1. The Architecture of an Absurd Morality

My understanding of ethics has been shaped significantly by a secular upbringing and a philosophical leaning toward Absurdism, particularly the works of Albert Camus. From this vantage point, I don’t see ethics as a set of universal, objective truths waiting to be discovered, like the laws of mathematics or physics. Rather, I see ethics as a fundamentally human invention; a sophisticated social technology we have developed over millennia to navigate the complexities of cooperative living. It is a framework we build, not one we find. This perspective naturally aligns me with moral relativism. If there is no divine lawgiver or inherent cosmic purpose, as the Absurdist concludes, then our values are not anchored to any external, objective reality. They are, by necessity, relative to the human experience that creates them. f

This isn’t to say that morality is arbitrary or that “anything goes.” The strong intuitive revulsion we feel at the thought of “torturing an innocent child for fun” feels objectively real, and for good reason. However, I would argue this feeling is not evidence of a universal moral fact, but rather a testament to a deeply ingrained, evolutionarily advantageous social norm. A society that condones such acts would simply not survive. Therefore, our most powerful moral intuitions are not insights into cosmic law, but reflections of the foundational requirements for a stable society. We built the moral framework, and its most critical pillars are those that prevent the entire structure from collapsing. 

A stark example of how different cultural architects can build profoundly different ethical structures is the American healthcare system. Working in healthcare data analytics, I see the downstream effects of our country’s unique ethical framework daily. In the United States, healthcare is largely treated as a commodity, its access contingent on employment and one’s ability to pay. This is often justified by a deep-seated cultural reverence for “self-sufficiency” and rugged individualism. The ethical narrative is that individuals are responsible for their own well-being, and securing healthcare through a good job is a sign of virtue. This view is further entrenched by a historical and political aversion to social programs, which are often reflexively labeled as “socialism” or “communism,” effectively shutting down debate. In most other developed nations, the ethical premise is flipped. Healthcare is viewed not as a commodity, but as a fundamental human right. From their cultural standpoint, allowing a person to suffer or die because they cannot afford care is a profound moral failure of the state. These differing views aren’t because one culture has “found” the moral truth and the other hasn’t; they are the logical outcomes of divergent histories, values, and social priorities. 

This leads to the challenging question of normative relativism, the idea that no culture should judge another’s ethical code. While this position is born from a noble desire for tolerance, in its absolute form, it is untenable. It would require us to remain silent in the face of what are clearly crimes against humanity. I believe the solution lies in establishing a “moral minimum”; a baseline of principles that are necessary for any society to function and which can thus be applied universally. Prohibitions against murder or theft, for example, aren’t just arbitrary cultural choices; they are preconditions for the social trust that makes a collective life possible. 

 
Therefore, I argue that one culture does have a right to judge another, but only under the specific circumstance that a culture’s practices violate this moral minimum. Preventing genocide, slavery, or systematic torture are not acts of cultural insensitivity; they are defenses of the very possibility of human society. The immediate counterargument, of course, is that this opens the door to cultural imperialism, where powerful nations use a “moral” pretext to impose their will on others. This is a serious and valid concern. History is replete with examples of such hypocrisy. However, the difficulty of applying a principle correctly does not invalidate the principle itself. The fact that a powerful nation might act in bad faith does not mean we must accept atrocities as culturally relative. The final, uncomfortable question is whether this boils down to “might makes right.” In a practical sense, the ability to intervene is often a matter of power. But from a philosophical standpoint, the moral justification for the intervention rests not on power, but on the defense of that essential, shared foundation of human dignity.