I have been thinking a great deal about the origins of
government, not as an abstract academic exercise but as a way of making sense
of the world I inhabit today. My concerns have deepened as I watch, from afar,
how democratic institutions in the United States—long held up as a global
model—are dismantled by those seeking to consolidate power. This unravelling
has forced me to revisit the classical theories of governance, not to admire
their elegance, but to understand how easily structures we assume to be stable
can be hollowed out from within. The more I reflect on these theories, the more
I find myself returning to a troubling conclusion: that governments, with few
exceptions, have evolved into systems for extracting wealth and controlling
populations for the benefit of a small elite.
The illusion begins with law. We are taught that laws
maintain order and protect rights, that civil and criminal codes form the
backbone of a just society. But the more I observe how laws are applied and
interpreted, the more I see how they function as instruments of control rather
than guardians of justice. Rights are loudly proclaimed yet unevenly protected.
The powerful navigate the legal system with impunity, while ordinary citizens
are reminded constantly of the consequences of disobedience.
The illusion deepens through elections. We are told that the
ballot box expresses the will of the people, that governments derive legitimacy
from the majority. But elections often serve as symbolic performances rather
than genuine transfers of authority. They rotate faces, not structures. Choices
are narrow, managed, and shaped by the same interests that dominate the
economy. The result is a political system that appears participatory but
remains insulated from the people it claims to represent.
The consequences are visible everywhere. Wealth is
concentrated in the hands of a tiny minority, often less than ten percent
controlling most national resources. This is not an accident or a quirk of
capitalism; it is the logical outcome of a system designed to legitimise
extraction. The law protects property more fiercely than people. Policies
preserve the interests of those who already hold power. And when the system is
challenged, the state responds with the full force of its machinery—legal, economic,
and sometimes violent. The events unfolding in the US is a stark example of
this.
Closer to home, the pattern is unmistakable. The withdrawal
of prosecutions through mechanisms such as the DNAA has become a stark reminder
of how the legal system bends to accommodate those in positions of influence.
When individuals with political or economic power are shielded from
accountability, the message is unmistakable: the law is not neutral but
pliable, adjustable when the stakes are high enough. These episodes erode
public trust not because they shock us, but because they confirm what many have
long suspected—that the system protects itself and its beneficiaries, not the
people it claims to serve.
Another method by which power sustains itself in this country
is through the deliberate manipulation of ethnic and religious divisions.
Instead of nurturing a shared national identity, those in authority often
emphasise difference, suspicion, and historical grievance. Communities are
encouraged to see one another as threats rather than partners in a common
future. Policies and rhetoric reinforce the idea that each group must cling to
its protectors or risk losing its place. A divided population is easier to
manage, easier to distract, and easier to mobilise selectively when political
survival is at stake. These divisions are not organic; they are cultivated. And
once internalised, they become self‑perpetuating, making it even
harder to imagine a politics grounded in solidarity.
In moments like these, I find myself asking whether there is
any way out of this cycle. History offers examples of mass movements that have
attempted to challenge entrenched power, but most have been crushed or co‑opted.
The state’s monopoly on force, its control of
information, and its ability to criminalise dissent make collective action
extraordinarily difficult. Even when movements achieve temporary victories, the
structures of power often reconstitute themselves in new forms.
And yet, we live in a time when new technologies—social
media and artificial intelligence—have transformed how individuals communicate
and understand the world. For a brief moment, social media seemed to
democratize information, allowing ordinary people to bypass traditional
gatekeepers. But it also revealed how easily these platforms could be
manipulated, surveilled, and weaponised. Algorithms amplify division and shape
public perception in ways that are largely invisible. The same tools that
empower can also entrap.
Artificial intelligence presents an even deeper paradox. It
can expand knowledge and democratize expertise, but it can also be centralised
and used to reinforce existing hierarchies. If data and digital infrastructure
remain in the hands of the same small group that controls wealth and political
institutions, AI may become the most efficient instrument of domination in
human history. The danger is not the technology itself, but the structures into
which it is absorbed.
So I am left with a difficult question: are we witnessing
tools that can break the cycle of exploitation, or simply new instruments for
the same old pattern? History suggests that every new technology begins with a democratic promise before being captured by entrenched interests.
And yet, I resist despair. For all the ways power
manipulates law, divides communities, and captures institutions, there remains
one space that has not been fully colonised: the human mind. As an
educationist, I have always believed that genuine transformation begins with
the ability to see clearly. If the illusion of government is sustained by
ignorance, fear, and manufactured division, then the antidote must be an
education that cultivates critical thought, historical awareness, and moral
courage.
This requires more than teaching facts. It demands a
curriculum that exposes the mechanisms of power, that teaches young people how
narratives are constructed, how laws can both protect and oppress, and how fear
is used to divide communities that might otherwise stand together. If we can
reshape education in this way, perhaps the next generation will be less easily
divided, less easily controlled, and less easily persuaded that the structures
around them are natural or inevitable.
I do not pretend that education alone can overturn centuries
of entrenched power. But I have seen how a single classroom discussion can
shift a young person’s understanding of the world. If there is a way out of the
cycles that have defined human history, it may begin with the simple act of
teaching people to think for themselves. My hope rests in education—honest,
critical, and humane—as the seed from which a different future might yet grow.
