Natimorto

  • The geometry of ignorance

    A postface to “Thrasymachu’s Revenge” by Linch and Pagnoncelli.

    Reading “Thrasymachu’s Revenge” made me sense the gravity of a question that has haunted Western thought since the agora of Athens: What becomes of justice, truth, and reason when persuasion supplants understanding? The authors elegantly resurrect the quarrel between Socrates and Thrasymachus not as an antiquarian curiosity, but as a mirror to our own epoch, one in which rhetoric, amplified by algorithms, has conquered the terrain of the rational.

    Yet to grasp the full depth of this revenge, it’s required to recall that the sophist’s maxim — justice is the advantage of the stronger — was never merely political. The matter was always epistemological.

    It declares that knowledge itself bends to power.

    Foucault would later echo this insight, though with a critical inversion: it’s not the power corrupting truth, but truth is always produced within regimes of power. Linch and Pagnoncelli diagnose the metastasis of this dynamic in the digital sphere, where the logos of reason has yielded to the pathos of engagement.

    If Thrasymachu’s revenge finds its modern theatre anywhere, it is in the digital sphere, an agora without marble, a marketplace without infinitesimal pauses of silence. Here, the ancient logos, once the sinew of rational discourse, has not merely waned; it has metastasised into its opposite. The pathology of persuasion, once a confined affliction of sophists and demagogues, now proliferates algorithmically. It no longer needs an orator to incite the crowd, but the crowd incites itself, each participant both subject and vector of contagion.

    This may not be the death of reason, but its mutation. The logos has not been silenced, but has been repurposed as a rhetorical instrument of affect. The structures of argument remain: premise, evidence, conclusion. But now their order has been inverted. Feeling precedes inference, conviction precedes comprehension. (One may recall a judge who had no proof, but conviction). What once required the effort of dialectic now unfolds as reflex. To be moved had replaced the imperative to understand.

    In such an environment, truth ceases to exist a horizon one approachs asymptotically, it becames an event. A flash of affective recognition, a moment of digital communion. Engagement metrics serve as the new epistemology: what is most reacted to is most real. The measure of validity is virality. The syllogism dissolves into the algorithm.

    To call this a metastasis is not mere rhetoric. Like neoplasia, it arises from the body’s own cells — the legitimate operations of discourse — turned malignant by a replication without regulation. The same faculties that once served deliberation now feed addiction. Curiosity becomes compulsion; debate becomes performative indignation; thought becomes branding. Plato feared that writing would weaken memory and I wonder what he would have said of infinite scrolling.

    The digital sphere does not reject reason outright; it simulates it. Threads mimic dialogue, comments feign dialectic, and data analytics impersonate empiricism. Yet beneath that semblance of discourse lies a profound inversion: the more one speaks, the less one listens: the more connections, the fewer communes. Logos, stripped of its ethical dimension, survives only as decorum. Almost like a mask of rationality worn by passion itself.

    In this metamorphosis lies a tragic irony. The Enlightenment’s tools — universal access to information, democratization of speech — produced a Babel of consensus, a noise so loud that meaning itself has become indistinguishable from signal.

    What once was liberation culminated in the tyranny of immediacy. The incessant demand that all thought be instantaneous, all judgment be performative, all dissent be monetised.

    Thus, the digital realm becomes the perfect stage for Thrasymachu’s revenge. Not because the strong dominate the weak, but because strength itself has been redefined as visibility.

    Power no longer resides in truth, but in traction.

    Authority no longer persuades by argument, but by momentum.

    The philosopher, who once wrestled with concepts of solitude, now competes with the noise of influencers, who convert emotion into currency.

    So, the logos, once the architect of civilisation, finds itself in exile. It ruins repurposed as scenery of a spectacle of perpetual reaction.

    Yet, every metastasis presupposes an origin still capable of memory, and, perhaps, of recovery. Against the algorithmic intoxication of immediacy, a counter-movement might arise not through confrontation, but through withdrawal. The reclamation of the interior act itself.

    Hannah Arendt reminded us that thinking, in its truest form, is a solitary dialogue with oneself: a refusal to dissolve into the collective noise, an insistence on the stillness in which judgment can be born.

    Likewise, Simone Weil conceived attention as a moral act — the quiet, sustained openness to reality unmediated by appetite or assertion. Such disciplines, though fragile, are subversive precisely because they cannot be quantified or monetised. They resist the logic of traction by restoring the primacy of presence. If the digital agora thrives on reaction, then the ethical counterpoint lies in receptivity; if the algorithm feeds on speed, then salvation may begin in slowness.

    If the algorithm represents the unholy successor to the trivium — a machinery of persuasion without grammar of rhetoric without logic, we must begin where education once began: with the restoration of attentiveness as an ethical act. It’s imperative to reassert the humanist conviction that meaning requires meditation. This way, we would prize ambiguity over certainty, nuance over immediacy, the slow work of discernment over the instant gratification outrage. In such a revival, part monastic, part civic, the trivium might be reborn within algorithm’s ruins. Not as nostalgia, but as resistance. A pedagogy of patience capable of teaching us, once again, how to see.

    The reacceptance of incompleteness, not as a failure, but as a fidelity of reality. To think ethically is to dwell within uncertainty without demanding resolution.

    This is the humility Gödel restored to reason and which our digital absolutism most fears: that the truth, however luminous, remains partially veiled. It would make mathematics not an idol of certainty but a model of restraint. A reminder that coherence is not completeness and that the infinite lies precisely in what cannot be computed.

    This may sound like a love letter, because such like love, it requires the courage to remain open where the crowd insists on closure, to think where the system demands pattern recognition and repetition.

    To think, attentively and alone becomes not retreat but rebellion. A small, luminous defiance in a world that has mistaken noise for thought.


    I’ll take a quiet life
    A handshake of carbon monoxide
    And no alarms and no surprises

    radiohead, NO SURPRISES

    References

    Arendt, Hannah. The Life of the Mind. London: Secker & Warburg, 1978.

    Bacon, Francis. Novum Organum. Edited by Lisa Jardine and Michael Silverthorne. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

    Erasmus, Desiderius. The Praise of Folly. Translated by Betty Radice. London: Penguin Classics, 1993.

    Montaigne, Michel de. Essays. Translated by M. A. Screech. London: Penguin Classics, 1991.

    Pascal, Blaise. Pensées. Translated by A. J. Krailsheimer. London: Penguin Classics, 1995.

    Popper, Karl. The Open Society and Its Enemies. London: Routledge, 1945.

    Russell, Bertrand. The Triumph of Stupidity and Other Essays. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1933.

    Weil, Simone. Waiting for God. Translated by Emma Craufurd. London: Routledge, 1951.

    Gödel, Kurt. “On Formally Undecidable Propositions of Principia Mathematica and Related Systems.” 1931. In Collected Works, Vol. I, edited by Solomon Feferman et al. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986.

  • Parallel lines

    Morning quick-jerk bus lurch and she gripping metal cold rail, thought running slip-slide down again to him him him, white shirt sleeves shove up elbow maybe or grey jumper itch at the neck, coffee steam cloud on lip—he’d puff puff, too hot always, secret breath quick hush—see it smell it taste it, gone now, nothing on the screen blank dumb light dead stone, why not him answering, why silence, why?

    Thursday bakery maybe, crooked wood sign, nine past ten rye loaf he buys, she could cross by, heel click pavement, oh hello there what a chance—never, never only faces blur umbrellas turn inside-out rain slant collar trickle wet, him not there, never him. Desk maybe neat square papers, finger tap tap not her, name gone untyped, her gone.

    Too much she said? too plain love shown open raw wound shining, maybe fright, maybe dullness—what was it, what? Café window steam smear, inside heads bent spoon clink not him not him only her looking.

    Map in her head tracing his feet, train time 7:52, lunch 12:15, steps across street red light green flash, never crossing hers, lines lines lines that run beside and never touch, cruel joke it is. Nail bite palm press hard sting—yes here I am, flesh still here, heart beat still tick-tick, waiting waiting for crack in silence stone wall never break, never.

  • Friday night friday nothing

    Him? Was it him? The corner, the night market, the coat — no, fog, fog swallowing, swallowing everything, the mist curling, curling like memory, like smoke from a cigarette I never smoked there, never. Years. Years away. Oceans folding, folding under, under the moon, the moon like a watchful eye, is he looking? Would he? Did he ever? Did I?

    I stop. No, walk. Walk faster, slower, too slow, too fast, the street moves, they move, everyone moves, everyone except me, except the maybe, the maybe of him, the maybe of us, did we? Could we? Should we? Call out? Laugh? Pretend? Pretend we don’t remember each other? No, he remembers. Or not. Or does he? Perhaps he never even — no, no, stop.

    The rain, the rain that never fell that day, dripping, wet, soaking the coat I didn’t wear, the scarf that was never his. Heart, yes heart, slippery, twisting, twisting like the river in the letters I never sent, letters folded, unfolded, folded again, unread. Tea, cold, trembling hand, trembling thought. Did he think of me? Or not? Was I ever a thought? A maybe? A shape in the fog, the mist, the gaslight, the mist curling, curling, curling.

    I see him. Or not. The face — was it? No, just shadow, just shadow playing, playing tricks, maybe. He doesn’t know, doesn’t see, doesn’t care? Or cares too much? Or cares too little? Why didn’t he come? Did he think I wouldn’t be here? Did I think I would be? Did we both think, think, think and forget? Or forget too soon?

    The street moves on, they move on, they breathe, they laugh, they exist. I — pause. Breathe. Hesitate. Maybe. Maybe not. Memory, memory, memory folds into memory. Smell of wool, wet hair, that laugh, that smile, the way he looked — or not. Did he look? Did I look? I did, I did, and yet — gone, gone, gone, swallowed by fog, by mist, by maybe.

    Tomorrow? Maybe. Never? Perhaps. Love? Always maybe, always shadow, always hesitation, never certainty. Always the corner, the shop, the street, the fog curling, curling, curling, me, me, me, question mark, question mark, heart clenching, twisting, slippery, slippery, slippery.

  • Do you ever think about Sudan?

    Twenty-seven years ago, the United States bombed the Al-Shifa factory in Sudan, one of the largest pharmaceutical industries on the African continent. Its destruction caused a severe shortage of medicines, resulting in the deaths of thousands of people. Located in the territory that was once home to the famous kingdom of Kush, Sudan still struggles today to overcome the obstacles left behind by its colonial past. The country became independent in 1956, but was unable to overcome the serious internal divisions that led to successive civil wars.

    Political instability, sanctions and foreign intervention have always made it impossible to continue development projects. In the 1990s, Sudan was among the poorest nations in the world, with about 60% of its population living below the poverty line. In 1990, the country had one of the highest infant mortality rates on the planet and a life expectancy of 51 years. The magnitude of these challenges explains the excitement generated by the announcement that the country would be home to a large pharmaceutical industry.

    Opened in June 1997, the factory became known as the “pride of Africa.” The institution was born as one of the largest pharmaceutical companies on the continent, with modern facilities and state-of-the-art equipment. Al-Shifa Pharmaceuticals strengthened the Sudanese health system and, more than that, represented the materialisation of the dream of scientific sovereignty shared among the nations of the global south. The factory employed 360 people.

    Even though it was a private enterprise, it received strong support from the Sudanese state. The construction was financed by donations and loans from several African countries and international organisations. 

    Al-Shifa enabled Sudan to make enormous strides towards self-sufficiency in the manufacture of medicines. Domestic production rose from 3% to 50% with the industry. The factory was responsible for producing 90% of the medicines used to treat the seven leading causes of death in the country. These medicines cost 1/5 of the price of similar products manufactured in Europe and the United States. The Sudanese government distributed 15% of all production free of charge to low-income families, reaching one of the most disadvantaged populations in the world.

    In this way, the country became an exporter, supplying several African and even Asian nations. Much of the medicine consumed in Iraq during the criminal US embargo came from Sudan.

    The historic moment when the factory was inaugurated was also marked by the deterioration of US diplomatic relations with Sudan. The White House wanted to prevent Omar al-Bashir’s government from establishing closer ties with Iraq, the Palestinian resistance and other Islamic movements. Bill Clinton’s strategy was to accuse Sudan of providing logistical support and refuge to terrorist organisations such as Al-Qaeda. In December 1997, an embargo was imposed.

    The United States military launched an aerial bombardment of the Al-Shifa factory in Sudan on the 27th of March 1991. This pharmaceutical manufacturing facility was one of the largest in Africa at the time of the attack. The destruction wrought by the conflict gave rise to a severe shortage of essential medicines, with the result that thousands of lives were lost. Situated in the territory that was formerly home to the renowned kingdom of Kush, Sudan continues to grapple with the challenges emanating from its colonial past. The country gained independence in 1956, yet was incapable of surmounting the profound internal divisions that precipitated successive civil wars.

    The perpetual challenges posed by political instability, sanctions, and foreign intervention have invariably rendered the continuity of development projects unfeasible. During the 1990s, Sudan ranked among the world’s poorest nations, with approximately 60% of the population living below the poverty line. In 1990, the country exhibited one of the highest infant mortality rates globally, with a life expectancy of 51 years. The magnitude of these challenges is evidenced by the excitement generated by the announcement that the country would be home to a large pharmaceutical industry.

    The factory, which was inaugurated in June 1997, was soon distinguished by its reputation as the “pride of Africa.” The institution was established as one of the largest pharmaceutical companies on the continent, with modern facilities and state-of-the-art equipment. Al-Shifa Pharmaceuticals has been instrumental in fortifying the Sudanese health system, thereby serving as a tangible manifestation of the aspirations for scientific autonomy that are shared among the nations of the global south. The factory employed 360 people.

    Despite its status as a private enterprise, it received substantial support from the Sudanese state. The construction of the bridge was financed by donations and loans from several African countries and international organisations.

    Al-Shifa played a pivotal role in Sudan’s advancements towards self-sufficiency in the domain of pharmaceutical production. Domestic production exhibited a marked increase, rising from 3% to 50% in alignment with the industry. The factory was responsible for producing 90% of the medicines used to treat the seven leading causes of death in the country. The cost of these medicines is one-fifth of the price of similar products manufactured in Europe and the United States. The Sudanese government distributed 15% of all production free of charge to low-income families, thereby reaching one of the most economically disadvantaged populations worldwide.

    Consequently, the country became an exporter, supplying several African and even Asian nations. A significant proportion of the pharmaceuticals consumed in Iraq during the period of the US-imposed embargo were sourced from Sudan.

    The inauguration of the factory coincided with a period of deterioration in US-Sudan diplomatic relations. The administration of the White House was intent on preventing Omar al-Bashir’s government from forging closer ties with Iraq, the Palestinian resistance, and other Islamic movements. The strategy pursued by Bill Clinton entailed the accusation that Sudan had provided logistical support and refuge to terrorist organisations, including Al-Qaeda. In December 1997, an embargo was imposed.

    On 20 August 1998, the pharmaceutical factory complex was completely destroyed by 13 missiles launched by US ships in the Red Sea. The bombing was ordered by the White House in retaliation for terrorist attacks on the US embassies in Kenya and Tanzania two weeks earlier. Despite the absence of any organisational claim of responsibility, the White House administration has expediently attributed the blame to Al Qaeda.

    The factory was completely destroyed, causing significant outrage among the Sudanese government and population. In the absence of any concrete evidence, any hypothesis pertaining to a potential connection between Sudan and the embassies that had been attacked must be considered as speculative. The only commonality that could be identified between the two groups was that both inhabited the same continent, which was located in the Global South.

    Clinton made a direct and unequivocal assertion that the factory had provided chemical weapons to Bin Laden and Al Qaeda. He further stated that the White House had obtained “concrete evidence” of the manufacture of lethal XV gas at the pharmaceutical factory. However, the evidence presented was limited to a sample of contaminated soil that had been collected in the vicinity of the factory. When researchers requested independent tests, the US government refused to comply with this demand. Factory officials collected soil samples, which were analysed at Boston University. The results of these tests revealed no abnormalities. In the debris, only artefacts consistent with a conventional pharmaceutical factory were found.

    The Sudanese government called for the UN Security Council to undertake an independent assessment, a proposal that was subsequently vetoed by the US government.

    The timing of the bombing was strategically aligned with the peak of the sex scandal involving Bill Clinton and his intern, Monica Lewinsky. A grand jury testimony was scheduled to take place on the exact same date as the bombing of the factory. Surveys indicated that 70% to 80% of Americans expressed approval of the bombings against the alleged “terrorists”. The violation of several conventions of international law by the US was not called into question. This is customary.

    The situation was further exacerbated by a critical shortage of essential medicines, compounded by the already dire circumstances of famine, civil war, and economic embargo. The absence of a domestic pharmaceutical manufacturing facility, which was responsible for supplying half of all medicines produced in the country, resulted in the intensification and dissemination of outbreaks and pandemics.

    In the aftermath of the criminal US bombing, a meningitis epidemic struck Sudan, which, in the absence of antibiotics, had limited capacity to protect itself. The disaster resulted in a significant loss of life, akin to the loss of lives due to the 1999 floods.

    It is estimated that tens of thousands of people died as a result of dysentery, malaria and other treatable diseases. The nation made appeals to the United Kingdom and other Western nations for assistance in procuring chloroquine for the treatment of malaria, but these requests were declined.

    Moreover, the efforts of humanitarian agencies to combat hunger were hindered by the escalation of the conflict. It is estimated that more than 70,000 Sudanese people perished as a result of starvation.

    Despite the passage of several decades, the nation continues to grapple with a persistent shortage of essential medications, a situation that has been compounded by the utilisation of a criminal bombing as a diversionary tactic in the context of an American sex scandal.

    It is evident that Sudan never received an apology from the US. Conversely, the United States government has expanded its sanctions against the country since the onset of the conflict in Darfur, and has provided financial support to a separatist movement in the southern region.

    The independence of South Sudan was proclaimed by the separatist movement with the support of the United States. This situation had repercussions for the Khartoum government, which consequently experienced a depletion of 75% of the country’s oil reserves.

    At present, the country is experiencing widespread famine, with the United Nations (UN) confirming that Sudan is currently the only place in the world where famine has been officially declared in several locations.

    An American journalist — a recurring theme in such publications — provoked controversy by publishing on the cover of The Atlantic magazine that the current war in Sudan is a war about nothing. However, the prevailing perspective within Sudanese society posits a divergent viewpoint, attributing the war to a multitude of factors. Indeed, the conflict is not merely one in nature, but rather several discrete and often concurrent struggles, each with its own unique context. These include, but are not limited to, issues of gold, identity, land for agricultural purposes, and social philosophies.

    At present, the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF) exercise control over the north, north-east and the Nile River states, as well as Khartoum, Port Sudan, the Red Coast and parts of North and South Kordofan. In these areas, it operates government ministries and major ports and airports.

    The Rapid Support Forces (RSF) and allied militias have been observed to exercise control over approximately 45% of Sudan, representing a decline from 75% in the early months of the war. The aforementioned regions encompass the majority of the Darfur area, with the exception of the northern capital, El Fasher.

    In certain regions, the authority of the state is not yet fully implemented, and local leaders offer protection in exchange for wealth or resources. These leaders are not affiliated with either the SAF or the RSF.

    According to analysts, the war is now being fought over economic interests.

    The Arab emirates have been active participants in the war, seeking to protect their economic interests, primarily in the form of gold mining and arable land in the border area between Ethiopia and eastern Sudan. The RSF has been active in its role as a proxy force for the Arab Emirates, however, in recent battles, mercenaries from Niger and Colombia have superseded them. Official data demonstrate that in 2024, 100% of declared gold exports were destined for Egypt. Prior to the war, the majority of Sudan’s gold was exported to the United Arab Emirates. The war had a significant impact on mining operations in areas under the control of the RSF, particularly in regions where mining was predominantly conducted by hand.

    The Egyptian government was a beneficiary of this situation, and subsequently abolished all gold import taxes one month after the commencement of the current war in Sudan. This action resulted in Egypt becoming the primary destination for Sudanese gold, both in official and illegal contexts.

    However, it should be noted that the preeminence of gold in Sudanese politics is not a recent phenomenon. It is estimated that fifteen years ago, 90% of trade was derived from oil, which is located in the area that is now occupied by South Sudan. The loss, which was promoted by the US and its own interests, led to a situation where the population was compelled to engage in artisanal gold mining, which resulted in a significant escalation in violence. The leader of the RSF, Mohamed Hamdan Degalo, has become a billionaire warlord.

    Subsequent texts will address identity, arable land, and social philosophies.

    It is imperative to contemplate the current state of affairs in Sudan. It is imperative to closely monitor the actions and policies of the United States, as they consistently demonstrate a propensity to prioritise their own interests, often at the expense of other nations.

    Think about Sudan today. Keep an eye on the US war machine.

    Generals gathered in their masses
    Just like witches at black masses
    Evil minds that plot destruction
    Sorcerer of death’s construction

    In the fields, the bodies burning
    As the war machine keeps turning
    Death and hatred to mankind
    Poisoning their brainwashed minds

    Politicians hide themselves away
    They only started the war
    Why should they go out to fight?
    They leave that role to the poor, yeah

    Time will tell on their power minds
    Making war just for fun
    Treating people just like pawns in chess
    Wait ‘til their judgement day comes, yeah

    Now in darkness, world stops turning
    Ashes where their bodies burning
    No more war pigs have the power
    Hand of God has struck the hour

    Day of judgement, God is calling
    On their knees, the war pigs crawling
    Begging mercy for their sins
    Satan laughing, spreads his wings

    War pigs, Black Sabbath

  • Letter 10: Youth

    There is a cruelty in looking back at youth: it appears brighter than it ever was, sharper at the edges, as though time itself has polished its fragments while leaving the present dull. I remember the days when every hour felt charged, when love seemed both inevitable and indestructible, when we believed we could hold one another outside of time. We were wrong, of course, but wrongness then carried its own intoxication.

    What strikes me most is not what we did, but how convinced we were that it mattered. Each gesture seemed final, definitive, as though the world were a stage built solely for our experiments in love and cruelty. The smallest word could pierce, the smallest kindness could redeem. Now I see those same gestures as fragile, provisional — the rehearsals of people who did not yet know their own limits.

    And yet, part of me envies that blindness. Youth allowed us to mistake intensity for permanence, desire for destiny. We lived inside a fever without recognising it as such. Perhaps that is why it glows so brightly now in memory: because we never knew we were burning out.

    There are songs that carry that illusion — the reckless belief that feeling is enough to secure a future. They played in the background then, and they still return now, in shops, in passing cars, in the shuffle of a playlist. When they arrive, I feel both a pang and a strange gratitude. For those songs remind me that once, at least once, I believed completely.

    But what is youth, if not the practice of believing too much? We handed out promises like matches, striking them against any surface, marvelling at the flame, ignoring the burn. Now I see the ashes, the charred remains of those brief infernos, and I wonder whether it was waste or necessity. Did we need to set fire to ourselves in order to learn the shape of endurance?

    I think of us then: how certain I was that your eyes held an answer, how easily I mistook silence for depth, distance for mystery. I see now that you were as uncertain as I, perhaps more so. But in my memory you remain larger than life, a figure clothed in inevitability, because memory insists on myth where reality offers only fragments.

    And yet, despite everything, I do not resent it. Youth is not meant to be wise. It is meant to wound and to dazzle, to leave behind scars we later read like scripture. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the pulse of those reckless days — wild, unmeasured, impossible. It hurts, yes. But the hurt carries its own sweetness, as though reminding me: you lived once without caution, you loved once without armour.

    Perhaps that is all youth is — not a period of time, but a texture, a rhythm of the heart that eventually breaks under its own weight. And when it breaks, it leaves behind the faint echo of a song: half triumphant, half tragic, but undeniably ours.

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