Would we — given the same set of circumstances — transgress to a similar, morally bankrupt degree?

ITwas the most unlikely of places for such a stupefying epiphany: York University, Toronto, Social Psychology class, winter 1996.

We sat in a huge auditorium, approximately 20 rows of 30 students each. I was, by that time, married, a mother of three, and a teacher. I had decided to attend YorkU to improve my understanding of my children, my students, and the general world in which I lived.

Yes, I am a perpetual student. And yes, my husband is a saint.

Back in the day, I was not the confident figure people mistake me for today. Actually, I was riddled with insecurities and never felt comfortable drawing any attention to myself — certainly not there, wearing the only sheitel in the amphitheater.

Thus, one lecture followed another. I was diligent about my note-taking and committed to staying as silent as possible.

One afternoon — now a moment framed forever in my memory — we were introduced to a rather sobering social psychology phenomenon: the study of Stanley Milgram and his memorable obedience-versus-conscience experiments. These experiments took place beginning in the summer of 1961, around the time of the Eichmann trial. People were searching for answers to the terrible questions borne of the iniquitous testimony of the Nazi officer: Was he, as he incessantly repeated, a mere “cog in the wheel, following orders,” even when those orders went wholly against the grain of civilization and human conscience? Further, is man responsible for his actions when carrying out the instructions of a vicious overlord? Does a person have agency over his choices, even when forced to commit an offense that runs counter to his scruples?

And even more concerning: Would we — given the same set of circumstances — transgress to a similar, morally bankrupt degree?