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Julian's avatar
19mEdited

Very thought-provoking, as usual. Reality is messy. Yes. Often there is no line. Yes. It seems to depend partly on what level of society we are talking about. If my family home environment has established specific ‘rules’ and/or expectations over time which all who live there agree makes that environment more pleasant - e.g. something as simple as removing one’s shoes at the threshold - it would surely be reasonable to expect any visitors to respect and abide by those clear, unmessy rules - those ‘lines’. Likewise, it would surely be right for us to be expected to respect and abide by any clear, unmessy rules - ´lines’ - which we encountered when visiting the home environment of others. Unfortunately, this sort of mutual understanding and respect does not seem to be easily scalable to the level of the nation state, let alone to the scale of multi-state entities like the EU, despite the still (?) widely quoted ´When in Rome, do as the Romans’ proverb. A perception that this proverb’s call for mutual cultural sensitivity and respect has been violated often seems to lie at the root of current concerns regarding immigration, particularly from non-European/non-Western places.

Claire Ellery's avatar

You’ve stirred my thoughts! What this piece helps me name is how much of our political and moral struggle is actually psychological.

Humans are complex, contradictory creatures who nonetheless crave coherence. We want frameworks that tell us who is right, what is safe, and where the boundaries lie. That desire is not a flaw—it is part of how we survive. But when uncertainty rises, that desire can quietly harden into something else: a longing for control disguised as moral clarity.

What I find compelling here is the insistence that liberalism does not attempt to cure human messiness. It accepts it. It offers a structure that allows disagreement, error, and revision without immediately translating discomfort into domination. That is a demanding posture. It requires restraint, patience, and a willingness to live without final answers.

As someone shaped by systems that promised certainty in exchange for obedience, I’m increasingly aware of how easily my own thinking gravitates toward neat lines—this idea is dangerous, that one must be banned, this group must be stopped before harm occurs. Sometimes those instincts come from care. Other times, they come from anxiety about ambiguity and loss of control. Learning to tell the difference feels like real political work.

What stands out to me is the reminder that authoritarianism rarely announces itself as cruelty. It presents itself as protection, order, and moral seriousness. The temptation is to believe that this time coercion will solve the problem, that this silencing will prevent future harm. History—and psychology—suggest otherwise.

The challenge, then, is not to abandon ethical clarity, but to resist turning it into totalizing narratives that deny human complexity. Thinking well in public requires tolerating uncertainty, opposing harm without flattening dissent, and holding principles steady without reaching for domination as a shortcut.

That may be less satisfying than certainty—but it is far more honest, and far more humane.

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