The Neighbor's Donkey: Responsibility and Evasion

Fatalism or rebellion: are both forms of evasion? From Hofstede to Kierkegaard and Camus, a philosophical essay on where genuine ethical responsibility lives.

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Starting from early 1980s, while working at IBM, Dutch social psychologist and anthropologist Geert Hofstede researched measuring cultural values in dozens of countries for over twenty years[1]. Although his interpretations may be open to debate, they yielded results that were intriguing and yet unsettling. The figures sometimes seemed to contradict our intuitions and what we had come to take for granted.

Hofstede initially assessed cultures across geographical locations using over 100,000 surveys and six dimensions. Two dimensions in Hofstede’s model are particularly relevant to this discussion. Power distance measured the extent to which power inequalities are accepted within a society. The second dimension, uncertainty avoidance, measured the degree of discomfort felt in the face of uncertainty and the extent to which people rely on rules and authority figures to reduce this discomfort[2].

The Arab world, and the wider Middle East, scored significantly above the global average on both these dimensions. On a scale ranging from zero to 120, power distance stood at 80 (compared to a global average of approximately 55), while uncertainty avoidance was 68. Hofstede’s observation was that in societies where both these values were high, leaders attained almost absolute power, and the rules generated by that power served to reinforce it.

The corresponding concept in social psychology is Julian Rotter’s locus of control theory. Individuals with an external locus of control view events as the product of external forces, independent of their own actions, and tend to internalise personal responsibility to a lesser extent. Studies based on samples from the Middle East indicate that an external locus of control is relatively widespread in the region. However, as the distinction between whether this stems from religion, historical conditions or structural inequalities has not been clearly established, the matter remains controversial.

It is important to note that these figures do not measure the ‘nature’ of the populations under study, but rather trends within a specific timeframe that are the product of historical and cultural conditions. Trends can and do change with time and circumstances. Recent research indicates a marked shift in these dimensions, particularly amongst younger generations. In short, these figures are not destiny.

I cannot help but ask: why are these trends so persistent or effective over such long periods? And are they unique to the Middle East?

There is a widespread belief that the West has internalised individual responsibility. If we look solely at the philosophers, the intellectual lineage stretching from Descartes to Kant, and from Kierkegaard to Sartre, seems to say: ‘You are responsible for your own actions; there is no escape.’

Yet there is a deep chasm between this intellectual history and the actual propensities of Western societies. Social psychologist Henri Tajfel’s social identity theory (SIT)[3] states that as people define themselves through their group identity, a tendency to disparage and blame those outside the group automatically kicks in. Indeed, this mechanism is universal. We have seen it at work particularly acutely in Western societies in recent years. In the wake of economic failures, social tensions and political crises, an ‘other’ emerges almost as a reflex. Migrants, refugees, minorities, foreigners, globalisation, the elite, the ‘deep state’. I call this a form of political demonisation.

While theological fatalism says, ‘It is what it is; it is God’s will’, political demonisation says, ‘It is what it is; it is their fault’. In fact, both shift responsibility onto something outside themselves. One to God, the other to the enemy. The mechanism is identical. Only the target changes.

Escaping responsibility is not merely an Eastern weakness, but a human weakness. It speaks different languages across different cultures, theological, political, psychological… but it carries the same structure.

What has happened has happened. It was written that way. Whether it is called God’s will, the inevitability of deterministic history, or the laws of nature, the result is the same. The individual surrenders to a power beyond themselves, and this surrender brings exemption from responsibility.

On the other hand, the system is flawed. It is their fault. The structure is rotten, power is corrupt, society is sick… So, what can I do? Criticism, rebellion and anger are legitimate, but beneath these emotions lies, more often than not, a silent resignation; it is easier to blame others than to take one’s own share of responsibility.

Both approaches postpone genuine ethical responsibility, that is, taking ownership of both one’s own donkey and one’s neighbour’s.

Here, it may be worth recalling the Islamic distinction between ‘tawaakul’ and true ‘tawakkul’. Two Arabic words come from the same origin. Tawaakul advise complete surrender to God, doing nothing, whereas tawakkul, is act first then surrender[4]. Tawakkul is ‘tie your donkey to a sturdy post, then put your trust in God’. Action comes first. Yet in popular practice, this principle is often reversed: the rhetoric of ‘putting one’s trust in God’ is used not before action, but in place of action, and thus becomes mere resignation. A beautiful concept is transformed into a cloak for escape.

In the West, rejectionism also involves a similar reversal. Criticism of the system is legitimate and necessary. There is no disputing that. But the shift from the observation that ‘the system is flawed’ to the conclusion that ‘therefore, there is nothing I need to do’ is the same maneuver. Criticism should be the foundation for responsibility, not a means to evade it. Often, it doesn’t work that way.

A Danish theologian in the mid-19th century and a French novelist of Algerian origin writing in the mid-20th century, independently of one another, grappled with the same question. And while they offered very different answers. Yet, there is a point where these answers intersect. It is precisely that point that lies at the very heart of this essay.

Kierkegaard’s concern was Hegel. Hegel, envisioned a grand system that explains everything and dissolves the individual into the collective flow of history. Against this view, Kierkegaard defended the individual… who does not surrender to the system, to the crowd or the inevitability of history.  He stands alone before God and makes a choice in his solitude. That choice offers no guarantees. The outcome is unknown. And yet, and precisely for this reason, choice bears its ethical weight. The crowd tells lies. Truth always lies with the minority; indeed, it often resides in a single conscience[5].

Camus, however, begins from the exact opposite position. God does not exist, or at the very least, is silent. The universe offers no answers to our questions of meaning. Nor does it have any such concern. Faced with this silence, there are two easy ways out. Either submission (religious or ideological) through the invention of meaning, or nihilism. Camus rejects both. For him rebellion, is to see the universe as it is, to accept its meaninglessness, and yet, precisely because of this, to live, to cling to life.

The point where the two meet is neither to beautify the universe nor to reject it. It is to see it as it is, merciless, uncertain, without guarantees, and yet to accept our responsibility. This is what neither submission nor rejection does. Both shy away from seeing the universe as it is: one by portraying it as full of meaning, the other by portraying it as entirely evil.

And this evasion, the evasion of seeing the world as it is, takes ethical responsibility with it. Because seeing the world as it is means seeing both my own limits and my neighbor's situation as they actually are.

This is exactly where Kierkegaard and Camus keep returning: however heavy the system the domain of the individual's intention and responsibility cannot be intervened from outside. It always remains theirs. Their freedom and their obligation.

When we speak of ethical responsibility, what usually comes to mind are grand, dramatic moments: historical turning points, tests of conscience, heroism or betrayal. But the true fabric of ethical responsibility lies in the everyday. And the hardest thing in everyday life is not taking responsibility for one’s own donkey, but for one’s neighbour’s as well.

When taking my own share is already difficult, whether I am a fatalist or a rebel… why must I take responsibility for my neighbour’s share? There are two easy answers to this question: ‘Greater powers than me are already determining this’ (the submissive answer) or ‘Let the system be put right first’ (the dismissive answer). Both answers postpone what can be done concretely, right here and now, for this neighbour (or for people, animals, and nature).

Kierkegaard’s concept of individual choice and Camus’s notion of solidarity converge at this point. For Camus, rebellion is not individual. He declares, ‘I rebel, therefore we exist.[6]’ It is not singular, but plural. For a genuine ethical stance cannot be established without recognising another’s suffering as one’s own. This recognition does not require a grand ideology or a system of belief. A single moment, a single glance, a single decision may suffice.

But there is a trap here too. Camus recognises this. Taking charge of one’s neighbour’s donkey can turn into making decisions for the neighbour, despite the neighbour. Every ideology, every revolution, every redemptive narrative that claims, ‘I know what is best for you,’ has experienced this shift. The line between taking responsibility and speaking on behalf of another is fine and perilous.

True ethical responsibility lies on this fine line. Neither indifference nor paternalism. Looking after your neighbour’s donkey, but not riding it on their behalf without asking.

Both submission and rejection exist in history and in every culture today. There are differences in degree, let us say they are measurable as well, and they have consequences. But the structure is universal. To be human is to find creative ways to evade responsibility. This human creativity knows no bounds.

In my view, the significance of Kierkegaard and Camus lies not in their providing the correct answer. They do not claim to have solved anything, after all. Having seen the universe as it is, both refuse to evade responsibility. One does so not in spite of God, but in the presence of God. The other not in spite of meaninglessness, but within meaninglessness. Yet both stand in the same place: without guarantees, without consolation, yet still taking ownership.

This stance requires neither a theological system nor a political programme. It requires decision-making, ethical decision-making that is. This decision presents itself to us day after day, on a small scale, time and time again.

Tying up one’s own donkey is a start. But looking after one’s neighbour’s is the real question.

What is it that prevents us from asking this question?