Cop out, call out
Can we write about activism without moralism?
As activists and observers unpick the promises and disappointments of the recent global Climate Change Conference, or COP27, I’m taken back to a question that’s been on my mind for some time: how do we write about the morality of our own and others’ everyday actions and political commitments without being moralistic?
I’m also taken back to a recent trip to Canada, where I often find myself pondering the morality of travel and consumption, and where I wrote this post.
It’s mid-October and I’m in a small city in Southern Ontario. The air is crisp, the autumn sun is a stunning yellow and the leaves on the trees are a rich rainbow of copper, gold and crimson. One minute I’m a grown-up strolling along the river, watching the gentle rapids and the odd kayaker flow by. The next I’m suddenly a shrunken Alice, caught in a maze of giant houses and gargantuan cars, in imminent danger of falling into the abyss of a giant carbon footprint.
This is the place I was raised in. Yet I spend much of my time in familyland feeling like a fictional character caught in a bad storyline.
I’d be lying, though, if I denied feeling a spark of a delight while sneering at the conspicuous Canadian consumption habits around me. I gawp and shake my head in dismay while feeling undeniably smug, even as I despair at the possibility of ever ending environmental destruction. And amidst this scary wonderland I’m left wondering: Is it possible to write about my political commitments without falling into moral judgements about other people’s behaviour? When we write about issues like environmentalism, a movement that encourages collective and individual changes in behaviour, can we do so without being moralistic?
I didn’t grow up in a religious family, and as an adult I define myself as agnostic, so I don’t have a particular faith or spiritual leaders to turn to for moral guidance. But like all people, regardless of our circumstances, I’ve received moral lessons throughout my life: from family, friends and community; school, work and government. And politics.
Movements for progressive change are also movements about morality. They’re framed around ideas of justice, how things (everything from the economy to relationships) should and should not be run and done, how people should and should not treat one another other – as well as the planet and other animals. The fact that activists in such movements typically frame these issues as political questions does not mean they are not also moral questions – that is, views on what we believe to be right and wrong.
I’m finishing this post as I sit in Toronto airport, getting ready to fly back to London. My sense of self and my confidence in my political convictions are dramatically different from the feelings on my autumn stroll just a week ago. It’s easy for me to turn my nose up at people who drive SUVs because I don’t own a car. It’s harder for me to tower morally above people who fly several times a year because I do too. Does that mean I should never fly again? That I should forsake my family and friends overseas in favour of my environmental ethics? That I’m a hypocrite and a bad person? If I am, I’m in good company. I doubt I’ll resolve these dilemmas in my lifetime. But as I ponder this predicament, I feel a bit less confident pointing the guilty figure at my fellow passengers.
It’s not just a matter of recognising our own imperfections, of judging ourselves less and extending this compassion to others – as important, and often difficult, as that is. In an important article on vegetarianism, the philosopher Cora Diamond writes that perhaps it is not “an accident that the arguments of vegetarians have a nagging moralistic tone. They are an attempt to show something to be morally wrong”. Diamond is making an argument against certain kinds of philosophical defences of animal rights. But her statement reveals an important yet often unacknowledged dilemma for political activists: it is difficult to take a moral stance on an issue without sounding moralistic to those who disagree with us.
I’ve deliberately taken examples from environmentalism and animal rights because these are movements that are often portrayed – including by activists on the left – as moralistic and judgemental. Yet other progressive movements I’ve been involved in – for example, feminism and workers’ rights – are laden with judgements about others’ behaviour. Taking a moral stance on our own and other people’s behaviour is an inevitable part of collective commitment to change. It's difficult to imagine making the world a better place without judging other people’s prejudices and harmful actions. When activists “call out” what we identify as harmful or violent behaviour, we’re making moral judgements about others’ actions.
Morality is not the preserve of religious leaders, philosophers or political conservatives. All activists have a stake in morality, in what is right and wrong. If we acknowledge that our political views are also moral stances, that we grapple with significant moral problems in our everyday lives, we could still take moral stands and encourage others to act morally. We might acknowledge that judgementalism is not just something that irritates us about those other activists; it’s something we can all fall into when we write or speak passionately about our politics.
If we recognise our stake in moral questions, we might be able to write about them with conviction, without resorting to the nagging moralism we so love to call out in others, but are often oblivious to in ourselves.
Pen in Fist is written by me, C Lou Hamilton, aka Dr Carrie. To find out more about my activism, follow me on twitter. You can access my other writing, and information on my editing and translating work, on my website. If you haven’t already, please subscribe to Pen in Fist for free here.