The Three Economic Big Issues (5)

At a secondary school in London, a sports teacher once organised a race. But instead of placing all the students at the same starting line, she asked them a series of commands.

“Take two steps forward if both your parents have university degrees.”

“Take two steps forward if you’ve never had to worry about your next meal.”

“Take two steps forward if you’ve always had internet at home.”

By the end of the exercise, some students were nearly at the finish line—before the race even began—while others hadn’t moved at all.

Then the teacher said, “Now, we’ll race. But remember, not all of you started at the same place.”

As they ran, some students reached the end effortlessly, while others struggled just to catch up. Afterward, the teacher said, “This is what real life is like. We call it a fair race, but it isn’t fair if we ignore where people start.”

That lesson stuck with the students more deeply than any motivational poster or morning assembly. It wasn’t just a PE class—it was a masterclass in empathy, privilege, and the true meaning of equality.

Equality, in its most general sense, refers to the principle that all human beings are of equal worth and should be treated with the same degree of respect, dignity, and fairness. It is a foundational ideal that underpins human rights and justice. Equality does not necessarily mean that everyone must have identical circumstances, but rather that no individual or group should be unfairly privileged or disadvantaged simply because of their background, status, or identity.

From a political perspective, equality implies that all citizens have the same legal rights, responsibilities, and access to political participation. This means equal voting power, equal protection under the law, and the assurance that governments do not favour one group over another based on race, class, gender, or any other arbitrary characteristic.

In A Theory of Justice (1971, Harvard University Press), John Rawls does not define equality as everyone having the same possessions, talents, or outcomes. Instead, he presents a profound and structured vision of equality as fairness. 

Rawls famously defines justice as “fairness.” For him, justice is not merely about following rules or punishing wrongdoing—it is about how society is structured to treat all individuals with equal concern and respect. Rawls believes that the moral foundation of a just society lies in its ability to secure fair opportunities and equal liberties for all, regardless of their starting point in life.

To illustrate this, Rawls introduces the concept of the “original position” and the “veil of ignorance.” Imagine rational individuals coming together to design the rules of society, but with no knowledge of who they’ll be once those rules are in place. They don’t know their class, gender, race, religion, talents, or disabilities. In this blindfolded condition, they are more likely to choose rules that are just and equitable for everyone—because no one would want to be the one left behind.

This thought experiment leads to Rawls’s two principles of justice. The first principle guarantees equal basic rights and liberties to all. The second principle, which directly links justice to equality, permits social and economic inequalities—but only if those inequalities benefit the least advantaged and are attached to positions that are open to all under conditions of fair equality of opportunity.

In other words, Rawls doesn’t deny inequality exists. But he insists that inequality must be justified: it must uplift those at the bottom and not be built on privilege or inherited power. Thus, equality is not the end goal, but the condition that makes justice possible in a democratic society.

When Rawls argues that all individuals must possess equal basic rights and liberties, he is making a bold statement about the foundations of a just society. For Rawls, these rights and freedoms are non-negotiable entitlements that every person deserves simply under being human. They are not privileges to be earned, nor favours granted by the state—they are the very conditions that make freedom, dignity, and political participation possible.

These basic liberties include things like freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, freedom of association, the right to vote, the right to hold public office, and legal protection under the rule of law. In Rawls's view, these freedoms must be distributed equally to everyone, not only in name but in actual practice. No one should have a louder voice, more access, or greater legal standing simply because of their wealth, race, gender, or social class.

Rawls insists that these rights form the first principle of justice, and therefore take priority over economic advantages or utilitarian calculations. A society cannot call itself just if it allows some groups to dominate the political space while silencing others. True justice, for Rawls, begins when every citizen stands on equal footing, empowered with the same freedoms and voice in shaping the rules they live under.

At the heart of his theory lies the idea that a just society is one in which institutions are arranged so that all individuals have equal basic liberties, and where social and economic inequalities are only justified if they benefit the least advantaged.

Rawls argues that rational individuals, placed behind a hypothetical “veil of ignorance”—where they do not know their future social position, wealth, gender, or talents—would choose principles of justice that protect the most vulnerable. This leads to two key principles: the first guarantees equal basic rights and liberties for all, such as freedom of speech and political participation. The second allows inequalities, but only under two conditions: they must be attached to positions open to everyone, and they must benefit the worst off.

Thus, in Rawls’s view, equality is not about levelling everyone to the same outcome, but about structuring society so that no one is left behind and all have a real chance to flourish. It is a model of justice deeply rooted in fairness, reciprocity, and mutual respect—a vision where equality is the starting point for justice, not an afterthought.

“Justice as Fairness: A Restatement”, published posthumously in 2001, is a refined version of Rawls earlier masterpiece “A Theory of Justice”, which remains one of the most influential political philosophy works of the twentieth century. In this restatement, Rawls clarifies and simplifies his core ideas, making the concept of equality central to a well-ordered society.

Rawls proposes that justice is best understood through the lens of fairness, and that equality should not mean identical treatment, but rather the creation of structures that benefit even the least advantaged members of society. His famous idea of the “original position”—a hypothetical scenario in which rational individuals design a society without knowing their future place in it—leads to the conclusion that fair rules are those everyone would agree to if they didn’t know whether they'd be rich or poor, powerful or powerless.

In Rawls’s vision, true political equality goes beyond voting rights or legal protections; it involves structuring institutions so that everyone has a genuine opportunity to thrive. His theory has shaped decades of debate about welfare, taxation, education, and the ethical responsibilities of democratic states.

From a philosophical perspective, equality is not merely a social slogan or a political demand—it is a profound moral concept rooted in the idea that all human beings possess the same intrinsic worth. Philosophers throughout history, from Aristotle to Kant to contemporary thinkers, have wrestled with the question of what it means to treat people as equals. At its core, equality in philosophy means that no individual is inherently superior or inferior to another, and that all should be treated with equal moral consideration.

Philosophical theories of equality often distinguish between different kinds: moral equality, where every person is entitled to equal dignity and respect; political equality, where each citizen has equal rights and voice in public decision-making; and equality of opportunity, which insists that people should not be held back by arbitrary disadvantages such as race, gender, or socioeconomic status.

However, philosophers also debate whether equality should mean equality of outcome—where everyone ends up with the same result—or equality of access, where the playing field is made fair, but the results may still vary depending on effort and ability. Some, like John Rawls, argue for a balance: allow inequality only if it benefits the least advantaged.

Ultimately, equality in philosophy is not about sameness—it is about fairness, respect, and the moral commitment to building a world in which no one is treated as less human than another.

A seminal work that explores the philosophical foundations of equality is “Equality and Partiality” by Thomas Nagel, published in 1991. In this intellectually rigorous yet accessible book, Nagel delves deep into the tension between our personal attachments—like family, identity, and loyalty—and our moral obligation to treat others as equals.

Nagel argues that equality is not simply a matter of distributing goods or rights evenly. It stems from a profound ethical claim: that when we step outside our own interests and view humanity from an impartial standpoint, we must treat every person as having equal moral status. This leads to hard questions—how do we reconcile our love for our own children with the idea that all children deserve the same care? How can a society remain just if it allows some to flourish while others suffer?

Rather than offering easy answers, Nagel maps out the moral struggle between what he calls the "personal standpoint" and the "impersonal standpoint." He doesn’t pretend that equality is easy or absolute—but he insists it is an ethical demand we cannot ignore. The strength of this book lies in its honesty: it shows that equality isn’t just a political policy—it’s a philosophical commitment that challenges how we see ourselves and others.

Right then, before we crack on, let's have a quick chinwag about Partiality.

Partiality, in philosophical terms, refers to the natural tendency of human beings to give special moral weight or preference to certain people—typically those we are emotionally or socially connected to. It is the inclination to care more about "our own"—our family, friends, community, or nation—than about strangers or distant others. This preference is not based on abstract principles or impartial logic, but on personal relationships, loyalty, and identity.

Philosophers recognise partiality as a deeply rooted human condition. It is the reason why a mother will instinctively protect her child above all else, or why we grieve more for the loss of someone we know than for a tragedy affecting strangers. Partiality makes our moral world personal and emotionally rich—it reflects the bonds that give life meaning.

However, partiality often stands in tension with the ideal of moral impartiality, which holds that every individual deserves equal consideration, regardless of our personal ties. This clash between caring more for those we love and the ethical demand to treat all lives equally is at the heart of many debates in ethics and political philosophy.

In essence, partiality is not a flaw—it is a moral reality. It reminds us that while we may strive for fairness, we live in a world built on affection, loyalty, and belonging.

In his 2013 book, Partiality, published by Princeton University Press, Simon Keller engages in a deep philosophical exploration of whether and how our partial attitudes—such as love, friendship, patriotism, and loyalty—can be morally justified. He asks a deceptively simple question: is it morally right to treat some people more favourably than others merely because of personal relationships or affiliations? Keller approaches this problem from the standpoint of normative ethics and moral philosophy, challenging the traditional belief that partiality is inherently virtuous or at least morally neutral.

He argues that many forms of partiality that we take for granted—like putting our nation or our family above others—may conflict with the demands of impartial moral reasoning. For Keller, the issue isn't just whether partiality feels natural or necessary, but whether it can be justified under the kind of moral scrutiny that asks us to treat others fairly and equally. His analysis draws on a mix of philosophical reasoning and real-world examples, dissecting the emotional and social weight behind our partial commitments while not hesitating to question their ethical standing.

Keller ultimately takes a critical view. He suggests that the justification of partiality cannot rest simply on the existence of relationships; instead, it must be tested against broader moral principles. His stance is not entirely dismissive of partiality, but he places a heavy burden of proof on those who defend it. He presses readers to ask whether our love, loyalty, or national pride sometimes lead us to moral error—even while they feel intimately right.

In the first chapter of Partiality (2013), Simon Keller sets the stage for the moral investigation that defines the rest of the book. He begins by drawing attention to the everyday moral reality that most people, without much reflection, accept as natural: that we are allowed—even expected—to favour those with whom we share close personal relationships. Whether it’s a parent defending their child, a citizen praising their country, or a friend standing by another despite obvious faults, these acts of partiality seem not only acceptable but even morally admirable.

Yet Keller does not let this assumption rest comfortably. In this opening chapter, he introduces the puzzle at the heart of the book: how can these partial attitudes be justified, if at all, in light of the competing moral demand to treat all persons with equal concern and respect? He outlines the basic conflict between partiality and impartiality—between the pull of love, loyalty, or friendship, and the rational requirement to treat everyone fairly.

Keller approaches the issue with intellectual humility, not by asserting a rigid position, but by carefully laying out why this is such a difficult moral problem. He highlights how deeply embedded partiality is in our lives, and how it often feels not only emotionally satisfying but morally compelling. Yet, he also shows how easily these same attitudes can justify favouritism, discrimination, and even cruelty.

Importantly, Keller does not give the reader answers in this first chapter. Rather, he sets up the moral tension and philosophical challenge that will guide the rest of the book. His aim is to make the reader feel the weight of the problem, and to show that what we usually treat as obvious—the goodness of loving our own—might actually deserve more scrutiny than we realise.

In Chapter Two of Partiality (2013), Simon Keller delves into the concept of personal relationships, which he identifies as one of the primary sources of moral partiality. He examines why our bonds with specific people—family members, close friends, romantic partners—seem to justify behaviour that would otherwise be morally questionable if directed only at strangers. The chapter revolves around the philosophical puzzle of how such relationships might confer moral reasons for acting in ways that favour “our own.”

Keller discusses a central idea: that love and close connection are not just feelings, but sources of practical reasons for action. If you love someone, it’s not simply that you want to help them; rather, your love might be said to justify your helping them, even at the cost of treating others less favourably. He carefully unpacks this claim, asking whether being in a relationship really provides you with a different set of moral obligations—or whether this is simply a way of rationalising selfishness.

Crucially, Keller does not deny the emotional or psychological reality of close relationships. He acknowledges their depth, their value, and their centrality to the human experience. But he raises a hard question: do these relationships generate moral value on their own, or do they need external justification? Through this inquiry, he reveals a key tension: if we say that relationships themselves justify moral partiality, then we risk undermining the ideal of universal moral equality. But if we say they don’t, we seem to devalue love and loyalty.

Chapter Two therefore functions as a philosophical crossroads. Keller invites us to consider whether our personal attachments give us genuine moral reasons—or whether they simply feel like they do. He is asking us to confront the possibility that some of the deepest commitments in our lives might not be as ethically innocent as we believe.

In Chapter Thee, Keller tackles the concept of loyalty, dissecting it as one of the most potent and morally complex forms of partiality. He examines loyalty not just as an emotional attachment, but as a behavioural expectation: when we are loyal, we are often expected to defend, support, or prioritise someone or something—be it a friend, a family member, a nation, or an institution—even when we might privately disagree with them or know they are in the wrong. The key philosophical question Keller raises is whether loyalty itself is a moral virtue or merely a disguised form of bias.

He begins by recognising that loyalty is widely praised in most cultures. We admire loyal friends, loyal spouses, loyal citizens. But Keller doesn’t stop at admiration—he asks us to pause and think: what exactly are we praising? Is loyalty good because it keeps relationships strong and communities cohesive? Or can it become morally dangerous when it demands that we suppress truth, overlook injustice, or stay silent in the face of wrongdoing?

Keller explores this through examples and philosophical analysis, showing that loyalty can sometimes demand actions that contradict our independent moral judgments. For instance, being loyal to a corrupt friend, a dishonest company, or a harmful political leader may feel virtuous, but might in fact make us complicit in harm. He presses us to ask whether loyalty has any intrinsic moral value—or whether its value is always dependent on what (or whom) we are being loyal to.

This chapter, then, becomes a deep interrogation of a cherished ideal. Keller doesn’t argue that loyalty is always wrong, but he challenges the reflex to treat it as unquestionably good. He wants us to ask: is loyalty a virtue, or is it just a habit that can sometimes protect injustice under the guise of moral obligation?

In Chapter Four, Keller turns to one of the most politically charged and emotionally resonant forms of partiality: patriotism. Here, he interrogates whether love of country can be morally justified—or whether it is, at its core, just another form of prejudice dressed up as virtue. Keller explores the philosophical foundations of patriotism and asks whether it is possible to feel special allegiance to one's nation without falling into moral inconsistency or ethical hypocrisy.

He begins by acknowledging that patriotism is often seen as noble, even heroic. Politicians praise it, soldiers die for it, and citizens are told it’s their duty. But Keller challenges this reverence. He questions whether being patriotic—showing loyalty and preference to one’s country simply because it’s yours—can be reconciled with the ideal of treating all people as morally equal.

Through a mixture of philosophical reasoning and real-world reflection, Keller examines various justifications people offer for patriotism: cultural belonging, shared history, national identity, or even gratitude. Yet he finds these defences often rest on shaky ground. He argues that if we criticise racism and nepotism for privileging certain groups without just reason, then why should patriotism—which privileges one’s nation without an objective moral cause—be treated differently?

Keller is not naïve about the emotional pull of national identity, and he does not claim that patriotism is always dangerous. But he insists we need to ask hard questions about when it leads us to ignore the suffering of others, to excuse our nation’s wrongdoing, or to feel superior to people across borders. In short, this chapter is a philosophical challenge to nationalism dressed in moral clothing.

In Chapter Five, Keller brings the moral debate to a head by examining the tension between partiality and impartial moral theories, particularly those that emphasise universal principles—such as utilitarianism and Kantian ethics. This chapter serves as a philosophical crossroads, where Keller directly confronts the idea that our partial attachments (like love, loyalty, and patriotism) may contradict the moral systems that aim to treat all individuals equally. The result is a powerful inquiry: can we be both good people and morally partial?

Keller begins by laying out the classic conflict: moral theories like utilitarianism demand that we maximise overall happiness, regardless of personal relationships, while Kantian ethics stresses that we should treat every person as an end in themselves—not just as a means to benefit “our own.” But our real lives are full of situations where we prioritise those closest to us, often with no apologies. So Keller asks: do these moments of partiality make us morally flawed, or do they reveal that moral theory itself is missing something essential?

He doesn’t rush to take sides. Instead, Keller offers a nuanced exploration of how moral theory and lived experience seem to pull in opposite directions. He considers whether moral theories are too cold and abstract to account for the depth of human connection, or whether partiality, no matter how warm it feels, is a kind of ethical illusion that allows us to favour our circle while claiming to be good.

Ultimately, this chapter invites the reader into an unsettling but honest reflection: perhaps being a morally perfect person would mean giving up the very things that make life most meaningful. Keller doesn’t offer a tidy resolution, but he does force us to ask what kind of moral life we’re really aiming for—and whether ethical consistency is worth the emotional cost.

In Equality and Partiality, Thomas Nagel presents a nuanced and deeply human view of moral life by arguing that partiality is not the enemy of equality, but its companion in conflict. For Nagel, partiality refers to the natural, inevitable pull we feel toward people we are close to—our family, friends, communities, and even ourselves. It is rooted in our personal point of view, shaped by love, loyalty, and identity.

He doesn’t dismiss partiality as morally flawed. In fact, he insists that it is a valid and essential part of the human condition. It is how we build meaning in our lives, how we form bonds, and how we make sense of who we are. But—and this is where the tension begins—Nagel contrasts this personal standpoint with what he calls the “impersonal standpoint”: the view from nowhere, where every person must be considered equally, regardless of personal connection.

So, no—partiality is not the opposite of equality. Rather, it is what makes equality so hard to live by. We are torn between two powerful moral instincts: one that draws us to care more for “our own,” and one that urges us to treat everyone equally. Nagel’s brilliance lies in not forcing a choice between them, but in exploring how to live within the tension of both—how to honour our loves without betraying our commitment to justice.

His message is clear: to be fully human is to navigate both loyalty and fairness, heart and principle, private love and public duty.

From a philosophical standpoint, equality is not a demand for uniformity, nor a naive dream of a world where everyone lives identical lives. Rather, it is a moral commitment to recognising the equal worth of all human beings, regardless of their background, abilities, or circumstances. It does not deny difference, but insists that difference must never justify domination, exclusion, or indifference.

Philosophers view equality as both a moral compass and a political challenge. It is the ethical stance that demands we see each person as equally deserving of dignity, opportunity, and voice. At the same time, it acknowledges that life is full of attachments—family, friendship, community—which make pure impartiality impossible. That’s why thinkers like Thomas Nagel believe that equality is not about erasing personal loyalties, but about balancing them with a wider sense of justice.

In essence, philosophical equality asks us to do something incredibly human: to care for our own, without forgetting our responsibility to others. It does not demand we love everyone equally—it simply insists that we build societies where no one is treated as if they matter less.

Equality, in the end, is not a utopia. It is a moral direction—a way of walking through a complex, unfair world with our eyes open and our hearts engaged.

[Part 6]

[Part 4]

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