Discrimination is mostly a matter of personal freedom

In Leonard Cohen’s song Chelsea Hotel, there is a wry line about Janis Joplin: “She told me again she preferred handsome men, but for me she would make an exception.” It is a small, human moment, revealing Joplin’s tendency to discriminate—in her case, against men she did not find handsome.

That kind of discrimination is not only understandable but universal. Every day, all of us discriminate in one way or another: in our friendships, our romantic preferences, our choice of company, even in the foods we eat or the neighbourhoods we live in. Discrimination, in its broadest sense, is simply the act of choosing.

The question, then, is not whether discrimination exists, but whether governments should have the power to regulate it.

I was reminded of this years ago when my mother told me she voted for one party rather than another because she thought the leader of the opposing side had eyes that were too close together. She, too, was discriminating—albeit on aesthetic rather than political grounds. The point is that discrimination permeates life, from the trivial to the profound.

Yet in politics, it raises serious questions: when should discrimination be prohibited, and when should it be considered a matter of personal freedom? Where is the line between protecting people from harm and intruding into private decision-making?

There is no doubt that some forms of discrimination are abhorrent. During the apartheid era in South Africa, where I once lived and worked, discrimination was codified into law. People were forcibly segregated by race, with separate buses, toilets, entrances, and neighbourhoods. Apartheid was not a matter of private preference—it was a government policy imposed through violence and coercion. That kind of institutionalised discrimination was an assault on human equality, and its abolition was both necessary and just.

Yet even in post-apartheid South Africa, patterns of separation remain. Predominantly black, white, and coloured neighbourhoods still exist, not because of state coercion but because people tend to live among those with whom they feel most comfortable. This is voluntary discrimination—personal preference, not government policy—and it represents a fundamental distinction. Freedom means the right to choose, even when those choices are guided by taste, tradition, or bias.

In Australia today, it is illegal to discriminate on an ever-expanding list of grounds: race, colour, descent, national or ethnic origin, age, disability, gender, sexual orientation, intersex status, gender identity, marital or relationship status, pregnancy, family responsibilities, religion, political opinion, social origin, criminal record, medical record, and trade union activity.

These laws apply across employment, education, accommodation, clubs, sport, and the provision of goods and services. In theory, they are meant to ensure fairness and equality. But in practice, they often extend government authority deep into the realm of private decision-making.

A woman with Janis Joplin’s taste in men would be safe from such laws only because her preferences are private and not commercial. Yet the principle remains: what we find attractive, comfortable, or acceptable is an inherently personal matter. Should the law really compel us to ignore our preferences—or punish us for acting on them?

There is, of course, a vital difference between government discrimination and private discrimination. When the state favours certain groups over others, it violates the fundamental principle of equality before the law. A government that treats its citizens differently based on race, gender, or belief is unjust by definition. But when private individuals or organisations make choices about whom to associate with, hire, or serve, the issue is not equality before the law—it is freedom of association.

Governments exist to protect life, liberty, and property, not to safeguard feelings or to police attitudes. When laws attempt to regulate private discrimination, they do so largely to prevent hurt or offence. That may seem compassionate, but it is not the proper role of government. We do not legislate good manners; nor should we legislate against private preference.

Suppose we abolished all anti-discrimination laws outside the realm of government. Would businesses suddenly rush to exclude customers or employees based on race, gender, or religion? It seems unlikely. In a free market, bigotry is bad for business. Firms that refused service to certain groups would face social backlash, economic boycotts, and competition from more inclusive rivals. The pressure of public opinion and economic self-interest are more effective deterrents to discrimination than any law could be.

The assumption underlying anti-discrimination legislation is that making bias illegal will eradicate it. But there is little evidence to support that claim. Prohibiting offensive speech does not eliminate prejudice; it merely drives it underground. Likewise, banning discriminatory behaviour does not change private thought. If Janis Joplin had been legally forbidden from preferring handsome men, she would not have found plain ones any more attractive.

We all discriminate in our choices—of friends, partners, employees, and beliefs. It is an inescapable part of human nature. To outlaw discrimination entirely would be to outlaw choice itself. The key question, then, is not how to eliminate discrimination, but how to distinguish between harmful and harmless forms. When discrimination involves coercion or violence, as in apartheid, it must be opposed. When it simply reflects personal preference, it should be left alone.

Freedom necessarily includes the freedom to make choices that others may find foolish, unfair, or offensive. A truly tolerant society allows individuals to act according to their own values, provided they do not violate the rights of others. Governments should protect equality before the law, not equality of outcome. They should defend our liberty, not direct our moral taste.

Discrimination, in its many forms, is part of being human. We can condemn it morally or socially, but we should be wary of giving the state power to control it. Once governments begin legislating virtue, freedom becomes conditional on approval. A society that values liberty must trust its citizens to make their own choices—even when they have “untrustworthy eyes.”