The Milgram Experiment: Why We Follow Rules Even When They’re Wrong

IN Filipino households, respect for authority seems to be a cornerstone of family life. 

From a young age, children are taught to obey their elders, whether it’s a parent, teacher, or community leader. This ingrained value becomes our guidepost for handling social interactions and even tough decisions. We are conditioned to value the opinions of our elders, often deferring to them even when their views conflict with our own.

But what happens when respect transforms into unquestioned obedience? Is there a danger in blindly following authority under the guise of respect?

One of the most chilling experiments in psychology uncovered just how far people will go to obey authority—even when it means betraying their own sense of right and wrong.

The Milgram Experiment

It was 1961. 

The world was still reeling from the horrors of the war and the cold grip of the authoritarian regimes. 

In the aftermath of these global tensions, studies about human nature were flourishing, capturing the imagination of both the researchers and the public. 

At Yale University, a psychological experiment was about to be conducted in its sterile clinic. Stanley Milgram, a 34-year old American social psychologist, sought to understand the question that had lingered in the wake of the Nazi atrocities: How could ordinary people be complicit to such monstrous acts? 

The question was simple, yet chilling.

And he had just planned an experiment that would unravel the answer.

The premise was simple: the participants were told they would be taking part in a study about learning and memory. Their role was to administer electric shocks to a man seated in another room whenever he answered a question incorrectly. 

The man in the other room, who was actually an actor, was simply pretending to be shocked. But the participants were not aware of that detail. For all they know, the man from the other room was a real person experiencing real electric shocks. 

It began innocently enough. Mild shocks were given for simple mistakes. But as the man on the other side committed more and more wrongs, the intensity of the shocks increased— 15 volts at first, then 30, 75, 120. 

The man’s reaction shifted from slight discomfort to visible pain. As the voltage increased, he became more desperate, with frantic pleas for mercy. 

Still the experimenter in a white lab coat and clipped voice urged the participant to continue pressing the button despite the obvious discomfort of the other side. 

“The experiment requires that you continue,” the experimenter would say, his tone unwavering, his authority absolute. “Please continue.”

It didn’t matter that the screams on the other side of the wall were no longer human. 

It didn’t matter that the voice had fallen silent altogether. 

The majority of participants obeyed, pushing the voltage higher, compelled by the authority of the man in the white coat. Even when it seemed that the learner had stopped responding, they continued.

Milgram’s discovery was terrifying. 

By the end of the study, the result showed that more than 60 percent of the participants had gone all the way to the highest shock level— 450 volts— despite the obvious suffering unfolding before them. 

It revealed something dark about the portrait of human nature: under the watchful eye of an authority figure, even the most ordinary people were willing to follow orders— no matter if it leads to harm. 

When Orders Turn Deadly

Milgram’s experiment caused quite a stir. 

The idea that everyday people— teachers, delivery guys, and salesmen— could be capable of inflicting pain to another person just because they were ordered to do so was as fascinating as it was horrifying. 

But for others, this didn’t come as a surprise. 

Just a confirmation of what they have long known and observed. 

Milgram’s experiment might have taken place within the quiet walls of a Yale lab, but its implications bleed into the real world—where obedience doesn’t end in a study, but in tragedy.

Just 16 years earlier, the Nuremberg trials had gripped the world. One by one, the Nazi officers took the stand to answer for their roles in the Holocaust, where six million Jews were murdered. And yet, time and time again, the same defense echoed through the courtroom— I was just following orders. 

Adolf Eichmann, the mastermind behind the mass deportation of Jews to extermination camps, claimed he wasn’t a fanatic, not even anti-Semitic. Just a man who did his job.

In the decades that followed, we saw the same excuse given. 

In 1968, seven years after the experiment was conducted, the My Lai massacre occurred in Vietnam. US Army soldiers entered the village of My Lai under the suspicion that the area was full of enemy fighters. What they found instead were unarmed civilians. Old men, women, and children included. 

Yet they massacred the village still. More than 500 people were dead. Shot. Bayoneted. Bombed. Some were even raped. Others mutilated. 

The soldiers who carried out the massacre were young men; some were barely 20. When the 24-year old Lieutenant William Calley was asked to take the stand during their trial, his primary defense was that he was only following orders. 

“Well, I was ordered to go in there and destroy the enemy. That was my job on that day. That was the mission I was given. I did not sit down and think in terms of men, women, and children. They were all classified the same.”

This was the exact statement given by Lt. Calley when he took the trial. Again, it was his mission. His job. Just following orders. 

Thirty-five years later, a different kind of horror emerged—this time behind the closed doors of Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. 

Photographs leaked to the press showed prisoners stripped naked, beaten, hooded, stacked like cargo. A soldier pointed at one detainee like he was a hunting trophy. When asked why they participated, the answer came easily: they were instructed. The orders had come from above.

And in Jonestown, Guyana, the line between belief and obedience collapsed entirely. In 1978, cult leader Jim Jones told his followers it was time for “revolutionary suicide.” 

Parents gave their children poison. Husbands and wives held each other as they died. Over 900 people perished. 

Those who survived remembered the instructions clearly: Drink. Do not question. Obey.

Filipino Culture of Silence and Submission

But honestly, we need not look beyond our own borders to see the chilling truth of Milgram’s experiment.

In the Philippines, obedience is woven into the very fabric of our culture. From an early age, Filipinos are taught to respect authority—whether it’s a parent, a teacher, or even a distant relative.

Beyond that, we have deep-rooted cultural values like utang na loob and pakikisama that reinforce this respect, tying us to the virtue of compliance.

Yet, there’s a danger in this unwavering respect. What starts as filial piety and honor toward authority can too easily slip into blind obedience. And when that happens, the cost is steep.

Take, for example, the students and activists who dared to speak out against the government’s failures. 

These young voices, calling for a more just society, are often met with accusations of being ungrateful or, worse, labelled as communists or terrorists. They question the status quo, not out of defiance, but because they believe in a future that prioritizes the welfare of the people. 

Yet, instead of being heard, they are silenced, accused of disloyalty, and red-tagged as enemies of the state.

In some cases, their refusal to blindly obey leads to tragic consequences. 

Activists and environmentalists who fight against land grabs and corporate exploitation are similarly branded as rebels and terrorists. Many of them are abducted, tortured, or even killed by state forces. 

And what’s more chilling is that there are many Filipinos who justify these killings, believing that those who question authority are deserving of such fates.

This justification is where the true horror lies. Blind obedience to authority doesn’t just enable violence— it fosters it. And the people who justify these killings, who allow the silencing of the dissent, are just as guilty as the ones who committed the acts. Their hands are not spared of the blood that spills; they are no different from the ones pulling the trigger.

Blind obedience doesn’t just damage individual lives; it poisons the whole society. It has the capability of turning people into passive bystanders of violence. 

Unraveling the Roots

Why does this happen? Why are we prone to blind obedience? Why do we follow authority at the cost of our very own morality? 

Milgram did not stop in a single experiment. He had followed up studies that dissected our propensity towards obedience and the factors that affect it. 

During this series of experiments, Milgram found out that many participants administer the highest shock when the authority figure is in the same room as them. 

But when the experimenter gave orders on the phone, obedience dropped from above 60 percent to just 21 percent. 

When the “learner” was seated in the same room or the teacher had to physically place the learner’s hand on the shock plate, obedience rates declined significantly. 

And when other participants (actually actors) openly defied the authority figure, participants were far more likely to disobey too.

What can we glean from these insights then? 

Well, they tell us that people are not inherently cruel, but they are quite susceptible to social pressure and hierarchy. 

Milgram’s own analysis reflected this: 

“The essence of obedience is that a person comes to view himself as the instrument for carrying out another person’s wishes and he therefore no longer regards himself as responsible for his actions.”

But blind obedience is not something that is caused by external pressure alone. When people live long enough under systems that discourage resistance, they become more susceptible to the danger of internalizing it. 

They begin to think that resistance is futile. 

This is what psychologists called a ‘learned helplessness’, a state where individuals, after repeated exposure to situations where their actions seem to have no effect, begin to believe they are powerless, even when avenues of resistance still exist.

Originally studied by Martin Seligman in the 1960s, learned helplessness helps explain why people stay silent in the face of oppression, injustice, or abuse of power. It’s not just fear. It’s the deep-seated belief that nothing they do will matter anyway.

And in a culture like ours, where confrontation is often frowned upon, where speaking up can mean being shamed or punished, where survival sometimes means keeping your head down—it’s no wonder silence becomes the norm.

We inherit not only the fear of questioning authority, but also the false comfort of resignation that comes with it. We tell ourselves: hindi ko na dapat palakihin, ‘di ko problema ‘yan, madadamay pa ‘ko, wala namang mangyayari— ganyan na ang sistema. 

And the cycle tightens. 

But if Milgram’s variations tell us anything, it’s that context matters. People are not inherently doomed to obey. When one person defies, the other follows. When authority is distanced or questioned, its illusion begins to fade. 

We must always remember that we still have the power to choose. 

We must remember that the authorities only hold as much power as we give them. 

The same way people are conditioned into silence, we can be conditioned into resistance. Into consciousness. Into solidarity.

It begins when one person dares to say, “this isn’t right”.

And maybe that one person is you.