In the futuristic society of Starship Troopers, only people who have served in the military become full citizens. Civilians are merely “legal residents,” barred from voting or working in the government. The novel thus presents a strong argument that the most successful form of government is a limited democracy in which only those with moral virtue hold power. In History and Moral Philosophy Class, Major Reid demonstrates that all forms of government have been limited by arbitrary distinctions like gender, age, or class. While citizenship in the Terran Federation is limited, it’s designed to select citizens that fulfill two very specific criteria: they value their franchise, and they have sufficient responsibility to balance out their power. Citizenship is limited because things are only valued if they come at a price; without truly winning, being awarded the prize for a competition is worthless. According to Mr. Dubois, the “decadent” democracies of the 20th century collapsed because their citizens thought they could vote for—and get—whatever they wanted without having to work for it. In contrast, soldiers prove that they’re willing to risk even their lives for the good of the state. Moreover, soldiers prove their ability to put the welfare of the group above their own needs by protecting their mates in battle, leaving no one behind who’s still alive, and even ensuring that criminals in their midst are properly punished. Merely wanting the franchise isn’t enough to guarantee that one will use it responsibly, and so people who view Federal Service as a gateway to citizenship are usually weeded out. During basic training, for example, recruit Hendrick’s unwillingness to tolerate personal discomfort for the good of his team means he fails on the second charge of citizenship—putting the good of the group above oneself—and so he’s dishonorably discharged and barred from ever earning his franchise.
This system appears to benefit both civilians and citizens: civilians live in a safe and prosperous society, and they don’t have to believe or express civic virtue—a valuation of something greater than oneself—if they don’t really feel it. Johnnie’s Father initially devalues service and the franchise as unimportant; he’s more concerned with his own business holdings than the good of the whole Federation. However, at the time that Johnnie volunteered, he was feeling deep dissatisfaction that he eventually realized came from frustrated civic virtue and a feeling that he should participate in the protection of his society. However, the novel’s view rests on the idea that everyone without enough civic virtue—for example, the selfish and immature Hendrick or the fully criminal Dillinger—will eventually fail or leave. It also leaves unanswered the question of how service can be totally voluntary when it is the only path to citizenship—something that would-be politicians and powerholders might value in its own right.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Citizenship ThemeTracker
Citizenship Quotes in Starship Troopers
“Son, don’t think I don’t sympathize with you; I do. But look at the real facts. If there were a war, I’d be the first to cheer you on—and to put the business on a war footing. But there isn’t, and praise God there never will be again. We’ve outgrown wars. This planet is now peaceful and happy and we enjoy good enough relations with other planets. So what is this so-called ‘Federal Service’? Parasitism, pure and simple. A functionless organ, utterly obsolete, living on the taxpayers. A decidedly expensive way for inferior people who otherwise would be unemployed to live at public expense for a term of years, then give themselves airs for the rest of their lives. Is that what you want to do?”
Suddenly, he pointed his stump at me. “You. What is the moral difference, if any, between the soldier and the civilian?”
“The difference,” I answered carefully, “lies in the field of civic virtue. A soldier accepts personal responsibility for the safety of the body politic of which he is a member, defending it, if need be, with his life. The civilian does not.”
“The exact words of the book,” he said scornfully. “But do you understand it? Do you believe it?”
“Uh, I don’t know, sir.”
“Of course you don’t! I doubt if any of you here would recognize ‘civic virtue’ if it came up and barked in your face!”
“I,” we each echoed, “being of legal age, of my own free will—”
“—without coercion, promise, or inducement of any sort, after having been duly advised and warned of the meaning and consequences of this oath—
“—do now enroll in the Federal Service of the Terran Federation of not less than two years and as much longer as may be required by the needs of the Service—
[…]
“I swear to uphold and defend the Constitution of the Federation against all its enemies on or off Terra […]
“—and to obey all lawful orders of the Commander-in-Chief of the Terran Service and of all officers or delegated persons placed over me—
“—and to require such obedience from all members of the Service or other persons or non-human beings lawfully placed under my orders—
“—and, on being honorably discharged at the completion of my full term of service […] to carry out all duties and obligations and to enjoy full privileges of Federation citizenship including but not limited to the duty, obligation, and privilege of exercising sovereign franchise for the rest of my natural life.”
You are now going through the hardest part of your service—not the hardest part physically (though physical hardship will never trouble you again; you now have its measure), but the hardest spiritually … the deep, soul-turning readjustments and re-evaluations necessary to metamorphose a potential citizen into one in being. Or, rather I should say: you have already gone through the hardest part, despite all the tribulations you still have ahead of you and all the hurdles, each higher than the last, which you still must clear. But it is that “hump” that counts—and, knowing you, lad, I know that I have waited long enough to be sure that you are past your “hump”—or you would be home now.
When you reached that spiritual mountaintop you felt something, a new something. Perhaps you haven’t a word for it (I know I didn’t, when I was a boot). So perhaps you will permit an older comrade to lend you the words, since it often helps to have discrete words. Simply this: The noblest fate that a man can endure is to place his own mortal body between his loved home and the war’s desolation.
This very personal relationship, ‘value,’ has two factors for a human being: first, what he can do with a thing, its use to him … and second, what he must do to get it, its cost to him. There is an old song which asserts ‘the best things in life are free.’ Not true! Utterly false! This was the tragic fallacy which brought on the decadence and collapse of the democracies of the twentieth century; those noble experiments failed because the people had been led to believe that they could simply vote for whatever they wanted … and get it, without turmoil, without sweat, without tears.
Nevertheless, I had signed up in order to win a vote.
Or had I?
Had I ever cared about voting? No, it was the prestige, the pride, the status…of being a citizen.
Or was it?
I couldn’t remember to save my life why I had signed up.
Anyhow, it wasn’t the process of voting that made a citizen—the Lieutenant had been a citizen in the truest sense of the word, even though he had not lived long enough ever to cast a ballot. He had “voted” every time he made a drop.
And so had I!
I could hear Colonel Dubois in my mind: “Citizenship is an attitude, a state of mind, an emotional conviction that the whole is greater than the part…and that the part should be humbly proud to sacrifice itself that the whole may live.”
Well, why should I fight? Wasn’t it preposterous to expose my tender skin to the violence of unfriendly strangers? Especially as the pay at any rank was barely spending money, the hours terrible, and the working conditions worse? When I could be sitting at home while such matters were handled by thick-skulled characters who enjoyed such games? Particularly when the strangers against whom I fought had never done anything to me personally until I showed up and started kicking over their tea wagon—what sort of nonsense is this?
Fight because I’m an M.I.? Brother, you’re drooling like Dr. Pavlov’s dogs. Cut it out and start thinking.
“The ruling nobles of many another system were a small group fully aware of their grave power. Furthermore, our franchised citizens are not everywhere a small fraction; you know or should know that the percentage of citizens among adults ranges from over eighty percent on Iskander to less than three per cent in some Terran nations—yet government is much the same everywhere. Nor are the voters picked men; they bring no special wisdom, talent, or training to their sovereign tasks. So what difference is there between our voters and wielders of franchise in the past? Under our system every voter and officeholder is a man who has demonstrated through voluntary and difficult service that he places the welfare of the group ahead of personal advantage.
“And that is the one practical difference.
“He may fail in wisdom, he may lapse in civic virtue. But his average performance is enormously better than that of any other class of rulers in history.”
Superficially, our system is only slightly different; we have democracy unlimited by race, color, creed, birth, wealth, sex, or conviction, and anyone may win sovereign power by a usually short and not too arduous term of service—nothing more than a light workout to our cave-man ancestors. But that slight difference is one between a system that works, since it is constructed to match the facts, and one that is inherently unstable. Since sovereign franchise is the ultimate in human authority, we ensure that all who wield it accept the ultimate in social responsibility—we require each person who wishes to exert control over the state to wager his own life—and lose it, if need be—to save the life of the state. The maximum responsibility a human can accept is thus equated to the ultimate authority a human can exert. Yin and yang, perfect and equal.
Young man, can you restore my eyesight? […] You would find it much easier than to instill moral virtue—social responsibility—into a person who doesn’t have it, doesn’t want it, and resents the burden thrust on him. This is why we make it so hard to enroll, so easy to resign. Social responsibility above the level of family, or at most tribe, requires imagination—devotion, loyalty, all the higher virtues—which a man must develop himself; if he has them forced down him, he will vomit them out. Conscript armies have been tried in the past.
