What is "Right" and what is "Wrong"

How Society Constructs Right and Wrong

Long before the first moral code was etched onto a stone tablet, before scriptures carved the boundaries of virtue and sin, the world simply was. The lion did not pause to ask whether it was right to kill the deer. The tree did not apologize for growing taller than its neighbor, shading its leaves from sunlight. Nature moved in rhythms—without guilt, without judgment. It was not cruel, but neither was it kind. It simply existed.

A lion chasing a deer. The lion did not pause to ask whether it was right to kill the deer

The idea of right and wrong is not woven into the cosmos; it is sewn into the social fabric by human hands. Like language, it is a construct—born not of the universe, but of our need to coexist. When humans moved from caves into communities, when the wild freedom of instinct met the fragile architecture of society, there arose a question: How do we live together without destroying one another?

The answer was not found in absolute truths, but in agreements. What is deemed “right” became what nurtured the group; what was “wrong” became what threatened it. Stealing food from the tribe was wrong, not because it violated a cosmic law, but because it endangered the group’s survival. Compassion, sharing, fidelity—these were not divine mandates, but evolutionary strategies for harmony.

Yet, this system was never static.

A lion and a deer drinking water from a pond. Why did the lion not attack the deer for food? Was the lion wrong here?

What is right in one land may be wrong in another. To speak freely is a right in one culture and a punishable offence in another. Marrying within the same gender may be celebrated in one era and condemned in another. Even the same act—lying, for instance—can shift its moral weight depending on context. A lie told to protect a life can be praised; the same lie told to deceive for gain is condemned.

This reveals a simple truth: morality is not monolithic. It is a living, breathing negotiation between individuals, cultures, and times. It changes not because truth changes, but because the lens through which we view the world is in constant motion.

Consider the story of Antigone, the ancient Greek heroine who defied a king’s decree to bury her brother. She was punished by the law, yet immortalized by the people as a symbol of moral courage. Was she wrong for breaking the law, or right for honoring family and the gods? The answer depends on where you choose to stand. And that is the nature of morality—it is a landscape shaped by perspective.

Before civilization, our ancestors followed instinct, not ideology. They hunted, gathered, and migrated not with moral compasses, but with the pulse of survival. Their actions were neither right nor wrong—they were simply necessary. Animals, even today, operate in this primal space. A mother bird abandons her weakest chick to save the rest. A predator kills for food, not malice. These acts, judged through human ethics, may seem cold. But they are acts without judgment, only purpose.

The introduction of morality, then, was not to mirror nature, but to rise above it—or rather, to restrain the chaos that comes from unbridled instinct within large groups. It was an architecture of peace, a scaffolding for coexistence. But in our pursuit of order, we must remember that moral frameworks are tools, not truths. They serve us best when they are questioned, refined, and expanded.

Why then do we sometimes treat our moral constructs as if they are eternal, universal, and untouchable? Perhaps it is fear. There is comfort in certainty. To question what is right is to risk stepping into the unknown. Yet growth has never come from certainty—it is born from curiosity, from discomfort, from the willingness to sit in ambiguity.

Let us not forget that morality, at its best, is an evolving conversation. It is the bridge between what we are and what we aspire to become. It can be used to judge and divide, or to heal and unite. The key lies in remembering that right and wrong are not stars fixed in the sky—they are shadows and light, dancing on the walls of the human mind.

So, when you feel certain that someone is wrong, pause. Ask: By whose measure? In what context? And to what end?

And perhaps, in that pause, in that gentle unravelling of black and white, you will find something more valuable than being right—you will find understanding.

“Morality is the herd-instinct in the individual.” – Friedrich Nietzsche“There is no such thing as absolute certainty, but there is assurance sufficient for the purposes of human life.” – John Stuart Mill

Now ask yourself—not what is right or wrong, but why you believe what you believe.