We've promised a lot of 'zero' targets by 2050 — what happens when we don't get there? - ABC Religion & Ethics

Australia Broadcast Center

28-05-2025

There's something quietly unsettling about the number zero. In recent years, it has become the endpoint for many of our public ambitions: zero emissions, zero poverty, zero road deaths, zero workplace fatalities. The year 2050 is the horizon for many of these promises. And yet, for all their moral clarity, a quiet question lingers: what happens when we all start suspecting these promises won't come true? What is the ethical cost of setting goals so absolute, so distant and so unachievable that they risk turning into symbols, rather than strategies?
There is an almost sacred appeal to zero. It indicates moral resolve. It says this is the amount of death, suffering, poverty or damage we are prepared to accept: none . That appeal is understandable. In a world where political statements are often vague or compromised, zero is sharp. It looks good in a speech. It sounds ethical. And on some level, it is .
But moral clarity isn't the same as moral effectiveness. The growing trend of attaching 'zero' to public targets — by 2030, by 2050, by mid-century — invites a tension between aspiration and implementation. These numbers are now enshrined in policy strategies, national commitments, global accords. And yet for many of them, no plausible road-map exists.
We're living in a strange moment where the public is told to expect perfection but given little sense of how it might arrive. And when perfection starts to feel like fiction, cynicism sets in.
The psychology of impossible promises
Aspirations are powerful. They draw lines on the horizon and invite us to walk toward them. But they can also mislead, especially when they become detached from reality. The psychology is simple: when people sense that a promise is too far removed from what's possible, they stop investing hope in it. And over time, hope uninvested turns into quiet disengagement or outright distrust.
We sometimes assume that big goals inspire big action. And they can, but only if they feel believable. A target like 'zero road deaths by 2050' might feel noble, and it is noble, but for those watching fatalities rise year after year, it quickly loses credibility. Likewise, 'zero poverty' sounds admirable until people ask what's actually changing in the streets, in the housing system, in the wage structures. If the answer is 'not much', the target becomes background noise — or worse, a source of disillusionment.
It's a bit like someone declaring, 'In ten years, I'm going to be a professor', while not even enrolled in a PhD program yet. The ambition might be sincere. But if there's no sign of the journey beginning, no first step, no enrolment, no plan, the declaration sounds hollow. Worse, it becomes performative: a statement of what one wishes were true, not what one is genuinely working toward.
When governments adopt slogans with no scaffolding beneath them, people notice. And when the promises repeat — with new deadlines, new slogans, new 'visions' — people begin to tune out. Not because they don't care, but because they've stopped believing.
When aspirations become symbols
There's a fine line between an aspirational target and a symbolic gesture. Cross it, and the goal stops being a tool for progress and starts functioning more like a slogan: something you display, not something you deliver.
This is the risk with 'zero' targets. Over time, they start to drift from policy into performance. They become markers of moral positioning rather than actionable strategy. Governments declare them to show that they care, to stake out the high ground, not necessarily because they believe the target can or will be met.
This symbolic function can serve a purpose. It can create pressure, shape narratives, and set a standard for what should be. But symbols without substance eventually backfire. If people sense that a promise exists mainly to signal virtue, they become sceptical not just of the target, but of the whole project behind it.
This is how moral ambition, when untethered from realism, starts to erode trust. It invites the public to care, then quietly lets them down.
The ethical consequence of failure
When ambitious promises fall short, the consequences aren't just technical or political. They're ethical too. A failed target isn't just a missed KPI, it is a broken commitment.
People remember what they were told. And when year after year passes with little visible progress, they don't simply shrug. They lose faith in the policy, but also in the institutions behind it. When that happens, even genuine progress can feel like failure. A 20 per cent reduction in road deaths sounds like good news, unless you were promised zero. Then it feels like defeat.
This loss of faith has a ripple effect. People start turning away from leaders who push for ambitious reform, even if those leaders are the ones making the most meaningful changes. The damage becomes circular: the lofty promise leads to public disillusionment, which then weakens support for the very ideas behind the promise.
It's a kind of ethical boomerang. The more confidently a government or an institution promises a perfect outcome, the more scrutiny it invites, and the more vulnerable it becomes when the outcome falls short.
A better moral framework
So, what's the alternative? Should we stop aiming high? Set safer, smaller goals to avoid disappointment? Not necessarily. The problem isn't with ambition. It's with pretending that ambition alone is a plan.
A better moral framework starts with honesty. It acknowledges that absolute zero — whether it's zero emissions or zero fatalities — might remain out of reach, but that doesn't make the effort meaningless. What matters is whether we're building credible, measurable steps that people can see, understand and support. Not just a destination in 2050, but visible movement in 2025, 2026, 2027.
Instead of declaring 'zero road deaths', maybe we say: let's flatten the curve. Let's stop the upward trend. Let's make sure the toll doesn't rise next year. It's not as stirring, but it's real. And real progress, however incremental, keeps people engaged. It earns trust. And it lays a foundation for bigger steps later.
Ambition still matters, but so does sequence. Before we promise the summit, we have to show we've started the climb — and invite others to join us, step by step. The ethic we need isn't one of perfection, but of credibility. Because in the end, what keeps public hope alive isn't the scale of our targets. It's the trust that we're actually moving toward them.
Take road fatalities as an example. Instead of just floating the idea of 'zero deaths', we could show how many lives have already been saved over the past half-century. Same goes with other 'zero' initiatives. That's how people buy into policy. That's how they go from sceptical to curious. And that's how public support is built — not by dangling the end goal, but by showing that we know how to take the next step.
Let's remember that without public trust and support, noble policies or those who championed them are bound for failure or abandonment.
Milad Haghani is an Associate Professor of Urban Resilience and Safety at the University of Melbourne.