I grew up at the end of the cold war so I think the image of the mushroom cloud was imprinted in me as a symbol of dread from a young age, and even now it shocks me to think that two atom bombs were used to end the Second World War. Sixty-seven years ago today, Truman was considering the need to drop a third. What’s more surprising, though, is that in that time, no U.S. President has visited the sites in Hiroshima and Nagasaki marking those nuclear explosions. Truman’s grandson attended a memorial this year, and Obama broke protocol two years ago by sending a representative, but the idea that the President would attend a memorial is still seen as an admission of guilt. For now, the U.S. just ignores it.
Although a nuclear disaster is about as likely as ever, I imagine today’s children fear plane hijackings more than annihilation and radiation, due to the images and ideas that come up when danger and evil are discussed. My parents did not intend to give me a particular impression but I learned from cultural background noise that nuclear explosions are terrifying long before I had specific reasons to think so. Unlike abstract formulations like “killing is wrong,” which could become complicated or unclear, certain aesthetic facts were absolute precisely because they were not arguments. Hitler was evil before I knew any history, just due to his salute, his mustache, his voice – and the bomb was horrific not because of numbers but because of a red button and a white cloud.
The feeling about Hitler remains in the public consciousness; he is still a standard representative of evil. But the atom bomb has a more complicated story and its level of terror has been reduced. From a consequentialist point of view the choice to use it can be defended with the claim that the casualty rate would have been much worse had the US gone in traditionally (and certainly it’s true if Allied soldiers are kept distinct), and that the war would have gone on indefinitely without the terror of Hiroshima and Nagasaki to hit the point home (and the point was made not just to Japan but internationally). Other justifications are also offered, ranging from a right to punish the Japanese to a need to use the new technology once it had been developed.
But having grown up with that basic sense of horror about a nuclear bomb, arguments about the particulars are never quite convincing. Legalistically, terms may be set that show an action is allowable, but ethics can’t be boiled down so completely. There is some human component, a sense of self, of aspiration, of recognition, that will not fit into the equation. Abstract comparisons of right and wrong can be satisfying but when the story is intertwined with life our charts sometimes fade to the background. Agamben describes such a difference between the ethical and the juridical when addressing Auschwitz, claiming that ethical responsibility cannot be handled like a debt. When an ethical bond is broken, it cannot just be paid off. Ethical responsibility is of another kind, not another amount.
Of course no one would try to defend the need for Auschwitz. But were we to accept a consequentialist point of view, the primary difference between the two would be a question of debit or credit—Germany’s actions would leave them in terrible moral debt, whereas Hiroshima might not quite bankrupt the U.S. account thanks to moral credit earned for ending the war and stopping the aggressors. The question is simply, can an act be balanced out by an equal and opposite act, or are some values invaluable? Is ethics more like physics or art?
There is an argument against Agamben’s view that it merely results in a kind of infinite guilt or a burden that will never be paid off, but that is only when it is viewed from the utilitarian, almost economic, perspective. If responsibility is more like response or recognition toward those who have experienced wrong, and less a feeling of debt toward a given party, the notion of feeling responsible can be a source of connection. In this sense the purpose of ethics is more creative than restrictive – to be the best form of ourselves, rather than to negotiate acceptable boundaries.
Last weekend I saw the German filmmaker Wim Wenders in a one-on-one with Michael Moore, and they got into a conversation about what it was like to grow up in post-Nazi Germany. Wenders opened up to Moore and revealed his experience traveling in France as a young man where he was routinely ostracized for the association, and seemed affected when he spoke of one Jewish family that eventually forgave him.
Moore didn’t miss a beat – he didn’t dwell on how Wenders hadn’t even been born yet when the Nazis were in power – and asked how the family could possibly have forgiven him, considering what they went through. Nor did Wenders try to defend himself; he simply said the human spirit is strong, and sometimes forgiveness is for the ones forgiving.
The analogy between Hiroshima and Auschwitz seems a bit forced.
Auschwitz was a camp of extermination, whose only purpose was to kill Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, etc.
Hiroshima (and Nagasaki) were attempts to end a horrible and bloody war quickly, minimizing U.S. casualties and, some argue, Japanese civilians casualties, because an invasion of Japan would have resulted in millions of Japanese casualties, it is claimed, since the Japanese, it is said, would have fought street by street, like the Russians in Stalingrad.
Now, it may be true that the Japanese would have surrendered upon seeing U.S. landing ships approaching their coasts or with a minimum of resistence. No one can say.
Hindsight with 20-20 vision is common. We are all great strategists regarding the war which is over.
If I put myself in Truman’s shoes, I have no idea what I would have done, but I don’t see any ethical equivalence between him and Hitler, none at all.
Excellent post on a timely, and controversial, topic. Much of the usual discussion on this issue is full of bluster and half-researched intellectual gymnastics. By making an argument from the human conscience, you cut straight to the moral bottom line. The effect, as a form of argument, makes me feel just as when I first read Vonnegut — or, for that matter, when I first read GEM Anscombe on this subject. The first feeling is a desire to applaud.
I thought about posting about the anniversary myself. I decided not to, out of cowardice. I’ll have to settle for a comment to your excellent post instead.
I’ve long fallen so far into the consequentialist camp that I won’t be able to extricate myself without losing most of myself in the process. I am one of those people who does not trust their own conscience except in the long run, and hence needs intellectual prosthetics to keep it upright. If I had Vonnegut’s heart, I might not need it, but here we are anyway. So, while I have those moral sentiments that make me feel as though “there is some human component, a sense of self, of aspiration, of recognition, that will not fit into the [consequentialist] equation”, I intentionally numb that feeling, so that I can return to it later.
It’s only against the background of that numbing of sentiments that I bother to mention the recent apologetics published by Forbes. In the linked post, you’ll see someone is is both very caught up in the particulars. It would not in itself be worth mentioning in the context of this post, except as an example that helps to illustrate your thesis — that sometimes, when people concentrate upon the particulars, the result is underwhelming.
But I would like to argue that concentration on the particulars is not itself the problem. What is unsatisfying is that consequentialists often get tangled up in the particulars, and do not know how to deliberate upon them properly. For instance, in the linked post, you see a very selective account of the history of the decision to use the bomb. It is not mentioned that the Americans insisted upon unconditional surrender; the Japanese accepted all terms of surrender except for the elimination of the role of Emperor; the Japanese were then nuked twice; and then America allowed them to keep the Emperor as head of government. And, as my historian friend noted, it is not even questioned whether or not Nagasaki was necessary, even if one believes (for whatever reason) that Hiroshima was necessary.
Sadly, this kind of deliberation is representative of the consequentialist style in certain circles. And if every consequentialist deliberated in the style of the Forbes article, I’m sure I would abandon consequentialism. It hurts the heart and the head.
I completely agree with swallerstein. In my opinion there is no basis for a comparison.
Japan forced a war on the USA by attacking Pearl Harbor. Killing people with an atomic bomb is no different than killing people in the landings on Guam, Tarawa, Philipines, Marianaa, Iwoshima, etc/
War is a terrible sin but unfortunately the human race has solved her conflicts by force. However, which was the conflict that lead to the extermination of more than 6 millions people in concentration camps in Europe?
Even though, there could be a point in comparing war to organized genocide, it is very different when you actually have a war or you are killing defenseless people.
That really doesn’t seem likely. A cursory look at the battle of Guam indicates that it was against armed militants, not civilians.
A more historically accurate point might be something to the effect of, “The atomic bomb was no different from firebombing Dresden”. But then, of course, you are put in the awkward position of having to defend the firebombing of Dresden.
Ben:
Truman had very good reasons to believe that dropping the atomic bomb would minimize U.S. casualties and plausible reasons to believe that dropping it would produce fewer Japanese casualties than an invasion.
Being president of the U.S., Truman’s first responsability is to minimize his own country’s casualties, within the limits of the laws of war.
Once again, with hindsight, maybe Truman made the wrong decision and there was another
possible road to peace which minimized casualties on both sides.
We’ll never know.
However, so many years later, at a safe distance and without ever in my life having faced a similar responsability under similar pressures, I find it hard to judge Truman.
“But then, of course, you are put in the awkward position of having to defend the firebombing of Dresden.”
Personally, I always feel in an awkward position in trying to defend war as a way to solve conflict. I agree it will likely be a more accurate position. But the author of this note is in the akward position, and you too, of comparing Hiroshima to Auschwitz, Treblinka, Dachau.
I do not know if there is a measure for horror that can allow such comparisons, but from my perspective they seem different. And if I had been a soldier in the Pacific front, certainly would be very different.
I hope that instead of drawing very questionable comparisons that only raise unnecessary controversy; we should join and focus on the true goal, How can we prevent violence in all its forms and in particular organized violence.
Thanks for your comments, everyone.
To be clear, I agree that Truman’s actions can be rationally defended, and are not comparable to Auschwitz. But that’s because I am suggesting that ethical situations cannot really be compared. My interest was more in our response to ethical horror, which I see as different from proving the account is balanced…
The problem with rejecting a strict utilitarian analysis of ethics is that you end up having to, eventually, bite a bullet and just plain admit that you think its sometimes ethical to make people objectively worse off than you otherwise could have.
And once you dwell on that for a while, it becomes hard not to wonder if maybe that “human” element to morality is actually just the usual set of flaws in our monkey-brain’s emotional reasoning core. Maybe the reason we can’t quite swallow pure utilitarian ethics are the same reasons we proctrastinate, overeat, buy things we can’t afford, and generally make a mess out of our lives. Consequences seem imaginary until they actually happen, so we discount them.
SWally, if I were in Truman’s position, it is unclear that I would have made a different decision. I’ve already admitted to being no pacifist, and someone with generously consequentialist leanings.
But that fact is quite irrelevant to the present question. Were I there, I could have been wrong, too.
So I would like to know two things: (1.) Would I be rationally justified to feel guilty, if I were in his position? (2.) Are modern-day apologists for the action entitled to be proud of the event? I think the evidence ought to compel us to answer (1) with a yes, and (2) with a no.
If you were to disagree with me on this — if you think that someone in Truman’s position would be irrational or unjustified in feeling guilt, and you believe it is justified for modern day apologists to feel pride — then the onus is on you two argue for three propositions (a-c):
Which is what folks usually say. And, of course, the means by which they sought to secure that peace was to terrify civilians into total submission. Hence, you have to defend thesis (b):
Since, trivially, the use of weapons of state in order to induce fear in civilians is terrorism. And this is a thesis that some nuclear apologists do in fact argue for; Robert P. Newman did, for example (though you can’t see the passage on p.xv in Google Books).
Anyway, in addition, you have to argue that Hiroshima was insufficient to induce surrender — that Nagasaki was also necessary. Hence, that:
But if you are unwilling to make those commitments, then we are in no disagreement after all.
Juan, ah, to be clear, I’m not sure I would make that analogy to Auschwitz either. Sorry for overlooking that part of the conversation, I am focused on a different part of the argument.
Ben:
Yes, Truman would be rationally justified in feeling, if not, exactly guilty, at least uneasy, very very uneasy about his decision, maybe very very very very uneasy.
I cannot understand why any sane person would feel proud of dropping atomic bombs on two cities full of civilians or even full of the worst vicious thugs, neo-Nazis, Al Qaeda, SS,
KKK, etc.
It’s hard to imagine feeling proud of killing anyone, perhaps in justified hand in hand combat as test of courage, but never never in a cold and technological manner, such as dropping a bomb or firing a drone. That is not a reason for pride or for feeling good about oneself, although it may be the lesser of two evils.
@Patrick, that’s an excellent point. I’ve often been frustrated by claims that seem to conflate being properly ‘human’ with being, frankly, irrational, or being unable to articulate the reasons for one’s opinions. Failure to be consistently rational may indeed be a common human trait, but it is surely not our most admirable trait. Neither is it remotely a trait unique to humans (although the ability to transcend irrational instincts may well be.)
Miranda’s last paragraph is a case in point. Why on earth should Wenders have had to defend himself? ‘The sins of the fathers’ is as warped a moral principle as I can think of. Yet it also seems humane – rather a different adjective from ‘human’ – to extend some understanding to those who, having lived through unimaginable horrors, fail to apply reasonable standards to such things. They are wrong, but they are often forgivably wrong.
“My interest was more in our response to ethical horror”
Miranda;
To understand our response to ethical horror you choose to draw parallel lines between the response to the holocoust and Hiroshima. And there for me lies the problem, they are not comparable. Morever, there is, in my opinion, significant ethical horror in the holocoust, as in any genocide (Rwanda, Armenia, etc) but the ethical horror of Hiroshima deserves a more careful analysis
Is there not a degree of ethical horror in any war act? Movies have idealized what is just plain cruelty into heroism, and we feel good, patriots. But in a different light those acts are horrendous.
However, in my mind the horror creeps a significant notch, when I imagine people undressing in a gas chamber or waiting to be execute in front of a mass grave.
That is why, in my mind, the response to these two acts is different. The Japanese will have to forgive themselves for starting a war for political and conquering motives and forgive the USA for defeating them using any means that they had. But why any group victim of genocide will have to forgive itself? In my mind they clearly have no responsability, and they can only forgive the perpetrator. And that lack of responsability changes, in my opinion, the response to horror.
Regarding guilt, any decent human being will have feelings of guilt/remorse for taking a life. Truman’s guilt is for me no different than Eisenhower’s and any common soldier from WWII. They were put in a horrendous situation, and they responded.
And for the guilt of people involve in genocide, they have none. And that is the difference.
Sorry, I do not agree with the article and elicited very mixed feelings. For me war is horror, but I can accept it as a flaw in our humanity that is beyond my comprehension, and my only response is compassion. But genocide, unfortunately for me I have no compassion for it
Well, I think for one thing a common misconception about Hiroshima is that killing a lot of unsuspecting, civilian people with an atom bomb is the same as killing a lot of soldiers with bullets. It is not. Not only is there the factor of civilians vs soldiers, but also when you shoot someone, they’re dead and nothing else. Even if you survive an atomic bomb, there’ll be a consequences. Not only for humans, but for everything. Atomic bombs is destroying not only humans but generations, right down to their DNA.
I usually not try to discuss Hiroshima and Nagasaki with Americans. It’s no use. I think Americans are told they’re the greatest so much during their life, it is very hard for them to come round to another way of thinking (yes, that’s a generalisation).
They’re told all the time of all the good justifications for the bombs – as if everyone knows exactly what would have happened otherwise. Which is a lie. There’s probabilities and that, but no one really knows for sure.
One big difference between Hiroshima and Auschwitz is that Germans are taking their kids there, they’re showing the horror, there’s no excuse and they tell them what a terrible mistake it was and that it must be remembered and it must never, ever be done again, no matter what.
Oh, and Dresden? There is no justification, no defense and no excuse for Dresden.
I’ve once seen a documentary about it. They interviewed the soldiers who bombed the city back then. One admitted that he (and everyone else) knew at the time that Dresden had no military or tactical significance at all and that they were just killing civilians to spread terror. You know what he said: “But oh well, we did it because it was an order”. I don’t think he noticed the irony in what he was saying.
There is no difference between a German soldier gasing Jews because he was ordered to, and an American soldier dropping fire bombs on Germans because he was ordered to.
There is no difference between one nation invading another to secure land for their people and a nation starting a war somewhere to secure oil for their people.
Hiroshima and Auschwitz were indeed equivalent acts, in that in the moral context of the perpetrators they were fully morally justified.
The difference is that one belonged to the moral compass of a victor, and the other to the defeated.
We would currently believe that Nazis and Japanese were more evils than the US of A. And of course if you are a Jew or an Allied POW who served time in the Japanese work camps you know which side your bread is buttered.
My father in law is of the latter category: He credits the A bomb with saving his life.
Nazis defined certain ethnic groups as essentially non human: By doing that no more morality attached to their members than say to rats or cattle.
The Japanese regarded surrendered soldiers as so dishonored as having also no humanity left.
Ergo, in both cases there were no crimes against a humanity the victims were held never to have had, or no longer possessed.
In the case of the rather small devices dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the death tolls were fairly low in comparison to other theaters of war, and the vast majority of people were killed outright.
If you don’t believe that ends justify means, well you don’t go to war in the first place, and the USA should have let the Japanese conquer them, and keep the moral high ground.
Perhaps the greatest success of atomic weapons is that large areas of the West simply have no idea whatsoever, or any experience of war at all, to the point they feel they can debate its morality in some form of abstract fantasy land.
I enjoyed this piece, with its suggestion (if I have understood correctly) that certain elements of our ethical reaction precede argument and are not wholly arguable, so that a reasoned ethical assessment of the rights and wrongs of the dropping of the atomic bombs might therefore fail to capture all of what is ethically at stake.
The use of the word “aesthetic” in the second paragraph sent me off into error initially: it made me think that, in the view of the author, the point at which the force of argument gives way to some deeper-lying unargued orientation (“the bomb was horrific not because of numbers but because of a red button and a white cloud”)was also the point at which ethics gave way to aesthetics. But I think that was a misunderstanding on my part, and that the suggestion is in fact that there is a place where the aesthetic and the ethical overlap — a place suggested by that wonderful term “ethical horror” — and that that place is a realm within ethical thought where argument is not sovereign.
But I do wonder whether the conclusion has been reached by identifying “argument” with “consequentialist argument,” (and sometimes also with legalistic argument about debts and repayment). Surely there is scope for a reasoned ethical argument about the possible limitations of consequentialist means of assessing the attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki? About, for example, our duties to individuals rather than our obligations to achieve best outcomes? The dropping of the bombs is like a real-life, and appallingly severe, version of the famous trolley problem, which shows us that we readily adopt well-argued ethical responses that present problems for consequentialism. So even if consequentialist arguments can conclude that it was right to drop the bombs (I don’t know if they can or not!), our ethical rejection of the bombing might be a rational, well-argued one?
It would be interesting to read an expansion of the article that applied the original article’s questions and insights to specifically non-consequentialist forms of moral reasoning (but without focusing on juridical notions of debt and compensation, which don’t I think go to the heart of our non-consequentialist moral thoughts here).
On another matter, the article made me think about what ways I could and what ways I couldn’t seek a moral form of rapprochement with someone if I were a consequentialist and I had harmed them in the course of doing something I believed (for consequentialist moral reasons) to be nonetheless the right thing to do. I couldn’t apologise in good faith, I think, for a course of action that I believed to be right. I couldn’t say “I am sorry for what I did.” I could say “I am sorry that I hurt you,” but I’m not sure that is an apology at all rather than a statement of regret about circumstances being such as to necessitate the harm.
My intuitions tell me that I could ask for forgiveness though, without any kind of irrationality or bad faith. The implications of that intuition are puzzling me a bit right now. Is it just that forgiveness has a degree of autonomy from morality — evidenced by the fact that we can seek and offer forgiveness even in cases where the harm to be forgiven was caused by the purest accident, and with no negligence? Or is it rather that forgiveness offers a particularly agent-centred, rather than action-centred kind of morality, so that it is much more deeply concerned with “I wronged you” rather than “I acted wrongly.” If the latter, then the fact that I can imagine a consequentialist asking for forgiveness for an action she believed to be right might suggest that a commitment to consequentialism might coexist with a complementary set of moral commitments that are specifically about the concern and respect owed to individuals.