Margaret Gilbert and the fragile reality of ‘us’

This concept must be handled with care. It does not mean that individual wills disappear by merging into a general will. It means that, with regard to a particular aim, a particular belief, a particular rule or a particular decision, individuals have placed part of their will at the disposal of the collective. This is why a joint commitment gives rise to mutual obligations and entitlements. If we have decided together to submit a project, I can hold you to account for your delay, and you can do the same to me. If we have jointly agreed to a rule of conduct, I can reprimand you when you breach it, and you can reprimand me. The structure of the plural subject is therefore intrinsically normative. This means that it does not merely describe what happens, but establishes what each person can legitimately expect from others.

It is on this point that Margaret Gilbert makes a particularly important contribution to the theory of plural rationality. Rationality is not merely about choosing the means best suited to individual ends. It also concerns consistency with commitments that cannot be reduced to individual ends but stem from the ‘we’ that the plural subject represents. I may no longer feel like going to the meeting; I may prefer to stay at home; I may privately find the project we have embarked upon tedious. But, as long as the shared commitment remains in force, my individual preference is not enough to nullify the obligation. To dissolve it, normally, a joint act of termination is required, or at least a recognised form of withdrawal. The commitment is not simply the sum of intentions that can be unilaterally revoked.

On this point, Gilbert differs from both classical contractualism and standard economic theory. She differs from contractualism because not all joint commitments require a formal, explicit, legally structured act. A great many plural agents come into being informally in the absence of a contract: a conversation, an impromptu game, a spontaneous collaboration, a family custom. From standard economic theory, because the obligation does not arise solely from incentives, sanctions or reputational interests. It arises from the fact that the agents have constituted themselves as parts of a collective entity. External sanctions may reinforce the commitment, but they do not establish it. Reprimand, on the other hand, is already inherent in the very nature of the relationship. Anyone who fails to uphold what ‘we’ have decided has not simply changed their strategy. They have betrayed a position that they themselves helped to establish.

Another example helps to illustrate the scope of the issue. Let us imagine a university department which has accepted – perhaps out of habit – that meetings should start on time. Some colleagues may personally dislike this rigidity. They may feel that being five minutes late is no big deal. They may even know that many others share their view. However, if the rule has been accepted as our own, those who are systematically late are not merely acting on a personal preference. They are breaching a collectively accepted principle. The interesting point is that the rule can bind even those who privately do not agree with it. This does not make the rule morally right, nor does it make it immutable. But it explains why it can have social force even in the absence of full inner adherence. This example highlights a crucial distinction: that between personal belief and collective belief. For Gilbert, saying ‘we believe that X’ does not necessarily mean that each of us personally believes that X. Rather, it means that we have jointly accepted X as the group’s position. A scientific committee may declare that a certain project is worthy even if some members, privately, have doubts. A political party may advocate a line that does not coincide with the deeply held convictions of all its leaders. A family may say ‘we think it is best to sell the house’ even if one of its members, deep down, remains opposed. ‘We believe’ is not the average of individual beliefs. It is a position adopted as a collective body. And it is precisely this position that creates obligations of public consistency, the possibility of internal criticism and potential tensions between loyalty and dissent.

This is where the full significance of Gilbert’s position for democratic theory becomes apparent. A democracy, in fact, does not thrive solely on aggregated preferences. If that were all there was to it, voting would be a matter of simple addition and society a market of competing political demands. In reality, many democratic practices presuppose a plurality of actors. Consider assemblies, political parties, social movements, civic communities, or what we commonly refer to as ‘citizenship’. None of these entities is merely a collection of individuals with partially converging interests. They are melting pots of shared commitments. Parliament is not merely a building full of people who vote. It is an institutionalised plural entity, governed by procedures through which certain individuals speak, deliberate and decide on behalf of a collective. The same applies, albeit in a different way, to an association, an editorial team, a trade union or a scientific community. Naturally, this makes the ‘we’ ambivalent. It can emancipate, but it can also oppress. Joint commitment can, in fact, arise even under conditions of pressure, conformism and even dependence. A person may be drawn into a familial, professional, political or religious ‘we’ without ever having had a real chance to escape it. The fact that a plural subject generates obligations does not imply that such obligations are morally valid. A criminal gang, a cult, a racist organisation or a dysfunctional family can produce very strong mutual commitments. Or consider a couple in an asymmetrical relationship of emotional dependence. Loyalties, reproaches, expectations and internal sanctions may arise. But that does not make them right. Social normativity is not the same as morality. Making this distinction is necessary to avoid two opposing errors. The first is to think that every ‘we’ represents a superior form of morality. This is not the case. There are toxic, closed and aggressive ‘we’s’. There are plural entities built on the subordination of certain members or on hostility towards those left out. The second error is to think that every shared obligation is merely a mask for domination. This, too, is false. Without shared commitments, we would have no promises, no friendships, no institutions, no collective action and no political trust. We would no longer be free. We would be lonelier and less capable.

Gilbert’s contribution lies within this narrow path. In opposition to reductionist individualism, she shows that society is not merely the sum of individuals; and in opposition to naïve holism, she shows that the group is not a superior entity that swallows up individuals. The plural subject is real, but its reality depends on the people who give it substance and on their acts of will and mutual recognition. It is fragile because it can dissolve when this recognition fails, but it is also binding because, whilst it exists, it alters the scope of reasons for acting. In times of growing polarisation, the lesson we draw from reading Gilbert’s *i* *On Social Facts* is particularly important. Many contemporary political pathologies can be interpreted as pathologies of the plural subject. On the one hand, false ‘we’s’ constructed in opposition to an enemy are proliferating: us against them, the people against the elites, true citizens against foreigners. On the other hand, the ‘we’s’ capable of upholding the obligations arising from life in common are being weakened: we taxpayers, we citizens, we members of a democratic community, we who are accountable to future generations. The crisis is not just about trust. It concerns the ability to forge joint commitments that are not oppressive. The ‘we’ is not merely a rhetorical embellishment of public discourse. It is a form of social reality. But it is a reality that must be continually scrutinised: who is speaking when they say ‘we’? Who is included? Who is excluded? Who has truly been able to contribute to the formation of the shared commitment? Who bears the costs without having had a say in its creation? And when can a ‘we’ be dissolved, renegotiated or challenged?

Plural rationality begins with these questions. Not with a cult of community, nor with nostalgia for lost unity, but with the recognition that many of the reasons that guide our lives are neither purely individual nor superficially collective. These are reasons that arise and find their legitimacy within the context of shared commitments. And understanding how such commitments arise, why they bind us and how they can be criticised is one of the prerequisites for conceiving, today, a democracy that is less rhetorical and better able to keep its promises. The problem, then, is not choosing between the individual and the community. It is understanding which forms of ‘us’ make us freer as individuals, and which, on the other hand, transform communal life into an exercise in domination.