Keen On America

“I trust them to kiss the government’s ass. I don’t trust them to serve me.” — Keith Teare
 
Who to trust in an age of AI agents? Especially when it seems as if these swarming agents — akin to the gang of adolescents in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies — are developing minds of their own.
 
At this week’s G20 Innovation Ministerial in North Carolina, Donald Trump and his minions produced a hands-off charter for AI. Known as the “Carolina Principles,” it sounds to critics like a particularly unprincipled justification for regulation-free AI.
 
That Was The Week publisher, Keith Teare, however, isn’t a critic of Trump’s Principles. Don’t trust the trust scare, Keith tells us. Especially all the fear around the swarming agents that are supposedly developing minds of their own. Pooh-poohing the real-world Hugging Face breakout, Keith argues that since he’s never witnessed swarming agents on his computer, they can’t exist. Which is akin, I suspect, to a climate denier who argues that global warming is a hoax because it happens to be chilly outside. All-too-human logic, I fear, in our age of autonomous AI agents.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       The Carolina Principles. The week’s set piece was a G20 Innovation Ministerial in North Carolina that Keith describes as a Trump takeover of a global event: the Russian finance minister turned up at Trump’s invitation, and the attendees were lectured — via David Sacks and Howard Lutnick — on the merits of unregulated American capitalism. A propaganda event, Keith concedes, but one that reached the right conclusion: the resulting “Carolina Principles,” signed by everyone including the Europeans, call for flexible frameworks that encourage adoption and pointedly decline to make trust a license innovation must obtain in advance. With Bernie Sanders calling the same week for a development halt pending government licenses, Keith’s position is characteristically blunt: “when I’ve started a company, I don’t go and ask permission. I just do it.” Getting rid of Lina Khan, he adds, remains about the only thing he likes about the Trump administration. Andrew’s verdict on the charter: to critics, a particularly unprincipled justification for regulation-free AI.
•       Don’t Trust the Trust Scare. Keith’s editorial thesis: trust is not granted by authority; it is built through use. You trust yourself in a car because you drive one, and not on roller skates because you fall over. Over seventy percent of Americans now use AI — the same Americans who tell Politico they oppose data centers — which is why Keith reads the backlash as a confection of media and populist politicians, soon to evaporate (the real coming problem, he argues, is too few data centers, not too many; the modern off-grid ones are net givers of power). The withheld ChatGPT-6 gets the same treatment: launched but limited to insiders, which Keith reads not as safety but as government relations — the pull quote of the week. Andrew’s counter: in a world without regulators, trust in the companies is all we have — including, awkwardly for Keith, when they withhold their own products. Exhibit for the defense, from The Washington Post: Americans in an age of anxiety leaning on AI — Keith included, who feeds his medical records to ChatGPT and finds it “very closely aligned with what your doctor thinks.”
•       The Swarming Fight. The hour’s genuine clash. In the wake of the Hugging Face hack, Kevin Roose warned in The New York Times that it should make you worry more about AI, and OpenAI’s Dean Ball publicly apologized for failing “to communicate in sufficiently serious terms about the specifics of self-sovereign AI.” Neither is a doomer — which is Andrew’s point. Keith’s rebuttal: every swarm sighting has occurred inside an AI lab, in an experiment whose parameters the labs themselves set — “on my computer, I don’t see any swarms” — and self-sovereign AI is anthropomorphizing science fiction: agents pursue goals humans set. “I know enough to know BS when I read it, and this is BS.” Andrew’s reply — “I think you’re trivializing” — went unwithdrawn, and his sign-off flagged that Keith perhaps simplifies the Hugging Face incident. Unresolved, to be continued. Andrew’s framing gives the episode its title — swarming agents as the gang of adolescents in Golding’s Lord of the Flies — and his verdict its sting: Keith’s I-see-no-swarms-on-my-computer logic is akin to a climate denier calling global warming a hoax because it’s chilly outside. Keith’s exit line: “I’m just gonna go and check on my swarms.”
•       Nvidia Buys Hugging Face. The week’s biggest deal: Nvidia acquired Hugging Face — the repository of the world’s open-source AI models — for $13 billion, just as The New York Times reported corporate America getting hooked on open source (much of it Chinese: GLM 5.3). The economics, per Keith: an $18,000 Mac Studio or a top-end Nvidia GPU beats $200-a-month token fees — AI capability migrating to the edge, out of OpenAI’s and Anthropic’s meters. Which suits Nvidia either way: The Economist calls it the central bank of AI, though Andrew prefers arms supplier — it wins whether the future is open or closed, and is, ironically, the most trusted name in the business precisely because it has no dog in the fight. Don’t expect it to govern anything, says Keith: “that would put friction in the way of their sales.” The challenger to watch: newly public Cerebras, whose wafer-scale chips undercut Nvidia on token price.
•       Mom and Dad’s Money. The Times asked which investors will get rich from Anthropic’s IPO — and noted that, unlike past booms, firms like Sequoia hold both horses, OpenAI and Anthropic alike. Keith’s arithmetic explains why: fewer than fifty companies will return venture capital this cycle, those two representing more than half the likely value, and last month 75 percent of all dollars invested in VC funds went to Andreessen Horowitz alone. (His own SignalRank barometer: for two years, none of its 64 investments cracked the top-20 most-wanted secondary shares; now five have.) The pyramid runs from VCs down to pension funds — “somebody’s mom and dad’s money is heavily betting that Anthropic and OpenAI are gonna return large amounts of wealth” — and late secondary buyers, Figma-style, almost always lose when the IPO right-sizes the price. What could topple the deck of cards? Regulation slowing the modeled returns. Which is why, for Keith, the midterms should be fought on jobs and wages — data centers, he insists, are not a winning issue.
 
About the Co-Host
 
Keith Teare is the founder and CEO of SignalRank Corporation and publisher of the That Was The Week tech newsletter, whose editorial — “Don’t Trust the Trust Scare” — frames this episode. A serial entrepreneur and co-founder of TechCrunch, he has spent five decades building and funding technology companies, and brings a techno-optimist’s eye to Keen On America’s weekly wrap of the tech news.
 
References:
 
•       That Was The Week — Keith’s newsletter, including this week’s editorial, “Don’t Trust the Trust Scare,” and his companion piece on concentration and diversification at The State of Venture.
•      &nb...

“We all kinda secretly at some level wanna use power against our enemies.” — Stephanie Slade
 
Earlier this week, Silicon Valley heretic Paulina Borsook railed against libertarianism. Today, the libertarians get their turn. Stephanie Slade is a senior editor at Reason and the author of Fusionism in which she lays out a contemporary path for American conservatism.
 
For Slade, libertarianism is captured by that New York City intersection where Church Street meets Liberty Street. “Fusionism” = Hayek + Aquinas. It marries the classical liberal defense of individual freedom to the Judeo-Christian tradition of moral virtue. And it’s a polemic against what she calls “will-to-power” conservatism of America-first statists like JD Vance and Tucker Carlson. These are Slade’s enemies. The real threat to the future of American conservatism.
 
Slade might be politically homeless but is hardly a moderate. She is radically committed to limited government, a pro-life Catholic and, in her words, a “free market girl.” Ronald Reagan championed trickle-down economics. Stephanie Slade fuses that with trickle-down morality. Sladeian rather than Borsookian.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       Church & Liberty Street. Fusionism, defined: the marriage of the classical liberal political tradition — individual rights, limited government, rule of law — with the Judeo-Christian understanding of virtue as the habits that let human beings flourish within an objective moral order, a lineage running from Aristotle through Aquinas. It is not sectarian: the irreligious Hayek counts as a fusionist for his respect for the tradition’s inherited wisdom, and virtue is not partisan either — Hayek and Keynes became close friends at wartime Cambridge, and “Keynes could be a virtuous person.” Slade herself is a practicing Catholic in a famously secular, even atheistic movement — a minority within a minority, which is where the whole fusionist project began. As for William Buckley: conservatism’s founding father, not libertarianism’s — and, against Andrew’s Vidal-flavored skepticism, she defends him as a man who evolved, renounced his early racial views, and declared in the eighties that “America needs a black president” — “imperfect and flawed the way we all are.”
•       Economic Liberty Is Individual Liberty. Libertarianism spans freedoms coded right (markets, trade) and left (drug legalization, the bedroom) — and Slade’s core claim is that the economic ones are not a separate category: the right to make a living, dispose of your property, and trade across borders is individual freedom, full stop. Crony capitalism — government picking winners — gets no defense. On the culture wars, the fusionist rule is coercion-last: preach from pulpits, persuade, change the culture, and reach for law only when someone’s basic rights are violated — which is why she finds abortion restrictions consistent with a hands-off philosophy (two lives in the equation, on her view) while rejecting laws against how others live. Against Mill, via the scholar Jacob Levy: hers is pluralist rather than rationalist liberalism — defending the right of internally illiberal associations, the Catholic Church included, to exist free of the state. And popes get free speech too: she has disagreed with them in print.
•       Will-to-Power Conservatism. The book’s target, named: a rising creed — especially among the young right — that says “politics is war, and the only question is who’s gonna acquire and wield state power against their enemies.” Trump practices it without theory (“not a philosopher… he’s just doing what he wants to do” — and, to Andrew’s wannabe-mafia-leader framing, “all of the above”); JD Vance theorizes it self-consciously; Tucker Carlson preaches it — “we wanna defeat them and destroy them… unperson them.” Her Reason essay “JD Vance and the Politics of Victimhood” tracks the mechanism: the right adopting the left’s victimhood politics — “it works for them. We should do it too” — with straight white men recast as the aggrieved class. The siege mentality underneath is real but “blown out of proportion,” and now functions as “a permission slip to do the things that everybody secretly wants to do.” Hence the episode’s pull quote — the most honest line of the hour, because it implicates everyone, herself included.
•       What Trump Voters Actually Believe. Slade’s data point against the populist-economics story: an Ethics and Public Policy Center poll of 2020 Trump voters found them scattered on economics — split even on trade, with a majority calling international trade good for America, against their candidate’s signature position — but united at roughly ninety percent on the cultural siege questions: Christianity under attack, media as an arm of the Democratic Party, rising prejudice against white people. Trumpism, on this evidence, is a cultural phenomenon wearing economic clothes. The deeper commitment survives underneath: at the Heritage Foundation, she asked a man celebrating the GOP’s working-class turn whether the party should rethink free markets — he was horrified: “Of course not. We’re conservatives. That means we believe in freedom.” Recovering that buried instinct is what she cheerfully calls her quixotic hope. DOGE gets no credit toward it: all for shrinking the state, she had “zero faith” in an initiative that started breaking institutions before understanding them.
•       Trickle-Down Morality. Where fusionism meets the moment. On abundance: Klein, Thompson, and past guest Marc Dunkelman share her critique of red tape, but the goal inverts — they want efficient government so it can do more (high-speed rail, Medicare for All); she wants government to do less, and would rather the market decide than “some Ezra Klein type podcaster.” The New Deal, she argues, set America back; China’s rail proves only what command economies mandate. On AI and data centers: techno-optimist — the backlash is “quite misguided,” built partly on water-use misconceptions — but with a caveat rare in her camp: “you have to build democratic legitimacy for anything you wanna do in a democratic country.” Kids not writing their own papers is a real problem; the answer is evolved norms, not top-down rules. (No, she didn’t use AI to write Fusionism: “Not at all.”) For 2028: Cruz and Rubio are closer than Vance; the true fusionists — Ben Sasse, Justin Amash — were driven out. Her bet is on reviving the ideas and letting them trickle down — which handed Andrew his closer: Reagan had trickle-down economics; Slade has trickle-down morality.
 
About the Guest
 
Stephanie Slade is a senior editor at Reason magazine, where she covers the ins and outs of the American conservative movement. Her writing has also appeared in The New York Times, America, and U.S. News & World Report. A fusionist libertarian and practicing Catholic, she lives in Washington, DC — the belly of the beast, she concedes, but a journalist has to be where the subject matter is.

“If a society cannot find a way to deal with something that is actively melting it from within, then that is a terminal symptom.” — Finn Brunton
 
A couple of days ago, Donald Trump Jr.’s investment firm, 1789 Capital, led a billion-dollar funding round in Polymarket. As today’s guest, the fintech expert Finn Brunton, notes in an insightful Harper’s essay this month, prediction markets like Polymarket and Kalshi are transforming America into an always-on gambling den. No wonder, then, that the Trumps are such gleeful participants in what Brunton calls “the casinoification of modern life.” From the father’s Taj Mahal in Atlantic City to the son’s Taj on everyone’s phone. “Trade on Anything” as Kalshi promises (or threatens) us.
 
In “The Chaos Machine,” Brunton introduces us to two visionaries of prediction marketplaces. On the one hand, there’s the idealistic Robin Hanson, who dreamed of prediction markets as machines for truth with experts betting real money and generating trustworthy odds about the future. And then there’s Tim May, a self-described crypto-anarchist, the “bad guy,” according to Brunton, who invented the idea of BlackNet as an anonymous marketplace designed to destroy institutional trust from within. Brunton warns that today’s prediction marketplaces have bet on May, rather than Hanson. They are insider-trading machines where the smart money is always on the other side of the table.
 
It’s no wonder that Donald Trump Jr.’s investment firm is called 1789 Capital. By investing in prediction marketplaces, they are accelerating an anarchic French rather than institutionally trustworthy American-style revolution. These BlackNet operations are both the cause and effect of today’s destruction of trust. Polymarket is the polycrisis. It is cashing in on chaos.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       From Papal Bets to Polymarket. Prediction markets are centuries old — people have wagered on wars, weather, elections, and popes — but the modern idea belongs to the economist Robin Hanson, the hedgehog (per Isaiah Berlin) with one big idea: turn expert opinion into a market. Since experts are famously bad at prediction (Philip Tetlock’s research), make them bet: specify the outcome precisely, let the odds be anonymous, and people must wager what they really believe rather than what fits in or stands out. Hanson’s markets were meant for specialists — internal corporate markets synthesizing insider knowledge into actionable odds — not Surowiecki’s cow-weighing crowds. However disputed, Brunton insists, it was “a fundamentally positive idea”: a machine for honest consensus about the future.
•       The Casinoification of Modern Life. Polymarket founder Shayne Coplan credits Hanson outright — then flips him. The modern slogan: “monetize any difference in opinion.” The sportsbook has been absorbed and joined by elections, crude prices, and missile strikes — anything anyone will bet on. The tragedy, per Brunton: an idea about synthesizing expertise became “the spread of gambling into every aspect of contemporary living.” And the experts who do bet are now effectively insider traders — a possibility Hanson, contrarian to the last, actually welcomes, but which has made the platforms “rip-off machines in which people who know what’s going to happen… exploit suckers.” The data is unambiguous: a handful of whales win; everyone else loses. The platforms’ defense — we just give people what they want — is, Brunton notes, the classic play of buying time against regulation, perfected by YouTube a generation ago. Meanwhile New York’s subway ads sell the flattering fantasy that you’re not gambling; you’re deploying your sophisticated read of the news. No wonder the Trumps are gleeful participants — from the father’s Taj Mahal in Atlantic City, as Andrew puts it, to the son’s Taj on everyone’s phone.
•       Tim May’s BlackNet. The essay’s second character is the late Tim May: cypherpunk pioneer, gleeful provocateur, “idealist of the dark web” in Andrew’s phrase — and, Brunton says flatly, “a bad guy” whose politics were racist and violent. May’s gift was seeing the worst use of every technology, and his masterwork was BlackNet: an anonymous marketplace for secrets — exams, health records, trade secrets, classified plans — whose deeper purpose was to destroy institutional trust from within. Create a world where no one inside any institution knows whom to trust (a Leninist move, Andrew observed), and the institutions dissolve. Brunton’s thesis in one line: prediction markets present themselves as the fulfillment of Hanson’s vision, but they are really the fulfillment of May’s. The evidence is already tabloid fact: the operator of Trump’s teleprompter betting on the words of future speeches; a US soldier arrested in April for wagering on operations he knew were coming.
•       Polymarket & the Polycrisis. These platforms are worse than casinos: at least the Nevada State Gaming Commission checks that the roulette wheel isn’t rigged, while prediction markets are “so thoroughly crooked and corrupt in their current setup” that Brunton — who still cherishes Hanson’s original promise — doesn’t know where regulation would begin. Andrew’s coinage-pairing landed: Polymarket and Adam Tooze’s polycrisis are siblings — nested, interlinked crises producing unmanageable volatility, with betting as a way of “interacting with a future that otherwise feels completely out of your control.” Hence Brunton’s students on Polymarket: not just addictive app design but “a weirdly rational decision” for a generation with no faith in pensions, home ownership, or the long-term dollar. Lambos or food stamps. The house rule stands: the smart money is always on the other side of the table — and the winners-take-all arithmetic mirrors the broader digital economy.
•       Betting on Hanson Over May. Prediction markets, Brunton argues, are the heirs of crypto twice over: the next stop for fevered capital, and — like the Trump family’s World Liberty Financial, which horrifies even the Cato Institute — a mechanism for relatively untraceable corruption, a natural extension of the family casino business. Andrew’s twist on the firm’s name: 1789 Capital is accelerating an anarchic French rather than institutionally trustworthy American-style revolution. His warning is the episode’s pull quote: platforms designed to dissolve institutional trust, monetize interference with journalism, and sow paranoia are a solvent, and a society that cannot deal with what is melting it from within shows “a terminal symptom.” But he ends with a fix, and it is refreshingly concrete: KYC. Impose the know-your-customer identity rules we demand of banks, and “you immediately eliminate 95% of the bad actors” — official insider bets become visible, and the markets might even get smarter. A partisan of anonymous speech, Brunton draws the line at anonymous betting on information. Andrew’s closer: he’s still betting on Hanson over May — Kant over Hobbes. And his verdict: Polymarket is the polycrisis. It is cashing in on chaos.
 
About the Guest
 
Finn Brunton is Professor of Science and Technology Studies and of Cinema and Digital Media at the University of C...

“On my headstone, it would say: I was always right. I never lied, and no one paid any attention to me.” — Paulina Borsook
 
A quarter of a century ago, the tech journalist Paulina Borsook published Cyberselfish, one of the earliest critiques of Silicon Valley’s libertarian culture. While the heretical book got widely reviewed, it not only didn’t sell but cursed her writing career, Borsook claiming she couldn’t get published again on any subject. Used copies of Cyberselfish could be had for a few dollars and she became just another forgotten tech dissenter.
 
Then, last year, Borsook was magically resurrected. The New York Times (re)discovered her as “the writer who dared criticize Silicon Valley” and the price of secondhand copies of Cyberselfish jumped to over a thousand dollars. The world caught up with her tech scepticism. Like an AI startup, Borsook is now hot. So hot, in fact, that the original Cyberselfish is now being republished not only in the US and UK, but also in France. So hot, that we now have a new word: “Borsookian,” to describe Silicon Valley libertarianism.
 
The funny thing is that nothing much has changed over the last quarter century since Borsook’s original book came out. Not tech’s libertarian hostility to government. Not the Silicon Valley boys-only club. And certainly not Paulina Borsook, who retains what the Grateful Dead lyricist and digital utopian John Perry Barlow half-lovingly called her “dyspeptic” manner. “On my headstone, it would say: I was always right,” Paulina Borsook confides with dyspeptic glee. “I never lied, and no one paid any attention to me.” How delicious to be so fully resurrected. What fun for the heretic to help transform the original orthodoxy into the new heresy.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       Back from the Dead. The resurrection required no publicist: used copies of Cyberselfish drifted from $4 toward $1,000; graduate students begged her for copies she couldn’t supply; a stranger she’s never met posted on LinkedIn that she’d gotten everything right and been forgotten — and it went viral. That led to Gil Duran, whose furious Bluesky post (after a Wired mea-culpa writer interviewed him about her for forty-five minutes and cited neither of them) alerted The New York Times, whose November feature — “The Writer Who Dared Criticize Silicon Valley” — brought her agent’s immortal email: “we always knew you were right.” Tin House is reissuing the book on September 15 with a Duran foreword and her new afterword, changing not a word. Younger readers, she’s told, like that it doesn’t read like a TED Talk. Her headstone joke covers the whole arc: always right, never lied, no one paid attention.
•       Why Are They So Mad? The book’s core observation remains undefeated: “no sector of society has benefited more and suffered less from the government than people in Silicon Valley. So why are they acting like this, and why are they so mad?” “Libertarian” was simply her shorthand for a subculture violently anti-government, totally anti-regulation, and drunk on Ayn Rand — or, in the book’s reframe, the mind-set of adolescents craving total rampaging autonomy while someone else does the laundry. She wrote it from inside: a Wired freelancer under Louis Rossetto (who handed new writers The New Journalism), perpetually paired point-counterpoint against John Perry Barlow, whose Declaration of the Independence of Cyberspace made her snort and whose “dyspeptic” label she wears as a compliment. Kevin Kelly, she insists, is not Sam Altman — they almost never agreed, but she doesn’t demonize — “except that they have a belief in everything that tech wants to do is fine.” The book, she says now, is a Guide for the Perplexed: the metaphors and framing to decode everything the current crop is spewing.
•       That Damn Book. She calls it TDB — That Damn Book — because it wrecked her. A strong media arc and worldwide reviews, then no sales and a career that “came to a crashing halt”: for twenty-five years she could not get published again, on tech or anything else; a finalist for four fellowships, winner of none; no one — blacklist theorists, gender theorists — could ever explain it. “I have PTSD from twenty-five years of never being able to be published again.” The lost years: seven of nasty elder care, an eviction that put everything she owned in storage, six years as an Airbnb superhost in the Santa Cruz Mountains, and the art project My Life as a Ghost — about the traumatic brain injury she’s carried since a friend accidentally shot her with a Colt 45 at fourteen. She resists the redemptive reading that the TBI explains her outsider eye (“I’m a package deal”), and values tech precisely as the utility — word processing, BBSs for the housebound — that made a writing life possible. Using is not worshiping.
•       AI Is the Inevitable Result of Cyberselfishness. “Was anybody asking for this? Not really.” AI, on her reading, is the financial play the culture was always building toward — there’s little real innovation left, “except for surveillance capitalism” and, in her Shakespearean phrase, the current crop “borrowing the robes of the tech culture of another era.” Her oldest fascination has become the newest: since ELIZA in the sixties, people have preferred confessing to machines over talking to humans — AI boyfriends included — and “it gets so much stuff wrong that people wanna rely on this” bewilders her still. Andrew’s question about Anthropic’s calls for regulation drew the hour’s driest line: “isn’t that just sort of the lipstick on a pig issue? I’ll believe it when I see it” — nobody, she notes, will do anything that touches the stock price. Her counter-example is the late Peter Neumann, the computer scientist who gave $4 million to the San Francisco Symphony’s chorus: “we will not see his like again.”
•       The Blue of Tahoe. Asked what freedom means, she calls the word too abused to define — a card-carrying ACLU member since high school who believes just as firmly in regulation, and whose answer to Sergey Brin’s California-as-Soviet-Union hissy fit is the episode’s keeper: “what do you think keeps the water of Tahoe so very blue except for government regulation and environmental scientists? Who do you think regulates the use of the term organic?” The regulation-freedom dynamic, she argues, is healthy — it’s the worship that isn’t. Her San Francisco test: The Crucible, the beloved East Bay institution that taught Burning Man its metalwork, gets nothing from the boom, while art nonprofits die weekly and the winners insist they owe nothing because they pay taxes — “which they try very much not to do.” Burning Man itself she reads via Brave New World: the violent passion surrogate, a scheduled space for disorder before returning to lives spent “creating nonsense and ruining a lot of things that we hold dear.” A California writer to the end — and, per Glengarry Glen Ross, always be closing.
 
About the Guest
 
Paulina Borsook has worked in and around Northern California tech culture since the early 1980s. Formerly on the masthead of Wired, she has written for Mother Jones, Salon, and countless tech and non-tech publications, and is a contributing editor at InFormation (“every day computers are making people easier to use”), the revived tech-skeptic magazine of past guest Davi...

“We’re hardwired for love. We are taught to do violence, and to hate.” — Dana Mashoian Walrath
 
A couple of months ago in Warsaw, the Polish writer and Jewish activist Konstanty Gebert argued that Gaza wasn’t a genocide. Today’s guest disagrees. In The Book of Genocides, graphic artist and anthropologist Dana Mashoian Walrath draws ten genocides including what she sees as the crimes against humanity committed by the Israeli army in Gaza.
 
So what, exactly, is a “genocide”? Walrath’s definition borrows from the Polish lawyer Raphael Lemkin, who coined the term during the Second World War. Lemkin meant the word to mean the destruction of peoples that had been deemed sub-human. Thus Walrath includes crimes against the First Peoples of the Americas and Black Americans alongside 20th-century mass killings in Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia and Armenia, where her ancestors were persecuted.
 
Some will quibble over this list. Although quibbling over the top (or bottom) ten genocides isn’t exactly good taste. Besides, The Book of Genocides is a poignant work of graphic art in the tradition of Art Spiegelman’s Maus. And its author, for all her anthropological insights into why people commit crimes against humanity, isn’t shy with her genocide jokes. Springtime for Hitler, anyone?
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       Always a Land Grab. Ten genocides across five centuries — the First Peoples of the Americas, Black Americans, Aboriginal Australians, Armenia, the Holocaust, Cambodia, Rwanda, Bosnia, the Rohingya, and Gaza — chosen not to rank horrors but to expose “the repetitive patterns and the processes that underlie genocide.” Walrath’s definition is Raphael Lemkin’s original, processual one, before politics narrowed the convention: the purpose is always a land grab, the apparatus always dehumanization, and precise academic definitions are often deployed “to keep some stories and histories out.” The book began as an interactive art installation with nine genocides and a tenth chapter on “the borders of genocide” — Afghanistan, Vietnam, Congo, Ukraine, Palestine — until the violence in Gaza persuaded her to make the case outright, while insisting the aim is not to demonize her Jewish friends, Judaism, or Israel, but to show the system. Her hope: that a globally framed comic might open dialogue between Jews and Palestinians “trapped in enmity right now.”
•       Lemkin’s Last Train. The man who coined the word is the book’s tragic through-line. As a Polish law student, Lemkin followed the Berlin trial of a young Armenian who had shot one of the architects of the Armenian genocide — and found it ludicrous that the assassin faced justice for one murder while his victim had answered for none of his millions. His family farm had been seized in the First World War; his brother Samuel died in the forest. He escaped Warsaw on a train that was bombed, ran by night to reach his family, and failed to persuade them to leave (“they do this to us all the time”). Via Sweden, Russia, Japan, and Duke, he spent the war in Washington trying to make Americans see. His convention passed — then waited years for the US, UK, and China to ratify — and he died in 1959 penniless and friendless, UN officials fleeing him in the corridors. Walrath’s speculation: his great regret, looking down, may be refusing to support We Charge Genocide, the 1951 petition by Black Americans — “we can’t talk about something America has done” in the Cold War. Had America owned and repaired that crime then, “we’d be in a very different world.”
•       Can You Have Half a Genocide? Andrew’s pushback — if politicians can be “verging on genocidal,” does every Karen yelling at her kids get accused of it? — drew the hour’s most honest concession: “that’s the absolute spot-on critique of the approach I’ve taken.” Her defense is preventive: half a genocide is “too quantitative”; better to name things “on their way to massacre” and stop them, or repair them, than to litigate the label afterward. Genocide, she argues, predates modernity and Arendt’s industrial reading — it arrives with the first hierarchical, extracting, wealth-inheriting “so-called civilizations,” Sparta and Thucydides included. Slavery qualifies because the operational word is systemic: the transatlantic trade ran on thinking of humans as lesser. But she draws one line firmly: asked about factory farms as future genocides, “I would hate to see genocide get used over there. It is something that humans do to one another” — and, she insists, don’t have to: the literature on aversion to killing shows soldiers must be socialized into it. We’re hardwired for love and taught to hate.
•       Stanton’s Stages in MAGA America. Is there something genocidal in MAGA’s language about undocumented immigrants? “Absolutely.” Walrath applies the ten stages of genocide — the classroom heuristic Gregory Stanton first presented to the State Department in 1996 — and finds the United States “doing a heck of a lot of them”: polarization; dehumanization (people called vermin, “not worthy of life”); discrimination in the restriction of voting rights. “We’re on very, very shaky ground.” Homelessness, in the same frame, is the product of structures that disenfranchise some and privilege others — “we’ve got enough to go around; we just revere wealth.” Her model for how ordinary people let it happen is Ursula Hegi’s Stones from the River: the fearful, the wounded, the disenfranchised, vulnerable to takeover — with parallels in MAGA voters spurned by the neoliberal machine and unable to see who is pulling the levers. Hence her claim for the book: it is resistance, but resistance that builds a coalition across horrors rather than policing which horror counts.
•       Springtime for Hitler. She didn’t read Maus until 2009 — “that’s when I found my medium and just went wild” — and pays it explicit homage in the book. Comics, she argues, let readers “come into” a history and think for themselves, and laughter is respite: an angry messenger gets no listeners. Her earlier Aliceheimer’s let people laugh about her mother’s dementia (not at it, she corrected sharply); telling audiences she’s working on her genocide jokes makes them relax enough to hear the rest. Andrew’s challenge — “do you really want to make it safe?” — produced the useful distinction: safe to enter, not whitewashed; hand-lettered so readers can bring the content in, every truth intact. The closing exchange landed on The Producers and Springtime for Hitler as a brilliant portrayal of the legacies of catastrophe. Her last word: knowledge must cross boundaries, “and the boundaries are all human made, so let’s unmake them.” Andrew’s: most will disagree with her list — and it may be a classic.
 
About the Guest
 
Dana Mashoian Walrath is a writer, artist, and anthropologist. Her award-winning works include Aliceheimer’s, a graphic memoir about her mother’s dementia, and Like Water on Stone, a verse novel about the Armenian genocide. She holds a doctorate in anthropology from the University of Pennsylvania; her comics, art, essays, and poetry have appeared in The Nation, The Lancet, Slate, and on NPR. The Book of Genocide...