death

Serenity and its limits

PNRJ cognitive science, core principles, personal , , , , , , , , , , ,

Feb 25 JDN 2460367

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Of course I don’t care for its religious message (and the full prayer is even more overtly religious), but the serenity prayer does capture an important insight into some of the most difficult parts of human existence.

Some things are as we would like them to be. They don’t require our intervention. (Though we may still stand to benefit from teaching ourselves to savor them and express gratitude for them.)

Other things are not as we would like them to be. The best option, of course, would be to change them.

But such change is often difficult, and sometimes practically impossible.

Sometimes we don’t even know whether change is possible—that’s where the wisdom to know the difference comes in. This is a wisdom we often lack, but it’s at least worth striving for.

If it is impossible to change what we want to change, then we are left with only one choice:

Do we accept it, or not?

The serenity prayer tells us to accept it. There is wisdom in this. Often it is the right answer. Some things about our lives are awful, but simply cannot be changed by any known means.

Death, for instance.

Someday, perhaps, we will finally conquer death, and humanity—or whatever humanity has become—will enter a new era of existence. But today is not that day. When grieving the loss of people we love, ultimately our only option is to accept that they are gone, and do our best to appreciate what they left behind, and the parts of them that are still within us. They would want us to carry on and live full lives, not forever be consumed by grief.

There are many other things we’d like to change, and maybe someday we will, but right now, we simply don’t know how: diseases we can’t treat, problems we can’t solve, questions we can’t answer. It’s often useful for someone to be trying to push those frontiers, but for any given person, the best option is often to find a way to accept things as they are.

But there are also things I cannot change and yet will not accept.

Most of these things fall into one broad category:

Injustice.

I can’t end war, or poverty, or sexism, or racism, or homophobia. Neither can you. Neither can any one person, or any hundred people, or any thousand people, or probably even any million people. (If all it took were a million dreams, we’d be there already. A billion might be enough—though it would depend which billion people shared the dream.)

I can’t. You can’t. But we can.

And here I mean “we” in a very broad sense indeed: Humanity as a collective whole. All of us together can end injustice—and indeed that is the only way it ever could be ended, by our collective action. Collective action is what causes injustice, and collective action is what can end it.

I therefore consider serenity in the face of injustice to be a very dangerous thing.

At times, and to certain degrees, that serenity may be necessary.

Those who are right now in the grips of injustice may need to accept it in order to survive. Reflecting on the horror of a concentration camp won’t get you out of it. Embracing the terror of war won’t save you from being bombed. Weeping about the sorrow of being homeless won’t get you off the streets.

Even for those of us who are less directly affected, it may sometimes be wisest to blunt our rage and sorrow at injustice—for otherwise they could be paralyzing, and if we are paralyzed, we can’t help anyone.

Sometimes we may even need to withdraw from the fight for justice, simply because we are too exhausted to continue. I read recently of a powerful analogy about this:

A choir can sing the same song forever, as long as its singers take turns resting.

If everyone tries to sing their very hardest all the time, the song must eventually end, as no one can sing forever. But if we rotate our efforts, so that at any given moment some are singing while others are resting, then we theoretically could sing for all time—as some of us die, others would be born to replace us in the song.

For a literal choir this seems absurd: Who even wants to sing the same song forever? (Lamb Chop, I guess.)

But the fight for justice probably is one we will need to continue forever, in different forms in different times and places. There may never be a perfectly just society, and even if there is, there will be no guarantee that it remains so without eternal vigilance. Yet the fight is worth it: in so many ways our society is already more just than it once was, and could be made more so in the future.

This fight will only continue if we don’t accept the way things are. Even when any one of us can’t change the world—even if we aren’t sure how many of us it would take to change the world—we still have to keep trying.

But as in the choir, each one of us also needs to rest.

We can’t all be fighting all the time as hard as we can. (I suppose if literally everyone did that, the fight for justice would be immediately and automatically won. But that’s never going to happen. There will always be opposition.)

And when it is time for each of us to rest, perhaps some serenity is what we need after all. Perhaps there is a balance to be found here: We do not accept things as they are, but we do accept that we cannot change them immediately or single-handedly. We accept that our own strength is limited and sometimes we must withdraw from the fight.

So yes, we need some serenity. But not too much.

Enough serenity to accept that we won’t win the fight immediately or by ourselves, and sometimes we’ll need to stop fighting and rest. But not so much serenity that we give up the fight altogether.

For there are many things that I can’t change—but we can.

Lamentations of a temporary kludge

PNRJ cognitive science, core principles , , , , , , , ,

Dec 17 JDN 2460297

Most things in the universe are just that—things. They consist of inanimate matter, blindly following the trajectories the laws of physics have set them on. (Actually, most of the universe may not even be matter—at our current best guess, most of the universe is mysterious “dark matter” and even more mysterious “dark energy”).

Then there are the laws: The fundamental truths of physics and mathematics are omnipresent and eternal. They could even be called omniscient, in the sense that all knowledge which could ever be conveyed must itself be possible to encode in physics and mathematics. (Could, in some metaphysical sense, knowledge exist that cannot be conveyed this way? Perhaps, but if so, we’ll never know nor even be able to express it.)

The reason physics and mathematics cannot simply be called God is twofold: One, they have no minds of their own; they do not think. Two, they do not care. They have no capacity for concern whatsoever, no desires, no goals. Mathematics seeks neither your fealty nor your worship, and physics will as readily destroy you as reward you. If the eternal law is a god, it is a mindless, pitilessly indifferent god—a Blind Idiot God.

But we are something special, something in between. We are matter, yes; but we are also pattern. Indeed, what makes me me and makes you you has far more to do with the arrangement of trillions of parts than it does with any particular material. The atoms in your body are being continually replaced, and you barely notice. But should the pattern ever be erased, you would be no more.

In fact, we are not simply one pattern, but many. We are a kludge: Billions of years of random tinkering has assembled us from components that each emerged millions of years apart. We could move before we could see; we could see before we could think; we could think before we could speak. All this evolution was mind-bogglingly gradual: In most cases it would be impossible to tell the difference one generation—or even one century—to the next. Yet as raindrops wear away mountains, one by one, we were wrought from mindless fragments of chemicals into beings of thought, feeling, reason—beings with hopes, fears, and dreams.

Much of what makes our lives difficult ultimately comes from these facts.

Our different parts were not designed to work together. Indeed, they were not really designed at all. Each component survived because it worked well enough to stay alive in the environment in which our ancestors lived. We often find ourselves in conflict with our own desires, in part because those desires evolved for very different environments than the ones we now find ourselves—and in part because there is no particular reason for evolution to avoid conflict, so long as survival is achieved.

As patterns, we can experience the law. We can write down equations that express small pieces of the fundamental truths that exist throughout the universe beyond space and time. From “2+2=4” to “Gμν + Λgμν = κTμν“, through mathematics, we glimpse eternity.

But as matter, we are doomed to suffer, degrade, and ultimately die. Our pattern cannot persist forever. Perhaps one day we will find a way to change this—and if that day comes, it will be a glorious day; I will make no excuses for the dragon. For now, at least, it is a truth that we must face: We, all we love, and all we build must one day perish.

That is, we are not simply a kludge; we are a temporary one. Sooner or later, our bodies will fail and our pattern will be erased. What we were made of may persist, but in a form that will no longer be us, and in time, may become indistinguishable from all the rest of the universe.

We are flawed, for the same reason that a crystal is flawed. A theoretical crystal can be flawless and perfect; but a real, physical one must exist in an actual world where it will suffer impurities and disturbances that keep it from ever truly achieving perfect unity and symmetry. We can imagine ourselves as perfect beings, but our reality will always fall short.

We lament that are not perfect, eternal beings. Yet I am not sure it could have been any other way: Perhaps one must be a temporary kludge in order to be a being at all.

Against average utilitarianism

PNRJ core principles, ethics , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Jul 30 JDN 2460156

Content warning: Suicide and suicidal ideation

There are two broad strands of utilitarianism, known as average utilitarianism and total utilitarianism. As utilitarianism, both versions concern themselves with maximizing happiness and minimizing suffering. And for many types of ethical question, they yield the same results.

Under average utilitarianism, the goal is to maximize the average level of happiness minus suffering: It doesn’t matter how many people there are in the world, only how happy they are.

Under total utilitarianism, the goal is to maximize the total level of happiness minus suffering: Adding another person is a good thing, as long as their life is worth living.

Mathematically, its the difference between taking the sum of net happiness (total utilitarianism), and taking that sum and dividing it by the population (average utilitarianism).

It would make for too long a post to discuss the validity of utilitarianism in general. Overall I will say briefly that I think utilitarianism is basically correct, but there are some particular issues with it that need to be resolved, and usually end up being resolved by heading slightly in the direction of a more deontological ethics—in short, rule utilitarianism.

But for today, I want to focus on the difference between average and total utilitarianism, because average utilitarianism is a very common ethical view despite having appalling, horrifying implications.

Above all: under average utilitarianism, if you are considering suicide, you should probably do it.

Why? Because anyone who is considering suicide is probably of below-average happiness. And average utilitarianism necessarily implies that anyone who expects to be of below-average happiness should be immediately killed as painlessly as possible.

Note that this does not require that your life be one of endless suffering, so that it isn’t even worth going on living. Even a total utilitarian would be willing to commit suicide, if their life is expected to be so full of suffering that it isn’t worth going on.

Indeed, I suspect that most actual suicidal ideation by depressed people takes this form: My life will always be endless suffering. I will never be happy again. My life is worthless.

The problem with such suicidal ideation is not the ethical logic, which is valid: If indeed your existence from this point forward would be nothing but endless suffering, suicide actually makes sense. (Imagine someone who is being held in a dungeon being continually mercilessly tortured with no hope of escape; it doesn’t seem unreasonable for them to take a cyanide pill.) The problem is the prediction, which says that your life from this point forward will be nothing but endless suffering. Most people with depression do, eventually, feel better. They may never be quite as happy overall as people who aren’t depressed, but they do, in fact, have happy times. And most people who considered suicide but didn’t go through with it end up glad that they went on living.

No, an average utilitarian says you should commit suicide as long as your happiness is below average.

We could be living in a glorious utopia, where almost everyone is happy almost all the time, and people are only occasionally annoyed by minor inconveniences—and average utilitarianism would say that if you expect to suffer a more than average rate of such inconveniences, the world would be better off if you ceased to exist.

Moreover, average utilitarianism says that you should commit suicide if your life is expected to get worse—even if it’s still going to be good, adding more years to your life will just bring your average happiness down. If you had a very happy childhood and adulthood is going just sort of okay, you may as well end it now.

Average utilitarianism also implies that we should bomb Third World countries into oblivion, because their people are less happy than ours and thus their deaths will raise the population average.

Are there ways an average utilitarian can respond to these problems? Perhaps. But every response I’ve seen is far too weak to resolve the real problem.

One approach would be to say that the killing itself is bad, or will cause sufficient grief as to offset the loss of the unhappy person. (An average utilitarian is inherently committed to the claim that losing an unhappy person is itself an inherent good. There is something to be offset.)

This might work for the utopia case: The grief from losing someone you love is much worse than even a very large number of minor inconveniences.

It may even work for the case of declining happiness over your lifespan: Presumably some other people would be sad to lose you, even if they agreed that your overall happiness is expected to gradually decline. Then again, if their happiness is also expected to decline… should they, too, shuffle off this mortal coil?

But does it work for the question of bombing? Would most Americans really be so aggrieved at the injustice of bombing Burundi or Somalia to oblivion? Most of them don’t seem particularly aggrieved at the actual bombings of literally dozens of countries—including, by the way, Somalia. Granted, these bombings were ostensibly justified by various humanitarian or geopolitical objectives, but some of those justifications (e.g. Kosovo) seem a lot stronger than others (e.g. Grenada). And quite frankly, I care more about this sort of thing than most people, and I still can’t muster anything like the same kind of grief for random strangers in a foreign country that I feel when a friend or relative dies. Indeed, I can’t muster the same grief for one million random strangers in a foreign country that I feel for one lost loved one. Human grief just doesn’t seem to work that way. Sometimes I wish it did—but then, I’m not quite sure what our lives would be like in such a radically different world.

Moreover, the whole point is that an average utilitarian should consider it an intrinsically good thing to eliminate the existence of unhappy people, as long as it can be done swiftly and painlessly. So why, then, should people be aggrieved at the deaths of millions of innocent strangers they know are mostly unhappy? Under average utilitarianism, the greatest harm of war is the survivors you leave, because they will feel grief—so your job is to make sure you annihilate them as thoroughly as possible, presumably with nuclear weapons. Killing a soldier is bad as long as his family is left alive to mourn him—but if you kill an entire country, that’s good, because their country was unhappy.

Enough about killing and dying. Let’s talk about something happier: Babies.

At least, total utilitarians are happy about babies. When a new person is brought into the world, a total utilitarian considers this a good thing, as long as the baby is expected to have a life worth living and their existence doesn’t harm the rest of the world too much.

I think that fits with most people’s notions of what is good. Generally the response when someone has a baby is “Congratulations!” rather than “I’m sorry”. We see adding another person to the world as generally a good thing.

But under average utilitarianism, babies must reach a much higher standard in order to be a good thing. Your baby only deserves to exist if they will be happier than average.

Granted, this is the average for the whole world, so perhaps First World people can justify the existence of their children by pointing out that unless things go very badly, they should end up happier than the world average. (Then again, if you have a family history of depression….)

But for Third World families, quite the opposite: The baby may well bring joy to all around them, but unless that joy is enough to bring someone above the global average, it would still be better if the baby did not exist. Adding one more person of moderately-low happiness will just bring the world average down.

So in fact, on a global scale, an average utilitarian should always expect that babies are nearly as likely to be bad as they are good, unless we have some reason to think that the next generation would be substantially happier than this one.

And while I’m not aware of anyone who sincerely believes that we should nuke Third World countries for their own good, I have heard people speak this way about population growth in Third World countries: such discussions of “overpopulation” are usually ostensibly about ecological sustainability, even though the ecological impact of First World countries is dramatically higher—and such talk often shades very quickly into eugenics.

Of course, we wouldn’t want to say that having babies is always good, lest we all be compelled to crank out as many babies as possible and genuinely overpopulate the world. But total utilitarianism can solve this problem: It’s worth adding more people to the world unless the harm of adding those additional people is sufficient to offset the benefit of adding another person whose life is worth living.

Moreover, total utilitarianism can say that it would be good to delay adding another person to the world, until the situation is better. Potentially this delay could be quite long: Perhaps it is best for us not to have too many children until we can colonize the stars. For now, let’s just keep our population sustainable while we develop the technology for interstellar travel. If having more children now would increase the risk that we won’t ever manage to colonize distant stars, total utilitarianism would absolutely say we shouldn’t do it.

There’s also a subtler problem here, which is that it may seem good for any particular individual to have more children, but the net result is that the higher total population is harmful. Then what I think is happening is that we are unaware of, or uncertain about, or simply inattentive to, the small harm to many other people caused by adding one new person to the world. Alternatively, we may not be entirely altruistic, and a benefit that accrues to our own family may be taken as greater than a harm that accrues to many other people far away. If we really knew the actual marginal costs and benefits, and we really agreed on that utility function, we would in fact make the right decision. It’s our ignorance or disagreement that makes us fail, not total utilitarianism in principle. In practice, this means coming up with general rules that seem to result in a fair and reasonable outcome, like “families who want to have kids should aim for two or three”—and again we’re at something like rule utilitarianism.

Another case average utilitarianism seems tempting is in resolving the mere addition paradox.

Consider three possible worlds, A, B, and C:

In world A, there is a population of 1 billion, and everyone is living an utterly happy, utopian life.

In world B, there is a population of 1 billion living in a utopia, and a population of 2 billion living mediocre lives.

In world C, there is a population of 3 billion living good, but not utopian, lives.

The mere addition paradox is that, to many people, world B seems worse than world A, even though all we’ve done is add 2 billion people whose lives are worth living.

Moreover, many people seem to think that the ordering goes like this:


World B is better than world A, because all we’ve done is add more people whose lives are worth living.

World C is better than world B, because it’s fairer, and overall happiness is higher.

World A is better than world C, because everyone is happier, and all we’ve done is reduce the population.


This is intransitive: We have A > C > B > A. Our preferences over worlds are incoherent.

Average utilitarianism resolves this by saying that A > C is true, and C > B is true—but it says that B > A is false. Since average happiness is higher in world A, A > B.

But of course this results in the conclusion that if we are faced with world B, we should do whatever we can to annihilate the 2 billion extra unhappy people, so that we can get to world A. And the whole point of this post is that this is an utterly appalling conclusion we should immediately reject.

What does total utilitarianism say? It says that indeed C > B and B > A, but it denies that A > C. Rather, since there are more people in world C, it’s okay that people aren’t quite as happy.

Derek Parfit argues that this leads to what he calls the “repugnant conclusion”: If we keep increasing the population by a large amount while decreasing happiness by a small amount, the best possible world ends up being one where population is utterly massive but our lives are only barely worth living.

I do believe that total utilitarianism results in this outcome. I can live with that.

Under average utilitarianism, the best possible world is precisely one person who is immortal and absolutely ecstatic 100% of the time. Adding even one person who is not quite that happy will make things worse.

Under total utilitarianism, adding more people who are still very happy would be good, even if it makes that one ecstatic person a bit less ecstatic. And adding more people would continue to be good, as long as it didn’t bring the average down too quickly.

If you find this conclusion repugnant, as Parfit does, I submit that it is because it is difficult to imagine just how large a population we are talking about. Maybe putting some numbers on it will help.

Let’s say the happiness level of an average person in the world today is 35 quality-adjusted life years—our life expectancy of 70, times an average happiness level of 0.5.

So right now we have a world of 8 billion people at 35 QALY, for a total of 280 TQALY. (That’s tera-QALY, 1 trillion QALY.)

(Note: I’m not addressing inequality here. If you believe that a world where one person has 100 QALY and another has 50 QALY is worse than one where both have 75 QALY, you should adjust your scores accordingly—which mainly serves to make the current world look worse, due to our utterly staggering inequality. In fact I think I do not believe this—in my view, the problem is not that happiness is unequal, but that staggering inequality of wealth makes much greater suffering among the poor in exchange for very little happiness among the rich.)

Average utilitarianism says that we should eliminate the less happy people, so we can raise the average QALY higher, maybe to something like 60. I’ve already said why I find this appalling.

So now consider what total utilitarianism asks of us. If we could raise that figure above 280 TQALY, we should. Say we could increase our population to 10 billion, at the cost of reducing average happiness to 30 QALY; should we? Yes, we should, because that’s 300 TQALY.

But notice that in this scenario we’re still 85% as happy as we were. That doesn’t sound so bad. Parfit is worried about a scenario where our lives are barely worth living. So let’s consider what that would require.

“Barely worth living” sounds like maybe 1 QALY. This wouldn’t mean we all live exactly one year; that’s not sustainable, because babies can’t have babies. So it would be more like a life expectancy of 33, with a happiness of 0.03—pretty bad, but still worth living.

In that case, we would need to raise our population over 800 billion to make it better than our current existence. We must colonize at least 100 other planets and fill them as full as we’ve filled Earth.

In fact, I think this 1 QALY life was something like that human beings had at the dawn of agriculture (which by some estimates was actually worse than ancient hunter-gatherer life; we were sort of forced into early agriculture, rather than choosing it because it was better): Nasty, brutish, and short, but still, worth living.

So, Parfit’s repugnant conclusion is that filling 100 planets with people who live like the ancient Babylonians would be as good as life on Earth is now? I don’t really see how this is obviously horrible. Certainly not to the same degree that saying we should immediately nuke Somalia is obviously horrible.

Moreover, total utilitarianism absolutely still says that if we can make those 800 billion people happier, we should. A world of 800 billion people each getting 35 QALY is 100 times better than the way things are now—and doesn’t that seem right, at least?


Yet if you indeed believe that copying a good world 100 times gives you a 100 times better world, you are basically committed to total utilitarianism.

There are actually other views that would allow you to escape this conclusion without being an average utilitarian.

One way, naturally, is to not be a utilitarian. You could be a deontologist or something. I don’t have time to go into that in this post, so let’s save it for another time. For now, let me say that, historically, utilitarianism has led the charge in positive moral change, from feminism to gay rights, from labor unions to animal welfare. We tend to drag stodgy deontologists kicking and screaming toward a better world. (I vaguely recall an excellent tweet on this, though not who wrote it: “Yes, historically, almost every positive social change has been spearheaded by utilitarians. But sometimes utilitarianism seems to lead to weird conclusions in bizarre thought experiments, and surely that’s more important!”)

Another way, which has gotten surprisingly little attention, is to use an aggregating function that is neither a sum nor an average. For instance, you could add up all utility and divide by the square root of population, so that larger populations get penalized for being larger, but you aren’t simply trying to maximize average happiness. That does seem to still tell some people to die even though their lives were worth living, but at least it doesn’t require us to exterminate all who are below average. And it may also avoid the conclusion Parfit considers repugnant, by making our galactic civilization span 10,000 worlds. Of course, why square root? Why not a cube root, or a logarithm? Maybe the arbitrariness is why it hasn’t been seriously considered. But honestly, I think dividing by anything is suspicious; how can adding someone else who is happy ever make things worse?

But if I must admit that a sufficiently large galactic civilization would be better than our current lives, even if everyone there is mostly pretty unhappy? That’s a bullet I’m prepared to bite. At least I’m not saying we should annihilate everyone who is unhappy.

What we can be thankful for

PNRJ current events, futurism , , , , , , , , ,

Nov 24 JDN 2458812

Thanksgiving is upon us, yet as more and more evidence is revealed implicating President Trump in grievous crimes, as US carbon emissions that had been declining are now trending upward again, as our air quality deteriorates for the first time in decades, it may be hard to see what we should be thankful for.

But these are exceptions to a broader trend: The world is getting better, in almost every way, remarkably quickly. Homicide rates in the US are lower than they’ve been since the 1960s. Worldwide, the homicide rate has fallen 20% since 1990.

While world carbon emissions are still increasing, on a per capita basis they are actually starting to decline, and on an efficiency basis (kilograms of carbon-equivalent per dollar of GDP) they are at their lowest ever. This trend is likely to continue: The price of solar power has rapidly declined to the point where it is now the cheapest form of electric power.
The number—not just proportion, absolute number—of people in extreme poverty has declined by almost two-thirds within my own lifetime. The proportion is the lowest it has ever been in human history. World life expectancy is at its highest ever. Death rates from infectious disease fell by over 85% over the 20th century, and are now at their lowest ever.

I wouldn’t usually cite Reason as a source, but they’re right on this one: Defeat appears imminent for all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Pestilence, Famine, War, and even Death are all on the decline. We have a great deal to be grateful for: We are living in a golden age.

This is not to say that we should let ourselves become complacent and stop trying to make the world better: On the contrary, it proves that the world can be made better, which gives us every reason to redouble our efforts to do so.

Today would be my father’s birthday.

PNRJ personal, Uncategorized , , , ,

Apr 15 JDN 2458224

When this post goes live, it will be April 15, 2018. My father was born April 15, 1954 and died August 31, 2017, so this is the first time we will be celebrating his birthday without him.

I’m not sure that grief ever really goes away. The shock of the unexpected death fades eventually, and at last you can accept that this has really happened and make it a part of your life. But the sum total of all missed opportunities for life events you could have had together only continues to increase.

There are many cliches about this sort of thing: “Death is a part of life.” “Everything happens for a reason.” It’s all making excuses for the dragon. If we could find a way to make people stop dying, we ought to do it. The other consequences are things we could figure out later.

But, alas, we can’t, at least not in general. We have managed to cure or vaccinate against a wide variety of diseases, and as a result people do, on average, live longer than ever before in human history. But none of us live “on average”—and sometimes you get a very unlucky draw.

Yet somehow, we do learn to go on. I’m not sure how. I guess it’s a kind of desensitization: Right after my father’s death, any reminder of him was painful. But over time, that pain began to lessen. Each new reminder hurts a little less than the last, until eventually the pain is mild enough that it can mostly be ignored. It never really goes away, I think; but eventually it is below your just-noticeable-difference.

I had hoped to do more with this post. I had hoped that reflecting on the grief I’ve felt for the last several months would allow me to find some greater insight that I could share. Instead, I find myself re-writing the same sentences over and over again, trying in vain to express something that might help me, or help someone else who is going through similar grief. I keep looking for ways to distract myself, other things to think about—anything but this. Maybe there are no simple insights, no way for words to shorten the process that everyone must go through.

A tale of two storms

PNRJ current events, development economics, ethics, public policy , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sep 24, JDN 2458021

There were two severe storm events this past week; one you probably heard a great deal about, the other, probably not. The first was Hurricane Irma, which hit the United States and did most of its damage in Florida; the second was Typhoon Doksuri, which hit Southeast Asia and did most of its damage in Vietnam.

You might expect that this post is going to give you more bad news. Well, I have a surprise for you: The news is actually mostly good.

The death tolls from both storms were astonishingly small. The hurricane is estimated to have killed at least 84 people, while the typhoon has killed at least 26. This result is nothing less than heroism. The valiant efforts of thousands of meteorologists and emergency responders around the world has saved thousands of lives, and did so both in the wealthy United States and in impoverished Vietnam.

When I started this post, I had expected to see that the emergency response in Vietnam would be much worse, and fatalities would be far higher; I am delighted to report that nothing of the sort was the case, and Vietnam, despite their per-capita GDP PPP of under $6,000, has made emergency response a sufficiently high priority that they saved their people just about as well as Florida did.

To get a sense of what might have happened without them, consider that 1.5 million homes in Florida were leveled by the hurricane, and over 100,000 homes were damaged by the typhoon. Vietnam is a country of 94 million people. Florida has a population of 20 million. (The reason Florida determines so many elections is that it is by far the most populous swing state.) Without weather forecasting and emergency response, these death figures would have been in the tens of thousands, not the dozens.

Indeed, if you know statistics and demographics well, these figures become even more astonishing: These death rates were almost indistinguishable from statistical noise.

Vietnam’s baseline death rate is about 5.9 per 1,000, meaning that they experience about 560,000 deaths in any given year. This means that over 1500 people die in Vietnam on a normal day.

Florida’s baseline death rate is about 6.6 per 1,000, actually a bit higher than Vietnam’s, because Florida’s population skews so much toward the elderly. Therefore Florida experiences about 130,000 deaths per year, or 360 deaths on a normal day.

In both Vietnam and Florida, this makes the daily death probability for any given person about 0.0017%. A random process with a fixed probability of 0.0017% over a population of n people will result in an average of 0.0017n events, but with some variation around that number. The standard deviation is actually sqrt(p(1-p)n) = 0.004 sqrt(n). When n = 20,000,000 (Florida), this results in a standard deviation of 18. When n = 94,000,000 (Vietnam), this results in a standard deviation of 40.

This means that the 26 additional deaths in Vietnam were within one standard deviation of average! They basically are indistinguishable from statistical noise. There have been over a hundred days in Vietnam where an extra 26 people happened to die, just in the past year. Weather forecasting took what could have been a historic disaster and turned it into just another bad day.

The 84 additional deaths in Florida are over four standard deviations away from average, so they are definitely distinguishable from statistical noise—but this still means that Florida’s total death rate for the year will only tick up by 0.6%.

It is common in such tragedies to point out in grave tones that “one death is too many”, but I maintain that this is not actually moral wisdom but empty platitude. No conceivable policy is ever going to reduce death rates to zero, and the people who died of heart attacks or brain aneurysms are every bit as dead as the people who died from hurricanes or terrorist attacks. Instead of focusing on the handful of people who died because they didn’t heed warnings or simply got extraordinarily unlucky, I think we should be focusing on the thousands of people who survived because our weather forecasters and emergency responders did their jobs so exceptionally well. Of course if we can reduce the numbers even further, we should; but from where I’m sitting, our emergency response system has a lot to be proud of.

Of course, the economic damage of the storms was substantially greater. The losses in destroyed housing and infrastructure in Florida are projected at over $80 billion. Vietnam is much poorer, so there simply isn’t as much infrastructure to destroy; total damage is unlikely to exceed $10 billion. Florida’s GDP is $926 billion, so they are losing 8.6%; while Vietnam’s GDP is $220 billion, so they are still losing 4.5%. And of course the damage isn’t evenly spread across everyone; those hardest hit will lose perhaps their entire net wealth, while others will feel absolutely nothing.

But economic damage is fleeting. Indeed, if we spend the government money we should be, and take the opportunity to rebuild this infrastructure better than it was before, the long-run economic impact could be positive. Even 8.6% of GDP is less than five years of normal economic growth—and there were years in the 1950s where we did it in a single year. The 4.6% that Vietnam lost, they should make back within a year of their current economic growth.

Thank goodness.

Doug Julius, in memoriam

PNRJ Uncategorized , , ,

Sep 10, JDN 2458007

Douglas Patrick Julius

April 15, 1954 to August 31, 2017

My father died suddenly and unexpectedly from a ruptured intracranial aneurysm. I received a call that he was in the hospital Wednesday morning at 11:30 AM PDT, took the first flight to Michigan I could find, and arrived around 10:30 PM EDT. By the time I got there, my father was already unconscious and under intensive care. I stayed up all night in the hospital. My father never regained consciousness. He was declared dead at 8:30 AM on Thursday morning.

In lieu of a proper blog post this week, I decided to post the eulogy I gave at my father’s funeral this past Sunday. It follows below.

What is a soul? What is it made of? Most people imagine a soul as something immaterial, something somehow “beyond” this physical world. But at its core, a soul is simply what makes us who we are. Today we have cognitive science, and now understand the human soul better than it was understood by all the billions of people in all the thousands of years of human civilization before us. Thanks to cognitive science, we now know what the soul is made of: It is made of information.

My father wasn’t made of some mysterious substance “beyond” our physical world, but nor was hejust the molecules of his body you see here. My father was made of hopes and dreams, laughter and tears, words and ideas. He was made of James Joyce novels and Catullus poems, Spider-Man comics and Arnold Schwarzenegger movies, road trips across America, gazes over the Grand Canyon, spelunking in Carlsbad Caverns, walks on the beaches of the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific, warm hugs, gentle smiles, sophisticated puns, obsessive organizing, and reading literally thousands of books, on everything from Celtic literature to quantum physics. (I think he knew the former a lot better than the latter, while for me, it is the reverse.)

And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

Most of what my father was is now gone, and I don’t think we should try to deny that. I don’t think it’s healthy—or even effective—to tell ourselves that he isn’t really gone or that he’s in some better place. Deep down we all know the loss we feel. We know the regrets we have of all the things we thought we’d get to do together, but now we know we never will. There are three that are especially painful for me: My father will never get to see my PhD diploma, never know me as “Doctor Patrick Neal Russell Julius.” My father will never get to see my wedding. And above all, my father will never get to meet his grandchildren. If I had known, I could have tried to make these things happen sooner, so that my father would get to share them with me. I thought that I had 20 years left to do all these things with my father beside me—but the reality turned out differently. And one of the best definitions of reality is this: Reality, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away. We grieve this loss for a reason. It hurts so much to lose my father because we know how much joy he once brought to our lives, and how much he would have if he’d been allowed to go on living. A friend of mine offered me this aphorism: Grief is the price we pay for love.

But my father is not completely gone, either. Our souls are made of information too, and there are little fragments of my father’s soul in every one of us. Every memory we have of him, every time he touched our lives, a fragment of him was downloaded into each of us, and as long as we remember him, he will not be entirely gone.

There are a few memories in particular I’d like to share with you all know—back them up in the cloud if you will—so that the essence of who my father was will live on awhile longer. Human long-term memory is stored in the form of narrative, so I thought it best if I told a few stories.

The first story is about gentleness. We were driving through New Mexico. I had moved recently to Long Beach to study for my master’s degree at CSU; after coming back to Ann Arbor for a visit, Dad had driven with me in my little Smart car all the way across the country. We planned our route to pass the Very Large Array, a gigantic assembly of radio telescopes probably best known for being featured in the film Contact, one of my favorites, based on a Carl Sagan novel I love even more. I had wanted to see it for a long time, so Dad added a few hours to our trip so we could go past it.

When we arrived at the array, we could hardly find any people around. Instead what we found were bugs—grasshoppers I think, and millions of them. Everywhere. The ground was literally covered in them; there wasn’t even any room to walk. Most people would probably have just gone ahead and walked right on top of them, crushing them as they went—but not my father. His gentleness extended even to the lowliest of creatures, and he wanted to make sure we didn’t harm any of the bugs. So he found a way for us to creep, slowly, across the desert, shooing away the bugs at each step, so that they would give us room to pass. We didn’t step on a single grasshopper that day, and I finally got the chance to touch one of the radio telescopes.

The second story is about generosity. We had just bought a baby grand piano, and my mother was learning to play it. For her birthday she had asked for a metronome. So, my father and I went out shopping to find a nice metronome. We found one that seemed perfect, but then the store offered us one that was twice the price, and as far as I can tell, not any better whatsoever. Dad asked me, “Isn’t your mother worth it?” Already a budding economist, I had to explain, “Of course, but that’s not the question. The question is, is the metronome worth it? Save the money and we’ll buy her something else too.” But that’s how Dad was: When buying things for himself, he was frugal, even miserly; several times I saw him find rare books—first editions of Joyce, folio editions of Shakespeare—that he had wanted for decades to get, then pass them up to save $100 or maybe $200. But when buying for other people, money was no object; he’d spend that same $200 buying me another video game system without a second thought. He was generous to a fault; he’d never use his credit cards all year, then max them out every Christmas. As I got older, I actually started scaling back my Christmas lists on purpose, for fear he might go broke buying me everything I had asked for. Sometimes I think I was still a little too greedy, and should have scaled them back even more. I never was able to talk him out of buying me that folding bicycle that now sits in a corner of my apartment in Irvine—at least I talked him down from the model that cost twice as much.

The third and final story is about curiosity. Dad actually taught my high school English AP class. I was originally assigned to a different class, but in that one I was completely miserable. The very first day of class was a demonstration where he asked us all to raise our hands if we expected an A. Since this was an AP class and we were all top-achieving students, most of us did. Then the teacher asked us rhetorically: “How realistic is that?” as though there were some inherent law of the universe making such an outcome impossible. I think he saw grading as a ranking, or even a race; the notion that we could all earn mastery in the subject struck him like the notion that everyone in the Indy 500 could win first place. The next day was a quiz to see how much we remembered of the summer reading. No review, no discussion, no introduction between the students and the teacher—just the quiz. It became clear that this teacher had no interest in educating us; his goal was to evaluate us. After about a week of this I asked to be transferred to a different class. They said all they had was my dad’s class, which seemed awkward to all involved, but I decided to go with that anyway.

I ended up very glad that I had. Dad’s approach to teaching was completely different: He actually wanted us to learn. He didn’t even call them “quizzes”; they were FLAIs, spelled “F-L-A-I” which stands for “Friendly Little Assessment Instrument”. The students who were used to grade-grubbing for an extra few points found his grading system aggravating, because he refused to give a precise point tally for everything (and if you asked for one, he’d make up some nonsensical number on the spot, like “52 million” or “pi”). But the rest of us found it a breath of fresh air. We could stop worrying about how many points this quiz was worth, stop cramming for the next multiple-choice scantron exam—and actually focus our efforts on reading and learning and appreciating literature. My dad didn’t use a lot of fancy gadgets or sophisticated educational techniques; a lot of the time he was just talking and writing on a chalkboard. But his unbounded intellectual curiosity was infectious. If a student showed interest in something, he’d just start talking about that for awhile, even if it didn’t seem relevant; at first students thought this meant they could waste class time by pulling him off on a tangent. But that was never really what happened; he always managed to teach us something unexpected, and usually managed to tie it back to whatever we were studying in class. Sometimes we managed to teach him something too; usually that would be something about physics from me or something about biology from Esther Alfred or Casey Boucher. My favorite class project of all time was for my dad’s class: After reading both Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire and Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, I asked if I could write my paper about Slaughterhouse-Five in the style of Pale Fire, meaning as a series of endnotes that bear some passing relevance to the text in question, but are over-interpreted to an absurd degree to the point where they end up telling a completely different story. Most teachers would probably have balked at the idea, but Dad thought it was fabulous. I don’t think he would have thought any differently if I hadn’t been his son; he simply enjoyed nurturing his student’s creativity in that way. I probably didn’t read as many books in that class as I would have in the other English AP class; but my dad’s class fanned the flames of a love of literature that the other class would have done everything it could to extinguish.

That’s about all I have. Thank you for listening, and taking the time to be here today. The world lost a very good man this week, and I know he will be sorely missed by all of us. No words can fully capture our sorrow, but there are a few in particular I think my father would have appreciated, said always on such occasions by one of his favorite authors:
So it goes.

To truly honor veterans, end war

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JDN 2457339 EST 20:00 (Nov 11, 2015)

Today is Veterans’ Day, on which we are asked to celebrate the service of military veterans, particularly those who have died as a result of war. We tend to focus on those who die in combat, but actually these have always been relatively uncommon; throughout history, most soldiers have died later of their wounds or of infections. More recently as a result of advances in body armor and medicine, actually relatively few soldiers die even of war wounds or infections—instead, they are permanently maimed and psychologically damaged, and the most common way that war kills soldiers now is by making them commit suicide.

Even adjusting for the fact that soldiers are mostly young men (the group of people most likely to commit suicide), military veterans still have about 50 excess suicides per million people per year, for a total of about 300 suicides per million per year. Using the total number, that’s over 8000 veteran suicides per year, or 22 per day. Using only the excess compared to men of the same ages, it’s still an additional 1300 suicides per year.

While the 14-years-and-counting Afghanistan War has killed 2,271 American soldiers and the 11-year Iraq War has killed 4,491 American soldiers directly (or as a result of wounds), during that same time period from 2001 to 2015 there have been about 18,000 excess suicides as a result of the military—excess in the sense that they would not have occurred if those men had been civilians. Altogether that means there would be nearly 25,000 additional American soldiers alive today were it not for these two wars.

War does not only kill soldiers while they are on the battlefield—indeed, most of the veterans it kills die here at home.

There is a reason Woodrow Wilson chose November 11 as the date for Veterans’ Day: It was on this day in 1918 that World War 1, up to that point the war that had caused the most deaths in human history, was officially ended. Sadly, it did not remain the deadliest war, but was surpassed by World War 2 a generation later. Fortunately, no other war has ever exceeded World War 2—at least, not yet.

We tend to celebrate holidays like this with a lot of ritual and pageantry (or even in the most inane and American way possible, with free restaurant meals and discounts on various consumer products), and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. Nor is there anything wrong with taking a moment to salute the flag or say “Thank you for your service.” But that is not how I believe veterans should be honored. If I were a veteran, that is not how I would want to be honored.

We are getting much closer to how I think they should be honored when the White House announces reforms at Veterans’ Affairs hospitals and guaranteed in-state tuition at public universities for families of veterans—things that really do in a concrete and measurable way improve the lives of veterans and may even save some of them from that cruel fate of suicide.

But ultimately there is only one way that I believe we can truly honor veterans and the spirit of the holiday as Wilson intended it, and that is to end war once and for all.

Is this an ambitious goal? Absolutely. But is it an impossible dream? I do not believe so.

In just the last half century, we have already made most of the progress that needed to be made. In this brilliant video animation, you can see two things: First, the mind-numbingly horrific scale of World War 2, the worst war in human history; but second, the incredible progress we have made since then toward world peace. It was as if the world needed that one time to be so unbearably horrible in order to finally realize just what war is and why we need a better way of solving conflicts.

This is part of a very long-term trend in declining violence, for a variety of reasons that are still not thoroughly understood. In simplest terms, human beings just seem to be getting better at not killing each other.

Nassim Nicholas Taleb argues that this is just a statistical illusion, because technologies like nuclear weapons create the possibility of violence on a previously unimaginable scale, and it simply hasn’t happened yet. For nuclear weapons in particular, I think he may be right—the consequences of nuclear war are simply so catastrophic that even a small risk of it is worth paying almost any price to avoid.

Fortunately, nuclear weapons are not necessary to prevent war: South Africa has no designs on attacking Japan anytime soon, but neither has nuclear weapons. Germany and Poland lack nuclear arsenals and were the first countries to fight in World War 2, but now that both are part of the European Union, war between them today seems almost unthinkable. When American commentators fret about China today it is always about wage competition and Treasury bonds, not aircraft carriers and nuclear missiles. Conversely, North Korea’s acquisition of nuclear weapons has by no means stabilized the region against future conflicts, and the fact that India and Pakistan have nuclear missiles pointed at one another has hardly prevented them from killing each other over Kashmir. We do not need nuclear weapons as a constant threat of annihilation in order to learn to live together; political and economic ties achieve that goal far more reliably.

And I think Taleb is wrong about the trend in general. He argues that the only reason violence is declining is that concentration of power has made violence rarer but more catastrophic when it occurs. Yet we know that many forms of violence which used to occur no longer do, not because of the overwhelming force of a Leviathan to prevent them, but because people simply choose not to do them anymore. There are no more gladiator fights, no more cat-burnings, no more public lynchings—not because of the expansion in government power, but because our society seems to have grown out of that phase.

Indeed, what horrifies us about ISIS and Boko Haram would have been considered quite normal, even civilized, in the Middle Ages. (If you’ve ever heard someone say we should “bring back chivalry”, you should explain to them that the system of knight chivalry in the 12th century had basically the same moral code as ISIS today—one of the commandments Gautier’s La Chevalerie attributes as part of the chivalric code is literally “Thou shalt make war against the infidel without cessation and without mercy.”) It is not so much that they are uniquely evil by historical standards, as that we grew out of that sort of barbaric violence awhile ago but they don’t seem to have gotten the memo.

In fact, one thing people don’t seem to understand about Steven Pinker’s argument about this “Long Peace” is that it still works if you include the world wars. The reason World War 2 killed so many people was not that it was uniquely brutal, nor even simply because its weapons were more technologically advanced. It also had to do with the scale of integration—we called it a single war even though it involved dozens of countries because those countries were all united into one of two sides, whereas in centuries past that many countries could be constantly fighting each other in various combinations but it would never be called the same war. But the primary reason World War 2 killed the largest raw number of people was simply because the world population was so much larger. Controlling for world population, World War 2 was not even among the top 5 worst wars—it barely makes the top 10. The worst war in history by proportion of the population killed was almost certainly the An Lushan Rebellion in 8th century China, which many of you may not even have heard of until today.

Though it may not seem so as ISIS kidnaps Christians and drone strikes continue, shrouded in secrecy, we really are on track to end war. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not in any of our lifetimes—but someday, we may finally be able to celebrate Veterans’ Day as it was truly intended: To honor our soldiers by making it no longer necessary for them to die.

9/11, 14 years on—and where are our civil liberties?

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JDN 2457278 (09/11/2015) EDT 20:53

Today is the 14th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. A lot has changed since then—yet it’s quite remarkable what hasn’t. In particular, we still don’t have our civil liberties back.

In our immediate panicked response to the attacks, the United States passed almost unanimously the USA PATRIOT ACT, giving unprecedented power to our government in surveillance, searches, and even arrests and detentions. Most of those powers have been renewed repeatedly and remain in effect; the only major change has been a slight weakening of the NSA’s authority to use mass dragnet surveillance on Internet traffic and phone metadata. And this change in turn was almost certainly only made because of Edward Snowden, who is still forced to live in Russia for fear of being executed if he returns to the US. That is, the man most responsible for the only significant improvement in civil liberties in the United States in the last decade is living in Russia because he has been branded a traitor. No, the traitors here are the over one hundred standing US Congress members who voted for an act that is in explicit and direct violation of the Constitution. At the very least every one of them should be removed from office, and we as voters have the power to do that—so why haven’t we? In particular, why are Dan Lipinski and Steny Hoyer, both Democrats from non-southern states who voted every single time to extend provisions of the PATRIOT ACT, still in office? At least Carl Levin had the courtesy to resign after sponsoring the act allowing indefinite detention—I hope we would have voted him out anyway, since I’d much rather have a Republican (and all the absurd economic policy that entails) than someone who apparently doesn’t believe the Fourth and Sixth Amendments have any meaning at all.

We have become inured to this loss of liberty; it feels natural or inevitable to us. But these are not minor inconveniences; they are not small compromises. Giving our government the power to surveil, search, arrest, imprison, torture, and execute anyone they want at any time without the system of due process—and make no mistake, that is what the PATRIOT ACT and the indefinite detention law do—means giving away everything that separates us from tyranny. Bypassing the justice system and the rule of law means bypassing everything that America stands for.

So far, these laws have actually mostly been used against people reasonably suspected of terrorism, that much is true; but it’s also irrelevant. Democracy doesn’t mean you give the government extreme power and they uphold your trust and use it benevolently. Democracy means you don’t give them that power in the first place.

If there’s really sufficient evidence to support an arrest for terrorism, get a warrant. If you don’t have enough evidence for a warrant, you don’t have enough evidence for an arrest. If there’s really sufficient evidence to justify imprisoning someone for terrorism, get a jury to convict. If you don’t have enough evidence to convince a jury, guess what? You don’t have enough evidence to imprison them. These are not negotiable. They are not “political opinions” in any ordinary sense. The protection of due process is so fundamental to democracy that without it political opinions lose all meaning.

People talk about “Big Government” when we suggest increasing taxes on capital gains or expanding Medicare. No, that isn’t Big Government. Searching without warrants is Big Government. Imprisoning people without trial is Big Government. From all the decades of crying wolf in which any policy someone doesn’t like is accused of being “tyranny”, we seem to have lost the ability to recognize actual tyranny. I hope you understand the full force of my meaning when I say that the PATRIOT ACT is literally fascist. Fascism has come to America, and as predicted it was wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.

In this sort of situation, a lot of people like to quote (or misquote) Benjamin Franklin:

“Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”

With the qualifiers “essential” and “temporary”, this quote seems right; but a lot of people forget them and quote him as saying:
“Those would give up liberty to purchase safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

That’s clearly wrong. We do in fact give up liberty to purchase safety, and as well we should. We give up our liberty to purchase weapons-grade plutonium; we give up our liberty to drive at 220 mph. The question we need to be asking is: How much liberty are we giving up to gain how much safety?

Spoken like an economist, the question is not whether you will give up liberty to purchase safety—the question is at what price you’re willing to make the purchase. The price we’ve been paying in response to terrorism is far too high. Indeed, the price we are paying is tantamount to America itself.

As horrific as 9/11 was, it’s important to remember: It only killed 3,000 people.

This statement probably makes you uncomfortable; it may even offend you. How dare I say “only”?

I don’t mean to minimize the harm of those deaths. I don’t mean to minimize the suffering of people who lost friends, colleagues, parents, siblings, children. The death of any human being is the permanent destruction of something irreplaceable, a spark of life that can never be restored; it is always a tragedy and there is never any way to repay it.

But I think people are actually doing the opposite—they are ignoring or minimizing millions of other deaths because those deaths didn’t happen to be dramatic enough. A parent killed by a heart attack is just as lost as a parent who died in 9/11. A friend who died of brain cancer is just as gone as a friend who was killed in a terrorist attack. A child killed in a car accident is just as much a loss as a child killed by suicide bombers. If you really care about human suffering, I contend that you should care about all human suffering, not just the kind that makes the TV news.

Here is a list, from the CDC, of things that kill more Americans per month than terrorists have killed in the last three decades:

Heart disease: 50,900 per month

Cancer: 48,700 per month

Lung disease: 12,400 per month

Accidents: 10,800 per month

Stroke: 10,700 per month

Alzheimer’s: 7,000 per month

Diabetes: 6,300 per month

Influenza: 4,700 per month

Kidney failure: 3,900 per month

Terrorism deaths since 1985: 3,455
Yes, that’s right; influenza kills more Americans per month (on average; flu is seasonal, after all) than terrorism has killed in the last thirty years.
And for comparison, other violent deaths, not quite but almost as many per month as terrorism has killed in my entire life so far:
Suicide: 3,400 per month

Homicide: 1,300 per month

Now, with those figures in mind, I want you to ask yourself the following question: Would you be willing to give up basic, fundamental civil liberties in order to avoid any of these things?

Would you want the government to be able to arrest you and imprison you without trial for eating too many cheeseburgers, so as to reduce the risk of heart disease and stroke?

Would you want the government to monitor your phone calls and Internet traffic to make sure you don’t smoke, so as to avoid lung disease? Or to watch for signs of depression, to reduce the rate of suicide?

Would you want the government to be able to use targeted drone strikes, ordered directly by the President, pre-emptively against probable murderers (with a certain rate of collateral damage, of course), to reduce the rate of homicide?

I presume that the answer to all the above questions is “no”. Then now I have to ask you: Why are you willing to give up those same civil liberties to prevent a risk that is three hundred times smaller?

And then of course there’s the Iraq War, which killed 4,400 Americans and at least 100,000 civilians, and the Afghanistan War, which killed 3,400 allied soldiers and over 90,000 civilians.

In response to the horrific murder of 3,000 people, we sacrificed another 7,800 soldiers and killed another 190,000 innocent civilians. What exactly did that accomplish? What benefit did we get for such an enormous cost?

The people who sold us these deadly wars and draconian policies did so based on the threat that terrorism could somehow become vastly worse, involving the release of some unstoppable bioweapon or the detonation of a full-scale nuclear weapon, killing millions of people—but that has never happened, has never gotten close to happening, and would be thousands of times worse than the worst terrorist attacks that have ever actually happened.

If we’re worried about millions of people dying, it is far more likely that there would be a repeat of the 1918 influenza pandemic, or an accidental detonation of a nuclear weapon, or a flashpoint event with Russia or China triggering World War III; it’s probably more likely that there would be an asteroid impact large enough to kill a million people than there would be a terrorist attack large enough to do the same.

As it is, heart disease is already killing millions of people—about a million every two years—and we aren’t so panicked about that as to give up civil liberties. Elsewhere in the world, malnutrition kills over 3 million children per year, essentially all of it due to extreme poverty, which we could eliminate by spending between a quarter ($150 billion) and a half ($300 billion) of our current military budget ($600 billion); but we haven’t even done that even though it would require no loss of civil liberties at all.

Why is terrorism different? In short, the tribal paradigm.

There are in fact downsides to not being infinite identical psychopaths, and this is one of them. An infinite identical psychopath would simply maximize their own probability of survival; but finite diverse tribalists such as we underreact to some threats (such as heart disease) and overreact to others (such as terrorism). We’ll do almost anything to stop the latter—and almost nothing to stop the former.

Terrorists are perceived as a threat not just to our individual survival like heart disease or stroke, but a threat to our tribe from another tribe. This triggers a deep, instinctual sense of panic and hatred that makes us willing to ignore principles we would otherwise uphold and commit acts of violence we would otherwise find unimaginable.

Indeed, it’s precisely that instinct which motivates the terrorists in the first place. From their perspective, we are the other tribe that threatens their tribe, and they are therefore willing to stop at nothing until we are destroyed.

In a fundamental way, when we respond to terrorism in this way we do not defeat them—we become them.
If you ask people who support the PATRIOT ACT, it’s very clear that they don’t see themselves as imposing upon the civil liberties of Americans. Instead, they see themselves as protecting Americans (our tribe), and they think the impositions upon civil liberties will only harm those who don’t count as Americans (other tribes). This is a pretty bizarre notion if you think about it carefully—if you don’t need a warrant or probable cause to imprison people, then what stops you from imprisoning people who aren’t terrorists?—but people don’t think about it carefully. They act on emotion, on instinct.

The odds of terrorists actually destroying America by killing people are basically negligible. Even the most deadly terrorist attack in recorded history—9/11—killed fewer Americans than die every month from diabetes, or every week from heart disease. Even the most extreme attacks feared (which are extremely unlikely) wouldn’t be any worse than World War II, which of course we won.

But the odds of terrorists destroying America by making us give up the rights and freedoms that define us as a nation? That’s well underway.