A young man stood accused of having stolen a motorbike. Whether he had indeed committed the deed was never rightly proven. Yet, owing solely to the fact that he belonged to a certain community—deemed suspect not by evidence but by prejudice—he was seized, bound to a tree, and beaten with such merciless fury that life itself was scourged from his body.
The incident stirred a cry of righteous indignation among one portion of the populace, whose hearts recoiled at such barbarity. Yet on the other side—among those who had laid violent hands upon him—there was a grim satisfaction, for they had forced from his bruised lips the recitation of sacred words, not in reverence, but as a cruel theatre of submission. They took perverse pride in this, believing that his death, thus orchestrated, would stand as a dread proclamation: that any who dared to walk a different path, or speak with an unapproved tongue, would find themselves likewise silenced—by blood, by terror, and by the mockery of the holy.
To be outraged upon hearing of such an incident is no more than the proper instinct of any soul not wholly estranged from its humanity. We shudder at the sight of animals slain—even when such deaths serve the ancient and necessary order of the food chain—and we devise intricate justifications to soothe our consciences, urging that such grim necessities be restrained or refined. And yet, when the life of a fellow human being is snuffed out in broad daylight, butchered before the eyes of the world, the response—uttered with chilling ease—is simply this: He deserved it.
When one dares to express even the gentlest aversion to harming a breathing creature—or hesitates, with quiet reverence, to shatter even that which is lifeless—one is swiftly admonished: These are not the times for free speech. Very well then, let us, for a moment, concede to this assertion. But let us also peer, however briefly, into the archives of history. Pray tell, when have the times ever belonged to free speech? Has the candid utterance of one’s mind ever been without peril? From age to age, the voice of reason has walked on embers, its tread unwelcome in the halls of power or amidst the tempests of public sentiment. No era has embraced sensibility with open arms; no generation has lavished support upon balance and thoughtful restraint. Time and again, the voice of measured conscience has been stifled—not because it lacked merit, but precisely because it bore too much of it, and thus posed a threat to the fragile scaffolding of society’s illusions.
And so we arrive at the inevitable question: What has become of the world? Do those who stoke the fires of hatred and devastation truly fail to see that the inferno consumes them as well? That hatred is not a weapon one hurls without injury to oneself—but a slow, poisonous draught that corrodes the soul from within long before it ever touches its intended target? One wonders whether many would even venture a reply to such reflections. For we live in a time when philosophy is whispered about as though it were a ghost, and intellectual enquiry is pronounced obsolete, if not outright dangerous.
And it is precisely here that the field of moral psychology offers a glimmer of illumination. For its questions are as ancient as they are urgent: How do children come to understand rules, especially those concerning fairness? By what means do they distinguish right from wrong? Are they born as blank slates, as John Locke posited—waiting for the world to inscribe its lessons upon them? Or do they enter this world already endowed, as Charles Darwin contended, with the seeds of wisdom, the stirrings of empathy, and the flickering’s of a moral imagination already in motion? In pondering these questions, we begin not merely to search the minds of children, but to examine the soul of our age.
Professor Jonathan Haidt poses a question both incisive and unsettling: If morality shifts across cultures and through the passages of time, how then can it be said to be innate? Surely, whatever moral compass we possess must have been acquired in childhood—shaped by experience, moulded by custom, and impressed upon us by the voices of our elders, instructing us in what is right and what is wrong.
It is a query that strikes at the very root of the matter. For if moral truths are not written upon the soul at birth, but rather scribbled there by the hand of circumstance, what then becomes of the claim that conscience is universal? Are we merely echo chambers of the age and soil in which we are reared? Or might it be that the moral sense, though coloured by culture, springs from deeper waters—present in all, though not always sung in the same key?
Jean Piaget, one of the foremost minds in developmental psychology, began his intellectual pilgrimage with a deep fascination for the natural transformations of the animal world—marvelling at the mysterious progressions that carry a humble caterpillar toward the splendour of a butterfly. In time, he turned this fascination toward children, bringing with him a keen interest in the stages by which human understanding unfolds. His aim was no less ambitious than to trace the emergence of adult reason—so nuanced, so deft—from the seemingly primitive and fumbling thoughts of the child. He sought to understand how the cognitive butterfly takes wing from the larval beginnings of early thought.
Piaget was convinced that children possess a remarkable instinct for discovering moral truths. Yet, he also laid bare the peculiar missteps they make along the way—errors not of wickedness, but of innocence, shaped by a mind still awakening to the world’s complexity.
To illustrate this, Piaget devised a simple but telling experiment. He would pour equal amounts of water into two identical glasses and ask the child whether the two held the same quantity. Naturally, the child would affirm that they did. But then, with the gentlest sleight of hand, he would pour the contents of one glass into a taller, narrower vessel and ask again. Children below the age of six or seven would often insist that the taller glass now held more water, convinced by the mere rise in water level, unable to grasp the constancy of volume beneath the changing shape. The water, of course, remained the same, but the child’s mind had not yet ripened to perceive it.
What Piaget revealed through this and other observations was profound: the understanding of such fundamental concepts is neither innate nor simply handed down from adult to child. It cannot be summoned by instruction alone. No matter how clearly an adult might explain the principle of conservation, the child cannot yet take hold of it—because the soil of the mind has not yet been tilled for such seed. Comprehension, in Piaget’s view, requires more than information; it demands the convergence of age, experience, and a readiness of mind—a stage in which the intellect itself has been shaped by life into a vessel fit to contain understanding.
Piaget, ever the tireless observer of the growing mind, extended his cognitive-developmental approach into the land of children’s morality. With remarkable humility and devotion, he would lower himself—quite literally—to the child’s world, getting down on hands and knees to join them in a game of marbles. While engaged in their play, he would intentionally break the rules or feign ignorance, inviting correction not through lecture, but through participation. The children, in their earnest responses to his intentional blunders, revealed much more than annoyance—they unveiled the dawning of moral understanding: their capacity to uphold rules, to modify them in the spirit of fairness, to take turns, and—most critically—to resolve disputes among themselves.
This moral awakening, like all growth in Piaget’s theory, unfolded in discernible stages, each rooted in the maturing of the child’s cognitive powers. He discerned that a child’s sense of right and wrong does not descend fully formed from the mouths of adults, nor does it spring ready-made from within. Rather, it is self-wrought—constructed painstakingly through lived experience with peers, through conflict and cooperation, through the very messiness of life shared.
In Piaget’s metaphorical world, the learning that takes place through games is not unlike pouring water between glasses—repeated, observable, yet misunderstood by minds not yet prepared. No matter how many times he demonstrated the notion of fairness to three-year-olds, they, like with the concept of volume, simply could not yet comprehend it. Their moral reasoning, like their spatial reasoning, lay dormant, awaiting maturation.
But something remarkable occurred as the children reached the age of five or six. It was not sermons, nor adult decrees, but the wrangling over rules, the quarrels and reconciliations among themselves, that forged in them a far more authentic understanding of fairness. From such simple negotiations, they came to know what no formal instruction could effectively impart.
And herein lies the heart of what Piaget—and psychological rationalism more broadly—proclaims: that rationality is not a divine gift granted in full at birth, but a seed that unfolds through time, through trial, through interaction. Just as the caterpillar inches slowly toward its winged glory, so too do we grow into moral creatures, equipped—through the refinement of reason and the crucible of experience—to grapple with life’s complexities and dwell in harmony with others. Rationality, Piaget believed, is our nature—but its full flowering, the summit of sound moral judgment, is the destination of our development, not its starting point.
Piaget’s framework, though forged in the quiet domain of childhood psychology, lends itself with striking clarity to the broader stage of our troubled world. One might well surmise that it shall take not one, but four or five generations to recalibrate the prevailing mindset—for the spirit of our age is perilously steeped in dichotomy: ever for or against, seldom seeking the golden mean. This rigidity is no accident; it is the fruit of dogmas incessantly drilled into pliable minds, not through reflection but repetition.
Children, ambiguous by nature and impressionable by design, absorb the dispositions of their parents as surely as soil draws in rain. And raised amidst the fog of weariness and confusion—where the air is thick with grievance and fear—they will likely inherit not only the prejudices of their forebears, but amplify them. They will not merely echo their parents’ antipathies, but resound them with fresh intensity.
Yet history, like nature, abides by a certain rhythm. And as is the way of human development—mirroring Piaget’s own vision—those who grow up burdened by the excesses of their parents often yearn to become their opposites. Thus, out of the ashes of prolonged discord, there may arise a generation whose hunger is not for vengeance, but for virtue; not for division, but for harmony. In them, balance may be reborn, and with it, the long-lost moral clarity of a wiser age. Such a generation might raise their children not on the stale bread of hatred, but on the fresh manna of fairness, compassion, and goodwill.
True, none of us walking the earth today may live to see that blessed dawn. We are, perhaps, too near the fire to behold the spring that shall follow this winter of discontent. But even so, let us not despair. For though we may not witness the fruit, we may yet plant the seed. And with hearts turned heavenward, we may hope—nay, pray—that the day hastens when mankind shall be graced with the long-desired luxury of peace: a world not ruled by fear, but shaped by understanding; not hardened by violence, but softened by love.
One takes up arms, not in the spirit of conquest, but when the very roots of one’s being appear imperilled; one strikes at the throat only when life itself seems poised upon the edge of annihilation—when the law of the jungle, survival of the fittest, becomes not theory but imminent threat. And yet, by every measure of reason and fairness, the minority communities presently subjected to hostility pose neither such threat nor challenge to the dominant majority in any corner of the world. They seek neither dominion nor duel; they do not arise in defiance, but endure in quiet perseverance.
Why then does the majority, wielding the greater power and influence, so often behave as though besieged? Why do they, like the children in Piaget’s experiment, fail to perceive the immutable truth—that the contents are the same even when the vessel shifts in form? Is it so difficult to grasp that despite differences in appearance, belief, or custom, the essential humanity within is no less sacred, no less real?
And if, as so often declared, the minority is deemed inconsequential by the majority, what then explains the depth of this irrational fear and the frequent descent into cruelty? Chastisement, where due, may be comprehended—even justice, when applied with compassion, has its place. But what of the impulse to brutalise? Ought not the stronger to safeguard the weaker, as a parent protects the child—not out of pity, but out of the superiority conferred by strength?
Why then has the taking of innocent lives become a grotesque pastime, indulged without remorse? What is such savagery, if not the most pitiable display of cowardice? For to massacre the unarmed, the defenceless, is not an assertion of might but a confession of terror—terror that gnaws at the soul even in the seat of power. And what, pray, has one to fear, when one is already master of the land?
It is not the minority that threatens the majority, but rather the reflection in the glass—distorted by pride and prejudice—that renders the heart blind to reason. And if such blindness persists, it is not the minority that shall perish, but the very moral fabric of the majority’s soul.
Concerning the minority, one is compelled to wonder: what is it that renders them so unyielding? They are acutely aware of their own powerlessness, and one might suppose that such perilous circumstances would incline them to seek conciliation rather than confrontation. And yet, they persist in resisting the tide, as though daring fate itself. Why?
Surely they must perceive that, in truth, there is little to be gained by defiance, and everything to be lost—chiefly their very lives. Let us take a breath and view the matter from another angle: when we greet a man in his native tongue, not because we must, but because it brings him comfort, do we not regard this as a gesture of goodwill? Then what great harm lies in uttering the phrases demanded of you, even under compulsion? One may rightly protest that such utterance is not born of affection but of coercion, not of liberty but of domination. This is true. Yet in a moment where no victory is attainable, does not prudence advise that one bow, not in spirit, but in posture?
After all, what is being asked may not belong to your creed, but it is not entirely foreign to your heritage. Do not mistake this concession for a betrayal of soul; it is not a matter of ego, but of brute force. And when force—not reason—governs the moment, self-preservation and the protection of one’s family must take precedence over the satisfaction of making a stand. Better to endure in silence than to perish in protest.
Some, no doubt, will call such restraint cowardice; others, defeatism or evasion. Let them. Let the world cast its judgments as it will. Your task is not to win their applause, but to steer your life with discernment. For in the end, I am is of far greater consequence than I was. In times of duress, wisdom lies not in reckless defiance, but in measured endurance.
One must choose life above all—above religion, above politics, above the proud impulse to make a point at any cost. For while you may believe you are honouring your principles by standing firm, it is your family who must carry the burden of your absence, should you fall as the young man did—beaten to death for no crime, save for being who he was. Let not your final act be one that leaves your loved ones bereft. Let it instead be an act of quiet strength: to live, to safeguard, to endure.
In conclusion, I present to you the Hindi short story Lynching, penned by the respected Hindi scholar, novelist, playwright, and fiction writer Asghar Wajahat. This poignant work has been rendered into English by my dear friend Rakshanda Jalil—a distinguished writer, critic, and literary historian—whose careful translation preserves the original’s profound spirit.
When the old woman was told that her grandson, Salim, had been lynched, she couldn’t quite understand it. There was no expression on her dark, wizened face or in her old, misty eyes. She covered her head with a tattered cloth. The word ‘Lynching’ was new for her. But she could guess that it was an English word. She had heard some English words earlier, too, and she knew what they meant. The first English word she had heard was ‘Pass’ when Salim had passed the first class. She knew what the word ‘Pass’ meant. The second word she had heard was ‘Job’. She understood that the word ‘Job’ meant getting employed. The third word she heard was ‘Salary’. She knew what that meant, too. The moment she would hear the word ‘Salary’, the scent of a roti being freshly cooked on a griddle wafted into her nostrils. She could guess that English words were good and the news about her grandson must be a good one. The old woman spoke in a contended tone, ‘May Allah Bless them!’
The boys looked at her in disbelief. They were wondering whether they should tell her the meaning of ‘Lynching’, or not.
They did not have the strength to tell the old woman exactly what ‘Lynching’ was.
The old woman thought that she ought to bless the boys who had brought such good news to her.
She said, ‘My children, May Allah grant Lynching for all of you...Wait, I will get something sweet for you.’
