
It’s more than 6,300 miles from Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq to Mifflin High School in Columbus, Ohio. Both were in the news last week, reminding us that behind every scapegoat there’s a failed policy.
On March 9, two Columbus high-school boys pulled a developmentally handicapped 16-year-old girl behind a curtain in an empty school auditorium and sexually assaulted her — while a third boy videotaped them. Moral ambiguity? Hardly. This is about as clear a case of wrongdoing as you can find.
By April 12, the superintendent had fired the school’s principal, Regina Crenshaw, and suspended three assistant principals for failing to report the incident. It turns out that it was the girl’s father who finally had to call the police — but not before one of the administrators had urged him not to do so. Why that resistance? Because calling the police might alert journalists whose stories could cast the school in an unfavorable light.
Moral ambiguity? No again. Who would disagree that when school administrators put the urge to protect reputations above the duty to protect students, swift and sure must be the punishment.
But punishment for whom? Here’s where the story gets complicated. Speaking in her own defense after more than a month of silence, Ms. Crenshaw put the issue in a larger context. At a press conference last week covered by the Columbus Dispatch, which first broke the sexual-assault story, she recalled a reprimand she’d received from her superiors in February. It followed a lunchroom brawl at Mifflin High between scores of students that ended only after police were called in to help. According to her lawyer’s written statement, Ms. Crenshaw was later “reminded by school administration that the proper procedure to use under such circumstances is to contact the [school district's] Safety and Security Office, as opposed to the police.”
We can agree, perhaps, that Ms. Crenshaw showed a lack of moral courage in failing to report the sexual assault immediately. But was it because she was spooked into silence by school policy? Was that policy designed less to protect students than to shield school staff? If the policy was at best baffling and at worst sinister, shouldn’t some punishment be meted out to those who formulated and sustained that policy?
Which brings us to Iraq. Last month an investigative panel exonerated four of five top Army officers who stood accused of creating or tolerating the climate of abuse at Abu Ghraib, where prisoners were tortured and subjected to demeaning activities. So far, only a small number of more junior officers and enlisted soldiers have been punished. If top leadership did little to stop the abuse — or actively permitted it to help extract information from prisoners — shouldn’t they too have been punished? More to the point: If the overall policy outlining the proper interrogation of prisoners was ill-conceived, shouldn’t those who created that policy share in the blame?
These two stories raise an unsettling but important ethical issue: When failures of policy — including mixed signals, varying interpretations, and unclear training — lead to high-visibility offenses, where does the responsibility lie? Is it right to punish only those charged with implementing the policy? Or are we creating a scapegoat culture, making it too easy for concerted efforts at blame-shifting to trump the honest admission of failures?
To ask those questions is not to imply that the Mifflin administrators or the Abu Ghraib sadists bear no blame. They do. The real question is whether the invisible somebodies who create (or failed to create) proper policies should also be held responsible.
If policymakers — top-level generals or interrogation specialists, school boards or superintendents — were held to such a standard, wouldn’t they quickly become better moral futurists? If they knew they could be held accountable, wouldn’t they be more apt to take time to spot possible policy-driven ethical calamities? If their own careers were at stake, wouldn’t they quickly learn to play out scores of over-the-horizon scenarios based on their policies, to see which ones might raise wrenching ethical dilemmas?
Too often, it seems, we’re mollified by low-level punishments, where culprits are apprehended, penalties enforced, and cases closed. Sometimes we even correct the policy after the scapegoats have been sacrificed: The Army reportedly is preparing to issue revised interrogation policies explicitly barring the abusive behavior documented at Abu Ghraib and elsewhere. While that makes us feel good, it misses the point. We don’t need to wait until the unwary get caught in the vise of bad policy. That’s a failure of moral courage. We can think more carefully about our moral future. We can recognize that if a single wrong individual can create significant damage, a single wrong policy can create thousands of similar individuals and spawn massive mayhem. And we can remind our policymakers that unless they vigorously test the ethical consequences of their policies, they themselves deserve to be held accountable when things go wrong.
©2005 Institute for Global Ethics