survival is messy. Choices are rarely clean

Ah, yes, the paradox of history and trust. We live in a world where the powers that be insist they’ve got our backs, all the while shuffling their pieces on a global chessboard, their motives tucked just out of sight. It’s a familiar scene, isn’t it? One that echoes through the stories we grew up hearing—WWII, the occupation, the betrayals, and the uncomfortable truths about human nature under pressure. But unlike the clear-cut villains of the past, today’s shadowy figures wear the masks of progress, innovation, and defense. And oh, how civilized they look doing it.

There’s something almost quaint about betrayal, isn’t there? It’s a word that feels too soft for the savage history it represents, a term you’d expect from whispered dramas between friends, not from global upheavals and wars that change the face of continents. And yet, betrayal has been the quiet hand guiding much of human history. From Brutus and Caesar’s fateful encounter in the Roman Senate to the quiet yet devastating choices made by collaborators during World War II, betrayal seems to be the dark mirror to trust, reflecting the fears, ambitions, and desperate gambits that define our species.

Today’s betrayals are quieter, more calculated. They don’t involve public executions or the dramatic downfall of empires (though, who knows what lies beneath the surface?), but they operate within a global framework of economic deals, technology exchanges, and diplomatic decisions that slowly shift the balance of power. Think of Harold Cole, who sold out the French resistance to the Gestapo for his own gain, and now think of the modern world—how many Harold Coles are quietly trading influence, shifting allegiances behind the scenes while the rest of us are left to ponder what went wrong.

In a way, this modern form of betrayal is more insidious because it’s often wrapped in the language of progress, of protection, of necessity. The actors aren’t always obvious, and the consequences not immediately apparent. But we’ve seen it before, haven’t we? The Western betrayals of Eastern Europe during WWII, the decisions that left Poland, Czechoslovakia, and others to fend for themselves against Nazi Germany and later the Soviet Union—decisions made not with malice, but with cold, calculated pragmatism.

But we have to wonder, don’t we? What if the system collapses, what if the delicate threads holding this modern world together begin to fray and tear, and we find ourselves staring down something darker, more chaotic than we ever imagined? Do we trust these corporations, these faceless institutions, to keep us safe when things truly go sideways? Do we trust the slick-talking public servants and their corporate allies, or is there a gnawing feeling in our gut that whispers, ‘maybe not’?

It's an uncomfortable question, isn’t it? What happens when the grand machinery of surveillance, security, and defense—the very things built to keep us safe—starts turning its gaze inward? What happens when the powers that be, the ones we’re supposed to trust, are forced to choose between us and their own survival?

Look back to WWII, to occupied France and Belgium. The Nazis rolled in, and suddenly, survival meant compromise. Some fought, some fled, and others—out of desperation, ambition, or fear—collaborated. The women who turned to Nazi soldiers, selling their bodies for safety, were seen as traitors after the war. Branded, exiled, their stories became cautionary tales of what happens when trust breaks down.

It’s almost religious, the way these tech giants and public institutions present themselves—holy warriors of progress, knights in shining digital armor, wielding the all-seeing eyes of ISR and the divine fire of technological superiority. They speak in tongues of security and innovation, promising that their ever-watchful gaze will protect us from the unknown, from the unseen, from the enemy lurking just over the horizon.

But if religion has taught us anything, it’s that even the purest institutions have their cracks, their hypocrisies, their temptations. The church of modern technology is no different. For every EO/IR sensor that keeps us safe from threats abroad, there’s a boardroom discussion about profit margins, a trade-off between privacy and control, and a quiet calculation about just how much they can get away with before the faithful start asking uncomfortable questions.

So, is it ‘all for one and one for all’? Or is it more like ‘all for me, and one for… well, we’ll see (maybe i will have a kid one day?) Because let’s be real: when the chips are down, these companies—these quiet giants—will do what’s best for their shareholders first, and us second. If we’re lucky. And as for the public servants tasked with safeguarding our innovation and security—do we trust them to stand tall when the winds of history start blowing cold? Or do we fear they’ll bend like reeds, just as others have before them?

History, after all, is littered with examples of people trusting the wrong institutions, believing in the wrong ideologies, or putting faith in the wrong leaders. During the Nazi occupation, some desperate to survive, turned to their occupiers. They sold their bodies, their loyalty, their dignity in exchange for a little safety, a little comfort in a time when survival was a daily negotiation.

And when the war was over—when the Nazis were driven out and the world began to heal—these women were marked, not just by their actions but by the anger of their countrymen. They were branded as traitors, their heads shaved, their bodies paraded through the streets as a reminder of what happens when trust is broken, when survival comes at the cost of community.

But let’s not kid ourselves: the judgment that fell on those women wasn’t just about their betrayal. It was a reflection of a collective shame—a shame shared by those who did nothing, who stood by while their world was taken from them, and who, in the aftermath, needed someone to blame. Because when the walls start crumbling and the enemy isn’t as obvious as a man in a uniform, we humans tend to look for scapegoats, don’t we? And it’s easier to point the finger at the vulnerable than to acknowledge our own complicity.

Now, flash forward to today. No Nazis, no grand invading armies—just the subtle erosion of trust in the systems we’ve built. The erosion happens not with tanks or bombs, but with every quiet decision made behind closed doors, every compromise in the name of progress, every time we’re asked to sacrifice a little more privacy, a little more autonomy, for the sake of "the greater good."

In ancient societies, trust was predominantly placed in individuals rather than institutions. The local chieftain, the king, the priest—they were the figures upon whom the survival of communities depended. The social contract was simple: loyalty and service in exchange for protection and guidance. Betrayal, when it happened, was often a matter of personal treachery—Julius Caesar's assassination being a prime example. Trust in broader systems was nearly nonexistent; after all, most of what we consider institutional power was embodied in the person of the ruler.

As we move into the medieval period, particularly in Europe, the rise of feudalism saw a shift toward a system where power was distributed among a class of nobles. Trust now extended to a network of vassals and lords, each bound by oaths of loyalty. Yet, betrayal was endemic—families turned on each other in bloody disputes over land and titles. The concept of divine right began to underpin royal authority, intertwining religious faith with institutional trust. Here, the betrayal was not just a personal failing but a sin against the very order of the cosmos.

Skip forward to the Enlightenment, and we see the emergence of modern states and institutions that claimed to operate on rational principles rather than divine mandate. This era gave birth to the social contract theory, where trust was placed in the institutions of government to protect the rights of the individual—an idea championed by Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau.

However, the very institutions designed to protect the people often turned into mechanisms of control and repression, leading to revolutions and uprisings. The French Revolution is a stark example where the breakdown of trust in the monarchy and the subsequent terror revealed the fragility of these nascent institutions. Betrayal now took on a more systemic form—no longer just a matter of individual treachery but of institutional failure on a grand scale.

The 20th century brought with it the horrors of totalitarian regimes that exploited trust in modern institutions to unprecedented degrees. Stalin’s Soviet Union, Hitler’s Nazi Germany, and Mao’s China all manipulated state institutions to enforce their will, often turning citizens against each other through fear and propaganda. Here, technology began to play a significant role, with advancements in communication and surveillance used to maintain control.

World War II and the subsequent Cold War saw the proliferation of espionage, surveillance, and propaganda, with governments employing technology not just to protect but to manipulate and control. Trust in institutions eroded further as citizens in various regimes realized that their governments were as likely to betray them as to protect them. The post-war era, particularly in Europe, saw a reckoning with this betrayal—those who collaborated with occupying forces were often publicly shamed, punished, and ostracized, a stark reminder of the personal cost of institutional failure.

Existentialism posits that in the context of institutional trust, we are always complicit in the systems we support—by trusting institutions, we abdicate some of our freedom, placing responsibility for our safety and well-being in the hands of others. The existential crisis arises when those institutions betray us, forcing us to confront the uncomfortable truth that we were always responsible, even when we chose to trust.

This betrayal, then, is not just a failure of the institution but a failure of the individual to assert their own freedom and responsibility. Existentialism would likely critique the modern reliance on technology and institutions as a form of bad faith—an attempt to escape the inherent anxiety of human existence by placing trust in systems that are, by their very nature, fallible.

Language shapes our understanding of the world. Meaning is not inherent in words themselves but is derived from their use within a particular context—a concept famously encapsulated in the phrase "language games."

When we talk about trust, betrayal, and technology, we are engaging in a language game that is deeply rooted in historical and cultural contexts. The words we use—’surveillance’, ‘security’, ‘betrayal’—carry meanings shaped by centuries of philosophical and political discourse. Wittgenstein would remind us that our trust in institutions and technology is not just a matter of objective reality but is constructed through the language and narratives we use to describe and understand them.

In this light, the modern discourse around technology and institutional trust can be seen as a continuation of the same language games that have shaped human societies for millennia. The reality we live in, then, is not just a product of technological advancements but is deeply influenced by the way we talk about and conceptualize those advancements.

The world can be confusing enough as it is, without our own governments, our own people trying to mislead us. In the grand theater of history, where the lines between protagonist and antagonist blur, we find ourselves once again pondering the age-old dance between trust and betrayal. The players have changed, as have the tools of their trade, but the game remains much the same. It’s a tale as old as time, with new actors and a few modern twists—surveillance cameras where once there were spies, drones where once there were foot soldiers, and algorithms where once there were whispers in the dark.

Yet, for all the technological marvels, the essential human drama remains. We trust our institutions to keep us safe, to see the threats before they arrive, to shield us from the chaos beyond our borders. And in return, we hand over pieces of our autonomy, our privacy, our very freedom. Existentialism would have a field day with this—’bad faith’ on a global scale, as we delude ourselves into believing that security is worth the price of our own responsibility.

But what happens when the systems we’ve placed our trust in falter? When the institutions that promise safety instead become the very agents of our betrayal? History has no shortage of examples—’Vichy France’, ‘Stalinist Russia’, ‘Nazi Germany’—where the people trusted, and the institutions failed them in the most horrific ways. And as Wittgenstein might remind us, the language of trust and betrayal is deeply contextual, shaped by the narratives of those times. The words we use to describe our present reality are echoes of those earlier tragedies, reframed in the cold light of modern technology.

So here we are, in the 21st century, trusting not in kings or gods, but in algorithms and surveillance systems. We speak the language of progress, of safety, of innovation, but beneath it all is the same old fear—the fear that when the time comes, when the shit hits the fan, these institutions will crumble just as they have before. And who will be left holding the pieces? Not the corporations with their quarterly earnings and boardroom strategies. Not the public servants, who may find their loyalty tested in ways they never expected.

No, it will be us—the individuals who trusted too easily, who believed the rhetoric without questioning the reality, who forgot that in the end, we are all responsible for the systems we create. Sartre would say that we are condemned to be free, and that freedom carries with it the weight of all the choices we make, including the choice to trust.

In a world where surveillance has become the new normal, where technology promises safety at the cost of autonomy, we must ask ourselves: are we playing the role of the naive believer, or the cautious skeptic? Do we trust these modern institutions to protect us when the storm comes, or do we prepare for the inevitable betrayal, knowing that history has a way of repeating itself?

As we navigate this complex landscape, we should remember that the trust we place in institutions, in technology, in the language of progress, is not a given. It is a choice, one that carries with it the weight of history and the responsibility of the present. We must choose our words carefully, knowing that they shape the reality we live in, and we must question the systems we’ve come to rely on, lest we find ourselves betrayed once again.

So, what happens if the ‘shit’ really does hit the fan? What if our global house of cards starts to fall, and the people we’ve entrusted with our security, our innovation, our future—those who work in glass offices at the Canadian innovation centers or deep within NATO’s brain trust—find themselves staring down an enemy they can’t manage with a drone or a sensor? Do we trust them to stand firm, or will they, like so many before them, bend to the pressures of survival and self-interest?

And if they do bend, if they do break, where does that leave us? Will we find ourselves, like those women in occupied France, caught between survival and betrayal, trying to navigate a world that no longer plays by the rules we thought we understood?

There’s a dissonance here, isn’t there? This modern culture of trust in faceless institutions—companies and governments alike—that seem so assured, so confident in their ability to protect us, to innovate on our behalf. Yet, the vibe beneath the surface is far from comforting. It’s as if we’re all walking on a tightrope, pretending the safety net beneath us is still intact when, deep down, we know it’s been worn thin by years of neglect.

And while we’re told to believe in progress, in the ever-watchful eye of technology, there’s a gnawing doubt: what happens when that technology turns on us? When the systems built to protect us become the very things that ensnare us? We’ve heard the stories—about surveillance gone wrong, about institutions failing in moments of crisis, about the slow creep of authoritarianism disguised as safety. We’ve seen it in other places. Why should we believe we’re immune?

In the end, maybe the lesson here is one we’ve known all along but don’t like to admit: trust is fragile, and institutions—no matter how powerful or well-intentioned—are made up of people. And people, when pushed to the brink, will do what they must to survive. So, as we move forward into this brave new world of EO/IR surveillance and ISR dominance, perhaps we should temper our trust with a little healthy skepticism.

Because, as history has shown us time and time again, when the world falls apart, it’s not always the obvious villains we need to worry about. Sometimes, it’s the quiet betrayals—the ones that happen in boardrooms and government offices, in whispers and contracts—that leave the deepest scars.

Ah, yes, history has a funny way of echoing through the halls of our modern world, doesn’t it? The stories of World War II still ring in the air, faint but persistent whispers that remind us that, no matter how far we think we’ve come, we’re always one step away from the abyss. And here we are, in a world of high-tech surveillance, global corporations with their hands in every pie, and governments who smile too easily for comfort, and you can’t help but wonder—when the proverbial shit hits the fan, are we safe?

It’s an odd thing to consider, this invisible web of power that we trust so implicitly—these corporations with their drones and sensors, their sleek presentations at innovation conferences, their quiet partnerships with the very governments we rely on to protect us. They stand as the modern sentinels, but the question gnaws at the back of the mind: who’s really watching over us when everything starts falling apart? And are they watching ‘for’ us, or are we just another set of coordinates on their grid?

And the public servants? Those earnest souls at places like the Canadian Innovation Centre or similar institutions across Europe—are they the guardians of progress, or are they just the latest to play the role of the neutral observer, until neutrality is no longer an option? We’ve seen this story before, haven’t we? It’s an old one, played out in cafes and under the watchful gaze of occupying forces. When times are good, everyone’s a patriot. When times are hard, well, the lines between survival and betrayal blur quickly.

What would happen today, in our shiny, digital world? We don’t brand people anymore, at least not with hot iron. No, today we do it with whispers, with pixels, with tweets and posts that never quite go away. And what if this grand technological system we’ve built, this vast interconnected matrix of eyes and ears, turned inward? What if the omnipresent, omnipotent gaze we’ve unleashed upon the world decided to focus on us, on our neighborhoods, on our cities? Would the public servants, the innovation centers, the defense contractors step up to shield us—or would they fall into line, protecting their own interests first?

It’s an uncomfortable thought, isn’t it? To wonder if, when the chips are down, these so-called guardians might simply fold. There’s a creeping suspicion that, perhaps, they’re less *all for one and one for all* and more *each for themselves*, quietly jockeying for position while the rest of us brace for impact. After all, when history has shown us that collaboration with power—no matter how foreign or familiar—has a nasty way of rewriting the moral compass, why should we expect anything different today?

Let’s dive into the heart of this curious dance of trust and suspicion, where the quiet giants of industry, government, and public service intersect with history’s darker lessons. Here, we stand on a line between the past and the present, wondering if the ghosts of World War II have anything to whisper to us about the shape of things to come. Because for all our technology, for all our talk of progress, there’s a nagging sense that when the chips are down—when the shit really hits the fan—what we’ve built may not hold. And the people we’ve put our faith in? Well, history tells us they can be a fickle bunch.

We like to imagine these organizations—the tech companies, the innovation centers, the governments—as noble crusaders, wielding the most cutting-edge technology in the name of public safety. But let’s be real. If the great philosopher and occasional cynic Voltaire were still around, he might chuckle into his glass of wine and remind us that power, unchecked, rarely stays benevolent for long.

Sure, there’s a storybook charm to the idea that these companies—this mighty, singular entity that builds eyes in the sky, brains in the cloud, and invisible walls of data—are all working together for the common good. A sort of *all for one and one for all* spirit. But the truth? It’s more like *all for us and some for you*, if we’re lucky. We’ve got advanced surveillance, but it’s not hard to imagine that when the chips are down, those cameras might be pointed at us just as quickly as they’re aimed at some external threat.

And where does that leave us? Trusting that the same people who built this web of eyes and ears will use it to protect us when things get rough. But what happens when the threat isn’t "over there" anymore? What if the problem comes home?

Let’s look back for a moment. The stories of WWII—the ones we grew up with—are filled with heroism and sacrifice, but also with compromise, betrayal, and moral ambiguity. Remember the women in Belgium and France who collaborated with the occupying Nazi forces? In the aftermath, when the tide had turned, they became scapegoats—branded and exiled for surviving the only way they knew how.

I sometimes wonder if we haven’t learned much since then. Sure, we have technology that would have blown the minds of those in the 1940s. We can track a single person halfway around the world from a computer in a basement. We can communicate instantly across oceans. We have machines that fight our battles for us. But when it all goes sideways—when there’s no foreign invader to blame, and the battle lines blur—will the same people who built these systems have our backs? Or will they, like those women, do whatever it takes to survive, only to be cast aside when the dust settles?

We put our faith in public servants, in innovation centers, in these high-tech wizards who promise us safety and security. But I think of those women in Belgium and France, caught in the vise of survival, and I wonder: Who will be branded when the next chapter of history is written? When the promises of protection ring hollow, and we find ourselves looking back at this moment with the clarity that only hindsight brings—who will be the ones holding the bag?

Take, for instance, the people working in places like the Canadian Innovation Centre, or its counterparts in Belgium and France. Public servants, yes, but who exactly are they serving when the chips are down? It’s easy to play the role of benevolent protector when things are going well. But as history has shown us, the moment the wind shifts, those in power have a way of looking out for themselves first.

I’m not saying these people are selling their souls to the highest bidder—not yet, anyway. But if you listen closely, you might hear echoes of the past. The same rationalizations, the same justifications. “We’re doing what we have to, to survive.” And in the end, isn’t that always the case? When survival’s at stake, the lines between good and evil blur, and the people we thought we could trust sometimes turn out to be the first to jump ship.

So here we are, sitting on a mountain of technology that would have been the stuff of science fiction a few decades ago. But is it a safety net, or is it a trap? When the next crisis hits, and the lines between friend and foe start to waver, will we be able to trust that these corporations and governments—these modern-day castles and their keepers—are really looking out for us?

It’s easy to get lost in the comforting glow of technological advancement, to believe that because we can see and hear everything, we’re somehow safer. But history has a way of reminding us that even the most advanced systems can crumble under the weight of human ambition and fear.

I think back to those stories of WWII, to the women who were cast out for doing what they had to in order to survive, and I can’t help but wonder: Are we any different? When the tide turns, will the people we’ve trusted to keep us safe be the ones pointing the finger at us? Or worse, will we be the ones left standing in the wreckage, wondering how we let it all slip away?

In the end, it’s not just about the technology, the surveillance, or the innovation. It’s about the people behind it—their motivations, their fears, their willingness to adapt when the world turns upside down. We’ve built a web of safety that stretches around the globe, but it’s only as strong as the hands that hold it.

So here’s the question we should be asking: When the shit hits the fan—and let’s be honest, it always does—who will those hands be reaching for?

It’s an interesting thing to ponder, isn’t it? The parallels between the world we find ourselves in now and the tales our grandparents whispered—of wartime compromises, betrayals, and those uncomfortable decisions made when the chips were down. History, after all, has this curious habit of sneaking back up on us, wrapped in new packaging but with the same gnarly teeth. And here we are, supposedly safe, watching the same power plays, only this time they come with drones and data rather than tanks and jackboots.

You bring up the women in Belgium and France during WWII, and it stirs something uncomfortable yet all too familiar. There were those who did what they had to do to survive under occupation, to keep bread on the table. They collaborated, yes, in the most intimate of ways. And when the tide turned, they were marked—hair shorn, heads bowed, carrying the scarlet letter of their actions long after the invaders were driven out. The line between victim and traitor blurred, as it often does in times of crisis.

Fast forward to today, and we find ourselves in a different kind of occupation. This one doesn’t come with a foreign army storming through our streets—at least not yet. Instead, it’s data-driven, digital, wrapped in the cold steel of technology and surveillance. These companies, with their all-seeing eyes and iron-clad control over the information highway, seem to wield a power that feels eerily familiar to those old war stories. Yet, unlike those women from the past, we aren’t facing soldiers at our doors. We’re facing algorithms, cameras, and public servants hidden behind glossy corporate offices and government contracts.

And here’s the thing: despite the rhetoric of “all for one and one for all,” there’s a nagging doubt in the back of our minds. Because what happens when things go south? When the safety nets we trust are suddenly yanked away? Will these corporations, so tightly intertwined with the state, keep us safe when the shit truly hits the fan? Or will they do what all occupiers do—consolidate power, protect their own, and leave the rest of us to fend for ourselves?

I’m reminded of the bureaucrats, the public servants, and the collaborators who sided with whichever power happened to be in control at the time. The officials at the Canadian innovation centers, the high-ranking members of government agencies—they don’t wear uniforms, but they play the game just the same. They shuffle papers and make decisions in quiet rooms, decisions that could mean the difference between liberty and control, between protection and exploitation. But when the winds change, when the invisible occupation becomes a little more obvious, what will their role be? Will they stand on principle, or will they bend to the new regime, as so many did before them?

It’s easy to imagine that we’ve outgrown such things—that in this modern age, we’ve learned from history. But have we? Wouldn’t those same stories from WWII have us believe that when fear and power mix, the moral lines blur? And let’s be honest—when we see modern surveillance tech, the integration of corporations and governments, and the quiet consolidation of control, it’s hard not to feel that same creeping unease our ancestors must have felt.

Maybe the most unsettling part of all this is that while the faces and the technology have changed, the story feels the same. There’s still a game being played, still compromises being made behind closed doors. And while we aren’t on the front lines, we’re still caught in the middle, still wondering who will protect us when everything goes sideways. History tells us that sometimes, survival means playing along—at least until the tide turns. But we also know that when the war is over, it’s not the power brokers who are branded and shunned; it’s the ones who were caught in the middle, the ones who were forced to survive in the only way they could.

So, where does that leave us? Watching, waiting, perhaps collaborating in ways we don’t fully understand, hoping that when it’s all said and done, we aren’t the ones left standing in the square, our heads shaved, wondering where it all went wrong.

And yet, here we are, handing over our trust, our security, and our privacy to these faceless entities, as though they were ordained by some benevolent force to keep us safe. Maybe that’s where religion comes in—or at least the echoes of it. Because faith, in any form, is comforting, isn’t it? Faith that someone, somewhere, is watching over us with our best interests at heart. But faith, without the corresponding action, is a dangerous thing. It leads us into complacency, into thinking that because we trust these systems, they are inherently trustworthy.

Perhaps, if we’re honest, we’ve all been lulled into a false sense of security. We’ve become too comfortable with the idea that these companies, these public servants, are always working in our favor. But history teaches us that when things go sideways, the masks fall off, and we’re left to face the raw, unvarnished truth: power doesn’t protect us—it protects itself.

So, maybe it’s time to take off the rose-colored glasses and start asking the hard questions. Because the next time the world shifts—whether through war, economic collapse, or some unforeseen catastrophe—it won’t be the high-flying drones or the data-collecting satellites that will save us. It will be the people who choose, in that moment, to do what is right, even when it’s hard. And if we’re honest, we’re not so sure that everyone standing guard today would make that choice.

And maybe that’s the real legacy of those women from the war. They remind us that in the end, survival is messy. Choices are rarely clean. And those who find themselves on the wrong side of history today were just as human as we are now. So, in this dance of trust and betrayal, let us be neither the blind believer nor the cynical skeptic, but something more nuanced—a participant in the language game, aware of the stakes, mindful of the history, and always ready to take responsibility for the world we are creating.