Why Pay Is Not Just A Personal Matter

Urgh Libertarians. There's a shit-stirring article in the Guardian today by Andrew Lilico of right-wing think-tank Policy Exchange challenging the assumption that the state has any right to make pronouncements on whether individuals 'deserve' their wealth and income, and to use these views to redistribute according to desert.

Lilico does not seem to be challenging the coherence or utility of the notion of 'desert' in making moral judgements. If he were, I might be more sympathetic to his perspective. Lilico's objection appears to be to the state making moral judgements at all about the distribution of wealth in society.

I don't want to go into too much detail here, because I've already discussed these ideas in my blogpost about libertarianism. Lilico at least explicitly acknowledges that his argument rests upon prioritising the sanctity of private property above all other principles. Yet he seems not to anticipate the objection that this is a moral claim in itself. Lilico makes his argument as if all his premises are self-evident. But why should we insist that the protection of private property is more important than (say) advancing social equality?

The closest Lilico comes to defending this claim is his bizarre notion that property is natural, and does not depend on the state guaranteeing property rights. I fail to see how property can exist without property rights. To own something means that we can exclude others from it. If something is mine (as opposed to ours), it cannot be yours. But in the absence of the state, or some equivalent impartial body, there is nothing to stop you taking what is mine and claiming it to be your own.

In any case, even if it were true that even infants have a clear notion of property, this does not mean that property is good. And even if it were, the relatively plausible idea that property is good is not what Lilico needs to show for his argument. Rather, Lilico needs to demonstrate that property is some sort of supreme good, the protection fo which overrides other goods, like equality.

What They Say And What They Mean

So my grandfather was watching BBC parliament the other day, and we happened to come across this speech that William Hague made on July 1st, outlining his vision for the future of British foreign policy. It's a really good speech, sufficiently modest and realistic, but at the same time putting across a compelling programme for reform. Perhaps most interesting is Hague's criticism of Labour's lack of engagement with Europe - ironic that the words should come from a Conservative, but true enough.

The sad thing is that many of the words and actions of the Foreign Office since July 1st have failed to live up to his fine ideals. Here are the obvious examples that strike me:

“It is not in our character as a nation to have a foreign policy without a conscience or to repudiate our obligation to help those less fortunate. Our foreign policy should always have consistent support for human rights and poverty reduction as its irreducible core and we should always strive to act with moral authority, recognising that once damaged it is hard to restore.”

Really? Then why is Hague so keen to give authority to the national security council, which, according to a leaked Whitehall paper, insists that overseas aid "should make the maximum possible contribution to security" i.e. that development aid should be focused on achieving foreign policy objectives, rather than fighting poverty?

“This underlines the essential importance of the work of the British Council and the BBC World Service, which give Britain an unrivalled platform for the projection of the appeal of our culture and the sharing of our values.”

And yet a 'diplomatic insider' last week suggested that the BBC service to Burma is under threat: "The Burma office is up for grabs. It is a question of costs. It is very expensive and has relatively few listeners. The 'human rights' argument doesn't hold much sway with the new Foreign Office." Surely if there's anywhere that Britain wants to export its culture and values to, its Burma.

Hague has since denied that the World Service in Burma is in any danger, but it is the attitude his department has displayed, and the fact that it is willing to make cuts of 25% to the rest of the World Service that is worrying.

“we believe that we must achieve a stronger focus on using our national strengths and advantages across the board to help build these strong bilateral relations for the United Kingdom as well as complement the efforts of our allies, whether it is the appeal of our world class education system”

If the government is so proud of Britain's 'world class' education system, then why is investment in universities falling despite being among the lowest in the OECD?

And how is making it harder for foreign students to come to the UK exploiting this strength to build bilateral relations?

Admittedly, much of this is based on hearsay and speculation, but then after just two months in office, there's not much else to judge Hague on. However, it still seems worthwhile to note the government's failure so far to live up to the high foreign policy standards it has set itself.

Are The Poor Really More Charitable?

A fact that I’ve come across in a couple of different contexts in the last few weeks is that the rich give a smaller proportion of their income to charity than the poor. According to the most recent such survey by the Charities Aid Foundation (albeit from 2002), the bottom 10% of the income distribution gave 3% of their weekly household spending to charity; the top 20% just 0.7%.

It is certainly a fascinating finding. But I’m a bit wary of drawing the obvious conclusion, that the poor are somehow more virtuous and altruistic than the rich. There is some evidence that the poor are inclined to be more charitable: see Berkley psychologist Paul Piff’s recent research. Nevertheless, I am not convinced that this tells the whole story.

The crude data overlooks the fact that most people do not think about charitable donations in the same way as the study. Most people could give you a clear idea of how much money they give to charity (£10 a month, £200 a year), but few could tell you off the top of their heads what proportion of their income this constitutes.

This is significant. Imagine a rich person earning £100 000 a year were comparing their charitable activities with a poor person earning £10 000 a year. If the rich person saw that they were donating £700 a year, and that the poor person gave away £300, they would most likely see little cause for embarrassment, and little reason to change their behaviour. The chances are that they would never even realise that proportionately, the poor person is four times as generous. And that doesn’t even take into consideration that poorer individuals have to spend a higher proportion of their income on essentials, such as food and clothing. This means that their sacrifice is greater: the poor have fewer luxuries, but are still more willing to give them up than the rich.

Our ideas of our moral obligations owe a lot to how we see others behave, and to the expectations others have of us. The problem with charity, essentially, is that we are continually told that anything will do, being mightily praised for the merest contribution. Moreover, charities regularly request fixed contributions that have to be accessible to everyone. The result is that giving £2 a month leaves you feeling as if you have done your bit, regardless of whether it comes out of a monthly budget of £200 or £2000.

The answer, clearly, is to define more clearly what ‘doing your bit’ entails. In almost any other context, doing your bit involves making greater demands on those more able to bear them. There is no reason why charity should not be the same. How this is to be done is trickier: social and cultural change are invariably difficult to engineer.

Interestingly, the Conservative party’s policy paper on volunteering (downloadable here)identifies exactly this problem, and sees the solution as the ‘establishment of a pro-social norm’ of giving 1% of income to charity. They’re not particularly clear as to how they intend to achieve this (ruling out the government, of course: “in the post-bureaucratic age, governments should not first reach for legislation to pursue collective goals”).

I’m willing to be a little more candid about the difficulty of changing attitudes. However, publicising these figures and openly questioning the way we behave seem the only way.

Two Arguments Against Libertarianism

I’ve begun to notice that a common theme running through many of my blogposts is the assumption that there should be redistribution of wealth from rich to poor through progressive taxation. I would hope that the idea that the government is a legitimate tool for social reform or that those with a greater capacity to shoulder the burden of taxation should take on a greater share of the burden is obvious. However, the existence of libertarianism suggests that these principles need some defence.

Libertarianism is a broad and complex philosophy, and I cannot hope to cover it in any depth here. However, its basic tenets are straightforward enough: the state ought to be reduced to a minimal role of providing public goods (such as roads) that are not efficiently produced by the free market, and of protecting its citizens from crime and invasion (see Andrew Sullivan for a succinct outline)

Libertarians (like most passionate believers in any cause) easily lapse into hyperbole. Robert Nozick famously likens progressive taxation to forced labour: if we are forced to give up, say, 40% of our income to the government, it is equivalent to spending 40% of our labour time working for other people. Most libertarians accept the need for a state of some sort, but wish it to be limited to its ‘necessary’ functions, and demand that it stay clear of ‘social engineering’. Progressive taxation imports illegitimate moral values to the state; the only way around this is to impose an equal tax burden on everybody.

This line of thinking leads to unpleasant conclusions, which is why most people reject libertarianism. Yet if we are to reject libertarianism we need to know why. Any competing philosophy must find a response to the challenge of libertarianism: they must justify why it is legitimate to take money against a person’s will to spend it in a way they do not approve. In other words, they must demonstrate how, if at all, progressive taxation differs from common theft.

I can see two types of response to the libertarian’s challenge. The first justifies a certain amount of redistribution of wealth as entailed by libertarian principles. The second challenges these principles head on.

Almost all libertarians agree that it is necessary to have a state, so as to protect citizens and enforce freely entered contracts (libertarians appear to love contracts). Most also agree that the state is required to intervene in the case of market failures, where goods are not efficiently supplied by the free market. However, both of these functions can be interpreted to call for a rather more extensive state than most libertarians envisage.

Take maintaining law and order: the obvious means of preventing crime is to provide a police force which enforces the law by punishing those that contravene it. But this is not the only possible strategy. Ensuring high levels of employment and education could reduce frustration and material need, and so reduce the motivation to commit crime. Indeed, direct redistribution, especially benefits to prevent destitution, performs the same purpose. It is not immediately obvious that ploughing lots of money into policing and prisons and doing little to try and forestall reoffending is a more efficient way to cut crime than focusing on education and benefits. And if redistribution or the extension of the state into education are in fact more efficient, surely that commits the libertarian to these policies. Otherwise, they are left proposing a supposedly minimal, but actually inefficient government.

Suppose now, that the hard-ass strategy is more efficient than the bleeding-heart one. But only just. Let’s say benefits and jobs and education can cut a similar amount of crime to greater enforcement at a cost of 50p more per taxpayer. Wouldn’t most, if not all, taxpayers be willing to pay just 50p extra for a positive government policy that preserves law and order by making people’s lives better? Presumably each person has a ‘carrot premium’ – the amount extra they are willing to pay for criminality to be deterred by carrot rather than stick. Whose carrot premium is the decisive one? The lowest? The median? I imagine the consistent libertarian would have to say the lowest, since that is the only way that the expansion of the state beyond minimal limits is unanimously supported.

All this is further complicated by the fact that in real life, the choices are rarely as simple as I’ve made them out to be. There are usually multiple questions, multiple answers, and no clear binary distinction between answers (e.g. it is unlikely all of the law and order budget would go on either policing or education). As the choices become more complex and specialised, it becomes impossible for citizens to represent their views directly. People need to be employed to study all the relevant options, and to make the equity/efficiency trade-offs that most, if not all would assent to. This necessitates the employment of a whole raft of politicians and civil servants I am sure the libertarians would rather we did without.

Nevertheless, it remains unclear how far this saves redistribution from the assault of the libertarians. It is highly likely that a certain degree of redistribution is justified in the interests of everybody in society. Yet this may not justify redistribution on the scale of the welfare state, and in any case, redistribution may not be the most efficient way of achieving the goals of the libertarian state.

A more aggressive tactic against libertarianism is to challenge the premises it rests on. One of the major attractions of libertarianism is that it appears not to depend on moral premises. This is why libertarians can affect to take such offense at the ‘moralising’ of justifying redistribution in the interests of justice. Andrew Sullivan claims he doesn’t “believe that having a heart is what government should be about”. Yet if libertarians were really morally indifferent, then surely there would be no difference between taxing the rich and not taxing the rich. ‘Taxation is theft’ is not a neutral observation, it is a condemnation, a call to arms. The fact that libertarians believe that certain things are illegitimate means that they must have some values.

The obvious candidate is freedom (the clue’s in the name). But if libertarians really care about liberty then they must see that redistributive taxation actually increases it. Nozick’s famous point about forced labour, about the inability to enjoy the whole fruit of our toil, makes the relevant point about the restriction of freedom. But this is only half the story. Our freedom is measured by the size of the full set of activities that are open to us. The limitations on these activities come from numerous sources, natural and social: I cannot fly unaided because of gravity, I cannot run 100 metres in 10 seconds because of the limitations of my body; I cannot buy a mansion because of my poverty, I cannot steal a car because of the law. Nozick correctly picks out the limitation of freedom imposed by tax law. Yet he neglects the extension of freedom of money to the poor. Moreover, it is almost certainly the case that the marginal cost of freedom is increasing. £10 to a starving person buys them basic nutrition, and all the opportunities that creates. £10 to a millionaire simply allows them to buy £10 of extra stuff.

Alternatively, the value that libertarianism is founded on could be a belief in the sanctity of property. What is wrong with redistribution on this account is that it fails to protect legitimately acquired and transferred property (see Nozick’s ‘Wilt Chamberlain’ argument). The libertarian fixation with property is a bit strange. Of all the competing moral principles that humans have proposed, the imperative of respecting the belongings of others is hardly the most compelling or inspiring. There are a number of different justifications for protecting private property. Extrinsic justifications tend to emphasise the significance of property for freedom or happiness. Yet if property is merely a means to one or other of these ends, we need to ask whether these ends would not be better served through redistribution of wealth. I have already argued that the marginal cost of freedom rises; I reckon much the same is true of happiness. This is why we get the economic phenomenon of ‘diminishing marginal utility’: every extra pound we earn adds slightly less to our total sum of happiness.

I am not sure whether property can be justified as having intrinsic value of its own. I think that Locke derived property rights from some sort of covenant with God, but that theory holds little appeal if you don’t believe in God or don’t agree with that interpretation of Man’s relationship with God. Also, Hegel says some stuff about how property confers identity because of our need to realise ourselves by acting on external objects. Like most things Hegel says, it’s pretty difficult to work out exactly what he means. However, I’m pretty sure that this doesn’t mean that the government taking away our money strips us of our identity. And even if it does, if money confers identity, then surely the poor have a claim to developing their own identity?

These are all preliminary and sketchy thoughts (backed by embarrassingly little research). I might well have misunderstood libertarianism. However, I think I’ve worked out this much: libertarianism, whatever it says, does stand for something: freedom, property etc. And whatever that something is, I think that libertarians have either got their priorities wrong, or are mistaken in how best to promote their values. And that, so far, is my response to the challenge of libertarianism.

Charity Begins At Home?

Simon Heffer is an odious man with unpleasant beliefs (pro-death penalty, pro-section 28, anti-abortion and divorce), the sort of person who drains me of hope for humanity in general and this society in particular. Yet in his controversial attack on the government’s decision to ringfence the aid budget, Heffer surpassed himself, managing to dispirit me twice in four words: “charity begins at home”. The obvious sentiment behind that statement, the parochial idea that British people come first, is depressing enough. The insidious notion that foreign aid is “charity” – that it is not fulfilment of a moral obligation, but an act of superegoratory benevolence, above and beyond the call of duty, compounds the effect.

The idea that charity begins at home is often alluded to, but rarely examined or defended. It is far from obvious what it means and why it should be the case. I can think of three interpretations and justifications of starting our charity at home. The simplest, and most compelling way to take the idea is as an exhortation to be consistent in our dealings with all people near or far. I imagine this as a rebuke to the absent-minded and insensitive philanthropist, who cares deeply for the plight of strangers, but who is unpleasant or cruel in their dealings with those around them: for instance, someone who gives lots of money to charity, but who bullies their family or colleagues. Telling them that charity begins at home is a way of reminding them that the people they see on a day-to-day basis are humans worthy of the same consideration as those that they seek to help.

A second reason why charity begins at home is because of our greater ability to help those we know best. Not only is it easier for me to help my brother than a stranger, I am more likely to be successful in helping him. There are a number of reasons for this, including opportunity (I see my brother more than I see most strangers) and specific knowledge (I know better what he wants, needs and likes). Indeed, the extension of this logic suggests that this sort of moral man-marking, with all looking out for those immediately around them is the solution to many ethical problems (see Frank Jackson for a statement of such reasoning).

Thirdly, some people think charity should begin at home because it is natural and desirable that we should give greater consideration to some people than others. We should be nicer, more generous and have stronger moral obligations to our family or our countrymen simply because they are our family or our countrymen. This is not an argument I have any sympathy for, but to go into further detail would draw us into a deep and strongly contested debate I do not wish to visit here. Suffice to say, I have yet to come across an argument to shake me from my presumption that all humans are morally equivalent.

It may seem as though I am ducking the issue: surely Heffer’s key point is that Britain ought to look after its own in these troubled times, and that is precisely the issue I am refusing to dispute. But even if we concede all three of these interpretations of the idea that charity begins at home, it still does not mean that Britain has no moral obligations to the rest of the world. For even if charity begins at home, there is no reason for it to end there.

The first version of charity begins at home is satisfied merely if we give all humans equal consideration: this clearly does not support the preferential treatment for Britons that Heffer seeks. The second version only supports Heffer if the British government can do more good in Britain than abroad. But the fact of the matter is that the most dire need and the most easily alleviated suffering on the planet is to be found far away from Britain. Heffer’s supposed concern for the vulnerability of the worst-off in British society at this trying time is laudable, but let’s get a sense of perspective: a person on jobseeker’s allowance is still within the richest 20% of humanity. (For a sense of perspective as humbling as the Total Perspective Vortex see this)

So much for the first two versions of the charity begins at home thesis, but what of the third, that it is legitimate to look out for our countrymen above others? Again, the principle needs clearing up. If it is taken to mean that we should care only for our countrymen and care nothing for foreigners, then Heffer is vindicated. Yet this appears to be too callous even for Heffer, who accepts that emergency aid for natural disasters is legitimate, and so betrays some concern for others.

This implies that the needs of Britons can be traded off against foreigners. I presume that Heffer believes that if natural disasters of equal magnitude hit Britain and, say, Kenya at the same time, it would be inappropriate to divert resources from the British relief effort to the Kenyan one. But presumably if the UK government had a choice between buying all its citizens Ferraris and aiding Kenyans, it should do the latter. This suggests there is a point, somewhere, where the good that can be done abroad is so much greater than the good that can be done domestically as to legitimate aid. Heffer clearly thinks Britain has not reached that point. I would disagree, and I find it hard to conceive how anyone that has seen the global income distribution can fail to disagree with Heffer.

Next to this, my objection to Heffer’s reference to charity might seem like a semantic quibble. However, it is indicative of a deeper problem regarding the framing of the question of foreign aid. I do not object to the concept of ‘charity’ – in its original sense, it is entirely positive, representing consideration and care towards others. However, in its modern sense, charity has come to represent supererogatory action: good but not required, ‘beyond the call of duty’. That this is Heffer’s meaning is clear from his branding of DFID as a “£7 billion luxury”.

Clement Attlee accurately summarised the problem of seeing redistribution of wealth as charity: “it tends to make the charitable think that he has done his duty by giving away some trifling sum, his conscience is put to sleep and he takes no trouble to consider the social problem any further”. The relationship between the global rich and the global poor is akin to that of the rich and poor in early twentieth century Britain. The rich feel precious little responsibility towards the poor, who expect, at best, handouts dependent on capricious goodwill.

The solution then was the Welfare state. I have no idea what the global equivalent is. However, there are a few key features of our domestic relationships that need to be carried over onto the global stage. The rich must begin to see aid to the poor as a moral imperative, not as an optional extra for ethical brownie points. The poor must be seen to have entitlements, which it is the responsibility of the rich to fulfil.

Unfortunately, that seems a long way off, and Heffer’s mode of thinking still dominates. But the only way to move forward is to challenge it at every turn.

Prodding Sportsmen's Consciences

I love ethics almost as much as I love sport, so events in the Tour de France this week have made an already compelling bike race all the more interesting. To summarise the facts: on Monday, race leader Andy Schleck lost his 30 second advantage over nearest competitor Alberto Contador when Contador capitalised on a broken chain to accelerate away from Schleck. Events on the road were fascinating enough, but it is the aftermath that is most notable. Contador was booed as he took to the podium to collect the leader’s yellow jersey; he was widely criticised in the media, and was shamefaced enough to offer a sheepish apology on youtube.

This is made all the more interesting in the context of Peter Singer’s criticism of Manuel Neuer during last month’s World Cup. While Neuer bore much of the blame from Singer, fans and the media were also castigated for their failure to condemn such blatant cheating. Unsurprisingly, Singer was accused of naivety – who could expect professional footballers, playing for the highest stakes in the game, to refrain from doing all they could get away with to win?

But such arguments merely perpetuate the notion that ethics has no place in sport, and in so doing reduce the incentive to act morally. Jeremy Bentham argued that humans are susceptible to four types of sanction which can motivate them to do right instead of wrong: legal (threat of punishment for contravening rules), religious (fear of divine vengeance), moral (conscience) and social (fear of criticism).

If the sporting public accept such unethical behaviour as inevitable, they relinquish the power of the social sanction. To put it another way, sportsmen will live up to our expectations of them: if we demand honest and fair conduct, they will be under more pressure to meet those standards; if we relax our demands, they will be less constrained by a need to (at least appear) ethical.

The line taken by cycling offers a clear counterpoint to the amorality of football. While Contador is likely to go on to win this year’s Tour de France, the opprobrium his actions have attracted may have tarnished his reputation forever. His 2010 victory will always have an ‘asterisk’ beside it. And the next time a cyclist is in a similar position, they will have to weigh the toll of public disgrace among the costs of unsportsmanlike behaviour. The next Neuer, by contrast, will be fairly secure in the knowledge that he will be answerable only to his conscience. I’m sure I’m not the only one not to lack complete faith in footballers’ consciences.

Will Hutton & the Quest for Fairness

So Will Hutton, on behalf of the government, wants the public to help him define 'fairness'. The Oxford Popular Dictionary defines it as "just, unbiased" (and then goes on to define 'justice' as "fairness to all concerned"). I don't suppose that's much help.

Fairness is difficult to define simply because its used so loosely and subjectively. In everyday speech, people regularly define it implicitly to serve whatever point they are making. Nevertheless, I can make out two distinct, though, related uses of the term (though I doubt these are exhaustive).

One version of fairness (fairness as impartiality?) has it that a process or outcome is fair the same rules and standards are applied to all. Fairness is observed if people are treated differently only on the basis of relevant considerations. So, for example, if people are barred from attending university because of their race or gender, it is unfair on this conception. If they are not admitted on the basis of their intellectual capabilities, their is no unfairness. Of course, this leaves open the question of what a 'relevant consideration' is.

The alternative idea of fairness (fairness as justice?) posits that fairness is satisfied only if people get what they deserve. Thus it is unfiar that spoilt Johnny down the road gets a bigger pile of presents from his parents than me even though he is no better behaved than I am. Notice that fairness as justice is a special version of fairness as impartiality, where the only 'relevant consideration' is desert. To state it more fully, the idea of fairness as justice is that fairness is observed if people are differentially treated only on the basis of desert.

The distinction between the two conceptions of fairness is clear if we consider a case where someone misses out on something they deserve without suffering any procedural disadvantage. For instance, if I work really hard and consistently produce work of an 'A' standard, but then for some reason miss out on an 'A' in the exam (the topics I had revised best didn't come up) this is unfair in the second sense (justice) but not the first (impartiality). If, though, I miss out on the grade because I was formally disadvantaged - for example, if I got less time than everyone else - then this is unfair on both counts.

There are a couple of reasons why I think it is fairness as justice that Hutton is interested in. Fairness as impartiality merely suggests that fairness is satisfied when everybody is treated 'according to the rules'. But since Hutton is charged with making the rules, and in particular with making a fair set of rules, I don't think he can take much from fairness as impartiality. Moreover, fairness as impartiality seems to act in most cases as a proxy for fairness as justice. In other words, the reason we have the rules we do is to ensure that justice is served. So, for example, the reason we adhere so closely to exam regulations is because we believe that this is the best way of ensuring the most deserving candidates are the most successful. The only reason we retain the idea of fairness as impartiality is because often determining desert is a subjective and contriversial matter: ensuring independent and acceptable standards forestalls disagreement.

If something is fair if people get what they deserve, this still leaves the tricky question of determining what constitutes desert. I would suggest that a reasonable first principle is that people cannot deserve something because of factors beyond their control. To deserve something, in its ordinary sense, I would suggest that you have to do something. Desert, I propose, has to be earned. This is why injustices such as feudalism and the caste system anger people so much - because people are exalted to a higher status without having done anything to achieve it, simply by having the good fortune of being born to the right parents.

If we accept this link between desert and responsibility, then determinism rears its head again. If we can only earn the right to deserve something by virtue of the things we are responsible for then the determinist's claim that we are responsible for nothing undermines the idea of desert (and so, fairness).

There are a number of links in this chain, and I'm not certain about any of them - this is not meant to be conclusive, by any stretch of the imagination. Firstly, it is not clear that the two versions of fairness I have described cover the entirety of the concept. There could be simpler and better ways of analysing it. Second, fairness as impartiality might not be so easily reducible to fairness as justice. Third, some might not accept the identification of justice with desert. Fourthly, desert might be separable from responsibility. My tentative conclusion is that the idea of fairness is too contradictory and ad hoc to be worth pursuing. It seems at best a proxy for other values. If, like Hutton, your job is to define fairness, it appears your best strategy is to examine closely the principles underwriting it.