This special issue originated in a series of dynamic conference sessions at the Association of American Geographers and the Royal Geographical Society/Institute of British Geographers in 2006 that engaged participants in a dialogue about the whispered frustrations and dilemmas involved in doing collaborative work. Of particular concern to those involved was the debate about institutional ethics versus ethical practice which, while not limited to participatory research, is thrown into sharp relief when considering participatory practice. Our sessions became safe spaces to publicly air grievances, share strategies, and work collectively to understand and respond to the tensions between institutional ethics and participatory ethical practices. On the one hand, researchers seem increasingly subject to a restrictive, inflexible and top-down view of what ‘ethics’ should be, via the codes of human subject panels which we are expected to adhere to. On the other hand, debates about what participatoryethics might be emphasize an emergent process of negotiating research ethics with participants based on their concerns. All of the papers in this collection touch upon these issues, which are of particular concern because of the demands of ethical clearance from universities and the institutions that fund and control research.
There is another potential problem with Treib et al’s analysis of modes of governance in the policy dimension. This is that a focus on instrument types alone tells us nothing about the degree to which practices may change on the ground. Consider the two modes of governance of coercion. Within the schema, the coercive mode emerges as superior to the other modes because it is a consequence of both binding and rigid rules. But the effectiveness of binding and rigid rules in addressing any particular policy issue entirely depends on where they set the bar. If the bar is set at a level at or below what most actors are doing already, agreement on a binding, rigid coercive treaty may be feasible but its effectiveness would be in doubt. While this is not exclusively Treib et al’s problem, any analysis of governance needs to be constantly alive to this issue, since there is considerable evidence at national and international levels that the compromises necessary to get agreement on coercive policies result in regulatory arrangements that are insufficient to address the problem they were ostensibly designed to fix.
Of particular interest here is the distinction that MacIntyre makes in After Virtue between social practices and social institutions. 10 Generally speaking, MacIntyre holds that practices are ‘good,’ ethically speaking, whereas institutions are ‘bad.’ Practices can be associated with certain internal goods. 11 These are inherent to the practice in question and are valuable for their own sake. Examples of such goods include health and education. These are not of value because they are a means to an end. Instrumental rationality, as that notion is understood by Max Weber, and later by the theorists of The Frankfurt School, is not the kind of rationality that MacIntyre associates with practices and with the motivation of individual practitioners. Institutions, on the other hand, are to be associated, not with internal but rather with external goods. Here, following Max Weber, MacIntyre has in mind such things as wealth, status and power. The motivation of those who are associated with institutions, especially those who direct, administer or manage them is not, therefore, the same as the motivation of practitioners. MacIntyre argues that practices cannot exist independently of some form or other of institutional support. They can only exist concretely (to employ an Hegelian notion), that is to say in a particular institutional form. There is always, therefore, going to be a tension or a conflict within a particular social institution between practitioners and managers over the ownership of the institution, having to do with decision taking, policy making, and overall control of the institution and the direction in which it is moving as it evolves historically over time. In MacIntyre’s account there is an inherent tendency for practices to become institutionalised, or for degeneration and corruption to set in. This is very far from that optimistic view of historical progress that is usually associated with utopianism.
We thus open up crisis mapping to questions of politics and power, drawing on empirical analysis of a selection of crisis maps from 2011. Rather than focussing on a detailed examination of one map, our paper covers a range of examples to show the diversity of practices known as ‘crisis mapping’. Crisis maps evolve from crisis to crisis, particularly as success stories about the creation of maps in one context inspire others to make new maps as new crises arise. Different crises have led to different sorts of maps – some made by anonymous individuals, some supported by established institutions for disaster response. Natural disasters require different sorts of information and differ in purpose from maps of political conflicts. Maps that support local responses to a crisis differ too from maps that inform a larger audience outside the crisis zone. In each case the nature of participation can also vary due to factors such as digital divide, literacy, and the sorts of resources available. Nonetheless, common across all crisis maps, is that they are in someway designed or intended to facilitate and represent the input of a crowd.
Hence, the representation of violence has to analyze through its body and geo- politics understanding and its implications in every day and material practices. Precisely, this has been the line explored by authors such as Das, Feldman and Agambem, who I am using here, where from different perspectives and approaches, violence is understood of symbolic and material levels, operating both through a structural and every day experience of violence. On the other side, it is essential to highlight how the different narratives coming from the State, international institutions, academics, NGOs, social movements, etc, construct the social identities of the victims via specific cultural representations, through media, news, official state discourses, etc. We have to understand the implications of these cultural representations; although here I will not dwell into the genealogy of these representations, it is clear that this is an urgent project for future work.
Even governments who welcome citizen participation in processes of policy dialogue, planning, or service delivery, frequently lack political will when it comes to giving citizens and CSOs a say in allocating public resources. Part 3 looks at three cases of building political will for participatory budgeting. First, Takawira Mumvuma shares lessons about how participatory budget- ing was successfully introduced in a ﬁnancially strapped, rural community in Zimbabwe. Second, Elizabeth Pinnington explores how political will for participatory budgeting was nurtured, but this time in a relatively prosper- ous, culturally diverse, urban community in Canada. Finally, Ronald MacLean-Abaroa, former mayor of La Paz and Minister of Finance of Bolivia, describes how the adoption of a nationwide Popular Participation approach transformed citizen–state relations, by involving ordinary citizens in the allocation of resources at the municipal level and subsequently invit- ing civil society representatives from marginalized communities to help determine the appropriate use of more than US$1.5 billion in debt relief.
Balancing Opportunities for Empowerment With Exposure to Risk At this point, the majority of the literature on digital media and youth civic engagement focuses on whether, how, and for whom digital media participation supports civic engagement. However, there is also reason to believe that there are risks inherent to participatorypolitics. These tools may be used for exploitation, as evidenced by studies of political extremists who tailor online propaganda to youth audiences. 27 At the same time, online
2 governments (Barlow, 1996). For left of centre progressives it could enable stronger participatory democracy through the emergence of online Agoras and Habermasian forums (Habermas 1962; Hague and Loader 1999). The history of science and technology provide many instances of the fanfare of transformative rhetoric which accompanies the emergence of ‘new’ innovations and which are then often followed by disappointment and more measured appraisal (Bijker et al., 1987). So perhaps it should have been little surprise that the utopian perspectives of the first generation of digital democracy were quickly replaced by findings that documented the myopia of such visions (Hill and Hughes, 1998; Wilhelm, 2000). Instead of transforming representative democracy the new media, as Hill and Hughes suggested, was more likely to be shaped by the existing entrenched social and economic interests of contemporary societies (1998:182). By the turn of the millennium a more accurate picture of the influence of the internet upon democratic governance was emerging as the technologies were understood as a part of the mundane activities of ‘everyday life’ (Wellman and Haythornthwaite, 2002). Here was to be found the factionalism, prejudice and abuse which have all too often mired the aspirations of deliberative decision- making (Doctor and Dutton, 1998). But perhaps more significantly the very idea of a virtual Habermasian public sphere was subjected to extensive critiques from cultural studies scholars (McKee, 2005) and feminist theorists (van Zoonen, 2005). They have revealed how such models of deliberative democracy frequently privilege a particular style of ‘rational’ communication that largely favours white, wealthy males to the exclusion of other identities (Pateman, 1989; Fraser, 1990).
The Belmont Report drew upon existing principles in research such as those first codified in the 1947 Nuremburg Code, which delineated appropriate treatment of human subjects in medical research (Mitscherlich and Mielke, 1949; Belmont Report, 1979; United States Holocaust Memorial Museum (USHMM), 2007a; 2007b). It set out ten principles, focusing first on informed consent, and laying out expectations of benefits to humanity of experimentation, as weighed against possible harm to participants. The Code’s influence on behavioral (or social) scientific research resulted from public and scholarly debates about appropriate research ethics from the end of World War Two into the 1970s (Belmont Report, 1979). The “prison experiment” research of Zimbardo (Haney, Banks and Zimbardo, 1973, in Schutt, 2004; Zimbardo 1973, in Singleton and Straits, 2005), for example, which caused psychological distress among volunteer participants, highlighted the importance of formal research ethics for behavioral as well as biomedical research (Schutt, 2004; Singleton and Straits, 2005).
While the related work in the previous sections re- viewed work on ethics including but not limited to ethics and NLP, in this section, we discuss the types of ethical issues that we are aware, and give some examples from the NLP literature. We will link each type to one or more parts of Floridi’s model. An interesting question is what specif- ically is different in NLP with respect to ethics compared to other data-related topics or ethics in general. This question can be split into two parts: first, since it pertains to human language process- ing, and human language touches many parts of life, these areas also have an ethics dimension. For example, languages define linguistic commu- nities, so inclusion and bias become relevant top- ics. Second, NLP is about processing by machine. This means that automation (and its impact on work) and errors (and their impact, whether inten- tional or not) become ethical topics. Furthermore, if NLP systems are used as (information) access mechanism, accessibility is another concern (in- clusion of language-impaired users).
Valle and Perrewe examined political behaviors as a critical, but ignored element within the model of traditional organizations. They found that job environment as an organizational element of political behavior tendencies is preferred to the set of organizational and individual variables in these institutions. Finally, the perception of political behaviors demonstrated that these behaviors are mediation effects between previous variables such as employees’ work insecurity and anxiety, and job satisfaction and job commitment (9). Our research is aimed to study political behavior tendencies among the employees of Tehran University of Medical Sciences.
The ‘market fundamentalism’ that rings through Schmidt’s pride in an inevitable capitalism is precisely the form of neoliberal ideologizing that an anarchic business ethics would seek to undermine. In question is the ideology that neoliberal capitalism is the right and only ‘possible direction for human historical development’ (Graeber, 2009: 3). It’s called capitalism! So justified in the words of Google’s CEO that he can assert that his organization is proud of being capitalistic. In direct contention to such self-important hubris, it is in the spirit of human fellowship and respect that ethical anarchy teaches us we might have a healthy disrespect for the ethical possibilities of a single sovereign institution or organization. It teaches us too that business ethics is far too important to be left in the hands of business. Work and commerce are needed for ethics to be sure, but through their organization on a global level we encounter the inherent possibilities of oppression, exploitation, discrimination, deception, greed and selfishness on a huge scale. All justified so long as they can be conducted without contravention of the laws of the state. It is the trace of the ethically anarchical appreciation of the other person that might lead us away from and against such possibilities; a primal respect for the unknowability of the other. This ethical anarchy prompts the need to disturb and decenter corporate power, lest it continues to get carried away with itself. It is this political disturbance that marks the space of an anarchical business ethics that practices political anarchism.
Issues of ethical and moral conduct and behaviour are fiercely debated on an on-going basis in many walks of life. The issues of ethics and morality overlap notions of the law in some respects (for example they are all about choices between what is right and what is wrong). However, there seems to be a lack of awareness in academic circles about the possible legal repercussions of unethical conduct in research. References to the law are almost non-existent in discussions of research ethics. References that do occur tend to display too narrow a view of what the law is and do not reflect an ability to give due consideration to the legal implications of the granting of ethics clearance. Very little attention seems to be given to alerting researchers and clearance-granting agencies to the legal risks to which they might be exposed during and subsequent to the conducting of a research project.
In the act of formally carrying out research I became a representative from Hobbes’ world. In keeping with ethics review processes, we have had to formalise access to the information. The guidance on research ethics suggests researchers should secure a signature from the participant indicating that they give informed consent to the research process. Formalising the process before they have said a word and without giving them an opportunity to think about what they are signing away, see what the process will be like, and then negotiate how they want their words used with me turns a pleasant cup of tea into an intimidating business relationship. The easy camaraderie born of friendship and underpinned by trust is undermined by an implicit assumption that the research may lead to harm, exploitation or suffering for those involved.
how the encounters I describe were experienced in the doing of the PV project. But it is worth considering how the less ‘participatory’ practices of academic writing and having a research agenda potentially undermine the ethics I have described. For I have benefitted from the project in ways that the participants may be unaware of, and perhaps even, some would argue, at their expense. In the least, the joys and sorrows I experience in writing about the project now are not collective in relation to the workshop participants (though they are collective in relation to others). This disconnect highlights the somewhat colonial shadow that hovers over the practices that are encouraged in the making of a participatory video. One could argue that the planning and initiating of the project, as well as the post-workshop editing, screening and analysis are indeed arrogations and make a mockery of the discourse of participation. Although the practices of skills-sharing in a PV workshop are radically different to conventional pedagogic practices (Raht, 2009), a recognition of the embodied (and colonizing) geographies of academic knowledge-production and also the capitalist economies in which video technologies are embedded, call attention to a network of ethical relations that complicates the condensed and bounded description of PV above. Moreover, the act of leaving Barbados and taking the video with me points to differential postcolonial mobilities and to our capacities to benefit from the PV workshop. 31
Yet, can educational institutions alone solve the deficiency in education opportunities? Can childcare centers and schools compensate for the lack of support in the development envi- ronment in one family or another? Children spend a large amount of their time in the familial environment – even when they attend a full day school or childcare center. The family is the most important environment for bringing up children. In the family, children learn how to mas- ter daily life, acquire social skills and cope with conflict. The family is a social system, where children learn from individual care relationships (Schier and Jurczyk 2007), familiarize them- selves with hierarchy and democracy aspects and gain confidence through rituals and rou- tines (Jurczyk and Lange 2008). In the family, doors are opened to different worlds and expe- rience possibilities – or in some cases remain closed. The parents and siblings, partner of the parent and grandparents play different roles in the upbringing and development of chil- dren and their participation cannot be easily replaced with additional educational institutions, childcare providers and teachers.
Populism is not a purely open-ended form of utopianism, either. Yet its open- ended utopian character, as social critique moved by socio-political resentment or moral indignation, it holds a valuable potential to reinforce democracy from within. After all, redemptive populist claims are made by a part in the name of the whole by reference to democracy’s own normative landscape. Of course, populism works as a bee: after it stings, it dies. But it is in the act of stinging, however excessive and strident it may sound to democracy’s elites, that lies some of its democratic value. We thus concur with the advocates of populism that one should not readily dismiss populism’s democratic credentials. However, this is not exactly because of the reasons they think. In Caesar’s Column as elsewhere, redemption is less defined against representative democracy (that per se would lead to participatorypolitics, not populism) than as a response to the pain and suffering caused by socio-political resentment, which is based upon moral indignation. These emotional responses, in turn, are eminently educable through public institutions such as the education system and criminal law (Mihai 2016: 68). But we also agree with the opponents of populism that it can indeed be a danger to democracy. However, this is not because the logic of populism is enmity, but because socio-political resentment can slide into ontological ressentiment. It is this ambivalence that, if we are right, ultimately explains
The results to this item show that although it exists institutionally, the role of the counsellor of ethics is minimal and/or minimized in the organizations. Compared to the 8% who received counselling of ethics, the number of those who didn’t receive any kind of counselling of ethics is at least 3 times higher. Even when the professionals need counselling, they turn to friends, people outside the organization, their hierarchic supervisor and less to the counsellor of ethics. There is the possibility of interpreting these answers in the sense that the function of the counsellor of ethics is seen as being a formal one, without a practical effect. The great number of respondents, who turn to their hierarchic supervisor or other persons in the management for ethical counselling, may show a confusion between the norms of ethics in an organization and the professional conduct imposed by the management. Such an approach may lead to conflicts of interest, the inefficiency in the management of ethics, and in the end, the transformation of organizational ethics into an instrument of bureaucratic control.
Perhaps the most common view held by those in favor of embryonic stem cell research is that embryos should not be created or cloned for research, but they can be used if they are surplus embryos from IVF and are going to be discarded any- way (UMCB2002, p.16). This position can be defended using the nothing is lost principle (Outka, 2002, Para.1). This prin- ciple states: “One may directly kill when two exempting con- ditions are attached: 1) the innocent will die in any case; and 2) other innocent life will be saved” (Outka, 2002). Gene Outka used this principle while discussing the ethics of stem cell research before the President’s Council on Bioethics in April of 2002. He argued that we can view embryos in a repro- ductive clinic that will either be discarded or frozen in perpe- tuity, as innocent lives who will die in any case (condition one of the nothing is lost principle). Further, third parties with Alzheimer’s Disease, Parkinson’s Disease, or others who could benefit from stem cell research, are seen as innocent life who will be saved by virtue of research utilizing such embryos (condition two of the nothing is lost principle) (Outka, 2002, Section 2C).
Incorporation of a formal structured teaching on medical ethics in the undergraduate curriculum is the need of the hour, which should be followed by assessment on periodic basis. Not only this, heuristic training should also be provided for the medical officers frequently. During the residency of doctors in the medical colleges, a structured teaching package should be provided in the form of continuous medical education (CME), workshops, seminars as well as lectures, followed by regular evaluation. Besides research work, the medical ethics committee in the institution should also act as the guiding hands to address the grievances faced by the doctors during medical practice.