By Atiq Raja
There’s an enduring belief that morality is an absolute force, a steady light guiding us through the murky waters of human behavior. We like to think of it as a universal truth, a fixed compass that points clearly toward what is right and away from what is wrong. But history, culture, and lived experience consistently show us that this isn’t quite the case. Morality, in truth, is far more complicated, far more human — shaped not by some cosmic decree but by context, necessity, and the passage of time. To speak of morality as a fixed ideal is to ignore the reality of how people have lived, adapted, and justified their actions over centuries. “Do not kill” sounds like an absolute, but we have made exceptions — in wars, in self-defence, in the name of justice.
“Do not steal” is a rule echoed in almost every society, and yet it crumbles in the face of poverty or revolution. A starving child taking bread isn’t seen the same way as a banker siphoning millions. These distinctions matter. They tell us that morality is not about hard rules but about the values and stories we attach to situations. And then there’s Socrates — a man punished by his own society for daring to think too deeply, for questioning the gods and the norms of his time. His moral courage was condemned by those around him, yet generations later, we hold him up as the father of critical thought. That shift is revealing. It tells us morality is not only what a society deems acceptable, but what it is willing — or unwilling — to understand. Cultures around the world prove this daily. What is honorable in one might be offensive in another.
The South Asian tradition of arranged marriages, for instance, is rooted in familial respect and social harmony. To many in the West, however, it appears restrictive, even coercive. Neither culture is wrong in its own context, but their interpretations of what is morally correct vary dramatically. The same applies to what we eat, how we dress, and how we define family, love, or success. These differences do not weaken the idea of morality; they humanize it. Religions, too, offer frameworks of morality — rich, diverse, and often contradictory. At their core, most preach compassion, truth, humility. But when it comes to modesty, justice, or the role of women, their teachings diverge. And even within the same religion, interpretations change across time and geography.
What was once read as divine command is now often debated, reinterpreted, even challenged. This is not heresy. It is evolution — a necessary one. Consider how societies have treated slavery, women’s rights, or same-sex relationships. Not so long ago, slavery was accepted as the economic backbone of empires. It was legally defended, religiously justified, and morally normalized. Today, it is an unthinkable atrocity. The transformation did not come because the world discovered a new rulebook. It came because we listened to those who suffered, who resisted, who made their humanity impossible to ignore. The same can be said of women’s right to vote, to work, to speak, to lead. Or the long fight for LGBTQ+ rights — still ongoing, still controversial in many parts of the world, but undeniably a reflection of shifting moral awareness.
So what does it mean when we say morality evolves? It means we are learning. Slowly, often painfully, but learning nonetheless. With each generation comes the opportunity to question what we inherited, to keep what is compassionate and discard what is cruel. This evolution requires more than intelligence; it needs empathy — the ability to see life through the eyes of another. But here lies the danger. When people cling to the belief that their moral framework is the only correct one, they stop listening. This kind of moral absolutism has led to some of the darkest chapters in human history. Colonialism was justified as a “civilizing mission”. Religious wars were waged to “save souls”. Genocide has often been cloaked in the language of moral purification. The damage was done not just with guns or fire, but with the terrifying conviction that only one truth deserved to exist.
To believe that our values are superior is to silence others. It kills the conversation. And morality, if it is to have any use at all, must be a conversation — a constant act of questioning, listening, and responding. It is not a commandment, handed down to be obeyed without thought. It is a dialogue, written and rewritten by every generation. Of course, none of this means morality is meaningless. Relativism — the idea that everything is acceptable if someone, somewhere, believes it — is not the goal. There are still things we must stand against: cruelty, injustice, indifference. But we must also carry humility with us. The humility to admit that our moral compass is not infallible.
The humility to adjust, to grow, to be willing to learn from others — especially from those who have suffered under the weight of systems we never had to question. In a time when the world feels increasingly polarized — politically, culturally, ideologically — this openness becomes even more vital. Moral certainty might feel reassuring, but it is often a disguise for fear. Fear of change. Fear of difference. What we need instead is the courage to be morally curious. Morality is not carved in stone. It is written on the ever-shifting pages of human consciousness. It listens. It changes. It grows. And in that growth lies its real strength — not in absoluteness, but in its humanity.
(The writer is a rights activist and CEO of AR Trainings and Consultancy, with degrees in Political Science and English Literature, can be reached at news@metro-morning.com)
