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Journal of Military Ethics

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Tin Men: Ethics, Cybernetics and the Importance ofSoul

Valerie Morkevicius

To cite this article: Valerie Morkevicius (2014) Tin Men: Ethics, Cybernetics and the Importanceof Soul, Journal of Military Ethics, 13:1, 3-19, DOI: 10.1080/15027570.2014.908011

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15027570.2014.908011

Published online: 08 May 2014.

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TIN MEN: ETHICS, CYBERNETICS AND THEIMPORTANCE OF SOUL

Valerie Morkevicius

Political Science Department, Colgate University, Hamilton, New York, USA

The idea that overly emotional humans make poor ethical actors pervades the current literature on

the ethical implications of the development of autonomous weapons systems. From this

perspective, developing fully autonomous military robots should be doubly desirable: the technical

process of ‘teaching’ robots ethics would finally systematize just war thinking, while robots could

uphold the rules of engagement even under the most emotionally trying of situations. This article

addresses my doubts about both claims. I argue that truly ethical behavior requires what classical

just war theorists would have called soul, or what we might today term conscience – and that the

flexibility of the traditional principles reflects this understanding. In pursuit of this argument, this

article proceeds in two parts. First, it argues that the apparent ‘messiness’ of just war thought is

actually morally useful. Second, it argues that emotions play an important and irreplaceable role in

our ethical behavior, particularly as they help us mediate between incommensurable goods and

intersecting ethical systems.

KEY WORDS: Drones, autonomous weapons, emotions, just war

Introduction

As the development of military robots capable of making fully autonomous targetingdecisions inches closer to reality, we have reassured ourselves that such robots could bemade ethical actors through careful computer programming. The idea that overlyemotional humans make poor ethical actors permeates the current literature, making itseem that the goal of creating a robot that acts more ethically than a human is a ‘sadly…low hurdle to clear’ (Lin et al. 2008: 79). Humans make mistakes because of fatigue,boredom and the inability to process information quickly enough. Additionally, humanpsychology makes us ‘occasionally irrational’ and ‘prone to making stupid mistakesbecause it is very hard for humans to control [our] emotions in extreme situations’(Krishnan 2009: 40).

By contrast, the deployment of autonomous weapons systems would eliminate suchnegative human emotions from the battlefield, leaving reason to reign triumphant (Lin2010: 313).1 If indeed human emotions are responsible for war crimes, robots should makewarfare more humane, by eliminating the passions that drive humans to excess (Krishnan2009: 125). Furthermore, robots could go beyond what we can reasonably demand ofhumans, since they would not need to defend themselves, and so could be used ‘in a self-sacrificing manner if needed and appropriate without reservation’ (Arkin 2009: 30–31).

Of course, careful programming would be necessary for robots to behave in suchethically laudable ways. A 2008 US Navy study suggests that while such programming

Journal of Military Ethics, 2014Vol. 13, No. 1, 3–19, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15027570.2014.908011© 2014 Taylor & Francis

would be fiendishly difficult and (presently) beyond our reach, it is theoretically possible toprogram robots to employ specific rules of engagement, as well as broader principles ofinternational law and just war theory (Lin et al. 2008: 27, 43). Underlying the study’soptimistic vision of robots as ethical actors lies a troubling claim – that by removing humanactors from the battlefield, war can be made more civilized.

However, I am unconvinced that the sort of systematization of just war thought thatwould be required to program ethical robots is desirable, and I question whether such aprogram is really all that robots would require in order to act ethically. I argue that trulyethical behavior requires what classical just war theorists would have called soul, or whatwe might today term conscience – and that the flexibility of the traditional principlesreflects this understanding.2

In pursuit of this argument, this article proceeds in two parts. First, it explores themessiness of just war thinking, arguing that its lack of systematization is actually beneficial.Second, it highlights the role that emotions – supposedly the root of our human frailty –

plays in helping humans navigate the messy world of ethics.

A Few Specifications: Autonomy, Ethics and the Soul

Before getting into the heart of the argument, a few terms must be defined. While theissue of moral responsibility is broad, I leave aside the questions of whether a machine canaccept moral responsibility in the first place to focus on whether it is possible for robots toact in morally appropriate ways. Put differently, my concern with fully autonomousweapons systems, those without a man-in-the-loop design, is not whether such robotscould constitute morally autonomous actors, but quite practically whether they could beprogrammed to make ethically reasonable decisions about the use of lethal force.

Second, my usage of ethical or moral behavior assumes not only compliance withinternational law, but also the principles of just war thought. The overlap is not complete.3

The logics of just war theory are more fluid, relying not only on a discussion of rights, butof virtues. Such virtues include compassion, honor, fairness and justice. While these virtuesmay not be specifically enshrined in international agreements, they remain important to ustoday, and thus, we should expect our robots to embody them.

Third, my invocation of the term soul here is intentionally broad. By soul, I mean thatpart of our self that incorporates our consciousness as moral actors. In more secular terms,we could call it our conscience. Our soul or conscience is that part of our consciousnessthat is at work in creating the story of who we are. It directs the process of self-narration: itsets the terms for the self we wish to be, and evaluates our choices and behaviors in lightof that self. While this is largely an internal process, our understandings of the kinds ofselves we can be and the kinds of virtues, values and principles we ought to uphold (theideals by which we judge our selves) are constructed in dialogue with the society aroundus (Appiah 2004). Our souls are like jazz musicians, drawing on the social norms andtraditions that surround us; they nevertheless compose original, unique, fundamentallyindividual humans. When we fail to match our behavior (or even our desires) to that of ouridealized self, our soul protests. We feel the pangs of conscience, shame, guilt, remorse,regret, independently of any disapprobation we may receive. Put differently, our souls arein a continual process of construction, both top-down and bottom-up: we apply externalnorms to ourselves, and we learn from our own (and others’) reactions to our mistakes.

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Messy Theories and Clear Programming

To ascertain whether robots could be superior ethical actors to human beings, we must firstinterrogate the assumption that they could be programmed with appropriately robustethical systems. To evaluate this claim, I will first highlight the lack of systematization ofjust war thought, using the targeting of legitimate combatants in war as an example. Aftersketching out the nature of the problem, I will offer three reasons for why furthersystematization is not the answer, arguing that a less-than-systematic approach makes itpossible for our ethical awareness to evolve over time and avoids forced choices betweenmoral systems and goods.

In order for robots to be superior to human decision-makers, they would need anethical program that could make morally superior decisions more frequently than humans.This system would need to incorporate international law and also insights from just warthought. Whether autonomous robots would be programmed primarily from a top-downapproach (the rules being turned into algorithms for behavior), or bottom-up (the rulesbeing fine-tuned through experiential learning), or both, there must be an agreed-upon setof rules in mind.4 When there are conflicting rules or conflicting goals at stake, thepossibility of effective and ethical behavior declines.

The difficulty is that even the most apparently simple of these rules are not asstraightforward as they appear. For example, discrimination demands that we separate outcombatants from noncombatants, only directly targeting the former. If all wars were foughtby uniformed combatants massed in open fields, discrimination would seem simpleenough. If someone is wearing uniform type X, he or she is a legitimate target (presumingthat he or she is not incapacitated or in the process of surrendering). If not, than he or sheis not a legitimate target.

But the moral logic can quickly blur without ever leaving the battlefield. Let usconsider a few cases that challenge the apparent simplicity of drawing the line in this way.While these challenges are not legal ones, they are morally troubling. And if we want ourrobots to be morally superior to us, our robots must be able to know what to do in such asituation. It is possible – as Grotius and other early legal scholars who integratedtheologically derived just war theories with secular legal reasoning claimed – that wemay be called upon to go beyond doing what is legal, in order to do what is right(sometimes called charitable, merciful or humane) (Grotius 1901: III.1.4; Vattel 2008: 3.8).Such additional restraint is partly a reflection of a duty of charity or compassion for theother. But it is also an action taken out of respect for our selves. At the end of the day, wehave to live with our selves – our souls – and must behave accordingly. Thus, a distinctionmust be made between ‘what an enemy may suffer without wrong and what we ourselvesmay inflict without loss of humanity’ (Pufendorf 2000: 169, 16.6).

Awkward Combatants

Let us imagine someone wearing uniform type X, who for some reason has curled up andgone to sleep in the midst of the battle. The individual is not excludable for any of the legalreasons dictated by international law (is not incapacitated or surrendering). Is thisindividual a legitimate target?

Legally speaking, there seems to be no barrier. From a moral perspective, the issue ismore complex. Clearly, many Western soldiers have struggled with this scenario, as

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indicated by the numerous First World War anecdotes that Walzer (1977: 143–144) cites inhis ‘Naked Soldiers’ chapter. On some level, the sleeping soldier – while technically acombatant – does not always meet the gut test. As long as he remains asleep, he is not athreat. One could argue that the moment the sleeping soldier awakes, he will be a threat.But in this moment, that is not the case. In this moment, his killing seems unnecessary, andthus somehow wrong.

Another scenario could be drawn from the final battle in the film Saving Private Ryan.The young translator who has never seen combat is thrust behind the front line, ending upin a stairway with a firefight going on outside and a German soldier intent on killing his(out-of-ammunition) comrades upstairs. Out of his mind with fear, the young man croucheson the stairs, clutching the bag of ammunition, listening to the battles waging inside andout, unable to move in either direction. We hear the German kill the American’s comrades;the German then returns down the stairs, pausing to stare at the young man, who clearlyexpects to be killed. He appears to be a legitimate target: he is uniformed; he is (in theory)an armed threat. And yet if the German were to kill him before returning to the battle inthe street, we would mentally add it to the list of inhumanities committed by the Nazis.

What these two cases have in common are legitimate targets who are simulta-neously troubling targets because – at least for an instant – they are not personally posingany sort of real threat. Such cases put us in an incredibly awkward position. Post-conflict,we would certainly not wish to punish the soldier who killed such targets; a counselormight even remind him that he did his duty. And yet, we instinctively understand hisdiscomfort with his choice. Similarly, we might applaud the soldier who spares thesetargets, but only if he managed to do so without jeopardizing the mission.

Despite our sense that something moral is at stake, the Western tradition has not yetdeveloped adequate philosophical or moral resources for reasoning about these types ofsituations. But the moral discomfort – that gut feeling – is strong enough that soldiers inWestern militaries have openly described their reluctance to shoot, even in cases where theother was considered unjust, if not evil. We can unravel some of this moral intuition byconsidering other traditions of just war, most notably the Hindu tradition, which haveconsidered such issues more carefully. For example, the Mahabharata 10.5 declares:

In this world, the slaughter of sleeping persons is not applauded, agreeably to thedictates of religion. The same is the case with persons that have laid down their arms andcome down from cars and steeds. They also are unslayable who say “We are thine!” andthey that surrender themselves, and they whose locks are disheveled, and they whoseanimals have been killed under them or whose cars have been broken. (Ray 1889: 14)5

The Mahabharata also asserts that the wounded or weak should be spared (Dikshitar 1987:67–68),6 along with those who are retreating: ‘warriors of courage do not wish to strikethem that run away with speed’ (Mahabharata 12.99, in Ray 1890: 318). These ancient listscatalog individuals who, although objective threats, are not subjective threats.

If we could develop a comprehensive list of such awkward combatants (theMahabharata might provide a useful starting point), a robot could be programmed totake on more risk than we could demand of a human soldier. (Remember, that in thesecases, sparing the lives of the other is supererogatory – it may be a nice thing to do, but itis not required.) Since the robot would have no need to defend itself, it could in theorypolitely ask the sleeping soldier to wake up (or simply maneuver around him); likewise, it

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could treat as non-threats any combatants who – for whatever reason – did not adopt ahostile stance in its presence.

Nonetheless, it seems unlikely that even a robot with such an additional protocolcould always judge correctly the intents of the human beings it interacts with. Imagine oursecond scenario – the terrified soldier – with a slight twist. This time, as the German headsdown the stairs, the young man stands up, pointing his weapon directly at him. But theGerman notices a look in his eyes – terrified panic – and decides that the young man isunlikely to shoot. So he pushes the weapon down and continues on his way.

In this case, we would be even more understanding had the German made the otherchoice. (Even after passing the man on the stairs, he still risks being shot in the back.) Andyet, his choice to spare the man would not be unfathomable. Why? The recognition thatsomeone is afraid – and so afraid as to be effectively paralyzed – hinges in this case onempathy. I will return to empathy as a moral guide later, but for the moment, suffice it tosay that empathy is what enables human beings as emotional creatures to recognize theemotional states of others. Like other senses – sight, smell, hearing – it is sometimesunconscious, or so automatic as to be impossible to explain verbally. It is thus notsomething we can teach a robot (we can scarcely teach it to human children, who mustdiscover it on their own, although we can encourage it).

The Beauty of Disorder

The short discussion so far is clearly not exhaustive of the difficulties involved insystematizing the ethics of war. The basic concepts we rely on – proportionality, intent,double effect – are all sufficiently complex and subjective that it is unclear to me exactlywhat we would tell the programmers to tell the robot. Of course, one possible solutionwould be to encourage legal scholars, just war thinkers and philosophers to knuckle downand generate clear, systematic rules for the use of lethal force. Rather than arguing theminutiae of whether or not one can adjust the trajectory of a speeding trolley under avariety of ever more implausible conditions, we should focus on identifying clear andapplicable practical rules.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately?), I do not think that such an attempt atsystematization is desirable. The lack of systematization that exists is the natural product ofthe tradition’s organic growth over several millennia, as it amalgamated the logics ofseveral traditions: the work of early Church fathers and Scholastics, the warrior ethicencompassed in chivalry and Roman law. While the resulting lack of precision may havebeen unintended, the disorderly outcome generates three positive results. First, theexistence of competing norms and broad principles enables the tradition to continue toevolve. Second, this lack of systematization allows for a multiplicity of voices to participatein the debate, which today means the possibility of including ethical insights from othertraditions. Third, it prevents us from having to make forced choices between competingmoral goods.

Disorder and Growth

To begin, the just war tradition remains a living tradition, capable of adaptation andgrowth because it has remained rather unsystematic. Our understanding of what is just haschanged significantly over time, and the openness of the tradition allows it to continue to

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change. In the West, the recorded just war conversation began in ancient Israel, where therules restricting violence often showed more mercy to fruit trees than to human beings(Deuteronomy 20, 19–20). The ancient Greeks, likewise, had little interest in sparingbarbarian civilians, nor did the Romans. By the late Middle Ages, Christian just war thinkershad cobbled these roots together into a new tradition, embracing the idea ofnoncombatant immunity, but tempered with a healthy dose of pragmatic double effect.

Our continuing debates over who counts as a noncombatant, and what counts as adirect attack, reflect not only our changing technological abilities – in particular, ourincreased ability to target precisely and with a relatively small footprint – but also ourchanging attitudes to human life. The development of the concept of human rights hasaffected the way we understand the civilian. If we were to systematize just war thought –smoothing out the rough bits and eliminating the inconsistencies – we would freeze ourunderstanding of the ethics of war in this moment in time.7

If we freeze the conversation here, it will be harder to reopen the debate on any ofthe issues we might have settled. We would have to reach backward and suggest that hadan alternate set of interpretations been agreed upon, the present world would have beenbetter. But it will be harder for us to understand that old world, because our language andpatterns of thought will have been cut off from it in an unnatural way.

Disorder and the Possibility of New Insights

Second, any attempt at systematization would force us to make choices between valuesystems, but at present, we frankly would be unaware of the nature of the choices wewould be making. Comparative research into the just war traditions of other societies andreligious groups is at a relatively early stage in its development. So, for better or worse, oursystematization would likely involve relying almost entirely on Western just war thoughtand international law (which are themselves tightly intertwined). Not only would thisfurther discourage the study of other traditions, but it would neglect some of their insightsthat could actually be productive in helping us to better handle some of the ethical issuesat stake.

For example, as previously mentioned, Hinduism can help us unpack some of theawkward combatant problems. Likewise, the Hindu claim that a just war can only befought between equally matched sides – in other words, between combatants who chooseto use the same kinds of weapons – can raise insightful questions about the legitimacy ofasymmetric warfare, particularly when one side has an extreme technological (nuclear,precision, distance) advantage. Islam contains rules for fighting domestic rebellion thatoffer useful insights into the problem of how to fight an ethical war against those withwhom you hope to reconcile later. Any insistence on systematization of just war thought –rather than the encouragement of continually vigorous debate and the exploration of newideas – will hinder our ethical development, rather than further it.

To be honest, it is not only non-Western theological just war perspectives that arelikely to be overlooked, but also approaches to the ethics of war from within Westernphilosophical traditions that have not traditionally been grouped under the ‘just war’heading, including utilitarian and Kantian approaches. An argument can be made thathaving more values (and value systems) to choose from is a good thing – as Williams (1980:xvii) puts it, the more competition there is among genuine values, the better, for the more‘a society tends to be single-valued, the more genuine values it neglects or suppresses’.

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Disorder and a Multiplicity of Moral Goods

Third, and perhaps most concretely, there is a good reason for some of the tensions withinjust war thought. When considering the ethics of war, we are often dealing withincommensurable goods. Which is more important: freedom, justice, life? The success ofthis mission and the accomplishment of our cause, or a conscience I can live with?Arguments can be made in favor of any one of these; a definitive answer remains elusive.As Walzer (2002: 935) has argued, one danger of the ‘triumph’ of just war theory is that itcan tempt us into a ‘certain softening of the critical mind’, where we are lulled intoimagining that we can have it all – recognition and respect for noncombatant immunity,victory and justice.

So How Can Humans Handle this Complexity?

Given that the rules are complex and at times imprecise, how are humans ever able to actmorally? The model of well-trained humans following a set moral protocol does not seemto reflect reality. I argue that humans are aided in moral decision-making by a rathersurprising attribute – their emotions. While many (quite fairly) point to the role thatemotions such as hate and fear have in generating negative moral outcomes, we need tobe careful not to overlook the importance of emotion to good decision-making. The breakbetween reason and emotion has come to seem so commonplace in our discourse thatimagining the possibility of a positive role for emotions has become quite difficult. Surelywe would not want to drown our perfectly rational robots – so carefully programmed withethical systems – in the same torrents of unpredictable, undirectable, unreasonableemotion that wash over us so fitfully. Emotions have been cast as disorderly and dangerousby a wide variety of thinkers, from the Stoics to the Enlightenment-era Rationalists. Forexample, de Jomini (1836: 266) saw it as a mark of civilization for the ‘storms’ of badpassions to be brief before ‘reason resumes her sway’. Even in the mid-twentieth century,many scientific thinkers and psychologists saw emotion and intuition as ‘disturbing factors’for ethical reasoning (Goodenough & Prehn 2004: 1710). Likewise, Morgenthau (1993: 42)argued that ‘except for ignorance and emotion, reason would solve international conflictsas easily and rationally as it has solved so many problems in the natural sciences’. For suchthinkers, the ideal human is perfectly rational – a ‘teleological machine’ along the lines ofPlato’s moral agent, whose actions are the result of his or her built-in goals (Versenyi 1974:249). The difference between humans and machines is thus slight, and if anything, oneshould prefer the computer as it is much less fallible.

This view neglects all the good things that emotions do as components of our moralreasoning process. Emotions are not only a fundamental part of human experience, butthey are a fundamental part of our moral repertoire, without which we are likely to err. Inthis section, I will first trace the argument for the importance of emotions in ethics fromthe early just war thinkers through to modern neuroscience, highlighting the practicalsignificance of emotions in the decision-making process. Second, I will claim that emotionscan help us to act morally in four ways that are particularly relevant for the ethics of war. Byinforming our moral intuition, generating empathy and holding us accountable for ourchoices, our emotions – as expressions of our inner soul or conscience – actually guide ustoward more ethical behavior.

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Emotions as Windows on the Soul

We have not always seen emotions as the bane of our moral existence. Indeed, the earlychurch considered emotions as an important part of the soul. Our soul – that spark ofhumanity that makes us conscious moral actors – also makes us sentient beings, capable offeeling. For early Christian theologians, emotions were inseparable from reason andmorality – all three arising from the soul itself.

As such, Augustine understood emotions to have some moral value.8 Thus, Stoicdetachment ‘would be a morally misguided model for life’ (Knuuttila 2004: 155). If ‘we feltnone of these emotions at all, while subject to the weakness of this life, there would reallybe something wrong with our life’ (Augustine 1984: 564, 14.9).9 Augustine points to theexample of Christ who not only demonstrated emotions, but also condemned those whowere devoid of natural feeling (563–564, 14.9). Since the divine could express itself throughemotions, it is not surprising that he finds something deeply troubling in:

some of those people [who] display an empty complacency, the more monstrous forbeing so rare, which makes them so charmed with this achievement in themselves thatthey are not stirred or excited by any emotions at all, not swayed or influenced by anyfeelings. If so, they rather lose every shred of humanity than achieve a true tranquility. Forhardness does not necessarily imply rectitude, and insensibility is not a guarantee ofhealth. (566, 14.9)

To attempt to cut one’s self off from emotional feeling would be akin to cutting one’s selfoff from communication with God, as ‘emotion at its best [is] connection with a soul joinedto God’ (Corrigan 2008: 4).

Although some aspects of Augustine’s use of emotion seem almost mystical, it isimportant to recall that he saw emotions as an expression of the will, and thus theexpression of emotion could reveal an individual’s character. In Augustinian terms, ‘if thewill is wrongly directed, the emotions will be wrong; if the will is right, the emotions willnot only be blameless, but praiseworthy’ (Augustine 1984: 555, 14.6). Thus, desire or joy is‘an act of will in agreement with what we wish for’, while fear and grief are the will’sresponse to that which we reject (555, 14.6). By contrast, emotions can also lead us astray –as might any other human sense or faculty after the fall (157, 14.6). This occurs when theemotions result in a ‘recalcitrant, misleading sensory impression according to which someitem appears to be better than it in fact is’ (Cates 2009: 73).10 Ethical decision-making forAugustine was not the mere application of rules to situations. Instead, it had an ‘interiorcomponent’, with the will tied to intuition and emotion, as much as conscious desire (Stock2010: 53). Thus, emotions ‘could contribute to ethically informed, rational action’ (30).

Aquinas similarly thought that emotions arose from the soul. Unlike Augustine, whoclassed emotions along with basic senses and instincts as an irrational aspect of the soulshared by humans and animals, Aquinas understood emotions as the acts of a cognitivepower, or will (Knuuttila 2004: 239).11 In other words, our emotions are responses tocognitive states – ‘attitudes for or against objects that have been perceived andconstructed as good or bad by cognition’ (Murphy 1999: 167). Emotions themselves canthus be good or bad, depending upon whether they are rational evaluations of objects orsituations (Roberts 1992: 288).

For Aquinas, this meant that humans are to some extent responsible for their emotions– both for having them, and for their responses to them (Murphy 1999: 163). Emotions are

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even more voluntary than the movements of our bodies, because as movements of thesoul, they are ‘more intimately linked to the reason and the will’ (Roberts 1992: 302).Of course, we can experience an unwanted emotion washing over us, but wallowing in thatemotion, or acting upon it, requires a conscious choice (Green 2007: 407).12

Like Augustine, Aquinas also believed that emotions could ‘contribute to morallygood action by adding to its intensity’ (Knuuttila 2004: 254). Even in this case, however,reason is implicated. It is not that man is helplessly carried away by emotion (albeit in thiscase, a good one); rather ‘man, by the judgment of his reason, chooses to be affected by apassion in order to work more promptly’ (Aquinas 1920: 1.24.3). In other words, ‘humanminds can… be galvanized by emotional energy’ (Callahan 1991: 67).

Emotions also serve an additional function, more relevant to our consideration forthe ethical effectiveness of robots. Emotions are activated by the soul, when it ‘apprehendssomething as being attractive, unattractive, beneficial, harmful and so forth’ (Floyd 1998:164). In other words, our emotions can help us discern right and wrong. We are by nature –

understood by Aquinas to be the expression of God’s law – attracted by the good, andrepulsed by what is not (Green 2007: 406). Concupiscible emotions, which deal with thingsdesired, take as their object ‘sensible good or evil, simply apprehended as such, whichcauses pleasure or pain’ (Cates 2009: 118). In Aquinas’ terms:

with regard to natural appetite, which is suitable to it, wherein consists natural love; so ithas a natural dissonance from that which opposes and destroys it; and this is naturalhatred… Love is a certain harmony of the appetite with that which is suitable; whilehatred is dissonance of the appetite from that which is apprehended as repugnant andhurtful. (Aquinas 1920: 29.1, II.1)

Indeed, we are likely to feel hatred or repugnance more keenly than other emotions(Aquinas 1920: 29.3, II.1). When we witness something hateful, something evil, we thenexperience anger (23.4, II.1). Leon Kass has put this Thomistic sentiment very eloquently:

In crucial cases… repugnance is the emotional expression of deep wisdom, beyondreason’s power to fully articulate it… [we may be repelled by something] …because weintuit and feel, immediately and without argument, the violation of things we rightfullyhold dear. (Kass 1997: 20)

Witnessing certain behaviors or acts can generate a ‘visceral response’, an emotionalreaction that is also a moral judgment; witnessing cruelty, for example, ‘is to experience aturning of the gut, a surge of anger, and to be moved to do something about it’ (Kaebnick2008: 39).

Eighteenth-century philosophers shared Aquinas’ understanding that our emotionsare keys to moral judgments, and arguably went even further. For these thinkers, ‘ourethical judgments are driven by “moral sentiments” primarily, and by “reason” secondarily’(Colombetti & Torrance 2009: 515). For example, Hume (1817: 106) claimed that ‘[r]eason is,and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other officethan to serve and obey them’. For Hume, ‘morality, therefore, is more properly felt thanjudged of;’ more of an intuition than the result of deductive (or even conscious) reasoning(173). Smith (1790) pointed to ‘social passions’, such as generosity, kindness, compassionand humanity as the sort of moral emotions that not only direct us toward the good, butalso bind society together. Likewise, even Rousseau (1979: 67), who believed that ‘reasonalone teaches us to know good and bad’, thought that some goods were innately

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knowable, and their value shown to us by the emotional responses that they couldgenerate. Thus, he argued that ‘the sentiment of the just and unjust were innate in theheart of man’, sentiments expressed through passionate emotions: ‘resentment, fury, anddespair’ (64). In other words, ‘passion is at the root of conscience’ (Marks 2006: 567). LikeAquinas, Rousseau (1979: 187) recognized the motivating power of emotions, assertingthat only ‘in vain does tranquil reason make us approve or criticize; it is only passion whichmakes us act’.

Western law, which historically has struggled with the question of emotions and theirrelationship (or lack thereof) to reason, is also beginning to embrace an evaluativeapproach that considers the importance of emotions.13 While the mechanistic conceptionof emotions sees them as uncontrollable forces acting in opposition to reason (and thuscounter to morality), the evaluative conception ‘holds that emotions express cognitiveappraisals, and that these appraisals can themselves be morally evaluated, and thatpersons… can and should shape their emotions through moral education’ (Kahan &Nussbaum 1996: 273). Emotions matter because they ‘embody beliefs, and often verycomplex beliefs’, of the sort that it may be difficult to coherently describe, despite beingdeeply held (282). Kahan and Nussbaum claim that legal doctrines informed by theevaluative approach are superior because ‘they are more effective in deterring andcondemning criminal wrongdoing, [and] even more important, they are better becausethey are brutally and uncompromisingly honest’ (274).

Furthermore, the insights of ancient theologians are being rediscovered throughinnovative research in psychology and neuropsychology. Recent research suggests thatcognition and emotion are not separate systems, but rather ‘deeply integrated [on]biological, psychological and phenomenological levels’ (Colombetti & Torrance 2009: 506).Specific parts of the brain are tied to specific emotional responses, and these brain areasare themselves in communication with parts of the brain involved in reasoning (Narvaez2010: 80–82). The amygdala and the prefrontal cortex in particular seem to be ‘deeply andnecessarily involved in social judgments’ (Goodenough & Prehn 2004: 1717–1718). Theamygdala, responsible for storing memories of emotions, enables us to learn fromemotionally charged situations. It also seems hard-wired to produce feelings of fear andanger in response to certain stimuli (Cates 2009: 84). The prefrontal cortex serves as anexecutive, handling conflicting thoughts and information, determining good and bad, andthe consequences of future actions. Interestingly, one section of the prefrontal cortex, theorbitofrontal cortex, seems involved in the judgment of praiseworthiness as well as beauty.One could interpret this as ‘reflecting our sense of “moral beauty”’ expressed throughpraiseworthy acts (Aoki et al. 2010: 189). By contrast, blameworthiness is tied to a differentarea of the brain, the posterior superior temporal sulcus, which processes ‘social stimulisuch as facial expression and gaze direction’, suggesting that it may be tied to ourperceptions of what others think about us (190). Even judgments of fairness and unfairnesshave been attributed to specific areas of the brain; the anterior insula – also activated‘when people perceive negative emotions such as pain and disgust’ – seems to be involvedin the rejection of unfair offers (190).

Consequently, new neuroscience work largely rejects ‘the conception of normativejudgment as affect-free/rational/conscious’ (Goodenough & Prehn 2004: 1716). Instead,current models emphasize the influence of emotion and intuition on our normativejudgments. The ‘social intuitionist model’ suggests that ‘fast, automatic and affectiveintuitions are the primary source of moral judgments’, with ‘conscious deliberations

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[playing] only a minor causal role’, as well as serving to construct post hoc explanations forjudgments (1716).

In addition to a greater understanding of the physiological interlinkings betweenemotion and reason, modern psychology has also taken on the question of the value ofemotions themselves. The developing area of emotional intelligence, sometimes also calledinterpersonal intelligence or social intelligence, deals both with the experience of emotionitself, and with the subject’s ability to understand and manage his own emotions, and theemotional responses of others. Some proponents of emotional intelligence suggest thatthere is a linkage between this skill set and moral reasoning (Rietti 2009: 144).14 Thisperspective suggests that ‘mature moral functioning relies on the integration of emotion,intuition and reasoning, which come together in adaptive ethical expertise’ (Narvaez 2010:77). Indeed, ‘emotion underlies cognition’ (80).

Intuition, Empathy and Self-Regulation

Emotions, it seems, are not merely passionate outbursts, but intimate parts of humannature tied to our very ability to evaluate and reason about the world around us. To mymind, emotions aid us in negotiating the complexity of ethical reasoning, in three broadways: via intuition, empathy and self-regulation.

First, emotions are part of our moral intuition. Our moral intuition helps us to handlecomplex moral decision-making in several ways. Intuition helps us to choose betweenethical systems, to deal with new problems and to prioritize incommensurable goods.

One problem that frequently arises in discussions of how best to program robots forethical behavior is what system to use. Should utilitarian or consequentialist principles beembedded? Or perhaps Kantian directives, which emphasize the inviolability of certainprinciples? Our reasoning about the ethics of lethal force invokes both sorts of logic. Howdo we know which program to use, which data – of the overwhelming amount of stimuliavailable – to consider? In addition to rational analysis, our moral intuitions, ‘thosethoughts and ideas that come spontaneously to mind’ are also important (Callahan 1991:63). Sometimes we may not even consciously be aware of a looming moral problem, but‘some intruding intuitions’ may lead us to rethink moral questions (87). This ‘intuitive innersense’ can sometimes be ‘too subtle and misarticulated to even reach the form of an ideaor actual feeling;’ and yet we are aware of a moral signal (87). Emotions can be useful moralsignals, since they contain not only beliefs and evaluations, but also indicate the ascriptionof a ‘reasonably high importance to the object in question’ (Kahan & Nussbaum 1996: 286).

Intuition also enables us to move freely between systems of moral reasoning – andto tolerate the simultaneous action of multiple moral reasoning systems operatingsometimes in tandem, sometimes in tension with each other. In this way, our minds areactually superior to robots’, for human thinkers can imagine, initiate, and create manyprograms at once and follow the appropriate programs when it is efficient to do so. Whiletechnological advancements may improve our ability to design models to evaluate thelegal and moral issues of particular tactics or actions, it is ‘not yet clear whether they couldever substitute for the judgment of the commander… the linear, mathematical nature ofcomputer processes may never be able to replicate the nonlinear and often unquantifiablelogic of war’ (Dunlap 1999: 9). There may indeed be something to the rich complexity andinterconnectedness of the human mind – its linking of reason, emotion, intuition and thesenses – that permits it to make better judgments than a single program could.

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Furthermore, our moral intuition also helps us to deal with novel situations. Emotionplays a central role in adaptivity, our human ability to adjust to new contexts (Colombetti &Torrance 2009: 506). This can be particularly relevant to the problem of ethical behavioron the battlefield because emotions can help us to begin to morally evaluate newconundrums. Emotions can serve as ‘somatic markers’, in Damasio’s terms, helping toshape our decision-making process (Goodenough & Prehn 2004: 1717). Emotions are notneutral; instead they are ‘concern-based evaluations’, looking at the world not as it is, butas it ought to be (Döring 2007: 385). Thus, ‘emotions occur in the face of deviations’, inthose moments in which the world around us changes unexpectedly (385). Indeed,experiencing an emotion in itself can alert us that something has changed. After all, ‘tobecome engaged in rational, directed problem solving, we must first be conscious of aproblem’ (Callahan 1991: 86). We can then follow up this gut evaluation of that change(which quickly measured up the new facts to our ideal facts) with rational self-introspection. We can assess, for example, whether our intuitions ‘accord with reasonand common sense’ (90).

Additionally, our moral intuition can aid us when it is necessary to choose betweenincommensurable goods. While it may be tempting to imagine that we could prioritize allpossible goods, arranging them in a hierarchical way, such a task is ultimately impossible.An attempt to systematize values in this way, to render them ‘integers amenable tocomputation’, runs into the difficulty that ‘the values are not measurable in exact oruniversal terms’ (Ames 1937: 180–181). It may be useful to attempt such rationalcalculations – as economists and utilitarians do – as a way of putting our moral intuitionsto the test. But we cannot expect a definitive answer, because ‘if the counting has moralimport, it is motivated and controlled by incalculable considerations’ (182).

Beyond informing our moral intuition, our emotions can also help us to betterunderstand and to empathize with the other. Our moral intuitions are fundamentally tiedto our humanity, both to our embodiedness and our emotions. Some of our moralintuitions derive from our ability to imagine ourselves in the place of an other. Our ownexperiences with our physical selves – our innate understanding of cold, fatigue, pain, fearand so on – enable us to empathize with others (sometimes even against our will). Evenour own inevitable mortality, or awareness of the ‘finality of life’, can be a source of ethicalbehavior (Krishnan 2009: 133). The awareness of the fragility of life makes us (at least onour better days) consider the killing of another as a morally serious activity, not only for theother, but for ourselves.

While it can sometimes be a logical error to presume that others act as we would, theuniquely human ability to imagine a situation from others’ perspectives – to intuit how andwhy they might react in certain ways – can also be useful, not only in terms of predictingothers’ behavior, but also morally. This moral imagination can help us evaluate themeaning of the other’s actions. To understand whether the other poses a real threat to us –and whether that threat could be diffused without force – requires being able to imaginethe other’s purposes. To determine accurately the meaning of the other’s actions, we must‘consider not just the consequences of her behavior, but also her reasons, including heremotional motivations, for engaging in such acts’ (Kahan & Nussbaum 1996: 352). Ourethical sense depends upon our ability to understand the minds and emotional states ofothers (Aoki et al. 2010: 190).

One way in which this happens is through what Edith Stein called ‘sensual empathy’or ‘sensing in’ (Colombetti & Torrance 2009: 507). We simply ‘directly and involuntarily’

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perceive the other as a fellow ‘locus of awareness’, giving us an immediate feeling ofinterconnection (508). While this empathetic connection is essentially passive, it can lead usto make one of three determinations regarding our relationship to the other. First, wecould experience ‘affective resonance’, where we mirror the other, feeling in tune with theother (509). In this case, we find cooperation easy. Alternately, we could experienceantipathy, feeling the other to be something ‘that we resist and want to disengage with’(512). Lastly, we can ‘mentally transpose’ ourselves to the other’s point of view, coming tounderstand the other from the inside (506). Sympathy arises from this sort of experience.

The ability to imagine the other’s perspective can drive us to recognize the other asour moral equal. This recognition can encourage us to exercise more restraint, our empathymaking us ‘feel morally responsible for our enemies’ (Krishnan 2009: 133). The recognitionof the other’s equality can also trigger a sense of regret in us. This regret is not a sign thatwe have done something immoral, but it does remind us of the seriousness of takinghuman life – even under morally and legally legitimate circumstances.

Lastly, emotions are directly tied to our soul and our potential for ethical behavior, asemotions are an important part of our moral self-regulation (Colombetti & Torrance 2009:506). Mandeville (1732: 183–191) tied the passions, particularly self-liking or esteem, to thepursuit of good actions. In modern philosophy, Appiah (2005: 156) and others have arguedthat we are constantly in the project of self-authorship.15 In this project, we constructourselves as our own heroes – we attempt to live up to our own standards and values. Ouremotions are an important guide in this process, particularly shame and pride. We feelproud when we see ourselves ‘as having succeeded to be the kind of person [we] ought tobe’, while ‘shame is experienced as a reaction to not meeting one’s own standard’ (Döring2007: 385). Emotions are part of the ‘bedrock of self-consciousness that constitutes the self’and as such, are a key part of our self-authorship (Callahan 1991: 95). Our emotionalresponses and self-judgments are part of ‘taking responsibility for one’s choices and for theperson one is becoming partly through the choices one is making’ (Cates 2009: 23).

Put differently, an individual whose reasoning process was ‘entirely logical andunemotional’ is deemed a psychopath, because ‘their deliberations fail to an evidentlyinsane degree to embody ordinary human sensitivity to the needs, feelings and interests ofothers’ (Carr 2002: 7). Thus, we may be underestimating ourselves – and overestimating thevalue of reason – if we convince ourselves that outsourcing our ethical judgments toemotion-free robots is a good idea.

Some Closing Thoughts

To return to Aquinas, it is interesting that although he is widely credited as one of thefounding fathers of Western just war thought, he does not specify the in bello rules ofcombat. The presumption that we could program robots to behave ethically on thebattlefield would require exactly that – the specification of the rules. So why were thesedetails apparently not important to Aquinas? There are at least two possible reasons. One isthat the rules were ‘largely under the province of local custom’ and hence did not bearrepeating (Cole 1999: 70). The plausibility of this is undermined by the paucity of tomes onin bello rules throughout the Middle Ages, up until at least 100 years after Aquinas(Whetham 2009: ch. 2).

A better explanation is that for Aquinas, as for other medieval thinkers, ‘intent andmotive were bound together so that the thing that compels us to do something also shapes

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what it is that one is trying to do’ (Whetham 2009: 47). In other words, if our intent is right,our behavior will match it. If what jus in bello is trying to achieve is proportionality andnoncombatant immunity, these two values are ‘always binding upon the soldier andcommander, but what is not (cannot be) binding is what may count as meeting the criterionof proportion or noncombatant immunity’ (Cole 1999: 71). Likewise, Ford (1944: 289) argued,in regards to the principle of double effect, that it is not a ‘mathematical formula, nor ananalytical principle. It is a practical formula which serves as an efficient guide in countlessperplexing cases’. Throughout his essay, he cautions against mathematical calculation ofdouble effect or any of its constituent parts: proportionality, military necessity and so on.

Thus, acting justly is not merely a matter of following natural law, or the laws of war,or any other set of fixed principles. Instead, it requires virtues: faith, hope and charity (Cahill1997: 187). While these virtues can be expressed in human behavior, ultimately they springfrom our souls. It is our fundamentally human need to see ourselves as good people – andall the complex emotions that come along with that – that drives us to attempt to behaveethically. We have spent millennia trying to codify the rules for ethical behavior – and willcontinue to struggle with these issues as long as we are human. While the rules areimportant guideposts, and while our debates about the rules are significant for informingand developing our moral senses, there are good reasons for allowing them to remaindisorderly. This lack of systematization – and the human recourse to emotion and intuitionin response – may actually be the variable permitting our ethical growth as a species. Inorder for the just war tradition to survive, we must allow it the messy freedom to grow andevolve – a reflection of our own messy human selves.

NOTES

1. See also Arkin (2009: 30–31), and also Lucas (2010: 14, 40). A similar claim can be made

even for man-in-the-loop systems, which would nonetheless reduce stress, thus

‘[fostering] more humane decision making by soldiers’ (Royakkers & van Est 2010: 289).2. By soul, I mean to refer to the part of ourselves where our moral self-consciousness lies.

Theologically, conscience has been used to refer to that which bridges or links the mind

and the soul, but here I use it in its vernacular, conversational form.3. Here are a few examples. The concepts of double effect and proportionality, for example,

do not operate identically within the law and just war thought. The law considers

proportionality in terms of military advantage; just war thought is concerned with the

goodness of the cause as well. Responsibility for civilian deaths does not lay with

attackers excused under the logic of incidental civilian harm in the law; just war

combatants remain responsible, although not morally culpable. Likewise, just war

theorists continue to debate the appropriateness of the moral equality of combatants,

an issue that is settled within the law.4. Lin et al. (2008) recommend a hybrid approach, and suggest that certain supra-rational

abilities (i.e. compassion, altruism, etc.) should ideally be incorporated as well.5. See also The Laws of Manu 7. 91–93 (Doniger 1991: 137–139).6. See also Buch (1921: 355).7. Of course, all extant just war texts do just that – but the ambiguities and historical

appendixes can remain; theologians, philosophers and legal scholars are more comfort-

able with such things than a programmer who needs to tell a machine what to do.

V. MORKEVICIUS16

8. The potential value of emotions in directing us toward the good was recognized by the

Romans. Tacitus, for example, describes men in the state of nature as follows: ‘In the

natural emotions of the heart they found incitements to virtue and rewards were

unnecessary’ (from The Annals, bk. 3, XXVI, in Tacitus 1836: 81).9. City of God 14.9 (Augustine 1984: 564). Augustine did argue that in theory it might be

possible to achieve a state free of negative emotions – but not in the earthly city, where

one must necessarily feel sorrow for the spiritual failings of one’s self and others, hate and

disgust for sinful acts, and so on. Positive emotions of love and joy would naturally still

exist, directed toward God.10. See also City of God 14.9 (Augustine 1984: 566).11. See also Floyd (1998).12. Even our choice to consent or withhold consent to feeling an emotion marks it as a matter

of responsibility. See Cates (2009: 131).13. Although legal scholars have become more interested in emotion since the 1990s, the

distinction between reason and emotion has been a central presumption underlying

modern legal thought. See Maroney (2006).14. See also Holian (2006).15. See also Narvaez (2010: 88).

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Valerie Ona Morkevicius is an assistant professor of Political Science at Colgate University.

She is the author of ‘Why We Need a Just Rebellion Theory’ (Ethics and International

Affairs, 2013). She has also published several articles on Protestant approaches to the

ethics of conflict, as well as essays on Hindu and Shi’i just war thinking in The Prism of

Just War: Asian and Western Perspectives on the Legitimate Use of Military Force

(Hensel, ed., Ashgate, 2010). A PhD in political science from the University of Chicago

(2008), she was a 2010–2011 resident fellow at the Stockdale Center for Ethical

Leadership at the United States Naval Academy. Correspondence address: Political

Science Department, Colgate University, 13 Oak Drive, Hamilton, NY 13346 USA.

Email address: vmorkevicius@colgate.edu

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