What’s the right thing to do?

The year is 1991. Bush, the elder, is in the white house, and the first Gulf War is underway. Eight British soldiers covertly enter Iraq. They are members of the British special forces, the SAS, under the leadership of Sergeant Andy McNab. Their mission is to destroy a communications link so that Saddam Hussein's forces could no longer launch Scud missiles.

It is late in the afternoon of January 24; the soldiers are hiding in a gully, waiting for the cover of darkness before beginning their work. They hear the tinkling of bells and the piping voice of a child. It's a shepherd boy guiding his flock. The soldiers hold their breath as the boy continues walking directly toward their hideout. If he stumbles on them, the shepherd might alert the Iraqi forces camped nearby.

The soldiers lay low but not low enough. The boy sees them, but he doesn't run. Instead, the shepherd stops and peers at the soldiers curiously. One of the soldiers tries to lure the boy into the gully by offering him some chocolate. We will never know what the soldier planned to do with the boy because the shepherd does not take the bait. He turns and runs like hell. McNab does not know if the boy is going home or hurrying to warn Iraqi forces. But there is one thing McNab knows for sure. If the Iraqi soldiers discover the patrol, he and his men could expect no mercy.

There is one sure way to prevent their discovery. McNab trains the sights of his high-powered M16 rifle on the boy's back, and his finger slowly applies pressure to the trigger. McNab is an expert marksman. He could kill the boy with one shot, and protect his soldiers from potential exposure. But McNab does not pull the trigger. No, he thought, we're the British SAS. We don't kill kids. And he allows the boy to escape.

The shepherd runs to the Iraqi camp and shows their leader how to find the patrol. In the ensuing struggle, the SAS soldiers are outgunned and outmanned. Three are killed, one gets away, and four others, including McNab, are captured and cruelly tortured. Despite what happened, McNab has no regrets about letting the shepherd boy go. No matter the consequences, McNab believed that a British soldier should never shoot an unarmed child-not in peacetime, not in war, not ever.

Now, I'd like to tell you another story. It's about a US special forces soldier named Marcus Luttrell. He is a Navy Seal serving in Afghanistan in 2005. He is leading a small patrol of soldiers on a mission behind enemy lines. Halfway up a mountain, they encounter three Afghan goatherds, one of whom is a boy.

The soldiers keep their rifles trained on the goatherds and debate what to do. If they let the goatherds go, they may return to their homes. Or, they may alert the Taliban to the patrol's presence. Unsure what to do, the soldiers vote on whether or not to shoot the goatherds. They are evenly divided. Luttrell, the commander, holds the casting ballot. He listens to his "Christian soul" and votes to release the captives.

The goatherds go straight to the Taliban and tell them how to find the soldiers. The result is a bloodbath; everyone dies except Luttrell. A second detachment, sent to rescue him, is also massacred.

Unlike McNab, Luttrell sorely regrets his actions. In Lone Survivor, the book he wrote about the mission, Luttrell says that voting to let the Afghans go:

Was the stupidest, most southern-fried, lame-brained decision I ever made in my life. I must have been out of my mind. I had actually cast a vote which I knew could sign our death warrant. . . . No night passes when I don't wake in a cold sweat thinking of those moments on the mountain. I'll never get over it. I cannot get over it. . . . It will haunt me till they rest me in an East Texas grave.

Andy McNab, the British soldier, justified his actions by appealing to a moral imperative-it is always wrong to kill an unarmed boy. The idea that some acts are forbidden, or required, regardless of the consequences is the foundation of what is known as deontological ethics ("Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall.")

In contrast to McNab, Marcus Luttrell judged the morality of his action by its tragic consequences. Letting the goatherds go was wrong, he says. Just look at how many people died. Luttrell's outcome-based view of right and wrong is known as utilitarianism; acts should be judged by their consequences. An action is morally right if it promotes "the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people."

Luttrell believes that military leaders must protect their soldiers even if this requires the murder of non-combatants. McNab thinks that there are some things you must never do, whatever the consequences. Who is right?

To answer this question, philosopher, Philippa Foot, devised a thought experiment. The brakes of a tram (trolley) have suddenly failed. Ahead are five people working on the tracks. To avoid killing them, the driver could switch the runaway tram to a branch line, where only one worker on the tracks would be killed. When asked what they would do if they were the driver, practically everyone says they would re-route the tram. They rationalise their decision on utilitarian grounds-one person dead is a better outcome than five dead.

Now imagine there is no branch line, and you are standing on a bridge watching the tram hurtle toward five workers. Alongside you is a big heavy man. If you push him off the bridge, he will land on the track and die when hit by the tram. But he is big enough to stop the tram and save the workers. Would you push the man off the bridge? The consequences are the same as the tram driver's switch to a branch line-five lives saved at the cost of one. Yet, almost everyone says they would not deliberately kill someone to save five others.

It seems that people employ different ethical criteria in the two situations. A utilitarian calculus (five lives versus one) justifies the tram driver diverting to the branch track. On the other hand, pushing someone to his death violates a firmly held moral principle-thou shalt not kill. It seems outcomes are not the only thing that counts when deciding whether an action is right or wrong.

Few of us will ever have to make life-and-death choices such as those faced by McNab and Luttrell. But, our political leaders and health services often deal with life-threatening issues. Confronted with Covid-19, most governments adopted a utilitarian stance. They tried to protect as many people as possible from infection using lockdowns, border closures, curfews, and social distancing rules. At the same time, governments abandoned highly regarded virtues such as compassion, charity and mercy. Relatives were prevented from attending funerals, separated family members could not unite, and businesses were ruined.

As a basis for determining whether an act is good, utilitarianism is not perfect, but deontological ethics are not flawless either. Okonkwo, the protagonist of Chinua Achebe's famous novel, Things Fall Apart, is a natural leader. But, he has a fatal flaw. Okonkwo blindly adheres to traditional moral precepts. Because of his unbending and rigid morals, Okonkwo brings devastation to his village and death to himself.

As a principle, truthfulness is highly prized. George Washington famously confessed to chopping down a cherry tree. He took the punishment rather than lie. But, from a practical viewpoint, insisting on truthfulness may not always lead to the greatest good. Early in the Covid-19 pandemic, public health officials minimised the need for the public to wear face masks. They had only a small supply and wanted to use their masks to protect health workers. When more masks became available, the health officials changed their story.

We all must find a way to live with the consequences of our choices. Marcus Luttrell visited the home of every soldier who died because of his casting vote in Afghanistan. He wanted to personally apologise to the families for his "lame" decision. Think about your own critical decisions. Did you think through the consequences or did you prefer to rely on moral rules and traditions? Perhaps you used both. Where did you find the wisdom to make your choice?

According to Confucius, there are three ways to gain wisdom-reflection, imitation, and experience-the bitterest way to learn (ask Marcus Luttrell). Confucius may not have realised it, but his three routes to wisdom constitute an ideal basis for a university curriculum.

Let's begin with reflection. Every graduate should be familiar with the different paths to wisdom. This requires a broad liberal education that exposes every student to science, the humanities, and other branches of knowledge. Such a comprehensive liberal education is the norm in elite American universities but rare in other countries.

Capstone courses-final year subjects in which students get the opportunity to tie together the theoretical and practical sides of what they have learned-are a particularly valuable method for teaching wisdom. These courses allow students to apply their learning to real-life issues about which well-meaning people hold very different views.

I taught such a course. We began by considering the vexed issue of admission to elite universities. Applicants from deprived backgrounds grow up in homes with few books, rarely go to museums and concerts and often attend substandard schools. Focusing on outcomes, some people argue that fairness demands that these applicants be permitted to enter universities with lower entry scores than students from advantaged backgrounds. Others view "affirmative action" or "positive discrimination" as discriminatory and therefore unfair. Because there are valid arguments on both sides, a nuanced discussion about admissions helps students to clarify for themselves what it means to give someone "a fair go."

In addition to university admission policies, my students debated euthanasia, abortion, stem cell cloning, and other controversial topics. My course did not seek to teach students what to think about contentious issues; it was designed to show them how to think. Graduates capable of thinking for themselves are likely to make more enlightened contributions to the common good than those who blindly follow the opinions of others.

I am not naïve. A capstone course, by itself, can not ensure that students will behave wisely. For this reason, universities must also provide opportunities for Confucius' second method of gaining wisdom-imitation.

Universities and academics that expect students to develop practical wisdom must demonstrate it themselves. They must act as moral role models. For example, a university planning to spend a lot of money employing a celebrity architect rather than an unknown one can create a learning opportunity. Is paying the additional cost of a celebrity architect the best use of funds? Might it be better to spend the extra money commanded by the celebrity architect on scholarships, research, or staff salaries? Debating such questions in a university with transparent decision-making processes can provide an excellent opportunity for students to practice making wise decisions.

To complete their job of endowing graduates with wisdom, universities must also expose students to Confucius's third method for gaining wisdom-experience. Life can offer bitter lessons, but as Gu Yanwu knew, the road to understanding is long and winding. Universities can start graduates on the road to wisdom by providing opportunities to participate in clubs, sports teams, orchestras, choirs, and political and religious societies. They can also offer students work experience and a chance to study in different countries.

Why should universities do these things? Because lectures and book learning are only part of education. Living with other students, joining clubs and societies, volunteering to help others and playing on sporting teams are vital to working and communicating with others. By participating in extracurricular activities, students learn to keep their promises, be dependable, and meet deadlines. They develop tolerance and a sense of fair play. These are the building blocks of practical wisdom.

There is one more thing that students learn from undertaking experiences outside of the classroom; they learn about their capabilities. In ancient Greece, the entrance to the Temple of Apollo in Delphi had "Know Thyself" engraved in its entry. Lao Tzu, the famous Chinese philosopher, said that mastering the self is necessary for true wisdom.

How do students come to know and master themselves? One way is to put them in challenging situations. Universities hope that no student will ever have to face the terrible choices that confronted Andy McNab and Marcus Luttrell. Still, if they want students to become wise, universities must stop indulging them and allow students to face challenges-to fail, pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and start all over again.

By combining Confucius' three roads to wisdom-reflection, imitation and experience-universities can build a bridge of understanding between the classroom and the wider world. That bridge is called practical wisdom. A successful university is one that gets its graduates to the other side of that bridge.