He can’t.

Next question!

Well, let me expand on that a bit. The Ethicist received this query from someone with a guilty conscience:

“I’m from a West African country, and I moved to the United States to attend graduate school. I am a recipient of two academic scholarships, sponsored by the local and federal governments of my birth country. The paperwork I signed before departing for the United States specifically stated that, on completing my studies, I would return to assume a government post commensurate with my academic accomplishments and professional experience. [Instead of following through on this commitment] I stayed, became a naturalized citizen, raised a family, held several academic and administrative positions in the United States and retired in the thick of the pandemic.

I had long concluded that my research activities — e.g., publishing peer-reviewed research in books and journals, reviewing research proposals and doctoral theses, presenting conference papers and giving workshops — could serve as an acceptable proxy for returning to my birth country after graduation by contributing directly to its economy and well-being. Now I am increasingly concerned about such a justification, particularly in the absence of data that my academic products had any measurable impact on government policymaking. How do I make taxpayers in my home country whole, following a robust government investment in my master’s and doctoral education?”

The Ethicist, being more diplomatic than I and having to fill his column, says, “I’d urge you to turn your gnawing guilt into something of genuine value.” His suggestions: “In this age of Zoom, would you be able to provide expertise as a consultant to worthwhile development projects in your home country? Is there a charitable venture there that you could help raise money for? Could you help create a partnership between a research institution in this country and that one? Could you serve as a mentor to students or young professionals there?” Prof. Appiah also muses, “One way to think about what you owe is to ask what the current value of the money would have been if it had been a loan, assuming a modest percentage of interest for intervening years. You could consider spending that much on projects in your country of origin over the next few years. But I doubt you could afford to do it.”

I, being more crude and direct in such matters, would simply croon to this cheater, in my best Carol King impression, “It’s too late, baby, now it’s too late.” This cheater has derived the full benefit of his double-cross, and profited for about a half-century. Now, in retirement, he’s feeling guilty, as he should, and trying to imagine ways to make it all better. He had made a deal to accept a scholarship on the condition that he would return to help his country and government, and instead, with no fear of punishment or retribution, broke his promise for his own benefit. The opportunity to do good things for his native land and its citizens for five decades is over, done, kaput. Nothing he does now can make up for that.

The writer is like the neglectful and absent mother who suddenly knocks on the door of her now grown child and wants to make up for lost time. I believe that a perfectly ethical response is “No” and a firmly shut door. He is like the brilliant thief, living in splendor at a private island mansion off his plunder, feeling tender-hearted about those he robbed. He is like Richard Rich, the man whose lies made his own career and helped send Thomas More to the headsman, feigning regret in his dotage.

The Ethicist’s inquirer should have been told that he was welcome to do whatever he chose to try to let him sleep at night, but that he should not delude himself that he will be mitigating his betrayal in any way. He accepted crucial assistance under false pretenses, benefited greatly, and only started thinking about making amends after his ill-gotten rewards were a fait accompli.