(Jewish) PHILOSOPHER LOOKS AT CONTEMPORARY TERRORISM

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http://www.cardozolawreview.com/PastIss ... moratz.pdf

PHILOSOPHER LOOKS AT CONTEMPORARY TERRORISM

Igor Primoratz*

I. TERRORISM THEN AND NOW

Before the terrorist attacks in the United States on September 11,
2001, the topic of terrorism did not loom large in philosophical
discussion. Philosophical literature in English offered only a couple of
monographs and a single collection of papers devoted solely, or largely,
to philosophical questions having to do with terrorism. Articles in
philosophy journals dealing with it were few and far between.
Today, terrorism is firmly in the focus of philosophical interest: it
is the subject of numerous books, journal articles, special journal issues,
and conferences. This might be seen as yet another indication of just
how the world was changed on September 11, 2001. But then, the
claim that the world was indeed changed in certain highly important
ways is also being questioned, not least by philosophers.
In the immediate aftermath of September 11, the sheer scale of the
attacks seemed to suggest a new type of terrorism at work: according to
the initial estimates, the attacks had claimed some seven thousand
victims. Many described the events of September 11 as "the most
devastating terrorist attack in history." To those who think of terrorism
as the preserve of non-state agents, this seemed obvious: no previous
single instance of terrorism perpetrated by an insurgent group had come
close to that number of victims. Those who also see terrorism in
massacres of civilians aiming at terrorizing others that were carried out
by states were not tempted to speak in such terms. They know that state
terrorism is readily and indeed typically deployed on a large scale, and
can cite quite a few instances of such terrorism inflicting as many, or
more, casualties.

There are other arguments for the claim that September 11, 2001
introduced a radically new type of terrorism. One is that while old-style
terrorism focused on specific, intelligible, and achievable political
objectives, the "new terrorism" has large and nebulous aims that can
never be achieved. Accordingly, whereas it made sense to try to
negotiate with old-style terrorists, the psychological and indeed logical
presuppositions for engaging in any kind of rational give-and-take with
"new terrorists" are lacking. Yet this contrast is highly problematic.
While many terrorist acts and campaigns carried out in the preceding
two centuries were motivated by nationalism and aimed at specific and,
at least in principle, achievable aims (such as national liberation), many
others were driven by a radical internationalist ideology based on a
nebulous utopia.

On the other hand, although the organization perceived as the
embodiment of the "new terrorism," Al-Qaeda, is committed to a world
outlook that appears quite fantastic to the uninitiated, it has also
announced the proximate aims of its campaign of terror, and these are
quite specific, intelligible, and attainable: putting an end to Western
military presence in Islamic countries, to Western military intervention
in Afghanistan and Iraq, and to virtually unqualified American support
of Israel.

Another trait of the "new terrorism" adduced as proof of its radical
novelty is its international scope. Yet some terrorist organizations
operating in the twentieth century had international scope in both their
activities and in their connections and support.

Finally, some observers are greatly impressed with the fact that the
attacks on September 11, 2001, as well as those in Bali and London,
were carried out by suicide bombers, and that their perpetrators were
Muslims. They tend to perceive the "new terrorism" as distinctively
Islamic and inherently given to suicide attacks. The two traits are said
to be connected in that Islamic fundamentalism includes certain beliefs
about the afterlife which have great motivational force for laying down
one's life for the cause. Robert A. Pape's pioneering study Dying to
Win: The Strategic Logic of Suicide Terrorism, however, shows that
there is little connection between suicide terrorism and Islamic (or any
other) fundamentalism:

[W]hat nearly all suicide terrorist attacks have in common is a
specific secular and strategic goal: to compel modern democracies to
withdraw military forces from territory that the terrorists consider to
be their homeland. Religion is rarely the root cause, although it is
often used as a tool by terrorist organizations in recruiting and in
other efforts in service of the broader strategic objective.1

Thus, I do not believe that terrorism changed drastically on
September 11, 2001. Rather, I think that those attacks, as well as major
terrorist incidents that followed in their wake, are of a piece with the
type of terrorism that was practiced throughout the preceding century, at
least when considered from a philosophical vantage point.3 The practice
labeled "terrorism" did undergo a major, philosophically significant
change, but that happened much earlier: in the first quarter of the
twentieth century. The change was a change of target—those who were
directly attacked by terrorists, who were killed or maimed, and whose
homes and other vitally important property were destroyed by them.
With this change of its direct target, terrorism also underwent a drastic
change of moral complexion.

In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, most of those who
were called, and often called themselves, "terrorists"—most anarchists
and various revolutionary groups in Russia—were not terrorizing entire
populations by attacking whoever happened to be in a certain place at a
certain time. Rather, they were attempting to induce terror and force
political change by assassinating royalty and holders of high
government office. Russian revolutionaries, in particular, had very
strong views on who was and who was not a legitimate target of lethal
political violence. Their resort to violence was informed by strong
moral convictions about its grounds and limits. They considered
violence intrinsically, and deeply, morally wrong. Yet in view of the
character of the oppressive regime, its strength, and its unwillingness to
allow for significant political change, violence was the only method of
struggle left to those seeking such change. The moral case for resorting
to lethal political violence and the conditions such violence must satisfy
were spelled out by Grigory Gershuni, head of the military wing of the
Socialist Revolutionary Organization (SR):

When the rage of the people and the hatred of society focus on one
of the figures in authority who becomes a symbol of violence and
tyranny . . . when there is no other way to deal with the danger he
represents, and when the very fact that such a person remains alive is
like an insult to the conscience of society—then the way to terrorism
is open . . . for the execution of the sentence which has been passed
in the hearts of the people. . . . The terrorist act is permissible not
when it is possible but when it is necessary.4

What we have here is a two-pronged, deontological-cumconsequentialist
justification of political violence. Such violence must
be richly deserved by the victim's central role in the oppressive regime
whose overthrow, or at least significant change, is a paramount moral
goal, and a goal that cannot be achieved in any other way. When both
conditions are satisfied, killing the head of state or a highly placed
government official will be justified both as deserved and hence just
punishment, and as a necessary evil.

A good example of this view of political violence at work is
provided by a member of the same revolutionary organization, Ivan
Kaliayev. On February 15, 1905, he set out to assassinate Commander
of the Moscow military district, Grand Duke Sergey. When about to
throw a bomb, Kaliayev saw that the Grand Duke was accompanied by
his sister-in-law and her two children. Rather than kill these innocent
bystanders too, Kaliayev refrained from carrying out his mission, and in
doing so exposed himself and his accomplices to grave danger. He was
able to assassinate the Grand Duke on another occasion, under
circumstances in which he could not escape, and he was caught, tried,
and executed for his crime. Zeev Ivianski writes that "by ascending the
gallows Kaliayev demonstrates precisely where the limits of terror lie,"
and thus "symbolizes an entire generation of the Russian revolutionary
terror movement."5

A later generation of Russian revolutionaries—the generation of
the "Red Terror"—viewed these matters in a different light. They, too,
had a paramount moral goal to achieve; and they, too, could only
achieve it by resorting to terrorism. But they were not quite as
concerned about the intrinsic immorality of violence. They viewed it as
a problematic means that, admittedly, imposed the burden of
justification on those considering using it. But they also believed that
this burden could be discharged in certain, not entirely unlikely,
circumstances.

Moreover, their terrorism meant indiscriminate killing, maiming,
and destruction. Lethal violence was no longer restricted to those
whose deliberate actions had seriously implicated them in the tyranny
that had to be overthrown, and whose execution could accordingly be
seen not only as a useful means to the revolutionary cause, but also as
deserved and just punishment. The first of these two conditions was
quite sufficient. Violence was used against all and sundry: men and
women of whatever political (or apolitical) views, social class, and walk
of life, young and old, adults and children. The selection of victims was
made in purely instrumental terms—where and when to plant a bomb,
or whom to shoot, to the greatest possible effect—rather than on the
basis of some argument about the responsibility and guilt of those to be
killed or maimed. This meant that all or most of the victims of a
terrorist attack would be innocent of whatever wrongs the terrorists
were fighting against (or at least innocent of them as far as the terrorists
themselves could tell).

To be sure, this type of terrorism was not entirely new. It had a
few precedents in some instances of "propaganda by the deed" carried
out by French and Spanish anarchists in the 1880s and 1890s. But those
cases had been the exception, rather than the rule. Ever since the
Russian Revolution and to this day, this "indirect" or "mass" terrorism
has for the most part been the rule, largely, but not entirely, superseding
the old, "direct" or "individual" terrorism.

I do not propose to discuss how and why. At the practical level,
the explanation may well be that "mass" terrorism promises to be much
more effective than the "individual" variety. As Edward Hyams has
written, "chiefs of state are more carefully guarded than they used to be,
and revolutionaries have learned that the elimination of individual
leaders is apt to resemble driving out Satan with Beelzebub."6 At a more
general level, one might cite Walter Laqueur, who points out that "in
the twentieth century, human life became cheaper; the belief gained
ground that the end justified all means, and that humanity was a
bourgeois prejudice."7

Rather than taking September 11, 2001 as the turning point, I wish
to highlight the difference between the terrorism of the nineteenth
century, which for the most part consisted of what today would be
called "political assassination," and that of the twentieth and twentyfirst
centuries, which does not discriminate between legitimate and
illegitimate targets. Both involve the use of violence for the purpose of
terrorizing large groups of people and forcing political change. Yet,
when approached from a philosophical vantage point, they are also
different: acceptance or rejection of the requirement of discrimination
makes a big difference in moral standing. In the remainder of this
paper, then, I will be referring to "terrorism" for the sake of brevity, but
will in fact be discussing contemporary terrorism, meaning the type of
terrorism that has been with us for almost a century, rather than only for
a few admittedly eventful years.

When addressing issues of morality and of value in general,
philosophers seek to do two things: first, to analyze and clarify the
concepts involved; and second, to analyze, clarify, and criticize
arguments for and against various positions taken on those issues, as
well as the moral principles and values that ground those arguments.
Whereas social sciences study the causes, varieties, and effects of
terrorism, and history traces the way terrorism has evolved over time,
philosophy focuses on two fundamental questions. The first is
conceptual: what is terrorism? The second is moral: can terrorism ever
be morally justified?

II. WHAT IS (CONTEMPORARY) TERRORISM?

Current ordinary usage of the word terrorism displays a wide
variety of meanings and considerable confusion. This makes discussing
the moral and political questions of terrorism difficult and often
frustrating. The one thing that this usage makes clear is that terrorism is
a bad thing: virtually no one today would apply the word to oneself and
one's own actions, nor to those one has sympathy with or whose actions
one supports. As the cliché has it, one person's terrorist is another's
freedom fighter. This kind of relativism indicates a double standard at
work, of the form "us versus. them," and presents a major obstacle to
rational discussion and judicious evaluation of the phenomenon of
terrorism and of particular terrorist actions and campaigns.
Another source of relativism, and a different type of double
standard, is the tendency to accuse all insurgents who resort to violence
of resorting to terrorism. This is compounded by unwillingness to talk
of terrorism when talking about the violent actions and policies of a
state, and in particular one's own state. This indicates a double standard
of the form "state versus non-state actors," and the assumption that
whatever it is, terrorism is by definition something done only by
insurgents, and never by a state.

Let me give an example of this type of discourse from the part of
the world where I used to live: the Middle East. Both Palestinians and
Israelis have been committing what many might want to call terrorism.
Yet both deny that they have been engaging in terrorism, and each side
accuses the other of doing so. What the Palestinians are saying is: ours
is a just struggle for putting an end to occupation and oppression, and
attaining self-determination. We are both morally and legally entitled to
use violence to this end. That is not terrorism, but rather fighting for
freedom. Israelis respond by saying that the state is merely using its
armed forces and security services in defense of the country and the
security of its citizens against terrorist attacks.
Thus Palestinians are assuming that the decisive criterion of
terrorism is the ultimate goal of the agent: if it is a legitimate goal such
as national liberation, it cannot be terrorism. From where they stand,
"terrorists fighting for freedom" appears to be a contradiction in terms.
Israelis, on their part, are assuming that it is the identity of the agent that
determines whether some act or policy of violence is terrorist or not. If
it is a state, then it cannot be terrorism; it is rather warfare or policing
action. If it is an insurgent group, then it is terrorism. From where they
stand, "state terrorism" looks like a contradiction in terms.
Additionally, both sides may well be assuming that if there is a violent
conflict between two parties and one of them is guilty of terrorism, then
the other party is thereby absolved of the charge of terrorism. If they
are terrorists, we cannot be.

Efforts of the United Nations to develop a definition that could be
accepted universally and open the way to dealing with terrorism by
means of international law seem to have fallen victim, at least for the
time being, to the same sort of relativism and confusion. Trudy Govier
describes the blind alley these efforts have reached:
The United Nations has been trying to define terrorism for some
thirty years, and has given up in its quest for a definition that
everybody can agree upon. A major problem is that Western
governments wanted to make sure that state agents could never be
considered terrorist, while Islamic countries wanted to make sure
that national liberation movements in the Middle East and Kashmir
could never be considered terrorist.8

In these circumstances, the debate has to be at cross-purposes. It is
in such cases that philosophy might help by pointing at the sources of
confusion, and by offering clarification, and perhaps even a definition,
of the concept at issue. I will not try for a definition that accurately
reproduces the core meaning of "terrorism" in ordinary usage; that is
probably a hopeless task. Nor will I stipulate a definition that should be
pertinent in every possible context and prove useful for every possible
purpose. Mine should be helpful in the debate about the rights and
wrongs of terrorism, that is, one we could use both in everyday moral
and political discussions of terrorism and in applied ethics (which is
nothing but the same debate continued in a more careful and sustained
way and informed by ethical theory).

To reach such a definition, we need to overcome both types of
relativism with regard to what "terrorism" is, and who is and who is not
a terrorist. We need to put aside both the question of who the actor is
and the question of what their ultimate objectives are. Instead, we need
to think of terrorism as a way of acting that could be adopted by a wide
array of agents, and that could serve a wide range of ultimate objectives
(most, but perhaps not all of them, political). It can be employed both
by states and by non-state agents, and can promote both national
liberation and oppression, revolutionary and reactionary causes (and
possibly some nonpolitical aims as well). One can be both a terrorist
and a freedom fighter: one can fight for freedom and adopt terrorism as
a method, or even the method, of fighting. Terrorism is not the
monopoly of enemies of freedom. Indeed, many national liberation
movements have made use of terrorism, whether occasionally or in a
more systematic way. The Front de Libération Nationale (FLN) in
Algeria was fighting for freedom from foreign rule; but when it took to
planting bombs in cafés, that was terrorism.

One can hold high government or military office and design or
implement a terrorist campaign. Terrorism is not the preserve of
insurgents. Indeed, many armies have used terrorism as a method of
waging war. When British political and military leaders in World War
II designed the strategy of bombing Germany's cities and towns, they
themselves called it "terror bombing." As students of totalitarianism
have pointed out, a totalitarian state cannot maintain its rule and pursue
its aims except by means of terrorism unleashed on its own population.
The "Red Terror" employed by the Bolshevik government in the
Russian Revolution and civil war, and Stalin's "Great Terror" of the
1930s, provide telling examples. Terrorism, then, should be defined
only by what is done and what the proximate aim of doing it is, rather
than in terms of who the actor is and what aim they ultimately seek to
achieve.

Accordingly, I suggest that we define terrorism as the deliberate
use of violence, or threat of its use, against innocent people—against
their life and limb, or against their property—with the aim of
intimidating some other people into a course of action they otherwise
would not take.

Defined in this way, terrorism is an indirect method. It has two
targets. One person or group is attacked directly, in order to get at
another person or group and intimidate them into doing something they
otherwise would not do. In terms of importance, the indirect target is
primary, and the direct target secondary.
The secondary, but directly attacked target, are people who are
innocent and who, by virtue of this innocence, enjoy immunity against
attack. In war, these are innocent civilians: everyone except members
of armed forces and security services, those who supply them with arms
and ammunition, and political officials directly involved in the conflict.
In political conflict that falls short of war, this class has a similarly wide
scope: it includes everyone except certain government officials, police,
and members of security services.

What is the sense in which the direct victims of terrorism are
"innocent?" They are not guilty of any action (or omission) the terrorist
could plausibly adduce as a justification of what he does to his victims.
There is nothing these victims have done (or failed to do) that makes
them deserve, or liable, to be killed or maimed. They are not attacking
the terrorist; therefore he cannot justify his action as one of self-defense.
They are not waging war on him, nor on those on whose behalf he
presumes to act; therefore he cannot say that he, too, is merely fighting
a war. They are not responsible—on any credible understanding of
responsibility—for the (real or alleged) injustice or suffering that is
being inflicted on him or on those whose cause he has adopted, an
injustice or suffering so grave that a violent response to it can properly
be considered. Or, if they are, the terrorist is not in a position to know
that. They are, therefore, morally protected from violent attack: as
innocent civilians, if the context is one of war, or as common citizens
rather than those devising or implementing policy, if the conflict falls
short of war.

Notice that I am not making the sweeping claim that the victims of
terrorist violence are not responsible in any way and to any degree for
the injustice or suffering the terrorist fights against, and that they are
accordingly not liable to criticism or other unfavorable response of any
sort. Rather, I am saying that they are not responsible, on any credible
understanding of responsibility and liability, for the injustice or
suffering the terrorist fights against—not responsible at all, or at least
not responsible to the degree that makes them liable to be killed or
maimed on that account. Moreover, the injustice or suffering at issue
need not be real; it may be merely alleged.

To take up the latter point first, I am not speaking of innocence of
injustice or infliction of suffering and the immunity that comes with it
from a point of view independent of that of the terrorist. If I were, that
would inject a high degree of relativism into discussions of terrorism.
Whether we thought an act of violence was a case of terrorism or not
would depend on whether we thought the actions and policies of its
victims were causing great injustice or suffering; and that, of course,
would normally be open to much disagreement. The bottom line would
be that, to paraphrase the cliché, one person's terrorist is another's
political assassin. In order not to have to grant this, I am saying that
being responsible for a merely alleged great injustice or suffering—a
great injustice or suffering alleged by the terrorist, but not considered as
such by others—is enough for losing one's immunity against violence,
as far as the type of immunity and innocence relevant to defining
terrorism is concerned.

This is in line with the mainstream view in just war theory: one
does not lose one's immunity against acts of war only by fighting in an
unjust war, but rather by fighting in any war. Similarly, one does not
lose one's immunity against political violence only by holding office in
a gravely unjust government or implementing policies of such a
government, but by holding office in or implementing policies of any
government. As King Umberto I of Italy said after surviving an attempt
on his life, this sort of risk comes with the job.

Members of these two classes who fall victim to violence are not
considered innocent and morally protected against violence by those
attacking them. The latter, rather, think of their acts as acts of war or
political violence proper, respectively. I submit that we should grant
that. In other words, I submit that the terrorist's victim is innocent from
the terrorist's own point of view, that is, innocent even if we grant the
terrorist her assessment of the policies at issue.

Of course, this should not be thought to imply that if someone
holds that a government is being gravely unjust to, or is inflicting
intolerable suffering on, its subjects, they have a moral license to kill its
officials, but only that if they do so, that will not be terrorism, but rather
political assassination. We can still condemn their actions as harshly as
we wish, if we reject their judgment of the policies at issue. We can do
so even if we accept that judgment, if we believe that they could and
should have opposed those policies by nonviolent means. We will not
be condemning their actions qua terrorism. But to say of an action that
it is not terrorism but political assassination is neither to justify nor to
excuse it.

This means that if the terrorist subscribes to a credible
understanding of responsibility and liability, she kills or maims people
she believes in her heart to be innocent. By a credible view of these
matters I mean a view that, first, grounds a person's responsibility for
some state of affairs in that person's acts or omissions which are
significantly voluntary, that is, informed and free, and have a
sufficiently strong connection with that state of affairs. Second, I mean
a view that provides for a certain morally acceptable proportion between
what a person is responsible for and the unfavorable response they are
liable to on that account. But the terrorist may also adopt a view of
responsibility and liability we find quite implausible, and go on to claim
that her victims are not innocent and that, accordingly, attacking them is
not terrorism.

Let me give a couple of examples. Emile Henry was a French
anarchist who lived in the nineteenth century, but engaged in terrorism
of the twentieth-century type. He planted a bomb at the office of a
mining company which, had it gone off, would probably have killed or
maimed a number of people who were not party to the company's
wrongdoings and merely happened to live in the same building. He also
planted a bomb in a café that did go off, injuring twenty people, one of
whom later died of his injuries. When explaining his actions in court,
he said: "What about the innocent victims? . . . The building where the
Carmaux Company had its offices was inhabited only by the bourgeois;
hence there would be no innocent victims. The whole of the
bourgeoisie lives by the exploitation of the unfortunate, and should
expiate its crimes together."9

When commenting on the second attack, he expanded the class of
those whose life and limb are fair game:
Those good bourgeois who . . . reap their dividends and live idly on
the profits of the workers' toil, they also must take their share in the
reprisals. And not only they, but all those who are satisfied with the
existing order, who applaud the acts of the government and so
become its accomplices . . . in other words, the daily clientele of
Terminus and the other great cafés!10

This, too, is a view of responsibility and liability, but surely an
utterly implausible one. For it says that all members of a social class—
men and women, young and old, adults and children—are liable to be
killed or maimed: some are guilty of operating the system of
exploitation, others of benefiting from this exploitation, and still others
of supporting the system. Even if we concede the anarchists' harsh
moral judgment of capitalist society, not every type and degree of
involvement with it will justify the use of lethal violence. Giving the
system political support, or benefiting from it, may indeed be morally
objectionable, but is surely not enough to make one eligible to be blown
to pieces.

Another, recent example, is provided by Osama bin Laden. In an
interview in the aftermath of the attacks on September 11, 2001 he said:
The American people should remember that they pay taxes to their
government and that they voted for their president. Their
government makes weapons and provides them to Israel, which they
use to kill Palestinian Muslims. Given that the American Congress
is a committee that represents the people, the fact that it agrees with
the actions of the American government proves that America in its
entirety is responsible for the atrocities that it is committing against
Muslims.11

This, too, is a preposterous understanding of responsibility and
liability. For it claims that all Americans—male and female, young and
old, adult and child—are eligible to be killed or maimed: some are
guilty of devising and implementing America's policies, others of
participating in the political process, still others of paying taxes. Even
if we grant bin Laden's severe condemnation of those policies, not
every type and degree of involvement with them can justify the use of
lethal violence. Surely voting in elections or paying taxes is not enough
to make one fair game.

My account of terrorism is motivated by the need to overcome
relativism that infests most debates about the subject and makes them
barren. I have argued that, in order to arrive at an understanding of
terrorism that is not plagued by relativism, we must put aside both the
identities of those employing terrorism, and their ultimate aims and the
related issue of the moral standing of the policies and practices they
oppose.

The conceptually and morally decisive trait of terrorism is that it is
violence against the innocent: violence against those who, on any
credible understanding of responsibility and liability, are not
responsible, or not responsible enough, for the real or alleged injustice
or suffering the terrorist fights against. Since not only real, but also
merely alleged injustice or suffering should count in determining the
innocence of the victims and deciding who is a terrorist, my account
does not make this decision hostage to endless debates about the moral
standing of contested policies and practices.

The notion of terrorism and its application does not presuppose any
particular type of agent, any particular ultimate aim, any particular
moral and political views. However, there is a residuum of relativity:
my account does presuppose a certain understanding of responsibility
and liability, whereby a person is responsible for a state of affairs only
by virtue of that person's voluntary, that is, informed and free, act or
omission that has a sufficiently strong connection to that state of affairs,
and thereby becomes liable to some proportionate unfavorable response.
Given this understanding of responsibility and liability, the victims of
terrorist violence will be found innocent from the terrorist's own point
of view.

Yet when an individual or group resorts to violence that we
perceive as terrorist, but rejects the label by deploying a view of
responsibility and liability based on some extremely far-fetched
connection between states of affairs and human choices and actions, and
arguing that entire social classes or nations are responsible for certain
policies and practices and liable to be attacked by deadly violence, I can
only discount such arguments as preposterous. I will then insist on
viewing their actions as terrorist, although they reject this label. I do
not see how this last remnant of relativity can be eliminated; we may
have to live with it.

I regard this far-reaching, albeit not complete, elimination of
relativism a major advantage of my definition of terrorism. The
definition has further advantages.

For one thing, it makes it possible to distinguish between terrorism,
on the one hand, and acts of war and political violence proper, on the
other. To be sure, political violence and acts of war proper, too, can
intimidate and coerce; but their intended victims are not innocent
people. On the other hand, the military can employ terrorism in war;
that, indeed, is one of the main types of state terrorism.
The definition preserves the historical connection of "terrorism"
with "terror" and "terrorizing." It does not confine terrorism to the
political sphere, but makes it possible to speak of non-political
terrorism, such as the criminal terrorism employed by the Mafia.
The definition is also politically neutral. It covers both state and
anti-state, revolutionary and counterrevolutionary, left-wing and rightwing
terrorism. It is also morally neutral, at least in what I think is the
most important respect. I believe it captures the elements of terrorism
that lead most of us to judge it as gravely wrong: the use or threat of use
of violence against the innocent for the sake of intimidation and
coercion. But it does not beg the moral question of its justification in
particular cases. For it entails only that terrorism is prima facie wrong,
and thus does not rule out its justification under certain circumstances.
Accordingly, particular acts and campaigns of terrorism still need to be
examined and judged on their merits.

Yet another virtue of this definition is that it relates the issue of the
moral standing of terrorism to just war theory. A central tenet of that
theory, the principle of discrimination, tells us that we must not
deliberately attack innocent civilians.

The definition is both narrower in some respects and wider in
others than common usage might warrant. Attacks of insurgents on
soldiers or police officers, which the authorities and the media depict,
and the public perceives, as terrorist, would not count as such, but rather
as political violence or guerrilla warfare. The bombing of German and
Japanese cities in World War II, or numerous Israeli Army attacks on
Lebanon and some of its actions in the occupied territories, on the other
hand, are commonly presented as acts of war, but would count as
terrorism in my definition.

That, I submit, is just as it should be. If what we hope for is more
discerning and critical moral understanding of violence, war, and
terrorism, we should not be unduly bound by conventional usage. What
matters is that in the former case, the targets are soldiers or police
officers, and not innocent people. In the latter case, innocent people are
deliberately targeted with the aim of intimidation and coercion. The
former case does not involve the four morally problematic components
the definition singles out; the latter does. On the other hand, whether
the bomb is planted by hand or dropped from an aircraft, or who does or
does not wear a uniform, can hardly matter, morally speaking.12

III. CAN TERRORISM EVER BE MORALLY JUSTIFIED?

If this is what terrorism is, the next question to ask is whether it
can ever be morally justified. The answer to this will depend on one's
approach to moral issues, one's ethical theory. Western moral
philosophy has evolved two main approaches, or two types of ethical
theory: consequentialism and nonconsequentialism.

Consequentialism tells us to judge human action solely in terms of
its consequences. When its consequences are good (on balance), an act
or policy is right; when they are bad (on balance), it is wrong. Nothing
is right or wrong, obligatory or prohibited, in itself, but only in the light
of its consequences. The goodness or badness of consequences is
understood in terms of how they affect those whom they affect.
Different versions of consequentialism offer different explications of
this: whether the consequences of an action or line of action contribute
to happiness or cause suffering, or whether they promote people's
interests or set them back, or whether they fulfill or frustrate people's
preferences. But these differences within the consequentialist approach
need not concern us.

Terrorism, too, is judged in terms of its consequences, and in these
terms only. That means that it, too, is not deemed wrong in itself, but
only when it has bad consequences (on balance). Of course, given what
it is, it is likely to have bad consequences most of the time, so
consequentialists will judge it as wrong most of the time.
Consequentialist thinkers will criticize those who resort to
terrorism too quickly, without checking thoroughly enough whether
their terrorist actions and campaigns can indeed be justified by their
consequences. This is something many terrorists do and many
apologists of terrorism condone. A consequentialist justification of an
act or policy of terrorism must show three things: that the aim sought is
good enough to justify the harm inflicted; that the aim will indeed be
achieved by terrorism; and that it cannot be achieved in any other less
costly way.

Consequentialists, however, have no case against those terrorists
who do their calculation responsibly and thoroughly, and reach the
conclusion that, under the circumstances, terrorism will have good
consequences on balance—for example, it will indeed lead to liberation
from an oppressive foreign rule, which cannot be achieved in any other
way. The innocence of its victims does not change this. Those familiar
with philosophical discussions of consequentialism will recall that one
of the standard objections has been that a consequentialist is committed
to the view that punishment of the innocent is morally justified when its
consequences are good (on balance). This objection is to the point
because consequentialism rejects the idea that in such matters a person's
innocence should be morally decisive in itself, rather than relevant only
insofar as it affects future consequences of our actions.

If we cannot accept this position and want a more robust critique of
terrorism, a less permissive stance on the morality of killing and
maiming innocent people, we must turn to nonconsequentialist ethical
theories. These theories do not tell us that consequences do not matter;
to say that would be quite implausible. What they tell us is that other
considerations—those of justice and rights—matter too, and that some
acts or lines of action are right or wrong in themselves, independently of
their consequences.

From a nonconsequentialist point of view, terrorism does appear as
never, or hardly ever, morally justified. To see why, let us look into
two central nonconsequentialist objections to it.
First, terrorism violates the fundamental moral principle of respect
for persons. The principle of respect for persons can be construed in (at
least) three ways.13 On one interpretation, it enjoins respect for the core
of individuality of each and every person, a concern for seeing things
from the point of view of the other person, in terms of her character or
"ground project." This is the opposite of the impersonal, objective,
calculating way in which terrorists consider, and treat, their victims. On
another interpretation, respect for persons demands that we recognize
and respect certain basic human rights of every human being, which
safeguard a certain area of personal freedom. Persons are to be
respected as holders of rights. Terrorists cannot show this type of
respect. For if I have any basic rights at all, surely the right not to be
killed or maimed in order that the terrorists' aim be promoted is one of
them.

On a third interpretation, showing respect for persons can be
understood as not treating individuals as mere means. In attempting to
capture the supreme law of morality, Kant famously enjoined us never
to treat humanity, whether in our own person or in that of another, as a
mere means, but always also as an end. To be sure, the details and
implications of Kant's account are a matter of considerable controversy.
But it can be safely said that, at a minimum, his principle enjoins that
the other should be able to "share in the end" of our action towards her,
that is, to consent to it.14 That is just what the terrorists' victim is in no
position to do. Indeed, terrorism is often brought up as a paradigmatic
example of reducing other people to mere means, thus violating what
Kant puts forward as one formulation of the supreme law of morality.
The second major nonconsequentialist objection to terrorism takes
us back to the distinction between responsibility and the lack of it, or
between guilt and innocence. This is one of the most basic moral
distinctions. We give it pride of place in any consideration of war or
violence in general from a moral and legal point of view. Its import is
that hostile treatment of another human being must be justified by the
fact that she is responsible for some wrongdoing whose gravity is
proportionate to the gravity of our response. Those who are not
responsible for such wrongdoing should not be subjected to hostile
treatment, and in particular must not be subjected to violence.
Philosophers usually do not seek to prove this point, but rather
make it their point of departure when putting forward arguments about
the morality of violence, war, and terrorism. They are right to do so.
As Michael Walzer puts it in his book Just and Unjust Wars, "the
theoretical problem is not to describe how [this] immunity is gained, but
how it is lost. We are all immune to start with; our right not to be
attacked is a feature of normal human relationships."15 Yet terrorists
deliberately attack, kill, and otherwise severely harm innocent people;
this, and the aim of intimidation and coercion they seek to achieve in
this way, is what makes them terrorists.

These objections to terrorism show it to be at odds with some of
the most basic moral beliefs of many of us. Those of us who hold these
beliefs will find consequentialist accounts of terrorism both much too
permissive and wide of the mark, not attending to what is at issue.
Terrorism is not wrong because it has bad consequences (on balance),
and accordingly only insofar as it has such consequences. It is rather
wrong in itself, because of what it is. Moreover, it is extremely morally
wrong in itself.

Does this mean that terrorism can never be justified, whatever the
circumstances?

Some want to say just this: one must never resort to terrorism, and
that is all there is to it. Thus Tony Coady has recently argued that "[w]e
surely do better to condemn the resort to terrorism outright with no
leeway for exemptions, be they for states, revolutionaries or religious
zealots."16 In general, but especially in the present worldwide terrorism
alert, the moral prohibition of terrorism should be understood and
endorsed as absolute.

Mine is a less uncompromising position. I reject the
consequentialist view that terrorism is justified whenever its
consequences are good (on balance), but admit that it might be justified
in certain extreme, and extremely rare circumstances. This position
should not be confused with the argument about "the only method
available to the poor and powerless," a way of "leveling the field,"
popular among apologists of terrorism. For the position I have in mind
lays down two conditions: that terrorism is indeed the only method
available and likely to succeed, and that what is to be prevented by its
use is an evil so great that it can be termed a moral disaster.
But just what is—what counts as—a moral disaster? This question
does not allow for a simple answer, one that could be encapsulated in a
definition that stood a good chance of general acceptance. What can be
said is, first, that contrary to what fighters against social or economic
oppression, or colonial rule, or foreign occupation tend to say, evils of
such magnitude—evils that can justify indiscriminate and wholesale
killing and maiming of innocent people and all manner of destruction—
are extremely rare. Not every case of oppression, foreign rule, or
occupation, however morally indefensible, amounts to a moral disaster
in the sense I have in mind. The radical is too permissive of insurgent
terrorism.

On the other hand, not every imminent threat to the "survival and
freedom of a political community" should count as a "supreme
emergency" that can justify large-scale onslaught on innocent people, as
Michael Walzer has argued.17 My position is structurally similar to
Walzer's "supreme emergency" view, but is much more restrictive.
Walzer is too permissive of state terrorism.
But if a community is subjected to genocide, or to an attempt at
"ethnically cleansing" it from its land, then, I submit, it is facing a true
moral disaster, and may properly consider terrorism as a means of
struggle against such a fate. In view of their enormity and finality,
genocide and "ethnic cleansing" constitute a category apart. To be sure,
resorting to terrorism in such a case will be morally justified only if
there are very good grounds for believing that terrorism will succeed
where nothing else will: in preventing an imminent genocide or "ethnic
cleansing," or stopping it if it is already under way. Obviously, cases
where both conditions are met will be extremely rare. Indeed, they may
well be virtually—but not absolutely—nonexistent.

In the course of his critique of Walzer's "supreme emergency"
view, Coady advances two arguments that I, too, need to address. The
first takes us back to the fundamentals of moral philosophy. Some
moral prohibitions are so central to our entire moral experience, so
deeply entrenched in it, that they "function[] in our moral thinking as a
sort of touchstone of moral and intellectual health."18 Accordingly, the
suspension of such a prohibition would "bring about an upheaval in the
moral perspective."19 Its rejection would lead to "an unbalance and
incoherence in moral thought and practice."20 The prohibition of
deliberately killing and maiming innocent people, against which the
terrorist offends, is one such prohibition. Therefore our rejection of
terrorism ought to be absolute.21

Now I agree with Coady that the principle of immunity of innocent
people against deadly violence must be granted some such role in our
moral thinking. I, too, find its rejection or suspension unthinkable. But
overriding it in a particular instance, when that is the only way to
prevent, or put an end to, genocide or "ethnic cleansing" of an entire
population from its land, and when it is done with full awareness of the
extremely high moral price paid, is another matter. Overriding the
prohibition in such a case does not mean that it should not and will not
be applied in every other case of emergency that falls short of moral
disaster, narrowly conceived, nor that it should not and will not continue
to serve as a touchstone of moral sanity. Overriding it will amount to
"an upheaval in the moral perspective" only on the question-begging
assumption that it must also be an absolute principle, to be followed
even if the heavens fall.

Coady's second argument for regarding the prohibition of
terrorism as absolute is of a different nature. Allowing for any
exemption, he argues, "is likely to generate widespread misuse of it."22
The force of this type of argument varies with the circumstances in
which it is deployed. In some cases it may carry great weight. In
others, its force and indeed its relevance may well be doubted. Think of
a people facing the prospect of genocide, or of being "ethnically
cleansed" from its land, and unable to put up a fight against the armed
forces of an overwhelmingly stronger enemy. Suppose we said to them:
"Granted, what you are facing is an imminent threat of a moral disaster.
Granted, the only way you stand a chance of fending off the disaster is
by resorting to terrorism. But you must not do that. For if you do, that

CONCLUSION

In this paper, I have done three things. First, I have considered the
claim that the threat of terrorism we are facing in the aftermath of the
attacks in the United States on September 11, 2001 is radically different
from the kind of terrorism we had to contend with before. I have
rejected this claim, and argued that the true watershed in the history of
terrorism was in the early twentieth century, when "direct" or
"individual" terrorism was replaced by its "indirect" or "mass" variety.
Second, I have offered a definition of (contemporary) terrorism
meant to be helpful in discussions of its moral standing. My search for
such a definition has been driven by the need to avoid the pitfalls of
relativism that hamper most public debate about terrorism. In order to
do so, I have argued, we need to put aside both the identities of the
agents and their ultimate aims, and to focus on what is done and what
the proximate aim of doing it is. The definition I have proposed
highlights violence against the innocent with the aim of intimidating
and coercing some other person or group into doing things they
otherwise would not to. I believe the definition takes us beyond
relativism, although perhaps not entirely.

Third, I have briefly discussed the morality of terrorism, thus
defined. I have rejected the consequentialist view of the morality of
terrorism as a matter of its consequences, good and bad, and adopted an
account of terrorism as wrong in itself, and very seriously wrong at that.
Yet I have resisted the view that terrorism is absolutely wrong—wrong
in all actual and conceivable circumstances. The correct position on the
morality of terrorism, I submit, is that terrorism is almost absolutely
wrong.

http://www.cardozolawreview.com/PastIss ... moratz.pdf