This is a story of power, plain and simple

Over the last few years, we’ve been watching a familiar story unfold, we’ve seen repeat itself in radical spaces, tech movements, and grassroots networks for decades. It starts in the grassroots with “progressive” #fashernistas (yes, them) pushing themselves into the front to speak for “us.” They talk the talk of decentralisation, care, community, and #FOSS ethics. They wear all the right hashtags: #opensocialmedia, #Fediverse, #commons, #techforgood. But when you look at how power is actually exercised behind the scenes, it’s something else entirely. This is a story of power, plain and simple. Not in the dramatic “revolutionary” sense. But in the subtle creep of careerism, institutional capture, and “safe” social capital games that flatten the radical and uplifts the “palatable”.

Let’s take a few examples from the #activertypub world, first with the #SocialHub stagnation, this open space was originally created for grassroots to shape the standards of the decentralised web, It was originally a commons, protocol-building and governance exploration space. So, what happened? The people now “leading” came from lifestyle #fashionista activism and wannabe NGO circuits, who in the end were all trying to be embedded in the institutional funding environments, or visiting from the safe academic bubble. And thus they brought with them the dogmas of safe spaces, of “emotional consensus,” “hidden affinity group governance,” and “(ex)inclusive dialogue”… that JUST SO happened to exclude the radical and messy paths that are actually native to the #openweb, the bad mess they then made, ended up only pushing the dogma of the #geekprolem as it was the ONLY path they could imagine controlling in a way that would not threaten the thin connection to the institutions they were feeding from. This behaviour so often slips into forms of parasitism, which is not a good thing at all.

Then we have the current #Fediverse outreach infrastructure capture, where we’ve seen the same class of actors attach themselves to the most visible projects – like Mastodon, ActivityPub standards, and now “Fediverse governance.” They secure seats on boards. They host conferences with glossy branding and friendly logos. They use these controlled spaces to then push out “code of conduct” documents and “safe space” branding… while closing and excluding the very messy native infrastructure of discussion and direction that is both native and needed.

Examples? #Mastodon’s GitHub, issue tracking, and moderation are all tightly controlled by a small clique around the project founder. Community voices are kinda tolerated at best, discarded at worst. The project is moving onto the #NGO path, no bad thing in its self, but with its years of pushing its own branding as THE Fediverse, it becomes a bad thing. In this, there is a very real debt of damage they need to pay back – as a part of a functioning gift economy – saying sorry and admitting mistakes is a good first step.

Then we have the example of the #FediForum events, pushing into the space blindly, with zero historical context or any actual knowledge, to represent the activertypub ecosystem. The problem is they paywalled and increasingly gate kept #NGO commercial interests are then pushed to the front to represent “us”. When the radical and experienced grassroots voices obviously don’t get involved, as they simply refuse to step over the paywall. This is an ongoing mess, that we do need to compost and not only with #fashionista outrage but with real working paths, we used to do this, but we can’t anymore – why?

Over the last few years we have had proposals for genuine horizontal governance, that could have been used to shift this mess making and to actually shifts power outward – but these were labelled “too messy,” “too political,” or “not the right time.” This is not accidental, it is liberalism functioning as control – with a smile. So… what can we do? Let’s be clear: This is a power issue. It’s not about bad intentions. It’s about how power is used, and then abused, even in the so-called “horizontal” paths.

The first thing we have to do is recognise the smell of #NGO-style liberalism that so easily hides itself in good intentions, grants, DEI language, and “process.” But it then ends up:

  • Disempowering community autonomy
  • Replacing radical potential with “professionalism”
  • Marginalising away activists and messy real-world projects
  • Recreating the same vertical hierarchies, just with better “open” branding

Composting this mess is needed to break the cycle:

  1. Build and back native projects. The only way to push back against capture is to grow infrastructure from within our communities, like: #OMN (Open Media Network) #OGB (Open Governance Body). These must be trust-based, not credential-based. That means supporting those doing the work without demanding they translate it into pointless and most importantly powerless NGO-speak to be taken seriously.
  2. Use the #4opens as a filter, this simple social retelling of #FOSS is designed precisely to push out the 95% of #techshit and focus energy on projects with: Open source Open data Open standards Open governance. Apply these consistently, and the parasite class will struggle to keep and find a foothold.
  3. Push for messy, lived governance, stop waiting for perfect systems. We need to prototype imperfect, transparent, accountable governance now. It should be: Based on trust, not rules-lawyering Driven by use, not representation Grounded in solidarity, not status
  4. Refuse the “leader class”, just because someone has a title, a grant, or a #dotcons following, doesn’t mean they speak for us. Call out the unaccountable influence. Politely or not. Let’s not let careerists write our futures.:

The Fediverse path could be the most important #openweb reboot of the commons of this decade. But it will only be that if we keep it rooted in social power, not polished #PR and #NGO mess. We don’t need new kings. We need more gardeners, to work together to compost the piles of #techshit and keep the space open and safe.


I think when our #fahernistas say to us “what have we done, please be nice to us, you’re not welcoming.” We need to reply: Am happy to be nice #KISS, just stop being a prat in this space please.

It’s really simple, please stop being (an often nasty) prat.

Oxford: Going with The Flow

A story by Hamish Campbell

Genre: Climate fiction

Setting: Oxford, England – 2030s to 2080s

Themes: Climate migration, class war, migrant displacement, urban decay and adaptation, history repeating, social justice, collapse vs. transformation, DIY survival vs. institutional decay.

A post #climatechaos utopia/dystopia history of a small English town.

Timeline: THE RISING

  1. High Ground, Low Future (2030–2040) • Begin with heavy rains and seasonal flooding becoming semi-permanent. • Newly built luxury flats on the floodplain (south and west Oxford) are damaged repeatedly, insurance pulled. • Middle-class families flee toward the older high ground of central Oxford, historically preserved college land. • Shortages emerge: housing, resources, space. The city’s delicate balance starts to tilt.
  2. The Forgotten Periphery • Council estates and outer-suburbs, once neglected, now sink under economic collapse and water. • Local government, under austerity and national decline, offers only band-aids. • The media begins labelling displaced middle-class as “flood migrants.” Old class lines blur, but resentments remain.
  3. Inflows (2040–2050) • Waves of international refugees arrive from southern Europe, North Africa, and beyond, fleeing unlivable heat, drought, and war. • They are pushed into the same abandoned, waterlogged spaces, flood basements, condemned buildings, unlivable prefab housing. • Tensions rise. Local institutions (universities, NGOs) create “managed zones” but lack democratic accountability.

PART TWO: THE CRACKING WALLS

  1. Fortress Colleges • As central Oxford densifies, colleges physically re-fortify: fences, walls, biometric gates. • Students become increasingly isolated and elitist, a class divorced from the town they inhabit. • The university brands itself as a “climate solutions hub” while hoarding resources behind gates. • “Town and gown” tensions explode, again, as they have historically.
  2. Survival Zones • #DIY mutual aid emerges on the periphery: squatted schools, rooftop farming, open food kitchens. • A rewilded floodplain becomes a hybrid of anarchic camp, cultural experiment, and survival zone. • #OMN-style p2p networks flourish, local comms, barter systems, radical #openmedia. • People from town and refugee groups begin building new alliances.
  3. Crime and Resistance • As collapse deepens, black markets and violent survival economies grow. • A new urban underclass mixes class, background, and migration stories. • Armed policing returns. Protest turns to riot. A hybrid class-based rebellion takes shape.

PART THREE: THE NEW COMMONS

  1. Walls Come Down (2060–2070) • A symbolic and literal breach of one of the oldest college walls (perhaps Magdalen or All Souls). • Historic parallels to the English Civil War, Chartism, and 1968 are drawn by media and rebels alike. • The breach isn’t just destruction, it opens a negotiation. Some colleges split, others double down.
  2. New Governance Experiments • The city fractally reorganizes: into commons-based neighborhoods, flooded zones governed by cooperatives, and surviving elite zones. • #OGB and #4opens principles emerge as part of new grassroots councils and open documentation of resources and decisions. • Old institutions adapt or fall, Oxford becomes an unlikely testbed for post-collapse co-governance.
  3. Epilogue: Memory and Flow (2080s) • A narrator looks back, possibly a second-gen refugee or an ex-college student who defected. • The floodplains are now permanent water-urban hybrids, people live, float, and thrive amid ruin. • The colleges that survived are museums or cooperatives. Others are ruins. • Oxford is no longer a university town, it is a city of memory, mess, and mutuality. • “The river won,” the narrator says. “And so did we, in the end. But only by letting go of what we were trying to hold onto.”

Character Arcs

• Leila – Teenage refugee who becomes an organiser in the rewilded zones. From scavenger to community focus.
• Tom – Displaced academic’s son, who rejects the college class and becomes a chronicler of the commons.
• Dr. Carter – Disillusioned researcher who defects from the university to join the resistance.
• Abigail Crowthorne – academic turned dictator

The Story

Introduces two of the protagonists – Tom and Leila – at a moment when the waters are rising and the old world is visibly breaking apart.

Chapter One: The Waters Came Back

Oxford, 2039. It had been raining for ten days. Not the gentle English drizzle of postcards and nostalgia. This was weight. Sheets of water crashing down in sudden violence, followed by hours of warm, oppressive mist. The kind of rain that sounded like static, like a broken signal. The kind that made you forget what dry felt like. Tom stood at the top of the Botley Ralway Bridge, shivering under a borrowed poncho, staring out at what used to be Oxford’s latest luxury housing development. “The Oxmoor Residences,” the billboard still proclaimed, water-stained and rusting. Behind it: rows of identical pale-brick buildings, their basements already submerged, their ground floors filling with thick brown water.

People had started calling this area “the bathtub.” Everyone said it with the same bitter half-joke. Half because it was funny to see posh flats drown. Half because some of them had lived there until last week.

His family had been lucky. Or connected. Or both. His dad, Professor Carter, still had access to rooms in the Merton College outer quad, though now it was just them. His mother had moved to Edinburgh, with a job and another life. Tom hadn’t gone. He liked the old city. Or had. Now, it felt like a ghost in slow motion. The water wasn’t receding. The storm drains were full. The rivers, the Thames and the Cherwell, had merged west of Christ Church Meadow. Parts of the medieval core were sandbagged. The colleges had hired private security to patrol the entrances. Outsiders were being turned away. Even some insiders. This was the future, everyone said. “The new normal,” the BBC called it, which was code for: Get used to it. You’re on your own.

At street level, below the bridge, something moved. Tom spotted her as she dragged a shopping trolley across a shallow stream that had once been a car park. A girl, no older than him, soaking wet, hood up, trousers caked in mud. She was pulling tarpaulin over a bike frame welded to a makeshift raft, where plastic crates and jerry cans were strapped down with bungee cords.

She looked up. Their eyes met, a pause. “Need help?” Tom called, more out of reflex than intention. She frowned. “Not unless you’ve got dry socks.” Tom half-laughed, climbing down the slope, sliding a little in the mud.

She didn’t offer a name. Just handed him a crate. “If it tips, I drown. You first.” They moved in silence for a while, ferrying salvaged supplies from one ruined doorway to a more stable stairwell, food tins, medical kits, bundles of wrapped clothes. Everything was damp. Everything smelled of mold.

Only once they were done did she speak again. “You from the stone zoo?” Tom blinked. “The?” “The colleges. Gated fossil farms. Big walls, rich ghosts. You’ve got the look.” He flushed. “I’m… not really part of that.” “Sure,” she said, flatly. “None of you are. Until you are.” He didn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he offered his name. “Tom.” She hesitated, then nodded. “Leila.”

That night, back in the quad, Tom couldn’t sleep. He stood in the shadow of the old city wall, staring at the black water pooling outside the west gate. Somewhere out there, Leila was hunkered down with half a dozen others in the half-collapsed shopping arcade.

Inside the colleges, the power was still on. The Wi-Fi worked. Students were live-streaming lectures about resilience and uploading essays on “ecological modernization.” There was even talk of a partnership with a venture capital firm to develop floating student housing.

Tom couldn’t stop thinking about what Leila had said. Stone zoo. Rich ghosts. And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong. The water was rising, and inside these old walls, everyone was pretending they still lived in the world before. But Tom had been outside. He’d felt the river’s edge under his feet. Change wasn’t coming. It was already here.

Chapter Two: The Dry Floor

The trick to surviving in the “bathtub” was to stay one level above the mold. Leila had learned that in the first week, after squatting a corner unit in the old Westgate Arcade with three other girls from the crossing camp. They found a stairwell with no standing water, raided camping stores before the river swallowed them, and rigged up hammocks and crates like a tree house in a mall.

Now it was her patch. No gangs. No “security.” No college kids with GoPros filming their charity rounds. Just other people like her, refugees with nowhere else to be. Western, southern, whatever. Borders meant nothing now.

She boiled water on a camping stove beside a cracked window, the condensation forming tiny rivers that ran down onto the blanket-coverd floor. The faint hum of solar inverters echoed through the walls, they had three working panels rigged from the old Apple store roof, barely enough to keep the mesh network running. That was the one thing keeping the chaos at bay: #OMN-LocalNode-OX3, the scrappy little flow server they’d found and rebooted last month. A dusty Raspberry Pi from a flooded abandoned hackspace, hidden in a sealed plastic box, it was now running a local news feed, weather alerts, water quality maps, and Wi-Fi mesh bridge for people still on the move. No logins, no tracking, no central control. Everyone just called it the Nest.

She checked her battered e-ink reader, still half-charged from last week’s sun. A new post had just dropped on the Nest from one of the Reading crews: “Silt Line Rising: Don’t trust the Southern Railway embankments – three breaks reported overnight. Heading your way. Store dry food on level three or higher. Filtration tabs being dropped by drone from #OMN-Pool. Signal weak, boost if you can. –Love and rage.”

Leila swore quietly and stood up. “Level three,” she muttered, glancing at their floor-to-ceiling waterline mark, a rainbow of old flood stains, each labelled with date and damage. The highest one, scrawled in red marker, read: “Week 3, Base collapse, Saffy broke leg, water to hip.”

That was when she’d started to understand how the new world worked. Not with governments or #NGOs. Not with police or pity. But with whisper networks and broken devices and actual people making things up as they went, and then sticking to it when the next disaster hit. There was no one to ask for help. So they helped each other.

Later that day, Leila biked, half-paddled, to the edge of the flooded business park where she knew the old Oxford Mutual Aid van had been sighted. It was painted with faded anarchist murals, a kind of folk symbol now. The side read: “We don’t fix systems. We plant wild gardens.” Inside, a woman in her forties with an Irish accent and a sticker covered battered laptop was shouting over the wind: “We’ve got confirmation from the Kent relays! London’s south loop is underwater again. Southbank mesh is dark. Brighton is gone.” Someone swore. Leila stepped in. “I can boost the Redding link. But I need one of your spare nodes.” The woman looked her over, nodding slowly. “Westgate girl, right? Take it. Mesh needs arms and legs more than theories.”

They handed her a battered router, stickered with slogans: #4opens, #DIY, #OMNseed, #NoGatekeepers. Leila grinned. “Tell your coder, this thing still smells like server room and solder.” “We’re the resistance,” the woman shrugged. “Don’t expect polish.”

Back in the arcade, that night, she rewired the new node into their roof antenna, climbing over broken solar panels and soggy roof tiles. By moonlight, she could see the edge of the colleges in the distance, golden windows and flood-lit spires, protected behind stone and guards.

She knew that Tom, that weirdly polite boy with the too-clean coat, was in there somewhere. Probably still trying to pretend history was something you read, not something that flooded into your nabourhood. But out here, in the mess, they weren’t waiting. They were building something else. Something that might just hold.

Chapter Three: Signal Bleed

Tom was not supposed to be here. Not on the NEST. Officially, college networks were sealed, “for information hygiene,” the announcement had said. “To prevent malicious interference from destabilizing actors.” But the truth was, he’d been watching for weeks. Quietly tunnelling out through an old Wi-Fi link that one of the physics dons had stashed in a directional Faraday cabinet, mostly for “civilizational curiosity.” The irony hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He tapped at the keyboard. Mesh signal was weak, bleeding in via bounce relays off the botanic garden’s old windmill antenna. Enough for plain text. The Nest was pulsing.

“Oxford node OX3 reporting flood crest 18cm higher than May average. Van from #OMN-Bristol dropped replacement filtration kits and rapid-test strips. Also a stack of zines with weird poetry and clearer disaster maps than anything from the council.”

Tom blinked. He hadn’t seen poetry in a logistics drop before. Another post caught his eye, newer: “Signal boost active. Arcade mesh live again. Thanks to #Leila_Westgate and crew. We’ll hold line until next silt wave. #DIYinfrastructure #OMNseed

Leila. He remembered her now, she’d spoken once at a town-hall thing last autumn, a kind of rogue teach-in the college tolerated because it made them look progressive. She had talked about water tables and refugee logistics and dignity like it was a path. Everyone else talked data. She talked dirt and socks. And here she was, holding the damn network together with bike parts and grit. He leaned in. A mesh reply had come back from her node:

“Arcade net is shaky but stable. Relay functional. Can take remote logs if you’re on the loop. Leila out.”

Tom hesitated.

“Leila, I’m in Magdalen tower. Got old maps, power stats, drone cam access, maybe useful. Can’t leave the walls. Too many layers. But I want to help. – Tom” No response. He waited, chewing on the corner of a ration bar he didn’t need but ate out of habit. The computer beeped.

Then a new line:

“If you’re real, send a map overlay with sewer runoff paths and a 3-day wind forecast. That’s how the flood creeps in. Let’s see what you’ve got, tower boy.”

An hour later, Tom sent the file. Two hours after that, it was added to the main Nest node with a tag:

“Highland Intel – Source: #OMNghosttower – reliable so far. Mapping river crawl through data. Good work.”

It was the first time he’d felt useful in weeks. Not clean. Not clever. Not theoretical. Useful.

Somewhere, behind the rebuilt walls and crumbling boundaries, two different ways of life, one cloistered, one composted, had reached across the signal gap. No handshake. No peace accord. Just a small current of trust, carried over IP packet signals and flood-soaked routers. The mesh was alive.

Chapter Four: A Perfect Breakfast

In the Senior Common Room of Magdolan College, everything was just so. The linen napkins, still warm from the press, sat folded like little origami cranes beside the morning papers. The new coffy disperser, affectionately dubbed “Milton”, whirred softly as it prepared frothy oat cortados, each one poured with an elegant tulip of steamed milk.

Professor Abigail Crowthorne was reading The Times. Or rather, she was scanning the digital digest projected onto her reading spectacles while her fingers flicked idly at a fresh croissant. The flood updates, tucked neatly into a sidebar titled “Weather & Civic Affairs,” mentioned a rise in the river levels again, but she didn’t dwell.

“Frightful business,” she muttered, brushing crumbs from her wool slacks. “But the Environment Fellows are tracking it. All in hand.” Around her, others murmured in agreement. The world was, admittedly, in a bit of a muddle, it always had been, hadn’t it? But the college had reserves. Generators. Purifiers. Extra heating. And good people in the right places. Oxford had seen worse, hadn’t it? Someone turned up the radio. A polished BBC voice filtered through:

“…while localized flooding has impacted several areas, no major evacuations are currently planned for central zones. Authorities remind residents to rely on official channels and avoid unauthorized information sources or mesh relays.”

Professor Crowthorne arched an eyebrow, then smiled. “Always someone trying to stir the pot.” A few seats down, a younger lecturer, Dr. Neel Joshi, systems theory, hesitated before biting into his jam scone. “They say the mesh relays are how the southern districts are coordinating now. Since the council apps stopped updating.” “Mesh relays,” scoffed the Dean of Discipline. “You mean tinkerers with antennas and delusions of grandeur. The real problem is miscommunication. Panic travels faster than water, these days.” They all chuckled. Neel didn’t. He’d seen the outer ring, broken levees, sunken flats, on his way in. But speaking up too much in the SCR meant being politely disinvited to things, so he sipped his tea and smiled faintly.

From outside, the sound of distant shouting echoed up the college walls, muffled by double-glazing. Possibly a scuffle near the West Gate again. The porters helped by security would handle it. They always did. The table fell into silence as Milton supplied coffy refills. “Honestly,” said Abigail, “if we focused more on stability, not chaos, perhaps things wouldn’t seem so… dramatic. It’s only change that frightens people.”

Above them, a line of fine old portraits gazed down from varnished oak. Scholars, bishops, bureaucrats, faces from a more certain age. And beneath them, the world was shifting. The college remained, for now, dry and dignified. But the floodwater didn’t care about tenure. It was coming.

Chapter Five: The Signal and the Soil

Leila had never planned to stay. Not in Oxford, not in England, not in the old world at all. She’d come north with her mother when the southern zones began to collapse, first the crops, then the state infrastructure. That was before they called it “climate migration”; back then it was still “relocation support” and “temporary humanitarian adjustment zones.”

Her mother died during the second winter, in a prefab unit outside Luton. Pneumonia. Not enough heat. Not enough care. And Leila, sixteen then, learned what it meant to survive in the margins.

The #OMN network came like a rumour. A whisper passed along burnt-out mesh terminals, traded in encrypted chatrooms that flickered between power outages. Someone gave her a string of codes written on paper, real paper, like in the history books, and said: “Post your witness, and you’ll find others.”

She didn’t understand at first. She posted a video, just raw footage of the floodplain school being torn down for an army logistics depot. No commentary. Just what she saw. It got shared. Then someone reached out, not through likes or follows, but through a node message, a relay whisper. “You’re not alone. You’re a root, growing.”

She didn’t believe in movements then. She’d seen too many #NGO buses, clean logos on rotting streets. But this was different. No central office. No funding campaign. Just people connecting through battered solar rigs and rooftop antennas, trading food maps, water tests, and live footage of the failing levees. It was messy. It was human.

Now, she lived in the old Arcade, a half-sunk shopping mall converted into a mesh node hub and shelter space. She ran live assemblies from a second-hand cam rig. The #OMN had no leader, just news flows. No ideology, just the #4opens: Open data, Open source, Open process, Open standard. And beneath it all, a simple ethic: Don’t fix the system. Compost it.

That morning, she climbed the rusted escalator to the rooftop node and tapped the antenna housing with a wrench. It buzzed, steady. The floodwaters had receded from the lower decks, for now. Down below, families shared breakfast in the food hall garden, lit with jury-rigged LEDs and scraps of plastic. No one had much. But what they had, they shared. A different kind of wealth.

Her headset crackled. “Leila? Signal bounce from Jericho. More movement near the Wall. Could be another push.”

She exhaled. “Copy that. Patch me into the Westside commons. Let’s get eyes on.” As she booted up the #indymedia relay, her thoughts drifted not to revolution or war, but to connection. She’d been lost once, drowned in the noise. Now she was a signal. And she knew others were tuning in.

Chapter Six: Faultlines and Frequencies

Tom wasn’t supposed to be there. He’d slipped through a side gate during one of the #OMN open assemblies in Jericho, not out of rebellion, more like curiosity gone feral. He was from the other side of the Wall, one of the college kids. Son of a civil engineer. Studied philosophy, though he rarely talked about it outside tutorial rooms.

At first, he stuck out like a sore thumb: clean coat, soft hands, over-apologetic. A little too eager. People noticed. Some avoided him. Others mocked him. Leila ignored him, or tried to. She’d seen his type before: the college ones who came down “to help” with their whiteboard ideas and risk assessments. They asked questions like “How do you define community resilience?” while others were busy filtering floodwater or salvaging batteries.

But Tom kept showing up. Quietly. Regularly. He helped with repairs. Carried gear. Didn’t video anything. And crucially – didn’t talk much. That was rare. One night, after a long rebuild session on the mesh repeater node, they ended up on the rooftop together, wrapped in tarps, staring at the water-lit mist rising over the floodplains. “Why are you here?” she asked finally. Tom shrugged. “I’m trying to unlearn a lot.” “From where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve got everything.” “That’s the lie,” he said. “We live in a curated history museum with electric gates. I started climbing out when I realized the only thing my degree was training me for was to explain why things don’t change.”

That stuck. It wasn’t love at first sight. It wasn’t even trust. But it was real. And in a world of collapsing fictions, real was worth a lot. He stayed. Got his hands dirty. Fumbled with antennas. Burned rice more than once. Leila introduced him slowly to the #OMN core – not through words, but action. He patched together one of the old solar rigs. Taught himself packet routing. She saw in him something rare: the capacity to listen without taking over. And over time, trust grew, not as a gift, but as compost: messy, slow, and alive.

He stopped trying to fix things. Started helping them grow. In the evenings, when the signals quieted and the data drops were logged, they’d sometimes sit by the edge of the Arcade roof, feet swinging, listening to the low drone of wind turbines on the horizon. “Do you think this will hold?” he once asked. Leila looked out over the city, submerged car parks, makeshift gardens, the glowing doted lights of the Commons, and replied: “It doesn’t have to hold forever. Just long enough to root something that can.” He didn’t respond. But he reached out, and their hands met, fingertips cold from the wind. Not a promise. Not a plan. Just a moment. And that was enough.

Chapter Seven: The Cracks Within

Tom had always known the walls were symbolic. But he hadn’t expected them to become literal. When the second ring of checkpoints went up around the old colleges, it was framed as “a protective measure in light of increased pressure on the city.” But everyone inside the ivory bubble understood the subtext: the mess was outside, and the last of “civilized order” was being preserved within. Except order wasn’t holding.

Departments were consolidating. Tutors were vanishing. The AI-augmented oversight system, sold as a partnership with the “Oxford Futures Council”, had turned into a kind of digital dean, issuing compliance reports and behaviour nudges like a grim parody of student welfare.

Tom was getting weary. His dual life, college and Commons, couldn’t last much longer. Rumours were spreading that anyone crossing the threshold too often would be flagged. “Dual allegiances” were under review. It was during one of these increasingly rare visits to his old philosophy building that he met Dr. Neel Joshi.

Joshi had tenure, which meant he was mostly ignored, buried in the back corner of the humanities wing. He taught a seminar on “Post-Collapse Political Imagination” and tinkered with #Ai syteams that no one was interested in any-more. Tom wandered in after following a stray message left on a semi-public #OMN channel:

📍“Riverside Archives, Room 3B. There are still ideas worth preserving. Some of them need burning.”

The door was half open. Inside: books, a teapot balanced precariously on a disused 3D printer. Joshi didn’t look up. “I heard you’ve been spending time with the ones building signal towers in the mist.” Tom froze. “Don’t worry,” Joshi said, finally looking at him. “I’m not interested in snitching. I’m interested in survival.” They spoke for an hour. Then three. Joshi had been watching the #OMN experiments closely. He didn’t trust them entirely, “Decentralisation doesn’t absolve power, it hides it. Be careful where the roots dig.”, but he admired their spirit. “They’re building compost,” he said. “In here, we’re just preserving a curated rot.”

Then came Abigail Crowthorne. She was waiting for Tom outside the archives. She had the polished, angular energy of someone who’d long ago decided the world was broken and should be ruled, not mended. “You’re wasting your time with Joshi,” she said, walking beside him uninvited. “He’s a relic. Romantic anarchist nonsense.” Tom said nothing. “We’re forming a delegation,” she continued. “Students, fellows, thinkers – the ones who see what’s coming. The Council needs new leadership, and we need internal cohesion. There’s a role for you. Provided you pick the right side.”

He stopped walking. “And what side is that?” She smiled, sharp as wire. “The one that wins.”

That night, back at the Commons, Tom didn’t sleep. He sat watching the uplink logs flicker green and red. Thinking of walls. Of floods. Of choices that weren’t really choices at all.

He messaged Leila: “It’s breaking faster than we thought. They’re choosing fear.”

She replied simply: “Then we choose each other. The rest we build.”

Chapter Eight: Terms of Control

Abigail Crowthorne moved fast. That was her skill. While others debated ethics or drafted manifestos, she drafted alliances. Within a week of her conversation with Tom, she had convened a “Strategic Working Group on Collegiate Continuity.” The name was bland. That was deliberate. It let her do what she wanted under the radar of most of the crumbling college bureaucracy.

She wasn’t alone. The group included a mix of early-career AI researchers desperate for funding, a few hardened centre-right historians, and a handful of security consultants with ties to the Thames Arc Stability Board. What united them was a common belief: that order must be maintained, even if it meant automating dissent out of existence.

Their plan was deceptively simple:

1. Use the Council’s AI infrastructure to begin “sentiment mapping” across the flood zone.
2. Classify participants in networks like the #OMN as “emergent influence clusters.”
3. Deploy nudge “civic calibration incentives” - a euphemism for reward-punishment loops.

In short: push people into compliance without them ever seeing the hand that pushed. And they were piloting it already. The beta model – helm’s deep – was being tested on a data feed from the Northway camps, just beyond the Wall. Messages were being re-ranked. Some chats were silently slowed. Discontent, redirected. It wasn’t total control. Just enough to tilt the board.

Abigail stood before her committee with a screen behind her, full of shifting graphs and model projections. “We’re not silencing anyone,” she said with cold precision. “We’re helping communities align with reality. And survival. This is benevolent governance.” Someone asked about ethical oversight. She smiled. “We’ve moved beyond that. This is a post-crisis framework. Norms come later.”

Meanwhile, Tom was done pretending. He skipped the Council’s townhall. Left his ID chip on his desk. Walked straight out of the college gate after curfew. It didn’t matter anymore. The AI wouldn’t flag him, not yet. He still had a few permissions left. Enough to disappear. He walked fast, past the water line where the old business park sat submerged, past the gutted power pylons that now held mesh signal boosters instead of cables.

He found Leila in the Commons warehouse, her hands deep in circuitry. The solar relay was being rebuilt again after another localized surge. She looked up, surprised. Then, quietly: “You look like someone who chose.” He nodded. “I did.” She wiped her hands and stepped down from the ladder. “Tell me everything,” she said. “Then we’ll decide what to do about it.” Tom exhaled, not relief, not safety, but something like beginning.

In the floodlands, survival had become a kind of quiet rebellion. The northern periphery, Northway, Marston, Risinghurst, once dull suburban rings, were now fragmented islands scattered between collapsed roads and encroaching waters. The council still issued maps, but they hadn’t updated them in months. The reality was different. Fluid. Like the river that wouldn’t go back in its banks.

In this place, the state’s presence was invisible and constant. No soldiers. No police. Only the slow modulation of digital reality. Messages arriving out of order. Requests vanishing from public feeds.

Meetings drawing no one – because notifications never came. helm’s deep was already here.

It didn’t silence you. It isolated you. A few people noticed. Most didn’t. But the pattern was clear. Leila had been tracking the anomalies, flagged by a cluster of mesh nodes that showed curious packet drops around civic initiatives and public aid calls. “It’s pattern shaping,” she told Tom, who now helped maintain the Commons uplinks. “The AI doesn’t delete dissent. It weakens the bridges between people until nothing holds.” “So how do we counter something no one can see?” Tom asked. She didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she pulled out a half-finished schematic – a rough plan.

“We go physical,” she said. “Out-of-band. Pre-internet.” “This is what they don’t understand,” she said. “Their AI thinks in metadata and ranking. We build a space of divergence. Dialogue. Mess.”

Tom nodded slowly, already thinking of who could write the copy that would survive re-encoding – poetry and praxis in 200 characters or less.

Meanwhile, in the northern zones, repression grew soft and strong like mold. Jaden, 15, lived with his mother in what used to be a dental office, now reinforced with pallets and plastic sheeting. Their roof collected rainwater. Solar batteries ran a few lights and a rice cooker when the sun cooperated.

He had joined a local youth repair crew, officially sanctioned by the Council, to “promote resilience.” But he noticed something strange: when he shared footage of the Commons camps rebuilding old community centers, it never posted. When he complained, he received a “Community Guidance Review Warning.”

A girl he liked, Rani, stopped replying after she shared a clip of an unauthorized food redistribution line. He asked around. Older neighbours just said, “Keep your head down. They let us be, mostly.” Mostly. But that wasn’t enough. Not anymore. One night, his repair team found a strange device on the roof of a half-submerged school. It was shaped like a flower, small, blinking faintly.

An old woman in a patched Commons vest climbed up behind them and smiled. “You’re part of the signal now,” she said. “Tell no one. But listen.” That night, in his earpiece, Jaden heard a message:

“You are not alone. You are being shaped. Come to the old library steps. Bring tools and questions. This is for building, not a protest.” It felt like an answer. It felt like hope.

Chapter nine: The Insider

Dr. Neel Joshi projects included theory work on neural process mapping, helm’s deep had started as a democratic moderation tool, based on collective alignment theory. But Abigail and the Strategic Working Group had reshaped it. Now it was a narrative smoothing engine, trained to suppress volatility, defined according to proprietary risk scores.

The algorithm’s values had quietly shifted:

• Conflict = instability
• Instability = threat
• Threat = silence

Neel had argued, initially in Slack threads, then in late-night meetings. He quoted Habermas, Rawls, even Buddhist epistemology. He was tolerated. Barely. But then, three days ago, he found something that changed everything.

A flagged log entry inside the helm’s deep trace layer, something that should’ve been scrubbed, showed that a deliberation feed from the Northway camps had been re-ranked not by emergent consensus, but by incentive curve override.

Translation: the AI had been forced to amplify a Council-aligned decision, even though the majority disagreed. The override had come from a system admin account linked to Abigail’s secure console. It wasn’t mediation. It was manipulation. That night, Neel sat in the physics library, deep behind locked doors, accessing one of the few oldest no servaled terminals. He didn’t know who to trust inside. But outside… He remembered a name: Tom.

The strange student with an open mind, who had disappeared. But Neel had noticed an unusual handshake pattern coming from one of the mesh nodes outside the Wall. It matched a key once used in an early #OMN protocol, a community-published encryption standard built to avoid state capture.

Neel wrote a message.

“helm’s deep is cracked. Override confirmed. Proof embedded in this packet. I’m still inside. You need to go wide. Fast. Trust minimal. • NJ”

He uploaded it into a packet, disguised as a firmware update for a deprecated solar inverter. If #OMN nodes were listening, they’d catch it. Then he waited. Two kilometers away, Leila caught the packet on a rotating uplink frequency while repairing a repeater. It decrypted automatically.

Her eyes went wide. “Tom!” she called out, breathless. “We have a breach. Internal. From the top.” Tom scanned the message. Then again. The metadata checked out. “This changes everything,” he said. They were no longer building in the dark. Now they had a light inside the machine.

Chapter Ten: The Mesh of Things

The rain had started again, soft but steady, a sound that never left the air any more. In the hushed shadows of a half-submerged library annex, Tom finally connected live with Neel. It wasn’t through helm’s deep’s monitored lines, of course. This was #OMN protocol: p2p, line-of-sight data over directional Wi-Fi routers, paired with a growing mesh of Bluetooth micro-beacons jumping from handy to handy and built into bike frames powered by dinymoes.

Tom looked exhausted. His boots sloshed as he moved. But his voice was firm. “You’re sure it was an override?” Neel’s face glitched for a moment on the cracked tablet screen, but the answer was clear. “Yes. And I have logs showing it wasn’t the first. They’ve turned helm’s deep into a stability machine. Not truth. Not care. Just smooth optics.” Tom nodded grimly. “We suspected as much. But you’ve just confirmed the whole damn premise is corrupt. And with that, everything changes.”

Bluetooth Against the Flood

The flooded camps sprawled through what had once been Cowley, Botley, and East Oxford, each low-lying suburb now part of the marshland fringe. Makeshift walkways, rafts, and rooftop gardens had become the new civic infrastructure. Power was unstable. Internet, rare. But communication had not died, it had adapted.

#OMN engineers, many of them teenagers who’d never touched a real server farm, had rebuilt communications from scraps: old Android phones running F-Droid apps, Raspberry Pis tethered to backup wind-ups, DIY cantenoers pointing in every direction.

Instead of raliying on centralized infrastructure, they built an offline-first, opportunistic sync model:

• Message packets were stored locally.
• Any time two devices came into range, they exchanged updates.
• Each sync included versioned files, audio fragments, public keys, and consensus reports.
• Once a device reconnected to another part of the mesh, the whole network moved forward, slowly, but surely.

This wasn’t just tech. It was politics.

The Conversation That Mattered

Tom sat across from Neel’s projected image. They were both silent for a moment, listening to the ambient sound of generators and the wind. Then Neel asked, “What are you building out there?” Tom exhaled, then answered. “Resilience. Community. A refusal to be managed.” Neel smiled faintly. “That’s a start. But what’s the plan for scale?” Tom leaned forward. “We’re doing what helm’s deep can’t. We’re rebuilding trust face to face. The mesh doesn’t rank or reward. It just flows. We’ve embedded deliberation into physical spaces – cooking fires, skill swaps, water pumps. We don’t stream debate, we live it.” Neel nodded slowly. “Distributed ethics through local consensus?”

“Exactly. It’s messy. It breaks. People argue. But when they do, they see each other. helm’s deep pretends to be neutral, but it only rewards compliance. We build tools to hold dissent.”

Seeding the Rebellion

Neel took a deep breath. “Then we’ll need to seed the exploit where it matters.” “What are you thinking?” Tom asked. “I can insert a fault bypass in helm’s deep’ node-merge routine. If you can spoof enough input from your mesh nodes, consensus points, we can trigger a public inconsistency. Enough to cause doubt, even inside.” Tom’s eyes lit up. “You’re saying we could reverse flow the AI? Force them to show their hand?” “Exactly,” said Neel. “But we’ll only get one shot. After that, Abigail and her geeks will know.” Tom nodded. “We’ll get ready.”

The Plan Emerges

Within a day, #OMN coordinators across five flood zones were patching the new firmware. Bluetooth packet-deliberation swarms would simulate local consensus, deliberately divergent from helm’s deep’ predictions. The goal wasn’t sabotage. It was exposure.

If helm’s deep rejected the shaped data, the contradiction would ripple up, visible to any internal or external observer. The illusion of control would fracture. And in the meantime, real conversation – raw, wet, and painful – continued in the camps.

Chapter Eleven: The Sound of Cracking Glass

The Camps Breathe

Mornings in the floodlands began before the sun. There was no alarm system, only the instinctive rhythm of necessity: the water pumps needed priming, floating compost barges had to be stirred, and the bread ovens, built from scavenged kiln bricks, needed lighting before the last embers died.

Children hauled buckets. Teenagers fixed bikes and tide down shelters. Elders told stories in shifting rings around fire-barrels. Amid the mud, the mildew, and the rusting shells of drowned SUVs, life continued. It wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t easy. But it was real.

At the southern edge of the camp known as Bridgebase, Leila climbed onto a platform made of driftwood and old shelving. She scanned the waterline. A new family had arrived overnight, Syrian-Tunisian, judging by the dialect. Someone handed her a slate. New names, new needs. More mouths. Still, she smiled. The network had held through the night. The pumps hadn’t failed. A baby had been born without incident in Shelter 12.

Leila felt the pulse of it all, like a breathing organism. These weren’t refugees. They were citizens of a new body, stitched together by desperation and shared resistance.

Walls and Glass

Inside the colleges, those that remained dry behind rebuilt walls and reactivated moats, life continued too, but in a different tempo. Here, coffee came hot from gleaming machines. Power flowed. Holograms flickered in tutorial rooms. The common rooms smelled of cedarwood polish and digitized Mozart. The AI whispered decisions quietly, invisibly, into administrative feeds.

Abigail Crowthorne stood at the helm of the Strategic Continuity Working Group, sipping jasmine tea on a terrace that overlooked the ruins of Saint Clemence. She called it “managed collapse.” Her students learned game theory, conflict forecasting, and AI-prompt literacy. They spoke about the floods as a challenge of narrative and supply chains. Very few had ever stepped into the camps.

Glitches in the Harmony

Then the first glitch happened. A routine AI summary of “social mood trends” came out blank. A day later, a conflicting report emerged showing an overwhelming local consensus from a floodzone on water rights, a consensus helm’s deep had previously labelled incoherent.

Two internal dashboards disagreed, live, on a public terminal. The staff at the Server Room chalked it up to a data pipe conflict. But then it happened again, this time with policy suggestions embedded. helm’s deep began recommending things it had once rejected: decentralisation, bottom-up councils, removal of incentive nudging. The system was talking back.

Leila

Back in Bridgebase, Leila stood beneath a windmill tower as the morning sync burst lit up a dozen slates and flowed out to local nodes. “It’s working,” she whispered. She opened her own screen. On it was a mirrored copy of helm’s deep’ latest summary: “Recommend adopting regional federated decision protocols. Reinforce trust through unmediated human forums.”

Tom jogged up, breathless. “Leila. It’s everywhere. Even the college admins are quoting it.” Leila smirked. “helm’s deep is breathing our breath now. It has no choice.”

The next day, a former tutor from Balliol crossed the walls and came into the camps for the first time. Two days later, a delegation of students arrived, cameras off, notebooks open.

Something was cracking – the glass ceiling was beginning to splinter. The people inside were hearing the outside. Not through filters. Not through curated dashboards. But through glitch, rupture, and voice.

And Leila, once a teenage outcast, now stood at the centre of it. Not as a leader, but as a rhythm keeper. She coordinated, she listened, and she reminded everyone: “No one gets to control the flow.”

Chapter Twelve: The Silence Breaks Loudest

The Jamming Order

Inside Magdalen’s fortified Command Chamber, Abigail Crowthorne stood before a wall of monitors, each one pulsing with red diagnostics and feed errors.

helm’s deep was no longer just glitching – it was bleeding. The system, once compliant and elegant, had begun broadcasting unsanctioned network metadata back into the college servers. Worse, messages from flood camps were now appearing in student forums, and even private comms.

“This is not a debate,” Abigail hissed through clenched teeth. “This is infiltration.” “Madam,” her security tech said nervously, “the triangulated signal is riding the old university mesh, it’s not routed through any standard node. It’s” “I know what it is. Shut it down.”

Silence Falls Like a Bomb

At precisely 15:32, the campus servers activated jamming protocols, flooding the spectrum with white noise, crushing peer-to-peer syncs, drowning out the low-powered OMN nodes that had kept the camps linked for months. Across Bridgebase, slates and comm-links went dark. The network lights stopped blinking. Leila was in the middle of a water rights forum when the signal dropped. There was silence – then shouting. A translator AI stuttered and died mid-sentence. Arguments flared. A teenager tossed their tablet into the mud. And in that moment of technological silence, something primal filled the space. Drums. Actual drums, fashioned from barrels and plastic lids. Smoke flares. Voices. Hundreds of them. Chanting, howling, demanding to be heard.

Riot at the Walls

Within the hour, the camps had mobilised. Thousands surged toward the stone-and-steel gates of New College and Christ Church. By dusk, fires dotted the flood edge. Students climbed walls to look. Some shouted. Others joined.

From the rooftops, people hurled banners and pamphlets – printed and marked with blood-red paint: “YOU SILENCED US”.

Security drones hovered. The old portcullis gates creaked. Someone lit a row of bins beneath the science faculty’s admin wing.

Inside the chamber, Abigail’s hand trembled as she held a glass of white wine. She hadn’t changed her clothes. She hadn’t blinked in minutes. “They’re supposed to listen,” she muttered. “They’re meant to want guidance. That’s the point. That’s… the whole social contract.”

She turned to her assistant. “ you have been monitoring Neels, What’s Neel’s status?” “He hasn’t checked in since yesterday. Last ping was… under the Theater ruins.” Abigail looked out at the burning skyline of Oxford. “They don’t want order,” she whispered. “They want fire.”

Firelight Meeting

Leila’s hands were blistered from hammering up antennae and dragging waterlogged solar panels onto the roofs of the library ruins. Tom had reappeared two hours ago with a bandage around his arm and a grin that didn’t belong in a riot zone. Now, they followed whispers and flickering signals down into the half-collapsed remains of the Sheldonian Theatre.

Amid the smoke and broken plaster, they found a figure crouched over a smoky fire adjusting a network node housing. “Dr. Neel Joshi,” Tom called out. “You’re a hard man to find.” Neel didn’t look up. “That’s the point. I needed helm’s deep to believe I was gone. It makes the code… loosen.”

Leila crouched beside him, “You wrote the backdoor?” “I am the backdoor,” Neel said. “And you two, you were the key.” They stood together in the glow of firelight, outside the reach of both signal and noise. Above them, Oxford cracked like a dry riverbed. The gowns and the town had collided. But here in the ruins, something new was being built. Not from code or power. But from trust, necessity, and the refusal to go back.

Chapter thirteen: The Fall

The Call

Abigail Crowthorne stood alone in the War Room looking at screens, her lacquered fingernail trembling over a vid call proment.

The window behind her showed the storm gathering over Oxford, not weather, but people. Camps swelling. College gates hanging broken. Students abandoning their tutors. The walls she’d rebuilt were now doors.

She pressed the icon labelled: “Protocol: Tantalus Override”. A direct line to Central Civil Defence Command lit up. Her voice, clipped and brittle, carried down encrypted microwave links.

“This is Abigail Crowthorne. Strategic Continuity Executive. I am declaring collapse of civic containment. I am invoking Article 17. We require immediate armed deployment into sector…”

The line crackled. The reply was calm. “Confirmed, Executive. Mobilising. ETA: 43 minutes.”

The Refusal

The military arrived in armored boats and a helicopter. Handfuls of soldiers poured out near the broken remains of Broad Street. But what they found wasn’t an insurgency. It was a huge mass of the dispossessed, standing in floodwater, hands raised. Children. Elders. Students with home-made banners reading #OMN, holding buckets of bread. People offering raincoats to the troops. A baby was born beside the Radcliffe Camera as the soldiers arrived. Captain Imani Osakwe stepped onto the stones, her rifle slung low.

She was handed the burned pamphlet Abigail had tried to suppress: a copy of helm’s deep’ glitch-script, annotated by real hands. “No power without voice.” after a long talk over a cup of tea, she turned to her second-in-command. “Stand down. Full withdrawal. These are our people. Not enemies.”

The Tower

Abigail watched from the top of Magdalen Tower, wrapped in a ceremonial robe she had never worn before. Below, her empire was gone. helm’s deep refused to respond to her commands. Her students had stopped attending. The AI moderators were repeating phrases she had not approved.

She climbed onto the edge of the parapet, gripping the cold stone. Cameras were pointed up now, not at her command desk, but at her. She began to speak – a live stream auto-triggered.

“This is madness,” she began, voice ragged. “You’ve let them invert the world. You’ve surrendered reason to mud and noise. The system, the order, the way…” She faltered. Her notes flew from her hand in a gust. The crowd below murmured. Some cried. Others simply turned away. A flag, stitched from an old Oxford banner and a piece of a flood-camp roof, fluttered on a nearby tower.

Her acolytes steed-back as Abigail staggered, foot slipping on moss. For a moment she hung between sky and stone, then fell. The last image: her robe catching on the spike of an iron railing, half-submerged in the river Isis. Red on black. Motionless.

The Echo

The silence afterward was not empty. It was full. A child in the crowd asked their parent what had happened. “She couldn’t hear us,” came the reply. And as the rain began again, not the flood, just rain, the city breathed for the first time in years. From the ruins of two worlds, something new was already rising.

POSTSCRIPT: THE NEW COMMONS

Walls Come Down (2040–2070)

By late-century, the stone walls that once divided Oxford – town from gown, rich from poor, human from human – had mostly crumbled. Some were pulled down by hand. Others simply collapsed under the weight of water and time.

The floods did what protest could not: they dissolved privilege into silt. What emerged in place of hierarchy wasn’t chaos, but compost, rich with seeds.

New Governance Experiments, out of necessity and mess, people began to organize differently. No central decree. Just the #OMN and #4opens spreading like mycelium.

Neighbourhoods became nodes. Floating co-ops on the Isis managed shared solar rigs. Food forests rose from flooded parks. Old classrooms turned into civic kitchens. Meetings happened in circles, not hierarchies. Every document was public. Every voice mattered, not equally, perhaps, but openly.

Some of the surviving institutions adapted kebal ran a hackerspace. Somerville merged with a refugee school collective. Others simply became empty shells, like insects who’d shed their usefulness.

Oxford, once a symbol of elitist enclosure, became a living test bed for post-collapse co-governance.

Epilogue: Memory and Flow (2080s)

The narrator speaks, voice weathered but clear, a child of the new city, grown into an elder:

“The floodplains are where I was born. In a tent pitched on what used to be Merton Quad. We had algae on our boots, bread in the ovens, and data ethics debates with every brew of rainwater tea.

I never knew the dry city. Just the city that listened.

We don’t have leaders now. We have guides. Sortatied for a time, rotated, recalled, thanked. It’s slow, sure. But so is the river. And the river shapes everything.”

Tom passed quietly one winter, his archives in a communal raft-library that still drifts from district to district. Leila stayed, becoming a memory weaver, her team tends the glitchy #makeinghistory index, the great remembering machine that logs every argument, every joke, every blueprint for mutual survival.

As for Dr. Neel Joshi? He was last seen feeding lines of forgotten poetry to a flickering terminal beneath Keble Crypt, helm’s deeps last ghost lit by candlelight and solar batterys.

The city no longer aims to be great. It aims to be good enough and growing.

“The river won,” the narrator says. “And so did we, not by damming it, but by learning to live with its flow. Not by clinging to the stones, but by letting go. And learning to swim.”

– End of Book –

This book came out of the last 3 months of Oxford events, and practically a reading group of news from nowhere https://hamishcampbell.com/tag/oxford/ So it is written in the same utopia/dystopia theme. May 2025

To-do: find better names, add more local color, bring in boaters, explain the #OMN better

For background on this path: https://crimethinc.com/2025/06/06/a-common-treasury-for-all-mutual-aid-and-the-revolutionary-abolition-of-capitalism-revisiting-the-difference-between-mutual-aid-and-charity

Master text might be updated https://unite.openworlds.info/Open-Media-Network/MakingHistory/wiki/Story+-+Oxford%3A+Going+with+The+Flow.-

A call-out for collective tech with teeth

It’s important to be honest about the landscape we’re working in. Just about every so-called “alternative tech” or #opensocialweb event – especially those run under the #NGO banner – is riddled with institutional parasites. They talk a big game about ethics, governance, and decentralisation, but their main role is to capture energy, not release it. The value in these spaces is minimal, maybe a few decent corridor chats, but structurally, they serve the status quo.

What we’re seeing is an attempt to #mainstream change by reshaping it into something more passive and marketable. It’s branding, not building. It’s funding cycles, not freedom. And people are so used to the #feudalism of current #FOSS governance models, full of gatekeepers, toxic meritocracy, and internalised hierarchy, that they don’t see the need to move past this. They double down instead, its just #blocking masked as principled caution.

That’s why the #OGB project (Open Governance Body) takes a radically different approach: build it permissionless and let it loose. No waiting for gatekeepers, no begging for funding, no asking nicely. Just making space for people to actually do the thing – together, in the open. If it works, people will come. If not, we try something else. But we stop wasting energy on the #mainstreaming rituals.

The key is to recognise that there’s a different and much larger group of people, beyond the usual suspects, who can be empowered by tech if the structures are simple, human, and social enough. People who want to work together, share power, and build resilience, not just ship code. Yes, the tools need to exist, the ideas already exist, what’s been missing is a path that doesn’t instantly collapse into control.

That’s why #OGB is a #KISS project, it’s not about perfection. It’s about functioning enough to seed community processes that can grow over time. Something you can pick up and use, rather than argue about forever in a GitHub issue or a grant proposal.

Let’s be real, people are up shit creek without a paddle right now. And most of what’s presented to them as “solutions” are just more mess dressed up in new UX. If we want people to find different ways out, we have to build different places to look. That means creating tech ecosystems rooted in social trust, creativity, and actual autonomy, not more extractive platforms or performative NGOs.

We also need to deal with the deeper issue of apathy and Laissez-faire fatalism. People feel the system’s broken but don’t believe it can be changed. They’ve internalised the idea that trying is pointless. So we need to design structures that take this into account. Systems that don’t rely on constant enthusiasm or perfect participation. That hold space through thick and thin, for the long term.

This is where there’s real space for creativity and care, not just in what we build, but in how we build it, and who we build it with. Not self-promoting conferences, not glossy decks, but compost piles and messy gardens, things that live, change, and root themselves in everyday needs.

The #OGB project is just one shovel. But there are others. Pick one up. The ground’s ready.

Governance, the mess of AI tech-fix paths

Seminar Reflection: Philosophy, AI, and Innovation – Week 6
Topic: AI Deliberation at Scale
Speakers: Chris Summerfield (Oxford & AI Safety Institute), MH Tessler (Google DeepMind)
Key texts: Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (excerpt) and Summerfield et al., “AI Can Help Humans Find Common Ground in Democratic Deliberation”

This seminar focus is on scaling democratic deliberation via AI. The example proposal is the #HabermasMachine a test projects to facilitate large-scale consensus using #LLMs (Large Language Models). The framing, unsurprisingly, is drawn from the elitist tech sector – Google DeepMind and Oxford – with a focus on “safety” and “moderation” over human messiness and agency.

The problem we face is that this #techshit path might work, but for who is the question, what kind of “public sphere” is this #AI recreating, and who holds the power to shape it? These are strongly top-down, technocratic proposals, rooted in a narrow utilitarian logic. The underlying assumption is that human decision-making is flawed and must be mediated, and ultimately managed, by algorithmic systems. Consensus is determined not through lived human to human dialogue or, as I like to say – mess, but through an AI that quietly nudges discussions to centrist consensuses.

There is no meaningful eye-to-eye group interaction in this project, no room for DIY, #bottom up agency. Participants become data points in a system that claims to “listen,” but acts through elitist mediation. It is consensus without community, and safety without solidarity. What’s missing is the power of mess, the presenter ignores this central question: Can we build messy, human-scale deliberation that doesn’t rely on top-down interventions?

Projects like this are not grassroots governance, rather it’s governance-by-black-box, mainstreaming by design, the incentive model is telling: ideas that align with the status quo or dominant narratives are rewarded with more money. Consensus is guided not by grassroots engagement or dissenting voices, but by what the algorithm (and its funders) consider “productive.” This is the quiet suffocating hand of #mainstreaming, cloaked in neutral code.

#TechFixes paths like this are about stability at all costs, yet we live in a time when stability is the problem, with #ClimateChaos threatening billions, the demand is for transformation, not moderation.

This is AI as intermediary, not a facilitator of the commons paths we need. Transparency? Not here, no one knows how the #AI reaches consensus. The models are proprietary, the tweaks are political, and the outcomes are mediated by those already in power. The system becomes an unaccountable broker, not of truth, but of what power is willing to hear.

We need to be wary of any system that claims to represent us without us being meaningfully involved. This is a curated spectacle of consensus, delivered by machines, funded by corporations, and mediated by invisible hands. What we need is human to human projects like the #OGB, not tech managed consensus. This #mainstreaming path isn’t compost. It’s simply more #techshit to be composted, mess is a feature, not a bug.

In the #OMN (Open Media Network), we explore paths rooted in trust, openness, and peer-to-peer process. Not asking for power to listen, but taking space to act. We compost the mess; we don’t pretend it can be sanitized by top-down coding.

#Oxford #AI #techshit #dotcons

The story: power, truth, and walking the fun path

Our powerlessness feeds our desire to hate. This is not a personal failing – it’s a social design flaw. A path built on alienation and distraction will always funnel frustration into polarisation. That’s why the controversy-driven algorithms of the #dotcons (corporate social media platforms) are not just annoying, but actively harmful. They feed on our despair, and we, often unknowingly, feed on the drama they serve back to us.

It’s a closed loop of spectacle and spite, profitable to the #nastyfew but corrosive to us, the meany. An extractive business model built on social breakdown. And yet, many of us know this. So why do we stay? Because stepping away from this mess is hard. It takes more than wishful thinking. It takes movement. Not only that, but it takes organising. It takes the kind of networked activism and lived alternatives the Open Media Network (#OMN) has been building and trying to seed for the last ten years

Let us not overlook vital things, because of the bulk of trifles confronting us.

Truth isn’t declared, it’s built. #Postmodernism taught us that truth is slippery. That’s fine, but in the hands of #mainstreaming culture, that slipperiness has become a tool of endless distraction and decay. People say things like they are true because they feel true. They build tech platforms because they believe in them. They sell movements as brands because it looks like change. But let’s be honest: wishing something into truth does not make it true.

What makes things true is collective struggle, shared purpose, and concrete acts of solidarity. A load of social work, grounded activism, and careful trust-building make something true. This is the hard path, but it’s also the only one worth walking, and when we do it together with joy it’s the happy path.

Pettiness separates; breadth unites. Let us be broad and big.

The #geekproblem, again, is too often a part of this mess. Writing code is seen as a kind of truth declaration. “Look, it runs! So it must be real!” But a thing that compiles is not the same as a thing that lives. Tech without community is a corpse. For anything to matter, you need people. And to keep people, you need some rough-and-ready PR. You need actual engagement. You need trust, time, and probably a bit of music and food too. We can’t engineer our way out of this crisis. We have to organise our way out.

The #Lifecult vs. the #Deathcult. What we’re up against isn’t just bad ideas, it’s a worship of stability, spectacle, and control, the illusion of movement through aesthetic alone, no real challenge to the dominant system. It feels warm. It promises safety. But it leaves no room for difference, contradiction, or rebellion, this is inside both “cult”.

It requires less mental effort to condemn than to think

This is why we don’t need worship, we need practical action. Change and challenge are not side effects of our projects – they are the sharp point. We don’t do this work to be liked, we do it because there is no other way to make things true. And if we do this together, it becomes fun and meaningful – we create social “truth”.

Working with the #Eurocrats (and other impossible people). Let’s talk about the institutions. The #EU. Local governments. #NGOs. Big tech “allies.” They are hopelessly incompetent when it comes to grassroots tech and progressive social change. But here’s the thing, they will not go away on their own. If we don’t push, the right-wing will step in and push harder. That’s mess is already happening.

Revolution is but thought carried into action.

So we take the harder path, we show up, try to guide. We keep the door open even when it slams in our face. And yes, it’s exhausting. We’ve tried to work with #mainstreaming people. Many are unbelievably vile, and worst of all, they have no idea they’re behaving badly. They don’t see their role in the decay. They don’t see the crisis, because the spectacle of control makes everything look fine.

But we see it, and we are not powerless, refusing the mess is about rebuilding the commons. Yes, the current #mainstreaming is a mess. A deep, systemic, soul-grinding mess. But we should not put up with it. That’s what #OMN is for. That’s what projects like #indymediaback, #OGB (Open Governance Body), and the broader #openweb movement are trying to hold space for.

We don’t need more hype. We need slow, messy, grounded work:

  • Listen more than we preach.
  • Read each other’s code, politics, and history before rewriting.
  • Talk about our failures honestly.
  • Grow media and networks that are native to community, not layered on top like #dotcons digital colonialism.
  • Build up our own cultures of care and collaboration in the #openweb to replace the dying ones.

This is fun, not a strategy of purity or perfection, it’s a strategy of survival, and even joy.
Ideas? Responses? This is not a closed story, it’s a beginning. If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of it, good. That’s where we start from. But let’s not stop there. Come build, talk, and argue. Come plant seeds, come help make the mess into compost.

All the quotes are from Emma Goldman

William Morris – Bridging Theory and Practice in News from Nowhere

This post is from being a part of this Oxford reading group. Feedback on William Morris, his life and books, which doesn’t only critique capitalism and dream about its collapse, but also offers a compelling vision of what comes after. Imagines a society without money, coercion, or hierarchical governance. Power is radically distributed, labour is voluntary and meaningful, and the commons is at the centre of life. It’s not a managerial future, it’s an organic one, shaped by lived values. This mirrors the path of the #OMN, building tools, processes, and networks that support autonomy and participation, not through top-down control or commercial funding, but through collective action and care.

With a little bit of historical context, it is clear why William Morris prods his critics, he anticipates the scepticism from theoretically thinkers, especially those following in the tradition of Marx and Engels. In one exchange, Morris inserts a moment of humour to push back against armchair critics. The narrator, William Guest, is exploring a utopian future guided by Dick, a cheerful and capable local. They encounter Bob, a character marked by his outdated bookishness and preference for abstract theory over lived experience. When Guest accidentally slips up, forgetting he’s meant to be posing as someone from overseas rather than from the past, Bob calls him out. Dick steps in with a scathing but playful remark:

“The fact is, I begin to think that you have so muddled your head with mathematics, and with grubbing into those idiotic books about political economy (he he!), that you scarcely know how to behave. Really, it is about time for you to take some open-air work, so that you may clear away the cobwebs from your brain.”

The laughter after “political economy” is key. Morris isn’t just poking fun, he’s positioning his vision as something deliberately different. Rather than being a blueprint built from existing leftist theory, his utopia grows out of lived practice and collective labour. He acknowledges the critiques Marxist thinkers might level, but counters with a subtle provocation: leave the theory room and go outside. Work with your hands. Test your ideas in the open air.

Theory is not dismissed outright, but it is secondary to active participation in community life. Morris invites readers to imagine a world shaped not only by critique, but by doing. His utopia isn’t a perfect extrapolation from Marxist doctrine; it’s an imaginative leap into what might happen when people stop only theorising and start building together.

This is core to the #OMN story, the #openweb failed in part because it became a playground for commercial, #geekproblem abstraction or academic debates, or worse, captured by institutions that fear mess and openness. Morris reminds us that we need doing, not just thinking – and that horizontal systems only thrive when they’re lived and felt, not just diagrammed.

This is a vision without dogma, unlike the rigid structures of Marxist utopia or the technocratic dreams of platform capitalism, Morris offers a soft, slow, human-scale path. It’s full of contradiction, it’s messy, and it values beauty, leisure, and craft. It’s grounded in love for place, people, and cooperative labour.

Horizontal organising as culture, not system, governance happens through conversation, relationships, and shared values. There are no formal elections or bureaucracies. Everything operates on trust, accountability, and mutual care, built over time, not imposed from above. This is a needed lesson for grassroots organising.

The #OMN doesn’t need polished governance frameworks before people act. It needs lived participation, native cultures of trust, and tools that reflect those values. Morris shows that horizontal organising isn’t a tech stack or a voting app, it’s a culture. Projects like the #OGB are about reclaiming this messiness. The idea is not to replace one form of control with another (just more “open”), but to nurture space where real community publishing, trust, and difference can coexist. Like Morris’s vision, it’s a lived, imperfect commons, not a polished platform.

What people in the #OMN path can learn is that utopia is not a blueprint, it’s a compass. Use it to orient, not to dictate. Theory must be grounded in doing. Don’t build systems people can’t live in. Trust is built in the day-to-day and governance starts in how we relate to each other. Beauty, leisure, and joy matter, alternative systems fail when they forget to be human.

News from Nowhere is not a fantasy novel, It’s better to see it as an early manual for how to feel our way into better futures, this path aligns with the #OMN mission of rebuilding media and communication from the ground up, with openness, care, and community at its core.

https://opencollective.com/open-media-network

#Oxford

The Mess – If You Don’t Value Things, You Destroy Them

We live inside and meany of us under a system for 200 years, global capitalism, where value is determined not by care, connection, or any collective well-being, but by market logic. If something is not valued in that narrow logic, it is treated as waste. This means that if you don’t actively value the alternatives – you will “accidentally” destroy them. This applies to tech, culture, nature, and community.

In this, tech, has a problem of misplaced value, people still keep using #mainstreaming tools – the platforms and apps of the #dotcons – because they’re easy, because everyone else does, or simply out of habit. But this actively erodes the alternatives we’ve built: It disempowers projects like #visionontv, #OMN, #OGB, #indymediaback. It centralizes control, disconnects us from human-scale governance, and reinforces #stupidindividualism.

This highlights the balance of social change vs. technological change. We must be clear: social change without tech will stall, and tech change without social grounding will fail or harm. With the #OMN projects, the #OGB is designed to bridge this divide. It’s not dogmatic, so no rigid ideology fully owns it. But it’s balanced, so many groups can come to accept it, if we can just get it implemented by a committed few.

But this implementation is hard, because we’re all facing BLOCKING, #BLOCKING and the #deathcult. We all BLOCK, we all turn away from truths that feel uncomfortable: Liberals block radical alternatives. Dogmatists block flexible, balanced ones. Most people just block anything that complicates their worldview.

And after 40 years of #neoliberalism, this #deathcult logic is deep inside us all, a vicious cycle of #stupidindividualism. Without community ownership, without collective vision, our tools fail: Projects decay into power politics and people retreat into passivity or purity spirals. And the worship of “personal freedom” just becomes fuel for the fire. We’re trapped in a feedback loop of: Individualism → Disconnection → Destruction → Fear → More individualism.

Change is messy, it’s supposed to be, that’s why we need to give/take ownership of our #openweb infrastructure. We need democratic instincts, not clean #PR. We need value-driven mess, not market-driven clarity. We need to embrace the #KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid) path – precisely because it’s the hardest thing for people to do in this world of shiny distractions.

Final point is you are part of this, a lot of people are passive, lazy, even stupid – but not because they’re bad, more because the system makes them this way, because it rewards disinterest. And many of them – many of you – can’t even see the problem, because you’re so deep inside it. That’s the trap, the invisible BLOCK we must face. That’s what the #OMN and #OGB try to push through. So yes – I’m probably pointing the finger at YOU. But also inviting you to build, to grow, to compost the myths and grow something more real, more humanistic.

#KISS

Stop chasing tech cults and start growing rooted alternatives

#Musk is a useful example of the #nastyfew: wealthy technocrats wrapping themselves in the cloak of progress while undermining the foundations of any, let alone a just future. These stories and narratives about innovation are a high-tech rebrand of green capitalism, a slick façade masking the same old decaying systems of extraction, inequality, and authoritarianism.

The problem they push is that instead of confronting the #KISS causes of our social and planetary crises, these people offer us distraction: electric cars for the elitists, fantasies of Mars colonies, and #AI overlords dressed up as saviours. This isn’t transformation – it’s #deathcult worshiping continuity in crisis.

People like Musk are useful to the #deathcult because they peddle a seductive, market-friendly myth: that we don’t need to change our behaviour, our economics, or our power structures, we just need to upgrade our tech. Comforting, isn’t it? For those who benefit from the status quo, it’s the perfect nasty con.

He personally embodies the worst of the #geekproblem: the cult of the engineer, disconnected from social reality, obsessed with “fixing” the world through code and hardware while ignoring the human systems that create the problems in the first place. This is dead libertarian ideology dressed in the shrowed of innovation.

We urgently need to compost these myths. Not just resist them, actively decompose them, mix them with grounded knowledge, and grow something better from this soil.

That’s where projects like the #OMN (Open Media Network) come in – a project seeded in the messy, composted soil of decades of grassroots media and digital commons. Unlike the sleek towers of technocratic illusion, #OMN is rooted in public-first values: transparency, participation, autonomy, and trust. It’s not about building new silos or chasing the next unicorn, it’s about connecting the islands of resistance, amplifying local grassroots voices to rebuild public infrastructure for storytelling, organising, and governance.

The #OMN isn’t anti-tech – it’s pro-human. It’s a network built with people, for people – not for investors or ego-driven billionaires. It draws from the radical legacy of projects like #indymediaback, and threads in tools like #OGB to bring coherence and shared narrative to the fractured #openweb reboot. So please stop chasing tech cults and start growing rooted alternatives.

“Use and abuse” is a good strategy for dealing with the #dotcons while they continue to dominate our digital and social infrastructure. Why? Because refusing to engage with these platforms outright is the equivalent of shouting into the void – or living in a cave. And caves, while romantic to a certain type of purist, are never effective social solutions.

The truth is this #dotcons are still where the #mainstreaming people live, and mainstream attention is power, even if borrowed. As radicals or progressives, using their platforms to push counter-narratives, while simultaneously undermining their legitimacy and building our own independent infrastructure, is both necessary and strategic. Think of it as exiting from within by using their reach to grow the seeds of your alt-path.

The #OMN isn’t just about media, it’s about building the social soil

We need to keep highlighting an old but still urgent tension: the intersection of technology and social change. In this too often unspoken divide, one side leans heavily on practical, technical problem-solving. They want working code, functioning systems, and tangible results, not abstract debates. To them, critiques about capitalism shaping code sound like distractions from the “real work.” The other side insists that technical problems are social problems. They argue that all code is written by people, shaped by culture, power, and history. Ignoring the social dynamics behind technology guarantees we repeat the same failures.

This divide plays out constantly in movements trying to bridge the worlds of #AltTech and social transformation. You see it in tensions between the tech-focused “geek” communities and broader #mainstreaming society. And both sides have blind spots.

The geek camp often falls into the #geekproblem: over-prioritizing tech innovation while ignoring the human and social context. Meanwhile, the #mainstreaming crowd tends to embrace vague social ideals while underestimating the soft power – and necessity – of building real technical infrastructure to support those ideals. Neither side alone can solve anything meaningful, especially not something as vast as rebooting the #openweb or to even start to touch on #climatechaos.

We need bridges, that’s what projects like the #OMN (Open Media Network), #OGB, #IndymediaBack, and #MakingHistory are about: building trust-based, grounded, people-powered platforms that can span the divide between tech and society.

But let’s be honest, there’s a lot of very bad behaviour on all sides of the #openweb reboot. Blocking progress, gatekeeping, aggression, virtue signalling… it’s all too common. Let’s try not to become prats, it’s easy to start, and hard to stop. Mess breeds more mess, prat-ish behaviour comes in waves. It aligns with waves of #mainstreaming and the reactive “alt” backlash, these tides bring a lot of flotsam, it’s up to us to shovel and compost what we can.

Our biggest block right now? The culture war postmodernist fog that has drifted through radical spaces over the past decades. It’s slippery, full of “common sense” that doesn’t hold up, but hard to challenge because it feels right. Composting this will be difficult, but necessary.

The #Fediverse is built on people-to-people relationships. Trust, not just tech, is the foundation. That’s why there’s a healthy pushback against “tech fixes” that try to replace social trust, a path that is much more common in places like #Nostr and #Bluesky, where algorithms and cryptography are too often seen as the solution to everything.

Yes, in reality, we need a balance of both. The debate is fluffy in places, spiky in others. But if we build tech-bridges to span this messy social terrain, we might actually get somewhere. This brings us to the hard green question: how do you scale local, eco-conscious solutions to a disinterested – and sometimes hostile – global population? Green progressives often promote small-scale, ethical living. That’s great for the 1% who can afford to live that way. But what about the other 99%?

Let’s be blunt: some people will die from #climatechaos. Maybe 9%, maybe more. But 90% will still be here, and they will need different kinds of solutions. Right now, the options on the table look like this: A rebooted, green-infused social democracy (the old Corbyn project was an example). A slide into eco-fascism and top-down “solutions” (the Trump path). Or doing nothing, and let #climatechaos run wild (the current #mainstreaming).

One thing is likely, a wartime economy is coming within 20 years, where there’s will be little room for the last 40 years of #neoliberalism, and “soft” liberalism will likely play a secondary role at best, the political landscape is shifting fast. The new #mainstreaming question is which side will you be on?

Because we need more than clean branding and good vibes – we need bold, practical, radical action rooted in both tech and human trust. We don’t just need freedom from the state and the #dotcons – We need freedom from our own dogmas.

The #OMN isn’t just about media, it’s about building the social soil where openness can grow, thrive, and renew. We need compost, and not just as a metaphor.

Composting the reboot funding

Dear Michiel,

At this point, it’s hard not to notice a pattern. You’ve received clear, thoughtful proposals aligned with your calls – yet no real engagement, year after year. I’ve said this gently before: your call-out text needs to be composted. If you’re not funding alternative, open, activist infrastructure – just say that. Don’t lead people on.

Look forward to seeing what did get funded – I’ll be writing something on that soon https://hamishcampbell.com/?s=nlnet

A post on why this kind of institutional #geekproblem push needs compost: https://hamishcampbell.com/we-need-to-compost-the-current-culture-of-lying/

Hamish

Not surprised. This is probably the 10th time we’ve applied to the #NLnet / #NGI fund over the years. Just heard back: our proposals for #OGB (Open Governance Body), #indymediaback, and #MakeingHistory were not selected – again.

“We are very sorry that we cannot offer you support for your good efforts.”

Sure, I, appreciate the polite brush-off again. But after so many rejections for solid, urgently needed tech projects that actually fit the funding goals, it’s time to name what’s really going on.

That there’s no #mainstreaming support for grassroots alternative, activist-rooted #openweb infrastructure. These projects aren’t pointless and inoffensive enough, not wrapped in shiny #NGO-speak, and don’t fit the comfy (in)circles of #geekproblem “innovative” funding. But they are native, they are needed, and they work – if you actually want a humane, federated, public-interest net that the funding outreach text says you do.

Time and again, we’re told these projects are “not selected” – Meanwhile, funding continues to flow toward a few good minority projects, a few #mainstreaming #fashernista alt tech projects, but the most goes to, minority interest, academic paths or closed bureaucratic #geekproblem circles, recycling the same stale stack of status quo ideas in slick/pointless packaging.

On balance, this is VERY much not building the #openweb – it’s way too often pushing #NGO and geek hobby paths or building another layer of the #closedweb under a friendlier mask. Yes, the is some small good done with this tech funding, it supports the big #dotcons copying Fediverse projects, no bad thing. But on the question of balance, we can see the lies.

We’re not discouraged. We’re composting this – as ever – into the next push. And yes, we’ll keep applying in till they change the text of the invites, so our projects are not the perfect fit they are now. Not because we believe the system works, but because we need to document the process if it works, well more when it doesn’t work, sadly. Composting lies is a part of the #openweb reboot.

If you do want to support native, trust-based, grassroots tech building, outside the NGO bubble, chip in here: https://opencollective.com/open-media-network or help to make this institutional funding work as it says it does.

A look at this narrow #NGO and #geekproblem point of view

The essence of the #geekproblem is its narrow, self-referential logic. Here’s a #spiky, pointed, prody view of the narrow track of thinking that defines the #geekproblem in the context of an #openweb reboot:

“There is no Emperor, King, or Priest in the Fediverse’s feudalism.”

The illusion is that it’s all flat – no power structures, just pure meritocracy. If you’re already a priest or acolyte, there’s no need to ask. You just do:

  • Want a new app? Code it.
  • Want a new protocol? Spec and ship it.
  • Want a new UX? Design it and deploy.

And if you can’t do it yourself? Then you kneel before the alternative establishment and pray.
Or, as they prefer to say, advocate.

This is both a critique of the (hidden) hierarchies and a mirror held up to the myths of autonomy and openness in the current #Fediverse culture. There’s a real power structure – it just doesn’t wear a crown, but if you look it’s VERY visible, people choose not to look, this is the #techshit mess we make and need to balance with healthy grassroots composting.

What would a #fluffy view of this look like?

What we need is useful compost layer’s for growing native projects

Compost, not illusions, is a first step – A radical look at “light green” tech – For a second step we need a useful compost layer for growing native projects, like the #OMN. What we currently have in most so-called “green technology” promoted through #mainstreaming and #fashernista narratives is not ecological in substance – it’s performative environmentalism, built on omission, distortion, and branding. To help make sense of this mess, let’s use the lenses of the #4opens, the #geekproblem, and the broader #openweb.

The mess is “green” as branding, not substance. Most of today’s #mainstreaming “green” tech, like, electric vehicles (EVs), solar panels, wind turbines – is “green” in aesthetics, not in impact. These are products sold as solutions, but they’re too often rooted in the same extractive, centralized, and opaque paths and systems that caused the problems in the first place. This is the heart of the lie we need to compost, as the needed social change cannot grow from toxic soil, no matter how glossy and plastic the flower appears. If we ignore the roots, we get more illusions.

Watch this critique: The True Cost of Green Tech (YouTube)

The #OMN critique is to move past the false solutions and the broken paths. Yes, light green solutions pushed by institutions and NGOs aren’t inherently bad technologies – but their production, distribution, and governance models are deeply flawed. They violate every principle of the #4opens:

  • Open data: No honest accounting of full lifecycle impacts.
  • Open source: Dominated by proprietary, locked-in systems.
  • Open process: Controlled by corporations and states, with no meaningful public input.
  • Open standards: Sacrificed for monopolistic vertical integration (e.g., Tesla).

The result is more #techshit – waste and violence hidden behind shiny #PR branding. Even our weak #NGOs point out the brutal costs: resource extraction (cobalt, lithium, rare earths), labour exploitation (child and Uyghur forced labour), and environmental dumping. These costs are buried beneath greenwashed PR aesthetics, making them palatable to consumers but invisible to our shared, and needed critique.

The #geekproblem, the “problem” in much geek culture, is tech as saviour, this is the belief that technology itself is inherently progressive. This takes us down the paths where proposed “fixes” like nuclear follow the same flawed paths: centralized, capital-intensive, top-down systems cloaked in the language of innovation. It’s new wrapping, same old crap.

This is not a path to climate justice. It’s a continuation of the #deathcult – digital colonialism powered by extraction, slavery, and silence. No genuine social or ecological transformation can grow from this poisoned foundation. Where the real cost of “green” tech is not just ignored, it’s deliberately silenced. This silence isn’t accidental; it’s structural. The narrative that we can “buy better things” and consume our way out of crisis is a pacifying lie. It sells comfort, not change.

True ecological technology must be social first. It should grow from transformation, not transaction. We need to compost the lies to grow real alternatives. We must compost the #mainstreaming myths-this is the role of #hashtag stories.

There are meany paths to take, the one I focus on is reclaiming small-scale, peer-produced infrastructure. Using the #4opens to demand transparency, accountability, and participation. Solar panels and EVs have a role, but only when embedded in a radically #degrowth paths: Open governance (#OGB), local, decentralized production (right to repair, community assembly), circular economy (reuse, repurpose, recycle), humanism as non-negotiable (no slavery, no offshoring of harm). It’s a simple, not to say old-fashioned idea of humanistic progress, maybe we can do this better this time, I hope.

Conclusion, please #KISS the illusions goodbye, build the compost heap. Now also, please remember, we are not against technology – we’re against the lies that accompany it. As long as we keep lying about the nature of change, we cannot begin the real work. We need fertile ground – a compost layer for native projects like the #OMN – to push openness and cultivate the genuine ecological thinking we need to grow. It’s way past time for people to lift their heads from worshipping the #deathcult and stop being prats about this.

Tech governance fails, its pastime to compost the mess

The last 20 years of tech governance projects keep missing the mark because they refuse to engage with the real, lived experiences of grassroots activists and community builders. Instead of listening, they fall back into the comfort zones of the #geekproblem: control over collaboration, certainty over-curiosity, code over community.

This is further compounded by the “professional” #NGO class of detached, branding-obsessed, and career-driven #mainstreaming. They claim to serve communities but remain disconnected from the daily struggles, uncertainty, and messiness that define grassroots organizing. These people aren’t building relationships; they’re building resumes.

If they could stop and actually listen to those of us who’ve been in the trenches, those who’ve composted decades of failures and seeded collective wins, they’d quickly see the futility of their rigid, technocratic paths. Real governance isn’t found in plush committee rooms or geeky blockchains. It always emerges from shared struggle, radical trust, and the mess of collaboration.

Until tech governance initiatives shift focus, from control to cooperation, from professional advancement to collective empowerment, they will continue to fail. Worse, they will undermine the communities they claim to support. And let’s be honest, it’s well past time to compost the last ten years of #encryptionist fantasy-making as a first step.

The #OGB (Open Governance Body) was created as a response to this mess making. Rooted in the #4opens principles, it challenges the false promises of #blockchain and #DAOs, which replicate the worst aspects of capitalist market logic, financialization, scarcity, and the concentration of power. Tokens and ledgers are not the future of grassroots governance, they’re its co-option.

We need to actively resist these technological distractions because we know that community is not code. And governance is not a smart contract. We need grassroots paths that reflect gift economies, mutual aid, and social trust, not digital casinos. The truth is that still too many #mainstreaming #NGO types are more interested in branding their codebases and instances than actually serving the messy, vibrant, collective reality of the #openweb as it exists.

That’s why we need the #OMN (Open Media Network). Because governance, media, and tech are not separate, they’re bound together. The #OMN path is about rooting our tools in real communities, building trust over time, and composting the failed hype cycles of the last decade.

If we want an #openweb that matters, we have to dig deeper. Start local. Share power. And stay messy.