#precautionary principle

[bored-philosopher-corner]

Phrόnêsis and the Precautionary Principle

As we evolve in the world as moral agents, as individuals, and as a part of diverse groups, we reflect in our daily lives practices of moral virtues: we are kind, courageous, disciplined, friendly. However, are those virtues enough in our ever-changing world? In a world where we need to consider the risks we are taking, as well as their consequences for us, and others. I argue that if one is to take risks, to consider the outcomes, negative, neutral or positive, of one’s actions, then one is responsible, morally, intellectually, emotionally, for one’s decisions and their consequences in their life, however many spheres the consequences are involving. I put forward the idea of a relational responsibility. Therefore, in such a world where every decision is intricately linked to the various spheres and relationships we engage in as individuals and as moral agents, what other virtue could we or should we be prepared to demonstrate? It seems that the virtue of phrόnêsis; of prudence, also understood as the wisdom of action, which is a practical disposition individual have towards their choices; is to be considered with attention. Indeed, the virtue of phrόnêsis is linked with what one can consider to be contingent, with what concerns human affairs (ϕρόυησις), this can be otherwise defined as a practical wisdom. Which signifies that phrόnêsis is a practice of wisdom, considering our action constituted in time, phrόnêsis is a vertu that any moral agent should have et which one should demonstrate the capacity in order to take into account of one’s actions in the present without forgetting those done in the past nor the many possible relational consequences they hold. I think the moral agent has to be cautious, prudent, in the sense that one’s understanding must be able to advise one on the actions and choices that are open. Ethics is, thus, only ever present, although moral agents act with deep concern for the future.

Since I am considering the Aristotelian principle of phrόnêsis, I consider closely the Nichomachean Ethics, Book VI in particular. According to the philosopher, phrόnêsis is an intellectual virtue, meaning that it participates to the excellence of the mind. A virtue is an acquired ability, a skill, a habit, une disposition de l’esprit for acting and feeling certain ways. It is the result of a practice, of exercises. Since phrόnêsis is considered as a virtue, it is, by its very own definition, the best habit within its specific field or kind of activity. One has to understand that phrόnêsis is a non-theoretical virtue, it intervenes, it prescribes, it deals with what can change or be brought inti existence, depending on what one does or doesn’t do.  It concerns things that we do ourselves and can control, such as things we decide on, choose, initiate, change, develop, stop, or any other action which variables absolutely depend on us and our decisions to evolve and change.

Understanding that phrόnêsis is a way of using our intellectual capacities, our lόgos, it is a way of reasoning or arguing about what to do. It is a deliberative sort of reasoning, meaning that it searches for and weighs arguments, their pros and cons, considering the particularities of a certain situation we might find ourselves in. As a deliberative capacity phrόnêsis is inherently attached ontologically to any other virtue, friendship, courage, justice, etc. Which signifies that we cannot be prudent without being ethically good. To act in an ethically good manner we have to act correctly, i.e.: we have to do what is both right, what is correct, and what is good. To be truly virtuous, as moral agents, our actions must come from a virtuous disposition and be done with the right reason or the right justification, and phrόnêsis is right reason in such a matter. Thus, phrόnêsis is in itself an ethical virtue, a virtue of character.

Therefore, phrόnêsis deliberates about how I should be just, fair, friendly, courageous, caring in relation to other people in the here and now, people with different needs, different wishes, different ways of thinking and perceiving the world, different ways of knowing who I am and what I could mean to them, while respecting their autonomy and thinking minds and wills, separate from mine as individuals and moral agents themselves. As such, there is no precept, no precise instruction on how to do it. This virtue does not try to manipulate, or persuade or seduce others, it presents its own thinking and reasons for deciding and acting in certain ways, as openly and transparently as possible to the mindful judgement of others and of the self, in order to show, to convince.

We understand that phrόnêsis is considering where others are, emotionally and intellectually, in their skills, their attitudes, in trying to find the right thing to do. However, phrόnêsis cannot use these circumstances in a manipulative manner, in setting some manipulative agenda, without ruining itself as a virtue. As such, phrόnêsis must know how to deal with egotistical, strategic, manipulative behaviour in others without becoming it, but also without letting such behaviour prevail in others. Which is why phrόnêsis is both ethical and intellectual. We would blame someone for forgetting or neglecting the intellectual exercise in dealing with others fairly, because abstaining consciously and voluntarily from deliberating the pros and cons on what to do would be considered an ethical deficiency, and because we would blame someone for deliberating merely in a clever fashion for other, probably unethical, purposes while dealing with others.

Moreover, phrόnêsis differs from pure rhetoric, because it searches openly for the best thing to do, weighing arguments, it is not deliberately persuasive. We think that true deliberation is more often than not open-ended. In such a way that the most important aspect of phrόnêsis is that it deals with particular circumstances in connection with acting.

Once we have understood that we needed the virtue of phrόnêsis in order to be better moral agents in the world, for ourselves and in our relations to others, we must think deeply about what every decision we make and our relational responsibility towards others, as individuals who are part of many interlapping and interwoven groups and ecosystems. There intervenes the Precautionary Principle.

The Precautionary Principle, also known as the precautionary approach, is a broad epistemological, philosophical approach to innovations, things, actions, choices, policies with potential for causing harm wen extensive scientific or specifically subject-related knowledge on the matter is lacking. It emphasises caution, pausing and reviewing before leaping into new innovations, ideas, policies, choices which may prove disastrous. The precautionary principle was promulgated in philosophy as a means to modify ethics so that the distant effects of one’s actions should be considered, thus prescribing that one should act in order for the effects of one’s actions to be compatible with the permanence of genuine human life. The precautionary principle makes us act in such a way that our present actions, choices, policies, innovations, etc. do not compromise the conditions for an indefinite continuation of humanity on Earth.  

There are three main motivations behind the postulation of a precautionary principle. First, it stems from a deep dissatisfaction with how decisions were made in the past: often, early warning have been disregarded, leading to significant damage, which could have been avoided by timely precautionary actions. This motivation for a precautionary principle rests on some inductive evidence that we should reform or even, replace our current practices of risk regulation, demanding that uncertainty must not be a reason for inaction. Secondly, it expresses specific moral concerns, usually pertaining to the environment, human health, and future generations. This second motivation is often related to the call for sustainability and sustainable development in order to not destroy important resources for short-time gains, but to leave future generations with an intact environment. Thirdly, precautionary principles are discussed as principles of rational choice under conditions of uncertainty and ignorance. Typically, rational decision theory is well suited for situations where we know the possible out-comes of our actions and can assign probabilities to them/ However, the situation is different for decision-theoretic uncertainty; which is where we know the possible outcomes but cannot assign anu or no meaningful and precise probabilities to them; or decision-theoretic ignorance; which is where we do not know the complete set of possible outcomes. Though, it is far from clear way is the most rational way to decide when we are lacking important information, and the stakes are high. Precautionary principles are one proposal to fill the gap.

There are three categories existing withing the idea of precautionary principles which are action-guiding principles; they tell us which course of action to choose given certain circumstances; there is also a set of epistemic principles; which tell us what we should reasonably believe under conditions of uncertainty; and procedural principles; which express requirements for decision-making and tell us how we should choose a certain course of action. These categories can overlap, such as when action or decision-guiding principles come with at least some indication for how they should be applied.

I would like to consider an interpretation of precautionary principles as action-guiding principles, which stresses that principles have to be interpreted and concretized depending on the specific context. Then, we could consider the precautionary principle to be a virtue principle, interpreting the precautionary principle by using cautiousness as a virtue. In this way, “cautious” is interpreted as a virtue term that refers to a property of an agent. It is possible to identify what the virtuous agent would do, either because it seems obvious, or because some agreement can be reached. Interpreting a precautionary principle as a virtue principle will avoid objections of extremism and paralysis, because it emphasizes balanced and context-sensitive decision-making. It is unlikely that the virtuous agent will choose courses of action which will, in the long term, have overall negative effects, or that are self-refuting. Another way to consider precautionary principles as action-guiding, is to think of precautionary principles as an alternative to maximin and other strategies for decision-making in situations where we lack the type of empirical evidence that one would need. Thus, according to this line of thinking, we could consider that one should take reasonable measures to prevent threats that are plausible and serious, having considered precautionary principles as reasonable measures. The seriousness of a threat relates to its potential for harm, as well as to whether or not the possible damage is seen as reversible or not, we should emphasize that reasonableness is a highly pragmatic and situation-specific concept. Reasonable responses should be effective, proportional to the nature of the threat, take a realistic attitude toward the threat, be cost-effective, and be applied consistently. This shows us that the question when a threat should count as plausible enough to warrant precautionary measures I very important for the application of an action-guiding precautionary principle.

Thus far we have understood that precautionary principles are a strategy we can all employ in our decision-making process, while seeking to anticipate and prevent harm to ourselves and others, to society or the environment in the face of uncertain risks. I suggest that we can easily integrate phrόnêsis into our understanding of precautionary principles and that it can be understood in a few aspects. Firstly, both concepts necessitate a deep, contextual understanding. Just as phrόnêsis requires a comprehensive grasp of the situation, the precautionary principle also demands a thorough understanding of the potential risks and benefits associated with a particular action or policy. This includes understanding the scientific, social and environmental contexts. Secondly, both emphasize ethical decision-making: while the precautionary principle is focused on preventing harm, phrόnêsis involves making decisions that are beneficial not just for the individual, but also for the community as a whole. Thirdly, prudence is a key aspect of both phrόnêsis and the precautionary principle. In situations of uncertainty or incomplete knowledge, both principles advocate for a cautious approach. Lastly, both are action oriented. They are not solely about theoretical understanding, but about applying that understanding to make real-world decisions. Therefore, we can understand the phrόnêsis is seen as providing a philosophical foundation for the precautionary principle. This relationship between phrόnêsis and the precautionary principle highlights the importance of practical wisdom in policy-making and decision-making processes.

[bettreworld]

The Precautionary Principle and Superintelligence | A Conversation with ...

[grapemoon]

Always wanted to do the @m-chromatic color pallet challenge thang hehehe. Not my best oliver but im proud of him and his colors #lala

No example of the pallet version under cut

[rederiswrites]

Y'all are so sure Varric dies and I like...have no idea why, tbh. Like, yeah he says "take care of the team", because he *expects* to die, because he figures there's a high chance Solas will kill him. Which Solas then does not do! He fucking knows it's last words and that's why he said it (dramatic hoe), but the thing he was expecting didn't happen.

And everyone keeps saying his story is finished and I honestly also don't know what you're looking at there, either. He's got two acts so far: unchallenged moderate, unwilling acceptance of responsibility. And they've set him up for a perfectly logical third: intentional leadership. It won't be that simple, and maybe he dies at SOME point, but there's no reason to kill a beloved character early in a game with a protagonist and playerbase that are not particularly attached to him yet. They won't sell Varric's life so cheaply!

I'm not saying Varric won't die. I'm saying I musta missed something cuz I have no idea why all y'all are convinced he will.

[clandestinegardenias]

Look, I understand the desire for a revolution. I do. And it’s possible I might be convinced that we need one, at some point. I am open to the idea that I might be wrong!

But…literal Marxist theory posits that the way you get to a communist society is by working your way through a democracy. That’s the first STEP. Then you move to democratic socialism, then socialism, then communism. Anything that moves us away from a democracy (as I’m concerned another Trump presidency would, that man wants to be a dictator so bad) is a step AWAY from a leftist agenda. Because sure, maybe you get your ‘glorious revolution’ if Trump is president because he literally makes living conditions so unbearable that it triggers widespread revolt but from a critical Marxist standpoint you’d be revolting to get back to a democracy so you can start at that step all over again! This is a big reason theorists posit socialism/communism in the Soviet Union fell apart; too big a change too quickly and skipping steps in between.

We also have to consider that getting to the point of full blown revolution would mean catastrophic levels of suffering for people with lower socioeconomic power—POC, the queer community, folks in poverty, people with disabilities, etc.

AND any US dictatorship or similar government has an entire industrial military complex to back it up. A successful revolution would necessitate either getting that military complex on board, in which case you often end up with a military dictatorship (you can imagine how well THAT goes) or beating it which…I’m sorry, even the entire civilian population of the US cannot do. The military is light years more advanced than it was in Marx’s time, rebellion is so so so so much more complicated. It also sets a precedent for violent exchanges of power that tend to set countries up for a decades/centuries long tailspin of military coups in which the people with the most gun power (again…usually not vulnerable groups) win control.

I’m not trying to be a fatalist, here. I actually think fatalism is a tool of the oppressor and we have to fight against it tooth and nail. I’m just trying to logic out what will happen if Kamala/Walz lose and Trump/Vance win. What does that really look like? What is the next step, the next outcome that will lead us to a better place? And I just cannot, for those reasons above, see a Trump presidency leading us anywhere good. That IS what we will get if people hold out on voting for Harris as a form of protest. I’m all for protest!!!!! But it needs to be in a different avenue, because you have to consider the real life repercussions not voting will have.

I mean, what are the options? What happens if people protest by not voting? (...this assumes you don't start from the position that Harris and Trump will be literally NO different in office, which, well, that's another post)

1. Harris wins regardless, but a signal is sent that people to the left aren’t appeased and democrats need to do more. How effective this would be in moving actual policy is debateable, and it also puts the moral onus/responsibility conveniently on others just so you can feel like your hands are clean while simultaneously risking a worse outcome. Not cool.

2. Trump wins. Far more likely because, as we saw in 2020, the country was nearly evenly split on Trump vs. Biden. Current polling shows more or less the same with Trump vs. Harris. If the left stays home, the likelihood Trump wins skyrockets. So, what happens next?

2.A. Trump wins, but the world doesn’t end. He doesn’t do anything too terribly awful. The left has ideally signaled they will only vote for a Dem if they are liberal enough. I seriously doubt Trump won’t do anything too terribly awful though—look at what his first presidency did!!! Look at Project 2025!!!!! So. Other option.

2.B. Trump wins and the world is on fire. He strips away womens’ rights, queer rights, he tanks the working class and worker protections, starts a war, starts a dictatorship, whatever. He already started a lot of this during his first presidency. In this case, either…

2.B.1. This is still not enough to trigger a revolution. Vulnerable people are hurt and die at a far greater pace than under a Democratic presidency. We go on as before, fighting to regain key protections. Perhaps the Dems put forward a more liberal candidate to try and beat him next time, if democracy still exists, but likely? We end up with a conservative centrist anyway.

2.B.2. Trump does trigger a revolution. All I can see is how many vulnerable people would suffer and die. The military HAS to be involved and either takes control of government (terrible start to socialism!!!!!) or kills revolutionaries en masse and the rebellion fails. If civilians somehow defeated the US military, which is an astronomically low possibility, then we set up a more liberal democracy...how, exactly? With all the conservatives and moderates still in our country? Honestly, HOW. Kill them? Try and make them ‘see the light’? That happens via education, not a civil war. We could try and go straight to communism but theory and history show us that doesn’t work—you have to work your way towards it through democracy.

It is SO much more efficient and would put so many fewer vulnerable people in grave danger to start by keeping the democracy we already have by voting in Harris and THEN working on our protests to shift the needle towards democratic socialism. We’ve seen that these protests CAN WORK!!!!! They got us Biden dropping out!!!!! Harris picked a VP far more appealing to a liberal mindset than many of her other top options! WE ARE ALREADY SHIFTING THE NEEDLE. Keep it shifting, don’t give in to fatalism, and remember that you have to go through the steps to have an actual, stable, reliable socialist or communist republic. Vote.

[reasonsforhope]

"A recent court ruling from the Inter-American Court of Human Rights marks the first time an international judicial body has decided that indigenous peoples living in “voluntary isolation” have a right to do so, and that governments must act to ensure that right.

The ruling comes off the back of 20 years of activism challenging the Ecuadorian government’s encroachment on indigenous lands for oil drilling, and this, as well as other extractive activities like logging, were ruled to be intolerably disruptive to three groups living in voluntary isolation in the Ecuadorian Amazon.

International treaties protecting the rights of indigenous peoples have long been ratified at both the UN and the Organization of American States (OAS), but a case specifically determining whether a group living in voluntary isolation, which used to be called “uncontacted,” were guaranteed protection to allow them to continue doing so has never been ruled on.

While the United Nations Human Rights Council in 2009 and the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights in 2013 introduced guidelines and recommendations that included a right to choose self-isolation, neither were put into writing under international law, nor included in any treaty amendments.

As such, the Costa Rica-based court’s decision that nation-states, in this case Ecuador, must follow a “precautionary principle” when making decisions about future oil operations that may impede a group’s ability to live in self-isolation.

“This principle means that, even in the absence of scientific certainty regarding oil exploration and exploitation projects’ impacts on this territory, effective measures must be adopted to prevent serious or irreversible damage, which in this case would be the contact of these isolated populations,” said the court opinion, written in Spanish, and translated by Inside Climate News.

The three groups in question are the Tagaeri, Taromenane, and Dugakaeri, who are part of the overall Waorani peoples since they share cultural traditions and language.

Testimony was heard from a community leader of the Waorani, Penti Baihua, and two young women who at the ages of 2 and 6 were survivors of violent encroachment by oil workers who killed members of the girls’ group, forcibly introduced them to modernity, and displaced them to different parts of the Amazon.

In the current case, the court ruled that a protected area the size of Delaware that was established in the early 2000s to guarantee indigenous Waorani (and others) rights was created in such a way as to leave oil exploration areas outside protection, despite being the ancestral home of Baihua and his people.

A 6-mile deep buffer zone surrounding the heart of the Tagaeri, Taromenane, and Dugakaeri’s territory called the “Intangible Zone,” has been repeatedly penetrated by extractive industries, which have built roads and other “colonial” infrastructure.

The court ruled that Ecuador must honor the results of a 2023 referendum, in which voters chose to stop oil operations in that region indefinitely.

The court used the term “living in voluntary isolation” to reflect that fact that there are no unconctacted tribes on Earth, but perhaps as many as 200 who have seen evidence of modernity, and received minimal contact—perhaps from a related tribe that doesn’t live in isolation—and chose to remain without any interaction with the modern world either out of fear or self-interest."

-via March 28, 2025

[x1asirene]

push n' fracture ! — caleb 夏 (f1 rider! au)

— ! lexical count : 5.7k words

— ! affinity : caleb (xia yizhou) x fem!reader

— ! essence : caleb doesn’t do rivals. especially not when they’re plastered across your skin. jealousy twists into something sharp and dangerous as possession takes over, and the line between love and obsession blurs. tangled, messy, and burning with tension—this is about claiming what’s his, no matter the cost.

— ! precautionary : fem!reader, use of ‘y/n’ and feminine pronouns, f1 rider!caleb, sexual content, jealousy, possessiveness, intense physicality, car crash (non-fatal), semi-public setting, slight degradation, overstimulation, roughness, dom!caleb, rivalry-based tension, angry sex

— ! writer’s foreword : just crash-landed home from, brain leaking out my ears, and what did i do? rest? recover? touch grass? no. i opened my laptop and immediately started writing this unholy, feral filthfest. if this fic makes no sense or feels like a fever dream, blame the caffeine overdose and my sleep deprivation. also, send help (and snacks). preferably both.

— ! soundtrack in play : ohmami by chase atlantic

this is my only account. any similarities between this work and others—published or unpublished—are entirely coincidental. i pour a great deal of time, care, and emotion into what i create. it is against both my principles and my moral compass to plagiarize or steal from the work of others. i hold deep respect for the creators who came before me, and i would never knowingly compromise the integrity of their work or mine. furthermore, i do not condone the use of AI in the creation or replication of fanworks. everything here is original and made with clean intentions.

minors dni. this work contains dark, mature themes and is intended for adult audiences only. accounts that do not clearly indicate age in their bio or blog will be blocked without warning. this is for my safety and yours—respect boundaries, respect creators.

you weren’t even wearing his team hoodie.

no red bull colors. no little sticker of his number on your cheek like you wore in monaco. no subtle sign that you were his—not even a glance in his direction. instead, your shirt clung to your skin in the dry desert heat, speckled with sun and cropped enough to bare your ribs when the desert wind blew. that tight mclaren crop tee clung to your skin, the bright tarocco tone screaming his rival’s colors as you stood too close—way too close—to rafayel.

it all started with a laugh. just a laugh. nothing more.

you’d meant nothing by it—just a shared joke with rafayel in the hospitality lounge before qualifying. rafayel leaned toward you with that signature half-grin, elbow on the counter of the lounge, head tilted just enough to make it intimate. charming. relaxed. fucking smug. his hand had brushed your arm when you’d thrown your head back, the soft trill of your giggle carried into the desert air. head tipped back, fingers brushing his arm as you caught his eye and giggled at something he said. a soft, unconscious motion. a friendly exchange. nothing malicious, nothing overt.

you should’ve known. you should’ve seen it in the way caleb’s jaw locked during the driver briefing—helmet held by its chin bar, fzipped up to his collarbone, gloves hooked around two fingers—and for the first time in his career, he wasn’t thinking about tire temps or DRS zones. his jaw flexed tight enough to cramp as he watched rafayel lean in closer, and watched you—his girl, the girl who should never let anyone that close—giggle and tuck your hair behind your ear like it wasn’t a fucking dagger straight through his sternum.

“caleb,” his engineer’s voice crackled through the headset. “you alright, mate? you seem out of it—everythin’ okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. swallowed hard, blinked once. his grip clenched tighter around his helmet, the carbon fiber started to dent. “…peachy.”

he didn’t look at rafayel again. didn’t need to.

he’d already decided.

i’ll deal with you later.

P2 on the grid.

of course it was P2.

rafayel sat in his mclaren like he already had the win wrapped around his fingers, one gloved hand drumming rhythmically on the top of his wheel, the other giving a little mock salute to the crowd through the visor cam. caleb didn’t look at him. his gloves were already tugged tight, helmet sealed, eyes locked forward—but all he saw behind the visor was the orange shirt stuck to your back in the heat with the stupid bold mclaren settled on the fabric right over your heart. his number and name nowhere in sight.

“radio check,” his engineer called.

he didn’t respond.

“caleb? radio check, mate?”

his voice finally came through, taut and venomous. “loud and fucking clear.”

there was a beat of silence. a pause on the line, “you good, man?”

he forced a breath through his nose. “let’s just get this over with,” over the loud hum of the engine, all he could hear was the echoes of your laugh with that shithead rafayel.

“five lights on,” the race director counted. “and it’s lights out and away we go—!” rafayel’s launch was clean—but caleb was rabid. the red bull fired forward like a predator loosed from the leash, barely missing P3 as he launched straight into turn 1 side-by-side with the mclaren. rafayel closed him off with a hard brake, forcing caleb out wide on the dirty part of the track, but caleb didn’t lift — not even when his front wing came within centimeters of rafayel’s rear.

“he’s driving like he wants to fuckin’ kill me,” rafayel spat over comms, his voice crackling. caleb didn’t respond on his own. he was too busy chasing. he spent the first dozen laps locked inside DRS range, not even trying to overtake clean—no, every move was calculated pressure. he drove like he wanted rafayel to feel him breathing down his neck. every brake was late. every corner exit was close enough to make the mclaren engineer panic.

“back off, caleb!” his own team barked at one point. “you’re risking a collision!” but caleb didn’t care. he wanted him to feel cornered. to know that he was prey. because he was. you don’t put your hands on her, he thought darkly as he tailgated out of turn 10, and walk away unscathed.

you were on the pit wall by then—wearing orange, still—and caleb saw you glance up at the timing tower. every time his number lit up right behind rafayel’s, you tensed. he saw it.

good, he thought. watch me. watch what i do to the man who touches what’s mine.

it built slowly—tire wear creeping in, temps rising, his rear losing grip in sector 3. still he stayed out, defying every team call to box. lap 26, rafayel’s tires began to fail. the tires wore down. rear traction faded. lap times dropped. still, he didn’t box. ignored every pit call.

“caleb, come in, we’re losing compound.”

“negative.” his voice came back hoarse. “i’ve got him.”

lap 28, rafayel’s grip was breaking—caleb could see it in the rear twitch. turn fourteen, he closed in so tight the slipstream pulled bits of rubber into his halo. he could’ve tapped the diffuser with his nose cone if he wanted. could’ve unstitched the seams of that mclaren.

“final lap,” came the call. “no funny shit, caleb.” but it was too late for that. he already knew where he’d do it. turn 13. fast. blind. unforgiving. he waited for the right moment, nudged inside, and turned in early.

the contact was immediate.

carbon fiber shredded. both cars locked up in a scream of tire smoke and screeching brakes. rafayel’s mclaren spun violently off the racing line, back end slammed against the barriers, dust pluming into the air. caleb’s red bull skidded into the gravel with a thunderous jolt.

yellow flags. double waved.

red flag. the race was over.

rafayel was out. caleb’s engine stalled in the gravel. static choked the radio. “what the fuck was that?!” screamed race control. he didn’t answer. not until he saw the red flag and the dust settle. not until he saw your face on the edge of the pit wall go white.

he didn’t attend the press conference. didn’t even unbuckle until a marshal banged on his cockpit. his PR rep trailed after him with panicked eyes and a clipboard full of damage control bullet points, but caleb walked right past him, suit still half-zipped, jaw clenched hard enough he could swear his teeth would crush with the pressure. they tried to stop him. camera caught his shoulder. reporters called his name—he didn’t even turn his head.

no interviews. no apologies. no explanations.

let them speculate. let them talk.

he didn’t give a single damn.

because rafayel wouldn’t touch you again.

not after this.

you didn’t speak the entire drive back.

he’d refused the medical tent. ignored the swarm of reporters like they weren’t even there, brushed past the PR team screaming his name with a pace so brutal you’d had to jog to keep up. he didn’t speak. didn’t even look at you. just reached back once—wrist tight, fingers wrapping around yours—and yanked you with him through the mess of the paddock and straight into the red bull private lot.

the silence was suffocating. not tense in the way people usually meant it—not awkward, not uncomfortable. it was a pressure chamber. the kind that made your ears ring and your chest hurt. you could hear every turn signal click, every swipe of the wiper across the windshield, even the way caleb’s grip on the wheel creaked under his gloves. he hadn’t taken them off. still in his fireproofs, zipper low on his chest, collarbone glistening with sweat and dust, jaw locked so tight it looked like it might snap.

the door slammed shut behind you with a vicious bang!—a sound that echoed like a gunshot off the walls—and it made your shoulders jerk involuntarily. he didn’t say a word. didn’t glance back. just stalked across the living room like the adrenaline was still burning through his blood, ripping open the fridge like something in it might anchor him, steady the fury in his bones. but even from where you stood, you could see the tremor in his hand. the way his fingers gripped the handle too hard. the tension still coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound to the point of rupture.

he wasn’t calming down. not even close.

the silence throbbed around you, thick and charged. you shifted on your feet, breath shallow, heart hammering like it wanted to crawl out of your throat.

“caleb—” you started, voice small.

“take it off.” his voice was low, sliced through the air like a whip.

you froze. your mouth parted, a breath catching in your throat. “w-what?”

he closed the fridge slowly. deliberately. then turned.

his eyes were black beneath the heavy shadow of his brow, dark and molten like they hadn’t cooled since the second his front wing clipped rafayel’s tire in that brutal turn. he took a step toward you, slow and controlled, like a predator choosing exactly how to pounce. “the fucking shirt,” he said, voice low and thick with venom. another step. “take it off before i rip it off ‘ya.”

your stomach dropped. you looked down instinctively. that stupid, traitorous mclaren tee still clung to your sweat-damp skin, streaked with grime and faint splashes of champagne from a podium that wasn’t his. that bright orange logo burned against your chest like a brand, and suddenly it felt radioactive.

you didn’t move. you hesitated.

and that was all it took.

two strides, and he was on you.

your back hit the wall so fast the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. the world narrowed—your heartbeat screamed in your ears, adrenaline flared under your skin, and caleb was there, crowding you in, body a furnace, heat rolling off him in waves. his fingers hooked the hem and yanked—not teasing, not even urgent. violent. the fabric caught against your arms, dragged over your skin so fast it left a burn, your hair tangled and pulled, nipples tightening into stiff peaks in the sudden rush of cold air.

caleb tossed the shirt onto the floor like it disgusted him.

“you wanna wear his colors?” he muttered, voice low and curling with fury. his breath hit your collarbone, his words too close, too hot. “wanna sit there in his fucking garage and giggle at his jokes while he stares at your tits through my windshield?”

tone wasn’t raised. he didn’t have to shout. it was the quietness that made it worse—quiet like a threat wrapped in velvet. quiet like a knife at your ribs.

you breath stuttered, your voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. “c-caleb, i wasn’t—he didn’t—”

“shut it,” he snarled it, close enough for your lips to brush, and the force of it made your breath stutter. his hands came up—hard—gripping your waist, rough fingers digging into your hips like he meant to leave marks, like he wanted to brand you into him, carve out any memory of someone else’s eyes on your skin. caleb dragged you forward, chest to chest, his heart thudding against yours like war drums.

“i don’t want your pathetic excuses,” he ground out. “you don’t wear his name. you don’t smile at him.”

the silence after was suffocating.

his fingers curled tighter around your sides. his mouth hovered near your jaw, breath ragged and warm, chest heaving with every inhale like he couldn’t catch it. rage coiled off him in waves, not loud anymore—just molten, buried deep, a kind of fury that didn’t explode. it consumed. slow. controlled. and it was deadly.

and it was all aimed at the thought of him touching you.

of you letting him.

caleb’s thumb ghosted over your ribs, rough and possessive, tracing the bare skin now exposed in the absence of that damned shirt.

his mouth crushed against yours before you could speak—hot, brutal, punishing. all teeth and fury, like he wanted to bite the silence from your tongue, like tasting you was the only thing anchoring him to the present. he didn’t kiss you so much as devour you, lips bruising, jaw tense with barely-contained rage, breathing you in like you were air after drowning.

his hands were everywhere—frantic, careless. they slid down the arch of your spine, fingers pressing into every vertebra like he meant to memorize the shape of you, then sank lower, palms gripping your ass with bruising force. he hauled you against him so hard your breath fled, pelvis grinding to his through the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. he was already half-hard. already throbbing through the thin barrier between you. the press of it against your lower stomach made your knees tremble.

and then his gaze dropped.

his eyes caught on the denim. the sound that tore from his throat was less a breath and more a mocking scoff.

the low-rise shorts clung to your hips like sin, skin peeking out from under the frayed hem, teasing with that reckless kind of innocence that only made his fury burn hotter. they sat just high enough to hint at modesty but dipped scandalously low, hugging the softness of your waist like a taunt.

slowly, he reached down—deliberate, fingers flexing—and let his hand splay flat over your stomach. his palm was hot against your skin. the heel of it rested against the waistband, and then—without breaking eye contact—he slipped his thumb beneath it. just the barest intrusion. a single brush of rough skin over the delicate swell of your mound, not enough to touch you properly, but enough to make your whole body jerk with a whimper.

“these,” he sneered. “you wore these to the paddock? while he was watching?” his voice dropped into a guttural rasp. you opened your mouth to protest, but his voice cut you off—deeper now, dipped into something feral.

“he was probably fucking imagining what you looked like bent over the pit wall in ‘em,” caleb rasped, and the way he said it—like it sickened him, like it possessed him—made your stomach twist.

his eyes darkened—and in one swift, brutal motion, he popped the button on the shorts with a flick of his thumb. the metallic click echoed in the room like a shot. then his fingers gripped the zipper and yanked it down so roughly you gasped, fabric jerking against your hips before it slid down to your thighs, pooling at your feet in a useless, tangled heap.

he didn’t stop. his hand moved fast, unforgiving—already pulling your panties to the side before you had time to react. the elastic scraped the crease of your thigh, baring you to the chill of the room and the heat of him, and still, he didn’t look away. didn’t blink. just stared down at your cunt like it had betrayed him, like it belonged to him and had wandered somewhere it shouldn’t have.

“c-caleb,” you stammered, your voice catching, high and desperate, “you’re being—,” but the words dissolved on your tongue.

because his fingers were there, already brushing against slick heat, already groaning under his breath like it physically hurt him that you were wet for this—wet for him, even now, even after everything.

you could hardly breathe.

your head lolled against the wall as his fingers fucked you open—deep, firm, unrelenting. You were soaked, the wet sounds of it obscene in the charged silence, broken only by the staggered hitch of your breath and the rough rasp of his. your thighs were trembling, barely holding you upright, and caleb didn’t let up. he wouldn’t let up.

his voice curled against your ear, low and smug and absolutely feral. “you’re not even trying to stop me.” your mouth opened but nothing came out—just a soft, cracked moan. “yeah,” he hissed. “that’s what i thought.”

he drove his fingers in deeper, curling them just right—pulling a strangled sound from your throat. your hips jerked helplessly, and he groaned as your pussy clenched, dripping all over his knuckles.

“f-fuck,” you gasped, arms scrambling for purchase across his chest, clutching at the fabric of his fireproofs like he was your anchor. “c-caleb, i—nnh, please—”

you whimpered, broken and breathless, voice catching on each gasp. “i-i didn’t mean—nnh ahhh—d-didn’t mean to—”

“you wore that fucking shirt. wore his team, his number, his name. you meant it.” his teeth dragged over your neck, biting down hard enough to make your legs quake. “don’t act like you don’t like this. like you don’t love being fucked dumb right after i almost took him off the track.”

you sobbed out a noise that barely resembled his name—“p-please, i—oh, god—”

his fingers hit that spot again, and your body jolted, hips rocking into his palm like you couldn’t help it. the muscles in your stomach tensed, fluttering around the edge of your climax. he felt it, saw it, and laughed—low and delighted.

“oh, baby… gonna cum, aren’t ya’?” he mocked, breath hot against your jaw, eyes glittering. “you’re so easy. just a couple fingers and you’re already soaking me. dripping like a goddamn whore.”

“p-please—ah—please, i can’t—” your words broke apart, swallowed by the sounds of your own whimpers as your orgasm built sharp and unbearable. “i-i c-can’t hold it, caleb, i—fuck—”

“then don’t.” his hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “let me hear how mine you are.” and you shattered. a sobbing, shaking mess.y our body locked up, thighs clenching around his wrist as you came with a choked cry—wet and slick and pulsing so hard around his fingers you felt your knees threaten to give out. caleb held you upright through it, murmuring dark praise between your panting breaths.

“that’s it. that’s my girl.” he pressed a kiss to your temple—mockingly tender, wicked and warm. “so good when you’re ruined.” his fingers slipped free with a wet noise, glistening in the low light. he brought them to your lips, eyes still sharp and burning. “suck f’ me, will ya’?”

you blinked, dazed, mind swimming in the haze of pleasure and want. slowly, obediently, you parted your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them just before his fingers slid into your mouth. the taste was warm, messy—you, tangled with him—and the sound that escaped you was soft, shameless, utterly desperate.

caleb’s groan rumbled low in his throat, eyes darkening as he watched every motion, every subtle shift of your tongue curling around his fingers. “god, you look so pretty like this,” he rasped, dragging those soaked fingers out with a sharp pop that echoed in the quiet room. “dumb little mouth wrapped around what’s mine.”

you whimpered, the sound raw and fragile, knees trembling as they brushed his in the cramped space. your body sagged into his, burning and unsteady, craving his touch like air. then that smirk—slow, sharp, slicing through the tension like a knife dragged through silk. his voice dropped even lower, slow and deliberate, thick with dark amusement. “think we’re done?”

your breath hitched, caught in your throat as his eyes bore into yours, unblinking and heavy with promise. the room seemed to pulse around you, heat swelling in your skin, every nerve ending screaming alive. you tried to shake your head, but your voice was barely a whisper, broken and trembling: “n-no—please…”

his fingers curled in a slow, possessive grip against your jaw, tilting your face up so your lips hovered just inches from his. “behave,” he murmured, voice rough like gravel. “because i’m nowhere near finished with you.”

his mouth claimed yours again, teeth grazing your lower lip as his hands gripped your hips, holding you so tightly it was almost painful—but you didn’t care. you were already melting into him, breath shallow and fast, heart hammering against your ribs like a warning bell.

without hesitation, he ripped open his fireproofs, pulling out his thick, heavy cock, already leaking thick beads of precum, flushed red from holding back for too long. he shifted, pressing the full length of himself inside you, inch by agonizing inch, his body a hot, solid weight that filled every space. your breath hitched sharply, a stuttered moan slipping free as your walls stretched and clenched around him, tight and trembling.

your body jolted—smack!—as he bottomed out in one punishing motion. he didn’t stop to let you adjust. he just started fucking you. hard.

“is this what you needed?” he snarled, teeth at your throat again, biting down—hard. “some real fucking? not the attention of some weak little paddock rat.”

you sobbed, arms flying to his shoulders, clawing for purchase. he drove into you over and over, hips snapping up—wet noises echoing through the room. your slick ran down your thighs, onto his, then pooling onto the floor.

“fuck, you’re mine,” he growled into your hair, voice thick with need and possession. His hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. “say it. say it or i’ll fill you up and walk out without another word.”

“i—i’m yours!” you sobbed, legs trembling. “caleb, please—i’m yours, i’m yours! a-always yours!” another slap to your ass—sharp, loud. then his hand gripped your hair, yanked your head back, and his teeth sank into your shoulder—deep, a bite so hard it made stars dance behind your eyes.

“you wear my number. my colors. my fucking name on your back. not that mclaren shit or anything else. never fucking again.” caleb’s hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust a brutal claim that sent your body shuddering beneath him. his teeth grazed your collarbone, sinking in deeply with a savage bite that left a bruised crescent burning hot against your skin. You gasped, head thrown back, breath shattering into sharp sobs that mixed pain and pleasure so fiercely your whole body trembled uncontrollably.

“fucking feel that, yeah?” he growled against your skin, voice thick with venomous hunger. your hands ripped down his sides, nails clawing cruel lines along his ribs as caleb dragged his teeth lower—trail of sharp bites blooming bruises along the curve of your tits, marking you with brutal possessiveness. “you think that idiot could ever fuck you like this? make you cry out, beg, lose your goddamn mind? no chance.”

you whimpered, caught between sobs and desperate moans, hips jerking instinctively with every ruthless stroke. “n-no—! only you, caleb! please—fuck, please mmm—!” your voice broke, breath hitching in a ragged stutter as your muscles clenched around him tighter, convulsing in waves of scorching overstimulation that stole your ability to think straight.

“bark f’me, sweet girl,” his teeth sank deep into your hip, biting down hard enough to draw a gasp, pleasure twisting with pain in a raw knot of sensation that made you cry out and claw at his back. “say you’re mine. my filthy little wreck, mine.”

“’m yours! yours, caleb!” you sobbed, body trembling, tears stinging your eyes as relentless orgasms crashed over you, folding you in a violent, layered tangle of ecstasy. your voice came out breathless and shattered, “please, don’t stop! i—i’m gonna—f-fuck, i’m gonna—please, i’m c-cummin’!”

“tell me,” he snarled against your neck, voice low, dark, teeth grazing skin like a threat, “tell me who you’re cummin’ for. me or that pretty little fucker?”

his hips snapped up cruelly, deep and fast, dragging a sob from your lips. his hand stayed locked tight around your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who owned every gasp, every tremble.

“you!” you cried out, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. your nails dug into the fireproofs still half-wrapped around his waist. “you, sir—only you, ah, fuckkk—!”

he grinned, vicious and possessive, like your surrender was his prize. “yeah?” he hissed, slamming into you again. “say it louder. make sure even that bastard hears it next race.” caleb didn’t slow. if anything, he fucked you harder, rough and relentless, like he was trying to erase any trace of rafayel from your body—if there’d ever been any. one hand gripped your hip bruisingly tight, the other still curved under your jaw, forcing your teary eyes to hold his.

“damn right,” he growled, sweat-slick and flushed, but no less in control. “say my name. not ‘sir.’ not ‘please.’ mine.”

your whole body jerked with each thrust, barely able to keep upright, tears streaking your cheeks. “caleb—! caleb, i’m—i’m yours, i swear—”

“louder,” he barked, voice edged in a snarl. “c’mon, sweetheart. want you hoarse for me. want that voice ruined so you can’t say shit to anyone else.”

you shattered then—crying his name, choking on your moan as your body seized, shaking, breaking apart in his hands like it always did. and he didn’t let up. not when you came, not when your body tried to squirm away from the overstimulation.

“too much?” he murmured mockingly, breath hot against your temple. “too bad. i haven’t had enough yet. not till i’m sure he knows you walk funny tomorrow ‘cause of me.”

he crushed his mouth to yours, swallowing your desperate sounds with a hungry roar, his fingers digging deep into your hips as he drove you harder over the edge. your walls fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing uncontrollably as you teetered on the brink—then tipped.

your body convulsed violently, a flood of sensation so fierce it wracked every nerve ending. you cried out, a broken, trembling sound filled with pure, overwhelming need. his thrusts became more savage, relentless, “mine,” he rasped between clenched teeth, voice thick and harsh as he chased his own climax, “only mine. gonna fill you up so fucking deep you’ll be leaking my cum for days.”

the force of him stole your breath again as another orgasm ripped through you, your body arching wildly. you trembled, clinging to him, sobbing his name like a prayer. he chased you over the edge, one hand tangled possessively in your hair, the other bruising your waist as he came with a shuddering, broken groan—low, guttural, right against your skin—his teeth sinking into your neck as he spilled hot and thick inside you, every pulse of him a claim you’d never shake.

he stayed still a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, panting like he’d survived a battle. then—slowly—he pulled out. you whimpered at the sudden empty ache, your slick and his own, trailing down your inner thighs.

your body was still quaking when caleb carried you, trembling and ruined, to the couch—his grip bruising, but reverent. his jaw was tight, his breath still shallow from the exertion, and the whole room still reeked of sex and heat and rage. your thighs stuck to his fireproofs, slick and smeared, and your chest rose in ragged, shallow pants as he laid you down like you were something precious—but barely.

"look at you," he muttered, his voice hoarse with raw satisfaction. "still shakin’. you don't even know your own name, do you?"

your only answer was a weak, broken sound—something between a whimper and a plea. he chucked, low and dangerous, fingers brushing your jaw as his other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open again just to look. but then—he stilled.

his thumb stopped where it had been tracing, reverent in its own brutal way. his gaze, once burning with hunger, flickered—hesitating. you blinked through the haze clouding your vision, and there he was again: caleb, not the fire-eyed predator but the boy who used to hold your hand under the covers during thunderstorms, the boy who always laced your shoelaces when your fingers were too cold to do it yourself.

“…fuck,” he murmured, and something in his tone cracked open. he exhaled hard and let your thigh fall gently against the couch cushion, his body sinking beside yours, no longer looming—folding. a different kind of tension took its place, quieter, older. his hand cupped your cheek again, softer now, trembling faintly.

"you okay?" he asked, and his voice was lower. wrought with guilt, with fear, with love. "talk to me, love. tell me you’re okay."

you nodded, just barely, then leaned into his palm with a broken little sound. “o-okay…’m okay,” you breathed, voice ragged but true.

he closed his eyes.

for a moment, caleb didn’t say anything. just let his forehead press to yours. his thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t keep anchoring you to him. then, with careful arms, he pulled you into his lap—blanketing you in the throw he’d once haphazardly tossed on the couch. your legs curled over his, trembling.

“you’re shaking,” caleb murmured again, his voice low and rough, like gravel coated in velvet. the heat radiating from his body pressed against your back was a fierce, solid warmth that somehow grounded you, but you could still feel the tremors racing through your limbs—shaky, fragile, like you were made of glass. his arms tightened around you, not crushing, but possessive, protective—as if he wanted to keep you from breaking apart entirely.

his lips brushed your skin like a feather in slow, feather-light kisses. first your bare shoulder, where the soft warmth of his mouth left a trail that sent a delicious shiver down your spine. then along the hollow of your collarbone, his breath hot and steady, carrying the faint scent of smoke and sweat from the race—intoxicating and unmistakably him. when his mouth ghosted to the corner of your lips, he paused, lingering like he was memorizing your shape, tasting the faint salt of your skin, the quickening pulse beneath.

“you scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he breathed, voice husky and trembling with emotion, the raw vulnerability undercut by the fire of his obsession. “the way i feel about you... it’s not normal. maybe it’s because… i love you more than you realize.”

his hands roamed slowly now, tracing the lines of your body with a possessive tenderness that set your nerves alight. one palm slid down the curve of your side, fingers pressing into your hip bone, grounding you in the heat between you. the other curled in your hair, thumb brushing your temple softly, coaxing the tension out of your clenched muscles.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he whispered, voice rough but gentle. “just be here with me.”

your eyelids fluttered open, meeting his gaze—dark, intense, burning with a hunger that softened only when it landed on you. the sight made your heart squeeze painfully, a sweet ache that spread through your limbs like wildfire.

your fingers twined tightly in the thick fabric of his fireproof suit, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. you curled into him, the solid beat of his heart against your palm a grounding anchor amid the storm of emotion crashing through you. no words came—only the soft press of your lips against his jaw, the whisper of a kiss that said everything you couldn’t say aloud.

caleb’s breath hitched sharply, eyes darkening with a fierce tenderness as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. his thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped silently down your cheek, his touch so gentle it made your breath catch. his smile was fragile, barely there—but real. like he was offering you a piece of his soul wrapped in vulnerability.

“you’re everything to me,” he confessed, voice thick and laden with something bittersweet, a promise and a curse intertwined. “every lap, every breath, every fucking heartbeat. you ruined me, and i don’t ever want to be put back together.”

his arms squeezed you tighter, possessive and fierce, a silent vow to keep you safe and claim you utterly. the heat from his body seeped deep into your bones, steady and relentless, chasing away the shadows that lingered inside you.

your hand rose to cup his cheek, fingertips tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, memorizing the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. “l-love you..i’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling but resolute. a soft, possessive smile curved his lips. “yeah,” he said, voice low and thick with pride, “only mine.”

when he kissed you this time, it was different—slow and tender, a deep press of lips that spoke of ownership and devotion, not just need. his mouth was warm and soft, roughened by days on the track and sleepless nights, and the taste of him—smoky, faintly metallic, and utterly intoxicating—settled deep inside your senses. his hands cradled your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you that you were his, that you belonged here, to him, in this moment.

“sleep,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky but gentle, a soothing promise that wrapped around you like a blanket. “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

your eyelids fluttered closed, sinking fully into the fierce, steady warmth of his arms. his heartbeat thrummed against your back, a wild, unyielding fire that burned only for you—and you let yourself be consumed by it.

caleb didn’t sleep. not for a second.

he stood bare-chested in front of the fire, the room thick with heat and shadows that flickered like ghosts on the walls. the dry crackle of the flames filled the silence, but inside him, a storm still raged—cold, sharp, relentless—but not for you, no, never.

his knuckles bore the faintest traces of dried blood where he'd gripped the wall to steady you, but the ache there was nothing compared to the sharp edge of his hatred for rafayel. the mclaren tee lay crumpled at his feet—a stubborn reminder that wouldn’t fade.

he bent down and picked it up slowly, fingers tightening around the fabric, a silent vow burning hotter than the fire before him. with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers curled around the fabric, pulling it close. he traced the soft cotton absently, the smell faint but familiar, and it stabbed at him like a fresh wound. the color—too bright, too loud—reminded him of everything he hated to admit. he fed the shirt to the flames, watching the orange cotton curl, blacken, and twist in on itself. the smell of scorched cloth filled the room, but it couldn’t burn away the rancor that still coiled tight inside.

he didn’t blink until the last ember faded to ash, eyes cold and unyielding, mind still racing with bitter thoughts.

rafayel had crossed a line.

and caleb’s fire wasn’t ready to die down—not yet, not ever.

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

— ✦ © @ x1asirene, tumblr 2025 ✧

[capricorn-season]

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: John Spencer

Published: Jan 31, 2024

No military fighting an entrenched enemy in dense urban terrain in an area barely twice the size of Washington D.C. can avoid all civilian casualties. Reports of over 25,000 Palestinians killed, be they civilians or Hamas, have made headlines. But Israel has taken more measures to avoid needless civilian harm than virtually any other nation that's fought an urban war.

In fact, as someone who has served two tours in Iraq and studied urban warfare for over a decade, Israel has taken precautionary measures even the United States did not do during its recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

I say this not to put Israel on a pedestal or to diminish the human suffering of Gazans but rather to correct a number of misperceptions when it comes to urban warfare.

First is the use of precision guided munitions (PGMs). This term was introduced to nonmilitary audiences during the Gulf War, when the U.S. fired 250,000 individual bombs and missiles in just 43 days. Only a very small fraction of those would fit the definition of PGMs, even though common perceptions of that war, and its comparatively low civilian casualty rate, was that it was a war of precision.

Let's compare that war, which did not ignite anywhere near the same level of outrage internationally, to Israel's current war in Gaza. The Israeli Defense Force has used many types of PGMs to avoid civilian harm, including the use of munitions like small diameter bombs (SDBs), as well as technologies and tactics that increase the accuracy of non-PGMs. Israel has also employed a tactic when a military has air supremacy called dive bombing, as well as gathering pre-strike intelligence on the presence of civilians from satellite imagery, scans of cell phone presence, and other target observation techniques. All of this is to do more pinpoint targeted to avoid civilian deaths. In other words, the simplistic notion that a military must use more PGMs versus non-PGMs in a war is false.

A second misperception is a military's choice of munitions and how they apply the proportionality principle required by the laws of armed conflict. Here there is an assessment of the value of the military target to be gained from an act that is weighted against the expected collateral damage estimate caused by said act. An external viewer with no access to all information cannot say such things as a 500-pound bomb would achieve the military mission of a 2,000-pound bomb with no mention of the context of the value of the military target or the context of the strike—like the target being in a deep tunnel that would require great penetration.

Third, one of the best ways to prevent civilian casualties in urban warfare is to provide warning and evacuate urban areas before the full combined air and ground attack commences. This tactic is unpopular for obvious reasons: It alerts the enemy defender and provides them the military advantage to prepare for the attack. The United States did not do this ahead of its initial invasion of Iraq in 2003, which involved major urban battles to include in Baghdad. It did not do this before its April 2004 Battle of Fallujah (though it did send civilian warnings before the Second Battle of Fallujah six months later).

By contrast, Israel provided days and then weeks of warnings, as well as time for civilians to evacuate multiple cities in northern Gaza before starting the main air-ground attack of urban areas. The Israel Defense Forces (IDF) employed their practice of calling and texting ahead of an air strike as well as roof-knocking, where they drop small munitions on the roof of a building notifying everyone to evacuate the building before a strike.

No military has ever implemented any of these practices in war before.

The IDF has also air-dropped flyers to give civilians instructions on when and how to evacuate, including with safe corridors. (The U.S. implemented these tactics in its second battle of Fallujah and 2016-2017 operation against ISIS in Mosul.) Israel has dropped over 520,000 pamphlets, and broadcast over radio and through social media messages to provide instruction for civilians to leave combat areas.

Israel's use of real phone calls to civilians in combat areas (19,734), SMS texts (64,399) and pre-recorded calls (almost 6 million) to provide instructions on evacuations is also unprecedented.

The IDF also conducted daily four-hour pauses over multiple consecutive days of the war to allow civilians to leave active combat areas. While pauses for civilian evacuations after a war or battle has started is not completely new, the frequency and predictability of these in Gaza have been historic.

Another historical first in war measures to prevent civilian causalities was Israel's distribution of IDF military maps and urban warfare graphics to assist civilians with day to day evacuations and alerting them to where the IDF will be operating. No military in history has ever done this.

In the 2016-2017 Battle of Mosul, the Iraqi government initially told civilians not to evacuate and to shelter in place during the battle of both the city's eastern and western districts, but later directed civilians to leave using "safe" corridors. But the Islamic State (ISIS) mined the corridors and shot at anyone using them to escape. Hundreds of thousands of civilians were trapped inside the combat areas for months as the battle progressed.

The reality is that when it comes to avoiding civilian harm, there is no modern comparison to Israel's war against Hamas. Israel is not fighting a battle like Fallujah, Mosul, or Raqqa; it is fighting a war involving synchronous major urban battles. No military in modern history has faced over 30,000 urban defenders in more than seven cities using human shields and hiding in hundreds of miles of underground networks purposely built under civilian sites, while holding hundreds of hostages.

Despite the unique challenges Israel faces in its war against Hamas, it has implemented more measures to prevent civilian casualties than any other military in history.

Some have argued that Israel should have waited longer to start its war, should have used different munitions and tactics, or should not have conducted the war at all. These calls are understandable, but they fail to acknowledge the context of Israel's war against Hamas, from the hundreds of Israeli hostages to the daily rocket attacks on Israeli civilians from Gaza to the tunnels, and the real existential threat of Hamas poses Israel and its citizens, who live within walking distance of the warzone.

To be clear, I am outraged by the civilian casualties in Gaza. But it's crucial to direct that outrage at the right target. And that target is Hamas.

It is outrageous that Hamas spent decades and billions of dollars building tunnels under civilian homes and protected areas for the sole purpose of using Palestinian civilians as human shields. It is outrageous that Hamas does not allow civilians in their tunnels, that Hamas says and takes actions to create as many civilian deaths as possible—both its own and Israeli. The atrocities committed on Oct. 7 are outrageous. That Hamas fights in civilian clothes, intermixed within civilians, and launches rockets at Israeli civilians from Palestinian civilian areas is outrageous.

The sole reason for civilian deaths in Gaza is Hamas. For Israel's part, it's taken more care to prevent them than any other army in human history.

John Spencer is chair of urban warfare studies at the Modern War Institute (MWI) at West Point, codirector of MWI's Urban Warfare Project and host of the "Urban Warfare Project Podcast." He served for 25 years as an infantry soldier, which included two combat tours in Iraq. He is the author of the book Connected Soldiers: Life, Leadership, and Social Connection in Modern War and co-author of Understanding Urban Warfare. The views expressed in this commentary are his own.

==

Let's do some maths:

Oct 8, 2023-Jan 31, 2024: 25,000 casualties (according to Hamas, unverified).

Oct 8, 2023-May 8, 2924: 34,844 casualties (according to Hamas, unverified).

Oct 8, 2023-Dec 24, 2024: 45,338 casualties (according to Hamas, unverified).

So, what we're saying is that as this war has escalated, the "genocide" has become less efficient, including the time Israel had an opportunity to murder 950,000 civilians and instead... *checks notes*... evacuated them safely out of Rafah, including providing them with food, water and medical aid.

🤔🤨

Riiiiiiiight.

This is "the moon landing was a hoax"-level delusion.

[darkmaga-returns]

Cancer diagnoses are on the rise, with experts noting unusual trends and treatment resistance.

Prominent physicians urge a shift towards holistic and natural treatments, including the use of tree barks like Pau d'Arco, Cat's Claw, and Cascara Sagrada.

Traditional oncology methods are criticized for failing to address the root causes of cancer, such as inflammation and immune dysfunction.

The panelists advocate for a return to the precautionary principle and more rigorous, transparent research.

Specific tree barks contain compounds that are anti cancerous, starting with pau do arco, cats claw, and cascara sagrada.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Hospitals are killing patients because they don't feel like doing infection control - Published Aug 23, 2023

An oldie but a goodie from The Gauntlet's Julia Doubleday

By: Julia Doubleday

People who have gone “back to normal” (ignore the existence of COVID-19) often justify their decision by pointing to their own health status as “not high risk”. Implicit in this statement is the existence of a high-risk group of people who should still be taking COVID precautions. Also implicit is the abandonment of collective care and public health, since the “back to normal” crowd places the burden of COVID precaution on disabled, immunocompromised and vulnerable people alone.

For the most part, high risk groups indeed shoulder this burden alone. They are no longer safe in public and many limit their time in critical spaces like grocery stores and pharmacies; forget going to concerts or other “inessential” activities. Millions of Long COVID patients in particular, all too aware of what a single COVID infection can do, have to expend inordinate time, energy, and money simply to continue existing in a society hellbent on infecting them again and again and again. But you might guess that healthcare settings- specifically designed to accommodate the sick and injured- are still a safe haven for vulnerable groups.

Guess again! As COVID continues to cycle through new variants and surges, hospitals are stripping away even the inadequate infection control measures they implemented at the beginning of the pandemic. Come in for heart surgery, leave with a heart-damaging virus. What a business model!

As of early 2021, it was scientifically established beyond any doubt that COVID, like TB, is a fully airborne virus. This means that it spreads and can hang in the air like smoke; it means that contrary to early public health instructions, you can indeed become infected at distances greater than six feet, and that unsealed masks like the blue surgical ones often seen in hospitals are inadequate to prevent infection. (To be clear, surgicals are far better than nothing; they are simply not the proper type of mask to best prevent infection with a fully airborne disease. For that, you need a mask that forms a seal around your nose and mouth.)

The pandemic might have been controlled in early 2020 if the WHO had defaulted to the precautionary principle and acted as if COVID-19 could be airborne. Instead they confidently announced that COVID was droplet spread- as in, spread via coughs and sneezes- and discouraged people from proper mask wearing. Their incorrect guidance also trained people to adopt measures like social distancing and hand washing, which are inadequate to control COVID, yet are still mentioned in public health guidance to this day. Even some healthcare workers remain under the impression that surgical masks are a proper tool for prevention of COVID spread, a reality that can be observed by stepping into any doctor’s office.

You might assume that the WHO had a very good reason to announce that COVID was droplet spread in 2020; I also made that incorrect assumption. In truth, the WHO and other bodies made a guess about the way COVID spread based on decades of bad science, as is fully explored in this fascinating paper, “What were the historical reasons for the resistance to recognizing airborne transmission during the COVID-19 pandemic?” I encourage you to read the entire thing, but essentially, the health establishment did not like to be challenged on something it had long considered conventional wisdom (most respiratory viruses are droplet spread), and those who dismissed those challenges additionally did not understand physics very well.

The WHO’s announcement and subsequent bad public health advice should be a major scandal, not least because there was never any solid evidence demonstrating droplet spread of COVID-19. Professor Jose-Luis Jimenez, an aerosol expert and an author on the above linked paper, goes further and notes that “[Droplet transmission] has NEVER been demonstrated directly for any disease in entire history of medicine.” The lessons of COVID could revolutionize infectious disease control, if the medical establishment would learn them. Instead, two and a half years after a watershed discovery, the medical establishment is still struggling with the game-changing revelation that most diseases thought to be “droplet-spread,” like colds and flus, are in fact fully airborne.

Infection control is a primary duty of hospitals. If you’re like me, meaning a human being with a brain and heart, you probably think allowing the leading cause of infectious disease death in the US to spread freely in hospitals is both immoral and incomprehensible. But of course, our media always sees two sides to every story. For example, we have the incredibly titled Washington Post piece, “Masks come off in the last refuge for mandates: The doctor’s office”. I want to take a moment to really appreciate the amount of bias packed into this short title. It’s not “Masks come off in the place really sick people are forced to go,” it’s not “Masks come off as patients die,” it’s not “Masks come off as disabled people avoid care.” No. It’s “Masks come off in the last refuge for mandates.” The last refuge for mandates! The hospital could more accurately be called “the last refuge for people who might die of COVID,” but no, the subject being protected by masking in hospitals was the scary right-wing buzzword mandates. Wow! Another win for freedom.

In this article about the defeat of the horrible mandates, the victims, sorry I mean patients, are framed as having one perspective about whether their doctors should purposely infect them with diseases, while the lovely professionals who simply “don’t wanna” are framed as having an equally valid point of view.

Disabled, sick, immunocompromised and vulnerable people seeking care at a hospital, have the right not to be exposed to a virus that has killed 1.1 million Americans in 3.5 years. They have the right to seek care without having to fear that their care team will quite literally kill them with a preventable illness. Practitioners, on the other hand, have no right to compare the irritation of having to wear a mask at work with the moral injury of infecting vulnerable people who then go on to die at high rates.

No one has the right to compare the inconvenience of masks with the pain of parents begging their 6-year-old child’s oncology care team to stop forcibly exposing their vulnerable daughter during hospital visits. If you are unaware, cancer patients undergoing treatment are often severely immunocompromised. Even prior to the pandemic, people did their best not to expose cancer patients to milder diseases like flus and colds. The family of the 6-year-old is considering moving to another state- if they can find one that still cares about not giving high-risk kindergarteners deadly viruses for the crime of getting cancer treatment.

While the US attempts to bury data around hospital acquired COVID infections, we fortunately have access to statistics from other parts of the world which haven’t quite reached our level of Negligent Patient Murder Conspiracy. A study in BC found that as of November 2021, 1,619 patients were infected, and 274 patients died. A rate of 16.9%. A study looking at all of the hospital acquired COVID within the NHS system found at least 69,377 cases and 14,047 deaths- a staggering rate of 20.2%. Let’s take a look at data collected only after the availability of vaccines- in 2022. Victoria Health Authority data from Australia found that that year, over 3,000 patients acquired COVID in the hospital in the province, and at least 344- just over 10%- died of their infections.

1 in 5. 1 in 10. Would you take those odds as a vulnerable patient in need of treatment?

Of course, looking only at deaths doesn’t incorporate the other negative outcomes of COVID infection, including Long COVID, new onset health problems, delayed recovery, lost income, higher medical bills, and poorer prognosis. Why should patients seeking care have to risk any or all of the above?

I can’t believe I have to say this, but infection control is not something that can happen part time, in some cases, or only during surges. As with gloves for bloodborne or hand washing for fomite transmission, protocols for airborne infection control are a set of practices implemented permanently and consistently to protect patients and healthcare workers alike. We don’t stop hand washing because norovirus cases are down. We don’t stop wearing gloves because HIV cases are down. As a doctor, if you’re arguing that you should be able to expose patients to COVID because infection control annoys you, you should not be a doctor. Find a new career. I bet you’d love denying insurance claims. I bet you’d be a natural.

Making this picture even more hair-tearingly frustrating for disabled people avoiding healthcare settings is that the counter-argument for proper airborne infection control really is nothing beyond “don’t wanna.” There is no logical argument for allowing the spread of COVID-19 in healthcare settings. There is no scientific debate about the ways in which COVID is spreading. There is no risk analysis which shows that cancer patients or people who’ve just had heart attacks should consider a COVID infection to be no big deal. There is literally no excuse for this bizarre, unscientific mistreatment of patients other than gross incompetence, institutional negligence, and systemic ableism.

I should note that in the weeks and months since I have been made aware of and worked on this issue, I have met dozens of wonderful healthcare workers who are appalled by this medieval treatment and stand in solidarity with the many patients now avoiding care. Doctors, nurses, surgeons, researchers, aerosol experts and more are on the frontlines arguing against continued violation of patient and worker rights in the form of forcible exposure. While some healthcare workers are certainly sneering at infection prevention, many others are well aware that their profession puts them at high risk for long COVID, and that even spikes in short-term illness translate to absences and staff disruptions in an industry that was already suffering prior to the pandemic. A study in Brazil found the rate of Long COVID following infection among healthcare workers to be a shocking 27%. In this 2022 article, Infection Control Today notes that Long COVID is exacerbating worker shortages in all industries, but particularly healthcare.

A recent survey from the British Medical Association found that, among doctors who contracted Long COVID, about one in five were no longer able to work due to ill health, and nearly half reported lost income. Three quarters of those surveyed attributed their infection to the workplace; the massive labor rights issues at play here have been largely ignored by most unions, with the notable exception of NNU. The nurses’ union is currently organizing to push the CDC and its infection control advisory body, HICPAC, to fully acknowledge airborne transmission as they consider loosening guidelines even further.

I had the dubious honor of attending a HICPAC meeting yesterday, where after two hours of discussion that somehow evaded the elephant in the room, public commenters were finally given an opportunity to point it out. While none of the infection control experts had mentioned either COVID or aerosol transmission, every single commenter brought up both. Armed with studies, personal experiences, and common sense, commenters pointed out the obvious as the panel squirmed. COVID is airborne. So where is the airborne infection control? Mere hours after the meeting concluded, the CDC removed access to a publicly-available recording of the session.

The reluctance to adopt proper infection control in hospitals ultimately stems, not from employees, but from the financial interests of the hospitals themselves. Proper airborne infection control isn’t limited to high-quality masks; you also need things like testing upon entry, space for isolation of positive cases and negative pressure rooms, improved indoor air quality and CO2 monitoring, and HEPA filtration. You’d need to test your staff consistently and give them paid leave when positive. All of that represents a large and costly investment; and our for-profit medical system is hardly known for its generosity nor its value for human lives.

As to the bewildering reality of practitioners who chose not to mask in their pathogen-laden workplace and continue to downplay the dangers of the virus, I would posit a psychological explanation. Since 2021, this country has been in the throes of a post-pandemic delusion that continues to disable and kill millions as COVID spreads and evolves. President Joe Biden declared the pandemic “over,” and article after article after article informed us that continual reinfection was just fine for our health. As a result, most doctors, like most other people, went “back to normal.” They sent their kids to school. They visited their parents. They traveled. And, relevantly, they watched as their loved ones were infected 2, 3, 4 or 5 times, likely on their advice and with their blessing. They are therefore, incredibly, personally, terrifyingly, invested in the hope that COVID is actually a cold.

I don’t even know how to touch on the creepy “but we need to see smiles” thing, which is better evidence of some sort of psychological denial at play than I could possibly invent. Patients in hospitals don’t need to see smiles to get proper medical care, obviously. They need infection control measures that prevent further illness. Is this a real argument?

Historically, doctors and the medical establishment are slow to adopt new infection control measures. If you’ve spent some time reading about the ongoing reluctance of medical bodies to acknowledge fully airborne transmission, you’re probably familiar with the story of Ignaz Semmelweis by now. An OB-GYN who observed a significant reduction in mortality when he washed his hands, he attempted to introduce hand washing to other doctors as an infection control measure. He was met with mockery and rejection by the medical community, ultimately had a nervous breakdown, and died in a mental institution. The “Semmelweis Reflex,” a phenomenon where people reflexively reject new information that would contradict their prior beliefs, is named for him.

I would characterize what is happening in hospitals- which, to put it plainly, is the murder of vulnerable people for convenience- as the point where the “back to normal” delusion collides with the inconvenient reality that vulnerable people exist in society. In any other context, it’s easy to imagine that sick, disabled and immunocompromised people can simply remove themselves from danger, or properly mask themselves for short periods of time. In the hospital setting, we have to choose. Either COVID is not very dangerous, or we’ve been purposely exposing our friends, family, loved ones and communities to a disease that disables and kills. The mental burden of the latter is impossible to accept; so some working in the hospital system default to the former. Sad though it may be, I do not believe patients should have to cosplay 2019 for their practitioner’s mental health.

Airborne infection control is not new. TB clinics implement it; nurses and doctors in TB clinics do not contract TB. Hospitals are refusing to implement COVID infection control because of the costs; many practitioners are going along because it’s hard to understand how “back to normal” could logically exist side-by-side with a healthcare system employing such stringent controls. If COVID is bad for sick people, might it be bad for everyone? If hospitals have to expend such resources to control infections, maybe schools should be doing so. If schools are doing it, why not workplaces? Or public transit? It’s almost like controlling infections in hospitals would challenge the comforting narrative that constant COVID reinfection is just dandy for your health. So we pretend it’s 2019. We pretend COVID is a cold. And our collective fantasy of “normality” continues to sicken and kill those who seek care.

[radiofreesanjak]

Hello! Quick ooc post!

It's been about a week since I started this blog and I'm honestly blown away with the response I've gotten. I feel sincerely thankful to have gotten a lot of the praise I've gotten for my writing here, and genuinely embraced by the community.

In this time I have tried my best to respond to every ask sent my way (in part because I'm trying to stay restrained in post replies) but I have decided to put down some ground rules for my ask box.

First: I really love the song requests, they are one of my favorite genres of ask, but if I am not familiar with the song you are requesting I will do some background reading and that does include looking at the politics of the song. This is to say: if there is an open debate about whether it includes or promotes Nazi shit, I will not be platforming it, full stop. Similarly for slurs or any other questionable content, I will be utilizing the precautionary principle in this regard. I will also be sending any asks looking to argue with me on this directly to the shadow realm.

Second: There has been an odd trend of people sending "last transmissions" into my ask, which I have taken to referring to as "dying in my fucking askbox." I do not know how to respond to these, and frankly at quantity they simply bum me out. I am going to draw a line here and say these will be going into the garbage as a rule, and while I was tempted to draw an exception in case you try to do something interesting with it (the majority of these are just dying in my fucking askbox) I feel like that just encourages the type of person who would feel challenged to make it interesting enough for me to post, and the point is to get less of these.

Nothing more specific than that for now, just wanted to say some of this publicly so people know where I stand. Hope everyone out there is doing well, this can be a difficult time of year and a hard political climate and if it helps you to stand please know I am rooting for you.

Remember: a better future is always possible.

-Em (any/all)

[druidposting]

Has no one explained the precautionary principle to Ludinus?

[jjmcquade-misc]

Make Sunsets

Experiments with unknown long-term consequences that will impact every living being. When you have people like that, who with money and crazy ideas claim the right to do whatever they want, how can you not worry about these madmen? It was already bad enough with Bill Gates.

1. Is This Initiative a Good Idea?

Potential Benefits : The goal of reflecting sunlight to cool the planet is rooted in observed natural phenomena (e.g., volcanic eruptions temporarily cooling the Earth). If successful, such interventions might reduce global temperatures and buy time to address climate change.

Proponents argue it could mitigate extreme heat, sea-level rise, and other climate impacts.

Major Concerns :

Unintended Consequences : The climate system is highly complex. Sulfate aerosols could disrupt rainfall patterns, worsen droughts, or alter monsoons, disproportionately affecting vulnerable regions.

Moral Hazard : Relying on geoengineering might reduce urgency to cut greenhouse gas emissions, which are the root cause of climate change.

Ethical Issues : Decisions about planetary-scale interventions lack global governance. Who gets to control the "thermostat"? What if some nations suffer harm?

Irreversibility : If deployed at scale and then abruptly stopped ("termination shock"), rapid warming could occur, causing catastrophic ecological and societal disruption.

2. Bad Consequences of Sulfur Dioxide Injection

Acid Rain : Sulfur dioxide oxidizes into sulfuric acid, which can fall as acid rain, damaging ecosystems, agriculture, and infrastructure. While stratospheric injection delays this (particles stay aloft longer), they eventually descend.

Ozone Depletion : Sulfate aerosols can accelerate ozone layer destruction, increasing UV radiation risks.

Health Risks : If particles reach ground level, sulfur dioxide irritates lungs and exacerbates respiratory diseases.

Geopolitical Conflict : Countries affected by unintended consequences (e.g., crop failures) could blame the actors deploying geoengineering, leading to conflict.

Ecosystem Disruption : Changes in sunlight and precipitation could destabilize ecosystems, affecting biodiversity and food chains.

3. Will the Sulfuric Acid "Fall Back to Earth"?

Yes, but not immediately. Stratospheric particles can remain aloft for 1–2 years, slowly descending due to gravity and atmospheric circulation. When they reach the lower atmosphere, they may contribute to acid rain or soil/water acidification. While the concentration per unit area would be low, the cumulative global impact is uncertain.

Key Criticisms of the Initiative

Premature Deployment : Small startups like Make Sunsets are experimenting without robust scientific consensus, regulatory frameworks, or transparency.

False Equivalence to CO₂ Emissions : While CO₂ drives long-term warming, sulfur dioxide’s effects are short-term and come with distinct risks. Comparing the two oversimplifies the trade-offs.

Ethical Overreach : The CEO’s claim that it’s "morally wrong not to do this" ignores the precautionary principle. Unproven interventions could cause more harm than good.

Conclusion

While geoengineering research has a place in climate discussions, rushed, unregulated deployment is reckless . The risks of sulfur dioxide injection—including acid rain, geopolitical strife, and ecological harm—currently outweigh the hypothetical benefits. Climate solutions should prioritize rapid emissions cuts, renewable energy, and adaptation. Geoengineering should remain a last-resort option, subject to rigorous international oversight.

The initiative described reflects a dangerous "technofix" mindset, sidestepping systemic change in favor of unproven, high-stakes experiments. As climate scientist Raymond Pierrehumbert warns: "Geoengineering is like chemotherapy for the planet—it’s not something you do unless you’re very, very sick." We’re not there yet—and we must act to ensure we never need to be.

[pencildragons]

tfw you meet the god you stopped believing in when you were eight and she lowkey used to be an extra-terrestrial agriculture specialist space explorer before she got transmogrified into god #cringe

“I know the story,” he offers hesitantly. She looks at him sideways, and for a moment, her eyes flash brown. Normal brown, a little lighter than his own. Just--brown iris, and white where the white bits should be, and a dark pupil. Human brown. And then they return to that terrible, depthless black so pricked with green. Nenah is left wondering whether they changed at all, before he realises that he's staring, and hurriedly continues, “Two thousand years ago, you were born of the sky and you landed on the earth and you wandered the earth and you made the first people from tree-roots and clay. Broadly speaking."

“A thousand years?” She repeats incredulously, and wow, that’s very weird and sort of upsetting on a spiritual level. He takes a precautionary step back. “A thousand years? I taught them about evolution! I taught them about evolution! Those fuckers—you come from monkeys. You used to be a monkey.” Nenah, personally, does not remember ever being a monkey, but he does not say this, in case god explodes him.  “—longer than a thousand years to get from monkey, Jesus. Look at me. Look at me, Nenah. I need you to understand that I did not make anyone. The exploration ship I was on suffered an acute systems failure. I escaped in a cryopod. I was frozen for either six thousand years or five minutes. I crashed here. They woke me up. I taught a couple of villages some really complex agriculture. They made me king. I taught more villages some really complex agriculture. They made me emperor. I was assassinated. They made me god.”  She takes a breath. Now that Augustine thinks about it, this might be the first time she’s done so.  “Belief begets power. There’s—I don’t know, some sort of scientific principle, they called it magic, but like, everything’s magic until you can measure it, and—“ her eyes flicker, black, gold, blue, black, gold, blue, swirling in a sickly miasma of colour and mortality and godliness. “—They changed me,” god says with a voice like mountains moving against one another. “I am not who I was. I am like water, and their beliefs the holy cup. I take on the divine shape they give me.” She rounds suddenly. “Do you know what a star is, Nenah?”  “Um. Yes?” “No, you don’t. A star is nothing more than flaming hydrogen. Your sun is a star. Each is a million miles wide. But you believe stars are small and cold, that they’re pockmarks on the skin of the sky, that they’re the essence of spirits. Only of these states is scientifically accurate and provably true, if you have the technology, but you believe so hard that now there are two skies. There is the one that obeys physics and gravity and the laws of the universe, which is where I came from, and there is one where the firmament of reality is a touchable thing, which is where I have been trapped. That is the power of belief.”

[mesetacadre]

I would now like to deal with two extremes, two obsessions, on the question of workers' democracy that were to be noted in some of the discussion articles in Pravda.

The first extreme concerns the election principle. It manifests itself in some comrades wanting to have elections "throughout." Since we stand for the election principle, let us go the whole hog in electing! Party standing? What do we want that for? Elect whomever you please. That is a mistaken view, comrades. The Party will not accept it. Of course, we are not now at war; we are in a period of peaceful development. But we are now living under the NEP. Do not forget that, comrades. The Party began the purge not during, but after the war. Why? Because, during the war, fear of defeat drew the Party together into one whole, and some of the disruptive elements in the Party were compelled to keep to the general line of the Party, which was faced with the question of life or death. Now these bonds have fallen away, for we are not now at war; now we have the NEP, we have permitted a revival of capitalism, and the bourgeoisie is reviving. True, all this helps to purge the Party, to strengthen it; but on the other hand, we are being enveloped in a new atmosphere by the nascent and growing bourgeoisie, which is not very strong yet, but which has already succeeded in beating some of our co-operatives and trading organisations in internal trade. It was precisely after the introduction of the NEP that the Party began the purge and reduced its membership by half; it was precisely after the introduction of the NEP that the Party decided that, in order to protect our organisations from the contagion of the NEP, it was necessary, for example, to hinder the influx of non-proletarian elements into the Party, that it was necessary that Party officials should have a definite Party standing, and so forth. Was the Party right in taking these precautionary measures, which restricted "expanded" democracy? I think it was. That is why I think that we must have democracy, we must have the election principle, but the restrictive measures that were adopted by the Eleventh and Twelfth Congresses, at least the chief ones, must still remain in force.

The second extreme concerns the question of the limits of the discussion. This extreme manifests itself in some comrades demanding unlimited discussion; they think that the discussion of problems is the be all and end all of Party work and forget about the other aspect of Party work, namely, action, which calls for the implementation of the Party's decisions. At all events, this was the impression I gained from the short article by Radzin, who tried to substantiate the principle of unlimited discussion by a reference to Trotsky, who is alleged to have said that "the Party is a voluntary association of like-minded people." I searched for that sentence in Trotsky's works, but could not find it. Trotsky could scarcely have uttered it as a finished formula for the definition of the Party; and if he did utter it, he could scarcely have stopped there. The Party is not only an association of like-minded people; it is also an association of like-acting people, it is a militant association of like-acting people who are fighting on a common ideological basis (programme, tactics). I think that the reference to Trotsky is out of place, for I know Trotsky as one of the members of the Central Committee who most of all stress the active side of Party work. I think, therefore, that Radzin himself must bear responsibility for this definition. But what does this definition lead to? One of two possibilities: either that the Party will degenerate into a sect, into a philosophical school, for only in such narrow organisations is complete like-minded-ness possible; or that it will become a permanent debating society, eternally discussing and eternally arguing, until the point is reached where factions form and the Party is split. Our Party cannot accept either of these possibilities. This is why I think that the discussion of problems is needed, a discussion is needed, but limits must be set to such discussion in order to safeguard the Party, to safeguard this fighting unit of the proletariat, against degenerating into a debating society.

In concluding my report, I must warn you, comrades, against these two extremes. I think that if we reject both these extremes and honestly and resolutely steer the course towards internal Party democracy that the Central Committee set already in September of this year, we shall certainly achieve an improvement in our Party work.

The Party's Tasks. J. V. Stalin, 1923