this restriction is that we know better how to address the needs of those close to
us, as against those further away. This is not, however, a defence of distance per
se: for a universalist distance is a morally arbitrary fact. Another way in which a
universalist can generate particularist duties is through contract: each person is
assigned rights (more precisely, powers) to enter contracts of various kinds and the
exercise of these rights (or powers) generates relationships which are necessarily
partial. For a universalist the existence of a system of rights must itself be justified
as valuable for all.
Miller argues that universalism relies upon an implausible picture of moral
agency: it draws a sharp line between moral agency and personal identity, and
between moral agency and personal motivation (1995: 57). Applying these concerns
to nationality and global justice Miller rejects two ways in which partiality might
be justified from a universalist standpoint. The first models the nation-state on a
club – just like we choose to join and benefit from a tennis club, and thus acquire
obligations to the club, so we join, or could join, a state. Even if we reject
contractualism as implausible it could still be argued that obligations arise from
enjoyment of the benefits of cooperation. The problem is that this might justify an
individual’s obligation to the state, but it does not justify the world system of states,
with its relatively strong obligations to compatriots and weak obligations to
foreigners. Furthermore, contractualism does not capture the sense of ‘belonging’
that characterises national allegiance – we might develop allegiance to the tennis
club but it is unlikely to be a major part of our identities because we were not
socialised as members of the club.
An alternative argument is from specialisation: although we all have an obligation
to save a life (if our own is not threatened), it is better that we leave the saving of
life to those best qualified. So at the beach we leave it to the lifeguard to save a
drowning person. However, the analogy with partiality towards compatriots does
not work: ‘why does it make sense to assign responsibility for the rights and welfare
of Swedes to other Swedes and the rights and welfare of Somalians to other
Somalians, if we are looking at the question from a global perspective? What is the
equivalent here to the selection and training of the lifeguard?’ (Miller, 1995: 63).
As with the previous argument, this defence of the nation does not account for our
emotional attachment to the nation.
Miller argues that differential treatment depends on recognising the importance
of particularist claims at a basic level. Of two students asking for academic advice,
given restraints on his time, Miller would favour the student from his own (Oxford)
college. This seems reasonable, but only because entry to an Oxford college is the
result of a contract and because the good which is being distributed – advice – is
very closely bound up with the nature of the institution. Miller’s extension of the
example is less defensible: if two students need to be driven to the hospital for
urgent treatment and only one can be taken Miller would again favour the student
from his college. Even in the absence of any other differentiating features between
the students it does not seem a relevant difference that one student belongs to his
college and the other does not, and the hospital example is closer to the case of
global aid than the academic advice one.
In fact, the hospital example does not serve Miller’s case for particularism well.
Part of what motivates particularistic attachments is the presence of reciprocity,
such that ‘outsiders’ – members of other colleges, or citizens of other nations – are
Chapter 22 Global justice 491