in the culture we have created for ourselves with the best of intentions: to protect the weak and to deter the aggressor.
Today, it seems we have a desire to do everything possible. We want to stretch the limits: cure the incurable, reach the unreachable, do the undoable, explore the inaccessible, travel to the most exotic and impossible places. Yet at the same time we have never been so internally reflective, so obsessed with ourselves and our feelings, so dedicated to understanding ourselves. Our gaze runs both to the furthest horizons and into the deepest recesses of ourselves. Yet by our desire to go to the extremes in medical treatments we often cause damage and bring suffering, as well as sometimes achieving miraculous cures. By our desire to go to the furthest reaches of the world we may cause environmental damage or destroy the lives of those we encounter. And, as we look deeper and deeper into ourselves, we lose the will to think beyond ourselves to others, lose the inclination to help others, to serve others, to work for others, to look into the middle or near distance. We fail to deal with what we find at our feet or in our communities.
This is, of course, a huge generalization. Yet our obsession with self–which may not necessarily be selfish but is perhaps self-indulgent–does lead to some strange behaviour. As the death of Princess Diana recedes into the middle distance, it is hard to remember the reaction many people had to it. Yet a walk through London’s parks in those days immediately after her death was a curious experience. All over, there were groups of people–largely women–sitting in small groups, often round a lighted candle, contemplating, reminiscing, remembering, memorializing. But they were not, after the first few minutes, thinking of Princess Diana. Their grief, though real and genuine at the time, was not truly about the death of the fairy princess. This was something quite different. They were remembering themselves, grieving for those they had not grieved for before, remembering mothers, fathers, siblings, even children, remembering the grandparents whose funerals they had not been allowed to go to. This was a sentimental wash of grief, hitherto unexpressed and even unrecognized. But the mood was not one of enormous sadness over Princess Diana’s death. The sadness was for them, and it played out as something truly self-indulgent. It also meant that those participating were looking inward, at themselves and their experiences, one of the curses of our age, rather than thinking about what outward action they might be taking to improve things for others worse off than themselves.
This, perhaps, has been the most dramatic recent example of group behaviour that caused a combined rush of sentimentality and genuine grief. Self-indulgence was combined with necessary grieving processes, sometimes much delayed. Yet the light was not shone externally. We were not looking to see who else might be suffering, or why. Instead, the light was directed inwardly, on ourselves. What we felt became what mattered. When the Queen did not come straight back to London from Scotland, we complained–irrespective of what her feelings might have been, or her desire to protect her two grandchildren. The Queen needed to be back at Buckingham Palace because we wanted her there. It was an astonishing example of the triumph of the group desire for personal gratification over common sense and understanding. Yet part of this desire to look inside ourselves is precisely what leads to that lack of a longer, more measured view. Though psychotherapy has brought great gains, it has encouraged an emphasis on personal priorities over those of the group; and whilst counselling has made a huge difference to many people with a variety of mental health problems, as a tool for everyday self-examination it can, at worst, lead to an inability to act.
What has happened might be argued to be an unfortunate confluence of events–or of intellectual and emotional pressures. At the same time that individualism became paramount, the then Prime Minister, Mrs (now Lady) Thatcher was alleged to have declared that there was no such thing as society and consumerism hit its heights, making the consumer king, rather than the citizen. Concurrently, the obsession with introspection grew in intensity, combined with a political and philosophical view that the individual should control what happened to him or her. The combination of all these factors led to a distaste for looking at the welfare of society as a whole. As a philosophy, utilitarianism–the doctrine that the correct course of action consists in the greatest good for the greatest number–was held in severe disrepute. Individual endeavour was what was needed. Utilitarianism might deter the huge efforts, for huge gains, of the talented entrepreneur. Society looked less at the welfare of the whole and more at the welfare of the individual, whilst the intervention of the state was seen to be less than desirable, and often less than benevolent to boot. In addition, it was perhaps inevitable that a utilitarian state found it difficult to deal with minorities of whatever kind since it was predicated on the idea of a one-size-fits-all approach to the world. There was little appreciation that minorities might choose not to fit, something that needs to be remembered when ideas about multiculturalism are becoming unfashionable and the opposing idea that we should all comply with something uniquely British is growing again.
This contrasts curiously with a strongly held belief in the values of the National Health Service, the only truly universal service in the UK, used by everyone. The NHS was predicated originally on the idea that the best possible care would be provided for the greatest number of people. It encapsulated utilitarianism at its height, in an immediately post-war world in which having a population fit enough to work well to rebuild Britain was a priority. The original view was that universal health care would lead to a country in which everyone would be healthy and less state care would be necessary. It did not work out like that; indeed, pressures on costs have continued throughout the history of the service. The NHS expressed a philosophy–these days a series of values which do not wholly fit together–about the obligation of society to look after the sick and the needy. We pool the risk, and we share the care and the responsibility. Despite worries about quality and standards, and worries as to whether the service will be there for us when we need it most, the NHS is still highly trusted and much loved, even though there are concerns about its ability to provide a service fit for the new millennium. The welfare state may have its difficulties, but the UK population still believes in it. The way it works may change: there needs to be greater choice, greater acknowledgement of diversity. But by providing health services relatively cheaply and efficiently to the whole population, the NHS is part of the glue that holds British society together.
For we are individuals now. We demand things. We go for the personal. We understand our own needs. The idea that we might not be able to have what we believe we want and need is anathema to us. We have become demanders, not citizens; we look to ourselves rather than to society as a whole. This tendency is not new, but it has acquired far greater weight. The words so often uttered, particularly by elderly people, until just a few years ago, that ‘I have had my turn, it’s someone else’s go now’ are becoming rare. We see no need to moderate our demands. We see no reason to say that we have had our share. It is no longer about our fair share, but instead about when we feel-as autonomous individuals-that we have had enough.
The idea of an obligation to society, beyond the demands we ourselves wish to make, has become unfashionable. Utilitarianism is out of the window, as is mutualism. We are into understanding ourselves, into self-improvement, into improving our homes, our looks, our minds. Our view of faith is also increasingly individualistic. We choose the elements of faith that suit us. Individual salvation is part of the appeal of the evangelical movement. Personal salvation is the carrot held out. But the requirements which our faiths put upon us to consider others may get less than their fair expression. Despite all the surveys demonstrating widespread belief in God, despite the huge readership of religious books and the increasing attendance at evangelical churches, the idea of social solidarity-about evening up the inequalities, about making a difference to groups or individuals who suffer-has taken a battering.
This book seeks to examine some of these issues. It does not attempt to be a philosophical work, nor a work of political theory. Rather, it is an attempt to show the ordinary reader where we have got to with our system of care for the less fortunate, and why, and to examine whether there are things we can do to improve it. Though the welfare state will be seen by some as being critiqued in the book, I am a profound believer in its values. But I also believe that, in the light of social change and huge increases in wealth and expectations, we will need to reassess what we can reasonably expect to provide
