By Dantia Richards, The Ethics Institute

There is something deeply troubling about a government proposing that self-defence should no longer be a sufficient reason to own a firearm. Not because every South African should own one, not because firearms are harmless, and certainly not because responsible firearm ownership should be free from regulation. The problem is much simpler than that. If the government cannot guarantee my safety, is it ethical for that same government to intentionally limit my ability to protect myself?

This is not only a question of public policy, but also about the responsible use of institutional power. Organisations are expected to consider the consequences of their decisions for those affected by them, to exercise power responsibly, and to be accountable when their decisions increase risk. Government should surely be held to no lesser ethical standard?

For those living behind layers of private security, this may sound like an abstract policy debate. For many South Africans, it is not. Crime does not politely wait for the police. A violent intruder does not pause at the gate while you phone 10111. A woman confronted in her home at two in the morning cannot tell her attacker that help is on its way. When seconds matter, the relevant government department may be minutes away. Sometimes, much longer. Yet the person facing that danger is expected to accept that government knows better than what level of protection they may or may not need.

The argument will inevitably be made that tighter firearm restrictions serve “public safety”. That deserves serious consideration. Firearms are lethal weapons, and the government has a legitimate responsibility to regulate those who own them. But that argument starts falling apart when regulation is directed primarily at people who actually follow the rules. Criminals, by definition, do not wait for licences. They do not complete competency requirements because Parliament tells them to. They do not surrender illegal firearms because licensing legislation has changed. A law that makes it harder for a compliant citizen to own a firearm does not automatically make it harder for an armed criminal to own one.

Government therefore has to consider not only the intention behind such a policy, but also its reasonably foreseeable consequences. Good intentions do not, on their own, make a decision ethical. If a policy intended to promote public safety leaves law-abiding citizens more vulnerable while doing little to constrain those who obtain and use firearms illegally, the morality of that decision deserves serious scrutiny.

That is the logical problem at the centre of this question.

Disarming, or effectively disarming, the potential victim does not disarm the potential attacker. It changes the balance between them.

South Africa already regulates lawful firearm ownership. A citizen wanting a firearm for self-defence does not simply walk into a shop, put money on the counter, and leave armed. There are competency and licensing requirements. There are restrictions on the type and number of firearms that may be licensed for self-defence. There are legal duties relating to possession, storage, and use. The existing system therefore recognises an important distinction between lawful possession and criminal possession.

Why would we pretend that that distinction does not matter?

There is also an uncomfortable ethical question here. Government exercises enormous power over citizens, but that power comes with responsibility. If the government wants to restrict the means by which citizens may protect themselves, surely it carries an equally serious responsibility to prove that it can provide effective protection instead.

Authority and accountability cannot simply be separated. An organisation cannot reasonably make decisions that transfer significant risk to its stakeholders and then distance itself from the consequences of that risk. Government should face the same test. If it uses its authority to remove or materially restrict an individual’s lawful means of self-protection, it must confront the moral responsibility that goes with that decision. That is where this becomes difficult to defend.

The person making the policy in an office is not standing in my passage when someone breaks through my front door. The official drafting legislation is not sitting with my children while we wait for police to arrive. The decision-makers in government do not experience the consequences of that delay. I do, and that imbalance matters. The decision-maker exercises the power, while someone else carries the immediate risk created by the decision. Responsible governance requires more than simply having the legal authority to act. It also requires serious consideration of who is responsible if a policy does not achieve what it was intended to achieve.

This is not an argument for vigilantism. Self-defence is not revenge, punishment, or taking the law into your own hands. Nor should firearm ownership ever be treated casually. Anyone entrusted with a firearm carries an extraordinary responsibility to use it lawfully and only when legally justified. But responsibility works both ways. Government cannot demand extraordinary responsibility from citizens while avoiding equally difficult questions about its own responsibilities. If the goal is to reduce firearm violence, then target firearm violence, illegal firearms, trafficking, and organised criminal networks. Target the leakage of weapons into criminal hands. Improve investigations, prosecutions, policing capacity, and the administration of the existing firearm licensing system.

But do not confuse the person applying for permission with the person who never intended to ask permission in the first place. Those entrusted with power should always have to answer a basic question – not simply “Can we do this?” but also “Should we do this?” Legislative authority may provide the power to impose a restriction. It does not, by itself, prove that exercising that power is right, fair, or responsible.

There is a dangerous comfort in believing that another regulation necessarily means another layer of safety. Sometimes it does, but sometimes it merely regulates the people who were already obeying the law.

And that brings us back to the question our leaders in government must answer. If you cannot guarantee that you will be there when an ordinary citizen faces a violent attack, on what moral basis do you propose to remove self-defence as a legitimate reason for that citizen to seek the lawful means to protect themselves? That is ultimately a question of ethical governance. Government should not only be judged by what it intended to achieve, but by how responsibly it exercised its power, whose interests it considered, whose risks it increased, and whether it is prepared to accept accountability for the consequences of its decision.

The government has every responsibility to regulate firearms responsibly. It should do so. But there is a significant difference between regulating how citizens exercise responsibility and deciding that their need to defend their own lives is no longer reason enough.

In a country confronting serious violent crime – that distinction matters. Criminals do not become less dangerous when their victims become less capable of defending themselves.

Dantia Richards is the Executive for Governance and Strategic Engagement at The Ethics Institute. She has extensive management experience across the private, public and non-profit sectors. She is a Certified Director and certified Ethics Officer.