Jeffrey Epstein and the Architecture of Kompromat

Why Power, Sex, and Silence Converge Where They Do

Kompromat: Evolutionary impulse supplies the hook; social taboo supplies the trap.

When the story of Jeffrey Epstein is retold, it often dissolves into lists of names, flight logs, and denials. That misses the deeper point.

Epstein matters not because he was exceptional, but because he exposed a structural truth about power — and about human nature itself.

Who Jeffrey Epstein Was

Jeffrey Epstein was an American financier whose wealth, client base, and business model were never clearly explained, yet whose access to global elites was extraordinary. Over several decades, he moved inside the inner architecture of elite power, where politicians, financiers, academics, celebrities, and royalty converged. He owned multiple high-security properties, operated private aircraft, and cultivated a reputation for absolute discretion, while nobody knew where his wealth came from.

Behind this façade, Epstein ran a system that systematically abused and trafficked underage girls. Court records and survivor testimonies describe a pattern of recruitment, grooming, payment, coercion, and reuse. Jeffrey Epstein was convicted in 2008 in Florida for soliciting prostitution and procuring a minor for prostitution and served about 13 months for this under a lenient plea deal. Arrested again in 2019 on federal sex-trafficking charges, Epstein died in jail before trial. His death closed a criminal case, but it did not close the questions his life raised about elite impunity, private power, and institutional silence.

The Girls at the Centre

At the centre of Epstein’s operation were girls, many of them underage. They were recruited, groomed, paid, coerced, and reused. Their exploitation was not accidental. It was instrumental.

To understand why, one must look beyond scandal or personality and briefly — uncomfortably — toward evolutionary biology.

Why Young Girls Are the Ultimate Lever

From an evolutionary perspective, youth signals fertility, health, and reproductive potential. Across cultures and eras, these signals have exerted a powerful pull on male psychology — often stronger than reason, reputation, or long-term self-interest.

At the same time, those very signals place young girls in the opposite position socially. They are the individuals most in need of protection. They sit at the intersection of maximum biological attraction and maximum social vulnerability.

That contradiction is precisely why exploitation here is so effective.

When powerful men are drawn into sexual situations involving young girls, several forces collide:

• deep evolutionary drives

• absolute social taboo

• severe legal consequences

• irreversible reputational damage

The result is not merely transgression, but total vulnerability.

Closed Worlds, Open Leverage

Epstein’s homes, planes, and private island functioned as sealed environments — spaces stripped of ordinary safeguards. Inside them, boundaries softened. Escalation felt gradual. Silence felt mutual.

This is how kompromat works in practice. Not always through explicit blackmail, but through uncertainty: What happened? Who saw it? What exists?

Fear of exposure does not require exposure. Evolutionary impulse supplies the hook; social taboo supplies the trap.

Why Royals Matter

The association between Epstein and Prince Andrew, followed by Andrew’s settlement with a victim, became emblematic for a reason.

Royalty embodies two extremes at once:

• elevated status

• catastrophic reputational fragility

A compromised royal threatens not just an individual, but an institution built on legitimacy, continuity, and deference. The instinctive response is protection: deflection, minimisation, procedural fog.

This is not conspiracy. It is institutional self-preservation.

Trump, Epstein, and the Logic of Exposure

Epstein’s close social relationship with Donald Trump has been extensively documented. Trump publicly described Epstein as a friend in the past, socialised with him in elite circles, and appears alongside him in multiple accounts of New York and Florida high society.

Beyond social proximity, Trump has long been surrounded by publicly reported hypotheses concerning:

• opaque financial dependencies

• extensive ties to Russian and post-Soviet capital

• and persistent stories and allegations involving sexual misconduct

Some of these allegations have led to civil cases or public settlements; others remain unresolved or contested. What matters here is not adjudication, but structure.

The connection is not evidentiary but systemic.

Intelligence and power systems have long understood that the most effective leverage does not create desire — it exploits existing drives. Whether through debt or sex, the principle is the same: exposure plus dependency equals influence.

Evolution supplies the weakness. Systems of power merely learn how to use it.

The Unspoken Contract of Silence

Elite worlds function on an implicit understanding: discretion is virtue; curiosity is danger.

Once someone has crossed an absolute boundary — especially one involving the exploitation of the young — silence becomes self-enforcing. People comply not because they are ordered to, but because their own instincts warn them what disclosure would cost.

This is governance without commands.

The Enduring Lesson

The Epstein affair was not primarily about sex, nor even about crime alone. It was about how deeply human biology can be weaponised inside modern power structures.

Young girls worked as leverage because evolution made them irresistible — and civilisation made their exploitation unforgivable.

That combination produces the strongest form of compromise there is.

Epstein is dead. The architecture he revealed remains.

Its core materials are ancient, and unsettlingly simple: desire, protection, fear — and silence.

Between What Is Said and What Is Understood

High-context and low-context cultures explained through everyday life

Image generated with ChatGPT.

You leave a conversation with the feeling that everything was clear. Nothing dramatic was said, no disagreement surfaced, the exchange felt polite, even warm. Later, you discover that the other person took something entirely different from it. No one lied. No one acted in bad faith. And yet, something essential was missed.

Most of us recognise this — while travelling, visiting family, dealing with neighbours, or moving between regions and countries. We tend to explain it away as “culture,” temperament, or personality. But beneath these moments lies something more fundamental: different ways cultures carry meaning.

To make sense of this, anthropologists often distinguish between low-context and high-context cultures. The terms describe where a culture expects meaning to live.

In low-context cultures, meaning is carried mainly by words. Communication is explicit. What is said or written matters most, because shared assumptions cannot be taken for granted.

In high-context cultures, meaning is carried largely by context. Much is understood without being said. Relationships, shared history and social cues carry more weight than explicit wording.

Most societies fall somewhere in between. Misunderstandings arise when people assume their own way of carrying meaning is universal.

With that in mind, many everyday frictions suddenly become easier to recognise.

In low-context cultures, words are expected to do the heavy lifting. If something matters, it should be stated clearly. Precision is not coldness; it is care. Written language, exact phrasing and explicit explanations are trusted because they reduce ambiguity.

In high-context cultures, meaning often lives outside words. Tone, timing, gesture and silence matter as much as speech. Saying everything out loud can feel unnecessary or even awkward — as if you are questioning what everyone already understands.

Neither approach is superior. They evolved under different social conditions. Low-context communication works well in societies where people interact frequently with strangers and move easily between roles and places. High-context communication thrives where relationships are long-term and shared experiences run deep.

Tension appears when these worlds meet.

To someone from a low-context background, high-context communication may feel vague or evasive. “Why don’t they just say it?” To someone from a high-context background, low-context communication can feel blunt, insensitive or oddly distrustful. “Why does everything need to be spelled out?”

These reactions are rarely about manners or intelligence. They reflect different assumptions about where meaning belongs.

You can sense this difference when moving across regions. In some places, a direct statement is welcomed as honest and respectful. In others, the same sentence may feel abrupt or even offensive. A carefully phrased hint may feel perfectly clear to one person and completely insufficient to another. Neither is wrong — they are listening for meaning in different places.

This difference also shapes how people understand responsibility.

In low-context cultures, responsibility is closely linked to explicit statements. If something was said, agreed or written, it carries weight. Responsibility can be traced back to a moment of expression.

In high-context cultures, responsibility is more relational. It emerges from shared understanding rather than explicit declaration. Calling something out directly can feel disruptive, as if it threatens the relationship itself.

This is why misunderstandings can be so persistent. One person believes everything was clear. The other believes nothing was settled. Both interpretations make sense — within their own cultural logic.

History offers many echoes of this tension. Written law alongside customary law. Urban centres governed by charters next to rural communities guided by tradition. These were not only legal differences, but differences in how meaning itself was organised.

Understanding high-context and low-context communication does not eliminate conflict. What it offers is insight into why good intentions so often fail to land as intended.

Meaning is not always contained in words. Sometimes it lives in what surrounds them — and noticing that can change how we listen, how we travel, and how we live with difference.

Trump, Carney and Europe’s Identity Crisis

ChatGPT’s version of the Europe’s leaders looking for answers as familiar reference points fade — a collective portrait of uncertainty in a moment when Europe’s identity is no longer self-evident.

At the World Economic Forum this year, the most revealing moment did not come from grand declarations or carefully choreographed panels, but from a single, deliberately chosen word. Mark Carney spoke of a rupture — a break in continuity that cannot be repaired with reassuring language about a “rules-based order” or nostalgic references to post-Cold War stability.

Carney’s choice of words mattered. A rupture is not a temporary disruption, nor a crisis awaiting managerial correction. It is a structural break: a point at which underlying assumptions no longer hold. His intervention acknowledged what many European leaders still hesitate to state openly — that the geopolitical environment which underpinned Europe’s prosperity, security, and political confidence has fractured, and that denial has itself become a strategic vulnerability.

In that sense, Carney was the adult in the room. He did not offer restoration narratives or institutional comfort. He did not pretend that existing frameworks could simply absorb the shock. Instead, he described a world in which power is exercised more directly, norms are increasingly conditional, and responsibility is unevenly distributed. Middle powers, he argued, must respond not with moral reassurance, but with coordination, resilience, and strategic realism.

Set against this sober diagnosis stood the political style of Donald Trump, whose recent interventions illustrate the rupture rather than merely describing it. Trump’s renewed fixation on Greenland was not an eccentric sideshow or a failed negotiating gambit; it reflected a political logic in which sovereignty becomes negotiable, territory becomes transactional, and alliances become instruments rather than commitments.

His statements oscillated between boastful deal-making, casual dismissal of territorial integrity, and vague assurances that force would not be used — all without strategic coherence. For Europe, this was not simply embarrassing theatre. Greenland sits at the intersection of Arctic security, climate transformation, resource competition, and the erosion of assumptions that territorial sovereignty remains beyond negotiation. Trump’s handling of the issue exposed how fragile Europe’s assumptions about American predictability and strategic continuity have become.

The same rupture is visible in Ukraine. Russia’s aggression against Ukraine is not just a test of Ukrainian military endurance; it is a test of Western political stamina and credibility. Europe continues to speak the language of solidarity, yet remains painfully aware that the long-term response to Russia’s aggression may hinge on electoral cycles, domestic instability, and political volatility across the Atlantic.

Uncertainty in this context is corrosive. It transforms deterrence into hesitation and commitment into contingency. What should function as strategic clarity becomes conditional support. From Kyiv — where Europe confronts the direct consequences of Russia’s aggression — to the strategic Arctic, Europe is forced to reckon with how much of its security still depends on external guarantees it does not control.

What Carney articulated, and what Trump inadvertently reinforces, is that Europe can no longer outsource adulthood. For decades, Europe operated within a system in which American power provided the ultimate backstop, institutions smoothed political shocks, and economic integration substituted for strategic agency. That system has ruptured — not suddenly, but structurally — and cannot simply be repaired.

Europe’s identity crisis lies precisely here. It continues to behave as though continuity can be restored through diplomacy alone, while the world increasingly operates through leverage, coercion, and unilateral action. It still confuses values with power, process with agency, and institutional language with geopolitical capacity.

The contrast at Davos was therefore not ideological, but existential. Trump embodies a politics that accelerates rupture through impulse, spectacle, and transactional logic. Carney acknowledges rupture and insists on governing within it. Europe, meanwhile, hesitates — caught between denial and dependency.

Ruptures do not close themselves. They force choices. Europe must decide whether it intends to remain an object of other powers’ politics, or whether it is finally prepared to act as a geopolitical subject in a fractured world.

That decision can no longer be postponed.

Rotterdam: Where Words Work as Hard as People Do

Rotterdam, the ECT container terminal.

In Rotterdam, language is rarely decorative. It’s a working tool—sharp, efficient, and stripped of unnecessary polish. The city’s direct way of speaking is often noted by visitors, sometimes mistaken for bluntness. But this tone was forged at the docks, not in drawing rooms.

Rotterdam is Europe’s largest port, a place built on movement and timing. Ships must be unloaded and reloaded as fast as possible, often within hours. The crews, dockworkers, and crane operators come from dozens of countries, speaking as many languages. There’s little time for nuance or ceremony. Orders must be clear, warnings unmistakable, responses immediate. In this world, words are like ropes and winches—tools that make things happen.

That linguistic economy has seeped into the city’s character. Even beyond the port, Rotterdammers tend to speak plainly, preferring action over ornament. It’s not rudeness but pragmatism—communication shaped by urgency and teamwork among people who might only meet once.

Contrast this with rural or agricultural communities, where language is part of long-term relationships. There, speech is softer, tuned to coexistence over generations. In Rotterdam, by contrast, speech is transactional and situational—designed for efficiency, not diplomacy.

Linguists and sociologists studying port cities have observed similar patterns elsewhere: directness as a form of linguistic adaptation to high-intensity, multicultural environments. When trust must be built in minutes, clarity becomes the highest form of respect.

Further reading

• Johnstone, Barbara. Linguistic Individuality and Regional Speech Patterns.

• Coupland, Nikolas. Style: Language Variation and Identity.

• Labov, William. Sociolinguistic Patterns.

• Hymes, Dell. Foundations in Sociolinguistics: An Ethnographic Approach.

Foreign Policy for Sale: How Trump’s inner circle sees the Ukraine War as a Business Opportunity

Based on: Ukraine and America’s Credibility Crisis — with Anne Applebaum — The Prof G Pod – Scott Galloway

Trump and Putin (image created with AI).

Anne Applebaum’s analysis of the war in Ukraine exposes a troubling shift in how American foreign policy is currently being practiced. Her central argument is not that diplomacy has failed, but that its purpose has been distorted. Decisions that should be guided by public interest, democratic accountability, and long-term security increasingly appear to be shaped by private financial incentives.

At the heart of her critique is a series of informal and opaque “peace initiatives” related to Ukraine. These efforts are not being led by career diplomats, allied negotiators, or institutions accountable to voters and legislatures. Instead, they involve business figures and political confidants operating through private channels between the United States and Russia. While presented as attempts to end the war, the structure and content of the proposals suggest a different underlying logic.

According to reporting Applebaum cites, early versions of these peace plans paired Ukrainian territorial concessions with prospects for American–Russian commercial cooperation. These reportedly included access to natural resources, energy infrastructure, and even the use of frozen Russian assets. Within this framework, Ukraine’s sovereignty and Europe’s long-term security are not treated as fundamental principles, but as variables in a deal.

The substance of the proposed settlement makes this clear. Ukraine would be expected to formally recognize Russian control over occupied territories, renounce any future NATO membership, and accept an agreement without credible security guarantees. Applebaum stresses why this is not merely unfair, but dangerous. Russia has failed to win the war militarily. What it now seeks is a political victory—achieved by persuading or pressuring Ukraine, through American intermediaries, to surrender what Russian forces could not seize on the battlefield.

From Ukraine’s perspective, such a settlement would leave the country exposed. Without firm security guarantees, there can be no real reconstruction, no stable return of refugees, and no lasting investment. A “peace” built on these terms would not end the conflict; it would simply postpone the next phase of it.

Applebaum’s concern, however, extends well beyond Ukraine. What this episode reveals, she argues, is a deeper corrosion of decision-making within the United States itself. Foreign policy begins to resemble a commercial transaction, shaped by individuals whose primary expertise lies in deal-making rather than statecraft. The critical question shifts from “What serves national and allied security?” to “Who stands to gain financially?”

This model closely mirrors the systems Applebaum has long studied in authoritarian states. In such systems, political power and economic power are fused. Diplomacy, business, and state authority become indistinguishable, and public institutions serve the enrichment of a narrow elite. Her warning is stark: when anticorruption laws are ignored and access to power can be purchased, democratic systems begin to function in ways that closely resemble those they once opposed.

The contrast with Ukraine itself is striking. Despite being at war, Ukraine maintains active anticorruption institutions that investigate even figures close to political leadership. These efforts persist because Ukrainians understand something fundamental: corruption is not only immoral, it is strategically dangerous. It weakens the state and makes it vulnerable to external coercion. In this respect, Ukraine often appears more committed to democratic self-correction than the country negotiating its future.

Europe, meanwhile, is adjusting to the realization that American leadership can no longer be assumed. Countries closest to Russia have increased defense spending and military cooperation, while broader European support for Ukraine continues to grow. Germany’s shift in strategic thinking is particularly significant. The war is accelerating Europe’s move toward greater responsibility for its own security.

Applebaum does not argue that the United States has lost all influence. But she makes clear that influence erodes when foreign policy is treated as an opportunity for profit rather than a public trust. A settlement shaped by private interests would weaken Ukraine, destabilize Europe, and further undermine confidence in democratic governance.

The lesson of her argument is ultimately straightforward. When the Ukraine war is viewed as an opportunity—for access, leverage, or financial gain—foreign policy ceases to serve the public. The cost is paid not only on the battlefield, but in damaged alliances, fragile peace, and the gradual erosion of democratic credibility itself.

About Anne Applebaum: Anne Applebaum is a Pulitzer Prize–winning historian and journalist, best known for her work on authoritarianism, Eastern Europe, and the legacy of Soviet power. She is a staff writer at The Atlantic and a senior fellow at Johns Hopkins University. Her books include Gulag: A History, Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine, and Autocracy, Inc., in which she examines how modern authoritarian systems merge political power with private wealth. Applebaum lives in both the United States and Poland and has written extensively on Ukraine, Russia, and the evolving crisis of democracy in the West.

Why Some Art Grabs Us — and Some Wait for Us to Notice

A work of Mattia Pajè, a resident of the Jan van Eyck Academie in Maastricht (October 2025). Mattia Pajè explores how truth is constructed and manipulated in an age of post-truth narratives, pseudoscience, and conspiracy theories. His work turns research and site-specific installations into layered spaces where images, ideas, and time overlap—questioning not only what we see, but how we come to believe it.

Ever stood in front of a painting and felt … nothing? And then, another time, been completely drawn in — as if the work was quietly speaking your language?

That spark we feel isn’t random. It’s the mind recognising a pattern it half-knows — something close enough to grasp, yet just beyond reach. When the familiar and the unfamiliar meet, we lean forward. That’s the space where learning, and art, begin.

Realistic art often hits that balance for many people easily. We recognise the world it shows us, so it feels natural to step inside. That’s why it can be instantly appealing: it speaks in a language we already know. Contemporary or conceptual art, on the other hand, often takes its time. Without shared references or context, it can feel distant — like a conversation we’ve walked into halfway through.

Artists and curators simply know more of those conversations. They’ve built broader frames of reference, so they see patterns and meanings that others might miss. But understanding can grow. A short explanation, a hint of context, or even a second look can turn confusion into connection.

Some works reach us immediately; others wait quietly until we’re ready to meet them halfway. That’s what makes art enduring — it doesn’t always shout for attention, but it’s always there, waiting to be seen.

Further Reading

• Reber, Schwarz & Winkielman — Processing Fluency and Aesthetic Pleasure

• Silvia — What Is Interesting?

• Leder & Nadal — A Model of Aesthetic Appreciation

• Loewenstein — The Psychology of Curiosity

• Marin & Leder — Berlyne Revisited

Freedom: America and Europe’s Two Stories

“Freedom” is one of those words that carries enormous weight but slips through your fingers as soon as you try to pin it down. It means one thing in the United States and another in Europe, and both versions are born out of very different histories. When Americans and Europeans talk about freedom, they often think they mean the same thing—until they realize they don’t.

The American Story of Freedom

In the United States, freedom is rooted in the frontier, the revolution against the British crown, and the Constitution’s Bill of Rights. It is highly individualistic: the right to speak one’s mind, to bear arms, to be left alone by government interference. In political debates, “freedom” is often shorthand for personal autonomy—the liberty to make choices, even risky ones, without too much collective oversight.

That’s why Americans can be suspicious of government welfare programs or public health mandates. To them, freedom often means not being told what to do. Even taxes, seatbelt laws, or universal healthcare can trigger fears of government “control.” The American myth of the self-reliant individual, carving out a life on the frontier, still runs strong.

The European Story of Freedom

In Europe, freedom carries a different legacy. The continent has seen centuries of monarchies, aristocracies, world wars, fascism, and communist regimes. Out of this history came another interpretation: freedom through security and solidarity.

Freedom here doesn’t only mean being left alone; it also means having access to healthcare, education, and housing. A person who cannot afford to see a doctor or send a child to school is not truly free in the European sense. That’s why welfare states are not seen as obstacles to liberty but as enablers of it.

In European political culture, “freedom” often has a collective dimension. It is about building a society in which people can live without fear of destitution, so they can pursue their ambitions and express themselves without anxiety.

When These Freedoms Collide

The American visitor in Europe may see bureaucracy and taxes as suffocating. The European visitor in the U.S. may see poverty, medical bankruptcy, and lack of social safety nets as limiting true freedom. Each side is puzzled by the other:

• How can “freedom” mean refusing a national health system in the U.S.?

• How can “freedom” mean paying high taxes and following strict labor rules in Europe?

The truth is, both models are incomplete without the other. A society that values only individual liberty risks leaving its most vulnerable behind. A society that values only collective protection risks drowning in regulation.

Why This Matters

In a globalized world, Americans and Europeans are bound to work together—but they will keep clashing over this word. Perhaps the deeper lesson is that freedom has never been a one-size-fits-all idea. It is always shaped by history, geography, and culture.

The United States tells a story of freedom as independence from authority. Europe tells a story of freedom as independence from fear. Both are powerful stories. Both are worth listening to.

When Trust Turns to Dust: The Real Reason Empires Die

Is the USA next?

Based on the YouTube video The Empire Collapse Pattern: Rome, Spain, Britain… USA Is Next

Every empire begins with faith — faith in its gods, its laws, and its money. And every empire ends the same way: when that faith is broken.

From the shimmer of Roman silver to the paper promises of the modern dollar, the story repeats itself with unnerving precision. Civilizations rise on trust and fall on inflation. The coins change, the language changes, but the rhythm is the same — an ancient drumbeat of power, pride, and decay.

The Roman Lesson

The Roman denarius once gleamed with certainty: pure silver, pure trust. A soldier could march across continents and still spend it without question.

But as Rome’s ambitions grew, so did its hunger for coin. To pay its legions, emperors thinned the silver and thickened the lie. By the time of Galienus, the denarius was little more than a silver-plated illusion — 95% base metal, 100% pretense.

When prices rose and armies demanded payment in gold, the illusion cracked. Rome’s collapse was not a siege of walls, but of wallets. The empire did not fall to enemies; it suffocated in its own counterfeit breath.

Spain’s Treasure, Spain’s Curse

A thousand years later, Spain struck what looked like divine luck: the mountain of Potosí, the richest silver vein ever found. For a century the world’s money spilled from its mines, and Spain seemed untouchable.

But abundance can rot faster than scarcity. Silver flooded Europe, and prices rose like tides. The more Spain spent, the poorer it became. Factories never built, debts never repaid, wars never won. Within decades, the richest empire in the world was bankrupt — four times over. The treasure that promised eternity dissolved into debt and disillusion.

The British Mirage

Britain’s empire was built not on silver, but on paper. The pound sterling, steady as the tides, anchored trade across oceans. But credit is a more dangerous drug than silver.

Two world wars drained the veins of the empire, and by 1945 the pound was a promise it could no longer keep. As colonies gained independence, Britain tried to patch dignity with devaluation. The pound fell, and with it fell the illusion of permanence.

The empire had not been conquered; it had been spent.

The American Moment

The United States inherited the role of global caretaker, its dollar crowned as the world’s reserve currency. For decades it worked — until the wars, the debts, and the printing presses returned.

The golden window closed in 1971. The dollar floated free, untethered from reality. It has floated ever since, on oceans of confidence and credit. But confidence is a fragile thing. The debt now climbs past $36 trillion. Inflation whispers that the spell may be breaking.

And like Rome, Spain, and Britain before it, America believes it is different.

The Pattern That Doesn’t Lie

History does not repeat by accident; it repeats by arithmetic.
No nation can print wealth faster than it produces it. No currency can bear infinite promises.

The pattern is old and merciless:

• trust breeds prosperity,

• prosperity breeds arrogance,

• arrogance breeds debt,

• and debt devours trust.

Empires fall not when their enemies grow strong, but when their money grows weak.

The Roman coin turned to dust. The Spanish silver lost its shine. The British pound sank beneath its own weight. And now, the American dollar trembles on the same axis of faith and forgetting.

The Echo Ahead

Perhaps this time the collapse will be managed — a graceful decline into a smaller world, a gentler role. Or perhaps the pattern will bite harder, as it always does when mathematics outlives mythology.

Empires end quietly, at first. Not with invasions, but with the silence of empty vaults, and the hum of printing presses that no longer fool anyone.

The sound of history repeating is not a roar. It’s the soft hiss of devalued paper.

Further Reading

• Peter Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire (Oxford University Press, 2005)

• Niall Ferguson, The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World (2008)

• Ray Dalio, Principles for Dealing with the Changing World Order (2021)

• Kenneth Clark, Civilisation (BBC Books, 1969) — especially on the fragility of cultural continuity

The Death of Thinking - How We Lost the Art of Being Wrong

Socrates (c. 470–399 BCE). Image based on the image at Wikimedia Commons: Σωκράτης, Ακαδημία Αθηνών (File name: Σωκράτης, Ακαδημία Αθηνών 6616) — used under public domain.

The Age of Answers

Socrates once said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.” That single truth — that wisdom begins with doubt — was the spark that ignited Western thought. His method was dialogue: a dance between thesis and antithesis, question and counter-question, until illusion gave way to insight.

Today, that art has vanished. We have traded dialogue for monologue, reflection for reaction. Every answer is a click away, but every question grows shallower. Daniel Kahneman called it “System 1 thinking” — fast, emotional, automatic. Critical thought lives in “System 2,” where effort, patience, and logic reside. Yet we rarely go there anymore. We no longer test our ideas against others; we just search for confirmation and call it truth.

The Echo Chamber and the Noise

Technology has built new temples — echo chambers where our own opinions are worshipped back to us. Algorithms reward agreement and punish doubt. The old Socratic circle of challenge and counter-challenge has been replaced by the digital loop of “like” and “share.” We no longer debate; we declare. Each tribe speaks only to itself, mistaking volume for validity.

Meanwhile, the media’s noise drowns out nuance. Headlines scream, outrage sells, and exaggeration is the new language of attention. In a world permanently on edge, careful reasoning feels too slow. When every issue is dressed as an emergency, genuine discussion cannot survive. We scroll, react, and move on — our minds trained for speed, not depth.

The Way Back

If we are to recover the lost art of thinking, we must also recover the lost art of dialogue. Not the staged shouting of talk shows, but the genuine exchange where ideas collide — thesis meeting antithesis — and something new, a synthesis, is born. That is how truth advances: not by silencing opposition, but by engaging it.

Curiosity is the first step. Ask why — and ask again. Listen to the answer, then ask what might contradict it. Reflection is the second step: slow down, verify, and think before reacting. And finally, education must once again teach argument as an act of respect, not aggression — the courage to challenge without hatred, to doubt without despair.

If leaders, teachers, and citizens could model that humility — the willingness to be proven wrong — we might yet revive the conversation that Socrates began: the endless dialogue between ignorance and understanding.

Further Reading

• Daniel Kahneman – Thinking, Fast and Slow

• Hannah Arendt – The Life of the Mind

• Neil Postman – Amusing Ourselves to Death

• Carl Sagan – The Demon-Haunted World

• Immanuel Kant – What Is Enlightenment?

• Friedrich Nietzsche – Twilight of the Idols

• Jürgen Habermas – The Theory of Communicative Action

Europe at the Crossroads

Europe stands on a knife-edge. While China relentlessly builds and the United States races ahead in technology, the European Union risks drifting into slow decline—economically weaker, strategically dependent, and exposed to forces it cannot control. The Draghi report on EU competitiveness warns that without decisive action Europe will forfeit not only growth but its ability to defend its way of life.

The threats are multiple and reinforcing. Industrial capacity has thinned as factories moved abroad; vital know-how in energy technology, semiconductors and advanced manufacturing erodes further each year. Clean-tech ambitions clash with energy costs that remain far higher than in the U.S. or China. Fragmented capital markets and labyrinthine rules slow down every promising innovation until competitors elsewhere seize the lead. At the same time China dominates global supply chains for rare earths, batteries and pharmaceuticals, leaving Europe exposed to political leverage from Beijing.

To these economic headwinds comes the hard edge of security. Russia’s full-scale war on Ukraine is no longer a distant regional conflict but a strategic earthquake. A revanchist Kremlin openly threatens NATO’s eastern flank, tests Europe’s airspace and cyber-defences, and bets on Western fatigue. A continent that struggles to produce artillery shells fast enough, or to coordinate its own air-defence procurement, cannot assume that the U.S. nuclear umbrella will always suffice. Economic fragility and military vulnerability feed each other: a weaker industrial base makes rearmament harder, while insecurity discourages long-term investment.

What Europe needs is not another round of cautious communiqués but a surge of purposeful action. The Draghi report calls for hundreds of billions in annual investment to rebuild manufacturing and energy systems, but money alone will not be enough. Decision-making must be faster, regulation simpler, and the single market finally completed so that ideas, capital and skilled workers can move as freely as ambition demands. Industrial policy must target critical sectors—clean energy, digital infrastructure, advanced defence technologies—while integrating climate goals with competitiveness rather than setting them in tension.

Europe has shown before that it can reinvent itself when the stakes are existential. Today the choice is stark: either remain a mosaic of well-meaning but slow-moving states, or act as a true union capable of building, defending and innovating at scale. The alternative is a future where prosperity ebbs, dependence grows and security is left to others. In an age when power belongs to those who can out-build and out-last their rivals, Europe must decide whether it wants to shape the century—or be shaped by it.

The Meme-ing of Life

How Ideas Spread in a Fast-Changing World

Doge meme in a liquid world.

We live in a time when everything changes quickly—our jobs, habits, beliefs, and even how we talk to each other. Sociologist Zygmunt Bauman called this liquid culture: a world where life is flexible, fast-moving, and often unpredictable. One of the clearest signs of this type of culture is the meme.

What Is a Meme, Really?

Most people today think of memes as funny images with text that go viral on the internet. But the word meme was first used by scientist Richard Dawkins in his 1976 book The Selfish Gene. He described memes as small pieces of culture—like songs, catchphrases, fashion trends, or beliefs—that spread from person to person.

Just like genes pass on biological traits, memes pass on cultural ideas. And like genes, memes are copied, mutated, and selected. The ones that “fit” best with their surroundings—whether that’s a moment in time, a social mood, or a community—are the ones that survive and spread.

Memes in the Internet Age

Today’s memes mostly travel through the internet, but the way they work hasn’t changed. A meme might start with a single image or joke, but quickly it gets remixed, rewritten, and reshaped by thousands of people. This ability to change and adapt is exactly what makes memes powerful in a world that’s always shifting.

Why do memes work so well in liquid culture?

• They’re fast: Memes are short and easy to share.

• They’re flexible: Anyone can edit or remix them.

• They’re social: Memes connect people through humor, criticism, or shared experiences.

• They evolve: Like living things, memes change and adapt to survive.

In a world where traditions feel less fixed and attention spans are short, memes help people react to events, express identity, or just join in the conversation.

In Short

Memes started as a scientific idea about how culture spreads. Today, they are a key part of how we communicate in a fast-changing world. They don’t just spread—they evolve. And in a liquid culture, that makes them one of the most powerful tools we have for sharing meaning.

Further Reading:

• Richard Dawkins – The Selfish Gene (1976)

• Zygmunt Bauman – Liquid Modernity (2000)

• Limor Shifman – Memes in Digital Culture (2013)

• Susan Blackmore – The Meme Machine (1999)

The Case Against Excess: Ingrid Robeyns and the Idea of Limitarianism

Ingrid Robeyns.

In a world where billionaires race to space and wealth concentrates in ever-fewer hands, philosopher and economist Ingrid Robeyns offers a refreshingly bold idea: maybe there should be a limit to how much wealth one person can ethically or politically possess. She calls it Limitarianism, and it's a concept that speaks not only to modern anxieties about inequality and climate crisis, but also echoes the deeper moral traditions of European thought — from ancient Stoicism to Christian thinkers like Saint Augustine.

What is Limitarianism?

At its core, limitarianism is the view that no one should be extremely rich. While most political philosophy focuses on alleviating poverty, Robeyns asks the opposite question: how much is too much? Drawing on empirical data, ethical theory, and political reflection, she argues that there is a moral upper limit to personal wealth, and exceeding that limit is unjustifiable — especially in societies where essential needs remain unmet.

Robeyns distinguishes between two versions of the idea:

• Moral limitarianism: it is morally wrong for someone to have more wealth than they could reasonably need to lead a flourishing life (she tentatively places this at around €1 million).

• Political limitarianism: the state should adopt measures to prevent excessive wealth, not as punishment, but to ensure democracy and sustainability (with the upper threshold possibly around €10 million).

This is not about envy or punishing success. It's about redirecting surplus resources — the part of wealth far beyond what’s needed for a dignified life — toward collective well-being: education, healthcare, climate adaptation, public space.

An European Ethic?

Limitarianism may strike some as radical in a global capitalist culture that glorifies the ultra-rich. But for European audiences, especially, Robeyns’ message resonates deeply. It revives a long-standing continental tradition of questioning excess — moral, economic, and personal.

Saint Augustine, writing in the early 5th century, famously warned that “it is not poverty that is to be feared, but the love of riches.” For Augustine, the good life was not one of opulence, but of justice, humility, and service to the common good. Robeyns’ arguments mirror this spiritual logic: hoarding wealth is not just an economic error, but a moral failure that erodes community and distracts from higher goods.

From medieval Christendom’s suspicion of avarice to the welfare values embedded in post-war European social democracies, limiting extreme wealth is not a new idea — it's a forgotten one. Robeyns simply gives it new language and empirical grounding.

Why It Matters Now

We live in a time when extreme wealth poses direct threats:

• To democracy, as money buys political influence.

• To climate justice, as luxury lifestyles drive disproportionate emissions.

• To social cohesion, as inequality fuels mistrust and resentment.

Robeyns does not claim limitarianism solves everything. But it starts an urgently needed conversation: not just how to help the poor, but how to restrain the power of the hyper-rich. Her work encourages us to imagine economic systems that are fairer, freer, and more focused on human flourishing than personal accumulation.

And perhaps that is her most radical idea: that justice is not only about lifting the floor, but also lowering the ceiling.

Further Reading

• Ingrid Robeyns, Limitarianism: The Case Against Extreme Wealth (2024)

• Ingrid Robeyns (ed.), Having Too Much: Philosophical Essays on Limitarianism (Open Book Publishers, 2023)

• “Why Limitarianism?”, Journal of Political Philosophy (2022)

• Wellbeing, Freedom and Social Justice: The Capability Approach Re-examined (Open Book Publishers, 2017)

• Saint Augustine, City of God, Book XIX

• Thomas Piketty, Capital and Ideology (2020)

“Italian Brainrot”, what the Heck

Ballerina Cappuccina, Bombardiro Crocodilo, and Tralalero Tralala dancing on the beach.

Let me be clear: I don’t have children, so I also don’t have grandchildren to mediate the cultural confusion between myself and Generation Z. What I do have is a phone, a bit of curiosity, and a stubborn refusal to believe the world has entirely lost its mind — though after encountering something called Italian Brainrot, I’m no longer so sure.

I was born in the 1960s. Occasionally, I hear younger people speak about things like cassette tapes, typewriters, rotary phones, and fluorescent toys as if they were part of some surreal vintage wonderland. To me — and to most boomers I know — those things weren’t strange or ironic. They were just life. Ordinary. Functional. Familiar.

What does feel surreal is what I’ve recently stumbled across on TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube Shorts — the natural habitats of today’s cultural experiments. That’s where I first encountered this bizarre phenomenon known as Italian Brainrot.

At first I thought it was some ironic meme about food culture, or maybe a YouTube parody. But no — it’s a genre in its own right. A stream of AI-generated videos, each under a minute, filled with manic, intentionally absurd characters screaming in bad Italian accents while doing the digital equivalent of banging pots and pans together.

There’s Tralalero Tralala — a sneaker-wearing shark-thing with the energy of an espresso-powered toddler.
There’s Bombardiro Crocodilo — a winged crocodile who seems to specialize in aerial pasta-related violence.
And Ballerina Cappuccina — a ballerina with a cappuccino cup for a head, who pirouettes like she’s auditioning for an opera written by a malfunctioning coffee machine.

The kids love it. They laugh uncontrollably. It’s not satire, exactly. And it’s definitely not parody in the way we understood it. It’s something stranger: a form of digital nonsense. It is content that functions as a coping mechanism for overstimulation, anxiety, or a fractured attention span — it is not a source of insight or meaning.

They call it brainrot. They mean that affectionately.

To me, it’s disorienting. I tried to approach it with some cultural generosity. Maybe it’s this generation’s version of Dadaism — a chaotic, comic response to a world that feels increasingly unfixable. In that light, it makes a certain kind of sense.

But I won’t lie: I still find it mostly annoying. Loud, repetitive, empty. Yet undeniably watchable — in the same way a snow globe full of glitter and frogs might be. I even caught myself laughing once or twice. Which annoyed me even more.

No, I won’t become a fan. I won’t follow Brr Brr Patapim or remix my own spaghetti-themed soundbite. But I see now that this isn’t just noise. It’s ritual. It’s play. It’s a strange and sometimes beautiful kind of escape.

And while I may not understand it, I remember the faces we made when our parents first heard punk. Or saw Monty Python. Or read Kurt Vonnegut.

These kids are strange.
But then again — weren’t we?

Gossip: Evolution’s Social Glue

Gossip often gets a bad reputation. We’re taught to avoid it, to see it as petty or malicious. But a growing body of research in evolutionary psychology suggests something quite different: gossip may have helped our species survive. Rather than a sign of moral failure, gossip could be one of the most important tools humans ever developed to cooperate, bond, and build community.

Think about how often we talk about others when they’re not around—colleagues, friends, celebrities. This isn’t necessarily scandalous or cruel. Much of it is just information-sharing: who's doing well, who's struggling, what someone said or did. This kind of talk is everywhere, and that’s no accident. In fact, it may have played a crucial role in shaping human society.

Our ancestors lived in tight-knit groups where collaboration was key. Knowing who was trustworthy and who wasn’t could mean the difference between survival and disaster. Gossip—talking about others’ actions and reputations—was a way to spread this knowledge efficiently. If someone cheated or didn’t contribute, word got around. That quiet flow of information helped build trust, reinforced social norms, and deterred selfish behavior.

Some scientists compare gossip to grooming in primates. Just as monkeys pick through each other’s fur to build alliances, humans use conversation to form and maintain social bonds. But where grooming is one-to-one, gossip lets us connect with many people at once. It’s more efficient—and more powerful.

When used well, gossip has a moral dimension. It warns people to behave decently. It spreads reputations—good and bad—and helps communities function. People are more likely to cooperate when they know others will talk about what they do. In this way, gossip becomes a kind of invisible social contract: act fairly, or face the consequences.

Of course, not all gossip is good. It can be cruel, false, or harmful. But condemning all gossip misses the point. What matters is how and why we gossip. When it’s honest, fair, and rooted in care for others, it can be a powerful force for cohesion. It’s part of what makes us human.

Next time you hear someone say, “Don’t gossip,” pause a moment. Maybe the question isn’t whether we gossip, but whether we do it with integrity. Because in the grand scheme of human history, gossip isn’t just talk—it’s survival.

Further Reading

• Robin Dunbar – Grooming, Gossip, and the Evolution of Language
  A foundational book on how human language may have evolved to serve social bonding through gossip.

• TIME Magazine – “Why Do People Gossip? Here’s What Science Says”
  A clear and engaging summary of modern psychological insights into gossip.

• VICE – “Gossip May Have Played a Role in Human Survival”
  A popular science piece connecting gossip to trust-building and social enforcement in early societies.

• University of Maryland – “Gabbing About Others Is Not Always a Bad Thing”
  A summary of recent research showing how gossip can actually encourage cooperation.

• Podcast: Science Vs – “Pssst!! The Science of Gossip”
  A fun and informative podcast episode exploring why we gossip and what role it plays in our lives.

Our Dear Friends in Moscow

Published in June 2025, Our Dear Friends in Moscow: The Inside Story of a Broken Generation by Andrei Soldatov and Irina Borogan offers a poignant exploration of Russia's transformation from the hopeful post-Soviet era to its current authoritarian state under Vladimir Putin. This memoir delves into the personal and professional lives of a group of young journalists who, once united by shared ideals, find themselves on divergent paths as the nation's political landscape shifts dramatically.

Overview

Soldatov and Borogan, renowned investigative journalists now living in exile, recount their experiences alongside colleagues from the early 2000s at the newspaper Izvestia. The narrative traces how these friendships evolved—or fractured—as some individuals aligned with the burgeoning authoritarian regime, while others, like the authors, chose resistance, leading to exile and persecution. The memoir provides an intimate look at the emotional and ideological divides that emerged within a generation once united by the promise of a democratic Russia.

Key Themes and Insights

The Fragmentation of a Generation

The book illustrates how the optimism of the 1990s gave way to disillusionment, as the state's increasing control led to a splintering of personal and professional relationships. Friends who once shared common goals found themselves on opposing sides of a deepening ideological divide.

The Erosion of Journalistic Integrity

As the Kremlin tightened its grip on the media, many journalists faced a choice: conform to the state's narrative or risk their careers and safety. The memoir details how some succumbed to pressure, becoming mouthpieces for propaganda, while others upheld journalistic principles at great personal cost.

Isolation and Exile

The authors chronicle their own journey into exile, highlighting the challenges faced by those who oppose the regime. Their experiences underscore the broader theme of isolation—not just geographically, but also emotionally and ideologically—as dissenters are cast out from their homeland and social circles.

The Personal Cost of Political Change

Beyond the political analysis, the memoir delves into the personal toll exacted by Russia's authoritarian turn. It examines the strain on friendships, the loss of trust, and the emotional burden borne by those who resist conformity.

Further Reading

• Our Dear Friends in Moscow: The Inside Story of a Broken Generation – Andrei Soldatov & Irina Borogan

• The Red Web – Andrei Soldatov & Irina Borogan

• The New Nobility – Andrei Soldatov & Irina Borogan

• Goodbye to Russia – Sarah Rainsford

• Koba the Dread – Martin Amis

• Nothing is True and Everything is Possible – Peter Pomerantsev

Authoritarian Roots in a Shifting World

In a world that feels increasingly chaotic—where political lines blur, identities shift, and truths are constantly contested—some people long for something solid. Certainty. Order. A firm hand. That longing isn’t new, but our understanding of it has evolved. Two major works, written over 50 years apart, help us understand why this desire for order can turn dangerous—and why it’s often rooted not in ideology, but in anxiety.

The first is The Authoritarian Personality (1950), a pioneering work by Theodor W. Adorno and a team of social scientists. It explored how certain personality traits—rigid thinking, submission to authority, hostility to outsiders—predispose people to fascist or authoritarian ideologies. Crucially, it linked these traits to early family environments: strict parenting, emotional repression, and punishment-based discipline. One example of how these traits were measured is the "F-scale" (F for fascism) questionnaire, which included statements such as "Obedience and respect for authority are the most important virtues children should learn"—respondents who agreed with such items were more likely to score high in authoritarian tendencies. In short, authoritarianism, they argued, is often born at home.

The second is Liquid Modernity (2000), a concept developed by sociologist Zygmunt Bauman. Unlike the structured world of the mid-20th century, Bauman described today’s society as fluid and unstable. In this “liquid” modernity, nothing—jobs, identities, relationships, institutions—feels permanent. Individuals must constantly adapt, reinvent themselves, and navigate life without reliable anchors. It’s liberating for some, disorienting for many.

So what happens when a personality shaped by a craving for structure confronts a world that refuses to offer it?

The Authoritarian Longing for Solidity

In The Authoritarian Personality, Adorno and his colleagues weren’t just asking why people supported fascism—they were trying to identify the psychological roots of intolerance. They developed what became known as the F-scale, a questionnaire designed to detect authoritarian tendencies.

Their findings revealed a pattern: individuals who feared uncertainty and complexity often clung to rigid ideologies and strong authority figures. They needed clearly defined roles, moral absolutes, and a sense of superiority over perceived outsiders. And they had often grown up in homes where obedience was valued more than understanding, where questioning was punished, and where love was conditional.

This early emotional environment fostered a deep insecurity—one that later attached itself to authoritarian movements as a way of regaining control and coherence.

Life in Liquid Modernity

Bauman’s Liquid Modernity describes a world where those traditional sources of coherence—nation, class, religion, family, work—no longer provide stability. Change is constant. Identities are fluid. Relationships are short-lived. We are, Bauman argues, “individuals in a state of permanent reinvention,” always adapting, always uncertain.

In contrast, the "solid modernity" of the early 20th century was defined by stable careers, lifelong marriages, clear social roles, and a sense of predictable life progression. People knew their place, followed established paths, and leaned on institutions for identity and meaning.

This isn’t just a cultural shift—it’s a psychological one. The modern individual is told they are free, but that freedom comes with overwhelming responsibility. There are fewer rules, but also fewer guarantees. The old scaffolding is gone, and many people are left to float—or sink—on their own.

For those already predisposed to fear ambiguity, this can be terrifying.

When Two Worlds Collide

What happens when people who were raised to seek stability and obey authority are thrown into a liquid world of endless change?

They react. Sometimes quietly—through withdrawal, anxiety, or cynicism. Sometimes more visibly—by clinging to strongman leaders, rigid ideologies, conspiracy theories, or identity-based movements that promise clarity and protection. The authoritarian reflex doesn’t disappear in liquid modernity; it intensifies. It adapts.

Today’s authoritarianism doesn’t always wear a uniform or fly a flag. It may spread through digital echo chambers, filter bubbles, or emotionally charged ideologies that offer simple answers to complex problems. But the underlying psychology—fear of uncertainty, intolerance of ambiguity, and a need for control—remains the same.

In a liquid world, authoritarianism is not a relic of the past. It is a symptom of modern instability.

Rethinking Responsibility

The combined insights of Adorno and Bauman reveal something vital: authoritarianism is not just about ideology or education. It is also about how people are raised—and what the world demands of them.

Authoritarian personalities may develop in rigid, fearful households. But when these early patterns of emotional insecurity meet a broader culture of instability—where roles, identities, and institutions are constantly shifting—the effects can compound. The longing for certainty planted in childhood is only magnified in adulthood by a world that offers few reliable structures. In this way, the intersection of early family dynamics and societal fluidity creates a potent breeding ground for authoritarian reflexes. In this sense, both too much structure and too little can breed the same reaction: the desire for someone—or something—to take control.

If we want to foster democratic, open societies, we must begin not with politics, but with people. That means:

• Parenting that balances guidance with autonomy

• Education that embraces complexity and ambiguity

• Institutions that provide security without rigidity

• Public discourse that values doubt, curiosity, and empathy

Final Thought: Two Theories, One Warning

Adorno showed us how authoritarian personalities are shaped. Bauman showed us the kind of world in which they may thrive. Together, they offer a chilling but powerful insight: authoritarianism grows not just from strength, but from fear—especially the fear of navigating life without clear direction.

Our task, then, is not to reimpose old certainties or to abandon all structure, but to help people—especially the young—learn how to live in a world that doesn’t come with instructions.

If we can build resilience in the face of uncertainty, we may yet resist the call of those who promise false order in exchange for our freedom.

Further Reading:

• Theodor W. Adorno et al. – The Authoritarian Personality

• Zygmunt Bauman – Liquid Modernity

• Karen Stenner – The Authoritarian Dynamic

• Erich Fromm – Escape from Freedom

• Jason Stanley – How Fascism Works

It's a Coup

Carole Cadwalladr

In her powerful TED Talk, journalist Carole Cadwalladr delivers a chilling diagnosis of our times: Western democracies have been quietly and methodically undermined. What looks on the surface like voter choice, she argues, is increasingly being shaped by forces hidden from public scrutiny. In telling the story of the Brexit referendum, Cadwalladr uncovers not just a political scandal, but a systematic attack on the foundations of democracy—one driven by Big Tech, fuelled by big data, and thriving in the shadows where privacy has been stripped away.

Cadwalladr’s investigation into the Brexit Leave campaign—most notably its relationship with Cambridge Analytica—exposed how millions of Facebook profiles were harvested without consent. That data was used to craft psychological models, which in turn were deployed to micro-target voters with messages designed to manipulate their emotions and decisions. It wasn't debate or persuasion—it was precision-guided information warfare. And it worked.

This is where the role of Big Tech becomes central. Companies like Facebook (now Meta) provided the tools and infrastructure for these campaigns. Their platforms allowed hyper-targeting of users, often with zero transparency or accountability. And because these tech giants are profit-driven advertising machines, their algorithms prioritized engagement over truth, outrage over nuance. The more incendiary the message, the more clicks—and the more money. This business model did not merely enable disinformation; it thrived on it.

In her follow-up reporting, including her thread-turned-essay “The First Great Information War,” Cadwalladr reframes the issue in geopolitical terms. She describes a slow, rolling coup—a sustained campaign to weaken and divide Western democracies, with Russia acting as a key instigator but tech companies as unwitting collaborators. The battlefield isn’t a physical one—it’s our minds, our newsfeeds, our sense of reality itself.

Privacy, once seen as a personal right, is now collateral damage in this new kind of conflict. As we willingly surrender data for convenience—liking a post, installing an app, sharing our location—we create a digital profile of ourselves. This profile can be sold, stolen, or weaponized. And because there are almost no effective regulations in place, the people and entities using this data are largely untraceable and unaccountable.

Cadwalladr’s work, then, is not just an exposé—it’s a warning. The systems we rely on for truth and democratic participation are broken. Big Tech companies hold more influence than many governments, yet they operate with far less scrutiny. Our data has become a commodity, traded in invisible markets. And our privacy is the price we pay for ‘free’ services that in reality cost us our autonomy.

If we are to make sense of what’s happening—and resist it—we must do more than reform electoral laws or increase ad transparency. We need to fundamentally rethink the relationship between data, power, and democracy. This isn’t just a glitch in the system. As Cadwalladr insists: It’s a coup.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Faith, Resistance, and Moral Clarity in Dark Times

In an age marked by moral confusion and political unrest, the life and legacy of Dietrich Bonhoeffer offer rare clarity. A German theologian, pastor, and member of the anti-Nazi resistance, Bonhoeffer was executed in April 1945—just weeks before the fall of Hitler's regime. His story is not just a chapter in history; it is a mirror held up to our own time.

A Faith that Refused Compromise

Bonhoeffer's most enduring legacy lies in his insistence that faith must not retreat into private piety or abstract theology. For him, Christianity without discipleship was not Christianity at all. His famous work, The Cost of Discipleship, warned against what he called "cheap grace"—forgiveness without repentance, communion without confession, grace without the cross.

He called instead for "costly grace": a faith so rooted in Christ that it transforms one's life and choices, even under threat. His own commitment would eventually lead him into active resistance against the Nazi regime.

The Moral Obligation to Resist Evil

Bonhoeffer’s opposition to Hitler was not merely political—it was theological. To remain silent in the face of mass injustice, he argued, was to be complicit. “Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.” This moral imperative led him to abandon the safety of academia abroad and return to Germany, fully aware of the risks.

Though raised in the traditions of Lutheran obedience to authority, Bonhoeffer came to believe that civil disobedience was not only permitted but required when the state became lawless and unjust. He joined the Abwehr resistance and supported the plot to assassinate Hitler, a move that has sparked ongoing debate among theologians and ethicists.

Community as Resistance

Bonhoeffer also taught that Christian community could itself be a form of resistance. His seminary at Finkenwalde, though later shut down by the Gestapo, became a model of counter-cultural fellowship, rooted in prayer, discipline, and mutual responsibility. In a world disfigured by propaganda and fear, such spaces for honest living became lifelines for truth.

His posthumous work Letters and Papers from Prison remains a powerful testament to the possibility of faith in the darkest hours. Written in a Nazi prison cell, his words are hauntingly relevant: "The church is the church only when it exists for others."

Lessons for Today

Bonhoeffer’s life compels us to ask hard questions:

• Are we willing to speak up when others are silent?

• Can our faith withstand the demands of our time?

• Do we see the ethical dimension of public life as central to our spiritual life?

In an era when authoritarianism is on the rise and moral language is often hollowed out by partisanship, Bonhoeffer’s witness reminds us that integrity, sacrifice, and courage are not optional for people of conscience.

His lesson is not that martyrdom is inevitable, but that true discipleship demands a reckoning—with ourselves, with our institutions, and with the world as it is.

Further Reading

• The Cost of Discipleship – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

• Letters and Papers from Prison – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

• Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy – Eric Metaxas

• Strange Glory: A Life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer – Charles Marsh

• Ethics – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Why Europe Must Wake Up Now

Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, and Xi Jinping.

In a time when the rules-based global order is eroding, Europe stands at a dangerous crossroads. Confronted by external “predators” such as Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, and Xi Jinping, and challenged internally by political disillusionment and ideological extremism, the European Union risks falling behind — not due to lack of capacity, but due to a lack of self-belief.

This was the central argument of a recent discussion hosted by Le Figaro, featuring Benjamin Haddad, French Minister for European Affairs, and political writer Giuliano da Empoli. Their exchange revealed a profound truth: while others see Europe as a formidable force, Europeans themselves often fail to recognize their own strength.

The era we’ve entered is not one of compromise, but confrontation. As da Empoli notes, the "new" predators — whether political populists like Trump or tech moguls reshaping public discourse — thrive by rejecting norms, undermining regulation, and exploiting the fragmentation of liberal democracies. Europe, with its commitment to the rule of law, social cohesion, and multilateral cooperation, stands as their natural opponent. Not because it is weak, but precisely because it is one of the few remaining bastions of rule-based order.

But this fortress is under siege — not only from the outside, but from within. Citizens disillusioned by stagnant economies, unresolved migration issues, and political inertia increasingly flirt with populist alternatives. These movements promise control, identity, and order — and find oxygen in the algorithmic echo chambers of TikTok and X (formerly Twitter). Yet, as both Haddad and da Empoli argue, the problem lies less with the technology than with the failure of mainstream politics to respond convincingly to legitimate concerns.

The specter of Trump’s possible return to the White House in 2025 was rightly treated not as a freak accident but a symptom of deeper structural shifts. His worldview — transactional, inward-looking, and openly hostile to NATO and the EU — has already transformed American politics and reverberates across Europe. Worse still, as Haddad pointed out, these are not isolated phenomena — even President Biden has embraced protectionist policies that echo those of Trump.

The question now is: what can Europe do?

Firstly, acknowledge reality without panic. The liberal dream of eternal peace and convergence — the Fukuyaman fantasy — is over. We are not moving toward a post-ideological consensus but re-entering a world governed by force, identity, and asymmetry.

Secondly, Europe must become a geopolitical actor, not merely a regulatory one. That means serious investment in defense, controlling its technological future, and setting clear, enforceable rules for migration — not as a concession to populism, but to rebuild democratic legitimacy.

Thirdly, Europe must stop outsourcing its political and security agency. As Haddad pointed out, relying indefinitely on American protection is no longer viable. A stronger, more confident EU must emerge — one that can defend its borders, innovate economically, and act decisively in crises.

Lastly, Europe must win back its own people — not just through rhetoric, but through performance. Delivering prosperity, security, and identity is not a populist demand; it is a democratic imperative.

In sum, the predators are real. But so is the possibility of European renewal — if we stop underestimating ourselves.

Further Reading

• Giuliano da Empoli, L’Heure des prédateurs (2024)

• Ivan Krastev & Mark Leonard, The Age of Unpeace (2020)

• Anne Applebaum, Twilight of Democracy (2020)

• Luuk van Middelaar, Le Réveil géopolitique de l'Europe (2023)

• Ivan Krastev, After Europe (2017)

The Disconnected Society

On what we learn from Noreena Hertz and Jonathan Haidt.

Noreena Hertz and Jonathan Haidt.

In a time of unprecedented digital connectivity, a paradox has emerged: we are more networked than ever, yet increasingly alone and emotionally unwell. This paradox lies at the heart of two deeply resonant works—Noreena Hertz’s The Lonely Century and Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation. Though writing from different perspectives—Hertz as an economist and Haidt as a social psychologist—both diagnose a profound crisis of connection in contemporary society. Their work converges on a central truth: the digital and economic architecture of modern life is undermining our basic human need for community, stability, and meaning.

The Human Cost of Disconnection

Noreena Hertz argues that loneliness is not simply a personal feeling but a widespread social phenomenon, driven by systemic forces: neoliberal economics, technological isolation, urban design, and political alienation. In The Lonely Century, she shows how atomized labor markets, precarious work, and digital communication have eroded the public square. Even before the pandemic, rising numbers of people reported feeling isolated. Hertz documents the impact of loneliness on mental and physical health, linking it to increased rates of anxiety, depression, and even early death.

Jonathan Haidt echoes these concerns in The Anxious Generation, but zooms in on a specific demographic catastrophe: the mental health collapse among Generation Z, particularly teenage girls. He identifies the years between 2010 and 2015 as a critical turning point, when smartphones and social media became deeply embedded in adolescent life. The data is clear: since that time, rates of depression, anxiety, self-harm, and suicide among youth have sharply increased. Haidt sees this as a result not only of screen time, but of the replacement of real-world interaction with virtual engagement, and the loss of free play, risk-taking, and physical autonomy.

Technology: From Tool to Cage

Both thinkers point to digital technology as a powerful agent of social transformation—one that has reshaped not only our habits but our psyches. Hertz focuses on how social media and algorithmic content foster comparison, polarization, and superficial connection. In online spaces, people are “seen” constantly but rarely known. The result is a type of simulated intimacy, which cannot substitute for face-to-face human contact.

Haidt takes this further, arguing that adolescence—a time of immense neurological sensitivity—has been colonized by smartphones. Girls, in particular, suffer from curated comparison and relational aggression online, while boys retreat into virtual worlds of video games and porn. He shows how these platforms are designed to hijack attention, reduce resilience, and fragment identity. Technology, once a tool for empowerment, has become a disruptive presence, rewiring childhood and adolescence in ways that society has barely begun to comprehend.

The Loss of the Commons: From Playgrounds to Platforms

Another key insight that unites Hertz and Haidt is the disappearance of shared physical and social spaces. Hertz laments the decline of community hubs—local shops, libraries, churches, and unions—that once grounded people in a collective life. In their place, individualized consumption and digital engagement have taken hold, weakening social bonds.

Haidt similarly emphasizes the loss of outdoor, unsupervised play, which has been replaced by screen-based entertainment and increased parental control. Without the ability to test boundaries, resolve conflict, or build self-efficacy through real-world interaction, children grow up underdeveloped in social and emotional capacities. This shift from the commons to the screen, from the real to the virtual, has left a generation adrift.

Responsibility, Resistance, and Renewal

Despite the gravity of their diagnoses, neither Hertz nor Haidt is fatalistic. Both offer concrete paths forward—and both recognize the need for collective, not just individual, solutions.

Hertz calls for a Compassionate Revolution: policies that rehumanize the workplace, urban design that encourages interaction, education that fosters empathy, and regulation of tech platforms. She emphasizes the importance of civic renewal and economic justice, arguing that loneliness flourishes in societies marked by inequality, alienation, and commodification.

Haidt, meanwhile, focuses on cultural norms and education policy. He advocates for phone-free schools, delayed social media use, and the revival of free play and risk-taking. Most powerfully, he calls for a collective action response to what he sees as a “tragedy in two acts”—the overprotection of children in the real world and their underprotection online. Young people themselves, Haidt notes, often resent the role of smartphones in their lives but feel powerless to opt out without support.

What We Learn: A New Ethics of Connection

Together, Hertz and Haidt help us see the current crisis not as a series of isolated issues—mental health, loneliness, digital harm—but as symptoms of a deeper breakdown in how we structure human life. Their work urges us to reconsider what it means to be human in a time of distraction, commodification, and social fragmentation. They remind us that connection is not optional—it is a core human need, as vital as food or shelter.

If their diagnoses differ in emphasis—Hertz’s more macroeconomic, Haidt’s more developmental—they arrive at a shared imperative: we must reclaim our social environments. This means building policies, technologies, and cultures that honor attention, presence, trust, and belonging.

Conclusion

In an anxious and lonely century, the work of Noreena Hertz and Jonathan Haidt serves as a warning and a guide. They expose the cost of ignoring human needs in the name of efficiency, innovation, or freedom. But they also light a path toward renewal—one grounded not in nostalgia, but in the enduring truth that we thrive when we are connected, seen, and needed. Whether we follow that path will determine not only the mental health of our youth, but the very future of our societies.