Rats exist everywhere. We Baby Boomers knew that. Usually we ferreted out their identity, isolated them from our circle, and that was that. Our code, at least for many of us back then, was that the snitch wound up in the ditch.
Then the ethics of ratting became more complex. That is to say, resentments built up. The issue became: Should we refrain from disclosing this or that negative information just because we knew it would serve our hateful purposes?
Over the past decades, that's mostly what I opted to do. The one exception was warning a friend of a friend that a former colleague (and my enemy) was badmouthing him. Therefore, stop confiding in that colleague. In that whole enchilada I found no moral ambiguity.
It's another situation entirely in my regret in not letting former classmates at Seton Hill, Greensburg, Pennsylvania know the vicious things supposed friends were saying about other friends. From the time adults started crowding onto Facebook, they were jawing with each other about their daily activities, from all points of the U.S. They commiserated with snowy driving conditions, cheered on award-winners of whatever, and gushed over photos of grandchildren.
The reality beyond that DisneyLand of happy banter was backbiting. Most stemmed from envy. Some classmates, as in George Orwell's "Animal Farm," had more status and perks than others. That never sits well.
I said nothing. I recognized my own inner darkness. Would I feel more whole today had I blown the land of the happy Class of 1967 to bits? Probably not. But it would have been fun.