A blog from the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics (CRB)

Category: Musings (Page 1 of 18)

Is this really true?

Why is the question of truth so marvelous? A common attitude is that the question can make us check that our opinions really are correct before we express them. By being as well-informed as possible, by examining our opinions so that they form as large and coherent a system as possible of well-considered opinions, we can in good conscience do what we all have a tendency to do: give vent to our opinions.

Letting the question of truth raise the demands on how we form our opinions is, of course, important. But the stricter requirements also risk reinforcing our stance towards the opinions that we believe meet the requirements. We are no longer just right, so to speak, but right in the right way, according to the most rigorous requirements. If someone expresses opinions formed without such rigor, we immediately feel compelled to respond to their delusions by expressing our more rigorous views on the matter.

Responding to misconceptions is, of course, important. One risk, however, is that those who are often declared insufficiently rigorous soon learn how to present a rigorous facade. Or even ignore the more demanding requirements because they are right anyway, and therefore also have the right to ignore those who are wrong anyway!

Our noble attitude to the question of truth may not always end marvelously, but may lead to a harsher climate of opinion. So how can the question of truth be marvelous?

Most of us have a tendency to think that our views of the world are motivated by everything disturbing that happens in it. We may even think that it is our goodness that makes us have the opinions, that it is our sense of justice that makes us express them. These tendencies reinforce our opinions, tighten them like the springs of a mechanism. Just as we have a knee-jerk reflex that makes our leg kick, we seem to have a knowledge reflex that makes us run our mouths, if I may express myself drastically. As soon as an opinion has taken shape, we think we know it is so. We live in our heads and the world seems to be inundated by everything we think about it.

“Is this really true?” Suppose we asked that question a little more often, just when we feel compelled to express our opinion about the state of the world. What would happen? We would probably pause for a moment … and might unexpectedly realize that the only thing that makes us feel compelled to express the opinion is the opinion itself. If someone questions our opinion, we immediately feel the compulsion to express more opinions, which in our view prove the first opinion.

“Is this really true?” For a brief moment, the question of truth can take our breath away. The compulsion to express our opinions about the state of the world is released and we can ask ourselves: Why do I constantly feel the urge to express my opinions? The opinions are honest, I really think this way, I don’t just make up opinions. But the thinking of my opinions has a deceptive form, because when I think my opinions, I obviously think that it is so. The opinions take the form of being the reality to which I react. – Or as a Stoic thinker said:

“People are disturbed not by things themselves, but by the views they take of them.” (Epictetus)

“Is this really true?” Being silenced by that question can make a whole cloud of opinions to condense into a drop of clarity. Because when we become silent, we can suddenly see how the knowledge reflex sets not only our mouths in motion, but the whole world. So, who takes truth seriously? Perhaps the one who does not take their opinions seriously.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

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We challenge habits of thought

Why does science ask the question of artificial consciousness?

The possibility of conscious AI is increasingly perceived as a legitimate and important scientific question. This interest has arisen after a long history of scientific doubts about the possibility of consciousness not only in other animals, but sometimes even in humans. The very concept of consciousness was for a period considered scientifically suspect. But now the question of conscious AI is being raised within science.

For anyone interested in how such a mind-boggling question can be answered philosophically and scientifically, I would like to recommend an interesting AI-philosophical exchange of views in the French journal Intellectica. The exchange (which is in English) revolves around an article by two philosophers, Jonathan Birch and Kristin Andrews, who for several years have discussed consciousness not only among mammals, but also among birds, fish, cephalopods, crustaceans, reptiles, amphibians and insects. The two philosophers carefully distinguish between psychological questions about what might make us emotionally attracted to believe that an AI system is conscious, and logical questions about what philosophically and scientifically can count as evidence for conscious AI. It is to this logical perspective that they want to contribute. How can we determine whether an artificial system is truly conscious; not just be seduced into believing it because the system emotionally convincingly mirrors the behavior of subjectively experiencing humans? Their basic idea is that we should first study consciousness in a wide range of animal species beyond mammals. Partly because the human brain is too different from (today’s) artificial systems to serve as a suitable reference point, but above all because such a broad comparison can help us identify the essential features of consciousness: features that could be used as markers for consciousness in artificial systems. The two philosophers’ proposal is thus that by starting from different forms of animal consciousness, we can better understand how we should philosophically and scientifically seek evidence for or against conscious AI.

One of my colleagues at CRB, Kathinka Evers, also a philosopher, comments on the article. She appreciates Birch and Andrews’ discussion as philosophically clarifying and sees the proposal to approach the question of conscious AI by studying forms of consciousness in a wide range of animal species as well argued. However, she believes that a number of issues require more attention. Among other things, she asks whether the transition from carbon- to silicon-based substrates does not require more attention than Birch and Andrews give it.

Birch and Andrews propose a thought experiment in which a robot rat behaves exactly like a real rat. It passes the same cognitive and behavioral tests. They further assume that the rat brain is accurately depicted in the robot, neuron for neuron. In such a case, they argue, it would be inconsistent not to accept the same pain markers that apply to the rat for the robot as well. The cases are similar, they argue, the transition from carbon to silicon does not provide sufficient reason to doubt that the robot rat can feel pain when it exhibits the same features that mark pain in the real rat. But the cases are not similar, Kathinka Evers points out, because the real rat, unlike the robot, is alive. If life is essential for consciousness, then it is not inconsistent to doubt that the robot can feel pain even in this thought experiment. Someone could of course associate life with consciousness and argue that a robot rat that exhibits the essential features of consciousness must also be considered alive. But if the purpose is to identify what can logically serve as evidence for conscious AI, the problem remains, says Kathinka Evers, because we then need to clarify how the relationship between life and consciousness should be investigated and how the concepts should be defined.

Kathinka Evers thus suggests several questions of relevance to what can logically be considered evidence for conscious AI. But she also asks a more fundamental question, which can be sensed throughout her commentary. She asks why the question of artificial consciousness is even being raised in science today. As mentioned, one of Birch and Andrews’ aims was to avoid the answer being influenced by psychological tendencies to interpret an AI that convincingly reflects human emotions as if it were conscious. But Kathinka Evers asks, as I read her, whether this logical purpose may not come too late. Is not the question already a temptation? AI is trained on human-generated data to reflect human behavior, she points out. Are we perhaps seeking philosophical and scientific evidence regarding a question that seems significant simply because we have a psychological tendency to identify with our digital mirror images? For a question to be considered scientific and worth funding, some kind of initial empirical support is usually required, but there is no evidence whatsoever for the possibility of consciousness in non-living entities such as AI systems. The question of whether an AI can be conscious has no more empirical support than the question of whether volcanoes can experience their eruptions, Kathinka Evers points out. There is a great risk that we will scientifically try to answer a question that lacks scientific basis. No matter how carefully we seek the longed-for answer, the question itself seems imprudent.

I am reminded of the myth of Narcissus. After a long history of rejecting the love of others (the consciousness of others), he finally fell in love with his own (digital) reflection, tried hopelessly to hug it, and was then tormented by an eternal longing for the image. Are you there? Will the reflection respond? An AI will certainly generate a response that speaks to our human emotions.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Birch Jonathan, Andrews Kristin (2024/2). To Understand AI Sentience, First Understand it in Animals. In Gefen Alexandre & Huneman Philippe (Eds), Philosophies of AI: thinking and writing with LLMs, Intellectica, 81, pp. 213-226.

Evers Kathinka (2024/2). To understand sentience in AI first understand it in animals. Commentary to Jonathan Birch and Kristin Andrews. In Gefen Alexandre & Huneman Philippe (Eds), Philosophies of AI: thinking and writing with LLMs, Intellectica, 81, pp. 229-232.

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We challenge habits of thought

Columbo in Athens

One of the most timeless TV crime series is probably Columbo. Peter Falk plays an inquisitive police lieutenant who sometimes seems so far beyond ordinary time reckoning that he can make Los Angeles resemble ancient Athens, where an equally inquisitive philosopher cared just as little about his appearance.

I hope you have seen a few Columbo episodes. I also take the liberty of opening this post by revealing why I want to write about him. Because he not only exposes the murderers but at the same time frees them from living entangled in their own brilliant plans. You might remember the unusual disposition of the episodes, that we immediately learn who the perpetrator is. The murderers in the series are distinguished not only by their high social and economic status, but also by their high intelligence (and their overconfidence in it). Before the murder takes place, we get to follow how ingeniously the killer plans the deed. The purpose is to give the appearance of having a watertight alibi, to avoid leaving unintended clues at the murder scene, and to leave those clues that clearly point to someone else. Everything is perfectly thought out: BANG! In the next act, Columbo enters the scene of the murder in his worn coat and with a cigar that has usually gone out. In one episode he arrives with a boiled egg in his pocket which he cracks against the murder weapon when he has not had time to eat breakfast.

The murder was just the prelude. Now the episode begins for real, the interaction between the absent-minded Columbo and the shrewd murderer who planned everything in detail and now feels invincible. Especially considering that the police lieutenant leading the investigation is clearly just a confused poor thing constantly fumbling for his notepad and pencil and asking irrelevant questions. I have soon dealt with this fellow, the killer thinks.

Columbo often immediately knows who the murderer is. He can reveal this in a final conversation with the murderer where both can unexpectedly find each other and speak openly, almost like old friends. Soon even the murderer begins to understand that Columbo knows, even though the lieutenant’s absent-minded demeanor at first made this unlikely. Usually, however, the murderer’s confidence is not shaken by knowing that Columbo knows, for everything is perfectly thought out: Columbo “knows” without being able to prove anything! Columbo spends many sleepless nights wondering about the murderer’s alibi and motive, or about seemingly irrelevant details at the murder scene: the “loose ends” that Columbo often talks about, without the murderer understanding why. They seem too trivial to touch the ingenious plan! The murderer almost seems to enjoy watching Columbo rack his brain with immaterial details that cannot possibly prove what both already “know.” Little does the killer know that Columbo’s uncertainty will soon bear fruit.

Finally, Columbo manages to tie up the loose ends that the murderer did not see the point of (they looked so plain compared to the elegant plan). When Columbo reveals how the alibi was only apparent, how the all-too-obvious clues were deliberately placed at the murder scene, and the murderer’s cheap selfish motive, the murderer expects to be arrested by Columbo. “No, others will come and arrest you later,” says Columbo, who suddenly seems uninterested in the whole matter. Columbo seems to have only wanted to expose the illusory reality the killer created to mislead everyone. The murderer is the one who walks into the trap first. To make everything look real, the murderer must live strictly according to the insidious plan from the very first act. Maybe that is why the murderer often seems to breathe a sigh of relief in the final act. Columbo not only exposes the criminal, but also frees the criminal mind from constantly living trapped in its own calculations.

In the conversation at the end, the otherwise active killer seems numbed by Columbo, calm and without a winning smile. Even the murderer is for the first time happily absent-minded.

How does Columbo manage to uncover the insidious plan? We like to think that Columbo succeeds in exposing the murderer because Columbo is even smarter. If Columbo switched sides and planned crimes, no one could expose him! He would be a super-intelligence that could satisfy every wish, like the genie in the lamp. Sometimes even the murderer seems to think along these lines and offers Columbo employment and a brilliant career. With Columbo as accomplice, the murderer would be invincible. But Columbo does not seem to care more about his future than about his appearance: “No, never, I couldn’t do that.” He loves his work, he explains, but hardly gives the impression of being a police lieutenant, but is sometimes mistaken for a vagrant who is kindly asked to remove himself from the scene of the murder. Nuns can offer him food and clothes. Is Columbo the one actually creating the false appearance? Is he the one with the most cunning plan? Is his absent-mindedness just a form of ironic pretense to lure the murderer into the trap?

Columbo probably benefits from his disarming simplicity and absent-minded demeanor. But although we sometimes see him setting traps for the killer, we never see him disguise himself as a vagrant. When his wife has given him a nicer coat, he seems genuinely bothered by it, as if he were dressed up. Is Columbo’s confusion sincere after all? Is it the confusion he loves about his work? Is it perhaps the confusion that eventually reveals the murderer’s watertight plan?

Columbo’s colleagues are not confused. They follow the rules of the game and soon have exactly the conviction the murderer planned for them according to the manual: the murderer has no motive, has a watertight alibi, and cannot be tied to the scene of the murder. Technical evidence, on the contrary, clearly points in a different direction. If the colleagues were leading the investigation, the murderer would have already been removed from the list of suspects. This is how a colleague complains when he feels that Columbo is slowing down the investigation by not following the plan of the criminal mastermind:

Sergeant Hoffman: Now what do you think Lieutenant, do you really think that Deschler didn’t shoot Galesko in the leg?

Columbo: I’ll tell you something, Sergeant, I don’t know what to think.

The injured Galesko is in fact the murderer. He shot himself in the leg after killing Deschler, to make the killing look like self-defense against “his wife’s kidnapper.” Galseko has already murdered his wife, having staged the kidnapping and planted the clues that point to Deschler. Why did Galesko murder his wife? Because he felt she was obscuring his bright future. The murderers in the TV series not only plan their deeds, but also their lives. Without ideas of bright futures, they would lack motive to plan murder.

Neither the killer nor the colleague suffers from uncertainty, they both sleep well. Only Columbo is awake: “I don’t know what to think.” Therefore, he tries to tie up loose ends. Like the philosopher Socrates in ancient Athens, Columbo knows that he does not know. Therefore, he torments the murderer (and the colleagues) with vexing questions that do not belong to the game, but rather revolve around it. Now you probably want to direct Columbo’s most famous line at me: “Oh, just one more thing!” For did I not say that Columbo immediately knows who the murderer is? Yes, I did. Columbo already “knows” who the murderer is. How? Does he know it through his superior intelligence that reveals the whole case in a flash? No, but because the murderer does not react like someone who does not know. When informed of the murder, the killer reacts strangely: like someone who already knows. Lack of confusion is the hallmark of the murderer.

When Columbo reveals the tangle of thoughts that already in the first act ensnared the murderer, the perpetrator goes to prison without complaint. Handcuffs are redundant when the self-made ones are finally unlocked. Columbo has calmed the criminal mind. The culprit is free from the murder plan that would secure the future plan. Suddenly everything is real, just real.

Just one more thing: Merry Christmas and do not plan too much!

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

The dialogue between Hoffman and Columbo is from the episode Negative Reaction (1974). Columbo’s response to the career offer is from The Bye-Bye Sky-High I.Q. Murder Case (1977).

The image is AI-generated in Microsoft Designer by Ashkan Atry.

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Thinking about thinking

AI is the answer! But what is the question?

Many projects are underway in Sweden regarding AI systems in healthcare. The testing of AI solutions is in full swing. But many systems do not seem to be implemented and used. Why? Often it is a matter of poor preparatory work. Without a carefully considered strategy and clear goals, we risk scaling up AI systems that cannot cope with the complexity of healthcare.

The atmosphere around many AI ​​ventures can almost be a little religious. You must not be negative or ask critical questions. Then you are quickly branded as a cynic who slows down development and does not understand the signs of the times. You almost have to blind yourself to potential pitfalls and speak and act like a true believer. Many justify the eager testing of AI by saying that we must dare to try and then see which solutions turn out to be successful. It is fascinating how willingly we apply AI to all sorts of tasks. But are we doing it the right way, or do we risk rushing on without giving ourselves time to think?

There are indeed economical and practical challenges in healthcare. It is not only about a lack of financial resources, but also about a lack of personnel and specialists. Before we can allow technologies like AI to become part of our everyday lives, we need to ask ourselves some important questions: What problems are we trying to solve? How do our solutions affect the people involved? We may also need to clarify whether the purpose of the AI ​​system is to almost take over an entire work task or rather to facilitate our work in certain well-defined respects. The development of AI products should also pay extra attention to socially created categories of ethnicity and gender to avoid reinforcing existing inequalities through biased data selection. Ethically well-considered AI implementations probably lead to better clinical outcomes and more efficient care. It is easy to make hasty decisions that soon turn out to be wrong: accuracy should always be a priority. It is better to think right and slow than fast and wrong. Clinical studies should be conducted even on seemingly not so advanced AI products. In radiology, this tradition is well established, but it is not as common in primary care. If a way of working is to be changed with the help of AI, one should evaluate what effects it can have.

We must therefore not neglect three things: We must first of all define the need for an AI solution. We must then consider that the AI ​​tool is not trained with biased data. Finally, we need to evaluate the AI ​​solution before implementing it.

With the rapid data collection that apps and digital tools allow today, it is important not to get carried away, but to carefully consider the ethics of designing and implementing AI. Unfortunately, the mantra has become: “If we have data, we should develop an AI.” And that mantra makes anyone who asks “Why?” seem suspicious. But the question must be asked. It does not hinder the development of AI solutions, but contributes to it. Careful ethical considerations improve the quality of the AI ​​product and strengthens the credibility of the implementation.

I therefore want to warn against being seduced by the idea of ​​AI solutions for all sorts of tasks. Before we say AI is the answer, we need to ask ourselves: What is the question? Only if we can define a real issue or challenge can we ensure that the technology becomes a helping hand instead of a burden. We do not want to periodically end up in the situation where we suddenly have to pull the emergency brake, as in a recent major Swedish investment in AI in healthcare, called Millennium. We must not get stuck in the mindset that everything can be done faster and easier with AI. We must also not be driven by the fear of falling behind if we do not immediately introduce AI. Only a carefully considered evaluation of the need and the design of an AI solution can ensure appropriate care that is also effective. To get correct answers quickly, we must first give ourselves time to think.

Written by…

Jennifer Viberg Johansson, who is an Associate Professor in Medical Ethics at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics.

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We challenge habits of thought

Philosophy on a chair

Philosophy is an unusual activity, partly because it can be conducted to such a large extent while sitting still. Philosophers do not need research vessels, laboratories or archives to work on their questions. Just a chair to sit on. Why is it like that?

The answer is that philosophers examine our ways of thinking, and we are never anywhere but where we are. A chair takes us exactly as far as we need: to ourselves. Philosophizing on a chair can of course look self-absorbed. How can we learn anything significant from “thinkers” who neither seem to move nor look around the world? If we happen to see them sitting still in their chairs and thinking, they can undeniably appear to be cut off from the complex world in which the rest of us must live and navigate. Through its focus on human thought, philosophy can seem to ignore our human world and not be of any use to the rest of us.

What we overlook with such an objection to philosophy is that our complex human world already reflects to a large extent our human ways of thinking. To the extent that these ways of thinking are confused, limited, one-sided and unjust, our world will also be confused, limited, one-sided and unjust. When we live and move in this human world, which reflects our ways of thinking, can it not be said that we live somewhat inwardly, without noticing it? We act in a world that reflects ourselves, including the shortcomings in our ways of thinking.

If so, maybe it is not so introverted to sit down and examine these ways of thinking? On the contrary, this seems to enable us to free ourselves and the world from human thought patterns that sometimes limit and distort our perspectives without us realizing it. Of course, research vessels, laboratories and archives also broaden our perspectives on the world. But we already knew that. I just wanted to open our eyes to a more unexpected possibility: that even a chair can take us far, if we practice philosophy on it.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

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We challenge habits of thought

Finding the way when there is none

A difficulty for academic writers is managing the dual role of both knowing and not knowing, of both showing the way and not finding it. There is an expectation that such writers should already have the knowledge they are writing about, that they should know the way they show others right from the start. As readers, we are naturally delighted and grateful to share the authors’ knowledge and insight.

But academic writers usually write because something strikes them as puzzling. They write for the same reason that readers read: because they lack the knowledge and clarity required to find the way through the questions. This lack stimulates them to research and write. The way that did not exist, takes shape when they tackle their questions.

This dual role as a writer often worries students who are writing an essay or dissertation for the first time. They can easily perceive themselves as insufficiently knowledgeable to have the right to tackle the work. Since they lack the expertise that they believe is required of academic writers from the outset, does it not follow that they are not yet mature enough to begin the work? Students are easily paralyzed by the knowledge demands they place on themselves. Therefore, they hide their questions instead of tackling them.

It always comes as a surprise, that the way actually takes shape as soon as we ask for it. Who dares to believe that? Research is a dynamic interplay with our questions: with ignorance and lack of clarity. An academic writer is not primarily someone who knows a lot and who therefore can show others the way, but someone who dares and is even stimulated by this duality of both knowing and not knowing, of both finding and not finding the way.

If we have something important to learn from the exploratory writers, it is perhaps that living knowledge cannot be separated as pure knowledge and nothing but knowledge. Knowledge always interacts with its opposite. Therefore, essay writing students already have the most important asset to be able to write in an exploratory way, namely the questions they are wondering about. Do not hide the questions, but let them take center stage. Let the text revolve around what you do not know. Knowledge without contact with ignorance is dead.  It solves no one’s problem, it answers no one’s question, it removes no one’s confusion. So let the questions sprout in the soil of the text, and the way will soon take shape.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

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Thinking about authorship

Objects that behave humanly

Many forms of artificial intelligence could be considered objects that behave humanly. However, it does not take much for us humans to personify non-living objects. We get angry at the car that does not start or the weather that does not let us have a picnic, as if they were against us. Children spontaneously personify simple toys and can describe the relationship between geometric shapes as, “the small circle is trying to escape from the big triangle.”

We are increasingly encountering artificial intelligence designed to give a human impression, for example in the form of chatbots for customer service when shopping online. Such AI can even be equipped with personal traits, a persona that becomes an important part of the customer experience. The chatbot can suggest even more products for you and effectively generate additional sales based on the data collected about you. No wonder the interest in developing human-like AI is huge. Part of it has to do with user-friendliness, of course, but at the same time, an AI that you find personally attractive will grab your attention. You might even like the chatbot or feel it would be impolite to turn it off. During the time that the chatbot has your attention, you are exposed to increasingly customized advertising and receive more and more package offers.

You can read about this and much more in an article about human relationships with AI designed to give a human impression: Human/AI relationships: challenges, downsides, and impacts on human/human relationships. The authors discuss a large number of examples of such AI, ranging from the chatbots above to care robots and AI that offers psychotherapy, or AI that people chat with to combat loneliness. The opportunities are great, but so are the challenges and possible drawbacks, which the article highlights.

Perhaps particularly interesting is the insight into how effectively AI can create confusion by exposing us to objects equipped with human response patterns. Our natural tendency to anthropomorphize non-human things meets high-tech efforts to produce objects that are engineered to behave humanly. Here it is no longer about imaginatively projecting social relations onto non-human objects, as in the geometric example above. In interaction with AI objects, we react to subtle social cues that the objects are equipped with. We may even feel a moral responsibility for such AI and grieve when companies terminate or modify it.

The authors urge caution so that we do not overinterpret AI objects as persons. At the same time, they warn of the risk that, by avoiding empathic responses, we become less sensitive to real people in need. Truly confusing!

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Zimmerman, A., Janhonen, J. & Beer, E. Human/AI relationships: challenges, downsides, and impacts on human/human relationships. AI Ethics (2023). https://doi.org/10.1007/s43681-023-00348-8

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The doubtful beginnings of philosophy

Philosophy begins with doubt, this has been emphasized by many philosophers. But what does it mean to doubt? To harbor suspicions? To criticize accepted beliefs? In that case, doubt is based on thinking we know better. We believe that we have good reason to doubt.

Is that doubting? Thinking that you know? It sounds paradoxical, but it is probably the most common form of doubt. We doubt, and think we can easily explain why. But this is hardly the doubt of philosophy. For in that case philosophy would not begin with doubt, but with belief or knowledge. If a philosopher doubts, and easily motivates the doubt, the philosopher will soon doubt her own motive for doubting. To doubt, as a philosopher doubts, is to doubt one’s own thought. It is to admit: I don’t know.

Perhaps I have already quoted Socrates’ famous self-description too many times, but there is a treasure buried in these simple words:

“when I don’t know things, I don’t think that I do either.”

The oracle at Delphi had said of Socrates that he was the wisest of all. Since Socrates did not consider himself more knowledgeable than others, he found the statement puzzling. What could the oracle mean? The self-description above was Socrates’ solution to the riddle. If I am wiser than others, he thought, then my wisdom cannot consist in knowing more than others, because I do not. But I have a peculiar trait, and that is that when I do not know, I do not think I know either. Everyone I question here in Athens, on the other hand, seems to have the default attitude that they know, even when I can demonstrate that they do not. Whatever I ask them, they think they know the answer! I am not like that. If I do not know, I do not react as if I knew either. Perhaps this was what the oracle meant by my superior wisdom?

So, what did Socrates’ wisdom consist in? In beginning with doubt. But must he not have had reason to doubt? Surely, he must have known something, some intuition at least, which gave him reason to doubt! Curiously, Socrates seems to have doubted without good reason. He said that he heard an inner voice urging him to stop and be silent, just as he was about to speak verbosely as if he knew something: Socrates’ demon. But how could an “inner voice” make Socrates wise? Is that not rather a sure sign of madness?

I do not think we should make too much of the fact that Socrates chose to describe the situation in terms of an inner voice. The important thing is that he does not react, when he does not know. Imagine someone who has become clearly aware of her own reflex to get angry. The moment she notices that she is about to get angry, she becomes completely calm instead. The drama is over before it begins. Likewise, Socrates became completely calm the moment he noted his own reflex to start talking as if he knew something. He was clearly aware of his own knowledge reflex.

What is the knowledge reflex? We have already felt its activity in the post. It struck us when we thought we knew that a wise person cannot doubt without reason. It almost drove us mad! If Socrates doubted, he must have had good reason! If an “inner voice” inspired doubt, it would not be wisdom, but a sure sign of madness! This is the knowledge reflex. To suddenly not be able to stop talking, as if we had particularly good reason to assert ourselves. Socrates never reacted that way. In those situations, he noted the knowledge reflex and immediately became perfectly calm.

The value of becoming completely calm just when the knowledge reflex wants to set us in motion is that it makes us free to examine ourselves. If we let the knowledge reflex drive our doubts – “this is highly dubious, because…” – we would not question ourselves, but assert ourselves. We would doubt the way we humans generally doubt, because we think we have reason to doubt. Of course, Socrates does not doubt arbitrarily, like a madman, but the source of his doubt becomes apparent only in retrospect. Philosophy is love for the clarity we lack when philosophizing begins. Without this loving attitude towards what we do not know, our collective human knowledge risks becoming a colossus on clay feet – is it already wobbly?

When the knowledge reflex no longer controls us, but is numbed by philosophical self-doubt, we are free to think independently and clearly. Therefore, philosophy begins with doubt and not with belief or knowledge.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Plato. “The Apology of Socrates.” In The Last Days of Socrates, translated by Christopher Rowe, 32-62. Penguin Books, 2010.

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Thinking about thinking

Time to forget time

A theme in recent blog posts has been our need for time. Patients need time to be listened to; time to ask questions; time to decide whether they want to be included in clinical studies, and time for much more. Healthcare workers need time to understand the patients’ situation; time to find solutions to the individual problems of patients suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, and time for much more. This theme, our need for time, got me thinking about what is so great about time.

It could be tempting to conduct time and motion studies of our need for time. How much time does the patient need to spend with the doctor to feel listened to? How much time does the nurse need to spend with the patient to get the experience of providing good care? The problem with such studies is that they destroy the greatness of time. To give the patient or the nurse the measured time, prescribed by the time study, is to glance at the clock. Would you feel listened to if the person you were talking to had a stopwatch hanging around their neck? Would you be a good listener yourself if you waited for the alarm signal from the stopwatch hanging around your neck?

Time studies do not answer our question of what we need, when we need time. If it was really a certain amount of time we needed, say fifteen minutes, then it should make no difference if a ticking stopwatch hung around the neck. But it makes a difference! The stopwatch steals our time. So, what is so great about time?

I think the answer is well on its way to revealing itself, precisely because we give it time to come at its own pace. What we need when we need time, is to forget time! That is the great thing about having time. That we no longer think about it.

Again, it can be tempting to conduct time studies. How much time does the patient and the doctor need to forget time? Again, time studies ruin the greatness of time. How? They frame everything in time. They force us to think about time, even when the point is to forget it.

Our need for time is not about measured quantities of time, but about the timeless quality of not thinking about time. Thinking about time steals time from us. Since it is not really about time, it does not have to take that long.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

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We challenge habits of thought

Moral stress: what does the COVID-19 pandemic teach us about the concept?

Newly formed concepts can sometimes satisfy such urgent linguistic needs that they immediately seem completely self-evident. Moral stress is probably such a concept. It is not many decades old. Nevertheless, the concept probably appeared from the beginning as an all-too-familiar reality for many healthcare workers.

An interesting aspect of these immediately self-evident concepts is that they effortlessly find their own paths through language, despite our efforts to define the right path. They are simply too striking in living spoken language to be captured in the more rigid written language of definitions. However, the first definition of moral stress was fairly straightforward. This is how Andrew Jameton defined the concept:

“Moral distress arises when one knows the right thing to do, but institutional constraints make it nearly impossible to pursue the right course of action.”

Although the definition is not complicated in the written language, it still prevents the concept from speaking freely, as it wants to. For, do we not spontaneously want to talk about moral stress in other situations as well? For example, in situations where two different actions can be perceived as the right ones, but if we choose one action it excludes the other? Or in situations where something other than “institutional constraints” prevents the right course of action? Perhaps a sudden increase in the number of patients.

Here is a later definition of moral stress, which leaves more open (by Kälvemark, Höglund and Hansson):

“Traditional negative stress symptoms that occur due to situations that involve an ethical dimension where the health care provider feels he/she is not able to preserve all interests at stake.”

This definition allows the concept to speak more freely, in more situations than the first, although it is possibly slightly more complicated in the written language. That is of course no objection. A definition has other functions than the concept being defined, it does not have to be catchy like a song chorus. But if we compare the definitions, we can notice how both express the authors’ ideas about morality, and thus about moral stress. In the first definition, the author has the idea that morality is a matter of conscience and that moral stress occurs when institutional constraints of the profession prevent the practitioner from acting as conscience demands. Roughly. In the second definition, the authors have the idea that morality is rather a kind of balancing of different ethical values and interests and that moral stress arises in situations that prevent the trade-offs from being realized. Roughly.

Why do I dwell on the written and intellectual aspects of the definitions, even though it is hardly an objection to a definition? It has to do with the relationship between our words and our ideas about our words. Successful words find their own paths in language despite our ideas about the path. In other words: despite our definitions. Jameton both coined and defined moral (di)stress, but the concept almost immediately stood, and walked, on its own feet. I simply want to remind you that spoken-language spontaneity can have its own authority, its own grounding in reality, even when it comes to newly formed concepts introduced through definitions.

An important reason why the newly formed concept of moral stress caught on so immediately is probably that it put into words pressing problems for healthcare workers. Issues that needed to be noticed, discussed and dealt with. One way to develop the definition of moral stress can therefore be to listen to how healthcare workers spontaneously use the concept about situations they themselves have experienced.

A study in BMC Medical Ethics does just this. Together with three co-authors, Martina E. Gustavsson investigated how Swedish healthcare workers (assistants, nurses, doctors, etc.) described moral stress during the COVID-19 pandemic. After answering a number of questions, the participants were requested to describe, in a free text response, situations during the pandemic in which they experienced moral stress. These free text answers were conceptually analyzed with the aim of formulating a refined definition of moral stress.

An overarching theme in the free text responses turned out to be: being prevented from providing good care to needy patients. The healthcare workers spoke of a large number of obstacles. They perceived problems that needed to be solved, but felt that they were not taken seriously, that they were inadequate or forced to act outside their areas of expertise. What stood in the way of good care? The participants in the study spoke, among other things, about unusual conditions for decision-making during the pandemic, about tensions in the work team (such as colleagues who did not dare to go to work for fear of being infected), about substandard communication with the organizational management. All this created moral stress.

But they also talked about the pandemic itself as an obstacle. The prioritization of COVID-19 patients meant that other patients received worse care and were exposed to the risk of infection. The work was also hindered by a lack of resources, such as personal protective equipment, while the protective equipment prevented staff from comforting worried patients. The visiting restrictions also forced staff to act as guards against patients’ relatives and isolate infected patients from their children and partners. Finally, the pandemic prevented good end-of-life care. This too was morally stressful.

How can the healthcare workers’ free text responses justify a refined definition of moral stress? Martina E. Gustafsson and co-authors consider the definition above by Kälvemark, Höglund and Hansson as a good definition to start from. But one type of situation that the participants in the study described probably falls outside that definition, namely the situation of not being taken seriously, of feeling inadequate and powerless. The study therefore proposes the following definition, which includes these situations:

“Moral stress is the kind of stress that arises when confronted with a moral challenge, a situation in which it is difficult to resolve a moral problem and in which it is difficult to act, or feeling insufficient when you act, in accordance with your own moral values.”

Here, too, one can sense an idea of morality, and thus of moral stress. The authors think of morality as being about solving moral problems, and that moral stress arises when this endeavor encounters challenges, or when one feels inadequate in the attempts to solve the problems. The definition can be considered a refined idea of what moral stress is. It describes more precisely the relevant situations where healthcare workers spontaneously want to talk about moral stress.

Obviously, we can learn a lot about the concept of moral stress from the experience of the COVID-19 pandemic. Read the study here, which contains poignant descriptions of morally stressful situations during the pandemic: “Being prevented from providing good care: a conceptual analysis of moral stress among health care workers during the COVID-19 pandemic.”

Finally, I would like to mention two general lessons about language, which in my view the study highlights. The first is that we can learn a lot about our concepts through the difficulties of defining them. The study took this “definition resistance” seriously by listening to how healthcare workers spontaneously talk about moral stress. This created friction that helped refine the definition. The second lesson is that we often use words despite our ideas about what the words mean or should mean. Spoken language spontaneity has a natural weight and authority that we easily overlook, but from which we have much to learn – as in this empirical study.

Pär Segerdahl

Written by…

Pär Segerdahl, Associate Professor at the Centre for Research Ethics & Bioethics and editor of the Ethics Blog.

Gustavsson, M.E., von Schreeb, J., Arnberg, F.K. et al. “Being prevented from providing good care: a conceptual analysis of moral stress among health care workers during the COVID-19 pandemic”. BMC Med Ethics 24, 110 (2023). https://doi.org/10.1186/s12910-023-00993-y

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