inspired from: https://www.meetup.com/think-and-drink-cambridge/events/308632835/
What Does It Mean to Say “Torture Is Wrong”? A Philosophical Excavation
The assertion “torture is wrong” seems, at first blush, to carry the weight of moral certainty, as though it were a self-evident truth etched into the fabric of human conscience. Yet, when we pause to interrogate this statement, its clarity dissolves into a labyrinth of philosophical questions. What is the speaker truly claiming? Is it a statement of objective fact, a subjective expression of feeling, a prescriptive command, or a performative act of social alignment? To unravel this, we must engage with the rich traditions of moral philosophy—Humean, Kantian, Wittgensteinian, and others—each offering distinct lenses through which to view the utterance. By applying these perspectives to historical and everyday contexts, we can probe the deeper implications of moral language, revealing its ambiguities, its power, and its limits. This exploration will not only dissect what “torture is wrong” means but also challenge us to confront the fragility of moral discourse itself in a world where meaning is contested and stakes are high.
Let us begin with the Humean perspective, rooted in David Hume’s empiricism and his distinction between “is” and “ought.” For Hume, moral judgments like “torture is wrong” are not grounded in reason or objective facts but in sentiment. To say “torture is wrong” is to express a feeling of disapproval, an emotional recoil from the act of inflicting suffering. Hume might argue that the speaker is not describing a property of torture itself but voicing a visceral response, akin to saying, “Torture disgusts me.” This view finds resonance in everyday life: consider a person watching news footage of Guantanamo Bay detainees subjected to waterboarding. Their declaration that “torture is wrong” might reflect an instinctive revulsion, not a reasoned conclusion. Yet, Hume’s emotivism raises a troubling question: if moral judgments are merely expressions of feeling, how can we argue about them? During the Spanish Inquisition, torturers justified their actions as divinely sanctioned, while their victims’ cries of “wrongness” were dismissed. If both sides are merely expressing sentiments, the Humean view risks reducing moral debate to a clash of preferences, like arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. This leaves us wondering whether “torture is wrong” carries any universal weight or is simply a personal distaste dressed up as morality.
Contrast this with the Kantian perspective, which anchors moral judgments in reason and universalizability. For Immanuel Kant, to say “torture is wrong” is to issue a categorical imperative: “One ought not to torture.” This stems from Kant’s principle that moral actions must be guided by maxims that could be willed as universal laws. Torture, which treats a person as a mere means to an end (e.g., extracting information), violates the dignity of rational beings, a cornerstone of Kantian ethics. Imagine a CIA interrogator in 2003 defending “enhanced interrogation” techniques as necessary for national security. A Kantian would counter that such actions fail the test of universalizability: if everyone tortured for perceived greater goods, the principle of human dignity would collapse. In everyday life, this perspective manifests when we appeal to consistency in moral arguments—say, when a parent teaches a child not to hit others because they wouldn’t want to be hit themselves. Yet, Kant’s framework assumes a shared commitment to rationality, which falters in pluralistic or authoritarian contexts. During Nazi Germany, officials rationalized torture as a duty to the state, exposing a blind spot in Kant’s reliance on universal reason: what happens when reason is co-opted by ideology? The Kantian speaker may assert “torture is wrong” as a universal truth, but the real-world application reveals its vulnerability to competing rationalities.
A Wittgensteinian perspective shifts the focus from truth or sentiment to the role of language in shaping moral meaning. For Ludwig Wittgenstein, the meaning of “torture is wrong” lies in its use within a specific “language game”—the social and cultural practices that give words their significance. To say “torture is wrong” is not to describe a fact or express a feeling but to participate in a normative practice, a way of aligning oneself with a community’s moral grammar. Consider a modern example: a politician condemning torture in a public speech may not be asserting a philosophical position but performing a role within the language game of democratic discourse, signaling virtue to constituents. Similarly, during the abolitionist movement, declarations that “slavery is wrong” were not just arguments but acts of resistance within the language game of moral reform. Wittgenstein’s insight reveals that “torture is wrong” gains its force from context—its meaning shifts whether uttered in a courtroom, a protest, or a philosophy seminar. But this view is unsettling: if moral statements are tied to language games, what happens when communities play by different rules? In medieval Europe, torture was justified as a path to spiritual salvation, a language game alien to modern human rights discourse. Wittgenstein leaves us grappling with whether “torture is wrong” can transcend its context or whether it is forever bound to the shifting rules of social practice.
Beyond these traditions, moral realism offers another lens, positing that “torture is wrong” describes an objective moral fact, independent of human beliefs or feelings. A realist might argue that torture’s wrongness is as undeniable as the law of gravity, embedded in the act’s violation of intrinsic human value. This view underpinned the post-World War II Nuremberg Trials, where Nazi war crimes, including torture, were judged as inherently wrong, regardless of legal or cultural norms. Yet, realism faces a metaphysical challenge: what is the nature of this “wrongness”? Is it a property we can empirically verify, like the boiling point of water? Philosophers like G.E. Moore argued that moral properties are non-natural, intuited through a kind of moral sense, but this invites skepticism. In everyday life, we see this tension when people appeal to “common sense” morality—e.g., “Everyone knows torture is wrong”—yet disagree on specifics, like whether sleep deprivation counts as torture. The realist’s confidence in objective moral facts falters when confronted with cultural relativism, as seen in debates over practices like honor killings, which some defend as morally permissible within their traditions.
Alternatively, a prescriptivist like R.M. Hare would interpret “torture is wrong” as a universal command: “Do not torture, and let no one else do so.” This view emphasizes the action-guiding role of moral language, demanding consistency across situations. In history, this resonates with the Geneva Conventions, which prescribe rules against torture as binding norms for all signatories. In daily life, prescriptivism appears when we urge others to act morally—e.g., a teacher telling students, “Don’t bully, because no one should be treated that way.” Yet, prescriptivism struggles with enforcement: why should others follow the command? During the Rwandan genocide, calls to stop violence were powerless against those who saw torture as a tool of ethnic dominance. The prescriptivist’s imperative assumes a shared commitment to moral consistency, which often collapses in the face of power or ideology.
Perhaps the most provocative interpretation comes from a performative lens, as suggested by Bernard Williams. To say “torture is wrong” may be less about describing reality or prescribing action and more about signaling identity or allegiance. In modern social media, for instance, posting “torture is wrong” might align someone with a progressive tribe, distinguishing them from perceived moral adversaries. Historically, this dynamic played out during the Cold War, when Western leaders condemned Soviet torture to assert moral superiority, even while covertly supporting questionable practices elsewhere. This performative view is deeply cynical: it suggests that moral utterances are often less about torture itself and more about the speaker’s self-conception or social positioning. At a dinner party, a guest declaring “torture is wrong” might be signaling sophistication; in a war zone, a journalist saying the same might be risking their life to expose injustice. The same words, vastly different acts.
This leads to a disturbing possibility: what if “torture is wrong” is not a coherent claim at all but a rhetorical tool, a spell cast to shape perceptions or consolidate power? In Michel Foucault’s view, moral language often serves as a mechanism of control, embedding norms within social structures. During the War on Terror, governments condemned “torture” publicly while redefining waterboarding as “enhanced interrogation,” manipulating moral language to justify policy. In everyday life, we see this when moral outrage is weaponized—e.g., public shaming on social media over controversial issues, where “wrongness” becomes a tool to enforce conformity rather than seek truth. If moral language is inherently manipulative, “torture is wrong” may be less a statement of principle and more a move in a power game.
So, what are we really saying when we declare “torture is wrong”? Each philosophical tradition—Humean emotivism, Kantian rationalism, Wittgensteinian contextualism, moral realism, prescriptivism, and performativity—offers a piece of the puzzle, yet none fully resolves the ambiguity. The Humean captures the emotional weight of the statement, as seen in visceral reactions to historical atrocities like the Khmer Rouge’s torture camps. The Kantian demands consistency, evident in international laws against torture. The Wittgensteinian highlights the contextual nature of moral meaning, as seen in shifting attitudes toward corporal punishment over centuries. The realist seeks objective truth, echoing the moral outrage of Nuremberg. The prescriptivist calls for action, as in human rights campaigns. And the performative view exposes the social dynamics, like politicians leveraging moral rhetoric for votes.
Yet, each perspective is incomplete. The Humean cannot bridge conflicting sentiments; the Kantian falters when reason is manipulated; the Wittgensteinian risks relativism; the realist struggles to prove moral facts; the prescriptivist lacks universal authority; and the performative view reduces morality to posturing. In a pluralistic, post-realist world, “torture is wrong” is a palimpsest—a layered text reflecting our attempts to navigate suffering, power, and identity. It is not a window into moral truth but a mirror of our human condition, fraught with contradiction and aspiration.
Ultimately, the statement’s power lies in its necessity. Whether in the aftermath of Auschwitz, the debates over Guantanamo, or a classroom discussion on ethics, we say “torture is wrong” because we must—because the alternative is to surrender to silence or complicity. Yet, its meaning remains elusive, a fragile construct shaped by emotion, reason, context, and intent. Perhaps, in the end, what we are really saying is not about torture alone but about ourselves: our need to believe in a world where suffering can be named, judged, and resisted, even if the words we use are never quite enough.
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