instead of a best friend, I might choose to have a family member be the passenger to emphasize the role filial piety plays in Confucian thought (for Confucius, family comes first and is to be privileged over strangers).
Beyond helping us engage with ancient thinkers, these dilemmas can be used to elucidate a number of important approaches to ethics, such as utilitarianism or consequentialism. A common rhetorical position in this situation is that you must opt for the ‘common good’: if fewer people die, there will be fewer people affected by loss and subject to grief. This is a kind of utilitarian approach. But what if Carina is a world-renowned chemist or physicist, on the brink of a great scientific discovery (or perhaps she’s already made one and is on her way to making another)? What, then, are the other lives worth in this light? Instead of the utilitarian approach above, this is a kind of consequentialist argument, whereby the consequences (the end effect) determine the morality of the choice: if Carina’s death has minimum impact, then you’ve done right to save the group; if Carina’s death has resulted in an important medicine remaining undiscovered, you’ve saved 7 people to the detriment of thousands, and have made the wrong choice.
The dilemmas themselves can be tweaked to bring out various points of discussion. What if Carina were pregnant? What if she were your lover? What if the pedestrians in question were convicted criminals, or uneducated, or of a specific race or gender – how might our various prejudices determine the choices we make?
The beauty of this exercise is that it compels students to read closely (in order to formulate their positions) but also allows for creativity in formulating interpretations. It also encourages productive debate. Moral dilemmas can be designed to teach a specific concept (such as dharma), or instead to illustrate it; they can be assigned as a take-home assignment (to help prepare for discussion) or can be issued as an in-class exercise. They can be assigned for individual or group work, and for small group or class discussion, and can even serve as prompts on a quiz, paper, or exam. Encouraging students to think critically and to learn actively, moral dilemmas are an exercise at once rewarding and entertaining, and highly effective.