Clarity Among Us: Morality in Focus (2)
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The chill of the early morning clung to the air as Kadija Nilea stepped off the subway, her movements purposeful but unhurried. The city streets hummed with their usual rhythm — students balancing coffee cups and backpacks, workers weaving through the morning flow, and the occasional street vendor setting up shop.
Fordham University’s campus was slowly coming to life. Kadija took her usual path toward the philosophy building, her mind still lingering on something her chef Edward had said earlier over breakfast. “You think too much for one person. Keep your head clear, or you’ll walk into traffic one day.”
It made her chuckle to herself as she pulled her coat closer.
As Kadija neared the steps of the philosophy building, a familiar voice broke through the ambient noise.
“Julian, just admit it — you’re bad at cooking,” a young woman teased, nudging him with her elbow. She balanced a stack of books in one hand and a to-go coffee in the other.
Julian Becker stood near the entrance, his rectangular glasses slipping down his nose as usual, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t call it bad — inefficient, maybe. Besides, toast and coffee are all anyone really needs.”
“That’s not cooking. That’s surviving,” she shot back, laughing.
“It’s practical,” Julian retorted, deadpan. “Why complicate things?”
“Practical? Remind me never to invite you to a dinner party,” the girl teased, shaking her head.
As Kadija passed by, Julian’s gaze flickered toward her. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, and his smirk softened into something unreadable. He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment as if to say, Don’t judge me.
Kadija responded with the faintest smirk of her own before continuing inside.
Inside the Philosophy Classroom
The classroom was already filling up as students trickled in, their voices weaving together in casual conversation. The long rows of desks faced the worn chalkboard at the front, where remnants of a previous lecture were still faintly visible. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting soft patterns on the floor.
Kadija entered her notebook and pen in hand, slipping into her usual seat near the front. She glanced briefly over her shoulder. Julian Becker was two rows back, his posture relaxed, long fingers drumming an idle rhythm on his desk. Next to him, a girl with bright red glasses — Claire, if Kadija remembered correctly — was animatedly talking to him about something.
“It’s honestly ridiculous,” Claire said, her voice just loud enough to carry. “The vending machine was out of pretzels again. I’m convinced it’s targeting me.”
Julian smirked faintly, his gaze still on his notebook as he scribbled. “Or you’re single-handedly funding the pretzel shortage.”
Claire groaned, elbowing him lightly. “You’re unbearable.”
Another student, Liam — a tall guy always wearing sneakers that looked too clean — dropped into the seat next to Kadija with a sigh. “Is it just me, or does Professor Lane wake up every morning thinking, ‘How can I stress these kids out today?’”
Kadija smirked faintly, flipping open her notebook. “Maybe it’s a hobby.”
Liam snorted, slouching slightly as he pulled out his laptop. “Figures. Philosophers love watching us suffer.”
“Speak for yourself.” A voice from behind chimed in — one of the quieter students, Sofia, who usually sat near the back. “I think he’s brilliant. Besides, he can’t stress us out as much as midterms are about to.”
Julian looked up at that, glancing briefly at Sofia before his eyes flicked to Kadija. “You ready for midterms?”
Kadija turned slightly, meeting his gaze with a calm expression. “I’m ready enough.”
The Debate
The classroom hummed with the quiet chaos of students settling in. Laptops clicked open, conversations floated between desks, and the steady scrape of chairs punctuated the low buzz of anticipation. Professor Lane stood at the front, arms crossed, watching with a faint smirk of amusement as the class finally settled.
“Alright,” he began, his voice cutting through the chatter, “today we’re diving into a timeless question: Is morality subjective or objective? Can it ever be universal, or is it bound by time, place, and circumstance?”
Several hands shot up. The usual warm-up answers followed — cultural norms, ethics shaped by upbringing, personal beliefs — spoken with varying levels of confidence. Julian Becker remained silent, his sharp gaze flitting from one speaker to the next, his posture relaxed but watchful.
Kadija, seated near the front, listened quietly. Her pen moved with purpose, but her mind weighed the arguments with deliberate focus.
It was Julian’s voice that finally broke through the hum, as precise and sharp as a blade. “Morality is subjective. Full stop.”
The class turned to him. Even the professor raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate, Julian?”
Julian uncrossed his arms, leaning forward slightly. “Morality changes with time, place, and circumstance. What’s moral in one society is immoral in another. There’s no single standard that applies universally. It’s all a human invention.”
A few murmurs rippled through the room — agreement, uncertainty — but Julian remained steady. “Take history. People used to think slavery was moral — entire civilizations justified it. Today, we call it abhorrent. That’s not objective morality. That’s morality evolving.”
Kadija’s pen stopped mid-tap. She looked up, her voice calm but direct. “That’s not morality evolving. That’s people correcting a mistake. Truth doesn’t change — people do.”
The room stilled.
Julian’s head tilted slightly, intrigue flickering in his eyes. “And who defines this ‘truth’? You?”
“No,” Kadija replied evenly. “Truth is defined by God.”
Some students exchanged skeptical glances; a couple smirked under their breath. But Kadija didn’t falter. She met Julian’s gaze directly, her expression unwavering.
“God,” Julian repeated, half-challenging, half-curious. “So you’re saying morality is divine, not human?”
“Yes,” Kadija said simply. “Morality is universal because truth is universal. When people stray from that truth, it’s not the truth that changes — it’s their perception of it.”
Julian leaned back slightly, his smirk faint but there. “And what about people who don’t believe in God? Does your universal morality still apply to them?”
Kadija’s tone was steady. “Truth doesn’t need you to believe in it for it to exist. Gravity doesn’t stop working because someone denies it.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the class — some nodding, others looking impressed, a few clearly unconvinced. Even the professor watched with quiet approval, his arms still crossed, as though observing a sparring match he had no intention of ending.
Julian’s brow furrowed slightly as he pressed on. “That’s apples and oranges. Gravity can be proven. Morality can’t.”
“It’s not the same,” Kadija agreed, a faint smile tugging at her lips, “but the principle holds. Just because morality isn’t as measurable doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It’s in how we’re wired. We instinctively recognize justice, fairness, and compassion — even as children. Where do you think that comes from?”
Julian’s gaze narrowed, his tone measured. “We’re wired to value those things because they help the group survive. Morality isn’t innate — it’s evolutionary. Take nature. Animals are brutal, but they thrive. Kindness isn’t a universal law — it’s a human convenience.”
“Then why do we see patterns of morality across civilizations that never interacted?” Kadija countered, her voice clear and calm. “Justice, fairness, protecting the weak — they appear universally. Why? Because morality isn’t something humans created; it’s something we discovered, like math. It was already there.”
Julian’s voice sharpened slightly. “If morality is innate, why do atrocities happen? If it’s hardwired, shouldn’t it be infallible?”
“Free will,” Kadija replied without hesitation. “Being wired for morality doesn’t mean we always choose it. But the fact that we struggle with moral decisions proves morality exists. A compass only matters if you’re trying to find the right path.”
The professor finally stepped in, raising a hand. “Hold that thought,” he said, his voice tinged with quiet satisfaction. “Excellent points from both sides. I want everyone to reflect on this: Can morality exist without a universal truth, or is it merely a social construct?”
The room seemed to release a collective breath as the professor’s words broke the tension.
Julian caught Kadija’s eye from across the room. There was a flicker of something in his gaze — respect, curiosity, maybe both — but he didn’t say a word. Kadija returned the look with quiet clarity as if she’d said everything she needed to.
For the next hour and a half, the debate simmered into quieter contributions, punctuated by scattered questions and note-taking. The energy from earlier lingered, but it settled into the rhythm of a typical lecture.
As the clock neared the end of class, the professor paused mid-sentence. “For next week, I want you all to write a short essay defending either side of today’s question — subjective or objective morality. Choose wisely.”
A few minutes later, the classroom emptied slowly, the buzz of lingering thoughts and quiet discussions trailing into the hallway. Kadija packed her notebook and water bottle with her usual deliberate calm. Julian, already at the door, glanced back as if checking to see whether she was following.
“You’re awfully quiet for someone who just dismantled my entire argument,” he said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone.
Kadija looked up, her expression composed. “It didn’t feel dismantled. Just refined.”
Julian’s smirk widened as they stepped into the hallway. “Nice save.”
They walked in an unspoken rhythm, side by side, but without pretense of companionship. The weight of the earlier discussion still hung between them — not heavy, but alive, like a conversation that hadn’t quite ended.
“So,” Julian began, sliding his hands into his coat pockets, “you really think morality’s hardwired?”
“Absolutely,” Kadija replied, her voice steady. “What you call evolution, I call evidence.”
Julian shook his head faintly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re relentless.”
Before Kadija could reply, a familiar voice broke into the space. “Kadija! Julian! Wait up!”
Amara Patel jogged toward them, her tote bag bouncing against her hip. She stopped beside them, slightly out of breath but glowing with her usual warmth. “You two look like you’ve been solving the world’s problems again,” she teased, her eyes darting between them, picking up on the lingering energy.
Julian shrugged. “It’s philosophy. Intensity’s part of the deal.”
Amara grinned, but her attention shifted to Kadija. “Hey, by the way, are you still coming to the volunteer thing tomorrow? I could really use some help with the logistics.” She tilted her head almost apologetically. “I promise I won’t make you talk to anyone.”
Kadija’s lips quirked slightly. “I’ll be there. But only if you promise not to bribe me with muffins.”
“Deal.” Amara grinned, satisfied. Then her gaze flickered to Julian, curiosity sparking in her expression. “And you? Ever thought about helping out, Mr. Moral Relativist?”
Julian raised an eyebrow, clearly unprepared for the question. “Helping out with what?”
“Community outreach,” Amara replied easily as if it were obvious. “You know — helping kids, feeding people, fixing the world one tiny piece at a time.”
Julian snorted lightly. “I’m not exactly the poster boy for compassion.”
“Maybe not yet,” Amara teased her tone light but pointed. “But hey, miracles happen.”
Kadija watched the exchange with quiet interest. Julian’s expression had shifted — still guarded but less dismissive, as though Amara’s question had hit a note he didn’t expect. He glanced at Kadija as if searching for her reaction, but she only raised an eyebrow.
“You’d be surprised, Julian,” she said simply. “Even skeptics make good volunteers.”
Julian rolled his eyes, though the faint smirk remained. “I’ll think about it.”
Amara beamed as though she’d won a small victory. “That’s all I ask. See you tomorrow, K.” With a wave, she disappeared down the hall, leaving them alone again.
Kadija and Julian continued walking, the silence lingering just a moment longer than before.
“She’s something else,” Julian remarked casually, his tone more curious than critical.
Kadija nodded. “She’s genuine. That’s rare.”
Julian hummed in response, thoughtful. “You don’t strike me as the volunteer type.”
Kadija glanced at him, her gaze steady. “Why? Because I don’t advertise it?”
Julian didn’t answer immediately. They reached the building’s glass exit doors, where the sounds of city life — honking horns, distant conversations, and the occasional breeze — spilled into the space.
“Fair point,” he said finally, pushing the door open and stepping aside for her to pass. “You’re full of surprises, Nilea.”
“And you’re full of assumptions,” she replied lightly, though her words carried an edge of truth.
For once, Julian didn’t have a comeback. He watched as she walked ahead, his expression flickering with a mix of curiosity and intrigue, as though he were starting to realize just how much he didn’t know about her.
Coming Next
Amara’s compassionate spirit takes center stage as the group comes together to help her organize a volunteer event. But beneath the surface of teamwork, a deeper question emerges: Can individual efforts create real change, or is the system too broken to fix? Don’t miss how Amara’s ideals challenge the group’s perspectives and push them to think bigger.
Meanwhile, Marcus has his own thoughts on “effort versus impact,” Julian remains skeptical as always, and Kadija finds herself navigating Amara’s optimism with her usual clarity. What unfolds might surprise even the group themselves.
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